The War of the Bs

It's on!  On like Donkey Kong!   

The war of the Bs, baby!

I am pissed at Mr. OCD at this moment.  In fact from this point forward, I will refer to him as The Jackass.  Because he is one.  A self-centered jackass to be more specific. 

He is apparently blinded by his pathetic ego.  Lucky for him, I'm a peaceful person otherwise he might be blinded by a freakin' fork.  A fork dipped in Sulfuric acid.  Let me explain before you report me to the authorities.  Trust me, my thoughts are justified.

My daughter is five and in preschool.  In actuality, she goes to two preschools.  Half of the day is spent at a public preschool and the other half is spent at her daycare/preschool.  The daycare where she's been a student since she was an infant.  The daycare where she's spent most of her little life.  The daycare that she will be leaving behind when she starts Kindergarten in the fall.  The daycare that will be holding graduation ceremonies on May 6th.

It's a Friday night.  Unfortunately, it is also the same night as one of my son's t-ball games.  One of probably 20.  And it's t-ball, for Christ's sake.  Not the majors.

Do you know what The Jackass had the audacity to say to me this afternoon???  "Well, E and I will not be at the graduation.  We've got a game."

Aw, hell.  My blood's starting to boil all over again just thinking about it.

Are you freakin' kidding me?  Your daughter is graduating from preschool!  YOUR. DAUGHTER.  You didn't miss his graduation.  You have five other coaches on that team.  I am positive that they can make it one game without the two of you.

"I'm not missing that game," was his response. 

I wanted to hit him with a freakin' baseball bat at that point.  The light bulb came on, and everything became perfectly clear.  This had nothing to do with his responsibility to a team of COMPLETE. freakin'. strangers. who are not his own children.  Hell, no!  It is all about his freakin' ego.  It's all about THAT particular game.  Yes, on that night his little t-ball team will be playing the toughest competitor in the league.  THAT game is sure to be a big one.

He makes me sick, and I'm pulling out the big guns.  Mark my word.  So help me God, if he doesn't go to our daughter's graduation he will not get any for the entire summer!  Our poor baby girl is far more important than some he-man, chest-puffing, fist-pumping ego trip for 40 year old men trying to live vicariously through their damn 6 year old sons.

In 20 years, no one will remember whether or not he was at that effn' ballgame.  No one!  Because it's not freakin' important to the health and well-being of his family!  However, unless he wants his daughter to feel as though she is not worthy of his attention his ass better be at that graduation.

I'll let you know how it turns out...  Until then, The Jackass is on my shit list. 

Symmetry

I have this little quirk about symmetry.  I like things to match.  Groupings and sets with even numbers.  I just feel off-kilter when things are disproportionate.  Balance is good.

Today is one of those days of imbalance.  It's my birthday.  My forty-fifth birthday.  An odd number.  I hate it.

I've always been bothered by the odd numbered birthdays.  I can remember feeling so old on my 29th birthday, but loving life on my 30th. 

Now it's official, though.  I'm old.  I'm closer to fifty than I am to forty.  I can't think of anything pleasing about being 45 years old.  Oh...well, one thing.  I guess it's better than being dead. 

I work out and try to eat right, but for what?  I'm old.  No one cares what I look like.  Ain't nobody looking twice at a 45 year old woman.  Except for Ashton Kutcher.  But Demi Moore is a freak of nature with a gazillion dollars to invest in plastic surgery.  I don't like her very much.

Although I spend more time at the gym than with my family, I still look like a frumpy, old lady.  My body has morphed into something I barely recognize anymore.  I could live on twigs and berries, and still not have the body that I took for granted (and thought was fat) when I was 21 years old.

What sucks even more is that 45 is still too young to just say "Screw it!  I'm trading in my Victoria's Secret for a moumou and some bloomers."  I can't retire and walk the mall every day!

Crap, crap, crap!  Blah, blah, blah...whaaa, whaaa, whaaa! 

I'm going to quit crying now.  Suffice it to say that I don't like being forty-five very much. 

These made me laugh, though.

Things That Make Me Go Hmmm...

Fake nails.  Acrylic.  Gel.  14 karat freakin' gold.  Whatever.

