Tag Archives: family

Hows ‘Bout a Cup A Tea, Gub-ner?

28 Jul

Do you know what you get when you put a bunch of drunk adults who are on vacation, camping, after having spent the entire day at the lake, their stomachs full, and the kids asleep? 

Besides a few who refuse to quit (quitting is for losers), and end up passed out on their camping chair with their mouths open, you get a bunch of drunkies who’ve reverted backed to their 16-year-old selves, and who think that tea bagging those poor passed out souls is hilaaaaaaaaarious.

Pinkies up, ladies and gents

 But, you also get the deep thinkers, like myself, who watch these drunken shenanigans and think, how can we make this better

I leaned over to my friend and in my completely inebriated state said:

Me:  Why do the guys get to have all of the fun?  I say we start meat curtaining people.

Friend:  HAHAHAHAHAH!  Right?!  Let’s do it.

Me:  Yeah, we can get a chair, stand behind them and position ourselves so all you see is a nose.

Peek-a-boo
Friend:  GET OUT OF MY HEAD, YO!
My friend and I must have been talking and laughing a bit too obnoxiously, because when Hubby heard the words “meat curtains” come out of my mouth, he immediately stopped what he was doing, calmly walked over to me, gently grabbed my arm, and sternly told me it was definitely time for bed. 
 
That’s it.  Party over.
 
Geez.   You’d think that he thought I might actually go through with it or something. 
Advertisements

Your Kid is a Genius? That’s….Yeah, I Don’t Care

28 Jun

My sister is currently searching for the perfect preschool for my nephew.  Can I tell you how crazy this task has been for her?  Did you know that your kid can get rejected from preschool?! 

Let me just say that if that were the case when I was in preschool, I would have been screwed.  I don’t think any preschools would have been jumping at the chance to admit a tall, skinny, scabby-kneed, coke-bottle glasses wearing, hair chewing weirdo who often talked to herself and laughed at her own jokes (that hasn’t changed).

The only thing crazier than filling out a 10 page application for a French immersion preschool that serves only organic snacks with vegan options and costs the same as my Son’s private school tuition, are the cray-cray parents vying to get their kids in.

My sister recently attended an Open House for a local baby Yale where she overheard some crazy s*&t

Parent #1:  My child taught himself how to read and write.

Do ya think he could help me wit dis here formz? Der bee a lot of dem fancy wordz and gobbledygook I caint figger out.

Parent #2:  My son was speaking in complete sentences at 9 months.

Really?  What did your baby have to say at 9 months?  Did he tell you, in an English accent, that he appreciates your nipple hair because it meant he could floss immediately after nursing? 

Parent # 3:  My daughter was walking at 8 months.  She currently plays on the Toddler Olympic Soccer Team (she really said this).

Funny.  You don’t look Asian, but “The Toddler Olympic Soccer Team” must be code for Chinese gymnastic team. 

Parent #5:  My child can speak three languages.

Yeah?  Well, your kid is picking his nose right now….and he just ate it.

Parent #6: My twins can read each other’s thoughts.  It’s amazing.

I can read their thoughts, too.  They’re thinking you’re a nerd who is going to raise them to be nerds.  They say, “Thanks a lot.”

Parent #7:  My son has been playing the violin since he could walk.

That’s nice.  My son can thrash on the drums.  He’s going to be way cooler than your kid and will probably sleep  with your son’s girlfriend someday.

Needless to say, my sister’s search for the perfect preschool continues.

A Mother’s Love is Not a Mother’s Like

23 Jun

I truly love my son.  I do.  I really love him.  The thing is…..there are times when I just don’t like him very much. 

The weight of the guilt I used to feel about this used to keep me up at night. I used to pray to be a better mom.  I prayed for patience, a lot.  I asked God to forgive me for being such a disgusting person.   I prayed that my very occasional dislike for Son was just a reaction to the Terrible 2’s or the Whiney 6 year-old Stage or the 14 year-old I Know Everything, You’re Just Stupid Stage. 

Then, I remember that I am merely human, and that it is totally ok to not like your kids sometimes.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  They can be total dickheads sometimes.  

Example 1

Your child is two months old.  It’s 7:00 p.m.  You haven’t had a full night’s sleep in approximately 40 days, but who’s counting?  Your baby has been bathed, diapered and fed.   You think to yourself, “This is the night.”  You can feel it.  Your baby is going to sleep through the night.  If you and Hubby can stay awake long enough, you might even get some. 

