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The Torture Of Swim Suit Shopping

I got slapped in the face with a harsh realization this weekend. I had to go swimsuit shopping. It was an ugly, ugly day. Ugly. I had the unfortunate experience of having to take the family with me to Kohl’s while I shopped for a swim suit. Just for reference- this is a bad idea.

The swimsuit aisles were filled with women who shuffled around, muttering to themselves and shaking their head in disbelief at the tiny scraps of material that qualify as swim suits. One lady particular caught my eye as she muttered and scoffed at the choices. Dressed head to toe in black, she looked seriously depressed. I heard the words ‘Damn vacation’ more than once. I understood exactly how she felt.

Matt even took it upon himself to help me pick out a swimsuit. Now I love him but he just has no idea. The first one he picked up was a string bikini in a size 2. I stared at him, stupefied and bewildered. There is not enough string in the world, my friends. And a size 2? Great, that will cover one butt cheek. I’ll have to buy another one to cover the other butt cheek and sew them together. The second one he picked out included a teensy weensy bikini top and a thong. Really? I stared at him for a moment. Just long enough for him to realize that he was skating on thin ice. I had to ask ‘Are you new?’ I sent him off with the kids to the toy department while I shopped alone.

Thirty minutes later, I was whimpering and curled up in the fetal position narrowing down my choices.  Then came the hard part. The dressing room. With the floor to ceiling mirrors and the fluorescent lighting. Who designs these little chambers of horror anyway? Probably a sadistic man. I shuffled along to the dressing room and chose a room at the very back where it was less likely for the whole store to hear the naughty words and screams of horror.

I tried on 16 bottoms and 22 tops. I found 2 bottoms that will work, and believe me, work is a very broad statement here folks. I found one top that adequately covered the girls. So I have complete swim suit and then a pair of bottoms. The second top that I wanted was sold out in my size. I could have squeezed, and I mean squeezed, myself in a smaller size or let it all hang out in one size larger. Why does this happen? The universe hates me, that’s why. I cannot face another day of swimsuit shopping. I cannot do it. Cannot do it. The day would end with the news reporter saying ‘Before hanging herself with a swim top, the crazed madwoman took out the entire swim suit display….’

Therefore, in an attempt to avoid a repeat of this horror, I will be ordering the top online. I will find a top that works without setting foot in another swim suit section. My ego can’t take it. The only thing better would be a full body wet suit, but I’d need one that wasn’t too tight. And it can’t be shiny, who needs the sun reflecting off the dimples on their butt?



Handcuffs At The End Of The Bad Boy Rainbow

We have this neighbor down the street from us who I became friends with right after we moved into this house. This friend, we’ll call her Jane, she has a really big problem. She is a LOSER magnet when it comes to men. Twice divorced, no kids and a string of broken relationships trail behind in her path of destruction. She’s attracted to Bad Boys. She’s thirty-three years old. She wonders why she can’t find a long lasting relationship. Seriously.

Matt watches the catastrophe that is her love life with the kind of rapt fascination that a car wreck on the interstate commands when you drive by. Jane loves to bring each new boy toy over to meet me, hoping that one will get the stamp of approval. I don’t know why we must go through the charade, I tell her the same thing every.single.time. He’s a loser, move on. She never listens. Then it turns sour and she shows up on my doorstep with Cookie Dough Ice Cream and cheap wine so I can help her mourn what could have been. She is just one Dear Jane letter away from going postal on the unsuspecting public.

A few nights ago she brought her newest loser over for dessert and coffee. We’ll call him Felony Fred. Tall, skinny, and scary is the quickest way to describe him. Tattooed from one end to the other (and presumably all the points in between- I’ve adopted a don’t ask, don’t tell policy when it comes to her boy toys), stringy long hair and a week’s worth of facial scruff. On some men, it’s attractive. On others, it’s scary. Felony Fred was a little scary. He conversed mainly with grunts and snorts, he drank all my Vodka (in his coffee, I might add) and he ate all but one slice of my German Chocolate Cake. Now drinking all the Vodka was a big enough sin, but to eat all the German Chocolate Cake….that’s criminal, my friends. Jane stared up at him adoringly throughout this fiasco and Matt watched with bemused wonder.

As they were getting ready to leave, Felony Fred had to visit the little Felon’s room so I had a chance to shake Jane. “Isn’t he the greatest?” she gushed. I tried, ladies, I really tried to make her see the handcuffs at the end of this particular rainbow. It was no use. She excitedly told me how she met him at the gas station. Matt chimed in with an oh-so-helpful question at that moment:

“Was he robbing it?”

Now Jane is mad and I really should apologize. But I still watched the news that night waiting to see a story about a gas station robbery. I’m just sayin…..



Ode To Potty Training

Oh potty training. How I hate thee.

It has been 12 years since we had a diaper free home. In case math isn’t your thing- no judgement, it’s not my thing either- our oldest kid is 12. It’s been 12 years of constant diapers. That’s a long time. And a lot of diapers. I am so ready to be done. Zoey is our youngest- and last- kid so this is the last time I will have to potty train a kid.

And she is making me work for it.

I think the kids got together and had a little how-to-drive-mom-insane teaching sesh with Zoey. Guess what? She’s a quick learner. It’s a battle of the wills and I’m fairly confident I’m losing.

Every 20 minutes throughout the day Zoey yells that she needs to go potty. Seriously. I hear it in my sleep.

“I go potty, mom.”

