It's not you - it's always me.

Me: Something smells funny in here.

Carl: Well, the toddler did eat a lot of grapes earlier. You know how those make her feel.

Me: No, I don't think it's her this time. 

Carl: Can't be the dogs. They both just had baths.

Me: [starts gagging] Gross! Why do my armpits always smell like fried meat? I'm gonna have to use some new deodorant.

Carl: I think deodorant is the least of your problems. Also, why does talking to you often lead me to wanting to throw up a little in my mouth?

 

I'd take credit for food tyranny if I could

I was supposed to sleep in today. Instead, at a bleary-eyed seven o'clock in the crappy morning, the toddler tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Me eat something. Me want eat something."

Is it only my family where we think about food all the time?

This week I learned that food pretty much dictates everything my family does and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

I'm stealing these tweets making them into a hammock:



Deep thoughts while braless

On my way home from dropping the kids off at school this morning, I stopped at a stoplight because I like to follow the law of the land and also, fatal accidents pretty much suck.

The driver two cars behind me had a different opinion, however - he proceeded to rear-end the driver behind me and all South Florida hell broke loose. Of course, there were a lot of fuck yous because that term is adjective, noun and verb down here. Then there were hand gestures that would put Spock to shame, red faces that told the story of anger and impatience and the constant sounds of honking horns because that's how South Floridians communicate the best. 

And all I could think of as I drove away from that holy nightmare was "I better stop wearing my pajamas when I go out because what if that was me that got hit and I have to get out of the car and confront someone while not wearing a bra?"

As I'm telling Carl this, I know he's calculating whether we have enough money in the bank account to buy a one-way ticket for himself to somewhere far away and exotic. 

Unfortunately for him, we do not have enough money for his supposed getaway.

Tough shit.

The Odin-Thor Collaboration

I wrote this really hilarious bit just now about how Carl put Tobasco in the 11-year-old's drink last night and we two fools just gassed on and on about it, but then she didn't drink it because she could see that there was something weird in her drink, so she tried to get her brother to drink it and he was convinced Carl peed in it and I told the 9-year-old: "you'd smell the pee if it was in the drink!" and Carl frowned because I didn't tell our son that his father would never do something so gross and long story short: no one drank the Tobasco laced Gatorade.

Needless to say, I'm the only one who found the post funny. When I related the story back to the toddler, she just walked away, the dogs followed her and she closed my office door.

I guess I'm not making anyone's day with my writing. I'm suspicious, however, since my audience is a three-year-old who can't read or write and thinks the number eight comes after three and two dogs that lick themselves constantly and sniff each other's asses.

The delete button is a powerful tool - a crutch I probably rely on too often.

But then I came across this piece of customer service gold via Amazon and it pretty much blows my pee-Gatorade-Tobasco story out of the goddamn water. Enjoy.


 

Wolf power

9-year-old: Mom, can I have forty bucks?

Me: Why? I think I have a couple pennies.

9-year-old: Because this. . . 

Me: What the. . . 

9-year-old: I know, right? Don't you think Dad would love it for his birthday?

Me: Oh, I think there are a bunch of adjectives Dad would use when he sees this thing.

9-year-old: I think 'awesome' will be at the top of that list.

 

Brain dysfunction + blackmail = hell

It's way too early to have any sort of filter work properly in my brain, so when the over-produced, auto-tuned voice of Ms. Paula Abdul streams over the car speakers, I don't even bother to change the channel because in my mind, that energy could be used doing something more useful, like giving the stink eye to  the guy driving his over priced European sports car like he's only got a minute of the Le Man's left.

Flashes of the video for Rush, Rush flood my eyes and I wonder what in the world ever compelled Keanu Reeves to say yes to this project. And what was all that dancing all about? I don't get choreography, I guess. Or Paul Abdul.

Stupid, stupid song.

As the 11-year-old is about to get out of the car for school, she stares at me.

11-yo: Are you alright?

Me: No. I got three hours of sleep last night.

11-yo: You really liked that song, don't you?

Me: I loathe that song. I hated it back in '91 and I hate it now.

11-yo [grins]: That's funny. For someone who hates it so much, you were singing pretty proudly along to it.

Me: I was not. . . 