Seriously, I hate the way they look!  I know there are lots of people who wear them.  Hell, all I have to do is walk in for a pedicure on any given day and be reminded of their popularity.  The Asian shop where I go has 487 manicure stations and 4 pedicure chairs.  FOUR!  If you give me a sec, I can spew some statistics.

Wait for it, wait for it.

Thanks! Yea, that's 99.2% of the stations for those silly-looking fake nails.

America, please.  I implore you.  Stop wasting your time and money on fingernails.

First of all, that drill thing they use can NOT be good for you.  I just got chills imagining that sound.  At least the dentist gives you anesthesia before he drills a hole in your teeth.  Ain't no way I'm letting anyone with less than a medical degree get anywhere near me with a drill.  ANYWHERE!  Can we say "horrific finger trauma" just waiting to happen???

Secondly, all those chemicals!  Lord, the smell!  What the heck is that stuff??  It has to be killing your brain cells (and mine now that I think about it).  Ever wonder why the nail techs wear little face masks???  They don't want to DIE.  I don't know what a meth lab smells like but I bet it's got to smell better than those chemicals used to create those ridiculous appendages.

The end result??  Plastic-looking things that hang off the end of your fingers.  Un-damn-natural.  Those objects stand about 1/2 above the actual nail bed.  Instead of the sleek line formed by an extended finger, there's this line then a "flip."  That flip is what bugs me the most.  The faux nail begins deep into the cuticle area then takes on a life form of its own.  It looks like a tiny, little bike ramp.

So you suffer through the drill and the deadly chemicals for an hour of your valuable time and $50 of your hard-earned money, for what???  For some fingernails that, no matter how much you paid or to whom you paid it, do not look even remotely like the real thing!  If the objective is not to get beautiful, well-groomed hands, then what is?!?

Dear Ms. Fake Nail Wearer, what is your motive?  Why do you have this weaponry attached to your fingers?  Must they be 30 inches long, painted that chartreuse color, and embellished with tiny American flags?  How do you wipe?  Or button your pants, for that matter?

Things that make me go hmmmm...

Spa Day

My son watches too much television.  I think that's already been established.  In order to get his attention, I literally have to turn the thing off.  Even then, he stares at the blank screen thinking there must be some sort of mistake and maybe it will come back on if he stares long enough.  The lazy mom that I am has created this little monster.

It has it's advantages, though.  Yesterday, for instance, he surprised me with a "spa day" compliments of the Phineas & Ferb episode where the boys create a luxurious spa in the backyard for Candace and Stacy.

Mom, I'm going to give you a su-ssage.  Lay down and let me put this towel over you.  I'm going to walk on your back and give you a karate chop.

My first thought is that I'm too busy with laundry to play.  However, I quickly reconsidered.  When was the last time someone offered to give me a su-ssage??  Um, not since those wilder single days, and I'm not sure those really counted as "spa" treatments.

I relented.  He proceeded to walk on my back.  He then began chopping complete with "Hi-Ya" sounds.

Okay, now this next part is a little messy but I'll wash you off in the hot tub.  G, I need you to get some mud out of the backyard.  Mom, I need you to put just hot water in the tub.

Um, can we just skip that part, honey?  I think your daddy will have a fit if you bring mud into the house.

Uh, okay.  Daddy will probably spank me.  Let's just pretend. 

He pretended to pat me down with mud.  By this time, the baby sister joined in.  She, too, wanted an opportunity to walk on Mommy's back.

This next step might make me puke!  I have to put pickles on your eyes!  Yuck!  I hate pickles!  Can I use bananas instead?

How about I just close my eyes and we'll pretend I have pickles on them.

Okay.  We don't have pickles any way.

It was the most incredible spa treatment I'd ever received... 

Until the fighting began. 

G, I'm doing that part.  Give me back that towel!  Mom, G won't do it right.

I want to give Mama a su-ssage, too.  Mama, E won't let me help.

Ahhh...so much for relaxation.

Her First "Booty" Pageant

First off, I did not put my 5 year old daughter in an actual booty pageant.  That's disgusting!  Maybe when she's 15.

