Mar 31, 2005

Everything's okay people, back away, back away

ANAPHYLACTIC REACTION. Now THERE'S a fun way to spice-up the workday!

All I can say is, Damn! Damn those crafty tree nuts! And thank God for a Walgreens right across the street that sells liquid Benadryl, and for my steroids-in-a-whiffer.

She's a super-cool exploradora

A few weeks ago, we went to go see Dora at our local mall. I just can't stand people, so I tried to forget about it, but my extra-great husband remembered. So, on Saturday the 5th, we threw the kids in the Jetta and set off for the mall. For those of you without children, Dora is that little Mexican cartoon-girl that hangs out with the boot-wearing primate. She's EVERYWHERE. You just can't get away. You know you've hit it big when you become a fruit snack, and believe me, we have eaten our fair share of Dora fruit snacks. Back to the adventure...

We get to the mall, and it's so crowded with little kids, that I think I'm going to die. There are TONS of kids. There are a million little 2 to 6-year-old Mexican ninas dressed to the nines like it's their quincenera. Have you ever seen a 3-year-old in heels? I have. And here are my gringo kids, not even wearing a Dora shirt. I'm a terrible mother. Here we are, the only people in a radius of 50 yards speaking English, waiting to take a picture with Dora.

The line is hideously long, and poor Scott knows I'm about to blow a gasket, so bless his ever-loving heart, he keeps in a good mood and keeps commenting on how fast the line is moving. Meanwhile, I'm looking for lice in the kid's head in front of me. Dark hair always makes me do that--look for lice, I mean. I don't know why. The time passes pretty quickly when you're doing lice-checks on random kids, so before I knew it, we were pretty far up in the line. Jenna is hanging on my leg like a pair of bad hose, and Clairey is in my arms, trying to jump out so she can see Dora. In the line, there was this cut-out of Boots (the monkey Dora hangs with), and Clairey just starts pointing and saying, "Boots! Boots!" But you have to imagine she's German, because she says "Boots" with a German accent--it comes out something like, "Byuts! Byuts!" So Claire's showing off her variable accent, and Jenna is still just hanging on my leg. I figure we'll get up there, Jenna will take one look at Dora, and scream. Because, seriously, she hates big-headed characters that look like they could possibly eat you, and, she just always embarasses me that way.

It's FINALLY our turn, Claire's breaking from my grip, Jenna's hanging from my leg, we turn the corner and THERE'S DORA. In a move that will shock me for the rest of my life, Jenna tears away from my leg, runs up to the huge-headed Dora and hugs her! Then she's just hanging on her. My kid, hanging on Dora. Giving her high-fives even, and saying, "Oh, Dora! I love you! I love you, Dora!" Being that Claire was just super-excited to see Dora, I walked her over there and went to set her down...not happening. She did that thing where you try to set her down, and she stays in the "I was just riding your hip" position. If you're a mom, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

We HAD to get a picture with Dora, so I squatted down on the floor next to Jenna and Dora, so Scott could take our picture. Right as he pressed the shutter, Dora decided to pat Clairey on the head. The look on Claire's face is priceless: it's a mix between "Holy Mother of God, what ARE you?" and "What the FUCK are you doing?!"

What a lovely outing. Gracias Dora, Gracias.

Starving

Teri Shiavo died this morning. I'm not sure exactly how I feel about the circumstances surrounding her death. Some doctors say she was in a severe vegetative state, unable to communicate, feel emotion, etc. Others, particularly her parents, say that she was able to communicate with them, through movements, and even crying tears. It's hard to know who is right in a case like this. What if she looked vegetative from the outside, but inside, was screaming to get out? Did she KNOW she was starving to death? Did it hurt? Did she feel any kind of pain? Was she crying inside, begging her parents to help her, or was she relieved? Relieved that finally, they were going to 'let her go'?

I guess we'll never know.

My personal thoughts on this, and my husband is quite aware of them, are that I wouldn't want to live in a vegetative state. If there's a possibility that I will be on life-sustaining equipment for an unprecedented amount of time (as in, forever), then please, pull the plug. I wouldn't want Scott or the girls to go through their lives having to worry about me. Just let me die. I would just rather die for them, then to make them watch me suffer.

Mar 30, 2005

Quote of the day

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Like, when I'm reading the Bible, and then later I do, you know, 'man' stuff--like touch my penis. I always feel really guilty and think I'm going to hell."

Indeed, I am in caloric hell

Since the last week of January, I have been working out at least 2x a week. Yes, I know that's not much by the standards of many, but when you've popped out two midgets, have to work for the man, and have more laundry than a Russian orphanage, your time is limited. So, I do Step Interval on Tuesdays, and Kickboxing on Thursdays. Both of which kick my ass. Hard. I'm often left on the floor, wheezing for breath, lying in a pool of my own sweat and tears. But I digress.

