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Conversations with old married people

Effective communication is the touchstone of a good relationship. Listening to what the other person has to say. Actually hearing their words and not just spouting off when you want to hear yourself speak, but actually letting the other person tell you what’s on their mind.

Sometimes it takes a teenager to point out what you might be missing in this area. Sure, you’ve been married 17 years, your daughter is only 14, what could she possibly know? Apparently she just has better hearing.

It’s Sunday evening. We’re both with blankets on our laps, laptops on those blankets and on separate couches.

 

Me while sipping peppermint tea, shouting to McSweetie in the other room: “You can come in and watch football now. I’m done with my show.” (That show happened to be Les Miserable.)

McSweetie: “That’s okay, me and the cat are here napping.”

Me: “Why are you taking a nap at 8′oclock at night?”

McSweetie: “I’m norphn nea bate gluck”  (I don’t know, I couldn’t hear him.)

 

Emma walks in.

“That was the dumbest thing between you two just now. When you asked dad if he wanted to come in and watch football he said, ‘I’m hanging out with the cat’ and then you said something about taking a nap, and then he said ‘what time is it? It’s 8 o’clock’.

“You guys are the worst old people and you’re not even that old.”

Oh didn’t you know? Forty is the new seventy.

40 is the new 70 by Frugalista Blog

 

He loves me just the way I am

Recently over at Bonbon Break I wrote about some lingerie I was sent to review and I guess this got McSweetie a little bit excited. Whoa. Hold on there. Not THAT excited.

You can read the post here if you want.

He has never really complained about my lounge and sleep attire. Sure it’s mismatched, saggy, and stained with a myriad of substances, human and food related. But I’m a comfy gal. Always have been. Even in our early courting days when weekends would be spent at each other’s apartment. There we’d be over morning coffee and he would make fun of my giant ribbed orange socks. I loved those orange socks. I bought them at the Gap in 1991 with a matching orange and white striped top. Because you always bought a pair of socks to match your shirt at the Gap in the ’90s.

Those socks lasted at least until 2005 when I finally put them in the Goodwill pile. They were my favorite bedtime orange socks. But it was time they go.

Apparently, it’s also time that my pajama bottoms with ice skating penguins take a hike as well. Maybe the underwear with one too many period stains should get the heave ho. It’s hard. I get attached to my things. Even old, ragged gross things.

I have been quite content with my ‘comfortable self’ these last couple years. In fact, I think blogging has gotten me more ‘comfortable’. Because I spend a lot of time writing, I’m sitting. A lot. Let’s face it. Writing is not cardio. And eating while writing is devastating to one’s waist.

But this is not a fitness post. Nope. I can preach and preach from the mountain tops and bell towers how I am learning to love my body ‘as-is’ and you should too. I am not talking about that so much.

I’m talking about when my husband bought me a bunch of trashy lingerie lately and it made me cry.

I am not sure if I will understand how my husband’s brain works. And that’s okay. He sure as heck is not going to figure mine out either. But I’m trying to at least put myself in the lobe of his noggin that thinks, “I’m going to buy Rebecca lingerie that looks awesome on a model that is a size zero with double D boobs and it’s going to look just as fabulous on her as it does the model chick.”

It’s no secret that I don’t have double D boobs and I’m not a size zero. I like to hover around a size 6 and lately it’s been more of an 8. AND THAT’S OKAY.

BUT- trying on anything that is too small, let alone with holes strategically placed along the waist line, or see through lace in other areas, is enough to put one over the edge of a Xanax needing cliff.

McSweetie- “I got you some things.”

Me- “You did? Oh boy! What?” (this is where I hope it’s shoes, lipstick or a handbag)

Mc- “Some lingerie. Here, try it on and you can wear it tonight.”

Me- “Uhm, there’s nothing flannel or over-sized here. Where’s the fuzzy comfy stuff?”

Mc- “You have fuzzy comfy. Let’s try sexy and shiny.”

Me- “You know this won’t fit me right? It’s like tacky city here of poor quality and even worse fit. You know this right?”

Mc- “Well, I think I bought it in your size, so give it try.”  Eyes hopeful.

Later, I shaved my legs and pits, applied bronzer lotion everywhere I could and gave the garments a go.

