Monthly Archives: May 2013

Your Tongue Will Fall Off

We are having a problem with bad words.  No, not me.  The boys.  As in, the littleboys.  I have NO idea where they have gotten the idea that it’s ok to curse.   (Stop laughing, you guys.)
I have repeatedly told Jason to watch his language in front of the kids, but does he listen to me?  Nooooo.  And now look.  We have to deal with little juvenile delinquents, and somehow before school is back in session, we have to convince them that certain words are off limits.  (Well, for them anyway.)
Here’s the thing.  And this is going to sound really bad, but it all started with Mine Craft.  (Is that one word or two?  I don’t even know.  As an involved parent, I should probably at least know that much.  Crap.)  Anyway, Jadon is obsessed with Mine Craft, and when I say obsessed, I mean like it-puts-the-lotion-on-its-skin obsessed.  Over-the-top obsessed.  Every conversation we have is about how something is spawned or how something is built or how something is destroyed, but up until recently all that has seemed pretty harmless.
Until he discovered the Mine Craft tutorials, which also seemed innocent enough until we learned that they were only some punk-ass teenagerstalking about their own obsessions with the game and thinking they were WAY cool because they used inappropriate language that I would NEVER (gasp!) use in the presence of my kids.  So we discovered that Jadon had happened upon these tutorials on the computer, and that’s about the time his language started to go downhill quickly.
At first I thought the things he was saying were things he had heard from older kids on the bus.  Damned bus.  And some of them could be, but I still suspect the Mine Craft hooligans.
Without going into the grisly details, it became apparent that we needed to have a talk with our little guy (and BAN these horrific tutorials!) about his language.  I very simply told him that his tongue would turn black and fall off if he said any more bad words.  Simple enough.
Jason talked to him more in depth.  “Dude, you need to really be careful and use only nice words.  You can’t say bad words.  Do you understand?”
Jadon nodded solemnly.  “Like fuckin’, right?  I can’t say that?”
And in our speechless moment of horror, we quickly concurred that YEP, indeed, that’s the one we were talking about.  Let’s avoid that one, little dude.

Dis Ice Cream Man Be Trippin’

First, I would like to credit my newfound and constantly growing knowledge of ghetto slang to my daughter, Micaela.  (Also, I would like to take this time to remind all our friends to please not tell her that she is a read-headed while girl who lives in the suburbs.  This knowledge would crush her.)
Next, I would like to tell you about a little run-in we had with the ice cream man yesterday.  My question is this:
Who the hell is hiring these ice cream professionals, and what exactly are their credentials?!
While sitting at Papa Murphy’s yesterday, the boys and I heard the distinct sound of an approaching ice cream truck.  (This is the sound that all parents will recognize as the bane of our existence All. Summer. Long.  Enough with the music already!  Our kids KNOW you are coming.)
The aforementioned ice cream truck proceeded to pull to a stop behind our car.  Jason and Marissa were already inside ordering a pizza, so it was just the boys and me waiting in an abandoned and overheating car wondering where the hell our pizza was.  And just so you know, NO, the ice cream professional did NOT turn off the music.  Because this kind of scene needs playful circus music accompanying it.
At that moment, two young ladies who were also inside Papa Murphy’s popped their heads out the door and waved the ice cream professional on his way.
THEN, the ice cream professional proceeded to put his truck in Park and hop out of the truck.  Aw, holy hell, we were about to have an ice cream versus pizza throwdown.
Apparently, the ice cream professional did not take well to being turned down by these two lovely young ladies, and he wanted to voice his frustration.  And so he did.  Loudly.  Both inside the restaurant and out.
I won’t even repeat what the ice cream man said, because frankly, I don’t think any ice cream man should be allowed to speak that way.  It’s traumatizing to both children and parents.
Also, he was the skinniest ice cream man I’ve ever seen.  Like he never eats any of his products or something.  So this would help explain why his pants were falling down past his butt.  I’m not sure what could explain the dreadlocks or the seemingly fluent gang signals he was making with his hands, but that just adds to the mystery.
Anyway, as he was YELLING at these girls, I picked up my phone—sort of because I thought we might die and also because I thought I might need to call for help for the girls.  However, before I could dial, I heard my 6-year-old shout from the backseat, “He’s probably from prison!”
Probably so, son, so let’s not add fuel to the fire, m’kay?
So instead of dialing, I shrank into my seat and started desperately signaling my husband to return to the car.  He didn’t see me because he was too focused on the we-make-the-pizza-in-front-of-you scene to notice that the rest of his family was about to be killed in the parking lot.
We survived, AND we had delicious pizza.  And I did check with the girls in the car next to us to make sure they were ok.
And I’m left to ponder the hiring process behind the ice cream professional business.  It seems that we should not have just-released-from-prison vendors selling ice cream to our kids.  I might need therapy, and I’m pretty sure we won’t be chasing down an ice cream truck anytime in the near future.

