Monthly Archives: May 2013

OMB

While dealing with a lovely sinus infection that allowed me to be up from 1am to 4am the other night (the nasal passage is truly the sweetheart of the body; that, or a raging crack addicted whore), I ran across the acronym OMB. Now I know I’m always joking about being online all the time (am I joking?), but when it comes to these wackadoodle letters, I’m typically pretty clueless. Enter the 12 year old … she knows all. But again, I remind you, it was the middle of the fucking night and, while I’m crazy, I’m not that much of a lunatic that I would wake her to ask her what OMB stands for … although if push came to shove …

So I did a little research. Apparently OMB legitimately stands for Office of Management and Budget at the White House. But I’m thinking that Brooke Burke’s website is not that interested in financial, manage-y political things. By the way, her OMB stands for Oh My Bod … which I’m sure is devastating for her. Talking about her six pack and her finely toned whatevers must be so exhausting for her. She is truly courageous in discussing this taboo subject.  (I’m not the least bit bitter)

I hit Urban Dictionary next because, well, that’s where all the cool kids shop. Hmmmmm, OMB stands for Old Man Balls. Ew.

Then there was a debate on one website as to whether or not it stood for Oh My Beelzebub (as an antithesis to Oh My God) or Oh My Beiber (my personal favorite). Sorry ahead of time to my friends who will now be receiving these texts from me: OMB!!! I just saw the cutest (insert something asinine here)!!!

When I finally dragged my sleep deprived ass out of bed, I murmured to the kids – what does OMB stand for? – while I poured coffee straight from the carafe into my pie hole.

Munch: Not sure. But OMQ stands for Oh My Quack

Guy: Yeah. And OMC stands for Oh My Cheese!

WTF? Really? Alright, fine. I’m gonna start coming up with all my own shit. I don’t even care if they make any sense. OMM is Oh My Milkshake – which means my ass is getting fatter. And OMW is Oh My, Wasted (so maybe it should be OM,W?) – which is pretty self explanatory. OMV is Oh My Vagina – which basically only applies after a bike ride. And OMT is Oh My Tit – for after a mammogram … or a really bad meal.

Lastly OMFGTKBSFOIMGBC or Oh My Fucking God These Kids Better Stop Fighting Or I May Go Batshit Crazy … for those gloriously long summer months.  Can’t wait!!!

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I Take That As a ‘Yes’

“I take that as a ‘yes'” is Guy’s favorite phrase right now. And to say it’s scaring the shit out of me would be like saying an explosive case of diarrhea in a kid still wearing diapers is “sort of gross”.

Ok, here’s the situation (you know you wanna sing “my parents went away on a week’s vacation” … but I digress) … I’m admitting, with great shame, that I am not ALWAYS paying attention. That, yes, sometimes my kids eat bucketfuls handfuls of goldfish without my knowledge. That they MAY watch TV more than I realize. And, on that note, watch TV shows that I MAY not have approved. I MAY occasionally not know where they are. MAAAAAAAAAY.

Look, I’m doing the best I can here!! (If one would consider their best “half-ass”) I’ve got a lot of crap to do!! (Like surf the internet and sort through a bag of Skittles to make sure I only eat the yellow, orange, and red ones) I am crazy stressed!! (I curl up with the dog most of the day and play Dots) You can’t expect me to be perfect!! (or even mildly capable)

But the youngest, he’s got me pegged. He’s figured out what the other two would have never even remotely dreamt up. Here it is …

He asks me questions when I’m not fully engaged (so basically at any given moment of the day) and not paying attention (again …). He then waits the standard 3 seconds and joyfully announces (yeah, he hasn’t figured this part out yet … he’s only 7, people) “I take that as a ‘yes’!” and skips along on his merry way with, in his mind, full approval from me.

I then proceed to do the frantic ‘look-up’ from my iPhone and say “WHAT?! Wait!! What did you ask??”

At this point he has already superglued the dog to the wall, hot-wired the car, bought an XBox 360 off of Amazon gone ahead with what he had asked me.  And had I been paying attention … well, it’s the age old parental conundrum, right?  Right?  It’s not?  Shit, I am totally screwing this parenting thing up.

