My Kid Needs a Barf Bag

Spring is playing head games with me.  Yesterday was beautiful and 69 degrees.  Today is cloudy and 40.  Blaaahhh...  The kids were getting a little stir crazy, so I did what any lazy parent would do.  I took them to see a movie.  If you're looking for some outrageously expensive entertainment for your kids, you should definitely hit the movie k-nator.  For those who do not speak fouryearold-ese, that's the movie theater (duh?!?!).

Anylarceny, off to the movies we go!  As soon as we got there, I remembered exactly why we do not go to the theater much.  We went to see the non-3D version of How to Train Your Dragon for the low, low price of twenty-one U.S. dollars!  That's right, folks!  We got in for a steal!  Such great discounts are only available for the non-3D matinee shows, otherwise we'd have paid around $30 for one adult and two really small children who won't even stay in their deluxe seats.  My daughter should probably be free since she insists on sitting in my lap.  Hey, maybe even my ticket should be discounted??  Heck, I only catch about half the movie between her blocking my view while she wiggles and talks and the fifty gazillion trips to the bathroom.

So we pay out the ying-yang to get in the joint and blow another $20 on two boxes of Milk Duds and two small Sprites.  As soon as I paid, my poor baby boy started vomitting everywhere!  On my shoes.  On his shoes.  All over the front of his shirt.  All over his Draffy.  All over the carpet.  Puke everywhere! 

Not my kid, but you get the drift...

As I rushed him into the restroom, his sister slips and falls into the puke!  Her nosey little ass was so busy trying to see him vomit that she didn't pay attention to the slippery mess laying all over the tile.  There I was in the ladies room with two stinking kids, and I mean that figuratively. 

It seems that his nerves got the best of him again.  Apparently, #1 was worried that the movie would be scary.  We watched the trailers on my computer before going to the show.  He acted like he was excited about the movie.  He never said anything about being scared!  However, I should have paid a little more attention to his clues.  When we got in the car, he kept saying, "Why don't we go see Diary of a Whimpy Kid, Mama?  That looks so funny!  Ha ha ha..."

Yes, son.  It does look funny.  I can't wait to see it, either.  We'll see it next time, but today, we are going to see How to Train Your Dragon.

Those damn, fire-breathing dragons!  I guess it is pretty scary for a little kid with a bad case of nerves.  After we talked about his fears for a bit, while the puke saturated his clothes and the aroma wafted through the facility, he started feeling better.  Luckily, we don't live far from the theater so Super Daddy came to our rescue with some fresh, clean clothes.

He survived the movie, and actually ended up loving it.  I'm glad we didn't do the 3-D, though.  It would have been a bit much for either of them.

But my poor, poor son...  He is definitely cursed!  I'm afraid, like me, those nerves of his will cause him to puke during the most exciting times of his life.  While the rest of the crowd enjoys themselves, he'll be viewing the inside of a barf bag.  I don't know how I can help him, though.  Spare clothes in the car is about all I can come up with.  He's too young for Vodka, and I'm damn sure not sharing the Xanax! 

 

From a Baby to a Buffoon

I registered my baby for kindergarten yesterday.  :(

Yep, my 5 year old will be in "big school" next year.  I know the next 13 years (or 20 depending on how well he does) will go by so quickly.  I'm just not ready for him to grow up!

He's my first!  He's such a typical first-born child at that.  He cracks me up because I was a first born, too.  He's very much into pleasing people and wanting to be the best.  It bothers him if someone is better at something.  He especially hates if his sister gets praise and he doesn't.     

I've watched him in Sunday School, and when the teacher asks a question, he is the first with his hand up.  Regardless of whether or not the answer he is about to give has ANYTHING to do with the question, he is going to raise his hand.  I just hope he has at least a few years before some kid crushes his soul by saying, "Ha-ha!  That's wrong, you big dummy!"  I'd hate to bring my can of Whoop-Arse up to the elementary school.

My baby...  I want to remember all the things I love about him before he starts trying to impress his peers by being a little shit!  In fact, this is probably the last summer I'll have my little boy.  Once he befriends little Johnny with the older brother who thinks it's cute to hear him say "vagina," his innocence will be lost. 

He'll be farting in class, making spitballs, and generally getting on his teacher's last nerve.  He will soon be transformed from my sweet baby to a buffoon silly boy.  First there will be little giggles about the word, "vagina," and then before I know it, I'll find condom wrappers in his car.  At which time I will kill him, by the way. 

It makes me want to cry.  I wish I could preserve this little creature that has become the love of my life.  Nearly six years ago, he was just a long shot.  He was either going to be the baby for which I longed or a very expensive menstrual cycle.  (After several miscarriages, it was our first attempt at artificial insemination.)  We rolled the dice and won!  Now he's one of the most precious little beings I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. 

I don't want to get all sappy because, well, that's just not me.  Sentimental is not really an emotion with which I'm comfortable.  However, as his mom, I feel it necessary to capture this phase of his life.  What better way than here.  Hang tight, folks.  This is all about E:

• He is my compliant child and typically does what he is told.
• He's a hugger; he hugs EVERYONE. 
• He is always smiling.
• He's very pleasant, and treats everyone like a best friend. 
• He loves to talk and will strike up a conversation with anyone. 
• He makes friends easily. 
• He is polite and precedes nearly every statements with "Excuse me?" 
• He still eats with his mouth open, though he tries soooo hard to chew with it closed. 
• He is loving and very affectionate, especially towards his mama.
• He likes to cuddle at night. 
• He is very sensitive, and gets upset easily.  (As a result, his little sister pesters the heck out of him.) 
• Even at five, he sleeps with his best friend, "Draffy."  (Draffy is a giraffe/blanket.  He sucks on Draffy's ear all night long.  It is the sweetest sight EVER!)
• He is extremely flat-footed and awkward.
• He loves to dance.
• He loves telling silly jokes.
• He likes to make his daddy and I proud.
• He is materialistic and loves buying "things."
• He is blind as a bat.
• He's a little scientist who likes to invent things or observe reactions.  (It usually ends with a big mess and me yelling at him.)
• He watches too much TV, and blocks everyone and everything out when he's watching it.
• He doesn't like the dark.
• He is messy.
• He is extremely giving, and often wraps "presents" for his friends.
• He is very smart and inquisitive, always asking "but why?"
• He is a naturally good swimmer.
• He's a very picky eater, and refuses to eat any type of vegetable.
• His drink of choice is water, and even prefers it over sodas. 
• He still cannot figure out how to walk in flip flops.
• He likes to dress up and pretend to be his favorite character of the moment.
• He's a terrible liar.
• He has a nervous stomach; he either pukes who has a BM (or both! at the same time) when he's feeling apprehensive.

