The Bouncing Bundle of Baby, Um, Bootie

I went to a baby shower yesterday. I swear, if you go to one of these for a non-family member, it brings you back to high school, doesn't it? I never know half of these people so I can't find my kind. (Nerdlings are harder to spot once we learn how to dress and trade contacts for our glasses.) So I end up picking a table and hoping at least one person is either snarky, sarcastic, or nerdy like me.

When you go to a family baby shower, you don't have this problem. These people are stuck with you and vice versa. You can find your cool aunt or a cousin that's close to your age or even your Nana who needs supervision when she chews so, " Tag, you're it!" Your family IS your clique. They're your peoples.

But I found out that I can't go to baby showers anymore. Not only did my uterus give a big "aw, look a baby" twinge over the 4 day old infant that was in attendance (Look how popular she is to be getting party invites after only being here 4 days!) but it screamed so loud I'm surprised people didn't turn and look at us. After reminding my yearning uterus that there are no more babies for us, the gift opening started.

Oh, yeah, here's another reason I can't birth no babies. The crap. Not poop, I can handle that. But all the gear that you need to haul this bundle of joy around after popping them out. If I had known how much easier it was to carry them around in the ME carrier, even with feet stuck all the way up into my ribs, I might not have complained about the last trimester of my pregnancy. (Ok, I still would have complained because it's hard being a whale on dry land and not complain. But I might have made a concession and griped less.) It's all this stuff that's designed to carry their ass, wipe their ass, or cover their ass. That's a lot of ass related materials!

It doesn't help that this is another area where my inner 1950's housewife comes out. Because as she's opening all this crap (after my own 3 kids) I'm inwardly thinking, "She won't use that. She'll use that maybe 3 times. That's a godsend. Why does she need that? She'll find out that's a lot more trouble than it's worth." You can't tell new moms that though. They truly don't want to benefit from your experience when it comes to baby bootie. They want to be able to pick out the things they (think) are going to be useful, and I'm not saying they shouldn't be allowed to. But they make so much baby junk now that it's hard to tell the fluff from the meat and potatoes. There should be a guide to what they're really going to need and what stuff is just designed to sell under the guise of making things easier. Maybe I should write that manual. It would be this:

1. Don't go crazy. Get basics and figure out what additional pieces are needed as you go on.
2. Borrow or Re-purpose. Once you're done with babies, you're stuck with all this crap. Borrow or garage sale to find items you can re-finish (like dressers or changing tables or even rockers.)
3. You don't HAVE to put the most expensive item on your registry. More money doesn't always make it the best one.
4. Find someone who has had kids within the last few years and ask them what things are really important. Personally I would say: Bouncy seat, hand covers/mitts, nuk pacifiers, a boppy pillow, and big furniture is the crib, stroller, and infant carrier.
5. If you have a shower, have a book there with tips that experienced parents can write down for you. You will think you won't need help but if Aunt Sally tells you how she dealt with a colicky baby and it ends up working for you, it's a priceless piece of information.

And last but not least:
6. Take pity on all us Moms who are done having babies but still have yearnings....call us when that baby's born so we can come over and hold them and breathe in that fresh baby smell.

The Email Equivalent of Cooties

So John Hopkins is trying to figure out a way for those poor, public health clinics to notify partners of patients testing positive for a sexually transmitted ailment so that they can also seek treatment. Really? This is where you thought you could be most beneficial? Not cancer research or stopping Alzheimer's, but effective ways to notify people of STI's? (For those of you who aren't hip to the lingo like I am, STI stands for sexually transmitted infection.)

First of all, let me just say that if you're doing the dirty and you catch something, your penance should be notifying any and all recent partners. I don't even want to hear the words too embarrassed come out of your mouth. Have you heard the saying, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time"? If you're out there catting around, you should be smart enough to be using some sort of protection. Sot of like when you were a kid and you picked something up and your mother slapped it out of your hand with an admonishment of "You don't know where that's been!" Exactly.

Second, are we really putting the task of notifying any potential afflicted partners to the health department clinics? I mean, these people are doing a good deed having to check out your dripping, itchy, inflamed doo dads and hoo has, and now they have to play messenger service too? That's like going to the laundromat and expecting them to wash all the laundry for people you've hung out with in the last few weeks. How is that their job?

So because of the lack of notification happening, John Hopkins has initiated a study regarding informing infected partners via email or text message. Wait a minute, back up a second. Did you just say email? First, let's assume that you actually know the email address of your one drunken hook up. Are they going to look at an email that says, "You've got herpes. Click for details." and not think it's spam or a practical joke, or a virus? This ranks right up there with the Viagra emails. You know no one's reading them either. How about "Chlamydia: It's not a flower but you are the lucky recipient!" Or my favorite: "That smell you've been wondering about? Get it checked out. Drop John's name for a group discount."

