Monday, March 30, 2009

Guess it didn’t skip a generation after all.

Being birthed to a ‘wild child’ mother and finding myself eventually raising said mother, I always assumed it must skip a generation. If I was good and honest and upright, then my sons would be hell-raisers.

So far, it has held true. My oldest, Bonus, is about as opposite from me as it gets. He refuses to snuggle when mommy desperately wants a hug. He is obsessed with frogs and always wants me to pet them even though he knows that the thought of touching something that is slimy, squishy AND living ranks right up there with licking the floor in front of the toilet in a house with 3 boys. He has no imagination when it comes to make-believe scenarios and loves to point out that the toy car is in fact NOT really talking with the Italian accent I so poorly attempt to execute. But until today, I thought my sarcasm was totally lost on him.

Any time I make smartass comment, he just rolls his eyes and walks off. Last week, however, the table turned.

I was pretending to be made at him and he was pretending to ignore me when I suddenly spouted a line my own mom used to say in the same scenario, “I’m gonna knock you into next Tuesday!” I think it surprised me as much to hear it as it did him.

The next day, I was at the Children’s Museum when I casually reminded Bonus that if he didn’t stop throwing the balls in the ball pit at his brother then we would most certainly have a date next Tuesday. My smirking and patting myself on the back for my genius trick of threatening without causing alarm to the nearby parents was quickly nipped in the bud by my straight man. “Momma, you’re not going to hit me,” Bonus says with the smirk that only a five year old can perfect.

And that is why I am certain that not only has the sarcasm passed directly to the next generation, but it has in fact taken on a much more indirect approach. One that I may not be mature enough to master…

Friday, March 20, 2009

The much-requested ‘dead kitty story’.

I was ignoring my kids researching for my blog and ended up on one of my most favorite ‘what the hell?!’ websites, Craftastrophe. If you haven’t been to this site, you soooo must put them in your reader. Seriously, it is like one of those daily calendars that you giggle at every single morning and then when you totally forget to read for a few days, it’s like a little personal vacation.


On their site, I came across this, and it not only made me laugh out loud, but it reminded me of my own ‘dead kitty’ story that has been an all-time favorite for many of my friends. I figured I should share it with all of you since I probably won’t be sharing it over a bottle of wine with you any time soon! (Pity, really. I think it’s much funnier then.)


Back in Tennessee, we had a German Shepherd who was absolutely nuts. In cat-like form she would play with small animals such as chipmunks, mice, etc until they literally dropped over dead. She never intentionally killed them, but more like Lennie, she would love them to death.

One afternoon, Bonus came running in the house yelling about a ‘dead kitty’ in the yard. Praying it was actually a squirrel, I ran out the back door to find Kintla snuggling with her latest victim. A small cat who had obviously, been loved to death.

Following the good-parenting protocol that I always do, I screamed bloody murder and chased the dog through the yard with a shovel trying to get the cat away from her got my precious, vulnerable child in the house before attempting to handle the situation.

It took half an hour and an entire roasted chicken to pry the lifeless, matted fur ball from her jaws. Once I did, I stood there holding a shovel full of dead cat and no idea what to do next; when I heard a tiny little voice, “Momma, is that a dead kitty?”

“Yes, son. It’s a dead kitty.”

“Momma, what you gonna do wif dat dead kitty?”

“I don’t know, Bonus. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“I bet dead kitty would wike wiving here.”

This is the point I realized that instead of completely scarring my child for life, I had the opportunity to teach him a valuable lesson about life and death.

Instead, I played along.

“Yeah buddy! Dead kitty would be fine with us! Let’s go find him a home in the woods!”

“O-tay momma! Yay!”

So we walked to the back yard with dead kitty in-tow. We made it to the edge of the property where it was nice and wooded. The ground was much too hard to dig in, so I decided just tossing it over the fence would be much more fitting.

Taking all the strength I could muster with the increasingly-heavy lump in the shovel, I reared back and launched the dead kitty far into the woods.

But dead kitty hit the tree right in front of us and hung on the top branch. Thanks to rigor mortis, dead kitty looked like he was running in the air.

“Momma, is dead kitty flying?”

“Um, yes son. Dead kitties love to fly.” (shitshitshitshit)

“Momma, I don’t tink we can weave him dere.”

“No, son. We can’t.” (what the hell am I going to do?!)

Beating the tree limb with the shovel, I finally got dead kitty to ‘land’. Scooping him up once again, we trekked around the property to find a nice, cushy pile of leaves that was way back in the woods for dead kitty to ‘sleep comfortably’ (and not smell up the entire back yard).

