Archive of ‘WTF’ category

Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah.…..Stayin’ Alive.….

Yep, the test is pos­i­tive,” the doc­tor said to me with sad eyes.

OMG, I thought. This is all I need right now. I have four kids and I don’t have time for this! Ugh, no! I am not preg­nant, God help us all.  Strep. Hand­some #2 test­ed pos­i­tive for strep. The nasty lit­tle bug that for my chil­dren means not only a high fever and sore throat, but we get the added bonus of vomiting.…awesome! Per­haps I should have believed him when he said he didn’t feel well.

I can­not go to school today, said Hand­some #2, Hooray!

I left the pediatrician’s office to grab Mau­r­mi, Hand­some #3 and the baby and head­ed to the phar­ma­cy to pick up Hand­some #2’s pre­scrip­tion. We made it past the check­out line when all of a sud­den I heard the hor­ri­fy­ing scream­ing.

Ouch. Oh. Ouch. I am so hurt. Ahh­h­h­hh! I have too much blood!”

I looked down to see Hand­some #3 on the floor and huge droplets of red all over the bright white tile.

OMG! What hap­pened?” I screamed.

Mau­r­mi hurt me so bad,” He blub­bered as tears poured down his cheeks and blood ran from his fin­ger.

Colleen! I would nev­er hurt him. OMG, my baby. Nev­er. I would nev­er hurt you.”

Duh.

He got the fin­ger caught in the cart, how, we may nev­er know, and some­how ripped a ginor­mous piece of skin in the process. I thought that we were head­ed to the ER, I mean, So.much.blood. I always react well in emer­gen­cy sit­u­a­tions.

Jesus, mom! OMG. What do we do?”

Colleen! He is hurt.”

I real­ize that. What am I sup­posed to do?”

Colleen! He is hurt!”

What do I do?”

This game of moron who’s on first went on for much longer than it should have, extreme­ly loud­ly and nei­ther one of us real­ly doing any­thing. Mau­r­mi took off to grab nap­kins when a help­ful young man in uni­form appeared to inform me that they had a first aid kit avail­able in case I need­ed it. Nice offer, but I need­ed some­thing imme­di­ate­ly as my child was becom­ing more and more hys­ter­i­cal.

Mau­r­mi returned with her con­tri­bu­tion to the ER effort and I ran to the phar­ma­cy area to grab a box of Band Aids, hop­ing that he would sit still long enough for me to put them on. As I returned to the scene with a box of Paw Patrol ban­dages, there stood a big man with a walkie talkie act­ing very impor­tant.

Yep. I’ve got them. I am here. Yep. Blood. There is blood. Yep. Yep. Got it. Bring on the clean up crew.”

By the look on his face, I was cer­tain that there would be a haz­mat team approach­ing soon. Mau­r­mi did her best to wipe up the floor while big red stood there doing a whole lot of noth­ing.

Excuse me,” I said try­ing to get to my baby.

Ma’am, we have a first aid kit for the­se kinds of the things.”

This is now the sec­ond time that the first aid kit has been offered, but noth­ing has been pro­duced. Per­haps they want­ed me to sign some kind of per­mis­sion slip, but instead I ripped open the box and start­ed to tend to the wound. Thank­ful­ly, my baby boy sat still and I was able to attach the ban­dages tight­ly enough to stop the bleed­ing.

Oh. Ewe, gross,” Said the walkie talkie man.

Thank­ful­ly for him, I bit my tongue and went on about my busi­ness. I want­ed to get Hand­some #2’s med­i­cine and get the heck out there. I head­ed to the phar­ma­cy, still cov­ered in blood myself and look­ing like a seri­al killer, and request­ed the pre­scrip­tion. Not ready.…awesome.… Since the bleed­ing had stopped and I need­ed a few more lunch­box items, I pressed on with my shop­ping.

