What is it with men and yoga pants??

Recently, the Hubster asked me, who am I kidding(!?) he flat out told me, that it was time for me to invest in some newer sexier underwear! Oh! "and throw in some yoga pants while your at it!". Wtf?! Might I add that any time *other* than tax time, the Hubster would never suggest I spend money a small fortune on myself, for his visual enjoyment or otherwise.... Did I mention that the suggestion also included a trip to Victoria Secret? Now for those of you who follow my blog, you know that I find VS cringeworthy. Especially after our last visit, when the Hubster was caught shirking his parenting duties by ogling the employees and mannequins, while I shopped and he was *supposed* to be watching our 2 year old, who when left to his own devices, was found sifting through a drawer of thongs with a hot pink polka dot bra tied on top his head. Honestly, I haven't been back there since, it's been eight years.  Yes, I've gotten new underwear since then!!! They've just been from wallyworld. What?! Don't judge me, they have sexy(ish) undies too! Apparently the Hubster finds them lacking, since he insisted I get some new digs..... Sigh. I hate VS, and here's my reasoning.  1.) The employees are very accommodating, but they insist on comparing themselves to you. Almost like their commiserating with you, yet showing off their own assets at the same time. The one who *helped* me-translation tried to bully me into buying a new bra-actually ran her hands up and down her own frame while pushing her "girls" together to simulate a push-up bra. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I do not require a push-up, nor padded bras of any kind. I've got my own "girls" and they'd pop right out of any push-up bras. Duh! I need support, being a glorified underwear pusher you'd think she'd know this? Whatever. The Hubster enjoyed the display, while I was slightly revolted and may have thrown up a bit in my mouth. 2.) I almost always run into someone I know in there and I'd rather they *not* know what type of underpants I sport. Nor the size, color, print, sayings etc... If I want to wear bright orange zebra stripped panties that read hot and sexy in crystals across my ass, then I'd rather my acquaintances/coworkers/family/next door neighbor not know about it. *One* less thing to gossip about!   This is what would shortly follow, "Hehe, do you see that full figured, middle, aged chick with the graying hair over there (I prefer "full figured" to fat, plump or obese, semantics really.), she's wearing a thong with crystals that read hot and sexy, (snicker) as if!!".  I'd rather live in my delusional world without people judging my choice of underpants. This last trip to VS did land me into a stilted conversation with  a  fellow coworker. We did not make eye contact as we made our selections, but briefly commiserated on how both of our significant others suggested we buy new undergarments. Ugh. 3.) The only sizes they have in the bazillions is XXS. Wtf?! Last I people watched in the illinois valley, and correct me if I'm wrong, but there were hardly any that *truly* qualified as an XXS. That's not to say they don't wear them anyway, and look splendid in them. (cough). Trying to find your size is terribly disconcerting, depressing and down right insulting when confronted with only XXS's.  I could go on, but why bother, your no doubt catching my drift. So, your all probably on pins and needles wondering, did she purchase new undies?? Indeed I did, I had all of my items selected and ready for purchase by the time the Hubster and the D.S. arrived AND I bought a pair of yoga pants that I refuse to wear out of the house. The Hubs can enjoy that visual display while I lounge on the couch surfing the web, face booking and reading books on my iPad. What? Did you really think I'd be doing any actual yoga, let alone be caught dead out of the house in them?? Pfftttt!! Just for spite, I'm going to wallyworld later to buy a bra. Where there's no kittenish sales rep pushing padded bras at me, nor shoving her "girls" in mine, my husbster or 4 year olds face AND maybe, just maybe I'll wear my yoga pants. After all at wallyworld, I'd fit right in, where obscene clothing choices are perfectly acceptable, if not down right disgusting.  I just may end up earning a spot on one of those People of Walmart slide shows! For that threat of such a  shudderiffic display, I might just deserve one of my own coveted ninja kicks. Cheers!