Anyhoo, I’m thinking about going to one of those special effects people in Hollywood and having them create a mask for me.  You know, one that would allow me to look like I’m watching the kids and paying attention, but secretly I am checking Facebook, reading People, trying to come up with funny tweets working on my career.

Ok, we all know I can’t afford that (in other words,  I’d have to resuscitate the hubs when THAT bill came in), nor do I know a single soul in Hollywood (although, let’s face it, any century minute now this blog is gonna take off and I am going to be THE SHIT).  What about a poster board covering my face with a picture of me on it.  I’ll be behind it doing what I want, but the kids won’t know!!  They’ll just think I’m staring at them at all times … with the exact same expression … not blinking … or breathing.  That’s not creepy, right?

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Are You a Better Parent Than a 6th Grader?

I’m considering paying my oldest to do all the parenting for me this summer. She’s nurturing and responsible and, dangle a few bucks in her face, crazy compliant.

Like, if I just want to lie all day long on the couch, I can pay her to feed the boys, let the dog out, and some other shit that I only occasionally do but probably should do everyday. She’ll be like a better version of me!

I think this is the answer to all my problems. It allows for me to be lazy and unproductive but APPEAR motivated and super together (yeah, I’ll have to pay her to keep this “our little secret”). Although I guess when the Hubs sees our bank account depleted, he might start asking questions. HA! Who am I kidding? I won’t last ten minutes with his bloodhound approach to money. I told him I had a pizza delivered the other night and he gave me a look like I’d just murdered a tiny baby bunny rabbit … after torturing it for hours. I only do that to spiders … and my self esteem.

Crap! Ok, so the paying her isn’t gonna work. What next? Hmmmmm.

Help me daughter Obi-Wan!!  You’re my only hope!

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She loves chocolate!! I could bribe her with that. And, as an added bonus, give her diabetes with a side of rip roaring obesity! It’s a win-win!!

No, that still costs money. And yes, even buying a single, solitary Hershey’s chocolate bar could raise the Hub’s eyebrows. (Seriously, he is not this much of a lunatic in real life (shhhh, he really is), but he plays one in this blog … taking one for the team, baby!! Looooooooooooooooovve you!!!)

I could keep the TV on Caillou all day and force her to watch it if she doesn’t help me?

Nah.

Even I have my standards and that’s far too cruel.

I’ll come up with something, I’m sure. I have about …

OH SHIT!!!!!

… only 14 more days to figure it out!?!

(insert panic attack here)

I didn’t sign them up for enough camps! I didn’t plan enough vacations with other family members who will deal with them while I drink Strawberitas (that’s for you, Amy!!) and fry my skin off!! I didn’t do everything I wanted to do this school year – like sleep and … sleep. And what about the SLEEP!?!  FUCK.

Life as I know it is over … again (yes I’m well aware this happens every June, but it continues to surprise me … again, not the brightest crayon in the box over here). Prepare for rambling, nonsensical blog posts this summer. Don’t worry though, I’ll have the suicide hotline on hold at all times. What?? NO!! Not for me!! For the dog. That poor guy gets ABUSED over the summer. When you go from sleeping all day to having kids jumping on you while simultaneously farting in your face for most of the day, you’re bound to face a little depression. Wait … maybe that is me.

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Our dog (and his lawyer) in August.

I’m ready, JC, EIC 🙂

Update: Charlotte

For those of you who have been waiting anxiously on the edge of your seats for the last 24 hours (in other words, no one), I am here to give you the Charlotte update!!  It is wildly anti-climactic and confusing in it’s state of non-issue-ness.  (like that?)

Guy ended up being, well … like a typical guy – but not in a bad way.  He handled this the healthiest out of the two of us … yeah, I’m an emotional black hole with a side of irrational anxiety – and that’s on a good day.  I told him it was time to release Charlotte – at this point she wasn’t even lifting her head (I picture her melodramatic here – “no one gives a shit about me, why even bother” – but that may be my own stuff) and was breathing so slowly that we were staring at her for minutes on end … the made up drama in this house is palpable.

