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.)


I Am Toodles

I don’t normally watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse when it’s on.  There are only so many times you can subject yourself to the show before you want to rip out your uterus with a crowbar and bludgeon yourself to death with it for having children who make you watch this crap.  However, I was snuggling with Emmeline and she wanted to watch “Mikuh Maws”. So I was forced to permit a few brain cells to commit suicide over the course of 23 minutes of hell.  It was at this time I came to the shocking realization that my children think that I am Toodles.

If you are unfamiliar with Toodles, he is Mickey Mouse’s bitch.  Whenever Mickey needs something, he just yells “Oh Toodles!” and Toodles is expected to freakin drop everything and rush to Mickey’s side to help with whatever he needs that second.   Which is what my children appear to demand of me.

So many times during their waking hours my children scream for me like they’re being poured in honey and attacked by a cavalcade of fire ants.  Usually it’s to help wipe their ass, get them some milk or because Lena is looking out Emmeline’s window in the car – which she will simply not stand for.   Their timing is impeccable.  I always seem to be submerged up to my elbows in dishes, standing over an open flame or at a really critical moment in Duck Dynasty.   Yesterday I was gathering the tax information together for our accountant.  I made it approximately 37 seconds until the "OH TOODLES" alarm sounded and I was expected to drop the W2s and run to the rescue – because “Mommy, da dog is kinda neah me!”. 

The thing is, you’d think they’d get tired of screeching for me 7,948,631 times a day.  Because generally their frivolous demands are greeted with some form of sarcastic retort from Toodles/Mommy: 

“Mommy!  Can (you stop folding laundry immediately and cater to my every whim) I please have a lollipop?”  

“Yes, let me drop everything to get you a sugary treat at 8:00 in the morning.”

“Mommy!  I want a new Lalaloopsy!”

“And I want a weekend spa retreat.  Looks like we are all going to be disappointed.”

“Mommy! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

“Yeah.  Sweet temper tantrum.  How’s that working out for you?”

I want to grab Toodles by the ears and tell him to grow a pair – although I’m not sure where they would hang because he’s really only a big head that stores an inordinate amount of crap to cater to every stupid fucking thing Mickey and the dumbasses get into.  I would really love to watch the episode when Toodles rebels.  He gets a tattoo that says “Your lack of planning does not constitute an emergency on my part.”  Then the next time Mickey yells “Oh Toodles!”  Toodles responds “For Fuck’s Sake, Mickey.  I’m taking a shit.  Get your own damn pair of springy shoes, you freakin' idiot.”


Spam Spam Eggs and Spam: But I Don't Like Spam!

For those of you who are not enmeshed in the blogging-sphere, there is a whole secret society out there to which I am now going to expose you.  It's an underworld of spammers who spend their lives posting Anonymous comments on blogs in the hopes to leverage off the viewers of your writing. 

Spam is annoying.  It's off topic, generic and oddly placed.  Generally there are grammatical errors and some strange symbols.  They clog up your comments pages and you have to find them to delete them.  Or, you have to set your filter to prevent them (which is why you have to fill out all those freakin annoying numbers and letter combinations to prove you are not a robot). But, that scares people away from commenting - especially since the hieroglyphics you have to discern are almost impossible to crack.

You can tell spammers by comments like this:

If some one wants expert view on the topic of running a blog then i propose him/her to go to see this blog, Keep up the pleasant work. Feel free to visit my site - How To Get rid of Static cling
Yes.  Be sure to send everyone my way to enjoy my "pleasant work" as an expert blogger. When I visit your site - will it show me how to also get rid of annoying spammers?

Informative articlе, totally ωhat Ι was loоκing for. Fеel fгee tо surf to my blog auto insurance...
This comment was on my blog post about how my daughter disgusted me at dinner time pretending to be a vampire and sucked the seeds out of her victims (tomatoes).    Yup.  Super informative.

I feature discovered that the great unwashed are multitude no thing what industriousness fifty-fifty know where to start out and how to go just about it.

This one, however, did make me laugh: 
Today, I went to the beaсh front with my chіldrеn. I found a sea shеll and gave it to my 4 year old
daughtеr and said "You can hear the ocean if you put this to your ear." Ѕhe put thе shell to hеr
ear and screаmеd. Τhere waѕ а heгmit crab nѕiԁe and it pinсhed hеr ear.She nеver wаnts to go bacκ! LoL I know this іs еntiгely оff tορic but I had tо tell ѕomeonе! Нerе is my web blog: bucket trucks.
Funny, yes. But no where near funny enough for me to check out site about bucket trucks.

I think spam should either make you laugh, flattered or so intrigued that you simply can live your life one single second more without clicking on the post - a lot like some of the reviews on Amazon for things like milk, banana slicers and my favorite: Unicorn T-Shirts.

