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All dressed up and heading to NickMom’s Middle School to the Max party with Foxy Wine Pocket and The Keeper of the Fruit Loops. I wanted to kidnap these ladies and hide them in my suitcase.

 

It’s always best to begin at the beginning. From the moment, I decided to attend BlogU15 in Baltimore I was terrified and thrilled. The “bitch in my head” started to take over my brain and I did my best to quiet her. My flight would be leaving Florida at 6 am on Friday, which meant I needed to be awake at 3 am and in a cab to the airport by 4. Mornings and I are not the best of friends so when I sat straight up in bed at 1 am I decided it best to get dressed, add my last minutes things to my suitcase, and wait. That Tom Petty is spot fucking on because the waiting is the hardest part.

I watched a Harry Potter movie as the time ticked by. Because I was so afraid I would sleep through my cab honking his horn outside my window, I actually ended up pulling out one of the most epic 24 hours without sleep my adult life has ever seen. I’m gonna blame lack of sleep that day on all the biggest unfortunate incident that followed. My complete clumsiness had no bearing on anything – yeah right, on a good day I’m like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

My arrival on the Notre Dame of Maryland campus was a bit of a blur. Except for this amazing story with Audrey, of Sass Mouth. Southern lady, my ass. I finally got to meet (in the flesh) a group of people I’ve been interacting with on the internet for about a year. These women, these glorious and brilliant women, were all I expected and more, as my online world collided with my real life. Surreal would be putting it mildly. I pounded some 5-hour Energy as I would not, could not, miss one second of the precious 48 hours I would have at BlogU. “Sleep is for pussies. I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” was the battle cry on loop in my maxed out brain. And I was doing it too. I attended classes that afternoon, went to dinner, then a party and a fabulous open mic reading. I watched as some of the greatest bloggers of my generation read their masterpieces aloud in front of large crowds. I watched Allen Ginsberg do a live reading in Greenwich Village 21 years ago. The stories I heard at BlogU made Ginsberg seem like a hack. The energy was palpable. My decision to stay awake was the right one. At least until it wasn’t.

When the open mic finished I found myself with my girl, Toni Hammer, as we took an elevator to our respective dorm rooms. As the elevator door opened I fished my small metal room key out of my neck lanyard. While stepping out of the elevator onto my floor I said, “Night, bitch,” and attempted to flourish my right hand in some sort of strangely odd wave. Blame it on the sleep deprivation, or the excitement of where I was and what I was doing, or the fact that I have the coordination of a bear learning the pachanga… my key flew out of my Vulcan death grip and was now airborne. Toni and I watched in slow motion as that silver flash flew through the air and fell… right into the small gap that separated the elevator from the floor. We heard a little ping as it settled at the bottom of the old dormitory. It was a one in a million shot made by the whitest of white girls. I sure picked the wrong time to do a LeBron James impression.

The hour that followed was spent sitting outside my locked dorm room door, waiting for a security guard to let me in. He was a portly fellow who didn’t seem to appreciate the humor of the whole situation. Imagine that? Finally, after a great deal of begging on my part, he let me into my room, I fell into my bed and passed out.

The next day, between classes, I ran to the basement of the building hoping to find my sweet little key sitting there waiting for me. Even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day, but no. Lady luck had decided to flip me the finger as I was able to see my key, about 4 feet lower than where I stood. In the elevator shaft. Fuck.

Campus security made it a point to let me know the elevator company would be coming by to retrieve my key long after the conference was over, so I kept my door unlocked for the rest of the weekend and, not to my surprise, all of my valuables stayed safe and sound. Although, I do think someone stole the chocolate out of my swag bag. Which makes total sense because chocolate and coffee are more valuable to bloggers then someone else’s laptop and cash money.

In 48 hours I made a million amazing memories. My sides and face ached from smiling and laughter. Surrounded by women (and a couple of brave men) I was in my element. These people got me. And I got them. The relationships I solidified in such a short period astound me. I even won the class clown award, which is very surprising because I’m a really serious person who rarely jokes around ever – Ahem.

My only complaint? There wasn’t enough time.

Until next year, BlogU. Adieu.

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What? What?

 

BlogU15

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They stuck this racing sticker onto the back of Heavy B’s shirt. I thought it was foreshadowing the obvious. I was wrong.

Two weeks ago the whole family went on a 4-day Disney Cruise, and while it was a magical and memorable time (even the worst meltdowns don’t feel so bad when you have a fruity drink in your hot-little hand) there was a single, massively disappointing moment in the family vacation.

The baby lost his first competitive race.

