The NEW Dirty Words

"Jeeeemmmm is truly outrageous! Truly truly truly outrageous! Oooooohhh Jem!"

"I don't wanna grow up, I'm a Toys R' Us kid! There's a million toys at Toys R' Us that I can play with! From bikes to trains to video games, it's the biggest toy store there is! I don't wanna grow up, cuz maybe if I did, I wouldn't be a Toys R' Us kid!"

"Oh who are the people in your neighborhood? In your neighborhood...in your neighborhood? Oh who are the people in your neighborhood? They're the people that you meet, when you're walkin' down the street, they're the people that you meet...each...daaaaayyyy!"

Remember these songs. They were staples. Staples of our childhood....if you were a child of the 80's. And I am. So...these songs, I claim as mine. They are songs that said hey, it's ok to run down the street at warp speed, with your hair ribbons trailing behind you like dragonflies trying to keep up'. And it's ok to eat allll the Apple Jacks in the cupboard, and drink up alllll the kool-aid, and give your mom the saddest puppy dog face in the world as you beg for the GOOD peanut butter this time. You know which one. Don't act brand new. Goobers. With the peanut butter and jelly IN THE SAME JAR! Yeaaaahhhhh man....that was the good-good. As long as you had your Goobers pb & j, all was right in the world.

These songs told me that the "b" word had five letter, the "f" word had four, and the consequence for saying either involved NO LETTERS. Being a kid was the biz-bomb-diggity. The ish, my friend. The stayin-up-late-on-friday-night-because-it-was-the-weekend-only-to-wake-up-extra-early-on-saturday-to-watch-THE-MON-CHI-CHI'S-ish. I clearly remember watching after school specials, "one to grow on's", and The Electric Company.

Heeeeeyyy Yooooouuuu Guuuyyyyyysssssss! Guess what? We're not kids anymore. The "f" word now has eleven letters. FORECLOSURE. The "b" word has six. BUDGET. And one begets the other to remind us with a swift kick to our checkbooks that we have grown up. If you're like most parents today, Toy's R' Us isn't even an option. Not because it's a cesspool of germs, and evidence of failed birth control gone wild, but because Target has the same toy for $5.00 less. And that $5.00 equates to one box of Up & Up unscented baby wipes. Three packs in the box and you're set until the next pay period rolls around. Many of us have traded in our Jem dolls for discounted gym memberships, and if we're lucky, like Jem, we have managed to steer clear of The Misfits. If we're REALLY lucky, we have our own personal Rio, and Synergy has been replaced by our wise, all knowing, and always annoyingly right mothers.

This is the new childhood. Our playgrounds are outlet malls, our superhero's are financial experts on the Today show teaching us how to get out of debt in one year or less, without giving up our monthly waxing appointment (quit frontin' - you know you get SOMETHING waxed. And if you don't, you probably should), and our Goober's PB & J in a jar is Activia - because Jamie Lee Curtis says we need to be regular.

Our 9 year old professed to me that she NEVER wants to grow up. She wants to stay a kid FOREEEEEEEVEEEEEERRRRRRR. To her, being a kid is the.best.thing.on.earth.ever. Seriously. Ever. And as I listen to her breakdown the character profiles on iCarly, and explain to me why Carly lives with her brother and not her parents (because her dad is on a submarine 10,000 leagues under the sea - DUH!), I find myself thinking that she really needs to take off her "school clothes" and put on her "play clothes" because we don't have money to keep buying Costco sized bottles of detergent to do just HER laundry. And lost in my own adult mental playground, I totally miss why Gibby is stuck in Carly's chimney. But our 9 year old kiddo is laughing hysterically. And rolling on the floor in her school clothes. Because really, she's a kid. And that's all she wants to be.

Me too.

Yes I Said It, And No, It's Not An Olympic Event.....

Sport Fucking.

Yes. You read right. SPORT.FUCKING. Did your face fall on the floor? Mine did. I didn't make this up. And I'm not trying to be crass or vulgar. I actually heard this being discussed on the radio this morning by some local dj's.

What is it, you ask? Get ready for this one y'all. Long gone are the days of panty raids, and squirt guns aimed at our boobs as we walk to class. The days of TP'ing your favorite sorority house are o-v-a-h OVAHHHHHH. Now, your favorite 18-21 year old can engage in a lovely game called Sport Fucking. The object of this lovely little game is to go out and have random sex with the biggest girl they can find. The small penis boys all throw money in a pot, and whoever brings home and successfully "bag 'n tags" the biggest girl wins.