"5.0 out of 5 stars Nice shirt if you're not into details... September 7, 2010
I should probably preface this review by stating the obvious: This shirt is clearly meant for people who aren't serious about our one-horned magic friends. I mean, the shirt's fabric construction and lavender color base are terrific, and as a casual-Friday garment, hey, it's better than a stupid Polo shirt. But the devil, as they say, is in the details, so caveat emptor!

First, the grass pictured is quite clearly Italian Ryegrass, and as everyone knows, unicorns prefer to frolic in Dog's Tooth Grass. Second, notice the gray spots on the unicorn's rear flank; are they patterned to look like a fairy? I think not. Third, why is the tip of the unicorn's horn glowing like some defective reindeer's nose??? We all know the horn is pure gold, but if the illustrator was trying to convey this specific coloration, then the whole horn should shine, not just the tip! Fourth, while unicorns transcend space and time, they do NOT exist in a world where it's day AND night simultaneously! A beautiful rainbow AND pretty stars? I mean, who approved this? It's like the shirt's maker is just mocking me...I'll bet he thinks taking Raggedy Ann to one's prom is lame too!!! Fine, shirt guy -- just go ahead and pick me last in dodgeball and tell my parents how I cried in woodshop when the teacher told me to "keep my wood to myself" and I didn't know he was talking about my erection which I couldn't help anyway because I thought about that one episode of The Partridge Family!!!

Anyway, on balance, the shirt's fine for kids and people of lesser unicorn expertise; don't expect too much and you'll be happy with your purchase, just like I was when I bought that ghost costume in Alabama last summer. People really freaked out when I wore that, and it wasn't even Halloween!"


Self Esteem Booster May 25, 2010
As I was approaching thirty I realized I haven't done a whole lot with my life and found myself in the middle of an early mid-life crisis. I did a few things to change the way the world perceived me. First thing I did is purchase a 1981 Chevy El Camino with an Edelbrock intake and a number 8 across the hood in honor of Dale (R.I.P.), I pierced my ear, shaved in my rat tail, and most importantly i purchased the Unicorn Castle T-shirt. This shirt has changed the way I view myself and the way the world views me. Girls can't seem to stay away from me to the point that is almost annoying. Something about mystical unicorns make chick think that I am a mystical kind of dude. Many girls have mistaken this shirt for a "My Little Pony" and I quickly have to set them straight. With the rise of Emo music it has made it cool for men to grow their hair long, tease their hair, wear make up and womens clothing so you can imagine how emo i look with a few scars and my purple unicorn shirt. I recommend buying a size smaller than you normally wear and ordering this with a bottle of spray on tan so that you looked extra jacked and tan. NOTE: Girls love mystical guys that are jacked and tan. If you really wanna real them in get a book on palm reading or some tarot cards as well to add to the mysticism of your new persona. Do yourself a favor and purchase this shirt. 3 Wolf Moon is outdated and it is time for a unicorn revolution. It is the unicorns time to shine and shine it does with a beautiful rainbow glistening in the background.

See.  Doesn't it make you want to go to their site to see more?  Spammers.  Take note.


Tooth Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lost her bottom front tooth.  While the girl was in the bathroom puking her guts out about the experience, her mom placed the baby tooth on the table for safe keeping.
The dog proceeded to jump up and eat the tooth. 
The mom was forced fabricate a fake tooth out of wood. 
The dad asked "What the hell are we, George Washington?" 
The tooth fairy was fooled and still left the loot.
The end.


Escape from Alcatraz

I have been planning this for a while - but was unsure when the timing would come together to pull it off.  I'll have to act quickly because if I get caught, the punishment will be severe: beatings, hunger strikes, probable death threats.  Is it worth taking this chance?  Yes.  Yes it is.

The guard walks by on their rounds opening up a few minute window to escape.  Do I tip-toe or run?  Oh God.  All this planning - what if I missed something?  My heart beats a staccato in my throat. 

I take a tenuous step out of the cell door, my ear drums straining to hear any alarms alerting the guards of my deviant behavior.  I hold my breath....and all remains quiet.  My plans gain momentum, propelling me closer to my exit.  I sprint down the stairs - my hopes of freedom escalating with every descension.  Suddenly, a fight breaks out in cell block B.  I press my back against the wall - praying my prison garb blends in with the cinderblocks.  The commotion draws the attention of all the guards and I take advantage of this fortuitous distraction.

A few more steps and I'm outside.  The bright sunlight threatens to blind me and thwart my escape.  But I forge on ahead - as my final steps of the plan are coming together.  60 of the longest seconds of my life age me considerably as I inch toward my destination.  And...SUCCESS IS MINE!

I toss three giant Hefty bags of old toys, crap and other things Lena has hoarded into the garbage.  I am filthy, disheveled and exhausted after the mass exodus.  But, Lena's room is finally clean...

This is the detritus I had to dig through with a Barbie ski.  I wasn't sure I was going to make it out alive; trapped in a landslide of pink. I would be forced to eat My Little Ponies until I was discovered buried among the puzzles, Polly Pockets and stuffed sea creatures .  Nothing left of me but my tattered remains and a final Bananagram message: Clean Your Room.


