Facebook: A Sarcastic B*tch's Best Friend.

A few months ago, I blogged about how I wish I could quit Facebook.  It was cleverly titled Facebook: I Wish I Could Quit You.  I was looking through my Notes section on Facebook.  Hubby says I'm the only one who laughs at my jokes and that I'm the only one who thinks I'm funny.  Perhaps he's right, but I get a huge kick out of being sarcastic.  And kind of a b*tch.


Here are my responses to one of those Virtual Slam Books.  (Remember Slam Books???)  I changed some of my responses because I came up with cleverererer answers, and I deleted some of the lame questions, but you get the drift . . . 

I could totally pull this off.  Right?

1. What's the last thing you put in your mouth? I can pretty much guarantee you it wasn't vegetables.

2. Have you ever kissed anyone named Matthew? I can't remember. I went on a date with a guy named Matthew, but can't remember if I kissed him. He took me to see one of those Chuckie movies, so I'm thinking NO.

3.  Do you believe exes can be friends? Nope, especially if they've seen me naked.

4.   How do you feel about Diet Dr Pepper?  Does "Diet Dr." mean he got his PhD from one of those on-line colleges?

5.  When was the last time you cried really hard?  when I tried to button my jeans.

6.  Where is your biological father right now? if it's the guy I think it is, at home - probably snoring in his chair, sudoku on his lap, geriatric cat (who refuses to die) at his feet, and the tv on some British mystery show.

7.  Where are you sitting right now? on my behiney.

8.  What bed did you sleep in last night? mine.

9.   Was yesterday better than today? NO, and both days involved vomit that was not my own.

10. Can you live a day without TV? Yes, but I choose not to.  I can totally quit anytime I want . . . 

11. Are you a bad influence? With most of the people I hang out with, no.  

12. What items could you not go without during the day? email/facebook. I have a problem.

13. Would you share a drink with a stranger? I'd give it before I'd share it.  Unless I was drunk, then probably.

14.  How many times have you been pulled over by the police? twice.  Recently, a cop stopped me for having expired stickers.  When I blamed it on Hubby (naturally) he accused me of throwing my husband under the bus.  He told me to change the stickers immediately and NOT to leave it for Hubby to do, to which I responded, "Of course not.  I'm not even going to tell him we met tonight!"
15.  Has anyone ever called you perfect before? not on purpose.  

16.  What song is stuck in your head? the theme song from Dallas, because that's where Hubby is at the moment.  I'm hoping he's busy buying me a giant belt buckle.

17.  Someone knocks on your window at 2 am, who do you want it to be? Someone knocking at the wrong window.

18.  Can you handle the truth? not if it's gonna hurt my feelings.

19.  Is there something you always wear? underwear. Almost every day. And my wedding ring.

20.  What would you hope to call your future daughter? an accident.

Mamalamadingdong! Makin' Copies . . . .

I've decided I need to pen a handbook for people in the minimum-wage customer service industry at copy counters in office supply stores.  (It’s a very specific demographic.)  Here’s my outline:

I.               Customer relations

a.     Stop pretending you don’t see me, m-f’er.  I WILL ring your little bell, and I’ll be obnoxious about it.  Trust me on this one.

b.     Look the customer in the eye

                                                     i.     Not that customer; the one in front of you

                                                      ii.     Yes, I see her.  She’s very pretty.  Now back to me, thanks.

"BoyMommy!  Moooommm.
The Momster.
Mamalamadingdong.
Makin' Copies . . . "

c.     take that ridiculous earphone off of your head, you moron.  You’re not helping the SWAT team detonate a bomb.  You’re makin’ copies.

d.     stop talking to people in the warehouse via your headset.  It confuses me.  I mean customers.

e.     Don’t hand my toddler a pen and then act surprised when he writes on something.  He’s not allowed to have pens at home for this. very. reason.

II.             Customer service

a.     Don’t answer the phone while I am standing here and then help the caller first.  I’m a real person, dammit.  I took the time to strap my little curtain-climbers into their car seats, drove all the way over here, and chased them through the parking lot, all Frogger-like, so that we could wait patiently at your counter.  It’s MY turn.

b.     I’m right.  Yes, I am.  Am too.  Am too.  The customer is always right. 

c.     I don’t want to hear your excuses.  I do not care.  I just want 20 copies, not the selling rights to your life story.

I'm a Loser, Baby . . .

