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'm in the process of getting ready to start a new job.  Back into the teaching world I go! So, I'm pulling out some of my early writing - because as I clean out my new classroom, I figure I may dust off some oldies in my archives as well.  Here is my very first blog post - originally published in March 2012.  My writing sure has morphed since this - mostly I have learned to edit my blather down.  Let me know what you think:

We Don't Take Kindly To Folks Like You Around Here

For as long as I can remember, my plan was to continue my higher learning through a Ph.D. in Spanish.  It’s been THE PLAN.  The whole point that the chapters of my life have been leading up to.  The big picture.  When we moved, the Golden Gates opened up, angels sang and my husband said “Why, love of my life, of course you can spend the next umpteen zillion years reading archaic literature in foreign languages.  Whatever makes you happy.”  (Actually, it was more like “What are you going to do with a Ph.D. in Spanish?  Kinda sounds wicked lame to me but if that’s what you want, go for it…”).  And that was it!  The starting gun fired and I took off in hot pursuit of Ph.D. programs.  

Turns out, it’s not that easy to find one.  You would think since we live in a place where SOOOOOOO many people speak Spanish, it would be a hot degree.  And, then you would be wrong.  And so was I.  There are only a few universities within 100 miles of our home that offer this level of degree in Spanish.  But, I found THE PROGRAM of my dreams.  It’s at a very prestigious school, but I am a nerd and think it is in the realm of possibilities to be accepted.  And, as my best friend’s mom told me “It’s not like they’re going to come knocking on your door, Tracy.  You need to put yourself out there and go after them.”  And I then began my new chapter: matriculation into this Ph.D. program. 

I once had a boss when I was in radio that told me I have high “WOO” (winning others over).   I figure I can pump up my WOO factor to 11, get in front of the department, knock them over with my enthusiasm, wit and fabulous shoes and get in. Easy as pie.  I carefully construct emails inquiring into the program and hit send.  I heard right away from the head of the department (WOO FACTOR, score 1) and set up our meeting.   I begged for a sitter, pulled out a great outfit from my pre-mom days, tried it on and immediately put it away because I no longer rock a pre-mom body.  I struck out with outfits 2-7 until I finally settled on a simple, classic look which was clearly going to impress.  Ok, so it was the only one that I didn’t look like a sausage in, but I digress. 

I took the first trepidatious steps in the journey toward my fate.  Oh my goodness – this is ACTUALLY going to happen!  I am going to inundate myself in classes, learning for the sake of learning – and only because I WANT TO, not because I need to for a job, a license or a parking ticket.   I wander through the labyrinth of the campus, taking in the awesomeness of it all. I breathed in the scent of old books, great knowledge and buzzing a little bit at the experience of someone in their 30’s as opposed to being a teenager and taking the experience for granted. 

The head of the department was impressed with my experiences, grades, and recommendations.  I believe that my Kate Spades were lost upon him, but I wasn't expecting much of a nod to fashion from a man wearing a tweed suit coat with elbow patches, a plaid shirt and some kind of crochet-looking tie thing.   He encouraged me to apply and perhaps take a few classes to get myself up to speed as it has been a few years since I took this style of class (my Master’s degree is in Education – not Spanish).  He took me downstairs to meet some of my fellow brethren in the pursuit of knowledge and that’s when the effervescence diminished. And by “diminished” I mean crashed, burned, and croaked.

I launch into the “Tracy-song-and-dance” performance of impressing them with how much I would totally fit into their department. But the strangest thing happened. They gaped at me like I was a poisonous creature that may bite them, but they can’t look away from because I’m so fabulously strange. Honestly, I’m slightly shocked because WOO mode works on the staunchest of opponents.  And then, it happened. I asked them how they wrote their Statements of Purpose for the application – you know, so I can get a leg up from the ones that beat the odds and got accepted into the Ivy Leagues. I told them that I like to write with a humorous undertone (unspoken sentiment – to set myself apart from the drudgery that so many people write about how great and smart they are so accept them, blah, blah, blah…)  The head of the geek squad looked down at me past his tortoise rimmed spectacles and said “Humor?  I wouldn’t.  You wouldn’t seem…intelligent…or like you’re a serious scholar. Humor. No. Not here. ” The fellow bobble heads all nodded in agreement.  And, with that, my degree dreams were shattered.

