Archive of ‘crazy’ category

Mama Said There’d be Days Like This

Today was picture day. Now before you get all concerned that my kids showed up at school in white polos already stained with chocolate milk and week-old bedhead, rest assured, I remembered. As a matter of fact, everyone was up at 6am, in the shower, had a delicious breakfast poured right out of the cardboard box with love and in the car with time to spare. I gave my final farewells and watched my handsome boys frolic into school not a care in the world. I also saw several of their classmates headed into the building holding picture order forms. The same order forms that were sitting in the basket of papers that I had no intention of looking at for at least six months. $h!+!!!

Living in a Jack Butler world of North to pick up and South to drop off, there was no turning around, so I had to head down the street and make a U-Turn. Upon my return, the parking lot was full and there was no way for me to sneak in and out without anyone noticing. Instead, I got to take Handsome #3 and Darling, still in her pajamas, through the obstacle course of senior citizens sure not to miss the early bird parking for 8:15 mass and the throngs of parents who couldn’t wait for their arguing children to finally get out of the damn car! We made it through to the school office where I grabbed the envelopes ready to place my order when I saw that they only take checks. Since I had just forged my husband’s signature on the last check from the book at soccer uniform pick up, that wasn’t an option. Instead, I had to take the walk of shame, envelope in hand, with my disheveled children and order my prints online. Thankfully, that part went off without a hitch.

Handsome #3’s school day starts 45 minutes after his older brothers’. We have a daily ritual that includes him refusing to eat the breakfast that I have just prepared, crying that he hates school and an absolute refusal to let me help with any shoes or buttons. We live less than five minutes from preschool and we are late every.single.day. Once we get there it’s all smiles and high fives and how are you friends? His performance at home and the entire way there should garner him a daytime Emmy.

We walked Handsome #3 to class, but there was no time to dawdle. Darling and I were in a hurry this morning. As I mentioned, it was picture day and Handsome #2 really wanted to wear his favorite black glasses. One slight problem, they were broken. I promised him that I would go to Lens Crafters first thing and get those quality crafted specs back to school in an hour, before he saw the photographer. Darling was strapped in, my coffee was still hot and we were right on time to be waiting at the door when the store opened. I put the key in the ignition a little sputtering, a few lights flickering on the dash, but the engine would not turn. Perfect. I called AAA and they said it would be 30-45 minutes before the technician would arrive. Even more perfect.

Darling was done being strapped into her carseat about 45 seconds into our stranded state, so out she went ready to explore the front seat. She did a dandy job pushing every button, pulling every knob, finding my secret stash of tampons, gum and expired insurance cards. By the time she was finished it looked like a tornado had ripped through the front seat. The AAA man finally showed up, replaced the battery and $129 later, we were on our way.

Due to our little bump in the road, there was no way I was getting to school on time, but I figured I’d get the glasses taken care of as long as I was out. Handsome #2 loved those glasses. They were his first pair and he was super excited to get them back. Well he would have been excited, except that they’re discontinued and unavailable in the state of Missouri. Excellent! Mr. Extremely patient Lens Crafters Man, who wanted to kick me through the window after 30 minutes of total indecision about new frames, and I picked out a perfect new pair. They whipped those puppies up in no time and we were on our way.

I had just a few minutes before picking up Handsome #3, so I decided to run into Aldi to grab a few essentials. One thing on my list that I have be meaning to get the last 10 trips is that $.39 container of salt. Remember that, it’ll come back to haunt me in the later rounds. There was a child losing its ever loving mind somewhere in the store, I never saw it, but the whole city could hear it. Thankful it wasn’t mine, I said a quick Hail Mary for the poor mother and headed out. Once again, we were back on track ready to get Handsome #3 from school.

Handsome #3 was beaming at dismissal, happy to see his sister and me. “He had a great day, ” called his teacher. Of course he did, he only puts on the spitting pea soup show for me. We got home, had lunch, watched a little Elmo and were all just ready to relax for a minute. It was peaceful and happy and serene. Like the perfect little family in an antidepressants ad.