If the email actually does make it through your bullshit scanner, how do you think the person is going to feel knowing that A.) You gave them the itch and the burn and B.) You didn't even have the balls to tell them in person. Honestly, the only thing worse than an STI notification in your inbox would be hanging out with the girl friends and receiving that really embarrassing text that says "Last wk clam bam=VD. Sry. TTYL. John" Thanks for the heads up. Really appreciate the use of texting. Not inappropriate at all. Of course, I'll talk to you later. Please notice the extreme use of sarcasm as I spew these platitudes.

So the next time you're going through your email and you have another one of those Nigerian lottery winners spam emails? It could be worse. It could be the Nigerian President offering you a sample of Viagra after informing: "Genital Warts: They Can Happen to Anyone. Congrats, today you're Anyone."

Sew What? Sew There! Sew Buttons on Your Underwear!

I hate sewing. No, I don't think that's strong enough of a word. I loathe sewing. I abhor it even. Plus, I suck at it so, there you go. Because of this, any sewing projects immediately get bumped down the bottom of the to do list. I would even put "Scrub month old toilet funk with a toothbrush" above sewing. Buttons, no problem! Sewing in a straight line? Um, only if I have to.

I have literally had a hole in the underarm of my pajama shirt for like 4 years now. It hasn't gotten bigger, it's not exposing any indelicate areas (Unless the arm pit has suddenly become an X rated body part without me knowing.) and by the time I'm in my pajama shirt, I've probably lost all motivation for real work. Yet, every single time I put this shirt on I think, "Oh yeah, I should sew that hole someday."

Well someday was today when a cami of mine also needed sewing. Craaaap! That makes 2 things on the "To Sew" list. Under universal law, now everything is going to develop small holes and tears until I have a mountain of articles that need mending. I had visions of clothes flying off my children left and right and me being buried under a mountain of discarded, unraveling clothing.

So I heave a huge sigh and head for the sewing box. It sounds real fancy saying I have a sewing box but please don't get the wrong idea. My sewing box consists of an old Pampers wipes container with a pin cushion, some fabric squares, and 2 spools of thread. (Because anything can be mended with either white or black thread, right? Right!) And a seam ripper. (Yes, I realize that it's completely ironic for someone with my caliber of sewing skills to have barely the basics and then add one really high falutin', you-must-know-what-you're-doing tool of thread destruction. But it's really fun to use!)

The hole in the pajama shirt is a piece of cake. Because it's not in a visible place, and hello?!?! Pajama shirt! I don't have to pretend I have sewing skills. I can just close the hole up, tie off, and go to the next problem. The next problem being the giant squid cami. It seems no matter which way I'm trying to hold this closed so that I can sew it, it grows tentacles to tangle me in. Ugh. Why do they make these cami straps so darn unsewable? Now I'm starting to work myself up in a lather about the quality of the clothing in America if this cami, which is only like nine months old, is already starting to fall apart. (This rant is all mental of course. Last time I started outwardly ranting to myself with no one on the other side of the conversation, I got some strange looks.) By the time I'm done, the stupid thing is in one piece again. And as long as you aren't looking that closely at it, it doesn't look too bad.

Long story short: I now feel like Wonder Woman for sewing a shirt that's had a hole for almost longer than the youngest child has been alive. (Hey, progress is progress, right?) Plus, I averted the Universal Crisis of clothes falling off my family willy nilly and having to whip out my super sewing saber to save the day.

First Jobs and Febreze Frenzies

So the oldest boy has his first job this summer. I know he's thrilled for the income potential, but all I see is my itty, bitty baby boy growing up. Hubby and I were talking last night and I realized: He's graduating in two years. (Oldest boy, not husband. That would make me a jail-worthy cougar.) Wait a gosh darn minute. I'm not ready to be a college kid's mom. I'm barely qualified to be a six year old's mom!

His job is at the amusement park up the road, and honestly, it's a good first job to have. It's conveniently located and they require a ton of employees to run everything so he doesn't have to worry about "down sizing". At least until the park closes and by then, school will be back in session and he can get back to his real job: Being a high school student who gets good grades so that he can earn a ton of scholarships and save his parents some money on sending him to college. (Basically we want him to be the human equivalent of Geico insurance and save us 15% on college expenses!)

Add the piece de resistance: It's in the games section. Yes, my super theatrical son gets to be a giant goof ball to attract people to play these games and he actually gets paid for it. He has his dream job. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that this is going to spoil the real world for him, when his adult "real" job contains boring things like meetings and three piece suits and matching ties. Maybe an excellent paying suit and tie job would take some of the sting out of it. (I know I'd wear a suit and tie to work if someone wanted to pay me well!)