Not intelligent?  Not intelligent!  It wasn’t like I was starting my essay with "Knock-Knock.  Who's there? Orange. Orange who?  Orange you going to accept me into your program?"  This is funny, smart stuff I write!  Not intelligent, as if!  In fact, I think the best humor comes from really smart people.  Over the years I have collected funny friends like Ringling Brothers collected freaks (which is apparently where I belong according to the Ph.D. posse).  I began to disappear into myself awkwardly because if I can't use humor I don't know how to react. I wear my humor like a giant scarf: hiding behind it when I’m nervous, pulling from it when things are uncomfortable, breaking the ice with new people or shouting it from the rooftops when I feel happy and want to share that feeling with the world. I use it to discipline my children, because I think it’s more powerful than a spanking (and less likely to involve Child Protective Services). Humor is as big of a part of me as my blue eyes, obsession with dark chocolate and fabulous heels. Do I really want to dedicate the next years of my life to a bunch of people who think humor is beneath them? And, now I doubt they’ll accept me into this stupid, lame program. I hate writing boring stuff almost as much as I hate reading boring stuff written by boring people!

I was crushed. Empty. This was WHAT I was supposed to do now that I’m all grown up and can actually do this. And, now it was all gone. How am I going to explain to my kids that everything that I had dreamed was all a delusional nightmare? Part of my job as a mom is to inspire my girls to be the absolute best they can be. My husband does this on a daily basis.  He sets these unbelievably high goals for himself and constantly achieves them! Now, I don’t know who I am supposed to be – let alone how to teach the girls how to be awesome.

I arrive home in a fugue of depression and see my daughters outside riding their bikes. Lena pulls into the driveway next to me and asks me how my meeting went.Trying to hide my melancholy, I told her that sometimes life throws you an unexpected wrench and that you need to readjust how you look at things and move on.  Her response: “That’s why I always keep a pink boa in my bike basket. You never know who you may see and you need to be prepared.” 

And, she’s right. I don’t need a Ph.D. to raise great kids – which is really the most important job any person can have.  And, I certainly don’t want to spend time with unfunny people. Life is too short for that. Walt Whitman said “Re-examine what you have been told. Dismiss what insults your soul.” Humor helps me deal with toddler meltdowns, sister arguments about the doll with the purple shirt and why they need to brush their teeth.  It helps me survive the twenty-fifth time that I have swept the floors, boo-boos that need Hello Kitty Band-Aids, and long weeks when my husband is crazy at work. It keeps me afloat when I feel like the world is trying to beat me into submission. The decision made itself:  Ivy League Spanish Ph.D. is dismissed – since working with people who don’t embrace humor insults my soul. Humor stays.  

Now it’s on to my next chapter: Using the application fee towards the pursuit of finding my boa. Does anyone know if Burberry makes one? 


The Cleaning Bug Bites. Let's Hope It's Not Bedbugs.

I have been bitten by the cleaning bug. At first I thought it was my OCD catching up with me - as I have buried it down way deep into my psyche. It is impossible for me to continuously embrace my need to organize and hold on to that last minuscule shred of sanity - as I believe my daughters were sent to me by my mother as payback for all my messes.  While everything has a sort of home in our lives - it has become more commune living than solitary confinement.  And, if I insisted things live exactly where I want them to live, I will be cleaning non-stop 24 hours a day, crying into my dust buster. So, I've had to choose between relaxing that compulsion and a tiny padded room. Every once and a while the entire house needs a douching to herd the crap back into some logical conformity. Time to jettison the neglected, the broken, the legions of McDonald's happy meal toys that have been coagulating in numerous corners of the abode. I begin this pursuit enthusiastically in the room that makes me shudder: the kids play room. 