When I met with my "Nutritional Advisor" (read: blonde, cute, most likely wears a size 3, fresh-out-of-college chick with a bachelors in Fitness), she could not understand why I hadn't lost A SINGLE FUCKING POUND. Not one. ZERO. So, she asked me to keep track of my calories. "Okay," I said. Boy, am I an idiot, or what? For 3 weeks, I keep track of all the calories that make it to my mouth, the ones that I lick off my fingers, and the ones that secretly make it into my mouth because Jenna took a sip of my pop and good Lord that kid can't drink anything without leaving a smackerel of something behind. I presented it to Aleta--yes, that's her name. Doesn't she sound like some kind of goddess?--and she said she'd look over it and get back to me.

She called me back a few days later to tell me that she conferred with a dietician, and essentially, I am such a sporadic eater, that my metabolism doesn't know if I'm eating or starving. Nice. She told me to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. While she's telling me all this, I'm looking up "liposuction" on my laptop, because seriously, wouldn't that be so much easier?

Mar 29, 2005

She wore an itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, yellow, polka-dot bikini...that she shouldn't be wearing because her butt is WAY too large

The horror has set in. In exactly 17 weeks, I will be vacationing with my best friend and her husband--who just happens to be a coworker. How scary is that?! Do you understand?! Let me spell it out for you: COWORKER. Still don't get it? Let me drop a few more details of this trip: Mexico. Beach. SWIMWEAR. Ah yes, now you've got it. A BATHING SUIT. In front of a coworker. BATHING. SUIT. Will all the women in the house please hold my virtual hand and cry with me?

Yes, these people are our best friends, and yes, I know they don't care about what I look like in a bathing suit. However, they have no idea that when I put on a swimsuit I look like sausage in casing with a tropical floral print. They have no idea that when my ass is not contained within the restrictions of pants or a skirt, it explodes outwards into a bulbous, jello-y mass that rivals Santa's dear old belly. And J.Lo?? Shit, J.Lo ain't got nothin' on me! Jenny-from-the-block needs to back her little ass up because I'm in all her shiznit. Sorry...slight break in sanity there. Back to the nightmare that is my life...

There is no way to get out of wearing a bathing suit. I mean, we're going to be there for five days, and all you do while there is swim and drink at the swim-up bar, and swim, and drink at the swim-up bar, and drink, and swim, and drink, and drink. Well, we're going to have the kids, and it would be way too irresponsible to drink that much, so cut-out most of the swimming. There's just going to be a lot of bathing-suit-wearing going on. I've thought about this a great deal, and my butt is just not receptive to cover-ups either. Last time I wore a sarong on vacation, the waiters kept calling my ass "senorita" and asking it what it would like to drink. I look like I have an undeveloped twin attached to my back.

I'm just going to name it Shirley and get on with my life.

Were is Evil?

I know where Evil lives! I know, I know! *raising my hand frantically* How do I know this, you ask? Well, let me tell you: If you take the word "Evil," it can easily be changed to the word "Jenna." All you have to do is add 5 letters to the E, go back 17 on the V, double the I and go forward 5, then add 11 to the L! Then Evil=Jenna. Coincidence? I think not.

Back when I was a pre-k teacher, I had the only kid in the world that is truly and absolutely ADD/ADHD. She was Terrible--with a capital T, obviously. The memory of that kid is what keeps me sane, because comparing Jenna to that child makes it VERY clear to me, that my child is just "spirited" and not completey fucked up and psycho. Because that OTHER kid was. OH HELL, she WAS. We had to use force--FORCE with this child. Let's do a small comparison between "Child A" and Jenna:

Child A threw tantrums--check for Jenna.
Child A screamed at the top of her lungs if we pissed her off--check.
Child A would not sit still, even if we employed the use of rope and handcuffs--not so much for Jenna. A could spank usually knocks the evil right out.
Child A would scream and thrash so violently, we had to use force to restrain her--hmmm...check...just kidding. Jenna screams violently, but only because we'll put her in her room and put the baby gate up. THAT leads to violent screaming--right before she scales the baby gate then walks up to me, sobbing, like, "What? What did I do wrong?"
Child A would growl at us, right before she'd lunge at the nearest person, teeth bared and attempt to rip their eyeballs out with her toddler-size fingernails--check for Jenna. She growls, but it's often followed by her saying, "Sorry! Sorry!" and a hug.

