Wait in the Van

Skinny Jeans, Oh Skinny Jeans

2012-01-24T15:32:00.000-05:00

I've tried really hard to get into the skinny jean trend. I especially loved how the slimmer leg enabled you to wear a pair of rain boots without looking like Huckleberry Finn or that odd girl in elementary school that always tucked her pants into her socks.

(That girl may have been me.)

Alas, sometimes love just ain't enough, and though I've purchased, tried on, and coveted many a make, model, and variety of skinny jeans, they never live up to the potential they claim to offer.

1. Classic skinny

The classic skinny jean is apparently one that is tight, but not too tight, and typically darker in wash. This is an example of what I've seen advertised:

A. slim, sexy waistline!
B. lifted, touchable buttox!
C. endlessly smooth fabric that refuses to bunch, bulge, or bounce!
D. perfectly tapered leg and ankle...these jeans were MADE for you, sex machine!

And this is what I got in the fitting room:

A: Store clerk: "Please put your shirt back on, ma'am."
B. "I think my thighs look better naked." [Eyeballs store clerk.]
C. odd bunching from the kneecap down that somehow ADDS bulk the thinnest part of your leg.
D. [Overheard shouting from the fitting room] OMG I HAVE CANKLES! (See also: yesterday's gym socks.)

2. Super-skinny

Surely the super-skinny model can fix those issues of bagginess and bunching, right? Just take a look at these space pants!

A. it's a smooth waistline!
B. and slimming thigh silhouette!
C. with endlessly smooth fabric!
D. that won't bunch, bulge or bounce!

RAWR!

Well.
Here's what I got:

A. I think this waistline just ruptured my spleen.
B. A fit so snug, everyone can see your dimply ass and thighs!
C. BUNCHING. IT'S STILL BUNCHING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
D. My ten-year-old Danskos.

3. Boyfriend skinny

Maybe the boyfriend skinny can save the day! It's supposed to look loose and bunchy, but still slims your silhouette! Pictures can't lie, amirite?

Actually, pictures are the goddamn devil, I tell you:

A. There's only one thing to assess here: HAMMER TIME. (Also: I seem to have grown a penis.)

(Splurging on some cute shoes could not even save this hot mess, unfortunately.)

4. Destroyed skinny

Maybe I just need to get in touch with my badass-rocker roots, right? Even if the fit isn't sublime, surely the tough look will boost my confidence! I am beautiful! I am sexy! I wear jeans that intentionally have holes in them and I pay top dollar for them too!

Erm...

A. whiskering that suggests an ill-fitting crotchal region.
B. Holes in pants that reveal where I cut myself shaving this morning. Oh, and look how cute my thigh BULGES OUT THROUGH THE HOLE WHEN I SIT DOWN OMFG.
C. My old Chucks will never be quite the same.

(Nor will I.)

5. Color skinny

But wait! I see something pretty! This season, the newest trend with the skinny jean is bold color! And, color is fun, if nothing else! It's like pasting some exclamation points on your damn thighs! And color is mood-boosting, is it not? Perhaps my desire to see the sunlight once again and have a BBQ in a backyard full of green, sprintime grass will overwhelm my flashbacks of drumstick thighs and wrinkled crotches?

Eh, probably not...

A. because I'm pretty sure I have a photo of myself wearing this exact outfit AT AGE FIVE.

I officially give up on the skinny jean. Kill this trend. Kill it with fire.

An American Tale (Scrunchie Edition)

2012-01-12T18:50:00.001-05:00

As promised, here is the audio of both me and my (still) best friend Tabitha. We are singing Somewhere Out There from that Fievel movie. It's real. And it's spectacular.

And it features Dave Annable.

(I hope we can still be friends.)

WHO DOES NUMBER TWO WORK FOR?!

2012-01-11T14:10:00.000-05:00

(I probably shouldn't be sharing this with you, but oh dear god, it was so funny)

Legal Note: This is potty humor. Through and through. I hope it doesn't make you think less of me. Less than you already do, that is.

Ahem.

Scene: I am in the kitchen putzing around (ok, eating a box of donuts) and T9 is in the bathroom, sitting on the throne with the door ajar.

T9: [Grunt]

Me: [Yelling from the kitchen so he doesn't see the donuts] You alright in there, kid?

T9: ...

Me: Kiddo?

T9: [To himself] Come on THING. You can do it!

Me: ...

T9: [To himself] Go, T9, go! Go, T9, go! Go, T9, GO! GO, T9, GO!

Me: The hell--?

T9: [Grunt]

*plop*

Me: Oh...mygod...

T9: [To himself] YESH! I knew I could do it!

Fin.

Cross Sections

2012-01-04T18:22:00.000-05:00

Oh, you guys, I know I'm absent, and I hate it. The good news is that I just lost a freelancing job, so now I'll have more free time. Which, is better than eating, if you really think about it. Plus, I'm working on my video for my horrendous 1980s karaoke version of Somewhere Out There, and that's taking up a lot of time because Windows Movie Maker is not as easy to use as those smug kids from the Microsoft commercials make it out to be. (Just to give you a little teaser: I let my neighbors preview it the other night and they cringed and smiled nervously. And we were drunk!)

In the meantime, here are some cross sections of my life during the past week or two. Because it makes me feel better if I can pretend like you're here to witness this shit.

Awkward moment #1:

As I mentioned, my husband's friend was in town visiting. The kids had been put to bed, and we were in the living room chatting and surfing for YouTube videos on the XBox. (We know how to live, amirite?) Husband's friend mentioned how much he loves Adele, and started searching for a particular version of one of her songs.

Him: Do you guys like Adele?

Me: I've heard so much about her, but I've actually never heard one of her songs.

Him: [Incredulous] Really?

Me: Or...I mean, maybe I have, but I don't know it's her?

Him: Someone like you?

Me: I KNOW. I love music so much and normally know about all the new artists but this one---

Him: No. That's the name of the song. Someone Like You.

Me: Oh.

Awkward Moment #2:

On New Year's Eve we threw a birthday party for my eldest, who just turned five. Some neighbors and fellow military family and friends were over. While the kids, supervised by the men, ran each other over with the PowerWheel outside, us women sat indoors and sipped mimosas. And talked about cats. As one does on New Year's Eve.

Friend 1: [Pointing to our orange tabby cat.] So this one's name is Pink, right?

Me: Yeah, Mr. Pink.

Friend 1: But didn't it used to be something else?

Friend 2: Ohhh, that's right! You changed their names after you had kids because they were profane!

Me: Well...

Friend 1: I'm afraid to ask what Pink's name used to be.

Me: No, he was always Pink. Mr. Pink. We named him that because we like violent movies and his nose was remarkably pink as a kitten.

Friend 1: So...the other one?

Me: The other one is now called Fluffy Cat. We had to change HER name after we had kids.

Friend 2: [Giggling]

Me: It used to be Fluffy --- [widening eyes and sending mind bullets so I don't have to say it out loud]

Friend: OHHHHH! FLUFFY PUSSY!

Friend 2: [DYING]

Me: Actually, no. Fluffy Shit. But I could see how you might deduce that.

Awkward Moment #3:

I brought some snacks into Plus One's school yesterday to celebrate his birthday in class. Naturally, I arrived with T9 in tow, because I can't shake that kid.

Me: [Walking into preschool class] Hi there...kids!

Teacher: [To children] Everyone, this is Plus One's mom. And his brother!

Everyone: [Blank, bored stare.]

Plus One: [Runs to brother as if he hasn't seen him in WEEKS as opposed to MINUTES] It's SO GOOD to SEE YOU AGAIN, brother!

Me: [Sweating. Resisting the urge to defend myself and ultimately come off looking like a woman who keeps her children separated in closets for much of the day.] Heh.

Awkward Moment #4:

I have no context for this one, and in fact I have virtually no recollection of it happening. However, I wrote it down in my notes and likely threatened the husband with PUTTING IT ON THE INTERNET immediately after. And if nothing, I am a woman of my word. When I remember.

Him: You are not a small lady.

Me: What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Him: How tall are you?

Me: I'm...average sized!

Him: Yeah. The size of an average man.

Fin.

Somewhere Out There

2011-12-29T21:04:00.000-05:00

Oh HEY.

Things have been busy, as you may have guessed. In the past week or so, my children were all, let's see who can raise their body temperature the HIGHEST (so far, the 3 year old is winning with 104.8), the cat was all MY EYEBALL IS FALLING OUT, baby Jesus was all it's my motherloving birthday, eBay was all SPEND DAYS OBSESSED ABOUT BUYING SOME NEW JEANS!, my husband was all WHO'S BEEN SHOPPING ON EBAY?, houseguests were all omg, is that a ForeverLazy?, and my Dad was all I just found a recording of you singing Somewhere Out There from like 1989!

For real.

Naturally, I'll be spending all my non-existent free time over the next few days turning that cassette-tape-turned-mp3 file of my 4th grade voice into a video for the glory of the Internet.

And if you didn't hear from me about the ForeverLazy, it's because you didn't win. That's how these things work. But I will be having another As Seen On TV giveaway soon, so try not to cry too many tears.

Save those for my Somewhere Out There video.

Holiday Giveaway: The Forever Lazy

2011-12-20T14:34:00.002-05:00

It's Christmas time, kids. The most wonderful time of the year!

So.

Are you going to leave your Christmas-morning surprises in the hands of a spouse? Loved one? Freakin' Santa Claus? Are you going to simply HOPE that this year is magical unlike every other Christmas since THE DAY YOU WERE BORN?! Are you going to simply sit back, passively, and let your heart shrink exponentially in size until you finally lock yourself away in a cave, adopt a lap dog, and start growing green fur?

Fuck no.

You're going to grab Christmas by it's annoying jingle-bell reigns and get yourself what you really want this year: A Forever Lazy.

Blankets are such a drag, and always fall off when you try to answer the door in the nude. Snuggies are no better, leaving your butt cheeks exposed like a cheap hospital suit. But the Forever Lazy? HELL. This thing even has a TRAP DOOR so you don't have to freeze your boobs off when it's time to pee at 2am!

So, forget about that Lexus, that chocolate diamond, and that Orgie Wonderland that T-Mobile has been promising you. Give yourself the ability to be lazy. FOREVER!

AND!

IF YOU ACT NOW!

You'll get not ONE Forever Lazy, but TWO! That's right, up for grabs is one Pink Forever Lazy in size Medium, and one Grey Forever Lazy in size Large. Each also comes with a matching pair of slipper socks! And did I mention that these things are damn flattering?

Get the mistletoe ready, amirite?!

How to enter:

1. Leave a comment on this post telling me why you'd love to own a Forever Lazy, and to whom you'd give the second set.

2. Tweet about this contest and leave a comment letting me know that you tweeted. If you're lazy (LIKE WE ALL KNOW YOU ARE!) just copy and paste this one: I just entered the best holiday giveaway ever! Win a #ForeverLazy with @waitinthevan! http://bit.ly/rCadol

Contest is open through December 25th. Winner will be announced December 26th. Make sure your comment entry links to your contact information, as you will be notified by email. Winner must respond within 24 hours or an alternate winner will be selected.

Good luck you lazy bastards!

'Tis the Season for Axe Wielding Toddlers

2011-12-14T14:46:00.000-05:00

My friend was just here to drop off her son for some play time with my kids. So the two of us got chitchatting about the holidays and the attempted murder that happened over the weekend up the street from our houses.

You know, basic shit.

I offered the impulsive "sorry my house is a mess" as we moved toward the living room and explained that we were in the middle of organizing the garage. She was super polite about it, and then, because I have no social grace or ability to carry a logical, coherent conversation, I started talking about the fireplace.

I pointed to the wood pile in the living room and said to her, "Oh, dude, you'll never believe what T9 got into this morning." Then I reached up and grabbed an axe from the top of the refrigerator. As one does.

Her jaw dropped.

I stood there, holding the rusty old murder weapon and told her about how I was sitting at the computer working when I heard some strange banging noise coming from the living room.

Me: What are you doing T9?

Him: Nuffin!

After a few minutes, the noise hadn't subsided, so I rose to check on him. And there he was. My three year-old. Holding an axe and trying to chop up some wood that he found piled next to the fireplace.

How did the axe get there? I'm not clear on the details, people. But I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you what the kid did the day before with a goddamn razor blade.

As she headed out, I assured her that her son was in good hands. She peeked into the game room to say goodbye to her son when she spotted our unorganized and hastily stored liquor cabinet in the corner. Next to the Wii. Naturally.

Her: Party time, huh?

Me: Oh, yeah, THAT. Heh...it's not really put away yet...

T9: [Takes off clothing and starts eating a random slice of bread.]

Me: I swear. He's not drunk.

(In case anyone was wondering how my friend-making and mothering is going down here in Texas.)
__________

PS: I'm elsewhere on the web today!

1. Over at The Mouthy Housewives, I have some choice words for those goddamn holiday car commercials.

2. At Mama Pop, I've created a holiday gift guide for all your favorite hard-to-shop-for celebrities.

10 More Bizarre Christmas Ornaments for 2011

2011-12-09T09:57:00.001-05:00

I couldn't help myself, you guys. I did a lot of my Christmas shopping on etsy this year, and in between purchases for grandmas, I scoured the place for inappropriate pictures of angels.

And let me tell you, I found myself quite a few. So, I present to you some MORE bizarre Christmas ornaments for the holiday season, the offensive and religious version.

::genuflects::

1. Emo prophet

Emo prophet is so emo.

2. Angel carcass

Is it just me, or is she making that classic childhood I'M STICKING OUT MY TONGUE CUZ I'M DEAD face?

Click below to keep reading and to see an angel's gonads.

3. Meerkat Baby Jesus

Okay, so it's technically not an ornament, but you guys. MEERKAT BABY JESUS. If this person doesn't get struck dead, I think I'm probably safe, too.

4. Creepy old mandog angel

This is obviously the not-too-distant relative of creepy snowman dude.

5. Vagina angel

TELL ME YOU DON'T SEE IT.

6. Baby Jesus in a bottle

Someone call CPS.

7. Deranged angel

Watch out. She'll eat your couch cushions.

8. Untitled

I have few words.

9. Possessed angel

SOON. SHE'S COMING FOR YOU SOON.

10. And, my personal favorite, an angel with balls.

Excuse me. I mean big balls.

Fa-la-la-la-la LA-LA-LA-LA!

Don't Mind if I Snickerdoodle-do!

2011-12-08T22:47:00.003-05:00

Thanks to Duncan Hines for sponsoring my writing. There's no limit to the baking possibilities, so grab your favorite Duncan Hines mix and Comstock or Wilderness fruit fillings and Bake On! www.duncanhines.com

I think we've talked about how much I love cooking before. It's definitely not the groovy type of love Phil Collins likes to sing about. And, around the holidays, this "love" is especially problematic for me. Because you need to make MORE OF THE THINGS. AT THE SAME TIME. AND YOU PROBABLY HAVE TO CLEAN YOUR HOUSE TOO.

So I've learned to love baking instead! This works for me on many levels, but mainly the one where I get to eat cakes, cookies, fudge, and pastries. Don't mind if I snickerdoodle-do! (It's okay, you can use it.) Maybe once a year or so, with ample preparation from my life coach (okay, TWITTER), I can pull together a decent meal that doesn't require sliced bread, but I try to avoid this at all costs.

In fact, during Thanksgiving, I managed to squirm my way out of cooking anything the day of the big meal. In fact our friends--the guests!--brought over basically EVERY SINGLE SIDE DISH you could think of. In the meantime, I ordered from the local BBQ joint and delegated my husband with the task of making the stuffing and gravy. (I'm not sure how I have any friends or husbands whatsoever.) In my defense, the day prior, I did, in fact, made three delicious pies and a few dozen to-die-for dinner rolls, but that's nothing compared to cooking dinner-smelling foods at 6am.

::hork::

But anyway I'm here to TALK ABOUT CHRISTMAS so shut up about turkeys already.

Ahem.

Last Christmas, we were still in New York and my husband and I wanted to start a new tradition. After nixing things that required public singing, more time with in-laws, or glue guns, we decided to host an open house on Christmas Eve. We let all our friends know that we'd be there all day, and they could stop in and out for some snacks and general merry-making.

Long story short(ish), I had nothing for these people to eat other than cookies. Sure, we had crackers and cheese, and I think I heated up some scallops and bacon, but the main event consisted of candy cane chocolate cookies, peanut butter fudge, and motherloving snickerdoodles.

It was practically like one of those Martha Stewart dessert-table-theme-night-things that we've all heard of, but picture Marcal napkins and Solo plates instead of table runners and vases full of things-other-than-flowers.

In case you're new here, THIS ISN'T MY DRAWING. It's by ALLIE BROSH.

Also picture me stuffing my face. Gracefully.

The best part about it, other than eating cookies all the livelong day? Was that everyone had a blast. I mean, I know *I* had a blast. I don't remember having to scour the pantry for an especially hungry spouse or a sugar-crashing child. Nope, we carbed them up and shoved 'em out the door, before they had time to even question my flaws in the domesticity and party-planning departments.

And then we moved to Texas.

THAT, people, is how you throw a holiday dessert night with friends. I hope you took notes.

Remember to check out Duncan Hines' website www.duncanhines.com to find some great recipes for your holiday get-together! I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective.

Texas Black Market Christmas Trees

2011-12-07T16:11:00.001-05:00

This past weekend was the weekend we picked up our first ever Texas Christmas Tree. We expected a fun afternoon with the boys, some mild cursing while untangling the godforsaken Christmas lights, and maybe some warm apple cider.

What we didn't expect was to discover an underground Christmas Tree Smuggling ring.

It was a rainy day, last Saturday, but we weathered the storm and made our way to Flower Mound, Texas. It's a really nice area of the state, with lots of impressive estates and big cows and a golf course that is, according to their sign, the best in America. We pulled into the parking lot of the tree stand and unloaded the boys from the truck. They were giggling and excited and jumping, and okay, maybe that was totally me.

Anyway, we started to browse, and it didn't take very long for me to spot a price tag. I kept walking and then stopped as the figure registered. My brow wrinkled and I turned to my husband.

"How much are these freakin' trees?"

"A lot, apparently."

My "a lot" he meant, over a hundred dollars. For one. One tree. One dying tree that may or may not burn your entire house down if you forget to water it. Some of the bigger trees were over $300.

"Holy shit," I said.

"MOMMY! YOU SAID A NAUGHTY WORD!" said my kid.

We walked around a bit more and I tried to make sense of the pricing. Was it the fuel costs? Where were they importing these suckers from, The fucking Netherlands?

Since we were new to the region, my husband and I simply assumed this is HOW THEY DO in Texas. Live trees are a commodity, we thought. I guess you'll have to get another job, we thought. Maybe we'll go PLASTIC next year, we thought.

So we bought the damn tree and took it home. It was still raining. I tried not to question my dedication to Christmas, but it was hard. I turned to Twitter for strength.

A few days later, my husband was running to the Home Depot to return some things. While he was there, he walked past the tree section to eyeball the price tags.

"You'll never believe how much they are here." He told me over the phone.

Me: Shut up.

Him: It'll make you sick.

Me: So they're normally priced everywhere else in Texas?!

Him: Apparently.

Me: Those motherfucki---

My kid: MOMMY! YOU SAID---

Me: [to the kid] MOMMY IS TALKING TO DADDY AND I KNOW WHAT I SAID.

Him: Yeah, I think I might call those black market smugglers and give them a piece of my mind.

Me: I'm stunned. They basically charged us $100 to stand in the fucking rain.

We have yet to call the folks in Flower Mound or write our Congressman a strongly worded letter (I'd have to look up the Congressperson first, and I'm too scared that it's Perry). But there's certainly something fishy going on over there at that quaint little tree stand in Flower Mound, Texas.

Something fishy, indeed.

20 Bizarre Christmas Ornaments for 2011

2011-12-01T11:17:00.001-05:00

It's that time again, everyone! JettSuperior is doing her annual ornament exchange. I've already been shopping on etsy for a few days now and have more or less viewed all the things. I don't know much about the person I'm sending a gift to this year, so I thought I'd throw a wide net. I've come up with the following gems.

Feel free to buy me any on the list!

(Totally fucking kidding!)

1. Ronald Reagan is a Saint ornament. There's something about those eyes...

2. Terrifying giraffe ornament.

Dear god, someone hold me.

(Some are NSFW, so full set after the jump!)

3. Cat butt

Yes, indeed, you are looking at a cat's asshole. Now put it on your damn Christmas tree where it belongs!

4. Dead animals

Not a creature was stirring....BECAUSE I KILLED IT.

5. Pixie...creature

OH HAI. AM HERE TO EAT YOUR SOUL.

6. Creepy old snowman

Who wants some candy? It's right here behind my heart! OMFG

7. Shit on a heart

This is genuine moose poop. On a gold heart with red and white rhinestones. It kind of reminds me of my childhood dream dress. Just with more fecal matter.

8. Sad, sad unicorn

This one also reminds me of my childhood, but WAS NOT MADE BY A CHILD.

9. Sad, sad child

And if you feel like this post has stolen your innocence, at least you're not THIS kid.

10. Inappropriate creature

Apparently it's a "narwhal", but I feel like Pinocchio was involved. Or maybe that creepy snowman.

11. Inappropriate penis

As if ANY penis is appropriate!

12. Sperm

At least this thing could pass for a defective jelly fish or some shit.

13. Okra Santas

I'm not convinced these aren't smuggled human bones.

14. Andy Warhol, the mole

I assume this one comes with complimentary psychotropics so you know what the fuck it means.

15. Turd

For the hipster in your life that already has a mustache ornament!

16. Baby Horrors

What would Christmas be without a little baby, spread eagle?

17. Day of the Dead poodle

I don't have many words for this one...I'm kind of scared it's cursed.

18. Spider ornament

This one might be perfect to commemorate our first Christmas in Texas!

19. Texan uterus

I totally thought these were Texas longhorns.

20. Amy Winehouse in a box

Yay for dead people!

Happy holidays, you sick bastards!

UPDATED: Writing all the Things!

2011-11-29T12:57:00.001-05:00

My blog has been neglected as of late, and with the holiday season approaching, I'm going to be even busier, what with that nonstop singing of Christmas tunes and hassling my husband to GET IN THE GODDAMNED SPIRIT ALREADY.

I hope you all understand.

Also, we have one of those Elf on the Shelf dudes this year, and it's taking all my mental capacity just to remember to move the damn thing daily. IT'S A LOT OF PRESSURE.

AND, I might be dying of strep throat. Marinka told me that a sore throat that lasts 7 days is probably cancer, so I'm going to pick up some chemo when I run to Target later.

In the meantime, catch me around the interweb before it's too late!

1. At The Mouthy Housewives, I try to save yet another family from the unstoppable social force that is Facebook.

2. At MamaPop, I discovered that Rachel Zoe and her odd-looking husband actually making really pretty babies!

3. At Moxie Bird, I help you dry heave through your breakfast by revealing the 8 grossest, germiest, vomitous places in the shopping mall!

4. I finally have a link for you! And you can also catch me making my debut at Blog Her today! I wrote a gift guide for women: as in...what NOT to buy this holiday season.

5. BONUS: I wrote another post at Moxie Bird about some hilariously epic Amazon product reviews. You've gotta read them. My fave? "After wearing this mask for several days, my identity was consumed and replaced. There is only the horse now."

Happy ThankGodI'mNotTravelingGiving!

2011-11-23T11:10:00.000-05:00

We made it back from New York, everyone. I can now add traveling-across-the-country-with-two-young-children-without-imprisonment-or-dismemberment to my resume. We also made it through my brother's wedding without T9 mooning the marriage official or chugging the bride's champagne.

This is not to say that the ordeal was not without some hiccups. And by "hiccups" I mean, the knocking down of old ladies, the flailing in the aisle during landing, and confrontations with a TSA agent. But I'm sure those things happen to all of us.

(Right?)

Upon reflection, if it weren't for the plane, the layovers, and the TSA agents, our flying experience would have gone smooth as a baby's bottom!

On the plane

The plane itself wasn't too awful. I'd thought ahead and snagged my husband's iTouch so that, together with my iPhone, each of the boys could be sedated with Angry Birds and Toddler Shapes for the duration of the flight. Aside from the rare trip to the bathroom with a child--which required odd, awkward physical positioning and PLACING MY HEAD NEARLY INSIDE THE TOILET in order to get my kid on the seat--I was pleasantly surprised. A flight attendant even gave us extra cookies. And wings!

But then, during the last thirty minutes of the flight, and EVERY MOTHERLOVING FLIGHT thereafter, T9 would become instantly and fully disinterested in his games.

In fact, he wanted to take off his seatbelt!
And unlock his tray table!
And kick the seats!
And go to the bathroom!
And scream his little blonde head off!

I did my best to physically restrain him and discreetly threaten his life with my whisper-shouts, but nothing much helped. After a few minutes, a woman sitting in front of us and traveling with her teenaged son, turned around and eyeballed me through the cracks in the seats.

And that actually made me feel much better, because suddenly, I didn't give a shit how loud the boy screamed. "You know what? You just go ahead and cry it out munchkin."

Layovers that are too long

We had a layover in Atlanta, which no one told me would be the LARGEST AIRPORT EVER and DEFINITELY TAKE THE TRAM because NO, YOU CANNOT WALK IT.

So, after walking a half marathon carrying our suddenly VERY HEAVY carry-ons, I found the boys a place to sit near our gate. They needed some time to relax, eat some lunch, and browse the internet for child labor lawyers. I thought the extra time would be good so the boys could stretch their legs and the like. I just forgot that "stretching legs" means "run around like LUNATICS" to three and five year-olds.

By the time they announced boarding, my boys had formed an ultimate fighting ring near the ticketing counter. People walked by to either cheer them on, cast me evil glances, or silently pray that they'd not be seated next to that wretched family.

As we boarded the plane, the boys were greeted by strangers who'd recognized them from their epic wrestling match. Or recognize me as the mother who was clearly in over her head and NOT HANDLING THINGS WELL.

TSA screening

We were actually on our way back from NY when this particular incident occurred. After a tearful goodbye with Grandma and Pop-Pop, we squeezed ourselves into the security line at the White Plains airport. I juggled the children from straying out of line and into DO NOT ENTER doorways while peeling off our collective pack backs and placing things into bins. It's not like it was super challenging or overwhelmingly taxing on my nerves, but if someone gave me a Nobel Peace Prize for it, I wouldn't be surprised.

Anyway, one of the boys had a sippy cup of water and I had to stick that through the Xray machine as well. But as placed the final item into a bin and began my epic sigh of relief that the children hadn't crawled into the machine, a TSA agent walked toward me and started UNDOING ALL THAT I'D WORKED SO HARD TO ACCOMPLISH.

She barked, "YOU DON'T NEED TO USE THE BIN, MA'AM, IF THE BAG IS ZIPPED CLOSED."

I stared at her with all the contempt I could muster, "OH," I replied.

She went back to her spot on the other side of the Xray machine and waited for our items to pass through. We all walked through the metal detector and there was the TSA agent again. This time she was holding the sippy cup, explaining that it would need to be tested. "Ok, sure," I told her. No big thing. They did this at DFW and it was no sweat. Except, that the woman looked at me expectantly. "Wait, you need me to come?"

"WELL, YEAH?"

OMFG.

So she stood there, you know, WAITING, as I put the backpacks back on the children, rethreaded my belt, and gathered my laptop. An elderly couple was now passing through the metal detector, so I scooted my boys to the side so they could pass. T9 was entertaining himself by spinning in circles when the TSA woman again spoke at us.

"YOU NEED TO COME OVER HERE. FOCUS KID."