The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

There are several things in your adult life that are nail biters: peeing on a stick and seeing what color it turns, the time it takes to open your email when you *may* have sent an inappropriate message to everyone in your contacts and the time you're waiting to see if the sellers are going to accept your offer on a home.

We have been searching for homes for over a year now.  Not seriously at first, just trying to get a feel for the area, the different schools, and the best neighborhood for our family.  Because when you're thinking about draining your savings account and committing yourself to a 30 year marriage - you want to be damn sure it's right.
And, at first you have this list of must haves and can't live withouts.   Like when you're about to have your first baby and you have this idea of how you want your precious new child to come into the world.  You plan all these special things and list of what you envision it to be like. Then, the contractions kick in.  You take a crap on that list and you'd be fine with the janitor delivering the baby as long as someone will just get this damn kid out of me!!!!!

It's been kind of the same thing with this house search.  At first we had a very long list of our demands: good commute for my husband, 3 car garage, large closets, beautiful master bedroom, storage, yard, blah, blah, blah.  It had to be in certain neighborhoods - because the quality of schools can drastically change between streets! We set our budget and began the arduous task of finding our home.

A year and a billion houses later...we are at the point of buying our dream van down by the river.  Our list of demands has diminished significantly - really only based on school districts which we can send our girls (which we can also consider private) and making sure it's safe.  You begin to think crazy thoughts about how you can afford a more expensive home and consider black market organ sales and renting a room (or shed) out to a group of circus performers. 

The clock is ticking because the house we are renting is going on the market soon.  And, the area in which we are looking has shifted from a buyers market to a sellers market.  So, the millisecond that a house gets listed it literally has 10 people bidding on it - pushing it into a situation where people are paying more for the house than it's actually worth.

The other day we stumbled upon a house that was *coming soon* to the market.  We got all Boston on their asses and were one of the first families to see it.  We tossed our hat into the ring last we wait.....

How does one fill the time while waiting to hear? Pinterest, of course.  I'm pinteresting all the stuff I want to do to this house if the stars all align while we wait with bated breath....Cross your fingers...

And forgive me if I am not as active on my blog as I wish to be.  I have to pack.  Again.  And move. Again.  And start a new glue sniffing habit* or something to get me through this....

*Do not sniff glue. I'm only joking here people...


Valentine's Day with the Rockwells

Valentine's Day.  The time of year to acknowledge feelings of love, friendship and happiness to those around you.  The time of year when millions of children hand out $25 worth of tiny paper cards to their friends at school.  The time of year that takes a week off my life trying to get 30 of those tiny bastards addressed and signed in a timely fashion. 

Here's the Norman Rockwell version of Valentine's Day joviality in my house:
We take a trip as a family to choose the cards to be shared among friends in Lena's classroom. A small (but thoughtful) gift chosen to present to the teachers.  The task of addressing and signing the cards is completed, stickers applied and everything is prepared in plenty of time to turn into school before the big event.

And...then there's our version:
We went to the store to pick out the cards.  Of course, the cards Lena wanted for "the girls" (Monster High) only had 15 cards in the $3.99 pack.  There are more than 15 girls.  So we were going to get another pack - which they were out of.  So after knocking over an entire ginormous display of Valentines lingerie in our attempt to find one more pack - we had to haul ass and run away from the wave of red lacy undergarments that had taken over the aisle.  We happened to find another display - but still no more Monster High cards.   Plus, we still had to buy "boy cards" because Heaven forbid we give a boy a "girl card".  After tears, whining and complaining, Lena settled on Phineas and Ferb Valentine's because "Perry the Platypus is wicked cute".  Emmeline has discovered a Russell Stover's display and is testing out all the contents of a giant heart shaped box. 

Now, the pure joy of that moment is we have tree nut allergies in this family.  I have NO idea what she has shoved in her face during the nanosecond that she inhaled the verboten confections.  I now have to try to tick-and-tie the missing and half masticated sweets with the key to see if she has eaten anything with walnuts, cashews, or brazil nuts.  This is all going on while I am holding my wiggly two year old like a football.  And, Lena is crying because it's not fair that Emmeline gets to eat chocolate and she doesn't.  I have to figure out where the pharmacy aisle is in case I need to shove a fistful of Benadryl down her gullet before we rush her to the emergency room.

Thankfully she chose wisely in her selections (all the caramel filled ones, dammit).  I dragged the two cherubs out crying and tossed them into the car where Emmeline proceeded to wipe her face on the back of the passengers seat. 

After a few days I was finally ready to get Lena started on signing them.  She has been able to write her name since she was 2 years old.  Apparently cards are her kryptonite.  I have NO idea whose name she was scribing - but it was not L-E-N-A.   After wasting most of the Monster High cards and several meltdowns, and me yelling "What are you writing?  Write your NAME!!!!! YOUR NAME!!! What IS THAT??? That's not your name!  What are the other moms going to think when their kids bring home this card????"  the cards were set aside for another day.  My husband had to get involved because the damn things were giving me a panic attack.