The closet houses the majority of the toys that the girls own.  Over the past few months, the girls have been required to clean up when they are done playing. There are boxes, bins, crates, bags and other methods of containing the clutter - yet they go unused. In Lena world, "clean up" means haphazardly flinging whatever needs to be removed from my line of vision into said depository.  Jimmy Hoffa may be buried underneath the fishing game, Bananagrams, the portable Barbie karaoke machine that "mysteriously" lost it's batteries and piles of Legos.

Once a quarter I attempt to claw through the ataxia because ponies cohabiting with princesses could potentially create a Catherine the Great situation. I evacuate everything and begin the lengthy process of getting it back to its "home." At the end of the extrapolation three piles of items remain: to be donated because they have been outgrown (baby toys), donated because they are no longer being used but are in good condition, thrown away because they are broken or missing pieces.  This is a process that actually takes a few days to accomplish for several reasons:

One reason is because as soon as I take anything out the girls immediately want to play with it.  Which exacerbates the hideous "I forgot about this baby doll with the wires sticking out of its arm! I have totally been looking for this!"  Followed by "Dat my baby! Yeave it ayone!" And, ding ding - boxing match over the fire hazard begins.

Secondly, this starts the battle of the: "You are SO NOT throwing out this half of a zooble."  "Lena, it is broken."  "I don't care.  It's my super favoritest Zooble in the whole world.  "Dat my zoobw. Yeave it ayone!" And the fight over half a toy begins.

Third, it opens a closet of worms because I can't possibly stop with that room. That would be the sane thing to do.  No,  I need to ferret out all the toys in the house, car, garage and yard to rearrange and organize to make sure I "get everything".Which makes the house look like a bomb went off and pushes my ADHD into overdrive - further exacerbating the calamity. 

Oh, here's a Barbie shoe. I'll take this Barbie shoe and go put it into the Barbie clothes box. As I walk into the room where the Barbie closet resides, my eyes are immediately drawn to a dish on the bed.  I pick up the dish (and absentmindedly place the shoe in my back pocket). I take the plate into the kitchen where there are a few dishes are in the sink.  I open the dishwasher to put the dirty dishes in - and the dishwasher is fully loaded with clean dishes.  I begin to put away the dishes when I find the missing Pony hair brush.  I take the pink sparkly brush upstairs to Emmeline's bedroom where 47,000 Bendaroos have been strewn about the floor like a spaghetti nightmare.  I pick up the Bendaroos and then bring them into the closet where they are stored. Since I'm in the laundry room, I throw in a load of whites and take the latest load out of the dryer. I place it on the couch but have to first move an American Girl doll that would have asphyxiated under the pile of towels. Which leads me back to the room where I started and still haven't put the Barbie shoe away and forgot it was in my pocket along with 35 other odds and ends I have picked up along the way... 

I stand there for a few minutes trying to remember why I am in this room when my husband comes home. He does a quick surveillance of our downstairs and says "Seriously, Tracy. What the hell have you been doing all day?" Which makes me want to snap his head off with a bitchy "What does that mean?  I'm cleaning!!!!"  Until I take in the view. Every cabinet door in the kitchen is open.  The dishwasher is half unloaded. Emmeline has "hewped" by putting everything in the silverware bin into some drawer that is now off it's runner. Lena has poured the entire bag of stuffed animals to be donated into the hallway. The sink in the bathroom is running (not sure if it's my fault or Emmeline's because she wanted a "dwink"). The load of whites was started and then stopped mid-cycle because I got distracted and forgot to close the lid (did I add the bleach or not?). The door to the garage is open because I wanted a Diet Coke and then saw a bin of toys that I wanted to go through in my cleaning fury which I brought in and deposited in the middle of the toy room hideous. 

