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How to be nice on the internet. A primer.

I love the internet. I do. I have friends on the internet that I like better than some people I see on a regular basis in real life. I mean, the internet IS real life.

It reports the news, keeps us up to date socially, drives commerce. You can buy Winnie the Pooh slankets on the internet, or chia seeds in bulk. You can watch porn in the privacy of your own home. You can attend AA meetings and prayer groups.

But the internet is also a nasty, vile place. Like a dark back alley in Singapore, it’s rank, rude, and you might need a Hep C shot.

The phrase, “it’s not what you say, but how you say it” needs to be invoked more often. We need to remember that a keyboard isn’t a mask of anonymity. You need to say on the internet what you would say to someone in person.

I’ve noticed some very poor behavior. Whether it’s on Facebook comments or blog comments. And I’m sure the people are somewhat decent, they have just forgotten all human kindness when it comes to interacting with people on the web.

That’s right, people. We are all people. The people that write blogs, administer Facebook pages, write Tweets; we are human beings. Not cyber bots that just put this stuff out there for you. Oh, and we aren’t getting paid that much to do it either.

Join me in my classroom on how to be nice on the internet. It will be fun, I promise. And possibly, a little passive aggressive.

Examples:

Status on Facebook- “My husband forgot to use soap when he bathed our kids. Sorry if they look greasy.”

Nasty internet response- “Soap is evil, you’re a dumbfuck parent for even using the stuff. It’s horrible for the skin. What kind of monster are you? I feel sorry for your kids. :)”  (Yes, that’s a smiley face, passive aggressive emoticon. We’ve all seen them.)

Say this instead- “LOL! Soap is for hobos in a shelter. Or jocks in a locker room. Who needs soap?”

Facebook status- “I just want to let you know about this new book I contributed in. Hope you order it on Amazon.”

Nasty internet response- “I don’t like braggy statuses so I’m just going to unlike your page. Who needs to know about your book anyway?”

Better internet response- “I’m selling vacuums through this website. If you want a flat stomach order here, www.drozwantsyoutopoop.com”

My favorite kind of parenting argument- Facebook status- “I’ve finally sleep trained my 9 month old. What a blessing to get to sleep through the night and fully function during the day for my family.”

Nasty internet response – “Sleep training is the devil’s work. You need to be at your child’s side at all times. Even wolf cubs take better care of their babies than you do.”

What you should say- “I love trains. Breakfast trains, dinner trains, sleep trains. All trains are awesome.”

Do you see my point? When you want to say something mean, just say something nice but still on topic. This way, you can get your point across without ruffling any feathers. And don’t just use one smiley face emoticon. There’s so many others you can use; penguins, sharks, hearts. Be creative!

Actually, I admit, my suggested responses are ridiculous. But isn’t banging someone over the head with your opinions a little ridiculous too? Have you ever won an argument by calling the person stupid, or telling them they are what’s wrong with the world? Hmm.. I doubt it. If you like to start arguments on the internet, you’re what is called a troll. And trolls have excessive body hair and live under bridges and talk to goats. If this describes you, then I suppose you wouldn’t know better than to type horrible, spiteful words. You probably need a hug. And a cookie.

If you are trying to persuade someone, it’s best to not insult them. I have found this works beautifully.

So carry on. Off you go. Just be nice.

This concludes Mrs. Frugies classroom. Come next week when I share tips on how to trim your cats matted belly hair with the kitchen shears.

 

Darn. It’s not broken.

I mean- yay. (Pfft.)

 

Remember when you were a kid, and you wanted a cast on your arm, just like the one little Bobby at school got when he fell off the monkey bars, because everyone got to sign it, and he had a note that he couldn’t do PE. Remember that?  And he told the class that his mom bought him ice cream and let him pick what he wanted for dinner that night and he didn’t have to do his chores because of his big owie?

I was so jealous of little Bobby. His life seemed so perfect. Chill-axing, watching cartoons and nursing his big cast-arm.

I mean, I didn’t WANT a broken arm per say. I wanted the attention, note from PE, excuse not to do chores, and dinner and ice cream.

So when this week I thought for sure I might’ve broken my foot, I admit, I was a little bummed when the doctor told me it would heal eventually on its own and that it was nerve damage, not a break, and to just limit my Zumba.