You kiss your baby’s beautiful little nose, turn out the light, and close the door.  Fifteen minutes later your baby is screaming so loud that your first instinct is to call 9-1-1, because obviously a Dingo is stealing your baby.  Your baby is up for the for the next 8 hours.  Crying.  For no reason.  You love your baby, but you don’t like him very much right now.

Example 2

Your child is 2 1/2 years-old.  You have to go to the grocery store.  Because you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in approximately 910 days, you’re not thinking clearly.  You decide to take your toddler with you. 

You’re flying through the store Supermarket Sweep style because your baby’s nap time is in about 5 minutes.  If he doesn’ t get his nap he turns into a little troll who will make you want to kill yourself.  You have about $800 worth of groceries in your cart, but you know you won’t be able to put a decent meal together with any of it because you didn’t have time to check your list.  You need to get the hell out of dodge. 

You’re in line to check out when your baby notices a red plastic squirt gun.  He wants it.  He tells you he wants it.  You say no.  His baby neck veins pop out.  He’s screaming.  You’re sure he’s going to hyperventilate.  He’s in full meltdown mode.  You leave your cart full of groceries at the checkout, and drag a screaming,  kicking child through the crowded parking lot.  You have cereal and hot dogs for dinner.  Love does not equal like.

Example 3

You’re exhausted from a long day at work.  Dinner has been served, dishes are done, and there is a box-o-wine in the fridge with your name on it.  Just as you sit down to enjoy a glass before heading to bed your 7 year-old informs you that her history project is due….tomorrow.  As you look over her assignment you realize your options are to either create an entire Indian village out of toothpicks, twine, and glitter or recreate the Battle of Gettysburg using leggos, firecrackers, food coloring, and toilet paper rolls. 

You’re up the entire night glueing glittler-covered tampons to toothpicks You’re a little drunk, but you’re pretty sure you don’t like your kid so much right now.

Example 4

It’s Monday.  It’s Summer vacation.  Before you go to work you leave a note for your 15 year-old kindly asking him to pick up the dirty underwear and socks that are hanging from the ceiling fan in his room, take the chicken out of the freezer, and let the dogs out once in a while.

You walk in the door at 5:15 P.M., to the shower running, the freezer door wide open, your puppy chewing on dirty boxers, every dish in the house dirtied and on your coffee table, dirty socks sitting on the entertainment center, ESPN blaring on the T.V., a freshly laid dog turd sitting in the middle of the livingroom, and a note that reads, “Mom, I need $20.00 and I’m suppose to sell 150 raffle tickets for football by Wednesday.”

So, yeah.  I don’t like my kid sometimes.

What? Wednesday- I Couldn’t Have Said it Better Myself. Seriously.

15 Jun

This. Is. Perfect. 

If you can honestly tell me that you have never thought this very thought at one time or another when caring for your own child, niece, nephew or any kid you have ever tried to put to bed then you are a perfect person, and I don’t think we can be friends.

♫♪ Hoppy Bearthday Dear Wuelita, Hoppy Bearthday To Joooo ♫♪

7 Jun

A new thrift store opened up last week and Wuelita is dying  to go.  I know she wants me to take her, but whenever she brings it up, I quickly change the subject. 

Wuelita loves thrift stores.  She sometimes finds really cute stuff.  In fact, one of my favorite summer clutches is a Wuelita find.  But, if I didn’t re-donate 97% of what she buys me at thrift stores, they would go out of business.  Just this weekend she gifted me a pair of white sweatpants, a black sweatshirt with “Cape Cod” stitched with silver thread, and a blue baseball cap and insisted I try it all on for her.  It was 90 degrees outside.  But, that’s not why I don’t want to take her to the new thrift store.

Our last outing to the local Goodwill started off completely normal.  I grabbed a cart and followed Wuelita around as she searched every.single.rack., and when she wandered off to the shoes, I quickly rummaged through her cart to make sure everything was…appropriate.  

*SIDE NOTE:  Wuelita once bought a t-shirt featuring an iron-on Burt Reynolds on the front (she thinks he’s sooo handsome).  Turns out, “Burt” was really just some random 70s porn star with a really thick mustache.  The back of the shirt read “Free mustache rides”.  Needless to say, I now own that kick-ass shirt.

We were in the car pulling out of the thrift store parking lot when I dropped my phone.  When I leaned over to pick it up, I noticed Wuelita had on what appeared to be a brand new pair of Nike walking shoes. 

Me:  Wuelita, are those new shoes?