I try to explain that I am in the middle of a project and there really is a method to my madness.  He rolls his eyes at me, steps over the bean bag that is now a "nest for a herd of wild animals" and heads to the stairs.  He would go up to his office, but I have placed so much crap at the bottom of the staircase of things to be put away up there that he can't ascend.  I keep hoping that he will take one of the piles up and deposit it in the appropriate room. Instead, he Spidermans the railing over the disaster to his freedom. Bastard. I would go upstairs to yell at him, but Lena has dumped the entire pile of broken items all over the floor. I step on a wayward Go Fish card and slide very ungracefully onto the floor. I weave a tapestry of obscenities.   Emmeline is crying because she "aunts mulk" but can't get into the kitchen because a fort of books is blocking the way.  A bulldozer is my only path to freedom.  But I can't find my phone to call for help.


I Vant To Suck Your Tomato

My husband is in the middle of a few gigantic projects at work and therefore he is not around for dinner tonight.   The girls have asked for chicken and cheese wrapped up in crescent rolls.  Easy enough.  While these are cooking, I cut up vegetables for the girls and my salad.  Lena asks for tomato - but doesn't want it cut up. I am glad she actually wants to eat tonight so I give her a giant piece of the tomato. She also wants several of the items I am dicing for my salad: organic greens, corn on the cob, baby carrots, sugar snap peas, cauliflower, and yellow peppers. The rolls are done.We settle in for our meal. Everyone is eating and there is no crying about cups, forks or who got more milk. Ahhhh, lovely meal with my girls! The start to a great girls night in.

Then, Lena announces that she is a vampire bat. And "vampire bats slurp the blood from their prey, Mommy.Watch!" I'm exhausted. I am alone with the girls all night.  Am I ready to fight this battle of proper dinner etiquette?  I'll give it one shot. "Lena, we don't eat like animals. We use utensils and plates. Please be civilized and eat dinner appropriately."

And it totally worked. For about one nanosecond. Until Count Suckula decides that vampire bats "sip" their dinner. She then proceeds to tell us that "vampire bats inject poisons into their prey and they slurp their insides out." This is lovely dinner conversation - it's like eating with Hannibal Lecter. Emily Post crawled out of her grave to slap me for allowing this.

Lena then continues to slurp the mushy guts out of her prey. I want to ignore this. I want to stop it. I want to make her eat her dinner properly; like a lady, not a winged creature of the night. But she is peppering us with facts about vampire bats and my morbid curiosity wins out.

Lena's Vampire Bat "Facts" (I have not checked for accuracy - but she's usually correct):

1. They only eat blood!  Can you believe it? That is SO CREEPY and kind of wicked awesome!

2. They have fangs that are pokey like my teeth.Which is totally why I am a vampire. And I like to hang upside down which is why I am a bat. 

3. Vampire bats have a "hot beepy thing" on their noses that help them find where the blood is next to the skin on cows and horses and people and stuff.

4. Baby vampire bats hang on to their mommies when they are hunting. How do you think they hang on?  Are they like a vampire backpack? Hey! Backpack...batpack! That's high-larious!

5. They live in Mexico which is where you always want to go to visit, Mommy! We should go visit bat caves and you can speak to them in Spanish!

She is spewing information and tomato guts while Emmeline and I stare at her. She dives headfirst into an ear of corn, chomping and gnawing with her fangs. She liquefies the guts of a sugar snap pea and sips it down. Cauliflowers are BRAINS!!! Finally, her hunger is satiated. Mine, however, has long been jettisoned with the beginning of this atrocious dinnertime discussion. The feeding frenzy has passed. Emmeline and I have more-or-less survived intact. 

"Lena - where did you learn all of this information about vampire bats?"

"Daddy lets me watch a show called Creepy Creatures on his iPad before I go to bed.

Mmmm I just LOVE what you've done with this cauliflower. Delicious. 


