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.)


The March of the Freakshows

Is that your child dressed like a homeless person?  Yes.  Yes it is.

For years I fought the quotidian battle of the outfits with my children. I spent time, effort and a lot of money coordinating cute things from Baby Gap, Janie and Jack, Old Navy and Children's Place.  Cute top? Check.  Adorable skirt? Check. Matching tights? Hell yeah. Teeny tiny shoes: yes and even yesser.  Hair accessory? Duh.

Then, they got all mobile and opinionated.  My vision of tiny doll-like-girls was tossed aside with the matching ensembles.  Lena shunned any jeans and insisted on wearing "soft pants" with everything.  Colors, patterns, styles - be dammed.  Emmeline has followed suit (heinous leopard print clown suit - but suit nonetheless). They have proclaimed "I will wear the things I feel like wearing when I feel like wearing them and rock it with panache" and never looked back.  And, who am I to stop them?

Perhaps against my better judgment they have left the house wearing (just to name a few):
  • Tiaras
  • Princess Dresses
  • Gymnastics leotards over sweat suits
  • Plastic Rain Boots and bathing suits
  • A bat costume
  • Clothes that belong to me
  • Clothes that belong to their friends
  • Clothes that I have no idea where the hell they came from
  • Clothes that are all one color but different variations of it
  • Clothes that even Stevie Wonder could tell don't match
  • Clothes that are two sizes too small
  • Clothes that are several sizes too big
  • Gaudy rhinestone clip-on earrings. Sometimes on their ears. Sometimes in other places.
  • Stickers in their hair
  • Extremely fancy Christmas dresses - all velvet and crinoline - in August.  With wool tights.  And monkey mittens
  • Flip flops and snow pants in the summer
  • A plastic bowl as a hat
  • Feety pajamas and cowboy boots
Gymnastics leotard on backwards: Check
Swim shirt worn as a skirt: Check
Pink soft pants: Check
Giant Singing Turkey as Accessory: Check

Getting dressed is NOT my battle with the girls - because there are SO FREAKIN MANY OTHER BATTLES waged on a daily basis.  You want to look like you just crawled out of a Salvation Army donation bin - be my guest.  However there is ONE exception to the rule.  You will not wear this:


Why I'm Different Than The Others In The Bloggers Beauty Contest

As I have mentioned a few thousand times or so - I am in the running for the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funniest Moms contest.  So, what makes me different than the rest of the 200+ bloggers competing against me for fame, fortune, bragging rights?  Well, I'll tell you.

I was born with something known as Sectoral Hyperchromic/Heterochromia/Chimera (aka I have a weird brown streaky thing in my eye).

See that brown streak?  It does not mean I'm full of shit.

Sectoral Hyperchromic / Heterochromia / Chimera is an extremely rare eye condition that causes part of the iris to be a different color.  I don't want to bore you with all the scientific blah blah - as there are many theories of the cause of this with big unpronounceable words that mean a whole lot of nothing to me. 

But basically it boils down to one of these two reasons:
  • I am either a descendant of royalty (Alexander the Great had this and was very common trait in the Royal Families of Russia, Denmark, and other European Courts).

  • Or I ate my twin in utero.

So, I have that going for me.  Which is nice. It also helps me stand out among the other bloggers. Does it make me a better writer than the other bloggers? No. Not in the slightest. But, it does give me a leg up in the freak show categories.'re probably going to want to be seen with me. ;)

Perhaps I am a descendant of royalty and soon my long lost family will step up and claim me?
Now, I'm not saying I'll come to your house and eat you if you don't vote for me.  I'm also not not saying that. 


Vote for Momaical.  Good things will happen.  Bad things won't.


You Say Playland - I Say Infectious Diseases Ward

I have come to the definitive conclusion that I was not a hamster in a former life.  Not that there was really a question of "Hmmm I wonder if I was ever a small, furry, insipid animal that runs around in a wheel all day long on the path to Nowheresville?"   But, just in case there was any lingering doubt, it has since been eradicated.

On Saturday I went to drop Lena off at a birthday party of one of her friends. I walked into hell on earth: a gigantic habitrails with fifty million little screaming, crying, germy tiny people oozing in and out of the apparatus.   And before I had time to think NORWALK VIRUS - my daughter was absorbed.

Well, clearly Emmeline was not one to be left out - birthday invite or not.  She charged right into the amoeba of hideous and I had no choice but to follow in her wake or lose her forever.  Armed with a fistful of hand sanitizer I climb into an early, garishly colored grave. 

Don't go too quickly!  Mommy is slightly over the height limit!

The rule was "When you hear your name called over the loud speaker - that means your mommy or daddy is here to pick you up.  Please come out at that time."  Um, yeah.  Lena can't "hear" me when I'm calling her from 5 feet away.  Therefore my husband was in charge of trying to keep an eye on her.  Which, as you can imagine, is incredibly easy in 20,000 feet of serpentine tubes, festering ball pits of piss, chutes and ladders, and several different padded rooms. On a side note, I may just sequester myself into one of the padded rooms and save my family the trouble of having me committed. 

Bruised, battered and disoriented, we emerge from the labyrinth of filth several hours later.  I bathe my children in strawberry scented sanitizer and take them home to pray they are not human petri dishes.  I'll let you know in a few days what form of pleurisy descends upon my household. 

