Archive of ‘gross’ category

Bad Boys, Bad Boys, What’ca Gonna Do?

I have learned all kinds of things in my last eight years parenting boys. Frogs, bugs and reptiles are a regular part of conversation and I am expected to listen intently and care about the stories being told. Clothing will be filthy by the end of the day and no amount of hand washing, wet wipes or napkins on the lap can prevent it. Boys will beat the crap out of each other one minute and hug it out the next and there are never hard feelings, at all. No matter how much I preach about lifting the seat and aiming, my bathrooms, despite an inordinate amount of bleach and vinegar used, will always have a slight uriney smell. I have come to accept, albeit begrudgingly on the urine thing, all of this. It is a way of life in my house and that house is filled with happy, handsome men….and a couple of girls.

For the most part, my Handsomes are well behaved, have decent manners and do what they are told without much trouble. Sure, they all have their moments, but I can honestly say that I don’t worry too terribly much about how they will act when I am not around. I am not a huge list of rules kind of person either. We have the basics, be kind to one another, don’t talk back, put your dirty laundry in the basket, please don’t pee on your brother while you are both in the tub, all that kind of stuff. But, there is one thing in our house that my sons will unanimously announce as being the ultimate don’t cross mom on this one or she will lose her mind rule. I can handle any of the aforementioned and hand out a quick, knock if off, but when it comes to the Golden Rule in Come on Colleen land, there is no exception.

Picture if you will a lovely breakfast, lunch or dinner table. You are perfectly famished and could eat just about anything. Thankfully, there is a delicious spread before you, the company is equally as divine and you are feeling just delightful! Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a man at the table in a tank top. He could be the richest, kindest, funniest and most handsome man on the planet, but the second he lifts his arm to reach for the rolls, you see it. His sweaty, straggly, nasty armpit hair is dancing in the breeze. Pieces of dried deodorant are hanging on like the last bit of snow on a rock after the weather warms up. No matter how hard you try, you can’t look away and now you have completely lost your appetite and are resisting the urge to barf all over the table. Just, me? No, probably not any more…….

Did you get your tickets for the gun show? Nope, no way, not at my table. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. The Handsomes know that they absolutely must have a shirt on when we are eating. Often times they sleep in their underwear so that they can be like their idol, The Grillin’ Fool, who incidentally is the only person in our house with actual armpit hair, and will wander down the steps blurry eyed and half naked. I don’t even have to say anything. A victory in and of itself, I have mastered, “the look” that sends them scurrying in to the laundry room to find coverage.

And before you get all, “But Colleen, Handsome #1, your oldest, is only eight years old, he doesn’t even have peach fuzz in those pits.” I gagged just typing that. No, you are right, he sure doesn’t, but, I wouldn’t hand him a Salem Slim Light and a Budweiser, two of my old favorites back in the days when I was fun, so why let him engage in other risky behaviors that could lead to his mother’s premature passing from gagging on her on vomit at the table later on in life? Just not worth the risk.

This rule is infallible at our home. As a matter of fact, even when I was potty training my youngest boy, opposition was quickly squelched my by eldest.
Me- Boys, you know the rule, you must put on a shirt before breakfast.

Handsome #2- Why? Handsome #3 isn’t even wearing any underwear!

Me- No, he isn’t, but he is also tucked under the table and no one can see that.

Handsome #1- Why are you even arguing with her on this one? You will never win.

Yes. A victory. I won! I won! I won! I felt so validated. They respect me and love me and know that this is important to me and a firm rule in our home. My handsomes are allowing me to mold them into strong, respectful and respectable young men that will make me proud. I was on cloud nine for exactly 11 seconds and then I got this series of pictures from Maurmi. Remember that whole, I don’t really worry about their behavior when I’m not around bologna? Well, well, well, apparently at my house the minute I leave it’s a great big, naked, let your arm pits hang out all over the place buffet……

 

wow

 

They are lucky they are cute…….

You Better Work….

Sweet Mary Mother of God. Have you ever had one of those days when you walk out the door looking fierce, or so you think, and in a matter of minutes you deteriorate completely. You spend a great deal of time on your look, particularly your hair, because your physical appearance is important for your line of work and you need to be on trend and put together. But, then the planets shift and your are in trouble. Not like you forgot your lipstick, and need a pick me up. No, I am talking more of the holy $h!+ if Stacy and Clinton saw this they may reincarnate “What Not to Wear” just for you.