Wuelita:  Watch dee road, Sweedy.

Me:  Did you just buy those?

Wuelita:  Do joo like?

Me:  Yeah.  They look brand new.

Wuelita:  I know!  Eets a goo deel.

Me:  Wait, I didn’t see those in your cart.

Wuelita:  *stares out the window*

Me:  Didn’t you have tie dyed flip-flops on? 

Wuelita:  Joo hungry, Sweedy?  Joo wanna ham-bear-gair? 

Me:  WUELITA!!  Did you steal those?!

Wuelita:  NOO!  I jus leeb my ole shoes dair and I poot dees shoes on.  Any whey, eets dee same.

Me:  Ummm, I don’t think–

Wuelita:  Eeets no goo to bee nosey!  Joo hungry or no?!

This is my grandmother, and I love her.

Happy Birthday, Wuelita.

I’m No Michael Vick, But Still….

17 May

I ran over a dog once.  It was a traumatic experience for a couple of reasons.

I was driving my old piece of shit Ford Bronco. (It should be noted that I hated this car so much that if it were a person I would have challenged it to an MMA fight wherein I would have mercilessly wrassled it to the ground, punched it in the kidneys, head butted it, gauged its eyes out, and then stomped on its nuts.  But, I digress.)   

Our neighborhood is full of kids who like to dart out into the road at any given moment which is why I was white knuckling the steering wheel and going about 2 miles an hour.

Sure enough, I saw an empty skateboard fly out from a driveway, and quickly slammed on my breaks while I waited for Joey Deathwish to run out and grab it.  It was then that I felt a very subtle “bump”.  My heart quickly fell to my stomach.  I knew I hadn’t run over a child (thank God), but I definitely hit something.  

I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a black lump sitting in the middle of the road.  I pulled over, tried to get my shakes under control, and walked over to what I thought was a cat.  It wasn’t.  It was a little black dog, and it was definitely dead. 

I immediately broke down.  I searched for the family. I fought the urge to vomit as I realized I was going to have to introduce myself to these people as  the evil bitch who  just killed their dog. 

I found the family outside the apartment building down the block, and through tears and snot told the first person I saw that I had just hit a dog.  Just then I heard a woman scream “NOOOOOO!” as she frantically looked around for her dog.

I was a mess.  I apologized and tried to explain what happened.  Just then the woman’s husband came marching over to me and chewed me a new a-hole.  I would have been scared if I wasn’t such a basket case.  I was a dog murderer. I deserved it. 

A neighbor who had witnessed the whole thing came to my rescue.  She explained that it was an accident, that I had immediately pulled over, that I found them, and that I was done talking.  She walked me back home where I relived the entire nightmare a second time for Hubby.

After a few days the nightmares started to fade, and I tried put the whole thing behind me.  Then, one night, on the 10:00 local news, I saw what looked like “the” apartment building down road.

I watched through tunnel vision as the heavily made-up news anchor pointed to “the” apartment building down the road while saying words like “dog” and “abuse” and “beaten to death” .  My heart was beating a mile a minute as I waited for the police to kick in my front door.  Could this be happening?! 

As it turns out, the grief-stricken family decided to dispose of the poor dog’s body in the apartment building dumpster instead of bury it.  The body was found by a tenant who thought the dog had been beaten to death.  She called the police.  Apparently, people don’t like the thought of a dog being beaten to death.  Who knew?

I ultimately relived the nightmare a third time when I called the police station to explain what had really happened. 

Readers, this is an example of how things in my life have a tendency to snowball.  It’s why I write this blog.

Someone Else’s Junk Is Pretty Much Still Junk

16 May

Old people love other people’s things.  Wuelita‘s building has plastic bins in the lobby where people can bring their thrift store donations.  The local thrift store is supposed to then send someone over to collect the donations once a week.  I’m pretty sure that they’ve never had to come.  As soon as someone brings something down, someone else is right there picking it up and hauling it back to their own apartment. 

Wuelita and I were watching her favorite novela at her apartment the other day when I suggested we go out to get something to eat.  Before we left she  shuffled over to the television, followed the cord to the outlet on the wall and gently unplugged it.  I knew right then that the television must have been one of her “finds” at the thrift store donation bins.  I gave her a hard time about it: 

Me:  Let me guess.  You found that TV downstairs?

Wuelita:  Jes!  Can joo be leeb it?!  It’s bran new. Dee only ting wrong is dat it don turn off.

