I prefer my baristas to be surly. But please don't spit in my coffee.

Dear Perky Starbucks Drive Through Girl,

I really can't stand your perkiness before I get my coffee.  This is something essential that you must understand if you are going to be giving out coffee to people who just woke up 30 minutes ago and are late for work.  TONE IT DOWN.

Please just let me order without asking me if I want to try your new blah, blah, blah.  I know what I want and I just want to tell you and have you get it written down correctly.  Don't try to engage me.  Don't ask me how I am doing.  Just listen to me and then give me the damn coffee and everything will be fine.  If you stopped being perky you would not have to repeat my order three times.  I cannot tell you how much this annoys me.  I swear to GOD if you say it one more time I am going to do something.  I'm not sure what yet because I HAVEN'T HAD COFFEE AND I CANNOT THINK STRAIGHT.

Also, this fine morning you handed me steaming hot cups of coffee without sleeves.  I asked for sleeves and you said you were out but I could have a stopper instead.  Um, can I wrap this stopper around this cup so that my hands don't melt off?  Is it some magical stopper that makes the coffee cool down instantly?  No? THEN SHOVE THAT STOPPER UP YOUR ASS AND HAVE A NICE DAY.

Love,

Me

Tripping is NOT funny when it happens to you.

After our nightly "you are a mean mother because you make me go to bed but please come lay down with me I love you mommy" routine my kid told me that two boys at daycare were laughing at her after she tripped and it really hurt her feelings.  Considering she laughs at me when I trip (usually over a dog - it seems like we have a million of them) I thought this is a good "teachable" moment, right?

Sigh.

I was so wrong.

So very, very wrong.

Me:    I'm sorry they hurt your feelings.  Have you ever laughed at someone when they got hurt?

Kid:    No.

Me:    *THE LOOK*

Kid:    OK, I have.  But MOM IT IS NOT funny when they laugh at me.

Me:    Well, maybe it's not funny to the people you laugh at either.

Kid:    Well, I can't keep it in.

Me:    Maybe they can't keep it in either.

Kid:    Well, maybe they need to learn to control it.

Me:    Maybe you need to learn to control it.

Kid:    Well, I can't.  It's a part of my personality.  I'm funny and tell good jokes.

Me:    Maybe it's a part of their personality.

Kid:    No, it's not.  They don't have personality.  They are boring.  They don't even get my jokes.

Me:    What I'm saying is that now that you know what it feels like when someone laughs at you when you trip then maybe you won't do it to anyone else because you know that it would hurt your feelings if they did that to you.

Kid:    Well what I'm saying is that it is not funny when I trip but it is funny when other people trip.

LORD HAVE MERCY ON ME.  I TRIED.

Why did I tell my family I had this blog?

We had a family gathering last night and like most of our family gatherings it was INTENSE. My family is loving but also loud, witty and sarcastic.  Most of our gatherings generally end with someone in tears or feeling incredibly awkward (like the time we somehow ended up talking about butt hole hair which made my mother leave the room).  The banter between my parents ALONE would be a reality TV producer's dream come true.

Of course, the subject of my blog came up and everyone whipped out their iPhones to go view it.  Hello, please don't read it in front of me!  Where are your manners?  Talk about me behind my back like normal people!  It made me feel awkward even though I haven't written anything about them - yet.  In between explaining how and why I choose to write about something (a pen, really?), what the name of the Web site is (jerks) and how much can I make from doing this (um, probably not much) I seriously couldn't look at any one person for more than 2 seconds before the next question was asked.  It was like I was surrounded by paparazzi.

I couldn't help but share some of my favorite comments from last night:

My husband admitted he had only read the FIRST one and hadn't been back since.  (Which is probably for the best anyway.)



My mother doesn't like it when I use the "F" word.  (I'm sorry I'm just being AUTHENTIC.)



My father doesn't like it that the posts show the most recent ones first because he has to SCROLL down to see the ones he hasn't read yet and that is TOO COMPLICATED.  (Really, Dad?  Really?)



My sister critiqued my grammar.  (Hello, this is not the way it works!  You are supposed to critique my clothes Miss Smartypants.)



My brother hated the design. (Well, design something for me already!)



My kid likes it because she is generally THE STAR and I'm going to let her do movie and television reviews.  (I love her the best.)

I explained that I wouldn't talk about work or anything that would cause anyone any embarrassment (except me).  I told them I would never use their real names (of course my Dad said I could still call him Dad. *rolling eyes*).  I told them I would definitely write about last night (they seemed to get a kick out of that).

I have a feeling that I'm going to start getting e-mails with "material" - like "oh you should definitely write about that time you peed your pants at T.G.I. Friday's, when you were 27."

Sigh.

Do your immediate family and in-real-life friends know about your blog?  How do you handle it?

Thank you 8 pound 6 ounce Baby Jesus...

...don’t even know a word yet, just a little infant, so cuddly, but still omnipotent. -Talladega Nights AKA Most Awesome Movie Ever 

The reason I'm thanking Baby Jesus is that my doctor just called to tell me that my skin biopsy came back benign! Yay!