Folks, I PROMISE you, I am not making this up. Young boys are now likening thicker, heavier, chubbier, fatter, WHATEVER WORD YOU WANT TO USE girls to trophy kills during hunting season. Seriously?

SERIOUSLY????

Soooo....I really want to be funny. I really want to be anecdotal, and make references to small penises (more than just the ONE reference I already made), and come up with funny scenarios of what I WOULD do if I ever found out someone was treating me, my child, my family member, or my friend as if they were nothing more than a piece of pawn shop trash. I WANT to say that if I ever found out that someone did my child like that, you would have to hide every single sharp object I own because someone would definitely be gettin' cut that day (huh, guess I did just say it..oops).

But really, what would that solve.

All I can really say is Mama's, teach your boys RIGHT. Teach them how to respect women, how to treat women, how to love women. Daddy's - you do the same exact thing, by modeling that behavior with their mothers. I don't care if she is your baby's mama and you curse the day you didn't use a condom - model it. Boys coming up now have less and less respect for girls/women than EVER before.

Also, teach your DAUGHTERS how to exemplify self respect, class, dignity, and confidence. Teach them that it's not just about how cute you are, but how you carry yourself. Teach them that SASHA FIERCE is a CHARACTER, not an aspiration.

And lastly, make sure you teach your daughter the power of words and quick thinking. You never know when she might need a good "tic tac in a whale's mouth" comeback. I'm just sayin'.

Middle Finger Mondays....

OM-FREAKIN-G!!!

Are you serious?? This is my Monday? If that's so - F YOU, MONDAY!!

Seriously - have you ever had one of those days where just anything and everything that could happen to push you over the edge into the abyss called insanity, happens??

No?

Well then F you too.

It started with having to sleep on the couch because my sweet, loveable, snoring to alert Russia of an incoming nuclear attack boyfriend couldn't put a lid on his "back of throat choir". Then Sir Can't Sleep Quietly comes into the living room to bitch about how HOT it is in the room, and he's sweating to death so he's turning down the heat.

REALLY? REALLY?? Well if I wasn't FREEZING MY EYELIDS SHUT in the living room, the heat wouldn't BE ON, ya jackass! I'd probably be laying in bed next to you, and you'd probably be gettin' some...but since I'm not - shut the hell up - I'm sleepin'. and freezin'. and not gettin' any.

Then, in attempting to turn down the volume on my cell phone alarm, my dumb ass turns OFF the freakin' thing, and proceeds to drift off into dream land. But not to dream about the deliciousness we call Idris Elba. Oh no. There were no dripping honey scenes, or capable hands picking me up and placing me on the countertop to have his way with me in THIS dream. Nope. I got to dream of a Mr. I'm So Hot I Can't Sleep in the next room. And you guessed it. We were arguing. In my dream. Arguing. And apparently arguing so intensely that when he woke me up THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE I HAD TO LEAVE THE HOUSE, I wanted to punch him right in his big, fat, well rested face!

Him: "Do you want some coffee, babe?"
Me: "F off."

Ok - so I didn't REALLY say that...but I think my eyeballs did. I was in NO KINDA MOOD this morning.

Get in the car - it's on E. Who was the last one to drive it? Guess. Just guess...Yup. The man I love. Except right now, I don't love him. I loathe him. I curse his name all the way to the kid's doctor's appointment, in between praying to sweet baby Jesus in his tiny little manger that we actually MAKE IT THERE.

I curse his name AGAIN, when I get gas after the appointment, in between thanking sweet baby Jesus surrounded by all those cute baby animals in his tiny, cold little manger, that we actually DID make it.

And then, when I finally come home...ready to blog about the evil ways of Monday, I can't log into my blogger account. Why? Well it has taken me all of 8 billion wasted minutes to figure out that my handy dandy man candy has logged me OUT of my google account, and logged into his, thereby rendering me helpless, useless, and essentially - blogless.

But alas, the one brain cell that has managed to escape the daggers of vodka I have been throwing at it managed to figure it out, and here I am. Blogging to you. My beautiful, hopefully sympathetic (if not by now drunk with disgust over my whiny Monday rant) bloggie babies. I love you dearly. You give me the one moment of the day to spew my insanity and get back to feeling semi-anything.

And on that note, I must go. You know who is snoring on the couch now, and I can't concentrate anymore. Plus, there are too many sharp objects nearby. I may get inappropriately inspired to hold on to a quiet home.

