Saturday, February 23, 2013

New Look, Same Great Taste

Hi Lovelies...while all of your are sleeping (which is what I should be doing since I am on early AM duty with Honey Badger and will most likely be watching Ariel defy her father about 6.00am tomorrow) I have been revamping the blog. I felt it was the least I could do since y'all showed me an amazing amount of love and support with that last post!!! This is hopefully the first step in taking this show a little further down the my-job-is-my-blog road. Of course, I started saying I was going to do this about 8 months ago, so I feel sure that I will never collect a dime until 2015. 

Hope you likey!!!

(Never fear, there is still some work to be done. Especially with that cover photo over that FB.)

FYI: Good moms don't make their kids wear clothes, they let them sit in their underwear on
their BFF's kitchen table (right where the food goes), they feed them suckers for brekkie, and they
never ever brush their hair for photos shoots. 

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Advice for Husbands Everywhere

Hubs and I have been married for 9 years. NINE. That is almost ten years. That is practically a d-e-c-a-d-e. Also known as for-ev-er. In my time as one half of a pair, I have learned a few things about dudes. I feel it is only right to share these things with husbands. Before y'all are all, "dayum, she dogged her man out for everyone to read," let me be clear. Hubs is not guilty of all of these things right now

1.Always put the toilet seat down. Do you know how pissed a wife is when she goes to the potty in the dark after rocking a screaming child back to sleep, only to dunk her lady bits in the same water that resides in the bowl you took a massive dumper in a few short hours ago? Newsflash: it makes her super angry. Like hold your nose and your mouth at the same time for a few seconds while you are asleep, mad.

2. When the mother of your children rebuffs your advances, don't pout. Please keep in mind that she has a constant reminder that poops its pants and screams "don't hit me" in front of strangers at Target of what happens when the nookie is permitted. Take your party favor out in public sometime and see how many times you have to say, "please get off the floor" and "stop scratching your tootie." You will understand why she wants your pants to stay zipped.

3. When in doubt, pick it up. This applies to anything. Your socks, trash, a dog turd on the rug. It doesn't matter who put it there. It doesn't matter what it is. All that matters is that each time you walk by said object and ignore it, there is another tic mark by your name. You get enough of those, and you are going to be sorry. Like picking your own crap up forever, sorry.

4. Don't act surprised that it is her birthday/valentines day/anniversary/mother's day. She takes care of everyone. Even your family. You have one person to take care of. Her. The one you vowed to love. Part of that is not forgetting days that a)happen every year, b)are often pre-printed on your calendar. You are not permitted to act like it snuck up on you. If you can remember meetings and home openers you can freaking remember the days to cherish she who got varicose veins and chin hairs carrying your children for nine months. 

5. Take out the garbage. Are you one of those weirdos who has figured out how to have such a small carbon footprint that it looks like a mouse has been scurrying around? Didn't think so. You got some trash in that can. It pisses us off real good when you leave for work after tossing your k-cup into a garbage can that is so full it would power Doc Brown's time machine for a good three months. And you just walk out that door. And don't even look back. Without the garbage. *her eyes turn a fiery green and a hex is then put on your junk*

6. Tell your wife she is pretty. A lot. Even when she is like a year postpartum and still is carrying the weight she left the hospital with. Even when she is sitting on the couch in yoga pants that have never been tested in an actual yoga situation and have holes in the behind that show her old drawers. Even if she keeps forgetting to pluck her eyebrows. Even if you haven't seen her with makeup on in a long, long time. Tell her she is pretty so she won't completely give up and never wear anything but extra large tee shirts and bedroom slippers again. Give her a reason, man.

7. Never question her phone activities. Yes, she uses 92% of your family data plan. Yes, she goes over her text limit every month. That tells me maybe you should look at different plans instead of questioning what she is doing. She is the person who is taking care of your children. The only calls that are of your concern is if she has to call 911. Everything else--none ya'. 

8. Know your wife. Know what she likes. Know what she doesn't like. Know what she appreciates. Know how you can make her smile. Know what pisses her off. Know her and show her you know her. She knows you, my friend. She knows how you like your sandwich cut. She knows how you take your coffee. She knows which fabric softener you like. She knows. And she knows how to make your life a living hell. So show her you know a little something about her too. 