I haven't posted for the last few days because oh that skin biopsy was painful.  Still is.  I basically slept all weekend which really went against my plans to get stuff done for this birthday party we decided to have on Halloween. Whose idea was that? That person should be shot. Wait. That person had a biopsy so I think we're even.

My husband has been a trooper.  He's changed my bandages and cleaned my wound (which will take 4-8 weeks to heal, What. The. Hell.)  Let me just say ladies, having your husband clean and bandage you twice a day makes you feel incredibly attractive.  You should try it.  It will totally spice up your love life.  For sure.


It was really hard to keep it together at work today.  It's really hard to keep it together right now.  My bed is calling me.  Whispering sweet nothings in my ear.  My kid is also whispering to me.  But it's not sweet.  And it's not really whispering. 


Apparently it's dinner time.  Must feed her before she turns into a zombie and eats my brains.


UPDATE: My kid is amazing.  She had the wonderful idea to call her dad to ask him to bring home Chick-Fil-A.  I love her, for reals.


UPDATE 2: Husband is working late.  But we're both willing to wait to eat. 

My kid did a dramatic reinterpretation and I wrote about as if it were new. I'm sorry.

Remember when I wrote that post about how empathetic my kid is?  No?  Well, what are you waiting for?  Go check it out.  You have to read it first before you can continue.  It's a rule.  I will know if you don't go read it.

I am always curious what key words people use when they find my blog from a search engine.  I had one that found that post and it struck me as weird.  Like, who would first search for the oddly specific term "orphan blue saddest of all the blues"?  Do they think of paint colors often?  Are they from BEHR and want to see what people are saying about the kinda tacky names they pick for paint colors?

Now, remember when I rambled on about how amazing I thought my kid was for thinking so deeply about paint color in that post above?  How I honored her profound thinking?

Well, guess what I found when I did that same search?

A lot of references to iCarly.  A show that my kid watches.  A show that I've watched.  Except I always seem to be there when they are running an episode I've already seen a THOUSAND TIMES.

Apparently I missed the one where Spencer, the witty older brother, says this EXACT SAME THING.

Now, I haven't spoken to my kid yet (she's at school, rather reluctantly I must say).  So I can't get her side of the story and what I am deducing is really based on my awesome junior detective skills.  But if my suspicions are correct (and they usually are) then she remembered it from when Spencer from iCarly said it and did a dramatic reinterpretation.  Her profound thinking once again can be attributed to TELEVISION and not from my awesome mothering skills.

Apparently what I really should be proud of is her ability to ACT and BE DRAMATIC (although these skills are generally used in an effort to convince me that she needs to stay home from school, like she did this morning.  FYI, It didn't work).

I'm sorry, Internet.  I'm sorry for thinking my kid came up with that all on her own.  I imagine that she still is quite empathetic to orphans and paint color names.  But it makes me wonder, what other material has she tried to pass off as her own?  Mmmm...google, here I come.

How about some lymphangioma instead? Also, biopsies suck.

Yesterday I went to the dermatologist, who was a very nice man and dealt with a crying, anxiety-ridden patient very well but looked like he could be a serial killer.

I guess it's a routine thing they do to look at the rest of your body when you go in with a skin condition.  Really wish that was in the pre-appointment notes.  I have to tell you that I never expected I would need to remove my pants to look at something under my arm.  Never. So, obviously, I didn't prepare for that.  If you know what I mean.  If you don't what I mean then let me tell you.  I did not shave my legs.  I agreed to the whole body scan but realized as I was getting my blood pressure taken that I had not shaved.  So I told the nurse.  She laughed but said it didn't matter and that also we needed to do the blood pressure again because when I said that it went up 25 "points" or whatever they are.  I have a lot of anxiety about my leg hair. But apparently not enough to actually shave.

Anyway, so the doctor diagnosed me with lymphangioma, which is benign and looks a lot like shingles.  He basically said that I might not have had shingles this whole time. What the hell!  That can't be!  I wrote a post about it yesterday and since it's on the Internet it is true.  Of course, if I didn't have shingles, then I can't have that other postherptic thing which means I know have unexplained pain up and down my body.  I'm not sure which is better.

So he told me that the decision was up to me as to how to deal with it.  I could either 1) do nothing, 2) get it frozen off, or 3) get a biopsy since it did seem to be bleeding out.  So I cried.  And then he did something weird.  He whips out a camera to take a picture and makes a ton of notes which made me more nervous.  Then I cried some more and then he made the decision to do the biopsy.  I'll forever be grateful for that because I was not in the right state of mind to make any decisions.

I wasn't thrilled with the idea of the biopsy.  I'm not into pain but I'm also not into thinking that I'm dying of cancer.  No one likes getting cut.  Well, except for cutters, that is.  But it had to be done.