We wan­dered through the toy depart­ment, the gro­cery area and the baby sec­tion when I noticed that Hand­some #3 was start­ing to act fun­ny. His eyes were droop­ing and he was nod­ding off.

Colleen, what is the mat­ter with him?” Mau­r­mi asked.

I don’t know. This is real­ly odd, ” I replied.

My God, did he hit his head? Or is he in shock from the pain?”

Hand­some #3, wake up! Wake up!” I demand­ed.

Stop talk­ing to me. Don’t look at me. I am so hurt­ing,” he screamed.

Cer­tain that he had some kind of con­cus­sion, again, I start­ed to pan­ic. Mau­r­mi and I stood next to the cart dis­cussing our next course of action, but nei­ther one of us touch­ing him, not want­i­ng to dis­turb him. Had we reached out to com­fort him, per­haps we could have saved the con­spir­a­cy the­o­ries and real­ized a few min­utes soon­er that he was hot­ter than a fire­crack­er. God help us, anoth­er one bites the dust. Strep is ugly and mean and con­ta­gious as hell!

Thank­ful­ly he had tried to ampu­tate his fin­ger a few min­utes ear­lier and we were still at the store so that I could call the pedi­a­tri­cian and get his med­i­cine called in before I left. I checked in at the phar­ma­cy to make sure they had received the new order and grabbed Hand­some #2’s med­i­cine and gave him a dose right there in the store. The soon­er we attack the bug, the bet­ter, right? Ten min­utes lat­er, Hand­some #3’s med­i­cine was ready, so I dosed him up too and we head­ed to the cafe for a quick drink and a pret­zel.


The fever had tak­en its toll on my bud­dy and he had enough trau­ma for the day, so we head­ed home to get every­one com­fort­able and in bed. As I unload­ed my bags to put away the gro­ceries I found that I was one bot­tle short. Hand­some #2’s med­i­cine was some­how left at the store. Come on! Seri­ous­ly?!?!!?

I wait­ed until the Grillin’ Fool got back from work before I head­ed back to the store, with Mau­r­mi of course, to pick up the new­ly ordered med­i­cine because no one could find it in the store. Mau­r­mi looked through every cart.


We retraced our steps, searched the aisles and shelves, but it was nowhere to be found. I returned to the phar­ma­cy for the third time and promised not to lose it, even putting it in my mother’s purse to ensure it would stay with me.

As we left the store to head home, we walked past the scene of the crime and noticed there was still a bit of blood left. Inter­est­ing­ly, the large fel­la with the walkie talkie was also still there, still hooked up to the walkie.…Having a snack.….

 

It’s Rated Arrg.….….……

I love the Time Hop app. It allows me the oppor­tu­ni­ty to revis­it the adven­tures that I have shared on social media in the last few years. I am often brought to joy­ful tears as I see pic­tures of my beau­ti­ful baby boys and am remind­ed of how fast time goes by.
As a moth­er, I try very hard to instill strong val­ues in my sons encour­ag­ing them to show love and kind­ness to those around them. As my moth­er always did, I am quick to remind them that they must treat each oth­er with the utmost respect and love because in the end, your broth­ers are your very best friends.
Clear­ly, I have been extreme­ly suc­cess­ful in mold­ing young minds, as evi­denced by the con­ver­sa­tion had by my then five and three-year-old sons exact­ly two years ago today.

After leav­ing the Sci­ence Cen­ter today, I noticed a man in the car next to us was wear­ing an eye patch. 

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, my back­seat crew also saw him.

Hand­some #1- Why is that man wear­ing an eye patch?

Hand­some #2- On account a he’s a pirate, Hand­some #1.

Hand­some #1- So you think every­one with an eye patch is a pirate?

Hand­some #2- Yes, I do.

Hand­some #1- (Gaffaw­ing) So you think Nick Fury, the head of all the Avengers, is a pirate? That is crazy!