So we hustle to the bathroom and she sits on the little potty. I park myself on a little red kid size chair and hope I don’t hit the floor when it buckles from the severe abuse. Zoey demands I sing Jingle Bells at least 5 times. Then she takes her turn putting on a show for me. She sings Jesus Loves Me and expects a rousing round of applause when she is done. We’re talking full on clapping and cheering. Then she declares she is done with the potty, hikes up her pull up, and stalks off to find her brother.

Guess what she doesn’t do?

Pee in the potty. Basically she holds me hostage every 20 minutes so she can put on a theatrical performance in front of a live audience. She has no intention of going potty. She just wants me to cheer for her after she sings. Then Matt comes home and she demands both of us take part in this asinine ritual she has concocted for her own amusement. And if we don’t clap or cheer loud enough for her liking? She barks out a command to do it again.

After 3 hours of this exhaustive routine the other night Matt turned to me and uttered the words that will haunt me.

“We’re her damn clapping circus monkeys. She has us trained.”

It’s true. We follow her to the potty, we sit in the little red chair, we sing the song she wants, then we clap and cheer when she sings her own song. We’re clapping circus monkeys. This is it, y’all. There’s no coming back from this one. She’s broken us.

We’ve been reduced to a pair of clapping circus monkeys.

I hate potty training.



Things I Never Thought I’d Say

Until I had kids I never realized the absurdly insane things that would one day come out of my mouth. Sometimes I look around for the hidden camera and assume I’m on some low-rated cable prank show. Seriously. It’s the only plausible explanation for some of the things I find myself saying. Especially since sometimes I have to say them more than once.

 

10 Things I Never Thought I’d Say
 

1. Please don’t put your finger in the dog’s butt.
I mean, really? This needs to be said? Gross.

 

2. Do not use your toothbrush and toothpaste on the dog’s teeth.
The poor dog. He walked around foaming at the mouth like he had rabies. But his breath was minty fresh.

 

3. The toilet is not an appropriate place to wash your hands.
Again, really? I don’t care how many bubbles you can make when you flush.

 

4. Your poop is not an acceptable alternative for Play-Doh.
Although it was a very lifelike replica of a snake. Still…

 

5. Please do not stick your hand down my shirt in public.
Especially when you grab my boob and say “honk honk”. Really kid?

 

6. It is not okay to show strangers at Target your new panties.
It’s really not ok to ask to see theirs in return.

 

7. Please do not ask ladies at the grocery store if they have a “bagina”.
And why do they target older ladies who lost their sense of humor when menopause started?

 

8. Well what did you think would happen if you stuck a jelly bean up your nose?
At least it came out with a good nose blow this time instead of an ER visit. You can only go to the ER so many times before a social worker pays a home visit.

 

9. You did not puke up blood, it’s red food dye from the supersize slurpie.
You know, the supersize slurpie that you should never have been allowed to have. Thanks grandma.

 

10. You understand you are not the boss in this house, right?
No really, you are not the boss. Why are you laughing?

 

Do you see what I’m working with here people? It’s maddening. This is why I day drink.

 

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The Appropriate Time to Panic

I don’t panic much. It takes a lot to make me panic. Yesterday I experienced a moment of pure panic. Panic that I would be the last one left out on the street in plain sight. Let me set the scene for you.

 

I was driving through my neighborhood with my neighbor behind me. Coming from the opposite direction was my other neighbor. We all waved cheerfully as we turned down our street. Then we saw it.

 

A car full of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Followed by another car full and then another car full.

 

A Jehovah’s Witnesses caravan.

 

Image Credit

 

They were parked on our street, right smack in front of one of the houses. A gaggle of ladies inside them, armed with literature and pamphlets about a religion that does not interest me in any way. You could see the panic in the faces of all 3 of us turning onto our street as we all sped up. Seriously. It was like turn 4 coming in for the checkered flag in a Nascar race at that moment on our street. Tires squealing and engines revving could be heard at the other side of the neighborhood.

 

One of our other neighbors was trying desperately to buckle her kids in the carseats so she could make a getaway before the Jehovah’s reached her. You could see the desperation on her face as she threw small children into the car. I screeched to a halt in my driveway and jumped out of the minivan. I could see one neighbor across the street laughing at me as she closed the garage door behind her car. Bitch. I knew I should have cleaned out the garage last weekend. The other neighbor was yelling at her kids to get out of the car as she ran for the garage, abandoning her groceries and her kids in her haste to get inside.

 

My kids are well versed on the art of Jehovah avoidance. I unbuckled their seatbelts and they were in the house before I could blink. I grabbed my purse and made a run for it. I hit the garage door button and just as the door was hitting the ground I heard it.

 

“Do you have minute to talk about Jesus Christ?”

 

Too late. The door closed. Success.

 

For the next 2 hours if you looked closely, you could see people peeking out the blinds in their front windows to see if the Jehovah’s caravan was gone. Later as the moms sat out in our driveways in our lawn chairs with our frozen margaritas watching our kids play with sidewalk chalk and bubbles, we all laughed about our morning moment of panic. The neighbor who left her groceries totally forgot to go back and get them- her frozen food was all defrosted by the time she remembered. She did remember to let her kids in the house though. One neighbor admitted that she left her flip flop in the car. It fell off as she was hustling out of the door and she just left it.  The neighbor trying to leave her house told us she didn’t even get her kids buckled in the carseats. She had to pull over at the park so she could strap them in.

 

Panic.

 

That is what a caravan of  persistent Jehovah’s Witnesses inspired in our neighborhood yesterday.

 

*No offense or disrespect to Jehovah Witnesses intended. But seriously, stop coming to my house. I’ve asked you nicely.

 

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