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The Molester Mobile

Let me tell you a story. But first, do you remember summertime as a child? Do you remember when you would hear the unmistakable sound of ice cream truck music? We could hear it coming from 3 streets over and every child on the block would scramble to count their pennies and run to beg their parents for more money so they could buy a Drumstick and a Push-up pop. Ah, the good ole days. Things were much simpler back then. Back when the ice cream truck actually looked like an ice cream truck. This is what we used to see coming up the street from us:

The really nice man driving was usually dressed in a white suit with a really cool little hat and always had a smile for the herd of children running full steam at him. He usually looked like this guy- just picture him with a smile:

This summer, we had a resurrection of the ice cream truck in our neighborhood. We’ve lived here for almost 5 years now and this was the first summer that we saw the ice cream truck, mainly because our neighborhood is gated and now that I think about it- how the hell did this ice cream man get in our neighborhood anyway?? Moving on.

When did the ice cream truck go from the nice Good Humor man in the cool little hat and the sparkling white truck with the nice picture menu to this*:

Driven by this guy*:

Who in the world thought that it would be a great economic idea to put a creepy old guy in a 1987 Chevy van, slap some pictures of ice cream on the side and send him off to entice small children? Really?
The other moms and I called it The Molester Mobile. He rarely sold any ice cream because none of the mothers would let their children near that van. He was probably a perfectly nice man, but who knows for sure? He could be the creepy pedophile luring his young victims with cold, yummy summer goodness. Not worth the chance. Everytime we would hear the music coming from the next street over we would rush to herd our gaggle of children inside until The Molester Mobile had passed us by. Our street became a ghost town for 10 minutes every afternoon for more than 3 weeks.

Then one day, we noticed that The Molester Mobile had a new driver. The other moms and I stood and watched as the new guy drove slowly up our street, trolling for victims. He looked a little like this guy:

What happened next is now a legend on our street. Bored, desperate housewives ran toward that van like the hounds of hell were on our heels. Picture it. Some of us, not naming any names Lara, were not totally dressed for the day. Most of us were not wearing make up, we were hot and sweaty from running after our kids in 100 degree heat all afternoon and more than a couple of us were slightly inebriated. It was ugly. It was brutal. There was hair pulling, shirt ripping and intentional tripping. It was the WWE of Wisteria Lane.

(That picture is not us but accurately depicts the shirt ripping that occurred)

I wish I could describe to you the look of horror that came across that poor ice cream truck driver as he saw the herd of housewives running towards him. If it wasn’t so sad, it would be funny. He laid rubber as he sped away with us in hot pursuit. Some of us, again no names Susan, chased this poor hot guy for 3 streets, waving dollar bills and screaming for him to come back, that we wouldn’t hurt him. We tried to tell her that he was only selling ice cream but I don’t think she heard us over the squealing of the tires.

We didn’t see the hot ice cream guy again. We stood outside for a week straight, hoping he would have the balls to come back again. Sadly, it was not mean to be. Creepy old guy was back the next week and every set of ovaries on the street went into a period of mourning.

Good-bye hot ice cream man. It was a pleasure to ogle your yummy goodies.


*This is not the van that drove down our street and that is not the creepy old guy that was driving our Molester Mobile. But the resemblance is uncanny.

We Interrupt This Programming To Announce

that I, who admittedly hates any and all forms of exercise, ran a quarter of a mile today. And nobody was chasing me.

Granted I was chasing the ice cream truck down the street as it zoomed past my house going a speedy 15 miles per hour. That’s neither here nor there. And let’s not talk about the 2 ice cream sandwiches that I snarfed down as I trucked back up the street to her house. Those calories surely don’t count, in light of the whole running down the street thing.

And let’s really not talk about the fact that this all took place at 10am, in my pajamas while wearing flip flops.

No really. Let’s not talk about that.


It’s Monday….again. Sigh. Time for Not Me! Monday, hosted by MckMama at my charming kids. Head on over to participate!
I get so tired of trying to clean up all the crumbs that Mase likes to make while in his highchair. This week, I absolutely did not just plop him down on the floor and let the dog eat the crumbs right off his butt. And I surely did not do it more than one time in a day. That would be unsanitary. Nope. Not me!

While celebrating the 4th up at my parents house, I certainly did not mix up the real Pina Colada pitcher with the virgin pitcher. And I most definitely did not proceed to drink 4 large margarita glasses full of the yummy concoction. That would be irresponsible for a nursing mom. Not me!

After consuming enough alcoholic Pina Coladas to get Lindsay Lohan plastered, I most assuredly did not participate in karaoke. And I absolutely did not do a fantastic rendition of Baby Got Back….complete with the dancing. That would be humiliating, especially considering the amount of video cameras present. Nope. Not me!

Later that night when I had to pump and dump so I could feed Mase, I surely did not have to hand express milk for the first time ever when I realized that I had no breastpump available. And I really did not make mooing noises the entire time I expressed, sending the children into hysterical laughter and thereby setting myself up to be called a cow in public by one of the little cherubs at some point in the future. That would be immature. Not me!

While playing the rapid creek behind my parents house, I absolutely did not attempt to ride the innertube down the rapids resulting in two rather large holes in two very, ahem, noticeable spots in my shorts. And I definitely did not have to walk all the way back up to the house with my buttcheeks blowing in the breeze. That would be the proverbial cherry on the sundae. Not me!

I guess you can see that we had a rip roaring good time at my parents BBQ this 4th of July. I’m off to buy some new shorts….and some Neosporin cuz those rocks hurt when they hit delicate skin. Ahem.