I hope you have a great Monday. But as for me - I'm givin' Monday the finger.


*Author's note: Because of the world we live in, where some folks can't take a joke and poke fun at life's certain absurdities, I feel like I now have to put a *sidenote* on certain blogs. So for the record - NO. I WOULD NEVER KILL MY BOYFRIEND. NO. I HAVE NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT KILLING MY BOYFRIEND. But yes, I do believe in sweet baby Jesus. And it doesn't matter to me one bit if it offends you that I make reference to him in tiny mangers, surrounded by sweet, cuddly, loveable farm animals. So there.

Praying for Peace in Target

Oh Target, how I love thee...let me count the ways.....
1. Your "market bazaar" area is divine...I could accessorize my entire home in this section
2. Your baby/toddler clothes are a-dorable! And a-ffordable
3. Starbucks. Need I say more?

etc. etc. etc....

I love Target. Much like most women in the world, it is almost impossible for me to leave without getting SOMETHING! Target is fun! It's affordable! It's....a sanctuary. If you are able to get away from the kid(s) for an hour or so, Target is a small haven. A cheap spa. A prayerful retreat away from home.

"Lord, if you let these jeans fit, I promise to never eat another cheesecake bite again."

"Please be on sale. Please be on sale. PLEASE GOD, LET THIS BE ON SALE!"

"Dear sweet baby Jesus, I really need the total to NOT be over $100 this time.....HALLELUJAH! $99.50!"

See, it's prayerful.

Target is like....church. You go....you get food for your soul (fashion, beauty, music - it all makes you feel good - just like church), you sing along (who doesn't press the buttons on those "sample cd" music boxes, to preview the music), and you give an offering (your total is $99.99, ma'am). You wanna know how else Target is just like church???

There's always some screaming/crying/kicking/cussing kid whose mom absolutely REFUSES to remove the kid from the holiest of holy places. ALWAYS. This kid, like the kid in church, makes it difficult to focus (microfiber sheet set or shabby chic? Egyptian cotton??), embarrasses the hell out of his mom (because everyone is now staring at her, and her evil spawn who apparently hasn't gotten his daily dose of "act right"), and drives you into a manic craze, during which time you become a mere shadow of your former self and begin to shoot daggers at the kid and his mom. Slowly, you move closer to said mom, and when you finally can't take it any longer you lean over to the kid and tell him Santa is watching and isjust about to cross his name off the "good" list. Or perhaps you recant a story OUT LOUD, TO NO ONE IN PARTICULAR, about how if you had acted that way in public when you were a kid, your mom would have snatched you bald and dared you to even BREATHE loudly - hoping to give the haggard Target mom some ideas.

What, you've never done that? Shame on me, because I sure as hell have. Maybe I'm out of line. But don't even think for one second that I don't know that you (yes you, the one reading this as she sips her coffee and listens to her own name being repeated over and over again by her needy 2/3/4 year old (yes, your name IS 'mommy', and yes, it has been said 10,326 times in the last 30 minutes), have thought the same thing, or even wanted to DO the same thing. The only difference between you and me is that I HAVE. And I will probably do it again. Because like church, I like my Target experience to be a holy, sacred shopping experience. And I know everyone else does too.

Now, if you're the mom whose kids began getting their daily doses of "act right" from day one, KUDOS TO YOU!!! I LOVE YOU! YOU ARE A SAINT! Well not really, but you are highly regarded in the church of Target, and we, the congregation, will always pass by and smile, remarking on how well behaved your children are. In the church of Target, you could possibly be a Deacon.

For you mom's who missed out on the "act right" class, here's a crash course.

1. Before you even leave the house, make it known that the shopping trip is NOT for them, it's for YOU. Don't ask for anything. Don't touch anything. Don't even LOOK at anything. Keep your eyes closed the whole time.

2. Add the consequence. "If any one of the above rules is broken, we will leave Target IMMEDIATELY, go straight to the post office, and I will ship you to a small village in Cambodia. Or Antarctica. Whichever shipping costs less." Add the words "Think I'm playin?" to the end of this statement for added effect.

3. Make the kid repeat it back to you. This way YOU know that THEY know the rules, and the consequences.

4. When the kiddo loses his mind in Target, (because he will) leave and drive straight to the post office. Yes, he will be freaking out, but he will realize you mean business. Now obviously, you are NOT going to ship your kid off to another country! DO NOT DO THIS!! (I probably don't have to say that, but you know, there's always that ONE parent....) However, I think your kid needs to know that there is a possibility that you could be just a tad bit off. It makes them think twice about forgetting their "act right".