Since the morning was such a train wreck, I figured it could only go up, so I got creative. Sometimes I like to think that I’m June cleaver in a modest polka dot dress with a half apron and plastic-covered furniture. Today was one of those days and I decided to take my stay-at-home mom game to the next level. Oh the boys would just love a pumpkin bundt cake as an after school surprise, wouldn’t they? Of course they would, I’ll just whip one right up!

I got out my pan, I preheated my oven, pulled out the 800-lb-Kitchenaid and gathered my ingredients. I opened the cabinet to grab my sugar and flour canisters when that $.39 salt appeared, clearly unhappy with its new accommodations. In what can only be described as a suicide attempt, the salt took a free fall directly into my face. Caught completely off guard by the incredible pain throbbing in my nose, I dropped the freshly-filled with 5 pounds of sugar container that subsequently broke into 6,000 pieces the second it hit the granite. I would have taken a picture, but I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of any of the 4,656,000 sugar granules that dispersed themselves throughout my entire kitchen if they didn’t make the shot.

I was on the verge of tears when Handsome #3 ever so kindly distracted me.

“Mom! Darling pooped and she stinks so, so bad!”

I changed the diaper, put her down for a nap and came down to survey the damage. It was bad. I was defeated. Handsome #3 went to watch a show, Darling was sleeping and I needed my favorite rap playlist and a Diet Coke. I took a deep breath and tried to put things into perspective. I am thankful for my four beautiful children and a loving husband, who works his butt off, so that I can have these $h!++y days at home with our kids. I rolled my sleeves up, turned the speakers on high and got to work. “Hot n Herre” on my lips, I scrubbed the cabinets, the floors and the counters, and suddenly caught my reflection in the mirror and thought, Damn! I think my butt gettin’ big……..

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies….

There is one household chore that I hate. No, not like I hate to do the dishes, or I hate to pay my bills, or I hate to make dinner for these kids that will likely look at it and say, “I HATE this!” No, I would gladly do any of those things before I have to change the seasons in my children’s closets. I would rather clip their toenails with my teeth than take their itty bitty shirts, off of itty bitty hangers and put them in giant rubber tubs and then unpack other giant rubber tubs filled with things that make me wonder why I ever saved this $h!+ in the first place. How many moms have pulled out onesies from baby 1, 2, 3 etc. to use on the new child and found them riddled with holes and poop stains?  I look at this crap and think, “You are a moron. You would never put this on your sweet baby? Why did you save it?” But as I am feverishly throwing dozens of shirts, shorts, pants and mismatched socks into a new bin, it is very clear why. If it is locked away in an opaque bin, it is out of my face and I can forget about it for a number of years. I can stuff it fast, put a lid on it and Scott will gladly take it down the steps and hide it so that I quit crying. Yes, there is crying and screaming, but no one puts me in timeout for the afternoon and lets me fall asleep just to make me shut up. Oh no, I have to keep working.

Please send the TLC truck away, this is not Hoarders. This is just and episode of ” Hey Guys, nothing to see here. I just wanna kill someone and am crying in the corner.”

While working on my kids’ room this past weekend, I had my iTunes on random and “A Spoonful of Sugar” came on. This is quite a change from my normal house-cleaning soundtrack, but the iPad was too far away to press next, so I figured I would give Julie Andrews a shot. As the upbeat tune blared through the speaker. I was suddenly a bit more cheery and transported back to being a kid. As children, we were all memorized by Mary Poppins. Her sweet smile, beautiful voice and quick-snapping fingers made cleaning your room a game. Remember how the toy soldiers walked right into the toy box and the blankets flew up in the air and landed perfectly folded on the bed? Why, just a spoonful of sugar will make it all better, right Mary? Wrong! You lied Mary Poppins, not a damn thing was going to make this job a game! I could have downed a 5 pound bag of sugar this weekend and still needed a half a dozen Zoloft to take the edge off. The more I listened the more infuriated I became. No magical bird was appearing on my finger.No cute little boys is short sets were there to help? I would have settled for filthy Bert coming in and tossing crap in a bin with soot-covered hands. But, nope, no one came to the rescue. Sure, periodically I would hear Scott down the hall warning the boys not to come near the bedroom or they may not be seen again…ever…..But that was as much human interaction as I saw for days.