Limit my Zumba? Have you seen my ass lately doctor? So you’re telling me that my foot really isn’t THAT injured, so I should be able to do all the regular shit and chores I normally do, but just hobble around awkwardly until it heals? Even though I’m in a boat load of pain? Oh swell.

Here- let me catch you up on what happened.

About a month ago, I was playing soccer with Owen. We were goofing around in the front yard. I kicked the ball to him and felt massive pain in my foot. Right at my toe. I knew something was wrong. But I soldiered on and ignored it. I’m tough like that.

For weeks, I’ve been putting pain patches on, acupuncture, and even castor oil packs. Ancient healing methods haven’t been successful. I’m used to living in pain. Migraines, cramps, angry stuck ovaries, and bad feet. So you know, whatever. I can deal.

Went to Zumba for the first time in a LONG time. (Remember this Zumba story here?)

And I had so much fun! I could feel my ass melting away. I must’ve burned 600 calories dropping it low. About 3/4 of the way through, my foot was screaming in pain and asking me to stop dropping it so low. It felt like it was on fire.

So I eased up on my booty shaking and took it easy. That night it was incredibly tender and sore. The next morning it was just as bad.

As I was doing my Target run (hobble) and errands, I was in so much pain, I gimped on over to the Urgent Care that is in the same shopping complex.

Once it was my turn, they have me step on the scale. And to add insult (literally) to injury (literally), the scale mocked me an extra 5 pounds.

My day was going so nicely. (Insert sarcasm) I was in pain, started Aunt Flo, and was gaining weight by the second.

I asked the nurse if they served wine and chocolate. She chuckled. But no, they don’t.

When the initial x-rays showed no break, they sent me to an orthopedic specialist to determine if it was a stress fracture or something. The next day I saw the specialist.

Nice guy. But not nice enough to give me a big boot, vicodin, and a note telling my family to do all the work because mommy has to rest. Dang him!

Instead of that, he gave me a shot of cortisone and told me that the pain was nerve damage, not bone damage. I have a history of  neuromas and they are a bitch. Apparently, I pissed one off. So yeah.

The shot of cortisone hurt like a mother f–ker. I won’t lie. And it took awhile for the cortisone to kick in. I’m not allowed to go for any runs, skips, hops, Zumba classes, or track and field events. Darn- I was really looking forward to those.

What I am allowed to do is- make dinner, pack lunches, scrub toilets, scoop cat poop, vacuum, do laundry and get the groceries.

Dammit. Where is that doctor’s note when you want it??

Oh well, the good news is, since it isn’t broken, I will be in ship shop shape to attend BlogHer in Chicago at the end of July with all my blogging pals and fellow authors of the Pee book. It’s going to be so exciting!

Summer break hasn’t started yet in these parts, so at least while the kids are in school, I should rest up my foot. Excuse me, a new episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey is on. Gotta go.

 

 

Chicken in a Biskit- a video

I try to be healthy. I do. But once in awhile I find something that takes me to the dark side of snacking. Here you go-

Buy my book!

The four phases of a woman’s ‘cycle’

 

 

 

 

 

My fear is that this isn’t just PMS- it’s my personality.

 

Be nice to your kids, they will pick your nursing home.

Oh my lawd! I’m gonna tell you a story so you better get comfy. Speaking of comfy- my dad broke his hip last week, so comfy he is NOT. If you are reading this with all your bones in tact, then you better be thankful.

So let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start (channeling my Maria VonTrapp). Last week, my 81 year old father, in his attempt to show my mom his foot for her to find a sliver he thought he felt; in an extremely dextrous fashion, he lifted his sockless foot on the table for her to observe with a light and a magnifying glass. Before you can say ‘orthopedic trauma’, he falls backwards and lands on his left hip. In agony he tries to get himself up. No luck. My mom tries to help. No luck. I wasn’t there, but she said his yelps of pain were somewhat sickening. I’ve written about my dad before, here and here, he’s a strong, self-reliant gentleman, who has never been in such a helpless state like this.

Even after my mom called over their neighbor to help him up, it was clear he needed an ambulance.

They called 911 and off he went to the Emergency Room. I met my mom there and they wheeled dad into x-ray. A fracture of the femural neck was evident. 3 shots of morphine later, he was still miserable. A shot of Valium into his IV helped him relax, but it was a long night.