So, one of the clubs at the high school where I teach hosted a Little Miss Spring Blossom pageant this morning. Pageants are definitely not my thing, but my daughter begged me.  She is all about anything that involves hair, make-up, and a sparkly tiara.  For the last week, she's talked about nothing but this "booty" pageant.  She told her teachers.  She told her tumbling coach.  She told her friends.  She told my friends.  She was super excited all week long.

Fast forward to this morning.  I fixed her hair and applied a little "makeup."  Well, I primarily swept my makeup brushes across the applicable areas.  She didn't know any different, and I didn't have a Jon-Benet Ramsey sitting in front of me.  A win-win, and she felt like a princess.

When we got to the pageant, she found a friend from dance class.  They played and danced back stage as they waited their turns.  G never once whimpered or acted a bit shy.  She was having fun.  Until it was her turn...

As soon as her age group began to line up, I noticed she was no longer her usual confident, bubbly self.  She put her fingers in her mouth and looked down.  As we got to the stage entrance, she turned to me and said "I don't want to go out there, Mommy."

Great...  Stage fright.

Are you kidding me?  I got up at 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday morning so that you could do this, and now you're saying you don't want to do this????  You better put on your big girl panties and get your ass out there!!! 

Relax.  Before you call DHS on me, I only thought that.  Briefly.  For, like, a millisecond.  Maybe even less.

I tried to encourage her.  I walked with her all the way up to the stage.  I held her hand.  I tried to comfort her.  You can do this, G!  It's just like a dance recital.

Who was I kidding?  No it wasn't.  She had to go out on stage by herself and smile.  Now that I think about it, I'd have been scared too.  At least when she's dancing, she's there with her fellow dance students focusing on her dance steps.  The audience is inconsequential.

But, standing on a stage and smiling is NOTHING like that.  It's just you and the audience.  All of them.  Rows and rows of strangers.  Some very big strangers.  At least to a five year old. 

Needless to say, she choked.  I forced her out onto the stage where she proceeded to cover her face and cry.  Although she was dressed in a pretty little Easter dress and sparkly sandals, she might as well have been naked.  She was embarrassed.  She stood there.  She just cried.  It broke my heart.

She was the prettiest girl in the place.  And she had a snowball's chance in hell of actually winning anything.

When the winners were announced, the tears got even worse.  Only they weren't from G.  Her brother, E, my sweet, sensitive son had a complete meltdown.  He was so upset that his sister didn't win.  I thought they would have to remove him from the building.  Luckily he's only six because most of the audience found it endearing.  I imagine if he were older, things would have gone much differently for Mr. Competitive Britches.  We're going to have to work on his sportsmanship...

After his hysterical performance, G got a bit upset too.  She cried again.  She wanted a trophy.  Again, my heart ached.  This was my baby girl's first taste of defeat.  And I didn't like it one stinking bit.

Lord, I pray she won't ask to do another one.  I do not make a very good pageant mom.  And I certainly don't want to see that side of her again.  That side that lacked confidence and spirit.  I much prefer the sassy little diva that runs our house and orders her daddy around like a servant.   

Some may disagree, but this is my damn blog so my opinion is all that counts and that's okay.  For me, though, I think pageants are actually self-esteem crushers.  Why the hell do they call them beauty pageants, any way?  That's not even what they are about.  The girl who won had a fake hair piece and more makeup than me on her face!  That is NOT beauty.  Don't get me wrong; Miss Beauty Pageant Winner may very well be beautiful.  However, all that crap on her face and in her hair seemed to tarnish her beauty.  Know what I mean???

See, I told you I don't make a good pageant mom.  Rest assured.  You will not be seeing G on an upcoming episode of Toddlers & Tiaras.

The Preschool Clique

My daughter is a mean girl.  She's five.

This week her preschool went on a field trip to the zoo.  Her daddy took her.  She specifically requested him so that he would bring her and her best friend to see the alligators.  I guess she didn't think I was capable of protecting her from the big, bad alligators behind the very thick, bullet-proof glass.  But that's not really the point.  Sorry.  ADD moment...