Not one fit me. Not. One.

I was devastated. Sure, one of them looked like a banana hammock Borat wore but only in red lace. That one actually did fit better than the others. But let’s not go there.

After some time of pouting and stomping around the house obviously with a huge chip on my shoulder, he asked what was wrong.

“Nothing fits, that’s what’s wrong! You think it’s fair to make me try stuff on that is clearly made for a 22 year old who has never had children?!” I wail.

What a selfish pig! What a misogynistic asshole to think I can just conform to the rigors of what society thinks is pretty! How dare he?I am going to burn all of Frederick’s of Hollywood down to the ground for leading men on to think us women can wear this shit! Who does he think he is?

Him- “Well, I just thought you would look awesome in it. I wanted to see you in something sexy just the way you are. But if you aren’t comfortable with it, I’ll just return it.”

Me- “You will? Really? Because, maybe I can get something sexy but that fits me better and is better quality so I feel comfortable in it and want to wear it, you know?”

Him- “Sure. I would love that. I’ll just send this stuff back.”

Me- <wipes tears away> “Oh okay. Thanks babe. I love you.”

Him- “I love you too.”

AWWWWW!

And just like that I felt dumb for feeling so mad. If it was a pair of shoes that didn’t fit, or a sweater, I would have shrugged, put it back in the bag with the receipt and went about my day. But the fact that it was lingerie made this whole thing in my mind about body image that was just dumb.

HE has no problem with my body and probably wishes he could see more of it more often.

Now that the weather is warming up, he just might get his wish. Which is kind of getting me to get moving so the certain parts of me jiggle less and less as the flannel turns to cotton and the sweatshirts turn to tank tops.

I’m feeling kinda sassy like I can get it a little higher and tighter, locked and loaded. And who’s to say I might be shopping a little bit for some tasteful yet alluring intimate wear? Hmm?

After all, McSweetie is a sweetie and a very deserving one.

But let’s leave the trashy cheap satin and lace to the 22 year old’s, shall we?

 

 

He loves me just the way I am by Frugalista Blog

50 Loads of Darks

*Disclaimer- this post is romanticized fiction based loosely on actual events. Sort of.

 

 

Another Monday night and I was putting the kids to bed. Hubs was snoozing on the downstairs couch. A typical long day at the office has killed any energy he might have had for some gymnastics between the sheets. Okay, not gymnastics, but some spooning that leads to forking anyway.

I make my way to the laundry room to check to see if the towels in the dryer were in fact, dry. I hate mildewy towels. I pushed the button for ‘touch-up’ and went to the hamper to sort some more dirties for another load.

The husband’s darks. How in thee hell does a man have so many socks and shorts? All black socks to be exact. The hamper is in our master bath and is parked outside our walk-in closet door. I made two piles- husband’s black socks, and everything else.

Then I remembered I needed to jot down on my shopping list that we are out of cat food and postage stamps. If I don’t write it down now, I’ll certainly forget.

I go downstairs to write on my list. Then I see dishes of various ice cream vessels that have been left on the side tables and couch from where the kids AND Hubs had their evening bowls of ice cream in front of the TV. Sigh. Picking up dishes all over the house is a full time job. Why am I the only one who seems to remember to put them back in the kitchen?

Hubs is still snoozing. His jaw is slack to the point where he’s almost snoring and he looks pretty wiped. I walk up to him, lean over, just enough to put my saggy bosoms up to his face and whisper, ‘How about a little nookie nook?’  No response. I proceed to give him a Wet Willy in his ear and when he snaps awake tell him, “hey, wanna make yourself useful and meet me upstairs?”

Despite his initial pissed-off reaction, his expression softens and the look of realization crosses his face. I can imagine it was probably the same look he got at 13 when he looked at a Heather Thomas poster.

I put the cat in his room for the night, and call the dog upstairs where she makes her nighttime spot on our bed. I make sure the children’s bedroom doors are shut and I wash my face of the day’s makeup and oily grime.

Wait- did I ever jot down cat food and postage stamps on my shopping list? Oh geeze, I don’t remember. Oh well. I quickly brush my teeth. If hubs does in fact come upstairs for a little whoopie making, I better act fast because he’ll probably fall back to sleep if I dawdle too much.