You catch a glimpse in the rear view and notice a problem

The scarf seemed like a good idea when I left the house, but after further investigation the color and tie technique is resembling an infected goitor. But, that isn’t the worst of my problems. Take a look at that lipstick. It looks as if I put it on with my feet or let Handsome #2, my three-year-old, give it a shot.

Hmm, did you style your hair with a fork, Ariel?

Here, you can really see how great that lipstick application is.I appear to be hemorraging, but just on the sides. Somehow, the center has nothing on it, at all. Shall we discuss the hair? I am quite sure that I used AT LEAST five different products to keep my faux hawk in shape, but somehow it looks more like I just got a fresh trim from a flowbee.

Excuse me Eric Carmen, can we discuss those Hungry Eyes

Holy $h!+ this was the shock of the day. I knew that I looked terrible, but when in the hell did I develop a lazy eye? Looking at this makes me nervous, I am not sure which one to look at. They both look like they hurt and could induce instant vertigo and vomiting….Make.it.stop.

Just cover your whole face and no one will know it’s you

I figured that putting on my sunglasses would make things better. Let’s see about that, idiot. Not only does my hair look like Blanche Devereaux after a romp in the woods, but those damn glasses are so big, they are nearly wrapping around my head. WTF is going on?

Since there was nothing that I could do to make things better from my car, I did the only reasonable thing that I could. I drowned my sorrows in a 440z Diet Dr. Pepper, drove to my office and hid. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been standing on the beach in a bikini thinking that I was really hot stuff….oh wait……

Oh look, an awkward boy in a bikini with a popeye…..

Are you there God? It’s me Colleen……Just Kidding….