He actually doesn’t remember it, thankfully. Our body’s defense mechanism to not remember pain is quite a blessing.

A day and a half later, he had surgery to correct the fracture and my mom and I spoke with the surgeon post operation. He was very  clear that in my dad’s age range, and in order to return him to his status quo of health, he needed to get up and learn to walk, with the help of a walker, right away. (This is foreshadowing people.)

My mom was concerned for his discharge since they live in a split level house. Everything he would need would be on the main floor- kitchen, bed, toilet, bath; but there were 13 stairs in the way of his destination. How would she get him in the house?

When the option of post-op rehab, covered by insurance, in a facility was brought up to her, she considered it, especially as a way for him to gain strength on his walker to become more mobile and eventually be able to get in the house. Easy peasy, right?

WRONG!

Once he was discharged they transported him to the nursing home- let’s not sugar coat it. This was a nursing home. Even though they advertise as a “post-op orthopedic rehab facility”. BULL. SHIT.

It was a nursing home.

My mom immediately got the wrong vibe at this place and felt bad for leaving my dad there. He was in the wing with all the dementia and permanent residents. Translation- the droolers and wanderers of the place. A woman who likes to sit in the middle of the floor. Or  another woman who constantly asks where the bathroom is, even though she lives there. So sad. Truly. My grandmother spent her last years in a home suffering from dementia, I know what it looks like. If I ruled the world, my Utopia would be beautiful rest homes for old folks that are free and run like 5 star hotels. But I digress…

My dad is not a whiner. My dad has lived on beans and toast for dinner during lean times. He doesn’t expect a lot. But when nursing staff doesn’t treat him as a respectable, lucid adult and also neglects to get him out of his wheel chair throughout the day- even though it is explicitly the surgeons orders for him to do so, he becomes frustrated.

And folks, the beds were hand crank beds, not mechanically adjustable, and the dresser and bureau drawers were broken. The TV only got four channels and the valences on the windows were from 1984. I’m picturing corporate off at the Miraval spa retreat enjoying the residuals they get from Medicare and keeping the overhead pretty low by cutting on corners, like, hmm, let’s say, no defibrillators  on the walls for GOSH SAKES!

I’ve seen more defibrillators in an airport or school gymnasium.

We now launch Operation Get My Dad Out of this Shithole.

Mom heads over to the hospital and gets orders from the surgeon to get him an ambulance home and EMTs to get him up the stairs. She’s hoping these orders are covered by insurance. This is what she was told, so we’re sticking to it.

Mom makes an appointment with the Rehab Manager, the nurse somethingorother and the Social Services coordinator at the Shithole place to discuss their poor care of my dad.

I join the conversation. My mom is sweet. Kind. She has notes, she apologizes and tells them it’s not personal.

Social Services lady says she is sorry. Asks what they can do to make it better for my dad. Wishes she was able to .. blah blah blah waa waa waa waa waa (You know the Peanuts cartoon? This is how the grown ups sounds. This is what I heard coming out of their mouths.)

Lady tells my mom she wants her to understand that my dad can leave on his own accord, but it will be AMA (against medical advice) to which I want to say, “What medical advice? You let him sit in a wheel chair for 48 hours and never took him to physical therapy.) But I did not.

The meeting concluded and mom and I devised our strategy. We took him back to his room. Packed up his things.

She headed to the hospital pharmacy and got his pain medication prescription filled. Even though Nurse Ratched said she’d be happy to provide him with some before his transport, we decided not to count on anything. I stayed in the room with him and waited. Mom wanted to call the ambulance service- she had the signed paperwork- but she had to get him the meds first AND get the house ready and roll up the area rugs. Details are important people.

My dad and I sat and waited. I went to the coffee machine and sneaked a mocha in for him. The machine had a sign that read, “beverages too hot out of this machine, patients and residents are not allowed to drink beverages from this machine.” My dad has to have his coffee and tea extra hot, so this was perfect. I made sure no one saw me bring it to his room. Which added to the clandestine feel of Operation Get My Dad Out Of This Shithole.

Then my mom calls and tells me she’s waiting for the Oxycontin but the insurance company actually has to SPEAK to the doctor. The written prescription isn’t good enough for serious narcotics like this. UGH. Whatever!