He heads to the walk-in closet to put on his pajama sweat pants. I figure, now is as good a time as any. I hit the lights so it’s just me and him in the dark. I reach to feel around his mid-section and feel the elastic of his shorts. I creep my fingers just below the waist band.

He asks, “Here?”

I say, “Sure.”

He asks, “On the dirty clothes?”

I say, “I’m washing them anyway, what does it matter?”

He doesn’t ask anything after that. It’s hard for him to think with my hands in the right place.

I decide to speed things up, it is getting late after all. That alarm clock doesn’t wait for anybody, let alone sleep deprived middle aged married couples.

What am I standing on? Probably socks. I try all sexy-like to shimmy down my lady briefs. Not that he can see me anyway, since it’s dark, but our eyes are adjusting and I’m seeing some gray shadows to navigate around. Something is caught around my toe. Holding on to Hubs for support, I wrangle a pair of Fruit of the Looms (not mine) from underneath my foot. I kick around a pile of socks, definitely Hubs’ socks, and try to find a nice soft pile for us. There’s some shoes in the way and a couple of my handbags. A bigger walk-in closet would be really nice. Something along the lines of one of those Real Housewives of Beverly Hills closets with benches and fancy armoires. But now I’m getting distracted. Must focus on Hubs and trying to balance myself on this pile of dirty clothes. Maybe he should squat….? Hmm.. this is getting difficult.

If you think Monday night closet sex on a pile of dirty clothes is not sexy, then you are exactly right. But hey, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

And I gotta lot of laundry to do. That’s for sure.

Tune in next Chapter when Hubs decides to clean the garage in order to cash in on some marital ‘favors’.

 

The wind beneath my wings- RTLF #36

I’m going to get so sappy here people. Grab some tissues. I’ll be so sappy that by the time I’m done, we will be a bucket of syrup. Eh? Oh yeah!

Do you have that one person in your life that will love you and do ANYTHING for you? ANYTHING? It’s hard to know what people will do when they are tested. But my mom is the person in my life who would do whatever I needed. She would. And it’s not whatever I want- no. It’s whatever I NEED. So if it’s tough love, sweet love, bail money, whatever…. she’s there.

Please know, that my husband is A-#1 in my life. His blog post is coming later.Trust me, he’s a saint.

Some things have become apparent in my life this week. Some ‘fan hitting shit’ things apparent. No, I didn’t rob a bank. Or cheat on my McSweetie. But I might as well, because I felt like dirt. I felt like pond scum and I don’t even know why I let myself get this way.

I’ve been a crappy housekeeper and financial planner for the family. If money is the root of all evil, I let it get in my way of running my family properly. That sounds so vague and weird, but everything is fine. I will be expanding on these items soon. When I can get the words. Because I know there’s a lot of you out there who feel the same way.

If there were some Oprah ‘A-Ha’ moments, this was the week.

A-Ha #1- I let myself get in a dark place of self loathing where I only focused on my aging face, my flabby body, and my feelings of inadequacies. (Duh, I know) Stupid? Well, why do alcoholics drink? Why do Anorexics not eat? None of it makes sense. Smart people do and think dumb stuff. This I do know.

Am I surprising you? I know. Happy little, funny Frugie was down in the dumps. Was it depression? I don’t know. I don’t have a professional opinion of what all this is. I just know I was destructive in my self-talk.

A-Ha #2- I married the best man on earth. He’s smart, patient, understanding and most of all- forgiving. And I think, gosh darn it, he loves me. He loves me so much he puts up with my fuck-ups, my female hormonal break-downs, and my prison pajamas. No, not an orange jumpsuit – gray sweat shorts and a gray t-shirt. Ala Target, it’s most unflattering.

A-Ha #3- My mom is the most selfless, giving, wise woman on the planet. Some of you already know this. I know this. But even through her struggles of looking after my dad, my sister, herself, she is there for me.

How lucky am I to be the daughter of such a woman?

My dad is recovering nicely after his broken hip. She will have her own health issues to deal with soon. And my sister is a disabled adult living at home. She takes care of all of them. The last few months have been a trial for sure. But she’s getting through it. We both are.