9. Don't judge your wife's underwear  Some like a thong. Some like a hipster. Some like a granny. Keep any and all opinions to yourself. Our underwear is the one thing that we can wear for ourselves, to be comfortable. It doesn't matter if it is in style, or a certain color, or the right brand. All that matters is that we like it. If you like it? Good for you. We don't care. No one cares about your underwear.  Except to acknowledge that they are gross and show your inability to perform the basic hygiene we mastered at age three.

10. Don't wait to be asked. Nothing pisses a wife off like the obvious being ignored. We know the child is screaming mommy, but that is merely a default word. You are still permitted to see what the problem is. Your wife should not have to ask you to do anything that is obvious. Like taking out the garbage. If you see something that you think needs attention like a full dishwasher or a child with their pants on backwards or cat throw up on the floor or an empty TP roll use that initiative they are always applauding at work. Go ahead and take care of it. We won't mind.

There you go husbands. Free advice. I hope you appreciate this, because it is not often we ladies reveal our secrets. You follow these simple rules and maybe you too will get to the magical ninth anniversary. Wives, feel free to print out a copy and leave it somewhere strategic for your man, like taped to the i-pad or on the underside of the toilet seat. I am sure they will thank you for helping them to reach their full potential.

Happy Anniversary to my favorite offender. You are not so bad.

(In Hubs defense he is very good about telling me I look pretty, he has only forgotten my birthday once, and he never ever ever leaves the toilet seat up.)

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Guess We are a Wee Bit Alike

Do you ever look at your child and say, "yup, that one is totally mine?" I don't feel like that often. I don't look at her and see that she looks much like me. She has more sass and is more daring in her flagrant rebuff of authority. She is her own person with her own ideas. But then something happens, and I realize she is a little more mini-me than I realize...

She just came to me and said, "where is the thing with all the buttons and it goes beeeeepppp beep beep, you know with the money? (as she is doing the hand gestures like she is pulling a double at the Teeter)." And because I speak Honey badger, I was all, "it's called a cash register, and it is in your play kitchen." But the miming and describing? I do that at least once a day. I think I have approximately 3 mini strokes a day. I bet an MRI of my brain looks like a fourth of july fireworks show.

Her Highness flails. A lot. She flails herself out of her chair at dinner. Walking down the hall. Off the couch. When playing with something she'll flail and somehow manage to throw it across the room. I too am a flailer. I trip, I run into things, I get hurt a lot in seemingly innocuous situations.   Or flail while going to sit in a chair and fall. I run into a wall more often than I would ever like to admit. I often am gesturing and I slam my hand on the table. I have kissed many a little hand that has been banged on the table. It is a rough and tumble life we live.

Lady Baby and I get the snuffs. That is when you have been crying really hard and then when the sobbing winds down there is a lot of gasping and snorting and inability to control ones emotions so the crying can spring back to life at any second. Just rub us on the back and remind us to take deep breathes. Avert your eyes because the snuffs are not pretty. Lots of red faced snorting and snotting.

We are a gesticulating people. There is hand flapping and clapping and what looks like the YMCA song just to ask you what time it is. Our story telling is intense, and the more excited we are the more our hands flutter and jab and wave. And in addition to talking like old Italian Grannies we are also highly excitable  Tough combo for anyone in a five foot radius. Watch yourself if you wander into one of our passionate speeches about what we ate for dinner or who got sent to time out at school. You could lose an eye.

I never really think Her Highness and I look alike. The other day when I was looking at old pictures I saw this. And I did a quadruple take. My delicate flower makes this face at me. A lot. And I hate it. It is 100% attitude and is usually followed by a loud and guttural  "NNEEVVVVEEEERRR." Turns out she does get a smidge of her angry passion from her mama. Who knew. I was blaming all that 'tude on Hubs. To anyone who has witnessed her going El Diablo and I blamed Baby Daddy, my bad. (Sorry honey.)

I may have a little Honey Badger in me too.

Monday, February 18, 2013

BackPack Beginnings

I am donating my skillz over at BackPack Beginnings and writing their blog for them. Please show them a little love and go check it out. It launched today and will be updated a few times a week with stories about the kids who are receiving bags, volunteers, partner organizations and more.

BPB is an amazing organization and I am proud to be working with them! Meeting the kids who are in need and seeing the passion the volunteers have for helping the community has been life changing.


