Tissue Anyone???

Every Wednesday at 6 p.m., I'm at the gym torturing myself getting my Zumba on.  Sweating like a whore in church, I'm shaking and squatting and kicking and jumping and all kinds of other things that I'm too damn old to do but I do so I can eat cake.  And each Wednesday, I'm running about five minutes late.  Well, that's actually every day but who's counting?? 

But on Wednesday, my daughter has dance until 5:30 p.m.  In another county.  Getting to that  6 p.m. Zumba class without harming anyone is a miraculous feat all on its own.  But I get there.  Usually I'm still putting on my shoes and socks when I race through the door.  Clear the way, folks, I've got to get my Zumba on!

Today was no exception.  Well, that's not exactly true.  Today I was about three meltdowns shy of homicide.  My daughter was tired and irritable.  And impossible.  She didn't want to wear her ballet shoes.  She didn't want to dance.  She didn't want to go home.  She cried.  She screamed.  As 50 people watched.  Another fabulous day in the life... 

My blood pressure was through the roof by the time I dropped her off at the house prior to going to the gym.  All I could think was how a good work out would keep me from drinking the poisoned Kool-Aid.  Or feeding it to one of my kids.  (just kidding, folks...  Keep the authorities out of it, k?!?)  I grabbed my shoes and socks and made a run for it.  I did, at least, dress for the gym before dance class.

Like I said, I was about five minutes late.   

They're still doing the warm up.  Yes, it's not nearly as crowded and no one is in my usual spot.  Life is good.

Until the warm up was over.  squat...ball change...  UH-oh! 

Something wasn't right.  Something was moving around in my shorts.  I couldn't explain it, but something was definitely going on down there. 

Then it dawned on me.  In the midst of all the chaos, I stuck a tissue in the waistband of my shorts.  My sinuses have been crazy.  I blew my nose, but had no place to dispose of the tissue.  I just stuck it in my shorts.  And completely forgot it was there.

Now, I was jumping around and gyrating like Elvis, and that damn tissue was working its way down in the panties of my Nike shorts. 

Shit!!  What if it falls out onto the floor while I'm mid-squat?  How will I explain tissue falling out of my nether regions?!?!  Jesus tapdancing Christ! 

There I was in a room full of people.  I couldn't just reach down into the crouch of my shorts and pull out that tissue.  And if I went to the restroom, I'd lose my Zumba momentum.  I mustn't burn anything less than 400 calories. 

Single, single, double... 

The tissue was definitely down in the, um...well...um, southern-most region of my shorts.  I was on the verge of a freakin' heart attack just waiting for that shit falls out. 

Kegel exercises, LB.  Practice your Kegels.  Punch, jab, punch, kick...  How the hell can I squeeze and kick at the same time?!?!   

As I continued to Zumba, I prayed that the tissue would stay put.  I was on the damn front row, for crying out loud!  It's bad enough those young girls have to watch my 45 year old ass grind to "Fergalicious."  Can you imagine how the sight of flying objects being released from my private area would affect them?!?!?  I don't think there's enough therapy in the world to heal the scars created by that scene.

If I were a boy...  *Beyonce's cool down song* 

Praise Jesus!  I made it!

I don't know how I did it, but I was able to keep that tissue locked tight in my panties.  By the cool down, it was fully lodged between my butt cheeks.  It completed a full rotation. 

That's when I had an epiphany.  A light bulb moment, if you will.  It finally occurred to me why Nike put those little panties inside their running shorts.  You don't get that feature from Adidas. 

WTF????

So I'm browsing the internet looking for more news about the release of the West Memphis 3, when my ADD kicked in.  I clicked on one link.  Then another.  And I clicked again.  And again.  And suddenly, I found myself on a website of awkward family photos.  It's amazing what google will give you when you add the word "Arkansas" to your search. 

Now I'm obsessed and could care less about the West Memphis 3.  Here are just a few of the gems that I found:

I have no words for this one, except if you see these folks run for your effn' life!!!  Seriously?!?  A bayonet?  And who the heck is the little green guy in the center?  Their son?  Yes.  I realize those people are butt ugly, but does an ugly Y chromosome plus an ugly X chromosome equal a damn parrot?????

I hope the internet police don't come take me away for this one because I'm fairly certain this is child porn gone wrong.

Um, Mom...  I love you.  Now, there's this kickin' Satanic worship tonight that starts at 7:00 p.m.  They are going to sacrifice a 3 year old boy.  Can I go???  Please?!?!?  I promise I'll be home by 10:00 p.m. 