It took me what felt like 72 hours to complete this one godforsaken room, but when it was finished, I had made a large pile of clothes to give to charity. But as I was on my way to the Goodwill bin, I had the brilliant idea to take the clothes to a children’s resale shop to see what I could get for them. Most were is good condition, but older styles that I likely won’t put on Handsome #3, and I was tired of storing them. I went to the store and was offered $43 for the haul, which seemed fair. I headed to the ATM at Schnucks to make my deposit, feeling like a big shot with a couple of Andrew Jacksons for my troubles. I made my deposit and grabbed what I thought was my receipt, but suddenly my big score at the resale shop didn’t seem so great when I saw that the person who had visited the ATM before me, and left their receipt,  had a mere $24,000 in their checking account.

Well look at you Mr. Big Shot! $24,000 in the checking, huh? I bet you can hire Mary and her team of snapping clowns to come over and clean your house every week can’t you? You think you are so great with your pinstriped suit and monogrammed cuffs, don’t you? Your fancy spectator shoes that you wipe off on your welcome mat before you walk on your freshly-shined wood floors that glow just like that bald head of yours? I quickly realized that this pompous jerk, who I made up completely in my mind and was hating because of his ATM slip, was built in the image of my own husband, right down to the lack of hair on his head. Well, except for the actual ATM slip and hoarding of $24,000. That and the shined floors. That doesn’t happen unless he shines them himself, I am not a floor person. And he does that…pretty much every time that I ask him to. So in actuality, he is a fair, good guy, who I really love, but sometimes I need to direct my frustration and he is an easy target. Perhaps I had some deep-seeded resentment for the fact that I cleaned the room alone, and the remark, “You did this to yourself, quit buying them all of this crap.” Somehow in my rage I had made my way through the store and picked up a gallon of milk, bananas, a package of tortilla wraps, two cans of black beans, an avocado and a half gallon of ice cream. Whether or not I had a full-on conversation with myself about the a$$hole who left the ATM receipt or just thought it is unknown…..I did however polish off half of the half gallon when I got home…..but that can be our little secret……

Peek-A-Boo….thank God no one saw you……

I believe that God gives every person unique and special gifts and that He wants us to use those gifts to help others and to make the world a better place. My gifts don’t come in the form that most people would likely consider special. For example, God made Mozart an incredible musician. I quit tickling the ivories after a not-so-unfortunate finger break in fourth grade. I hated piano lessons and wanted to die every time I had to go because my teacher, a nun, would drink soda from a can with a straw and burp the entire time. Instead of playing my songs in the practice room before my lesson, I would puncture the leaves of the aloe plant and watch the clear ooze drip to the floor. The day that my fingers bent back was God telling me straight out to quit wasting my parents money. I would never ever make it to playing “The Entertainer.”

My gift didn’t come in the form of an athletic ability either. No, I was much more concerned with having blue and gold bows in my hair than I was breaking a sweat. To this day, I daydream about running a marathon, OK, a 5K. But instead of training, I eat Peanut Butter M&Ms in bed while sipping a Diet Coke and watching a documentary about a runner with one leg overcoming the odds and I just wonder if I can walk to the kitchen to get more candy with one foot asleep.

God didn’t give me those kind of gifts. Nope, it would take me much longer to understand what my gifts are and how to best utilize them. You see, God made me a storyteller. He gives me such incredible material, it is hard not to spin amazing yarns. He fills my days with wacky inspiration that he just doesn’t seem to give to other people. For example, how many of you have gone for a quick eye exam and left looking like Mr. Potato Head? Or maybe, you used your Siri text to talk feature when you had a cold and ended up with this?

I just don’t think that He gives everyone so much material to work with. Like just last week. I was working, minding my own business, leaving my third appointment, when I felt a little something on the back of my ankle. It was a brisk fall day and there were beautiful leaves of crimson, amber and gold lying on the ground and periodically dancing  across the earth with a quick gust of wind. I thought nothing of the feeling on my leg and got in the car. What began as a slight rubbing sensation began to slip down my leg quickly and caused a bit of alarm. I didn’t want to look down because I was sure that some sort of spider, or armadillo, was crawling down my leg. It was bulky and uncomfortable and terrifying.