The only problem with this job is that it's outside. I don't know how many of you have teenage boys (or even pre-teen boys) but they have a certain odor, a funk if you will. It's Eau de Teenage Boy and it kind of smells like feet and the inside of a NFL locker room. At least ours does. So now I'm thinking, "Hmmm, I wonder how intense this smell is going to become after spending 5 hours in 85 degree weather?" I think I might want to buy him a "Congrats on Passing 10th Grade" gift. One that consists of multiple types of deodorant, sneaker odor eaters, and body spray. Hey, if you can't beat 'em, might as well cover it in a heavy blanket of scented materials, right?

If you think this any sort of exaggeration, let me relay this conversation between the husband and myself this morning:
Hubby: We need to get some air freshener. Like Febreze.
Me: For what?
Hubby: For oldest boy's room. It stinks in there.

Keep in mind that my husband has a less sensitive nose than I do. I've been told it's a woman thing. We can smell a fart before it even is released into the air, that's how keen our sense of smell is. There have been times that my husband hasn't been able to smell the dog when he needs a bath, even after three days of my complaining about it. So for him to smell the smell in the boy's room? There's probably something dead somewhere. Which makes me think that when/if we ever do get to the point of selling the house and have to show it to people, we're going to have to make the oldest live in a tent in the back yard. Just to eliminate the stink. Either that or I should start buying stock in Febreze right now. Or how about I clothe the boy in clothing that I'm made especially for him that contains hangable car air fresheners in hidden pockets that I've sewn in.

Eh, who am I kidding? That sounds like a lot of work. Tent in the back yard it is.

The Last Day of School

So my three heathens are officially free for the summer vacation. No more teachers, no more books, no more blah, blah, blah. I'm trying to be happy for them but secretly I'm envious at the thought of 8 entire weeks of freedom spreading out before me. My summer looks like an endless sea of 8-4's. Sigh.

Don't get me wrong, part of me is thrilled at the prospect of summer just because I get to experience it vicariously through my children. I get to relive the joy of fireworks and hot days and swimming and picnics and s'mores. There's always a montage in my head of my own summers complete with fireflies and popsicles and skinned knees. (Of course, their scenarios probably don't involve bikes with banana seats but that's their loss!) I don't have to do assembly line lunch packing for 2 whole months! I don't have to wash socks for two months because they will live barefoot or in flip flops. Summer has it's definite high points.

An even bigger part of me is ecstatic to have no more school events for two months. With three children it seems like I'm spending an awful lot of time in one school or another. (They are all currently in separate grades in separate schools.) And if one kid's got something that week, it seems like they all do. Since I'm trying to be an involved, informed parent, there I am at open houses and conferences and concerts and moving up ceremonies. It's as if this is the parental version of freedom for 8 weeks. Not that I don't enjoy my kids and their performances. It's just that I could enjoy them much more if I wasn't working all day and then coming home and rushing everyone through homework and dinner to make it to an event. (This is a large hint to the lotto fairy who has been ignoring me for the better part of a decade.)

Then reality hits and I have a houseful of bored kids not even 2 weeks into summer. My life is the same old drill of work, cook, clean, rinse, lather and repeat. They have no routine now other than harassing each other and now mom's feeling a little frazzled and contemplating the merits of mimosas just to take the edge off. (Orange juice would totally camouflage the alcohol scent, right?) Mothers everywhere start to wince at the sound of their little angels screechy cries of "Moo-om" and "I'm telling!" with some of them starting to get little tics from Summertime PTSD. Oh yes people, it's real. And it's in every house in American for summer vacation.

This is because, at the beginning of summer, that movie montage of summer scenes reflects your hopes and joys of how you anticipate the next two months will be. But halfway through, when those rose colored glasses have not only been taken off but dropped and smashed under your boot heels? You start to remember the good old days of them being in school. Yeah, sure, you had to make school lunches and remember to pack gym clothes and write check after check because you're the National Bank of Mom, but at least they weren't leaving dirty dishes and making messes and getting the dog riled up so that he sheds even more. (A feat that you hadn't known was possible until those lovely angels of yours showed you that it could actually happen.) You long for a lunch hour without squabbling "he said this, she did that" tattletales. You take up scarfing down chocolate truffles in the garage which you could totally stop if it was a problem but it's not a problem so shut up and give me the dark chocolate and no one will get hurt.

Eventually, everyone survives the summer and before you know it those kids are back in school. Moms everywhere breath a collective sigh and get back to the routines, slowly losing that desperate, wild eyed look of someone who's been through the wringer. And it's good. Until the first time I have three separate events on three different nights in three different schools. Then I start wishing for summer.

Thank God There's Another Kardashian!!!

We can all rest easy tonight because the latest addition to the Kardashian family was born Saturday night. Personally, I'm relieved because that means I won't have to see any more creepy pictures like this one:

This print is called "Rose Bush Camouflage"

Before I go any further, can we discuss this picture for a minute? What was Kim thinking when she picked this outfit? Or is it really an outfit? Because it sort of looks like she couldn't find anything in her closet that fit and she took the sofa cover and whipped up something red carpet worthy. Which it isn't. But it's definitely covering her entire body. Maybe some last trimester body issues there? I have to say, I'm not sure that covering yourself in floral couch cushions is all that slimming.