Postcards From The Beach

Dear Really Fat Lady,
A white string bikini is not a good idea for anybody at the beach. Period. And that little strip of lining that was made to hide your nether areas? It’s not hiding enough. Please, for the love of everything decent, put on a moo-moo.
The bitch who ran away screaming ‘my eyes, my eyes’ while dragging small children behind her

Dear Dumb Ass with the kite,
If you want to fly your kite, take it somewhere away from small children and bitchy mothers. If you dive bomb my kid again with that thing, I will shove it up your ass and pull it out through your nose. Thank you for prompt attention to this matter.
The bitch who yelled out ‘Hey jackass’ more than one time and then threw sand at you after stomping the shit out of your ugly kite

Dear Old Dude in the Speedo,
Dude. Really? Do we even need to have this conversation? Nobody looks good in a speedo but wearing a bright orange leopard print one at the age of 75 is borderline criminal. If you insist on wearing it, at least make sure you tuck all that shit inside cause nobody wants to see old wrinkly balls hanging out the side. For the love of Pete!
The chick who threw up a little bit in her mouth everytime you walked by with one of your boys flapping in the breeze

Dear Melodramatic Martha,
It’s the beach. There is sand. If you don’t like sand, stay home. Nobody wants to hear you shrieking every five seconds about the sand touching you. Next time leave your weave at home if you don’t want it to get sand in it. Or at least super glue that shit to your head so it won’t fly away.
The bitch who accidentally stepped on your weave for the tenth time after it blew off your head

Dear Queen of Attitude,
I’m terribly sorry that my children’s excitement upon seeing the pirate during dinner disturbed you, but I would be remiss not to mention that you chose to eat dinner at an establishment known for it’s huge kids bar. Huffing, puffing and rolling your eyes at the children was incredibly tacky and unnecessary. If you didn’t want to eat dinner near children, perhaps you should have thought more carefully about your choice of restaurant. The next time I catch you huffing and rolling your eyes at my kids I will be throwing something a lot harder than a dinner roll at your head.
The bitch that beaned you in the back of the head with the dinner roll and then laughed out loud when it got stuck in all that hairspray

Dear Mother Nature,
63 degrees outside, windy and rainy? Really? Was it not enough that you had to send my monthly gift a whole five days early so I could enjoy it while on vacation at the beach? You also had to send the sandstorms, the thunderstorms and the flu? Really? Step off bitch, you’re testing the limits of my patience.
The cranky, cold bitch wearing the cashmere sweater at the beach in May while cursing your name

Dear Clueless Ass Crack Monkey,
In case you didn’t notice, we were trying to take a picture of our four children on the beach. I’m not sure why you thought that we would like your gigantic ass smack in the middle of our family picture. I feel perfectly justified in telling you that the next time you bend over and give me a crack shot when I’m taking a picture of my four babies, I will plant my foot in the middle of your ass and knock you face first into the ocean. I’m just sayin‘. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
The bitch who yelled ‘For the love of Pete, move your ass’ at the top of her lungs and then kicked sand in your direction

Dear Elderly Honeymooners,
I understand that you are newly married and enjoying your honeymoon. I’m just not sure why the rest of us must hear you enjoying your honeymoon. I’m betting that you don’t know just how thin these walls really are. If you did, you might be a little more careful about what you’re yelling out in the heat of the moment. ‘Go Daddy go, bring me on home Big boy’ is not something I need to hear when I’m nursing my child. Actually it’s not something I need to hear ever. I should probably also address the headboard banging on the wall. Repeatedly. What are you people? Rabbits? Give it a rest, will you? Tell ‘Daddy’ to put down the Viagra and go hit the beach for awhile. We couldn’t even look you in the eye when we passed you in the hallway today. Awkward, isn’t it?
The totally skeeved out people in the next room who don’t like to think about their parents having that much sex, let alone their grandparents


This is my first Monday participating in MckMama’s blog carnival. Her Not Me! Monday posts always make me giggle so I thought I’d give it a shot.

When talking to a school psychologist this week, I most certainly did not use the word dick and I certainly did not imply that I would encourage my son to use that word in school. That would be bad parenting. Not Me!

When taking photographs for Kelly’s Show Us Where You Live tour, I definitely did not transfer the clutter from one room into another room just for the pictures and I really did not move it all back when I was done instead of just putting it away. Because that would be lazy. Not Me!

When out in public with people Matt knows from his work, I most certainly did not slip up and call him by his blog name instead of his real name. And I absolutely did not do it three times in one conversation. That would be embarrassing. Nope. Not Me!

When we got home late one evening from a school function, I did not send Ty to bed without a desperately needed shower. And I definitely did not tell him to just spray on some of his dad’s TAG the next morning before school. No way. That would be bad hygiene. Not Me!

When Mase woke up with a high fever and was unable to go back to sleep, I definitely did not just bring him in bed with us and pop a boob in his mouth. And I certainly did not allow him to just remain latched on, thus becoming a human pacifier for the remaining four hours of the night so I could get a few more hours of sleep. That would be creating a really bad habit. Not Me!

When in the midst of a May Monsoon this week, I absolutely did not lay down a puppy pad on the floor for Bailey so I didn’t have to go outside in the rain to walk him. And I definitely did not do it four more times that day. And I certainly would never hide the evidence from Matt and then giggle when he took Bailey out in the Monsoon, muttering obscenities under his breath. That would be mean. Nope. Not Me!

I hope you enjoyed my Not Me! Monday confessions. Believe me, there were more but I think stopping at six is a good idea. No need for everyone to know how dysfunctional I really am, let’s keep some of the mystique shall we?

Have a few confessions of your own? Head on over to MckMama’s and join in on the fun. Come on, we’re all friends here. I promise not to think any less of you. And coming from the person who used dick in school conversation and then cackled at Matt in the rain, that’s saying something.