Next year when he gets in trouble for the first time for doing something very boyish and asinine, I hope I'll remember to look at this list before I kill him.

Memoir Monday - Crushed In Front of My Crush

Memoir Monday!  Wooo Hooo!  It's like the biggest thing in blog land!  Go over to I Like To Fish, grab Travis' button, and add your own story.  Just make sure it's true.  There are HUGE cash prizes and very Blingity-Bling-Bling awards.  No, not really...  But there are quite a few really funny stories from some exceptionally talented bloggers.  Go ahead, check him out.  Oh, and make sure you pay him his props.  C'mon...it's fun!  And what the heck do you have to do on a Monday anyway???  



I was a bet wetter.  I'm not sure if I had medical issues or if I was just too lazy to get my ass out of bed.  Either way, I wet the bed until I was about 12 or so.  I remember when I stopped just like it were yesterday.  I didn't just wake up one morning and decide, hey, I think I'll stop pissing the bed.  Not much of a story in that and certainly not indicative of my life.  Maybe Molly McPerfect's life, but not mine.  Anybladder, this is how it all went down. 

My cousin and best friend growing up was Sandy.  We were inseparable.  If she wasn't at my house, I was at hers or vice versa.  One night, Sandy had a sleep over.  It may have been her birthday or something.  I can't remember, but I do remember that it was more than just her and me.  It was more like 4-5 girls.  We'd made a pallet on the floor since there weren't enough beds for all of us. 

Ya see, Sandy is one of seven children who grew up in a 3 bedroom, 1 bath home.  Back in the day, that was normal.  Only rich folks had more than one bathroom.  And only the REALLY rich folks had more than 3 bedrooms.  So there we were.  At a slumber party.  Five girls sleeping together.  Having fun.  Until...

I guess it was probably about 5-6 o'clock in the morning when I began to have my usual I'm-going-to-piss-in-the-bed-because-I-think-I'm-sitting-on-a-toilet dream.  It seems like every bedwetting incident was preceded by this dream.  You'd think after a few times, I'd figure out that it was just a dream about a toilet.  Those of us with the really hard heads take a little longer to convince than you normal people.

Yep, you guessed it.  I dreamed that I was peeing and actually did.  All over my friends!  They all started screaming.  OMG!  I'm wet!  Who peed???  OMG!  LB did you pee???  I was completely humiliated.  I'd just pissed all over my friends.  Apparently, I had way too much Coke before falling asleep because it looked like the Great Flood in that room.  It went through the pallet and into the carpet.  The whole floor was wet.  I was mortified.

That was just the beginning of my humiliation, turns out.  Remember I told you Sandy is one of seven?  Her older brother is two years older than us.  When you are a 12 year old girl, what do you think about constantly? 

Uh, 14 year old boys???  Ding, ding, ding!  We have a winner, Alex!

No, I did not have the hots for my cousin.  I was a bedwetter which is gross enough.  I was not an incestuous bedwetter.  Now that's just disturbing.  No, but 14 year old boy cousins have 14 year old friends.  And my 14 year old cousin was best friends with my first real crush, John-John.

Oh, how I loved John-John.  He had the most beautiful tousled chestnut curls with dreamy, dark eyes and smooth, tan skin.  He looked like a Jonas brother, only hotter.  I melted when he was near.

On this particular morning, though, I melted from sheer humiliation.  John-John came over that morning to hang out.  He and Eddie may have been going fishing or something.  Anyway, he was there unusually early for not having slept over.  He walked in just as the commotion was in full-swing. 

I wanted to die.  I asked my friends not to say anything, but the big wet carpet stain that smelled like piss gave it away.  I hid in my aunt's bedroom.  There was no way I could face him.  I was mortified. 

I'll just stay in this room forever.  I'll quit school.  My aunt can bring my meals in here.  I'm never going to show my face to the world.  If I hide here for the rest of my life, I will not have to deal with the shame. 

It took me a very long time to recover from that incident.  I'm not sure how long it was, but I know I could not even be around John-John for quite awhile.  The shame was unbearable.  However, I never EVER pissed in the bed again.  

Getting My GTL On With "The Situation" -- LB Style!

I'm a cow.  There, I said it.  I know we've gone over this before, but let's recap just for kicks.  I used to be young and thin.  After having two kids in two years at an age when I ought NOT be having said kids, I'm fat.  I'm roughly 35 pounds heavier than I was in my prime.  (Not my anorexic-100-pounds-because-I-don't-eat-EVER prime, but my working-out-shapely-hot prime.)  Anymoo, I'm a hot mess.

I've been working on it, though.  I've already lost 18 pounds since January.  This week, however, I did not lose one freakin' ounce.  Uuugghh...  It's my own fault, I know.  I didn't go to the gym much last week, and indulged a bit more than I should have.  I guess it was probably a good thing to see the scale not budge.  It kinda gave me a reality check.  If I'm going to get to my goal, I'm going to have to make some sacrifices.  Period.  'Nuff said.

Sacrifice time.  After church today, I hit the gym with a vengeance.  It was my lucky day, too.  Snooki, Pauly, and "The Situation" were doing the Spring Break countdown on MTV.  Snooki and her HU-MON-GOUS hair, Pauly and his spikes so stiff they'd poke your eye out, and Mike "The Situation" and his incredible abs were doing an hour long special!  I actually did 50 minutes of fist-pumping cardio.  (God, I wish they were on every Sunday!)  So I got my G on -- that's Gym for you JS rookies.

Being a loyal follower and a too-old-to-even-be-watching-freakin'-MTV groupie, I hit the tanning bed to complete the T of my mission.  If you want to be a real Guido or Guidette, it's imperative that you complete the trifecta.  The JS trilogy, if you will.

Lastly, I got home to finish up the L.  It's my usual Sunday chore.  My goons, though, gave it whole new meaning.  I used to think of laundry as, well...laundry -- a boring, yet necessary, evil.  Today, it is the final piece to my GTL swagger.  Fine.  I'll do it.  I'm still not putting it away, though.