Now the cards are due at school tomorrow to start preparation for the big party. So, we still have to write the names of the recipients on the stupid cards.  I finally sit down and spell out EVERY SINGLE LETTER of the kids names. C-a...a...what's taking you so long?  Oh, my God. JUST WRITE IT!!!!!

Ok, throw that one out.  Start over at the "To:" not in the middle because you won't have enough room to....WHY DID YOU START IN THE MIDDLE????? YOU WON'T HAVE ROOM TO WRITE "ABAGAIL!"  Ok, just leave the capital A in the middle and we'll just write the A and B before it. 

30 names, 2 teachers, 2 teacher's aides later and seven thousand million hours later....we finished.

Now, I'm not saying the St. Valentine's Day Massacre was started after someone snapped as a result of having their child sign the cards.  I'm also not saying it wasn't.   Regardless...Happy Valentine's Day to you and yours!


We Did It!!!!

We did it!!!!!! #24 in the Circle of Moms Funniest Moms contest.  Thank you to everyone who supported and voted for me throughout this endeavor!!!

Now...if you'll forgive me...I'm going to collapse into a ginormous heap of hideous for a few days....

Thanks to all you lovelies that support this Momaical madness.  Love you all! Honestly.

Ain't Nobody Got Time Not To Win

Ok, my lovelies!  Today is the FINAL day for voting in the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funniest Moms contest.  As this has become my life (and solidified my choice to NEVER enter politics) I am anxious for it to be over and praying I land in the top 25! 

So, here's my final push for votes before I collapse into a heap on the floor...


Vote for MOMAICAL.  You can vote once from each IP address (computers, phones, iPads, iPods....what have you).  There's no commitment, no signing up, signing in, or giving your first born.  All you have to do is scroll down and click on the thumbs up - and you earn my eternal gratitude...

Even Sweet Brown is voting for MOMAICAL

If you haven't seen Sweet Brown - check out this link.  Love this lady!!!


Midnight House Invasion

I was cocooned in a blanket of warmth submerged in the coma-like sleep of "I have the entire bed" because my husband was away on a business trip.  A slight noise startles me out of my slumber.  I try to ignore it - but I hear another sound.  My senses kick into hyper drive because I can't just whack my husband and ask him to get rid of the robbers or zombies or aliens that have broken into my home to abduct me for my superior mothering skills. 

Another sound produces a menacing growl from my dog - warning the perpetrator of the dire consequences of their actions of breaking into our home.  I want to pull the covers over my head and hide because as everyone knows - that creates a fortress of security that no criminal mastermind could possibly infiltrate.  But, my babies are sound asleep and it's my job as the adult to keep them safe.  Dammit. This whole "responsibility" thing is overrated.

Shivering, I slowly slide off the California king.  I grab the only weapon at arm's reach: an iPhone.  I figure I can use the flashlight app to blind the burglar or at least occupy him long enough with an impromptu game of Fruit Ninja for me to call the police.  

Tip-toeing for an element of surprise, I slowly advance toward the hallway.  I am shaking but trying to be brave to face my nemesis and protect the nest.  Only a few more steps to the  In the dark I see movement.  My heart is pounding in my throat.  The dog is barking.  I can't think.

I flip on the light and get ready to whip out some sweet karate moves on the burglar...who turns out to be my 2-year-old.

Emmeline: "Hi Mommy!"

Me: "Emmeline.  Holy. God.  You scared the heck out of me.  What are you doing up? It's almost one o'clock in the morning."

Emmeline: "Welax Mommy.  Me are goin' downstairs a watch a show."

Me: "Um, no you're not. You're going back to bed. It's the middle of the night."
Emmeline: "Oh, cwap."

Oh crap, alright.  So much for one night of unadulterated sleep.  When do I get to take a business trip? 


Dear John Letter of Unrequited Passion - NC17

Dear Addiction;

We need to end this relationship.  It's unhealthy and obsessive at times - bordering on abuse.  I've tried to walk away, to tone it down, to find replacements for the worship, devotion, unrequited love that I feel for you.  But every time I finally decide that I've had enough and I was ready to move on something pulls me right back in.  And pull me in it does.  I dive into you with reckless abandon, filling every corner of my soul with you - losing myself entirely.  But, it's empty; satisfying me only temporarily.  Mere moments after you've gone, those feelings are quickly replaced with guilt, depression.  Why do I do this to myself? Why can't I quit you?