Wait some more.

Mom calls again. Screw the insurance company, she paid cash for the pills and will get reimbursed later. She can’t wait for the doctor, that could be hours. She’s going to call the ambulance transport to come get him and will I meet her in the parking lot to get his Oxycontin for him. I see the movie version of this with Shirley Maclaine and Emma Stone by the way.

So I go out to the parking lot and get his prescription. I jokingly told her, “thanks for making me a mule for dad’s drugs!” <== a sense of humor is key in these Delta Force like missions.

When I got to dad’s room he says, “Do you have the D-R-U-G-S?”

Me, “Dad, I think people can spell around here.”

Then mom called again, the ambulance was going to be there to get him within 30 minutes.

Hooray! We wanted out of this place.

When they arrived in the hallway with their stretcher and wearing their navy blue polyester uniforms, my heart lifted. They were friendly, professional, joked with my dad, enjoyed his dry humor and British accent. They strapped him in and we rolled down the hall.

EMT Nate was filling out paperwork with Nurse Ratched and I heard her say, “no the patient hasn’t received any rehab.” Boom. Yeah, suckas, that’s why we’re busting this joint.

I told the EMTs why my dad had to leave. They said, “you don’t have to tell us twice. We’ve seen these places, they aren’t pretty. At least this one doesn’t smell so bad it burns your eyeballs.” Hmm, they had a point. It did smell decently.

They loaded dad and I texted mom to put the tea kettle on ‘cuz HE WAS COMING HOME!

Now the hard part began for the EMTs.

They contemplated the stairs and the stretcher. Of course, smart-ass me asks what the big deal is, the EMTs that got him to the hospital in the first place had to get him down the stairs. Well, they explained to me that getting down is easier than up, AND there’s usually about 6 folks at a site between EMTs and fire fighters. Sure enough, my mom described one of the EMTs that night as big and burly. These guys bringing my dad home were actually on the small side.

Once they determined it was easier to carry him up the stairs in a Baby Bjorn, they spun into action. Okay, it wasn’t a Baby Bjorn, but it was a plastic sling with handles. They got him up the stairs and into his awaiting chair.

My mom made friends with the EMTs, she makes friends with everyone. And friend requested them on Facebook, exchanged Twitter handles and took a few selfies. Just kidding!

I remembered to take the bottle of pain pills out of my purse and give them to my mom. Not that I didn’t think of keeping maybe, just one. Nope, that’s illegal folks!

Dad got a cup of tea and I did too. And mom took a shot of tequila. Okay, just kidding again. She didn’t, but I think she could’ve used it!

Since then, dad has been great in getting up on his own with his walker. Getting to his bed and the bathroom, slowly, but surely. And the nurses and PTs that come to the house check his pro-times (blood clotting) and all that, so he’s in good hands.

And most importantly, Operation Get My Dad out of this Shithole, was a success.

Here’s to being kind to your kids in case you need them to bust you out of a nursing home one day.

 

 

 

 

I can’t please everyone

“Get a hobby.”

“Get a job.”

“Clean your house more often.”

“Let down your hair and blow off steam.”

“You should go out with your girl friends.”

“Why do you go out so much?”

“Pay attention to your kids more.”

If I did nothing but look after my house all day, people would think I’m weird and need a hobby. If I just sat around and did a hobby all day, people would think I needed to work more. It’s called balance people. I do what works for my family. Not yours.

Why are people so judgey? I didn’t ask your opinion. Okay, I just did about the judgey question, but before that. Why do people judge my parenting based on how often I’m on the internet? Shouldn’t they judge my parenting based on my kids themselves?

I’m a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom). It’s a lame term. I don’t just stay home. Sometimes I do. Sometimes all I can do is wait for the kids to leave the house for the school bus so I can watch Sherlock on Netflix or Downton Abbey. I make myself lattes and eat baked goods and am in clear denial as to the amount of work I actually have to get done. It’s a coping mechanism.

Then there’s some days I leave the house around 9 am and don’t get home until 7:30 or 8 at night. Between errands, appointments, volunteering and taking the kids to their activities, I am non-stop.

On a really good day, I’ll throw in some laundry between errands and empty the dishwasher. On a fabulous day, I’ll prepare a dinner that is nutritious AND delicious. Whoa.