Look at this proud papa!  Hmmm...  I wonder if there's much sibling rivalry between these two?

I now pronounce you Swamp Man and Wife.  "Choot-em, Clant, Choot-em!" 

And now you know how Michael Myers' life began...  And why he was a psycho serial killer!!!  He had serious Mommy issues.

If I weren't so damn appalled, I might be impressed by the fact that this four year old can actually read!  Can you say "Unabomber-ette"?   

As my friend, Laurie, would say, "Oh Lord!"  Another child porn photo.  This is disturbing on so many levels.  I wonder if it's too late to turn this photo over to authorities?  I bet we'll see this man again on the evening news.

And the National Humane Society needs a copy of this one.  Those poor cats!  Hopefully, they were put to sleep and out of their misery shortly after this photo was taken.

Try not to do anything as stupid as what you've witnessed in these photos.  But.  If you do.  Please, please, Puh-leeeez, for the love of God.  Take pics and tag me on facebook!

Peace.

On His Second Day

My son.  He's going to a politician.  This is not a compliment.

This year, Mr. OCD and I decided to send our children to the elementary school in our neighborhood.  Last year, my son went to the elementary school near the high school where I work because, well...it's convenient.  However, this summer when he was aggravating the shit out of me, it became apparent that he needed to find some friends.  We live in a typical middle-class neighborhood with lots of children his age.  Lots of potential friends.  More importantly, lots of potential friends' houses where he can potentially play rather be up my rear end.  A little less convenient, but a lot more beneficial.

Today was my son's second day at his new school.  The SECOND!  Bear with me as I count.  1...2...!

And on day 2, he found himself in the principal's office.  I'm a teacher!  hel-LO???  Who gets sent to the principal's office on the 2nd day of school?

My damn kid, that's who.  He apparently hit a girl in the cafeteria because she was screaming at him.  WTF??!!!

Oh, that's not the worst of it.  No!

When I picked him up from school today, he proceeded to go into great detail about how wonderful his day went.  With much enthusiasm, he indicated that he got an A+++ for the day.  He was so good, and he was well on his way to having a sleep over on Friday night.  Wooo Whoooo!  High Five, Mama!  I'm on a roll!

Initially, I believed him.  I had no reason not to believe him.  Until he made the mistake of saying, "The principal said I was being so good."


Uh-oh!  My Fibanator honed in on those words.  Poor boy; he's only six.  He' doesn't yet realize that his Mama can sniff out a lie like no one else.  Before he runs for public office, he really needs to master the fine art of fabricating the truth.  

Really?!?!  So the principal said you were good today, huh?  You mean to tell me that Mrs. F sent you to the principal's office because you were good?

Oh, it gets better.  "Yea, Mama.  And ya know what?  My principal said he's going to be at my baseball game tonight, but he you can't talk to him."  Like my husband, the principal is a dad/coach for his son's tee ball team in the same league.

Now, E.  Why would I not talk to him after you had such a great day???  I need to tell him how proud I am of you.  I can't wait to see him tonight!  It's then that I begin to recognize the panic in his eyes.  I know it's mean to play with his emotions, but I just can't help myself.

His tone becomes more serious.  And desperate.  "Mama, you still sound so sick.  You probably don't need to go to my ball game tonight.  You should just stay home and rest."

Coincidentally, that statement reminded me that I needed to call my doctor back about my prescription.  When I dialed the number, E's eyes got as big as saucers and he began to gag like he would puke.  "Who are you calling, Mama???  WHO?!?!  Mama, who is that?!?!?!"  He was in a full-blown panic attack by the time the doctor's office answered the phone.

As soon as I finished talking to the nurse, I turned to him and stared.  He crumbled.  The jig was up; he was busted.

"Okay, here's the truth..."

He proceeded to tell me that he received a straight face in class that day.  He got in trouble for yelling.  Apparently, something didn't go his way and he had a meltdown.  A trait he inherited from Mr. OCD who is also known as Mr. Temper Tantrum.

Then he explained that he had to go to the principal's office during lunch for hitting a girl.  "But she was screaming at me for no reason, Mama."  I seriously wanted to kill him.

My kid.  A teacher's kid.  Acting like a juvenile delinquent.  The next twelve years will probably be the longest of my life.   

