"Vacation." The Quotation Marks Indicate Sarcasm.

 

The summer months will soon be upon us, (if Mother Nature ever decides to make up her friggin' mind) and that means the kids will be home for summer “vacation.”  I use the term “vacation” lightly, because, as most parents know, a vacation for the kids does NOT constitute a vacation for the grown-ups. In fact, I think the last time I had a true vacation was on our honeymoon in 1999.  Hubby and I had been together so long by the time we actually got married, our honeymoon was essentially a vacation from each other as well.  Other couples were makin’ out in the hot tub.  Hubby entered the volleyball tournament at the resort while I read my novel, enjoyed a frosty beverage (or 5), and lounged under a beach umbrella.  We’d check in with each other after a few hours, because, you know . . .  romance and all. 

Most vacations I’ve taken since then have included none of the aforementioned accoutrements.  I cannot read a novel on the beach for fear of my children drowning, being trapped in a sand hole, or losing an appendage to shark attack.  I can’t enjoy a frosty beverage because by the time I actually get to sit down and enjoy it it’s either filled with wayward sand or it is melted to syrupy sludge.  And last time we were at the beach the umbrella broke because American beaches are windy.  So I spend most of my beach time applying SPF 50 sunscreen, or as I like to call it – a cardigan in a can, and trying to keep my hair out of my mouth.

(travel.kingsgo.com)
Our vacations are JUST like this!!!

 Sigh.

Our family vacations never quite live up to the standard set by Disney channel commercials.  Our children do not sit in the back seat, quietly coloring or making hand waves on the wind outside the window.  They argue about whose turn it is to choose the dvd, complain about their excessive hunger, and then announce that they have to use the potty approximately every 30 miles.  What did we ever do before the invention of the Swagger Wagon dvd player? 

When I was little, we used to drive eight hours from Virginia to upstate New York.  My mom was equipped with a bag of sour balls and a hand-held tape recorder, on which we would listen to Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” for mile after mile.  She would get annoyed because I never understood how Lucille (of you-picked-a-fine-time-to-leave-me-Lucille fame) could have 400 children.  “It’s Four.  Hungry.  Children!  For the last time!”  Testy, that one.  Perhaps it was the un-air-conditioned atmosphere of the Chevy Nova that contributed to my mother’s discomfort.  Certainly it wasn’t the endless loop of Kenny Rogers tunes on the cassette tape; that man is a musical genius.

            Car trips are going to be the death of me, and it’s not the kids.  It’s the spouse.  Every time we stop for gas he buys snacks for the boys.  Never mind that I’ve packed healthy snacks for the trip.  Apparently they need king-size chocolate bars and 24-ounce Gatorades, and then Hubby gets annoyed that they have to pee.  This is why I totally endorse dehydrating my children on long car trips.  Also, I am from the school of thought that believes it necessary to travel from Virginia to Florida in TWO days.  Not one.

            I am a planner.  I am a woman who keeps 3 running calendars – one for the kitchen whiteboard, one on my phone, and a day runner.   It should come as no surprise that I think we should plan ahead and make hotel reservations.  On our most recent trip to Florida, on which The Plan was to wing it and just stop when we got tired, we found ourselves on a stretch of Interstate 95 in South Carolina in a heavy rainstorm, trying to get a hotel room at the same time as every other weary traveler.  When I got to the lobby to register, there were 12 other guests in front of me.  We finally got to our room and played a quick game of Identify That Smell.  

Um, I’m gonna go with cat urine for the Win.  

The boys were bouncing on one of the two double beds on which our family of five would be sleeping, trying to release 12 hours’ worth of pent-up energy, while I yelled at them to NOT touch the bedspread because I was having flashbacks of a Dateline NBC investigative report involving black lights.  I slept in my clothes, and I dared not open the mini-fridge, lest I find something that the previous tenant left behind.  Like a human head or something. 

I am grateful for the change of scenery and the opportunity to travel with my family, but there’s something to be said for clean sheets, a “headless” refrigerator, and having a plan.

What Brings You Here?

Every once and a while I look at all the information and statistics Blogger keeps regarding the BoyMommy blog.  It makes absolutely NO sense to me, but I have learned a few things. 

First, if someone links to my blog (by “sharing” it on your Facebook page, for example,) the blog gets A LOT more traffic than it does when I post it on my page or the BoyMommy Facebook page . . . because I can only reach so many people, but if you tell your friends, and they tell their friends, and they tell their friends, well, that’s a lot of people who I otherwise might not reach.  (Is everyone picking up on my subtle attempt to get you to share my blog on your page?  Huh?  Are ya?)