Also - still in the running for Top 25 Funniest Moms - and every single vote helps!  You can vote once every 24 hours.  You help me...I'll keep the laughs coming!  Only a few more spots until I'm in the top 25.  Please keep voting!  All your help is really appreciated! 


Mr. H.M. Work

He shows up unannounced EVERY MONDAY - our uninvited houseguest - Mr. H.M. Work. We can't get rid of him.  Before long, he'll be in our house all the time like a relative you can't turn away but can't stand.  What can we do?  It would be rude to toss him out the front door. Plus, he'd probably just set up camp in our front yard and embarrass us in front of the neighbors.  I send him away on Friday mornings.  I hope that will be the last of HM.  But Monday afternoon like clockwork, he's back. 

We've tried to embrace his presence and work him into our routine.  But Lena and he do not get along.  All throughout the week we are tortured with "I don't want to play with Mr. H.M. Work!  It's not fair!" If I had a dollar for every time I hear "I hate HMWORK" I could pay someone to take her place.  But, it's her responsibility - part of her job as a kid.  I simply must stand by and watch her.  This is her own quest to master. 

I try to help by giving her guidance - because I cannot do it for her.  "Lena, if you play a little bit each day with HMWORK it will be enough to get through the week."  But, she fights it.  HMWORK is like one of those annoying Mogwais that turn into Gremlins when you don't pay enough attention to them and all the sudden they are tearing up the living room and eating all your crullers and you have to spend all night mastering the beast.

Monday: "Why don't you spend a few minutes with HMWORK?"  "Nope - I promise I'll play with him tomorrow."  Tomorrow comes - more excuses, more arguing.  By the time Thursday comes around, HMWORK is a snarling ugly beast.  He's demanding.  He's pushy. He WILL be completed before bedtime because he goes in the backpack to his weekend home tomorrow because this is the responsibility with which we have been burdened by default.  But, he may take ALL AFTERNOON AND EVENING to be entertained to completion.

But, the crying.  Oh, the crying. And the whining.  HMWORK tortures my child.  Makes her do repetitive things like she's in boot camp.  "Mommy - I already know how to write the letter F.  Why does HMWORK make me keep doing it over and over and over?"  I want to hug her and tell her "I know you do honey - homework can sometimes be a waste of your time if it's not delegated in the correct way!"  But, that's not my job.  My job is to remind her that it's her responsibility to complete her role in HMWORK's world.  That this is a burden we all face and we must figure out how to balance it into our life because it's not going away for a very long time.  In fact, as you grow, so does HMWORK.  It becomes more unruly and more demanding and uglier. 

My husband is no help with HMWORK.  He didn't believe in HMWORK as a child.  So, I cannot use him as an example.  This is my lesson.  I must teach my children how to face the bully that is HMWORK and how to beat it.  How not to be crushed under it.  How to face off, a little at a time, when you are fresh and able to conquer the beast.  Because if you're not trained how to handle responsibilities like HMWORK at a young age, you may be eaten alive by it. 

We have survived this week's HMWORK invasion into our lives.  Just barely.  If you don't hear from me, check under the pile of worksheets and phonics lessons.  It will be that HMWORK has beaten me, dragged me into it's lair and destroyed me with paper cuts. 


Me Aw Stawvin

3:30 pm

Lena: "Oh. My. Gosh. WHY is there NEVER ANY FOOD IN THIS HOUSE. EVER???"

Emmeline: "Yeah. Me are hungwy. Der is no snacks. No yunch. Nuffin to eat.  Me most died.  Me aw stawvin."

Yup.  Looks like you're going to starve to death.  Not one thing to eat here.


Mobile Time Capsule

I know she's in there, somewhere buried underneath the rubble.  I open the door and detritus explodes out.  I'm shoveling through the disaster and praying she's ok. Can she breathe?  Is she scared in the dark, all alone?  Does she know that I'm here trying to claw my way to her freedom?

I yank a Happy Meal box full of petrified French fries from the wall of items preventing me from locating my 2-year-old.  This releases some of the pressure from the disaster and things begin to cave.  A sneaker kicks its way through.  I spy a hand of a very small child.  Oh. God.  I pull the puffy arm of a winter jacket hoping this is the piece of the Jenga puzzle that will send everything cascading.  The owner of the hand lets her presence be known.  It is McKenna - the American Girl Doll Gymnast. At least Bela Karolyi can breathe a sigh of relief.  Almost everyone is accounted for - except for MY child. 

I begin to follow a trail of sunflower seeds.  Some are half chewed, so at least I know she hasn't perished from starvation. 

There's a squished juice box, further proving my theory.  Crocs she was wearing when I last saw her. Yogurt pretzels.  DVD boxes.  Headphones.  Jackets. Lunch boxes.  Backpacks.  School work.  Books.  Notebooks.  A half eaten nugget.  Pencils. Crayons.  A monkey. 

A warm foot is finally located.  I yank it to make sure she's not asphyxiating. "Yeave me a-yone Mommy! I watchin High Schoow Musicaw!"

I breathe a sigh of relief.  She is ok and has been located in her car seat in my SUV.  Oh.  And the dog is with her.  Maybe he got all Saint Bernardy and went in after her with a nip around his collar? 