And let's not leave out Kanye. I'm not sure what the expression on his face is supposed to be, but it looks slightly like Elmer Fudd meets terrified expectant parent. Or maybe he's just horrified that his baby mama is wearing the tablecloth his mother gave them as a "Shacking up but living in sin" present. If this is the best picture they could give the media before becoming celebrity parents, then I can't wait to see what they look like a month into sleepless nights and baby spit up.

Okay, so back to the newest addition. It's a girl! Great! Because we really needed more estrogen with the Kardashian chromosomes. As if that wasn't bad enough, apparently Kim and Kanye have decided that there is a distinct lack of K names and that their new progeny will have a "kute" K name too. In fact, the latest buzz is that Kim is "Close to choosing a baby name". Close? Seriously? This wasn't something that you talked about while you were cooking that bun in your oven? It's just now come up? I don't think I've ever heard of "regular" people having this much trouble trying to name their kid. Usually you and your partner have at least thrown the gauntlet down on what names you hate and narrowed the field down to a few potentials. Generally you don't call your child "that kid" or "fruit of my loins" for 3 days while you scour multiple baby name books for that perfect potentially-a-reality-tv-star name.

Honestly? They probably did it for ideas. (If they did, that makes them geniuses. Oh, right, so it was probably unplanned then.) Speculation is running rampant and because there isn't anything more important in the world right now, we have nothing better to do than to name Kimye's bundle of joy. Suggestions such as Kara, Kaidence, and Kai have cropped up. Everyone's on pins and needles about what the tiny tyke's moniker will be! (Well, everyone except me. I heard there might be a real problem in the world so I tuned out of the Krazy drama for a minute.)

Personally, I think they should name the baby Kash Kow since they're gonna capitalize the shit out of this kid. But then again, I might be a little cynical. Well, that and Kash was what they picked out for a boy's name.

Update: They've settled on a name. North. As in North West. Let that seep in for a minute. Yes, they really are that dumb and yes, this kid better hope the money never runs out and that momma and daddy can continue to afford the private school where North is probably normal amongst other star tots with names like Blue and Apple. Because I'm pretty sure if this kid ever went to a public school, she'd probably get beat up for her parent's stupidity. The best part is, they're calling her Nori (which is some sort of edible seaweed?). Why the hell didn't you just name her Nori then? I don't understand why celebrities feel that being famous and having truckloads of money means they have to name their kid some dumb ass name. Maybe it's in their contracts? Regardless, with a name like North West, I'm sure this kid won't be the (big) butt of any jokes. Good job Kimye, your parenting is already off to a fantastic start!

A Shout Out To All Dads

Today is a very special day. It's National Hollerin' Contest Day. Or Fresh Veggies Day. Or Family Awareness Day. Or Fudge Day, depending which website you click on when you're researching bizarre holidays. (Honestly, I never knew that June 16th was such a busy holiday!) But seriously, this year June 16 is special because it's Father's Day. I'd LIKE to take this time to do a special Father's Day tribute, but apparently I don't have the right equipment to qualify me as knowledgeable on this subject. Luckily, I have my very own live in Dad right here in my house. Hubby has agreed to co-author today's blog:

How To Know You're A Dad......

• You've ever received a tie for Father's Day. (This includes tie cards, construction paper ties, and tie magnets.)
• If you've ever volunteered to help coach your 5 year old's sports team and found out it's a lot like herding cats.
• You've ever had a burping contest with your kid. (Or taught them how to burp the alphabet.)
• If you've opened your mouth and your own father's words have fallen out.
• If you've ever had tired arms from carrying a sleeping toddler because Dads don't always remember the stroller.
• If you have ever given a two year old a bath and left the bathroom looking like a locker room.
• If you'd rather have needles stabbed into your eyes than talk about your daughter's "girl stuff". (This includes but is not limited to girl parts, menstruation, and dating.)
• If you've ever used any variation of the phrase, "Let's not tell Mom about this."
• If your smart phone includes apps to keep your kid busy on long trips (like longer than 4 seconds).
• When your family trip to Florida includes phrases like, "Don't make me stop this car!" and "No, we are NOT there yet but if you ask one more time we will turn this car around and go home!"
• If you've contemplated buying a gun when your daughter turns 13.
• When going to a party requires bringing a diaper bag instead of a 12 pack.
• When you ask your wife how many guys are going to be at a party when you used to want to know how many girls were going to be there.
• If you have any stories that involve the time your wife was gone and you dealt with an explosive poop diaper.
• When your tv plays more SpongeBob than Sports Center.
• If every day you say, "Go ask your mother." at least once.
• If you know any songs by The Wiggles, Barney, or (insert annoying kids show here) and can tell the shows apart.
• If you can have conversations with other parents on which shows that your kids watch that annoy you. (Which let's face it, is pretty much ALL of them, right?)
• If you've ever given a shoulder ride to your kids. (While your wife hovers to catch them.)
• If you've ever received a Look from your wife after she sees the red pants and green shirt you dressed the baby in.
• If your 12 year old daughter wearing lip gloss becomes more horrendous than the apocalypse. 
• If you spend more money on tiny sports equipment than most small countries generate in a year.
• If you've ever had to replace a toilet because your toddler flushed a diaper. (True story. Not a fun one either.)
• If your wife has more pictures of you and your child sleeping in the recliner than she does of you awake. (Again true story. Not sure where the sleep inducing recliner came from but it's like magic.)
• If you can appreciate your own Dad more now that you have kids.