When I finally got up the nerve to look, I was shocked. I was embarrassed. I was appalled. I was like WTF? How in the world does this happen? How do you go 3/4 of a work day with no one mentioning it? Who in the hell put him there?

Do you see someone playing peek-a-boo. .

At this point, you are likely thinking that I have lost my mind and you are wondering what it is that you are looking at. Kindly resist the temptation to make the photo bigger. You will be instantly offended by the condition of my heels. Instead, just pull your computer closer to your face. Those little green spots belong to Percy good friend of my good friend, Handsome #2. Now before you get all, WTF is going on and why in the world would she have those in her pants? Let’s be fair and honest. As much as we would all like to pretend that we do 86 loads of laundry a week separated by color, fabric, temperature setting and family member, any mom with kids knows, you throw as many things into that machine as will fit and press go. Sometimes that method causes things to get crumpled up and stuck where they shouldn’t be. And if those crumples break free and appear in a public place where they shouldn’t, then sometimes people get strange looks…or arrested….Lucky for you, this happened in the car and I lived to tell the tale. Thankfully, I was able to return them to their rightful owner before he noticed they were missing and had an all out horrifying stage three meltdown…….

I am so much more of a #1 Engine kind of girl, but whatevs…..

It’s Raining Men…..

We are all fierce from the neck up

Since I debuted my fiery red faux hawk a couple of months ago, I have gotten a lot of compliments. Here is the crazy thing, these compliments haven’t come from my family. They are certainly not my father, or even really my husband, but from complete and total strangers. I am literally stopped at least once a day and complimented on my do. As a five-month-postpartum mother of three boys five and under, I will take anything to boost my
confidence. I was texting with a friend the other night about my physical deterioration in the past seven years. Now I am not saying that I have turned into a completely useless fat sloth who lives in only yoga pants and a Cardinal cap, though some days I would like to, but I am not the same person that I was at 27 when I walked down the aisle. As I said to him, I am not quite a trophy wife, but more of an attendance prize. I get up every morning, get people dressed, make their meals and remember all of their names, that deserves recognition. Particularly when I hear them wake up and I am so comfy and cozy in my bed and I wait, and wait and wait for Scott to jump up, which he totally does a lot of the time, but realize that he is playing the same game and isn’t going anywhere, so I make the move. Normally I find the two older ones draped limply across the furniture looking like starving Ethiopians. Everyday it is the same thing, they keep wanting meals, the keep expecting me to make them and they keep telling me that Eggo Wafflers are not acceptable for dinner. Ugh….what is wrong with these people?

They keep wanting me to feed them.every.single.day.

As I was saying, the compliments from strangers are abundant. But the mass majority of the admirers are teenage boys. Like all teenage boys, everyday. I have had teenage checkers at Target spellbound, McDonald’s Drive Thru kids give me a wink while passing the Diet Dr. Pepper and then there was the boy stocking the yogurt at Schnucks who walked across the room to compliment me. I think if I had stood there three more seconds he would have asked me for my number, which is creepy and sort of amazing all rolled in to one. I am no stranger to the love of a teenage boy, but this admiration from the masses is new. I was never popular with teenage boys when I was a teenager. I was so awkward and terrified that I couldn’t even speak to them. The fact that I wore a larger bra then most of their mothers was exciting and terrifying to them, so they didn’t talk to me either. They would just stare longingly. But if we are being frank, had I let them close to me, which never would have happened, they wouldn’t have known what to do with those Dolly Parton D cups.  Looking back, it was a big huge disaster and I may need to make a quick appointment with a therapist just to talk this one out.

Earlier this week, I was headed to an offsite event for work and feeling pretty good. My hair was in place, my lips were on straight and my clothes all matched. Win, win and win.

Those little drops are big trouble
I could see the trouble brewing

While I was inside, Mother Nature thought that she would be hilarious and change things up a bit. The weather went from cool and partly cloudy to an apocalyptic thunderstorm. While I may have been a Girl Scout in my younger years, I never bought in to that “be prepared” crap. That translates loosely to, girlfriend says, “Forget that. I don’t need an umbrella.” Perhaps you recall what happens when my product fails me on a normal day?  My knees were knocking at the mere thought of walking outside, but I knew that at some point a member of the janitorial staff was going to sweep me right out the door, so I had to get moving. 