I know what you’re thinking. A race? He’s a baby. Where do babies race?

Apparently, they race on the high seas, surrounded by Disney characters and competitive eaters (okay that was just me, but whatever). Apparently, Disney runs a cute little race among the crawling babies on the day the boat is at sea. Apparently, it has something to do with the baby from the movie The Incredibles, but I never had to sit though that one because my mother-in-law took the kids.

Due to the fact that my husband and I, and my parents, and my brother, and his family, are the biggest group of competition people I know, we had to throw Heavy B’s sweat baby butt in the ring, or should I say, on to the track.

I mean, since the moment he could crawl, the baby has been trying to get away from us. Fast. Like, super fast. A crawling competition with a small plastic trophy at the end? We knew he was the favorite, “Baby! You’ve been training for this, YOUR WHOLE LIFE,” my husband murmured as he rubbed his broad baby shoulders.

Of course, with any plan for victory you need a fool-proof strategy. As the Master of Ceremonies announced the race rules, we were super excited when he said a parent should be at both the start and finish lines, and the finish line parent can hold anything they want to convince the baby to crawl to them.

We got this.

As I stood with Heavy B at the starting line, my husband, slowly and stealthily took his place at the finish line with our golden ticket. The key to sweet, sweet victory. He held in his hand… a single banana.

Listen, when you’re dealing with a 35 pound 15-month-old you know you can guarantee he is an eater. This baby can spy a banana at the top of Chiquita Banana’s hat, and scale that bitch to get to it. Surely this would be the secret to the victory dance, and the coveted diaper dash trophy, which I already had mentally built a new mantle in our house around. That triumph would be the feather in our competitive cap.

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The racing track. Could have been the ultimate victory.

That’s when my 10-year-old approached me with a new tactic to assist his baby brother with the win. “Maybe we should have some paper or plastic for him to chew on with Daddy too,” although an amazing idea, the baby does love to eat non-food items as well, we already had a game plan. “Stick to the game plan,” I hissed.

As the MC introduced the other racers I knew we’d have our work cut our for us but Heavy B had this in the bag. He was bigger and faster than any baby I’ve ever met before or since.

“Poor babies, they don’t stand a chance,” I muttered under my breath as I glanced at the other children being placed in the starting positions. Now a large crowd had gathered. Nothing better than cold libations on a huge boat while you watch a little friendly competition among a group of children that have yet to stand up right. I’m not gonna lie, I would have loved some side bet action, but I didn’t push it. After all, I had birthed the favorite.

As the verbal cues were uttered to signify the start of the race, I looked adoringly at my ginormous baby, and when the “Go!” was called I could almost see his fat little bottom as it crossed the finish line.

But the baby didn’t move.

He just sat there.

Between the noise, and the crowd, and the fact that his dad was holding a very small banana a very far distance away he just Didn’t. Go. Anywhere.

When that skinny little baby from Canada crossed the finish line I could barely see through my tears… of laughter. As my husband walked closer Heavy B saw the banana and his father coming in his direction and got really excited. We fed it to him as we issued a post race talk about winners and losers. How the next one was his for the taking but he had to want it. We knew we’d have to start training pretty hard when we got back home.

“We should have used the plastic,” my husband said as we walked away from the baby’s first of many losses.

“He coulda’ been a contender!” I yelled in my best New Jersey accent.

“Babe, this is the reason no one understands what you’re talking about. Stop quoting movies from the 1950’s!”

Whatever, he knew what I was talking about.

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That’s me. And I’m all like, “Hey, Heavy B, do you see Daddy over there with that banana?” and he’s all, “Shut up, woman. You’re not the boss of me.”

Diaper Dash

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Okay, I have no idea who this guy is, but he’s is phenomenal. Way better than Thomas Edison. Photo Credit: Michael Stokes

So, my brand new refrigerator doesn’t produce enough ice. Like, at all. We live in Florida. We need cold drinks in the summer. Shit, I want cold drinks in the winter too, unless it’s a hot toddy, then that mofo has to be hot.

You know whatsup.

I called the place where we bought our fridge and they sent me off with a phone number for the manufacturer. Good times. So I embarked on an hour-long phone call that started out with, “Press 1 if you like green jello. Press 2 if you want your jello to speak to you in Farsi. Press 3 if you think Al Roker looked better when he was fat.” When I finally got on the horn with a human, the conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi. My new refrigerator isn’t producing enough ice.
Him: Well, how much ice is not enough?
Me: There are only 4 ice users here. It’s not a frat house. At the end of the day, there is no more ice. We are turning to bagged ice and we have a brand new refrigerator. I’m not a refrigerator repairman, but this seems to be a flaw.