I really don't recommend a skin biopsy just for the fun of it, not that anyone would get one just for fun.  He numbed me (it hurt) but I could feel the tugging and then the smell of burning flesh. As I tweeted, it's like having your nipples bitten off.  I'm not one of the people who enjoy having my nipples bitten off so what I'm saying is that it sucked.  Also, opening your eyes and seeing your skin floating in a jar with the "cancer screening" order kind of sucks too.  He'll call me in a week with the results.  In the meantime I'm trying not to look at it the battlefield.  I'm so glad my husband's trip was cut short so he can be here to clean it for me.  I saw how much came off so I shudder to think what it looks like missing a big old chunk of skin.



So sorry for the disgustingness of this post but like I said I'm heavily medicated.  Be glad there are no pictures.

Just have to end this by saying thank you to my family for helping me out the last few days.  Especially my mom who talked me down from the ledge, cleaned my wound and my house, and entertained my kid this afternoon (and also managed to finally get her to pierce her ears!).

Postherpetic neuralgia. Say that 5 times fast.

I am in pain.

A lot of pain.

From damn mother-fucking shingles that I got the first time five years ago and it just won't go away.

Are you still reading?  Ok, well the area where I broke out is the same area that I had a tumor and lymph nodes removed when I was an infant.  On my right booby.  Now it's kind of to the side of that booby.  I've always had a scar under my arm.  I've always had skin tags (lymph node leakage - hawt, right?).  That booby has always been smaller than the others.  I've had procedures to remove the skin tags and they come back.  It grosses me out so I don't look often and I never touch.  I call it my "bad side".  It is tender because I don't like to touch it.  If that makes sense.

Until you have shingles you cannot imagine the pain that radiates around those tiny little disgusting blisters.  And to have it in an area that you already have issues is not fun because you can't tell what was there before and what wasn't because you don't like to look at it in the mirror. Ever.

Because God wasn't punishing me enough I got it again in 2005.  It was bad, but not as bad as that first time.  Ever since then I'd feel pain on that side of my body but I didn't really think much of it because like I said I've always kind of had something weird going on in that same area and also I like to be in a denial.  I would go to my doctor (at the time) and he'd give me a shot and it would go away.  He made the pain stop and I didn't think to ask more questions.  Then he died.  So that kind of sucked.

So it's been four years since the last time I had a shingles outbreak.  I forgot how it felt.  How could I have forgotten?

The last month or so I've been getting these horrible, KILL ME NOW headaches and I the pain I felt on and off for four years was more on than off.  Last weekend I had a headache so bad I felt like I was going to die if the dogs barked one more time.  Then I caught a glimpse of one of the areas under my arm in mirror and it had turned a blackish/reddish/purplish color and of course I immediately thought I had skin cancer. But I still waited a few days to e-mail my new doctor.  I have a flair for the dramatic.

Can I please get a referral to dermatology?  I'm dying.  (Ok, I didn't say that last part, but I DID ask for the referral). 

Of course they called and wanted me to come in.  FINE.

I went today.  I waited for almost two hours in a waiting room full of sick people with masks to have the PA come in for about two minutes and tell me, yep, you need to go see the dermatologist.  I TOLD YOU.  AND NOW I HAVE SWINE FLU TOO.  FUCK.  The only wonderful thing she did is to officially diagnose me with postherpetic neuralgia.  Ohhhh so that's what all that pain I've been feeling on my side for the last four years has been.

This afternoon I did what every person who has just been diagnosed with something does.  I googled the shit out of it.  It was scary yet informative.  It was reassuring to know that I'm not dying and it can be managed, ironically, with medication.  And antidepressants come in at number one. Score!  I have a tendancy to get down every so often and now I know why.  People who have this postherpetic neuralgia get depressed BECAUSE IT HURTS TO DO ANYTHING.  Ah-ha!

The symptoms of postherpetic neuralgia are generally limited to the area of your skin where the shingles outbreak first occurred. They may include:

• Sharp and jabbing, burning, or deep and aching pain - CHECK!

• Extreme sensitivity to touch and temperature change - CHECK! (Now I know why I don't want those damn dogs laying on me all the time! It's not just because I'm a bitch!)
  


• Itching and numbness- CHECK!
  


• Headaches - DOUBLE TRIPLE QUADRUPLE CHECK!
  

In rare cases, you might also experience muscle weakness or paralysis — if the nerves involved also control muscle movement.

Damn hypochondria.  DUH.  Here I was thinking I was dying and I was just having another freaking outbreak of shingles and I've been suffering from this postherptic thing for four years.  It all made sense.  The headaches and the numbness in my fingers and the aching, stabbing pain, oh god, the pain.  It wasn't always this horrible pain but I just didn't feel good.  Maybe this is why I have no desire to clean?  And am bitchy?  And have a short temper?  Mmm, something to share with my husband, for sure.

Also because I have this area with no lymph nodes that is all fucked up the PA said it's very likely that my shingles outbreak never cleared up and flared up again.  I have complications.  It will all get confirmed with the dermatologist tomorrow and hopefully it won't be anything more serious than a nasty little shingle blister that needs to be frozen or scooped our or something.

I know, gross - right?

