How to care for a pet (aka We should not be pet owners)

Over Thanksgiving, my sister (and her sweet little pooch) were in town.  While here, Sweet Pooch decided to take a romp in my parents’ backyard.

By “romp” I mean, “Roll around in poop and fleas.”  (Sorry, sister dear.  I know you didn’t want to talk about this anymore, but it helps set up the story.)

We noticed Sweet Pooch wasn’t smelling so sweet, so my dear mother gave her grandpooch a sweet bath.

Didn’t help the fleas, though.

Last week, my mother noticed a bug in her house.  And another.  I found one crawling (shudder) on my 5-year-old.  By now, we.  were.  freaking.  out.  It was confirmed that Sweet Pooch did, in fact, contract fleas, so my mother had her house bombed.



We own a cat, right?  And Sweet Pooch had spent some time at our house over Thanksgiving, so I spent this past week looking for signs of fleas.  And vacuuming like a madwoman. 

Saturday morning, as I was changing bed linens, I noticed some black specks on our comforter (shudder).  Was it lint?  Was it (ugh) something worse?  The specks weren’t moving (double shudder), so it could’ve been lint, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I raced to the phone and called the husband, who was out running errands, and asked him to go to the local pet store for flea treatment.

He came home with a spray bottle of something.  Was he serious?

a)  How were we going to hold her still long enough to saturate her fur?
b)  What happens to the fleas after she is sprayed?
c)  Should we instead pat her head (with surgical gloves, of course), wish her luck and dropkick her out the back door?

We decided to take the bull by the horns (literally – she’s a beast) and help our cat.  He held while I sprayed (I’m no dummy).

 

So, I’m spritz-spritz-spritzing while the husband is being clawed to death.  In the end, she won the battle and shot out of his arms like a bat out of hell, but not before I sprayed the product directly in her face (which, of course, the instructions specifically say NOT to do).



(Sidenote:  Have the manufacturers ever tried treating a cat themselves?  Their instructions should really include directions on how to subdue a psychotic cat like this one, as well as how to treat scratches and bites on humans.)Moments later our poor drowned rat was huddled in the corner, licking her wounds (gack)… with foam coming out of her mouth.

What do we do now?

Lock her in the bathroom.  Right!  I don’t want that stuff all over my house!

Lest you think I’m a heartless bastard, I did stay in the bathroom with her to make sure she didn’t cough up a lung (not touching her, of course).  I stayed with her long enough for her to love me again, while my husband bandaged his hands, arms and face and vacuumed the furniture.



Today, she is still the same psychotic loving feline she’s always been.  And the house has been vacuumed about 50 times since Friday.

If she didn’t have fleas, I’m going to be so pissed.

The most wonderful time of the year. Tell 'em, Johnny Mathis.

As I did pretty much the exact same thing over the weekend, I thought I’d republish my post from last year.  With a few colorful comments.

So, we have an Elf on the Shelf.  Or, rather, my mom had some elves that looked like the Elf on a Shelf, so she gave them to me so we could play the game this Christmas season.  You know, to help the boys be on their best behavior for 6 or so weeks so I wouldn't have to threaten them with no Christmas.  Instead, I have someone else threatening no Christmas.  "I didn't tell Santa you were bad, it was the Elf on the Shelf."  Whoever came up with this elf thing was a genius!

For those who don't know of this tradition, the purpose of the Elf on the Shelf is to ensure kids are good so parents can spend time buying and wrapping presents instead of peeling one screaming child off another every 5 minutes.  For said children, the elf is the eyes and ears of The (Big Fat) Man, taking in the daily activities of each house.  Each night, the elf uses his magical powers to fly back to the North Pole with status updates of these good and bad children.  For example, if my 4-year-old kicks the 7-year-old in the face (yes, that happens a lot) (ETA:  yes, this still happens a lot), Santa is going to know about it.  And each morning, upon the elf's return, he likes to play tricks on the families by hiding in a different spot.

So, basically, it's just one more thing we adults have to remember to do every night.  (ETA:  Tru dat.)The first 2 weeks we had Frank (I was hoping for Lou, but Frank it is) (ETA:  This year, his name is James.  We apparently forgot we named him Frank.  Eh, whatever.), he hid in our kitchen cabinet.  Along with the other elves my mother gave me.  In a pile.  Yeah, I suck at this stuff.  (ETA:  This year, he was in one of our boxes of Christmas decorations.  Our neighbor’s elf had come to their house early, so the boys had been wondering where our guy was.  I told them he doesn’t come until our house is ready for Christmas, so there you go.  I’m a genius.)  Honestly, it's just another thing I have to do.  With the decorating and the shopping and everything else, I lost the will to add one.  more.  thing. 

Really, I'm not a bah humbug kind of person.  I love Christmas.  I love the music and the lights and the shopping and the baking (or, more to the point, the eating of the baked goods my husband makes) and seeing the Nutcracker and all that crap.  I was all gung ho this year, too.  As we speak, I'm almost done with my shopping!  Being a notorious Christmas Eve shopper, this is an amazing feat for me.  

As a general rule, I try not to get into the Christmas spirit too early.  Otherwise, I'm burnt out before Christmas arrives.  So, ever since I left retail (which celebrates Christmas from the 4th of July on), I hold off listening to any Christmas music until 2 weeks before Christmas.  (ETA:  Still true.  I’m too busy listening to the Breaking Dawn 2 soundtrack.  But I did listen to Christmas music while we decorated the house.  It’s not Christmas decorating without it.  It’s more like… glittering the house just to annoy myself.)

But, this year, I went off the reservation.  Since I was Christmas shopping, I had to listen to the music to get in the mood, right?  So I did.  The last 4 days, I have spent all my spare time shopping and decorating.  I have more glitter on me on any given day than all the strippers in the world combined.  (ETA:  Again, still true.  I also have broken more bulbs this year than ever, so there’s glitter and tiny shards of glass mixed in just for fun.)  I spent 2 hours on Friday at Toys R Us alone.  And Saturday, my mother, SIL and I closed down 2 shopping venues.  (ETA:  I spent the 3 hours of alone time last week at Target.  I love Target.  Whoever has me in the Christmas exchange this year, I’d like a Target of my own.  Thanks in advance.)  

We are in it to win it.  I have shin splints and sore arms, but my monthly cardio quota was met in one weekend and it's a small price to pay for giving the boys the perfect gift.  

