Momaical is a humorous look at trying not to raise a flock of assholes. Cursing & copious coffee involved.

Momaical: [mom-mahy-uh-kuhl] = (Hybrid of Mom and Maniacal.)


How Can I Love Someone This Little So Much?

How can I love someone so little so much? I look over at her snuggled up in the corner of the couch, crunching on pita chips.  She's wrapped up in a fluffy blanket, hair all wild from her nocturnal adventures.  She's drinking a giant bottle of sparkling water she stole from her daddy.  I watch her chomp her way through the chips, spraying crumbs like pixie dust.  She is enraptured in some cartoon and I get to just observe her on the sidelines. 

My heart is exploding with love.  Her soft cheeks, pink from the warmth of the blanket, make me want to reach out and touch them.  Her baby hands are becoming more "big girl" every day.  Soon they will lose their plumpness.  Her tiny toes are growing and she is losing her baby chunkiness in her legs.  She will always be my baby but she is changing every day.  Now she can turn on the tv by herself, get her own snacks and play by herself.  She needs me less and less.

It doesn't seem possible that she's already at this point, didn't I just give birth to her?  She should still be tiny, sleeping in my arms and making those amazing baby coos.  A heartbeat later we are here.  And, in the blink of an eye she will be in preschool, ready to take on the campus. 

In the meantime I need to take advantage of these ephemeral moments.  Snuggle when she crawls into my "yap" to "weed a book."  Stop cleaning and "cower" pictures with her.  Tuck her in at night and tell her stories.  And breathe in these blessed moments.

I get caught staring at my baby girl.  She glances over at me, mouth full of chips and says.  "I yove you Mommy.  Now, stop yooking at me.  You is weird."


Shut the Fucupcakes

Announcer: Are your kids robbing you of your will to live?  Is the boss riding your ass about your boring job?  Slumlord threatening eviction because of late rent?  Sure, you could pack up your belongings in a Hefty and head for your parent’s basement.  Or you could try Shut the Fucupcakes! 

From the makers of "SWASS Be Gone" Personal Hygiene Spray and "Bubbling Vajayjay" Sparkling Douche - it's Shut the Fucupcakes

Mother-In-Law:  “I can't believe my son married you.  He was dating such a lovely girl before you came along and ruined things.  Whatever happened to her?  I think she became a supermodel/doctor/humanitarian.”

Sounds like you could use Shut the Fucupcakes.

Mother-In-Law:  “My son said you never cook – unlike his last girlfriend who was a gourmet chef...  They're probably not as good as mmmph, mmph, mppph."

Shut the Fucupcakes are a MUST for so many occasions.

Dickhead Neighbor: “Hey, douche bag.  Could you LEAVE your garbage cans out any longer? And, maybe you could mow your lawn once and a while, you prick.”

Drag the lawn mower out of its rusty coma in the shed. OR serve up a batch of Shut the Fucupcakes.  It's your choice.

Dickhead: “You can't be serious.  You're giving me dessert instead of mowing?  Mmm, disisgood, mmm, umm, munch." 

Is life throwing lemons at your head?  Bake them into Shut the Fucupcakes!

Therapist: We need to talk about your child's behavior.  He is beginning to show homicidal tendencies...

Shut the Fucupcake STAT!

Therapist: We are considering major shock therapy for his bhavomunch umm umm.

Shut the Fucupcakes are perfect for every occasion. Why spend thousands of dollars on a wedding cake, when you can serve Shut the Fucupcakes?

Best ManI have seen some the groom do some fucked up shit.  Remember the time in New Orleans with the transvestite hooker - What the Fucupcakes? But I haven't finished my speech, Yum, um, nomnomnom."

And, don't forget Mommy's Little Helper: Bite Sized Shut the Fucupcakes! Now in Chocolate and Marshmallow Fluff. 

Whiny Tiny Person: Waaaaaaahhhhhmmph, mmph, mmph.

Wife: Honey - why is there a woman at our door holding a mini version of you in her arms?

Shut the Fucupcakes: For All of Life's Little Emergencies.

Disclaimer: Shut The Fucupcakes may not actually make people shut the fuck up. 


The Running of the Squirrels

I discovered early in life that people are inherently who they are.  And, that even if you think that you can change them - you can't. You have to surround yourself with people whose crap you can deal with as long as the wonderful outweighs the baggage.  I truly believe that. 