Ahhh...  I'm now ready to get my Spring Break groove on.  I have two more weeks before I hit the beach!  It's not likely I will be bikini ready.  At least I won't look like a beached whale, though.  My party crowd won't care anyway.  They are just looking to par-TEE!!! 

Yep, my crew and I will be looking so FLY in our new swimsuits and cool shades. We'll be sittin' poolside sipping on ice cold beverages.  (Nothing like Capri Sun juice pouches after they've been iced down for a few hours.)  Then we'll hit the beach for some real action...sand castle building and snorkeling!  Afterwards, we'll get showered up and ready for an exhilirating night at the Mattress Ball!  The next morning, we'll get up before the chickens, have a little hair of the dog (aka chocolate milk and Pop-Tarts) and do it all over again! 

Watch out, Guidos and Guidettes!  The Biloxi Shore will be ROCKIN'!  LB Style!     

How to Be a Good Parent...Or Not!

I was just reading Tracie's blog at Stir-Fry Awesomeness, which she totally is!  Anyway, she had a little "list" about domestication and her recent lack thereof.  This sparked an epiphany for me.  Since I am a self-proclaimed child-rearing expert (yes, that's right), I thought I'd put together a little list of my own.  See, this all ties into my most recent tirade on which I refused to elaborate to protect the innocent.  Not the kid.  Me.  I don't give a damn about that little twit (just kidding...well, not really).

We teachers come in contact with all types of kids from all walks of life.  I think I've pretty much figured out what it takes to raise a child to become a responsible, mature adult.  I am also fairly positive about what type of parenting results in a serial-killing, meth addict.  For those of you with younger kids, it's not too late.  If you have older kids, though, well...play along just for kicks.

Some things all parents should know about their teenagers, but apparently do not:

1. He will, and does, lie.  Often.
2. She did not fail English because her teacher hates her.  She failed because she did not earn the requisite points needed for a passing grade.
3. That smart mouth that annoys the heck out of you has the same effect on others.
4. She is smart; she is not the smartest person on the planet.
5. He DOES have homework!
6. She will not die without a cell phone and does not need to bring it to school in case of an emergency.  If something happens, believe me, you will be notified.
7. At 8:30 a.m., he is in class doing classwork.  A text message to see if he got to school okay is not necessary.  If concerned, refer to item #6.
8. Reading is required.  I know it sounds crazy, but yes, even in math and social studies.
9. No, she probably was not the only one talking/cursing/sleeping/texting/cheating.  But she got caught!  It was still wrong.  She should accept the punishment and move on.   
10. If he says "we don't do anything in there" or "she doesn't teach," what he really means is "I don't ask questions or pay attention in class; therefore, I don't have a clue or do my work."
11. She is not being singled out, but she may be drawing unnecessary attention to herself.  
12. He is capable of typing his own paper.  Let him!
13. Fair does not mean equal.  Without going into details, the rules don't apply, and shouldn't apply, to everyone all the time.
14. Those are not his friend's ______________ . (Insert cigarettes, beer cans, condoms, etc.)
15. She will always have to work with a variety of people with different personalities and backgrounds.  Just because she doesn't like Mr. SoAndSo, does not mean she will perform poorly in his class and should be moved out immediately.

I love my job.  Really, I do!  And I think, if nothing else, it has opened my eyes to the characteristics of  a good parent.  I don't know about you, but I want my kids to be mature, responsible, and successful in life.  They need to support their old mama when she gets too feeble to wipe her own hiney!

It's so natural to want to protect your young.  As a mom, I totally get that!  However, incessant coddling and denial go beyond protection.  You cannot write her college entrance essays.  It's not wise to complete his job applications.  If he or she gets in trouble, let him/her accept responsibility along with any penalties that may result. 

Life is full of tough stuff.  Have you ever not had enough money to get your car fixed???  Not every day will be a good one.  In addition, bad decisions can lead to devastating consequences.  You'd be surprised how quickly a person matures when he has to "pay the piper" all by himself, though. 

Bottom line - quit blowing smoke up their asses!  Quit pretending they are something they are not!  If she has the IQ of a toothpick, she probably will not be the next CEO of Microsoft.  If his cumulative GPA is 0.75, more than likely Harvard is not going to be calling.  Above all else, just try to make sure that they are pleasant people who respect others.  Seriously, every single teacher I know will agree.  It is far easier to work with a sweet, respectful kid who is as dumb as a box of rocks than it is to tolerate a smart, but rude, ingrate with a 1.5 GPA that refuses to do anything but suck up the valuable oxygen the rest of us need to live!

Caused by an Acute Case of PMDD

It's been a helluva week thus far.  I've been on the verge of whipping some old ass, some young ass, and now some even younger, immature ass.  Pissy does not even begin to describe my mood here lately.  My head is on the verge of spontaneous combustion.  My intent was to get on here and blog away my frustrations regarding one 15-year old little shit student of mine.  It would soooo make me feel better, but I don't want to say anything I might regret or be libel for later.  Ya know, the whole student-teacher confidentiality thing... 

If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all.  Right???

Fine then!  Peace out! 

Please Stop Pissing Me Off, People!

I love this movie.  Better yet, I love this scene in the movie.  If you don't recall, Angela Bassett's husband decides he wants a divorce.  Instead of being a doormat allowing him to have it all, she gets pissed!  Nothing worse than a woman scorned!  So pissed that she sells his expensive crap for $1 at a yard sale and sets fire to his BMW.  I think it's natural to feel euphoric when you see something like that.  We all get pissed on at some point in our lives.  And we've all dreamed about the day that we have our retribution.  Ahhh...  My girl in the movie did it with pure class, though.

Unfortunately, I'm not here to do anything with class or style.  Nope.  I'm just here to vent.  Yesterday, I whipped an old woman's ass (at least in my mind).  Today, I'm going to pull out that same can of whip ass for a younger, yet dumb as a box of rocks, protagonist.  I. AM. SICK. OF. DUMBASSES. screwing with my emotions!

This old woman yelled at me several times yesterday.  For no reason whatsoever!  Each time, she was condescending and straight up RUDE.  She treated me like I was some 14 year old idiot!!!!  Nevermind that I am nearly 44 years old with a master's degree.  But to her, I was an insignificant little twit for whom she had little regard.  While I would never, EVER get into a fight (could you just see it??), it did help me to visualize getting her ass down on the ground and bashing her head into the concrete.  I'm pretty sure I could have taken her.  At least, that is, if I weren't a respectable woman trying to be an ideal role model for our society's future.  And I would mess up my hair...