But, if I have to hear Johnny Mathis sing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" one more time, I might actually kill someone.  

So, as you can imagine, the Elf on the Shelf got the shaft.  But, over the weekend, I realized what fun we could have with this guy.  I love the magic of Christmas.  (ETA:  Still do.)  And, with my 7-year-old already questioning the existence of Santa Claus (with a "Just tell me the truth, Mommy" - damn those older elementary kids for planting seeds of doubt!), I had to do something. 

Okay, I suck at it.  Friday night, I decided to move Frank from his kitchen cabinet to the top of our lamp.  And my wonderful (painintheass - kidding, my brother!  I love her!) niece caught me moving him.  And then told her cousin the next morning. 

Sonofa...

I think I saved it.  I told them adults sometimes need to help the elf if he asks.  And he asked me to move him because he ate too many cookies and couldn't move himself. 

Right.  That was why.

After my marathon shopping on Saturday, I hid my loot in my closet and went straight to bed.  And then remembered I didn't move the damelf.  So, I went back downstairs and threw the elf head first into an almost empty box of Cheerios, making it look like he got caught having a late night snack.

I'm so clever.

Fine, I'm not.  But, the boys laughed, and that's all that mattered.

(ETA:  Last night, James (Frank) decided to play a game of Connect 4 with our Wall-E action figure.  The boys ran up the stairs this morning to let me know.  They were ecstatic.  I should also mention they’ve been on their best behavior since JamesFrank has returned.  No kicks to the teeth, no whining.  They.  Are.  Sharing.  Toys. 

The extra 5 minutes at night to move him?  Totally worth it.)

It's the final countdown

My sister is coming home this week for Thanksgiving.  10 whole days of fun and fun and more fun.  I can't wait.

You know who else can't wait?  My little monsters miracles. 

Every morning, they wake up (early - thank you, damn daylight savings) and say the following:

"So, Mom.  4 (3, 2, 1) more days until Meemee gets here?"

Me (every time):  Yes.

Them (this morning, in particular, with hope in their eyes):  You mean, when we wake up tomorrow, she'll be here??!

She's more popular than Santa Claus!
My sister and her husband moved to Dallas about 6 years ago now.  For a 2-year trial.  Turns out 2 years last longer in Texas than they do in the rest of the world.  It's been... fine.  I mean, Texas isn't all that bad, and she has great neighbors.  We miss her like crazy up here, but it's that much more fun when she comes home.  I don't know if we'd have this much fun together if she actually lived here.

Okay, we probably would.

But, for the next 10 days, we'll have our Meemee to take us for donuts and to Toys R Us and to her father-in-law's retirement home to play chess! 

Oh wait, that's the kids.

For the next 10 days, I'll have my Meemee to get manicures and drink alcohol and bake Thanksgiving pies and drink alcohol and watch Ohio State-Michigan football and, well, drink alcohol!

To add to all that, my brother is coming home, too!  For the entire week!  I may never see my boys and husband again!!

Bring on the holidays!!      

Oh, patience is a virtue, alright

Today was a trying day.  Right now, we're in the middle of our busy season at work.  With the storms this week, we lost a day due to power outages, so we're a little behind on top of busy.  And even when the lights came back on, the internet and phone were still down.  So, we're busy, behind and barren.

It's been awesome.

But, despite all that, I got my work done.  I came home.  Made dinner.  Served dinner.  Cleaned up dinner.  Afterward, I deliriously anticipated ignoring the crap out of everyone in my house (namely, those little monsters miracles I've created [whom I adore] [who have also stomped on my last available nerve]), sitting down with my Diet Coke and iPad for 20 frickin' minutes.

Think I got that?

Yeah, no.

In any event, I did my best to be oblivious to their shenanigans.  Which, I think, only made them try harder to annoy me.

Enter the 5-year-old.  With hand-drawn picture.  Drawn by his own hand, I might add.

Picasso, mIright?

Him:  Hey (8-year-old), look at my pictuwe.  See the penis and butt?
Me:  Throw that away. 
Him:  Mom, it's a beawd.
Me:  It is NOT a beard.  You just said it was a penis.
Him (solemnly):  It's a beawd.  See?  A beawd goes hewa (pointing to his chin, and the chin on the picture). 
Me (to myself):  Kid's got a point.

He then goes back to the kitchen table to fix the picture.  We get this:


Him:  It's you and me.  See?  I even showed the dots on youw face.

How sweet of him to accurately portray the zits on my face!  I should just be grateful he didn't keep the penis.  And turned the butt into some lovely earrings.

And then, because he was so proud of his artistry, chased his brother around the room saying, "Oh my shit!  Oh my shit!"

Seriously?  Was he trying to work me into an early grave?

I shoo the boys upstairs to shower.  After the 5-year-old was done, he thought it'd be funny to shake his bon-bon, and, in turn, his, well, you know.

Him:  That's my wiener.
Me (sighing):  Yes.  That's your wiener. 
Him:  And it's sek-SAY!!

He's going to kill me when he reads this one day, isn't he?  Oh well, serves him right.

Fuck this Diet Coke, where's the wine??!

Sandy has nothing on the natural disaster known as the mall

Last night, my girlfriend and I took our children to the mall for trick-or-treating.  At the time, it seemed like a good idea.  I was sure trick-or-treating on Halloween was going to be miserable with the rain and I wasn't about to let the boys out in that.  So, I figured some candy was better than no candy.

I was wrong.  So very wrong.

Forget the storm outside, this place was the real shitstorm.  I had never seen the mall like this for Halloween.  And I worked in the mall for years.  My girlfriend and I gave each other a look, but trudged onward anyway.  I mean, we had gotten the little people into their costumes and out into nasty weather conditions.  We were getting something out of it. 
As a public service announcement, I will inform you that mall candy sucks.  (You're welcome.)  I don't know who bought the candy for these stores, but a breath mint from your purse does not constitute chocolate Halloween candy.  Where were the snack-sized Snickers bars?  The mini Twix bars?  What was I going to take from the boys while they were sleeping??  We watched a child spit out his mint onto the (mall) floor.  And the mother?  Did nothing about it.  I guess she figured mints suck as treats, too.

