Monthly Archives: April 2013

I Wrote A Book!

I’m just kidding. I didn’t write a book. But if I were to write a book, it would be something like this one.

traumatize book

*Side Note: what’s truly shocking about this picture is not so much the book, but the fact that I was up at 9:17pm to take this picture! WTH!! (and I had 50% battery life??? … must have been a good day)

Maybe I should write a book about ways I’ve ALREADY traumatized my children. A cautionary tale, perhaps? Although I don’t think there are enough trees in the forest for that novel.

I’m pretty sure saying “what would you do if I were DEAD??” is probably not the best method to get your children to be more independent.

Or developing a “fuck it” attitude at least three nights a week in relation to dinner. Cereal is a food group in our house.

How about screaming, “I’m going INSANE!” on a daily basis – with a wild crazed look in my eye? I’m thinking not good.

One time, after dealing with a cordless phone that only occasionally worked (basically when it damn well felt like it), I calmly opened the back door and threw it at the rocks in our backyard. As it shattered all over the yard, the Hubs hurriedly scurried the kids away while in the background I laughed maniacally. That’s not trauma, is it? I might put it in the book. MIGHT.

Or all the times, especially when they were little, when I threw them in the car and drove around the globe aimlessly just so they were buckled in and unable to wreak havoc. “Where are we going, Mommy?” … “We’re going to find sanity, sweeties. SANITY!” I growled through clenched teeth. “Where’s that, Mommy?” … “It doesn’t exist!!  IT DOESN’T EXIST!!!!! Hahahahahahahahahaha”

I’m thinking this could be a bestseller, right? Or at least land me in jail. Where, by the way, I get three meals a day that I don’t have to make and a semi-quiet bedroom where I can read all day.

Sounds like heaven.

I Hate School Projects

… ok, I’m gonna say that again.


Between the two boys right now we are dealing with 3 school projects. I am officially miserable.

The first project – for the youngest – is Star of the Week, which sounds lovely and fun until (if you’re anything like me) you start feeling the debilitating pressure. I won’t go into the requirements for Star of the Week, but there are many. Like 5 many … which is 4 too many in my book. The main one is this …

A POSTER!!! – representing Guy’s life from birth to now. Um, yeah. How crazy this gets is completely up to you! Are you a good mom or a bad mom? Cause good moms make slide shows!! And bad moms? Well, read on, you’ll see what they do.

Of course my initial thought is to make an elaborate timeline with every picture framed in adorable scrapbooking paper and all details accurate down to the very minute they happened in his sweet adorable life. (p.s. the kid had a meltdown from 2007 to 2009 that we are just now recovering from)

Reality? At 9:30 last night, like any perfectly normal perfectionistic mother, I tore into Walgreens on two wheels for the photos I begged them to produce in 1 hour. I then proceeded to fly home and tape them randomly onto a poster board. Guy asked me this morning if he could just say whatever age he thought he was in the photos – since none of us have any clue his ACTUAL age in the photos. I said sure – go for it!

Mother of the Year!!

And by the way, I have to “write a letter about your child to read to the class”. EXCUSE ME?! That’s a shitload of pressure. How many ways can you say “he’s a great kid” and “we love him”. I’m pretty sure two sentences isn’t gonna cut it. I am totally screwed.

Second project – this would be for my middle. He needed to pick a Revolutionary War person, make a clay model of them, write a report about them (while also memorizing it for a presentation), and, bring in a costume to wear so that he looked like them.

Um, WHAT!?

And while I did previously have SCADS of Revolutionary war clothes lying around, I recently donated them to the Good Will. So we were SOL.

Oh, and by the way, the person he chose was Henry Knox. Seems innocent enough, right? Except that Henry Knox’s wife’s name was Lucy Flucker. Yes, FLUCKER. Did I mention her last name is Flucker? Can you say Flucker three times fast? Can you picture a group of 10 year old boys saying Flucker 10 times fast?? CAN YOU?? Then maybe, MAYBE, you can imagine the hell in my house.

Next project?

Amusement Park Day!! You have to pair up with a partner (because one 10 year old boy doing a project isn’t quite enough chaos) and create a carnival “game” (like with wood, a saw, hammers, and nails … perrrrrrrfect!) that has at least 3 of the “simple machines” they studied in science!!! Woohoo!!!