Him: Press and hold the Freezer Button until Turbo Cool comes on.
Me: *pressing and holding* Is Turbo Cool a little picture that looks like a 2 pronged power plug?
Him: No, *sounding annoyed* Turbo Cool is a snowflake surrounded by a octagon.
Me: Hmm. No, that’s not happening.
Him: *now really annoyed* If I can place you on a brief hold to get an image of your control panel.
Me: *Humming the Jeopardy theme song really loud for 10 minutes*

Him: Okay, I’m back. Are you sure you’re holding the Freezer Button.
Me: Yeah. It says Freezer, and I’m holding it.
Him: And what happens?
Me: I just told you, the little power plug comes on. Maybe Thomas Edison is waiting for me inside my freezer and he’s gonna help make ice. I’ll check.
Him: Ma’am? …  Ma’am?
Me: He’s not in there.
Him: *so fucking annoyed he wants to murder me* I know he’s not in there.
Me: I’m sure you hear that all the time.
Him: Um, no… I don’t. *now he’s pissed, and stern*

Him: You need to hold the Freezer Button down until the freezer goes up to coldest.
Me: Why didn’t you say that? If I want the freezer to go to coldest I have to pulse the freezer button, not hold it. Shit, did you just start working there?
Him: *seething mad*
Me: Okay, so I PULSED the Freezer Button, and OMG! Now I see it, it’s a beautiful snowflake, sleeping peacefully in its octagonal home. YAY! WE DID IT! Now what?
Him: You should have more ice in 10 hours. *click*

Customer service at it’s finest.

If you need me I’ll be over here watching the ice cubes form with Thomas Edison.

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target

There are only 36 hours separating my tired mommy bones from our family vacation. At this time on Thursday night I’ll be drinking vodka tonics brought to me by a shirtless Adonis. My only cares will be of the sea and how many more hours of babysitting I can get for my toddler on the cruise ship. Ah, just kidding. I’ll probably be drinking Boone’s Farm in my room as something insane always happens. Especially when traveling with children. Fingers crossed people. Pray for me.

My husband asked me to pick up a new bathing suit for him before we leave on vacation. I picked up 2 from Target on Saturday. He tried them on and was unhappy with the fit. Daddy stud-muffin has a 32 inch waist and hasn’t gained a pound in 20 years. He could lose 10 pounds in his sleep. He fucking can. I’ve watched it happen. Bastard. 

I returned those 2 today and bought 2 more. He’s still not happy with them. One pair was too tight in the legs (is that even a thing) and the other one was “okay.” “Okay” means “not okay” in the universe of bathing suits. Although I can’t remember the last time I tried one on and it looked “okay.” More like, “marginally acceptable with the chance that no one will see my FUPA.” If you don’t know what a FUPA is I’m sorry I mentioned it. Don’t Google it. Trust me.

So now I have a big problem. I need to return things to Target. Doesn’t he understand what happens when women enter Target? It’s like we get sucked into the spending vortex and have to buy all the things. ALL THE THINGS. At this rate, with my husband’s swim trunk vanity and my inability to say no to that little red bullseye, when he finally decides on an acceptable pair they will be worth a million dollars. Because that’s what I’ll have racked up at Target with all the returns.

I’m not even gonna tell you what I’ve spent on two trips in one week. It’s obscene. Here Target, just take my money.

Damn.

TargetPinterst

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Mom’s spend a myriad of their mind assisting the kids with math homework. I’ve never found math to be easy, but now It’s become twice as difficult for a mathematical moron like myself. We need to understand the old math, well enough to explain the new math, all the while trying to figure out if the kids have ever even looked at these concepts before. Common core? Yeah, I can’t even strengthen the core I currently have, forget about a common one.

Then I had an Epiphany… what if the math problems were written by moms? We’d know all the answers because, duh, this is what we do.

Time for a pop quiz. Don’t forget to show your work! Break out that #2 pencil for this shit. Ready. Set. Go!

1. The Outnumbered Mother only has two hands, but she has three kids. If kid 1 is whining, while kid 2 is yelling, and kid 3 is limping, how can she solve all the problems?

A. Put and ACE bandage on 3 while consoling 1 and 2

B. Give everyone a snack

C. Tend to 3 while 2 makes 1 a snack

D. Walk away and pour a glass of wine

Answer: D  (Wine is always the answer)

2. Eddie has 2 olives, Brenda has blue cheese, and Eddie’s Dad is slightly hot and has some Vodka. How can Eddie’s dad make a great Mother’s Day Gift for Eddie’s mom?

