Letter to Crayola

Dear Mr. Crayola,

Can you please explain to me the specific definition of the term "Washable"?!?!?  Those words are clearly marked on your markers and crayons, however, I want to be perfectly clear about the actual meaning.  Obviously, my understanding of "washable" does not correlate to my experience with your washable markers. 

First of all, let me just say that I am a big fan.  I have been for years.  Crayola is the only brand used at our house.  Having grown up in a poor family where my parents only purchased off-brand, waxy crayons, I can honestly say that Crayola is the best.  Hands down!  And those twistable colored pencils and crayons???  Best inventions since the flushable butt wipe.  Bravo!!  Impeccable craftsmanship.  No wonder you are the preferred brand of the National Teacher's Association.

Which is why I am totally perplexed at this moment.  My concern is with washability of your markers -- every child's dream and every mother's nightmare.  Because markers are so messy, I was careful to buy those clearly marked "washable."   I assumed that they are labeled as such because the markings can be washed from surfaces and clothing.  But with what???  Is there some magic solution of which I am unaware?  Must Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny perform some form of holistic ritual in order to wash the markings away?? 

My 6 year old son, Messy Marvin, recently completed an entire mural using your markers.  Yes, I know.  I am pretty proud.  And scared.  The mural drawings depicted all the ways he could get rid of his sister.  Some were a bit, um, disturbing.  In his defense, she does the pester the crap out of him.

Any way...  As luck would have it, his mural was mostly on paper.  He did, however, manage to get a good bit on his church clothing and his small white table.  I'm talking black marker.  And blue.

This was last Sunday.  Since then I've used every surface cleaner known to man to remove the markings from the table, but to no avail.  Mr. Clean and an entire army of other shiny, bald guys could not get the black and blue marks off that table.  Short of repainting it (which will be a royal pain in my ass), I have no idea how to get that "washable" ink off my furniture!

As if that isn't bad enough, I have pre-treated, treated, soaked, and scrubbed his cute little Kelly's Kids outfit.  You know, the whale one with the turquoise polo and the brown seersucker shorts???  So adorable.  Yes, so I washed and washed because, well...ya know...the label on the markers says "Washable."  That outfit, by the way, was brand new.  The tags were still on it until last Sunday when Messy Marvin managed to ruin it in less than 20 minutes.

Even after exhausting all my laundry goddess skills, the markings remain.  As vibrant as when they were first made.  Did I mention this was a brand new outfit???? 

While it's hard for a goddess to admit, I need your prompt assistance with this matter.

Please tell me what the fuck you mean by "washable"?  Just how the hell am I supposed to remove washable marker from seersucker and wood?

If the markers are just a labeling joke on your part and the stains are permanent, I will need you to be available on Saturday from noon until 3:00 p.m.  You, sir, are going to paint that fucking table and do a little toilet cleaning to work off the clothing debt!

Sincerest Regards,


LB, Marvin's mom

It's So Hot...

My damn facebook news feed is full of temperature updates!  Okay, already...  I get it; it's HOT outside.  

In fact, it's so hot I saw a funeral procession stop at a snow cone stand.  

It's so hot, Michael Phelps tested positive for Snapple.

It's so hot, I can roast marshmallows in my belly button.

It's so hot, I can use my seat belt for a branding iron.

And if that's not hot enough for ya...

Well, it's hotter than a witch's tit in a brass bra.

It's hotter than menopause in July.

It's hotter than the pavement in Hell.

It's hotter than a pair of sweat pants at a barbecue.

Of course, this post would not be complete without me specifically conveying how hot I actually am.

I'm sweating like a whore in church.

I'm sweating like your mama at a paternity test.

I'm sweating like a big, fat, one-legged hooker working both sides of the street.

I'm sweating like a pig in a sausage factory.

I'm sweating like a $2 hooker on nickel night.

What about you?  What's the weather like in your neck of the woods???

Six Word Memoir

I know.  You're thinking, "Right, LB!  You've never said anything in six words.  EVER.  Even at birth, you screamed, Let me out of here before I have a complete meltdown."  I have to admit; this was challenging.  However, after 50 gazillion attempts, here it is!  Poetry.  LB style.

Infertility, God's test.
Faith.
Perseverance.
Blessed.

If you'd like to play along, hook up with my girl, Mama Kat at Mama's Losing It for her weekly writing prompts.  They rock!  And she does, too!  Real talk.

Kids Say the Most God Awful Things

And they actually repeat them multiple times when prompted by their repulsive family members.

The LB-OCD family is on vacation this week.  We took our sweet darlings to Six Flags.  Although there was plenty o' fodder in the joint, one incident, in particular, deserves the prize. 