Conversation With My Husband

Me: I need to go to Vegas for my certification.  We can go together and make it a vacation.
Jason:  Ok.  I can entertain myself in Vegas while you are busy.  There are lots of waffles there.
Me:  Sounds good to me.  But why do you want waffles in Vegas?
Jason:  I didn’t say ‘waffles,’ dumbass.  Why would I want waffles in Vegas?
Me:  Not sure, but if you want waffles, you should get them.
Jason:  I said ‘brothels.’  There are lots of BROTHELS in Vegas.  I could entertain myself.  Har.  Har.
Me:  Maybe you should stick with waffles.
Jason:  So no brothels?
Me:  Um, no.

Wear Pants When Dealing With Rodents

There are several incidents I could probably reference that have contributed to making me the way I am today (read: CRAZY LUNATIC).  In fact, many of the people who love (and even like me, pretend to like me, or just hang out with me on a regular basis) don’t know a lot of these stories, so I’ma gonna enlighten you.  Maybe that will help shed some light on my mental status.
They say you aren’t supposed to remember much before the age of two or three.  I am a bit of an anomaly because I remember several little tidbits from my childhood, and I’m not sure whether that’s necessarily a good or bad thing.  I’m just sayin’.
This particular incident, however, happened probably when I was around three to four years old.  My grandparents (on my mom’s side) lived in the country.  And by the country, I mean on a farm with pigs and chickens and sheep and sheep shit and hay and a barn and tractors.  All that good stuff.  I remember the sheep vividly because I once returned to the farmhouse and announced to everyone who would listen—as I held one chubby leg precariously in the air—“I got sheep shit on my shoe!”  (I was a very eloquent youngster.)
As we are all aware, farms have all sorts of critters, both large and small.  And many of those critters don’t always know that they are supposed to live OUTSIDE of the damned farmhouse.  Like mice.  Oh, stupid, stupid mice.
It was during a family picnic or dinner or something.  Or we may have just been eating in the yard because there was no air conditioning and it was hotter than hell in the house.  I’m not sure.  Either way, every living soul was out in the yard.  And that’s when I decided that I needed to go inside to pee, so off I toddled in my overalls.  (OVERALLS.  Don’t judge.  They were very practical for tractor riding and pig slopping, I’ll have you know.)
For whatever reason, I went to the basement to pee.  Probably because it was the coolest place in the whole house.  (See previous paragraph regarding NO freaking air conditioning.)  And in the tiny little basement bathroom, I dropped my overalls and hopped right up on the potty, dangling my feet in that innocent way kids will do right before they are about to be attacked by a rabid mouse.
That’s when I heard the trash in the trashcan start to move.  And that’s when a rodent the size of a damned baby piglet squirmed to the top of the can.  And that’s when I let out a scream like a mass murderer was chopping me to tiny little bits right there in my grandma’s basement.
To everyone’s credit, the entire family came to my rescue.  Unfortunately, by the time they made it into the house via the front door, I had made my escape out the back door, down the back porch steps, and there I stood BARE-ASSED with my overalls around my ankles still screaming in the backyard.  Somehow I had made it up the steps from the basement, out of the house, onto the porch, and into the yard…ALL WITH MY PANTS AROUND MY ANKLES.  (Do not underestimate my talent.  I say I am a terrible runner, but you have not seen me run with my pants around my ankles while being chased by a mouse.)
I am not sure whether I was more traumatized by the fact that I was being run down in a half-naked death chase by a mouse OR whether it was the mortification of being found and subsequently laughed at as I stood sans pants in front of the entire family.  Either way, I’m sure this incident somehow contributed to my current state of what most people label as ‘is-she-effing-crazy?