Why I Am A Scary Mommy (and Wife)

Scary Mommy is having a contest to find the scariest mommies out there in honor of the new film, Motherhood,  The basic premise?  Explain why you are a scary mommy. 

Here is my story.

On Sunday I dropped my husband off at the airport.  I barely brushed my teeth.  I put a Cubs hat on my wild head of hair.  I threw on my Obama t-shirt.  No bra.  Also there to complete the look were the denim capri's that went out of fashion years ago.  Oh, and my legs haven't been shaved for at least two weeks.  I looked hawt.  And since I actually didn't drive there I had to get out of the truck to go to the driver's seat.  I'm proud that my husband still chose to give me a kiss good-bye, in public, right in front of the baggage handlers that saw that wonderful ensemble get out of the truck.

There was a time in my life when I wouldn't go to the mailbox without makeup on.  Now I will go just about anywhere, except Target, without makeup.  For some reason I hold Target in higher regard than other stores I frequent.

Dinner tonight?  For me, a PB&J and some coffee ice cream.  For my kid, Spaghettios (she loves them even though she refuses to put sauce or meatballs on regular spaghetti - I've tried to explain it's the same thing, to no avail) and also some coffee ice cream.  In front of the TV. GASP.

We'll find our clothes for tomorrow in the mountain of laundry waiting to be folded and put away for about three days.  It's right next to my bed so I see it every night and every morning.  Mocking me.  I just can't stand folding and putting away.  I hate hanging up clothes even though that seems like the easiest thing to do.  There's just something about putting things away that I really hate.  I will put laundry in the washer and dryer, no problem (well, if my husband carries it downstairs for me, that is) but please don't make me fold it.

I don't like to cook, I don't like to clean, I don't like to put things away.  I lose my temper.  I yell.  I just sent out invites for her birthday party that is in two weeks, on a holiday.  Even though I'm at work all day when I get home I still find reasons not to play Barbie's with my kid because I really don't like it.  I'm not good at pretend.  Sometimes I tune her out when she talks.

And I feel tremendously guilty about it all.

Despite all of this I have a kid that loves to cook, loves to clean, loves to help with laundry.  Mostly because of my husband, who is the role model in these areas.  She doesn't like to put things away (score one for me).  She's got an imagination I can't even wrap my head around.  She's brave and confident (unlike her socially awkward mother) and won't take shit from anybody (generally me).  She calls me out.  She makes me see.

She and my husband loves me despite my obvious shortcomings.

I have my strengths (I can hold my own when it comes to fart jokes and my husband I think the same things at the same time so much it's downright creepy) so what if I go out of the house looking like an escaped mental patient (which in some ways, I am)?  So what if I don't cook or clean or fold laundry very often?  I may not play Barbie's every time she asks me but I've taken my kid on trips to places I never had the opportunity to see when I was her age.  I do other things that non-scary mommies probably wouldn't, like let a caterpillar live on my counter for a week.  In a soup bowl.  With no lid.

I'm know I'm scary.  But we're having a blast.

DVR, how I love thee.

I forgot that another time my kid likes to become Chatty Cathy (sorry, it was a honest mistake Internet!) is when I'm watching TV.  She has a sixth sense.  It's like she knows when I've just started getting into something and POOF, she's right there.  She's like a ninja!  And, of course, it is generally when I've just started watching something that she shouldn't, like The D-List.  I already inadvertently taught her the word "douche bag" so it's not like I need any more help from Kathy Griffin.

Seriously, I don't know how mothers survived without DVR.  If I didn't have DVR I would never be able to watch anything but the Disney channel and that would make me go mad, mad I tell you!

Basically, what I'm saying here, is that DVR has saved my sanity.  I could have been sitting next to her quietly for hours but the minute I turn on the TV she wants to talk.  Or make noise.  Noise!  Keesh koosh woosh swish keesh koosh woosh. What does that even mean?  And, do I sing and dance when you're watching Phineas and Ferb, uh kid??? (Well, I wouldn't anyway because I like that show, but you get my point.)

I pause it every time she needs to talk to me or put on an impromptu dance routine.  Because what if this is the moment she needs to tell me something IMPORTANT or show me her latest move that is probably not appropriate for school and I need to talk to her about that.  I don't want to be the bitchy mommy who who would rather watch Kathy Griffin tell dick jokes than talk to her kid or see her latest creative masterpiece.

Pause, wait, listen, talk, watch. Patiently.

And it takes me about an hour and a half to watch a show that is an 45 minutes long without commercials.

I'm pretty sure DVR isn't supposed to work that way.

Guest Blogger: The Kid Reviews Where The Wild Things Are

Where The Wild Things Are should be a little bit more realistic.  I mean, when he pulled off his arm then there should have not been sand.  There should have been blood.  I don't get it.  I mean, he was friends with Max and then he turns against him? That's just not right for him to do that mostly because you shouldn't do that to a friend.  I mean if I had a friend like Max I would not have eaten him.  Well what I mean to say is that I would not have threatened to have eaten him.  I would have just told him to go home cuz he doesn't really belong here.  But I wouldn't do it in a mean way.  I would do it in more of an nice, kind way.  I would say it's not you, it's me and you just don't belong.  You're not a wild thing.  You're a boy.  And I don't get that he and the wild thing become friends just by sniffing and howling at each other...weird.