Second, if you type in certain search words on Google, you will be directed to my BoyMommy blog.  One would think that’s a wonderful opportunity, and it is, but I must say I am a little disturbed at the searches that are directing people to my blog.  Further, I am sure the searchers are equally as disturbed when they are directed to a blog that essentially chronicles my shortcomings as a parent, a dieter, and a general wearer of clothes.

 

You can’t make this sh*t up.  The following are ACTUAL searches that people Googled and that eventually led them to my blog.  I’m not sure if I should be more concerned with the peculiar searches or the fact that the world wide internets thinks, hmmm . . . you know what THIS person needs?  A little glimpse into BoyMommy’s life, that’s what! 

There are plenty of searches for boy mom, mom and boy, etc., and some pretty innocuous searches for various craft ideas or preppy clothing ideas.  But then there are the others . . . the searches that make me fear for the future of society. 

These are my faves:

• "Kid pooping" - whatdyawant?  a picture?
• "Midget shooting a bird" - yeah, I'd pay to see that.  I'd look it up myself if I didn't think it would direct me right back to my own blog.
• "Audrey Hepburn Leggings" - this, for some reason, is the most popular search that links people to me.
• "Dinosaur Train Sex" - um, you're a sicko, you freak.
• "Announcement for the funeral of my . . ." - of my WHAT?  You can't leave me hangin' like that!
• "Little boys pooping" - I've seen enough of this in my lifetime that I need not look it up on the world wide internets.
• "Spider trim" - like, how to give a spider a haircut?
• "How to lose 50 lbs. in 2 weeks" - if I knew the answer to this one, I wouldn't be sitting at my kitchen counter writing a blog about "Dinosaur Train Sex."
• "Didn’t even send a card" - Dude.  Sorry.  I didn't know.
• "Why do I have to do everything?" - I can pretty much guarantee that you did not find the answer you were seeking.
• "Love poem packers" - I love poems so I pack them?  I love Green Bay, so I write poems?
• "Big girl bloated beer" - okay, I kinda understand this one.
• "Boy getting bikini wax" - um, eeeeewwwwww.

Okay, so if you like this blog, please share a post (this one, or choose another favorite) on your Facebook page.  I will love you forever.

BoyMommy's Guide to Fashion

I am by NO means a fashionista.  I wear solid-colored t-shirts and jeans EVERY day, so I realize I am the last person who should be commenting on fashion trends.

But that doesn’t stop me from doing it!

Trends I Don’t Get

(from the woman who currently owns 3 pairs of Crocs and 2 pairs of Birkenstocks.)

1.  Tank tops and scarves:  this is a visual contradiction.  If it’s warm enough to wear a tank top, it’s too hot to wear a scarf.  If it’s cool enough to wear a scarf, it’s too cold for a tank top.  Do you think Santa walks around in a tank top?  Let's hope not.

2.  High-waisted jeans:  poor, poor Jessica Simpson.  She’s a cute girl, but she makes some questionable fashion choices.  (Hire me as your stylist, Jess . . . I'll putcha in a nice cardigan.)  I avoid high-waisted jeans because they accentuate my “problem area.”  (Well, one of them anyway.)  I might as well wear a neon sign that says “I love donuts.” 

3.  Visible bra straps:  Perhaps if I wore cute little bras with decorative lace and adorable patterns I would feel differently, but alas, my undergarments can only be described by the words industrial-strength.  They are functional, and any straps that may be coyly peeking out from underneath a tank top are roughly the width of a grown man’s belt. 

4.  The side pony:  I will admit that a side ponytail looks cute on some women, but I’m afraid it would keep hitting my shoulder, causing me to think that someone is trying to catch my attention, and I would end up spinning around in a circle and looking like a dog trying to catch its tail.

5.  Spray tans:  If it’s subtle, it’s fine.  When you look like an Oompa-Loompa who counted Mississippilessly in the tanning booth and your teeth look fluorescent-white next to your skin, you’ve gone too far.  

6.  Open-toed boots:  Isn’t the point of boots to keep your feet warm?  Fall and winter preclude open-toed foot-wear, and, given how I feel about feet, I honestly need a break after the flip flops of summer.

7.  White sunglasses:  these remind me of every awkward moment I endured in middle school, and they make me want to blast Sussudio on my boom box.  Not a good time in my life.

8.  Pointy fingernails: I’m pretty sure I’d stab my children with pointy fingernails, given my propensity for clumsiness and my general lack of self-awareness.

9.  Pajama bottoms as pants:  Wearing your pajama bottoms to the Emergency Room because you were in such a hurry?  Yes.  Wearing your pajama bottoms and fuzzy slippers to Walmart?   No.  I will make an exception for college towns, but only if it’s after midnight and the only other clientele in the Walmart consists of Waffle House waitresses just coming off their shift and long-haul truckers.