And most importantly, if you can read any of these and nod along because you have/are living through them. Happy Father's Day to all you Dads!

Very, Very Pinteresting

Ok, so I have a confession to make: I'm not good at Pinterest. The thing is, I want to be good at it, but I feel like someone wrote the manual in Mandarin and I only read English. Inevitably, this leads to me saying "Screw it" and moving onto different time sucking activities.

I don't know why I feel like I have to master Pinterest. Do I really need another activity that I can waste time on? I think not. If you've ever seen how much time I can flush down the crapper just by giving me a computer, the internet, and some spare time, you'd agree with me. I get pulled into time vortexes sometimes because surely I did not waste 40 minutes reading articles that caught my eye on msn.com. You'd think I'd change my homepage to something less time consuming. They always have at least 1 article that piques my interest before I even manage to make it to the site I was planning to go to. Now I'm sidetracked and I can't remember what I was going on the internet for in the first place. Eh, might as well read another article while I'm trying to remember. Where was I? Oh yeah, the Pinterest thing.

I have a Pinterest account so I'm not completely unPinteresting. And I think I even have stuff pinned. (I gave myself quite a few pats on the back for managing this feat.) I can even go so far to say that my anal retentive organizational skills kicked in and I have different categories that I've separated my pins into. But that's where it ends. Once I pin them I'm pretty sure they go into a giant black hole because I never look at them again. Should I actually manage to find entrance into the black hole to gaze upon these nifty ideas or recipes, I'll click to expand the pin only to find it doesn't redirect me to what I need to know to make the yummy peanut butter bars or to decorate the lampshades. This just pisses me off. Why show me this delicious dessert if you're not going to give me the recipe? And if you mention this to the wrong people (ie: Pinterest Perfecters) they will roll their eyes at you like you're a brainless 4 year old twit who couldn't find her ass with both hands and say, "You have to CLICK on it." Oh, sorry, why didn't I think of this? I DID click it you idiot, and it's still not giving me the recipe!!

So now my choices are: Act like I'm too busy to have time to do Pinterest or admit that I can't quite figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with it. It's at this point that I begin to ask myself, "Self, what the hell is the obsession with Pinterest?" But myself doesn't answer so I still don't know why I need more recipes and DIY projects. Because that's what I get hooked into on Pinterest. More recipes for food that I might make once before shelving it with the rest of the one recipe wonders. Or more art deco crap that I'm never going to do for my house because all my damn walls have spackle spots and nothing screams art deco project like a room in mid-renovation. "Oooh look, it's a medicine cabinet re-purposed into a distressed looking antique planter!" Yeah, that's what I need, right next to the crumbling front stoop that we have to replace. The house wouldn't need to be re-sided if I only had a distressed medicine cabinet planter!

As if all of that wasn't enough to make my head swim, then I get emails of "suggestions" from Pinterest. "Oh we see you liked that, well how about this?" Which just starts another cycle of clicking and pinning and time vortexing. Or when my friends pin something, they have to tell me. I'm not a lemming Pinterest! I don't have to jump off that cliff just because Annie did! But much like those craft stores, Pinterest is giving me false ideas about my capabilities and I'm actually starting to believe that I can make my own organic vanilla bean body lotion or some other crap that sounds good to me in my state of Pinterest coma.

Now if I could just find a pin about creating time to do all these projects in.......

Why I Sometimes Look Like The Thriller Video

So a few weeks ago I was congratulating myself on not making a fool of myself during the great Zumba experiment. In fact, I daresay that I might have gotten a little too boastful and mentioned something about being able to keep up. Ha ha ha, silly little earthling girl!

So tonight I'm there for my usual Monday night Zumba, feeling good about myself because, well, I'm exercising and no one is holding a gun to my head. Really, that's an extreme accomplishment for me all by itself. Add in that I'm exercising, willingly AND in public....hot damn! There's someone pushing the limits of their comfort zone right there! But I digress.