I know I can do better than you. I'm a strong person - but apparently not strong enough to be near you without caving to your advances.  I cannot walk by you without indulging every one of my senses.  I breathe in the intoxicating scent of you.  I long to caress you, immerse my entire being in you.  But, you abuse my love.  Lies. Deceit.  Abandon.  Diminishing feelings of self-worth.  You are a cruel lover - taunting me with promises of eternal happiness but deliver nothing but shame.  I swear you off, and then you appear at my doorstep.  I am too weak to resist your advances.  Your energy radiates off you and mesmerizes me.  Before I know it, I'm right back in. 

I can't keep doing this to myself.  I'm taking a stand.  It's time for you to go.  No more late night rendezvous.  No quiet moments alone with you twined around my soul.  Oh, I will still have to spend time with you - as is the nature of our world.  But it will become less gluttonous. Less consuming.  My next relationship will be far healthier.

Good bye carbohydrates.  Fare thee well.


PS - Could you take this inner tube of fat with you that you've left around my waist?  Oh, and the donuts my husband bought this weekend?  Yes, the cookies too.  Dammit.  I'll just toss all your belongings on the lawn for you to pick up.  Don't come in...I don't want you to see me weeping in front of the vegetables. 



I'm Begging Here People

Ok, I've made it to the final stretch of this Circle of Moms Top 25 Funniest Mom Bloggers contest.  But, I'm barely holding on to the #25 spot.  Could you PLEASE help me stay in the top 25? One simple vote every 24 hours is all I'm asking.  The contest ends on Wednesday, February 13th at 4pm PST.  Any and all help with this is honestly appreciated!

Here's a picture of me with my Uncle (my Godfather) and Grandma from my first birthday.  My Aunt Jan has threatened to send my Uncle Harry to lay the smack down to those that don't vote.  Consider yourself warned.


Death and Taxes? I'm Adding A Few Things To That List BF

Benjamin Franklin once said "In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes."  Now, one of my life's mottos has been: Never argue with a man on the $100 bill, badass enough to stand outside flying a kite with a key during a thunderstorm.  To date, this motto has served me well.  But, the tides have turned and I can bite my tongue no longer, Mr. Franklin.

Sure, you may have invented the lightening rod which was important if you're into electricity and sciency crap.  And let's not forget bifocals; without bifocals lot of people would have to ask a stranger across the street hold up a menu for them to read at restaurants.  But there a few more addendums I wish to add to the aforementioned "certain things". 

These certainties I feel can safely be nestled among death and taxes:

Certainty #1:
Whenever you are gridlocked in traffic, a drive-thru line, or on a stretch of highway with no stops for a zillion miles - someone will have to go potty with such urgency that you are forced to say "YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO HOLD IT A LITTLE LONGER! WHY DIDN'T YOU GO BEFORE WE LEFT WHEN I ASKED YOU TO?"  When you finally locate the nearest bathroom it is the most vile, Ebola-harboring-hole-of-hideous you have seen.  You decide it would be far more sanitary to pee next to the car and wipe your cherubs ass with road kill than step foot into that giant used colostomy bag.

Certainty #2:
Whenever you take your child to the doctor's office, three days later they will be FAR more ill with something they contracted at their appointment than what you took them in to see the doctor for initially.

Certainty #3:
About 10 minutes before you leave for a major event - your child will announce that they cannot locate something critical for the event (even though you went through everything the night before to make sure they were all set and they rolled their eyes and gave an exasperated, sighing YES).  For example, the love of your life will discover that she does not have her mouth guard right before you are to drop her off at lacrosse camp.  You will drive around like a hellhound trying to figure out where to get another mouth guard in time.  You are not above banging on the door at the Dollar general and begging them to let you in a few minutes early to spend $25 on a replacement piece of plastic. Breaking the sound barrier, you rush home to boil the shit out of that bastard, she locates the missing item and you have to restrain yourself from whacking her with her lax stick.  (As a side note, it is perfectly acceptable to call your angel a "Dumbass" at that time).  

Certainty #4:
Right as you are about to head out the door, dressed to the nines, your seraphim will hug you goodbye and wipe something filthy on your beautiful outfit.  You're running late already due to an epic meltdown about her sister not sharing a plastic McDonald's toy.  You have not one spare second to change.  So you spend the entire night obsessing about the giant mess on your dress while trying to strategically place something to block it or constantly explaining how you came to this unkempt state. Or transversely, you walk around all night like you're on a catwalk, not realizing that you have spit up on your shoulder and a Handy Manny sticker of Squeeze on your ass.

Shhh...don't tell her.  It's WAY funnier that way.

Certainty #5:
You have FINALLY found a dinner that everyone in your family enjoys.  You spend time purchasing the items, preparing and serving that masterpiece.  They will gag. They will whine. They will fake their own death to avoid eating it. Even though they loved it YESTERDAY and begged for it today.

There you have it, Mr. Franklin.  I believe you stand corrected. There are a few more certainties to life than simply death and taxes.  Now wipe that smirk off your face.