By the time I made my way across the parking lot to the car, my hair looked and felt like it had been styled with maple syrup.We all know that water beats fire. It was an epic battle and water was victorious, leaving fire sad and barely flickering in the corner……

Did Lucille Ball have days like this?

Ain’t Nuthin But a C Thang……………

Along with pregnancy comes several fabulous side effects; including, but not limited to, vomiting, pimples, swelling, heartburn, cravings, sudden urges to empty your bladder and sleeplessness. This last one has to be one of my favorites. When I was pregnant with Knox, I would lay awake for hours daydreaming about the wonderful life that I would have as a mother of three and how my perfect little children would be super stars academically and athletically, that latter is hoping that there has been a genetic mutation somewhere along the lines because they aren’t getting that one from me. Yeah, well, that is what a normal person thinks about. I, on the other hand, concentrated mostly on my irrational fears and keeping my children safe from the Litarians of the world.

You see, as a young girl growing up on the mean, tree-lined streets of St. Louis Hills, I was exposed to, well, nothing. Not a damn thing…ever….And I liked it that way. That was until Nancy Reagan starting daring kids to stay off drugs and the nuns in the office decided to scare the $h!+ out of every child at St. Gabriel the Archangel. I can still remember the purple ditto that I brought home from school. I couldn’t read it, but I knew that it was bad and that I was likely going to end up dead because of it.

My mom explained that there had been a very bad man spotted in the neighborhood in a white van with no windows, perfect for nabbing, giving out lickable tattoos laced with LSD to children. *Editor’s note, this may be the combination of several dittos, regarding separate instances, but this is how my memory sealed it, so press on. And right then and there, I knew, that I was soon to be abducted, drugged and left to a life on the streets. There was nothing that I could do to protect myself, so I might as well get use to it.

As a child constantly being compared to Punky Brewster, I was also always concerned that my mother was going to ditch my brothers and I in a parking lot someday. Let’s think about that one for a second, shall we? In the 1980s, prime time television taught us that if your mom left you, you could simply climb into an old man’s apartment, with your dog no less, and life will be just fine. As long as another young girl and her old-as-hell grandmother are across the hall to help out. Sounds perfectly safe and logical, plus you get an awesome loft bed…..perfect….I could certainly fend for myself if I could just find Henry Warnimont……

So smart, yet so very, very stupid

As I grew older, I realized that my mother wasn’t really going to ditch us, even though she did leave people behind here and there. Well, just Jimmy on a vacation and sleeping in a hot car in the Schnuck’s parking lot one little time. I felt a bit safer in my skin. That was until daytime talk shows got a hold of me. I learned quite a bit about the average teen from my good friends Sally Jesse, Phil, Jerry and Jenny. I tuned in as much as I could and learned that, “just say no” was nothing compared to the thug life. I would sit in horror listening to tales of young girls being ripped from their happy, innocent lives and thrust into a culture obsessed with race, sex and drugs. What was a high school girl to do…..Wait, WTF did you just say? High school?

East Side, West Side, Irish Mob?

Yeah, I was pretty much on the fast track to loserville at 14 because I sincerely believed that I was going to HAVE to be in a gang. I was so naive and f%^)@ng stupid, that I was certain that not only was I to be recruited, from St. Joseph’s Academy, but that I would have to participate in an initiation. That is where I really started to get scared. I was pretty sure that I was not going to be able to beat someone up with a bat, or put cigarettes out on their face, and I probably couldn’t tattoo anyone, but if I had to, I guess that I would. I worried about where they would find me and what I would do when I was approached. In the early 1990s, we all wore bandanas. I made conscious efforts not to tie a red one around my head because I didn’t want to show affinity to a blood if the crips were around……

I was fearful of strangers, particularly females because I knew they wanted me. I was extremely cautious of the girls in over-sized hoodies and scrunch socks with the crunchy ramen noodle perms, huge bangs and the top portion of their pony tails pulled back so tightly that their eyes began to squint. Those were the ones that Sally Jesse made me fear the most. They lived the seemingly-innocent lives and then, Bam!, they were suddenly passing around the chronic and shoplifting for a living. I would walk to Target near Hampton Village, certain that any person standing at the bus stop would quickly break from the BiState line, throw a bag over my head and my initiation would begin.