I look at the pile of atrocities that I was forced to move and realize I'm no longer driving a very large vehicle.  I'm driving a mobile time capsule.  I can see exactly what we have been up to since I completely cleaned and emptied the car out three days ago.  And, some other slightly horrifying things that I'd rather not think about as I suck them up in the shop vac.

So, no one can complain that we never do anything.  If you wish to see what we've been up to, just check out the filth collecting in my car.  There is also a slight chance that the Holy Grail may be located beneath the crap.  I'll let you know - if I ever get to the bottom of it. 

Although I'm not sure I want to.

All Up in Peanut Layne's Mix

My friend, Ms. Layne, has been diagnosed with an extremely rare autoimmune disease.  She's got a bunch of tiny people to care for in addition to trying to cope with her own challenges.  Several Epistolarians and I have commandeered her blog to try to help her out on our end.  Today, is my contribution to Life on Peanut Layne.  Stop by, say hello and watch a hilarious video about a high school obsession.


Mean Girls Suck

It was love the moment I laid eyes on her.  She toddled in and offered me a diaper to wear as a "Monkey Hat."  She had that effect on everyone - as group of 10 adults were all willing to walk around with size 4 Pampers on our heads without a second thought.  Although I did not give birth to her, she was my first baby girl. 

She has a sweetness to her that many lack.  She just wants people to be happy, and makes decisions to ensure that people around her feel loved.  In a few months she is going to graduate high school - which is simply incredible to me because in my mind she should still be six-years-old.  In the meanwhile she is dealing with the end of an era and on the precipice of a new dawn.  Unfortunately the experience is being clouded by a group of "friends" who are singling her out and giving credence to the term "mean girls". 

Now, this makes me want to fly across the country and slap a handful of teenagers - many of whom I have met throughout the years.  Unfortunately that is not in the cards at this time, nor do I feel she would wish I follow through on this desire.  But, words are my epees and I will wield them.  So, here's my letter to my not-so-baby girl:

Dear Pink Glitter Girl:

You are just about done.  Only a few months to go and you will have completed all your schooling requirements.  Right now you are dealing with a group of "friends" who are making what should be a really exciting time in your life - kind of sucky. And, I'm sorry this is something you have to cope with.  You see, in high school everything revolves around popularity and being liked by the "in group." The ones with the "most friends" wins.   And when you're in - it's GREAT!  But, popularity is a fickle friend that can turn on you abruptly and for no real reason at all leaving you lonely and sad.

The good news is that you're starting the next chapter of your life.  The more grown up chapter.  The one where you can choose people that are like you in personality.  That are kind. That are sharing.  That want to be with you despite your boyfriend, your family, your baggage.  They are there for you when you're dealing with life struggles and they are celebrating with you when you are handed tremendous successes.  They're not jealous nor petty.  They know all your skeletons and are able to laugh with you about them whilst simultaneously guarding your deepest secrets. You can call them up at 1:00 in the morning on a Tuesday to complain about something, knowing that you woke her out of a dead sleep, and she will insist that she was up.  You can complain about things from 20 years ago, things about this morning or things that may or may not ever happen. They will eat Ramen with you when you are poor. They will make you feel better about really bad hair cuts and tell you that an outfit looks terrible on you without hurting your feelings. They will know that you're insecure about your SAT scores and NEVER make fun of you for them. They will tell you that your ex-boyfriends new girlfriend isn't even CLOSE to as cute as you (even if he's dating Giselle).  And when some mean girl walks into a place where you are - she will warn you and you will all pretend like you are having SO MUCH FUN that you don't even notice the mean girls existence. THAT is a real friend. 

And, as you age, you begin to realize that you don't HAVE to be friends with the mean people.  Because the world is full of them.  Hold your head high, be dignified and classy around them - never give them ammunition to use against you. They will create enough of it on their own.  But you don't NEED them.  You will have your real friends.  You will also realize that it's ok to not have 50 million "best friends."  Deep down inside you will understand that you may only have a handful of really close girlfriends. Maybe only one. And, that's ok.  Life is not a popularity contest.  It's about being the youest you that you can be and surrounding yourself with people who love that you. 

Yes, it sucks right now as the petty girls are speaking badly about you and pulling all kinds of social media snubbing.  It hurts when your "friends" gang up against you and say cruel things.  It still hurts as an adult.  But you're almost through.  Hold your head high, smile that gorgeous smile and think about fabulous shoes.  Because really, they're bitches. No REAL friend would put you through that. And, I know it seems like the end of the world because this is the only world you know - and every hallway you walk down in school they are there whispering about you. Or worse, ignoring you.

The good news is in a few years you will have no idea who these girls are dating, what clothes they are wearing and what drama they are stringing along. Many of them will still be doing the same crap with the same group of friends.  But YOU will have created YOUR world now and you can rock it out loud.   Or, even better, you can laugh about what a train wreck they have become with your real friends - who won't judge your pettiness.  In fact, they'll listen to your same stories about how rotten they were to you - and then make you a funny ecard about it.  

Maybe, just maybe, they'll grow up.  And you can become "friends" with them once more.  But it will be YOUR choice and on your terms, not simply because you're forced to be together under the same high school roof.