He's a Juvenile Offender

Hi.  My name is LB, and my son is a kleptomaniac.

There!  I said it.  Admitting is the first step, right?  But the first step to what?  What exactly, pray tell, am I to do??? 

Last year, on a few occasions, I caught my six year old, sweet little E, taking things that did not belong to him.  In fact, I had practically forgotten about his felonious activities from last summer.  Check it out!  Go ahead; I'll wait. 

Trying so hard to be an understanding and compassionate mother, I tried to explain to him that we do not take what is not ours without permission.  And each time, he replied with, "I'm sorry, but I really wanted it."  After explaining further that we don't always get what we want, the conversation would always end with him looking so sweet and sincerely apologetic. 

Don't do it again, Son. 

"Okay, Mama.  I'm sorry." 

Lately he's been "finding" things with more frequency.  At a birthday party, I caught him trying to stuff one of the birthday boy's gifts down his pants.  I was mortified.  This was the second such incident at a birthday party.  His daddy took him to the restroom for a little "counseling." 

Then today he started a new after-school camp at his new elementary school.  When I arrived to pick him up  this afternoon, he told me that he had a surprise for his sister.  There I was, with a line of people behind me, signing him out and trying to pacify him.  Okay, Sweetie.  That's very nice of you to think of her.  Without even considering where said surprise actually came from. 

Until we got to the car.  And he started unloading all the trinkets in his backpack.  First he pulled out some little McDonald's doll for his sister.  "Here G.  This is one of the ones you don't have.  Now you only need to get the Lemon girl." 

My first thought???  Awwww, how sweet!  Isn't he the sweetest brother EVER?  Quickly, though, I was suspicious seeing as 1.) I hadn't taken him to McDonald's that day, 2.) he certainly didn't have any money for McDonald's, and 3.) where the hell could he have acquired that toy without money or transportation??? 

Before I could start my interrogation regarding the acquisition of little Miss Lemon Meringue, he pulled something else out of his backpack.  Like a damn magician.  Poof!  A big, purple VW Beetle with peace signs covering it.  Clearly someone's toy.  Definitely NOT his.

Where did that come from, Son?

"Oh, I found it on the stage."

What do you mean you found it on the stage?  Where on the stage?

"Yea, it was just laying on the ground."

Well, I don't believe it was just laying around belonging to no one.  Does it belong to the camp?  Something that big is not going to be laying around on the stage without anyone noticing it.

"No, I swear.  It was just sitting on the ground."

At this point, I'm starting to get pissed because I realize that he took the items from the camp toy supply.  You march yourself right back in there and give those things back to the camp counselors!  Now!

As he is climbing out of my van, he pulls yet another toy out of his backpack.  A small super hero figurine.  "Um, okay...  I found this one too, Mama.  I'll just give them all to the teacher.  I just forgot to put them up before going home.  Sorry." 

Not only is he a klepto, but he also has a little problem with, um, embellishing the truth. 

Aw, hell...I gotta call a Spade a Spade.  He lies.  A lot. 

He's freakin' six years old and headed straight for the Riverbend Correctional Institution!  I have no idea where in Tennessee it is located, but it's featured regularly during Lockdown marathons on MSNBC.  It's a bad place with bad people, yall.  Real talk. 

I do not do prison.  Social visits or otherwise.  I'd probably be willing to put a little money in his commissary fund, but I ain't hanging out with murderers and their girlfriends on the weekends.  This cannot be our lives! 

He needs an intervention, a coming to Jesus meeting, a scared straight visit to juvy...  Something! 

All the while, I can't help but think that God works with us in funny ways.  He has a damn sense of humor, ya know?!?  On any given day if asked what I consider to be the worst character flaws ever, lying, stealing, and cheating would be at the top.  Every time.  You might think, "Well, one out of three...," but he cheats too.  Just try playing Bingo with him. 

Seriously, though, I am a straight shooter.  I don't lie.  Hell, I can't lie.  My feelings are always on display for the world to see.  If I do something wrong, everyone knows it.  My sister quit hanging out with me in high school because I ratted her out so much.  Sooo many times I wished I was capable of lying.  I sure could have saved myself from a lot of grief.  I hate that about myself.  No game face. 

Consequently, I do not deal well with folks I can't trust.  I don't like shady.  Period.  I guess that's why God put that sweet little liar in my life.  To test me.  He's my shady cross to bear. 

Uuuugggghhhh!!!!!  FML.  I'm too old for this shit!