So I'm at Zumba and I'm giving myself my mental pep rally. "You can DO this! Woooooo! Zum-ba! Zum-ba! Zum-ba!" (For some reason it's a mental fraternity toga party instead of a pep rally tonight.) I'm standing ready, smiling at some of the other regulars, acting like I'm one of the coordinated people.

Then the music starts. And it just goes downhill from there.

Now, because my Zumba teacher does this class like a bazillion times a week instead of the measly once I drag myself there, she likes to change things up to be fresh and not just go through the motions. (Actually, I have no idea if that's true, but it sounds like it could be true, so let's just go with it.) Now remember, I'm one of those spastic, uncoordinated windmill-y type of exercisers. I feel most comfortable with something I've done 5 (hundred) times before. So when it gets changed up I'm in the back thinking, "Uh, which way do we go George, which way do we go?" I start to resemble a marionette whose strings got tangled and the puppeteer can't straighten them out. I'm zigging when I should be zagging, hopping when I should be bouncing, and dear lord, how does that woman shake like that? I swear she's related to Shakira. Those hips don't lie!

And if that's not bad enough, she pulls one of those turn around exercise moves. Listen, there's a reason I hide out in the back. It's part safety precaution so no one gets caught in the making of this Zumba class (Windmill arms and more bounce per ounce, yo!) and part "Holy crap I'm glad no one's behind me watching these spazz moves." But when we turn around, NOW there's an entire damn class behind me! I'm fervently (I love this word but I get a little too happy adding r's. Thanks, spell check!) praying that they're so busy trying to keep themselves in sync that they aren't seeing the freak in the front. Which is me. And just in case I wasn't sure they'd see me, I'm wearing an eye catching hot pink shirt. It's like a beacon shouting, "Hey-ey, look at this hot mess!"

Sometimes I can rebound better than others and it only takes me a minute to figure out where myself is supposed to be. Other times I can't get out of my own way and I think I forgot to bring the right foot with me and grabbed two left ones instead. Those are the nights I start to look like I'm re-enacting the Thriller video. On Day 1, not the smooth choreography at the end though. But I'm okay with it. Because one day (everyone will be sick and I'll be the only one there) I'll have the chance to win the Zumba trophy. Wait, what do you mean there's no trophy?

The Land of Broken Toys and Mismatched Socks

At any given moment in time, you could walk into my house and there's a good probability that it's going to look like a normal, lived in house. But if you take a second and look deeper, do you know what you'll find? That EVERY DAMNED THING in my house IS BROKEN in some way, shape, or form. I kid you not. It's the land of misfit socks, dead batteries, and broken toys.

Now to be honest, this bugs the shit out of me. It makes me crazy. I was one of those anal retentive, put everything back in its normal spot, keep things in their protective wrappers kind of kids. And I brought it with me to adulthood. I don't like you messing with my crap if you aren't going to treat my crap like I would: Like it's the most precious commodity on Earth. Yeah, yeah, so it sounds like I'm spoiled. I might be, but I really don't think so. I just think that it shouldn't be hard to have nice things.

Kids don't EVER think this.

In fact, I'm pretty sure MY kids think the opposite of this. It very well might be that my kids are thinking, "I wonder how quickly I can break this toy? Hmm, looks pretty sturdy. I might have to do some work to get the job done." They have one of those Terminator like computer scanner brains that calculates how long it can take to do irreparable damage to whatever hunk of plastic is their current "favorite" toy. Of course, once it's broken, tears and tyranny ensue. (Tears on their part, tyranny as I tell them I am not buying a new one.)

But it's not limited to THEIR crap that they break either. Community property items get caught in the crossfire all the time. Like the bathroom medicine cabinet door, which now doesn't shut all the way after having 2 young kids hanging off it trying to see themselves in the mirror. Or the freshly repaired and painted living room wall that has a door knob dent because one of my wonderful children swung the door so hard it totally disregarded the door stopper and slammed into the wall. I asked which child that did it and it was NotME again. That child is some serious need of an ass blistering for what he's doing in our house!

Every once in awhile, when I get really ambitious, I go through and do a thorough cleaning of the kid's rooms. It's always the same: Junk papers on the dresser, crap shoved under their bed, and a toy box graveyard full of broken junk. I cannot go through the toy box graveyard whilst my lovely children are home however, lest they start their pissing and moaning about me throwing out even one single molecule of their stuff. Never mind the fact that it's bent and crusty from the dog chewing on it or that the parts that go with it have been missing since 7 minutes after it was taken out of the box. Kids form unnatural attachments to their toys and don't understand why that have to throw it out, even after you've explained 12 times that they haven't played with it in 3 years. Sometimes you have to compromise and just keep that item another couple of years just to placate them, hoping by the time you try again to get rid of it, that a new hunk of plastic has taken its place.