11-yo [shakes her head]: You can't get out this one. We recorded you.

Moshi moshi

I just made some surprisingly great corn bread. So I'm about to get busy (yes, that's what get busy means in my book. Ohmygod this is fucking pathetic) and stuff my face right now with oodles and oodles of gluten that will make my gut swell and I have momentarily forgotten about the fact that I have celiac disease and in about an hour from now, you can found me on the sofa moaning and groaning, holding my stomach and wondering why I just couldn't drink that banana spinach smoothie instead.

Please leave your message at the beep.

 

Foreshadowing

12.30 am

Carl: Don't you have to get up at six-thirty for school? 

Me: But I have all those True Blood episodes to catch up on.

2.00 am

Me: Remind me again why the toddler has a bed yet she still sleeps in our bed and I get kicked in the head all the time?

2:45 am

Me: Did you lock the front door?

Carl: Holy hell, woman! Go the fuck to sleep!

3.30 am

The toddler's head crashes into my head and I can't go back to sleep.

4.00 am

Counting goddamn sheep does not work.

6.40 am

Carl: Hey - wake up. Turn your alarm off, will ya. It's been going off for ten minutes.

Me: Are you a croissant?

7.15 am

9-year-old: Are you gonna make us waffles this morning?

Me: What do you think this is - a commercial? Grab something from the pantry for breakfast and let's go. We're late.

11-year-old: What else is new?

7.30 am

How dare all these parents think they're going to get their kids to school early and create all this traffic!

8.00 am

9-year-old: Mom? How far away are we from home?

Me: Well, we're not close since we're here at school.

9-year-old: Oh.

Me: Okay, have a great day, bud. I'll see you this afternoon.

9-year-old: You can see me now. 

Me: What?

9-year-old: I left my backpack at home, but guess what? I love you.

Me: Your Jedi mind tricks don't work on me this early in the morning.

9-year-old: Does this mean I get to stay home from school today?

8.45 am

Carl: What's wrong?

Me: My brain has hit its operating capacity for the day.

Carl: So I shouldn't ask if there's a pair of clean socks anywhere?

Me: The kids have socks. Use those. I don't give a. . .

Carl: Forget I asked. I'll just go all Crockett and Tubbs today. 

Me: That sounds like butter to me.

 

 

 

I'd take credit for Io if I could

Last night, while at a party with Carl, trying to look cool in a pair of jeans that were a little (okay fine - VERY) snug after eating about a million pigs in a blanket and holding a bottle of beer, all I could think about was - did I remember to brush my teeth? I did have a lot of garlic in my lunch earlier in the day; it would be just the right amount of garlic to start a fire if I opened my mouth and talked long enough.

This week I learned, once again, that personal hygiene seems to be a very low priority on my list and: 

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

I'm stealing these tweets and making a great space coaster - come on board:



Daydreaming

As I sit behind a long snake of cars honking their horns because, yet again, someone has rear ended another car, the conversations and noises in the car turn to a low hum.

I look at the car to the right. The kid looks back at me, looking like Pitbull's son, and smiles, revealing his gold teeth. I smirk and chuckle to myself as a million stupid jokes stream through my brain.

In the car to the left, a woman who can't be that much older than me is putting on her makeup. Her actions are so violent and wild, I'm waiting for her to stab herself in the eye with her blush brush. Like a magician, she whips out a pair of tweezers from the air and starts plucking her eyebrow hairs. But she's not done. She moves quickly to her upper lip and starts plucking at hair I can't see from where I sit. Isn't this stuff you do in the privacy of your bathroom? I guess I've been horribly informed.

Pluck girl glances over at me and I subtly move back in my seat. She totally sees me. Should I wave?

Is this my life right now? Defined by spending too many hours in a minivan, observing the strange habits of the people around me, wondering how much longer we'll live here?

But I have a full tank of gas and the kids are with me. Carl could follow later with my mother in law and the dogs and all our crap. I could just start driving west to California and never look back. I could just leave this place that fills me with sadness and go back home where a smile comes naturally and my spirit feels free.

"Hey, Mom! Mommmmmm!!"

The toddler wakes me from my reverie. 

"What?" I yell back to her I look at her in my rear view mirror.

"I peed."

Ugh.