She told my THREE YEAR OLD to focus, you guys. Which apparently meant KNOCK DOWN THE OLD MAN AND HUSTLE OVER HERE BECAUSE THIS SIPPY CUP IS MIGHTY HEAVY.

Then? Our plane was delayed.

Layovers that are too short

What's worse than a layover long enough for your children to build a wrestling ring and build a following? Not much, probably, but RUNNING through the Atlanta airport with a three and five year old comes pretty close.

I was dragging a child by each hand, a purse on my arm, and an overstuffed backpack down the concourse with deranged swiftness. Naturally, there were no carts around on which to hitch a ride...not even a wheelchair to commendeer. In fact, as I fought back tears, there were only disinterested faces about me. I asked one worker, who was leaning on a broom handle, how to get to Concourse A and he told me to READ THE SIGNS.

I heard another woman let out a gasp and some sort of comment of pity. After that, it's kind of a blur. I think I may have been randomly shouting things along the way to keep it together:

EXCUSE US!
YOU'RE GONNA GET RUN OVER SIR!
OMFG DELTA SUCKS!
"Sucks is a bad word, Mommy!"
THAT'S RIGHT...I MEANT TO SAY DELTA IS A HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE COMPANY! PLEASE REMEMBER THAT FOREVER CHILDREN.
WHY DOES NO ONE CARE THAT WE ARE SUFFERING SO?!

We made the connecting flight, I'll have you know. We were the last ones on the plane. Instead of the applause I'd been expecting, I was met with a disgruntled flight attendant and a curmudgeon of an old man.

Let's just say, I've never been happier to be back in Texas, people. Happy damn Thanksgiving.

Hurry! Act Now!

2011-11-21T23:40:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Walgreens for underwriting this post. I was paid as a member of the
Clever Girls Collective, but the content is all mine. Visit http://moms.dailybuzz.com/channel/style.

I believe you've heard me gripe about my inability to style my hair or generally appear presentable on a regular basis. But when the holidays (OMG FAMILY PORTRAIT TIME) and special events arise, I'M EVEN WORSE AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE. For example, I recently attended the Marine Corps Ball (without Mila Kunis or Justin Timberlake, thank god...just regular annoying people). And then last week, I flew back to NY for my brother's wedding.

And let me just tell you, I think I totally pulled my damn self together, thankyouverymuch. With a little anxiety medication, confidence, and swigs of vodka, I was able to plow through my hair and makeup insecurities. In other words, if you, TOO, are makeup/hair product - phobic like me, THERE IS HOPE.

AND IT WON'T COST A FORTUNE! IN FACT, WITH ONLY THREE PAYMENTS OF...

Jay-Kay! My makeup can all be found at your local drugstore/retail center/grocery store. Because that's how I roll. Frugally.

In all seriousness, this is me on any given Sunday. Or Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday for that matter. Hair, flat. Makeup, nonexistent. Visage, tormented.

My apologies, comrades, but the wretched BEFORE pic was necessary to display the magnitude of my achievements in the AFTER pics.

BEHOLD!

At the Marine Corps Ball:

At my brother's wedding:

In the guest bathroom contemplating Lasik surgery:

So, how did I do this? Aside from the medication and the confidence and the liquor and the body double? Here's my breakdown. Please keep in mind that I'm terrified of makeup and have NO IDEA what I'm doing.

Eyes

1. I've learned one way, and one way only, to do my eye makeup and I haven't strayed from it in, ohh...a decade.
2. You'll need three colors: light, medium and dark of any color. I go with champagne, nude, and brown because I LIKE ALL THE BROWN THINGS.
3. The medium color goes all over your lid, up to your eyebrow. The dark color goes on the outer edge of your lid, and in the crease. And the light color goes on the inner part of your lid, near your eye-pit. (Where all that nasty shit goes that you get in your eyes.)
4. BLEND LIKE YOU MEAN IT.
5. Eyeliner comes next. Thickness and color can depend on the event, but I just aim for symmetrical. ALSO! I used to be one of those people that would put the eyeliner on that smooth part of your bottom lid, like above the eyelashes, rather than under it. I DON'T KNOW WHY I DID THIS SO PLEASE DON'T ASK IT'S ALL VERY EMBARRASSING. Anyway, don't do that. It makes your eyes look smaller, darker. Plus, hygiene and shit.
6. Finally, the mascara. I always use black and I always use waterproof. Your eyelashes are small motherfuckers, and you don't need them to get all demure with a brown color. Also, waterproof essentially means smudgeproof at your age. Er, mine.
7. CURL THEM LASHES. I've always heard that you should curl your lashes before you put on your mascara so you don't, like INJURE the hair or some crap. But those people are idiots. Doing it after you apply the mascara creates a much fuller, open lash.

Skin

1. I hate foundation, and I refuse to wear it. Instead, I use a spot coverup on reddish or dark tones on my face. (Under and over the eyes, around my nose, and on all my angsty pimple scars.)
2. Next, I use a loose powder to control shine and even my tone. For more formal or dramatic looks, you can find a compact powder that works similarly to liquid foundation.
3. When it's time to apply the blush, use a medium sized, round brush and SMILE. Where your cheeks pop out? PUT IT THERE.

Lips

1.I've learned the hard way that lipliner has become a necessity at the ripe old age of 32. First, I apply some chapstick, then line the lip lightly.
2. Next, I apply a sheer lip color or clear gloss.
3. Smush you lips and blot. Add more gloss for shine.

Hair

1. Practice for about five or ten years with hot rollers and curling irons.
2. Miraculously figure it out one day, managing to master that uncoordinated behind-the-head rolling action.
3. HAIRSPRAY.

And after all that, I basically just run screaming from my house hope for the best. What are your methods? And perhaps more importantly, will you teach me?

Food Network? CALL ME.

2011-11-15T08:00:00.005-05:00

This post originally appeared on Studio 30+

I'm not really much of a cook. When my husband and I were first dating, he came home from work one day to find that I'd made a batch of cookies. From the box. FOR DINNER.

He married me in spite of such character flaws.

In time, it became apparent that I needed to expand my daily menu beyond the realm of lean cuisines and fast food. (Evidently, you can't puree a hot pocket and feed it to a baby. WHO FUCKING KNEW.) I quickly became a fan of a variety of online recipe sites and was able to create a list of staple dishes by excluding terms like "cooking" and "fresh ingredients" from my search results. While I still have a lot of anxiety regarding cooking (the PRESSURE by God, not to mention the RAW CHICKEN OMFG SALMONELLA OUTBREAK and don't you DARE ask me about reductions), I feel like I've finally found my groove in the kitchen. I even have some trademark dishes, friends.

::buffs knuckles::

One of those dishes is Irish Chicken and Dumplings. Partly because it sounds fancy, but mostly because it's a one-pot meal and generally really fucking easy. So easy, in fact, that I've altered a bit to fit our family's tastes. And I'm here today to share with you.

It's time to be fucking stoked, people.

::swigs wine::

Okay, so I guess we need to start with, like, all the parts you need. What are those? Ingredients? Here's a list:

1. Chicken breasts with the nasty shit cut off
2. Hand sanitizer
3. Cream of chicken soup
4. Blood pressure medication
5. Water
6. (Water filter)
7. Celery, carrots, and onions chopped
8. Jiffy Baking Mix
9. Milk
10. Spices and shit

Next is the timeline of events, though I'm not sure if I remember them in order exactly.

::chugs martini::

1. Boil the soup and water and toss that nasty chicken in there. Reduce to a simmer for about an hour
2. Wash your fucking hands.
3. Disenfect the kitchen.
4. Did you touch that can of ground pepper before you washed your hands? THROW IT AWAY.
5. Wash hands again.
6. Rinse vegetables.
7. Wash hands.
8. Rinse vegetables again and chop them.
9. Tend to lacerations with First Aid Kit
10. Wash hands and disinfect once more.
11. Add vegetables, cover and simmer for 30 minutes.
12. Mix milk and baking mix to form a soft dough. Drop by spoonful into boiling stew.
13. Curse because THAT FUCKING SHIT IS SPLATTERING ON ME AND JESUS FUCKING CHRIST OUCH IT HURTS.
14. Cover and boil for 15 minutes.
15. Remove cover and boil an additional 15 minutes.
16. Realize you forgot to run the dishwasher and frantically wash silverware and plates with which to set the table.
17. Mumble under breath about gender roles and ordering fucking takeout.
18. Call family to the table with a tone worthy of a murder indictment.
19. Give family an iodide pill.
20. Serve hot and enjoy!
21. Interrupt husband mid-bite because OMFG, YOU DIDN'T WASH YOUR HANDS FIRST?!
22. Wash his hands FOR HIM.
23. Guzzle a beer.
24. Repeat.
25. Deduce that you're too stressed and exhausted for dinner.
26. Eat a pint of ice cream instead.
27. Pass out on the sofa.
28. Have husband do dishes while the children tuck you into bed.

What do you think? DELISH, right?! Let me know how it goes at your next dinner party!

In Case of Imprisonment, Please Read

2011-11-10T15:20:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, I'll be boarding a plane with my two young boys and flying to New York. We have a layover in Atlanta, and in total, will be spending roughly TEN HOURS in an airport or on a plane that day.

So this is basically my goodbye letter.

I'm really excited for the trip, though, even if it is my last one. My brother is getting married on Monday and I'll be in town just long enough to see some friends and family. So it's not like I'm dreading going home again. No, on the contrary. I'm just worried about the speed with which my children will get us imprisoned, detained, and/or taken away for testing at Area 51.

In fact, I've already started brainstorming to prepare for possible scenarios so that I'm better prepared to handle them should they arise. (As you know, I'm excellent when it comes to rational, helpful brainstorming.)

1. Security scuffle

While the boys have been on a plane before, it was dad's military plane and not a commercial airliner. Therefore, the security and the lines and the waiting? That's all gonna be new. I've already dedicated a few hours to researching and memorizing all of the TSA's rules and regulations for flying with children, just to spot the areas of weakness for my children to take advantage of. In fact, TSA? If you're reading, I'd like to suggest you add the following to your FAQs section:

- What if my child crawls into the x-ray machine?
- How do I respond if my child won't stop hugging the TSA guard and asking for a CHOO-CHOO RIDE!
- I swear I didn't know my son had a metal object hidden in his nostril. What are my legal options?

2. Airport lockdown

Listen, if I managed to lose T9 after five minutes in Marshall's, just IMAGINE how scintillating a motherloving AIRPORT will be. Surely we'll at least face temporary quarantine after he bum-rushes the security gates. I plan on arriving at the airport 24 hours early to allow for this.

3. Emergency landing/flight diversion

I plan on contacting bloggers throughout the country's major metropolitan areas should I need a last-minute couch on which to sleep. I imagine that's what will be necessary when the entire flight begins chanting in unison: I'M TIRED OF THESE MOTHERFUCKING KIDS ON THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLANE and we're forced into an early landing at an alternate location.

4. Air Marshall

Surely there's a legal loophole that allows for them to restrain and/or arrest a minor when he or she is kicking the back of his seat for 3 hours straight, right? (Or intermittently, in conjunction with my incessant STOP IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD THE MAN HAS A GUN CHILD whisper-shouts.) Do you think a low-cut blouse will suffice?

5. Crash landing

Okay, so this has less to do with the children and more to do with with my anxiety flare-ups, but I've already composed a mental list of soothing things to say to the children in an effort to offset my panic attacks, nervous hives, and upset-stomach flatulence.

Should my methods fail, however, and you don't hear from me for a week or so, please contact the Justice League. (That's the human rights people, no?)

Wish us luck!

Saying All the Things

2011-11-08T09:58:00.000-05:00

My kid turns five on New Year's Eve, and he's been coming up with some REAL GEMS lately. He must know I've been suffering from writer's block! And not at all be a smartass!

Me: Look at how pretty the sky is!

Him: You know me, mom. I always love a good sunset.

*****

Me: How did this thing end up in the garbage?

Him: Maybe you yelled so loud it fell over.

*****

Me: [Walking through the kitchen.]

Him: [Laughing hysterically] YOUR BUTT IS FUNNY!

*****

Me: Plus One? Have you picked up your toys yet?

Him: UGGGHHH, MOOOOMMM. WHY are you always SAYING ALL THE THINGS.

Kid needs a blog, amirite?

The Second Time Around

2011-11-02T10:33:00.000-04:00

Just this past weekend, I took the boys over to a friend's house for a Halloween Party. While the husbands supervised the mob of kids in the back yard, the women huddled in the kitchen around the snack trays.

The way nature intended it to be.

The hostess has a two year-old and is expecting her second child in January. We started exchanging stories of our pregnancies, smiling and laughing while crunching on carrot sticks. (Okay, fine, gluttonous cheese dip.) Every now and then we'd hear a shriek of laughter coming from outside, where the mass of children were doing their best to destroy a Little Tikes bouncy house. The husbands did their best not to join them.

The hostess commented on her cheese plate, which was quite tasty. I know this because I ate half of it.

Her: I'm finding that I'm so obsessed with cheese this time around.

Another guest: Is that what you're craving?

Her: I guess so. I think it's just because I found out you can have soft cheeses during pregnancy, as long as they're pasteurized.

Me: [Incoherent commentary muffled by a mouthful of potato chips]

Another guest: Ohhh, that's right. What else can't you eat? Lunch meat? And caffeine?

Me: [Finally choosing to talk instead of eat.] I remember going cold turkey on the caffeine thing with my first. But with T9, I didn't even give it up.

Her: Yeah, they say moderation is key. Plus, listeria comes from cantaloupes and everything else these days.

Me: Right? It's so funny how the second time around feels more relaxed or something...or maybe I was just more appropriately medicated.

Everyone roars with laughter at my wit and charm.

Her: Yeah, I think I've been the same way.

The rest of the women chime in with agreeing nods.

Me: Poor T9. But he still came out ok, right?!

More roaring laughter and appreciation for how I light up the room.

Her: [Glancing over my shoulder.] Um...I think I see a naked butt outside...

Another guest: Is that your T9...crashing the party again?

Me: [OMFG]

I darted through the living room and out the sliding glass door. Stepping over a pile of my son's clothing scattered on the patio, I eyeballed the husbands suspiciously. They stood there, clutching their beers with amused smirks, and pointed toward the side of the house.

It was there that I found my nude three year-old dancing around like a feral child at the sight of a plastic kiddie pool. An empty one, at that.

"Water! I go swimming, Momma!"

He put his naked little ass on the 12" slide and scooted his way down the dry plastic ramp with great delight, somehow finding a small puddle of rain water in which to land. I had to drag him away kicking and screaming. Apparently toddlers don't understand words like OCTOBER and FREEZING and OMFG WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!

(I'm no scientist, but I'm starting to wonder if I made some poor decisions with my diet the second time around.)

_____________________________________

PS: both Plus One and T9 made it through Halloween unscathed this year. Our pumpkins, however, did not.

The Curse of Halloween (And a Bad Mother)

2011-10-31T10:47:00.000-04:00

This post was originally published October 31, 2010

Today? Today is Halloween. And I've been listening to my son ask me "IS IT HALLOWEEN YET?!" for about three months, so being able to finally say, "Yes! NOW SHUT UP." is quite exhilarating. On the other hand, I'm a bit nervous. My son is four, and every year on this day he has suffered some sort of catastrophic (kinda) injury.

Year One, Aged Ten Months
Costume: Dragon
Injury: Fell head-first off our porch (just a few steps, really, but OFF THE PORCH) and got a splinter in his nose.

Year Two, Aged 2
Costume: Cookie Monster
Injury: Tripped on the sidewalk, biting through his bottom lip and getting a face full of roadrash. That year he also got spooked by one of our asshole neighbors (hi shitheads!) and remained mute for much of the evening.

Year Three, Aged 3
Costume: SpiderMan
Injury: Bouncing around the living room after a sugar binge, supervised by GRANDMA, busted his nose on the coffee table resulting in an awfully bloody nose and a fainting mother.

Year Four, Aged 4
Costume: SpiderMan (A-frickin-gain. Me: Don't you want to be Iron Man or something instead? This costume has cool built-in muscles! Him: NOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH, WHY DO YOU HAAAATE MEEEEEEEEE...)
Injury: We head out this evening around five o'clock EST, so I'll let you know. And if there isn't any, I'll be sure to trip him up on the way back into the house for good measure.

Happy Halloween punks!

(PS: I'll be going as a witch, naturally.)

Editors note: Last year, there was--miraculously--no injury. However, today, October 31, 2011, my husband is upstairs in our bedroom "rigging" Plus One's Halloween costume, Home Improvement style. What could possibly go wrong?!

Wanted: Cat, A Five Year-Old's Book Review

2011-10-27T09:15:00.000-04:00

The other day, I was standing in the checkout line for about three hours at an Albertson's grocery store with a tantruming son because there was an extreme couponer trying to buy the place out of its Snickers bars. My three year-old was SCREAMING every time I touched him, you see. Like the kind of screams that prompted a nearby ~~jerk~~ kid to ask his mother what I was DOING TO THAT BOY?! And the mother responding with a hushed, Let's just mind our business. Thank goodness my eldest was standing by quietly. (Though, he was in his pajamas. Wearing a sticker with the words DRUGS! in neon colors. At 5pm. BUT IT WAS FOR THIS THING AT HIS SCHOOL and omg please don't take my children.)

It was the closest I've ever been to murdering someone. (The extreme couponer, of course.)

Anyway, when we got home, I was kind of thrilled to see Marinka's new book Wanted: Cat in our mailbox. I firmly believe in rewarding the well behaved in front of the poorly behaved who are moping in time out.

I handed Plus One the book and he smirked suspiciously.

Me: This is for you!

Him: Why? [Already, he's learned not to trust gifts from his mother]

Me: A friend of mine sent it to you.

Him: [Relieved.] A friend of yours? [Shocked.] Sent this book to me? THAT'S SO NICE OF HER!

Me: Yeah, yeah, just sit down a read it.

So he shuffled over to the couch, still in his pajamas, and plopped down with the book on his lap. Here is his unsolicited, unadulterated review:

"Lots of rainbow cats! A cat on top of a building? That's weird. They ALWAYS want a CAT. A ROBOT cat? Huh. These people do EVERYTHING with cats. Cats are always the best. Everyone thinks this cat is great. He meows! He's drinking juice. They're happy for him! He's tired. He wants to watch TV!"

His brother is freed from time out and scurries over to ogle the new book. "TeeTee?! But kitties don't watch TeeTee!"

"Well, the one I saw did."

"Oh, yeah."

And then the book quickly became a weapon as the two of them fought over it. If that's not a ringing endorsement, I'm not sure what is.

You can buy the book Wanted: Cat on Amazon.

Dances With Coyotes

2011-10-26T10:09:00.000-04:00

A few weeks back, my husband and I were having a conversation about the cats. Because we know how to keep a marriage alive. The night before, the cats had been doing some wicked howling at the windows, and it was evident that they'd seen some sort of animal on the porch or in the front yard.

Me: [Donning Sherlock Holmes attire] What do you think it was?

Him: [Not at all interested] I don't know.

Me: I mean, I've never heard them like that before...

Him: Nope.

Me: I'd bet it was a bobcat or something.

Him: [Rolls eyes.]

Me: No, I'm not like freaking out or anything, I'm just saying...I bet that's what it was.

Him: It was more likely a coyote.

Me: Coyotes? IN TEXAS? Texas doesn't have coyotes!

Him: [Record screech.] Are you serious?

Me: There are coyotes in Texas?!

Him: [Blank stare.]

It's not like I'm terrified of coyotes or anything. In fact, I've spent several of my college nights camping in the Adirondack wilderness, falling asleep to the yips and barks of coyotes in the distance. I just thought they were a northern creature. (Cuz of the fur? I don't know. I swear I went to college. Twice, even.) Plus, they're woodland animals! I live in the city of Fort Worth! Why on EARTH would I be worried about a coyote eating me and my family alive?

Well, you see...

Upon realizing that coyotes do, in fact, exist in Texas, I was reminded of a morning that I was playing outside with the kids. It was early summer and my husband was still in New York finishing work. The kids were sketching sidewalk chalk masterpieces and I was trying to pretend that it wasn't 95 degrees at 9:00 in the morning. Now, our house is in a cul-de-sac, which is separated from a nearby road by a thin line of trees. When I looked up toward the treeline to make my routine sweep for bobcats and/or tarantulas and/or alligators and/or snakes, I noticed two dogs running along that road. They appeared to be huskies, and I wasn't immediately alarmed. Until I noticed HOW they were running. They were, like, trotting almost. Running with a purpose, if you will. Naturally, it made me nervous and I simply assumed they were strays, and probably rabid and/or infected with a mutant strain of the flu that was about the wipe out civilization as we knew it.

I scooted the boys inside accompanied with reassuring words like HURRY UP GET INSIDE OMG WE'RE GONNA DIE. I peeked out from our living room and saw them enter the cul-de-sac and then head back behind the neighbor's house. And that was it.

Cut back to modern day and I'm reminded of when the very funny woman, and fellow DFW resident, Noa Gavin, once told me that "Texas actively tries to kill you."

Mathematically speaking? I think I've proven her premise to be true. If you add this run-in with a pack of coyotes (practically), multiply that by the aggressive bees that hunted me at the Fort Worth Zoo, divide that by the fact that mere DAYS later, I was sitting at my kitchen table AND A BEE WAS CRAWLING ON MY NECK, and raise it all to the OMFG I JUST KILLED A SPIDER CRAWLING ON MY HUSBAND'S HEAD power?

That all equals a lot of fucking Xanax. Texas, man.

On Green Puppies and Motherly Weeping

2011-10-25T10:20:00.001-04:00

My son is almost five, and apparently this is the age where commercials are finally able to penetrate his innocent brain and fill it with things like CAN I HAVE THAT REMOTE CONTROL FLIP CAR?! AND A POWERWHEELS?! AND SOME OXI-CLEAN?!

He's not the most discerning when it comes to his wish list.

But he's in the very beginning stages of learning to read, and I've been tapping into his enthusiasm for toys in order to bolster this process. So when I had the chance to review the new Leap Frog My Own Story Time Pad, I was kind of excited. There's a lot of toys out there that focus on reading, and this would help me get an idea of what he might benefit from the most. Since IT'S ALMOST CHRISTMAS MOM and everything.

When I first got the Story Time Pad in the mail, I must admit that I was initially disappointed. Upon first glance, it appeared that the toy was kind of drawing from iPad inspiration. The problem I foresaw is that my dad and his wife had JUST been in town to visit and they had a real-live iPad with them, which my boys got to play with for the first time. Surely Plus One would be nonplussed by this impostor! But I hooked it up to my computer anyway and downloaded the software. I programmed the Story Time Pad up with his name, emails from his Grammy, Gramma, and Poppy, and filled it with some of his favorite songs (Twinkle, Twinkle and the like). When he woke up from his nap, I handed it to him.

AND HE LOVES IT.

So does his 3 y/o little brother, who steals it away at any opportunity.

The excitement of hearing that his favorite grandparents had sent him an email? Just beyond. And he's totally into Scout, at this point, even requesting that the little green puppy come to his birthday party. (Um...) Watching him navigate the buttons, read along to stories, spell his name, and write his own tale? It's kinda cool, I gotta say, even if it means I end up laying in his bed, curled up in the fetal position, clutching a lock of his hair and huffing his baby clothes.

Score number eleventeen for Leap Frog.

Thank you to LeapFrog for sponsoring this review. While LeapFrog provided the product to me for this review, the opinions I've expressed here are solely my own and represent my honest point of view.

NOBODY MOVE, EVERYBODY PANIC

2011-10-18T10:36:00.000-04:00

The weather is finally starting to cool here in Texas (we're in the motherfucking EIGHTIES, Y'ALL OMFG) and the other day I actually had to dress my son in sneakers rather than his Tevas. It was soon apparent that he had since outgrown those sneakers, unfortunately. I knew this because he was screaming and crying and saying things like THEY HURT MOMMY WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME.

So that afternoon, I tossed the children in the car and we headed out on a shoe-shopping expedition. We were all in relatively good spirits, and I was looking forward to eyeballing the racks at Marshall's.

What could possibly go wrong?

We entered the store and T9 immediately started running in circles. He's recently been pretending that he's a dog, so I assumed he was just chasing his tail and not suffering a brain injury. Plus One grabbed my hand and together we clotheslined his brother and wrestled him into the shoe section.

About thirty seconds later, I had managed to remove exactly one shoe from Plus One when I noticed T9's little blonde head bobbing around the corner. He had spied some rhinestone covered heels: "WOOK! WOOK, MOMMY!" I darted over, scurried him back over next to his brother and I, and continued the process of shoe-trying-on-ing. He was gone again in seconds.

This time around, I simply made a mental note of where he was and quickly tied Plus One's shoe before standing to fetch him. I looked in the aisle next to us, where I'd seen him scurry, and he wasn't there. I looked down the next aisle. No T9. The next and the next were empty, too. "T9?! Where ARE you?" At this point, Plus One had run over to my side muttering something about ONLY ONE SHOE ON MOM, but I was fully entering MATERNAL PANIC MODE BECAUSE OMFG MY CHILD IS GONE.

We'd been in the store for a whopping three minutes.

I grabbed Plus One by the hand and he hobbled along next to me, barely keeping pace. I began shouting at this point, making a mental inventory of all possible outcomes of my missing child. They included:

1. He ran out the door and was hit by a car.
2. He was stolen.
3. He's dead.

You could say I was frantic.

It was around this point that I also started looking to others, my eyes pleading for help. (Or sedation.) Most of the other customers milling about simply ignored my delirium, their eyes focused on finding that bargain cardigan. But one mother stopped to help me, checking racks to see if he was hiding. I looked around for an employee and spotted an older woman with her elbows resting on a podium at the entrance to the dressing room. HAVE YOU SEEN A LITTLE BOY?! She looked at me, shook her head, and yawned. My eyes went wide and I was now shouting as loud as I could, you best believe.

T9! T9! YOU NEED TO COME TO MOMMY RIGHT NOW! AND OMFG I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE JUST STANDING THERE, WHY WILL NO ONE HELP ME?! PANICPANICPANIC

My mind was racing with episodes of 48 Hours, something about grid search patterns, and the faint sound of my older son requesting a second shoe. I don't know how much time had passed, but I eventually heard T9's faint voice calling at me, "I comin' Mommy!" He was at the opposite end of the store, guys, frolicking in the women's underwear.

(This child will be the death of me.)

After I scooped the boy up in my arms, simultaneously scolding and hugging, we walked back over to the spot where I'd left Plus One's other shoe. I placed T9 on a patch of tile and told him he was stuck in the box and DON'T YOU DARE MOVE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. The one woman who'd stopped to help looked over with a sigh of relief and I thanked her. I sent some mind bullets to the effect of Oh my god, I'm so embarrassed, but seriously, no one could be fucking bothered to help?! She replied with a look of, Yeah, you looked like a raving lunatic, but we've all been there.

I decided to stay to try on the stack of shoes I'd accumulated for Plus One, and things seemed to have almost settled back to a point where I could pretend the whole thing NEVER EVEN HAPPENED. Sure, T9 was still shrieking a bit, but HE'S THREE. THAT'S WHAT HE DOES.

But before my heart rate had settled back to a normal pace, I heard a squeaky set of wheels heading my way. It was the older woman who'd been standing at the dressing room, and she was pushing a shopping cart over to where I sat with the boys. I looked up at her, mid shoelace tie, with questioning eyes.

She stood above us, looking down. "Why don't you put him in a buggy, ma'am." She was not smiling or friendly, you guys. SHE WAS HERE TO JUDGE. AND SHE BROUGHT HER BUGGY, TOO.