Check it out, yo... BackPack Beginnings Blog

Saturday, February 16, 2013

A Trip to the Gyno with a Toddler.(Not Recommended)

If you don't like to read or think about the OB/GYN stop reading now. Also stop reading if you are my brother or my Dad. Seriously. Stop.

Yesterday I had to go for my yearly lady visit. Of course it was a non-school day and no one wanted Lady baby becuase she has a cold. And you can't reschedule those appointments, because it is like 6 months before then can possibly squeeze you in. Lots of Paps out there that need smearing, I suppose. So to the doc we went. Me and Her Highness and a bag of candy. This had disaster written all over it. In all caps. And sharpie. 

We got there and only had to wait a few minutes. Every second of that time was filled with verbal diarrhea. First she asked me what all the other people in the waiting room were there to see the doctor about, an intense discussion about Doc McStuffins with a very nice stranger who had no idea what she was talking about, and a running commentary about the bee-utiful (only to a three year old and the people who decorate doctor's offices) fake flower arrangement towering in the middle of the office at a minimum of 5 feet high. 

To the back we were whisked with a quick yet depressing stop at the scale, and then a pee in the cup which involved a running chat about me being very carefule not to pee-pee on my hand. Hey kid, this ain't my first rodeo. I got this. Also, she insisted on getting weighed and taking a tinkle, so it was really less of a whisk and more of a snail crawl that involved taking one's shoes off and intensive hand washing. Sorry, 3 other people who were waiting for their fun on the scale.

Into the room we went, where the nurse took my stats while child intensely questioned every move that she made. Nursie did a good job not letting it slow her down. She must have kids. She knew how to play through the pain. She hurried out, leaving me with a robe and a sheet and a kid. She should have taken the kid. Why didn't she take the kid?

And there we sat. And when I say sat, I mean that I stood in the robe and my birthday suit, while Her Highness laid on the exam table and read magazines and ate candy and we chatted and played I Spy and she asked me questions about the breast check poster and a picture of a mammogram. For. An. Hour. AN HOUR. Surely there was a code beside my name in the computer that indicated that I had a child in there with me who is three and loud and overly chatty. If there was a code no one cared. Nor did they care when I stuck my head out of the door and gave them the stink eye, or when  Honey Badger ran around the room banging on every wall while singing Call Me Maybe as loud as possible. Still nothing. I was worried everyone was in the break room eating Panera and having a lunch and learn, getting those free little little stirrup snuggies or discussing herpes medicines.

Fun at the Gyno. A great way to never ever spend a morning with your child.
Then the doc finally came in. And let me tell you people. There is nothing quite like having a pelvic with your three year old in the room. It is uncomfortable. In every way. Every time she even acted like she was going to get out of her seat I threatened her with terrible things. Like blankie going to live on a farm, or no more candy ever for the rest of her life. It was a long two minutes. And she kept trying to determine exactly what was going on under the sheet with questions like, "mama what's she doin'?" and "hey, what's that thing?" I did the only thing I could. Giggle nervously and ignore her. 

I can only assume she has been scarred for life. I know I am. Never do this people. Reschedule. Cancel. Pay the fee. Pay the sitter. Use Wed MD for those symptoms. It's. Not. Worth. It.

Then I did what any amazeballs mom would do. I erased the trauma of seeing her mother get her ladygarden inspected by taking her to get her first real haircut. Where they cut off all her hair. Which lead to sobbing and tears and more candy and finally french fries. It was a rough day. I have to admit the fries made me feel a lot better too though. 

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Advice to My Younger Self

Today is my b-day (pause to let the cheering and applause die down). I am thirty four. Which, I should point out, is almost thirty five. Which is only five years from forty, ohmagawd. It has been a lovely day and I have been showered with the things people know I love: coffee, sweets, and attention. 

Young me. Darth Vadar hair, snappy outfit. My third year was a magical time.

As I reflect back on my 34 years on the earfs, there were some rough times. I wish I could go back and give a few little pieces of advice to myself. Not a lot, because I am big believer in your life experiences and choices make you who you are today. But just little gems here and there to make the road a little less rough for young T. 

Age 5: No one will ever break into your house and steal your precious blanket Boppy, or your stuffed Ewok. I promise, they are safe. There is no need to worry about whether or not your parents will offer a reward.