While waiting in the extremely large line for our mint, we (slooooowly) passed by a convenience store.  I almost went in there to get each of the kids a real candy bar (and had about 10 minutes to contemplate).  I mean, some of these places didn't even give out mints.  They gave out stickers.  That said, "I just bought new shoes." 

And fuck you trick or treat to you, too.

Also, for our (read:  not my) entertainment, we slooooowly passed by Victoria's Secret.  The boys open-mouth stared at those images of women in their underwear for the 5 minutes we waited outside the store.  At least they got an education?  I don't know.

My brilliant husband stayed home to install a battery backup for our sump pump.  I think he got the better end of the deal.  Well played, dear husband.

The good news is that trick-or-treat has been postponed in our city until Sunday.  So, I'll the boys will get Halloween candy after all!  And you can bet I will remind my girlfriend of this experience when she suggests it again next year. 

No.  No, we won't be going. 

Kiss me, I'm drunk

Over the weekend, we went to an event our friends put on every year to raise money for Alzheimer’s.  It’s always a fun time.  It’s held at a bar during an Ohio State football game.  We hang with our friends, there’s a room in which to stash our children for the children, complete with cartoons, crafts and chicken nuggets.  We draw straws take turns checking on them every hour 20 minutes or so.  There are prizes to win, free food and drinks (well, with-purchase-of-a-ticket free) and it’s for a good cause. 

This year was no different.  The free beer was going down fiiiinnne.  The Buckeyes won the game and everyone was having a great time.  Including my favorite person, Drunk SIL!

Sober SIL is superfun, too, don’t get me wrong. But there is something about slanty-eyed, carefree Drunk SIL that just makes you want to be BFFs with her (Call me!). 

As “adults” and caretakers of little people, we try to reign ourselves in when the little people are around. But, well, since they were locked in a room having their own fun, we let our freak flags fly (at least, the non-drivers did; we still try to be semi-responsible - even when we’re acting like complete idiots).

There was a wedding held in the same building that night (we shared a bathroom). And, we noticed this superfun (as we could tell from the music) wedding had a photo booth!

Drunk SIL: Let’s take a picture!

The rest of us:
 

Then:

We loitered outside the restroom, closer to the wedding, trying to figure out how we could get in unnoticed.  After we were on the verge of being arrested a few minutes of looking stupid, we went back to our own party room.  No photo booth pictures for us. 

(Sidenote:  my girlfriend once told me her dad used to crash weddings all the time in his youth.  And I’ve seen the movie.  You’d think we’d be able to pull it off, right?  But, I guess with us in jeans and red t-shirts, we didn’t really blend.  And we weren’t really drunk enough to risk prison time.)

Alas, the evening had to come to a close.  We packed up our hopped-up-on-sugar-exhausted children and made our way for the door.  I didn’t think I was terribly drunk.  I didn’t call anyone an asshole or steal said asshole’s cigarette. 

Nonetheless, I usually run through a checklist in my mind to decide if I’m drunk.

Urge to smoke?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – no

Urge to hug everyone goodbye?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – yes

Pass out Fall asleep in the car?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – no
Saturday Lea – no

Eat a lot when I get home?
Drunk Lea – yes
Sober Lea – yes
Saturday Lea – yes

By my calculations, I was only 50% drunk, which is not drunk at all.  However, after speaking to my husband the next morning, I may have to reevaluate my checklist. 

Him:  You sure were chatty last night.
Me:  Oh, God.  What did I say this time?  Did I call anyone an asshole?
Him:  You were definitely entertaining the crowd.

Gaah.  Going forward, I’m adding chatty to my list.  And if it’s yes, I’m hiding in the car until it’s time to go home.

Serves me right

A few weeks' back, we had a crappy Sunday.  It was cold and rainy and everyone was pretty crabby - kinda like today, which reminded me of this story.

On the weekends, the boys play with the neighbor kids (the 2 girls, in particular) who live behind us.  They usually play between the backyards, but, because it had been raining, the boys asked if the girls could play inside.  Of course, I selfishly said yes as I knew this would be a surefire way to have the TV to myself for an hour.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary while the girls were over.  After an hour or so, they went home and we went to dinner over my brother's house.  That night at dinner, we discussed how my niece is growing up too fast and I secretly (and out loud) said how grateful I am that I have boys instead of girls (this will be important later).   

After dinner, the boys came home, took showers, and got into bed, as usual. As I was tucking him into bed, my 5-year-old told me he had a seekwet (secret).  So, I leaned in real close as he told me the words I didn't know I was dreading to hear... until I heard them.

"(The 8-year-old) was kissing (our 8-year-old neighbor girl) behind the couch."

Me:


 Him:


Oh, crap.  I always knew this would happen.  And somehow, I always knew it would be the neighbor girl.  She's beautiful.  And?  Convenient.  But, did it have to start so soon?

I blame the hormones in our milk.  Or cable TV.

So, I dragged the 8-year-old out by his ear took the 8-year-old into our bedroom to have a little chat.

Me: You want to tell me what happened today?
Him:  With what?
Me:  With (neighbor girl)?
Him:
 
Me (waiting):  ...
Him:  Well, it's kinda hard to explain.
Me (in my head):  Yeah, I bet it is... to your MOTHER.
Me:  Well, why don't you try?
Him:  How did you find out?
Me:  Mommy knows EVERYTHING.  So just tell me what you did.
  
He then tells me that he kissed her.

And that my 5-year-old also kissed the 6-year-old neighbor.


Holy crap.  Were they having an orgy down there?  Why aren't I spying on them taking better care of these children?  Was this the first time?  Did they (horror upon horrors) do anything else?!

After a good talking to (which, by the way, was real hard to do with a straight face - don't judge me), I put the boys to bed at last.   And then sat on the steps to spy overhear their conversation make sure they went to sleep like the good little angels they are.

8-year-old:  Mom knows what happened in the basement.
5-year-old:  Yeah, I know.  I told huwa (her).
8YO:  DUDE!
5YO:  Just kidding.
Me:  (stifling laughter)
8YO:  Do you think they have some kind of video camera in the basement?
Me:  (Yes, keep thinking that.  As a matter of fact, that's a GREAT idea!) 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be downstairs installing that video camera. 

Isn't he a little young for that?

My 5-year-old lost his first tooth this morning.

Say it with me:  Isn’t he a little young for that?