See? She's NOT a "problem child"--she's just a problem SOMETIMES. Like, it was a problem when she told me she could "talk to snakes." Yeah, THAT freaked me out. I immediately thought of throwing her in a box, poking a few breathing holes in it, and driving her up to the church to be exorcised. No kid of mine is going to be talking to snakes. Especially if she's talking in weird tongues and chanting, and dancing with said snakes up in front of a congregation while people have their hands raised to the sky and are yelling, "Amen!" Yeah....THAT'S not happening. Not that I'm saying that you people that chant to snakes and dance with them in front of congregations of other snake-loving people are weird because I'm not. Oh wait...yes I am. You're weird.

So anyways, the trip to the priest was cancelled because as soon as I broke out the bible to look for tips (note to self: "exorcising the snakity demons" is not in the index of the bible), she said, "Harry Potter talks to snakes, and I can too!" Whew! Wiped my brow on that one and relaxed--right up until she started hissing at people.

Now I have a three-year-old that hisses at people when she's angry. Bad thing is, since it's "monkey see, monkey do" at my house, I also have an 18 month old that hisses at people.

"Clairey, let's go change your diaper."
"Sssssssss!"
"Clairey, you smell like peepee, let's go!"
"No! Sssssssssss!"

Now I have to worry about people getting hissed at. Nice. We were at the Walmart--where I call the girls "sissy" and let them go shoeless--doing some grocery shopping, and this lovely old lady comes up to the basket and says, "What lovely girls! Look at how beautiful you are!" So I say, "Girls, what do you say?" They both smile, look at that sweet old lady, and say, "SSSSSsssssssss!!!"

--sigh--

Mar 25, 2005

Aha!

Can I be the hen?
Colored Eggs

While I was trying to recall the actual intricacies to this game, I DID remember one thing: Whenever me and the sibs played this game, we'd pick the most ridiculous colors ever. I mean, I was never the "yellow" egg, I was the "Yellow-Orange" egg. I'd defend myself by saying that that was a real color in the Crayola box. We finally had to make rules regarding color choice. For instance--you had to be a color that was in the SMALL box, not the jumbo, made-up-colors box. "Red" was okay, "Brick" was not. "Brown" okay--"Sepia," not so much.

Remember?

Colored Eggs. Does anyone remember that game? It involved a wolf, eggs, and you guessing what color they were. Anyone? Anyone?

Jesus' colored eggs

Trying to explain to kids the significance of Easter is difficult already, now add in a huge rabbit who breaks into your house and hides eggs and leaves you a basket full of teeth-rotting confections, and it gets a little crazy.

Popular questions at my house:

Why is the Easter bunny so big?
Well, the Easter bunny used to be a small bunny, but he met up with this other rabbit named 'Jason Giambi' who taught him all about anabolic-androgenic steriods. Giambi promised the Easter bunny that he wouldn't get hooked, but before the Easter bunny knew it, he was hiding behind the chicken coop, plugging a needle into his thigh. It was horrible. Anyways, by the time the Easter bunny quit, he was a 6-foot tall rabbit with a severe case of bitch tit.

Who came first, Jesus or the Easter bunny?
Well, the bunnies were here first, then God made Jesus. But the Easter bunny didn't become popular until Jesus told him to give Easter baskets to everyone. And we all know that rabbits on steriods, who give us candy, are nice.

When Jesus came out of the cave, was he a ghost?
Um...yeeaaahhhh...kind of. But not the scary kind.

Did the Jesus ghost say 'boo!' and 'Raaahhhhhh!'?
No, he said, "Man, I love you guys." Then he talked to all his friends, waved to the people, and rode up to heaven on a cloud.

Wow. Jesus was really cool.
Yeah, he was. And he still is.

Is the Easter bunny going to get Jesus an Easter basket?
Jesus has been a really good boy, so yes, he will.

Will Jesus get Peeps?
I'm not so sure Jesus likes Peeps. But if he DOES get Peeps, he'll be sure to brush his teeth so he doesn't get cavities.

Easter bunny, explained

Last night at dinner, Scott asked Jenna, "Is the Easter chicken going to visit you this weekend?" After rolling her eyes, and heaving a deep sigh, Jenna looked at him and replied, "It's not an Easter chicken, dad, it's the Easter bunny."
"The Easter bunny? So the Easter bunny lays eggs?"
"No,"(rolling eyes again)"The Easter bunny steals the eggs from the chickens. Then he cooks the eggs and dyes them blue. THEN, he hides them so the chickens can't find them."

Of course, this explanation was offered with the attitude of "Jeesh, dad, you're such a moron."

Mar 24, 2005

Please drown me

People, people, people...I have come upon Death and looked it straight in the eyes. It came upon so unexpectedly, that I didn't have time to run. Then, it grasped me in a terrifying grip of torture and kept me there, petrified, unable to move. Death, as it seems, came in the form of a movie. A movie titled, "Open Water."