"Oh, no thanks. He'd crawl right out of it anyway!" I chuckled to lighten the air, but she didn't laugh. She paused, looked at me, then the children, cleared her throat, and walked back over to her podium, leaving her motherfucking buggy behind.

I seem to be doing really well here in Texas, you guys.

I'm Putting this Shit on the Internet

2011-10-12T10:28:00.000-04:00

Scene: Master bedroom. Husband and wife are preparing for bed. He lays in bed and fiddles with his iPod. She collapses next to him, face first into her pillow, laying on her hands. There's pillow talk about aching backs and life insurance policies and NO IT'S YOUR TURN TO PUT OUT THE GARBAGE. Before he turns off the light, he sets down his gadget and turns to his wife.

Him: [Poking his finger at her shoulder.]

Me: [Muffled, talking into pillow.] What. The. Hell...are you doing?

Him: [Still smushing her shoulder with his finger.] Your skin looks funny here.

Me: [Raising her head to look.] What do you mean it looks funny?

Him: [STILL FUCKING POKING] It's all wrinkled...and splotchy...

Me: [Slapping his hand away.]

Him: It looks like the heads of the aliens on that show...Alien Nation, I think it was?

Me: [Rolls over to face him.] Fucking Alien Nation? THOSE ARE FRECKLES ON MY SHOULDER.

Him: I know...I'm just saying...

Me: [Shaking head in disbelief.] This moment must be, like, the EXACT OPPOSITE of the time John Mayer was inspired to write that song...Your Body is a Wonderland.

Him: [Smirking.] Wife. You're bringing John Mayer into this?

Me: [Drops face back into pillow.] I'm putting this shit on the Internet.

My Father's Daughter

2011-10-10T11:14:00.000-04:00

My dad and step-mom are in town visiting this week, and last night we had a conversation that would change my life forever. For at least five minutes.

Me: [Cracking knuckles]

Dad: HEY! [Talking to his wife] SHE DOES IT TOO!

Me: [Freezing, suspicious, eyeballing the room for blunt objects]

Husband: The knuckle cracking? Geeze...

Me: Ohhh, yeah.

Dad: [Pointing to his wife] She gives me a hard time, but apparently it's genetic!

Me: But...I do it in my sleep, too.

Dad: SHUT UP! ME TOO!

Husband: [Gives up all hope]

Me: [Does the cabbage patch]

At least we know for sure that I wasn't adopted, right?

And with that, I'll present to you some images to start your week off with a perplexed grimmace:

Pancakes complete with beer pairing. Via

via

Happy Monday!

The Cool Kids

2011-10-06T10:14:00.000-04:00

Just the other day, you guys? I went to the gym for the first time in...well, let's just say it's BEEN A WHILE, ok? And the day before that? I DID MY HAIR. (Hairspray and bobby pins and everything!)

Tonight? Tonight I'm going to a Duran Duran concert.

(My new meds must be finally working!)

No, but really. This is major news, kids. Not only will I be out, ON A WEEKNIGHT, like, SOCIALIZING...and...possibly even wearing MAKEUP, but all of this will be happening at night. WAY PAST MY BEDTIME. Oh, and I'll have the lovely Ms Yvonne of Yo Mama's Blog as my sidekick, too.

It's going to be an epic evening, clearly. I even did my nails. My husband says I look like a child.

Clearly it's making me feel a bit nostalgic.

::cue string instruments::

There was a time in my life when music was at the center. I attended concerts weekly and spent many work hours hanging out on message boards for bands (because I'm hella cool, obvs). I even did some music writing and band interviews with groups like Wolfmother, The Editors, and Morningwood.

::crescendo::

In fact, one of the first things I did when I met my now-husband was play an excellent compilation of my favorite musicians. When he started signing along (ok, maybe it was just more of a smirk and one of those masculine head nods), I knew it was meant to be. When we went to see The Pixies together, he dropped on his knee to proposed. (Metaphorically.)

::orchestra tosses instruments, rips off clothing, and picks up electric guitars::

Back in high school, I attended my first ever concert with my two best friends. We decided last minute to go see The Cure in Albany, NY at the then-named Knickerbocker arena. And for some reason, our parents consented. (SUCKAHS!) We piled into my parents' Dodge Dynasty and headed north. And promptly got lost due to our excitement levels. (I think the fact that I'd only just started driving also played a role.) I ended up getting off on some exit and stepping into a gas station for directions. I approached the counter, with my Salvation Army vintage duds, my smudged eyeliner, and my tousled hair and the clerk sighed deeply. "Let me guess...the Knick, right?"

I must just give off that I LOVE MUSIC vibe.

::drummer solo::

My next concert was to see Radiohead in NYC, and again, we decided last-minute to attend. As in, I didn't even have any tickets. We took the train into the city, found the Roseland Ballroom and I immediately looked for the sketchiest dude I could find. TARGET LOCK. He was selling them on the street corner for $80 each, and I was STOKED. My two friends, however, were more fiscally responsible and were not loving the idea. So I did what any responsible teenager would do and emptied my bank account to pay for all three of us. Inside, I could barely contain my teenaged emotions and occasionally used the shoulders of the dude in front of us to jump as high as I could.

Because your devotion to a band is measured by your proximity to the ceiling, DUH.

::decrescendo::

After that night, there were many more concerts that followed: The Counting Crows, Damien Rice, Ben Harper, Wilco, Joseph Arthur, Ryan Adams, Rufus Wainwright, Live, The Pixies, and like everyone else that I heard of way before you.

So today, I summon my dormant music passion and add Duran Duran to that list. I've already been singing Rio in my head for like two weeks.

::al niente::

Now here's to hoping I don't get lost on my way to the arena.

__________

Wanna see Duran Duran live in your city? Check out their tour dates here.

Book Whisperer: FOR HIRE

2011-10-04T10:28:00.000-04:00

Have you heard about the new What to Expect When You're Expecting movie? You know, based on that oddly illustrated book about pregnancy and the like? Other than the fact that the movie, setting to star faces like Dennis Quaid and Cameron Diaz, is based off of what reads like a fifth grade health textbook, I feel like there's some real potential here. I mean, these What to Expect people need to expand their branding for fuck's sake! HOLLYWOOD IS WATCHING, you guys. You need to set down your colored pencils and crochet and get back to your typewriter before your 15 minutes expire. Who says those Dummies handbooks need to be the U2 of the publishing world? I mean, is it writer's block or something? Because if that's the case, let me just tell you that your day has just turned from bleak to BLOCKBUSTER.

Here are some ideas for additional books that I came up with in the shower this morning. I'm happy to sell them to you for a small fee:

What to Expect When You're Expecting an Indictment

Filled with current information on how to negotiate for top-dollar interviews with national media, contact information for the most trustworthy and discreet transporters to set you up with a new identity in Shangri-la, and how-to tutorials on scoring high profile defense attorneys, this indictment bible is a must-have for the modern felon.

What to Expect When You're Expecting Your Mother-in-Law

From training the children to recite passages from Milton's Paradise Lost to effective threatening techniques to temper your husband's behavior around his dear mother, What to Expect When You're Expecting Your Mother-in-Law has it all! Look for bonus chapters on how to successfully hide your liquor stash, deflect unwanted criticisms, and hide a dead body!

What to Expect When You're Expecting a Miracle

Find yourself with that delightful 80s earworm, "All I Need is a Miracle" rattling your brain? GOOD! Because each copy of this new edition is wired to automatically play various 80s hits including Kyrie Eleison, Like a Prayer, and Sister Christian every time you open the book! After all, how can God hear you IF YOU'RE NOT SINGING AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS?!

What to Expect When You're Expecting a Package

Including tips on how to peer out your blinds without attracting the attention of your neighbors, alibis and strategies for trafficking illegal goods, and how to test for anthrax spores, this book makes a great birthday or anniversary gift!

What to Expect When Expecting the Unexpected

"If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day. If you TEACH him to fish, he's probably going to be really fucking annoyed and never talk to you again."

It's the adage from which this text draws its inspiration. For when you open the book, the LAST thing you'll find there is a bunch of printed words! Instead, opening the cover will alert the nearest cell tower of your location and immediately send upon you one of the ten plagues of Egypt! How better to learn than trial by fire! Or locusts!

Anyway, that's just off the top of my head, you know?

__________

I also do work for my fellow bloggers at a reduced rate! Order now, before it's too late!

Consumerism 101

2011-09-30T09:32:00.002-04:00

Perhaps I spoke a bit too soon about this whole EASY PARENTING phenomenon. Because in the past week or so, I've noticed that my son has begun behaving a bit oddly. Well, more specifically, he's been TALKING a bit weird.

And by that I mean, he's been speaking in commercials.

I've never wished more that he just stuck to the poop jokes.

Let me explain:

The other day, we were getting the mail. We were all disappointed to see there was nothing but a flier and some junk mail awaiting us. (That Prince from South American PROMISED my check would be here by now!) As I do, I handed the mail to each of the boys. T9 got the flier and proceeded to hug it (whatever), and Plus One eyeballed the envelope I'd placed in his hands.

"THIS?! [Scoff.] This is just from GEICO, MOM."

Dude is barely five. CANNOT READ. And yet, he recognized "Geico" stamped in the upper left-hand corner of the motherloving envelope.

Haters gonna hate.

I SWEAR HE HARDLY WATCHES TV.

Another incident involved me and the broom. (SEE?! I CLEAN!) I was ~~raking~~ sweeping a pile of crumbs from under the table when Plus One meandered aimlessly into the kitchen. He glanced at my pile, then up at me, then finally at the contraption I held in my hands. Absent-mindedly, he pointed at the broom. "Libman? That's the smart clean, Mom." Then he turned on his heel and left the room.

I'm pretty sure he didn't hear me say, "The fuck...?"

The final straw was when we were upstairs fetching some of his laundry from the dryer. He was again paying attention to his surroundings (take a REST already, kid) and somehow spotted the OxiClean logo on a bottle of laundry detergent.

Plus One: Hey! That's OxiClean! It gets the stains out!

Me: *blink*

Plus One: Did you have a stain, Mom?

Me: Um...

Plus One: MOM. THE OXI CLEAN.

Oh, poop.

__________

PS: I'm over at Studio 30+ today as well. I have a post about a wonderful recipe for Chicken & Dumplings. With a side of salmonella. And divorce served for dessert. IT'S DELICIOUS.

PPS: This coming Thursday, I'll be attending a Duran Duran concert with none other than Miss Yvonne of Yo Mama's Blog. I'm telling you in advance so you can prepare for the sonic boom that sounds when our minds collide. (Or, so you know who to look for when my body is discovered in the woods.)

Parental Terror, Take 342

2011-09-29T12:13:00.001-04:00

Since the gaggle of teenagers sittin' in the tree, s-m-o-k-i-n-g (MARIJUANA BEHIND MY HOUSE OMFG), I haven't been able to completely get this issue of drugs and children out of my head. Sure, my kids are only 3 and 5 (ish), but why put off 'til tomorrow what you can obsess about today?

Because, let's be clear. Momma was NO ANGEL. As an adult, I can assess my behavior and realize that it was a result of some emotional issues I was struggling to manage (I think the official term is Girls-Just-Wanna-Have-Fun-Syndrome). But I'm also aware that what I went through is not necessarily going to be the experience my boys encounter.

Because I'm pretty sure it'll be WAY easier for them to get drugs. SINCE THEY'RE ALREADY VISIBLE FROM MY KITCHEN WINDOW.

There's also the issue of drinking, which I think is an even bigger one, to be honest. I've been around alcoholism and I know it's allure. I also know how soul-crushing and absolutely DEADLY it can be for chldren. And my instinct to protect my boys from that AT ANY COST even if that means screening any and all potential friends with the use of a Private Detective I've placed on retainer.

(He does preschool-aged kids two-for-the-price-of-one!)

As the kids, age, however, my methods will have to get craftier. So far, I've come up with the following ideas:

1. GPS implants.
2. Running for President (and winning) so my kids have 24/7 monitoring by Secret Service agents.
3. THIS pretty fucking awesome product (especially for teens with established problems/struggles, etc) called Soberlink.

4. Establishing an off-the-grid sub-culture like they had in that movie, The Village.
5. Medically-induced coma (can they do that for the duration of a kid's teenage years, you think?)
6. Clockwork Orange-style indoctrination to the anti-drug message.
7. Sell all our cars and adopt the Amish lifestyle to stave off drinking-and-driving.
8. Time machine loops so we can repeat the childhood decade indefinitely. Like Groundhog's Day. With less Bill Murray.

What do you think? Or more importantly, will this utter TERROR of motherhood EVER fucking relent?

Disciplining Comedians

2011-09-27T10:34:00.000-04:00

I realize I'm tempting fates here, but I feel like I've finally gotten to a point where child-rearing feels...easier.

::waits for lightning to strike::

I don't need to worry about kids sleeping through the night all that much. I'm no longer plagued by feeding and sleeping schedules. And even my second kid is finally out of diapers. In fact, potty training only took a few weeks as opposed to, oh, the YEARS it took with my first. (NOT EVEN KIDDING A LITTLE BIT OMFG FLASHBACKS.)

But one thing that's become a challenge is discipline. My boys can be...how you say?...smartasses. While this is all very normal, the problem is that I find it all quite hysterical. And my laughter, SURPRISE SURPRISE, tends to negate the "THIS IS NOT FUNNY" words coming out of my mouth. Take, for example, the following recent incidents:

1. Cookie Monster

We were at a friend's house the other day and I brought some freshly baked cookies. After each of the kids finished their respective lunch, they were given exactly one as a treat and sent off to play while ~~us mothers~~ I attempted to eat the rest of them discreetly.

Every now and then, however, T9 would mosey on back into the kitchen under the guise of being cute or chatty, or, his latest, scared. OF PLAYING. Then, the moment the conversation picked back up, he'd scan our faces before thrusting his fist into the container of cookies, and ramming one into his mouth as quickly as possible, literally eating it like the goddamn Cookie Monster. He knew we'd see him and immediately take the cookie away, so he needed to be quick about it.

Little dude is fucking CLEVER.

What made it hilarious is that he did this like three more times. I held my breath to stifle the laughter, and as I lead him back to play I could hear one of my friends say, "I thought this only happened on TV!"

INDEED.

2. OH, POOP!

My eldest, on the other hand, chooses to wage more passive assaults. By somehow working the word "poop" into any and every conversation. Sometimes, he'll hold ENTIRE CONVERSATIONS using JUST THE WORD POOP, you guys.

Me: Plus One, what are you doing?

Plus One: Poop? [Falls to floor dramatically.] OH, POOP!

Me: Plus One, we DO NOT USE THAT WO---

Plus One: Poopy-poop-poop? YOU'RE A POOP! ::farting noise:: [Making the sound of a truck in reverse] POOP-POOP-POOP. I. AM. A. POOP. ROBOT. ::farting noise::

Me: I...I don't even...[Blank stare.] [OMFG]

3. I'm Pooping on You!

My three year-old likes to occasionally moon us all while shaking his tiny butt and squealing, WIGGLE! WIGGLE! WIGGLE! (I blame DJ Lance Rock. That asshole.) But the other day, he built upon the routine, presumable stealing from his brother's repertoire. He bent over, stuck his butt on my leg, wiggled it a bit, and started making farting noises while proclaiming "I POOP ON YOU, MAMA! AHAHAHA!"

And you know what? IT WAS FUCKING HYSTERICAL. And I laughed. (Is that so wrong?)

4. The Copy Game (THE COPY GAME!)

Do you remember when this game was novel and fun? YEAH, ME FUCKING NEITHER. Because I think I have Copy Game PTSD, and I don't know how to end the game without LOUD NOISES and manic FLAILING OF THE ARMS and JUST STOP IT ALREADY MOMMY HATES THIS GAME.

5. The Dude

As if they weren't coming up with enough on their own, I think I've helped them integrate "dude" into their everyday vernacular. Just yesterday, we had an HVAC technician come to fix our air conditioning. Plus One greeted the man politely at the door, complete with a handshake. This was all a ploy, however, because when the technician reemerged from upstairs, Plus One looked up at him casually before returning his eyes to ~~the television~~ his Shakespeare.

Plus One: Oh, it's you. Hey dude.

HVAC Dude: [Uncomfortable smirk] Well...hello again...

Me: Dude, PLUS ONE---

Whoops.

I mean... [ahem]...PLUS ONE...that is not a polite way to speak to this man...[Turning to the HVAC Dude] Heh. KIDS, right?

HVAC Dude: Kids, dude.

(I think I'm in trouble.)

Confession

2011-09-21T14:58:00.001-04:00

I'm sure most of you must think me some sort of tranquil, angelic figure, but I have a confession to make. In the still of the night, I'm a less-than peaceful sleeper. No, I don't snore or grind my teeth (anymore, ahem).

I crack my knuckles. In my sleep.

(I mean, I know I'm a bit strange, but this seems downright bizarre.)

In fact, just last night, I woke both myself and my husband up out of a deep sleep. I was laying on my back, eyes closed, hands straight up in the air, as if reaching for the ceiling. Except I wasn't reaching for shit. I was cracking each and every one of my goddamn fingers. I think I was on my last two or so when I began to stir and realized that I had my hands UP IN THE AIR. I'm not sure if it was this very zombie-like posture that woke me up, or the fact that my husband's disembodied hand appeared to smack my arms back down to my side.

(The WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! was implied.)

Being the sleuth that I am, I've come up with a few theories about this mysterious behavior:

1. I was in the midst of a dream wherein I was about to debate Michele Bachmann.

2. Some sort of Texas-caliber spider has worked its way into my brain through my ear canal and is playing puppeteer with my muscle control. DANCE, WOMAN! DANCE! (Okay, sure. Cracking your knuckles works, too.)

3. Something about the Matrix.

4. Something about Jason Bourne.

5. Something about too many drugs.

I've also consulted Dr. Google, but he's a fucking passive-aggressive asshole:

Click to enlarge.

What do you think it is?!

::cracks knuckles::

(What do you do in your sleep?)

_______________________

PS: You can find me at The Mouthy Housewives today, offering advice on a woman who's sliding down the slippery slope of Peeping Tom addiction.

And, at MamaPop where I tell you about a bunch of asshole mothers that are up in arms over the new Ben & Jerry's ice cream, Schweddy Balls. (Heheh.)

I've Been Watching Too Much Breaking Bad

2011-09-19T13:52:00.000-04:00

Things got quite exciting on our little cul-de-sac on Friday afternoon, let me tell you. Naturally, it's all very embarrassing.

I was sitting in the kitchen ~~eating bon-bons~~ doing some writing when I noticed a group of kids walking across the field behind my house. My immediate thoughts were something along the following lines:

1. Shouldn't they be in school?

2. I CANNOT believe that girl is wearing long sleeves in 80 degree heat. TEXANS ARE WEIRD.

3. Wait...OMFG...WHAT IF THEY'RE HERE TO KILL US ALL?!

4. I'm hungry.

Number three resonated a bit, and I decided to text my neighbor to talk my down rather than guzzling a bottle of Klonopin.

Me: I need your opinion on something...it may or may not be life-threatening.

Her: I'LL BE THERE IN THREE MINUTES!

Me: No, it's just these kids behind the house...do you think they're old enough to be out of school? Plus I think they're smoking something. Do you think they're armed and dangerous?

After a few rounds of texts, it was concluded that these kids were getting stoned in a tree behind that's maybe 20 yards from our houses. Yes, that's right: UP IN A TREE. WHERE WE CAN ALL FUCKING SEE THEM.

We needed to get them back in school before it was too late.

My neighbor's husband called the police, and as we waited, I mentally inventoried any nearby blunt objects. I also had a sudden realization come over me and went from a horror-movie state of mind to something more akin to a combat zone veteran. (Presumably.) Because, these kids? THESE CHILDREN OF THE TREE? They were doing drugs near my house. NEAR MY CHILDREN. And OMFG HOW DARE THEY. Once I connected those mental dots, I went from oh-geeze-I-wonder-if-I'm-overreacting to VENGEANCE-SHALL-BE-MINE. (And it felt glorious.)

I scrambled over to Plus One and T9 and forcefully preserved their innocence with lollipops and rainbows and googled images of puppies. (Sure, they may have LOOKED terrified, but that's just the body's reaction to the purging of evil spirits, I've heard.)

And since the cop took nearly AN HOUR (no joke) to arrive, I had lots of time to tell my children to STAY AWAY FROM THE WINDOWS and THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE HERE, DARLING! Just as my children started crying and something about TORNADOES, MOMMY?!, my neighbor alerted me when the dude finally pulled up in his squad car so I could watch. Because she loves me.

From my house, I couldn't see too much, especially once the kids had climbed down the steps and into the arms of the Fort Worth police. Fortunately, my neighbor had set up a fully concealed look-out and could see the whole thing going down. In my mind, she was wearing camouflage. And war paint.

"They were smoking from the pipe when he pulled up!"

"He's searching them!"

"He just put the boys in the back of the car!"

... and then ...

"He just let them all go..."

What...the fuck? I set down my sledgehammer and grasped my phone with disbelief. HE LET THEM GO?

Apparently the police officer could smell the pot but couldn't FIND the pot. (FINDING THINGS IS HARD. Just ask my three year-old.) And then there was something about how these kids were all 15 and no longer living with their parents and one had a baby and there's not much I can do. (Which I'm guessing is code for it's-fucking-Friday-bitches-I-am-not-dealing-with-this-shit or you-just-pulled-me-from-a-homicide-scene-for-THIS?)

But we've got your number, Mr. Police Man. Because when my neighbor's husband went back there to knock down the stairs to the fort, thereby sacrificing his life to preserve the lives and innocence of our entire neighborhood? He found the fucking pipe. And the bag of weed.

YOU DISAPPOINT YET AGAIN, TEXAS.

Sleeping (Next Door to) the (Football) Enemy

2011-09-15T11:08:00.000-04:00

I used to hear it a lot in New York. That women who watch football aren't really, like, ENJOYING it, but pretending to enjoy it. Because she who pretends the most WINS! Or, something. I have no fucking clue.

But in Texas, you don't seem to hear this as much. Which makes sense, of course, since the football stadiums for the local high schools look more expensive than the motherloving HOPE DIAMOND for chrissakes.

So, you'd think this would put me in my element, right? A girl with a football-loving family, free to stay up late on Monday nights without being accused of witchcraft or being a traitor to my gender or having no taste whatsoever. (Well, that last one probably still applies.)

But the fact is that this football thing (in addition to all. the. goddamn. bugs. OMFG) may just be my downfall here in Texas. Because, c'mon. Do you REALLY think I'm going to root for the fucking COWBOYS?!

Um, no.

Why? Because I'm a Giants fan. And I'm married to a Bills fan. And my dad is a Jets fan. (It's a dysfunctional group, but we make it work.)

In fact, when I went to my neighbor's house last weekend to watch the Cowboys play the Jets, I was cringing while everyone else would cheer. And when everyone else moaned and cursed at Romo, I secretly texted my dad back in New York. "IT'S GONNA BE A GOOD YEAR! WAHOOO!" (Of course, he and I both know that's probably not true, but that's besides the point. It's part of being a Jets fan. Especially when Folk is on the team. FOLKING FOLK.)

I mean, I'm not one of those assholes that always has an excuse for why MY TEAM has lost or can't appreciate the talent and efforts of another state's team. (Those people are called Red Sox fans, in case you weren't sure.) (JAY KAY!) But I can't just switch allegiances because of a temporary change in geography.

So, what do you think, Internet? How should I handle this football season? I've come up with the following options. Please circle one:

1. Avoidance

Spend the entire season indoors, avoiding all eye contact with my neighbors (and the general population of the DFW area), and sporting my NY shirts in the privacy of my own home. Seriously, even the GROCERY STORE is covered in Dallas Cowboys paraphernalia. COVERED.

2. Compromise

Join my friends and neighbors for the occasional game, but take a vow of silence. I will fold my hands in my lap and watch the sport in a civilized manner, sipping on ginger ale and minding the children. (Mind-bullets and dirty looks, however, are still acceptable. As is eating all their amazing food.)

3. Declaration of War

Wear my NY gear into their sea of silver stars, and practice my New York Style heckling and acts of aggression. I'll have to hire a body guard, likely, or just bring that bobcat I have living in my closet (they have a pit bull, I should mention, who I think is ALSO a fucking Cowboys fan).

What say you, Internet?

My Bee Story

2011-09-12T10:16:00.002-04:00

I have a lot in my life to be proud of. Two great kids, an awesome husband, and a couple of cats that annoy the shit out of me. And until just recently, I was also proud of the fact that I'd never been stung by a bee in all my three decades on this planet. (Well, I guess I was more embarrassed, really, because people would always look at me funny when I told them this, as if I spent my childhood in a closet. Which is ridiculous, because they let me out for holidays and weekends.) But my sting-free record was shattered this weekend. In Texas. The place with the bugs. BIG FUCKING SURPRISE.

It all went down while my mom was visiting. There was a cold front here in Texas (which means it fell to 80 DEGREES!) so we packed up the kids and went to the zoo. I wore a sun dress because I don't get out often, and have to seize these opportunities to feel human as they present themselves. The first half of the trip was lovely. (Aside from the fact that we were staring at animals held in captivity, eyes pleading for mercy or suggesting revenge...hard to tell.) But once we passed the food court, we'd entered the motherloving BEE EXHIBIT, apparently, because they were suddenly hovering in the air. Everywhere. At first it just seemed that they were near the garbage, but in an instant, they'd quickly surrounded us. We grabbed the kids and started walking briskly away. When we were in front of the carousel, we paused again, and within seconds, AGAIN THEY WERE ON US.

This was my first audible, "What. The Fuck." And the beginning of what may have been the World Record of time spent flailing ones hands like a lunatic. At times I must have looked like I was doing some sort of funky dance move, head jerking to the side, hand up, now down, step to the side, spin, and HELICOPTER ARMS.

I was conflicted, too, because I was worried I was setting a poor example for the children. I didn't want them to be paranoid about bees at such a young age. So, mid-flail, I just made sure to tell the boys not to be scared because "Bees are normally very friendly! This one's just a little lost...err...OHMYGODGETOFFME [HELICOPTER ARMS]"

Next, we zipped past the gift shops and petting zoo, but the bees were never far behind. I looked around us and noticed that no one else seemed troubled by this impossibly EVER PRESENT swarm of bees. I couldn't make sense of it. And I do not exaggerate when I say that we did not pause for more than thirty seconds for about half an hour without swatting, flailing, cursing inappropriately, and fleeing the motherloving scene.

Dumbfounded, we decided to hop on the train and head back toward the front end of the zoo. Things were getting rapidly out of hand, and the kids still didn't understand why we weren't going on the carousel. BECAUSE WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE, KIDS, THAT'S WHY. We bought the tickets as the bees swarmed my head, and I was so frantic to get away that I left them at the counter. When she called back to me, I was still ducking and dodging and JUST TOSS THEM TO ME ALREADY. JESUS CHRIST.

My bad luck had not yet ended, because the train had just left and we had to wait about 15 minutes for the next one to come. At this point, there was a group of people, and AGAIN no one else seemed all to bothered by the bees. (WTF?!) So I tried to get all zen with it and hoped that maybe my energy would will them the fuck off of me. This didn't work, of course, and I continued my dance routine until we boarded the train. AT WHICH POINT THEY FOLLOWED US AND INVITED THEIR GODDAMN FRIENDS.

Mostly, I was worried about the boys being stung. One had been stung twice already and he tends to get a nasty local reaction. The other has never been stung, but has allergies, so I was concerned. But now we were just sitting there on the tracks, waiting for the train to board and had no where to jump and jive. So, I started swatting. And cursing. The people in the cars in front and behind us sat there, quietly taking in the scenery.