All too soon, I would be living in a crappy apartment covered in newspapers with a dirty microwave oven and a Coleman cooler to chill my cans of Colt 45. I would change my name to Dimples Dark Eyez and hang out at the Bus Stop just looking for fresh meat. Young women would fear my tear drop tattoos and gold-capped teeth, but be equally in awe of my fingernails studded with diamonds and as long as eagle talons. This was my destiny and I had accepted it and perhaps started to look forward to it. At least with a gang, there was job security and a family, something that I was missing in my real life!?!?!? Hmm………

From the cradle to the grave….thug till I die…..

As an adult, who somehow escaped the thug life, I still find myself compelled to watch Lockup and wonder what could have been had things gone the wrong way on Hampton. For years, I wondered if any of my brothers had felt the same way, or if my mother feared me getting involved with a bad crowd. So, one night at Sunday dinner, I asked.

“Were any of you ever afraid of being able to participate in a gang initiation when we were kids?”

The blank stares were alarming. Oh my God, had one of them actually been approached? Did somebody get knifed and I wasn’t told? Who from the parish was part of the underground culture? WTF was going on?
Then the laughter started. No not just laughter, hysteria. Sort of like a pack of hyenias on methanphetamines.

“You can’t fight.”
“You have zero street cred.”
“What do you know about being a gansta?”

And then Big D chimed in…..

“Colleen! What the hell are you talking about? That is the dumbest thing that I have ever heard you say. For God’s sake! What gang would want anything to do with you? Now do the dishes.”

Yep…that’s me..well, as a white woman, and make that about $6, on a good day……

 

This is f*&@#%! Awesome…….

It is bedtime at the Thomas house. After reading a story, saying prayers and every other sweet Norman Rockwell photo detail, the boys are slumbering soundly teddy bear in the crook of their arm and dreaming about waking up tomorrow to a fresh stack of pancakes.I don’t know this group of Thomases, but being that the name is quite common, I am sure it is happening somewhere.

The people under the stairs have nothing on this guy.

We read stories and say prayers here too, but it isn’t all rainbows and flowers. Actually, it is none of those things because I have a house full of boys, so think more lizards and trucks, but it isn’t that either. The routine here is certainly consistent, but it always ends with at least one person being threatened, someone screaming and Scott and I playing rock, paper, scissors to determine who has to go up and wipe snot off of the weeper’s face. Sometimes, they even attempt to escape their horrible living conditions, but sadly, they can’t quite make it out.

I have been fighting a cold for a few days that has degenerated into a sweet case of laryngitis. My voice is not completely gone, much to my husband’s chagrin, but has taken on a more raspy, high-pitched tone, think Kathleen Turner with a side of Cyndi Lauper. Although I don’t really feel like talking, my boys don’t give one $h!+ about that and expect me to continue on with my daily responsibilities, on top of working a full-time job, that include, but are not limited to, answering 16,000 questions, making meals, answering a few more questions, doing laundry, telling stories and, of course, singing lullabies. I think it is sweet that my boys still let me sing to them while I rub their backs and I cherish every second because I know someday soon they will only want me to speak to them if it is to tell them how much money I will be handing over. Since Handsome #1 was an itty bitty baby, I have sung the same songs to him using his name sweetly, I then changed the tunes to have Handsome #2’s name included, and they are on their third incarnation with Handsome #3.

Tonight, as 7:30 approached, it was time to get the boys moving. They swiftly used the bathroom, put on their jammies and got into their bunk beds with very little difficulty. This is when I should have become suspicious. After we sang our evening prayer, the Casey Kasem request and dedication lines opened.

Handsome #1: Momma, will you sing me a song?
Me: Honey, my voice is really gone. How about tomorrow?
Handsome #1: Momma! You promised a song.

I never made any promise, but I knew that the tears were coming, so I might as well comply.