Anymeanasslittlegirl, she already has a best friend.  Her BFF, Abby Lou, is the daughter of a coworker.  It's quite ironic that they became such good friends because last year she told me that she didn't like girls with short hair.  Seeing as Abby Lou has short hair, I was quite surprised by their instant bond.  The two of them are like Thelma & Louise.  Rice and beans.  Candace and Stacy.

This BFF duo is actually trouble disguised as completely adorable with ringlets and hair bows.  As with any girl besties situation, there's always the third wheel.  You know, that friend with whom both of them will hang when the besty is not available.  The girl who longs to be a best friend, too, yet she's just not.

That's Sarah Lynn.  The third wheel.  The one that my little mean girl, G, didn't want to invite to her birthday party last year because she had short hair.  Did I tell you these girls are all five???


Back at the zoo...

Sarah Lynn wanted to hang out with the two BFFs.  She and her mom stayed with the group of my coworker, Mr. OCD, Abby Lou, and G the mean ass.  While walking through the animal exhibits, the BFFs were holding hands.  Of course, Sarah Lynn, desperate to be a part of their little clique, wanted to hold hands too.  When Sarah Lynn tried to hold my little diva's hand, she pulled away and said "I need this hand to push my hair back when it gets in my eyes."

WTF???  It gets worse.  In front of an animal exhibit, Abby Lou and Sarah Lynn, were standing together against the rail watching the animals.  G didn't like that so she pinched Sarah Lynn.  Of course, this made Sarah Lynn run off crying to her mom.  Mission accomplished for G, though.  Sarah Lynn was no longer standing next to Abby Lou.

Mothers of daughters - BEWARE!  It's part of God's plan.  You will reap what you sow!

Nothing Like the Wrath of Daddy

My daughter woke everyone up this morning at 5:49 a.m.  I was pissed and begged her to go back to sleep.  I even let her crawl in bed with me and her brother.  (Yes, my son's pretty much taken over my bedroom.  Daddy has been sleeping on the couch.  To say our sex life is exciting would be an....uh....well, a bad April Fool's joke.)  I tried rubbing her back, but no deal.  She wanted to talk...

Against my better judgment, I got my butt out of bed.  My intentions were selfish, though.  I got up to turn on some cartoons and make her a nice pallet on the couch.  While I was feverishly working to get her away from me so I could go back to bed, she went back into my bedroom and woke up her brother.   

Crap!  Now they're both up!  Wait...Ahhh, yes.  Now they are both up and out of my bed.  Cha-ching!  I've got the bed to myself.  Surely they can play together for an hour or so without torching the house.  I'll fix them some cereal and sneak back into my bedroom while they eat.  Perfect plan!

Even at 6:00 a.m., my genius can kick in.  Just as I got back to bed, I hear this:

E:  Jaden, J-A-D-E-N

G: Is this what a D looks like?

E:  Yes, now Daniel, D-A-N-I-E-L

For a moment, I was totally impressed.  I know E has learned a lot in kindergarten this year, but how to spell the names of his friends???  That's freakin' awesome!

E:  Luke, L-U-K-E

G:  What is his number?

What a minute.  Those aren't his classmates.  Those are his team mates.  They are writing something somewhere.  So I yell.  I'm suspicious but not enough to get my butt out of bed.  E and G!  What are you writing?  What are you writing?  You better not be in your daddy's stuff!  Too late.  I hear them scurrying around the dining room where their dad has put all the baseball gear of his t-ball team.

Shit!  I had to get up.

I find them on the floor with the brand, new, tags-still-on-them baseball hats.  Writing the names and numbers of the players on the inside of the bill.  With MARKER!  Oh, hell, their daddy is going to kill them.

I'm giggling on the inside because that is what he gets for going hunting this morning.  Mama is spoiled, you see, and always gets to sleep in on Saturdays while Daddy gets up with the kids.  This morning, though, he was in the woods and Mama was out of her mind desperate for more shut eye.

I called to tell him the news.  It's official.  He's going to kill them.

As I began typing this blog, I heard my two angels run up the stairs into their bedrooms.  I heard the doors lock.  They're scared, shitless.

I remember those days when I was scared my dad was actually going to kill me.  Ah, sweet memories...  Why am I enjoying this so much???