Until it was my turn.

I have always been someone that saves bugs and animals.  Instead of killing an animal, I would shoo them outside and set them free to live out the remainder of their time here on Earth. They would chirp songs of gratitude and do some of my laundry in return.  I did my best to dodge animals crossing the road and followed Bob Barkers constant reminders to have my pets spayed or neutered. 

And then I moved to California and shit went down.

The girls and I spend the vast majority of our day outside.  I mean, we are in fabulous weather central - how could we not?  Our house has an amazing backyard - so it's no wonder venomous predators stake out this territory. But, along with the tarantulas, black widows, "ebil zombie cwickets" and nearby rattlers, we have squirrels. Not rabid squirrels. Not ebil zombie squirrels. Just plain ol' squirrels. Nothing even remotely exciting. 

For a little while it was kind of cute to watch the squirrels play in the trees along my backyard.  They scamper across the "squirrel highway" (our fence) and jump around. Adorable, right?  Until they started to get REALLY brazen.  They began to run closer and closer until they were right on the porch.  One of them drank my only Diet Coke.  I probably wouldn't have minded if it was a Mountain Dew.  But my last Diet Coke???  Plus, once you offer them a cold beverage it's all over.  The next thing you know they're sleeping on your pull-out, renting porn and storing bad beer in your fridge "just for a few nights." I'm all set with that.  

This na├»ve New England girl tried to shoo them away.  They just looked at me like "You have GOT to be kidding."  Ok.  I researched humane ways to rid our yard of the pesky squatters.  Sites recommended hot pepper flakes or soap to keep them out because "they don't like the smell of it on their fur".  An hour later they're making chili and taking bubble baths in our fountain.

So, the girls and I chased them - thinking they would run away and stay in the trees where we couldn't reach them.  Instead, it became a game of squirrel tag.  Unfortunately the squirrels were "it" and we were running the hell away from our furry adversaries.  Fine.  You wanna play that way? Game on.

The next time the squirrels were in the yard I picked up a rock and chucked it.  Normally I couldn't hit the Coliseum with a rock even if I were close enough to lick it. (Which I have been advised against doing by my friend Maureen who has actually licked it and lived to tell about it).   Anyway, I chucked a rock at the squirrel and I FREAKIN HIT IT.  I just about keeled over from shock.  I couldn't have hit it if you paid me a million dollars to do so.  But this time, I bonked it right in the squirrel belly. 

Instead of running away - she put her paws on her fat furry squirrel hips and said "Oh no you DIDN'T." Then she just swung her tail in my direction and then gave her gang sign to the squirrel posse.

Oh. Snap.

The flood gates opened and I was in the middle of my own Pamplona.  Squirrels are coming at me from all angles.  My yard was a free all-you-can-eat-buffet squirrel stampede.  They were sitting IN my potted plants because now the restaurant was standing room only.   High on squirrel power coupled with peyote from the succulents, we watched the uninvited guests hurl and smash the terracotta. It exploded into a rodent riot right before my eyes. Within moments, all my plants were decimated like a salad bar at Ruby Tuesday's.  A random woodchuck was using a cactus thorn as a toothpick.  Dude, you're not even a squirrel.  He shrugged and showed me the invite he pulled off the board at the college down the street.   Something inside me broke.

I tied a bandana around my head, streaked Bad Gal Lash under my eyes (which highlighted the feral look in my eyes) and grabbed the big guns.  Literally.  I pocketed a can of Skoal and a few nips of Jack and head out back.

Well, it's just me and my trusty old Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model air rifle. Lucky I got a compass in the stock.

My husband comes out on the porch.  "What the hell are you doing with my air rifle?  Give that to me.  You'll shoot your eye out."


I hand the squirrel eliminator to him, head back inside to trade my Jack for a flute of Veuve and get the girls to start coloring targets for practice.

Long story short - some very lucky relatives are getting fancy hats for Christmas.  My husband is on order to bag a few more for the holidays.

Christmas came early this year, kids.  Now, eat up.  Yer squirrel's gitten cold.


My Life is Out of Con-Troll

In the late 80's there were these creepy troll dolls that everyone had to have.  If you shake them, their hair stood on end.  They had different colored squeaky hair and their faces looked like someone accidentally ran over a yard gnome, realized their mistake and then drove forward and backwards a few times to make sure the gnome never made their way back into the garden. 