Everybody do yourselves a big favor, and don't waste your hard-earned money renting this total piece of crap movie. How, HOW can I send my husband to the video store with EXPLICIT instructions on what movie to rent and he comes home with THIS garbage?! It's insane. Really, it is. I said, "Rent 'Finding Neverland', please." Is that so hard to understand? His excuse was that they were all rented out. OKaaayy, so bring home a movie worthy of my time. It's not like they're even in the same genre for God's sake. Hmmmm....movie that was up for Best Film of the Year, or movie that appears it was filmed with a handheld camcorder? Hard decision, I know.

Anyways, "Open Water" was an indie film. These people are independent for a reason, baby. They suck. It was, without a doubt, the worst movie I've ever, ever seen. Worse than "The Spanish Prisoner," and even worse than "Elephant Parts." The storyline, or lack thereof, is that these two scuba divers get left in the ocean. What a gripping tale of fear! Hardly. First off, it took 45 minutes just to get to the diving part. Before that, I was just bombarded with shitty acting, horrible filming, and--get this--a gratuitious nakie scene. WHY? Why the nakie scene? It was so random, like the director just thought, "Hmmmm...what shall we do here? Have them talk, nonsensically, for a couple of minutes, or...HEY! I got it! Let's get the chick naked!"

This whole time, I was completely mesmerized by this film. It's horrible. It's like looking at a deadly accident and not being able to turn away.

Essay

If I ever received an essay like this, I'd have to give the guy an 'A' just for making me laugh my ass off.

albino sheep essay

Skirt steak

One of my lovely, talented friends wrote a poem in which she said skirts were anathemic. They kind of are--unless they're shredded denim which barely covers your pre-pubescent ass. I'm not wearing one of those. "Those" meaning a scrap of denim that has been altered into a tube to cover 3/4 of your ass cheeks--leaving the other 1/4 exposed to the public. I only wear those kinds of things when I'm Swiffering my floor, wearing pigtails, and a white wife-beater with no bra. Just kidding. I can't wear pigtails--my hair's too short.

Seeing what girls are wearing these days just scares the bejeezus out of me. By the time my kids are teenagers, what's going to be deemed "cool"? I mean, by visiting any local mall, we are bombarded by views of teenaged-girls' thong panties peeping out from miniscule skirts, and pants that are so low-rise they don't even have to unzip to pee. It's ridiculous. Girls flaunt themselves around like they're a piece of meat. I'm not saying they have to avoid fashion, but come on! What I can't believe is that their parents let them BUY that stuff. Face it--if you see a 13-year-old girl wearing an Abercrombie scrap of material, with butt-floss showing, where did she get it? Her PARENTS had to give her the money for it. I realize that this isn't always 100% true, but it's definitely worth arguing about. I can't help it--I see these little girls wearing stuff like that and I immediately think "whore." In fact, I've seen real-life whores wearing more clothing than what I see on kids at the mall. How sad is that?

Mar 22, 2005

Why I love my kids

I love my kids because:

1. They are hilarious, yet don't even realize it. Ex: I kicked the wall Saturday (an accident, obviously), and was lying on the ground, rolling around in pain. Jenna walks by, and without skipping a beat, says, "Jeesh, mom! Suck it up!" and continues on her merry way.
2. The way Claire says, "Yeah" instead of "yes" is so cute, I want to bite her cheeks. "Clairey, are you hungry?" "Yeah." "Clairey, do you have peepee diapers?" "Yeah." She also sings the "Let's Get Together" song from that Disney movie about the twins--once played by Haylie Mills, then by Lindsey Lohan--I know you know which one I'm talking about. Claire gets to say, "yeah, yeah, yeah" with the chorus, and it's so damn funny.
3. They are WILD and CRAZY! They are completely nutty--I LOVE IT!
4. They are independent, stubborn, and self-assured.
5. We laugh at the dinner table--hard. We make our forks dance on the table, we put sour cream on our noses, and we say "Cheers!" with our milk.
6. They are both seen AND heard.
7. They tell me "NO" without fear (although they DO get soap in their mouths if they're saying it just to be sassy).
8. They're not afraid to tell me anything.
9. They tackle me, and we fall onto the floor, covering each other in laughing, giggling kisses!
10. I look at them, and see me reflected in their eyes.

Mar 21, 2005

Lesson One

For those of you whom have never experienced the nirvana of a frito pie, I indulge you:

ingredients
fritos
chili
cheese

Fill a bowl full of Fritos. Pour heated chili over Fritos. Top with cheese. Eat with fork.

A true delicacy.