Right?  Because... well, to be fair, I have no idea how old you’re supposed to be when you lose a tooth, but it seems young to me anyway.  Of course, I thought it was early when my 8-year-old lost his first tooth the summer before he started Kindergarten.  So, what do I know? 

Maybe I’m just having a hard time with them growing older.  (Not that it has anything to do with the fact that if they’re growing older, I’m growing older, too.  I’m still in my 20s thankyouverymuch [*insert husband’s eye roll here*].)  But, I miss the younger years.  When they snuggled and pretty much believed everything I told them (I blame school for this one no longer applying).  The 5-year-old is still mine, but I’m losing my 8-year-old.  Oh, he’ll humor me with a hug or (gasp!) even snuggling through a whole half-hour TV show.  I love the age he is now, don’t get me wrong.  He understands humor and sarcasm (bless him – he is my boy); he’s smart compassionate and can wipe his own ass.  But, he calls me Mom.  And looking at pictures of him at age 2, I just get sad.

As for my 5-year-old, he still thinks I’m brilliant.  And still calls me Mommy.  And truly loves being with me.  Yesterday, he followed me around while I cleaned toilets and said he never wants to lose me.  I mean, could you just die?  I love these boys so much, I could eat them.

And dang, they are funny.  Whenever they say something particularly hilarious, I text my sister.  And, bless her heart, she has kept a running list of them.  So, in honor of my baby losing his first tooth, here are a few of his running commentary.  Enjoy!  I sure did.

(to the automatic doors):  "Thank you, doows! I'm vewy pwowd of you, doows."

"I can't wait til I can dwive by myself."  (me:  I can.)

"Mommy, thank you fow the best hot chocowate." (Forward bow)  "Thank you, youw highness."

"Mommy, don't touch my pwecious cookies!"

 (while eating ice cream): "My tongue has bwain fweeze."

Him:  "I want a snack."

Me:  "You just had a donut."
Him:  "Yeah, but this is diffewent."

I'm going to be supersad when he can pronounce cowectly.
     

Can't you just try to aim?

I try to keep a clean house.  It makes me feel good to know my family lives in a safe, healthy environment.  So, like one of my Pinterest pins told me to do, I try to do bit of housework every day.

I am fortunate enough to work part-time, so I have ample time at home each week to get things done.  And, for 2-1/2 blessed hours a week, I even get The.  House.  To.  Myself.  Before the children were school-aged, it took an act of God (or my mother's mercy - whatever you want to call it) for everyone to leave me the fuck alone for an hour of DVRd TV peace.  Now that we are given the opportunity to thrust hand over the children for someone else to deal with for a few hours a day, I can enjoy a cup of coffee without the guilt that I'm not creating some educational Pinterest crap craft with my darling children - because they're not here!!  They're actually being educated somewhere else!  It's a miracle!

The first time I was given my 2-1/2 hours, I had big ideas of using the attachments on the vacuum, cleaning out closets, washing down baseboards, exercising.  But, instead, I drank a cup of coffee and watched Love Story on cable.  And... time was up.

The second week, I was motivated.  I started the laundry early, I cleaned the bathrooms.  I went for a walk.  Around the block.  Then decided it was drizzling raining too hard, so back I went.  For another cup of coffee.  I pinned things to my Pinterest boards, I Facebook-stalked.  And... time was up.

Now my house is starting to suffer.  Because I'm a procrastinator by nature, these hours to myself are doing me no favors.  I was doing a better job keeping up the house when I had no time.

To make me feel even worse, I baby-sat for my cousin's twins this past Saturday.  His house is immaculate.  I have to believe they had just had their white carpeting replaced THAT MORNING or... I'm going to cry myself to sleep.

In my defense (read:  I tell myself so I don't jump off a cliff), their children don't move yet.  They can't possibly play catch in the family room (when they were explicitly told not to) and knock over their uncle's cranberry ginger ale.  Which is red.  All over the cream-colored chair.  Which is cream.  And carpeting.  Which is also cream.  Plus, their twins are still in diapers.  I live with 3 males and a cat.  No one knows how to pee.  In.  The.  Toilet.

It's enough to make you cry.

Instead of screaming all day long and basically being an asshole to everyone I love, I resolve to clean my house today.  Top to bottom.  I can make my carpet look new too!

As a matter of fact, I think I saw a Pinterest pin on that very subject!  I'll just look it up...

And... time is up.  Damn.

Fuuuuudge (aka Sorry Mom)

I love to swear.  For someone who doesn't do drugs or have really big hobbies, swearing is my vice.

Don't fucking judge me.

I come from a long lineage of swearers (we're very proud).  My mother?  Big swearer (and would be horrified I told people that).  She defends herself by reminding me she doesn't drop the F bomb, which, to that I say she's missing a huge opportunity.  I mean, it's the best one.  My maternal grandfather?  Also a swearer.  He moved in with us after my grandmother passed away.  I had heard some choice phrases living with him. 

Example:  The damn cat shit in my room.

Not funny.  But also?  Hilarious.

Picture an 80-year-old man with a heavy Greek accent saying that.

The dame ket seet een meye rrrrrrrroom. 

Bwahaha!

The thing about swearing is that clean words just don't pack the same punch.  My MIL was a firm believer that sometimes, only fuck will do.  And?  She was brilliant. 

The guy who cut you off? Jerk.
The co-worker who took the last donut? Fucking asshat.

Of course, having young mimicable ears around me most of my day limits my pastime.  I end up saving it all for my mommy nights out, leaving my mommy friends to rethink friendships with me (and their children's friendships with mine).  It is true I spent an entire weekend away with my cousins pontificating swear words at every opportunity.  I even decorated my weekend beer coozie with that magical word.  It was fucking cathartic.  Later, I go home and refrain from using those words until I am alone again. 

But then something large and heavy (and sometimes pointy) lands on my toe.  Or I step on a fucking Lego.  And... I'm sorry, I can't promise anything.

You have to admit (or maybe it's because I'm an asshole), it's entertaining to hear little voices spout obscenities.  I have caught my wee little ones saying some bad things over the years.  While I'm horrified those words came out of such sweet angelic faces, I can't help but giggle-cough when it happens.

Example:  When my 8-year-old was about 2 or 3, my sister asked him if he was the bomb diggity (as his teacher said he was).  His response?

No godamit (see how I made it all one word?  So it's not blasphemy?)  (See how I can justify anything?).