I'm a "you'd better sleep with one eye open" kind of cute!

They also kind of look like the Olsen twins. 

Do you like Troll dolls?  I like Troll dolls.  Like them, or else..."

My sister had an army of these atrocities.  And my brother, who is really one of the funniest people on the planet,  use to torture us by hiding them all over the house.  You'd flip over the sheet to get into bed and greeted by one of these things staring at you.  Bounding up the stairs you'd be face to face with one in a noose fashioned from the string that pulled down the ladder to the attic.  Take a big gulp of your kool-aid and one of them would be staring at you, encased in a coffin of ice.  I had nightmares about them for a loooooong time. 

Years of therapy later, I had forgotten about these annoying plastic piles of hideous. I thought I was free.  I no longer carried a mirror in my pocket to check around corners in case there was an army of them in my vanity, trying on all of my Wet N' Wild lip glosses.  I ate breakfast in peace without finding them inside a lemon poppy seed muffin.  Remember the ones you could squeeze so they could hold on to stuff?  Yeah, they showed up in the shower, car, backpack for school, EVERYWHERE.  I was free at last from their evil plastic death grip.  You can imagine my surprise when I realized that I had given birth to them. 

I'm in the laundry room and in my peripheral vision I spot one.  Her hair is wild and pink (she must have gotten a hold of the sidewalk chalk again).  Her arms are stretched out.  She has a half crazed grimace.  I try to deflect her advances with the door to the dryer - but she skirts away at the last second.  She grabs on to my leg and won't let go no matter how hard I shake it. 

I'm panicking.  Oh, God. They're back.  They're BACK!  And now they can TALK! 

20 years of R&D has brought "improvements" to the troll dolls.  And, talk they do.  Incessantly.   It's like my worst nightmare has come true.

I'm folding my Mt. Kilimanjaro of laundry and one pops their head out from inside the pile.  "What are you doing? What's your favorite season? My favorite season is spring, winter, summer, fall.  When can we go to Massachusetts?  Grammy's chocolate milk is better than yours."  "Me are a good fowder.  Dees is me shiwts."

I grab the only thing in my reach - the laundry basket - and fling it over the closest troll.  And run down the hallway to safety.  BUT THEY FIND ME. THEY ALWAYS FIND ME.  And, ignoring the troll dolls doesn't make the talking stop.  It just keeps going and going and becoming more inane. 

Forced to find safety in the bathroom, I lock the door and turn on the fan.  I hide in the tub like I've been told to do in case of an emergency - but it's no use.  The pounding on the door gets louder as does the constant stream of commentary: "My favorite color is pink. What's your favorite color? Blue? Do you like that yucky puke green color?  I hate it.  What's for lunch? I want mac and cheese but not the yucky kind.  The yummy Annie's and I guess I will eat the protein you always are blabbing about. I mean, who needs muscles?" 

I scream "Go away!  There's nothing for you here!" from my former sanctuary.  But it's no use.  I see troll fingers wiggling under the door.  Troll arms are piling books next to the door.  They have picked the lock.  I close my eyes and pray for a quick death.  Filthy troll hands pry open the shower door.  "Me finded you! Me yove hide n seek!"  "I'm so totally hungry and you're just relaxing in the tub. I mean, what's a girl gotta do to get some food around here?" "Yeah, me are stawving."

It's then I realize the trolls have won and I am back in their plastic clutches.  I am being dragged down death row by singing trolls - smiling their serial killer grins.  I am unceremoniously deposited in the kitchen to make them "yunch." I put a pot on the stove for some Annie's, chicken and broccoli.  I make an addition to the grocery list: Aussie 3 Minute Miracle Conditioner - because the troll's hair needs some help like you read about.  Good thing I have my therapist on speed dial.


I'm Gonna Be A Billionaire!

I am so excited.  I'm talking superdy-duperdy-extra-McExcited-with-a-cherry-on-top kind of excited!  I probably shouldn't even be sharing this with you - but I am bursting inside.  I can't keep it a secret any longer.   I also wanted you to know what is going on because you'll probably be hearing from me next in Bora Bora or Fiji.  I HAVE HIT THE MOTHER LODE.

