May 2015 |

27May 2015

That Time Thomas Edison was in my Icebox

by Amy

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.

12May 2015

The Million Dollar Swim Trunks

by Amy

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.

05May 2015

If Moms Wrote Math Problems

by Amy

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)

01May 2015

The Preschool Prom

by Amy

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

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.