Me:  Umm, you have to unplug it to turn it off and there’s no remote.  Can you even adjust the volume?  Also, how did you get that thing up here?

Wuelita: (laughs).  My fren Esteve/Kiley.

Me:  Steve and Kiley?  Who are they? 

Wuelita:   No “day”.  Eets Esteve/Kiley.  Juan pear-son.

Me:  What kind of name is Steve/Kiley?  Is his first name Steve and last name Kiley? 

Wuelita:  Nooooo.  Es sometimes Esteve and sometimes Kiley.  Any whey, let’s go.  I’m es starving.

As we are walked down the hallway to the elevator I noticed a rather large woman in a house coat and slippers struggling to carry a laundry basket. 

Me:  Let me help you with that.

Old Lady:  (deep Barry White voice)  Why thank you dear.  I’m right down the hall by your grandmother.  (Waves to Wuelita).

You must be Esteve/Kiley

 Wuelita:  Hi !  Joo look beddy preedy too-day.  Do joo like dee lipsteek I buy for joo?

Old Lady:  (very, very excited deep Barry White voice) Oh yes!  Thank you so much, dear.

I dropped the basket off at “Kiley’s” door and ran walked back to the elevator where Wuelita was waiting.   I could hear her giggling as I turned the corner. 

Me:  That must have been Kiley?

Wuelita:  (devilishly laughing) 

Me:  You could have warned me. 

Wuelita:  Why?  Den eets not phone-y. 

Me:  Yeah, well, I was going to take you to Goodwill after lunch to look around.  Now, forget it. 

Wuelita:  (Bent over her cane, tears streaming down her face, victoriously laughing)

Touché, Wuelita.  Touché.

A Mother’s Unconditional and Fabulous Love

9 May

I was able to spend a lot of time with Son this weekend which is the best gift Mother’s Day gift ever.  That, and a spa day….and some books….and maybe some perfume, but time with Son was good, too. 

I often tell Son how much I love him.  He’s used to it and always indulges me with an “I love you, too”.  This weekend, however, he questioned my love:

Me:  I love you.

Son:  I know.  I love you too.

Me:  I really love you.

Son:    Yep.  Love you, too.

Me:  You’re my favorite thing in the whole world.

Son: I know.  You tell me that all the time.

Me:  I would love you no matter what.

Son:  Sorry.  I’m not gay.  You’re going to have to find your gay somewhere else.

Me:  (sigh) I know.  That’s ok.

Where are you, Mr. Fabulous?

Son:  You’re weird. 

Son:  Would you love me if I didn’t love you back?

Me:  Yes.  It would break my heart, but I would definitely still love you.

Son:  Would you love me if  I married a girl you couldn’t stand?

Me:  I would mastermind a way to break you up, but I would definitely still love you.

Son:  What if….I joined a cult?

Me: For sure!  I would have to infiltrate the cult, and act so incredibly werid that they would kick us both out. 

Son:  What if I was a serial killer?

Me:  That’s dark.  Again, you would break me heart, but yes.  I would still love you.

Son:  I know.  What if I worked for ________________’s Presidential campaign?

(Uncomfortable, awkward silence.)

Me:  I would love you a little less.  But, I love you sooooo much, that you wouldn’t even be able to tell.

Son:  I love you.

Apparently, You Can’t Be Both?

5 May

Hubby, Son and I went out for burgers the other night.  During dinner Hubby mentioned that he wanted to stop at the nearby mall and walk around.  This never happens.  He hates shopping.  I didn’t want to get overly excited so I coolly responded, “That’s cool.”

Son, with an eye roll so exaggerated I thought for sure his eyeballs were gone forever, responded with a whiny, “Nooooooooooooo.  Pleeeeeeeeeease.  I don’t want to go to the mall with you guys.  No offense.”

I knew right then the mall wasn’t going to happen because I would rather go home than walk around with a mopey, disgusted, whiney, pouty, eye-rolling teenager.  We’d all be miserable.  But, being the extremely inappropriate and weird person I am I countered with:

Me:      Ok.  We don’t have to go the mall if you answer one question.

Son:    (Knowing apprehension)  What question?

Me:      First, the rules.  You have to answer the question or we’re going to mall.

Hubby:   And the bookstore.

Me:      Nice.

Son:    Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahg.  What?

Me:      Are you a boob guy or an ass guy?

Son:    No way!  I’m not answering that.

Hubby:     Cool.  I really need new pants.

Me:      We could stop by Victoria’s Secret, too.  I need panties.  (I hate that word.)