I love you DMV, truly! Thank’s for the reality check.

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Why my daughter may very well be the Devil, oh! and Happy Birthday to her!

Audrey turns 7.      She can kick her brothers asses on any given day (truly, I've seen it happen, even while wearing a tutu and heels, (would that we could all be that whimsically fashion challenged, and not be judged!) She could totally dispense my dreamed about ninja kick to the head, which makes me proud and envious, all at the same time! Bottom line, She's tough, their wussies, what gives?! She has a knack for reeking havoc wherever she goes. Okay fine, I'm being a *tad* dramatic.... She reeks havoc at home, at school she's a veritable angel! Wtf?! Every Tuesday, for CCD classes, with fingers crossed, I watch her enter the building and am amazed each and every time, that she isn't immediately engulfed into the flames of Hell.  With relief in my voice, I can often be heard telling the Hubster, "It was a close one today, her heels smoked, but no combustion yet!". Woohoo! When the little *darling* was two, she went to bed early one night with a slight fever. When I went up at 9pm to check on them, the oldest monster was out cold, but not Audie. She’s in bed wide awake with a slightly panicked look on her face, which gets worse as I approach.  Upon closer inspection I become suspicious, that my little *angel* (cough), isn't moving, but is laying perfectly still, totally out of character for her.... Alarm bells sound in my head (or it's just the crazy talking, but let's not go there today!). One can't help but notice, given the evidence next to her, that she’s been busy.  Apparently, instead of resting as she was supposed to, she’d taken, and broken, a foam toy of Sam’s. As if that wasn't bad enough, she also stole Elmers glue from his room to try and fix it. The tip off, you ask?? The huge gouged out portion of the toy that had been bitten off AND the ginormous pile of dripping, oozing glue, with said bitten piece, glued on sideways. Which then lead me to rationalize (as only a mother can), hmmm, if there’s that much glues on the toy…. Our eyes meet as I glance over at her, again, she’s still AND silent, boldly holding my gaze. Is she panicked, playing dumb, or is she waiting me out, in the hopes that I’ll go away?! One never knows with the little devil.  I proceed to check her forehead, of which is sticky (wtf?!) I then attempt to tear down the top blanket away, but find it a bit resistant??? To my surprise, she has *literally* glued herself to the sheets! I had to *peel* her out of bed (seriously), and scrub her in a warm tub with a scrub brush to get the semi dried, very tacky, glue off of her. You just can't make this shit up! She's evil. This is just ONE of the *many* little angel's stories. I have loads of them, from being sewn into her footie pj's nightly (keeping her from stripping), to putting stickers on her nipples ( I don't think we need to elaborate on that one), to cutting her own hair and giving herself a cockscomb (like a roosters, come on people!!). Are you sensing a particular theme with this lil' Devil? Yeah... So are her parental units. Which is why she's gonna have a chastity belt fitted to her in a few years time AND why the Hubster insists we need to own a firearm (or two...). Fact: When she was just a few months old, we almost lost her due to sepsis, which as you can imagine was horrifyingly scary. Thankfully, we have an amazing pediatrician, whose quick thinking and relentless attentive nature, pulled her through the worst of it. Not only does he have my undying loyalty, but I'm proud to call him friend. We love him! So, even through all the grey hairs she's given me (believe me, there's many), I can honestly say that I am profoundly grateful for her and truly mean it! Not only is she beautiful inside and out, she's also funny, smart, creative, caring, spontaneous in her bursts of singing/dancing/laughter, she has an infectious giggle and is an all together amazing little bundle of energy.  Hopefully, someday when she's older (and the teenage angst has set in, which it will. *sigh*) she'll read this and realize how very much I love her, and always will.  Bella-boo, everyday joy bursts from within my heart at having you in my life. Here's wishing you the Happiest of Birthday's, now and always.   XO's Baby girl

Parenting, it's a conundrum

I don't think one is truly a good parent unless one routinely questions oneself and doubts their abilities, daily. Doubting your abilities means that you can take the arrogance out of the equation, and get down to the reality that is the human version of trial and error. Really, isn't that what parenting is? Taking the best and worst lessons learned as a kid and tweaking them to make a difference in your own children's lives?

