Showing posts from August, 2011

Like I have a medical degree.

You know that person who every time he meets a girl working at a strip club she turns out to be psycho so you just want to turn to him and yell for the love of cheese - stop picking up girls in strip joints! Or that mom who every time her kids get hurt she thinks it's not a big deal but it turns out to be pretty important, like the time her daughter broke her arm in two places yet she drove around with the kid to do errands (and vote) and days later the doctors were all what kind of mother are you?! And that same mother probably didn't take the whole broken nose or torn ligament thing seriously either, so you just want to scream at her for the love of cheese - just take your kids to the ER! I'm sort of like one of those kinds of people. But less of the picking up chicks in strip clubs kind. So, this weekend Dotter took a digger on her bike. And her whining was driving me crazy. I finally took her in after she screamed, "I could die because of loss of blood, Mom

When Daddy Watches Toddler

 ME: "Hey, Buddy! ... uh... what's in his hair?"  BIG V: "Oh, he got in the soap. He wanted to wash his hair."  ME: "He told you that?"  BIG V: " ... but it kept him occupied 'til you got home."

I like your sweater. No, I mean it. I really like your sweater.

I know it's going to be very hard for you to believe, but I wasn't always this tall glass of sunshine you see before you today. ( It's sarcasm, Mom. Don't feel compelled to point out the obvious .) I wasn't a cute kid, or a beautiful child. I wasn't ever pageant worthy and I certainly wasn't being asked out on dates. Like most kids, I thrived on compliments. If someone couldn't muster up the you are just about the most precious little girl I have ever seen nicety, what could they possibly say about me? I found humor. I figured out pretty quick how to get a group laughing so hard their ribs hurt, wiping away tears while falling off their chairs. I also learned that it's an act: disengage and go for broke. Before you know it, you'll be known as the funniest person I ever met ! And to me, that was just about the best compliment anyone could ever give me. The problem with being funny is that everyone assumes you're always happy. Look

I don't want my baby to turn into the dog.

Like most mommies, I rarely get a chance to get ready in the morning without the Circus Parade of my Family joining me in the bathroom. It gets hectic and chaotic and fortheloveofcheese can't I just shove my contacts in IN PEACE ?! My bathroom routine usually includes a moody, over tired 9-year old, a climbing toddler, and confused Big V, wondering why the kids are in there in the first place. This morning was no different: Dotter is sitting on the toilet, yelling at Cletus, who is climbing over her to get to the counter where he's busy squeezing toothpaste out of the tube and smearing it across the sink, while I'm attempting to push him out with my elbow and jab a somewhat ripped contact into my left eyeball. Big V is standing behind me. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm hedging bets he just felt lonely waiting outside our super tiny bathroom. Dotter, can you please go get dressed? "I know, Mom ! That's what I was going to do! Why do you always tr

My Weekend in Four Photos

Big V and I went to Olive Garden for my birthday. If I convince you of nothing else in your life, let it be this:  Go. Go right now to the Olive Garden. Order the Chianti Braised Short Ribs with Mushroom Risotto. Rejoice. I wandered around the book store. Big V wandered half a millimeter behind me. "Do you want this book?" "What about this one?" "This one looks good." He was in a hurry. To leave. Children are like an optical illusion. See, he's cute here. But not so cute when I came across the wads of yogurt he dumped on the living room rug.   His new favorite toy: the plastic wine glass. He even took it to bed with him at nap time. I'd say that's his mother's influence.

August is the only month without a national holiday; which is good because that would take away from My Birthday!

It's my birthday, y'all! The Office Scape Goose dressed in honor of my birthday. I like how it thinks I'm all princess-y. Obviously we haven't spent a lot of time together. In honor of the 11th anniversary of my 27th birthday, I shall impart wisdom that I have learned over the years: Boys that are suddenly interested in you twenty minutes before bar time do not want to explore a relationship with you. They want to get in your pants. And, if you let them, you don't get to cry over the fact they snuck out of your apartment under the cover of night without exchanging numbers. I don't care how cute they are or how honest and sincere they seemed; wait for the ones that take you out during daytime and talk to you long enough to at least learn your last name. Never, ever, ever let your teenage self allow your teenage sister to cut your hair. She does not possess any special skills. None whatsoever. And it will be forever memorialized in your Sophomore S

The 20 Year Reunion: I Survived.

I didn't pee. Not even a little bit. In fact, not at all because the one time I managed to skip away the bathroom was out of order. WHAT?! My 20-year high school reunion was this weekend and it was awesome. I laughed. A lot. Which is exactly how reunions are supposed to go. At one point I turned to this guy and announced, "I had the BIGGEST crush on you in sixth grade!" In my memory I made an awful fool of myself tripping to get next to his side, being over complimentary and laughing way too loud at all of his jokes. The poor guy was probably made so uncomfortable by my ridiculous behavior. He looked at me, cocked his head to the side and said, "I knew you in sixth grade?" Yep. That's exactly how reunions are supposed to go, too.