Hand­some #2- No, you are crazy you poop head face dum­my! And when I poke you in the eye, you will be a pirate too!

 

 

I see your Darth Vader and Raise you a Sophia Petrillo

Handsome #1 and Me

Con­stant­ly hav­ing our own lit­tle Clone War

May the force be with you. I know that is from Star Wars. I know that Darth Vader is the father. I can iden­ti­fy Luke, Han, Leia and Yoda and prob­a­bly a Storm Troop­er in a line up, but let’s not push it.

Truth be told, if I didn’t have three sons and a Star Wars Nerd hus­band, I wouldn’t know any of this. Sure, I watched it as a kid, but that too was a result of being the only girl around and some­times you lose.

Hand­some #1 and Hand­some #2 are obsessed with Star Wars. So much so that Hand­some #2 will only wear Star Wars t shirts. He has four and with sev­en days in a week there is a good chance that the one he is wear­ing is on day two or three because I prefer the laun­dry stack to the ceil­ing before I throw a load in.

If they aren’t play­ing the video game, beat­ing one anoth­er up with home­made light sabers or build­ing some kind of weird base that I can’t remem­ber what they call for all of their Lego Star Wars action fig­ures, they are quizzing any­one who wants to lis­ten on Star Wars triv­ia.

Seri­ous­ly, I know noth­ing and don’t real­ly care to learn. But for rea­sons I can­not under­stand, they think that I do. In their minds, I should stay up watch­ing movies or read­ing comic books and fan fic­tion in an effort to learn some­thing before the next quiz. Hand­some #1 in par­tic­u­lar gets extreme­ly agi­tat­ed when I can’t pro­duce an answer. On a recent dri­ve to school, things became par­tic­u­lar­ly heat­ed as we pulled into the park­ing lot.

Hand­some #1: Mom, who is Luke’s father?

Me: Darth Vader.

Hand­some #1: Cor­rect. Now, who is Luke’s sis­ter?

Me: Princess Leia.

Hand­some #1: Exact­ly. What is Jar Jar Binks?

Me: He’s one of the guys they know.
Hand­some #1: No, mom, what is he?

Me: Is he that slug guy?

Hand­some #1: That is Jab­ba the Hut. Come on mom! What is Jar Jar? Is he a Itho­ri­an, Rodi­an, Mon Calarmi­an or a Gun­gun?

Me: I don’t know, let’s lis­ten to the radio.

Hand­some #1: Mom! What is he? This is not that hard!
Me:You tell me, Hand­some #1! Is Rose dumb? Is Dorothy a jerk? What about Blanche, is she a hussy? And what about Sophia? Don’t even get me start­ed on Stan­ley!

Hand­some #1: I have no idea what you are talk­ing about.

Me: Wel­come to my life. Have a nice day, and thank you for being a friend.….

Watch for Falling Idiots

I have nev­er con­sid­ered myself ter­ri­bly proac­tive. I have been known to wait until there are so few gro­ceries in the house that I make my chil­dren “junk lunch­es” to take to school. They call this an adven­ture, I call it a futile attempt to make string cheese, raisins and a hand­ful of cere­al flakes a bal­anced meal. The laun­dry has piled up to the point of no return and rather than tack­le it, I have bought every­one new out­fits. So when the change bat­tery light came on in my car a few weeks ago, I looked at it for 10 sec­onds and then went about my busi­ness. It popped up again last week and I almost got con­cerned, but then for­got that I didn’t care. But when I saw it today a mid­st the snow flur­ries and tem­per­a­tures that make me want to put on what the hand­somes lov­ing­ly refer to as the cov­er­feets and keep them on for the next sev­er­al months, I real­ized that I bet­ter take action.

