Monthly Archives: September 2014

Joining the Mob

This past weekend, while watching “The Family” with my husband, I made the decision that we should join the mob.  Is there an application process that goes along with that, do you suppose?  I’m wondering what the qualifications are.  Would the entire family need to join, or would it just be, say, the adults?  Would Jason need to agree to this plan?
As you can see, I am riddled with questions, but after watching the movie, I feel like I may have a better grasp on what I’m meant to be doing.  Trust me (I know, your tendency might be to NOT trust someone who has just announced that they would like to join the mob), I can explain my motivation, which might also provide a scary insight into my personality.
Reason #1 for Joining the Mob
Violence is not only accepted, it is applauded.  Not that I am a violent person by nature, but there are instances when a good ass-whooping would probably fix a lot of things.  In the movie, a French grocery store owner is berating the mob wife/American shopper in French—which she understands.  As she leaves the store (AND after paying for her purchases, I might add), the store explodes—possibly due to the gasoline and fire combination the she herself created.  Now, I’m not saying I want to blow anything up.  (Back off, Homeland Security.)  I’m just saying that sometimes you are just so wronged and so damned pissed off that the only good recourse seems to be, well, an explosion.  (A girl can dream, right?)
Reason #2 for Joining the Mob
They all seem to like wine.  All of the mobsters in all of the movies of all time seem to have an affinity for fine drink—wine or whatevs.  Point is, they are discriminating when it comes to their booze.  I could totally do that if I had mob money.
Reason #3 for Joining the Mob
All mobsters are good at hiding bodies.  I’m not necessarily saying I want to hide a body, but if the circumstance should arrive, I think I would have the talent for it.  (That might stem from the same side of my brain that thinks people who have wronged me should be ‘sploded in a giant firestorm.  I dunno.)
Reason #4 for Joining the Mob
The cover story.  All mobsters need a good cover, and in the movie I just watched, the husband’s cover was that of a writer.  This would work out fabulously for me because not only would I spend a portion of the day writing, I feel as if I could also fulfill the roll of mobster quite well.  It’s multi-tasking!
Reason #5 for Joining the Mob
All the women ever portrayed in mobster-ish movies can eat boatloads of pasta, yet they still have rockin’ bods.  Now.  Here’s what happens when I am anywhere NEAR pasta.  The ooey-gooey carbohydrates that make up every little noodle decide to get together, form an army, and plow their calorie-laden tanks of starch straight toward my ass.  My ass = pasta poundage magnet.  Pasta will (nearly) literally jump out of the pan and PASTE itself onto my ass.  This is where I would like to be one of those hot mobster wives who can shovel in pasta and cigarettes, yet STILL miraculously find a way to out run whatever gangster-du-jour is chasing her.  (P.S. Unless I am being chased by a knife-wielding serial killer, there will be no running.  Also, unless there are hot, fresh doughnuts at Krispy Kreme, there will be no running.)
Reason #6 for Joining the Mob
Whatever illegal shit you need to do, being a mobster makes it look cool.

That’s enough.  Where do I apply for the illustrious position of Mob-Member/Writer/Mom to 5 (semi) well-adjusted kids?


The school says my kids will be running for fun.  (The Fun Run, they call it.)
The school does not know my children.  Not at all.
I have not raised a family of runners.
We run when things are chasing us.  Like bears.  Or tigers.  Or things that can eat bears and tigers…because whatever that would be would be scary as hell.
We do not run for fun.
I ran yesterday.  For about a block, and it was because my dog made me.  And there was fire from the friction that was produced between my thighs.
My dog is a large bully that thinks he needs to run alongside my child on his bike.  My dog’s thighs do not rub together.  He does NOT understand.
I might also run for doughnuts.  Or cake.  Or pie.  Or a pie SALE.  Could you even imagine it??  A pie sale?!  For that, I could work up a little joggity-jog.
Back to the school.  Where is this run?  They say my boys will run 30 laps?  AROUND WHAT?  The water fountain?
They say it will be approximately 2 miles.  They LIE.
My boys don’t even run downstairs when it’s dinnertime.
My boys wouldn’t run if I said, “Hey, look, it’s a giant chocolate fountain sitting on top of a mound of brand-new Pokemon cards!”
They might run if the school said, “Hey boys, look, it’s a brand-new X-Box, complete with all the games you’ve ever wanted in your entire little lives!!”
Then there would be running.
Otherwise, they should probably just collect money for a good cause.  And maybe be happy if the boys want to play outside instead of with something electronic.