Today, I avoided the old hag and soon forgot about her pissy attitude.  I was damn-near pleasant when I got home this evening.  I hit the gym after work, got those endorphines pumping, and practically kissed my husband when I got home.  Instead, though, I fed the kids and gave them a bath.  G and I had a recital meeting at the dance studio while E and Daddy had baseball practice.

G and I got to the dance studio at 6:30 p.m. SHARP.  After all, the email I received a few days ago indicated that there would be a MANDATORY parent's meeting on Tuesday at 6:30 p.m.  Mandatory was underlined and bolded.  This gave me the distinct impression that the soiree was, well, mandatory.  Duh?!

The lights were off in the studio so I thought maybe we were a little early.  I called the studio, but only got a recorded message that they were closed.  I sent a text to the instructor, but received no reply.  I sat in the freakin' parking lot for 20 minutes waiting on the said MANDATORY (her words, not mine) meeting!!!  Apparently, the meeting had been canceled or changed.  Apparently, every other parent was notified but me.  Apparently, my daughter will be taking dance from someone else next season.

This is not the first time the woman's dropped the ball on something.  It's always one thing or another.  She's quite unorganized.  And all over the place!  She makes me nuts!  Quick example...  The girls were dancing in a local Christmas parade.  Our float was number 33.  It would pull up in front of the meeting place and the girls would fall in behind.  Simple process, right? 

Parade time comes, and we have no float.  "It's coming," she said. 

At least the kids can catch some candy while they wait.  Nearly every float, band, and go-cart in the parade passed us by.  Still no float.  Finally, the girls forgot about their dance and were all excited to see Santa at the END of the freakin' parade.  I'm pissed.  I just spent close to $100 for my daughter to be in this freakin' parade!  Can you say bitch better have my money!?!

Oh, the float was in the parade alright.  It was dead last, behind Santa.  It seems that the float got caught in parade traffic because it didn't make it to the meeting place on time!  Why?  Oh, because the float wasn't complete in time for the parade.  I've got more of these episodes, but I don't everybody to be pissed off tonight.

See what I mean?  Messing with my emotions.  Where's my Vodka??   
    

Memoir Monday - Daytona Beach, 1993

Okay boys and girls!  It's time to play along with Travis and friends again.  It's Memoir Monday!  Head over to I Like to Fish..., drink some beer, read some funny stories, and drink some more beer.  Travis and the others will make you piss your pants!



I cannot stop thinking about Spring Break.  It's like 5 gazillion days away!  Seriously, these April spring breaks just kill me.  The last holiday we had was President's Day in February!  We will have endured two full months before the next break.  I'm going to start drinking beer every night just to take the edge off.

Of course, spring break from a teacher's perspective is completely different from a student's perspective.  Now that I teach, I am looking forward to the down time and rest.  When I was a student, though...???  Awww, hell!  It was the best throw down ever!

I remember my last college spring break.  My friends and I had been watching MTV in Daytona all month long.  Everybody was partying.  Hot guys were everywhere.  The best musical talent was showing up for little impromptu concerts.  It. Was. BALL-ing!  And we were going.

Even a freak winter storm that dropped 14 inches of snow on southern mississippi in March of 1993 couldn't stop us.  We just scraped the snow and ice off the windshield and hit the road.  None of us had a clue about driving in the snow, but we didn't have a clue about a lot of things back thing.  We were fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants girls.  More specifically, we were the Three White Bitches to our close friends.

Anyparty, we hit the road!  We drove all the way from Hattiesburg, Mississippi, to Daytona Beach, Florida.  We had 2 cassette tapes we rotated in the tape player - Rick Springfield's Living In Oz and a single called "The Best Part of Breaking Up" by Roni Griffith.  It was a club song that we loved.  We made the DJ at Senor Frog's play it 50 times a night.  I actually had to google to find the singer.  Check it out:



Oh, and I know...  Rick Springfield's popularity had definitely waned by 1993, but our love for his hot bod had not.  We were still rocking out to our disco tunes while many of our other friends had moved on to Pearl Jam and The Black Crows.  We were hopeless Dancing Queens looking for fun!

I don't remember how long it took us to get there, but I know we traveled well into the night.  We actually got caught in a traffic jam for a very long time.  There was a fire or something along the highway in Alabama.  It was dark and late, and we were at a complete standstill.  And Lizzie had to pee.  Silly girls, don't you know you can't drink beer on a road trip without a make-shift potty?  That wasn't our first rodeo!  Lizzie peed into a red solo cup.  It was classic!  She peed until she filled the cup to the top, stopped until it was emptied out the window, and finished up without so much as a tiny sprinkle in the car.  Now that's skill, boys and girls!

We finally made it to Daytona only to find out that we were in the midst of a hurricane advisory.  It was wet and rainy.  MTV abandoned ship and headed to another spring break party spot.  Do you think that dampened our spirits and ruined our spring break?!?  Heck NO!  We partied like rock stars, hooked up with a random guy or two (I still have a sweatshirt belonging to some hottie from Ohio), and had the time of our lives! 

Daytona Beach was fun, but we honestly could have had a great time in closet. 

 
   

Glamour Don'ts

I want to rip my eyeballs out about now.  I saw the most disgusting (and pathetic) site today while getting my nails done.  While I was enjoying a much-needed pedicure, in walks a woman about 60-65 years old trying to pull off the look of a 20 year old. 

I wish there was a more inconspicuous way to take cell phone pictures.  I don't think you can get a complete visual from my description.  This, my friend, was something you had to see for yourself to really appreciate.  First, she was an obviously white woman.  I could only tell from her hair and eye color, though.  Her body was the color of drift wood.  She had a savage tan that made her age only that much more prominent.  That wasn't the appalling part, though. 

No, her tan, while inappropriate, was not what ignited my gag reflexes.  It was her outfit.  She was wearing a pair of incredibly tight Levi's.  She literally must have poured herself into them.  The moose knuckles were very prominent.  To make matters worse, she completed the ensemble with a freakin' belly shirt!  It was a very short sweater with a faux fur collar.