5. And lastly, if at all possible, just don't bring them. Take time for you. Let Target become YOUR sanctuary too! Leave the kiddo(s) with dad, grandma, auntie, neighbor, SOMEONE WHOSE NAME IS NOT 'MOMMY'. They won't die.

However, my looks might kill you if I hear your kid hollerin' one more time, while I'm all the way across the store praying to the kitchen towel gods.

HAPPY SHOPPING!!

Roly Poly Resolutions

Yea yea yea...its 2k12, and as of 4 days ago millions of people all over the world made resolutions. The momentarily significant, often short-lived promises we make to ourselves. I will quit smoking this year, starting today (as you reach for another Marlboro light). This will be the last time I sleep with someone on the first date (as you mouth the words "call me", and head out for the first Shacker Walk of Shame of the New Year). Don't feel bad if you have already broken your resolutions - it shows you are consistent and predictable. Two great traits for relationships and the workforce. Of course, you can't smoke on the job, and you'll never HAVE that relationship if you live in first date/last date lala land, but hey, I'm just sayin'.

Now, don't think that because I am kind of giving resolutions the finger that I haven't made any myself. Sure I have! The same one I make every.single.year.

This year, I will lose weight. And keep it off. And if that means that small children may die if they eat a donut in front of me, so be it. I will be a skinny bitch no matter what. Yep. Same resolution. Every year. And every year, I break the damn thing by day TWO. I mean really, you don't take a recovering alcoholic to a bar on the second day of their recovery. Why would take a foodie to the cupcake shop?? So really, it's not my fault that I never succeeded. I was sidelined by well meaning skinny friends.

However, this year is different. There is a new attack on us big girls, and I gotta admit - it's working. But it's also kinda succeeding at annoying the hell out of me - however well intentioned and motivational it is supposed to be. We've all seen the new commercial with skinny Jennifer Hudson singing to big Jennifer Hudson. Come ooonnnnnnn! REALLY? Formerly fat girls please answer me this - DO YOU PULL OUT PICTURES OF YOUR FORMER SELF NOW THAT YOU'RE SKINNY AND SING TO THEM??? Yeah. Didn't think so. In her honor though, I made up a song too. But it's just for me.

Rolly Poly Thunder Thighs
Can't fit my jeans
I'm gonna cry....

Hahahahahaha....Seriously though...Most of us hide those pictures away, never to be seen again. I, for one, have no intention of singing to ANY part of me when I get skinny. Last time I did that my ass surpassed round and jumped straight to rotund. Damn Sir Mix Alot and his "Baby Got Back" crap. I just wanted a little bit o'back.

Then there's the Mariah Carey commercial for Jenny Craig. Now, this commercial kinda makes me laugh. Mariah is singing "You Can Make It" while wrapped in some windblown black fabric. The fabric covers her tata's, and her hips. Everything else - out. Now, Ms. Carey just had twins some months ago, and homegirl blew up - as well she should have. She was carrying two - not one but TWO gorgeous babies in that belly. So please don't think I'm knocking her for gaining baby weight. I looked like a beached whale in heels by five months into my pregnancy, so please. But here's my thing. I'm not so sure she's made it yet. I think she's airbrushed. I think the wind is strategically pushing the fat back. I think the material she's wearing is well placed, and pinned in the right areas. I think she has a body double for the commercial. I think she got bigger girls for the commercial so she looks smaller.

I think I'm full of shit.

Don't you?

Let's face it. JHud and Mariah look A-MAAAAAAAZING! And they worked their asses off to get there. They put down the chocolate cake. They went the opposite way when they saw Wing Stop (mmmm....wiiinnnngggsss). They DIDN'T snatch the cookie out of their babies hand in a mad sugar craze. They persevered, and now they want to help the rest of us. That's nice. Thank you Jennifer Hudson. Thank you Mariah Carey. I hope to one day join the ranks of girls who don't look like they just had a baby/are still pregnant/just ate the fridge.

Until then, I'll just keep logging my food in my trusty food journal, and stare longingly at my used-to-be-skinny jeans.

Pass the ice cream. And the remote. That commercial is on again.