Also, running makes my legs cry.

Things I Have Learned From My Pitbull

  • I do not actually own a sofa.  Oh, I may THINK I own a sofa, but that is NOT—in fact—my sofa at all.  It is Dudley’s sofa, and I would do well to remember it.
  • No, ma’am, a 70-lb dog is NOT too big to sit on your lap.  Not ever.  Or your feet.  Or your laptop.  Or your head.  Or well, pretty much just wherever the hell he wants, because he is a big goddamn baby, and he’ll sit where he’ll sit, thank you very much.
  • Sad does not mean you can’t go for a walk.  Depression means nothing to a pitbull.  “Get your ass up off that couch, get my leash, and let’s go for a walk.  And by God, you’ll be happy about it before I’m done with you, lady!”  And I usually am.
  • My bacon is also not my bacon.  Nor is my apple my apple.  Etc., etc., you get the point.  They are big yours-is-mine dogs.  And that’s ok, because they are also great cuddlers.
  • If you don’t share your bacon, you will get slobbered on.  Profusely.
  • If Dudley flops right in the middle of the bed—which he is wont to do—one of my ass cheeks will likely be cold, because yeah, um try telling a 70-lb. pittie you would like your blankie back.  Once that dude is settled, he’s settled.  It’s sort of like moving a Mack truck.
  • Things are gonna get weird.  And by that, I mean, “Dammit, Mom, if I wanna lick your feet, I’m gonna lick your feet…ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me.”  Slurp, slurp, drooooool.
  • Play time is ANY time.  Yep, ANY ol’ time at all.  “Hear that grasshopper outside?  Let’s go GET IT NOW!!  Where’s the ball?  Get the ball!  Get the ball!  Now!  Look, I can jump.  Yeah, I know it’s a great episode of Criminal Minds, but do you see me LEAPING THROUGH THE AIR LIKE A BEAUTIFUL BALLERINA???!!”
  • No space is sacred.  Don’t think you are going to go in the bathroom and leave the door just almost-closed ever again.  They will use that giant wrecking-ball head of theirs to push their way into whatever room you may be hanging out in.  “Oh yeah, hey, Dudley…c’mon in…Momma was just taking care of a little business in here.”
  • Beware the tail.  I don’t know what they put in this thing, but it’s a furry sword of destruction, and NOTHING hurts it.  They can whack that thing up against anything, and it’s indestructible.  One minute you are playing, and the next minute you are getting a hook for a hand because your leftie has been lobbed off in a friendly game of fetch.
  • Yeah, and watch the head, too.  That thing is like a giant boulder coming at you, and it seems to pick up momentum.  Picture yourself playing with a giant toddler that’s thrown off balance by the disproportionate size of his huge noggin-to-body ratio.  Um yeah, that. 
  • And the biggest warning yet—you will have a best friend for life.  He might even be borderline stalker-ish, but in the warm, cuddly, can’t live without him way.  The way that makes you smile every day when you get home from work.  The way that makes even the crappy days seem pretty damn good.  Everybody should have a pittie.  But only if you are good to them…because if you aren’t, I might have to kick your ass.

Do You Believe In Weirdness?