It was the end of a long day at work and I fig­ured that super big box store that does and sells just about every­thing was just as good a place as any for a quick bat­tery replace­ment. Evi­dent­ly 1/2 of SoCo agreed because the line was way longer than I antic­i­pat­ed. I arrived at about 5:50 and was greet­ed by a gen­tle­man who said that it would be about an hour and that as soon as my car was fin­ished they would page me. No big deal, I could cer­tain­ly fill my cart with gro­ceries and at least $100 worth of oth­er crap that I didn’t need.

I walked the aisles grab­bing bread, bot­tled water, paja­mas, socks, deodor­ant, you know, the usu­al. I was quite enjoy­ing the stroll alone with­out three lit­tle loves nag­ging, err help­ing me. I got lost in the peace and qui­et and before I knew it, it was 7:15. I hadn’t heard my name called, so I strolled back to auto­mo­tive to see how much longer the wait would be.

As I turned the cor­ner, to say that I was sur­prised was an under­state­ment. The depart­ment was dark as night, the reg­is­ters off, the doors closed, not a sole in site. Cer­tain­ly there must have been a pow­er fail­ure back there caus­ing all of the lights to be off because no way in the world could they be closed, right? Wrong.….

I made my way to the ser­vice desk and very calm­ly, even laugh­ing, explained my predica­ment. I mean, real­ly, who comes in to the store in a car, asks to have ser­vice on that car, and doesn’t expect to leave in that car? I might as well have said that I mur­dered a fam­i­ly of pup­pies because the look of hor­ror on their faces was intense. They had no idea what to do. Again, I was calm. They called a super­vi­sor, who sug­gest­ed they call a man­ager. Hmm, no $h!+?!?!? The man­ager then said to call a super­vi­sor. The­se poor wom­en were play­ing a game of who’s on first and I was start­ing to come unhinged.

I could feel myself  ready to explode. I called my hus­band and while mani­a­cal­ly laugh­ing told him what was hap­pen­ing. He wasn’t sure whether to call the man­ager or the police, but ulti­mate­ly laughed and gave me a, “Good luck. Let me know how is works out.” A man­ager final­ly showed up and when I, once again, explained what had hap­pened, I was greet­ed with the look of, “I have no f@#^ing idea how to do my job,” on her face. She dis­ap­peared in to the night, leav­ing me with a cart full of a crap and an old man behind me offer­ing to dri­ve me home in a kind of nice, but I could total­ly be a preda­tor way.

I was final­ly greet­ed by a man who seemed even more con­fused than every­one else in the store because he said that he was back there the whole time and that no one came to get him. At this point, I couldn’t have cared less, I just want­ed to get the hell out of there and home to my babies. A cool $110 for the bat­tery lat­er, I was out the door. I had just dis­cov­ered on my way home from work that Hol­ly was back on satel­lite radio an I was ready to rock the hell out of some Karen Car­pen­ter.

I turned the car on, all sys­tems go. Well, all except the nav­i­ga­tion and sound sys­tems. If there is one thing that is absolute­ly essen­tial in a mini­van to a wom­an like myself who wants noth­ing more than to bless the world with her musi­cal styling,it is a ful­ly-func­tion­ing stereo sys­tem. When I got in the car tonight, instead of see­ing my nav­i­ga­tion and audio menu, I saw this mid­dle fin­ger right in my face.

Ha, Ha, Ha, Idiot…We win, we always win!

Not.a.clue. Not a f%^&!”! clue.….You might as well ask me to pre­dict the Power­ball num­bers because there was just as much of a chance that I would get those cor­rect as my know­ing what the hell this PIN is. I tried every­thing, every com­bi­na­tion of every sig­nif­i­cant and insignif­i­cant num­bers, noth­ing. So instead of singing Christ­mas tunes on the way home, I screamed, cried and beat the steer­ing wheel. Dra­mat­ic? Per­haps, but this on top of the news of Richard Simmon’s depres­sion today. I just can’t even.….If you need me, I’ll be singing along to Sweat­in’ to the Oldies 2 while eat­ing a bowl of Cook­ies n Cream.….

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.….

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