In my quest to become internationally famous by sitting on my couch with my computer and writing about my glamorous life as primary caregiver to three energetic boys, I entered a writing contest at Real Simple.  (Why publishers aren't knocking down my door and trying to throw multi-million dollar book deals at me is a mystery.)  The topic was as follows:

Who is the person you are most surprised to be friends with? Maybe it was someone whom you had nothing in common with, someone you’ve only conversed with via e-mail, or someone who started out as more of a rival than a friend. Whoever that unexpected friend is, tell us about him or her.

My essay, apparently, was not Winning.  I am now free to do with it what I please, so here it is.  (All names have been disguised with clever nicknames to protect the innocent.  And also because I'm all clever like that.)

At two years old, I was excited to be getting a new baby brother or sister.  Medicine was different in 1976, however.  My mother did not have a sonogram and it wasn’t until she had delivered my brother, known here as The Redneck, that she discovered there was a Slim in there too.

Twins.  Super. 

He got the tall, thin genes.
I got the double chins.

My parents assure me that I was a huge help, but eventually the novelty wore off.  I had been the only child for two whole years and I was ready for these babies to go back from whence they came.

As a child, I never really warmed up to them.  The Redneck was so easy-going and laid back.  And by this I mean easily manipulated.  I could dress him up like a giant doll, make him eat my lima beans, and convince him to chauffer my Barbies in his Tonka truck.  He was okay; not great, but he’d do.

Slim got on my last ever-lovin’ nerve.  He was the smaller of the two and he always got extra attention.  I harbored the idea that he was Mommy’s favorite and this did not sit well with me.  He had a lisp, (the snake says “thhhhh!”), he wore bib overalls EVERY day, and I once got grounded for making him drink “lemonade” I had concocted out of tap water and kitty litter.  (USED kitty litter.)  So annoying.  Our sibling relationship throughout our childhood was one of mere co-existence.

But we grew up.  We have celebrated marriages, the birth of children, and new homes, and we have leaned on each other during bouts of depression, health scares, and the loss of our mother. We have the shared history and the unspoken camaraderie that only siblings can have, and I have found my brother to be the first to offer me true, unconditional friendship.

I Peed Myself

Another TMI post.  You’ve been forewarned.

And it’s really only for mommies, because you, dear sisters in motherhood, will know of what I speak.  Things change after you've had a baby or three sit on your bladder for 9 months each.

For the past few days, I’ve been feeling a sense of urgency.  Not urgency to get things done around the house.  Not urgency to return phone calls.  Not urgency to watch Real Housewives on the DVR. 

No, I mean THAT kind of urgency.

Like, I’m in the middle of a perfectly benign conversation when all of a sudden my eyes get wide and I get all perswearty because I need to pee.  Right NOW. 

I am prone to Urinary Tract Infections, and I have been since I was little.  I was a bed-wetter too.  I just never had that sensation that I needed to go, so I would never wake up in the middle of the night.  Mom would make me go to the potty at 11 pm when she went to bed, but I’d pee sometime in the night.  The next morning my mom would be all annoyed that she had to change the sheets AGAIN.  (Given the amount of laundry I do these days, I totally get it.) 

I spent many hours at the urologist's office and I have taken my share of medication.  I still, 30-some years later, remember that my medicine was yellow and I hated the taste of it.  When my mother painted my bedroom a lovely sunny yellow, I cried because I associated it with that horrible-tasting medicine. 

My UTIs kept recurring, however.  Because I’m now a doctor . . . (not really, but I play one on TV.  Okay, that’s not true either.  Everyone knows if I were playing a part on TV it would be the part of Ms. Dolly Parton in the award-winning and catchy-tune-filled movie 9 to 5) . . . and I realize that holding it because I didn’t want to give up my killer hiding place in hide-and-seek was not a good strategy in regards to my weak bladder.

My point?  I know better than to hold it. 

But last weekend we were tailgating at a college football game and I held it so I wouldn’t have to use the porta-potty.  I’m constantly holding it when I’m in the car so I won’t have to stop with a car-load of kids.  And yesterday I held it while I was at Target (surprise!) because I know if I have to take Small to the restroom with me I’m going to end up peeing all over the seat and/or floor as I try to prevent him from unlocking the door, flushing while I’m mid release, rolling around on the floor, unrolling the toilet paper, picking decade-old boogers off the wall, or waving at the nice lady in the next stall from underneath the partition.

Thanks for the directions, but
I'm not gonna make it that far.

On the drive home I started to get that ominous feeling that I wasn’t going to make it home.  As I pulled in the driveway, I realized I wasn’t going to have time to grab any bags; I’d need to get the baby out of the car immediately and make a mad dash for the bathroom.  I put the Swagger Wagon in Park, ran around to get the baby, clenched my nether-regions to prevent leakage, and turned around to run into the house.