Top 10 Disturbing Things My Family Said This Week

Top 10 Disturbing Things 
Out of the Mouths of My Family Members 
I Wish I Hadn't Heard This Week:

10. Ooooooh. When Mommy sees that you are in SO much trouble.

9. Emmeline drew on the couch. In PEN!

8. We do not talk about our butts at dinner.

7. What if we want BUTTer?

6. What if me awe a BUTTerfwy?

5. What if me awe eatin a Butt samich?

4. Mommy! Emmeline is eating dog treats!

3. Dog tweats awe yummy!

2. Oh my goodness! Emmeline is holding a live jellyfish! (Followed by) Emmeline we do NOT pick up jellyfish!!  (And then) But hims squishy!

And the #1 most disturbing thing I heard this week is:

1. "Me haf somefin stuck in my nosey.  It's a finger fwum my baby dow."
You're number...oh forget it. 
Yes, she had a doll finger up her nose. No, I have no idea why she thought it would be a good idea to pick her own nose with her baby doll's finger. Which then snapped off into her nose and had to be jettisoned via snot rocket. 

Which just makes a mother proud - as you can imagine. 


What Matters Most

The tendrils of smoke tickle the clouds and flirt with the sun; the cirrus frowning at this skyline aberration. I watch the dance for a few minutes when the smoke begins to singe my eyes. Suddenly the fire has a new burst of life to it. It roars up the side of the hill and it's heading in the direction of our home.

The scene is slashed by a helicopter getting all fruit ninja on the smoke. Its body is weighed down by a bladder full of pond water from our neighborhood.  My husband and I decide to get out before it becomes difficult to escape - as there's only one exit from the development.  I literally have five minutes to grab things that I simply can't live without.

I run upstairs and grab my phone, watch, and diamond earrings my mom gave to me on my 21st birthday. Photo albums? No - everything is uploaded somewhere. I already have my most precious jewelry - my engagement ring and wedding band as well as my earrings.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

I toss my husbands iPad and a few of his items into a backpack. I grab my laptop, toss the kids into the car, grab the dog and jump into the car. I'm shaking and can't think.

The air is thick and heavy as our car pushes out of the driveway. People are pulled over on the side of the road to take pictures. I realize in my rush to get my family out I have forgotten my purse, wallet etc.

My husband decides to make this an adventure and we head toward the beach. The dog is shaking because he hates the car. The kids are bored - I didn't pack toys or games or snacks. I finally have a few moments with my thoughts.

What else should I have saved? Well, I would like to preserve my wedding gown. I have hand prints and footprints from my babies that can't be recreated. My "Go Me" box (a box full of things that I am proud of) and the kids memory boxes. But those are just things.

I have my kids. My husband is right next to me. And my dog is freaking out in my lap. I realize that I am surrounded by the most important things in my life. They are all safe. And that is what really matters.

Thankfully they contained the fire before it made it to our road. A few houses and buildings were lost but no lives were. Thank you to the brave men and women firefighters who risk their lives to protect ours.


Slice of Midnight with the Rockwells

12:30 am: Rockwell's Master Bedroom

My Husband: Did you hear something?
Me: Yeah, it sounds like something is banging - like a screen door or something. It's been going on for a while now.

Husband gets up and fumbles around in the dark

Husband: Why the hell do we never have flashlights?
Me: The girls were playing bats. They had the flashlights fastened to their heads with headbands for sonar.

Husband: Well that's great. Let's hope no one is trying to break in.
Me: You could turn on the outside light.
Husband: And let them KNOW we're on to them? You totally SUCK as a ninja.

He very slowly opens door and tip toes onto the deck. I fall back to sleep because I need to be fully rested to fight off burglars, wild animals or rabid screen doors.

Husband: I didn't see anything. Head on a swivel though, ok?
Me: Yeah. I'm on it.

The banging continues outside.  I get up to shut the window to block out the sound.