The award for Most Despicable belongs to Grandma Red and Pa Pa Pimp Daddy.  Grandma Red is a portly woman with red hair.  Not orange/red/auburn hair that is often found in its natural state.  Rather, her hair is red as in the crayon.  Actually, that's not correct.  More like the red you'd find in a jug of Hawaiian Punch.  Aside from her unusual shade of hair color, she looked like any other grandmother.  Conservatively dressed.  No visible tattoos.  A purse full of Goldfish and fruit snacks.

She had taken her young grandson on a ride called Tidal Wave, your basic water ride that leaves all occupants soaking wet.  Drenched, in fact.  Anywater...  Her grandson, Little Man, was about three years old.  He, too, looked like a typical Six Flag goer.  He was riding around in a little wagon eating fruit snacks and Goldfish.  Pa Pa Pimp Daddy sat next to me in the shade as Grandma Red took Little Man on Tidal Wave.

After the ride, Grandma Red waddled over to Pa Pa Pimp Daddy.  Pa Pa Pimp Daddy looked almost presentable, too.  He had slightly gray hair hidden under a typical fishing/retirement-themed baseball cap.  He was dressed in blue jeans and nondescript sneakers.  However, he was adorned in lots of gold.  Rings on every finger and multiple chains around his neck.  Even in his teeth were 14 karat.  And he wore a big diamond earring in his left ear.   He stood guard over the Goldfish and fruit snacks. 

"Tell Pa Pa what you told Grandma.  Go ahead, Little Man.  Tell Him!"  She was laughing uncontrollably, slapping her thighs and snorting.  She was bent over with her legs crossed, and I thought she might pee on herself, bless her heart.

"Pa Pa, that ride got me so fucking wet!" Little Man exclaimed proudly.  Pa Pa giggle.  Little Man beamed with pride. 

Shortly afterward, Little Man's mom shows up.  Grandma Red turns to Little Man and asks him to tell his mom what that ride did to him. 

"That ride got me so fucking wet, Mommy!"

Mom also began to laugh uncontrollably.  All the while, I'm sitting on a bench nearby totally freaking out!  Are you people kidding me???  Am I on Candid Camera here?  These people cannot be serious!  Where's Ashton Kutcher??  Obviously, I'm being Punked.


Finally, Little Man's dad returns to the group after purchasing ice cream.  Little Man is asked to again repeat what happened on the ride.  And again, he exclaimed that the effn' ride got him wet.  Daddy, while less jovial than the others, just smiled and shook his head.

That, my friends, was the chicken dinner winner today at Six Flags, St. Louis!  Runners up include the 300 pound woman in the American flag bikini, the annoying group of preteens who insisted on dribbling basketballs while walking through the park and standing in line, the rather large man with the horrific tattoos and rotten teeth (think Deliverance), and numerous fashion don'ts that include the girls wearing tube tops with knee-length basketball shorts and sparkly flats.

Alas, there can only be one winner.  Congratulations, Grandma Red and Pa Pa Pimp Daddy!  You are more than deserving of this prestigious award. 

Mom, Remember That Time???

I'm probably so 2010, but I've just discovered Mama Kat and her fan-tabulous Writer's Workshop.  I like her writing prompts.  Since I'm not a writer, I don't do fiction.  Nor do I do self help stuff.  No informative nonfiction either.  I just like to ramble...um...I mean, write about me and all the craziness in my head.  Because I'm a bit of a narcissist.  And I have no life.  And my husband doesn't care to talk about all the crap spiraling around in my great, big brain.

Shit, there I go again.  Where was I???

Mama Kat.  So I'm tagging along with Mama Kat because I find her prompts intriguing.  They aren't fantasy but real questions.  More like playing Truth or Dare.  And I'm out of material.  It's been a slow week in LB Land.

My parents didn't whip my siblings and I very much.  Although corporal punishment was the preferred method in the South in 1971, I was lucky enough to have lazy parents who liked to holler instead.  However, I do remember getting a severe beating once.  My sister and I both.  We had to be about 4 and 5 years old.  Maybe even younger.

In those days, my mother was obsessed with order.  Everything had its place.  Away.  Out of sight.  There was nothing on the floor of the room shared by my sister and me.  Nothing under the bed or on the floor of the closet.  The dresser was clear of everything except for two small jewelry boxes.  Our bed was always made; our house was always clean.

For those of you who knew my mother, you can pick your jaws up from the floor now.  She was a neat freak at one time.  Real talk.

As I said, our room was immaculate.  The decor was typical of the 70s with the white dresser and matching white bed.  Our bedspread (no comforters back then) was bright yellow.  We had tile floors covered with a fuzzy little rug in the shape of feet.  Our closet doors were also decorated with decals of those fuzzy little feet.  The feet were arranged so that it looked as though they were climbing the closet doors.  Pairs in yellow, pink, green, orange.  Fuzzy.  Very 70s retro.