No, I'm not judging anyone. Relax. I'm explaining my own crazy inner turmoil.

So, here's the thing, I question myself nightly/daily/hourly. I can't help it, I'm a chronic worrier. I worry about everything!!! I worry that my kids aren't getting what they need from me, I worry that I yell too much, I worry that they'll repeat the foul language I've a love affair with. I worry that they won't be able to break the cycle of chronic laziness *we've* (cough) seemed to develop... I worry that they don't eat the right things, I worry that they don't feel loved enough, content enough. When I drop them off at school I make sure they are in the building before I walk/drive away. I worry that their going to go out and get hurt or kidnapped. I insist the oldest spawn texts me his every move, just so I have an idea of timeframes, in the event something horrifying happens. During field trips, or going to friends houses, I take a mental picture of the clothes they're wearing,  just. In. Case. 

The cops daughter is never far from the surface...  

In my very first blog intro, I explained that I have an escape route detailed out, just in case the Hubster becomes a zombie (or more realistically, incase of a fire. What?! I'm not completely cracked! Geez) Well, I do, and it's intricately detailed right down to getting the kids in the car to make our escape. 
**side note** I truly hope that if the Hubster does indeed turn into a flesh/family eating zombie, that he doesn't chase the kids and I out the door and pound on our car like the beginning scene in Dawn of The Dead!! Yikes!! He's a really strong guy, and if zombies are anything like they are in The Walking Dead, my Hubs could do some serious damage!!! I'm embarrassingly obsessed, any cut he comes home with becomes suspicious to me. (I also worry, that in case there really is a fire, I remember to get the Hubster!! I'd hate to be in zombie plan mode and forget his ass!). I know, I know, I'm neurotic, but at this point there's no going back... Unless I gets meds, and as it so happens, I'm suspicious of those too. Go figure. *g*

Sorry, the very idea of zombies diverts me into various stages of panic.

I have a hard time understanding why some parents don't worry half as much as I do. That doesn't make them negligent parents, nor uncaring. I'm simply in awe of their ability to *not* worry quite as much as I do! I could learn a thing or two from them. Yet, then I'd most likely worry that I'm not worrying enough. It's a viscous circle, all this worrying.

Does my worrying make me a better parent than any of you? No, but it does allow me to take step back and realize that I'm far from perfect. Every night when I lay my head upon my pillow, I silently question my decisions throughout the day and pray for a better tomorrow. Not because I want to impress anyone, but because my kids are worth my best efforts, along with the agony of trying to achieve those efforts. Especially, if I've failed them that day. 

Not all days are good ones, just as not all are bad ones, but, a majority of them I'd love to be able to call "do over". Questioning myself allows me the wish that tomorrow will be a better day and that hopefully I'll be the mom I want to be, not the "thanks for participating" ribbon winning mom. I'm aiming for the mother of all ribbons (pardon the pun), the blue one, baby! Someday, I  hope to achieve that coveted ribbon, even if it happens to be cut up construction paper, that's been drowned in glue and drawn with a crayon-or in Audrey's case, sprinkled with an entire container of glitter-of which isn't just for whores and strippers you now, it's also for seriously craft minded 1st graders, with a propensity to use it on *everything*. Either way, I'd be honored.

I watch them sleep and I realize how lucky I am to have each and every one of them. Their contented sighs during slumber, that convey the happiness of their dreams, warms my heart. The soft "I love you's" they mumble, when their tired and drowsily cuddling into you, knowing their safe and cherished, is pure heaven. That's what makes parenting all worth while. 

For me, it's that tiny niggle of doubt in my parenting abilities, that keeps me striving to do even better for them the next day and everyday there after. I'm blessed to have them in my life.