Or, when my 5-year-old says, "I have twicks that wiw bwow youw stinkin' mind off" or "My buttcwack says goodnight, too".

I'm going to get to know the principal very well when that kid starts fucking Kindergarten.

However, I mostly enjoy the made-up words my sister and I use.  You know, eff instead of fuck, sheet instead of shit, beach instead of bitch.  They're funny and, in turn, don't make me look like a total fucking asshole not nice person. 

And they are totally words that can pass through work email.  Wait, what?  Sheet.

The apple doesn't fall far

So, last night, I had a Mom’s Night Out with some of the other mothers from my 8-year-old’s class.  We get together once a month in order to allow our husbands special alone time with our children so they can warn, cajole, negotiate, threaten put our children to bed for the night (isn’t that nice of us?). 

We spend the first minutes regaling each other with hilarious tales of our children.  And man, they are funny kids.  We learn from each other what hot topics are being tossed around on the schoolbus (the election, duct tape).  We sometimes discuss the teachers or homework assignments.  But, mostly, we enjoy each other’s company.  It’s nice to be around people who understand this part of you. 

It’s also nice to hear things your child won’t tell you, but some of the more chatty other children will.

What?  It’s not like I’m reading a personal journal or anything. 

Last night, I learned my 8-year-old son, my boy, my first-born, is writing a book with his friend while they ride the bus to and from school. 

I cannot begin to explain what this did to me. 

For one, I am absolutely convinced that I created him all by myself.  It’s cute and all to pretend I had help from the husband, but, I think, with this one, it was all me.  He looks like me, he has my grandfather’s personality, my father’s hands and love of numbers.  And now he’s writing?  He’s mine.

My second-born, my baby, while I love him just as much, was definitely made in collaboration with my husband.  He’s received all of my husband’s good looks, his disposition, but my… snark.  He’s a great kid.

But, this writing thing...  I’ve been writing since I can remember.  I had always been an avid reader.  And, in fifth grade, I decided to attempt writing my own story.  I mean, how hard can it be?  You make up characters, setting and plot.  There’s a conflict.  Then a resolution.  Done and done.  Right?

My story itself was terrible, of course, but I liked writing it anyway. 

In high school and college, I kept journals.  I didn’t get the best English teachers available in my high school, so I didn’t really appreciate writing until my first semester in college.  I got my degree in English, with big dreams (and little ambition, drive, determination, motivation, skill…) of writing the Great American Novel. 

Eh.  I’m better with a blog. 

But, my son!  He could write the Great American Novel.  It might be about Legos or Star Wars, but who cares?  You go, kid!           

As MC Lyte said, "A party ain't a party..."

So, we had our first friend party for my now 8-year-old over the weekend.  Since this was our first friend party, I wanted it to be special.  We’ve been lucky enough the previous 7 birthdays to simply host a combined family party (both boys are born in September).  But, when my 8-year-old said, “May (yes, he said may) I please have a party with my friends this year?” how could I refuse? I mean, he used the word “may”.

I consulted my old friend, Pinterest.  I hadn’t been on Pinterest in about 6 months.  It was fun in the beginning, as all new things are, but, after a while, I grew bored.  It’s not as if I a) wore any of the outfits I pinned, b) made any of the foods I pinned, c) created any of the crafts I pinned or d) completed any of the exercises I pinned.  But, if there were ideas out there for a kid birthday party, Pinterest was going to have them.

I was not disappointed.  Pinterest is where crap goes to die.  Cute crafty crap, but crap.  What are you supposed to do with all this?  There’s.  Just.  So.  Much.  Stuff.  Thank God for the search function. 

I searched “kid party”, “Star Wars”, and “Legos” and came back with a gazillion results.  I also found supercute ideas for Halloween parties and briefly wondered we could pretend he was born in late October and have the party then or convince (read:  make) someone I know host a Halloween party that I could attend.  I’m choosing the latter. 

I came out with 6 solid ideas for games.  My husband told me I was going overboard, but since when do I listen to him?  One mother, when RSVPing, wished me luck while rehashing the horrifying tales of her child’s last birthday party.  Hey, thanks, lady!      

I thought my ideas were good.  First, we’d have the kids guess how many Legos were in the jar.  Simple.  The 5-year-old and 8-year-old counted the Legos the night before, I threw them in the jar, slapped a label on the jar with the Legos logo.  Kid with the closest guess won a prize.  Done.  Second game was a balloon game.  Object was to see how long the kid could keep up a balloon, using only his head.  This was a success.  The boys had fun, someone won a prize.  The third game didn’t go as planned.  The premise was simple enough.  Tie a balloon to each child’s ankle.  The object of the game was to pop your friend’s balloon and complete the dare inside the balloon.  The kids ran like crazy people, popping their own balloon, losing the dares.  There was no clear winner, no prize, so it was a bust sucked.

The husband and I got crafty for the next game.  Think Skee-ball, but throwing Legos instead.  We actually cut strips of colored poster board and fashioned the rings.  Go us!  This was a great game for them.  So fun, in fact, the kids played it until the game was completely and utterly destroyed.  Sigh. 

The finale was a relay race.  It involved blindfolds and crabwalking and walking with balloons between the knees.  All was going well until one blindfolded kid kept running… straight into a tree.  There was blood and everything.  And it took a minute for the adults to realize there was a casualty (it might have been the beer). 

Oh well.  A party’s not a party without a little blood, right?

All in all, I think my 8-year-old had a great time.  The party went until 11:30 (PM, people), so I’d consider that a success.  I like the parents we spend time with so it was as much a party for us as it was for the kids.

Now I just need to find someone to host that Halloween party.  I mean, we can make spiders out of Oreos!  Frankensteins out of Rice Krispies!  Cute crafty Halloween crap out of crap! 

Love that Pinterest!

How I spent my summer vacation... no, not really

But this is how I spent my weekend.