One morning, my mother came to inspect our room.  We were not allowed to come out until our bed was made and we were dressed.  When my mom entered, I could see her face drop.  Her smile quickly turned to a grimace with pouting lips, clenched teeth, and furrowing brows.

Who did this??  She snapped.

My little innocent eyes became as big as saucers as I looked over towards my sister.  What?  What did we do, Mama?  I had no idea to what she was referring but I was certain that my sister must have done something wrong.  I knew I hadn't done anything.  Besides, she was always getting into trouble.

She pointed to the closet doors where one of the fuzzy feet had been removed.  All that was left was the adhesive backing used to affix the decal.

Who did it???

Not me, Mama, I said. 

Well, I didn't do it either, came from my sister.

Well, I know one of you did it.  It didn't just fall off the closet door, she growled angrily.

My sister and I both stared at each other then stared back at her.  But we didn't do it, Mama!  We replied in unison.

Well, one of you is lying.  You are both going to get a spanking until I find out the truth.  She went to her bedroom and came back with my daddy's belt.  Bend over!

I can remember being so pissed at my sister.  After all, who else could it have been?  She had to have done it.  Now I was going to get a whipping because she wouldn't admit to it.  I remember saying to her, "just tell her the truth, Mi Mi."

After the first round of licks, my mom asked us again who took the decal off the door.  And again, we both denied any wrongdoing so she proceeded to give us a couple more licks.  This went on for what felt like an eternity.  We were screaming and crying and begging.

Finally, my dad came back to our bedroom after having heard all the commotion.  What's going on back here?  Why are you whipping them?  What did they do???

My mom told him the story about how the fuzzy decal was pulled off our closet door and how we refused to tell her the truth.  She was so angry.  My sister and I were inconsolable.


You mean that fuzzy decal?  He pointed to the spot where only the adhesive remained.

Yes, my mom replied.

My sister and I were unable to speak through the hysterics.  Our butts were on fire from that leather belt.

Well, I pulled it off, said my dad.  It was starting to come apart around the edges so I just pulled it off.  They didn't do it.  Besides, that foot is too high for them to even reach!

I was so mad.  And remorseful for blaming my little sister.  I could not understand why my dad would do something like that.  Or how my mom could be so pissed off about a damn wall decal.

Later on, I found my mom crying like a baby.  She had been in a blind rage, and was just then realizing what she'd done.  She hugged my sister and I both so tight I thought my guts were going to come out.  I almost felt bad for her.

That was the last time I got a spanking.  And I never let my mom live it down.  Of course, my reminders of that day were always in jest.  I picked on her a lot about it.  Remember that time when you whipped us for that??? ha ha ha... 

I suspect, though, she got an ill feeling in the pit of stomach every time I mentioned it.

Still I wonder if my dad did, in fact, remove that decal or if he just admitted to it so that my mom would stop.  I didn't consider it then, but my dad never really had a reason to go into our bedroom.  Nor was he the type to care about something as insignificant as decorative decals.

I suppose the truth will remain a mystery for all of eternity.  My sister is gone now so there will be no confession from her.  My mom is too.  And I doubt seriously my dad even remembers the incident.  It's etched in my memory forever, though.    

The Graduates

Today my oldest graduated from kindergarten.  My youngest had her preschool graduation last week.  I'm sure I should be sad, but I'm not.  Yes, I am in awe that the time has gone by so quickly.  It seems like just yesterday that I was crying about the fact that I had two under the age of two and neither could walk.  Time keeps a rollin' by.  Hours and days quickly turn into months and years.  

G with her diploma

E with his sweet teacher

While we all know that the aging process is not my friend, I do appreciate the fact that my kids are growing up.  In addition, I'm totally psyched about our new found wealth!

No more daycare payments!  Woo hoo!!!  Mr. OCD can buy me the Hope diamond now.  Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog!  <-----------*me celebrating*


Instead of being sad about them growing up, I'm ecstatic!  I personally cannot wait for the day that I can leave them home alone.  Even for just 5 minutes!  Do you think 6 is a bit young for that???

Call me an optimist, but I'm choosing to see the glass half full.  Besides no daycare debt, some other things I won't miss:

• Diapers!  Or pull-ups!  Or baby wipes or Boudreaux's Butt Paste...
• Late night pampering and early morning entertaining.  Finally, Mama can get the 14 hours of uninterrupted sleep she needs. 
• Sippy cups.  Big kids drink out of big cups.  Wait a minute; that only increases the number of spills in my house exponentially.  Ok, we'll keep a few sippy cups until they are 15 around for a while.
• 400 pound diaper bags.  Twenty minute trips to the grocery store are no longer preceded by 3 hours of diaper bag packing.
  