WHY ARE THEY ONLY SWARMING US AND OHMYGOD WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT?!

I looked down and there were suddenly three buzzing around my feet. Before I could blink, one of them flew up my dress and stung me on the leg. (I'm guessing the sight of my thigh was terrifying and prompted the attack.)

OUCH MOTHERFUCKER! IT GOT ME! OH, IT GOT ME! I'VE BEEN STUNG! SOMEONE! HEEEELLLP!

It was ANOTHER TEN MINUTES of battling the bees until we finally took off. During which one of the zoo workers came up and said she'd have someone meet me at the other station with a first aid kit. And, based on her facial expression, a straight jacket as well. I thanked her, but it may have come out more like OHMYFUCKINGGOD JUST DRIVE THE FUCKING TRAIN ALREADY.

The man was waiting for me as promised. He approached the train and looked at the boys, confused. Then he looked at me, my face twisted with desperation and pain. "Oh, it's Mom that got stung!" My mother made a comment about the bee being "naughty" and flying up my skirt, and we all pretended not to hear it (omfg). I proceeded to tell the man about the problem with bees the top half of the park seemed to be experiencing. I mean, shouldn't someone call the CDC or something?! I told about the swarming, the stalking, the divebombing, and the helicopter arms. He looked up at me.

"Ohhh, well, you swatted at it? That explains things..."

SURE. BLAME THE FUCKING VICTIM.

__________

PS: My In the Powder Room article went live last week. I tell my story about Plus One's first day of school. And how I wasn't at all neurotic and paranoid about it. Ahem.

Also, Marinka is having a friendly little debate over at her blog today. With me. And it's less friendly than it is super serious and entirely important and on the subject of bathing cats. I won't tell you which side I've taken, BUT CHOOSE WISELY.

AND! My friend, the amazing Rad Megan is having a fun contest on her blog (especially fun if you like The Muppets and/or cooking.) She's an amazing crafter, and if you aren't reading her yet, you should! (She was the one who came up with the line you all loved in my serial killer post. Yes. The porn one.)

Crafttime Retrospective

2011-09-06T09:57:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I feel bad that we don't do more arts and crafts in my house. After the guilt accumulates to a tipping point, I run to the craft store and come home with overflowing bags of ceramics, paints, markers, stickers, yarn, and gallons of glue. The boys cheer and we transform the kitchen table into a creative wonderland. After a frenzy of sticky fingers and a snowstorm of glitter, the three of us step back to observe the masterpieces.

At which point I'm reminded why we don't do arts and crafts in this house.

(This was supposed to be turkey cookies. Looks more like a ransom note.)

(This is why we're holding off on getting a puppy.)

(This is me and the husband. I try not to read into my massacred face and its pairing with a jubilant spouse.)

(This is finger paint. Because it begs for clarification.)

(And the pièce de résistance: my son's self-image is a bit..morbid. And acromegaly-ish.)

My husband gets back in a few more weeks. I don't think we'll be making a Welcome Home! sign.

Where I've Been

2011-09-02T10:06:00.000-04:00

Sorry it's been a slow news week over here, guys. As you know my mom is in town, and I've also started working on some freelance projects, so I'm busy-ish. Plus, the only news to tell you involves BUGS and I think maybe we need to ease up off that for a little while. (Omfg, it was a roach.)

But, also, can we just take a look at THIS for a fucking minute?

Not only has the triple-digit streak come to a halt, but I see THE EIGHTIES up in here. Kids! KIDS! WE CAN FINALLY GO OUTSIIIIIIIIIDE!

(We're all going to emerge from the house pasty white and squinting at the sky, cursing the sun for showing some motherfucking mercy AFTER TWO MONTHS STRAIGHT OF SUFFERING.)

Anyway, I've been elsewhere around the Internet while I haven't been here:

1. First and foremost, remember that video I made with Mandy where we talk about sausage? Well, I made another one with Wendi Aarons and--remember the funny blonde with big boobs on Reno 911?--Wendi Mclendon-Covey. I swear I threw in just as much sausage talk, but it was all edited out. Either way, please go watch and pay no attention to the horrible camera angle and my GIGANTIC thigh.

2. Next, you can read my recap of all the best news coverage of Hurricane Irene, including video of one dude covered in the most disgusting "sea foam" ever witnessed by man. And then he starts to eat it.

3. And did you know Ozzy Osbourne is writing a book? ABOUT HEALTH?!

4. You can also find me representing The Mouthy Housewives over at BlogHer Moms today. There, I counsel a woman whose son is requesting his parents divorce so he can have a cell phone. Little whippersnapper.

5. Oh! And I also wrote a post that will be featured on In the Powder Room, but I think it goes live next week, so stay tuned for that one.

With that, I guess I'm heading outside. Anyone remember that story All Summer in a Day? I feel like I need to pounce on this before someone shoves me in a closet.

Not Lovin' It

2011-08-29T11:28:00.000-04:00

Since last week's murder-fest, my family staged an intervention of sorts and my mother flew down to keep an eye on me. Or maybe it was to keep on eye on the children and any innocent strangers/porn stars that might have the misfortune of knocking on my door. (I'm just kidding. She flew down to flee the hurricane and abandon her husband and pets to fend for themselves.)

Anyway, I had to pick her up form the airport on Friday right after Plus One got out of school. Since it was close to lunch time and I enjoy contributing to the Fast Food Industrial Complex, we swung by McDonald's. Though, to balance my parental cosmic energy, I told them I wasn't going to buy them Happy Meals, because these are hard times children, and hard times call for desperate, dollar menu choices.

(Except that I'm a total fucking sucker and was all OKAY FINE after like 2.5 seconds of protest.)

And I didn't even regret it at first. They happily chomped on their partially hydrogenated vegetable oil with nary an attempt at fratricide for a solid 45 minutes. I was able to navigate the DFW traffic with BOTH hands, as one was not required for swatting at the children. I even got to listen to the radio, people.

I KNOW.

::fist bumps the Hamburgler::

Well, what I hadn't thought to consider is that my fast food karma is bankrupt. (Actually, I'm not really sure what that means.) What I'm trying to say is that I was naive to think that my decision to feed my children processed chicken product wouldn't have some sort of monumental butterfly effect on my world that day. You see, in the car, I'd taken their toys out of the happy meal bags and stashed them in my purse. This way, they'd actually eat their food, and then I'd have a bonus distraction at the airport when T9 was no longer entertained by trying to bumrush security.

Imagine my surprise, then, when standing in the airport, I pulled out the little bundles of plastic to discover that they were basically LASER POINTERS. Little plastic, DreamWorks laser pointers. And if the War on Terror has taught me ANYTHING, it's that laser pointers ARE NO FUCKING JOKE KID, unless you think a prison sentence is amusing, in which case, AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!

Except I'd already said they could have them. And everyone who's anyone knows that when a mother renegs on an "OK", it loosely translates to I HATE YOU in the mind of a child. We stood there next to my mother's arrival gate, and I stared at this ridiculous hunk of plastic, struggling to comprehend why they'd put a fucking laser pointer in a goddamn happy meal box. MegaMind isn't even a current MOVIE for fuck's sake! In the end, I concluded that fighting off the TSA and any nearby air marshals would be less exhausting than explaining to my sons why playing with a laser pointer in the airport is not fucking good idea.

I spent the 20 minutes it took my mother to deplane doing one of those whisper-shouts at Plus One and T9 alternately.

Plus One: [Shining it at the ceiling.]

Me: I TOLD YOU TO JUST SHINE IT AT THE WALL SO HELP ME--

T9: [Shining it toward the security checkpoint.]

Me: DID YOU JUST SHINE IT AT THE MAN WITH THE GUN?! ARE YOU HIGH?!

We managed to make it out of the airport without too much of a scene, but more than a few strangers gave me a dirty look when I pried the children from Grandma mere seconds after they were reunited at the baggage carousel. WE NEED TO LEAVE MOM. NOW.

It was a wonderful reunion, and I'm really looking forward to her visit. But I can't shake the fact that one of those toys never made it back into the car with us. I can only conclude that it was found discarded, marked as a suspicious package, inspected by bomb robots, and ultimately retained as evidence used to add Plus One to the Terror Watch list.

Obviously.

_________

PS: After hours of placing your names on a spreadsheet, randomizing the order of your entries, and consulting with The Psychic Friends Network, the winner of the iPad 2 is Pamela Dayton!

Thanks to everyone that entered!

How Not to Be Murdered: A Case Study

2011-08-26T09:05:00.001-04:00

After Tuesday's post about my irrational fear of my impending, brutal demise at the hands of a murderous intruder, I kind of got inspired!

Okay, maybe it wasn't so much "inspired" as it was "even more freaked out." First, you all shared in the comments that it's perfectly normal to be freaking out (I'm paraphrasing), which I immediately assumed was code for WE'RE COMING FOR YOU TONIGHT.

Then, I woke up to a text from my neighbor who was all, "My dog is growling at the front door. AND MY DOG NEVER GROWLS OMFG WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE." (Again, paraphrasing.) Later, she told me that there had been a suspicious vehicle parked outside a few nights before. (So obviously the murderer is taking his time to scope out the scene of the crime so he can do something really spectacular with my disembodied head.)

OH! And THEN, the next morning, simultaneously to the second, my phone rang and someone knocked loudly and urgently at the door. Really, the timing alone was enough to scare the shit out of me and send my flying under my kitchen table with a meat tenderizer. When I peered through the peephole to see what seemed to be a utility man at the door, I was even more disturbed. My mind flipped through the options, all ending with this man more or less forcing his way into the house the moment I opened the door. To be safe, I handed my son the meat tenderizer, pointed to the door, and made a flailing, swinging motion with my hands. He nodded with understanding, so I took a deep breath and fumbled to unlock the deadbolt.

The utility man's STORY was that he was here to "change out the meter." He handed me a piece of paper and I glanced at the street to make note of his vehicle. It all SEEMED legitimate, but I mean, really. How hard is it to print up some fliers, rent some utility-man gear, steal a company vehicle, and buy a few dozen electric meters?

EXACTLY.

I took to Twitter (okay, and the electric company) in full-on panic mode, and luckily my friends were there to comfort me.

The responses were quick and direct:

"Stab him. QUICKLY."

"Is he cute? Maybe you're in a porno."

"Kristine, I'm more concerned that you will kill an innocent man than I am concerned you will be brutally murdered."

"Kristine, you'd probably be compelled to befriend the murderer, handing him a knife and telling him to meet you outside in the woods."

My friends are assholes.

Anyway, I've decided that this electric meter man is all a ruse, and the guy will certainly be back to kill me this evening. Which is why I'm preparing now. I've come up with the following options if I need to battle it out to the death. In my pajamas. While the fucking cats stand by and lick their crotches, probably.

1. Blunt objects, like the iron I sleep with under my pillow. They've been stashed in every room of the house, and I'm assuming the strength to actually hit the person will come with the accompanying adrenaline rush. Otherwise I'll probably just really piss him off.

2. Bobcat. I heard my cats howling and screeching like feral creatures at the back door this morning. Obviously there was a bobcat on my back porch. (What else could it have been?) I'm going to leave it some milk and Friskies to lure it back so I can wrestle it into the house. A guard dog is one thing, but a fucking bobcat? I'm not sure why more people are doing this already, really.

3. Kill the intruder with kindness. This works in the literal sense, right?

That's all I have for now...it's a work in progress. I'm pretty sure my husband will be very impressed by my resourcefulness when he comes home in a month. And about the fact that I'm still alive.

From Me to You, an iPad 2

2011-08-24T00:00:00.006-04:00

Well, it's technically from me and Vonage, I guess. Or, really, almost entirely from them. But I'm sure you're happy to shower me with some of the credit, right? If you win?

Here's the deal: Vonage has a new international calling app, which is free to download. The app allows you to make calls internationally for low rates, using wi-fi. It's nice because you can call a land line in, say...ROMANIA from your cell phone, and you can do it rather cheaply. In fact, if you download the app right now, you get fifteen minutes of free international calls!

Seeing as my husband just so happens to be half-way around the globe at the moment (OMFG WHAT WAS THAT NOISE), I was able to put this app to the test. Aside from the awkward wrong-number in Germany moment that involved an eek-sorry-I-don't-know-what-you're-saying-BIIIYEEEE and omg-what-the-hell-did-she-just-call-me, I was pretty impressed with the overall process and service. My husband travels a lot, so we're old pros when it comes to Skyping. The down side with Skype, of course, was that we couldn't do it (heh) if he had crappy Internet service. And while I'm sure Romania is LOVELY, the Internet kind of blows. The call quality was slightly better than Skype, in my opinion, and since you can buy credit directly through your iTunes account, the whole damn set-up is very damn convenient.

So, to recap!

What is the Time to Call ™ App?

FREE download
No need to be a Vonage home customer!
Pay per call and talk for up to 15 minutes to 100 countries for $1.99 or less (excluding applicable taxes)
For an additional 90+ countries, talk up to 15-minutes for $2.99 to $9.99 (excluding applicable taxes)
Bill directly to your iTunes account
Works on Wi-Fi® worldwide
Also for use on high quality 3G networks in the U.S. and Canada
Special bonus! For a limited time, unused minutes can be used for additional calls.

What you’ll need:

The Time to Call™ app for iPhone
An iPhone with Wi-Fi or a high quality 3G connection in the U.S. or Canada

Get started now:

Download the Time to Call™ app for iPhone
Select the country you want to call
Tap the Buy button on your screen and dial the number you want to call – no service plan is required and your call is billed directly to your iTunes account
Call mobile or landline numbers and talk for up to 15 minutes
For a limited time, each download includes a FREE call of up to 15 minutes to landlines and mobile phones in any one of 100 countries. Activate your FREE call to take advantage of this offer. No purchase necessary.

And you better not have skimmed over that part all JUST TELL ME ABOUT THE IPAD ALREADY, because you'll have missed a very important clue*!

*****

HERE'S HOW TO ENTER:

1. Leave a comment on this post telling me who you'd call. This can be funny, scandalous, or mundane. I don't care...just tell me how you'd be able to use the app (in reality or fantasy). (one entry)

2. Tweet about the contest! (Must include #timetocall hashtage AND a link back to this post.). Something like: I'm trying to win an iPad2 with @waitinthevan and Vonage #timetocall! http://bit.ly/mX7HB9. THEN! Come back and leave a link to that tweet in the comments. (You must do both to get the extra entry.) (one entry)

3. Like Wait in the Van on Facebook! (It's in a little box on the right hand side over there--->!) THEN! Come back and leave a link to your facebook page in the comments. (This must be separate from the Twitter comment) (one entry)

4. Follow Wait in the Van on Twitter! THEN! (OMFG, I know.) Come back and leave a comment with your twitter handle! (one entry)

5. And if you want to get yourself a bonus FIVE entries, create a twitpic, twitvid, or blog post of you downloading and/or using the Vonage Time to Call app. THEN! Come back and leave one more comment linking to that tweet or post. (five entries)

Got that? You can leave a total of five comments that will get you up to ten entries. Be sure to include your email when you enter, because if I have a hard time tracking you down, I'll liable to pass the prize along to someone else. (This is EXHAUSTING.)

Note: to make it easier to tally the winner, I'll delete comments that are not legitimate entries for the contest. It's not because I hate you. It's because this is complicated and I'm easily confused. AND! If any of your entries do not fulfill the requirements, they will not count. If you deliberately leave more than five comments TOTAL or try to enter the contest by duplicating entries, OR GENERALLY ACT SNEAKY AND SUCH, you will be eliminated from the contest altogether. Because, seriously, it's a bitch tallying this shit up SO DON'T MAKE THINGS DIFFICULT.

*****

This contest is open to everyone! Even you international folk! It runs from the time this post is published--midnight on 8/24--to 11:59PM on 8/28. The prize will be in the form of $715 in iTunes gift cards. This is enough for you to buy one (1) iTunes gift card for $15 (to test out the service on your new device) and one (1) Apple gift card for $700 for the Apple iPad 2, 32 GB. If your country doesn't have access to iTunes, you'll get a PayPal transfer.

Want even more chances to win? Go check out http://www.callsfromsmartphone.com/ to find some of the other 75 sites that are also participating in the giveaway!

YAY! iPads! And Vonage! And free-to-cheap international calls!

Good luck, rockstars!
__________

*Made ya look!

Filling Daddy's Shoes

2011-08-23T10:11:00.000-04:00

Did I mention that my husband is in Romania? I tend to withhold that type of information because I generally assume you're all a bunch of sociopathic serial killers and will plot a home invasion while the man of the house is away. But you're not going to do that right? Because my cats are fucking vicious. Plus I think there's a deadly weapon around here somewhere.

::MENACING GLARE::

When my husband is traveling for work, I have to work extra hard to keep my anxiety at bay. I mean, I'm not a walking panic-attack, but I generally have visions of the bloody demise of my family on a more regular basis. (Don't you?) For example, when I enter any room in the house, I first locate a blunt object that can be used against the intruder that may or may not hiding in the closet. And I triple check the locks on all the windows and doors throughout the day. I've stopped short of attaching razor blades to my cats' paws, but you have to admit it's a pretty fucking good idea.

I don't let myself watch 20/20, is what I'm saying. Or anything about ghosts for that matter, because you never fucking know with ghosts.

Anyway, Husband will be gone until the end of next month, which is a long time for all of us. So, apart from my CODE RED status and my husband trying to decipher whatever language it is that they speak in Romania, it's hard for the kids, too. Just the other day, I could sense that the boys were missing their father, so I decided to reenact some of the things he likes to do with them. I didn't trust myself to throw them into the air AND catch them, so I immediately scrapped that idea. Another option was outdoor activity, but HAHAHAHAHA! In the end, I told T9 to grab his toolbox and we headed upstairs to put together a bookshelf. Plus One got to measuring while his brother thwacked on the wood with his plastic hammer. Is was really quite lovely. For about five minutes.

Because holy shit if that wasn't the most obnoxiously built bookshelf in the history of furniture. The screws wouldn't line up, the anchors were too large, and JESUS CHRIST WHY IS IT SO FUCKING HOT IN HERE. The boys gave up on me after about fifteen minutes and decided it would be more fun to throw my jewelry at one another while jumping on the bed and simultaneously trying to eat quarters.

Next time I think I'll just let them sleep with one of his pillows or something.

__________

Elsewhere:

You can find me at The Mouthy Housewives today offering advice about a punky stoner kid. [Lawyer edit: My advice is based purely on speculation and not personal experience.]

I was also at Moxie Bird yesterday talking about PETA's new porn site. No, really...PETA's goin' porn! It's just as weird as it sounds! (Actually, is WAY more strange than it sounds.)

OH! AND! BIG! NEWS! Tonight, at midnight, I'm launching a giveaway for a motherloving iPad2 courtesy of Vonage. No joke. So I hope you'll come back and enter seeing as I can't win it myself. You jerks.

Bug Karma & Rabid Children

2011-08-18T10:27:00.000-04:00

I don't usually consider myself the squeamish type. I like the outdoors. Camping. Hiking. Getting dirty. I mean, I don't even flinch at spiders, really. I grab a shoe and get my murder on.

But, you guys. Texas is a whole 'nother game, and it's BREAKING ME. You already know we have a bug guy, right? We had red ants taking over our backyard and some sort of circus ant super hybrid trying to take over the entire back side of the house. They came and put chemicals down, and me and the children took a swig of the stuff for good measure.When the guy left, he joked about how the bugs were probably packing up shop and moving to our neighbors'. I laughed and didn't think much about it.

Then a few weeks later, my husband was doing some yard work with the guy next door. I was chatting with his wife, and the topic of bugs came up. Because I'M OBSESSED, clearly. It went something like this.

Me: I don't understand why there are so many dragonflies [Dragonflies dive-bombing my head in swarms.]

Her: [Sparkling in the sunlight, impervious to the attacks.] You'll get used to them!

Me: I guess I should be thankful we haven't seen any of the scarier stuff. [Dripping with sweat, clothing clinging to my body in unflattering patterns.]

Her: [Cool, hair fluttering in a non-existent breeze.] Yeah, it's not too bad...

Me: Like, tarantulas? Flying roaches? SCORPIONS? FUCKING BOBCATS! [Panic attack. SWEAT. HIVES. FLAILING ARMS TO FEND OFF FLYING BUGS.]

Her: [Calm and still as a mirror lake.] Oh! We found a scorpion in our house the other day!

Me: SHUT THE FRONT DOOR.

Her: Really!

Me: [Scanning the yard for sinister nature elements. Sweat stinging my eyes and blurring my vision.]

Her: We've never seen one until you guys sprayed your house, though. [Smirk.]

Me: [Flashback to bug-guy's final words.] Oh...shit...

She was really just teasing me, but Jesus. Scorpions? My squeamishness has endangered the very welfare of my new, fabulous neighbors. THEY HAVE CHILDREN, you guys! LOTS OF CHILDREN. I apologized and tried not to have nightmares about insects and rodents. I was not successful.

Then, just last night, I walked over to their house to return a piece of mail that had been accidentally delivered to us. Her and the kids came out and ran around for a few minutes while we chatted in her front yard. Then, mid-sentence, I was all, "What the...?" and looked down to investigate a burning sensation. My foot? And shoe? Covered in red ants. COVERED. And they were biting the shit out of me.

I feel like I probably deserved it.

__________

PS: We met Plus One's teacher, and it...well, it went. I did my best not to behave like the neurotic, obsessive, controlling mother I am (though, at one point, I found myself shaking the woman's hand while clutching a large tub of GermX wipes. And I have NO IDEA how they go there). Plus One, on the other hand, hid behind me and clung to my leg. After a reasonable amount of time, the teacher approached to try to coax him out.

At which point my son growled at her like a rabid animal.

Between the two of us, we made a solid first impression. Should be a spectacular year!

Misty Water-Colored Memories

2011-08-15T13:45:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow night we go to Plus One's new school to meet his new teacher. We got her name in the mail a few days ago, and I've been googling her ever since. (That's the idea, right?) We also get to drop off the $60 worth of school supplies I had to buy. They better serve cookies or something. Donuts?

Glue sticks aside, there's still something about the whole back-to-school thing that doesn't feel too real yet. I haven't bought the kid any shiny new duds, the air is still heavy with summer heat, and my husband won't be here for Plus One's first day. But I have a week to let it all sink in and practice not-sobbing in the school drop-off line.

In the meantime, I've been looking through some of his baby pictures. Because I'm pretty sure that will help me keep it together. I mean...right?

Yeah, that's backfiring just a little bit.
_____

Be sure to find me at The Mouthy Housewives today, giving advice to a mom who wants to intervene in her daughter's school schedule so the girl can be with friends. (You should also enter their contest--which ends tomorrow--to win an iPad 2!)

I'm also at Moxie Bird responding to an incredibly inflammatory Forbes article that suggests "blogs for women are bad for women," implying that we're all unintelligent, lazy, man-haters. As you might imagine, I have a lot to say about this.

I'll Never Let Go! ::drops mic::

2011-08-10T15:31:00.000-04:00

It's now been a few days since I returned home from BlogHer, and while I'm still reeling from the amazing people I met and the amount of laughter that managed to completely DESTROY my vocal chords, I don't think I can do the trip justice with a recap. Because, essentially, I really feel like a movie crew should've been following me and my friends around for about four days. Every ten minutes, something monumental and noteworthy happened. And that kind of thing will only be annoying for you. BECAUSE YOU JUST HAD TO BE THERE.

That said!

I do have a story to share with you about my experience as a volunteer at BlogHer. Several months ago, when BlogHer announced their BlogHerships, I signed up enthusiastically for the title of "microphone wrangler." In exchange for holding a microphone at a few sessions I'd get a free ticket to the conference.

THAT'S A MILLION DOLLAR VALUE. Practically.

What I didn't know at the time, however, is that microphone wrangling is no fucking joke, okay? My time in those rooms, full of women with VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS, was the most nerve-wracking of my time in San Diego. It was, in fact, the only time I erupted in anxiety hives, I'll have you know. And, while there was a brief training session the day before, all I'd taken from the meeting was "make sure they wait for the microphone before talking", "don't stand near the speakers, you idiot", "try to get to everyone because otherwise, they'll give you death threats with their eyeballs", and "don't let them hold the mic, in case they're long-winded and won't shut the fuck up."

Easy enough, right?

(Well. They left out the part that prepped me for when the audience turned into a bunch of ravenous zombies, wherein my microphone THAT I SHALL NOT LET GO OF is a plate of delicious brains.)

Scene: Friday, Day 1 of the conference, in a session about PR and the like. The panel spends roughly 30 minutes talking about brands and I'm mostly paying attention, noting that I'm clearly not professional enough to be participating in things like "pitches." Then they open up the room to questions.

Panel Woman: [Gesturing to me.] So, with that...I think we'll open it up for some questions from you guys...

[Six THOUSAND hands go in the air.]

Me: [Making my way toward the closest woman with a speed that could only have been fueled by fear of death, and placing the microphone before her mouth.]

Audience Woman #1: [Grabbing the microphone, then noticing that I'm not letting go.] Oh...

Me: [Awkward smile. Gripping the mic.]

Audience Woman #1: [Gripping the microphone even harder, her hand squeezing mine. She yanks it toward her mouth and for a moment, I lose my balance and imagine faceplanting into her lap.] ...well, okay then...[Awkward smile. She then proceeds to ask her question.]

Me: [Standing there for the duration, at one point using my other arm to support my microphone-bearing one, 'cuz girlfriend IS CHATTY. Aaaand, she's squeezed my hand numb.]

I tried not to make eye-contact with anyone in the room for the rest of the session, scanning the crowd only for hands rather than faces. The only thing occupying my mind was that this entire session was being recorded--which is the whole reason I was there, to help capture the audience's questions--and that my awkward exchange with Audience Woman #1 was probably captured, and would be up on the BlogHer site within a few days.

FANTASTIC.

Scene: Saturday, Day 2 of the conference, in a session about...[redacted]. [Ahem.] Prior to arriving I have chugged a margarita at the bar.

Me: [Arriving at session chewing 16 pieces of gum because I'm paranoid the panel will smell it on my breath AND THEN I'LL BE GROUNDED.]

Panel: [Speaking really beautifully about [readacted]. The audience is already chomping at the bit with half-raised hands BEFORE IT'S TIME.]

Me: [Crumpled eyebrows, trying to establish a mental queue of the hands...quickly gives way to blank look of defeat and terror.]

Panel: ...so let's hear from the audience then. I think there's a hand up over here...[pointing toward a woman in the front]

Me: [Elated that I don't have to choose amongst the hands, I dart over to the woman, concentrating on not tripping along the way. I hold out my microphone without a struggle.]

THINGS ARE SUDDENLY GOING SWIMMINGLY! WHY WAS I SO WORRIED?!

After the woman is done asking her question, I head coolly toward another woman nearby. This process is repeated without incident. However, I'm quickly starting to realize that, after about 15 minutes, I haven't even gotten to the other side of the room. AND YET THERE ARE EYES STILL UPON ME ON *THIS* SIDE OF THE ROOM.

I'm feeling panicky, and gesture to someone in the far corner that she's next. But...it was too late...

Panel: [Interrupting, looking at me, possibly with imagined contempt, but I'm no mind-reader] Um, I think we need to get to some people on the OTHER side of the room. [Continues talking amongst the panel and to the audience about the current question.]

Me: [HER MIND BULLETS HAVE KILLED ME DEAD.]

I'm frozen for a moment when a woman approaches me in a crouched position. Presumably, it's to avoid the camera behind us, but I'm not unconvinced she is posturing for an attack.

Her: [Whispering, crouching] You know...at another session, they had people line up to avoid this kind of problem.