• Patronized local carnival with boys.  
• Watched 7-year-old win a fish.  Yay!  A fish!
• Named fish Leo.
• Took boys to local pet store to buy new fishbowl, fish food and little fish toys for Leo.
• Watched Leo die right before our eyes exactly 24 hours after we brought him home.
• Made someone else flush Leo to his final resting place.  Leo, I hardly knew ye.
• Explained death to 4- and 7-year olds. 
• Promptly replaced Leo with Lou.
• Watched 4-year-old break my cell phone.
• Spent 50 minutes (15 of those minutes with actual Apple employee) at the Apple store (with the boys) to fix above cell phone.
• Held 4-year-old the entire time in Apple store (50 minutes) because he cried.  The.  Entire.  Time.  (50 minutes)
  
• After 14 minutes with Apple employee, determined I am not, in fact, the cell phone contract holder.
• Left Apple store.  Empty-handed (well, except for 4-year-old still in arms). 
• Determined said 4-year-old had a fever of 100.
• Remembered his first day of school is tomorrow.  Of course.
• Found 5 things to describe the 7-year-old that he could take with him to school.
• Gave a bath to 4-year-old (while he screamed in my ear). 

I believe, after this weekend, no one can fault me for my overindulgence with Leinenkugel's Summer Shandy this summer.  I now realize I was preparing for this very moment so I could remember the good times and not this past weekend.

So, really, I'm a prophet, not an alcoholic.  Whew.


 

My big fat Greek culture

So, I’m Greek, right? My ancestors laid the foundation of Western culture. We are the pioneers of systematic thought, democracy, philosophy, mathematics. Art. Literature. The Olympic games. Feta cheese. The world wouldn’t be where it is today if it weren’t for the Greeks.

But, the Greeks, over the centuries, have become batshit crazy. Look at their economy. What do you expect from people who take naps in the middle of the day, every day? While it’s a great practice when we visit (read: for VACATION), you can’t run the world's economy when you’re counting on other countries to take care of your problems because you're busy sleeping under your desk.

That’s blasphemy, right? Popou, I’m sorry.

We recently had our annual Greek festival at my church. I have forever loved this festival; I look forward to the food and dancing every year. This year was no exception. I planned to meet my friends Friday night for dinner and drinks, even getting a babysitter so I could enjoy myself in earnest. It was going to be a great night.

Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that way. As soon as we arrived, I felt under the weather. I thought it would pass, so I did my best to enjoy myself. My mother could tell I wasn’t doing well and was highly concerned someone had given me The Mati.

Ah yes, The Mati. Example Numero Uno (that’s Spanish, isn’t it?) why I’m proud to be Greek.

The Mati is the evil eye. The evil eye is "a curse put upon a person to cause injury or bad luck for reasons of envy or dislike" (thanks, Greek culture websites!). Last summer, while they were in Greece, my mother was convinced my sister had been given The Mati. They went so far as to go through a xematiasma, a process where the “healer”says a prayer to rid the sufferer of the curse. If the victim does, in fact, have The Mati, both the healer and the victim yawn (you’re yawning now, aren’t you?) profusely. The healer performs the sign of the cross 3 times, spits on (or, perhaps, around) the victim 3 times and voila! (there’s some French for you) she is cured. 

Yes, the spitting. The Greeks love to spit on people as a sign of good luck. And always 3 times. So, word to the wise, if you find a Greek spitting on you, be sure to count the number of times he/she does it before deciding to punch him/her in the throat.

But, as luck would have it, you can protect yourself from The Mati. All you need to do is arm yourself with a particular charm, an all-seeing eye that acts as a protector from the curse. I was given one for each of my sons when they were born. Whenever anyone complimented them, the all-seeing eye was to protect them from… I don’t know what. The compliment? We also say “God bless him (her)” anytime anyone is given a compliment or praise so they don’t end up hurt. Or something. Like I said, we’re batshit crazy. But you can bet I do it anyway. I don’t want anything bad to happen to my children or nieces because I didn’t bless them after a compliment. Who wants that hanging over her head??

Needless to say, I was scared shitless slightly concerned someone had given me The Mati. It was the only acceptable explanation for my ailment, right? Forget science! My mother consulted my aunt (who is 15 months her senior, and therefore, more knowledgeable). My aunt, mercifully, explained to us both that blue-eyed people (which I am) cannot receive The Mati, we can only give it.  This is why the charm itself has a blue eye.  Woohoo!I have power! Beware!! Well, that’s a load off.

Of course, in the middle of this conversation, people were walking by, looking at us like we were – you guessed it – batshit crazy. Evil eyes? Blue-eyed people can’t get it? Brown-eyed people are doomed to live in fear of the blue-eyed people of the world? We SPIT on people?!

The good news is that I was feeling better by the next day and was able to get a souvlaki for lunch. OPA!

I need to invent a time machine

So, we had brunch at the husband’s uncle’s house on Sunday. I generally enjoy his family when we get together. They drink a lot are fun and entertaining and I always drink a lot enjoy the time we’re together.

This get-together was no exception. Everyone was in good spirits, the food was delicious; it was a good time. But, things took a turn for the worse for me soon after we arrived and I made one fateful decision. And if I could invent a time machine, I know the exact moment I would go back to change a decision I had made.

The moment an alcoholic beverage was offered to me.

If I could go back, I would politely refuse and kindly request a Diet Coke.

Instead, I stupidly accepted the proffered glass of white wine. Sure, it was only 1:00 in the afternoon, but what the hello? It was a beautiful sunny Sunday and the wine looked so refreshing. One glass with brunch couldn’t hurt.

Of course, one glass turned to 3 (the husband assures me I had more than 3, but 3 is what I remember and I’m sticking to it – as a matter of fact, I think the wine was laced with something and someone should be sued) and soon, I was swearing like a drunken sailor at the husband’s uncle because we don’t see them more often. I made the husband’s aunt cry by telling her how much we miss them. Then I was dragged out of the house by my ear it was time to go to my parents' for family dinner.

In the car, I knew things weren’t going to end well for me. I didn’t feel drunk until the fresh air hit me and I realized I had to act normally for other people. It was like leaving a bar while it was still light out.  It felt wrong. In the uncle’s house, it was easier; everyone was drunk and probably didn’t notice what an idiot I was being. I was now going to my family’s house where no one was drunk.  Yet.

We arrived at my parents’ and it was obvious to everyone I couldn’t stay for dinner. So, the husband and I left our children to their own devices (I hope someone made sure they ate something other than dirt a well-balanced meal) and went home. Where I promptly took out my contacts (and left them to shrivel up on the bathroom counter), changed into my PJs and passed out went to bed.

It was 6:30. PM, people.

