If Facebook Posts were REAL.

Hubby and I were chatting last night about the plethora of happy family summer photos that are making their way onto Facebook.  Sure, I could post photos of my smiling children, frolicking at the pool with their dad (on that one random evening he got home before dark and was able to join us.)  Or a photo of them playing ball in the backyard (before Medium had a full-on temper tantrum, complete with hitting, ball spiking, and name-calling.)  Or a photo of the fish we caught (after I pulled the wayward hook from a screaming Small's shorts and untangled Medium's line from his "this-pole-is-SO-STUPID-I-am-the-WORST-at-fishing-the-stupid-fish-keep-eating-my-worms" fishing pole.)

When you know people well enough, you know that what they're posting online is not the full story.  But who wants to look at pictures of messy houses, petulent children, and household chores gone awry?

What's that you say? . . .

BoyMommy's Keepin' It Real Facebook Posts, Summer 2014:


1.  Swagga Wagon

2.  Laundry

3.  baseball cards

4.  Uh oh.

5.  Gratuituous Ninja photos

6.  Healthy Eating Habits

7.  My mad Housekeeping Skillz

8.  Christmas in July.  Because I haven't put that sh*t away.

9.  My boys are SUCH good little listeners

10.  AND they're charming!

You now how all those OTHER posts on Facebook make you feel just a teensy bit envious or a tiny bit bad about yourself/your looks/your parenting/your eating habits/your social circle?  (No?  Just me?)  Well this series of real life photos should make you feel better about your own life, because if you've put all your holiday decorations away, actually have dairy products in your fridge, and had a boogerless morning, you're doing better than I am!

What I Want for Mother's Day: a Day Off

Mother’s Day is bittersweet for me.  I absolutely adore having a day that celebrates what a kick-@ss job I’m doing at keeping my children out of juvenile detention homes mothering.  My birthday is not until September; that’s a LONG wait for another day that’s all about me.  I know there are mothers out there who will scoff at me when I say I would like a kid-free day on Mother’s Day.  I know, I know; scoff away.  A GOOD mother would want to spend her day with her offspring.  Well, I spend the 364 other days of the year with them . . . on Mother’s Day, Mama wants a nap.

Since I lost my own mother, however, Mother’s Day brings a little sadness too.  It’s much better now than it was when she first passed.  I wanted to kick Jane Seymour in the face every time I saw her advertising her tacky Mother’s Day jewelry.  Didn’t she know that I didn’t want a constant reminder that my own mother is gone?  That Jane Seymour.  So selfish.

It’s been 6 1/2 years now since we lost my mom.  My family just spent last weekend walking in the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life, which is ironic because my mom woulda hated it.  Unlike me, she did not like a lot of attention, having her picture taken, or spending the night (in a tent on a football field) with a few hundred of her closest friends.  She would have hated seeing her name on an illuminated bag and she would have hated seeing her likeness on the big screen while Bette Midler sang "My One True Friend." 

Meh.  I does what I wants.

Our whole family participated, which sounds great in theory.  However. . . . Small was a nightmare.  My good little sleeper did not get a nap, so I tried to wheel him around in the wagon in hopes that he would snuggle up and fall asleep.  No such luck.  He’d toss and turn with his “kanket” and his “pappy,” then he’d jump out of the moving wagon and lie down in the middle of the track.  Other Relayers would giggle about how cute he was.  Yeah.  Friggin’ adorable.

I really feel for those families who are fighting the Cancer battle right now, or for whom the pain is still raw.  I can look back now and laugh at how I handled things in my own way, but it took me a long time to get here.

I have a tendency to make inappropriate comments when I’m uncomfortable.  It’s that tension in the air . . . I just can’t stand it and I’ll do say anything to avoid it.  