Me: [The word PROBLEM is echoing through my brain and I'm disoriented. I shrug in her general direction. I run to the back corner, mortified, and position myself next to the woman on the other side of the room.]

I've just been scolded. Twice. On audio. At BlogHer. LET'S GO TO THE VIDEOTAPE!

Audience Woman: [Smile.]

Me: [Weak smile.]

Audience Woman: [Reaches out for the microphone.]

Me: [Whispering.] They're not done with the other question yet, so...[weak smile.]

Audience Woman: [Hand still out for microphone.] Yeah, I know, but I'll just hold it.

Me: [OMFG.] Well...[Dropping to a nearly imperceptible whisper]...I'm not supposed to let go of the microphone...[awkward smile.]

Audience Woman: [Face wrinkles in disbelief.] [NOT WHISPERING.] WHAT?!

Me: [OMFG. PANIC HIVES. I WAS NOT TRAINED ON HOW TO DEAL WITH A MICROPHONE CONFRONTATION FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.]

Audience Woman: I was at the same session as you. I didn't hear them say anything like that. [Steady, fierce gaze into my soul.]

It's around this time that I start weighing options. Certainly I cannot launch into a debate about the transcript of the goddamn training session. So, do I just give her the microphone and slink out the side door? Bonk her on the head with the microphone and stun her into silence? Break the microphone in half over my knee and summon the room into a group fucking hug?

Audience Woman: ...

Me: ...

Panel: ...okay, and the next question? [Scanning the crowd and spotting us in the corner.]

Audience Woman: ...

Me: ...I...[wavering]

Audience Woman: [UNWAVERING] ...

Fade to black.

I fucking caved and just handed her the fucking microphone, alright?

But, I'll have you know that, in doing so, I'm pretty sure I single-handedly saved all of BlogHer, preventing it from devolving into a state of utter microphone chaos.

If you listen hard enough, you can probably hear it on the audio tape.

_____

BONUS: Here's a picture of me and Lexa the night before we left. As you can see, I'm incredibly photogenic.

I'm on the left. With the striped breast.

And Mandy is a hell of a photographer.

Prequel to my BlogHer Opus

2011-08-08T11:43:00.001-04:00

I got back from San Diego roughly five minutes ago, and I have so very much to tell you about all the amazing people I met, the communes I'm going join so I never have to leave them again (I had to stop linking...there were so many), the stress of dealing with microphones, and the magic of the photobooth.

But I'm working on about 3 minutes of sleep and remnants of rage against all things Southwest and Dallas Love Field Airport. So while I huff coffee beans and red bull, I thought you might enjoy watching this video I made with the amazing Mandy of You've Got to be Kidding Me. (Whom I kidnapped and took home with me. She's currently living in my pocket.)

It should be obvious from this video that we took our time at BlogHer very seriously and learned a lot about how to successfully work with brands. Brands like Hillshire Farms.

I suspect I'll be hearing from them very soon.

Note: Seriously: what the hell IS IT about a photobooth that reverts me to age TWELVE?! Because that is some fucking magic right there.

I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore

2011-08-05T09:01:00.001-04:00

This post was originally published on February 16, 2011. (Since then, I have suffered a relapse.)

The fact that I have many demons in my closet and love to mix metaphors should not come as a surprise to you. However, the revelation of THIS particular vice might (but not likely):

I have a hardcore addiction to trash television.

Real Housewives? Check. Project Runway? You betchya. Holly's World? Sadly, yes. American Idol? OF COURSE.

I mean, it's not like I watch them ALL THE TIME. I work nights and we don't even have a DVR! But here's the thing: my husband more or less LOATHES these programs. I mean, most guys do, right? (Yes, EVEN the Playboy ones because, hello? They're talking.) But in our house, it's actually to the point where it occasionally causes tension. We've had lots of conversations about these shows, and they kind of started like this:

Him: Why do you watch this stuff?

Me: [Eyes wild.] YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!

Him: Uhm? I didn't say you can't watch them....I, ah...[steps away slowly, hands raised defensively]

Me: THEY HELP ME RELAX OHMYGOD WHY ARE YOU OPPRESSING MEEEEEEE [charging at him with blind fury.]

Over time, the discussion evolved into something more like this:

Me: [Stomping down the hallway to bed.]

Him: Did you remember to turn off the TV?

Me: [Glare.]

Him: What's wrong?

Me: WHAT'S WRONG?!

Him: Uhhm...

Me: You know what's wrong? YOU KNOW WHAT'S WRONG?! WHAT'S WRONG IS YOU CAN'T SING AND YOU STOLE MY HOUSE! AUF WIEDERSEHEN YOU PROSTITUTION WHORE! [Flips night table.]

Him: [Ducks reflexively and dials the authorities].

In other words, I like to think that these shows are relaxing, but I'm honestly more angered by some of these people than I am amused. I sit there and maybe laugh, but I'm often judgey and frustrated that I'm wasting my time when I have so much other stuff to do. And even THEN, I start to defend my choice to watch because MY GOD, DON'T I DESERVE SOME TIME TO RELAX WITH SOME GODDAMN TELEVISION?!

It's a vicious cycle.

Anyway, without any pressure from my tolerant, patient husband, I decided to just lay off most of these shows. I'd already weaned myself off of my subscription to US Weekly and removed Perez Hilton from my home page. So, TV shouldn't be so hard! RH of NY? Done. Atlanta? See ya! Beverly Hills? (Well...it was really only the first season, and I didn't want to JUDGE the girls by ASSUMING they'd be so annoying that they'd make me judgey, you know? It's just kind of complicated and...)

I've cut down, ok? I can at least claim THAT. But do you see? Do you SEE how EERILY similar this is to, say, a raging crackhead or one of those people from Hoarders?! (OMG...HOARDERS. I FORGOT ABOUT HOARDERS. YOU CAN'T TAKE AWAY MY HOARDERS!)

::flips through the channel lineup::

And you know what's hardest? Is that all you guys are a bunch of enablers. That's right, I SAID IT. I am tapping my screen right HERE and it's totally bonking you right on the head. Because I open up Twitter for ONE MINUTE and what do I see? Awesome Bachelor snark, THAT'S WHAT. And I wasn't even INTO The Bachelor this year! Or like, EVER!

And now? Now I find myself streaming episodes and watching insane women vie for the attention of a man who travels with his therapist. Does that make me a bad person? I think I might be okay with that. *twitch*

I'm just not going to fight it anymore.

On Aging (or Morphing)

2011-08-04T09:00:00.013-04:00

This post was originally published on September 24, 2010

It may come as no surprise to hear that I have self-image issues. I deflect compliments, avoid flashy clothing, and more or less cry myself to sleep in a puddle of mascara on a regular basis. Totally unoriginal, I know. But still. And as much as I love my glasses (eyesight! I haz it!), they often draw much more attention than I'm comfortable with.

Take for example, a few years back. For a while I was especially irked by my MINOR resemblance to Lisa Loeb. Rather, I was irked by those who chose to point it out. Because the fact of the matter is that I didn't look like her at all. It was JUST THE GLASSES. I assume these people are of the belief that all myopic people LOOK THE SAME?!

Rascists.

Anyway, about five years ago, on my old blog, I posted this as visual evidence of my anti-Loeb manifesto in an effort to put this unwarranted fuss to bed. I would bare my face for the world if you would JUST SHUT UP ALREADY. I used letters to highlight how our features are in fact, not very similar at all and maybe even through up a graph or two for good measure.

Circa 2005

In the end, it all kinda backfired and one of my husband's acquaintances still refers to me as Lisa. Dick.

Now let's cut to present day. After recently watching an especially horrid M. Night. Shyamalan movie, I was informed by none other than Mark Wahlberg that our features NEVER STOP GROWING. As in, our noses get longer, chins broader, ears...hairier? as we age.

(What? It's in a movie! A MARKY MARK movie, no less! Plus, Hollywood never lies.)

And now, years after the Lisa Debacle of '05, I realized that my struggle has only just begun. Because as I sat there before my television screen, noting the boom mics appearing in nearly every frame (really, Shyamalan?) and picking stray popcorn out of my crotch, I started thinking about how, COME TO THINK OF IT, my nose IS seemingly pointier these days and that chin IS so goddamn ANGULAR and OHMYGODOHMYGOD:

Circa half-way through The Happening, 2010

Forget my mother. I've become fucking Spiderus.

I think I'll need a moment.

Anniversary

2011-08-03T09:00:00.025-04:00

Today is my anniversary with my husband. It's also the day I leave for another state, and I'm feeling pretty schmucky about the whole thing.

It was around this time last year that I began my Product of Silence series. Since the move (and a bit before), I've let this part of the blog slide a bit, but I don't plan on discontinuing the posts. It's a drastic departure from the typical writing you'll find here, but it's still mine all the same. Anyway, this is my promise to you (welcomed or not) that another (new) POS (heh) post will be coming soon enough.

Until then, Happy Anniversary to my husband. You've given me so much (including this awesome bracelet) and I love you with all my heart.

xo.

__________

This piece was originally published July 29, 2010.

We met in a bar. A local band thrusted their pelvises, their guitars, their melodies into the sticky air. Nudging through the crowd, I would catch some glances and throw them away. My beer was in a can. As my friends cocked their heads toward men, they laughed with purpose. One adjusted her shirt, then bra strap. My beer warmed between my hands. I didn't want to be there.

*****

I never wanted to be married. All I knew of love was a long-standing grudge. The calculated responses to triggering comments. The heavy silence that filled the house like thick, toxic smoke. I flinched at tones and hid behind corners, waiting for something to give. I saw a marriage confining the very thing it served to celebrate--love--until it paced its cage with crazed, explosive furor. And yet, I yearned for that love. This dying mirage. I dissolved many years into a sort of mourning. At night, of course, and lonely times.

I got by on 80's movies and 90's TV shows, my emotional masturbation. A generation bred for impossible, nauseating romance, we--I--silently and casually worshiped that kind of love. The boombox to the window. The quiet brooding. The fantastic impossibility of it all. It's no wonder I was so depressed.

*****

We met on a floating bar. A docked boat. It wasn't going anywhere. Occasional waves had me grabbing for steady footing. But it never got worse than that. It's like I said; the boat wasn't going anywhere. I found an empty spot against the railing and rested my elbow upon it. It was quieter, I thought. Fewer disembodied hands jabbing for drinks. Fewer prying faces with heavy smirks. I held to the metal piping that kept the boat from bursting apart. I wasn't going anywhere.

*****

Years before, there had been screaming. And there had been pain. I suppose there must have been some blood. Beyond this, I only remember threadbare white institutional pants. I should have felt embarrassment. I should have felt something. But I didn't.

I sat in a circle and looked at the blank stares. One face, full of wrinkles, folding over itself, trying to disappear. Another, features blurred by shadows and wispy hair--a rain puddle filling with gray and stretching its boarders across a dusty road. But yet another, smooth and pale, beckoned me from the mirror. There was something salvageable here. A place where things might grow.

*****

He approached with a smile, his brow wet with the air, the music, and the water on which we balanced. I smiled. My friends were a circle, some competing and others wary. He fumbled his opening line. But who could blame him? He was meeting his wife for the first time. Right there. When the air was bursting with music, and voices were clamoring to be heard, while the gentle, dark water echoed the din.

*****

I had been on this path of leisure, a whitewashed discovery. But it was overgrown and without destination. Barbed vines and thick, sinking moss. Nothing ornamental. Nothing serene. There was no love here. Even the trees dropped their pods with abandon, staking claim on that which they did not know. Yet I was here. Surely I was a pioneer. There was nothing to guide me, to contain me, to tell me to stop, other than nature. When I paused to looked down at my footing, I saw the reflective stripe on the pavement glittering through the hearty weeds. I'd been following it all along. You helped me to see this. You helped me to see.

*****

We met at night. On a boat. It was anchored, but I could feel a strength building with each tug of the ropes. It was slowly pulling away from the safe harbor. I reached for his hand.

I Think My Cats Called CPS

2011-08-02T09:01:00.002-04:00

This post was originally published August 12, 2009.

The way it typically works around here is that my husband gets up for work, leaving the house around 6am, and then I sleep until the T9 awakes or Plus One comes barreling down the hall with his heavy-footed jog. Blankies in hand. (And mouth.)

But my husband didn't have to be in until late yesterday, and the whole house seemed to be catching some extra sleep. Maybe it was because I didn't hear him milling about in his morning ritual that I was so deeply asleep at 6:30 that morning. Because when I felt a nudge around my hips, I reflexively nudged back. Fucking cats are always climbing on me ALL NIGHT LONG. Last night, for example, Fluffy Shit woke me up LICKING HER PAWS in my mothergrabbing FACE.

(I'm guessing this was some sort of kitty threat.)

(Fluffy Shit: FUCKING LICK FUCKING MEOW--WATCH YOUR BACK MEOW.)

Anyway, I growled quietly and kneed the perpetrator enough--I thought--that she'd jump back off the bed. This didn't happen.

So I nudged again.

*Thud*

Suddenly there was wailing in the bedroom. Startled, I propped myself up on an elbow.

Me: "Plus One?"

Plus One: "WAAHHHHH [REJECTION! MY MOTHER JUST KNEED ME! MY INNOCENCE IS GONE!]"

Me: [Under my breath.] "Oh, shit....Buddy, I thought you were the cat!"

I scooped him up and hugged the crap out of him, trying to squeeze out the rejection and tears.

Whoops.

Later that morning, when my husband arose, he asked me what had happened, why he had been woken with a growl, followed by a thump, followed by a wail.

Me: [Meekly.] "I thought Plus One was that cat."

The Hub: "You kicked him out of BED?!"

Me: "Eh...kinda."

The Hub: "This all goes to show you that you just need to be nicer to those cats."

I scowled. It rather seems to be perfect evidence that they need to be destroyed.

Look out, Fluffy Shit. [Licks hand.]

San DiAHHHHgo

2011-08-01T09:00:00.027-04:00

I'm heading to BlogHer in a few days, kids, so rather than live blogging details about who has the nicest business card, or which sponsor scored the coolest celebrity spokesperson, or WHY THE HELL DID I THINK I COULD WEAR HEELS AND REMAIN UPRIGHT, I'm going to be filling this space with some previously published posts. Most of you haven't been around for the past two or so years, so I assume they'll be new-ish for you anyway.

Next Monday, when I return, I'll be sure to bombard you with BlogHer updates and pictures. (YOU GUYS. I'm going to be interviewing Wendi McClevon Covey of Reno 911 and Bridesmaids fame! EEEEP.) Until then, wish me luck and mind-over-matter in regard to my anxiety-induced splotchy redness.

YES. JUST LIKE ALEX FROM RHONY.

(I hate Kelly Bensimon, just so you know.)

ANXIETY RIDDEN, HIVE BEARING WOMEN HAVE FEELINGS TOO, YOU KNOW.

(Letting it go in 3...2...1...)

I'm going to be a HIT at BlogHer, I can feel it!

__________

PS: The winner of the blog design! First, I'll have you know that I had to weed out some of the entries because some of you weren't eligible, didn't tweet, ETC, so if you notice that you've disappeared, this is why. I honestly don't think it mattered in the long run anyway, because the winning number was 29 (and I don't think anyone before that was deleted) but ENOUGH ABOUT THAT ALREADY! YAY WINNER!

Kevin from Always Home & Uncool!

(If you're not reading him yet, you should be. After you get over your rage for him winning and you not.)

PPS: I'm over at The Mouthy Housewives today offering advice about what to do with a psychotic poop-wielding neighbor. In case you need help in that department.

My New Shrink, The Fortune Teller

2011-07-29T09:20:00.003-04:00

If you thought the search for a hairdresser was trying, then let's all be glad I didn't decide to share my seemingly neverending quest for a shrink so I could refill my meds in Texas. It involves lots of BUT I NEED TO SEE A PSYCHIATRIST BEFORE OCTOBER WHY DO YOU HATE ME stories.

And really, they're just embarrassing and I wish you hadn't brought them up in the first place.

So, long story short, I found a new guy! And after the first visit, I'm...confident-ish about our interactions. He's a little young, which is weird. Because if you recall with my previous psychiatrist, there were often awkward moments involving fabricated and nonexistent sexual tension. And for some reason, the young factor seems like it could make things worse in that department. Then again, the fact that he doesn't look like a has-been Hollywood sex offender might steady that boat just a bit.

(Though, if we're really going to look at it, he does have these bright green eyes that are hard not to look at. And I can only imagine that any time I DO look at them, he'll read it as something like HAVE YOU EVER SEEN THAT MOVIE THE SECRETARY? HOT RIGHT!?, which is why I plan on spending our sessions staring at his desk. DESK.)

(Perhaps I'll also make an effort to never discuss my daily shower stall panic attacks. And maybe keep my left hand raised during all our visits so my wedding ring remains in clear view.)

ANYWAY.

He brought me into his office and glanced briefly at my 16-page medical history form, wherein I was basically asked if I had ever suffered a head injury, did I have enough money to pay for my appointments, and whether I'd sell my medications on the street corner.

Standard stuff, I'm sure.

The next few moments were filled with some smalltalk about my recent move to Texas, before he abruptly paused and stared at me with a probing, contemplative expression. Naturally, I looked for a place to hide, but I think it was too late. DESK DESK DESK.

Him: So, Kristine...are you happy---

Me: [Overzealously.] Happy?! Well, I mean, YEAH! I certainly don't think about offing mys--

Him: --with your current medication?

Me: Oh. [Labored laugh.] Well, um...yeah, I think so. I mean, it seems to be worki---

Him: Are you anxious, Kristine?

Me: Well, since you mentio--

Him: Because you SEEM anxious, Kristine.

Me: REALLY?! I mean, is this coming from my history or do I just give off the vibe?! Because I gotta tell you, this is kind of coming as a---

Him: I understand, Kristine. [Eyes falling momentarily.]

Me: [Biting at my nails, pulling at my hair, wondering if the window is locked and how far of a jump it'd be to the parking lot] ...I uh...[voice creak, clearing throat]...yeah...

The conversation continued, and it became steadily more clear to me that this man was more like reading my fucking aura and not necessarily my fucking I'M CRAZY chart.

Him: [Gaze unchanging.]...I'm guessing you're pretty hard on yourself, too, Kristine...

IS HE BRAGGING THAT HE KNOWS MY NAME OR SOMETHING?!

Me: [Glancing behind me, and around the room.] How did you...I mean... [Frantically trying to place his face, OMG HE KNOWS ABOUT THE BLOG.]

Him: [Smiling. Slightly. Hard to tell because I'm staring at his desk.] You're funny, too, Kristine. [Now, eyebrows furrowed, concerned expression.] Do you use humor a lot?

Me: [NERVOUS HIVES. ABORT ABORT ABORT.]...ah, well...I mean...[Shifting uncomfortably in my chair.]... is this going in my file?

Him: [Making notations in my file.]

The conversation came to a close before he could read my palm, but I expect he saves that type of thing for the third visit.

Standard stuff.

On Shopping for Glue Sticks

2011-07-28T09:58:00.001-04:00

Thank you to Crocs for sponsoring this blog post. Please click here to learn more about Crocs’ new Back to School line. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. All opinions expressed here are my own.

__________

Now that we're in Texas, PlusOne starts school (what feels like) a month earlier. Which means I'll be repressing my urge to sob about my child's inevitable and unstoppable aging process a month earlier. And this will all be happening in August, you see. Which means it'll still be 100+ degrees outside. Which means I'll be still wanting to hide indoors, shades drawn, frozen peas on head. But apparently, Texas has no compassion or regard for human life, and so we'll be forced to go outdoors.

Before then, even, there's the list of supplies I need to purchase. I'm guessing it's because the teachers don't want to go outside either. (Is it customary to write the child's name on each of the 30 pencils? Because I can write pretty small, is all I'm saying.)

There's the issue of clothing as well, but, according to the locals, I might not have to actually buy any back-to-school duds until like...frickin' December. Because of the heat, remember? And there's something that stresses me about THAT one too, but I think it's mostly because it's just NOT NATURAL to shop for school clothes at CHRISTMASTIME and...I think I'll go lay down.

If we REALLY want to get this ugly cry going, there's the whole new-school-new-state thing as well. Plus One was in a preK program back in New York, but we sent him to a small private one that was attached to a church. It met only three times per week for a few hours. In NY, the cutoff was something like December 15, and PlusOne's birthday is the last day of the year. In other words, I was able to stave off sending him into the public arena for another year.

And, in a way, this is good because it means he'll always be the oldest one in his class, and that can mean good things academically, right? (As in, he'll be super smart and become valedictorian and hopefully not super bored and drop out of school to pursue the sideshow circuit.)

From the social angle, however, I go back and forth. He does happen to already weigh 50 pounds. And is nearly four feet tall. At four and a half. So he'll also be the largest kid in the class for all eternity, you see? Will that create for him undue attention and ridicule?! Or will it be a good thing because my boy is a gentle giant, and maybe his physical presence will keep those nose-pickers out on the playground in check.

Because I SWEAR TO GOD I WIL---

Excuse me.

Where were we? Back to school shopping? Right.

I was chatting with my friend down here about the best things to buy and which places have the best prices.

Her: We bought [her son] an LL Bean backpack, and it's lasted him through fourth grade.

Me: [My child's early childhood schooldays flashing before my eyes]...fourth grade...?

Her: ...and I think we'll have to upgrade his lunch box this year...

Me: LUNCHBOXES?! BUT IT'S JUST PRESCHOOL! ARE THEY GOING TO MAKE HIM EAT AWAY FROM HIS MOMMY?! HE'S JUST A CHILD!

Her: ...Uh, no...I was talking about my--

Me: [SOB]

Anyway, I don't have to tell you that August is rapidly approaching, and that it's high time I pulled myself together. SO. I have this list of office supplies. And I guess my kid could probably use more beach wear to stay cool in the classroom...

In the classroom.

Jesus H.

At a full-sized school? My baby boy? I don't know if I can go through with this whole "education" thing.

If he didn't weigh 50 pounds, I'd cuddle him on my lap all day and cry softly into his fuzzy head of hair. (I think the lack of circulation in my legs could be catastrophic, unfortunately. Maybe we'll just color together. Or go buy those damn glue sticks. Maybe I should hire a camera crew to capture the moment and preserve the memory of my pre-school little boy.)

Glue sticks, man. They make me cry EVERY GODDAMN TIME.

__________

Crocs has launched a new line of school-approved shoes for boys and girls, kindergarten--8th grade. I must say, I'm impressed. Have a look at this interactive video. You can click the different shoes for more information, and if you find the "easter eggs" hidden within, click on them for a special surprise with purchase!

(Here's a hint for those eggs, btw)

Wheeeee!

(I mean, SOB)

Nice

2011-07-27T09:02:00.001-04:00

Listen, I hate going on and on about my hair, but I'm compelled to tell you the final chapter, because I need to make a point of something. Bear (bare?) with me.

I went back to that salon for a do-over. I just couldn't TAKE IT anymore, is the gist of it. I talked to the manager and described why I was unhappy with my chunks (sounds like vomit, right?) and she (quite reluctantly, mind you) told me I could come back to have it fixed. After some arranging so as NOT to bring my children to the salon with me, I tucked my damaged skirt into my purse two days later and headed over. I wanted to have it on me just in case I needed a back-up plan. I was worried about the potential for a scenario involving them being all eye-rolly or all pay-more-money-y and I'd yank out my $15 Target skirt as if it were the smoking gun that would condemn them all into silence and apology. (After I pointed out the little smidge of brown near the hemline, of course. It's kind of hard to notice.)

Anyway, when I got to the salon, the manager wasn't there and I learned that the stylist, Delores, had come in on her day off of work to make things right.

Well, shit. I mean, that's a nice thing to do, isn't it?

Instantly, I was filled with self-doubt and remorse. Why had I made such a big deal out of this?! I glanced in my purse to make sure my skirt wasn't visible. (Why the heck did I BRING that thing anyway?) And then, sitting in that chair, my hair didn't even look THAT bad anymore, and OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE.

Somehow, I managed to gather myself enough to narrowly avoid getting a third color put into my hair to "subdue the blonde chunks." Instead, I just told her to dye it brown. (I mean, it came out black almost, but it's technically still brown. I'm trying hard not to be picky, here. Again. I mean she's TRYING to help me, right? Shouldn't I be appreciative?!)

When Delores was finished, it looked decidedly better than it did before, and that's what matters, right? I thanked her as I left and it took my everything not to tip her. For your troubles, you know? (And, no, I cannot post another picture lest you all tell me it looks worse because then I'll have to pull out an ACTUAL smoking gun and things will get really complicated between us.)

When I came home my husband took a look at my head and his face wrinkled with confusion.

Him: What happened? It's...dark.

Me: Eh, I just told her to dye it all brown. You know...brown-ish? I give up.

Him: So you're not going back there, then, right?

Me: [Dramatic sigh] Oh, I don't KNOOOWWWW, she was really niiiicee. [Dramatic slump into kitchen chair followed by dramatic dropping of my freshly raven head onto the dining room table, all topped off with another dramatic groan.]

Him: ...

I have this thing, you see. (I mean, I have lots of things, but let's stay focused.) This thing with nice people. If I'm in the position of being unsatisfied by someone nice (that sounds bad, but it isn't, so STOP IT), I find it nearly impossible to confront that person. It's not even that I'm necessarily a nice person! Seriously! I've been WAY mean PLENTY of times, and I'm pretty good at it! So it's not that I'm too nice...it's just that I can't make nice people feel badly. Or, I prefer not to. At all costs. Even if it means destroying my hair.

I mean, it's just hair, right? And $150? Plus a $15 dress? And four hours out of my life? And time out of work for my husband to watch the kids?

But you get my point, right?

Then there was yesterday, when we had a technician from Direct TV come to install our satellite and hook up the boxes. After much poor communication and many covert glances between my husband and I, and the ultimate conclusion that this guy was a total fucking moron, Leonard the technician ended up drilling holes through our walls without permission. But not pretty, round, professionally drilled holes. No. These things resembled the type of opening a prisoner might create with a plastic spoon over the course of several years while slowly slipping into insanity. We didn't notice this, of course, until after Leonard left. My husband and I were dumbfounded and disappointed. I mean, this was our brand new house! What the hell was this dude thinking? This really NICE, stupid dude!

When the company called the next day with some customer service satisfaction questions, I was disappointed there wasn't a number to express my well-yeah-he-sucked-but-I-really-like-him-as-a-person feelings. I ended up having to talk to a representative to explain myself. She seemed very confused.

Her: So you don't want him to come back to your house?

Me: Well, am I getting him in trouble? I don't want him to come back if he's mad...do you understand?

Her: ...I don't...

Me: Plus, I mean, is it even in his job description to spackle?

Her: ...ma'am...I...spackle?

Me: I mean, he was so polite, it's just that he kind of put these ridiculous holes in our walls and...I...sheesh...I dunno...

Her: ...ahhh...please hold...

I could just hang a picture over the hole, you know. I mean, it's down by the baseboards, but I could make it work. It's just a wall, right? That's nothing in the grand scheme of things! Poor Leonard is working in 100+ Texas heat, and I'm going to bitch about some drywall? And the fact that I have no idea how to fix it? And that my husband will probably be stuck with the work order? Even though he has worked two weeks in a row without a day off? And we're on the Dave Ramsey financial diet and WE HAVEN'T BUDGETED FOR SPACKLE YOU GUYS?!

I'm sure he won't mind. He'd do it for Leonard...right?

Oh, and there's also this issue with a dress I ordered for BlogHer off of eBay. It's super cute, and I'm certain it will therefore transform ME into something super cute. But the thing is that it was popular two years ago, so it's not really sold anymore, and I had to buy it from someone named Georgia in China. (Probably because it's no longer fashionable, but let's not go down that road.)