What the hell is a simple machine? No idea. But the 12 page packet for this project contained all the information I needed! It took me a day and a half … as well as a dictionary and a remedial online science class … to read through it.


Let’s face it, peeps. The bulk of these projects is on the parents. And I don’t know about you, but I’m BARELY keeping my head above water with “projects” I need to do every DAY – like laundry, dinner, soccer practices, cleaning, trips to the liquor store, and breathing. Plus, it’s the end of the year. Everyone is slacking off now. Especially me. I have senioritis BAD and I can’t seem to give two shits that AD’s model has a penis or that Guy’s poster looks like a ransom note.

I never thought I would say this, but thank God summer is almost here.


That’s Weird

So I had my annual a couple weeks ago. I apologize to the men out there reading this (the four of them … who, by the way, I love and adore). No worries, though, I’m not gonna go into any gory details! (although I’m kind of half tempted now 🙂 ) But, anyway, I had an interesting interaction with my doctor. And by interesting, I mean viciously depressing.

Her: “Wow! You look really good.”

Me: “Thanks!”

Her: “I mean you look thin.”

Me: (blushing) “Well, yes I have been losing some weight. Thanks!”

Her confused expression was making me a little wary, but I was so caught in the throes of a beautiful compliment that I didn’t see this coming.

Her: “No, what I mean is that you don’t look like the weight listed here. You’ve actually put on 12 pounds since last year.”

Me: “I’m sorry, what?!”

It kind of all goes black from there.

Honestly, though, why in god’s name would she keep that conversation going. Who gives a rat’s ass if I don’t “look” my weight?! Does that have anything to do with my reproductive health?? Was she worried I was carrying around a small kettle bell in my uterus? Secretly hiding it there to … what? … work on my kegels?

Is this like the new compliment/insult? I mean, it makes sense in regards to age (i.e. You’re 38?? You look like you’re about 22!! … fyi, those words have never been spoken to me). And that reminds me, I need to contact Taylor Swift and let her know that I’m most definitely NOT feeling 22. I’m feeling 62 … with a side of 80. (well, she ASKED!)

But I digress. Here’s what I really have to say …

I hate weight. I want weight to die a fiery death in the bowels of hell. I want it to be tortured with a burning hot poker to the brain. And then shot … repeatedly.

Yeah. It’s that kind of morning.


Manners or Lack Thereof

The other day the youngest said to me … (wait for it ….)

“Get me some water, woman!”

Let’s all take a moment of silence. The kid is 7 years old. He may not make it to 8.

I’m at a point where my kids are 10, 12, and, the lovely, 7. When can I stop saying, “what do you say?” in that stupid sing songy voice? Cause lately it’s been coming out more like “Jesus Christ, can you say ‘please’ every once in awhile!?!?”

The manners in this house are atrocious. And I’m starting to take it personally. Lately I’ve been screaming things like, “I’ve been telling you since you were BORN to put your shoes in the closet when you get home!! How many more years is it gonna take?????”

Irrationality only responds to irrationality. (That’s not true – I just made it up to justify my increasing immaturity when dealing with these lunatics kids)

But honestly, I’m dead freaking serious. How many more years is it gonna take?! (as I sob into my pillow) And it’s not just ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and putting away shoes … these kids act like they live in a zoo! If I had a dollar for every time I’ve had to say, “We are NOT ANIMALS. We DO NOT eat that way!”, I’d have enough money to pay for the Mary Poppins/Emily Post made-up savior that we clearly need.

This list here regarding manners your kids should have by age 9 cracked me up! (and sent me on a google search for remedial parenting classes that I clearly need) My favorite may be Manner #5.

“When you have any doubt about doing something, ask permission first. It can save you from many hours of grief later.”

First of all, is this article actually speaking to a kid? Cause trust me – no kid is googling “how to get better manners”.  “How to blow snot across the room” is more likely.

And ask permission? My kids think that comes AFTER doing something. Like pulling out bottles of paint and using them as play grenades in the basement (true story).

Although Manner #6 is a great rival to #5.

“The world is not interested in what you dislike. Keep negative opinions to yourself, or between you and your friends, and out of earshot of adults.”

Person who wrote this article, have you met a kid? Even when the word “hate” was banned from our house for a month, the kids still found a way to bitch about everything in site. And they don’t hate rationally or consistently. ‘I hate you’ is frequently followed an hour later by ‘You’re the best mom ever’ followed 10 minutes later by ‘I hate you’ again. Their range of emotions makes a schizophrenic look balanced.