Me: Mommy loves her Finnegan. Oh she wonders what she did without him.
Handsome #1: Stop! That is not what we want.
Handsome #2: No, we want $20 in my pocket.
Handsome #1: Yep. That’s the one. Go!

Seriously?!?!?! They want me to get my Mackelmore on? The simplest of phrases coming from my mouth sound like the sacrificing of a small animal and they want an upbeat rap?  Under normal circumstances, it is a reasonable request. I have mad skills at the mic, but I didn’t have time for a cup of tea with lemon to coat my throat or even a Luden’s and they want rap?

Me: Guys, come on. Let’s sing our prayers again and go to sleep.
Handsome #2: WE WANT $20 IN MY POCKET!

His eyes were red and I swear I saw little fangs starting to grow. I was looking at a miniature Teen Wolf and thought for sure the next request would be for a keg of beer.

Would you mess with that?

Me: OK…..I’m gonna pop some tags
Handsome #1: You forgot the bada bada part
Me: Bada, bada, bada
I’m gonna pop some tags Only got twenty dollars in my pocket
I, I, I’m hunting
Looking for a come up
This is awesome

Handsome #1: Um, that’s not right. It’s being awesome……
Handsome #2: No! It’s ing awesome.
Me: Guys, it’s just awesome.
Handsome #1: Nope it is being awesome.
Handsome #2: Handsome #1!!!! It is not! It is ing awesome. You mean head.
Handsome #1: Handsome #2 called me a mean head, so I am going to punch him.
Me: No body is punching anyone. (First punch is thrown, followed by a sharp kick to the kidney)
Handsome #1: Brennan kicked me!
Me: You punched him, what do you expect? I have had enough. It is time for bed.
Handsome #1: Nooooo! You aren’t finished.
Handsome #2: Momma. You haven’t done my favorite part yet about the moccasins.
Me: Oh, my God! Lay down and be quiet. I will finish it, but so help me God if anyone touches anyone we will never listen to this song again. Do you understand me?

Walk in the club like what up? I got a big sock
Nah, I’m just pumped up, bought some stuff from the thrift shop
Ice on the fringe is so dang frosty
People like dang, that’s a cold ash donkey
Handsome #1: Momma it’s cold ash honkey
Me: No, it’s donkey.
Handsome #1: Definitely, defintely honkey. What is a honkey?
Handsome #2: Handsome #1. It is a cold ash.
Me: OK. It is time to go to sleep.
Handsome #2: Oh yeah?!?! You are a cold honkey.
Me: It is time for bed…..good night…..I love you…..
When I am alone in my minivan enjoying my day, there is nothing I love more than a filthy rap track loaded with f bombs, dotted with sexism and layered with gang violence. But, when I am saying goodnight to my innocent toddlers, I have to bring things down to a G rating. It ruins the integrity of the tunes, and frankly, I would much rather keep rapping 8 mile style, but if they repeated the lyrics in the middle of music class, Sr. Mary Catholic Teacher would likely send home a note, so instead, I censor.
Right before tonight’s bedtime adventure, I decided that I had better run to Walgreen’s to the Healthcare Clinic to see what is going on with my voice. I left with a diagnosis of a virus and no prescription, but was told to drink plenty of fluids, including tea. I decided to head over to Target for a few things, but figured I had better let Scott know. Instead of texting and driving, I thought I would use Siri to help.

Read My Lips…..

No new taxes…
I did not have sexual relations with that woman…
I promise no more homework and only junk food in the cafeteria…
I am 1000 percent sure that he my baby daddy…
Yes, I Colleen McKernan Dorothy Dilthey Thomas will commit to exercise and a healthy lifestyle…
Fear not, I am headed to the salon on Thursday

Noticing a theme here? Not only am I an untrustworthy fool, I am lazy and indulgent too. And guess what, I don’t give a damn! The fact of the matter is, we all lie about something at some point. Before getting on your holier than though bullshit soapbox, take a look in the mirror. Is that they hair color God gave you? Oh, snap! 

I would much rather be sitting on my couch watching reruns of Dr. Phil on OWN (Don’t you DARE judge me!) updating my blog while snacking on the mini candy bars that I bought for Halloween at Sam’s because I was sure that they would sell out than be the Hoochie mama on Maury testing the seventh man cause she’s sure he’s the one. I mean, really? You had sex with seven dudes within the 48 hour period that you were fertile? WFT is wrong with you? I will take my lazy, chubby life over that any day!
The chub just isn’t as cute on me….