The woman is freakin’ Mother Teresa!

If I text her, call her, email her, with my woes- she lends an ear. Always.

Does she tell me straight to my face what I don’t want to hear sometimes? Yes. Does she still have the look in her eyes and that pursed mouth of when I was ten and I sassed her or something? Yes! The look. One look from mom and you knew! Oh, you knew!

She always reminds me of my gifts and my talents. She builds me up so I can go back to my job of mothering, wife-ing, volunteering, blogging… whatever.

I want to do so much for her. Because I know she’s tired. She’s worn out. But life keeps chucking shit our way, and then I need her too. So she gives and she gives. I’m still the daughter. I might be 40 years old. But I still need my mom.

And thank God she is there for me.

Are we sappy yet? Have we made syrup? I’m starting to cry in tissues again, so I’ll stop here.

There’s more where this story came from.

I’m fine. Really. And everything is great. I’m full of blessings and gifts I can’t take for granted. My mom helped me get there this week. She did. She is the wind beneath my wings.

<tissue please>

 

 

 

It’s the Boy’s birthday! RTLF- #34

Today Owen is 10. Ten!!

I still haven’t lost the baby weight.

Owen was born with bright blond hair. Lots of it. He needed a hair cut at 9 months because he had a comb-over, it was so long!

Once my nether regions healed after birthing out this 8 pound 11 ounce child of 23 (22?) inches long with a 95th percentile head- I grew to realize that the ‘mama’s boy’ myth was coming true. He was in love with me and I with him.

I promise to not be a nightmare mother in law. It might be hard. He’s my golden boy.

I figured in honor of this day- I will post a few gems of previous Owen posts. He has always been entertaining. Including this one:

Also, I shall include last year’s post of when I share his birth story. It’s pretty good.

The Difference Between Sons and Daughters

Ha! Answer- HUGE!

Yeah, DUH!  I figure since my son’s birthday is coming up and I wrote a blog post about my daughter’s birthday, I should give him the same credit. Although, he is the second child and sometimes you just forget to do stuff for the next kid, like baby books, home movies, that sort of thing. The five second rule comes in to play a whole lot more. You don’t sweat the little stuff like you obsessed over the first time.

So, my story begins- I was about 16 weeks pregnant with my second child. I didn’t know yet if it was a boy or a girl. I kinda wanted it to be a girl. My daughter was 2 1/2, we had a houseful of girl things, I figured, I know girls. I’m a girl,  I can do girls. What do I do with a boy? Will I want to play with him? When he gets older, how am I going to deal with penis questions? (let me tell you now- I am always dealing with penis and testicle questions.) What if he’s hyper, what if he likes guns and wants to be an Ultimate Fighting Champion when he grows up? What is he going to wear? Boys clothes sure as heck aren’t as cute as girl’s clothes.  These were the thoughts that were spinning around and around in my head. Very shallow, but reasonable thoughts.

A friend of mine gave me a children’s book called “Love You Forever” about a mom so devoted to her baby boy and all his phases of growing up. She would tuck him in each night, she would watch him sleep. And then when he was a grown up she climbed in through his window and watched him sleep. Which is really weird. Then when she was an old lady, he watched her sleep and carried her when she couldn’t walk. And it goes to show you how much a mama loves her boy and vice versa. I thought it was a little creepy with the whole sleep watching part and I thought, “I’m never going to be one of THOSE moms that clings to her son.”

<<SNORT>> Yeah right. Fast forward 9 years from then- no girl is going to be good enough for MY boy!! No girl. Okay, settle down. I’m kidding. But I totally get the mother/son connection. My boy is a mama’s boy for sure. And he IS my favorite. I mean, okay, not really!! He’s just, well, he’s easy to love. So I joke about him being my favorite.*

In those early months of pregnancy, I read in a magazine that if your pee was tinged green you were having a boy. If it’s yellow, you’re having a girl. Of course, I was always inspecting my pee color those early weeks. And it was, well, pee color. I guess, I mean, sort of guess it was kinda greenish. It depended on when I took my vitamin, how much water I had been drinking. It was really hard to determine. Also, I heard that if you crave meats you are having a boy. I totally craved sweet baked goods when I was pregnant with Emma. And strawberries. I ate strawberries all the time. With Owen’s pregnancy, I craved vodka. What does THAT tell you?? I craved lots of seafood. I wanted shrimp and prawns all the time. And steak. So yes, I guess I did crave meat.