A: Eddie can have a sleepover at Brenda’s

B. Eddie’s dad can bake a blue cheese souffle

C. Eddie’s Dad can make Eddie’s Mom an amazing vodka martini

D. Both A and C

Answer: D (Martinis without children are sure to be a hit for Mother’s Day)

3. Toni has a Poodle. Tina has a German Shepherd, and Rodger has a Dachshund. Where would you find the dogs if Mommy had her way?

A. Toni in the front yard.

B. Tina in the backyard

C. Both A and B

D. Rodger in the house

Answer: C (Keep the dogs outside, please)

4. Elyse has three children: Alex is in college, Mallory is in high school and Jennifer is in preschool. Who won’t eat dinner?

A. Alex

B. Mallory

C. Jennifer

D. All of the above

Answer: D (No one ever eats what Mommy slaves over)

5. Sue is a SAHM with four kids. If each kid drives her crazy enough to drink 2 glasses of wine per day, how many bottles will she need for the week? 

A. 3

B. 1

C. A case

D. 7

Answer: C (Running out of wine is not an option)

6. Jessica drops off and picks up two different children at two different schools twice a day. How many times will she say “fuck this” in car-line? 

A. 10

B. Zero, Jessica doesn’t use the F-word

C. Infinity

D. 2

Answer: C (Car-line fucking sucks)

 

This makes common core seem easy.

 

 

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Last night, Monkey’s preschool had their annual art show; Or, the yearly occasion I like to call, The Preschool Prom. Kids aren’t permitted, they serve wine and appetizers, they have a silent auction, and we buy the elaborate art projects created by our little Fidel Castros Pablo Picassos. For the only night of the year, the moms I see 5 days a week, twice a day, shed their yoga pants, and their unwashed pony-tails as we get down as much as the parents of small children can get down – like the badass bitches we were before kids, and of course we have to be home by 9:30 because it’s a school night.

Despite the fact that most social situations have recently lost their luster to me (because: pants), coupled with the fact that both sets of grandparents were unavailable for babysitting, I needed to make fetch happen. It raises money for the preschool, Hubby and I get to drink two-buck chuck for a couple of hours with people in the same desperate kid situation, and he usually gets reality inebriated; thus biding on all sorts of silent auction shit. Mommy always needs new shit.

My man hit an all time high this year; and scored the family some lovely loot from his stealth silent auction tactics. We are now the proud owners of a basket of new baking supplies, a waffle machine (so excited I could cry)  an awesome collaboration of beach things, and (unfortunately) for the 2nd year in a row, he won the fucking Play-Doh. If you’ve been here for a hot minute you know my deep-seated disgust of Play-Doh. At this point, I know he’s doing it on purpose. Don’t worry buddy, I’ll get even, eventually.

So I picked up all of our winnings from the preschool, loaded them into the car and trucked them home. The 4-year-old was more than happy to assist me in the unpacking of all the things.

And that’s when I lost my mind.

Whomever (and I’m sure I’ll discover the identity of this person on Monday after they read this) organized and wrapped up all the auction baskets decided to mount all of the items on… yes, you guessed it, sheets of silver glitter paper.

Yeah, because nothing says, "I hate you!" like glitter. It's the anti-gift

Yeah, because nothing says, “I hate you!” like glitter. It’s the anti-gift

I would have been happier if they sent me home with a straight razor blade and note that said, “Go kill yourself.”

As we all know, glitter is the red-headed stepchild of all things crafty. From the moment the ultrasound tech wrote penis on that screen with an arrow pointing a the protruding shadow, I thanked my lucky stars that my life wouldn’t be filled with glitter. But oh… after today, my initiation to the glitter club runs long and deep. If I’m ever rid of this pox on my house I’ll be surprised, because it’s everywhere.

Every-fucking-where!

Don’t believe me? The baby looks like he’s wearing glitter tap shoes, the 4-year-old looks like he just spent an evening out with Tila Tequila at the titty bar, my husband has glitter on his upper lip… AND HE JUST WALKED IN THE DOOR! Newsflash: There was glitter on the toilet seat when I went in the bathroom to hide from the glitter.

It’s glitt-a-poc-a-lypse up in this bitch. Glitter and Play-Doh, the makings of Hell.

Time to break out the vacuum, and the Xanax.

Dressed up Mama in her cleavage shirt and pencil skirt. It’s prom, bitches.

Dressed up Mama in her cleavage shirt and pencil skirt. It’s prom, bitches.