I woke at 3am, not knowing where I was or how I got there. I’ve seen these events take place in movies. Where the heroine 1) awakes with a start, 2) checks to see (a) what she’s wearing and (b) who she’s sleeping next to, but I’ve never had that happen to me before. Not even in college.

I find I’m normally a great drunk. I generally stick to my limit and hardly ever don’t wake with a hangover. The same can’t be said for yesterday morning. At 3am, there I was, trying to figure out how I blacked out. I remembered most of brunch and sort of going to my parents’ house, but after that? Nada. (Luckily, the husband later informed me that I went straight to bed, which would explain why I remember nothing. So, that was comforting.)

But here, it was 3am and I was wide awake. As I should’ve been, after 9 hours of sleep. I never get 9 hours of sleep. So, I went downstairs to watch TV. After 3 movies, 1 round of dry heaves, 2 popsicles and 2 Diet Cokes, I was ready to take on the world.

But, it got me thinking. White wine and I are not really friends. She may call out to me like we're best friends, but we don't have good times together.  My last experience with white wine was about 10 years ago. It was the husband’s birthday and we were celebrating with his family (again, his family) for dinner. My MIL had these wine glasses the size of fishbowls and kept refilling my somehow-always-empty glass. I don't even like the taste of white wine. 

So, I was drunk before we even left for the restaurant. We ordered a bottle of wine (my suggestion – idiot) of which I drank over half, came back to their house, where I tripped over… carpeting. We had a Christmas party to go to that night after this dinner, where I fell backwards over a couch. In a skirt. Legs in air.  

It was, again, time for me to get dragged out by my ear go.

White wine is a bitch.

See, if I had that time machine and could go back to that night, I would do it all differently.  I would’ve kindly requested something nonalcoholic. I would’ve been sober at the Christmas party and not let some very personal information slip into the wrong hands. Several wrong hands (thanks, Mar, for reminding me). I wouldn’t have accidentally shown everyone my naughty bits. I would’ve gone to church in the morning. I would’ve gone to the football game for which we had (50-yard line) tickets.  I wouldn't have spent most of the next day vomiting and begging the husband to save himself. 

And I wouldn't have to hear about it every time I drink. 

On the other hand, time travel would also come in handy to fast forward through the hangover part. 

Scientists need to up their game. I can’t take much more of this.

How to get a brand new fridge, cheap (a step-by-step guide)

So, you:

1.  Buy a fridge "out of box" at your local appliance store on Sunday (to get the special pricing).

2.  Get it delivered on Tuesday. 

3.  Somehow, get the delivery people to bang up the freezer door upon delivery.

4.  Have them come back on Thursday to replace said door.

5.  Make sure new freezer door doesn’t match current freezer door.

6.  Let them offer to come back Friday to give you a, wait for it…

Brand.  NEW.  FRIDGE!! 

(Read:  “In the box” (!!))

Not that I'd ever do this on purpose, of course, but it worked for me!

Those mushrooms are called Goombas?

So, my boys have recently discovered Super Mario Bros.  I'm not talking Mario Kart or whatever the kids are playing these days.  I'm talking the best of the Nintendo games, circa 1985.  (The fact that we play the game on our Wii and not the original Nintendo is not at all relevant.)  

I love this game.  It was pretty much the only game I ever played on Nintendo as a kid.  I vaguely remember playing a game where we had to do the 'up, down, up, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, Start' to get 100 extra lives, but, mostly, my game was Super Mario Bros.  I remember the excitement we felt to learn all the secrets, from the hidden coins and extra lives to the warp zones, and how thrilled we were when we finally saved Princess Toadstool from that dragon thing. 

We downloaded Super Mario to our Wii a few years ago, and, I swear, I played every day after school work for a week.  It brought me back to the 4th grade - in my parents’ basement, fighting for a turn while watching my brother and his friends try (unsuccessfully – ha!  you jerks!) to rescue the princess.  Now as an adult (sort of), I could play to my heart's content.  No fighting with brothers or neighborhood kids.  I still remembered all the hidden coins and extra lives.  How to jump on the double Goombas and knock through the Koopa Troopas (thanks, Wikipedia!). Not to mention the wonders of the warp zones.  Why go through the whole game when you can warp?

The game was simple then.  You could only go in one direction, forward (a doy), and you had to pass each level before going onto the next (well, except for that warping thing).  It's not that way with current games.  I watch my 7-year-old play his Star Wars and Indiana Jones games and I am a) confused and b) bored out of my mind.  I just don't get them.  How do you win?  How do you know which direction to go?  When do you know it's over?  Is it ever over??

I admit it took me a long time to master SMB.  I think I only saved the princess once, but I did it.  It’s a memory I didn’t know I lost… until I went looking for it.  I did beat the game, didn’t I?  I’m sure I did.  I had to have… right?

Anyway, my family was over on Sunday for dinner and my mother and I talked about our old Nintendo while we watched the kids play.  She doesn't remember us ever owning a Nintendo.  To add to that, she doesn't remember us owning an Atari, either (seriously, where was this woman while we were all in the basement fighting [literal fisticuffs] over next turn?!).  At least I'm (somewhat) aware of what my boys do. 

I might be bored to death by their games, but I do know about them.

Before dinner was ready, my 7-year-old asked me to play a round.  I snatched the control away from him so fast He handed me the control in a mannerly way.  I showed them where several hidden treasures were and how to kill those pesky ninja turtles.  For a moment, I was the Coolest Mom in the Whole. Wide. World.  I rocked!  I got us to Level 5!

Of course, it was short lived as I quickly reverted back to being a big meanie (according to my 4-year-old) by forcing them to turn off the game and eat their (delicious & nutritious) dinner.

But, for a fleeting moment, I was awesome.  It lasted only as long as it took for me to die (with my several extra lives), but it happened.  And I will cherish it forever. 

Currently

So, my sister thinks I need to do one of these. Not sure why, but here you go, Mar.

Currently…

Current books

I took out about 5 books at the library on Monday. Don’t ask me why. Oh, fine, I’ll tell you. I make my book selections lately by scanning what’s being showcased at Target. There. My secret is out. I’ve started with One Day. So far? It’s kind of dumb. Thanks, Target.

 Current playlist

Currently, I am listening to my “tonight” playlist, which I made last summer for a party we hosted. It has a lot of fun, upbeat, summer-appropriate songs on it. Since it’s January, I have to do my part to forget that it’s winter.