So if you have kids, and have worn blinders when looking around at broken wii nunchucks that you spent $40 apiece on and parts of their birthday toy that they HAD TO HAVE, know that I can sympathize. But one day, when they're all gone and things are unbroken and nice, we'll probably miss their slimy, sticky, whiny behavior. At least that's what everyone keeps telling me. I'm pretty sure if NotME lived in their house, they might change their mind.

Prepare For Plenty of Potty Precautions

I can't seem to leave my house now without without having to pee first. And the more time that you give me, the more times that I'll visit the powder room until the very last possible second, which is right before walking out the door. I wasn't always like this. In fact, I remember being a carefree youth who never worried about using the bathroom. Even if it meant I would have to go in PUBLIC restrooms. I wouldn't care if it had been 5 minutes or 5 hours since I had last gone. I'd just be the rebel that I was and walk right out that door.

So what's changed you ask? It's the addition of kids. After carrying multiple miniature people inside me, with them squashing my bladder and using my kidneys as punching bags, my body isn't what it used to be in its hey day. To top it all off, then you push these little people out of your body, accumulating tears and cuts of sensitive girly areas. There can be some damage done to urethra like places and what not, boiling it all down to having to pee a lot more often that you're used to. 

You know what, you should CALL YOUR MOTHER! Right this second. And apologize for making the woman have to pee every 38 and a half minutes just because she wanted a tiny human to love and call her own. And if your mom had a vaginal birth, THANK HER. Thank her for sacrificing any semblance of a normal vajayjay for the rest of her life. Maybe throw in an apology for not only having a large head (trust me, it was a large head for the area it was coming from) but also for her now knowing what it's like to cough/sneeze/laugh so hard that a smidgen of pee comes out. Because her bladder was never quite right again after the childbirth of 83 or 78 or whenever it was that you made your appearance. And if you were a cesarean section? You better buy that woman some flowers! She had a child who was difficult before it even made it to the outside world. This child was already such a pain in the ass that the doctor had to cut them out of her. She gets a pea size bladder AND a four inch scalpel scar.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my kids. I really do. But I would also like to remember what it's like to have a normal size bladder that isn't scared of going into public without having to visit the bathroom 3 times at home. I want to return to the simpler times of not planning store trips and exercise routines around my liquid consumption. Oh, yeah, and I want to not be known as the mom who has to pee before we walk out of the house. It's so commonplace now that as we were leaving one day this week my daughter said, "I'm going to get my shoes on while you pee and we'll both be ready to go at the same time." Am I that predictable? Yes. Yes I am. I can't help it. I've birthed three babies.

So for all the women out there who have iron bladders I say this: Enjoy it sister! Because those babies may be cute, but they'll also give you the fantastic ability to Sneezicuppeeurp. And I'm never quite sure if I should say "God Bless You" or "Oh my ever loving God, what WAS that?"

Random Thoughts from Mayhemville

I believe there should be a new job in all produce stores. The title of the position would be "Pineapple Person". He or she would be responsible for handing me a perfectly ripe pineapple at which point I would inspect it, hand it back, and politely inform the pineapple person that I will be back in 20 minutes for my cut up pineapple. Because I hate cutting up fresh pineapple, but it's so much better than the stuff they sell that they've already cut up for you. Is it mind over matter? Who cares, just give me my fresh fruit pineapple boy.

Why does Facebook feel the need to suggest friends for me? I could understand if I only had 2 or 3 people in my list. Then Facebook would probably be thinking, "Dude, that's so pathetic. Here, be friends with these people." But once you're past 50, I think you've proved to Facebook that yes, you do know people. (Or yes, you do have a lot of relatives. Either way.) And it's always based on people you're already friends with. So I'm supposed to know Kevin Smith because both my sister and her college roommate know him? And what about the people you do know but don't want to be friends with? (In life or on Facebook) Now I just get to feel guilty that I don't want to befriend them on a social network as their profile picture stares at me from the right side of the screen.

Now that I think about it, there should be a Produce Person, not just a Pineapple Person. Their job would consist of being knowledgeable about all the produce in the store. Because what if I get an insane urge to eat escarole but I don't know what it looks like or how to cut it? How do I know if kiwi is over ripe? What the hell are those funky looking fruits and what do you do with them? This person could be like the Wikipedia of the produce section. I could go in and randomly quiz them for fun. Think how much less boring grocery shopping could be!

Do you think that there's an encyclopedia of sayings and their origins? There should be. Because what sick bastard came up with the saying "Killing two birds with one stone"? And how many attempts, not to mention innocent birds, were harmed in the making of this cliche? And where did we get the expression, "Curiosity killed the cat."? Were our ancestors sick, demented people who enjoyed killing animals to prove a point?  And how about "Fit as a fiddle"? How the hell do I know how fit a fiddle is? And was this really the best comparison we could come up with? "Cat got your tongue?" Was this really a problem in the olden days? How many times did this happen in order for the phrase to catch on?