I received notice today that I am the personal recipient of $30.4 million.  I'm not sure how they found me.  I guess they really like my blog.  But it HAS to be legitimate because it's from the "personal resident Attorney in Burkina Faso to Late Hero Muammar Gaddafi from Libya." 

Muammar Gaddafi wants to give ME his money.  I mean, he's dead - you know after that whole warlord Libya thing.  His family was also killed in the war - so it makes TOTAL sense that I am next in line for the inheritance!  

Barrister Walid Shaukat just needs all of my bank account information to "deposit" it.  And then I am an instant millionaire!  Woo hoo!

But wait....there's more!

I ALSO received notice today from Ms. Mariam Justin Yak.   She got my blog information though her Internet search from "your country national chamber of commerce when I was searching for a good and trust worthy person who will be my friend."  She wants to meet because she wants to "get know each other better and trust each other because I believe any good relationship will only last if it is built on truth and real love."

Blah, blah blah - inheritance money.  Bank.  Needs ME and will share some of her ca-ching.  Boo yah!  Millionaire....again....

And that's not all....THIS came into my inbox as well!

I am Mrs. Fatimah Abd-Al-Hamid, a Muslim woman.  I have picked you for an inheritance.  I am aware that this is certainly not a conventional way of approach to establish a relationship of trust and confidence, but you will realize the need for my action.

Whoa.  I mean, just whoa.  Is this the BEST DAY EVER or what?!?  Now I just have to hand over all my personal information to THREE COMPLETE STRANGERS and sit back to wait for all this money.  I wanna be a billionaire, so freakin bad....

As I sit here, basking in the knowledge that in a few short hours I will be stinking rich and window shopping at Chanel, all I have to say people really fall for this?  Are people REALLY THAT STUPID?   I'm guessing that yes, people really are that stupid. Otherwise why would these spammers bother?

Sigh.  It looks like I have to work hard for my money and drive ALL THE WAY to the store for that winning lottery ticket.  That's my plan to making it big time.   See you in Bora Bora!  


Late Night Conversations with Mr. Sandman

To: Mr. Sandman
From: Tracy
Time: 2:13 am

Dear Mr. Sandman:
Hi there!  I know you're very busy and all - getting all those millions of people to sleep.  However, it appears you've missed me tonight.  I can't shut my brain off and really need it to stop.  I've already done all the things I can think of to relax but they're not working.  If you could please swing back and sprinkle some of that fairy dust on me I'd really appreciate it.  I can still get a good 5 hours of sleep in before the kids get up and survive the day.


To: Manly Mr. Sandman
From: Tracy
Time: 3:07 am

Hey Mr. Sandman -
Did I offend you with the fairy dust comment?  Because I'm still awake.  I mean, I was able to remember the name of the movie with Katherine Heigl and Seth Rogan (Knocked Up) and the lyrics to Let's Hear It For The Boy - which I haven't heard since middle school.  And, I was able to stress about 3,476 things that haven't happened yet.  Which was great and all.  But, I really didn't need to do any of these things.  So, if you're angry about the fairy dust thing - I meant to say that you're very manly and please come whack me with a 2x4 or smash a beer can on my forehead - whatever it is you need to do to help shut off my brain so I can get at least 4 hours of sleep in before the cherubs are awake.


To: Mr. Asshole
From: Bitter Bitch
Time: 4:27 am

Hey Fucker.  Yeah you suck. Ok?  Clearly you don't have any kids because you are an ugly, mean son of a bitch and no one will procreate with you.  Because if you had any kids or ever got laid in your life you would have let me go to sleep at 9:30 when I was so freakin tired I couldn't keep my eyes open.  But you didn't.  Now I have to deal with the damn kids with no fucking sleep which is already difficult enough with a full nights sleep.  So, fuck you - ok?

To: Fabulous Sandman
From: Repentant Tracy
Time: 4:43 am

I didn't mean that. I'm sorry.  Please.  Please.  Please come help me fall asleep.  I need at least one REM cycle and I can survive the day.  Please. For the love of God.  I am begging. 

5:07: Zzzzzzz

5:52:  "Mommy!  Guess what!  Bunnies yike cawits! Me are wake and wanna watch Diego! Go Diego Go!"

