Friday, May 6, 2011

Why Some Mothers Eat Their Young.

The Bean is my unbelievably gorgeous 15-year old daughter. The one who spends hours making sure every hair is in place, her outfit is the epitome of perfection, and her make-up looks flawless. She's my oldest. The one who championed me with the title 'Mother.'

During the week she wakes up before me and is out the door for school before my alarm even goes off. So I send her a text message. Every. Single. Morning.



Really? Seriously? THIS IS GROSS!!


Honestly, this is disgusting. Don't let it happen again.


WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?????


OH MY GOD!
Seriously???
Do you honestly think this is okay?
As God is my witness I am going to smack you into next week
if I see this one more time.


ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME INSANE???


I know you're doing this on purpose.
And you know what?
I'm taking away your toothbrush.
And the toothpaste.
Let your teeth rot.
I could care less.
AT LEAST I WON'T HAVE TO LOOK AT THIS
NASTINESS EVERY SINGLE BLASTED MORNING!


I don't want to go to prison for killing my daughter because
she couldn't figure out how to wipe the damn wad of toothpaste from the sink...
but I can get a VERY skilled attorney if I have to.

Amongst Eastern grey squirrels, stressed females may kill their young.
You are so damned lucky we're not squirrels!

Thursday, May 5, 2011

How people in the Witness Protection Program keep dentists I will never know.

I lied to my dentist.

I actually switched dentists so I could tell this lie.

And I'm not talking that standard I floss my teeth all the time lie y'all do when you know you haven't busted out the floss since 2007.

I'm talking about a really big lie.

A lie so big it's actually written in my chart.



I have sensitive teeth.

Except I really don't, see?

I mean, once in a while I do, especially when I don't floss for a day or eight months, or bite into something super cold and the pain shoots through the nerve so fast I think I'm about to pass out, so I've actually experienced a sensitive tooth but it might not actually be an on-going all the time kind of problem like perhaps I may have suggested to the dental professionals. And now it's written on my chart.

But I had to say it because get this - if you have non-sensitive teeth these crazy fools use some sort of water pick cleaning technique that pretty much amounts to torture and feels like they're rapidly pounding thumb tacks into your gums and that is just not a pleasant experience that I would choose to pay to sit through. But if you suffer from sensitive teeth they use that old fashioned rubber round thing with paste shoved in it that massages the teeth clean.

Massage? Or risk losing your upper lip to a water machete? I think the choice is obvious.

But now, just like with any lie, I have to be on my toes at all times to perpetuate that lie, and it keeps getting deeper and deeper and more entangled and more confusing.

They're always asking me things like "how do your teeth feel?" Fine. They feel like teeth. No problems here! "Oh? So you're no longer experiencing any pain due to sensitivity?" Oh, uh, that. Um. Well, that part just happens to be a seven out of ten. I think I'm just getting much better at tolerating the pain. I believe it's a mind over matter thing. 

Look, I admit I wasn't too thrilled with the sample sized Sensodyne toothpaste being shoved in my goodie-bag, especially since I'm a Crest Original kind of gal, but I figured it's what I deserved for telling the lie in the first place. And I accepted that. But being told I can't get my teeth whitened because it is absolutely not recommended for people with sensitive teeth and there is no way my dentist will perform such a procedure on my teeth? C'mon! I have a coupon!

I don't know what to do. There's no way I can go back to the water torture but the longer I stay with this dentist I'm that much closer to being found out and risk losing the rubbery tooth massager. I'm starting to sweat and panic just thinking about it. But I would love a lovely white smile. I guess it's just time to move on and find a new dentist.

I cannot begin to imagine how people in the Witness Protection Program do this every day.  So, if you just happen to be in the WPP and are a fan of my blog I would appreciate it very much if you left a comment with some sort of advice or tip on how to perpetuate a lie without being forced to change dentists. Thank you.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Victoria Beckham Never Smiles and I Know Why

Sometimes, after a particularly long, hard day at work, I'll come home, walk into the house, and, upon entering, attempt to flee again. Because these people are so wanting of my attention.

The Bean will run up rambling about how even though her birthday is a couple months from now, she thought about it and what she wants to do is ask for money so she can summer out on the East Coast, like every other struggling middle class teenager. At the same time Dotter will be broadcasting the fact that we need to bring a salad to the banquet dinner tomorrow night, which leaves me wondering what we possibly do that requires attendance at a banquet dinner and a salad? Cletus will be screeching at the top of his lungs, "Mom-mEEE! Mom-mEEE! Moooo! Moooo! Twak-ta? Twak-ta?" while clawing at my legs and Big V will be creeping up from behind, wrapping his arms around me and pushing his man parts into my backside like I'm not going to notice and muttering something about how he did a job today and it involved tile. Just like every other job he does every other day that involves tile and I'm standing there seven seconds into my return home praying why can't they just let me put my purse down first? and please let there be a bottle of wine already chilling in the fridge.

Not that I don't love my family or the attention they shower on me but it's kind of a lot all at once, you know? I'm thinking maybe if they attacked me one at a time, with several seconds in between to catch my breath, I'd be able to handle it better.