And then it happened . . .

Totally peed myself in the 10 feet it took me to get from the Swagger Wagon to the garage. 

Sigh. 

I pushed myself too far, and now I’m in the midst of a full-blown UTI, complete with the following amenities:

• I always feel like I have to go
• When I go, it hurts and it never feels like I’m actually finished
• I feel like there’s a bowling ball sitting in my bladder

Remember when Joey was auditioning with guest star Jeff Goldblum on Friends?  A normal person feels relief when it's all over.  Not the person with a UTI.

So I’m cranky today.  Stay out of my way. 

(BTW, isn’t it funny how I can’t talk about S-E-X, but I can totally admit on the World Wide Internets that I peed my pants?)  

My Day as a Fat Audrey Hepburn

Recently, some girlfriends staged a cardigan intervention.  Let it be known that one of my girlfriends is spreading a nasty rumor that I have 30 cardigans.  NOT true.  I had 27 at last count.  Just to be clear, I consider any sweater with an open front a cardigan.  So yes, I have the button-up cardigans from Lands’ End, but I also have some sassy flowy cardigans from Lands’ End. 

Anyhoo, in light of our recent conversation, I decided maybe I should break out of my jeans habit.  I have ALWAYS worn jeans.  When I feel like dressing up I wear khakis.  And a cardigan.  I broke out of my comfort zone and made two significant purchases: jeggings and black leggings.  For those of you who are not in the know jeggings are jean-leggings.  

Jeggings = good.  Jorts = bad. 

I had a little fashion show for my Happy Hour neighbor, who is quite the fashionista.  And by fashionista, I mean she hardly ever wears jeans.  She gave me some pointers on how to wear my jeggings (with boots because they’re a tad short) and my leggings (with either boots or flats.)  Yesterday I got all crazy and wore my black leggings with a long cable cardigan.  Tres cute, at least from the front.  I have no idea about the back, so perhaps I should just issue a blanket apology to anyone who may have found themselves unwittingly walking behind me. 

I looked JUST like Audrey Hepburn!

If Audrey Hepburn bought her leggings at Old Navy, her shirt at Target, and her ballet flats at PayLess.  And she also had humidity-induced frizzy hair and, to borrow a line from Steel Magnolias, it looked like “two pigs fightin’ under a blanket” when she took her sweater off.  EXACTLY like her.   

Email Etiquette - another Cautionary Tale

The following has nothing to do with being a mommy.  It has nothing to do with having boys.  It has everything to do with me being an a$$ in the workplace. 

In my former life, pre-children, I was a high school English teacher.  (I’m sure you can tell, given my many references to classic literature and my mad skillz with the words.)  On the administrative of "teachering," I had a major flaw:

It's the evil known as The Reply All.

For example, (you knew I’d have an example, right?) my department head received an email from a former colleague of mine in which he expressed interest in working in our department.  Since my department head knew that I had worked with “Paul” before, she asked me for my opinion.  It was all very professional on her part – what was it like working with him, is he a team player, what’s his relationship like with the kids, etc.  MY part?  Not so professional.

Obviously NOT BoyMommy.

I read her email, which included Paul’s email, and responded, “He seems like a nice guy, but I think he has some issues.”

And then I hit Reply All.

Oops.

I’m such a jackass.  Sure enough, I get a WTF email from Paul.  Um, he was NOT happy with me.  (So sensitive, that guy!)  All I could do was apologize, admit I was an a$$, and put my tail between my legs.

Anyway, he did not get the job and I don’t think he even stayed in the county much longer after that; not because of anything that I did, but because he just moved on.

Fast forward 10 years.  

Guess who’s in jail for a series of crimes, including attempted murder, malicious wounding, and abduction?  It seems he DOES have some issues.  Of course, according to him, he’s the good guy who made many personal sacrifices and he’s been wrongfully accused.  He’s the misunderstood criminal, rotting away in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.  He’s a literary archetype!

I’m a firm believer in trusting your gut about people.  Yes, I’ve been surprised before, but I think our instincts are usually correct.  When that little voice inside you keeps telling you that somethin’ ain’t right, listen!  Back then, I felt that Paul was a tad narcissistic and, to use the technical term, skeevy.  I should NOT have hit reply all, and perhaps it was out of line to insinuate that he might not be a good match for our department, but I gotta say, I’m feeling a little smug vindicated.

There’s a lesson to be learned, kids.  Only slander people on email behind their backs.  Trust your instincts.

* a little disclaimer – the stuff about Paul being in jail I learned via word of mouth, so I don’t have any actual facts.  But it sure makes a good story.

Are You Sure There's Nothing ELSE I Can Do For You?

You know how Hubby HATES it when I talk about what he considers to be “personal” things?  In order to avoid any discomfort on his part, I’m going to offer some advice to a friend of mine.  You don’t know her.

Ahem.

Dear Friend’s Husband –

Your wife adores you.  Really, she does.  But it annoys her to no end when you call her at 4:56 pm to notify her that you are going to be late to . . . um . . . waterpolo practice.  Yeah, water polo.

"Yes, Dear.  Of course, Dear.
Is there anything else, Dear?"

A purely hypothetical phone conversation:

Friend’s Husband:  Whatcha doing?

Friend:  Getting ready to head out to practice, which begins at 5:30.

Friend’s Husband: Good, because I’m not going to make it to waterpolo practice by 5:30, even though I’m the coach.  So I need you to get our son ready for practice, and then I need you to grab my cleats (for water polo, hehe), my jersey, my shorts, some socks, and my hat.  Then I need you to grab all the equipment from the garage and the tub of balls.  AND (this is my favorite part!) could you get our son there a little early so he can get a few extra minutes of practice?

Friend:  (Loud subtle sigh)  I’ll do my best, but I’ve gotta get the baby up from his nap, change his diaper, get shoes on our middle child (who is a notorious dilly-dallyer,) get cleats on our oldest son, pack your bag of clothes, pack the car with all the equipment, get everyone buckled in (safety first!) and drive 10 minutes to the field.

Friend’s Husband: What’s the big deal?  I thought you said you were heading out. 

Friend:  I’ll get. there. when I get there.

Seriously?  Herding three boys into the car is like trying to nail jello to the wall.  My friend does not need the extra pressure!  By the way, she showed up at the ball field water polo . . . place . . .  at 5:20.  Because she kicks a$$. 

That is all.

Will Sing for Beer, Part 2!

As you know, I am a VERY talented Sing-er.  So talented, in fact, that I won a karaoke contest a few weeks ago.  In case you want to read the first installment chronicling my rocket to fame, click here.  I was the only contestant and won by default, but still.  I won a $25 gift card and received strict instructions to return on Tuesday, September 27 to defend my title.

I gathered up a posse made up of a high school girlfriend, various neighbors, a PTA member, Cub Scout moms, the baseball coach’s wife, (who received a text from said coach stating that kids are "fed, bathed, and in bed."  Whatdya want, a cookie?  It's 10:45!) and the mother of Large’s former classmate.  My babysitter’s parents showed up because someone didn’t read the invitation carefully and missed the reference to "big girl panties" and "fun moms."  This proved useful later, however, as Babysitter’s Dad and I belted out a particularly stirring rendition of "Endless Love."

I carefully considered my song choices and happily took suggestions from my girls.  Some things we discovered during this process:

• I prefer male singers to female because my voice is not soprano.  I will make exceptions for Ms. Dolly Parton, of course.
• This precludes any songs by Bonnie Raitt.
• I don’t feel that the Black Eyed Peas are a logical karaoke choice.
• I am not above singing "F*** You," the dirty version, by CeeLo Green . . . although this led to an uncomfortable conversation about words I will NOT say, like any dirty word beginning with a C or any references to female nether-regions.
• "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" is ALWAYS a hit because it crosses all cultural barriers.  It's the I'd-Like-to-Buy-the-World-a-Coke of karaoke songs.  

There is a gentlemen at this establishment who also competed last time.  He fancies himself quite the crooner.  Unfortunately, for all of us, he is not. 

Let's get one thing straight.  I talk a lot about how talented I am, etc.  This is called sarcasm, folks.  It’s part of my charm.  I don’t think I could complete a sentence without using a little dash o’ sarcasm.  What I say and what I think are two different things.  For example, when I reference my womanly physique, I am WELL aware that I need to lose about 100 lbs.  (50 lbs. at the bare minimum.)  Likewise, when I describe myself as a pillar of strength in emotional situations, I am being facetious. 

So I asked my girlfriends to tell me honestly . . . “do I suck as bad as that guy?  You’d tell me, right?”

I mean, I know I am not the next American Idol.  I do not have the X Factor.  I’m more of a sing-in-the-shower kinda gal.  I can carry a tune, but I don’t want to embarrass myself too badly.  I’m not going to get up there and attempt anything by Whitney Houston, that’s fo' damn sho. 

no pride.

Meanwhile, I have decided that there’s not really a contest.  They just keep giving me $25 gift cards in hopes that I’ll bring back more paying customers as I move up the ladder to imminent stardom.

"Endless Love?"  I am willing to admit that it may have been that bad . . .