Jesus, did no one at home critique her clothing choice before she left the house??  What about the retailer?  There should be a criminal penalty for retailers who allow such purchases.  Was this the same retailer who created skinny jeans in a size 18?  I'm sure all these ridiculous outfits must come from the same place.  Belly sweaters for granny's, skinny jeans and leggings for fat chicks...  Surely this is just a small niche market. 

Screw universal healthcare!  We need laws to protect society from this kind of crap.  We should be allowed to make a citizen's arrest in such situations.  If you are over 60 years old, you should NOT wear belly shirts.  Common sense, I know...  So is not putting a blow dryer in a tub of water, yet the manufacturer still must display a warning label. 

Now that I've said all that, I am nearly 44 years old.  I still go to the tanning bed about once a week during the warmer months.  I workout at the gym and have actually purchased a bikini to serve as an incentive to finally get rid of my childbearing weight.  I seriously doubt that suit will ever see the sun.  I may use it for role play at home.  However when I the day comes that I'm too old for the tanning bed or cute clothes, I pray that I have the sense to recognize it.  If not, I know my friends will stop me in my tracks.  'Nuff said.

This pic cracked my ass up!  Nice boob job, even after 45 years!

I can just hear it now.  My girl, L, would say:  You wearing that??!?!  Ummm...Hell to the NO!

The Girliest of Girls Tries Softball

My daughter, G, is the ultimate girly girl.  She loves to dance and sing and paint her nails and become hysterical when things don't go her way.  She loves sparkly flip flops and high heels.  She hates sneakers (unless they are sparkly and bejeweled).  She won't wear anything that looks too boyish.  She hates short hair and nearly banned a friend from her birthday party because of it.  She's all about hair bows and pink tails (that's pigtails to us common folk), tiaras and boas, purses and cell phones, and all things princess.  Pink and purple are her favorite colors, for goodness sakes!  (Wait...those are also two of my son's favorite colors.  Hmmm...)  Get the picture?  The G in her name doesn't just stand for Georgia.

Back before her birthday, she started telling everyone that she was playing softball.  Considering I've never, EVER mentioned softball to her before, I was taken aback.  Mind you, I, too, was the girliest of girls so softball has never been on my Bucket List.  There's a possibility that my husband and son talked about baseball in front of her.  But no on in our house discussed softball at any time.  Period.

As time went by, I'd figure she'd forget about it and move on to something else.  No such luck.  When my husband signed my son up for baseball, she got upset that he didn't sign her up for softball too.  She was still determined to play.  She's freakin' FOUR!  A big waste of time and money, in my opinion, but my husband is her very own personal "assistant."  He does as he is told for fear of facing her wrath.  She is so soft and sweet and pink on the exterior, but tough as nails on the interior.  She makes a grown man cower.

Thursday night, was her very first softball practice.  After her dance lessons, I changed her clothes and took her to the softball field for practice.  She refused to let me put her cleats on, though.  Instead, she wanted to go to practice in her sparkly gold princess flip flops.  Whatever...just get in the van!  That was only the first sign of what was to come.

Since it rained all day, the field resembled a small lake.  Our girls were sharing the field with another team who'd already begun practicing in the infield.  Our girls would have to practice in the outfield.  It didn't bother the coaches or the other girls.  They developed a little system with some working on their throw, others were batting, and a few were trying to catch the ball.

G was a little late because dance ended at the same time practice started.  I had to walk her out to the swamp outfield in sparkly princess shoes.  She started screaming because mud was all over her feet.  Hell, I was bitching too because I don't enjoy mud either.  There we were, two of the girliest of girls, wading through the wetlands in our pretty shoes.  Being a sweet mommy, I took one for the team.  I carried her out to the practice area and cleaned off her feet.

I put on her cleats.  She was okay with taking off the princess shoes since she was sure everyone had seen them.  I refused to follow the same path back to the bleechers, though.  My son was playing along the back fence line any way.  I just climbed over the fence which deserves a showing on America's Funniest Home Videos all by itself.  I'm too old for that shit!  G started crying.  She wanted to be on the other side of the fence with me and her brother.

Her daddy, who is now fully dedicated to the softball fiasco and a one of her coaches, put her over the fence and told me to take her home.  This only made her cry more.  And when she saw a teammate wearing her new pink, bejeweled (I couldn't help myself; it's so cute) batting helmet, she went into hysterics.  It was time to go.  When I told her, though, that little heifer ran from me!  I didn't want to run after her because: 1.) I look ridiculous running, and 2.) I was afraid I'd not catch her (she's fast as lightning!).  Instead, I threatened to beat her walked away.  Being a former drama queen myself, I knew that her tantrum would be less effective without an audience.

She finally calmed down and agreed to practice.  She would go with the group who was catching balls.  She got in line with the others and waited her turn.  Thank God!  Just as I began to rejoice in God's miracles, she had another meltdown.  She got mud on her cleats!  Great!  This is going to be the longest season in softball history.  I tried to explain to her that softball is a dirty sport.  If she wanted to be a big girl and play, she had to quit crying.  I assured her that I would clean her cleats when we got home.

After more crying and dilly-dallying, she goes back to practice.  This time, she would be with her daddy at batting practice.  She was happy.  She got to wear her very pretty helmet and swing her pretty pink bat.  To my surprise, she actually hit the ball a few times.  Though I know NOTHING about softball, I've watched enough baseball to know that she had a pretty good stance too.

See, that's the thing about G.  She really is good at anything she tries.  She is agile and fast with excellent coordination.  When she practiced with her brother's soccer team last spring, she played better than most of the other kids.  With her princess flip flops on!  At 3 years old!  But when her dad put her on the team, she refused to play.  She sat in my lap and cheered on the others.  I'm not worried about her, though.  Like I said, she will be awesome at anything she chooses to do.  That's just how she rolls.

Piss and Vinegar...My Favorite Emotion

Bah-humbug! 

I know it's not freakin' Christmas!  Thanks for stating the obvious, Genius.  It doesn't change how I feel, though.  I'm in a funk.  I feel like crap.  My attitude sucks.  It must be that time again.  Not that time of the month, but THAT time of the month.  Ya know?  The time when my PMDD kicks it up and wrecks havoc on my life and the lives of those with whom I come in contact?

Anyscrewyou,youfreakin'jerk...  I'm feeling out of sorts once again.  To make matters worse, I still haven't fixed my little BM problem.  (See my previous blog.  I discussed it ad nauseum.)  I also woke up this morning with popping ears, a thumping head, a sore throat, and a mean case of "Get the f^@k out of my face!"