Mar 15, 2005

Snackcakes

When I was in 2nd grade, my best friend's name was Penney. Penney Fontenont (pronounced Fon-ten-oh). She was nice to me on my first day of school in Texas--she didn't make fun of my Michigan accent, she didn't think I was weird when I didn't know what a "Frito pie" was, and she liked my Granimals outfits. Plus, she was a good foot taller than me, so if needed, she could defend me. I was a tiny kid--I wore a size 5/6 in 2nd grade. How do I remember this? Because while all the other kids were shopping in the "big kids" section, I was still wearing the aforementioned Granimals. No one in the second grade wore Granimals, except for me. The midget. The wee, red-headed lassie. That didn't know what Frito pie was.

Anyways, Penney took me under her wing. She was my first "best friend" ever. We played chinese jumprope during recess, hung from the monkey bars, and would sit in the shade, playing "Bo-bo skitty wotten totten." Penney was cool because she got an allowance, which was a completely foreign concept to me. I had to clean my room, and pick up the house every day, but I didn't get paid for it.

Each week, after "allowance day," Penney and I would walk up to the "AppleTree" grocery store and buy a box of Starcrunches and a box of Twinkies. On the way home, we'd stop at a bench on the greenbelt, and eat BOTH boxes. Families would be riding their bikes by, and glance at us--2 little girls, covered in twinkie-filling and chocolate.

Crazy.

Mar 14, 2005

Menu

Things I swore would never appear in my pantry, yet are now staples in my kids' diets:

-fruit snacks (called "monkeys," no matter what shape they are)
-kids yogurt (isn't all yogurt the same? Why does "Dora" on the container make it better?)
-sugary cereals (Lucky Charms and Cocoa Pebbles aren't THAT bad...are they?)
-snack cakes
-Hamburger Helper
-Mac and cheese
-chicken nuggets

I have to stop before CPS finds this and comes ramsacking my home with vegetables.

Penis bread

As I sit here eating a banana (or, as Jenna would say, a "bania"), I have a few moments to contemplate this past weekend, which, by all means, was fantastic. Before I go into any splendid detail, I must first tell you that I was wrong about the "types" of women that would be there. Hey, I admit when I've made a mistake, and I own up to it. Being that I listed the "scrapbooking" stereotypes incorrectly, I will now make up for it by telling you who WAS there.

Surprisingly, "old-woman-scrapbooking-the-dog" was not there. Yes, I was disappointed, too. I was really looking forward to letting you all in on exactly who she finds to knit little fair isle sweaters for her schnauzer. Taking her place was "loud-mouthed-Southern-lady-who-never-shuts-the-hell-up." I can't tell you what this woman looked like, but I CAN tell you how many cavities she had, because her fucking mouth was NEVER closed. Her mouth was so big, it was like it just swallowed her head, so all anybody could see was her gigantic, watermelon-pink, Candies-brand lipsticked mouth. "The Mouth" was one of those women who referred to putting on her makeup as "putting on my face." Oh please. If you're going to "put on a face," at least put one on that doesn't make me recoil in absolute horror. Thanks.

Also, "long-braid-down-the-back" didn't show up. She was replaced by "I-used-to-have-a-long-braid-but-got-brave-and-cut-it-off-then-permed-it." Who, unbelieveably, was sporting the "claw" up front. Remember that look? It's when you take your bangs (yes, BANGS) and use a curling iron to curl them forward. Then you "rat" them until it looks like a tidal wave is coursing off the front of your skull. It was a good look--when I was in 7th grade. So anyways, "claw" was a really nice woman--she was, however, related to "The Mouth," so I kept my reservations about her all weekend.

Everybody else was normal. Well, there was the one, freakishly beautiful, slender, "I'm-pregnant-with-my-third-child-but-still-have-a-better-shape-than-you'll-ever-have" woman; and the cute, tiny, little woman with the pink shoes and matching Coach purse, but I'll let them off the hook.

I met several very nice people, but there are two women that I really hope to keep in touch with. They were very funny, very kind, and although they never uttered the word "fuck," I think we kind of share the same sense of humor. One of them has a scrapbook page about a loaf of bread that looks like a penis. THAT'S the kind of friend you need, people! Any woman that can scrapbook a picture of penis-bread is a friend of mine.

Anyways...

It was a great weekend, I had tons of fun, no sleep, and there was lots of chit-chat. How can you beat that?