Not like in me.  I know I’m weird.  And I’m riiight here.  Yep, not going anywhere.
Let me rephrase.
Sometimes things happen.  And, well, there is just really no way of explaining them.  And not like that time when I accidentally bought the same outfit twice because I apparently really, really liked it and forgot I bought it the first time, so I bought it again.  Not like that.
And before I begin, some of my people will say there are ways to explain things, and I will nod pensively—and then I will probably cry AT you.  Not just cry, but cry in your general direction because you are the person making me cry at the moment.  Mean-bully-pants, you.  And if you try to tell me there is an explanation, I will attempt to understand that, yes, logically there is probably an explanation.
Also, some of my tribe will say that I am crazy, mostly because they know me and I am crazy.  So there’s that.  But also because I’ve been questioning a LOT of things lately, so I pretty much spiritually don’t know my ass from a set of ben-wa balls.  But that’s beside the point.
Thing is, what had happened was…(there’s a certain way you HAVE to say that part, and if you know me, you know how to say it.)
I was clearing my phone off the other day, because Jason told me the reason it won’t work is because I’m technology-deficient and I never clean anything off and things only have so much memory and if I have messages on there from 1952 it will eventually fritz out and refuse to work.  Which it did.  So I was clearing stuff off of it when I ran across a message.  An old message.  A message I had deleted.
It was the oldest message on my phone.  And one I had told my phone to DELETE.  Yet it was there.
And right there in my ear was the voice of my now-dearly-departed dad saying, “Uh yeah hi, it’s your old man.  I was wondering if you could help me pick out some Christmas presents for Mom.  Love you, Dumplin’. Uh, yeah…”
And it trailed off, because it was my dad, and well he would rather have been having a Milwaukee’s Best in the barn rather than talking on any piece of electronic gadgetry.  Frankly, I’m surprised he even figured out how to get his cell phone to function.
But there it was.  His voice.  And dammit if I didn’t start blubbering like a baby right there at the soccer field waiting for my boys to start playing.  The hell, Dad?  Really?  And seriously…I’m 42 and still being called Dumplin’?  I never thought I would EVER hear that again coming from his voice.  And I would give just about anything to hear it again a few more times.
I totally lost my shit, you guys.  And EVERYONE who knows me knows I’ve held my shit in for 3 months.  In fact, friends have told me, you are eventually gonna lose it, and I kept saying, “Nah, I’m good.”  And I was–if good meant that I was going to hold it in and eventually burst like Mt. St. Helen’s when I couldn’t hold it anymore.  Yeah, I was doing great.
I’ve been MAD.  Grrrrr.  Argh.  That kind of mad where you just want to eat tree bark and spit out pencils, but I haven’t really said it.  And then I just sort of got the feeling that maybe Dad didn’t want me to be mad at Mom…when he asked me to help get her Christmas presents.

So does weird crap like that happen?  Or is it just weird crap?  Is it meant to happen?  Because if my dad’s hanging around somewhere, I could really use a beer right now.  Although I always told him I thought he could upgrade from Milwaukee’s Best any time.
And for those of you who may be wondering, even though it may sound like it in this post, noooo, I have not already had a beer.

Dear Eyeball Doctor,

My eyeballs are fubar.  Can you fix this?  Specifically, my left eyeball.  It sucks donkey balls.  In fact, I’m pretty sure donkey balls have better vision than my left eyeball right now, and that is wrong.
There are many reasons why that is wrong.  Allow me to list them below:
  • I read and write a lot.  I feel as if I should be able to see in order to do those things.
  • My children will go to school wearing their underwear on the outside of their pants without the aid of my excellent fashion sense…and VISION.  (Oh, they have done that before my eye was bad?  Well, it will be WORSE now.)
  • I am better able bake a delicious Totino’s dinner when I can see.
  • Cars driving beside me on the road feel much safer when my vision is clear.  Currently, I careen from side to side like a drunken teenager attempting to make it home from a downtown rave.  It ain’t lookin’ so pretty.
  • And when I get pulled over for my sobriety test, I’m not going to be able to get my finger to touch my nose either, because I can’t SEE shit.  Also, pretty sure I won’t be able to walk a straight line, what with that whole only-seeing-out-of-one-eye thing.
  • Can we talk about the oozing goop now?  I feel that donkey balls are also more attractive than my eyeball, and that is unacceptable.
  • My glasses make me grumpy sometimes (ok, a lot), especially when they slide down my face like I have greased my nose with a stick of margarine.  Usually this occurs when I sweat—like if I clean the house or do laundry or if someone expects me to walk to the television to change the volume rather that use the remote.  Anyway, when my glasses slide down my face, evil demons take over my body—and also my Tourette’s becomes unmanageable.