Now if someone could just afford me the patience to deal with their idiosyncrasies when their awake, and my own neurosis, we'd be golden! 

All in all, I complain about my kids an awful lot, but *most* of it's all in good fun. My kids are the bombdidly, (as are yours!) and they deserve the best.

So, here's to a better tomorrow!

My love/hate affair with auto correct.

Listen, your trying too hard. 

If, now and then, I want to type a word that you don't approve of, it still doesn't constitute your intrusive insistence into my conversations. 
I meant what I said and said what I meant. When you change the word, or better yet, don't allow me my freedom of expression (i.e. When I say fucktard, I mean just that! Not some similarly sounding, less powerful, politically correct replacement.) you thereby take the umpf outta my thought. 

That's not to say I don't appreciate you, I do. I wouldn't appear half as intelligent as I do without you in my life. Yet, I feel that you try to refine me too much. At times, I admit I can abrasive and, yes, even down right naughty. Guess what? I like it that way. Ya, get what I'm saying? 

What it comes down to is this, I like me the way I am. You might *try* to (and this isn't a criticism, think of it as more of a suggestion), insert yourself into my life when I *require* assistance. 

Until then, I'd appreciate it if you sat back and enjoyed the ride, *occasionally* helping me navigate along the way. No one approves of a snarky backseat driver. So please, do us both a  favor and sit tight, hold on for the ride and let me plow through my own thoughts. I'll let you know when your expertise is required. 

I know your crushing on me right now, but don't take it so hard. Here's a little hint for your next endeavor: Though It's been said a little spontaneity is good, that's true, but your a tad over the top. Take it down a notch. Desperation does not make for a long term partnership.

I'm by no means breaking up with you, but I would like some distance. Some time, if you will, to reflect on our relationship with regards to one another... In other words, it's not me, it's you. 

Its become apparent that I'm just one of those people that has to have the last word (of my choosing) and clearly your more assertive than I would like. Let's agree to see each other only now and then. In other words, I'll look you up when I need you. Bottom line, don't pimp yourself out, your not a whore. 

Sincerely,
Your Badass grammatically/misspelling/politically challenged crush.
Xo's

How the Hubster and I fell in love.

One of my favorite bloggers wrote an extremely funny recollection on how her and the Hubs met, in honor of Valentines Day.

http://www.peopleiwanttopunchinthethroat.com/2012/02/how-i-met-hubs.html

I felt inspired enough to relate the story of how my own Hubster and I met (and our first impressions of each other), also in honor of the big heart day.

Flash back to the year 1991, we were all still struggling out of the fashion nightmare that defined the 80's. The hold was strong, especially for certain people (ehm, Hubster).

Some of us, however, were more than ready to bypass the era of the 80's. For instance, I was the only girl at my prom that sported a pixie cut. Ghost had come out the year before starring Demi Moore and I was a huge fan (She was the shit!). Everyone else (that I can remember), still had the long/big poof/curly/sprayed/teased/frosted, "do". I felt refreshingly free and different. Though, I must admit, I did not "wow" anyone in particular, especially not my date. Douchbag, that he was... What? I'm not bitter that he spent my prom (he was older) mooning after his future wife. Humpf.

I had been single for some time, I dunno, maybe it was because I was a bitch, or perhaps it was that I was a cops daughter and a "good" girl (why are boys so terrified of cops??), most likely it was that they found me uninteresting. Who knows. Either way, I was *surprisingly* free from any commitment, when I started community college that fall.

Ahhhhhh, Fundamentals of Art 101, where one is allowed to be creative and unique! A few of my pals from high school art class were in my new class, so there was some familiarity, as well as a world of new expressions. 

One of our first projects was a repetitive pattern, I cannot for the life of me remember what any of them were. I DO remember that we had to stand up, individually in front of the class and explain our piece of crap, umm, I mean "art". I was bored, let's face it, two hours of people rambling trying to impress each other with their artsy talk can be down right annoying. 