Mar 11, 2005

Scrapaholic

This weekend, for the first time since I have become the mother of the small humans, I am going away for the weekend. NO KIDS. NO HUSBAND. I am going away to a bed and breakfast scrapbook weekend getaway. I know, I know...I don't seem to be the "type" to scrapbook. However, since I have the two most gorgeous kids on the planet (except for yours, of course) and have, therefore, taken several HUNDRED cds full of pictures, I have to do something with them. So, I'm going to spend my weekend with a bunch of scrapbook people, which are guaranteed to include: (a) at least one old lady scrapbooking pictures of her toy poodle named "Lovey" (b) a woman with long, ratty, brown hair worn in a braid ala Crystal Gail (c) a woman who doesn't know that MY kids are cuter than hers and (d) someone who stands a troll on their table for "good scrappin' luck" (whatever the fuck that means). There are also bunk beds, and everything is designed in "Texas" style (read: stars everywhere). Normally, nothing about this trip would entice me BUT in small print, at the very bottom of the invitation, it read: "Wine will be served with dinner. We do not serve any type of liquor drinks, but feel free to bring your own."

Suddenly, the whole "description" of this getaway sounded completely different. A bed and breakfast? In a quiet place? Away from my screaming banshees? No husband? A bed to myself? I can sleep-in past 630am?

I AM SO THERE. Of course, I could never do this alone, so my friend the Captain will be joining me this weekend.

eta: I really don't plan on getting smashed. No. Really, I don't. Can you imagine the titles of my scrapbook pages if I did?

The Night You Wouldn't Shut the Fuck Up
Your Precious Fucking Toesies
Rub-a-dub-dub, Your First Fucking Time in the Tub

and my favorite:

Sisters: Best Friends (until one of you sleeps with the others boyfriend and the other sister calls you a fucking slut)

Mar 10, 2005

Back to the story of "The Silver Bullet"

It was a decent car--I mean, it got me from point A to point B, without me having to beg for rides from friends that lived nowhere near me. It wasn't pretty to look at--dull, silver-grey; flat spots in the paint where the clear-coat was peeling off, factory rims, and a bench seat in the front. A BENCH SEAT. Who the hell had THAT bright idea? It was like a big frickin couch in the front seat of my car. Although I could have added some throw-pillows to make it look more "homey," I elected not to. The interior color would have been just too difficult to match, and I didn't want to look chintzy.

The bench seat was a total pain in the ass for many reasons. The first, being that it was just a bad deal for the passenger. In designing the Aries, the facinating engineers at Dodge decided to place the gas/brake pedals so far under the dash, that you'd have to be an Ethiopian basketball star to be able to reach them. Alas, the only thing I can slam dunk is a poopy diaper in a Diaper Champ. In order for me to reach the pedals, I had to scoot the couch so close to the car, that my boobs were entangled in the steering wheel, and the passenger was eating the dash. Strike 1 for the Aries.

The second issue with the Aries, besides the horrific knowledge that the stains on the ceiling could be related to the massive drawers we found behind the backseat, is that the doors all had problems. If you opened the doors too far---wait, did I not mention that it was a 4-door?? Oh yes, it was a SEDAN--they tended to get stuck in the open position. Getting them to close properly then became a sport. You had to lift the damn door, then body ram it to get it closed. We took to just "Dukes of Hazzard-ing" it. When we tried to tell my dad that the doors got stuck open, he used to tell us that we were opening them wrong. "Opening" them wrong?? It's not like it was a fucking DeLorian or anything. Doors on Aries' open one way only.

One Texas-hot, 110-degree day, me, my brother, and my friend Brooke were leaving school. Because Brooke was going to ride up on the couch with me, my brother was kind enough to get in the back seat. When he opened the back door, it fell off. It didn't get stuck--it FELL OFF. ONTO THE CEMENT. A CAR DOOR. LYING ON THE CEMENT. My car had all of a sudden become open air. Can you believe?! So, the three of us are in a state between peeing our pants and utter confusion. It's not every day a car door just falls off.

After about 10 minutes of gasping for breath and crossing our legs, my brother hops in the backseat, which was easy, since there was NO DOOR. Brooke and I lift the door back into the frame, and my brother, from inside the car, held it there with the strap that's on the door's upholstery. I always wondered what those straps were for--now, I know. The whole way home, he'd yell, "Quit going so fast! I'm losing my grip!" Truth be told, I was only going about 45, since the car wouldn't go any faster than that, even if I "dropped the hammer." However, we made it home--door still on the car--and even managed to get out of the car without the door falling off.

When my dad got home, I told him, "Dad, the door fell off the car." Of course, he immediately started giving us the "what for" for opening the doors wrong. "NO," we said, "It FELL OFF the car." He looked at us, and then basically told us we were lying. He eventually got pissed enough where he went outside to see for himself. Shawn and I watched from the upstairs window. Dad sauntered over to the car, put his hand on the handle and pulled. The next moment, the door was lying in the grass next to him. Guess he opened it wrong.

Mar 9, 2005

Wong Tong Fong?!

Since 8th grade, I have believed that my friend Stephanie and I made up the "Ong" language. I found out, not two minutes ago, that I was Song o rong e long yong Mong i song tong a kong e nong.