Sigh...and begin.  I am so going to bed at 8:00 tonight. 


Who I Am Not

I want to be that person lets their children run free in the playground without a worry in the world.  I want to stand on the outskirts of the sand, monkey bars, water hideous and talk with my friends.  I want to trust that there are no creepy people waiting in the outskirts and that everyone at the park is there for the sole intention of allowing their children to wander around free-range and play to their little hearts content. 

But I'm not.

I want to be the mom that sends their children off to the pool to swim and then falls asleep pool side.  The woman that closes her eyes to the splashing and the mayhem and actually relaxes instead of worrying that their cherub is going to slip into oblivion under the water and no one will see.  I want to be the person that is so immersed in a book that when someone says "Where's your daughter?" I can laugh and say "Hmmm.  I'm not sure!"

But I'm not.

I want to be the person that wanders away from their carriage at the grocery store to find the perfect asparagus and speak for a moment to a friend.  To chat with the fishmonger about the freshest salmon and pair it with dill while my children play hide and seek among the produce - laughing because they found a spot so great that even I can't find them.

But I'm not.

I want to shower and do my makeup and step into the world looking buffed, puffed and tall in my platform stilettos.  My nails; perfect.  My hair; thick and fabulous and in the ideal style without a single (noticeable) white.   Size 4 Seven For All Mankinds - like a glove.  I want to know I look "running into ex-boyfriend" hot every day.  I want the quiet, peace and time to do this daily routine without anyone crying, whining or complaining that I'm taking too long.  I want to be that person that LOVES to workout.

But I'm not.

I want to sit on the floor and paint and color and craft and play without worrying about the ridiculous mess. I want to take joy cooking delicious and healthy concoctions that my girls will fondly remember and wish to replicate for their children.  I want to find that line between helicopter and free range mom and send my girls into the world giggling and wild.  I want to drift into blissful oblivion each night because my kids are healthy and happy and are going to live long, wonderful lives. 

But I'm not that person.  I don't even know how to begin to be that person.  I'm just winging it through this whole experience.  I am a habitual worrier - convinced someone is going to snatch my babies and my life will be over.  I don't know how to relax.   There's never enough hours in the day to spend special moments with both my children, my husband and my sanity.  There's too many "no's" and breaking up pint sized arguments.  And, exhaustion. Oh so much exhaustion.  There's just not enough me to go around.  There are days enveloped in "I'm not doing enough." or "I'm just failing as a human." And the occasional "I want to hide under a rock and have everyone leave me alone because I am sinking into my own hideous and don't want to drag you down with me."

But I can't.  I have little people that need me.  And a husband that loves me.  And health.  We are all healthy and safe.  At the end of every day I remember to thank God for all my blessings.  And, try to remember that I am doing the best that I possibly can.  And maybe tomorrow I can attempt one less "no" and a little more patience.  Or one moment when I let my children play without that paranoia that someone is waiting in the wings to take them and my life along with it.  Or one less piece of candy which may lead me closer to that elusive size 4.  And hope that my children know that my crazy actions and paranoia and "don't do that's" are drenched in love.  Because I'm not going to ever be that free spirit that lets the winds dictate our world.  But I am going to love my children so much it hurts and hope that's what they take with them when they drift into dreamland at the end of each day. 


The Shot Heard Round The Neighborhood

A gunshot sound behind closed doors shook us from our reveries.  Lena and I stared at each other in shocked silence. Neither of us moved.  We knew that our path was forever changed from that one action.

I didn't want to face what was behind that door.  I wanted to run away and pretend it didn't happen.  For someone to come to my home and clean up the messy remains.  The clanging still resonating in my ears; a bell that tolls for thee.   There is no one here besides myself and the girls.  I don't want to face this alone; more importantly I do not want to plague my children's memories with this horror.  I must do this quickly to be able to begin the healing process. 

I take a deep breath and prepare myself to witness the aftermath of the destruction that occurs following such a sound.  My daughter peeks from around the corner. Ugh!  I want to shield her young mind from this carnage.  The door that I have been asking my husband to fix slowly creaks open. I don't want to look but I must.  Lena's shocked words echo my sentiments.  Oh. My. God.  It was worse than I could have imagined.  I wish my baby wasn't there to witness the macabre destruction.  I will not be able to scrub a senseless suicide from her young memory.   Why did this have to happen?  Why?  We should have seen the signs.  We could have stopped this.  Now all that is left is the gruesome entrails of a shattered soul.