For instance:

• My mom’s cancer was extremely advanced when we found out about it.  I was in a bookstore with some friends when I saw 1000 Places To See Before You Die, by Patricia Schultz.  I picked it up and thought, ‘hmmmm . . . she better get crackin’.”
• About 4 days before my mom passed, we convinced her it was time to sign her advanced directive.  It was a tough time, wrought with emotion.  The nurse and the notary quietly stepped in, addressed the entire family, and asked my mom for the names of family members who could make decisions on her behalf and in which order she would like them to appear.  She named me, then my brother Slim, and then my brother The Redneck.  I deadpanned (no pun intended,) “so from favorite to least favorite?"
• My dad asked me to choose my mom’s clothing and jewelry and to take it up to the funeral home since he had no idea what to pick.  My mom was a jeans and sweatshirt kinda gal, so choosing a dress was slim pickins.  Little known fact: the funeral director wants appropriate undergarments as well.  (This is a relief to me, as I find comfort in knowing I’ll be wearing clean undies when it’s time to meet my Maker.  It’s the least I can do for Him.)  I rifled through her drawers and laid out everything I wanted her to have, but then I thought to myself, there’s NO WAY she would want to be wearing pantyhose for All Eternity.  So I took her fancy black dress, her best jewelry, and a pair of Tweety Bird socks.

I miss her terribly. She was delightfully imperfect, impatient, and stubborn.  I’m not one to wax poetic and claim she was my best friend.  She was NOT my best friend.  She was my mom, and that’s much more rare.  

* A big THANK YOU to all my friends and family who donated to our team and who came and walked with us on Saturday.

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 . . . 

Updates on my Glamorous Life

Greetings from the Home of Sickness and Infection.  I have been a bit under the weather.  This week has been a blur of ibuprofin, cough medicine, and some bonus codeine, so I’ve gotten a little behind on the blog.  I feel I owe some updates.

Mr. Mackey from South Park - giant
head & tiny glasses.
Picture him with a mustache, cowboy boots,
and a wallet chained to his jeans
and you'll know what
The Redneck looks like.

1. I spoke with my brother, the Redneck, who assures me that he is no longer wearing Mr. Potato Head glasses that are too small for his ginormous noggin.  In my last post, I expressed my concern that the rims of his glasses might be hanging on for dear life lest they snap from overextension.  Apparently he is now wearing contacts because his glasses were . . . ahem . . . “getting too tight.” My response, naturally, was “are you sure your head wasn’t getting bigger?” 
2. Regarding my boyfriend, Frank, the CraigsList scammer . . . I reported him to the Federal Trade Commission and the “authorities” at CraigsList, but unfortunately I had already deposited the rubber check into my bank account.  I called my bank immediately and notified them that I was pretty sure I had deposited a fraudulent check.  Meanwhile, Frank keeps emailing me and asking me, in what I can only refer to as an English Teacher’s Nightmare, “why are you keeping me so late this way? what happen to you? i need to hear from you asap.”  Here’s an idear Frank.  Get yourself a fraudulent check and, quick like cat, find someone to teach you about grammar and mechanics.
3. If anyone needs a perfectly lovely chandelier, I seem to have some extras. 

We’ve had a rough winter, considering we’ve had broken bones, allergic reactions, a stomach bug (which was really more like a stomach tornado that ripped through our home, destroyed our dignity, and left in its wake a huge pile o’ laundry that needed to be sterilized and/or burned,) the flu, (even though we ALL had flu shots,) an ear infection, and now bronchitis and strep.  Hubby says I need to stop advertising that our home is a cesspool of germs.  Um, hello, how am I gonna get my well-deserved sympathy and attention if I don’t tell people they should feel sorry for me?  I swear, sometimes it’s like he doesn’t know me at all.

In other news, my SIL, BooBoo, and I are headed to Miami for a girls' weekend.  Coincidentally, South Beach is the chosen locale for the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force Winter Party Festival, AND, if Hubby and his brother are to be believed, a "Midget Convention."  I have doubts about the validity of the latter, (and I'm pretty sure the term is Little People.)  Rest assured, however.  IF we have the pleasure of experiencing both a Gay and Lesbian Dance Party and a Midget Convention, or perhaps even Gay and Lesbian Midgets, I will be sure to write about it here upon my return.  Stay tuned . . . 

Facebook, I Wish I Could Quit You . . .

Facebook, I wish I could quit you. 