Age 8: It is unnecessary to pack your red Going to Grandma's Suitcase and your plastic picnic basket all full of crap and leave them by your window in case of fire. Your house will not catch on fire even once in your young life. You can relax and stop thinking about how you will throw your bags out the window and hold the cat while you crawl out at the same time. 

Age 11: I promise that perm will grow out and your mom is going to let you get contacts in just a few years. 
Rugby shirts were cool, son. The rest of the look, not so much.

Age 13: Everyone in middle school hates themselves. You are not alone. 

Age 15: It is okay that you have never had a boyfriend even though all your friends do. You are not fat. You are not ugly. I promise someday the cutest boy you have ever met will take you on a date to Miami Subs, and your life will change forever. 

Age 18: Your senior year is really not the best year of your life, even though it feels like nothing could ever be better. There is SO much better stuff coming your way. Don't worry so much about leaving home and everything changing. Change is good.

Age 22: Stop worrying so much about what your boyfriend is doing. He is not worrying about what you are doing. Think more about having fun and less about making yourself available to him. It doesn't matter that he won't lavaliere you. That same fool will give you a much better piece of jewelry in a church in front of 300 people in a few years.

Age 30: I know you hate not having friends and feel alone. In just a few years you are going to meet some of the best friends you ever had. Also, it feels like you are never going to get pregnant, but I promise very soon all that will change. So yeah, go ahead and sleep a lot now.

Wouldn't it be great if we could really go back and help ourselves out a little? Maybe avoid a little heartache or worry a little less about things that turn out just fine? I suppose then life would be boring and therapists everywhere would be out of business. Wonder what I am doing wrong right this minute that future me is going to be like, "duh get over it." Guess I will know someday. 

Happy Birthday Me. May the next thirty four years (erg, that will make me 68!) be as exciting as the first thirty four have been.

Friday, February 8, 2013

A Review of Les Miserables (alternate title: Does the Sun Never Shine In France?)

Last night my movie girl friend and I went to see the much acclaimed Les Miserables. Let me start by saying it was very good and I am glad I saw it. I love musicals in a big big way. Bonus points to any movie and I can sing along to. However, I have a little beef with this one (shocker). If you want to preserve the sanctity of this great story, do not read ahead. You will probably become enraged and throw your computer. Beware, there are spoiler alerts. 

My take aways:

Never wear tights with a too-tight waist to a two and a half hour movie. Just don't. For that kind of length you need yoga pants. Lesson Learned.

France is the most depressing, dark, and rainy place on earth. The whole movie, I was like, "turn a light on." Too-dark movies are a serious pet-peeve of mine. I don't pay $10 to watch people stumble around in the shadows.

It is possible to make the dashing Hugh Jackman (love you hot stuff) unattractive. Give him curly hair that is poufy on the top and sides and flat on top. Job well done there. 
Left Hugh-Yurmy. Right Hugh-Not so much.

Somehow Oliver Twist found his way into Les Mis and then got himself killed. 

That Eponine had the most extreme boob-to-waist ratio that has been seen since the first Barbie came out. I am not sure how she could sing in such a tight belt.
My rib cage is at home in a jar.

Anytime a group of guys is singing a rousing song, it is hawt (Newsies, what?). I loved all those young rebels getting all pumped to take over France. Too bad they sing better than they fight.

Ann Hathaway, you did a lovely job as the impossibly thin, hairless prostitute. You do not, however deserve an Oscar. Once again, the academy loves a lady who makes herself ugly. I am sorry, but she just works my nerves.

Russell Crow has amazing balance.
Look what I can do, Look what I can do.

I am fairly certain that if one receives serious wounds in battle and then is dragged through a sewer of poo water (that was gag inducing) for what seemed like days, they would most surely contract some sort of infection and die. 

Borat can make even the most serious movie funny. 
Just looking at him makes me giggle.

If you skipped parole and changed your name, would you then run for mayor? Not the wisest move Jean Valjean. It's like he wanted to get caught, really.

All in all, very good movie. Even if I did feel like I was in there for 7 hours in tights that were cutting off the blood flow to my upper body. Also, I didn't even cry once, which is causing me to question whether I am dead inside, considering there was a girl to my right who was outright sobbing. It is the type of movie that should be seen in the theater to appreciate its magnitude. So glad I didn't make my husband watch it with me, or there would have been one more causality because he would have killed himself. If you want to preserve your visions of Gladiator, Wolverine, Cat Woman, Borat, and Bellatrix Lestrange, go ahead and skip it. Cause you may never look at them the same. If you enjoy a nice long depressing musical that makes you want to turn a light on, take a warm bath, and give Russel Crowe a glass of herbal tea for his sore throat, check it out.