We decided to release her across the street by the creek in our neighborhood (I got pleading texts from my stepmother who had desperately wanted to meet Charlotte – trust me, there WILL be a next time – but sometimes you just have to take the bull by the horns … or the the frog by the legs. Yeah, I just did that.)

Anywho, Guy carried her over to her final resting place the creek and placed her gently by the water.  No tears, no sadness … “there you go” he said sweetly.  I was the one who almost burst into tears.  “Is she ok?” I kept asking, over and over.  “Yeah, Mom, she’s fine.” he said, until he finally started just ignoring me.

I have resisted at least 12 times to go “check” on her.  I’ve decided this must be what sending your kids to college is like.  Is she eating enough?  Is she safe?  Is she getting enough sleep?  Is she scared out of her mind?  Is she binge drinking and smoking weed all week long?  I can barely handle this.  And just a reminder … she’s a frog.  Maybe.  That we had for 1 week.

It’ll get easier with the kid thing, though, right?  These three crazies will grow up and annoy the shit out of me and I’ll be kicking their butts out of the house happily.  Right?  RIGHT?!

The Hubs is reading this right now and sighing.  Between the kids leaving right around the time I’ll be hitting menopause and our dog’s eventual death coinciding, I am going to be one crazy hot mess.

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All the more reason to live in the NOW.  I am going to continue to resist checking on Charlotte.  She is FIIIIIIINE!  We taught her everything she needs (nothing) and gave her all the love we could (we only let her out of the plastic container once).  She knows she can always come back if there’s a problem (she has no idea where we live).  We are here for her (I hope she doesn’t hop over to our driveway – I will, most likely, accidentally run her over.  I’m a really good shitty driver – as my neighbors know.)

Au revoir, Charlotte!!  We love you! (seriously, you were so gross)

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Charlotte

A couple weeks ago our family went camping with our fantabulous neighborhood. This is one of those weekends that the kids literally salivate over. Friends galore, freedom to run, no real bed times, and a country store to buy potato guns, candy, and other miscellaneous crap – while simultaneously depleting their college savings accounts.

This year though we came home with something more than crappy plastic toys and ticks. The youngest found a frog. Actually, I hesitate to call it a frog since I really don’t know what the hell this thing is. It could be a toad. It could be some bizarrely large insect. I’m not a taxidermist, people. (wait, is that the one that stuffs dead animals? yeah, I’m not that either).

Here’s the story …

Guy (who else) found this … animal. By the time he had introduced this animal to us, his barely monitoring super responsible parents, he had not only named her, but had come up with an elaborate life story for her. Yes, her name is Charlotte. I find this comical on many levels … she’s a girl? she’s not a Suzy or a Sally? I’ll be honest, were I to have another kid (my brain just exploded and I crapped my pants a little) and it was a girl, I would totally name her Charlotte. So he had me at that already. Then the story …

Guy: Mom, there were 3 dead frogs right near her! They were her family and friends!! She has NO ONE. I couldn’t leave her there!! Plus her foot was stuck under a rock and we saved her … it was probably from when she was trying to get away from the mass murderer!!! (ok, I added that last part)

Me: (in vacation mode, i.e. “go away while I gossip about Beyonce”) Awwww, that’s so sweet of you to save her, baby cakes. Now, we can’t keep her forever …

(I see the look in his eyes … this kid has already planned out his life with Charlotte … taking her on all family vacations in a mini purse, keeping her in an elaborate castle type cage (moat included) in his room, and his thesis already in the works about why she should be the mascot of his fraternity)

In my haste to get back to my deep philosophical discussions about celebrities, I kind of just let him wander off. With Charlotte. And another 8 year old boy. Look, I’m not saying I’m the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Next thing we know, I’m being told that Charlotte is being kept in a window in our cabin … between the glass pane and the blinds. I’m picturing a full on Rapunzel. After the spastic body convulsion that took a good year off of my life, I tell Guy she has got to go! He does his typical youngest MO crap. Face scrunches, worry about Charlotte reflected in his eyes … I am putty to this shit …

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The Hubs, on the other hand is not. I ask him to please figure out a way to contain Charlotte and he looks at me like I’ve officially lost my mind … and that’s saying a lot because I say crazy shit all the time – so much so that’s it’s become normal shit.