• Cumbersome car seats with safety latches, straps of steal, and tiny little airbags.  Only little booster seats that can be easily moved from car to car.  Better yet, booster seats so cheap that I can afford to own one for every vehicle in the family plus a spare for the kidnappers babysitter.
• Special dietary needs.  Now they can eat macaroni-n-cheese and hot dogs like the rest of the family.
• That big ass, double stroller.  They can walk!  Or run, for that matter.  Which brings me to the next advantage... 
• Expensive, great-for-tiny-growing-feet Stride Rites or Pedipeds.  I'm digging $1 flip flops from Walmart now - woo hoo!

 Yep, I'm excited about them growing up.  Big kids can do a whole lot more than those little ones.  Hell, I can't wait for them to learn to drive.  I'll never have to drive again.  It'll be like Driving Ms. LB.  In surround sound.

10 Favorite Things

Blogging is therapeutic.  It's like a nice massage when I'm feeling stressed.  It's my Valium.  Figuratively speaking, of course.

My only problem is that I lack anonymity.  When I first started, I made the mistake of creating a "feed" not realizing exactly what that meant.  I'm just a weirdo who likes to play around with crap.  Often times I create huge messes, get annoyed, and move on.  Such is the case with my blog feed.  I can't turn the damn thing off!!!

My therapy sessions are posted to facebook every time I blog.  Every single, I've-got-to-get-this-shit-off-my-chest moment I have is poured into my blog.  Which, in turn, is spewed out into facebook land.  At first, I was cool with that.  Most of my blog friends are not official followers - just check out my minuscule fan club.

No, most of my blog friends read my stuff on facebook.  Because I can't turn off that damn feed!  Don't get me wrong; I totally LOVE that my friends read and <3 my stuff.  However, as my list of facebook friends has grown so have my blogging troubles.

Apparently, Mr. OCD's fan base is much larger than mine because he found out about my plot to withhold the goods this summer.  Remember my post about him not attending our daughter's preschool graduation??  Well, he did NOT go to the graduation so...well...  Let's just say, the stand off between Custer and Sitting Bull wasn't nearly as contentious.

Lucky for Mr. OCD, I have severe ADD and have trouble staying focused.  Anger is one of those things that requires a great deal of focus.  I just can't do it.

Consequently, I'm hooking up with Mama Kat at Mama's Losing It and borrowing one of her writing prompts.  (Another side effect of ADD - I ramble on and on before actually making my point.)  This, friends, is for Mr. OCD.  And his cotton-pickin' spies...


Although I love to bitch and moan about him and his inadequacies, Mr. OCD is actually one of my favorite people.  Really, he is!  I damn sure wouldn't have procreated with his ass if I didn't like him.

Lesson #1, girls who think they want a baby:  
NEVER, ever conceive a child with a man who has no job, no house, no car, or a bad credit score.  You're just looking for trouble.  And him when it's time to pay for the care of said offspring.

Oh, where was I??  Right!  My favorite person.  Mr. OCD.  Why is he my favorite person, you ask?

1. He puts up with my crazy ass even when I rant and rave about his inadequacies.
2. He is the best damn dad in the Western Hemisphere.  Really!
3. He takes care of me and my children.  He's chivalrous like that.  Call him Ward Cleaver, but he believes that as the man of the house he is responsible for our well-being.
4. He is a saver.  Thank God!  Both of us can't LOVE to shop.
5. He does not mind doing housework.  In fact, he'd rather do it himself than let anyone else do it.  That includes ME!
6. He is not afraid to tell me he's sorry or admit when he's wrong.
7. He knows EVERYONE.  By name!  And their parents.  And their parents' parents!
8. He is always willing to lend hand.  Need your grass cut??  Just give him a call.  Jim Bob's cousin's nephew's son is stuck in a ditch?  He's on the way!
9. He will eat anything I put on the table.
10. He plays with our kids.  He will have a tea party with our daughter in a heart beat!  He's not afraid.

My admiration for Mr. OCD is really immeasurable.  The list goes on and on.  Maybe I'll dedicate another blog to the rest of it.  I don't know.

I'm glad Mama Kat provided me the opportunity to share, though.  Accolades are not nearly as entertaining, but they are long overdue.

So here ya go, Mr. OCD.  You happy now? 

Oh, wait...  He's not reading this.  He thinks yahoo IS the internet.  He has no idea how to find my blog or facebook or google or porn.  Hopefully, his friggin' fan club members will at least convey my message.  It's doubtful, though.  I live in a small town.  Not only does Misery love company, she loves the company of other people's company.