Husband: For fuck's sake,Tracy. Could you close the window any louder?
Me: Yeah, probably. I'm really good at being loud.
Husband: Yeah, but if there's a burglar next door he now knows that you've seen him and he'll have to kill you to keep you quiet.
Me: I'm willing to take that chance.
Husband: Well, don't say I didn't warn you.  I'll miss you when you're chopped up to pieces.
Me: But think of how thin I'll be.  Now shut up so I can get some sleep.

End Scene.

**For my new lovelies, I often refer to my family as "The Rockwells" because we are EXACTLY like a Norman Rockwell painting. Clearly.


Most Embarrassing Moment EVER - on In the Powder Room

What's the point of having tremendously mortifying experiences if you can't share them with the world? Here's my story of Whoa, it's hot out (aka When pantiliners get their revenge....)

Check out my most embarrassing moment ever - today on In The Powder Room


Nothing Screams "manly!" like a pair of Mantyhose.

Just when I was coming to terms with men carrying small dogs, using Murses, and wearing skin tight meggings - someone throws a wrench into the works by creating Mantyhose.  

Now, I'm open to most trends.  You want to rock skinny jeans - go for it.  I mean, my husband was a hockey player and would rip through a pair of those bastards like he was the Hulk - if he could fit them over his knee cap.  But, this...this is somewhat disturbing to me.  

Mantyhose.  Pantyhose for men.  Not compression pants to wear under uniforms.  Actual pantyhose. For Men to wear.  On their legs (not on their heads to rob banks).

"Chan Kraemer, founder of (formerly: says “Its genuine male fashion, intented for everyday men” he says. “It’s no way about the weakening of the male idea. Men have strong, muscular legs. Show your mantyhose-decorated legs and you’re saying: here are my legs, they are strong enough to carry me, and I am carrying the whole world – my family, my job, and all the others who rely on me.”"

Granted, yes. Men of centuries ago use to wear stockings.  They also use to wear powdered wigs and high heels.  There is a reason that they got away from wearing these items. History does NOT need to repeat itself. 

His and her matching pantyhose.  How...disturbing?

Do you not see the skulls on these mantihose?
Death is manly. And so is wearing pantyhose.
I put these on with my BARE HANDS. Rawr. 

The site Mantyhose has all kinds of helpful tips - important ones like how to put Mantyhose on without injuring yourself.  And directions about how to shave your legs - if you don't already. They also give information about how to choose colors/patterns - likening it to purchasing a tie.  

Forbes has an article about "Five Reasons Mantyhose Could Be The Next Spanx" - one of which is "They're way less ugly than other bad fashion choices". 


I guess if you have a really difficult to buy for metrosexual or cross-dresser in your life - this may be an option.

I offered to buy my husband a pair of Mantyhose.  He said "who the fuck would wear that?

My answer - "Not you if you ever want to have sex again."

But somehow this trend is FAR less disturbing to me than these:

Hairy pantyhose created for girls in China who wish to fend off
the advances of pretty much everything on Earth.

What would you do if your hunk o'burnin love came home in a pair of Mantyhose?  Would you be all "Do me NOW or get out!" or more like "For fuck's sake. What fresh hell is that?" 
Oh, and all the pictures of Mantyhose are used with consent of the site as long as I attribute it back to their site. So here it is: WEBSITES You are free to use our images for your website, without any further permission necessary from,  as illustration for articles, opinions, blogs (or in separate image galleries) while mentioning as the source and/or linking to You are allowed to remove the watermark as well.

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Just In Case You Were Wondering

I'm just getting back to "normal life" after two blissful weeks of vacation with my family.  Which means my cherubs are running around like maniacs as I try to get through laundry, cleaning, emails, etc.  As you can imagine, it's just like a Norman Rockwell painting.  If Norman was on acid. In a tornado. In the Disney Store.