**That's what I love about the Hubster, he didn't care to impress (still doesn't), he just "is". 

So it's been hours now, that we've sat listening to each other drone on about our projects. When this skinny, unbelievably tall guy gets up to discuss his work. I take one look at him and dismissed him. His hair was thick, untamed and really wavy (the kind a girl would kill for. That in and of itself made me dislike him.), his face had what can only be described as a scruff to it (since hair was only sparsely coming in). He wore a thermal shirt (I know!! Again with the thermal shirts... *sigh*) under a shrunken flannel, of which the sleeves barely reached his wrists. Compound that look with too tight jeans, tied with some sort of woven string like material (think Jed Clampett on Beverly  Hillbillies) and rolled. Yep, he was still wearing rolled jeans! On his feet were mangy high tops, with apparently no socks. 

Man, he had a killer grin though, but he appeared smug, definitely not my type. Plus, he also was known to sport leather pants with multi colored Suede patches AND snakeskin boots complete with chains around the heel(eye roll).

In the weeks that followed we had formed definite opinions of one another. I thought he was quiet, far too smug/smart/sure of himself and had no sense of humor. He found me to be loud/obnoxious/uptight and bitchy. Imagine that?!

We steered clear of each other, except for the assigned seat thing. ugh.

Then one night, while nannying (that was my job, I was a Nanny and worked at the local root beer stand. Fun times!). I awoke from an awful dream, that the little girl I was responsible for and myself were stuck in her burning apartment. Who should come to the rescue, you ask? You got it, the annoying, fashionably challenged guy from my art class. He swooped in and saved us, my hero! Instincts are amazing things...

The next few days I was secretly crushing on him, but didn't let on. *snort*
During drawing time, when the class was supposed to be quiet, (my good friend Jeanna and I would always try to make each other laugh. We proudly and consistently annoyed the fuck outta our teacher, who was rather uptight herself), so when no one was looking (or so I thought), I threw her a tragically funny face. I crossed my eyes, stretched my mouth and stuck out my tongue. Basically, I resembled a deranged frog. I heard a snicker in the opposite direction, apprehensively I looked over and there was the annoying guy, my now crush, beet red trying his damnedest NOT to crack up during class.

Needless to say, I was mortified (incidentally, years later, this is the moment the Hubster said he fell in love with me. Told ya our sense of humor was warped). 

After that, moment we lived for nothing more than to antagonize each other. Yet, neither one of us was going to bring up the dreaded "D" (date) word. Instead he bet me that I couldn't go a week without picking on him, if I lost I had to make him dinner and we'd see a movie. If I won, he was supposed to buy me a tiny toons key chain. I lost on purpose and we've been together ever sense.

To this day when people meet the Hubster they say, "He's not at all who I envisioned you with". I guess it's because he's well over 6' ft and I'm barely 5'ft, he wears small hoop earrings and seems anti social-until you get him going, then he's funny as shit. Either way, it always comes as a surprise. To me, he's completely hilarious, still has that killer grin, will always be dreamy and however fashionably challenged he may have been, he'll forever be my hero. 

Happy Valentine's Day Babe! 

Shopping with the family can be somewhat embarrassing. Especially if it's my family...

You'd think I would've figured this out a loooong time ago and just cut my loses but, it appears I'm a glutton for punishment. Or lack common sense. I'm going with the former...

Each family member has a Moment that stands out, as their *worst* shopping moment ever. Here's a few of the monsters golden moments, before I entertain you with the Hubsters.