Love, you can get through ANYTHING as long as you know it's only for a few more months.  There is an end in sight.  And then a beautiful and amazing beginning of the rest of your life.  And I will be there to celebrate all of it with you with your real friends.

Love  you more than chocolate rolled in glitter and dipped in Veuve Cliquot.

xoxoxo Tracy


Pablo Sick-asso

The whining was beating a tattoo on my eardrums, piercing my soul and draining all my energy.   It was pushing a headache from the depths of my cerebellum and out my forehead - wishing I had a spork to perform a self-lobotomy and end the torture.  My temples were keeping the beat of the Black Eyed Peas song bleeding through the speakers. Or, maybe it was my ears bleeding. Hard to tell.  

The little whine-o climbed into my lap.  I kissed her forehead in the hopes that it would be the panacea to end both our troubles.  My ther-mommy-ter immediately detected a problem: the impetus for the complete meltdown was provoked by a slight fever.  All of my plans to enjoy the beautiful weather were jettisoned and replaced with a Peppa Pig marathon.  Emmeline and I toasted flutes of orange juice and sipped chicken noodle soup with our pinkies extended.  Then I cocooned her in a giant blanket and there she lay, unmoving, for an hour.  That's how you know she is legitimately ill because she's typically jumpier than a frog in a frying pan. 

She decided that she wanted to go upstairs to get one of her babies to cuddle with on the couch.  I could hear her rummaging around - presumably to locate the most difficult of babies to find because the one on the top is NEVER the right one.  A few moments later I call up the stairs "Emmeline, are you ok?'  "Yes Mommy!  Me are pwayin wif me baby."   I sit down to enjoy a few more sips of my tepid Earl Grey while Emmeline is momentarily entertained. One minute...three minutes...ten minutes pass.  I want to believe it is because Emmeline is under the weather and is playing nicely by herself.  I also would like to purchase a lovely bridge for sale from a unicorn real estate agent.

"What's going on, baby girl?' I ask as I meander up the stairs. "Me are in your woom!"  Oh. Crap.  I practically trip over the swath of destruction leading the direction in which I will locate my 2-year-old.   A wayward ladybug rainboot.  Baby blanket.  Some of Lena's princess dresses and play shoes that are under STRICT order to not be even breathed near in her absence. The carnage grows as it leads me closer to the master bedroom.  My navy striped shirt.  Three of my husbands socks.  A pink striped scarf. The dog bed and a blanket. A Cinderella dress.  Red plastic sparkly high heels. A gaudy necklace. A tiara and fairy wings.  It was the toddler version of the Running of the Brides at Filene's Basement.  

How is it possible that THIS MUCH HAVOC could have been created in so little time?  I thought I had stepped over the worst of it.  But that was just the opening act for the master bathroom.

Apparently nothing makes you feel better than painting with Mommy's new jar of moisturizer - especially using a pressed powder sponge to ensure all the little nooks and crannies get the proper amount of anti-aging cream. 

Unless it's excavating Mommy's blush with your fingernail and painting the dog with the shards. Because EVERY princess needs a pink sidekick - even if you have to craft one out of Physician's Formula.


Rockin' 140 Characters

When I was young you had to admire the heartthrobs from afar.  You put up posters, drooled over them in Seventeen magazine and wrote your first name with their last name all over your Trapper Keeper/Notebook/Gap Satchel - what have you.  You COULD write a fan letter and then research where on God's green Earth to snail mail that proclamation of undying (and unrequited) affection. But, really it was much easier to decide if you were on Team Haim or Team Feldman and which member of the Breakfast Club with whom you were completely enamored. Stalking them brought it to a whole new level of commitment, research, and attention span which I lacked.

Nowadays you have insta-stalking tools like Google, Twitter and Facebook.  It makes hunting down celebrities so much easier. You have access to everything from their real names, addresses, social security numbers, blood type and pre- and post-surgery photos.  You can learn about their wants, their needs and their morbid fear of frogs.  You are your own celebrity private investigator and the only thing it costs you is your social life! 

But the best part about social networking is that you get to be up close and personal with any celebrity you wish to stalk. I mean, send love to.  For example I can send Joe Manganiello a tweet that says: "@JoeManganiello I wanna grind your ass like Hamburger Helper."  What the hell does that even mean?  No fucking clue.  But it doesn't matter because I can send it to him at midnight on a Tuesday if I feel like it.   And he will even read it!  I know this because he TWEETED IT TO ME!  See???

Joe Manganiello
Just wanted to say thank you to everyone out there in twitterland who take the time to write fun positive messages on my board!

Joe Manganiello
I may not be quick enough to read them all or respond to them all but it really means a lot to me. Thank you! And I'm busting my a$$...

I know it says "everyone" but secretly it's just for me.  See how he's half-winking?  That's our thing.

I would TOTALLY be stalking my dreamboat, Simon Baker.  But, apparently he is  not ready for the world to know of our love affair and has not joined the Twitterverse.  Sigh...

And, the best part: celebrity hotties might even FOLLOW YOU BACK! Which is a testament to the world how into you they really are. You *might* actually get a chance to use that Hall Pass from your husband.  You know the one where you said "If so-and-so wanted to sleep with me I could and you  wouldn't get mad." and he agreed to because he never imagined it would EVER come to fruition.  Yeah.  That one.