Where did the term babysitter come from? Did people actually sit on babies to keep them from running off? Was the phrase babyminder already used? What about babywatcher? Babyprotector?Babysafetyensurer? Honorable Guard of Innocent Lives? I like that one. It's kind of important sounding. Like it comes with a pay raise.

Why do people always assume I mean dumbass in a derogatory way? When I say dumbass, I mean it in the nicest, most loving way possible. (I also say it as one word, no space! Yeah, I'm a rebel.) Some people say darling, or sweetie, or lovey. I say dumbass. And moron. Oh, and possibly idiot. All said with as much love as a moronic dumbass idiot deserves.

Upon further contemplation, there should definitely be TWO Produce People. What if the first one is otherwise engaged and I have an emergency question on habanero peppers? What if I'm trying to cook a last minute 4 course meal and I realized I need a fancy salad but I don't know what goes into a fancy salad and have to ask the Produce Person but some twit is asking him some asinine question like "How do you know bananas are ripe?" Then I could just find the second Produce Person to help solve my dilemma.

Who decided that we needed to have 5 work days in a week? Did they think that 4 was too little? Because I'm thinking this is a rule that should be revised. Can we induct Friday into the Weekend Hall of Fame? They're the MVD of the entire week. Surely Friday has earned a position in the weekend line up. And it has nothing to do with gaining an additional weekend day for us poor, overworked schlubs. It's about honoring an under appreciated day.

Dasherobics? No, no, Prancercise!

If you're like me, you can waste copious amounts of time on Facebook watching videos that your friends post. Ninety nine percent of the time it's cute animals but every once in awhile you hit a gem like this one courtesy of my brother:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-50GjySwew&feature=youtu.be

Oh where to begin? First, I can't seem to stop watching this video. Sort of like not being able to peel your eyes away from a massive train wreck, this glorious damage is priceless. Let me tell you why this video is number one on my list of priceless YouTube gems.

Holy hair batman! The 1980's called, they want their bouffant back. I'm not sure if she's just going to an outdated hairstylist or if this is the way she's worn it for the last 30 years and doesn't realize that aerosol cans kill the ozone layer, but this woman is in desperate need of some updating. She looks like that spinster Aunt that owns 12 cats and talks to Jesus pictures in her living room.

Do they still do that makeover show? What's the deal lady? You found the tightest white pants that you could find (Camel toe, anyone?) and paired it with a professional banker's jacket circa 1992? This was what you thought would be perfect for your Internet debut? Between the hair and the wardrobe, this woman is screaming for an appearance on that TLC show "What Not To Wear". It would have to be a 2 parter due to all the comments that this woman's "before" look would generate. They simply couldn't fit them all in one show.

Is that Pedro behind that bush? Have you ever seen the movie Napoleon Dynamite? If not, it's a dumb movie that has the worst plot line (Actually, it has no plot line that I can find.) and some seriously bad acting/scripting. And yet the characters have some of the funniest lines. If you've ever seen that movie, you'd know that this woman could be an aunt, or maybe even his Mom. From the outdated 'do down to her prancerlistic toes, this woman has the Dynamite family name stamped all over her. Maybe that's why Napoleon's mom wasn't in the movie. She was too busy promoting her Prancercise line.

And don't get me started on the prancing..... So, let me get this straight. If you add the weights, you can prance around town looking like an epileptic spazz and call it exercise? Why can't I just put the weights on and walk? Or even jog? Do I have to look like I've been on a 3 day bender and can't walk a straight line? Am I only going to get the results if I follow her moves exactly? Because I think this is what Lindsay Lohan would look like when she's not currently in rehab. Or maybe Charlie Sheen after his daily dose of tiger blood. Either way, I'm not sure I'd be able to do this in public.

Speaking of public. Is there a reason this has to be done outside? Where people can see me? Why couldn't she demonstrate this in her house? Oh, probably because she'd trip over all the cats. Okay, how about the backyard at least? And how did she manage to find an abandoned park during the day? If I was sure no one would ever see me do this, I might consider leaving the privacy of my own home or yard and trade it for a public venue. Okay, no I would not. I'm not even sure I'd admit in public that I am a "Prancerciser".

Digging the tunes, yo! There's something about that first song that gets stuck in my head for hours at a time. But I have to say, I was really disappointed that she didn't tell me at the end of the video where I, too, could get my own cheesy backup music. I think she could have made a double hit if she marketed her exercise AND the musical accompaniments.

So if you want to trim down those cankles, try prancing around with weights on your legs. If immediate results aren't apparent, get into character with a new hairstyle and keep trying. Oh, and make sure you let me know when and where this is going on. I'd love to see a live Prancercise show.