Overall I would say that I really liked it!

Better parenting through reality TV. Thank you, Jeff Lewis.

It seems like my kid barely acknowledges my presence when we are at home but the minute we get in the car she's Chatty Cathy.  This is when I learn all sorts of things - from the really important ones like which boy at school she likes to the more exciting ones, like her plans for world domination.  It was during what felt like our hundredth trip to the nursery the other day that she was talking about how it wasn't okay to make fun of someone, especially if it makes them cry.

Me:     That's right.  Did this happen to you or one of your friends?

Kid:     No.

Me:     Well, what made you think of that?

Kid:     On Flipping Out when Jeff picked on Zoila and it made her cry.  It wasn't very nice.

On Flipping Out.  A program that is probably borderline acceptable for kids her age.  She didn't remember it from the millions of times I talked to her about it. She remembered it from Jeff Lewis. From Flipping Out.

Big.

Time.

Motherhood.

Fail.

The saddest of all the blues

My kid was picking out a paint color for her room and was pretty sure she wanted a blue, but didn't know exactly which shade of blue.  She and my husband made a trip to Home Depot (his favorite store of all time) and looked through the paint samples while I stayed at home to...clean.  (Guess what part of that last sentence is not true).

When they came home he pulled me aside and told me he had something to tell me but couldn't tell me in front of her.  This could go one of two ways: 1) she had behaved horribly and he had to drag her out of the store kicking and screaming or 2) she did something cute and if he told me in front of her then she would freak out and get all mad at us for laughing at her even though we weren't laughing at her and she would cry and threaten us -- especially if there was any mention of posting it on facebook for our distant friends and relatives to enjoy. She really hates that.  She also hates having her picture taken but I could seriously dedicate a Web site to just that.

She goes upstairs and he whispers to me (she has the hearing of a bat) that as they were looking at paint samples she came across one that was called "Orphan Blue" and she got really quiet.  He asked her what was wrong and she looked up at him with the saddest expression, big sad eyes and all, and said "Poor Orphan Blue, the saddest of all the blues".

I am constantly amazed by how deeply she thinks and feels.  I would have never thought that deeply about a paint color or drawn that kind of connection.  If I had my coffee that day I might have thought something like "that's a tacky name for a paint color".

I know I'm not the only mother in the world who has a child who says profound things, things that literally stop you in your tracks, but it doesn't stop me from wanting to share it with the world.

So, kid, let me apologize in advance for putting this one on the Internet.  I'll pay for your therapy, I promise.

I did it! I cooked something! And it tasted good! Oh, and Mom - don't read this.

I got the tuna last night!  It was THIS BIG:





I was super excited.  My kid, not so much.  Have I mentioned she's an incredibly picky eater?  Don't tell me all kids are like that.  All kids are not like this.  It can't be true.  She only likes barbecue sauce from McDonald's and ranch from the restaurant, but on the side.  Cheeseburgers?  Plain.  Not even ketchup.  No PB&J, no Macaroni & Cheese, nothing that requires an ampersand.  Spaghetti?  Sure, without the meatballs and sauce, please.  And there better not be any of those "green things" on it.  I really don't know how she continues to grow.

I really wanted her to try the one thing I have cooked for our family in about a year (my husband is the real talent in our family) so I attempted to convince her that she would like tuna noodle casserole and it went something like this:

Me:  Do you like noodles?

Kid: Yes.

Me: Do you like tuna?

Kid: Yes, but with mayo and just a tiny speck of pepper and lots of salt.

Me: Ok, then you'll like this.

Kid: Not the peas.  Or the cream of mushroom.

Me: Eat around the peas.  You won't be able to tell there are mushrooms.

Kid: Can you just leave some plain noodles on the side in case I don't like it?

Me: I'm not your Grandma!!  I'm not going to do that.  You need to try this.

Kid: I know you're not my Grandma.  She's old.

Me: You better hope she doesn't read my blog today.

Kid: DO NOT PUT THIS ON THE INTERNET.



FYI, I did leave some plain noodles out only because I made too many.  Also, because I'm a wimp.  I knew she wouldn't try it and I couldn't let her go hungry.  The guilt would be too much for me to bear.

And, no, she didn't try my masterpiece.  Not even one little bite.

All about me according to my kid (yes this is an annoying meme - deal with it)

My friend sent this meme to me and rather than risk ruining our friendship forever, I decided to go ahead and do it.  The posting it to my blog?  Well, that's just to annoy you (see question on what I will be famous for below).

Instructions: Ask your kid these questions and write down exactly what they say.  No cleaning it up to make yourself look better as I wanted to do but I didn't because I follow the rules.

Q: What is something mom always says to you?  

        A: Do your homework.

Q: What makes mom happy?

        A: When I do my homework.

Q. What makes mom sad?

        A: When I don't do my homework.