But I can’t, for the following reasons:

1. It’s how I keep tabs on my brother, the Redneck.  We don’t talk much, as he flew the proverbial coop at 18 and has made a life for himself in South Carolina.  Facebook allows me to keep a big-sisterly eye on him.  This is how I found out he has a girlfriend, who is now also my “friend” on Facebook even though we have never actually met.  It’s also how I know that the glasses he wears are too small for his big friggin’ head; they look like Mr. Potato Head glasses.  And it’s how I keep in touch with all his ex-wives.  Hehe. 
2. I have been getting decorating ideas by creeping through the posted photos of high school classmates, former colleagues, and friends of my Hubby.  Wait . . . is that creepy?
3. I secretly harbor this notion that all my ex-boyfriends are pining away for me because I’m the one who got away.  How will they be able to wallow in the Misery that is Life Without Me if I don’t stay on Facebook?  So really, it’s a favor I do for THEM.
4. I am so desperate for adult interaction that I spend way more time on Facebook than I should.  And by “spend,” I mean “waste.”  If my choice is do another load of laundry or find out that my 2^nd grade classmate is headed to Bible Study, I choose to live vicariously through my more exciting peers.  Amen.
5. I am naturally nosy curious.  I believe I was put on this earth to be a fabulous mother and raise upstanding young men snoop into other people’s business.  It’s my destiny.

So which one are you?

FACEBOOK ARCHETYPES:

Um, Cupcakes . . . I should
probably quit you, too.

1. The New Mom.  She is SO excited about the impending arrival of her bundle of joy.  Apparently she is blissfully unaware that she is not the first woman to EVER give birth.  Here’s a little tip: that sweet little infant is going to humiliate you in the Frozen Foods Section in about 3 years.  I guar-an-tee it.
2. The Exerciser.  My girlfriend, Mama Mia, is constantly updating her status with her latest exercise accomplishment.  She deserves a shout-out because she has made some amazing changes and she looks awesome, but every time I read one of her posts I can’t help but wonder where my next cupcake’s gonna come from. 
3. The Gourmet Chef.  He/She posts the nightly menu of various epicurean adventures which include obscure spices and seasonal vegetables.  To this, I cannot relate.  In the BoyMommy Household, our menu consists of nuggets, tots, fish sticks, grilled cheese, and meatballs.  Repeat.
4. The Sports Fan.  If I wanted a score update, I’d watch Sports Center.  I.  Don’t.  Care.
5. The Meteorologist.  It’s always sunny and 70 where the Meteorologist lives, which means her kids get to play outside.  My kids are riding their laundry baskets down the stairs and making sculptures out of masking tape, because it’s raining for the 17^th f*cking day in a row!
6. The Politician.  This poster has it ALL figured out, and you, dear reader, are an idiot if you don’t feel the same way.  I’ve mentioned before that Hubby and I are a Bipartisan Family, but we respect each other’s views.  (Well, ONE of us is a little more respectful and does not yell at the television . . . )  This is America, folks.  We’re all entitled to our opinion.
7. Little Miss Sunshine!!!  She LOVES everyone!  And she’s always happy!  And she’s so blessed!  And she uses a lot of exclamation points!!!!  Because one exclamation point wouldn’t do justice to the level of excitement she feels!!!  About EVERYthing!!!!
8. The Abbreviator.  I need 2 unfriend this poster b/c he doesn’t follow the rules of language.  LOL.  Dude, u r 40.  U look like a moron.  WTF?
9. The Toker.  His posts are so cryptic and incoherent, I’m gonna give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he smoked a doobie before he sat down at his computer.  Or perhaps I should smoke one so his post will make sense.
10. The Slacker.  She’s watching movies.  Now she’s taking a nap.  Now she’s meeting her BFF for drinks.  Now she’s going to bed.  Now she’s watching movies.  I want this life.

I only post when I have something funny to say.  The problem is that I always think I’m funny.  Hubby tells me this is not the case.  This is why his Valentine card, which made reference to processed cheese, (as all good Valentines cards should,) was funny to me but not to him.