So there it is.  It’s not pretty.  And it needs to be fixed.  Is there some sort of cream?  Or tablet?  Or suppository I can take for this?  Because this is really becoming quite insufferable.  I feel like, with all the advances in technology (I mean, for the love of cheesecake, we can make spaceships fly to the moon!!), that I could get something to make my eyeball better.  (Dear science friends, I KNOW we don’t really call them spaceships.)  I will pay money.  I will give you a kidney.  Moonshine.  
Whatever you need.  Just. Give. Me. The. Medicine.
It needses the medicines.  My precious.
Also, before I forget, I believe I have mentioned that the eye drops I am currently using feel like a combination of lemon juice and vinegar.  I was a little off.  Add Tabasco to that.  Yep, that’s more accurate.  Lemon juice, vinegar, and Tabasco.  Very pleasant.  Yet my eye is still fuzzy.
If this is a practical joke, very funny.  Very funny indeed.
Thank you for your attention to this urgent medical matter,

What I DO Know

I may not know a whole lot in this life, but THIS I DO know.

My husband hates me and is trying to either a) kill me, b) make me miserable, or c) make me miserable right before he kills me.

Why, you ask?

I sent him to the store with a simple list last weekend.  It contained edible items I could take to work for lunch.

He bought me this:

Which is apparently filled with monkey shit and motor oil.  I was hungry so I ate it.  And now I will probably die.

But luckily, since it’s filled with TWICE THE FIBER!  (YAY!) of normal pasta, I will likely shit my pants before anyone finds my cold, dead carcass.

I will purchase my own lunch items next week.

Also, I do NOT recommend the pasta florentine, thank you very much.

7-Year-Olds Confuse Me

Or maybe boys confuse me.  I don’t know, but something certainly confuses me.  If you ask my husband, he would definitely tell you that a LOT of things confuse me, mostly things like budgeting and how to use the remote control which is more like a space shuttle control panel than a remote control.  And also now the digital temperature control in our house.  Can we PLEASE just get one of those old dials on the wall like they had back in the 70’s where I could just tell the house how cold to get and it would actually DO what I wanted it to do?  So, some things confuse me.
Anyway, back to 7-year-old boys.  I don’t know whether to take Jadon to the eye doctor.  I’m guessing I’m going to have to go, because apparently his eyes are “fuzzy.”  I’m not exactly sure what sort of a diagnosis comes along with fuzzy eyes, but I’m guessing he either has ebola or the West Nile Virus.  I tried giving him Tylenol and telling him to go to bed, but he told me his eyes were still fuzzy.  Dear Makers of Tylenol, could you please add fixing fuzzy eyes to your list of remedies? Thank you very much.
But crap, the Tylenol didn’t work.  (It’s SUPPOSED TO FIX EVERYTHING.)  So then I had to ask more questions.
Me:  Well, are your eyes fuzzy in school or just right now?  (As in, are you contracting this mystery disease because it’s bedtime, or does this shit happen all the time and you are just now telling me about it?)
Jadon:  Ummm (uses hands a lot, waving them in the air to signal the eyeball gods), I see fuzzy stuff when I blink a lot.
Me:  Hmmm…(wondering if he got into my secret stash of NyQuil because that is some good shit, especially after a glass of wine.)
Jadon:  And they fuzz up in the mornings a lot.
Me:  Are they fuzzy when you look at the Smart Board at school?  Do you have trouble seeing what the teacher wants you to look at?
Jadon:  Only when my eyes get blinky.
Me:  (The hell??  Now they are blinky, too?)  Okaaaay.  Ummm, did the teacher move you far away from the Smart Board?
Jadon:  No.  I can see it.  They aren’t fuzzy then.  It’s when I’m sleepy, but then I can’t see too good.
Me:  So, you can’t see very well when you are sleepy?  (Is he talking about when his eyes are closed?  Because I totally can’t see too well when my eyes are closed either.)
Jadon:  Yeah, and in the morning, too.  So when they are fuzzy, I am sleepy.  And blinky.
Me:  Huh.

So yeah, I guess I’m going to call the eye doctor today and tell him we have a case of the fuzzies.  And blinkies?  Strangely enough, I don’t seem to be able to come up with a complete diagnosis, even with my MAD webmd skills.  But my closest guess it that we have a new strain of Don’t-Want-To-Go-To-Bed-Itis.