Right now I'm trying to hide behind my laptop from the Ladies of the Flies. They're stomping around upstairs like a herd of wildebeests wearing nothing but underwear on their heads and pillow shams as capes.  I have stripped all the beds to wash the sheets - which is clearly secret kid code for Open Trampoline Gym/Launch Pad. Emmeline is jumping off yelling "Mommy peed da bed yast night! Dat's why her have no sheets!" which is lovely for the neighbors to hear.

They insisted on making their own food. Their "yunch" consisted of refried bean and cheese dip, tortilla chips, Cocoa Puffs, spray cheese and peanut butter crackers. Together. In one vomitous bowl.

Hew Mommy. Dis is yours. It's deyicious.
Cocoa puffs, spray cheese and tortilla chips.

So, it looks like I will be starting my diet today. Since I am clearly not partaking in "yunch". 


Camp Iwannapeepee

Day 1 at Camp Iwannapeepee:  We have arrived. I don't know what to make of this place. The uniforms are strange (no pants) and the food is mediocre. But, I've signed up and there's no turning back now. We are quarantined to the backyard. They claim it's for the outdoor experience, but I think there's something else going on. 

There is a lot of singing but I don't know most of the words to the songs. It seems that the minute I catch on to the lyrics, the "lead counselor" Lena, changes them. She is more of a drill sergeant than friend.  I'm not sure what to make of her.  Every 43 seconds we have to march the smallest of the campers to the potty.  And then we sing songs. And recite ABC's. And cheer. A lot. And sometimes we cry. For no reason. 

There have been several uniform changes today. They have designated me with latrine and laundry duty. It's a never ending cycle. I think it may have been because I was crying about wanting to leave.  They say I have signed up and it's my duty to follow through. I walk away from the taunting about quitters being spitters, or something like that. I cry into my yellow camp T-shirt.

Day 2 at Camp Iwannapeepee: I was woken up several times throughout the night to take the little one to the potty. I wanted no part of it but I am quickly learning that what I want no longer matters. I am exhausted and more than a little beaten down. I close my eyes and imagine myself sitting on the edge of the ocean. The waves splash on my feet. It's so realistic. It seems the small one has "spwashed" the contents of the potty on my toes. Back to latrine cleaning duty. She is willing to help me though. I watch her carefully scrubbing her tiny pink throne. That's when I notice she's using my toothbrush. 

The food is no better today. Apparently I have to COOK too if I want to eat. What the hell did I sign up for? I try to escape but the lead counselor finds me and I have to answer a thousand questions while washing the living room floors. I embrace my inner Annie. It's a hard knock life.  For me. 

I am being forced to endure hours upon hours of whining and crying. I don't understand. My only guess is that they are trying to prepare us in the event that we are kidnapped we don't give away any secrets. 

In addition to camp songs we are now also forced to recite: 

This is my potty. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My potty is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
My potty, without me, is useless. Without my potty, I am useless.

I think it's a bit extreme. But my opinion is quickly shut down as I am sent to fold enough pairs of underpants to clothe the northern hemisphere. 

Day 3 at Camp Iwannapeepee:  Morale is low. At least, for me. The cabin fever is setting in. I am beginning to hallucinate. There's two small girls running around the camp yelling "I nakey!" They are singing "My First Piss Went a Little Like This! Pssss and twist! Psssss and twist!" I think this song is inappropriate. When I voice my opinion, the little one defecates in the closet in defiance. I decide it's safest to keep my opinions to myself as I get out the spot bot. 

Paranoia sets in. All I see are two blonde girls. With pony tails. Staring at me. Then they run away.  They come back moments later in different clothes.  And stare at me. 

Once and a while entertainment is provided between floor scrubbing, toilet scrubbing and laundry duties. I am forced to watch small rodents rescue other small rodents from imminent doom. I try to call these good Samaritans to save me but their pencil holder just sends me directly to voicemail. 