Unless we're talking about Adam Levine who for whatever reason refuses to follow his stalker self-professed soul mate: Shannon from My Brain On Kids (Here's her HIGH-LARIOUS letter to him on my other site: The Epistolarians).  A few of us tried to peer pressure him on Twitter to follow Shannon and he was all "I'm Adam Levine. I eat super models for lunch and cannot be bothered following people like you common folk". Ok, I'm not entirely sure that's what he was like, because he didn't cave to our persuasive goading.  Which I CANNOT believe because we were simultaneously charming and a little scary during our Twitterlution:

Tracy @

Dear Hunk O'Burnin' Love (aka @adamlevine) Please friend @mybrainonkids. (Twittering my eyelashes)
@Momaical @RoshniAaMom @BakngInATornado Good Morning! xoxoxo Come ON PR person for @adamlevine like my friend already! --> @mybrainonkids
Tracy @

@adamlevine Tick to @mybrainonkids tock. Boat to her dock. Sweet to her low. Ass to her hole. Um... nevermind. Doesn't always work.
I know all my anal itching and panty talk was probably a huge turn on for you @adamlevine...I'm kinda shocked you aren't following me yet.
Roshni AaMom
@adamlevine you gotta be kidding me if you haven't followed @mybrainonkids yet!! @chewyleecious @BakngInATornado @Momaical will be in touch
Tracy @

Delicious man-candy @adamlevine @mybrainonkids is dying (not really) and her only wish is for you to friend her. Please do the right thing.
I'm totally shocked this peer pressure didn't completely convince him that he should follow and perhaps even procreate with Shannon!  Maybe we go all old school on his ass and flood his mailbox full of chopped up magazine letters and a pair of granny panties or something?  Until then, we'll keep collecting bail money (just in case).

Oh, and Joe Manganiello - I know you're busting that hot a$$ of yours.  Just keep half winking at me until the world is ready to know about our shallow love affair. At least until Simon Baker is ready.


Can I Have Extra Shaving Cream With Mine?

When I was in college there was a restaurant called the All Night Eggplant.  You could literally order anything you wanted to go into an omelette. The place was always packed and was open around the clock.  Many of us use to go there after a hard night of...studying.  It was terrific people watching because the drunk asses would order the most vile combinations of foods to be cooked into a pile of eggs.  The more intoxicated they were, the more bizarre the food choices became:

"Um, yeah.  I'll take an omelette with chili, tuna and chick peas.  And some guacamole on the side."

And, their drunk ass companions were all like - "Dude. That sounds AWESOME! I'll take mine with peanut butter, corned beef, and a lemon poppy seed muffin squashed up into it. Do you have any hot fudge?"

Like I said, great people watching and even more revolting food consumption. It was like Fear Factor: The After Party Edition.  Until I came to realize that dining with children is very similar to a menu envisioned by a room full of hungry binge drinkers.

Last night Emmeline added Edge Gel Shaving cream to her crepe and fresh fruit. She informed me "Dis is Daddy's shay-bin cweam. And, it is NOT tasty." Which clued me into the fact that I needed to stop cooking immediately and review her study on which grooming products may or may not double as condiments.  Thankfully I caught her prior to her first bite because everyone knows stuff tastes better when wrapped in a crepe.

She has been seen sucking toothpaste right out of the tube. 

She likes to dip blueberry waffles in "wanch dwessin".

She eats giant chunks of butter and packets of jelly.  With a knife.  Be it a "pwastic kids knife" - less conventional than a spoon.

She eats entire vegetables and fruits. Stem, seeds and all. 

I am currently curbing my food consumption in a feeble attempt to shed a few unhealthy post-Christmas pounds.  I am so hungry at times that these food combinations are actually starting to sound delicious.

Beef-a-roni eaten with a string cheese as your utensil and then swished around in your mouth with orange juice?  Sure! Sign me up! Sounds way better than this Lean Cuisine I was planning on having.  But could you please hold the Mitchum?  I had deodorant with lunch.


The Green Mile

I stand by the fence, fingers clamped through the metal, anxious to catch a glimpse of blonde ponytail.  She is the last to emerge, squinting at the bright sunlight.   I smile, excited to see her after so much time has passed. She seems older; hardened from the experience. She has completed her sentence and is finally free. 

The prison guard walks along side her to ensure she doesn't escape in the long walk on the green mile.  She trudges along slowly.  What is taking so long? It is then I notice she is shackled by a yellow slip of paper.  My smile slides off my face and shatters on the chain link - NOT THE YELLOW PIECE OF PAPER.  

Panic sets in. What has she done?   Did she shank a fellow inmate?  Plot an elaborate escape using play-doh, bubbles and a yo-yo string?  After what feels like an hour she arrives. I want to hug her, smooth her hair and tell her everything is going to be ok.  But a stern look from the prison guard prevents my comforting as she launches into a list of new offenses:

"Well, we had a few issues today with Lena.  She was playing with her hair during circle time.  It was very distracting."

Playing with her hair? This offense was worthy of a slap on the wrist.  Maybe a fine.  But a YELLOW PIECE OF PAPER???? This is kind of record that haunts you for the rest of your life.

"But, that's not all. Lena was throwing rocks at a tree.  Which is against the rules."