The oldest, Sam was about three years old and we decided to head to the local mall for the day. While the Hubs and Sam are in GameStop, I make a quick run into Victoria's Secret for some "me" time. I'm rummaging through some items, when I notice the famdamily enter the store.*sigh* I'm making some final decisions, completely unaware that the Hubs is beyond distracted by all of the glory that is VS, when I glance down and see my child happily rummaging intently through a drawer of thongs with a pink polka dot bra tied (by tied, I mean knotted.) to his head. Yep! It's as craptastic as you've just pictured it. The cups are up like bunny ears on the top of his head, and the straps are *tied* under his chin. I smack the Hubsters arm (very hard! HE was suppose to be watching the monster, instead of oogling merchandise/people/mannequins etc...). Mortified, I quickly glance around to survey the situation of being observed and untie said bra from my sons head, drop my potential purchases on a random table and beat a hasty retreat! Looking back, I Soooo wish we'd gotten a picture!! 

Audrey, my middle monster, while shopping at Walmart, was asked to keep her hands in the cart at all times. She choose to forgo my advice and knocked quite a few canned goods off a shelf, by "a few" I mean almost an entire shelf. Which in and of itself isn't that offensive. Except that when I tried to decrease the damage or impact of the cans hitting the floor, one fell awkwardly on my thumb and sliced it right open. Not, Fun! Try finding a bandage in Walmart, FAST,  without having to buy one?! I ended up standing in line, with toilet paper holding my bleeding digit intent on purchasing a package of band aides, while an elderly lady paid for her purchases by check. Rock the Walmart experience.

Then there was the D.S., aka Charlie at the local Target.... Truly, cringe worthy. 
Never go shopping with the D.S., his blase' attitude completely lacks discretion. A warning label should accompany him at all times, or a muzzle. The latter sounds better everyday. While shopping in Target and waiting for Sam by the changing room counter, Auds observed the carts contents and was wondering why we needed baby powder. Charlie was helpful enough to point out (loudly) to one and all, “It’s for Dad’s butt.” To which the Target employee standing in front of us, couldn’t stop laughing as poor Hubs just stood there completely dumbfounded, unable to defend himself. What can one really say to defuse an observation like that, that *doesn't* make you look as if you're trying to down play a child's comment-however erroneous it may be?! 

Ahhhhhh, the Hubsters golden moment.

The other day, with the older kids off to school, the Hubster decided to take the D.S. and I to breakfast at Cracker Bees.

Side note: When my oldest was a tot, he used to get Cracker Barrel and Apple Bees mixed up, referring to them as "Apple Barrel" and "Cracker Bee's". Eight years later we still refer to them as such, because, well, it's funny.

 Anyway, we settled into eating a hearty breakfast and upon our return home, decided to stop at  Farm n Fleet to pick up dog food. You can't gorge yourself full of food and return home to a poor dog with less than a bowl full of dog food.... So, the Hubs is fighting with me the entire way across a very short intersection (the restaurant and fleet are directly across the street from each other), about being obnoxiously full/still drunk from the night before/too tired from pulling a video game all nighter. Being the loving wife that I am, I make him go in regardless of his pleas. 

Big mistake!

Upon finding the dog food isle, the Hubster then bends down hauls a huge 50lb bag *onto* his shoulder. Only, he'd (drunkenly) miscalculated and the bag goes flying over his shoulder, landing with a very loud crash upon the floor behind him. It still hadn't registered that the bag has sailed past his shoulder, his hands in mid air holding where the bag *should* be. I watch (from my vantage point, laughingly crouched on the floor trying not to pee myself) as his face registers, first shock as his eyes go wide, then bewilderment as he looks for the bag, then embarrassment as his face-starting from the neck up-turns bright red. Hilarious, and embarrassing all at once. I would've walked away and pretended not to even know him, but I just couldn't stop laughing. You know what I'm talking about? The silent laugh that shakes your whole body, to where you can't breathe or even stand up right, nor see through the tears of mirth?? Yeah, that was me.

I'm sure one of our BFF's, who works in the office there, would have a field day with the surveillance tape, if she was smart enough to get a cut of it?! Hint, hint, Laura!!! Call and I'll give ya the date and time!lol

After picking up the pieces, and our fallen bag of df, we continued on our walk of shame to the register and then drive home. Laughing hysterically the entire way!!