And yes, if I even THINK there is a mouse in my house, I will be at the store within minutes to purchase no less than a full arsenal of goods with which to dispatch said mouse and eject it from my home.  Only now I do it with pants on.  Most of the time.

Things My Dog Might Be Barking At Right Now

Rudi barks pretty much ALL. THE. DAMNED. TIME.  Here’s a possible list of what the hell he might be barking at currently:
  • The car that just drove by
  • The car that MIGHT drive by
  • A grasshopper that just farted in the backyard
  • A blade of grass blowing in the wind
  • His ass hair blowing in the wind
  • The ticking of the clock
  • The ticking of the bomb I taped to him
  • His reflection in the refrigerator
  • The kids getting off the bus (They LIVE here, you idiot!)
  • The shadow of the tree reflected in the grass
  • The gurgle of his watering dish
  • The flush of the toilet
  • The trash truck
  • The sound of his own bark
  • The sound of me saying “shut up!”
  • The sound of my house plant growing

It could be anything, really.  Any damned thing at all.  I’ve grown accustomed to the quiet little ‘woof’ that just sort of slips out of him without any thought at all throughout the day now.  It’s the zero-to-I-will-eat-you-alive-and-go-Kujo-up-on-your-ass bark that usually makes me jump out of my own skin.  But that only happens when Mormons or kids selling candy bars come to the door, so I’m sorta cool with it.
Anyway, so today I think Rudi saved me—either from being suddenly forced to buy a Krunch bar or from someone trying to convert me to a religion where I have to wear a dress and act like a lady.  Or something.  I don’t own a dress, and I definitely don’t need candy.
Good dog.

The Banning of Cargo Shorts

And hence cargo shorts were banned in all the land because bad princes and princesses (but mostly princes) were caught with pilfered goods stashed in their oversized pockets, and then the wicked witch had to punish the naughty little princes by removing their electronic devices and threatening to lock their little arses in the juvenile detention center with the big, bad policeman if they EVER pilfered again.  And they all lived happily ever after.
Also, I’m sorry, Walmart, but I am not driving back across town to return your already-chewed package of gum and already-stuck package of stickers, both of which were recovered from my son-turned-thief’s pocket.  He is VERY sorry, and I feel certain he will not be choosing this method of acquiring goods in the near future.
Furthermore, I told him if he chooses the route of thievery in the future, he will not be allowed to wear such concealing clothing.  He will, instead, be making outings wearing a tiny little Speedo, and his hands will be restrained in plain view.  It should be highly entertaining.
In short, I have been assured this behavior will not be repeated.  Sincerely,
The Wicked Witch

Things I Pretended Not to Notice Today

It’s officially Mother’s Day weekend, so that means that I get a little more leeway than normal.  And don’t be fooled—I normally give myself a LOT of leeway anyway (mostly because I’m crazy and everyone just knows not to expect a whole lot), but this weekend, I’m granting myself just a smidge more.
So after ensuring the girls were safely at practice today, the boys and I ventured into public.  This is something I typically try to avoid, especially after last week’s adventure to Hobby Lobby, which required me to drink two Long Island Iced Teas in order to recover from the shame and humiliation of my boys’ behavior.  (For the record, it is my opinion that no trip to Hobby Lobby should require alcohol as a post-shopping recovery device, however, no one has been to Hobby Lobby with MY two boys.)
Anyway.  Public.  The boys and I went to McDonalds, which leads me to the first thing I pretended not to notice today.  My 6-year-old child was crawling like an infant across the Playplace floor and into the restroom.  (Before you gasp in horror, let me explain to you how great this is for boosting the immune system.  This kid is almost NEVER sick, and I attribute it to the fact that he does stuff like this all the time.  Also, he’s kid Number 5, so by now, I’ve figured out that he’s going to survive a little McDonald’s floor grime.)  So I pretended not to notice.  Because, eh.
Our little foray next led us to Walmart.  And trust me, you have to pretend not to notice a LOT of things in that place.  I’m pretty sure we blended.  After the sixth time of telling my kid to get his finger out of his nose, I pretended not to notice the seventh and eighth times.  Because I can only say, “Get your finger out of your nose” a certain number of times before calling attention to myself.  (I’m going to germ hell.)
I pretended not to notice that my kid put four pieces of gum into his mouth.  Because the argument, people, the argument.  Just not worth it.  And it was sugar-free, so I figured we were pretty safe there.
I pretended that the entire aisle didn’t reek when we walked into it, surprising a lady who had obviously just let loose the fart of the century.  It was gross, and my boys announced very LOUDLY that is was gross.  I pretended to be lacking a sense of smell and not to know the two little boys who were adamantly insisting the aisle stunk like a skunk.
I pretended that my dogs were not total assholes that stood there humping each other in a display of who-dominates-who as I chatted with the neighbor (who, by the way, now thinks I’m either oblivious to the fact that my dogs continuously hump each other OR that I’m so used to the site that it’s a ridiculously unhealthy occurrence in our household.  It’s the latter.)
I am currently pretending not to see the dust on the ceiling fan blades because tomorrow is Mother’s Day, so things can just stay dusty, damn it.  In fact, I have figured out that if I leave all the fans in the house running, you can’t even see the dust.