And Manner #13 is just comical.

“Never use foul language in front of adults. Grown-ups already know all those words, and they find them boring and unpleasant.”

Actually, truth be told, I find them delightful and delectable, but that’s just me.

At least the kids are marginally well behaved and well mannered at other people’s houses. And if they’re not? I do the dramatic gasp that indicates to all adults that I have NEVER seen this from them before and I take it VERY seriously. When in all reality, I’ve given up. I no longer have it in me to repeat the same words over and over. What’s the saying? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? What is that again? Oh, yeah.




The Hubster is great. He really is. I mean, hell, I wrote a whole post about how hot he is. There are also 30 other amazing qualities he has that have nothing to do with his physical appearance. I mean I married him for goodness sake! (Fingers crossed that was enough of a soon-to-be-rid-of-I-promise disclaimer to appease the Hubs from this post)

Right now, though, I am being seriously wooed by another guy. And I’m on the verge of caving … weakling that I am. His name is Ruark. Um, yeah, he’s been wrongly accused of a crime he didn’t commit, has a nonstop stunningly gorgeous body and says things like “Jealous? Aye. Of any man who stands beside you openly in public and touches so much as one soft curl and looks at you when I may not. While I must strangle dead the slightest show of yearning for you.”  Sigh.

Did I forget to mention he’s a fictional character? Minor detail.

Here’s what it comes down to – I fall into the smut book realm every ONCE in AWHILE (and by that I mean on a daily basis … oh, and by “fall into” I mean more like an intentional dive … whatever). I kind of feel like I should be ashamed of it and, while we could have a heavy duty therapy session around that by dissecting my every neurotic issue, I’ll spare you. I walk around touting that I’m reading the latest psychological thriller or nonfiction feminist book, but we all know what I’m reading on the side. Wink, wink.

Although obviously everything’s changed since 50 Shades. That junk food for the heart (or for the you-know-what) has blown romance out of the water. My friend went to the doctor’s office during the whole craze and literally every person in the waiting room was reading it … including the one man that was there.  For Christ’s sake, my mother-in-law was reading it at the beach this summer … in full view of everyone.  I can’t even imagine how orgasmic the romance novel industry is right now (like that?) from this 50 phenomenon.

I do really feel bad for these guys – the real ones, that is (no I don’t). I mean there is NO POSSIBLE WAY they could EVER live up to these dreamboats on the page. These fictional guys are AMMMAHHHHHHZING.

This particular guy that I’m obsessing reading about knows how to show up at just the right time … usually on a horse. Oh, and he looks into my the girl’s eyes DEEPLY. He actually gives a shit what I have she has to say! And I’m not implying our guys don’t, but really, who wants to hear about the lettuce being on sale at the grocery store (shout out to my Aunt!) … actually, Ruark does. Ruark really does. And he’s RIVETED by it.  He likes how my lips provocatively form the word “lettuce” and he doesn’t even mind that there’s a few pieces stuck in my teeth.

And he finds me her ADORABLE with just the right amount of sass and spunk. (Not the annoying kind that’s probably more like what I have – but only PROBABLY … jeez)

I think it’s only fair though because guys have been looking at girls with ridiculous bodies forever and there’s no way I will EVER look like them. Even if it was my job.

Which it’s not.

You’re welcome.

So this is kind of the equivalent, right? Because they’re more visual and we’re more mental … I mean, emotional … but yes, mental too … and yes, emotional.  There’s no right way to write that sentence.

So when I snuggle up to the Hubs and ask him to say something sweet (yes, my pathetic need for daily affirmations will, apparently, never cease … although Ruark finds this quality endearing), I wait with baited breath for some of Ruark’s lines. Or maybe something like them? A little close?


“You’re really nice.”

Eh. I’ll take it.

P.S. The book that Ruark is currently living in is called Shanna by Kathleen Woodiwiss. He also frequently resides in my mind … but that’s besides the point.  This book is my all time favorite romance. I have read it 72 times. Hubs has gotten to the point of asking me if I’m imagining Ruark when we kiss. No, honey. Never. Neeeeevvvvvveeerrrr 😉

fictional character

Lost and (not usually) Found

Every once in awhile the Hubby gets a wild hair up his ass. I’m usually the one with the hair up my ass, so these random days always throw me for a loop. I end up playing the role of the rational parent for the day and it really doesn’t suit me well.