So if you’re wondering, no, I don’t spend my whole day on Facebook. Or my blog.

I blog when I can, usually after the kids go to bed. Or when they’ve left for school.

Why am I even telling you this? Because there’s bloggers and moms and dads out there who seem to share their opinions freely about how horrible us blogging, Instagraming, Facebooking, and Pinteresting moms are. And I’m tired of it.

I’m pretty sure my kids are totally fine while I sit here next to them and I’m on my computer. Or wait in the carpool line on my phone. And when they were younger, how many times did I hear, “mommy watch this!” and for the one millionth time I was shown how they could spin and forward roll. Or burp. I didn’t miss any milestones of my children’s development because I was on the internet. My children are not maladjusted because I don’t give them every breathing, waking second of my attention. No, in fact. They are independent beings that know how to wipe their own ass. (Most of the time.)

Now with the book, I Just Want to Pee Alone out and kicking book selling butt- I want to be clear that I am in support of other moms who share their candid tales of parenting and motherhood, pregnancy and post-partum, and not just do it honestly, but hilariously! The kind of stories you laugh so hard at over a Girls Night Out when someone shares the story of how they gave birth, that you pee your pants, or spew your cosmo out your nose. Don’t all moms pretty much share their birth stories?

Then there’s my marriage. If I make a few jokes about McSweetie, can we not jump to conclusions that I must be a nightmare to live with? Can we not think my marriage must be miserable and my husband so pussy whipped, he doesn’t know what hit him? If I was a stand-up comic and did this piece about how husbands can behave like children, there would be a lot of women who agree with me. Or husbands that agree with me about their spouse being childlike. But put it in a blog, and all of a sudden, I’m Dr. Phil and I need to stop giving marital advice and stop emasculating my husband. Trust me, a list about how my husband doesn’t pick up his underwear, doesn’t emasculate him.

He admits to his foibles. He knows he can be lazy around the house. So what? I get something off my chest, a few others laugh about it and tell me they relate, I feel better. Life goes on. We don’t have to psycho analyze it into a marriage crisis, people! I’m actually pretty awesome to be married to. I wash his shorts, make his lattes, encourage him and his career, send him off to heavy metal concerts with his buddies, take care of his mother’s birthday… I’m a pretty damn good wife.

Here let me interview McSweetie on his feelings about this….

Oh, sorry, he was asleep on the couch. I’ll ask him later.

Okay, are we cool? Because I’m a little tired of people getting their knickers in a twist. Just chill the fluff down. I can’t please everyone, so I please me. And my family. Thankyouverymuch.

And if you haven’t yet- buy the damn book!

Let’s hop on the puberty roller coaster and go for a ride!

Grab your helmets and strap in. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Emma is almost 13. I will be blogging about this frequently. So just get used to it.

When your child is a toddler you deal with emotional outbursts, jags of fatigue and desperation. Fits of borderline psychotic attempts at expressing one’s individuality through yelling and door slamming.

Well, ten years later- you get to go through it. All. Over. Again.

The sulking. The pouting. The ‘don’t talk to me!’. The “why don’t you understand?”. The “you’re the worst mom ever!”.

Isn’t parenting fun?

I realize my child did not ask to be brought into this world. My husband and I had this fabulous notion of making people and looking forward to how much it would fulfill and enrich our lives. And it has. I wouldn’t trade it for the WORLD. The sun rises and sets on my sweet children. However, it does not change the fact that there are times when I want to drop-kick my daughter into next week when she gets all up in my craw.

The other night I had to practice tremendous restraint. It was her brother’s Cub Scout banquet and we arrived early to help set up. Apparently, this is one of the worst things you can ask your almost 13 year old to help out with. They will give you that look like you’ve grown a horn from the center of your forehead and have asked them to drink the blood of a baby llama.

She forgot her iPod and Kindle. So this meant, she was without Instagram or SnapChat and had to – get this- interact with people actually in the room with her. Oh the horror.

I didn’t realize that she was extremely hungry when we got there. So this contributed to her grumpyness. I know I’m no fun when my blood sugar is plummeting. But folks- it was a banquet. We were 10 minutes from a spaghetti buffet with all the fixins’. She wasn’t going to starve.

Thank GOD the food helped. For about two hours she was pleasant to folks, helped take pictures and only made her brother cry once.