I begin to scoop the viscera.  Unceremoniously they are deposited into a Pyrex coffin.   Scrubbing takes my mind off the task and makes quick work of the repugnant chore.  A few more swipes and the scene of the suicide has been cleansed. 

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

I say a quick prayer:

Dear God.  Please welcome this spaghetti squash into your kingdom.  It's time here on Earth was short and stringy and apparently troubled to leave this world in such a desperate manner.  Also, please inspire me to whip up some other dinner with this bowl of spaghetti squash guts.  My husband is on his way home and always makes fun of the way I can screw up dinner - even in the microwave. 


And in the seventh hour: there was spaghetti squash quiche.  And it was good. 

Funeral Pyre-x


Cock (a-nut) Tease

Dear Coconut Water Beverage;

There you were, mingling among the Naked and Odwalla. At first glance you appeared shy, reticent to be among the fruity celebrities.  But you're COCONUT!  You're a star all on your own.  You're sweet, delicious and smell divine.  People pay lots of money to drink alcoholic beverages out of your shell.  You're in my conditioner.  You're in my cooking oil.  I'd bathe in you if it were socially acceptable.  And there you are.  Right in my line of vision.  And, in drinkable water form.  Sparkling too!!!  That's like adding a dash of fairy soul to the perfect beverage!!!!

I excitedly looked around and realized you were checking me out too.  Really? Me?!?  Wow!  I mean, who am I? Just a nobody in the right place at the right time.  You were MINE for the taking!  I rushed with you to the cashier before you changed your mind.  I catapulted the bags of groceries in the trunk, anxious to get you alone.

It took a few tries to get your cap off - but I was so excited about the event to follow it was worth the anguish.  Finally, it was time.  I threw myself unabashedly into the act.   And now I feel dirty, used and lied to.

I was expecting the drink form of Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion.   Like the beach.  Like vacation. Relaxation rolled in coconut and dipped in heaven.   Instead, what tickled my tonsils was what I imagine would be like drinking from an iguanas catheter. 

I mean how DARE you call yourself coconut.  You're nothing LIKE coconut.  You're the Ru Paul of coconut - A Beautiful Tall Drink of Lies.  Just one big Cock-a-nut tease.

For shame, "coconut" drink. For shame. 

Unkind regards,


Don't Believe in Zombies? I Didn't Either Until...

It happened on a day just like today.  (Well, mostly because it was today.  That's how it was just like today.  Because otherwise it wouldn't be just like today.  There may be some similarities but it wouldn't be EXACT.  But, it's my story so zip it and I'll continue.  Sheesh.) 

Where was I...Oh, yes.  It was a day just like today.  A normal October day in California.  It was exactly seven hundred million degrees outside.  Mother Nature didn't seem to receive the email that fall had arrived. (I read on Mother Nature's twitter: @Muthanatcha "God Damn FeedBurner".  I'm not sure if this had anything to do with the fact that we were mere seconds from bursting into flames.)    Sweat beaded up on your forehead to simply evaporate before it had time to drip into your eye and make it all stingy.  I was either going through early menopause or it was freakin hot outside.  Either way it sucked.  Something had to be done before we ensconced ourselves in frozen GoGurts to survive the day.

118 degrees?!?  Ok, who pissed off Mother Nature?

I packed up the girls and took them to the pool at the club.  We had the entire thing to ourselves - which was surprising because it is always bustling even when it's a balmy 102 degrees.  The metal gate on the fence creaked open - as if no one had been there in years. Hmm - strange.  Oh well!  More seats in the shade for us!

We quickly shed our layers and jumped into the cool, refreshing water - finally getting some relief from the oppressive heat.  Lena swims to the "next lame over" and dives under the ropes.  Suddenly she comes up screaming.  "Ahhhhhhhh! Now I know why there's no one here!!!! Ahhhhhhhhhh!" 

She scrambles out of "Lame 5" and starts placing orange traffic cones at the end of "Lame 4".  Emmeline and I are just watching the scene unfold in front of us.  When Lena's done lining the cones up, she's out of breath and slightly pale.