Yesterday morning he decided that, after months of missing a small laptop that was given to our son, it was AD’s job to find it … immediately. I’m not sure what prompted the militaristic demands coming out of the Hubster’s mouth, but I just go with it … until he gets crazy. And then we all go tell him to go for a bike ride.


According to AD, he looked high and low. So basically he walked past his room. Sometimes I feel like an idiot because I can revert back into my toddler mom role. I end up saying things like “let me help you” or “I’ll find it” or “will somebody PLEASE actually take a nap today for the love of GOD!!”, but I’ve been getting the stink eye from the Hubs lately – and for good reason. AD is 10 years old. He is perfectly capable of finding this thing all by himself.

But it’s torture. Like “water-boarding, ripping fingernails out one by one, blazingly loud Miley Cyrus songs, watching Caillou over and over and over” torture.

He wanders around the house whining. He can’t find it. He’s looked everywhere. No one cares. No one will help him. He’d rather die than keep looking. And this all happens in the first 5 minutes.

I find myself trying to disappear, but, out of any of them, that kid can sniff me out quicker than you can say “Lindsey Lohan’s in rehab again”

I have to keep resisting going to look for it. STAY. STRONG. (my frequently ineffective mantra) Honestly, the only reason I want to find it is to get everybody to shut the hell up. But I’m supposed to be raising an independent kid, a problem solver, a contributer to society … blah, blah, blah. Doesn’t anyone care about my sanity????

So the Hubs goes to pick up our daughter from a sleepover and he must mention to her the current drama going on at our house. She proceeds to snicker and look out the window.

Hubs: Do you know something, Munch?

Munch: Maybe

Hubs: Care to share?

Munch: Well, remember when the boys stole my favorite movie, Pitch Perfect? I decided to get them back.

Hubs: You know where the laptop is?

Munch (grinning from ear to ear): Yep.

AD couldn’t decide if he hated his sister or loved her at the moment she got home and showed us where it was (in the piano bench, by the way). I will say this much, I hugged her like she’d just saved a dying whale.

Which she had.


Dinner!! (don’t judge)

lucky charms

When You Find Out The Truth About Your Parents

So my dad dropped off a large box of VHS tapes the other day. As I combed through the box, he told me that they were old videos of when we (my brother, sister, and I) were young. Lots of footage of sports games and holidays, vacations and parties.


He wanted to know if I would be interested in taking them somewhere to be turned into DVD’s.


(I was already secretly planning the torturous marathon viewing session I would force my kids to sit through)

One catch, though, he says. You may want to check all the tapes before you send them off.

Me (wildly stupid): Why?

Him: Um, I’m not sure what’s on all of them.

Me: Come again?

Him: Well, there could be some … maybe … inappropriate content.

Me: Like … ?

Him: (silence)

Me: I’m sorry, WHAT?! (I scream in a high pitched animal cry)

Him: So, let me know when you get them converted. I’d love to see some footage of the old days.

Me: (mouth hanging open, look of horror on my face)

Him: See ya later!

And he heads out the door.


This is a “hot poker to the brain” moment. A “why can’t that shit they do in the Total Recall movie be real” moment.

I burned the box of tapes. Fuck preserving my childhood. Now that my adulthood is officially ruined, what does it matter anyway.


Serious Damage

Bike riding is so much fun! Especially in the springtime, with the flowers starting to bloom and all the people outside appearing happy and content. Seriously, though, I truly hope they ARE happy and content. (Spoiler alert: They’re not)

The hubs LOVES to ride – he’ll go out for hours and hours and ride for miles and miles. His dedication is annoying as all hell inspirational. I do not ride with him … ever.


This is me on my bike 🙂

My partner in crime (one of my most favorite girlfriends) and I have started to bike more since we (stupidly and irrationally) signed up for a triathlon. Thank God I have her or I would never get out there. She’s not the pushy type AT ALL, so I’ve been training her to say things like “Get your ass out of bed!” or “Stop being such a lazy douchebag!” … but she won’t say them. The best she does is “Do you want to workout today? Only if you want to!” She’s way too nice.