10.  Men wearing flip-flops with dress pants:  Just . . . no.

If you need me, I'll be here waiting patiently by the phone for Anna Wintour to call regarding my imminent job offer from Vogue.

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.   

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 . . . 

What Happens When Two Straight Girls Hit South Beach?

I apologize for being out of commission for so long, although, strangely enough, I didn’t receive any complaints . . .

Knock, knock, knock - Is this thing on?

I got back from Miami, then we had Small’s birthday festivities, and then Hubby left town for 4 days.  I’ve said it before: I have the UTMOST respect for Military wives and single moms.  It’s tough knowing reinforcements are not coming.

Anyway, my trip to Miami with BooBoo (my sister-in-law) was fun and we made a lot of new gay boyfriends.  I hope that no one finds that offensive, because I certainly mean no disrespect.  I realize homosexuality is a hot topic and people have different opinions, but this is MY blog.  I don’t believe it’s necessary for me to point out that there are plenty of gay men and women who treat marriage and partnership with a tad more reverence than certain celebrities.  (I'm talking to you, Porn Family Sheen.)  But I’m not here to debate.  I know what I believe, whom I respect and support, and who I may have let feel me up at a bar simply because he was not a perv and because he had a genuine appreciation of the girls.  Take THAT, 9^th grade boyfriend, who had to wait, like, 7 months to get that far!

We left Friday evening to head to the airport, as we had a 7 am flight out of Baltimore.  I was WAY tired, however, because the nice doctor at Patient First gave me some very special medicine to help with the Bronchitis AND Strep Throat I contracted two days before our trip.  FOUR days before our trip, Small’s pediatrician gave me prophylactic Tamiflu to prevent me from catching Small’s flu, since, in her words, “Mommy NEEDS her Girls’ Weekend.”  BooBoo started complaining before we even hit the highway.  Granted, she was complaining about my running commentary regarding her driving skills, or lack thereof, but it was unnecessary and downright hurtful for her to threaten to call Hubby to “take his side” regarding Travel With BoyMommy.

She also made several snide comments regarding the size of my luggage.  Is it NOT general knowledge that I am a princess?  I’m no Ginger; I’m more of a MaryAnn.  But I have a habit of spilling and I have a propensity for wearing white shirts.  Spillage + White = Spare White Shirts Clothing.  BooBoo packed a small duffel bag, and I would not be able to testify in court on her behalf if asked if she even changed underwear while we were gone.  After all her eye rolling and sighing when we had to check my bag, guess which one of us got stopped by security?  It wasn’t me.  You know why?  Because I am smart enough to travel without my pocket knife.  My rocket scientist SIL, who likes to "pack light," didn’t check all the bag’s nooks and crannies before borrowing it from her teenaged son.  

Sucka.  I’ll just wait for you over here while you get molested by the well-meaning TSA agent.

We arrived in Miami after enduring a packed flight.  (Side note, I sat next to a very nice gentleman who flagged down the flight attendant for extra napkins when I SPILLED my beverage on my WHITE SHIRT before we even landed at our destination.)  As we waited patiently for my suitcase at baggage claim, I made the following observations:

1. cruises are frequented by older people who speak loudly and wear “sensible” shoes.
2. the state uniform of Florida is apparently an embroidered shirt paired with jorts.

Once we got to the hotel, we checked in at the front desk and it was clear that we were in the minority.  The Gay and Lesbian Task Force was having their annual pool party at the hotel, but it was about 95% Gay, 4% Lesbian, and me and BooBoo.  They gave us wrist bands when we checked in.  Wrist bands meant we could gain access to the party, but it also meant . . . cheap beverages. 

We spent the afternoon at the beach.  I am serious about my sunscreen.  In fact, “serious” does not do justice to how I feel about my sunscreen.  While BooBoo spent the day lounging in the Florida sun without anything to protect her from harmful UV rays, I slathered on SPF 70.  SEVENTY, folks.  That’s a sweater in a can.  Guess what?  Still got burned.  We ordered a few beverages from our beach attendant, Juan Carlos, but the drinks were mediocre at best, AND I think I offended him when I kept calling him Juan Valdez.  He pro’lly peed in my drink.  BooBoo went back up to the hotel to “visit the powder room” and met some friends, so we decided to call it a day and go party. In the elevator on our way back up to the room, we ran into some nice boys who invited us to a bar so that we could be privy to their Drag show.  Hell to the yes.