OK, that isn’t exactly true. I will continue to bitch about being fat and not fitting into the clothes that I would prefer to be in, but I am not going to kill myself to get into them. Frankly, I don’t enjoy it. At all. Ever. Plus, my breasts are biologically ginormous and no matter what I do, they NEVER get any smaller. I am not getting them reduced, so I will just have to be content to not wear button downs and wish that I could. Big deal. I will, however, continue to wear turtlenecks regardless of the fact that it looks like I could be smuggling sporting goods, because in this particular fashion instance, it certainly draws attention away from my midsection that I despise!

These glasses also direct your attention up and make many wonder, “Why would you intentionally make yourself look like a fly??

I have also recently fallen in love with jeggings. No, I am not kidding, and I really do look good in them. These suckers are tight enough that they give me the suck in effect that I am looking for while giving the elastic freedom that we all want. I don’t give one damn if you weigh 68 pounds; EVERYTHING feels better with a little spandex. I will not, however, wear Spanx. They leave racing stripes down my body that make my stretch marks blush. I have become quite attached to these poor little divots, so I do not want to do anything to hurt their feelings. Plus, I start to have an anxiety attack 20 minutes before I have to tinkle because I am afraid I won’t get them off in time. After having two children, this is a serious concern. I am beginning to feel like a senior citizen……

A senior citizen who has a fabulous haircut and is channeling her inner Martika….

So where does this leave me, I don’t know. And, frankly, I don’t care. I am enjoying the fall, eating chocolate and watching as much trash TV as I can after my children go to bed at night. What more could a girl want? Black sparkly Uggs, of course. I made them my goal and I had every intention of losing some weight and rewarding myself. Well, that clearly didn’t happen. I didn’t become a marathon runner, or even a weight loss guru. I didn’t really do anything. I did, however hit a milestone. Scott and I celebrated five years of marriage with a fabulous weekend trip to KC. I came home with a little souvenir from Halls. Life isn’t all bad. Plus, they are black, which is slimming and makes my legs look thin.

Pure fabulosity

*****BLOG BONUS*****
I haven’t been a total lazy bum the last few weeks. The boys and I have gone on a few walks around the neighborhood, but nothing that has really gotten my heart rate up. While not to exercise, I have gotten out of the house from time to time including a recent trip with my mother to Wal-Mart. It was a unique outing because we did not have any children with us. I love those Irish lads with all that I am, but sometimes it is nice not to have to grab a Lunchable so that someone doesn’t go into a meat detox during the one-hour trip.
We took our time strolling through the store leisurely grabbing our wares. There were the typical incidences that occur anytime my mother and I head out together. Casual conversation, lots of laughter, listening to complete strangers give my mother their life stories as if she is a Catholic Priest in a confessional, you know, the usual. As we were finishing at the checkout and hearing exactly how many years our checker had been there, how many grandchildren she has AND her hourly wage, we made our way toward the door.

This was right before he tried to bite me. I love Halloween
Mummy, Terrorist or Burn Victim?

Our car happened to be parked outside of the door nearest to the Halloween décor. As I got closer to the exit, I noticed a very large Star Wars display. Being that I have a three-year-old child who is obsessed with the Force, I tend to notice such displays. My mother had just about made her way out the door when I exclaimed very loudly and pointed, “Look mom, a Darth!” My mother turned and had the most horrified expression on her face. I noticed her knees beginning to lock and her eyes scrunching up. Hysteria ensued. She bolted out the door doing the tinkle dance and laughing hysterically as she ran to the car. WTF was wrong with her? I didn’t think much of it and walked out the door.

 “What is the matter with you?” I asked as I finally caught up with her.
“What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you?” She asked in between deep guffaws.
 “Huh?”
 “Colleen did you not see the greeter?”
Greeter, what greeter, I thought. I didn’t see anyone, just the overwhelming large Halloween display. “Nope.”
“Well she saw you. Colleen, that woman was a dwarf, not a darth.”
FML