So we’ve been doing this hilly course at a park close to our neighborhood. It is a truly beautiful ride, except for one little piece … the bumps. Let me tell ya, you don’t notice cracks and holes and uneven pavement all that much when you’re walking or running a course, but DAMN if you don’t FEEL it when you’re bike riding.

Holy shitballs.

I think I did some serious damage to my crotch yesterday.

And yeah, yeah – I should get those padded shorts that all the professional triathletes have, but come on! I’m a JOKE! I don’t buy professional stuff. All my workout stuff comes from Target.

When I went to the bathroom after the ride, I went cross-eyed and nearly passed out. The dog started howling from my piercing scream and every raccoon within a 3 mile radius shit it’s pants. I am going to have to find some sort of solution for this. A pillow? A bag of frozen peas? Tripling up on maxi pads?

Just not ride the bike?

YES! Yes, that’s it.

Problem solved 🙂


The Big Reveal

Every couple weeks we get together with some of our most favorite people and have a Friday pizza night. It’s really just a way to not have to deal with our kids for a night (as we sequester them to the basement and force them to watch Pee Wee Herman movies) and to actually be human beings for a couple hours (and by human beings, I mean pretend we’re in our 20’s and still have lives)

We discuss high end topics like religion, politics, North Korea and the state of our world. Just kidding. We tell funny, weird, and, to be honest, often disturbing, stories about our high school and college days. That, or we play a highly competitive game of Catch Phrase. And when we’re really feeling crazy, we do both. I know. We can get out of control.

I’m not even going to pretend that I remember how we got on the subject this past Friday night of SAT scores, but they came up and, interestingly enough, only one person was willing to state what theirs was. (and it wasn’t me)

I find it comical that no one was willing to state their score (except for the only doctor in the group … and let’s face it, intelligence creds are already established when you’ve got a D followed by an r in front of your name). Are we still really worried about this?? Does this really still define us? And then we went on to talk about how we really had to “adjust our scores”, that really they were 100 points higher because of some such thing that I can’t remember (a lot of wine consumption, folks) – that they weren’t REAAAALLLLLY accurate, blah, blah, blah. Seriously? We’re grown adults! Do we still really care about this?

Short answer: Yes.

For me anyway.  Don’t you love how I’m roping everyone into this.  It could easily have been the case that no one could actually say their scores over my loud cackling and desperate attempts to change the subject.

When we got home, the Hubs mumbled a number to me as we were climbing into bed. And having had too much to drink, I looked at him with crazy eyes. Once tonight, honey, once. That’s all I can handle … and actually, I can’t handle that. I’m going to sleep. He said no, it was his SAT score. Which I’m sure he told me at some point when we were dating, but I had no recollection. I barely remembered my own.

His is really good. Like, I-would-have-battled-a-rhinoceros-for-that-score good. And he didn’t share it, I’m guessing, because he didn’t want to “brag” … meanwhile, I didn’t share mine because I didn’t want everyone to be like “Wow. For someone who wears glasses and has a Master’s degree, you’re not as smart as I was assuming.  I’m starting to think we may need to reconsider this friendship.” I have these people fooled hardcore right now. Some of them think I’m pretty smart! I know. (YES, I just threw the Master’s degree out there – my insecurities know no bounds – deal with it)

So, anyway, in the spirit of all those fearless people out there who go online and reveal shockingly authentic things about themselves … like courageous women who reveal their double mastectomies or plus size women wearing bikinis in a stand against skinny women (I guess?) … yeah, those AMAZING women … I’m gonna throw myself in the ring. I will not be outdone!  So ….

(deep breaths)

(DEEP, DEEP breaths)

(hyperventilating breaths)

(“now my face is in a paper bag” breaths)

I’m revealing my SAT score.


I know, I know … I am so insanely brave (minus that last word). Heroic, perhaps? Please don’t flood the comments section with your admiration. When this post goes viral, that will be reward enough.

Now, I need to make a few adjustments with this number though, so bear with me.

Original Score: 1050

Some potentially made up adjustment everyone was talking about Friday night: 1150

Marrying a really smart guy: 1250

Having three kids: 650

Between the amount of times I’ve had to read Diary of the Wimpy Kid (1,647, conservatively), played Go Diego Go! The 123 Game (riveting!), and watched Phineas and Ferb (although, really, that show is genius), I may actually be lower than 650 … but you get the point.


%d bloggers like this: