Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Teaching the Art of Laundry

I have been out of commission . . . and for good reason, but I’ll share that later. 

For now, I wish to explain my recent good fortune.  You see, I have a family of five, but heretofore I will only be laundering the clothes of four. 

Why, you ask?

Large recently went up to his room to find sweatpants to wear underneath his snow clothes, as he was anxious to get outside to frolic with his friends.  In what can ONLY be described as a moment of complete insanity, he fretted, “I don’t have any clothes because Mom doesn’t do my laundry in time!  She doesn’t take care of my clothes!  I never have pants!”

Oh, it’s on.

Never one to miss a teachable moment, I responded, “HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!  YOU CAN DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY FROM NOW ON!” 

That’ll learn ‘im.

He currently has an overflowing basket of clean clothes on top of his bed, which he did not move out of his way in order to sleep last night, and which I am not putting away.  I handed him a giant ball of clean clothes yesterday because I was kind enough to take it out of the dryer (because I had a load of clothes to put in.)

He yelled from upstairs, “Mom!  All these clothes are wrong.  They’re all inside out!”

“Okay,” I responded, not sure where this was going . . .

“Why are they all inside out?” he asked.

“They must have been that way when you put them in, so that’s how they came out.”

Ugh.  Now he has to put them in the washer, AND the dryer, AND turn them inside out before he puts them away? 

Currently he’s googling child labor laws.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Not Pregnant. Just Fat. Part II.

Oh for the love o’ pete.

 Unless you see a tiny little head peeking out of my hoo-ha, please do not give me advice about my non-existent pregnancy.

Large and I went to the grocery store tonight to pick up a few things.  We got in line and placed our products up on the conveyor belt.  I noticed the woman behind me had fancy-schmancy seltzer water.  I, myself, was purchasing the store brand. 

“Excuse me . . . “ she said, and naturally I assumed she was going to ask me a question about one of the items we were purchasing.  You have excellent taste in bananas, for instance.  Or where’d ya find those aged-to-perfection cheese sticks?  

“I noticed you’re buying that seltzer water.  You should really try this kind throughout your pregnancy,” she advertised, as she held up one of her fancy bottles of seltzer and glanced at my problem area.  “One of my girlfriends is pregnant and she just loves this kind.” 

Here’s the thing: I have one of those George Costanza jerk store moments EVERY time this happens to me.  Remember that Seinfeld episode where George comes up with a clever comeback, but not until WAY after the offending remark was made?  "The jerk store called.  They’re running out of you!"

Whenever I relay one of these humiliating anecdotes, inevitably someone suggests that I should have retorted with something that would make the offender feel embarrassed for mistakenly assuming I am pregnant.  I never say anything though.  (Except once, and you can read about it here.)  Even though I am mortified that my mere appearance has led someone to think I am harboring another human being in my intestinal region, I never want to offend the offender. 

In my mind, I responded, “nope.  Not pregnant.  Just fat,” while my face flushed with humility, which apparently she mistook for “that maternal glow.” 

“Okay, thanks,” I responded quietly.

I didn’t want her to feel bad for making an inappropriate comment.  How pathetically ironic is that?

I am embarrassed, humiliated, and ashamed because of my physical being, and yet I don't want HER to feel embarrassed, humiliated, or ashamed, so I just smile and swallow my pride, (much like I swallowed those donuts/chips/french fries.) 

 I recognize my own weakness and I take full responsibility for it.  I do not have a thyroid problem.  I am not taking medication that causes me to bloat.  Obesity does not run in my family.  It ain’t rocket science: I make bad food choices and I hate exercising.  Well, it’s not so much the exercising as the sweating . . . And the tight clothes.  And the fact that I feel like everyone must be looking at me and trying to rationalize the physics behind the movement of my wobbly bits. 

And it’s not men who comment on my “pregnancy;”  It’s women.  EVERY time.  C’mon girls!  You know how difficult it is to be a woman and to feel good about yourself in the midst of unrealistic media images.  I try to be a good person, to behave with integrity, and to set a good example of personal character for my children.  WHY do I let a complete stranger’s insensitive comment hurt my feelings so?

Eventually I’m going to have enough fodder to write a book of anecdotes about all the hilarious times this has happened to me.  Ha-friggin’-ha.  In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be burning the sweater I was wearing today.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Do Me a Solid.