Now I'm at work on the first definitely "warm" day of spring without any air-conditioning!  I'm looking around for the Candid Camera people just hoping this is some lame idea for a practical joke.  I'm sweating like a whore in church!  Even more miserable??!!?  So are the funky-smelling kids in my classroom.  We're all receiving a sauna treatment today...AGAINST our wills!  OMG!  I'm suffocating in here! 

What else am I pissed off about?!?  Oh yea...  My daughter fell asleep last night at around 6:45 p.m.  She was exhausted!  Most nights she is sound asleep by 7:30 p.m.  (I may be losing the battle of parenting, but I definitely scored points with the bedtime schedule.)  Guess where she will be tonight at 6:45 p.m. when she's tired and grumpy?  Freakin' softball practice!!  Why the heck did we sign her up for this?  She has dance from 5:30 - 6:30 p.m. followed by softball practice from 6:30 - 7:30 p.m.!  She'll never make it!  I'll never make it!  This probably wouldn't annoy me so much were it not for the freakin' heat in this room, my pounding head, the excruiating pain in my ears, and my severe PMDD.   

I need a chill pill!  Thank God!  I actually have a whole bottle at the house.

To Poop or Not to Poop...That Is the Question

Shit.  The husband and kids will be home in about 15 minutes.  I have to be quick -- an impossibility for me. 

Anyheifer...  You know that you are old when you have a conversation with your friend about bowel movements and neither of you is laughing.  Today, my girl, L, and I were talking about what freakin' pigs we are.  She was contemplating whether or not to contact Guinness since she's sure that she's the only person in the history of the world to work out 7 hours a day, 7 days a week and eat twigs and berries only to gain four pounds.  I, on the other hand, know exactly why my fat ass is, well, fat.  This is what my diet looked like over the weekend: 

• Saturday - diet food, diet food, salad, hot fudge sundae (WTF???  Why'd I even bother eating the salad?)
• Sunday - diet food, diet food, pizza (I am such a LOSER!)
• Monday - diet food, diet food, candy, strawberry sundae, chocolate sundae (What?!?  But I skipped supper.)

So far today, I've managed to stay away from the ice cream.  Of course, I still have about 4 hours before bedtime. 

Anypoop, L and I were talking, and she said her husband, a power lifter, was delving into her dieting strategies to identify the factors causing her weight gain.  Apparently, it's all about the poop.  Or the lack of...  We don't poop enough.  WTF?!?!

She said she only goes about once a week.  Sounds normal to me.  I go about that much myself.  Another girlfriend agreed.  Women are just more delicate and don't have as many gastric explosions in our digestive tract.  Right?  Sounds perfectly logical. 

Then I got to thinking about those SlimQuick commercials.  You know the ones where the lady claims she and her husband quit drinking soft drinks?  He lost 6 pants sizes; her boobs shrunk a cup size.  That's when it occurred to me.  Hey, maybe poop really is the key to losing weight.  Duh, rocket scientist.  What goes in has to come out or it just, hum, stays in.

Why is it, then, that women just don't have as many bowel movements as men?  Is it because we've trained are anuses to tighten up every time something nears the passage way?  I'm not just talking about from a sexual perspective though it IS a very important perspective.  No, there are other reasons to tighten one's anus.  Why is it that folks laugh with a guy when he passes gas, but laugh at a girl when she does the same?  "It's just not lady-like."  Yea, well neither are clogged bowels and bloated bellies!

Now I'm on a quest to figure out the whole digestive issue.  I'm curious to find out if the body (and bowels) can be retrained.  Is it even possible for a woman to defecate every day!?!?  It sure sounds like it may solve the weight loss dilemma faced by many women. 

Please don't misunderstand me.  I do not, for one moment, encourage willy-nilly flatulence.  We still have to maintain some level of control.  Otherwise, we'll all be needing adult diapers to get through the work day.  Hmmm...  Still, the idea of regular BMs is intriguing. 

Any health care professionals wish to share some insight??  How about any professional poopers?  Help a sister out!     

Memoir Monday: My Mom Was No June Cleaver, and I Wasn't the Beav

Happy Monday!  Thanks to Travis at I Like to Fish for making what is typically a sucky day much more enjoyable.  Check him and the others out!



I've been feeling a little sentimental lately.  I guess I can attribute it all to my daughter's talk about her "grandmaw" in heaven.  Since my mother's death, baby girl has been obsessed with heaven and her grandmaw.  Hell, I even dreamed that she wasn't dead after all.  I dreamed that she was just still very ill, but was well on her way to recovery.  Wishful thinking I guess....

Anydowner, the memories of my mom are my flooding my brain these days.  My mom was always the "cool" mom.  She had me when she was 18 years old, so she was always pretty young for a kid my age.  She always dressed like "us," listened to "our" music, and chatted up all my friends like they were hers.  It made me freakin' crazy!

While everyone else wished they had a super-cool mom like mine, I really wanted a mom like June Cleaver.  Why didn't I have rules?  Why wasn't I grounded for that C on my report card?  I didn't want another friend; I wanted a mother!

When I was about 15 years old, my friends and I were really into rock music.  We loved Journey and Van Halen and Styx...  You name 'em; we saw 'em.  LIVE.  None of us had jobs so we'd bum lunch money all week long to buy a concert ticket and a t-shirt.  (You wouldn't believe how much money I'd "borrow" in one day!!)  The day after the concert, we'd come to school proudly sporting our new t-shirt like it was a badge of honor.  We. Were. COOL.

When we weren't going to concerts, we would hit the Shyann Social Club.  Back then, a Mississippi driver's license looked like a social security card.  No picture.  Info typed on a typewriter.  EASY-PEEZY to alter.  We all had fake IDs to get into the club.  It was awesome!  Every weekend they had a live band.  I always had $5 to go out.  One for gas money, one thrown into the "beer fund," and three for the cover charge.  Between four of us, we'd drink a twelve pack of VERY cheap beer in the parking lot and pray a guy would buy us a beer or two inside.

One night, my friends and I went to the Shyann to watch one of our favorite bands, Baghdad.  We were semi-groupies.  They were Jethro Tull masters.  We'd gone to the club with our friend, T, but she had to be home early.  "No biggie.  We'll just find a ride home," the rest of us said.