*author's note: I AM NOT SKINNY. I AM NOT PICKING ON BIG GIRLS. I.AM.A.BIG.GIRL.TOO. MY JEANS HAVEN'T SEEN SINGLE DIGITS ON THE LABEL SINCE JUNIOR HIGH, SO PLEASE DON'T CHEW ME OUT OR CALL ME INSENSITIVE. I POKE FUN AT MY LIFE. IF YOU'RE OFFENDED, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD TRY POKING SOME FUN AT YOUR OWN LIFE TOO. MAKES THINGS MORE INTERESTING. AND BEARABLE.

Idris v. The Pull Up

Crap! Crap crap crap CRAP! How the hell did I manage to wake up late today? Oh wait. I remember. I was dreaming about Idris Elba. Very valid reason to wake up late. However, that is also a very valid reason for me to be a rushed, crabby ass fool this morning. Hello! Idris-yousodamnfine-Elba. Done.

But you, small two year old, (who got to sleep a whole TWEEEELLLLVVVVE hours as opposed to my five - one of which was spent trying desperately not to smother the snoring giant next to me), you eat three meals and two snacks DAILY, whereas sometimes thats what I get for the week (foraging for leftover scraps is a mothers specialty). And to top it all off, you WAKE UP model gorgeous!!! WTF??? I can't even begin to tell you what goes into making me even HALF WAY presentable, but I guarantee you that I give those Kardashian girls a run for their money. BIBLE.

SO....two year old....just what do YOU have to be cranky about first thing in the morning? What could be so unbelievably HORRIBLE that you find it absolutely, painstakingly NECESSARY to scream bloody murder at the top of your lungs for 2 minutes straight? (Ok, maybe not two whole minutes - but damn did it feel like it!)

Oh. Your Pull Up is full? And because your momma was the genius of the CENTURY, she bought the ones with a "cool sensor", and your girlie parts have been "cool" for  the last TEN of those sleeping twelve hours. They are now FROZEN.

Oh. Well I guess frozen bitties trumps Idris Elba. Sorry kid. Just don't piss on me when I ta-.....

Damn.

It's gonna be a long.ass.day.

Idris take me away.

You Poop, I Drink. Deal?

Sooooo...there's this thing...this thing that ALL toddlers do, and when they do we (as good mommies and daddies)make complete asses of ourselves - cheering and applauding...dancing around like a cracked out Elaine...all in the hopes of encouraging them to do it - AGAIN. It's poop. In the potty. Like a big kid. And we do the shitty dance over and over again, until our thighs are on fire(therefore justifying our need NOT to go to the gym that day), we are drenched in sweat, and our voices are hoarse....because we love our little munchkins. We even give them rewards for taking a dump!

COULD YOU IMAGINE IF THAT WAS STILL THE CASE??? IF EVERYTIME YOU COPPED A SQUAT YOU GOT A NEW PURSE, OR A NEW PAIR OF SHOES???? HOW FREAKIN AWESOME WOULD THAT BE???? I, FOR ONE WOULD BE LOADING UP ON METAMUCIL AND ORANGE JUICE LIKE IT WAS MY JOB...FOR REAL.

But seriously...we reward, we applaud, we sing and dance...and when they are finally fully potty trained we thank the piss and poop gods above that we don't have to change another diaper.

But what about us? What about us moms and dads who SURVIVED the whole training process? What do we get?? Aside from sticky poop under our finger nails, and flaming sore quadricep muscles from kneeling in front of our little poop machines for ten minutes at a time saying "come on honey...you can do it...go pee pee..go poop...come on"....like a freakin shit coach.....ugh...

So here's what I propose....everytime the kiddo takes a dump in the potty, or manages to pee in the toilet and not on your couch, or in your favorite potted plant, or in your eye, or on the family dog...have a drink...a glass of wine...a martini..a beer....whatever have you...if you don't drink have a rootbeer float...have sex...have SOMETHING to say that you have survived yet ANOTHER round with Capt. CrappyDrawers. And when that little bundle of boo boo is completely potty trained...take your ass to vegas....drink away the memories of the brown nail polish you were forced to buy when you couldn't get ALL the poop out from under your fingernails. You were two farts too late, and they quickly became sharts. And you quickly ruined your manicure.

Yes, yes....wash away all those memories, because when you get home you'll most likely have to work on the next task....how to get your kid to quit calling people "fuck-face" everytime you honk your horn while driving. Don't feel bad...I'm working on BOTH at the same time - although her curse of choice is "jack ass"...lucky me....

Bottoms up folks!