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.