Day 4 at Camp Iwannapeepee: I'm beginning to see a light at the end of the seventh circle of hell in which I have been ensconced over the last few days. The small one spent most of this morning crying and asking for a "diapey" but I have remained unmoved. I have been broken of all emotion.  I am just a pawn in this game.

We are running low on critical supplies like laundry detergent and pop tarts. The quartermaster for our unit is away on a business trip. Or so he claims. I am the only one trained to drive the tank. It is like Russian Roulette shopping. The small one has to go potty exactly 746 times. But will only go in the plastic one. In the trunk. We almost make it through the trip. Almost. My daily responsibilities extend now into the car. My hands are chaffed. My soul is shattered.  I don't know how much more of this I can handle. 

I may not survive this. Please send a reconnaissance team. Or at least a pizza. Hold the pee pee.


Scary Mommy

Ok - I've finally had 37 seconds to breathe.  Which is good because I was going to pass out....I am super excited to tell you that I have a post up on Scary Mommy!  Here's my story about the meticulous plan I put together for the birth of my daughter.  And....the reality - which was more like the scene with Sigourney Weaver in Alien.


Why I Don't Cook. Ever.

My husband had to work late.  Relieved of the stress of having to cook a meal that required me to hunt, kill and prepare for barbecue – I opted to go with a family favorite: Noodles with steak and fresh sugar snap peas.  Trader Joe’s has some awesome ready-to-go meals that are much healthier than some of the processed things that my children gravitate towards.  I scooped up a “Trader Joe’s Fully Cooked & Seasoned Organic Beef Sirloin Roast.”    Says ORGANIC right in it – which is almost like saying “Sent from the Surgeon General and guaranteed to keep your kids healthy and happy!” 

Super easy preparation instructions – which is for me.  I like to bake and like to cook appetizers.  I do not cook meat.  I enjoy eating it (a little) but do not prepare it.  I'm fine eating my way through a garden for every meal.  So are my girls.  We eat meat because it is a good source of protein but not because we crave it.  But if you are looking for a delicious filet mignon grilled to perfection - I am not your girl.  Fully cooked and ready to hand out to hungry tiny people is my kind of meat!

I whip up some yummy orecchiette and sugar snap peas and cook the roast exactly as directed on the package.  I can’t cook meat, but I can read with the best of ‘em. The kids gobble it up so we can all go back to the fun, girlie crafts that have been planned for our estrogen extravaganza.  Dishes are washed and we are up to our elbows with glue, wire, pipe cleaners and glitter.  I get a text from my husband asking if we want him to pick up Thai.  I laugh, because had we waited for him to eat, the girls would have ritualistically sacrificed me to the Lucky Charms Gods in their hunger depraved state.  I let him know about the scrumptious dinner we enjoyed earlier in the evening and welcomed him to enjoy some of the leftovers.

He comes through the door with a feral look in his eyes.  “I am freakin’ stahvin.  Can you heat me up some of that steak and noodles?  Don’t even bother with whatever yucky vegetable you ate.  Because I hate it.  I pry the glue stick from my fingers and proudly reheat the remnants of tonight’s masterpiece, served up on our finest plastic ware.  

He begins to eyeball it, rotating the plate around in his hand.  Tracy.  What is this?”  “Um.  I don’t know.  Some sort of steak thingy? I got it at Trader Joe’s.  The girls loved it!  He begins to inspect it like he’s discovered vacuole from ancient protozoa.  He slowly says “Just….how….did you cook this?   I blush.  I followed the directions exactly.”  Still looking at the comestible he says “You didn't grill this, did you?”  “Nope.”  “Did you fry it on the stove?”  “Nope.”  “Just how did you cook this?”  “ the microwave.  Just like it says to on the directions.”

He tosses aside the odious meal.  He says “Lena.  Emmeline. 
That’s it. Your mom microwaved meat. We’re taking her out back to ‘Old Yeller’ her.  The girls cheer for some unknown reason since they have neither read nor seen Old Yeller.  

And he wonders why I don't cook. 

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