We had names picked out for if it was a girl or if it was a boy. Nothing written in stone. We just had ideas. I sure as heck had more options if it was a girl. I loved all kinds of girl names. Not that James agreed with me on most of them. Like, Cher or Genevieve, or Violetta. Something awesome of course! I kind of wanted Charlotte or Olivia. I thought that would go well with Emma. He didn’t want any part of that. Too old fashioned he said. I wanted Margaret or Kathleen. Again, too old fashioned. GEEZE, what did he want- Beyonce?? So we kind of, sort of, chose Sarah. But for the boy, we were leaning towards Henry. Love the name Henry. Yes, it was old fashioned, but we both agreed on it. Then low and behold his Great Aunt one day said if it’s named Henry, she’s calling him Hank. Well, stop the presses, because I’m not having a kid going by the name of Hank! Hank is a name for an old man wearing a wife beater shirt guzzling a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his lawn chair. No offense, I just had this image of what a Hank looked like, and it was NOT my son. So then it just came to us- If it’s a boy, it needs to be Owen, which is James’ middle name and his grandfather’s name on his dad’s side. And you don’t get Hank out of Owen. So Owen it would be. Or Sarah. We weren’t sure yet.

We went to the ultrasound at 20 weeks and found out we had a healthy baby. Brain, heart, all the good stuff- looking fine. And yep, a penis. There it was. The fifth appendage. They told us we were having a boy and I thought, well, okey dokey, a boy it is. Hmm, not sure how I feel about it. I wasn’t disappointed. And I wasn’t over the moon. I was just sort of, content. Yeah, content. Now I WAS convinced I was peeing green.

So the day Owen was born was very different, of course, than the day Emma was born. All birth stories are unique. With Emma, I had the perfect epidural after excruciating labor. With Owen, I experienced labor the way it was intended.  It ebbed and flowed and I got through it. I got the epidural but had to start pushing before it actually kicked in. He was coming hard and fast down the pike. They kept telling me it should be working and I shouldn’t feel a thing. Well, tell that to my burning vagina! I felt everything! I would find out later that the epidural worked perfectly if I was having leg surgery on my right side. Thirty minutes after I pushed out the placenta, I couldn’t feel my whole right leg. Gee thanks Dr. Anesthesiologist! Asshat.

So, I was scared as hell about feeling everything since I felt nothing with Emma’s birth.  You bloody well can bet I wanted to be numb for this one too. Well, I think I pushed maybe three times and out he came. Apparently, I push babies out easily. Despite their head circumference being the size of a bowling ball. What does THAT say about my hoo ha? Wait, don’t answer that.

Because I was more concerned with myself and the BURNGING RING OF FIRE sensation that just ripped through me when Owen came out, that when they placed him on me all warm and slimy, I remember thinking, “I did it!”. I didn’t feel that incredible connection to the universe like when Emma was born. I wasn’t as panicked about his well-being since he wasn’t in any fetal distress like she had been. Maybe because I was thinking more practically after having done it before. He had a full head of hair when he came out.  He looked like a surfer – kinda tan and with bleach blond hair. He nursed immediately. What a boob guy. He wouldn’t let go. The hoo ha survived, and latching on happened like it should have. And then, I fell in love with the little peanut. More like the little ham hock. He was 8 pounds, 11 ounces and I swear 23 inches, but the nurse said 22, but I SAW the tape measure. She totally short-changed him. But whatever. I know.

He cried, but didn’t fuss. If he was hungry- he cried. But honestly, if you held him, he was happy. Emma fussed. Sorry dear- you were a cranky pants sometimes. Oh and the colic! He never had that. He slept better, cried less and was just kinda chill. Maybe he was a surfer? I do remember him surfing across my spleen sometimes, or my cervix. He used to karate chop straight down the birth canal those last few weeks he was gestating in the womb. Holy fallopian tubes he would kick the wind out of me- from the inside!

