Archive of ‘idiot’ category

Who Let the Dogs Out?

Since I scored an amaz­ing Noto­ri­ous B.I.G. shirt at Tar­get last night for a mere $7.48, I was extra moti­vat­ed this morn­ing to get up ear­ly and walk. I hate morn­ings. I hate exer­cise, but I love Big­gie Smalls. So, if I am going to look like one of those rap guy’s girl­friends, I need to get my a$$ mov­ing.

biggie

Some­times the sales just hyp­no­tize me

I start­ed my playlist and ven­tured out the door at 5:45. My neigh­bor­hood is friend­ly. Lots of sil­ver cit­i­zens walk­ing their dogs soon after sun­rise because they get up at 3:30 am and by the time the first rays appear in the sky it is near­ly their lunchtime. I wave, smile and get back to singing out loud not giv­ing a darn what any­one thinks.

There is a house in my sub­di­vi­sion that has a secret club in their garage. Except, it’s not a club and there is noth­ing secret about the­se peo­ple because the door is always open so the nosy neigh­bors con­stant­ly rub­ber­neck. They sit there for hours on end smok­ing cig­a­rettes, drink­ing beer, watch­ing TV and prob­a­bly plot­ting to kill all of us.

I had always thought that hap­py hour start­ed about noon because the par­ty is in full swing by the time I get home from work at 5. Appar­ent­ly, I was wrong this place is a 24-hour all ages show. As I approached the club this morn­ing, the door was open and the table was sur­round­ed. Stand­ing near the door was big black dog that I thought had on a leash. After I inad­ver­tent­ly locked eyes with the beast, I real­ized it was just a crap­py piece of ripped fab­ric dan­gling around its neck.

He came toward me, so I walked a lit­tle faster. Then he walked a lit­tle faster. I crossed the street, he crossed the street. All the while the par­ty barn stared as if they were watch­ing some crap­py karaoke, only half pay­ing atten­tion, but sure to laugh at the per­for­mance. Real­iz­ing that this dog wasn’t going away, I yelled out,

Can you please come and get your dog?”

That’s not our dog.”

Holy $h!+. This dog didn’t belong to the­se peo­ple! It was hun­gry and I was on the menu. It is no secret that I am con­vinced that my death will be the result of an ani­mal attack, but I tru­ly thought that a cat would be my demise. As I gath­ered my thoughts, I con­tin­ued to walk slow­ly and the dog fol­lowed me.I start­ed the Hail Mary. If I was going down, I was going down with the Lord on my side.

For more than a half a mile this dog was with me. I turned around peri­od­i­cal­ly, err every 3 sec­onds, to make sure he wasn’t going to sneak up and maul me right there on the street. I was six hous­es from my own when the beast spot­ted a stop sign and was instant­ly obsessed. This was my shot. If I could get down the hill I could sprint, OK may­be a real­ly fast trot, to my house.

As I made my way to the bot­tom of the hill and spot­ted my front door, I felt a wave of relief come over me. I had made it, unscathed. Sud­den­ly I heard a rustle behind me, fol­lowed by a bark it bark. I sheep­ish­ly peered over my shoul­der and the hound was charg­ing! Holy $h!+!?!?. I stood still sure that if I moved I was dead.

I pre­pared for Heav­en, say­ing good­bye to my chil­dren and hus­band, all sleep­ing sound­ly unaware that I am about to be killed on the front lawn. And then, God him­self appeared on the lawn across the street. Squir­rel! The dog spot­ted it, for­got about me and dis­ap­peared into the com­mon ground. I took off toward my back­yard and slammed the wood­en gate behind me, but not before cry­ing and may­be pee­ing a lit­tle.

My Fit Bit logged 5500 steps before 7am. If the entire neigh­bor­hood could just go ahead and unleash their ani­mals around 6 every morn­ing, I’ll hit my weight loss goals by the end of next week.

D is for really big idiot

I was sim­ply hor­ri­fied today when I saw that a local gro­cery store, my gro­cery store, my neigh­bor­hood loca­tion was the scene of a rob­bery. Actu­al­ly, it was a bank satel­lite office inside of the bank. Per­haps the rob­ber was look­ing to cash in on Mr. Big Shot $24,000 ATM Slip? I was deter­mined to get to the bot­tom of it, so I threw on my Nan­cy Drew hat and head­ed to the super­mar­ket to sniff out some clues.

OK, so that is a bunch of crap. I was head­ed home from an event at Finnegan’s school and had to stop  to grab a few things for an event at work tomor­row. I gath­ered my items and made my way to the front of the store and head­ed to the only open lane, which hap­pened to be right next to the bank. I con­sid­er myself to be a friend­ly, out­go­ing gal (I hate the word gal, but in the fol­low­ing exchange, it seemed an appro­pri­ate name). Per my ususal, I whipped up the fol­low­ing con­vo with the 17ish male check­er and his trusty side­kick, the bag­ger.

Me: Wow, I can’t believe that some­one would real­ly rob a bank, in a gro­cery store, with all of the­se peo­ple around.
Check­er: Yeah, it was pret­ty dumb.
Me: I know. Who does that and thinks that they can get away with it with all of the­se secu­ri­ty cam­eras?
Check­er: Peo­ple do dumb things all the time.
Me: Walk­ing in here, to the front of the store past all of the cam­eras is like walk­ing in with a big sign around your neck say­ing, remem­ber my face, I am about to rob the place.They are just ask­ing to be picked out of a line­up.
Check­er: Yeah, peo­ple are dumb. They do all kinds of stuff that makes them stick out and makes them mem­o­rable. Some are just like hard to for­get.
Me: I know, peo­ple are just dumb. It’s like they want to get caught. Thanks so much for your help. Have a great night.
Check­er: You too, Mrs. Thomas.

Huh? Did he just call me Mrs. Thomas? I don’t write checks. He didn’t ask for my ID for the Diet Coke and water that I just pur­chased. I guess that I have shopped at this store so many times through­out the last decade that they have come to know me. What a nice young man. Wow, they real­ly are the friend­liest stores in town.

Or.…I am the biggest idiot in town.…you decide.….

Upon get­ting into my mini­van I real­ized that right above my heart was this God­for­sak­en name tag.….I was just ask­ing to be picked out in a line up.….idiot.….

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? 

The Bird is the Word

This is an actu­al con­ver­sa­tion that just took place at my house

Scott: Do we have any tape?

Me: Yes, in the draw­er. What For?

Scott: This (hold­ing up a then uniden­ti­fi­able bunch of con­struc­tion paper)

Me: Oh, who made that?

Scott: (Look­ing at me like I was a com­plete idiot) I did. I am now doing a lot of arts and crafts at work.

 Well, aren’t you hilar­i­ous. You look real­ly hilar­i­ous now.…      
Here is the real artist, Hand­some #1
My pre­cious love, Hand­some #3

Sad­ly, Hand­some #2 could not be reached to show his Car­di­nal pride, he was think­ing over the deci­sion to chuck train tracks across the room nar­row­ly miss­ing his infant brother’s head

Go Cards!

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.….

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.…..

 

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.

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