Kickin’ It

There are times I wonder.  Did the baby fairy drop Marissa, in all her organized, good-natured, even-tempered glory off on our front porch when I wasn’t looking?
Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying that I’m not the epitome of organized.  Or good-natured (especially in traffic or when awakened from a nap).  Or even-tempered.  Because I totally am.
Maybe we should start again.  Sometimes she doesn’t seem a whole lot like me, because, errrr, she’s well, really, really sweet and nice.  And it’s not that I’m not…it’s just that…
Ok, this isn’t going well at all.
See the thing is, she’s a GOOD girl.  She tells me to use “safe words.”  I know, I know (hangs head in shame).  But think of all the strength she’s gaining from this.  Think of all the things she’s learning.  She maybe doesn’t want to yell at people in passing cars who can’t hear her because well, maybe that sort of thing doesn’t work for her.
Anyway, my point is this.  She’s awesome, and I’m not exactly sure how it happened.  But she’s totally cool and amazing and smart.
She does, however, have a small, ever-so-teensy streak of her mommy running through her.  I discovered it yesterday when she confessed that she told her ex-boyfriend (the one who cheated on her at summer camp) that she was going to drop-kick him.  (I’m not sure why he cheated on her because that makes him an idiot—and totally drop-kickable.)
Yay!  You go, girl.  Now, before anyone gets all up in arms and checks into the P.C. Hotel, she’s NOT REALLY GOING TO DROP-KICK ANYONE.  And if you are seriously worried about that, you are a weirdo and a freaky-ass-dork-pants with nothing better to do that get all weirded out by a little bit of exaggeration.  So, chill it on down a little bit, Sherriff McLockEmUp, and maybe take another milligram or so of your heart meds.
Ok, so back to the story.  When she said she might drop-kick little Cheater Pants, I was all like, “Now there’s my girl!  That girl DOES have a little bit of her mama in her!”
And NO, I have never drop-kicked anyone either, mainly because it would probably hurt my ankle.  Or my foot.  Or lots of things, really.  BUT I sure as all get-out havesaid I might, and I have definitely said it with plenty of vigor and 4-letter words thrown in the mix.  I have also said plenty of other things I didn’t ever really intend to do.
So, all drop-kicking jokes aside, I’m just saying that maybe the baby fairy didn’t leave her on the front porch after all, swaddled in a blanket of manners and joy and good-natured niceness.  And maybe one day, she’ll even say something scandalous like…gasp!…’TURD.’

Or maybe I’m just saying that you can be really, really good and awesome and organized and nice…and you can still find someone totally drop-kickable.  And that’s ok.