The parolee can stand it no more.  All these false accusations being tossed around.  Her fate determined by pint-sized cohorts that can't even read, let alone scribe a confession. Although she knows she should not shout out without her lawyer present, she jumps in to defend her actions:

"Um, excuse me. It was NOT a rock.  It was a dirt bomb. They exploded when they hit the tree - which was TOTALLY AWESOME.  But I did not throw any rocks."

They have appointed me Lena's parole officer in charge of enforcing her house arrest.  Which I will absolutely be doing. As soon as I'm done laughing.


Life is One Giant Bell Curve

Recently my husband and I met friends of ours at a nice restaurant for a rare night out.  We were enjoying a delicious bottle of wine and decadent appetizers while regaling each other with stories of our week.  An elderly couple was next to us, bickering about who misplaced the cell phone.  The gentleman heads away from the table, assumedly in search of the lost phone.   The four of us are laughing and talking about what we are planning to order for our main course when the elderly woman interrupts us to recommend the steak.  Ok, thank you!  Back to our conversation.  Then she interrupts us to tell us that the waitress is ignoring her.  Ok.... What were we talking about, oh, yeah.   We don't want to be rude, but....

Then she butts in and says "Do you want to see who my hero is?" and whips an iPad out of a ginormous purse to show us pictures of an elderly fashionista.  Um...random... She interrupted the rest of our meal with non-sequiturs and was still talking to us as we were walking out the door.   Her husband never returned to the table.  Perhaps he was waiting in the car to give his bleeding ears a break.

It reminded me of a time that the girls and I had gone to have lunch at a pizza place.  We were seated, Lena was coloring quietly and Emmeline was asleep in the stroller.  A woman came in to dine, was seated near us, saw the girls and audibly sighed. She muttered something under her breath about "stupid kids".  It completely agitated me because we were in a restaurant that is designed for FAMILIES - this was not Nobu at 11pm.   Not to mention my girls were behaving themselves (especially since E was asleep) - and my kids are anything but stupid.  Normally I spend the entire time at a restaurant trying to keep my kids quiet and minding their own business.  I decided to unleash the torrent that is Lena unto her.  She's going to bitch about my kids while at a family restaurant - she's going to feel the full effect of my 4 year old. 

Lena spent the next half hour flapping this woman's ear off.  "Do you know my favorite color? It's pink.  I love Ke$ha.  She is SO cool.  She's also "Hot and Dangerous" which is like fire or lava.  Because lava is hot and dangerous.  We shouldn't touch it.  Do you know that on Wonder Pets they had to rescue a baby crane from lava and SAVE THE DAY! (Breaks into song)." 

Emmeline slept through the entire meal.  I was able to actually eat a few pieces of pizza in peace since Lena was occupied singing every Ke$sha, Lady GaGa and Little Mermaid song she could think of much to the chagrin of the woman next to us.  Really, the woman should have paid extra for lunch and a show.  But, I'll consider her ire payment enough.  I bet she never demonstrates disdain for children quite so openly in future lunch excursions.

It occurred to me: Elderly people have a lot in common with toddlers.  "Do you want to know who my hero is?" is just the older version of "Guess who my favorite princess is!" 

The elderly say whatever they're thinking, when they feel like it because "they've earned that right."  Kids say whatever they're thinking, when they fell like it because they don't know any better.  I believe tact is the last concept to acquire as a child and the first one to go as we age.  Which is why a child will follow a less-than-hygienically-clean woman around the grocery store yelling "Who is that fat, stinky man?"  And why elderly women LOVE to tell me that I'm a less-than-stellar mother because my children really should wear a coat (even though I have spent the last half hour and five years arguing with them about putting it on). 

Other similarities:
Pull ups are just Depends in smaller sizes.
My girls love things with animal print and will wear it from head to toe and with any outfit they wish. So does my grandmother.
Mush.  Ease of eating with no teeth.
Small children should not drive cars.  Neither should the elderly.
Kids have public temper tantrums.  I watched an old man have a meltdown about a corn muffin.
I incessantly worry about my kids falling down and breaking something.  There's a reason for "I've fallen and I can't get up!" pagers from LifeAlert.

Enough said.

My sister has always said she wishes to be euthanized before she turns 40.  I use to laugh.  Now I think she may be on to something....


Don't I Know You From Somewhere?

Why, yes. It is entirely possible.  Because I was a panelist on the Huffington Post Live segment about marriage and if the idea of monogamy is relevant in today's society. Which is SO FREAKIN COOL I CAN BARELY STAND IT!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Here I am in the "Green Room" of Huffington Post - web cam up and ready to go!

Oh, and true to my form...I managed to get the last word in....

Checking one more thing off the bucket list.... Hooray for 2013!!!


The Great Flunami of 2013

For the past week I have been knocked on my ass by the flu.  This is the first time in 20 years that I have been so sick that I have been too weak to get out of bed.  I rarely get sick; I don't have time for it.  Colds, meh.  Can't be bothered.  I laughed in the face of the flu. But, it appears that the flu had the last laugh.  And laugh it did.  All over my ass.

While sequestered on your king size death bed, you begin to allow all parenting values to drown in the gallons of phlegm that you are harvesting in your lungs.  Parenting standards are tossed into the garbage can with a fucktillion used Kleenex, enough Vitamin C drop wrappers to ensure no one in your next 75 generations will get scurvy, and your coughed up uterus. 