Wonder What's In It Bread

Dear Bakers and Bread Manufacturers:

What is it that you put into the crust of bread that makes my children disdain it so?  Is it shards of glass?   The shattered remains of pixies?  Road kill?  Because no matter what type of bread I lovingly present to my cherubs, the exoskeleton is returned.  Crust is the pariah of carbohydrates.  It's last to be picked for the volleyball team in gym class.  It's only consumed under extreme duress or perhaps prison situations. 

Or is it something else? Oh, my crust the incubus of the gluten world?  It sneaks into your dreams and inhales the energy of your REM cycle leaving you a vapid, empty vessel.  When my children attempt to refuel with a slice of peanut butter toast in the morning, it's as if years of operant conditioning kicks in.   They eat all the legume-y goodness and leave the fossilized remains of a former Italian stallion because it haunts them on a nightly basis???

Sigh...can't you just figure out a way to bake bread without the crust? Yes, I could cut it off - but frankly I'm too lazy.  We live in a world in which a drone can fly itself into military situations.  We can split an atom.  Honey Boo Boo can be famous.  But you can't create a crust free bread?  I'm not buying it.  I mean, I'm still buying bread.  It's pretty much one of only three things my kids will eat.  But, I think it's crap, baker boy, crap.  Get off your lazy buns and bake it happen.  Dammit.

Crusty regards,




Warning: Ranting Ahead. Proceed At Your Own Risk.

Normally I write with a (hopefully) humorous tone.  I try to see the lighter side of things and bring laughter to my small little slice of the internet.  This is not that post.  This is my first rant in a long time.  So, buckle up, buttercup.  This one's a doozy.

We arrived a few minutes early to pick Lena up from kindergarten.  So, Emmeline and I jumped out of the car to enjoy the sunshine and stretch our legs for a few minutes before the doors opened up and small loud kids poured out of the school.  Emmeline and I were singing the hokey pokey when I hear "Hi Mommy!" in a familiar voice.  I see Lena in my periphery vision.  Right in front of the school, next to the road, away from any adult supervision.

"Lena!  What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I had to take Sofia to the office because her tummy hurt."

"By yourself????"

"No, I brought Nicki with me.  She's from another kindergarten class.  I first went with Maddie but we all got lost and wandered around.  Nicki knew where the office was so she helped us."

At this point I am shaking I am so mad.  I could have grabbed both girls and taken off, without anyone being the wiser for at least 10 minutes.  A lot can happen to two 5-year-old girls in 10 minutes.  They wandered around???? What the hell???

I walked Lena back to gather her belongings and pulled the teacher aside to explain that I was extremely concerned to discover my 5-year-old wandering around the front of the school.  Her response was "Oh, there was two of them.  We send them in pairs. Ok, thanks for letting me know your concerns."

Um, excuse the fuck out of me????  A 5-year-old boy was just taken hostage off a school bus.  20 babies didn't make it home from school because a psychopath shot up their classroom. A 13-year-old girl a few towns over from ours was murdered on her way home from school last week.  But, you seem to think that sending two kindergartners to the office together will keep them safe??????

Honestly, I'm not the go to the principal to complain kind of person.  I taught for years.  I completely understand what it takes to run a classroom effectively - especially in challenging times with all the budget cuts.  I know how important it is to have the support of the parents of your students.  And, I know all too well how much it sucks to have one person on a witch hunt against you.   Would I do everything in exactly the same way?  No.  But, I'm not the teacher.  I try to stand back and let them do their jobs.  Until now - when I feel my baby's safety is at stake. 

I'm so angry.  I'm shaking.  My blood pressure is through the roof - even more than it normally is.  I'm trying to remain calm so I don't unintentionally make Lena into the pariah of the kindergarten.   I explain why I am so angry and wish to speak to the principal.  The office staff is still under the "well, this is how we handle things here" mentality.  I know this is California and things are more lax here than I am happy seeing.  Especially in these times I feel things need to be on extra high alert.  I say "What if I was a disgruntled ex?  Lena would have come right home with me and she would be gone.  Would her 5-year-old companion stop that kidnapping?"  No one has answers for me and just keeps saying this is the way they do it.  And, the teachers would have called if the girls didn't get back sooner.  Oh. Great. That makes me feel better.  Not.

Long story short - a meeting with several teachers and the principal later - nothing really is coming out of it other than a promised discussion in a staff meeting.  But, I can guarantee Lena won't be asked to run errands again. She will be upset about this because she loves tasks like that.  I don't care.  I want her safe because I just can't take that chance.  We don't live in that world anymore. 


An English Lesson Through Parenting

For those of you who feel that your cherubs are syphoning your brain cells on a daily basis, rest assured that you are indeed using those lessons from English class.  Perhaps EVERY DAY you are a living, breathing example of an English Lesson Through Parenting.

Dependent Clause: "If your father finds out what you've done...."

Imperative: "Brush your teeth RIGHT NOW.  I'm not asking you again."

Causative Verb: "They made me go insane."

Modal Verb: I should work out, but Twitter keeps sucking me in.