That's why you won't catch me badmouthing Victoria Beckham for never smiling in photos. Because I understand. The poor woman has three kids - and another on the way, a husband, and all that paparazzi hounding her every second of the day. And I'm pretty sure that no matter how many times David offers to 'help get the kids ready' she's still stuck answering stupid questions like which shirt should I put him in? and where do we keep the hair gel?

I'm just waiting for the day she blows up and screams, "All of you - shut up! All I'm asking for is six bloody seconds of silence so I can collect my thoughts!"

It doesn't sound that bad in an accent. Really. It's kind of a cute breakdown when you read it Brit Style. That's why when I have my breakdown I'm totally going British all the way. Which I almost had to do last night when Big V offered to wash the dishes in order to help me out but instead spent two hours complaining about everything.

*

"Where's the soap?"

 Under the sink in the exact same spot it's been returned to for the past three years.

"Well, why to we keep it there? That's stupid. We should just keep it on the counter by the sink so we don't have to keep taking it in and out of the cupboard."

*

"What is this? Ketchup? Who didn't rinse their plate?"

That was your plate. From the corndog you had late last night.

"Well, I've seen other plates that aren't rinsed off. People need to start rinsing off their plates."

*

"Darnit! Where's that thing to wash the glasses?!"

You mean the baby bottle brush?

"I don't know what it's called... I use it to wash the glasses."

I threw it away last week because it was gross and falling apart.

"Well, I guess I can't wash these glasses then." [starts taking cups & glasses out of kitchen sink and tossing onto counter, dripping wet]

Hmmm, whatever did they do before the creation of the bottle brush? Surely they wouldn't have stuck the washrag into the glass itself to wash it.

*

And this was about where I lost it ... (in British Accent): Ah, yes, that was quite helpful to me indeed. What would I have done without all the bitching and moaning? Perhaps tomorrow night you bathe the baby, help Dotter with her math homework, cook dinner, drive the Bean to town because she forgot she needed poster board, put another load of laundry in the washing machine, comb the snarls out of Dotter's hair without smacking her when she starts screaming at the top of her lungs, make sure Cletus doesn't stick his tongue in the electrical outlet - again, run to the bank to get some cash to pay Lawnmower Timmy and I'll do the bloody dishes!

(Did you read it with an accent? If not, go back and read it again. I won't sound nearly as awful, I promise.)

All I'm saying is that if I had walked out the door and into the flashing lights of the paparazzi I wouldn't have been gleefully smiling either.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Observations at a Mall: Thoughts of a not-quite middle aged mother of three.

(1) Dressing rooms should be split between "Teens & Other Perky Bodies" and "Those Who Gave Birth Before You Damn Teeny Boppers Were Even Born."

(2) I am a pear. Regardless of what body shape I might have been two child-births ago, I am now, most definitely, a pear.

(3) Items at Barnes & Noble are one size fits all. Items at Victoria Secret are not.

(4) The soft pretzels with nacho cheese dip can make any shopping experience worthwhile.

(5) Because of this, I will, more than likely, always be a pear.

(6) I'm strangely okay with this because I like to read. A lot.

(7) I really like Barnes & Noble.

(8) I don't really need new clothes because I have sweatpants.

(9) So does Big V.

(10) I also really like soft pretzels with nacho cheese dip.

Monday, May 2, 2011

I need a new shovel. And help digging a grave.

Big V can be kind of, uh, spontaneous. Not so much in the look at these beautiful flowers I am giving you for no other reason than I just thought you would like them kind of way, but more in the I just gave away your bicycle to some strange man sifting through our garbage kind of way.

In his defense, my bike had a flat tire. (That was his defense. It is in no way, shape or form, supported by me.) Obviously, if the tire is flat the bike shall then be rendered unusable, right? And he had been in the process of cleaning out the garage, which was why there were cans of garbage at the end of the driveway beckoning the homeless to sift through and the creepy guy did take that stupid stainless steel kitchen sink that isn't worth a dime so he kind of deserved something good, right?

Which leads us to the fun little child cart that the bike used to pull. The cart that Cletus the Used to be Fetus LOVES to ride in. The cart that Big V was smart enough to save....
... yet not smart enough to remember to take the hardware off said bike he gave away that actually makes it possible to pull the damn cart.

And so Big V set out to do something about it... something about the fury in my eyes encouraged him to drive to 867 different stores hoping they sold just the one part he needed. Which they didn't.

He decided to fabricate something himself. Which worked fine down the three feet of driveway, but not so well when he placed Cletus inside the cart and set to pedaling on the street. Clunk! Down went the cart. Lucky for us no cars were on the street at the time and it didn't take long for Big V to swoop on back around and pull the child to safety.

With arms crossed and foot tapping I told V I wasn't exactly thrilled that he gave my bike away and I also didn't trust whatever sort of knotted rope contraption he was attempting to pull my son with and I strongly suggested he try to find something else to occupy his time.

A few minutes later I looked outside and saw he was hacking down the tree in our front yard with a hand saw.

Note the branch he hoped to leave by the curb for the city to pick up.