Owen is a very typical child. He whines, he pouts, he doesn’t always do as he’s told. But 9 out of 10 times, he’s really good. He is always thanking me for doing things for him, taking him places, feeding him. He’s the most grateful child I know. He’s a goody two-shoes like me. Totally keeps track of any swearing or yelling by any family member. He really hates yelling. He likes things quiet. He loves to snuggle. And he loves James Bond and Harry Potter and drinks cups of tea with me. Really? What more could a mom ask for?

I can totally trust him. Emma is the story knitter. She can knit a story into a sweater like nobody’s business. How many times when she was in preschool I had to clarify to the teachers what was going on in our family. Whether she had said her dad broke his leg, which he didn’t, but she wanted the pastor (she went to a Christian preschool at our church) to pray for him so she decided to make up a story. Or when her teacher asked me how Disneyland was, and I told her that we hadn’t been to Disneyland. And she said that Emma had told the class that her Grandpa drove the family down to Disneyland in his RV. Well, Grandpa doesn’t have an RV and we didn’t go to Disneyland at all that year. So you get the idea.

I can look Owen square in the eye and he will tell me exactly what happened. If he got in trouble at school (this has happened twice in his whole elementary career) he immediately came to me with the note from his teacher. Guilty. He hates guilt. So he faces it head on.

The difference with boys and girls is clearly attitude. Emma throws me attitude like a logger at a Highland games. Just pitches it up to fall hard on me, Owen doesn’t do that. You don’t have to walk on egg shells around him. Emma is Miss Moody. Happy and easy-going one minute, in tears and hating the world the next. Typical hormonal pre-teen FEMALE. (*If you’re reading this ever in the future Emma, I think you’re awesome and the best daughter ever. Don’t hate me.)

Well, I could brag on and on about my amazing children, but I will spare you. My point is, despite my feelings while I was pregnant and anticipating a boy, wondering how to love it, how it will love me- I can’t imagine it any other way.  Two girls would absolutely kill me! Oh dear heavens, the estrogen would put us over the edge!! At least with Emma as the first born.  She is so Alpha that I can’t imagine another female between her and I.  Owen balances our family beautifully.

He really is my golden boy.

I pop out some damn cute kids, huge head and all.

The Valentine’s Day Flu

This post was an original written for Bonbon Break Magazine

Ugh. I hate Valentine’s day. Okay, not really. It’s cute and all. I like getting heart shaped things and baked goods for the kids. I like the ‘IDEA’ of Valentine’s day. The actual holiday- it is never cracked up to the expectation.

Valentine’s day is in February. What is February? Winter, that’s what. And winter is flu season.

Do I remember the Valentine’s day getaways hubs took me on for romantic dinners for two? No. One, because those didn’t happen. Two, because I’m usually home sick with the flu. Every. Freakin’. Time….

Read more here- http://www.bonbonbreak.com/the-valentines-day-flu/  (go on, you know you want to)

 

 

Reasons why I hate family game night

Have a family game night- it’s fun! They said.

No it’s not.

Family game night is a cross between a trip to the gynecologist and refereeing a cock fight in Guadalupe. It’s miserable and feels like it will never end. (Not that I’ve ever refereed any cock fighting or visited any Mexican town called Guadalupe.)

1.) No one can decide on what game to play. “I want Apples to Apples!” Other kid- “We played Apples to Apples last time, let’s do Guesstures!” Mom and dad don’t really want to do either, but drinking games are kind of inappropriate with a 9 and 12 year old.

2.) Dad won’t get off his laptop. Kid- “DAAAAD, you can’t be on Facebook while we’re playing!” Dad- “I’m not, I’m just keeping tabs on the news. I’m totally paying attention to you guys.”  (NOT)

3.) Children won’t put down media devices either. Me- “Daughter (12) it’s time to put away your phone, stop SnapChatting your friends and play. We are doing this for YOU!”  (Guilt trips are totally required on family game night by the way.)

4.) Someone always cries. Usually the youngest because they are losing. Then I start crying because I’m so fed up with everyone.

5.) Someone always leaves the game  pouting and stomping off loudly up the stairs. Again- usually the youngest. Or me.