----> Are we seeing a pattern here about homework? 

Q: How does your mom make you laugh?

A: When she tells the joke "How many roaches does it take to screw in a light bulb? None! Cuz when you turn on a light they scatter!"

----> I tell waaaay better jokes than that! Come on!

Q. What was your mom like as a child?

        A: Nice and always did her homework.

----> See I told you I was anal about homework.

Q: How old is your mom?

        A: 72...hahahaha (that's her laughing at me)

----> Rude.

Q: How tall is your mom?

        A: 2 inches...hehehe (again, laughing)

----> Rude.

Q: What is her favorite thing to do?

        A: Read.

----> True.

Q: What does your mom do when you're not around?

        A: Work.

----> Uh, true.

Q: If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?

        A: For being annoying.

----> So true, right Internet?

Q: What is your mom really good at?

        A: Reading.

----> True. I do read well but my pronunciation sucks.

Q: What is your mom not very good at?

        A: Cooking.

----> I have no defense for this.  Did you read this post?  Also applies to the next question.

Q: What is your mom's favorite food?

        A: Pizza.

----> Because you can order it on the Web and they deliver it to your house!  It's amazing! 

Q: What makes you proud of your mom?

        A: That she helps make me a better person.

----> All together now, awwwwww.

Q: If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?

        A: Abba (the flying bison from Ang, the Last Avatar) second pick is Momo the lemur.

----> What. The. Hell.

Q: What do you and your mom do together?

        A: Shop!

----> Dear husband, this is not true!

Q: How are you and your mom the same?

        A: Uh, we like to shop.

----> Really, we go to the park and swing and tell stories and, and, and...

Q: How are you and your mom different?

        A: A million ways.

----> Not sure if I should be offended by this or not.

Q: How do you know your mom loves you?

        A: She hugs and kisses me.

---->Again, awwww.

Q: What does your mom like most about your dad?

        A: He proposed.

----> You're damn skippy!

Q: Where is your mom's favorite place to go?

        A: Target.

----> We live there. Really.


This was really fun to do with my kid.  You should try it. If you have a kid.  If you don't have a kid you could try it with your cat or dog.  I'm sure it will be equally interesting. Not.

See what happens when I try to be domestic?

I grew up "back east" - in combination of the Northeast and the South.  I know what it is like to walk through three feet of snow, uphill, both ways.  I also know what it is like to feel like your clothes are permanently stuck to your body and sweat is dripping off you the minute you step out the door.  In California the hot is more of oh-my-god-I-just-burned-off-my-skin-on-the-metal-on-my-drive-shift but at least I can breathe this smoggy air kind of heat.  I am so happy that it is finally not 103 degrees everyday that I got this huge burst of energy.  I could do anything!  It wasn't hot!  I need a scarf (kind of)!  I think that might be rain!

What did I do with this energy?  I decided to go domestic and cook dinner, not just tonight but the night after that too.  There, I said it.  Please don't tell anyone.  I wanted to call my Mom to ask for her recipes for tuna noodle casserole and scalloped potatoes and ham but she's at a conference and I think that the shock of me asking for recipes might be too much for her and she'll worry something is wrong and the whole time she won't be able to think of anything else but that.  I went with plan B: the Internet.  Who knew that there were so many Web sites dedicated to cooking food?  I only know the ones where you can order pizza online and they deliver it to you.  Anyway...I practically ran out of work right at 5 so that I could go pick up the kid from daycare and head to the grocery store.

At this point in the story you need to know two things: 1) I hate grocery stores because they are not organized according to the way my brain says they should be and 2) I really had to pee, like bad.  Why didn't I just go at the grocery store you ask?  I don't know.  I only saw the bathroom as we were halfway done and at that point I would have had to dig out my purse, leave my cart, and take the kid with me to the restroom.  Then I would have come back and some nice grocery store worker would have started putting everything back.  I would have to start all over. No, thank you.

So we speed through the store because I think I just might pee my pants.  I passed what I would have considered the noodle aisle (where the bread is - it's all carbs, right?) and realize the noodles are not there.  We back track to the real noodle aisle (where the canned meat is).  This happens a lot.  To top it off there is some weird static electricity thing going on so anytime we touch each other or something on the shelves we are shocked.  I keep thinking that the next shock is going to make the pee come out of me involuntarily and I'm going to have to drop a jar of pickles on the floor so no one thinks I peed my pants.





We finally make it through the store, the long, slow check out lane, and to the car.  I speed home. RELIEF.  Doesn't it just feel so good?  Better than some other things, sometimes if you know what I mean and I think you do.

I decide to make the tuna noodle.  I go to get the tuna out of the cupboard.  No tuna.  I asked my kid a million and one times if we had tuna and she said yes she saw it yesterday when she was packing her lunch.  Yes, she packs her own lunch!

Ok.  I am not defeated!  I will make scalloped potatoes and ham!  Recipe says I have to peal and slice the potatoes and slice onions!  What. The. Hell.  That will take me like four hours and I'll probably cut off my finger and my husband is working late and then I'll have to call 911 and pay a million dollars for an ambulance ride.  No thanks.  Too risky.