Friday, February 1, 2013

Disney: The Cult of Terrible Ideas

So some of y'all may have heard of a little company called Disney. You know, those people that run the free world while supplying American Children with a steady stream of TERRIBLE IDEAS?? Don't misunderstand. I love Fairy Tales and Disney can do a fairy tale up right. I love cartoons. I love Disney Fairy Tale cartoons. And all the other cartoon movies that pump out of the Disney machine on a constant basis. However, I have realized since we have jumped on the Disney train that I have some sort of beef with most Disney movie and the basic messages they are putting out there for the tinies who are lacking in the critical thinking arena. 

The Little Mermaid: Your Dad is stupid and no matter what, don't listen to him. In fact, do the opposite of everything he tells you. And be rewarded with a set of bangin' legs and true love. 

Cinderella: When you have the right dress and shoes and car, then the hottest guy in the neighborhood will fall in love with you and release you from the a life of helping out around the house. 

Tangled: I don't mind this movie. The long hair creeps me out because she is always swinging it everywhere and it wraps around everything like a creepy hair tentacle. But the movie is way. too. complicated. Trying to understand kidnapping, magic youth-inducing flowers, magic hair, and a mother who is actually the bad guy, has Lady Baby extremely bent out of shape. (And asking a lot of questions.)

Lion King: When you are bad, you should run away. With a warthog and a lemur. And anyone with a scar is not to be trusted.

Brave: Your parents don't want you to be yourself. Don't listen to them. Instead, run away and make a deal with an evil witch. 

Bambi: I will not dignify this movie because it is a depressing travesty that will kill a child's spirit and fuel therapy for many years to come.

Dumbo: See above.

Sleeping Beauty: You can hide from your problems by sleeping. Ok, never mind, I actually agree with this one a little.

Monster's Inc: Monster's live in your closet. You should never sleep again because they are waiting to jump out and scare you.

Beauty and the Beast: Again, I find nothing inherently wrong with this one, it is just confusing. Why is the beast a dog? Why does he turn into a man? Why is Belle's grandpa sick? Why is Belle sad? WHy Why WhY WHY WHy wHy....and on and on and on. 

Cinderella III: A Twist in Time: Really guys, a turn-back-time movie? I may as well have showed Lady Baby Inception.

Finding Nemo: Your dad is a complete scaredy cat and when he warns you about danger you should completely disregard it. And scuba divers are bad (that is a direct quote from my child.)

Do you see what I mean? Do you? Disney is repeatedly confusing my child with their overly detailed tales and telling her that her parents are idiots. I show her movies to entertain her. I don't mind a little chatting about character and plot, but if I wanted to have an intense discussion followed up with a question and answer session, I would have her watching General Hospital, Entertainment Tonight and Project Runway. Things I would really like to discuss at length. Instead of a multi-day dissection on why the cook is trying to catch Sebastion or why the Beast has paws or why Brave's mommy is a very scary bear. The point of letting her watch a movie is a little quiet. Thanks for nothing, Walt and Co. Don't even get me started on the vault and the ceaseless advertising a movie months before it is released. I hear, "Mama, let's watch Peter Pan" a minimum of three times a day. I get it. Peter Pan is coming out. I have my own walking and talking reminder. Well played, Disney.

She attends the First Church of the Mouse.
Not to worry though. It's not like we are going to quit Disney. We can't quit Disney. It is everywhere. It is like air. The princesses are  the kids version of the Khardashians. I don't worry about Lady Baby investing in the princess ideal and thinking that is life. All she has to do is look around at our house and notice that rarely does Mommy ever look like a princess. Besides the fact it would be physically impossible to take away her beloved Little Mermaid dress up dress, the only shoes she will wear are her princess sneakers, and her favorite book is The Princess' Celebrate Halloween. 

So, yeah. We are in the Disney cult. Drinkin' the kool aid. Dancing on the roof with signs. Someone feel free to kidnap me and take me somewhere to rest and be deprogrammed. I could use a vacation where no one is asking me why Tangled's hair turned brown and why Ariel's bird friend combs his hair with a fork.


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