She almost made me cry twice, but hey. I’m tough. When it was over and we were helping clean up, again, we were – THE WORST parents ever. Making her stand around like that, helping to fold and stack chairs… ugh. It’s like coal mining. Such hard work.

I pretty much steered clear from her as best as I could. I think even bed time was tense and there seemed to be a lot of heavy exasperated sighs and drawer slamming. I gave her a short lecture on her stinky behavior and how she was a royal pain in the ass and not at all gracious to us.

While tucking in Owen he asked me why she was being such a butt. Well, he didn’t say that, but let’s just cut to the chase. I told him it’s part of girls growing up. They get moody and emotional and it’s best we stay out of her way.

The next morning, which was Sunday, I had an epiphany. I decided instead of pestering Emma to clean her room and continue to fight with her, I caught her off guard first thing when she woke up. “Hey, guess what?” I announced, “you and I are going to do a little shopping and go see a movie.”

Talk about 180 degree mood switch. Her face lit up. Her mood improved. She was mine again and it felt nice.

Yes, there was one or two instances during our day of where my annoying ‘momness’ seeped through and she needed to make me aware. But on the whole, we had a great time. We laughed, shopped, sang, and at times, almost peed our pants (from the laughing).

As much as I want to force her to comply and make her feel miserable for the way she treats us sometimes, I realize that I probably make the people miserable around me once a month. And I know that one of my favorite things to do is shop for makeup and go see a movie.

For some, maybe it’s go for a bike ride. Maybe it’s get out on the field and run or kick a ball. That’s great. I know that with my girl, usually some sushi and lip gloss helps set her straight.

Am I rewarding her rotten behavior? Not necessarily. I’m keeping her from putting her walls up around herself so high that I might never scale them again. Usually her mood swings come and go. But if I beat a dead horse and only nag her of all the things she’s doing wrong, or all the things she’s NOT doing (i.e. clean her room), I worry that she will shut me out and only want to keep company with her peers.

I also have to remember not to take her behavior personally. She’s not acting against me. She’s struggling within her own feelings.

I’ve always made it clear that I’m her mom first and foremost. But life’s too short to dwell in the low valleys of hormones. I think I kind of found a break-through. If I keep from harping on her, call her on her shit but don’t beat a dead horse with it, but find the stuff we have in common; I think we’ll all survive.

I’ll let you know.

 

 
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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!

7 Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage via Scary Mommy

This post was featured on Scary Mommy last week. I was so excited that she let me contribute to her blog since she is pretty awesome and a published author, and widely known.

I posted it on my Facebook blog page and wasn’t sure if everyone saw it. So here you have my Scary Mommy contribution.

Let’s remember folks- I’m sarcastic, I’m putting it all out there, and don’t take me too seriously. (hee hee) Oh, and mom and dad, don’t bother reading. Thanks.

My husband and I have been together almost two decades. 17 years. That is crazy. Especially since I’m only 31. Just kidding. I’m 40 and everyone knows it.

 

I believe there are some things that should be kept from one another. Basic human nature aspects that really don’t need to be shared. Sure this guy is your soul mate, the love of your life. But I try to keep him from seeing the elephant ear shaped labias in actual daylight. I think romance needs to stay somewhat alive. I try to keep a shred of dignity around him. If my efforts keep him wondering, keep him thinking, “this woman has such a mystique, even though I’ve been married to her all these years,” I’m doing something right.

 

Here goes…

 

1. Only wear those pore trip nose thingies on your nose when he’s not around. I even have ‘Frownies’ which are these stick on tabs you use to immobilize your face instead of Botox. They are like postage stamps for your forehead. He will never see me in these.

 

2. Hide your Aunt Flo stained underwear at the bottom of the hamper. Better yet- wash everything yourself and keep your husband from laundering any delicates.

 

3. Don’t go #2 in his presence. Yes, my husband thinks I, like other women, don’t poop. And honestly, I’m just going to pretend he doesn’t either. There are limits in our marriage. We can go #1 in each others’ company, but #2 is strictly off limits. What’s the worst is when we have to go to a hotel and eventually I have to have my morning poop. I make sure the fan is on and I keep a travel Febreeze in my product bag.