We covered dead kitty with a blanket of leaves and headed back home.

Obviously proud, Bonus piped up, “Momma, dead kitty will WOVE wiving back here!”

“Yes, son. Dead kitties always love living in the woods.”

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Everyday is a Saturday; some just suck like it’s Monday.

I’ve gotten so many emails asking where I’ve been this week that I am both humbled and totally shocked that anyone is still reading this crap wonderful writing that I pour my heart and soul into.


It rained here for five straight days. Do you know how long that is in kid years?! Like twenty. I think we’ve spent twenty years inside this house in the past week. I don’t do so well with a life sentence like that…


And preschoolers can smell exhaustion and it must smell just like that ‘fear smell’ that my dog picks up on when ever someone wants her to “play with their little Foofy”…neither goes well.


These two boys have pushed every single button that I have; and some I didn’t even realize were there. If you have been following me on twitter, you may have read some little gems like these:


“My 2yo keeps introducing himself to the people on TV but then gets upset when they don't respond. It's gonna be a long day...

And now he's crying b/c the girl scout on the Today Show didn't speak to him.

5yo sitting in a box, eating dry cereal. 2yo crying over nothing. Dog going from window to door whimpering. If the rain doesn't stop, I quit

2yo is now playing with the meat thermometer. Good news, my boobs are 90 degrees! I know you're jealous. On another note: GET ME OUTTA HERE!”


But the sun was out yesterday and so were we! Don’t worry, I’ll be posting some pictures this week that will most certainly have Bonus in therapy some day.


Let’s just hope he tells them I was pretty.

Friday, March 13, 2009

And yet these people keep talking to me...

Last night was my first-ever neighborhood bunco party. None of the girls I've hung out with lately were going, so it was me, flying solo, meeting a bunch of neighbors that I have either just waved at or my dog has tried to eat theirs.

Really looking forward to it, I'm sure you can imagine.

I stood inside the house for fifteen minutes trying to decide the appropriate amount of lateness that would make me look cool but not give away that I'm ALWAYS the late one.

I made it, I had fun, I heard "She's so funny" too many times which always ends the same way...I drink too much and say things I probably shouldn't.

I may have told them that my husband is in charge of 'safety' at the 'Harris Teeter' -which is a grocery store. (He actually is in charge of Emergency Preparedness at a Nuclear Power Plant with 'Harris' in the name.) Seriously, it's a mistake anyone could make.

I also may have mentioned he can stick his tongue in his nose. (He may kill me when he reads this on my blog but I'm taking my chances cause it will just prove the point that he should read this more often.)

But the best part of the night was not all that... Although, it was pretty funny when I made both of my sons sound gay by announcing that Deuce wants to be a 'Police Lady' which he did say, and that Bonus dropped out of ballet on the first day because they wouldn't let him wear the tutu. But hey, they were true stories!

The best part of the evening was when I got home and started sending drunk emails. Emails that I didn't know I had sent until this morning.

I woke to one from a wonderful bloggy friend warning me that I was going to feel pretty shitty this morning. Not understanding how in the hell she would know about my night out, I scroll down to find this:

okay, so i go to the neighborr hood bunco tonite (and the drunk-typing here is just something you're gonna have to overlook cause i may have had one too many glasses of vino to compensate for being the new chick).

Holy hell, ican't type dbrunk. Righ.

Bak at ya tomorrowssss.


To which I was both mortified but giggling and then scrolled down to find that I had carried on an entire conversation with a best friend from TN... (Oh, and apparently, I like to type the f-word a lot when I've been drinking. Well, at least I attempt to type it a lot. Go me. Hi Dad! Bet you're soooo proud! Let's never speak of this post, mkay?)

i tried goin to bed at 9:45 when i got home, but hte fucking bed was all shaky shaky and steve wans't awake so i think it mkght be the wine, vut i'm not so sure...

don' tremind me of this tomorrow, k? thanks.

Apparently, Carrie wasn't responding fast enough for my drunken state, so I responded with this:

alright, ti's been 7 minutes and you no writie writie. I'm goin to bed. Gotta find the motrin first cause if i get a hangover from hangingo ut wtiht the bunco nbors, i'm soooo never gonna livet hat down.
life that donw.

To which Carrie informs me that she is in fact AT WORK and can't be responding much faster. Don't worry; I'm quite understanding and forgive her:

i hear ya. no apologz nexixary.
fucj, nicisary.

i'm goin to bed.
nigthty nite.
htere, fammit


Just a little insight to why you may not want to answer emails from me with typos as poor Carrie has learned...Sorry Carrie. I love you for not mentioning this today.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

I told you he was good...