Mommy is tired . . .

  • Of being the only one who cleans up the dog poop on the family room floor.  I know you see it.  Don't pretend you don’t.  With 3 kids, I've spent the last 10 years being the primary poop-cleaner-upper.  Help a sister out, man up, and pick up the poop!

  • Of being the only one who ever carries anything upstairs.  We’ve been through this before.  A pile at the bottom of the stairs is the international signal for take-your-sh*t-upstairs.

  • Of finding snack wrappers in the family room, in the couch, on the buffet, on the side table.  Walk your @ss to the trashcan.

  • Of Hubby treating the dining room chair as his own personal valet.

Passive aggressive?  Yes.  Gonna land me in jail?  No.
It was a conscious decision.

  • Of being the Bad Guy.  Small's new mantra?  "Mommy says no!  Daddy says yes!"  Um, this is Parenting 101 . . . Mommy says no, Daddy says NO.

  • Of being responsible.  I want to go to sleep at 8:30 and let someone else worry about whether or not the kids have brushed their teeth or if they’re in their rooms watching inappropriate you tube videos on the ipad when they should be sleeping.

  • Of having to take the cup out of the athletic supporter before I throw it in the washer.  Do me a solid . . . take it out yourself so I don’t have to.  It’s kinda . . . gross.

  • Of flushing the boys’ toilet every morning.  Seriously?  THIS is why your bathroom smells like a high school locker room.

  • Of finding those little Rainbow Loom rubber bands every-friggin-where.



  • Of repeating myself.  Repeating myself.  Repeating myself.  Life would be so much simpler if my boys would just (choose one.  Or more.  I don't care anymore.)
  1. Get up
  2. Get dressed
  3. Get their coats and shoes on
  4. Focus on their homework
  5. Get their uniforms on
  6. Brush their teeth
  7. Sit down at the table
  8. Stop talking about poop, flatulence, boogers or any other bodily functions.

That is all.  Happy Monday to you.

Monday, October 7, 2013

I Hate Myself for Even Mentioning This . . .

You know how I’m always saying that we shouldn’t judge other people because we all have our sh*t and we’re all doing the best we can?

Fasten your seat belts, y’all.  I’m about to get all judgy up in here.

I realize that USA Today does not have the same prestige that CNN has, so I apologize for the complete irrelevance of this post.   I read a disturbing story last night on USAToday.com about Chris Brown and I must vent.  You will remember Chris Brown for
a     A.  his contributions to the world of music
b     B.     his philanthropic nature
c     C.     his wholesome boy-next-door image
d     D.  the fact that he beat the crap out of a girl

Apparently he’s some sort of rap “artist” who thinks he is a gift to his industry.  While I, as a suburban housewife, do not claim to be an expert on the genre, I believe with all sincerity that Jay-Z is a rap artist.  Snoop Dogg (or Lion or Hedgehog, or whatever he’s calling himself these days) is a rap artist.  Even Kanye is a rap artist, and it PAINS me to say that, because, (since I'm being judgy,) he's an idiot.  I cannot name one song by Chris Brown; the only reason I even recognize his name is because of the notoriety he gained by beating up his girlfriend and then shrugging it off as collateral damage from a passionate relationship. 

I really hate to even give him any room in my already swirly brain, but last night I read an article in which Chris Brown claims to have lost his virginity at 8 years old to a 14-year-old girl.  He claims he was sexual at an early age because he watched a lot of pornography and “it’s different” in the rural area of Virginia where he grew up.  Also, he’s so good at “it” because he’s been practicing since he was eight. 

Read the USAToday.com article here.

Here’s where I get all judgy:
  • Where were the adults in his life (be they parents, aunts, uncles, responsible community members) when he and his cousins were watching porn as children?
  • I grew up in the suburbs of Virginia and have traveled to many rural areas of the Commonwealth, and I can guarantee you that 8-year-olds having, um, relations is NOT the norm.
  • He declines in the interview to state how many women he has enjoyed.  Why is that, Chris?  Because a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell?
  • He’s a “walking art piece” and if it weren’t for the “incident” with Rihanna, he’d now be “bigger than life.”  Man, Life has certainly thrown him some curve balls, eh?