Anyway, I'm fairly certain the dress is now being quarantined in China.

Even though the lady promised me it would be here by Saturday. And that I told her I didn't want it unless it did get here by then because I never really go out anyway, and what the hell would I do with an overpriced, outdated cute-as-hell dress if not wear it to California to meet a bunch of strangers?

And as disappointed as I am, resigned to the fate of my silly dress, all I can think about is how accommodating and professional Georgia was in her emails. And how badly she'll feel when she realizes it's not going to make it in time. Surely she'll be beating herself up about it. I certainly can't call her out on it! What good would that do? And she lives in fucking CHINA, guys. What kind of monster would give her a bad rating on eBay?! This is her livelihood in a deeply restrictive country! What if she gets fired?! I can't have that on my head of over-processed hair!

Let me tell you. It is EXHAUSTING being so fucking nice. Or, at least, not-mean to nice people.

Anyway, if you're at BlogHer, I'll be the naked woman standing in the corner. In honor of Georgia from China. (And a head of frizzy hair in honor of Delores. And a restricted budget in honor of Leonard.)

[DRAMATIC SIGH]

__________

PS: Have you entered for a chance to win a custom blog design? There are few entries and the contest ends in two days. Go! Quickly! Or slowly. Whichever.

Just a $150 Custom Blog Design Giveaway, NBD

2011-07-25T08:16:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago we had a giveaway to help appease those ~~annoying~~ unoccupied children in your life, but now I have something that will appease YOU. Because no one wants to hear you whine, either. HA. Of course I'm kidding. Your whining sounds like singing unicorns. But that's not the point! The point is that I love you guys and am so happy you read my blog and maybe this would be a nice thank you gift! For, like...one of you, anyway. One of you that happens to blog. On blogger. Or Wordpress.

But let's not get bogged down in "odds of winning" or "this doesn't apply to me" or "what the fuck?!" or "your blog sucks" and "so do you"! Instead, let's look at the shiny prize up for grabs: it's a custom blog redesign!

WHEEEE! Screw the kids and their toys, AMIRITE?!

Anyway, here's what's up for grabs:

The lovely Krista Owens of Pixel Pink Media will be giving away her "Starter Blogger Package" which includes the following:

- Header
- Background
- Layout (up to three columns)
- Horizontal Linkbar
- Grab Button
- Installation

The Terms : The winner must claim their prize within 7 days. The winner will be allowed 2 major revisions and 3 minor revisions. Any other changes/revisions exceeding that will be charged at an hourly rate of $30/hr. The winner may be placed on a waiting list depending on the amount of work designer has at the time. Any stock images used must be provided by the winner. There will be a credit link placed in the footer of the design this link may not be altered, modified, or removed. This package is only applicable to Blogger and Wordpress (self-hosted) clients.

Now here's how you enter. I'm making it more complicated this time because I'm slightly more confident in my math skills this time around:

1. Leave a comment on this post! Let the world know where you blog, why you're excited for the facelift, or maybe just tell us what you've had for lunch. (As before, signing my praises will make me love you more, but won't increase your chances of winning.) (1 entry)

2. Tweet the giveaway using the hashtag #pixelpinkmedia or just copy and paste this tweet: Want to win a custom blog design valued at over $150? OF COURSE YOU DO! #pixelpinkmedia http://bit.ly/nqn0pz via @waitinthevan (1 entry)

3. Like Wait in the Van on Facebook (1 entry)

4. Follow Wait in the Van on Twitter (1 entry)

5. Follow Wait in the Van on Google Friend Connect OR Networked Blogs (see sidebar) (1 entry)

6. Like Pixel Pink Media on Facebook (1 entry)

7. Follow Pixel Pink Media on Twitter (1 entry)

And even though it's stressing me that this is a list of SEVEN ways to enter, and not something round like ten or twelve, I think I'll leave it at that. Now, if you are already following or have already liked either this site or the design site, you still get those entries. BUT! (And this is important!) You MUST come back and leave a comment for EACH entry. This is the ~~fairest~~ easiest way for me to tally the entries. Only if you leave that comment (in addition to following or liking) will you get the extra chances to win.

Ready to get rowdy?

Contest is open until Midnight EST on Friday, July 29th, and I'll pick the winner over the weekend.

YAY!

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

2011-07-22T10:21:00.001-04:00

The other night, I was laying in bed when, out of nowhere I could hear Steven Tyler's voice. (After I minor panic attack, however, I realized he wasn't in my bedroom or anything. I just had one of his songs pop into my head. Close call!) I'm not sure what triggered this late-night earworm, but I was suddenly rolling my eyes as I lay in bed hearing "Don't Wanna Miss a Thing" on repeat. It's an unfortunate song for lots of reasons, but mostly because of Ben Affleck, the misspelling of "want to" and, of course, the lyrics. I was even more frustrated when I realized that it doesn't help to smoosh your pillow against your ears if the song is, in fact, coming from INSIDE THE BRAIN.

And as I lay there, listening to my husband snore in time to Steven Tyler, I started humming along to the melody. Except now *I* was the one singing into a microphone covered with scarves (brrr!) and the words had changed a bit.

I will lay awake if you don't stop snoring!
Watch you twitch while you are sleeping
Like a dog who lay there dreaming
I could spend my life locked away in prison
If I don't stop with this murderous vision.

I JUST WANT TO CLOSE MY EYES
I JUST WANT TO GO TO SLEEP
BUT YOU'RE SNORING BABE
AND I CAN'T FUCKING FALL ASLEEP!

Can you picture me up there on the stage in my threadbare t-shirt and pajama pants? Maybe a nest of knotted hair in the back? Fuzzy, unbrushed teeth? An overtired scowl? Are you belting it out with me?! Come on! EVERYBODY SING!

Lying close to you, I think the bed is shaking
And I'm wondering how you're sleeping
Through this nasal passage concert
Then I poke your side
And curse God you're not waking
I just want to sleep with you in silence
In silence, in silence!

I JUST WANT TO CLOSE MY EYES
I JUST WANT TO GO TO SLEEP
BUT YOU'RE SNORING BABE
AND I CAN'T FUCKING FALL ASLEEP!

::cue string instruments::

What do you think? Maybe it's about time for Weird Al to get some competition. I'd totally do it. For you, my fans: the sleep-deprived, judgment-affected women of the world.

I'm working on a remake of Nine Inch Nails next. Stay tuned! And don't tell my husband!

Hair, Take Two

2011-07-19T09:43:00.001-04:00

A few of you asked for some before and after shots from the hair salon, and that's what I've got for you today. So, this is how I looked when our story starts:

Smile like you mean it!

Now, I'll let you know that I went to the salon that had the guy with FLAIR! because it seemed most promising. The reviews online were mixed, but it looked nice enough.

Well.

It was...nice...ish.

The thing is that when I go out to get my hair done, it's like a once-every-three-month break from the kids and all-around-general time to remember what it feels like to give a shit about my appearance. So when I go to a salon, the last thing I want to see, quite frankly, are your goddamn kids. And, people, the children in this salon very nearly outnumbered the adults. And they weren't just regular antsy-because-the-salon-is-boring kids. They were OMGSTFU kids. When I was in the chair getting stripes applied (or, I guess they're called highlights), a young girl approached my stylist and asked for a drink. The stylist then stopped doing my hair to fetch this child a drink.

(!!!!!!)

Foil. There was foil involved.

Is it just me, or is that totally fucking insane? (Yes, there were other grown, capable-of-fetching-water adults around.) And the worst part is that the girl just wanted it for the ice cubes. SO SHE COULD CHOMP THEM IN THE CHAIR NEXT TO ME, WHILE TWIRLING AROUND ON THE CHAIR LIKE A CHOMPING TORNADO OF ANNOYANCE.

After that, the stylist dropped a glob of hair dye on my skirt, so that kind of sucked. Or was awesome, I guess, since she didn't charge me for dying my skirt.

LOTS of motherloving foil.

At the point when I realized she was making me look like Medusa, I knew things were not going as planned. My desire for "just a few" and "very subtle" highlights was certainly understood as "as many as possible" and "can you cram some more up there?" But, luckily for me, there began an exchange between the brother of chompy-tornado-girl and their mother to distract me.

Mother: Aidan! You can't sit on that chair!

Aidan: WHY NOT?!

Mother: Because some lady is getting her hair done there.

Aidan: [Not moving] There's no one sitting here!

Mother: Aidan, you can't sit in that chair.

Aidan: [Twirling and spinning and ignoring like a champ.] WHY?

Mother: Aidan. Because some lady is going to get her hair done there.

Aidan: WHO?!

Mother: [Urgently.] Some lady, Aidan! You need to get up!

Aidan: But there's no one sitting here!

Mother: Aidan! You need to get up from that chair!

Aidan: WHY?!

OHMYFUCKINGGODGETOUTOFTHEMOTHERFUCKINGCHAIRAIDAN.

This went on for several more minutes, and I'm pretty sure adorable little Aidan never got out of the motherfucking chair. Then someone showed up with a newborn and there was much talk about a dirty diaper. I was ready to get out of my chair and change the baby myself for the love of god.

Then the stylist smeared hair dye into my ear, which I found odd, but appreciated since it dulled out the noise. (I'm pretty sure the dye is still there, actually.)

Eventually, somehow, my hair was finished and blown dry, and I went to the counter to pay as they started closing down the shop. I had cash on me, so I handed the receptionist the bills. She put it in the register and said, "Thanks! You're all set!"

Me: Oh...but can I have a receipt?

Her: [Confused face.] Oh. [Staring at computer, then back at me.]

Me: Is the computer off already?

Her: Well...no, but we usually only give receipts for credit cards and stuff.

Me: Really?

Her: I can...write you one?

So, I left the salon, with a handmade receipt in my hand, a brown spot on my skirt, and a headache the size of this one highlight on the left side of my head.

Do you see the blonde chunk? TELL ME YOU SEE THE BLONDE CHUNK.

I guess it doesn't look TOO bad. Though it's not quite what I asked for. And I'm down one skirt. And I paid for it all, too. There's that. The paying to be annoyed and having my clothing destroyed and a not-quite-what-I-wanted hair job.

Oh, and here's another picture from this morning, the way I "style" it. I think you can see it better how the blonde stripes are starting to eat the rest of my hair.

I mean, seriously. It practically looks like I got my hair FROSTED.

But it's better than it was, right? I mean, the cut anyway. SIGH. I should stop complaining, I suppose. Maybe. Next time.

(And here is where you tell me that it hardly looks different at all, and then I respond in a manner that suggests my instability and obsession with detail. Right? This is usually what my husband and I do.)

Anyway, I've got a few months to find a new salon. Or move back to New York.

Summertime Blues Contest Winner

2011-07-16T14:56:00.002-04:00

We have a winner!

Thanks to everyone for joining in on the fun giveaway. I'm kind of sad I'm not keeping this stuff all to myself, honestly. Anyway, I tallied everyone's entries and put you all on a sequential list, taking out comments that were not eligible, and it came out to a ridiculously round 1 - 100. (You guys really know how to work with my neurosis.)

Then I went to random.org and pressed the magic button.

TEE-DAH!

Congratulations to Jen Bradshaw!

To everyone else, be sure to stop crying and eye-rolling. But mainly, be sure to keep your eye on this space, because in a week or so, I'll be giving away a custom blog design package. And in August, there will be EVEN MORE TO WIN.

Someone stop me.

Evidence in His Favor

2011-07-15T09:14:00.000-04:00

I realize I'm dramatic at times. Usually it's to be funny, but sometimes I'll be in the middle of making a very important, valid, likely-to-change-your-world point, and my husband misinterprets my intentions. My intentions of saying insightful, brilliant things. And I know this because he tells me I'm being dramatic instead of taking me very seriously or telling me that I've just said some really insightful, brilliant things.

Last weekend, I was sitting on the couch where I normally do my writing. My husband was reclining on the La-Z-Boy chair, where he normally takes his naps. I'd left the room to put the kids down for their nap, and when I returned, I sat back down to continue working.

Me: [TypeTypeTypeType.]

Him: Are you going to be click-clacking like that the whole time?

Me: I'm not sure what you mean by "whole time", but yes, I'll be typing. [TypeTypeTypeType.]

Him: Well I'm trying to take a nap. [Turning up television to drown out my raucous typing.]

Me: You realize I was here first, right?

Him: Isn't there anywhere else in the house you can be typing right now?

Me: This is where I always type!

Him: Even just in the dining room? At the table?

Me: I can't believe this.

Him: Can't believe what?!

Me: I was here first and I'm the one being forced to leave. [Headshaking, scowlmaking, eyerolling.] I'm like the Native frickin' Americans over here...

Him: Wife.

Me: ...just outrageous.

*****

Him: [Calling to me from the bedroom.] What are you doing in there?

Me: [Muffled.] Brushing my teeth! You should try it some time.

Him: Very funny. Turn off the damn light already. I'm trying to go to sleep.

Me: [Spit.] Did you brush your teeth?

Him: Wife.

Me: [Still brushing ferociously.] You know, oral health is linked to heart disease.

Him: ...

Me: I'm serious!

Him: Wife.

*****

Him: Did you find the hedge clippers in the garage?

Me: [Look of utter confusion and disgust.]

Him: What?

Me: I told you that I'm never going into the garage again.

Him: Is this about the spider?

Me: Yes, this is about the spider, husband. THE DEADLY SPIDER YOU LET LIVE IN OUR GARAGE.

Him: I told you; I wasn't sure if it was a Brown Recluse at the time.

Me: The rule with spiders is "when in doubt, smoosh the motherfucker." Didn't you know that?

Him: ...

Me: I'm traumatized. Every time I have to walk through the garage to take out the trash, I envision that Brown Recluse hitching a ride inside on my back, unseen....kind of like that squirrel scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation!

Him: Wife.

Me: WHAT?! That thing is probably in there birthing multiples as we speak.

Him: You are over the top.

I think he might be right. But still. He should've killed that fucking spider.

Hair!

2011-07-13T08:27:00.008-04:00

It doesn't make any sense, but I have a lot of anxiety about my hair looking nice. I shouldn't, of course, because I kind of hate the concept of hair. I mean, sure it's "warm" and "signifies you don't have cancer" and "attracts mating partners" and "makes you look 20 pounds thinner worn down" (what?), but I find those things outweighed by the hassle of having to maintain it. The fact of the matter is that I hardly even BRUSH my hair, let alone style it. And only recently have I been able to perfect the banana clip and become handy with the hot rollers and struck the perfect balance of Salon Selectives hairspray. But my total ineptitude is more or less the reason I obsess over a good haircut. Because a good hair cut can overcome anything I do (or, you know, DON'T do) to it. This is why moving to Texas has put me in a tailspin about finding a new stylist. The girl I'd been seeing in New York had been cutting and coloring my hair for about ten years. She made me black, red, blonde, brunette, and this one time, a little bit of each. Almost. She cut my hair short...long...

Right, you get it. She did my fucking hair.

Anyway, looking for someone down here has been daunting. In fact, I've been overdue for a haircut by...ohhhh...three months, all because I've been putting it off. Of course, this is freakin' TEXAS, so there's a salon next to every Starbucks, practically, but none so far seem to be the right fit. And by that, I mean, none of them contain my Jennifer from New York.

::puts wrist to forehead dramatically and falls on fainting couch::

I mean, what if I come home with a shade of brown that's SLIGHTLY REDDISH?! JENNIFER KNOWS MY NEUROSIS ABOUT RED GODDAMN HAIR. (No offense, gingers. You're more orange anyway. There, I said it.)

And if I come home looking--different--what will my children think of me?! The cats?! My husband! He might actually notice that my hair has been altered under such circumstances!

I've been taking this search very seriously, is what I'm saying here. So, after looking for a few weeks, I was able to compile a list of salons in a spreadsheet, cross-referenced with reviews and ratings from Yahoo, Yelp, and the chatty cashier at the grocery store.

Salon #1

Owner: Gay male from New York
Receptionist: Older woman with a 24K gold-coated Texas drawl
Website: Offers discounts on wigs and hair transplants
Cost: Over $200 for a cut and color
Thoughts: Old money types scare the shit out of me. Also BIG! HAIR! nightmares.

Salon #2

Owner: Woman with thick Asian accent
Receptionist: Also the owner. Clearly frustrated that she has to do EVERYTHING AROUND HERE.
Website: No
Cost: "What you normal pay in New York salon?"
Thoughts: Shady

Salon #3

Owner: No idea
Receptionist: Answering machine
Website: Facebook page with lots of pictures of girls at prom
Cost: No one called me back
Thoughts: I'm guessing their window displays a sign reading "Saddlebags need not apply"

Salon #4

Owner: Hispanic male with FLAIR
Receptionist: Polite young girl who was happy to give me an estimate. And promote some sort of bizarre zen-enhancing massage.
Website: Lots of puffy clouds and some serenity music that didn't make me feel serene.
Cost: $133 if I want to risk it with a newbie or $163 if I want the dude with FLAIR
Thoughts: This is a lot of pressure and I want to go home. I think I need the zen-enhancing massage.

Salon #5

Owner: Trendy, angry-looking, pierced hipster with a threatening gaze
Receptionist: I don't think the person who answered the phone actually works there. I can only assume he was a drug dealer.
Website: the URL is something like haircutsuck.com and contains only a picture of the threatening, angry owner.
Cost: I'm trying not to be dramatic here, but I think it's something like MY LIFE
Thoughts: I'm calling the police.

Salon #6

Owner: My sister-in-law in Georgia
Receptionist: Okay, so she doesn't really own a shop.
Website: But I'm just saying, airfare is almost the same price
Cost: And then I'd get a baby sitter out of the deal.
Thoughts: Can you be here tomorrow, Nell?

Fuck it. Maybe I'll just go to the store and get a bottle of peroxide. And maybe some vodka.

A Cure for the Summertime Blues - A Giveaway

2011-07-11T08:32:00.002-04:00

Brace yourselves, kids, because shit is falling off the back of a...van. Heh. What I'm saying is that this here is a giveaway--one of the first at Wait in the Van. (Side note: I realize that there are some people out there that think that giveaways on blogs are silly or stupid, but I don't understand why they'd think such a thing, because HI. FREE STUFF? Anyway, if you ARE one of those people, I'm sorry to have offended your delicate sensibilities, but also, come on already.)

Anyway, I've been planning this giveaway for a few months now, and I'm excited to finally announce the awesome prize pack. At this point, school has been out for, oh, a few weeks, and I'm guessing most of your keep-them-busy-by-any-means-possible-activities have been exhausted, broken, or rejected altogether with an underlying threat of mutiny. If so, then you might start to hear some sort of angelic-singing-type-deal when you see what you can win in my ~~annoying~~ awesome little giveaway. Observe!

1. North American Bear Co. is a Chicago-based toy company that's been operating for over 30 years. They offer a wide selection of not only dolls, bears, and stuffed animals, but also dress-up costumes, portable toy sets, and even a design-your-own monster package. I (or, you know, my kids) personally love their Super Pocket Cape. The back has an area for your kid to design his or her own logo (or, you know, scribble something unidentifiable) and the extra pocket is helpful for imaginary accessories (or that loose change you accidentally left in the kid's field of vision).

The prize offered from NABear is a $75 gift certificate for anything on their website!

2. Next, Zing Toys has some awesome new toys to share with you. First is the Z-Curve Bow, a foam bow and arrow set! Whether your kid is reenacting a scene from Robin Hood or if you've simply delegated to him/her the responsibility of keeping rabbits out of the back yard, this toy will be a hit. Second is the Zing-Shot Launcher, a foam slingshot. Similar to the Z-Curve Bow, this can be used for indoor or outdoor fun, depending on how much china you have in your home.

Up for grabs are the both the Z-Curve Bow and Zing-Shot Launcher, a combined $30 value!

3. Moving right along, the next prize up for grabs is a board game called Jungle Speed. This is allegedly the number one board game in Europe, and it's making it's debut in America this summer. The game is perfect for those nights you're rained in, or for when the cable/internet/video gaming privileges have been revoked for sassy-mouthing, or for if you live in mothergrabbing hot-ass Texas (or, you know, Arizona and such) and you've been advised by a doctor to never step outside for the next month or so because YOU MIGHT DIE. Anyway, the game kind of sounds like the classic card game, WAR, but obviously much cooler because there's a totem pole involved.

The winner will receive a brand-spanking new board game, valued at $20, along with bragging rights for playing something European!

4. Last but not least, fellow blogger Erin (of Blogging is for Dorks) just so happens to be an amazing crocheter. In addition to her great blog, she also has her own website for quirky-cool t-shirts, baby gifts and clothing, and custom crochet orders over at Dork Designs. If you are deemed the winner of this contest, this monster dude will be yours! Until your young child claims it!

Custom, hand-made Mr. Monster Pants will also be yours to snuggle with at night, should you win this contest--a value of $25!

Got all that? To break it all down once more, the winner will receive all of the following:

1. $75 worth of merchandise from North American Bear Co.
2. A Slingshot and a Bow & Arrow from Zing Toys.
3. Jungle Speed board game.
4. One-of-a-kind handmade crochet monster friend made with love by Erin

The total value of this prize pack is $150! WHEEEE!

Now that you're good and excited, here's how to enter.

1. Leave a comment! (While I appreciate you simultaneously telling me how much you love me, this won't actually increase your chance of winning. It will just mean you're my favorite.)

2. For an extra entry, tweet about this contest with the hashtag #summertimebluesgiveaway. I know, the hashtag is stupid-long. So maybe just copy and paste this and quit whining already: I just entered @waitinthevan's #summertimebluesgiveaway and you should, too! http://bit.ly/pPKjwE

Got all that? Be sure to come back and leave a second comment with a link to your tweet to get the extra entry. I do this less to because I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, and more because I'm lazy.

The contest is open from now until midnight, EST on July 15. The winner will be selected by random.org over the weekend or thereabouts, and notified by email within 48 hours. Also: because I'm mailing out these items directly and am poor, this contest is only open to residents of the US. So if you live in Canadia or somesuch, tell your Aunt Gertrude from Tennessee to enter for you, ok?

PS: If this giveaway doesn't suit your fancy, or if you're whining in the comments because you're Canadian and can't enter, I'll be hosting another at the end of the month for a custom blog redesign. ZOMFGLULZHOWNOWBROWNCOW!

Pink Pinata

2011-07-08T08:30:00.000-04:00

The other day, I had my first doctor's appointment in the great state of Texas. I didn't expect it to be significant, but that's usually how these things go. The moment you expect a visit to the gynecologist's office to be uneventful or otherwise mundane is the moment that the universe places a chatty, uterus-curious stranger in the seat next to you in the waiting room.

"What are YOU here for," she says.

It's an odd question for the gynecologist's office, you have to admit. It's not like we were at the dentist's. Or the local police station. It'd be like asking someone the same question at the shrink's office. I mean, there's really only one response, right? "Because I'm fucking crazy, you know?" And at the gynecologists, it's not much better. Regardless of how you phrase it, you're going to be talking about YOUR VAGINA. In this case, to a stranger.

"Because I need someone to look in my fucking vagina, you know?"

After processing the initial shock at her inquisition, I think I blurted out something awkward about an annual exam? but while furrowing my brow a bit to demonstrate my displeasure with the whole situation. This must have gone unnoticed, however, because she kept talking. (Next time, I'll go straight to punching the stranger in the cooter, I guess.)

"I'm here for [something related to the contents of her uterus, people, and redacted for your mental health and mine]," she says.

"Oh. Yeah."

Seriously? I mean, I'm thoroughly versed in awkward situations, but what the fuck am I supposed to say here? I've never had someone randomly strike up a conversation about the workings and glitches of their reproductive system, so this was breaking new ground even for someone as socially inept as myself. WELL. It was a good thing she was a pro, because she kept the words a-flowin' just fine enough on her own, letmetellyou.

"So...have you ever had [aforementioned, redacted procedure] done?"

::fidgeting nervously with ring::

::panicpanicpanic::

"Uhh, well, I'm not exactly sure what you're describing...so...?"

Big mistake, kids. EPIC FUCKING MISTAKE. This stranger, you see, was more than happy to explain everything to me. E. VER. Y. THING.

"Well it's [more about the contents of her uterus that I will not share, because, my god, I wouldn't dare put you through such a thing]..."

"Oh...okay [voice crack]. Right."

"So you've never had that then?"

Bitch was relentless! It was at this point that I began to wonder if I had worn my BIZZARRE-UTERINE-ISSUES t-shirt out in public again, but after a quick glance, I realized this was not the case. Feeling trapped, I looked quickly at another woman sitting in the same area, pleading non-verbally for rescue (it was a series of blinks and finger flicking), but she seemed to have been rendered mute by what she saw unfolding before her. Instead, I dug through my purse and grabbed my phone, throwing my dire predicament into the hands of Twitter:

It was at this point, by some glorious twist of fate (which I swear had nothing to do with me typing this tweet within her frame of vision), that the topic inexplicably turned into the Texas heat. And broken air conditioners. And ain't-life-a-son-of-a-bitch and HAHAHAHAHA!

I breathed an audible sigh of relief. If I could have patted my uterus on the head in a reassuring manner, I would've done exactly that. We're gonna be okay, pal. It's over...it's all over.

A few moments later, I was called in to the exam room where I was allowed to play with Rainbow Brite dolls, watch JEM! cartoons, eat Laffy Taffy by the handful, and pet the office unicorns while the doctor conducted a puppet show for my enjoyment. And I didn't even have a copay!

When I emerged, clutching a bunch of ovary-shaped balloons and a plush fallopian tube, I pulled up Twitter to let the world know that both myself and my uterus were now doing fine. But what I found instead is that the most amazing Twitter threads in the history of THREAD ITSELF had been born of my previous plea:

And then someone started talking about blue uteri with claws and shit just got weird.

But anyway, maybe keep these gems in mind next time you're at the gyno's office.

The more you know! ::star!::

Ring Around the Port-a-Potty & the Emergency Waterboarding Station

2011-07-06T10:34:00.000-04:00

This might sound terribly anti-American of us, but this was the first year we took the kids to see fireworks. It's not that we hate our country (::cue God Bless the USA::), it's just that taking kids to fireworks seems as logical as taking bunnies to a pop music concert (everyone knows bunnies are prog-rockers). I mean, the eldest is not even five and always had this aversion to LOOOUUUD NOOIISES. Plus, these things typically start at, what, 9:30? 10:00? If my children are ever awake at that hour, it's typically because they've found themselves sleeping in a bed of urine and have no idea how that happened. Or because they're simply protesting bedtime because "Where Froggy go?" and I'm like, WHO THE HELL IS FROGGY. That happens, too.

Anyway, this year we went to see some fireworks with a few friends, and it was really fantastic. Neither child fretted about the insane possibility of sustaining heat stroke in the 100 degree heat or lamented that the fireworks were taking for-EVERRRR to get here or plugged up his ears at the BOOM of those little-white-annoyingly-loud fireworks or protested the stinging-oh-my-god-the-burning bugs or flinched at the WARNING: ALLIGATORS signs or scoffed at the port-a-potties. Which is why I protested each of those things, of course, because they're under five and don't know shit about appropriate times to be freaking-the-fuck out.

It started when when we first chose a spot for prime firework viewing. After everyone had set down their chairs and unraveled their blankets, my husband pointed out this ant...colony? I feel like "evil empire" is more fitting, but whatever. The point is that there were hundreds climbing in and out of this hole in the ground which was the size of a golf ball, and the ants were...large. But when it was deemed that they weren't actually trekking over in our direction, we decided to stay put. Or, everyone else did and I secretly watched ants out of the corner of my eye for five hours. Just. In. Case. This paranoia worked to both mine and my son's benefit when the toddler made a spontaneous and unwarranted leap onto the ant pile to perform some sort of ancient dance routine. It was as if he were possessed by some tribal firewalker, with the crouching and the jumping and the shrieking. Okay, I was the one shrieking, but still. I saved him from the ants. Well...the one ant. The one that was on his shoe and didn't at all bite him. (A scene may have been caused.)