6.) They decide to play Monopoly. (Just kill me now) Nothing good ever comes of this game and it goes on for a fortnight.

7.) Dad tries to be funny making irrelevant jokes and it turns out to just annoy everyone. Really, it was kind of funny the first time- but the following five, not so much. Give. It. Up.

8.) One sibling accuses the other of cheating. At this point, you don’t really give a shit and you’re hoping it’s almost bed time.

9.) You’re fed up, you announce the game is over and send everyone to bed. Tears and crying commence and you are told you are the meanest mom EVER! Then you feel like the White Witch in Narnia and everyone blames you for spoiling their fun.

10.) No one remembers whose turn it is and when they do they take F O R E V E R to make their move. (Courtesy of Hollow Tree Ventures)

11.) Little hands can’t hold cards for shit. (Thank you Motherhood WTF)

12.) It’s very hard to find a game that spans ALL ages, let alone one where the older kids don’t whine and cry that ‘THIS IS BOOORING” (this confessed to me via You Know It Happens At Your House Too)

13.) The cat lays on top of the game pieces and game board, wiping out all progress and your wine glass is empty. At this point, everything is futile and it’s time to just send everyone to bed. See #9.

14.) Someone decides to play a game of Smell My Finger (written by The Bearded Iris).

15.) Beer pong is just not the same with apple juice.

 

Please do my a favor and vote for me for the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funny Moms contest! CLICK HERE. Please and thank you!

Reason to Live Friday- #30- We are going to be okay

I’m usually the smart one in the relationship. It’s true. Hubs has done some pretty stupid things. He’s trimmed the cord on the blinds once while they were up so when we went to close them, the cord was too short.

He’s used my dishwashing gloves for applying moss killer to the roof of our old house and then just put them back under the sink like it was no big deal. I thought he was trying to poison me, but then I realized, he was just kind of being stupid.

So when I do something dumb, I feel REALLY bad. And I did something dumb this  week.

Back over the summer I paid the mortgage twice in one month on accident. It’s easy to say, that mistake caused us to default on a few other payments since there wasn’t sufficient funds in the bank.

I felt awful. And you can’t just call up the mortgage company and ask for your money back.

This week I did something similar. I feel like a huge idiot.

Scene begins- McSweetie calls me up during his lunch break because the debit card doesn’t work. While he’s on the phone I log in to our bank to check what’s going on.

Oops. We have no money. And it was MY mistake. – AND… scene.

You would think that after 15 years of joint accounts and being in charge of the bills, expenses, household shopping, I’d have my act together and come up with a system.

How dumb does a grown woman feel asking her mom for a few bucks to cover groceries? Pretty dumb, that’s what. But a lot better than pawning my wedding ring or grandma’s candle sticks. Okay, it’s not THAT bad. Don’t panic.

What makes me feel even more guilty about my lapse in judgement was that last week I was in a major slump. I wasn’t sick, even though my family around me was. I was hormonal and cranky. But also emotional and lethargic. I had nothing in me. I couldn’t pinpoint if it was just Uterus Armageddon or winter blahs, or what.

I needed sympathy and cookies. I needed to be told I was pretty, even though I hadn’t showered and was wearing the same clothes three days in a row. My friends did this for me. They saw the bat signal distress sign, and came to action. I got to hear what I wanted to hear. Sure, maybe it was just to be nice, but they knew that I needed it. That whatever it takes to lift us out of the fog is necessary. What’s a few shallow compliments to keep me from drastic measures? Okay, apparently, drastic measures are spending too much and wiping out your bank account.

Maybe my mood and my actions are correlated. Oops- no shopping or bill paying for me during Aunt Flo! This will go in the marriage survival handbook.

My gracious husband last week was kind and let me order take out a few nights for dinner. He saw the laundry pile up and the sink stinky with dishes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even get mad over this bank account debacle I have caused for us. He’s taken Owen to soccer, run a Cub Scout den meeting and coached a soccer game at 8 am on Sunday morning. He stood out in the freezing cold selling cookie dough with Owen’s Scouts for a fund raiser.

Other people’s goodness and grace doesn’t make me feel bad about myself. It pulls me up out of the dumps and keeps me from wallowing in the sludge of self deprecation. Not the Tina Fey kind that entertains us, but the damaging kind that can be cruel and destructive.