Personal Pronoun: "Me are hungwy.  Me needa eat now. No, not dat or dat or dat or dat...."

Ellipses: "In 5...4...3...2...1  That's it.  Time out for you."


Sarcasm: "Yeah.  The 'tiger stwipes' on my stomach are great. And I have you to thank for them. Mint."

Hypocrisy: "No, you cannot have a brownie, they aren't healthy.  Don't worry about why I just ate one."

Cacophony: The noise created by four children zipped into a large trampoline. (I can't figure out how to write out crying, screaming, fighting, screeching laughter and whining all into one sentence.)

Hyperbole: "You are the meanest mommy that has ever lived ever in the history of time."

Fable: "You know that children that eat all their dinner become famous gymnasts!"

Present Perfect Continuous:  "Well, I'm exhausted because I've been mommying all day long.  You just went to work."

Antecedent:  I don't care if Hannah brings candy to lunch.  She doesn't have me for a mommy.  Stick your tongue back in your mouth. I will rip it out if I see it again.

Common Grammatical Errors: "Everyone had better pick up THEIR crap from the living room floor or THEY'RE going to be sad when the toys are placed in the garbage over THERE.

Embedded Question: Can anyone tell me where my cell phone is before you run away...?

Zero Conditional: "Bite your sister one more time and there will be NO play date for you tomorrow."

And you said you'd never use those English lessons again....

Reference Materials. 
Not just for throwing at children when they're acting like assholes.

Do I make you laugh (at me or with me...)? Vote for MOMAICAL in the Circle of Moms Top 25 Funniest Moms contest. Competition is stiff!  You can vote once every 24 hours through February 13th. THANK YOU!!! 


Nature, Nurture or Neurosis

How much of your child's questionable behavior can you blame on DNA?  Yes, their hair color, eye color, height - we already know all that hereditary crap.  But what about bossy behavior?  Sensitivity?  Humor? Galton, Darwin and even Shakespeare have their opinions about empiricism/behaviorism.  Clearly all the undesirable traits exhibited in my children's behavior can be attributed to my husband.  Because, I am the picture of perfection.  What?  I am too. Whatever.  Haters gonna hate.

Would my children be smart asses if they were taken from my home and placed in a convent?  I'm guessing not so much.  But, think about how lame this blog would be.

Today was a day just like any other day. My children were polite.  They didn't argue, cry or embarrass me publicly. Not once did someone say "Well, then, you obviously DON'T LOVE ME!!!!"  or "That's it - you are no longer my family!"  They consumed all of their food without a single "Dis is goss. Me are not eatin dis." or "Yeah, dinner made me throw up in my mouth a little".    They went to bed without yelling at the top of the stairs for a "dwink" for two hours or how it's not fair that the other gets to stay up "Wicked late and yell at the top of the stairs when I have to go to bed.".  Tomorrow we will get up and the children will get ready for school, dressed like Gap models with sparkling brushed teeth and finely coiffed hair. Now I must sign off to get my 11 hours of uninterrupted beauty sleep. Because my life is Just. That. Perfect.

BOOOOORRRRRING!  Sure, my hair would be much thicker and less gray as a result.  Maybe I would have less Louis Vuitton under my eyes and more twinkle in my step.  Perhaps I could teeter around on platform Jimmy Choos and carry a teacup Yorkie in my purse.  Yeah...Um...boring...Anyway...

Blonde hair: Husband
Blue eyes: Both of us
Stature: Both of us
Type A personality: Both of us
Love of Languages: Me
Love of Reading: Me
Love of all things dirt bikes: Husband
Smart ass humor: Both of us
Insatiable Sweet Tooth: Me all day long.

Some nature.  Some nurture.  All "us". So, who do I blame for this:

Emmeline (screeching at the top of her lungs): MOOOOOOOOOMY! Open dis gate up for me.
Me: Excuse me? That's not how we talk to Mommy. What do we say when we need someone's help?
Emmeline: Open dis damn gate up now.  Peas.
Me: (Well, she got it half right....)

Or for the 7,643,278 times a day Lena cries about: Everything. Nothing. Something. One Fish. Two Fish. Red Fish. Blue Fish. 

Neither of us do those things.

The following words are spoken by me no less than a fucktillion times a day: "We do NOT speak to people like that.  That is rude and inappropriate."  (Ok, I am blaming that behavior on my husband....)

But, how many times a day can I say:

"Stop picking your nose! That's why it's bleeding!  You have picked out a piece of your frontal lobe! You're one pick from performing a self-lobotomy!"

"What is that in your mouth?  Oh, God.  Spit that out RIGHT NOW. Where did you even get that snail?"

"No, we do NOT go potty outside.  We are humans. Yes, I know the doggy does - but he is an ANIMAL!" 

"Really, girls?  We wear pants in this house.  And underpants...usually.  Now, where are yours?  What do you mean "Me don't know?'"