Then there was a lesson in how running-toward-the-water's-edge-with-wild-abandon gives momma heart palpitations and alligators aren't really as friendly as that idiot (Dora the Explorer) might suggest, young son. Teachable moments, 'n everything.

Next, after "gently encouraging" my youngest to guzzle roughly 62 ounces of water in about 15 minutes, possibly in combination with mini-lessons about heat stroke and the importance of hydration, and just stop running for five seconds because YOU'RE THE VERY COLOR OF FIRE ITSELF, I took the youngest child to find a bathroom. Within a few moments, I realized we were going to have to use a port-a-potty. But I could do this! T9 is small enough! I have hand sanitizer! Space shouldn't be a problem! I can breathe through my nose! Hell, it's practically a childhood milestone! Of sorts! PULL OUT THE EVERLOVING SCRAPBOOK!

I'm sure you see where this is going.

::shuffle::
::pivot::
Okay, you stand here, kiddo...
::pivot::
::SWEATSWEATSWEAT::
"NONONO, DON'T TOUCH A-NY-THING"
::tries to peel off toddler's sweat-drenched shorts::
::pivot::
"Scoot this way, bud."
OHGOD I THINK MY PURSE WAS IN THE URINAL
::ass bumps door open::
::PIVOT::
::continuing to try to unclothe the child::
::SWEATSWEATSWEAT::
::knock on port-a-potty door::
"Ah, we're in here...just a [yanking at shorts]...just a [sing-song-y] god-damn se-cond!"
::PIVOTPIVOTPIVOT::
SWEAT IN MY EYE OH THE BURNING...CAN'T TOUCH THE EYE GERMSGERMSGERMS
::flashbacks of recent port-a-potty peeper headlines::
::peers into toilet hole::
MY GOD.

ABORT MISSION.

After all that, he "Can't do it, Mama!" in the port-a-potty and I may have wiped down his entire body with a germ-X wipe anyway. Then, in true Texas-mocks-you fashion, the non-existent clouds parted and the sun shone down on an actual bathroom, to which we instantly marched and peed in successfully. Along the way, we ran into "It's WALL-E!", and there began an evening's worth of obsession.

Hours later, the each boom of a firework was echoed by "Where Wall-E go? Where he go?"

Just as I thought the catastrophe was winding down, that evening and the following morning were peppered with inexplicable stomach pangs for each child--the kind that cause frantic is-he-going-to-shit-his-pants-?-! scenarios to play in the minds of mothers such as myself. Then, back in the comfort of our air-conditioned home, Plus One tried to revive a dying glow stick by cracking it again, except this time it cracked OPEN and squirted instant-cancer-liquid-stuff directly into his eyeball.

WHEEEEE!

What followed was a sequence of events that included flashbacks to my 9th grade broken emergency eye-wash station (and perhaps the memory of my first ever panic attack!), shrieking (of the child, me, probably even of the cats and any nearby armadillos), the physical wrestling of a 50 pound four-foot tall 4 year-old to get him into the bathtub and flush his eye out, and what may or may not have been some accidental waterboarding of my flailing child. His eye is fine and I can now add "torture" to my resume in case Guantanamo is ever hiring.

My god, it was a weekend, I say.

Late the other night, as our children lay in bed dreaming of portable light towers and eyeball transplants, I ~~sat~~ collapsed on the couch, and looked around at the wreckage that lay in the ~~kitchen, dining room, and~~... entire house. Then I turned to my husband and said, "You know...it's a good think I'm not paid to be a housewife, 'cuz I'd've certainly been fired based on this weekend's performance."

My husband then surveyed the wreckage himself and gave me a Roman thumbs down. (I hereby plea for mercy from the audience.)

But the boys really liked the fireworks is the moral of this story. I think.

If you'd like further evidence of my domesticity (read: ability to keep my children alive and my house off the show Hoarders), check out my post today at The Mouthy Housewives. Because I share cleaning tips. It might involve taking a swig of a bottle of Lysol. (And by "might" I mean, of COURSE it fucking does.)

Postmortgage Depression

2011-07-01T15:15:00.000-04:00

After three months or so, I feel like we're finally getting settled in this new house of ours here in Texas, and I've had some time to reflect upon ~~my utter abhorrence for the entire process~~ how much I've learned from the difficult journey. (I mean, sure there were those fun parts, which...I'll brainstorm up later.)

After weeks of feeling completely exhausted, scatterbrained, and aching for the days before mortgages and pest control, I came to the realization that moving is much like having another baby. There's upheaval, great expense, sleepless nights, and adjusting to a new, foreign routine. I mean, there's less poop involved (human anyway, if we're not counting the everloving rabbits), but I think you see what I'm saying here. After all, they do say moving is one of the greater stresses you can experience in life. As is having children! How counterintuitive! If only there was an infographic to help me cope!

*gasp*

Creating a new budget is like trying to breastfeed:

The supply never meets the demand.
You realize it's necessary and good and things will pay off in the long-run, but OHMYGOD, it's painful and can't we just hire an accountant? (And do they still make wet nurses?)
And let's not forget the stigma attached to deciding not to feed your baby because it's JUST NOT IN THE BUDGET. (Please...don't act like you didn't have THAT conversation with the lady in your book club.)

Making new friends is like trying to introduce the newborn to extended family:

There's always someone in the corner who is completely uncomfortable and awkward and wearing too much perfume and then YOU'RE the weird one for pulling out the gas mask. (IT'S FOR THE BABY.)
People get all eye-rolly when you try to wipe them down with Germ-X before even saying "hi", but, like, HELLO, I don't know what kind of indigenous diseases you Texans carry.
When your use of antibacterial products is discouraged, you're doubly judged for DRINKING THEM because NO ONE BROUGHT LIQUOR.

Unpacking is like trying to soothe a crying infant.

Overwhelming is a word. So is homicidal. And pointless. And institutionalization.
As soon as you feel slightly accomplished, someone reminds you that this will go on...for...months...or....years....andthenyoustabthatperson and go to jail for months...or...years.

Upgrading and fixing the house is like observing your naked body postpartum.

You have such grand ideas, but there's just not enough money in the world to fix this shit hole. (Erm...)

Saying goodbye to friends and family is like saying goodbye to your youth, happiness, and will to live.

Just as there are no more late-nights, concerts, or experimental self-medication once you have a baby, there are no more impromptu visits with th high school BFF, a guaranteed-not-to-turn-your-hair-green trip to the salon, or a quick run to mom's house to get a home-cooked meal. For the children. Because you're not up to it tonight. And here's some laundry, while you're at it. Hey! You can afford Tivo!? I'm just gonna watch that one... ::snore::

__________

Of course, none of this is to say that I don't love my new home and the life we're making down here in ~~the Sahara~~ Texas. You certainly can't discount the excitement of a new home! (Until you have to pay property taxes.) Just like it's exciting to have a new baby in the house! (Until it projectile shits onto your nursery wall.) And I'm especially looking forward to taking the boys to their first fireworks show here in The Lone Star (I had to google that) state for the Fourth of July. I hear they shoot Democrats out of cannons while playing the 1812 Overture!

::dumps gunpowder over head::

(Editor's note: I realize I might be coming across as kill-myself-y, but don't be concerned about my stability. I've already located to local Big Daddy's liquor store. Plus, I'm taking the boys to the library this afternoon. I expect it to be very relaxing and not-at-all stressful and chaotic.)

Dip Trip, Flip Fantasia

2011-06-29T08:40:00.000-04:00

There's a community pool in our new development, and today is the day I pack 65 pounds worth of sunscreen, juice boxes, bath toys, and life-saving equipment and bring my two boys out for some...fun? Is that what you normal people call this?

I mean, I'm sure many mothers (or humans in general) might be excited about this--the whole going outside bit--but I'm bothered, overwhelmed, and completely unenthusiastic. With two non-swimming young boys, going to the pool feels like the equivalent of going on a game show titled something like, Let's Almost Die! Where the live studio audience is full of zombies and bobcats and spiders and snakes (my god, it's TEXAS) and somewhere out of the darkness, Rod Doddy's voice is bellowing from the depths of hell, "COME ON DOWN! DOWN....DOWN...DOOOOOWWWWNNNNN." I'd have just as much fun going to the mall and dangling my children over the edge of the balcony from a rope as I struggle to gain footing on those obnoxiously shiny floors, tugging on them like a frantic puppeteer.

I mean, JESUS.

Of course, when I share this perspective with my husband, he usually eyes me suspiciously and secretly dashes up to the bedroom to count the pills in my bedside drawer. Then he whispers a safe word to the children before turning back to me and saying something about "living life" and "going outside" and I'm like, what the fuck is wrong with lying in bed all day and waiting to die ANYWAY, dude?!

(Do you know he told me the other day that he doesn't even like pistachios?) [DRAMATIC SIGH]

I mean, I suppose the good thing is that the utter terror of listening to my kids swallow and choke up water all. goddamn. day. is that it distracts me from the fact that I am in no way ready for swimsuit season. In other words, I forgot to stop eating cookies. So, with little other options (I have this fleece feety-pajama number, but I fear it's prohibited poolside since it's already been banned from my bedroom), I'm forced to take mild comfort in the fact that I have a skirted bathing suit bottom. Of course, if all goes as I expect, this skimpy skirt cannot be trusted to, ah, perform. I'm sure rescuing my children from the deep end will require some sort of wild leg flailing. Or what if I just need to get up from the lounge chair without reenacting my last visit to the gynecologist? (It's much trickier than it sounds, guys.) Hell, what if I just dip my toes in the water and feel compelled to join the world in song with some synchronized swimming...the finale being that part where you dive down and do some scissor kicks with your legs? Worse still, I could be asked to upstage the other skirted-bathing-suit-wearing mothers by performing an impromptu gymnastics routine! I feel quite confident that any of these things could happen.

And with that, I'm off to Google "how to save your kid from drowning while simultaneously having a heart attack and hiding and unwaxed bikini line" ...

This is gonna be a goddamn blast.

I Would Title This, But There's Something in My Eye

2011-06-27T17:10:00.002-04:00

I dropped my mom off at the airport a few hours ago, and I may have cried like a motherloving baby. Even after making her swear that she wouldn't cry in front of the children because they don't need to see us falling apart and just PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER WOMAN. But I was mostly crying because she was here for like ten freaking days and never even saw a snake or lizard or arma-damn-dillo, and now she'll probably just roll her eyes at me when I call her to lament about how living in Texas is practically like living on the prairie and I might as well just sew myself up a damn bonnet and start lugging around a friggin' shotgun.

But also because she's my mom and I love her.

But shut the fuck up about it already, okay, because YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME START CRYING AGAIN.

Let's talk about Dallas instead! My husband and I went to Dallas and stayed a night at the Hyatt Regency and it was quite swanky and then we ate Mexican and ran into Tony Romo's wife and she looked...blonde...and then we tried to go out to bars, but got tired and went back to the room where a teenaged posse tried to party it up across the hall and I totally turned into that old, sarcastic New Yorker that I've always dreamed of being and told them to kindly shut the fuck up.

And then we came home.

[Dramatic Sigh.] I miss my mom.

The boys are upstairs being all why-are-YOU-sad-you-crybaby but mostly in an imperceptible fashion that only I can detect. They're joyously playing Thomas the Train without even fighting over REMOTE! CONTROL! THOMAS! which is totally blowing their cover and so I think I'll call their bluff and go ask to join them just to prove I'm totally tough and so totally not crying ANYWAY. I'll even be crappy Toby if you OHMYGOD JUST LET ME HUG YOU.

They better not get all NO GIRLS ALLOWED on me. I don't think I can take the rejection.

Big D

2011-06-24T12:55:00.000-04:00

So, the husband and I are taking advantage of my mother's presence by checking out Dallas this weekend. Our itinerary includes eating Mexican food, making eye contact, and sleeping past 6:30am.

I left a list of television channels for my mother along with key locations of sedatives, duct tape, and the candy stash. As I read it over, I turned to my husband to see if he had anything to add.

Me: Can you think of anything I should've put on here?

Him: "Don't kill the kids"?

Me: [Scribbles on paper.] Good thinking...

And with that, we're off! Please don't tie up grandma. Or break into the liquor cabinet. Or dress up the cats in Mommy's new BlogHer skirt. (It's sparkly!)

__________

And if you care to see where I've been this week, check out these links!

At The Mouthy Housewives, I offer advice on how to deal with an unwanted dirty talker in the bedroom.

At Moxie Bird, I highlight the best memes that sprung from the Vancouver riots kissing couple picture.

At MamaPop, I sound off about how Oprah is a fucking asshole for wanting to get OJ Simpson to confess to her on national television.

__________

PS! July is going to be an exciting month here at Wait in the Van. I have some amazing giveaways planned--one for each week of the month--so make sure you're well rested!

Conversations with my Mother

2011-06-21T09:49:00.000-04:00

As you know, my mother is in town. It's actually been a lot of fun for everyone. Even the cats are happy. (She tends to remember to water them more frequently than my 2 and 4 year-old.) Anyway, I love my mother. I laugh harder with her than almost anyone I know. Since I was younger, I mostly took it upon myself to clue her in to the fact that the moment actually requires laughter. Yesterday, however, we went shopping together, and it became clear to me that we are, in fact, genetically linked. (Please. Who doesn't secretly suspect adoption?) With age, they say, comes clarity. For me, clarity is the realization that when you laugh at your mother, you are laughing...[dramatic pause] at yourself.

Scene: In a shoe store at the mall, looking for shoes for BlogHer. (Yes, really. Shut up.)

Her: [Holding up a pair of shoes.] You like these?

Me: Nah. I need something brown, mom. The dress has navy in it.

Her: Ah, okay. [Rifling through the sales rack and pulling out a pair by the straps.] What about these?

Me: [Eyeballing them without enthusiasm.] Eh.

Her: Why not? They're sassparillas! They're perfect for summer...

Me: [Don't laugh. Don't laugh. OMG Don't laugh.] Mom. Sarsaparilla? Sarsaparilla is like...a soda.

Her: No... [Defiant smirk.]

Me: Espadrilles, mom. [Uncontainable laughter.] They're called espadrilles.

Her: Oh, just shush it.

(Later, as I'm writing this documentary, I call to my husband to help stir up my memory embers. "Didn't I recently call something by the wrong name?" He looks at me with comic pity. "No, really. Don't I do that sometimes?" He sighs, "Yes, wife, you're doing it right now. You don't do it sometimes. You do it aaaallll the time." I scowl defiantly, "Oh, just SHUSH IT.")

Scene: Driving home from the mall, my mother looking out the window at the Texas...um, scenery, I guess.

Me: [Mumbling indecipherably about traffic.]

Her: [Reading a billboard, talking to herself.] "Carpal...Tunnel..."

Me: [Sideways glance.]

Her: [Still reading.] "No stitches"? [Disbelieving.] Huh.

Me: Mom? Why is this...?

Her: [Still talking to herself.] Psht. It'll still hurt like hell...

Me: I don't...even...

Her: "Hooters"!

(When my husband drives, I often find myself reading random road signs aloud. With dramatic flair and irony, of course. But still. It's a compulsion. I try to suppress it.)

Scene: STILL IN THE MOTHERFUCKING CAR BECAUSE OMFG THE FORT WORTH TRAFFIC.

Me: [Reacting to hostile, maniacal, definitely-worse-than-New-York-drivers-driver cutting me off.] Jesus!

Her: [Sucking her teeth at the other driver.] You'd think if he cut you off, he'd step on it a bit.

Me: Yeah...well...

Her: He needs to come up to New York and learn how to drive!

Me: Mom, stop.

Her: He thinks just because he's driving a...[squinting] Hyundai, that...

Me: Mom. That's a Honda.

Her: Yeah, well, whatever.

Me: We need to work on your insults, mom.

(My repertoire of insults includes...well...[sigh]...bastard...buttface...and...jerky. And when I'm feeling especially clever, I call people simple nouns, but with a really harsh tone, like, "You....DRIVER!" I suppose no more needs to be said about that.)

Anyway, I'm not so sure how I feel about these self-realizations. I'm thinking we'll need to limit visits from my mother in the future.

The Great Escape

2011-06-16T09:23:00.000-04:00

Big day, kids. BIG DAY.

First, I'm happy to announce that I'm a new member of The Mouthy Housewives clan! From here on out, you can find me over there every other Monday (starting this coming Monday). I'm still kind of amazed, really, but not because they have poor judgment or anything! It's just that, you know, Marinka, Wendi, and Kelcey (and now, Tonya, too!) are all funnier than our collective moms. COMBINED.

I'm not at ALL breaking out in nervous hives all over my chest and neck, so stop asking already. It's perfectly normal to wear turtlenecks. In June. In Texas.

Ahem.

The OTHER thing is that I'm heading to the airport to pick up my mother in just a few short hours! (Actually, she may have already landed. I'm still getting tripped up by this time change.) I can't tell you how excited I am, to be honest. In New York, my mother was always a phone call and fifteen minutes away, and I'm a bit lost without her here in Texas. And since the boys are even excited-ER (to the nth degree), I'm bringing them along with me to the airport. This is partly so that I can have someone hear me whine and curse when I get lost in the maze of the Texas highway system, but mostly because I've been picturing that closing scene from Love, Actually for weeks now, and my vision of the reunion is nothing short of...well, let's just say it's probably totally going to get me an Oscar. Maybe a Webbie.

First, to prep the boys for the big scene, I plan on talking up how much we've MISSED grandma while we drive to the airport. This is sure to really get them tuned in to their emotional sides. (If I get tears, I'll abort with my fail-safe MOMMY'S JUST KIDDING!) I plan on hearing proclamations such as "BEST GRANDMA EVER!" and things of that nature. Misty eyes get a bonus M & M.

Then, when we get to the airport and see her flight number on the screen, we'll start singing a little song we wrote during the ride over--one that tells the story of grandma and all the love and laughter she brings to our lives. (One of the lines I've been tossing around goes something like, Grandma is a special gal! Doesn't snore like Uncle Sal! sung to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle.) Next, as soon as I catch a glimpse of her through the crowd (omg, I can't believe she's wearing those shoes), I'll let out an audible gasp, leaning down to squeal-whisper into my kids' ecstatic faces: I! SEE! GRAAAAAANDMMAAAAAAAHHH! (Yeah, kind of like Oprah would do.) They will start short-circuiting with glee, frantically searching the crowd for that familiar lady's face.

With a light pat on their butts, I'll release their hands and encourage them to run, in slow-motion, toward their grandma as soon as they see her come through the gate. (We'll have practiced this in the parking garage, naturally. Slow-mo is kind of abstract for kids.) As she emerges fully from the crowd, grandma will be carrying gifts and magazines and god-why-didn't-she-CHECK-that-freakin'-bag, but she'll set them all down swiftly when she sees her grandkids dashing her way. With a single, smooth motion, she'll kneel down and scoop them up with one of those laughing-cries, and the boys will hug her so tightly and passers-by will stop and smile, thinking fondly of their own children and loved ones. Somewhere, someone will pull out an iPhone and get the whole thing on video. It should be viral by this afternoon.

And the best part won't be the tears I see in my littlest kid's eyes, or the way my mother's hands cradle his head against her shoulder. No. It'll be the very moment that I realize I've created enough of a distraction for me to high-tail it out of there. I'm thinking a 12:30 flight to Kokomo. I'm not sure where Kokomo is, exactly, but it seems like a destination fitting to my escape. And if it's good enough for the Beach Boys, right?

Wish me luck!

Profile of a Marriage

2011-06-13T13:42:00.000-04:00

Scene: Bedroom, ~~snuggling while watching the latest Jennifer Aniston movie~~ fighting over who should get up to turn off the light.

Me: [Noticing something on his ear] What is that? Did you somehow get...cat hair in your ear? [Sticking finger in his ear.]

Him: Stop, wife. [Swatting my hand away.]

Me: [Stifled laughter.] It's fuzzy! You have ear hair!

Him: Yeah. Thanks. And I'm sure it'll get long and dark soon enough. Great.

Me: And I'll make fun of you for looking like an old man.

Him: [Without missing a beat.] And I'll make fun of your mustache.

Me: [Running finger over upper lip dejectedly.]

Him: [Large grin.]

Me: Fine. I'll turn off the damn light.

__________

(Go find me at MamaPop and Moxie today. I have things to day about Anthony Weiner's weiner, Lily Allen's wedding & pregnancy, and the latest blogging hoax scandal.)

Happy damn Monday.

#FF: WitV Edition

2011-06-10T08:56:00.000-04:00

This has been a semi-bitch of a week. I mean, I'm not curled up in a ball under my blankets like Ashley Hebert, or cursing my marriage and Twitter like Huma Abedin. But I do feel like throwing the F-Bomb around a few times. Just to stay loose, ya know? So here are a few things that made me want to curse this week. I hope you'll join me in the comments section.

(Please note that the hatred I have for the items below is irrational and might be upsetting to young children and the elderly. Proceed with caution.)

1. Mozarella Cheese

Listen, I love some good mozzarella just like the rest of you food-types, but my love is NOT unconditional. Once you mix that shit into a pasta dish or sprinkle some on your frozen pizza for that maybe-they'll-think-it's-homemade effect? It melts into the inescapable blob. First, I can't scrape it off the plate. Then, I rinse it off in the sink and it just...like...STRETCHES like a sick and sinister Gumby. Then I try to wipe it off with my dish-gloved hand and the shit just smears all over like toxic-avenging bubble gum. THEN, I pull out the dish brush and the cheese spontaneously separates and lodges itself to the bristles like FLEAS on a CAT.

Then? Then I throw my entire kitchen in the garbage.

2. My new racerback bra.

I tweeted the other day about how buying this new bra must've bumped me up a few rungs on the social ladder. You see, I've been wearing racerback tanks for a while, but haven't had the coordinating boob attire until recently. Driving home with my new bra, I had visions of how magical this new bra could be. Comfortable shirts! And nary a strap to be seen! I even daydreamed about being DISCOVERED on the streets of Fort Worth because a lack of bra straps finally bumped me into the realm of supermodel. I was kind of excited, is what I'm saying. But HOLY SHIT, putting that damn bra ON is like trying to wrestle my way out of the inside of a rubber band ball. Just then yesterday morning, I finally got my arms in the right holes and tried to hook it closed behind my back while looking in the mirror. It as all VERY graceful. Then, suddenly,I don't know what the hell happened, but I hooked my finger--like UNDER THE FINGERNAIL--and that fucking bra...IT DREW BLOOD. MY GOD THE BLOOD IT WAS EVERYWHERE.

I guess I'll never be a supermodel.

3. Charter Cable

This company is like a goddamn parody of the business world. A PARODY I SAY. The nonstop issues we've had with these bastards is an absurd form of comedy. But like that dark kind of absurdity. The kind that makes you cry big ugly tears. Because you've just been overcharged $200 on your first bill. And your cable box is broken. Again. And now your Internet cut out for no apparent reason. And OMG SOMEONE CUT THE PHONE LINES. Or...wait...it's just the incompetent installation man.

If there was ever a MAN I'd like to STICK IT TO! Wait...

4. The Sun

Does this prick have a clue? Gig's up, smartass. WE KNOW YOU CAUSE CANCER. STEP THE FUCK OFF ALREADY.

5. Door-to-door solicitors

Maybe this is a regional thing? Kind of like dialect and political affiliation and whether your congressman is a sexter or a mistress-taker? But since we've moved to Texas, we've had at least 1 or 2 door-to-door salespeople PER WEEK.

Just yesterday afternoon, I was just about to wipe my potty-training toddler's ass when the doorbell rang. I told my son to STAY on the toilet much like you tell a dog to STAY, but realizing the epic futility of your command. When I got down the stairs, I was already estimating how much bleach I'd need to clean up the aftermath of an unsupervised kid on the toilet.

Her: Hi there! What's your name?

Me: Um, who are you?

Her: Oh, sorry I'm talking so fast. I've just got so much to share with you today!

Me: [OMG]

Her: My name's Channing and we're working hard today to spread the word about education and improve success rates in your local school district!

Me: Uhmm...

Her: Do you read with your children ma'am?

Me: What?

Her: How important is education to you?

Me: Listen, I don't think...

Her: Because we have these great books that will really get your children excited to--

Me: [Hearing a distant giggle rife with mischief echoing down the stairwell] Listen, CHANNING. I have shit on my hands and I'm fairly certain a shit-smeared bathroom is currently being added to that list. I don't think I'm interested in what you're selling today.

Her: [blink]

I do NOT know how to be nice to solicitors. At all. And let's not talk about what was waiting for me in the upstairs bathroom.

_____

So! That's all I've got. What's pissing you off?

I Love Free Stuff & My Kids Love Puppies

2011-06-09T22:47:00.000-04:00

(No, we didn't get a dog. It's even BETTER!)

Thank you to Cube Dog for sponsoring this review. For more information about Cube Dog please visit the Facebook page or download it on iTunes.

_____

Listen, the fact of the matter is that my iPhone has saved my butt on more than one occasion. Doctor's office with two year-old and a six year wait? Check. Three day road trip from NY to TX? Check. DMV? OMG CHECK. And even before my youngest knew how to walk, he knew how to slide open the lock so he could delete all my stuff.

Accidentally, I'm sure.

So when I had the chance to check out this new app, Plus One and T9 came to mind. I try to keep things educational for the boys, but I'm also okay with games that simply don't encourage them to try to kill each other. Or make fart noises. First, I tried it out myself, and it was cute and fun. The directions were kind of overwhelming for this Mensa brain, but you get walked through the steps and it's very straightforward. First you build the dog, choosing your own features, head, body, and color. Then you name it. When you're done, you play with the dog and get it to do neat tricks.

NINJA PUPPY! I'm gonna try to use this to scare my cats.

Your newly created puppy will call you on your phone, become a ninja, and even play baseball. There's also an option to use your camera so that the background of the puppy is whatever is in view of the camera. See? Cute! Fun! (Oh, and free!) Look, here's a video:

However, being a 32 year-old woman, my intellect was soon bored with the puppy and instead I flipped on some Real Housewives of New Jersey and let my kids have a turn playing.

First it was Plus One's turn:

I was worried the building part would be tricky for him (he's 4.5), but he eased through it and had fun trying all the different tricks.

Then ~~he handed it over~~ I pried it out of his hands and gave it to T9:

The building part was a little over his head (he's 2.5), but he was happy to let his brother help. (I know! Crazy!) Once the dog was built, however, he LOVED to play with the puppy and pretty much couldn't stop laughing.

So, yeah, it was a big hit with the boys! I think it's going to be a standard request in the WitV household. The only drawback I see is that, while the app itself is free (YAY! FREE!), you do have to pay to unlock special features. The dog only does about 6 tricks, which is small compared to the 30 total it can do if you pay. The same goes for building the dog. You can unlock additional doggy looks if you upgrade the app. And for me, when it comes to paid apps, I usually fall into the it's-not-worth-the-money-because-I'm-cheap category. In order to get the full 84 features, it will cost you (I think...it was hard to understand clicking through their store) .99 for each upgrade. I think there are three levels, so maybe it's like $3.00 total? Not terrible, I guess.

If you want to see more, they have a facebook page here and they're running a super-secret-but-probably-awesome-or-at-least-I-hope-it-is contest June 13-17.

So, bottom line, the free version is fun enough for me to recommend it to your kids. Because a quietly giggling child is a happy child. And an even happier mother.