Your quest to remain steadfast in your parenting while ill starts off valiantly, but gains speed as it rolls down the hill of laundry that's building up, dishes that need to be washed and toys that need to be put away.  Before you know it, your household is spiraling out of control and you're too weak to care.

Day 1: You're still new into this flu thing - it's probably just a bad cold.  You think you just need ONE day of downtime to kick it out of your system. Thank goodness the husband is home to help.
  • Yes you can snuggle with me for a few minutes but then you need to go outside and play
  • No you can't bring food upstairs
  • No the dog can't come on the bed
  • Only a little tv
  • Yes, you can have a healthy snack
  • No you may not have candy
  • Emmeline, ONE outfit a day
  • No, Lena.  I think you're too young for a sleep over at a friend's house
  • Pretend the pile of laundry is bunny hill to practice ski lessons

Day 2: Wow. This is way worse than I thought.  Ok, one more day and it will be over.  Thank goodness the husband is home to help.
  • Ok, you can watch this movie with me - then outside for fresh air
  • You can have a FEW of my crackers - but please DON'T spill any crumbs on the bed!
  • The dog can come on the bed for a few minutes but I don't want him to get use to this
  • Ok, one piece of candy. 
  • Yes, Emmeline, you can put on your gymnastics leotard.
  • No, Lena.  I still think you're too young for a sleep over at a friend's house.
  • Play Donner Party with the kids and the laundry pile because they can't get to you from one side of the bed.  Feed them funny bones and laugh at your sick sense of humor.  Until you start to cough up your spleen. 

Day 3: You're weak, shaky and every inch of your body feels like it's gone through a wood chipper.  Actually, you wish it had, because that would be better than what is going on now.  Glad the husband is home but wish he'd quit nagging you about which cough medicine to take and standing outside of the door of the bedroom and sighing really loudly.  You feel guilty and try to go downstairs but almost fall because you are so lightheaded.  You call for help but this triggers a coughing fit.  You spit out a piece of your small intestine - which is fine because you're not using it anyway. 
  • Sure, climb in. There's plenty of room.  I'm about to watch a Duck Dynasty marathon. 
  • Popcorn? Sure.  Bring a dust buster with you.
  • The dog has been here all day. Someone might want to take him outside.
  • Lena, doesn't anyone want you to sleep over?
  • Laundry pile = Mt Everest and climbing is in order.  Thankfully Emmeline is wearing everything she owns to brave the elements.

Day 4: You get out of bed because you have overstayed your welcome by 3.75 days.  Your husband is making snarky comments about how you're "sick".  Decide to ignore snark and stay in bed. Don't you have some work to do, fucker?
  • You coming up?  Cool. Can you bring some animal crackers, peanut butter, cheese and a gallon of OJ?  Oh, and that bag of M&M's. We'll shake out the sheets later.  Or not.
  • Yeah, husband, you're going to want to set up the couch.  The dog has taken over your side.
  • Is Lena home? Oh.  Can we pick her up some time next week?
  • No vital organs are left to cough out.  There is, however, urine.  Copious amounts of urine. Thankfully the bed is full of crumbs to absorb the aftermath.
  • NASA has reported a sighting of your laundry pile during the latest space expedition.
  • Emmeline is "nakey awound" - as everything she owns is under examination by an astronaut.  Naked, except for one of my thongs that she is wearing as an eye patch because "Me are a nakey piwate. Yook! Here are my piwate pawts!"  Argh. No one needs to see your "pirate parts," naked pirate.  Thankyouverymuch.

Day 5: Emmeline gets sick because she has been quarantined by default with you, since she can't spend 37 seconds not up your ass sideways.  Time to get over coughing, put on your big girl underpants (and one of Emmeline's night time pull ups because you're still golden showering the carpet) and face your nemesis: laundry.  And, you decide to go back to bed to snuggle with your sick pumpkin.  Because laundry can wait.  Or can it....

If you don't hear from me, you'll know the answer.

Oh, and sharing is caring.  Unless it's sharing the flu.  Then it's only caring when you're not the one with the drowning Eustachian tubes.  So, share my post with people who need a good laugh.  Or a coroner. (See those little buttons right below this?  Press them to share!) Love you!


Letter to NyQuil

Dear NyQuil:

The Godfather of Cold Medicines. The "nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, achy, stuffy-head, fever, so you can rest medicine".  You were one badass green NyQuil mofo. Colds and Flus everywhere cowered at the mere mention of you. You only came out on special occasions, like the Cold-tagion of '92 and the Flunami of '95 - but when you did it was magical. At least I think it was magical.  I was stoned to the bejeezus from you so really it could have been anything.

And, you know what was great about you? You didn't even care that you tasted like ass. You wore that green death flavor like a badge. You were all "I'm motherfucking NyQuil: Capital N, Lower Case Y, Big Fucking Q." No one complained because by the time you were ready to gag from the taste you were in a NyQuil induced coma.  We were not sniffling, sneezing, achy or stuffy headed.  We rested, dammit. Yes, we were waking around looking like Shrek with green teeth and all tripped out from the NyQuil effects - but we were not coughing.   And we had you to thank for it.

But then, the FDA came knocking on your door.  "We've had some complaints that kids are partying with you. You're going to have to tone it down."