Today, my oldest son impressed me more than he has since he found the gas leak at our neighbors house and the time he helped the little old lady out of the ocean without being asked.

A regular Lassie that kid is I tell ya.

A mom showed up at the park with her twin boys at about the same time Bonus decided he was thirsty. He ran home to get some water for himself and his brother (which him doing ANYTHING other than beating the hell out of his brother is a stretch so I was totally going to sniff the water first to make sure it wasn't toilet water or something. Although, how would you know if it was toilet water? Does it truly stink like one would just assume? Note to self: Buy blue thingies to stain toilet water.) I digress...

So, Bonus returns with four glasses of water; one of which had a sippy cup lid on it for his brother. The mommy of the twins was obviously impressed that my little gentleman had thought of her boys when getting himself water.

(I too was impressed and chose to praise him rather than sniffing everyone's water.)

See?! Just think, that little kid was the one who was compared to Dennis the Menace in less than a week in our last neighborhood.

Although, it's only fair to mention he did beat the hell out of a kid at said playground a few hours prior.

I'm sure he had it coming though.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

...and leave the key under the mat too.

Do you ever have one of those days when you honestly could not look any worse, your house could not be any more trashed, your dog could not smell any more like dead ass and your kids could not act any more like the spawn of satan?

Let me elaborate.

The kind of day where everyone is still in their pajamas at 2 p.m. Never mind the fact that they have been that way for the second day in a row; mostly because the weather sucks and you may have given up the will to live after having them inside for FOUR DAYS STRAIGHT. The living room is full of toys, empty food bowls, shredded pieces of a stuffed dog toy, and milk-laden sippy cups rolled under the chairs. The couch is blocking the entire entrance to the living room which isn't a big deal since the dining room chairs are lined up in a train fashion blocking the rest of the room and the couch cushions are supporting the fort under the table. The dining room table is full of torn shreds of paper because your sons decided playing with scissors would be a great past time and you just don't have the energy to empty the vacuum bag so you can get it up. There isn't an open spot on the counter top in the kitchen due to the lovely mix of dirty and clean dishes. Which subsequently, you are terrified of attempting to make the differentiation for fear of putting a dirty one away and the one guest you are wanting to empress getting that dirty glass. But at the same time, the thought of cleaning every single dish again makes the risk seem worthwhile? So you take these three rooms and you put them all into one big room...that, is my house. As soon as you walk in the front door you are overwhelmed by this one, big, obnoxious, incredibly open space that is obviously inhabited by the kind of people you avoid in every realm of society. And that front door; it's glass. There are no curtains. There is no hiding the mess or the pajama-clad inhabitants.

That, my dear friends, is the setting for my afternoon visit from the Welcome Wagon.

I wish I was kidding.

Apparently, new residents get a lovely visit from a flowery-basket carrying well-dressed, makeup-clad member of society. (A society in which I will never be welcomed now.) She shows up riding a cupcake sprinkled with fairy dust and a cheery smile that makes you loose the power to say no when she invites herself in. Even though you are mortified and stumbling over all sorts of excuses about 'pretending to build a fort' or 'learning to hold scissors properly' or 'celebrating pajama day in some foreign country', the fairyland greeter can see right through you. Straight through to the dust bunnies under the chairs suckling the last drops from the long-lost sippy cups. She knows that you are hiding much more than a 'lazy day' and recognizes that you need more help than her 'little basket of joy' (read: business cards) can bestow.

She doles out her little prizes and spends much too long explaining the benefits of said cleaning service or free facials. She knows you are that one new neighbor who needed much more help than her one little basket could provide. But never says a word as she fakes an understanding smile, while you are comforting a screaming toddler who's has just been abused by his brother, and she makes her hasty exit.

Just as you are thanking God that it is over and still cursing yourself for not saying everyone had the flu, she mentions this...

"So, I just realized when you said your son's name (read: yelled at Bonus to get the dirty underwear off Deuce's head) that my daughter is the one that baby sat for you last month!"

And with that, I am crawling in my hole of despair and never returning.

Shut the lights off when you leave, please.

Monday, March 2, 2009

We may be loosing touch...

Or he can't speak without using acronyms.

I got this email from my husband this morning, "NRC is already here and going over my documents. Trying to get ready for my Safety meeting, the POD, then the NCR meeting then NRC meeting. I’ll catch you up laters."

I cannot make this stuff up.

The nuclear industry can B.I.T.E. M.E. cause seriously, only the WWJD people can get away with that crap.