Mind you, the Shyann was in an adjacent town so we were a good way away from home.  What the heck were we thinking??  And who the heck was going to bring us home??  We'll worry about that at closing time.

Fast forward to closing time.  We still had no ride home.  We were panicking because we'd spent all our money and couldn't afford a cab.  We were fifteen and SCREWED.  It was past everyone else's curfew.  None of them would be able to come get us.  Walking 30 miles was our last resort.  Unless...

Thank God for liquid courage.  Without it, I'd have never had this great idea.  I had my friend scrounge up a dime for the pay phone.  (Yes, we had those.  Yes, they only cost a dime.)  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  I called my mom.  At another club.

Yep, my mom and dad were partying at their regular hangout.  I knew they would be.  I had the number memorized, for crying out loud. 

Mom, please don't yell at me.
"Why?  Where are you??"
Okay, but you have to promise not to yell.
"I promise."
We're at the Shyann.  T left us (I had to lie!).
"She did what?"
She left us at the Shyann.  Now we don't have a ride home.
"Your dad is pretty drunk, but someone will be there to get you.  Be waiting outside."
Okay.  Thanks!

About 30 minutes later, my mom's friend showed up at the Shyann.  She took us home, and my mom never said a word about it.  That night I was thankful for my "cool" mom.  

Why Twitter??

I just don't get Twitter.  I don't understand it's appeal at all.  I've tried liking it, really, I have.  But it's so lonely-feeling.  I know facebook is full of junk, but at least it's lively.  I can see pictures of my friends, pictures of their friends, and even pictures of things I'd rather not see.  I am constantly bombarded with updates and images and activities and events and messages...  You fellow facebook fans know what I mean.

Although blogs are less animated than facebook, I love them too.  Some of the imaginary friendships I've established are dear to me.  (I sound like a complete LOSER, I know.)  Trav-O and Tracie make me piss my pants on a daily basis.  I love how Melissa and Aimee keep it real.  Nancy touches my bipolarity.  One day she'll bring out a great, big belly laugh; the next day I get all warm and fuzzy and emotional.  Even my real-life friends who blog rock my world pretty regularly.

Twitter, though??  Just a stream of meaningless comments from some random folks with whom I have no actual relationship.  Even my real friends who I follow on twitter seem to have abandoned the place.  The last comment I received from Nick was in March of last year.  *Insert theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly*  Twitter is like a ghost town.

I have this mental picture of tumbleweeds rolling across my screen when I log in.  I'm all alone.  In a creepy little ghost town.  Just me, the tumbleweeds, some dust, and that ghost playing piano in the abandoned saloon.  You never had a rope around your neck. Well, I'm going to tell you something. When that rope starts to pull tight, you can feel the Devil bite your ass.  (I don't know what that's all about.  I just stole it from the movie, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.  I like it; I'm keeping it.)

Aw, hell...the memories of old westerns.  Old westerns I had to watch because my dad was the ruler of our house, and we only had one television... 

Note to self:  Do not ramble about nonsense blog until you've had your morning caffeine and meds.

The Ugly World of Youth Sports

I warn you...  This is a LONG vent!!!  Mama's on a tirade today.

My kids are young.  My oldest is only five years old, and the baby is four.  I know they are really too young to get very involved in sports, but they both asked to play this year.  My son wants to play baseball, and baby girl wants to play softball.  (I have no earthly idea where she's even heard the term, softball, used.  I was always a girly girl.  Dance, cheerleading, boys, hair and make up...those were my extracurricular activities.)   I was less than enthusiastic, but my husband is excited.  At least he was...

Isn't this a sweet picture??  This is what I think of when I think of youth sports.

The other night there was a meeting of the coaches for the baseball league where my son will play.  My husband and some friends volunteered to coach.  They couldn't get anyone else to do such a thankless job.  All three of them are very patient and understanding men who work well with the kids.  For that, I am extremely thankful.  They coached the kids in soccer last year.  They were great; the children really enjoyed themselves.  I think my son will at least have fun playing under their direction.  That's what it's all about any way.  Right?!?!?

I'm so naive.  What the hell was I thinking?  My husband came home from that meeting fired up.  He was pissed!  Apparently, the league is fairly large and warrants two divisions.  There will be a National League and an American League.  Still no biggie, right?  They'll just pull teams from a hat and split the kids.  I could have had all the whole system organized and color-coded by team in a few hours.  (Just one more reason why WOMEN should rule the world.)  But I digress... 

Anyprick (thanks Big Travy and Tracie...I love those in your posts), there are a few coaches from last year who are quite shady.  (Pick up your chin.  I'm appalled, too.)  As is typical of "shady" folks, these coaches were trying to ensure that all the experienced players were in one league and on their teams.  Those bastards were trying to rig the whole "draft" process!  They wanted to split the league so that all the newbies are in one weak league and those with experience in one dominant league.  The idea is to have all the players they deem "superior" in the better league when All-Stars rolls around. 

These are freakin' 4-6 year olds, people!  HELL-O?!?  They haven't even started playing yet!  How much fun will it be for the new kids to have the blocks beaten off them every time they hit the field???  Hell, my kid isn't even clear about how to use the bat I bought him.  He thinks it's to chase the dog!

I've said it before, but I'm so naive.  According to a friend who has a son playing in the same league, the shady coaches have actually been practicing with some of the kids they want on their teams.  OMeff'nG!How do you practice when your team hasn't even been selected yet???  The draft isn't even until next Tuesday, for crying out loud.  How do they even know that these kids will be on their teams! 

Uuuggghhh...!  I was so apprehensive about playing with this group to begin with.  Now, I'm dreading it with a passion.  The first time I hear some coach say something inappropriate or hurtful to my son, I will beat him to death with his own baseball bat scream!  Look, you bastard!  Just because your fat ass never made it any further than bat boy for your high school team, doesn't give you the right to push my child around so you can puff up with pride.  Just because you work at a miserable, menial job in the Slim-Fast factory, doesn't mean you can crush my child's self-esteem in an effort to make him miserable, too.   