 

4.  Keep from seeing each other’s anuses at all costs. I don’t think my husband has seen mine. I can’t guarantee what my husband saw of me during childbirth. It happened so fast and the poor guy was forced by the nurse to hold my leg. I told them no, that I wanted my hooha to be a sacred shrine of adoration kept intact in my husband’s mind, but they insisted. I don’t care that porn stars bleach their back door, this hemorrhoid addled (yes childbirth was retched on my body) butt isn’t going to be seen by anyone (except my gyno), not even a hand mirror I hold myself. And you can guarantee I will NOT be seeing his.

 

5. Don’t vomit on your spouse. Thankfully this has never happened to us. Once I puked on the bathroom rug and he graciously took it out to the garbage while I crawled back in bed with the puke bowl. Which is also the salad bowl I take to our neighborhood block parties.

 

6. Refrain from farting during sex.  This I think I’ve done actually. We had Mexican before for dinner. I had too many margaritas. We were rolling around in the sack and I did a Carrie Bradshaw to Mr. Big for him. I think he was a little distracted about the other stuff going on and continued as usual.

 

7. If you’ve snuck his razor for lady grooming, rinse it off and put it back without him ever knowing. Pubes are kind of a mood killer. Hopefully he has done the same should he borrow yours ever. Guy pubes are pretty wiry. I’m counting on the fact that he doesn’t want my Lady Schick in that jungle of his. Not that he does any manscaping down there, but if he did shave his balls- it would so be some Mach 4 razor that is only man enough for the job.

 

So there you have it. I think I’m about 80% mysterious to my husband. I will do my darndest to keep from him my stained underwear, hemorrhoid asshole and nose strips till death do us part.  Truly, this is key to a long and healthy, happy marriage.

 

7 (LOL) Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage

 

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How to kick the Winter Blues in the nuts

 

 

Wow. Did you feel that? It’s the winter doldrums coming to suck the life out of us like an Azkaban Dementor.

Usually I do pretty well and don’t get this ‘seasonal affective disorder’ thing. McSweetie is usually on a man-period throughout the months of January and February. All grumpy and stuff because he goes to work in the dark and comes home in the dark. I try to stay cheerful. But let’s face it- December was fun and festive, even if it’s stressful, it feels special. Nothing feels special about January and February. If you say Valentine’s Day, I say- shut it.

We aren’t going to any sunny destinations this winter. We are stuck in the rainy northwest. Actually, the last few days have been sunny and cold. I’m confused. I don’t know what to do in this dry sunny weather.

Also, the crud has been going around and everyone has been sick. I’ve been just ‘off’. Not sick, not great. Which doesn’t really count. I mean, right? Who cares if you just feel blah? If you aren’t in bed with a fever, then just get off your ass already and get things done. Ha.

No.

So I made a list of why I am trying to convince myself to a) choose happy; and b) be glad it’s winter and not summer.

Don’t we always complain about how hot and awful summer can get? I mean, yes, we love the sunny warm weather, but mother nature gets carried away and starts to cook us like Hades. So here is why I will try to like winter:

1. There’s no need to shave your legs.

2. There’s no boob sweat since it’s 30 degrees out.

3. Dinner can be made in the oven and not heat up the house.

4. The sound of a furnace running makes me feel so modern and first world.

5. Hot chocolate

6. Who doesn’t like leg warmers?

7. You don’t need to wear a swimsuit or even go near a pool.

8. The beach is really overrated. The sun and sand are so harsh on your hair and skin and sand keeps showing up in unexpected places.

9. Think of all the money you are saving not buying sunscreen.

10. It gets dark so early you can tell the kids to go to bed and they actually do (to a degree), instead of the ‘but mom, it’s not dark out yet’ excuse. I HATE THAT.

11. The kids are in school. Okay, yes- there’s Martin Luther Kind Day, end of semester break and sometimes a snow day, but hey- it’s not summer break- thank GOD!

12. TV shows aren’t in reruns like during the summer. Who ISN’T excited for season 3 of Downton Abbey?  I mean, come on!

13. When the weather is crappy, no one blames you for napping under a blanket or having a ‘movie day’ with the kids.

14. Donuts.

I threw that last one in because I think a lot of problems can be solved with donuts. Fitting in my skinny jeans, isn’t one of those, but who cares.

With a fabulous list like this, who needs summer?