With one Lime-a-Rita in, I raise my voice and say that he could whittle a canoe out of the fire wood we have sitting right here, so I’m SURRRRRRRRRE he could find a way to contain this … frog?

I have officially succumb to Guy’s story. Charlotte has NO ONE!!!

*sigh* Even typing this is excruciating. I am an idiot.

Long story short, the Hubs finds a way. And after a few daring attempts to escape her now frightening new life, she ends up going home with us the next day.

How this “thing” is still alive is above and beyond me. The Hubs has bought her crickets (yes, the same man who looked at me with scorn and disgust), so that helps, but she’s stuck in a old plastic spinach container with a cup (??), a wet paper towel, and what little is left of her sanity. I walked in Guy’s room at one point and I kid you not, she had one webbed hand pressed up against the container staring at me. She was begging me with her eyes to free her … at least that’s what I made up in my head. I’ve started having dreams about her as well. Dreams where she escapes and writes a novel about her experiences with a 7 year old boy … and his lunatic mother. Dreams where she’s somehow ended up in my room, crapping on my face while I am sleeping. Dreams where we find the box empty and have no idea where she is until we start to smell something funny.

I have got to get this thing out of my house.

So today we are taking her to a pond behind my dad and stepmother’s house. I have convinced Guy to let her go … that she will have a better life out in the world – blah, blah, blah. I’m leaving out the part where she will probably get eaten by some wild animal in the first 15 minutes she’s released.

But I’m telling you this … I do not have the ability to let Charlotte go if Guy is a sobbing mess. We will end up with Charlotte forever. Perhaps I will buy that mini purse for her and we will live out our days together, shopping at Nordstroms and doing each other’s hair.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

I love leaving this as a cliff hanger!! 🙂

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Yes, that’s a red solo cup.  Don’t judge.

Spontaneity vs Careful, Long Thought-Out Debilitating LENGTHY “It’s Now Two Years Later And We No Longer Need to Address This Issue” Deliberation

I am spontaneous. That’s a lie. But really, I WANT to be spontaneous. And between the Hubs and me I am WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA(500 A’s)Y more spontaneous. I mean, I guess it’s good that one of us drags their feet thinks things through, but it would be nice if every once in awhile we could just be wild and crazy. And by wild and crazy, I mean splurging on Bounty instead of the usual grocery store brand paper towels.

Sometimes decisions need to be made quickly, though, and this usually throws the Hubs into a full blown panic attack. He will run 10 miles, swim the Atlantic Ocean, and bike up Mount Everest in an attempt to calm himself down. In the meantime, I will roll my eyes and make the stupid decision. (And then spend countless hours worrying that I potentially made the wrong one.) We handle this shit great!

On rare occasions I develop a ‘rebel without a cause’ attitude and act like I’m taking charge of the horrendous, pathetic way we make decisions. Fuck this!, I think, we’re doing it THIS way! I hate to admit as to how that usually works out. Spoiler alert: I suck at making decisions.

But the Hubs has developed a new strategy and it’s kind of scaring the crap out of me. I can’t tell if he stupidly stumbled upon this or he’s a psychological genius, but his handling of a recent situation left me paralyzed and, frankly, freaked out.

We have a beautiful, well-behaved Golden Retriever. It took me 5 years … yes, FIVE … to convince the Hubs to get him. I grew up with dogs and to be honest it was starting to get weird for me not to have one in the house. Especially since the kids were starting to act less and less like animals themselves. I mean, let’s face it, we basically had 3 puppies for several years there, but instead of barking they screamed their heads off, occasionally repeated curse words we attempted to keep from saying in front of them, and declared they hated us anytime a lollipop was withheld from their grimy adorable little hands. Actually, as I’m writing this, I’m realizing we are still in this phase … but whatever.

The dog is awesome – did I mention this? Like, everyone wants a dog like ours. He’s not perfect, but he’s pretty damn close. He’s about a 100 times more well-behaved than our kids. So, naturally, I would like to screw with that.