Current color

This is a hard one. If you ask my sister, she’ll tell you my colors are black, gray and black. I admit I have about 9 black cardigan sweaters (and I just now remembered one I recently bought! 10! Hooray!).

But, as a little girl, my favorite colors were pink and purple. And I’ve since gone back to them. 

Look, I live in a male-dominated house.  There’s only so much blue one can take.

Current food

As I am on the P90X2 meal plan, I am currently eating chocolate fruit! Fruit and protein! Vegetables! Lots and lots of vegetables!  

      

Current favorite show

Um, the Bachelor? Only so I can make fun of it?

Current needs

Well, 'need' is a pretty strong word. The Beatles said that all you need is love, but I think food and water top that. And sleep.

Current outfit

Oh, I look supercute today. Black yoga pants.  Tank top.  Gray hooded robe.  But let's pretend I'm wearing this:

Current excitement

I was able to add images!

Current mood

Apprehension – I do another P90X2 routine in an hour.

Current indulgence

Chocolate chip cookies Pinterest – my funnest waste of time

Current triumph

I was able to add images to my blog! (did I say that already?)

Current bane of my existence

Paper.  And Nerf gun bullets.  They're multiplying by the second.

Current #1 item on my wishlist

To get over my silly fear of flying so I can happily go here:

 

And go back here: 

Current new years resolution

To not have a new years resolution – damn!

Oh, it's been brought.

So, I started P90X2 over the weekend. I’ll admit, I was pretty excited to start a new exercise routine. While I gave up in the 7th week of P90X (don’t tell anyone), I’ll admit, I did feel better while I was exercising regularly (don’t tell anyone). And, as you know, I’ve been fairly sedentary the last couple months, so I needed someone to kick me in the ass.

And, boy, did he.

As we did last year, my husband and I do the first DVD together. I always enjoy doing this stuff with him. He used to train a lot in his single days, so he knows a lot more about exercise than I do. Plus, it helps to have someone tell me if my form is good (I want to punch him in the throat if he tells me it’s not, but that’s neither here nor there).

So, there we are, in our new basement, with our new TV, prepared to sweat. And then Tony’s big head comes on screen (he doesn’t really have a big head, it just looks ginormous on our gigantic TV screen – Hi Tony!). Okay, fine, I am happy to see him. While he irritated the crap out of me the first time around, I found myself missing him after I quit like a baby stopped.

(This, of course, did not make me start back up again, but don’t tell anyone.)

The first exercise is something core related. When he says, “Core”, I hear “Pain”. The first thing I notice is that I am way more coordinated this time around than I was the first time doing P90X. So, that’s something. That’s about the only good thing I can say. We finish the routine without dying (okay, second good thing I can say). I wasn’t even in that much pain afterward (fine, three good things).

I come back for more the second day. This is where I almost die. And watch the woman on screen (with a cute haircut) do all this with a smile on her face. A smile. Bitch.

PS.  My 4-year-old is in the basement with me this time, playing with his Legos. While I am dying a slow death.

“What will this be like for him,” I wonder, as I gasp for air, “watching his mother die right in front of him. All because of stupid exercise? How could I scar him like that? I should quit. I mean, think of the children.”

It’s no coincidence Plyocide sounds a lot like suicide.

But, as you can plainly see, I do not die. I get through the routine a little worse for wear, but I survive. And, even though my 4-year-old shows me up with one move, I feel good that I got through the entire routine without shutting the TV off with an “Eff that.” I should be rewarded!

My reward, however, is sore muscles. It hurts to sit. It hurts to stand. But, I was much worse last time, so that’s something (four good things!). And, I rather like the pain (five!).

I could totally be the spokesperson for P90X2. Where IS that phone call?

Bring it.

Happy pinning!

So, I received an iPad for Christmas this year. Or, rather, my husband had 2 and he, after 6 months of me asking for one of them, reconfigured one of his to me. Thanks honey!

To be honest, I didn’t really want the iPad, so I didn’t care if I ever got it. I have an iPhone and a Mac (yes, we are an Apple Family), so I didn’t really need it.

That is, until I got it.

Man, this thing is fun! My sister has had her iPad for a few months now, and gave me a bunch of apps to download. Flipboard (I still can’t figure out the purpose of this one, but whatever), Whiteboard (this is a really good one for the kids) and Pinterest (this one has become an obsession of mine).

Pinterest is a site used to organize and share images you find interesting. You “pin” these images to themed boards (decorating ideas, party ideas, etc.) to your home page. You can repin other people’s pins and follow fellow pinners (how many variations of the word pin can I use in one sentence?). You can’t just join the site, though. You have to be invited (which I was – thanks, Mar!). So, now I have my own boards and can pin anything I want to them. It has become addicting to see what ideas I can steal borrow from others, what foods look good, what exercise routines seem fun doable not horrible.

…

Okay, let’s be real. This site actually holds no value for me. While I have pinned good ideas to my boards, I have yet to use. A. Single. One. Also, I can’t figure out why my one cousin continues to pin pictures of wedding dresses and bouquets. She’s been married for over 20 years. And, I swear, she’s on this thing 24 hours a day. No way can you pin that much and have a life.

But, I do enjoy seeing what’s out there. And, the ideas are good. We have a long winter ahead of us (ugh), so any crafts I find I can do easily with the boys will be a hit (if I ever use them). My sister has made some recipes from the healthy recipes pin on my board. And, I’ve looked at a 28-day food detox challenge on my cousin’s board, took the quiz, and learned that I don’t need a detox. Whew! Woo!

And then there’s Polyvore. It’s another website I’d never heard of, but easily fell in love with. On this site, you can browse fashion trends other people in the community have put together. They match tops with bottoms, add shoes and accessories. It’s really fun (if you’re into that.)  (Which I am.). Not that I can afford any of these items, but it’s still fun. It’s like playing dress up with your Barbie when you were a kid. (Of course, not the Barbie of today. This year, my niece received Streetwalker Barbie [from my mother!]. Sigh.) And once you put together an outfit, you can pin that to your board on Pinterest (or, if you’re like me, skim through what others have put together and pin things I like. “Did you put this together?” “Yes. Yes, I did.”).

I now know how my sister (and, apparently, my cousin) can be on the iPad all day long.