BooBoo went to the lobby and I agreed to meet her after I changed from “hot mess” into “hot mess with a strategically placed barrette because surely those gay boys won’t notice my dirty beach hair.”  When I arrived in the lobby, however, BooBoo was nowhere to be found.  Turns out, she got suckered into escorting a 350 lb. Black man to the Ladies Room.  It seems he had partaken of some wings that had “done messed him up,” and he really needed to skip the line that was forming at the Men’s Room, but since he was not a guest at our hotel he needed BooBoo to escort him.  She was like the Foreign Diplomat of the Facilities.  Line to Men's Room, 20 deep.  Line to Ladies' Room?  Step right up!  Welcome to our world, fellas.

We made our way to the bar and we met a group of boys who happened to be discussing Midgets.  As you recall, we had been told that a Midget Convention was in town, but I had my doubts.  (We did NOT see any Little People while we were there.  One might say there was a shortage of Midgets.)  (Hehe.  I’ve been waiting all week to say that.)  Naturally we felt a kinship with this group of six gay men who were heading to the same establishment.

The rest of the evening was a bit blurry.  There was beer, boys, drag queens, boobage, and a HILARIOUS walk back to the hotel.  Hilarious because it was raining, and apparently I found this to be can’t-stop-laughing hysterical.  We hadn’t eaten, so we saddled up to the bar at the hotel before we went to bed.  According to BooBoo (and my vague recollection) I voiced my appreciation of the bartender’s “nice rack.”  Because I’m full o’ compliments, and I’m starting to think I might be a little obsessed with boobs. 

The trip was fun.  It required a lot of effort to get there and return home, but it certainly was nice to enjoy some sun and warm weather after a gray, cold winter.  I missed my boys, and I was met with hugs and homemade “welcome home” cards – so maybe Mommy’s being away was refreshing for everyone.  Hubby did a great job with the boys and the house while I was gone, but he was ready to get back to work!  

My New Year's Resolutions

My New Years Resolutions:

1. Stop flirting with Gay Salespeople.  I love Patrick at the furniture store because he has fabulous shoes and he looks like he should have his own show on HGTV.  And I love the salesman at the Gymboree Outlet because he called me Sweetheart, and I’m pretty sure he’d give me extra GymBucks if we were BFFs.  The problem is that I want to be friends with these people so much that I often want to reach across the counter and embrace them in a giant bear hug, but I’m worried that they might find this a tad stalkerish.  Also, I need to stop assuming that every gay man I meet would be a good match for my friend Mike.  Because assuming he and Mike would be a good match is like saying, “you’re from California?  Hey do you know _____?  He’s from California too!”

2. Stop considering Us Weekly and People Magazine my primary news sources.  I have no idea what’s going on in Congress and I’m only vaguely aware of some controversy with one of the Koreas, but I do know that Jake and Taylor broke up and that Sandra has been linked to Ryan Reynolds, recently split from ScarJo.

3. Refrain from thinking hateful thoughts about the trainers at the gym.  They are doing their jobs and it is through no fault of theirs that every mirror in the joint reflects my wobbly bits in all their jiggly glory.  Furthermore, it is doubtful that they are a part of a giant conspiracy to hurt me.

4. Accept the fact that Old Navy jeans do not flatter me.  Just because I can button them doesn’t mean they fit. 

5. Break the Cardigan Habit.  Dude.  I’m strung out on the Cardigans, man . . .

pregnant bridesmaid cardigan

Thanksgiving carve-the-roast-beast cardigan

the Most Magical Place on Earth cardigan 

Central Park cardigan

  

Canadian tea cardigan

Book Club at the Melting Pot cardigan

6.  Go to Target and/or Starbucks at least once a week.  Preferably both.  (It’s important to set realistic, attainable goals.

7.  Expand my cooking repertoire beyond Grilled Cheese, Nuggets, and Fish Sticks.  I declare 2011 the year my children will eat vegetables.  The real ones; not the baby food kind I sneak into their pasta sauce.

8.  Try not to cringe every time Hubby says “coulda went,” because it’s time to recognize that, after 17 years together, he’s doing it just to irritate me.  Who says CPAs don’t have a sense of humor?

9.  Stop referring to my boobs as “the Baby Feeders” at parties, as it makes people feel uncomfortable.  For example, (hypothetically of course,) when we’re at a New Year’s Eve party and I say, “Hey, easy with the dice there, chief!  You just hit me in the right Baby Feeder,” the pastor sitting at the other end of the table will be rendered speechless while the rest of the room erupts in nervous laughter.  Hypothetically.  Also, in the future, it might be helpful to determine the other party-goers’ line of work before making reference to said body parts.

10.  Get on the scale at Weight Watchers without preempting it with “Um, I’ve made some bad decisions this week.”  The WW lady will know this once she reads the scale; no need to announce it ahead of time.    

There ya have it, folks.  Happy 2011 to you!