I'm going to go out on a limb and make a prediction.  I predict that none of these kids will become professional baseball players.  I will go even further, and say that over half of the kids playing will not even play high school ball.  *GASP in shock*  That's right, folks!  I'm psychic.  Just call me Nostradamus.  Check back in ten years.  I bet I'm dead on the money!  My son isn't the most coordinated thing in the world.  He wears glasses, for Christ's sakes!  I doubt he can even see the ball.  I don't expect him to play every game nor do I believe he has even the slightest chance of making an All-Star team.  I only agreed to let him play because I thought it would be fun.  Sounds like a regular amusement park, huh?


*As I let out a very long, deep sigh*  This is going to be a very long season...

Memoir Monday - My One and Only Trashy Girl Fight

Hey Ferb!  I know what we're going to do today... 



It's Memoir Monday again.  It's time for you to go on over to Travis' blog at I Like to Fish... and indulge your funny bone.  Dude is a trip, and so are the bloggers he lists. 

I think it's probably already been established, but let's review just for kicks.  When I was a young college student, partying was my biggest priority.  Screw an education; I was there to get my groove on.  To tell the truth, those were THE best years of my life.  I was young and carefree with no responsibilities and no obligations.  School work was a breeze.  In addition, I was a teacher's pet.  Sadly, some of my grades were not necessarily earned.  I think I got some because my professors were males, and they were enamoured with my big boobies charm.  When I wasn't trying to persuade Dr. Niroomand to give me extra credit points so that I could have an A instead of a B, I was partying like a rock star.  Life was good!

Unfortunately, back then, I didn't realize how good.  In the last semester of my final year about two weeks before my finals, my boyfriend and I broke up.  :(  No, this wasn't Scotty.  This was the one that I thought was "THE" one.  We'd dated all through college.  Of course, we fought about as much as Scotty and I, but we were going to be together for-EVA!  Apparently, he had other plans for the rest of his life.

We went to college in a town about an hour and a half from our home town.  On occasion, we'd make the drive home to visit the parents and get our laundry done.  I remember this weekend like it was just yesterday.  He and I got into a HUGE fight about who would do the driving.  No, I am not kidding you.  We literally went to blows over our transportation arrangements.  It seems B wanted me to drive, but I was too tired.

"I'm not driving!  You're driving."
Oh, hell no!  It's your turn.  I drove last time.
"You bitch!"
You bastard!
"Well, then you are driving on the way back."
F~@k you!

It was the longest hour and a half drive in the history of the world.  Not a word was spoken.  He dropped me off at my parents' house and headed to his.  No goodbye, no go to hell.  NADA.  Take your sh!t and get the hell out of my car was written all over his face, though.

I found it a little weird that he made no attempts to call me that whole weekend.  Usually we'd get in a fight, cuss each other out, and then screw get back together again.  I've always been spookily intuitive, and this was no exception.  I could just feel that something wasn't right.  We'd gone without speaking before, but I knew this was different.

Sure enough, he'd gone to a friend's party that weekend and met another girl.  While I didn't get all the details, I am sure he got blind-running drunk and skanked it on out with ol' girl.  Anyho, he broke up with me.  Miss Thang was now his girl.  We dated for over three years, and Miss Thang replaced me in less than 72 hours. 

I was crushed!  I begged; I pleaded.  I even went over for several booty calls to try and work things out.  I looked like a blubbering idiot!  When you are heart-broken, your humility goes right out the window I guess.  Regardless, he tossed me aside like yesterday's boxers.  Even with a little dose of xanax and some scrumptious Chris Cogswell, I refused to leave with dignity.  I stalked him; I called; I...WTF was I doing???  My feeble attempts at reconciliation were for naught.  He had a new bi-otch.

Yes, Miss Thang.  Well, Miss Thang was a bit rougher than me.  She was from, what was then, a rural area of our county.  One of those country girls who chewed tabacco and wrestled pigs for a good time.  (Don't quote me on that.  I haven't seen it in person.  I've only heard about it.)  Yup, she was a Budweiser drinkin', bottle bustin', bad roots sportin' girl.  Who had him.  And I didn't.

To say I trash talked her, well, would be the truth.  I was jealous.  My ego had been demolished.  I looked for every opportunity to tell folks what a trashy little ho' she was.  That boyfriend, stealin' skank!  I'd never met her, but I was sure she was no match for me!  I'm prettier.  I'm thinner.  I'm smarter.  I'm nicer.  At least, that is what I tried to tell myself.  On the inside, though, I felt ANYTHING but pretty, smart, or nice.

OMG!  Did you see her???  She is still wearing a perm.  LOL!  Doesn't she know that mall hair went out about 5 years ago?  And look at those roots!  She looks like a skunk.  He needs to quit buying her cigarettes and buy her some Miss Clairol.  She doesn't even go to college.  She has a JOB or something.  LOL!  I know, right?  How ridiculous is that?  I guess she's needs a way to pay the rent on that trailer.  

Fast forward to March.  Mardi Gras, as a matter of fact.  Pass Christian parade.  The party parade to be outdone by no other.  If you are a college student living in southern Mississippi, you do NOT miss the Pass Parade.  Everyone is there, and everyone is drunk.  Seriously...  In order to park your vehicle near the parade route, you have to park it a few days before.  It's that BIG.

That's exactly what one of my friends did, though, so on the day of the parade we were all piled in the back of his truck rocking it!  It was a beautiful day.  We had Depeche Mode pumped and the keg tapped.

Your own.  Personal.  Jesus.
Someone to hear your prayers,
Someone who cares.
Reach out and touch faith...

It just couldn't get any better than that day.  Of course, you know things were going too good to make it a memorable day.  While we were looking like rock stars on the back of that truck, my ex and Miss Thang were walking around near by.  I'm sure they were pissed because all the people I was there with I'd actually met through him.  They were his friends first, but they were with me.

Before I realize what was going on, Miss Thang grabbed me by the hair in the back of my head.  At first, I just thought someone was trying to hug me.  I never saw or heard her.  She tried to yank me out of the back of that truck!  See, I told you she was a rough one.  OMG!  What if I break a nail??  My make up!  God don't let her mess up my make up.  I don't fight!  I just talk trash.  I don't actually act like it!  Lord, I hope nobody sees this. 

I couldn't resist!  This is for you little pervs out there who are trying to develop a mental picture of the whole episode.  Get your minds out of the gutter! 

Lucky for me, I think Scrumptious Chris got her off of me.  I was so embarrassed.  And humiliated.  That's what I get for being such a bitch running my mouth!  See??  I told you Karma has been spanking my ass for years.