__________

While Cube Dog provided me with the app to review, the opinions I've expressed here are solely my own and represent my honest viewpoint. Cube Dog, Clever Girls Collective and I promote Blog With Integrity.

Motherhood: United We Stand, Divided We Get Eaten By Zombies

2011-06-09T10:09:00.000-04:00

There seem to be a few paradoxes that exist in the realm of motherhood. I mean, I (mostly, FULLY) love my children as much as they can stand it (and then some). Because, look! Kids are these amazing beings that changed my world for the better and nothing will ever be quite the same. And sure I miss beer and sleep but the crayon drawings on my hallway walls are kind of a decent if not mediocre trade-off! In the end, my sky looks bluer, the air smells less saturated with pollen, and the cupboards...well, those are looking a little bare, to be honest, but I'm trying to focus on the positive here.

And YOU! Fellow mother! You're my brethren! (::googles "brethren"::) Yes, BRETHREN! And we don't look down upon each other when we see the other's kid throwing rocks or skinning cats or flipping through a Playboy! Because united we stand and that kind of thing!

The point is that kids are great! And mothers are great! Precious. Innocent. Lovable. Giggle-inducing. Bright. Awesome. Breathtaking.

I mean...as long as they're MY kids. My kids and YOUR kids. But those poor, innocent mothers with those *other* children? We must be unified against the other. WE MUST STAND FIRM.

I'm talking about THIS kid. He's not yours, right? 'Cuz if so, I'm totally joking anyway!

Because all that flowery bubble-gum rainbow butterfly nonsense goes RIGHT out the window if we're talking about one of THOSE kids that you have to encounter at the park. Or mall. Or liquor store. Or children's wing of the hospital. Or WHATEVER. Take yesterday morning, for example. I was registering my son for preschool in this new state of Texas. I'm a little nervous, but so is he, and so I'm staying positive and saying ridiculous things that little kids fall for like, "School is gonna be so AWESOME!" And despite the 65 forms I need to fill out, and the line that's 100 yards in length, and oh-my-god that Texas sun, we're having a nice morning together.

Until this kid comes along. Now, this kid was also registering for preschool. He was there with his dejected-looking mother and they were a few spots ahead of us in line. As we got to the front of one line and slumped over to the end of the next line, they were always in close proximity. And by "close proximity" I mean, the kid could've LICKED US if he stuck out his tongue. I could pick him out of a lineup if I had to, guys. Buzz cut. Dark hair. Lanky fellow. Blue shirt. Black sneakers. Eyes that peered into my very soul. I think he may have had his mother on a leash. Now, Plus One would kind of giggle nervously and say something like, "He's silly!" but I'm sure he was just being polite. Because how could anyone think the invasion of personal space is silly, especially when leashes are involved?! I've taught my son well, is what I'm saying. This boy, on the other hand was keen on tongue-sticking-outing, random pushing, crazy face making, running between my legs-ing, and ruining his mother's life-ing. (In fact, upon reflection, she may have exhibited signs of torture.) The cherry on top was when he'd abruptly stop and look up at me with eyes that suggested sociopathic tendencies. His mother would occasionally glance over and say his name with utter apathy, being careful not to make direct eye contact with her child. If she had no will to control him...then...then...

I was terrified. And yet clearly she needed to be saved. WHAT TO DO?!

And so we held steady, my son distracted with my phone and me praying that a large bird would swoop down and carry the child off. Because really, what the hell could I have done? As I said, it's not acceptable to judge or correct a fellow mother, for crying out loud, because we're all perfect and try so hard and I'M DOING THE BEST I CAN [muffled sobbing]. If we mothers don't have a unified front, I've heard that society will implode and the children will turn into zombies. Mother-eating fucking zombies.

Clearly a passive-aggressive was the most appropriate response in order to save the world from a zombie-pocolypse. A few crafty options popped up in my mind:

1. Pull out my hawk whistle and summon my neighborhood bird of prey. (Yes, the one that dropped a snake at my door. He seems to be for hire.)

2. Talk loudly to my son about the merits of good parenting, ignoring the blank, confused look on his face and secretly slipping him some fruit snacks in exchange for an agreeing nod and a condescending glance. (At the kid, of course. My god, what do you take me for?!)

3. Provide the problem child with a suspicious-looking package and send him to the Principal's office, signaling for the mother to RUN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, RUN.

4. Suddenly shout, "Hey! I think I hear an ice cream truck outside! It's just a few blocks over!" Then signal for SWAT to come in and whisk the mother away to a safe room and into the Witness Protection Program.

5. Whisper to the boy a few "truths" about school, touching on the three-headed, green monsters in the cafeteria and the ghosts in the bathroom that gobbled up unruly little boys, and that the only safe place is with grandma, but YOU HAVE TO GO NOW BEFORE SHE DIES.

6. Casually reflect upon the kid's likely heroes: "You know, I don't think Diego ever went to school...the jungle is HIS classroom, that lucky bastard! And those Backyardigans! School is clearly for CHUMPS! And so is living at home with your parents! Have you ever seen Max & Ruby?" Then I'd hand him a sack lunch and tell him to hit the road.

7. Spot a teacher and strike up a conversation, "I didn't know you'd been paroled! Some people get so uptight when you build candy houses in an effort to lure children and toss them in an oven! Hey, have you met this fine young fellow? He wants to be in your class!"

But, in the end, I have an example to set for my children. So I brushed off those options and came up with some that were more straightforward.

1. Dropkick the child into his mother's arms and run like hell.
2.

Okay, so I only came up with the one.

In the end, I left without enacting any shock and awe or rescue missions, and I lost sight of the two before we left the school. In fact, I'm not sure if they made it out of there alive. We should say a prayer for her tonight, mothers.

::flashes motherhood gang sign::

A Few, Or Twelve, Things

2011-06-06T13:50:00.002-04:00

Today I have some more exciting news for everyone. And by exciting I mean well-I-have-another-scary-Texas-bugs-post-in-me-but-how-much-of-that-shit-can-you-really-take?

Who's down for an OCD list that is 12 items in length, no more, no less?

::runs to the bathroom and washes hands::

::twice::

1. First, I wanted to let you know that I'm featured over at The Mouthy Housewives again today! This time, I offer advice on how to deal with people who post annoying Facebook profile pictures. Spoiler: it ends with me encouraging you to ask the person if you may feel her up. Yay!

2. Did you know that the full, official trailer for The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn has been released? AND THAT THE HEADBOARD SCENE MADE THE CUT?!

OMFG ::rips off clothing::

::faints::

::recovers, runs to the bathroom to wash hands::

3. I also wrote a piece about a really amazing online writer who seized a terrible opportunity to confront the man who raped her when she was 14. There is nothing funny about this post, but it's worth the read. Emily McCombs is nothing short of amazing, I'd say.

4. I finally got my own domain, kids! In other words, you can now type in www.waitinthevan.com and land yourselves on my little patch of the Internet. Typing .blogspot is a real bitch, and one tiny mistype and you've landed your ass on a porn site. By accident! I know!

Truth be told, I've actually owned the domain for a year, but registered it with the wrong clowns and would've had to pay to get it to redirect to blogspot. In the end, I obviously decided not to pay for the hosting, which meant I'd have to wait a year to let my ownership of the domain expire and then POUNCE on it once it was available again. (It's all very complicated.) Well, that POUNCING opportunity happened this morning, when I got the email saying the domain had finally been released. I shoved the good-morning-mommy! children out of my way, and darted downstairs to foil the attempts of any criminal masterminds that might have ideas to steal my BRAND. It was all very anticlimactic because, in the end, there were no ninjas or James Bonds involved after all, and I was told it might take up to three days for everyone to access my site with the new link. (It also means some aspects of the site will be a bit wonky for a few days.)

This is an image result from googling "Wait in the Van" and I find it...terrifying.

I might just rent a helicopter and a stunt double to make up for the disappointment.

5. I wrote a full post about this movement to ban circumcision in California, but I'm sitting on it because I'm not sure if posting it here would actually be insulting to everyone involved or what. Instead, I'll change topics with no segue whatsoever to point out that I finally added my Facbook Fanpage "LIKE!" badge (is that what it's even called?) to the sidebar, because I don't know what I'm doing and it only took a year and will you just click it already, PLEASE?

6. Last night, my son found a pack of Go Fish cards and I noticed that he'd made up his own game to play with them. So, in the spirit of good parenting, I got up to show him he was doing it all wrong.When I asked him if he wanted me to play Go Fish with him, his eyes grew wide with excitement. After shuffling the cards, however, I realized I did not even remember how to fucking play. Do you work to get pairs?! Do you match numbers or colors?! What do you DO WITH THEM once you have them?! AND HOW MANY DO I PASS OUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!?

Those sea creatures are fucking mocking me, aren't they?

In the end, my husband didn't know either so I googled it. It was a magical moment for both my son and I. And google.

7. To update you about the Invasion of Texas Armadillos, I wanted to share that my husband made a discovery this weekend. He was working in the garage as the sun went down when the nighttime creatures began to emerge. When he walked toward the front door, he noticed something digging up the garden. THE VERY GARDEN OF WHICH WE SPOKE BEFORE! He came inside (without screeching, I might add--he's pretty amazing) to tell me the "good news!" But it immediately ceased being good news until he held out his hands to indicate the size of the lizard. I'm still trying to figure out if this is his method of scaring me out of Texas to make room for an armadillo-loving mistress.

8. I also know you're on the edge of your seats waiting for a potty-training update! Well, your wait is over, friends. T9 is out of diapers and we have no intentions of turning back now. Even though he immediately developed some sort of gastrointestinal virus and I spent many hours disinfecting every living and non-living thing in the house.

::runs to bathroom to wash hands with bleach::

::drinks some for good measure::

9. The Bachelorette is on tonight and it's the first time I'll be sitting down to watch it since my husband came home and I've been forced to share the TV. Oh, and spend time with him. I'm not sure how to convince him that any act to impede my watching of the show will be detrimental to our marriage because OMG IT'S BENTLEY NIGHT, so any tips are greatly appreciated.

Isn't he just lovely?

Oh, and I wrote a post about my obsession with The Bachelorette. To prove that I'm not...obsessed...err...and did you know that West's wife died under somewhat suspicious circumstances?!

10. Plus One has inherited his father's ability to sweat profusely in any room-temperature setting, and the Texas heat has rendered him permanently...wet. After riding his bike for, ohh 15 minutes, he came inside looking as if he'd just bathed. When my husband asked him if he wanted a hair cut, Plus One immediately said yes. And this is a kid who hates haircuts. HATES them.

So now he's sporting his first ever buzz-cut. And since the kid is already the size of a 7 year old (he's 4.5, 98th percentile ::buffs knuckles::), it suddenly feels like I have a middle-schooler living in my house. Do you think this means he can babysit?!

11. The boys recently got new underwear, and have taken to showing them off by yanking down their shorts on a whim and bending over to display the cartoon character plastered across their asses.

My husband and I are working to discourage this behavior by laughing uncontrollably every time it happens.

12. Okay, I don't have a twelve, so I'm resorting to Texas bugs. As in OMG THERE ARE SO VERY MANY and people keep telling me there's worse to come and I don't plan to leave the house after dark ever and if I get stuck away from home as darkness descends, I can only imagine I'll be spending the evening sleeping in my car. (And my husband is still using words like CAMPING! HAHAHAHA!)

::rocks self in corner::

::recovers::

::coyly pushes dirt around with toe::

::washes hands::

::counts list twelve times to confirm it is a list of twelve::

::washes hands::

So, ah...what's new with you guys?

Then Snakes Fell From the Sky

2011-06-02T12:01:00.000-04:00

Google headline: Armadillos Linked Definitely to Leprosy in Humans. O.M.F.G.

Him: Why is there mulch all over the front porch, anyway?

Me: I just saw that this morning. I think there's an animal digging around or something.

Him: Like...what kind of animal?

Me: :[Judgmental glare.] Um, like a squirrel or something? I don't freaking KNOW.

Him: [Absentmindedly] Nah, it's probably an armadillo.

Me: A fucking armadillo? THAT'S where your mind goes?

Him: They're all over the place here!

Me: You didn't think, like, RABBIT or something first? We have 625 living in the back yard...

Him: [Googling "armadillo"]

Me: I've SEEN Steel Magnolias, mister. I KNOW what a damn ARMADILLO looks like.

Him: ...or it could've been a bobcat.

Me: Why does Texas hate me?

Later that day, we stepped outside to see THIS in front of our house. A bird had dropped it from the sky, SURE, it's not deadly or anything, but STILL: I can only assume this is some sort of death threat from the state of Texas itself. (Unless...no...I mean, armadillos and bobcats don't snack on snakes...while plotting to erase the human population with a leprosy pandemic...right?)

*gulp*

Homecoming (With a Touch of Carrie)

2011-05-31T16:24:00.000-04:00

I'm kind of sighing a breath of relief today, despite the fact that I've already had to clean crap out of a pair of Thomas the Train underwear. That's right! Shit can't keep me down, because my husband gets home tonight, guys! I didn't explicitly mention this before, but after we moved in he was only able to stay for about five days before he had to fly back to New York to finish work. He's been gone for almost a month at this point, and I didn't tell you sooner because I didn't want anyone to identify me, note my solitary situation, track me down, and murder me in my sleep.

Though it was all VERY tempting on days when I felt especially whiny about the situation. I like a good pity party.

But, like I said, he's coming home. And while I'm very excited to have my teammate back, it IS going to be a little bit weird to be, like...living with someone again. I mean, up until this point, I've only really lived in this house alone (well, I guess there's a couple of kids floating around, too). This allowed for some rather free-spirited living conditions, you see. Something about having my husband around--watching...he's always watching...--keeps me from indulging in gluttony and sloth. When he's GONE, however...well, I mean, have you ever seen one of Jerry Springer's audience members?

1. Cookies for breakfast? WHY NOT.
2. Showering? Optional.
3. I don't see I purpose in an alarm clock and I'm not sure why I ever did.
4. No wet towels to pick up in the bathroom! Hell, don't even CLEAN the bathroom! Just shut the door!
5. Lunch? Eh, coffee.
6. A more fluid definition of "home made, healthy dinner"
7. Non-stop viewing of The Bachelorette, Real Housewives, and everything else that is sad and wrong with modern American television programming.
8. "KIDS. Keep it down. Mommy's TRYING to nap over here."

Of course, having him home is wonderful. I have an adult to converse with, a hand to hold, a friend to laugh with, and--of course--someone to race to the bedroom with. (So that I can be the first one asleep and he has to turn off the light.)

But, come on, I'm totally kidding and my husband is the best, and I love him, and what I'm saying is that our new home hasn't felt quite right without him here.

(Because he hasn't yet hung the curtains.)

_____

PS! I have some really awesome news that I am COMPLETELY excited and floored and honored and anxious and deathly competitive and suddenly obsessed about...

I was nominated for BlogHer 2011's Voices of the Year! I'm not sure if it's because she's on her death bed or what, but Marinka sent along my name and I couldn't be more flattered. She's one of the funniest women out there, and I only hope she knows that the feeling is mutual and that I obsess about her in a moderately unhealthy manner. Daily.

Now, thankfully, this isn't really a pimp-yourself-out-and-beg-for-votes kind of thing, but you CAN mosey on over there and vote if you'd like, because there is a slot for People's Choice Award. However, I have no idea exactly HOW you're supposed to do that because I read something about me a "thumbs up" and I SEE NO THUMBS. So maybe just click on my submission and leave a comment about how I've been acting kind of strange ever since I heard the news and you're worried for my safety!

And I should mention that some of the lucky finalists will be selected to speak AT BlogHer '11 in August. Like, on the stage. In front of LOTS of people. And do you remember that one time I had to simply read from note cards in front of roughly EIGHT people and I broke into hives?

In other words, the potential for what COULD come of this--should I win--will likely motivate you to vote for the stories alone, don't you think?

Memorial Day Confession

2011-05-30T12:26:00.000-04:00

I'm always conflicted about Memorial Day. I hear people wish one another a HAPPY! one, and I sometimes cringe. Okay, fine. I ALWAYS cringe. And then roll my eyes on the inside.

I'm very talented.

My thought process is, why should we be happy about a day dedicated to those who died awful deaths in faraway wars, leaving behind aching families and loved ones? I mean, sure, maybe those people celebrating at the neighborhood barbeque remember that, too. Maybe they are just choosing to remember those lost lives by celebrating them. Maybe they're surrounding themselves with their kids and friends and beer and fattening foods because they CAN.

I used to begrudge them that--the very choice to be happy on a day of mourning--and fill my sphere with ugly-cry-inducing YouTube videos to shame them away from their hot dogs and Budweiser. I was all, LOOK AT ME OVER HERE CRYING AND BEING WAY BETTER THAN YOU. But, that's kind of bullshit, isn't it? That's kind of self-righteous and ignorant and not at all important.

This? This is what's important.

My boys and my husband, a US Marine

Happy Memorial Day, everyone.

Take Two

2011-05-27T10:06:00.000-04:00

I don't really know how to say this, so I feel like I should just blurt it out:

Guys, we're commencing potty training with T9.

That's right. My brain and life purpose will once again be consumed with the bodily functions of a young child. I can only promise to do my best in not sharing stories of woe-is-shit or request tips on getting urine off the couch (paper towel?). However, I am still nursing some of my PTSD from the aftermath of PlusOne's potty training days. Because NO ONE TOLD ME SCISSORS WOULD BE INVOLVED. The good news, however, is that we are trying a slightly different approach with the second child. With PlusOne, he never really showed signs that he was into ditching the diaper. Or entering the bathroom. Or making it through the day without a deep-cleansing bath. Because of this, he was roughly 3 or 3.5 before we began, and the whole process took, ohhhhh...12 and a half years.

With T9, things have already been different. I've already kind of dropped the ball. Dude seemed kind of ready to start this gig before he was even two. I, however, was all WHAT THE HELL BOY WONDER and kind of put it off. (See: flashbacks.) Now he's two and a half, and clearly ready to get this party started. So, since my current motherly image is--without question--beyond reproach, it's time to act before I get the pink slip. Now, because of his apparent readiness, I'm going with the every-twenty-minutes-for-three-days system. It's from the Internet, so I'm guessing it'll work instantly and with no hiccups whatsoever. Ahem. We're going to run to the store this morning for underwear, stickers and small toys and then bunker down all weekend and see what I can do.

We tested it a bit last night, and he was surprisingly good at stuffing toilet paper into the bowl, announcing victory, and jumping down to put his underwear back on. On his head.

So while I gather the bleach and sticker charts, you might want to head over to check out my posts at other, less potty-training places.

1. Aiming Low - On Flashing Strangers and Other Methods of Finding Families for Play Dates

2. The Mouthy Housewives - Does Marriage Suck, or What?

3. MamaPop - Courtney Love Tells a Good Druggie Story

I'll check in with you on Monday. If we haven't all been quarantined.

My Fab Five (And a Thank You)

2011-05-25T09:48:00.003-04:00

Thanks to Trop50 for sponsoring my writing about fabulous bloggers. This year Trop50 is granting 50 Fabulous Wishes. Click here to enter for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous!

*****

This move has totally kicked my ass (and continues to do so), and I'm just so glad that my readers (yes! you!) haven't abandoned ship. It feels like I have little to say other than to complain, and even then, I'm too exhausted to even spellcheck my drivel. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.) So, to show my appreciation, I've come up with a few fun things to say thank you. This, today, just happens to be one of them (but stay tuned for some giveaways, too! I mean, they're fun...right?)

Today I'm highlighting five blogs that I think are fabulous. They're all amazing writers that can make me cry or laugh so hard that I'm forced to brainstorm for ways to destroy them. (But usually, they can to both.) You've probably heard of them already:

First, we have Marinka of Motherhood in NYC:

I first started reading Marinka last Spring. When I went to BlogHer in New York last summer, I happened to sit behind her (and Wendi Aarons...I think...smelled like her anyway) during one of the sessions. I didn't have the courage to say hello, so I pretty much stared at the back of her head. It's quite lovely, the back of her head. Anyway, Marinka does "effortlessly funny" like Angelina Jolie does "effortlessly glam." Except that Marinka isn't a husband-thieving actress, so she's way better. Her writing makes me want to be a better writer, even when she's just rehashing the latest gossip. If you'd like an intro course to Marinka, I suggest you begin with her I'm Right, You're Wrong series. Hilarious, all of them.

Another favorite of mine is Stacey from Is There Any Mommy Out There?

Stacey is an honest and moving writer, and she also cracks me up on the regular. She has this amazing little (big) family, and I love reading about them all. She is sweet and loving and nurturing, and reading any of her posts feels like I'm sitting down with a good friend and some coffee. She can share a tale about a hilariously hectic day and I'll laugh until I'm in tears (ah, hopefully WITH her, but...you know...). And the next day, I'm reading something so honest and raw, that I am tearing up at my computer. What I'm saying, of course, is that I love everything about her. I think you will too (if you don't already.) It was hard to pick a specific post to point your toward on this blog because I love, like, ALL of them, but I think this one about her children learning to read will give a good taste of Stacey's magic.

Third is a blogger that I've been reading almost since I started Wait in the Van: Miss Yvonne of Yo Mama's Blog.

Her stories--without fail--make me laugh out loud (or LULZ! as those young folks say) all the damn time. It's not natural, that woman's level of humor. What's worse is that it's the kind of humor writing that often makes me think, "damnit...I wish I'd thought of that." And then makes me silently hate her for a while until I remember that I've just moved to Texas and she's now practically my neighbor, and I LOVE YOU, FUNNY WOMAN! (Wanna babysit?) Plus, I can tell she's super sweet, and I'm not saying that just because she kind of hates her cats like I do. (Though hers ARE trying to kill her, soooo...) Here's a brief post that summarizes one of her weekends. I feel like she needs her own TV show.

Next up is a relatively new find. I think I stumbled upon her through...Twitter? I think? Say hello to Ilana of Mommy Shorts!

This woman is like a powerhouse, I tell you. She blogs more often than I floss, and each post reads like something I'd need to spend hours and decades polishing. Ilana also has lots of great features over there at Mommy Shorts: photo caption contests (that are actually funny), Baby Profiling (which is less criminal than you might think), nonstop giveaways, and even something called Ask Dr. B, where you can submit your questions to a bonafide school psychologist. Plus, Ilana is charming and funny as hell, so it's hard to hate her for her talent and success. (HardER, anyway.) I loved this recent post of hers about how you can't take your toddlers anywhere.

And last, but not least by any means, is the stellar Jett Superior of Alphabet Junkie.

I don't even know where to start with Jett. This woman never ceases to amaze me. Her writing is FULL of the type of images and phrases you'd expect to be highlighting in some college explication essay. Woman needs to be CANONIZED, is what I'm saying. And beyond that, her heart is exceedingly large (not literally, of course, thank goodness), and she reminds me constantly--as I need to be reminded--that we live in a painfully beautiful world. Here is a post about her Christmas Cards that made me simultaneously laugh and pause and swell with something wonderful...pride, is it? She's a pretty swell gal to call a friend, and, of anyone, I'd most hope to see her name attached to a book someday soon.

Anyway, these are my lady-crushes of the hour. (Mind you, it doesn't mean I love YOU any less.) I'll give you a heads up about the exciting giveaways as they come closer. WINK-WINK. In the meantime, THANK YOU for reading my stuff. I mean that sincerely, and would give you a big squishy hug if I could. (Though, if you're going to BlogHer this year, I WILL!) (You've been warned.)

*****

Don't forget to enter the 50 Fabulous Wishes contest for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous. I was selected for this Tropicana Trop50 sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do. I received compensation to use and facilitate my post.

On Two Year-Olds and Rabbits

2011-05-23T14:35:00.000-04:00

My youngest, T9, is two and a half. By nature, his gig is to be difficult at this stage of his life. But I think he and I might have a different understanding of the word. While I anticipate a challenge and some frustrating moments complicated by declining levels of patience, HE is focusing on a world record of pain-in-the-assery. This includes crying at the wind, picking up a toy and then sobbing because it's not THE OTHER ONE, biting his 50 pound, 4 and a half year-old brother (T9 is fearless, you see), and simply throwing the word NO!NONONONONOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! out there just in case there might be a question or action to match it. Oh, and he's also on a hunger strike.

A few moments ago, we all sat down for some lunch. I pulled two cups from the cabinet and began to fill them with juice (and water...to cut down on the sugar...but mostly because I'm cheap). T9 was eying me the whole time, probably praying for a slip-up so he could begin his violent protest. His skipping-stomp began as I brought the cups to the table and set them next to the boys' sandwiches.

T9: DAT ONE! DAT ONE! DATDATDATDAT MIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNEE!

Me: Are you asking me for something, T9?

T9: [whimper] Yeeeets. Dat one? Mine?

Me: Would you like this cup?

T9: MmmHHHHMMMMM

Me: Sure, buddy. Here you go. That means your brother gets the other one, okay?

T9: O-tay.

I got the boys seated at the table with all their provisions, but no sooner did PlusOne pick up the rejected cup did T9 begin to wail. NONONONONOOOOOOO DAT MINE, BRU-VUH! DAT ONE MIIIIIIIINE!

And wail.

And wail.

And flail!

Right out of his seat! And onto the kitchen floor!

I looked down at my young son as he writhed on the floor, and decided it would be best for everyone if I step out of the room for a moment. As I walked toward the living room, I heard Plus One mutter to himself with a sigh: Here we go again.

And then I started to laugh. And T9 yelled louder at the sound of my giggles.

Today is going to be one of those days when have to tell Plus One, just don't talk to your brother, okay? Just don't even LOOK at him.

You have those days, right? (TELL ME YOU HAVE THEM.)

__________

But before you leave, I have a list for you:

1. I wrote a piece over at Moxie Bird about a family in Canada that is keeping the gender of their youngest child a secret. From the world. Even the grandparents. The comments are starting to get some chatter going, so come offer your two cents. (Don't worry, mine involves lollipops. It's not super intellectual. As if you'd even think that.)

2. If you'd rather do something more mindless, read my roundup of The Billboard Awards over at MamaPop. Pay special attention to Nicki Minaj's face. Is it *always* like that?

3. AND! I'm working on a piece for Wednesday to highlight my current favorite bloggers. (Well, five of them anyway.) Is there a blog you're reading and loving? Who is the best-kept secret of the blogosphere (I hate that word) at the moment? Please to be sharing with me?

4. Aside from the snakes, spiders, and bobcats of Texas that threaten my existence on the regular, I am also currently stressing rabbits.

They're super cute and stuff. But when they come all the time? They tend to have to shit during their stay. All over the lawn. Did I mention my two-year old and his candy fetish? You do the math.

Oh, to Hell With it...

2011-05-20T14:03:00.002-04:00

...I just installed a new widget on the blog to improve the comments section for everyone. It'll make it easier for me to reply to you, and it has that fun CommentLuv thing-y, which helps to promote your latest post.

SEE?! FUN!

The thing is that I installed it after I wrote that post this morning, and as of yet, I'm unable to import my OLD comments. In other words, I had to make a new post to test this badboy out.

And so here we are.

Ahem.

Check it out, would you? What do you think?

(My god, does it even work? Here, if not...have a look at this still from one of my favorite childhood movies. It should give you an idea of my deep-seeded dysfunction.)

(I mean, seriously. Why the HELL was I watching that shit as a child?! )

UPDATE: As I suspected, there is no "Comments" link at the end of the post. You have to click the title to get to the comments. I'll work on this. And by "work on this" I mean, totally freak out and beg someone else to help me figure it out. Wheee!

UPDATE #2: I fixed it! I shall celebrate by eating some trans fats.