"For the love of God. I cannot believe I just caught you putting chap stick on your butt. Go throw that away because....NO DON'T USE IT ON YOUR LIPS NOW!  EWEWEWEWEWEWEWEWEWEW!"

"What did you paint the potty with?  What do you mean 'Me didn't do it.' You're the only other one home."

None of these things are things my husband or I do. Ever.  (Unless my husband has a secret side to him, which I'm willing to bet against.)  Not nature.  Not nurture.  That only leaves: Neurosis. 

Good thing I've already started saving for the Future College/Major Therapy fund.   Looks like I'm going to need it.


Hmm. Me do NOT know how dat got der.  Dat is weird.


Whoever Said "War is Hell" - Didn't Move 3 Times in 2 Years

We are getting closer to Spring - which apparently means we need to move a-freakin-gain.  Holy. Shit.  I guess someone has figured out where we are and witness protection is moving us to protect our identities or something like that.  Which makes me have nightly moving nightmares where once again everything I own is packed up and somehow ends up in my parent's garage (which I know would be their biggest nightmare as well as I was informed of this the last time I ended up there). 

So, we are planning to buy a house before I collapse and die and have my husband just pack my rotting corpse up with the crystal and tupperware.  Through the hundreds of houses we have perused I have learned one thing: people do some freaky shit to their homes. 

I have seen the following while house hunting:

Taxidermied pets - I know you love Fluffy, but for the love of GOD - let them move on after they pass away.  It's like a creepy pet cemetery. 

Carpet in strange places.  I mean, who is getting up in the top of the closet to vacuum?  I barely vacuum the floors people step on - there is no way that space will be anything but a giant dust collector. 

Walls painted really hideous and bold colors.  One house had an entire wall with the Jamaican flag painted on it.  Unless my New Year's resolution was to start smoking copious amounts of weed - this would never work out.  The only thing that would take away this amount of bright paint would be a blowtorch.

Complete and utter disasters of houses.  Holes punched in walls, feces on the carpet, severe water leakage.  I mean - YOU put your house on the market.  Do you actually want to sell it? And, unless it is priced at the bargain of the millennium - you need to make it look as pristine as possible for me to consider it.  I'm not a fixer-upper kinda girl.

What the fuck is up with all the rooster love? 

You know people are going to check out your closets - because closet space is a big deal especially in California where there are no basements and no attics.  PUT YOUR SEX TOYS AWAY PEOPLE. I mean, good for you for adding some kink to your love life.  But, do you need to brag about it?  Yes, we are selling our house to upgrade so we can add a red room of pain - currently we only have a small closet of pain.

People.  We have an appointment to view your home.  It's not like we just show up unannounced.  So, for the 15 minutes we are there - could you please NOT be there?  It's very awkward to discuss what we like or dislike about your house in front of you.  In fact, we have walked away from a few houses when we are told to come back or wait.


Bento Box Bitch Slap

I'm not a violent person.  In fact, I tend to avoid conflict at all costs.  That being said, there's one group of people that I'd like to bitch slap silly and then drag them behind my SUV.  Those people are the ones that make kids lunch into an art form. 

Pinterest is FULL of pictures of absolutely adorable ideas for lunch.  Make your fruit look like a tropical island.  Hard boil eggs in the shape of hearts. Create monkeys out of pita bread.  Bento box style nosh that probably stakes 2 hours to create.  What. The. Fuck.

Aren't those lunches gorgeous?  If I was creative (which I'm not) I still wouldn't bother.  They would take hours to create and Lena would bring home a smashed version of them at the end of every school day.

I can't even get my kid to eat her favorite foods at lunch - there is NO effing way that I am spending hours to create crap that just gets thrown out.  I tried early on to be creative.  Pepperoni and cheese with crackers. Sandwiches cut out into cute shapes.  Fruit and vegetables, all beautiful and colorful. Healthy, well rounded, adorable.  And, every day the lunchbox would come home barely touched - and I would have a ravenous barracuda tossed into my car to attack us.

So, I switched tactics.  "Lena, what would you like to eat for lunch?  It needs to be healthy and have some protein in it."   She would choose her food and then make her lunch.  I thought maybe she'll eat it now that she created it. And...not so much. She's a fruit-aholic.  So, I loaded her lunchbox with delectables of the fruit persuasion.  Ahahahahaha - squashed berries - bruised bananas and a giant ball of hungry, whining, crying misery in my car.

Now I'm to the point of well, "here's a bunch of shit that won't go bad since you don't eat it anyway."  Peanut butter crackers, yogurt pretzels, etc.  She *may* lick the peanut butter.  I have taken action since I can't sit on the lunch table and force feed her - apparently they frown upon that practice in public schools.  Whatever. My solution?  I take a non-fancified sandwich and shove it in her mouth right after I kiss her hello.  It stifles the hangry freakin the freak out so I can drive home without having to yell "I just picked you up from school.  Can't we PLEASE have 5 minutes without you crying?"

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