Am I the only one who feels that Chris Brown should be voted off the earth?  In the spirit of finding-the-good-in-all-of-us, I ask WHAT has he contributed to society?  He is an embarrassment to the male gender and his endless narcissism is ridiculous.  When I was eight, I was playing with Barbies, and when I was fourteen I looked like this:  

He was doing "that" at eight, with someone who was fourteen?  It's disturbing on so many levels - the perversion of it, the lack of supervision, the absence of remorse or regret, the warped psychology . . . 

Chris Brown needs to be knocked down a few pegs.  I don’t mean in a harmful way, but in a Scrooge-on-Christmas-Eve kinda way – where he could see himself as others see him and have a chance to experience a little humility.  Perhaps as he matures he’ll develop some integrity, but I’m not hopeful.  He needs to grow up.  He needs to learn what it takes to have character, how to act responsibly, especially when one has a platform such as his fame, and to treat others as they deserve to be treated.  

Meanwhile, in Suburbia, I hate myself a little bit for even writing about this.  

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

No thanks, CNN. I'd Rather Laugh at Stupid Sh*t.

I'm having one of those weeks where I just want to disconnect and go completely off the grid.  I try to be a responsible, educated citizen, but dude, CNN.com is such a downer.  Plus, as you may already be aware, I TURNED 40, so I figure I'm entitled to a mid-life crisis.  Haven't decided between having an affair or buying a car while Hubby is at work, but I'm leaning towards the car.  That way I don't have to shave my legs.

Anyhoo, in an attempt to cheer myself up and remember that there is GOOD in the world, I'm sharing things I find funny and/or heartwarming.  I don't own any of this, but I found it all on the world-wide internets.

Things that make me happy:

1.  The guy that dances to his iPod in public
Because, why the hell not?  I want to live my life this happily.


3.  This article that my friend shared on Facebook.  How you react in situations such as this says more about YOU than it does about the "bad guy."  You never know what other people are going through.

4.  Liz Lemon might be my soul mate:

5.  Health class woulda been a lot more fun if I had added my own captions.

6.  Usually I don't like to divert attention to blogs other than my own, but I'm sorry, The Bloggess is friggin' hysterical.

7.  Speaking of poultry . . .

8. Live, from her mini-van, it's the Jeannie Tate Show!  Ten and two, woohoo!

9.  Oh, to be the substitue teacher.  This whole class is gonna feel.  my.  wrath.

10.  I'll be right back.  Gotta go tape Bill Murray to my mirror . . .

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

I. am. 40!

I’ve never understood the grown-up aversion to birthdays, other than the fact that you indeed get OLDER with each one.

I friggin’ LOVE my birthday.  Always have.  An entire day that is designated for ME, my awesomeness, and the very fact that I was brought into this world?  Yes, please.

I am 40.  


Four zero.  

You know those adults who “hate” their birthdays and all the attention?  I call bullsh*t.  I don’t even bother pretending I don’t like the attention – just ask ANYONE WHO HAS EVER KNOWN ME.  Bring it on.  I will concede that I detest the restaurant-birthday-sing-along, mostly because I used to wait tables and I know how annoying it is to sing Happy Birthday, or some "clever" version thereof, to some jackass in a sombrero.  Now, if you want to hand me the mike and hand me a playlist of obscure 80’s country songs, I’m yer gal.

I think this is going to be the year I stop trying to be thinner than I am.  I figure if I live to be 80 years old, I will have spent half my life trying to fit into single-digit sized jeans. 

F*ck it.  I’m fat, people.  I am curvy, I have a beer gut (that I’ve worked really hard for, thank you,) I have stretch marks from bearing three healthy boys (who now drive me bat-sh*t crazy,) I have boobs that enter a room 15 minutes before the rest of me does, and I have two chins.  

I like pizza and beer and donuts.  They taste good. 

You know what?  I’m tired.  My kids love me; they love snuggling up to me on the couch because I’m “soft.”  Hubby likes to watch tv with his head in my lap because it’s comfy.  I try to exercise periodically and eat my veggies and drink plenty of water, but it’s been FORTY years . . . I just don’t think I’m meant to be any different than what I am. 

So there ya have it.  You may have surmised (because of the drunk-sailor vocabulary) that I’ve had a couple of these:

 It’s my birthday, yo.  Cheers!