Let’s get another dog!!!

Now I know full well that the Hubs would rather eat nails then get another dog (although he does honestly love our dog … and weirdly, it would not surprise me to learn that he has, in fact, eaten nails before), so I start this process by letting him “accidentally” see pictures of Golden Retrievers for sale on my computer. Or a breeder calls our house and leaves a message. You know, shit like that.

Here’s the part that gets scary … he doesn’t say anything.

Wait. Is he really gonna let me do this?

The shock is, well, shocking.

Wait, what?

I’m gearing up for the argument and there is none.

That fucker.

Now I start thinking … do I really want another dog? Do I really want the puppy phase again? Do I really want to be cleaning up poop and pee all day long off the carpets? And what if this one isn’t as good as our current dog? And what if they don’t get along? And what if Nick and Jess don’t end up together on New Girl?  And what if Angelina’s double mastectomy was really a publicity stunt?  And what if … what if … what if …

Did we get a second dog, you ask?

Nope.

And the Hubby has been smiling A LOT lately.

Dumb Luck or Manipulative Mastermind … you decide.

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Heart Broken

The crying in this house is ridiculous. If they did a reality show on our family, the title would most likely be “Cry Me a River”. On top of it, rarely is this crying warranted. No one’s dead, you’re not that hurt, and, yes, someday the laundry will be done … actually, that’s me – and that shit will never be done and therefore tears are completely warranted.

But the other night, I heard crying that literally ripped my heart in two. I was laying in bed at about 9pm and I heard something that sounded like whimpering. I waited. (whimpering usually leads to “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”)

Nothing.

I listened closer. I do not DARE enter a child’s bedroom after they’ve been put to bed unless there’s a raging fire or an apocalypse. Those suckers get you back in their rooms and there’s no leaving!

Now I’m hearing legitimate crying, but it’s not loud – it’s kind of soft. And there’s no crying out for Mom or Dad. WTF?! My brain goes into EMOTIONAL TRAUMA ALERT mode. What’s happening?!

I jump out of bed and stand in the hallway in a crouched position, ready to dart at the next whimper, trying to figure out which kid needs a quick therapy session. No child in this house will EVER be able to cry by him or herself over some sort of emotional issue … I WILL NOT ALLOW IT!! That BA in Psych will be used if it kills me!!

It’s the youngest. I leap into his room (I may or may not have put on a cape) and see him curled up on his bed with the book The One and Only Ivan. They are reading this book in school and, like his mother, he MUST know what happens … so, of course, we bought the book and he’s reading ahead.

There he is, tears in his eyes, glued to the book. I sit on the bed and ask him what’s wrong.

Guy: It’s Ivan. He’s leaving. (hiccup, gasp, tears) He’s leaving all his friends.

Me: Oh, honey.

Guy: I want him to at least bring the dog … why can’t he bring the dog?!

His little face scrunches up and he starts sobbing.

Holy SHIT. I am torn to pieces. I lay down and hold him so tight I think I might be suffocating him. There’s this combination of feeling – like you want to take the pain away so badly, but also REJOICE!, your son has feelings and therefore, most likely, will not turn into a serial killer. Weight lifted.

I laid with him for awhile and he asked me to tell him stories so he could distract himself. OF COURSE!! Mommy will make it all better. I’M STILL NEEDED AND WANTED!!! (Can anyone say ‘issues’?)

After about 20 minutes I start to wonder though. While I think the initial crying was legitimate, I am now thinking this thing is morphing into manipulation.

Guy: One more story, Mommy!

Me: It’s time for me to go to bed, honey.

Guy: (face starting to scrunch up) It’s just Ivan …

The emotional savior mom is slowly disappearing and I’m fighting the urge to say “Cut me a fucking break. I’ve been laying here for a half hour, kid. You’re over it”.

By the time I extract myself from the room – he has attached himself to my body like a leech – he is balling again. But not about Ivan – about how I’m the meanest mom ever.

Sigh.

No good deed goes unpunished.

I slowly fold my cape and put it away.

Or maybe I burned it and there’s currently a raging inferno in my backyard.

Kids are great.

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