I ordered pizza.  It will get here in an hour.  My fresh fall energy?  Maybe tomorrow.

A is for anal aka why my kid is afraid to draw outside the lines

While it might seem like I'm a slacker in many areas when it comes to my parenting, one area where I am not is school work.  I genuinely feel sorry for my kid that she got such a controlling, overbearing mother who insists that each page have her name on it even thought it is part of a packet that is stapled together three times.  I tell her, what if one gets ripped off, then what?  Huh?  You won't get credit.  YOU WON'T GET CREDIT.  As if not getting credit for a homework paper would ruin her life.  Over the years homework has dissolved into Something We Dread, only because I know it won't be up to my standard and I have to balance sending my kid over the edge versus my insane need to have it perfectly done.  It's pretty crazy that I insist her homework be neat when you look up and see the messy counter.  Do what I say not what I do!

I regret all the nights I made her dissolve into tears because I erased all of her spelling sentences for her to write over, but more neatly.  Or when I would get frustrated that she didn't understand something that I thought I was explaining perfectly well.  Or when she would get frustrated at me for not understanding something she thought she was explaining perfectly well (fourth grade math is HARD you guys!).  I don't think those tears were truly  worth it.  I've really been trying to relax more.  I really have!  My husband makes me!  Sometimes he tells me to leave the room!  But then she brought home information about her first project, a salt and flour map.  We had a month.  Parents were encouraged to help.  Encouraged.  That was my green light!

My husband created the template.  She cut it out and traced it.  I retraced it.  My husband made the salt and flour mixture with her and helped her to shape the mountains, coast, desert, and valley.  I reshaped them all.  She painted it.  I repainted it.  My husband cut the board and I made him cut it again (which, uh, made it smaller than it was "legally" allowed to be so I had to write a note explaining my error, which should be totally believable, as if I was going to let my kid use a power saw!).  I made labels.  She glued them on.  I remade the labels and re-glued them on.  Most of my redoing was done secretly, or when her attention was on something else, like the caterpillars that are trying to die or when she was watching Phineas and Ferb (and, you know, I wasn't).  And, other times, not so much.  That was when she would get frustrated and yell at me that this was her project.  So I would turn on the "I'm just trying to help" and cry and pout and go to my room. Not really, but kind of.  So it's not like I did the whole thing for her.  When I told her what an excellent job she did she was really proud of herself.  Mostly I think I was telling myself what an excellent job I did.  Something is seriously wrong with me.

I have her first parent/teacher conference of the year soon.  I'm a little nervous because I can't lie very well so if the teacher asks me how much I helped I might have to lie and she's totally going to know.  I hate these things because I always feel like the worthiness of my DNA and parenting skills are being judged.

Last night my kid brought home another project and you know what she said to me, like, 5 times?  "This one will not require parent help.  By parent, that means you.  I don't need your help, Mom.  Got it?"

I got it.  I get it.  Geesh!

I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map!

(Repeat about 100 times. I love Dora, even more now that she's a slutty teenager).

A Mystery: The Sticker On The Stairs

The Sticker was on our stairs, the second one from the top (to be exact), for at least five years.  Or five days. Whatever!  It's not the point!  The first time I saw it I thought "I can't be the first one to have seen this so I'm going to leave it there to see how long it takes for someone else to notice it and pick it up."  For days I watched my husband, my kid, my dogs, walk right on by it like it didn't exist.  Everyday I would pass it on my way upstairs (not downstairs, because it's not in your face. It's only in your face when you go upstairs) I would think "I should pick it up. No, don't do it. You can hold out. Resist. RESIST."

So the days passed and no one picked it up.  Up and down the stairs they all went and no one touched The Sticker. You would think those damn dogs would have eaten it since they eat everything else, including their own poop.  Apparently stickers are below poop on the dog menu.  Watch bands and iPhone earbuds, those are a delicacy.  I began to think I was the only one who could see it.  My mind began to unravel as the days passed: "Huh, today it kinda looks like Jesus.  Maybe I should take a picture of it and send it to National Inquirer!" or "Oh, look there's now a little string on it, maybe a bird is building a nest!"

I couldn't take it any longer, so on day five, I finally picked it up.  But I didn't throw it away.  I just placed it on our little counter top upstairs for everyone to see and of course, for the bird, just in case it wasn't done building a nest.  You don't want to mess with bird nests.  Then, like a day later, it was just gone.  Vanished.  Probably in the garbage! By someone other than me! Victory!