**********WARNING**********
Gentlemen, or should I say ‘man’ because if any guy is reading this it is likely my husband, the following post may make men uncomfortable; therefore, proceed with caution.
Turning 13 is a milestone for young women. We look forward to the distinction of being grown up, the excitement of going to high school, driving, buying cigs…..in the 1990s that was a big one, and finally moving out of the house in just a few short years. WTH is wrong with kids? The teenage years are awful days filled with oil, and hair, and awkward bodies and changes….I just threw up….Why do we need these years? But then again, being an adult is certainly nothing to hurry. Sure, having your own children to live vicariously through is a nice perk, but God the 20s are a bitch filled with bad jobs, questionable dates, hangovers (so very many hangovers) and a myriad of bills that no one really wants to pay. If I knew then what I know now, I would have paused at around 8 years old. Not a baby, but a reasonable sized girl who could read, write and ride a bike….not well….but that is another story for another day.
What a cute boy. Wait, what?
That is a killer pose, I can’t believe the agents passed…
Becoming a teenager means being discovered as a model or mega talent. In my case, I thought sports illustrated swimsuit issue.
March 16, 1992, my thirteenth birthday, brought none of the spoils that most girls found. No, I didn’t get a Swatch phone or a boom box; there were no Guess Jeans or that perm that I had begged for. (Thank you mom for that, although I am still angry about not having bangs) Oh, no, I got the chicken pox. A nice fat case of itchy sores all over the outside and INSIDE of my body. They were in my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I sincerely believed that there was no way that I would see my 14th birthday, this was sure to be the death of me.  Midway through my week from hell, my dad ran into a friend’s mom at the bank and said, “Well, she feels better, but damn she looks terrible, so she won’t be back to school for a while.” Perfect. The single perk to my quarantined state was that I would be able to spend my final days watching reruns of Press Your Luck and it just happened to be MTV’s Spring Break, so I had Daisy Fuentes and Pauly Shore to keep me company.
Eyebrow waxing is optional, the natural look was in
In between chants of No Whammy, No Whammy and TLC’s “Ain’t to Proud to Beg” on what seemed to be a loop on MTV interrupted only by “Save the Best for Last” by Vanessa Williams, I decided to do a little reading. I have never been, nor ever will be a big reader. But I quite frankly got bored with TV and needed a new diversion.  I turned to my good friend Judy Blume for some insight into the life of other awkward girls. Judy had always peeked my interest and I can distinctly remember reading snippets of Just as Long as We’re Together about Jeremy Dragon and his hairy legs that meant he was more “experienced.” I think that I went to college believing that was a real sign of a true Adonis…….idiot……
I had heard that reading Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret sent some kind of supersonic sound wave right into your uterus and to get things moving toward “womanhood.” But, I was certain that it was just seventh grade folk lore, so I dove right it. Horrifying. OMG what was wrong with this girl trying to make her boobs bigger and she really wanted her period…..Thankfully, Judy and Margaret’s voodoo didn’t work on me. I walked away unscathed. Two weeks went by, the physical scars of my bout with the pox had healed, but the emotional damage done by that book, well that would take years and years of therapy to recover.
Popping that leg is elongating and sexy
April 8, 1992 was a big day, my youngest brother turned seven and my mom took the boys, Nani and I out for the occasion and headed to Burger King. Clad in a killer pair of white Guess shorts, a white button down with navy blue stars and large gold buttons and a pair of Navy Coaster Bow Shoes, yes I know you wore Sam and Libby’s I wore Coasters from Payless….the horror….. I headed straight for my mother’s Red Pontiac Transport that the kids at school affectionately referred to as “The Dust Buster” mortifying. I didn’t feel great, but certainly nothing that a big fat greasy Whopper couldn’t fix. Upon arrival, I headed to the bathroom and at that moment I damned Judy Blume and that b@#$h Margaret to hell forever. There was no denying what had happened, but WTH was I going to do. I began to get woozy and at one point hit my head on the stall wall. The 33-year-old me is interjecting here. Really, Colleen? I was acting like a gunshot victim, or at the very least like someone who had been shanked in prison! Apparently my flare for the dramatic can’t be snuffed.
I decided that there was no way that I could escape this and I headed into the dining room to find my entire family with crowns on. Awesome. Please let’s draw as much attention to our table as possible because these people clearly all know what has happened and are already talking about me. I turned to my mother and very quietly said,
“I think I just got my period,” hmm, there was no thinking about it, idiot.
“That is just great. That is wonderful,” she said with this alarming smile on her face.
The flowers, symbolic of the blooming young woman…..feel free to vomit.
Was she nuts? What was so great about this? It was disgusting. It was painful, and I was ready to call it a wrap 10 minutes in. My mother, the fabulous woman that she is, is a consummate pleaser. She passed me a package from her purse and proceeded with the birthday party without missing a beat. I couldn’t believe that she was taking this so casually, this was a catastrophe. She knew I was reading that book, was this part of her grand plan? Did she know the power of Judy Blume and she didn’t protect me? How could she? Despite my horror and feeling that she had totally turned on me, I was determined to keep this between the two of us. Oh my God, was she going to tell my dad? I would choke her in her sleep. He can’t know about this. I am gagging now just thinking about it.
Look at that guy, he does not want to know!
Once we had finished eating, we all got back into the dust buster and headed home. As we approached our neighborhood, my mother did the unforgivable. She pulled into Target and asked us all to get out. What was she doing? She couldn’t possibly be doing what I thought that she was doing! No, no this was not happening! We all got out of the car and headed toward the door. She wasn’t really considering shopping for those things. Not here! Not with my brothers! Not in my neighborhood where someone could actually see me! OMG, I was hyperventilating. She was so casual, so calm, as if nothing was wrong. Like this was a perfectly natural, normal occurrence. I hated her. I hated Target. I hated birthdays. God I really hated that B!@#H Margaret!!!
I followed her sheepishly down the aisles as she pranced through the store. She looked like Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road, clicking her heels, skipping along and waving at all of the munchkins in the store until she turned down the aisle clearly labeled, “Feminine Hygiene.” Again, I am gagging……I looked around to make sure that no one saw me, and quickly slipped down the line. WTH was she doing? Comparing brands? Prices? Coupons? OMG!!! Grab a bag and let’s get the hell out of her.
“Which one would you like?” She sang merrily.
“Uh, please just grab something so we can go. Please! I don’t care. I just want to go. Please!” I begged…and begged…and begged…..There was another woman coming down the aisle and I could not make eye contact. I was going to melt. I could die. Just as I began to evaporate. The sweet little birthday boy exclaimed,
“I know what those are. Those are the pink your pregnant blue your nots. You got pink. Colleen’s pregnant. Colleen’s pregnant.” The horror.
That was 20 years ago this past Easter Sunday. Between the ER visits, vomiting, and beating my children with bats, I was remiss in remembering my “special day.” I really wish that I could have celebrated it like Rudy and Claire on the Cosby Show. Do you remember that shit? Bizarre! As young women, we prayed that it wouldn’t come again, that we would be one of the lucky ones that had an irregular cycle. Now we pray like hell that it comes. If we are 10 minutes late we are running for the EPT. Surely I am not the only one that keeps pregnancy tests on had all the time….right….right? But, as I think about my life today in comparison to 20 years ago, I wouldn’t change a thing. After all, if it weren’t for that dumb b!@#h Margaret, I may never have had the two loves of my life…….so I really can’t complain……..right now…….about that anyway…….I can always complain……
The smile that make their eyes disappear melts.my.heart.every time.