If you’re feeling like the bottom of Charlie Sheen’s shoe in a strip club, or you know someone who is- send them a cookie, tell them their hair smells nice.

I’m so grateful for my support network. My mom, my family, my friends, even readers. When I need something, someone is there for me. I hope you have a safety net like that too.

And thank you dear spouse for putting up with my neurosis. I’m 90% awesome, and I know that when my game is off, it’s only for a short while. I appreciate your patience. I do. Feel free to watch a Bourne movie marathon this weekend, or Karate Kid. I know how much you like those.

 

 

 

I’m guest posting In The Powder Room

 

Today I am so tickled, so pleased as punch, so EXCITED to have my debut at…….DUN dada DUN…..

In The Powder Room! Confetti cannons- pew pew pew pew!

I have been a huge fan of this site so today I feel like the new kid at the big girl’s lunch table. They feature fabulous women, hilarious articles and blush-worthy topics. It’s like girl talk in the bathroom. Hence- the Powder Room reference.

So run on over there already, why are you still here??

Today’s post- What happens when you buy something that doesn’t fit but you can’t return it?

I’m not talking about a shirt, or a nightstand, or even a pair of shoes. Something more personal ….

read HERE for the full article

 

 

 

Wife Confession: I enjoy the hubs away on business trips. Short ones, of course.

I think the further into marriage and kids you delve, the more you realize how much you like to be alone. Or is that just me?

I love my kids, I love my husband. Blah blah blah. You know this to be true. But come on. I love being alone. I’m the Greta Garbo of my peers. Leave me alone to bask in the glow of the reality TV show from my flat screen. Let me nap with the dog on the couch. Let me go poop by myself and change my maxi pad without interruption.

So when McSweetie had a business trip this week, I felt more sense of me time than just when he’s at work. Why? Maybe because after the kids go to bed, I rule the family room and the remote. Okay, I rule the remote most nights anyway. BUT. I got to sit around, pass gas, drink wine and watch all the Lifetime movies a girl could want. And they were holiday Lifetime movies. Even better.

So hubs comes home in the evening from the airport, kids are happy to see him, yada yada, and I’m moaning on the couch  before it’s time to tuck in the boy. I’ve heated up the hot pad twice and stuffed it in my pajama pants. This my friends, is a clear signal that Aunt Flo has come to town and she’s brought her suitcase. Did McSweetie notice this? Not so much. He asks what’s wrong. I mouth ‘cramps’ and give that all knowing look like, ‘poor me, I has armageddon uterus.’ What does he do? He gives me the exasperated look like, ‘didn’t you just have your period’, and says to me “that’s not what I was expecting.”

I stayed quiet, popped some Aleve and reheated my heat pad. I waited for him to fall asleep on the couch while I concocted this entire speech in my head.

Here goes:

“THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING? REALLY? Yeah, well, newsflash bucko, it’s been 25 days since the last one. I’m sorry I wasn’t greeting you at the door wearing nothing but a trench coat and had the kiddos already tucked in bed sleeping soundly so we could have wild monkey sex on the dining room table. Which if you hadn’t noticed already was cleared off of its crap from the last several months.

Yeah, and another thing. You probably thought, ‘oh bummer, looks like the wifey isn’t up for some lovin’ tonight. Whoa is me, I won’t get some.’ But did you ever think- ‘Awww, poor thing. Look at her. She’s done all the chores and even scrubbed the base boards (I did actually, can you believe it?!) and she has an achy uterus and feels poorly.’

But did you think that? Hmm, did you?? NO. Of course you didn’t.

You don’t care that the pain I feel in my baby box slightly resembles that of the first few hours of labor. Where my endometrial lining is screaming at me and I have pain spasms all the way down my butt. Yeah. So there.

Don’t mind me. I just dropped off your dry cleaning, kept the children alive, washed the sheets, scrubbed the base boards (Did I mention I scrubbed the baseboards?) and cleaned up some crap from forever ago, and am sitting here being miserable in my female-ness that I have NO CONTROL over!

So yeah. Go fall asleep on the couch. No nookie for you.

Men.