You should have been "Yeah, FDA. Did you not see the giant fucking Q?  I'm NyQuil, goddamn it. It's not my fault if stupid ass kids are NyQuillin like a villain. The good news is McDonald's is always hiring fry cooks." 

But you DIDN'T.  You kowtowed to the man. You changed.  You got all wimpy and decided you'd rather be mingling with the common cold remedies instead of being a giant green douchebag behind the pharmacy counter.  No longer are you the "nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, achy, stuffy-head, fever, so you can rest medicine".  Now you're just "nighttime relief."  But you don't even put me in a NyQuil induced coma.  And....NO! Say it isn't so.  You're CHERRY FLAVORED.  Gasp!

Hang your wuss-ass head in shame.  You don't deserve that big fucking Q any more. 

Not well rested and hacking up a lung,

Here's the bottle they should sell you in, you big baby.

If you'd like to see more rants or raves in true epistolary form - check out my other collaborative blog with a bunch of amazing bloggers: The Epistolarians.  This month features letters from us to get things off our chests!  

Also you can check me out in No Laughing Allowed and To Bliss and Back, both available on the Kindle, Nook and Paperback. You buy a paperback copy and I'll autograph it for you. Then you can say you knew me waaaay back when NyQuil actually kicked my ass. There are links over there on the right hand side that will take you RIGHT to the site to order them!!!

Oh, and if you like my writing PLEASE share it!  Because sharing is caring and you don't want to start the new year with bad karma, do you??? That's what I thought...


My Resolution to Be More Tolerant With Stupid Jackasses

New Year’s Resolutions:  Most people make them. And, most people break them within a few weeks into the New Year.  Legions of individuals use the beginning of a new 365 day calendar the impetus for change.  I am no exception.

In years past I have: declared war on weight, attempted to cleanse my lexicon of curses, kick my addiction to confections - all to no avail.  But, this year is going to be different.  This year is THE YEAR that I have the strength to carry through on my resolution.  In an attempt to make the world a better place – I’m starting by making the change in myself that I wish to see in others.
I am resolving to be less judgmental about people.  More tolerant.  I’m going to try to overlook minor aberrations of people and forgive gaffes without jumping to conclusions or harsh criticism. I mean, people make mistakes, right?  As long as people LEARN from said errors, it’s better to forgive and forget.   Resolution: Be More Tolerant of Stupid People.  Oh, damn.  Ok, that's not too tolerant.  Start again: Be More Tolerant and Less Judgmental of People's Errors.

And, all morning I stuck with this resolution.  All. Freakin. Morning. 
“No honey, we don’t say ‘I putted it there.’  It’s ‘I put or placed it there.”
“Oh.  That is quite an ensemble you have put together today.  I would have never thought to pair a pink plaid shirt with navy and white striped pants, cowboy boots and a tiara.  How avant garde of you.”
I was a five-point-harness of restraint from judgment.  I’m pretty sure I was moments from Mother Theresa of Avila knocking on my door to saint-a-tize me or something. I needed to get out of the house – and quickly before I broke my resolution.
I decided to grab lunch at a nearby Chinese restaurant.  I really struggled with my decision but opted to order  Hon Sue Gai. They had me at “Spares of Milk-fed Chicken” “Suateed” in peanut oil.

I do love me some Chicken Spares.  Especially suateed.
Driving home, I was singing a song – NOT AT ALL judging about the incorrect use of grammar and blatant abuse of words like “ain’t” and double negatives.  It don’t bother me none, ain’t it?

And that’s when I noticed this sign:

And thought to myself  “Self, you could use some fashion design.  And fast.  So fast that it skips LETTERS!”

My restraint was beginning to show signs of stress.  Pressure cracks. I was shaking a little as my resolve not to judge dumb asses, friggin idiots, human error began to wane.   I thought I would lose myself in some status updates in Facebook.  My best friend Beth had a picture of a weather update that was on TV in her area.  They were getting hammered with a blizzard and the good Samaritans at Fox wanted to prepare people how to drive appropriately:

Oh, thank God for Fox 23 and their highly informative public service announcement about how to drive On "Snot and Ice."  SNOT AND ICE?  MOTHERFUCKING SNOT AND ICE???? 

What the fuck idiot let that go?  Snot?  Snot?   And, that's when I lost it.  I broke my resolution.  I started yelling about stupid people and how they should not procreate. That there should be a test for people to be allowed to have a baby.  Can you pass this short test?  Then you can bring another child into this world.  Oh, you don't know the difference between their, there and they're?  (Loud Air Horn Sounds) Nope, no children for you.  So sorry, here's a puppy.  Wait, you're too stupid.  Here's a goldfish.  You both have about the same IQ.  Good luck with that.

I made it almost 8 entire hours without breaking my resolution of tolerance for stupid people.  Longest resolution kept EVER!  Woo to the freakin hoo! I consider it a resounding success.  Clearly others should follow my example of making the world a better place by tolerating peoples differences - even if it's only for a few hours until you realize that there are FAR MORE stupid people in the world and trying to ignore all of their fallacies and misnomers will only push you into a mental institution.  Next year's resolution: Be More Vocal About Stupid People because the world is full of them. 

If You Like This - Please Share It!

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

Featured Writer Here!

Read me In the Powder Room!