20 Years Later

My 20-year high school reunion is this weekend which means I totally am going to have to shave my legs. Which sucks because, let's face it, the dark growth makes my legs appear tan from a distance. I'm totally not caring that I look like I'm carrying around a 6-month old fetus. There's spanx for that. I'm also not worrying about Big V running into any of my old knocking boots buddies because (1) I was a lady, people, and (2) I always made sure to hook up with people from other school districts in an effort to avoid the awkward 20-years later convo held over the tray of imported cheeses with our respective spouses picking up on the tension. I am, however, incredibly nervous about two potentially embarrassing situations that would just about kill me: (a.) Walking around the entire time with food stuck in my teeth and/or a booger coming out of my nose and not one person telling me. Once I sat around at work and laughed and chit-chatted for an entire afternoon b

May I kindly suggest on-line registration?

Yesterday was school registration day. Every kid registering in the entire school district goes to the high school and registers. There were areas set up for each of the three elementary schools, one for the middle school and also the high school. Registration was all day long. But ended at six. Which was so incredibly thoughtful for those of us who work until 5pm. Here's how I managed: 5:00pm - leave work. Car doesn't start right away. Curse the living daylights out of it. "Flood" the sucker and try again. It works. Only old farm trucks and cars built before 1980 start this way. My vehicle is neither of those. Curse the car once more for good measure. 5:07pm - pick up Cletus from the sitters. It's raining. 5:10pm - Cletus smells like shit. Yell to back seat, "did you poop?" His response: "Pee yuck." 5:12pm - receive frantic text from the Bean: "I look like a hobo. Are you almost here?" 5:18pm - pull into drive, forget t

It truly is the thought that counts...

Since it was my Dad's birthday I needed to get him a gift. He's kind of this meticulous gardener guy; the kind where you're not allowed to step on the grass or pick any one of the three billion-trillion flowers blooming around his property, but he can leave an empty can of beer tossed casually towards the shrubbery. This tells me that he doesn't mind aluminum, which is a metal, which means he would totally love a giant metal chicken. But ever since The Bloggess opened the world to metal animal yard art  chickens have been popping up everywhere . And it's almost like Swatch Watches, where they were cool because no one had any and then suddenly everyone did and before you knew it you were showing off your new Swatch and the cool kids were turning up their noses saying those were so last week . So, I needed something better than a giant chicken. And since my dad is from Australia..... you see where this is going, right? .... It only made sense to get him a 6' met

Nothing says I Love You more than a Goose with an identity crisis and a rabid Joey.

 The dingo ain't eatin' THIS baby...  Today is my dad's birthday. He is 67 years old. Well, 67 according to what my mom told me this morning when I asked because, honestly, I had no idea how old he was. When someone mentions my dad I picture him walking around the back yard in flip flops and a pair of shorts, bending over to pick up a stick and then using that same stick to point up into the apple trees and bitch about the tent worms. Yes, tent worms. A huge nest of worms stuck together in a silk-like web that resembles a hornet's nest that my dad would systematically burn down with homemade torches. Nest after nest. Tree after tree. And if you ever saw thousands of worms dropping from the sky after being burned to death by some angry Australian then you probably have the same aversion to apple trees that I do. Hey, let's go pick apples in a huge orchard where we could potentially getting buried alive by falling worms! I think I'll pass. I

'Til Death Do Us Part: 1,000 Ways To Make It Happen.

I have a new rule called No More Criminal Minds at Bedtime.  I used to like that show but then it got incredibly freaky and now I know 68 more ways a person could be tortured than I did before (and I knew a lot from before because I used to watch CSI and Law & Order) and that just doesn't make for sweet dreams, you know? Big V knows I have nightmares but he doesn't care because now he suddenly has a new favorite show called I Am Slowly Driving My Partner Insane By Scaring Her To Death. Actually, it's not called that. But it should be. I'm talking about the Spike TV show called 1000 Ways to Die . Big V knows how, uh, high strung and anxious I tend to be when it comes to safety. I am only all too aware of those things that are incredibly unsafe and shouldn't be attempted. Like risking your life by eating at an IKEA buffet. No one knows how long those meatballs have been sitting there. Can you say Salmonella? Botulism? E.Coli? I think I made my point. Anywa

Shark Week. You know, Again.

It's Shark Week. Again. (Is it just me, or are there an awful lot of shark weeks?) This means our  office scapegoose  better watch his back.

So, WILL an M&M melt in your nose?

This weekend was one of the busiest social dates of the summer. The options seemed endless: a lobster boil, a fireman's dance, and a little something called Moos & Blues which you just have to experience to believe. (Small town farmers hosting one of the biggest events of the season: pig roast, live music and an unbelievable fireworks display that ranks up there with the best of 'em.) However, I was home with Dotter (9) and Cletus (1.5) and two extra kids (aged 3 and 1). Big V, being the stellar support system that he is, bailed on me to attend an obligatory graduation party. So it was me (clearly outnumbered) who stayed with the children for the day. And it was a very long day. Eight hours later I had managed to put two of the kids to bed and the other was quietly watching a movie. (Dotter had locked herself in my bedroom hours earlier to get away from everyone. Meaning me. Because I kept asking her to help bring me a diaper. Help fill up that sippy cup. Help take