Not These Pants

Sometimes when you have a kiddo who battles with communication, it’s tough to figure out exactly what he’s trying to tell you.  I know, this is starting out to be a real eye-opener, but bear with me.
Today is picture day, and on picture day, as most mommies do, I laid out some handsome little ensembles for my handsome little dudes.  We want to put forth the appearance that we ALWAYS go to school looking dapper and well-groomed, even though on a typical day, it’s more like we are lucky to get our teeth brushed and get out of our pajamas.  (We have managed to get out of our pajamas every day, right?  Teachers, please don’t answer that.)
Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Handsome outfits.  So this morning, both of my little cherubs put on their picture-day finest, and trust me, I wasn’t asking them to go all bow-tie and tux.  Really I just wanted nice shirts and shorts or jeans.  Ok, what really happened was this.  Mommy sucked and only got shorts clean for one of the boys, so I pulled jeans out of the closet to go with Jordan’s nice shirt, which I though would be totally fine.
In my defense, Jordan has always LOVED jeans.  In fact, it hasn’t been that long ago that he went through a phase of nothing but jeans, all the time.  Jeans in the morning, jeans at night, jeans for pajamas, jeans for everything.  So I figured, what the heck?  Surely he won’t mind wearing the damned jeans, right?
WRONG-O.  Apparently.
What took a while was the figuring-out part of that equation.  He got dressed in the jeans alright.  Then he proceeded to bury himelf under the blankets on my bed and refuse to come out, forever and ever, until the end of time.  “Ummm, okay.  Buy why, little handsome buddy?”  (This was Mommy asking in an all-too-bright-and-cheerful voice.)
“But ‘no’ doesn’t tell me why you won’t come out,” I patiently explained.
After a few minutes in hiding, he finally elaborated.  “I can’t run in these pants.”
Ohhhhhh.  Well, if that’s the problem, lemme just tell ya, Buddy, that Mommy can’t run in ANYpants.  Not like without pants, which is totally what that just sounded like, but I mean, no matter what pants I’m wearing, what I’m doing resembles nothing like running.  Unless I’m being chased by a really bad dude wielding a machete…then I might run.  Or unless there are piping-hot glazed donuts on a table, say, 400 meters away.  Might also run for those.  Otherwise, it totally would not matter what pants I was wearing—there would be NO running.
But I didn’t tell him any of that, because I was thinking he would neither understand nor appreciate my running issues.  His issue at the moment was that he COULD. NOT. RUN. IN. THOSE. DAMNED. PICTURE. PANTS.
And he’d made it perfectly clear he was not coming out from under my blankets until I remedied the situation.
The only thing I had washed were towels.  So it seemed like I had a couple of choices.  He could wear dirty shorts.  Nope.  He could wear a towel.  But he would probably veto that, because I’m sure he would have the same not-able-to-run-in-it issue.  Or he could borrow a pair of his brother’s shorts, which would be slightly too big.
Problem solved.  So, gangsta-rap Jordan went to school today in a pair of ever-so-slightly-too-big khaki shorts that just to happen to match his picture shirt.  He was of the mind that he could run in those much better than jeans, which was really all that mattered.  We all just need to cross our fingers that they don’t fall off and end up around his ankles, because I’m thinking that will put a dent in his running prowess.  Other than that, picture day should be a snap.

Another successful morning.  Also, I’m still pretty sure no one wore pajamas to school…except maybe the high schooler, but I hear that’s totes cool now.

Keep Your Eyeball Off of My Eyeball

My eyes are not-so-secretly attempting to take over my body and destroy life as I once knew it.
Eyeballs are supposed to be white.  With color in the middle.  Not mine.  Mine are flaming-bright-fire-red, sort of like zombie apocalypse eyes.  My left eye is especially menacing, what with its squinty puffiness and watery ooze.  It’s quite a deterrent to friend and foe alike.  One look at THE EYE, and people slowly start to back away and find reasons not to be in my general vicinity.
Also, I don’t think it’s right that fire is in my eyeball.  Call me a doubter or a negative-Nelly or whatever you will, but I don’t think it should feel like lava has been poured into my eye socket every time I blink.
My eye doctor has given me drops, which I’m fairly certain consist of acid, Satan’s tears, and lemon juice—they feel that great when I drop them into my eyes.  In fact, when I sense that the drop is going to hit my eyeballs, my instant reaction is to jerk away, and I have to force myself to sit there and take the torture.  I keep telling myself that this devil-concoction is somehow supposed to make my eyes better, when I secretly suspect witch-doctory is actually involved.  (Note to self:  look up ophthalmologist.  He is a friend, however, does he also practice voodoo or any of the black arts?)
Apparently, I have some sort of ulcer-y thing on my cornea.  Yay.  For the second time.  Because my eyeballs hate me.  And after the recent long weekend, I felt that the devil-drops were not doing their job.  My left eye was getting redder and redder, and it finally started to look like a mushy little tomato orb inside my head.  Not cool.
So I called the doctor, and he got me right in.  After some poking and prodding, he determined that in addition to my previous condition, I now also have EKC, which is some form of über-contagious eye gunk that allows small white craters to form all over my eyeballs, making my vision craptastically horrible.
So now, in addition to the Satan-juice I have to pour into my eyeballs several times a day, I have also been grounded from using my contact lenses.  Can we just go ahead and put me in some coke-bottle strap-on glasses and call it a day?  Or can we get me a glass eye and a peg leg and make me a pirate?
What the hell, eyeballs?  What did I ever do to you?

Also, I should warn you that this new contagious thing has to run its course because it’s a virus, so you probably shouldn’t go sharing towels with me or sticking your eyeball on my eyeball or rubbing your water bottle on my eyeball and then drinking from it or well, just in general you should not do anything that brings you anywhere near my eyeball.  It’s pretty gross.