It was a cold, dark night, days after it had vanished, when we were sitting in our living room watching Project Runway that I noticed The Sticker out of the corner of my eye, on the bottom of my husband's sock.  What the hell!  Now the damn Sticker was mocking me!  It was like the heartbeat under the floorboards in that creepy poem!  Because not picking up a sticker is kind of like murder, but, you know, not like that at all.  How did it get from the counter to his sock?  Did it jump?  Commit sticker suicide?  Did I not see it on the floor when I thought it had vanished?  Was I that obtuse?  The Sticker was calling from inside the house.  Did my husband purposely put it on the bottom of his sock to see if I noticed it?  Did I mention I really hate housework so for me to be the one to "hold out" is kind of ridiculous?  Maybe this whole time he was waiting for me to pick it up and throw it away?  How dare he!  What do I do?  I can't be the one to cave!  Not after all this time.  So I did what every respectable wife would do, I tricked him with my mad ninja skills and my love, just in case he was testing me. I got up on the premise of getting a drink and I swiped it from his foot as I leaned over to give him a kiss.  Now he had a mystery on his hands - what happened to His Sticker that he had found lying on the counter top after it he had put on the stairs to see if his wife would pick up anything in this house?  Did one of the dogs get it and foil his plan to have her notice it on his sock?  Dammit! How is that woman ever going to learn how to clean?

You might be wondering what happened to The Sticker?  No?  Well, I'm going to tell you anyway.  First, I folded it in half then cut it into tiny little pieces.  Then, I soaked in lighter fluid and set fire to it on our grill.  Yes, it took a lot more effort than it would have been just to pick it up and throw it away in the first place, but that is NOT THE POINT.

Your bill, madam.

I was taking a shower when my kid burst into my room to give me a bill (hello, privacy!).  She explained to me that she needed the money and that I owed her.  I owed her!  If you can figure out what the last one is I will give you ten bonus points.

After a careful review of the bill I asked her for another piece of paper and then handed them both back to her.



This, of course, resulted in an exasperated sigh and eyeroll as she stormed out of my room.  I guess she didn't need that money after all.

Dad, please read this.

Six Year Old Sent Home Sick With Stranger

WHAT THE HELL.  I would KILL (or not because I would go to jail and then who would entertain my tens of followers...fine...ones of followers...damn.)

Firstly, I can't believe the school didn't confirm the child's name and then check the ID of the person picking up this kid.  In this day and age!  Which was different in my day and age!  It's not like this is some small town (or bar) where everybody knows your name (obviously).  Secondly, why the hell do you take a kid home that you don't know.  Has it been that long since you had seen the kid?  If so, then I come to my third point, that I like to call Thirdly, what the hell are you doing as the emergency contact for the kid you thought you were picking up?  Shouldn't being able to recognize the child be a criteria of some sort for an emergency contact?  Even if you haven't seen them in person, aren't you at least facebook friends?  Shouldn't you have seen the hundreds of photos those loving parents posted for your stalking enjoyment?  Who is going to answer all of my questions?!?!

According to the story it was the grandfather of another kid ... I'm pretty sure if I asked my Dad to pick up my kid from school I could count on him to bring me the right kid and not just take the first one that came along.  Uh, right Dad?

Phineas and Ferb are my "thing you search for on the Internet when your spouse isn't looking"

Update: I had to change the title of this post from using the word "p-0-r-n" to "thing you search for on the Internet when your spouse isn't looking" because too many people googled "phineas and ferb p-0-r-n" and it truly distrubed me that they found my blog.

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Let me start this by saying that not only could I name (or google, whatever) almost all the shows on Disney, but I could tell you the main characters and any unseemly things I read about them on my favorite gossip sites.  I'm grateful that my kid is finally at an age when she can watch some prime time television and when she asks me something like "why did that lady just kiss that other lady" I can explain it to her and she can understand it.  It's not like I let her watch True Blood or The D-List anything like that but a little bit of the Simpson's or Tyra or Heidi is ok.  Although I'm seriously questioning Tyra these days - "Super Smize" really? A cape?  You know those models were taking a few steps toward that door.  ANYWAY, my point is, the TV is generally tuned to Disney, Nick, CartoonNetwork, etc most of the time.

On Saturday I woke up before anyone else (no comments from the peanut gallery!) and went downstairs to get some cereal (Cheerios!) and a muffin from Costco (both bought by my loving husband) and settled down to watch TV.  I HAD the remote.  I could watch anything on the 1000 channels we have or the 35 things on DVR. ANYTHING!  But do you know what I watched?  I turned that TV on and it was on the Disney channel and it was the episode where Phineas and Ferb go to Mount Rushmore and I didn't change the channel, I couldn't, I didn't want to.  I watched it while I ate my Cheerios! and sipped my orange juice. It was just to the part where Perry the Platypus finds out his secret mission is back at Mount Rushmore (he was just there, see how funny that is?!?) and he's on his way back to Mount Rushmore through the conveniently located secret transport system, when my husband walked in.  My husband just looked at me and said "Are you really...?" and I said quickly "Uh, I just turned it on...you can change it" like I just caught doing something really dirty, like watching, ya know, that.  What was I supposed to say to my husband of only 10 months?  Maybe "You know, I'm actually really into this, do you mind if we find out if Candace finally gets Phineas and Ferb in trouble or until we hear the evil Doofenshmirtz's back story for this episode?" would have been better?



And, yes, I totally ordered that DVD...I need to know how it ended! Shhh.