"I know why no one's here today Mommy.  Because there's an Evil Zombie Cricket in Lame 4. It probably ate all the other people that came to swim today.  I am blocking the lame off so no one else gets their brains eaten by it."

Oh.  That explains it. 

Emmeline and I lean in to look a little closer.  Sure enough, there's a cricket doing the dead arthropod's float.   Emmeline freaks out.  "Ebil zombie cwicket!! Yet's get owta hew!"  We evacuate the pool.  I wrap E up in a towel and go to pull the cricket out of Lane 4 to end the madness.  Except, it's no where to be found.  Dun, dun, dun....

"Lena, I can't find the cricket. Do you know where it went?"

"Um, hello?  What part of Evil Zombie Cricket did you not getIt's a Zombie.  It probably went to a cemetery AND IS BUILDING AN EVIL ZOMBIE ARMY!"

Now, I'm not up on all my zombie lore - but apparently my 5 year old is. When I asked her how she knows so much about zombies and their habits, she credited Alvin and the Chipmunks.  Which, is really like learning from the experts.  Thank goodness she took the crash course. We were safe...for now.  The rest of the afternoon, my girls kept vigil to make sure no more swimmers were needlessly converted to zombies led by Ebil Zombie Cwickets. 

The End.  Or is it?

You can run, ebil zombie cwicket.  But we'll find you. 
And then we'll crush you. 
With Mommy's flip flops which double as lethal weapons. 
Just ask the Black Widow.


Old People Should Not Drive

Old people should not drive.  Now, this generalization does not include people like James Bond who can still parallel park a van full of nuns while driving backwards and on only two wheels at 127 mph.  I'm talking about the lady I watched drive up on a giant concrete embankment at Trader Joe's while dragging two shopping carts that hooked on her mirror and then kept on driving over the curb and into the road.  I'm talking about the man who was so stooped over all I saw were a set of arthritic knuckles and a wisp of dandelion puff that may have been hair.   My two year old could have seen the road better than he did.  Come to think of it, I should have offered to let him borrow her booster seat. 

I'm talking about the woman who was carrying a purse that may or may not have been half a dog.  Now, she was neither elderly nor driving but should be talked about nonetheless because she was using a dog's ass as a purse. 

Fido goes EVERYWHERE with me and even matches my slippers!

But I digress.  Back to my diatribe about the dangers of old people + vehicles = accidents.  There needs to be some type of driving test when people reach a certain age.  Yes, it's ageism.  Yes, it's a pain in the ass for those who are still capable of driving.  But, it would have prevented Rip Van Winkle from hospitalizing a friend because he didn't even look before changing lanes.  Or kept the old man off the road who almost hit my husband while on his motorcycle because Ebenezer ran a very red light.   Or the fact that I couldn't let my children play in our front yard because Cruella DeVil next door backed out of her driveway at 70 mph without looking backwards. 

How do you make this happen?  I have no idea.  This is why I'm not a politician (that and a closet full of skeletons in Ann Taylor).  I just know that we watched an elderly woman crash right through the storefront of a Baskin Robbins, trapping an employee behind the counter - forcing them to eat their way out through gallons of Jamoca Almond Fudge and Rock n' Pop Swirl Sherbet.   Okay, that last part might not have really happened. But if gallons of frozen heaven was the only thing blocking my way to freedom you can bet your fat ass that I'd have the ice cream headache of a lifetime.  

I know there are young people who suck at driving.  I know there are middle aged people who hit everything but the lottery in their vehicle.  I know there are men who drive minivans with bad comb overs and check out young hot women that wouldn't pour their Go Girl energy drink on his car if it were on fire - (which is just wrong because he shouldn't set his sights so high).    I know that some women are too concerned with applying another coat of Bad Gal Lash while driving so they can have eyelashes that could double as tarantulas.   There are a lot of sucky drivers out there.  It just seems that there are a lot MORE sucky old people drivers. 

So, the moral of this story is: Don't be An Ass Purse.  Stop driving if you can't see over the steering wheel or you're starting to have the reflexes of a sea cucumber.  And, if you're not sure that I'm talking to you - then I probably am.

This has been a Public Service Announcement.
Friends Don't Let Friends Be Ass Purses. 
Or, use dog's asses as purses.

If You Like This - Please Share It!

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

Featured Writer Here!

Read me In the Powder Room!