Son:    FINE!  Geez.  You guys are soooooo weird. 

Me:      Soooooooooo…..

Son:    (With his sweatshirt over his face)  Ask me and I’ll either nod or shake my head.  I can’t look at you.

The next day the three of us were driving Drama around on some errands:

Hubby:  So, last night we asked your grandson if he’s a boob guy or an ass guy.

Drama:  Really?!  So, what is he?!

Son:  Why are you guys so weird?

Drama:  Oh, Grandson!  You’re an ass guy like your grandpa, right?!  You gotta be!  (With a remembering and thoughtful gaze out the window) Asses are like magic.  They hypnotize you.  When I was younger, every time grandpa saw a woman all I saw was a round beautiful butt.  No face.  Just butt.  If a girl had the perfect butt, she could drive grandpa crazy.  They’re beautiful. (Heavy, sad sigh) Now, I’m too old. 

The next several minutes were filled with Drama’s detailed descriptions of the most beautiful asses he’s ever seen, and the women they belonged to.  This was followed by an explanation of ass categories (big and juicy, small but round, flat but still nice, wide, etc.).   

The car was silent as we took it all in.  After a few moments of reflection:

Drama: So you see, Grandson.  You have to be an ass guy just like your grandpa. 

Son:  Wait.  So, basically, when you see a woman, you see  a buttface?

Drama:  You’re a boob guy, aren’t you?

Know Your Triggers

2 May

*Here’s a little known secret about Yours Truly:  Libraries make me poop.

You don't say.

I can’t explain it.  If I’m in a library for more than five minutes, I gotta go.

Part of the mystery that is my poop trigger is that it doesn’t matter  if I use the restroom before I leave or when I arrive.  Five minutes+a library=Poop. 

 When I was in elementary school, the computer lab which stored our Commodore 64s was located in the library.  I was too young, then, to pinpoint my poop trigger, but my teacher was all over it.  Everyday on my way to the library my teacher would make sure I visited the little girl’s room.  It was all in vain, however.  Without fail, five minutes into class, I had to go. 

In high school I avoided taking study halls because they were located in the library.  The hump back librarian (she literally had a hump back) was not very subtle. Every bathroom pass she handed out was accompanied with the announcement:  “You have five minutes.”    I’m sorry, but you can’t rush such things.   So, I didn’t take study hall.  I instead opted for Spanish V, which I didn’t need. 

College was particularly challenging as I was a frequent visitor to the library, and it’s bathrooms.  My favorite study nook was located in the music section of the library next to a window that overlooked the lake.  The problem was that my preferred bathroom was on the 2nd floor (the toilets on the 3rd floor were weak flushers, and the locks on the stalls never worked). 

Everyday, I would unpack my backpack, set everything up just the way I like it,  and five minutes later I would pack everything up for my shameful dash to the 2nd floor.  This happened every day.  Frustrating.

On Saturday Son informed me 15 minutes before our public library was closing for the weekend that he needed to check out some books for a paper he will be working on this week.  I knew I could get him there in five minutes, but he would need my help if he was going to find all of his books before closing time.  That would take at least……………………five minutes.

I had no choice. If we were going to be successful I had to explain my poop trigger to Son.   I explained to him that he needed to be on his game, attentive, and thorough on his search for the books.  We agreed to divide his list, split up, and meet at the checkout desk in precisely five minutes.  (It should be noted that Son did not bat an eyelash.  He is used to my weirdness and likes a challenge).  We pulled into the parking lot, made a bet on who would be done first, and went our separate ways.

Our mission was successful. 

We were celebrating our awesomeness on our way out the door when I heard someone call my name.  *Stopped dead in my tracks*  It was an old teacher of mine.  I didn’t have time.  It wouldn’t take long for my body to realize where I was.  If I stayed and chatted the only thing I would have heard was “blah, blah, blah, I HAVE TO POOP, blah.”

Son saw the panic wash over me and…..this brings a tear to my eye….he saved me.  He politely interrupted, introduced himself, and with a wink reminded me that we had to get to the store before it closed.  With that, we were free to go, and I was very grateful. 

Am I teaching Son how to lie?  Yes.  Yes I am.  However,  I’m also teaching him to someday save his wife or girlfriend from having to talk to someone she hasn’t seen in years when she really has to poop.  I think that’s a very valuable lesson.

*This isn’t true at all.  In fact, I think a lot of people knew this about me.  It’s also now on the internet so it’s not really a secret anymore.  So, nevermind the “secret” part.