Panty waste

Every teenager dreams of waking up on thier 16th birthday, and being handed a beautiful box, wherein lie the keys to a rad car. They want to walk outside, and see a purple IROC in the driveway (but instead of "IROC," it says "IROCK")with a big bow hanging on it. Are ya with me?? THINK 80s. THINK 80s. Okay, NOW you're there. So anyways, this was kinda my dream--instead of an IROCK, I wanted a black Jeep.

My parents were totally against buying me a Jeep, not only because Jeeps were dangerous, but because my parents were frickin' ass poor, and couldn't afford to buy me one. I'm sure they WANTED to buy me one, but in a 16-year old's head, your parents just hate you because they just hate you because they hate you. That's why they won't buy you a car. Because they hate you. Not because they have no money. But moreso because they hate you.

My parents had posed questions to me several times. Questions such as: "Do you think money grows on trees?" and "Do you think I can just crap out money?" No, I didn't think that, but if one of them COULD crap out money, that would be pretty cool. Diarhea wouldn't be that bad of a thing. "For Christ's sake! I have bills shooting outta me like water!" Not too bad. Moving on...

So shocker of all shockers, I didn't get a car. I think I actually got a gift bag containing beef jerky, red-shoelace licorice, and banana baby food. These are things I ate on a regular basis because I starved myself. My mom just FED the eating disorder. I sat in my room that day, crying because my parents hated me so much that they couldn't even shit out a couple thousand bucks to get me a car.

Jump to the next summer....

My dad comes home from work, driving this total POS. Unbeknownst to me, this piece of shit was my new car. I use the term "new" loosely. It was a 1984 Dodge Aries. Just what every 16-year-old-princess wants to drive to school. I mean, shit, the wrong brand of jeans could damn your reputation for life, and here are my parents wanting me to drive a geezer-mobile to school. OH, THE MORTIFICATION. My brother was just laughing his ass off, until I reminded him that he was next in line for the car.

I tried to make the best of the situation, so I got the cleaning bucket and joined the rest of the fam, trying to spruce up the "silver bullet." So here we are: 3 red-headed kids, a red-headed dad, and the blonde mom, all out in the driveway, doing a "family scrub" of a hideous car. It was like the Partridge Family, but without the singing. As my brother is fishing around in the crack of the back-seat bench, he touches something soft. He pulls it out from the crack, and it's a pair of panties. THE SIZE OF A WHALE. I kid you not. They were the type of panties that you buy some poor guy at a bachelor party. They are HUGE. And...I don't even know how to say this...they were not clean. Oh for God's sake, I'm just going to say it: The crotch was yellow and stained, people. MONSTROUS, DIRTY PANTIES IN THE BACKSEAT. The screaming and running that ensued after that discovery will forever be etched in my brain.

More car stories to follow...

Mar 8, 2005

Parenting 101

I think all parents should be required to take this. EVERY YEAR. They could go over topics such as, "Getting Your 3-year old to eat vegetables," "How to convince a 3-year old to clean her room," and "How to get a 3-year old to go to bed at a reasonable hour with no screaming, fit-throwing, whining, crying, and copious amounts of Jack Daniels 100-year old whiskey." Okay, so maybe that last part wouldn't be a good idea, but I'll bet a lot of people would attend.

I put Jenna to bed at eight o'clock. I think that's a great time for a small human to go to bed, but apparently, she disagrees. After one hour of walking her back into her room without saying a word ala "SuperNanny," I just couldn't take it anymore. HOW this works on SuperNanny so perfectly is beyond me. When I walk my child back into her room THIRTY-SEVEN TIMES, it doesn't phase her in the least. It's like she thrives on that attention, of me walking her back to her room, so it backfires. Every time I'd hear her out of bed, I'd find her in the hallway, dancing. She'd be standing there, legs apart, arms up (think "chicken dance"), shaking her butt. As soon as she'd see me, she'd stop shaking, run into her room, and leap into her bed.

The 38th time I walked her back into her room, I smacked her on the ass, just for good measure. After she got out of bed the 39th time, I took away all her movies. After the 40th time, I got out the baby gate, which led to screaming and crying and "No, Mommy! I'll listen!" (suuuurrrreee you will.) After that, I sat at the table and threw the ball into her dad's court. After 5 minutes in the room with her, she's quiet.

BECAUSE HE'S LAYING DOWN WITH HER.

Nothing like just wiping out all that hard work of walking back and forth 40 times to get her to go to bed without one of us lying down. I went in Jenna's room about 30 minutes later, and there they were: Daddy and Jenna, all snuggled up and sleeping. Dammit!! Damn my sweet husband and my beautiful girl!! If they were ugly, my job would be so much easier.