Yesterday was full of fun adventures.  A birthday party with friends.  Dinner at Burger King.  Running errands around town.  And to top it all off, Jason and I thought we’d surprise the boys and Marissa with hitting a movie—opening weekend of Ironman!
A few facts:
  • ·      Ironman is Jordan’s FAVORITE hero.  Ever.
  • ·      Movies are supposed to be fun.
  • ·      Jordan was recently diagnosed with an anxiety disorder.
  • ·      Brothers stick together through anything.

Bear these things in mind as I tell you about our little surprise for the kiddos.  We finished a quick dinner at Burger King, wherein we had to drag the boys from the tunnels kicking and screaming because they had met approximately a dozen new friends who were reenacting a battle scene from GI Joe.  After said battle scene, we loaded them into the S.S. Stahl (Jason’s beastly new company vehicle) and headed across the street to the theater.
We told the kids we were going to do one more thing before we headed home.  The boys started guessing what it could be.
“Is it Disney World?” asked Jadon.
Ummm, no, not quite.
“How about cotton balls?  Are we going to buy cotton balls?” he asked.
Still no.  In fact, I had no idea there was a grave need for cotton balls at our house, but I would try to get to the bottom of that mystery later.
One more guess.  “Is it pizza?  Are we going to eat pizza?”
“We just ate, Buddy,” I answered.
“Oh,” he replied.
Silence reigned from the backseat.
We pulled into the movie theater parking lot.
And then it began.  Wailing.  Crying.  Snot.  Tears.  More wailing.
What the ever-loving hell?
“We’re not going to the MOVIES, are weeeeee?” cried Jadon.
Jason and I looked at each other, perplexed.  Had someone recently taken them to a movie theater and tortured them without our knowledge?  Had they been forced to endure unspeakable trauma that we were unaware of?  I mean, I know they didn’t care for Frankenweenie, but this was ridiculous.
Calmly, I turned in my seat and explained to the boys that IRONMAN!  YAY! was in theaters today and that WE, our lucky family got to go see it.  (Yay!)  I sounded like an infomercial.  The more I talked, the more they cried.
By the time we had parked, Jordan was curled up in the fetal position in the center seat.  Jason turned off the ignition, and everyone except for Jordan got out of the car.  We calmly explained that he could not stay in the car by himself.  He HAD to go watch Ironman, dammit.  We were going to have FUN.
He morphed from the fetal position into more of a turtle position, curling into his hoodie so that no part of him was able to be seen.  He’s sort of a skinny kid, so this is very doable for him.
Jason and I looked at each other across opposing doors.  What to do?  Everyone else was standing in the parking lot.  My purse was weighing me down, what with all the movie candy contraband I was planning on sneaking in.
“Just grab him,” Jason said.
“I can’t just grab him.  He’ll be traumatized,” I replied.
So there our little turtle sat in the backseat of the giant car.  Wailing.
Eventually, we all loaded back into the boat and headed for the house.  No Ironman for us.  Anxiety won out over his favorite hero in the history of EVER.  We have some work to do.
As we drove from the parking lot, the crying began to subside, and Jadon, ever the supportive brother, said from his post alongside Jordan, “You know, you should not do that to your own kid.”
Yeah, someone call DFS.  Tell ‘em we tried to take our kid out for a fun day at the movies.