Mar 3, 2005

The Dairy Queen is closed

Claire's boobin' days are over. I can't believe it. I force-weaned my baby. Odd, though, I feel both guilty and elated. My boobs haven't been MY boobs in nearly four years. Oh yes, you read that right: FOUR FREAKING YEARS. For four years, my boobs have been pawed at, sucked on, spit up on, pummelled, and bitten, and I still had to nurse the baby on top of that! (ba dum dum...thank you folks, I'll be here all week!)

You would think that I would be 100%, jumpin' jehosephat, cat's pajamas happy about this; yet I'm not. What the hell? I realize that I'm not going to get better (read: quit being a freaky, psycho bitch) until I can get on some hard-core meds, but I feel like I'm failing as a mother, too. OH. THE. GUILT. She still asks, too. She looks at me with that God-given, precious, little face, and asks, "Boobies? Pease?" and I have to tell her NO. UGH. Just slap me on the ass and call me Satan.

No, I'm not one of "those" mothers who planned to breastfeed until little Daisy-Mae could hop off the school bus and ask, "Momma, ware are ma tiddies?" No, no, no. My cutoff was two years (which may seem like a freakish thing to those of you who haven't nursed, or only did so for a bit, but it's really not uncommon).

I'm rather sad about this, but I am looking forward to wonderful things, now that my parasitic relationship with my youngest has come to an end:

-No more having to worry about the boobs leaking during random times.
-No more oversized, humongous boobs.
-No more bras that are so big, they could shelter the homeless of Houston.

And I must say, I got out of this whole thing relatively unscathed. I had always heard the horror stories of what my boobs would look like after nursing. Well, let me tell ya: They look like boobs. They look like the same 'ol boobs I had before I became a snack machine. So, stick it!

So now we come to the ending of an era. There will be no more "special" booby-time in the rocking chair. No more calming boobies during tantrums. No more "I luh you" whispered to my boobies as she pats it with her chubby hand.

However, I have done my work as a mother. Like mothers before me, I have given my children the best start they could possibly have. I have subjected myself to the tortuous rigors of the breast pump, and have deposited delicious rolls of baby fat on the buttermilk arms and legs of my children with my miraculous boob juice. Both my girls are happy, loving, and healthy. Man, I rock.

So, to all of you, I now say: The milk bar is CLOSED.

The beginning of the end

It's here. There is no turning back now. Claire has uttered her first sentence!

Yesterday night, I was trying to poop. An easy task for the majority of the population, but when you're trying to do so in a bright yellow, Winnie-the-Pooh bathroom; with the bathroom door opened, with your husband trying to tell you about his day, and there is a screaming toddler sitting on your naked lap, it makes things a bit more difficult. But I digress.

So, as Claire's wiggling on my lap and Jenna's off in the house somewhere (most likely trying to start a fire), and I'm asking myself if I will EVER be able to take a "private poop" again, Scott asks Claire, "What are you doing?" and she answers, "Sitting with mommy." Clear as frickin' day.

My daughter uttered her first sentence as I was taking a crap. THAT'S one for the baby book!

Mar 1, 2005

Don't even sniff

I had my review today. I got an E. The highest is an S. Why didn't I get an S, you ask? Well, let me tell you. It's because I don't (a)kiss ass, (b)kiss ass, or (c)kiss ass. But the main reason is because I don't kiss ass.

The bossman acted like getting an E is a big deal. Only a "few" people "earn" Es. I casually put my 2004 review on his table, right next to my 2003 review; where I also "earned" an E. While he was dribbling nonsense out of his pie hole, I silently compared my last years review to this one, then I stared him right in the eyes and said, "Comparing these two reviews, wherein my 'Objectives' and 'Metrics' are identical to last year's, it is clear to see that I have acheived more dynamic results for the year of 2004, than in 2003--yet I still earned an E? To earn an S, the company policy states that one should go 'above and beyond' that which is required of them. I have done so, which is proven by my measured results. What do I have to do to earn an S?"

(Don't you like all that hoopty-ha-ha talk? I should be a lawyer.)

So anyways, bossman gives me a nervous look, twiddles his thumbs, glances around and says, "Ummm....well, it's not me, it's the 'system' we have to use." Whatever.

The life one must lead when one is not a kisser of asses! I refuse to pucker up and floss ass-hair out of my teeth. I refuse to take on new ventures, simply because I want to look good to the higher-ups.

Although I have given Scott this advice: "You don't have to KISS anyones ass, but you should at least get close enough to smell it," I am now taking it back. You shouldn't even have to smell it. Even if you can WAFT and smell, you're too close. Fuck off, ass-kissers of the world! You're ruining it for the rest of us!