Now here's where the D.S. gets commended. Usually, he's the one that does this particular walk of shame, but today, sadly it was the parental units...

Moral to the story, shop online where there's less potential for embarrassment. Or, fly solo, if you end up in an embarrassing situation, then you've only yourself to blame, but under no circumstances should one *ever* shop with my famdamily! Each one has earned a Ninja kick. 

Might as well chase my own tail, it'd be more effective...

Help me out here, does anyone else feel like they go above and beyond for their kids only to be disregarded?? 
I give them the opportunity to make me proud and clean their own rooms, when that doesn't happen, I give in and clean their rooms. Then, occasionally, leave a small spot for them to finish.

Yeah, it never gets done.

They either choose to lie to me " Of course I cleaned my room!" or ignore the request altogether, hoping to fly low under the radar. Bluffing their way through the inquiry, " Did you put everything in it's place? You didn't throw it all the closet/under your bed/rolled up in a blanket, did you?". 

This is where I could implode, they look me straight in the eye and say, "no, I cleaned it all.". Straight. In. The. Eye. They lie, oblivious or just down right in denial that I'm gonna go up there and investigate. They know how I roll, they've lived with me all their lives. They KNOW I'm gonna check *everywhere*, and yet they still do it.

Where the fucks the defect?!?! Is it me, or them??? I'm at a loss! 

I so want to put my trust in them and believe that they respect me enough to WANT to impress/please or make me proud. It's become apparent that they don't give a shit. Perhaps the Hubsters "I don't give a shit box" has morphed into the monster's own special type of "I don't give a shit"? 

Now, I have to be honest, this is somewhat of the only area where we have trouble-aside from sibling bickering, which drives me CRAZY! Their fabulous students, polite, hard working, thoughtful of others... The oldest makes the honor roll, the middle kid has multiple citizenship awards and the lil' D.S. (demon spawn), well.... He hasn't gotten expelled from preschool yet! Hmmmm....Let's just concentrate on the other two for now...

Their good kids, they just refuse to keep their room from looking like a bomb went off and the casualties are forever lost within the disaster zone. 

I know Sam (the 10yr old) is gonna have a gig on Hoarders someday, he cannot let go of anything. EVER! Be it a scrap of paper, candy wrapper or obscure rock. He can't part with it! He packs his pockets full of the shit he finds throughout his day.
 
Seriously! 

Here's a for instance: Sam had a Dr's appointment/yearly check up a few months back. The nurse wanted to weigh him after having checked his height, eyes etc.. He's about to step on the scale when I hold out my hand and say, "hand 'em over pal.". The nurse looks at both myself and Sam strange and says, "he doesn't have to strip or anything.". My hand still out towards Sam, eyeing him with the promise of a slow and painful death if he doesn't hand his "finds" over. I say to the nurse, "there's undoubtedly rocks in his pockets." she shoots me a skeptical look. When all of a sudden Sam sighs, digs in both pockets and says, "Here. I can have 'em back, right?". UGH!! God love her, the stunned nurse looks at me and laughs incredulous, as Sam hands me not one, but THREE of the largest rocks one could possibly carry in ones pocket, plus various odds and ends (twist ties from the grocery store, soda tabs, beers caps, bent paper clips, a broken pen lid. The list goes on..). The rocks?? Easily totaling a weight of 5-6lbs. "I thought you were kidding!!!", the nurse says.

Sadly, no.... That's just how Sam rolls.

Since you now know what his pockets look like, you can only imagine what his ROOM looks like! His isn't even as bad as Audrey's! His is packed tight with stuff, hers is a hurricane of shit everywhere. Truly depressing to walk into. Which is why, I insist they clean or at least attempt to clean. That would be why I *help* them. I keep hoping they'll, eventually, watch and learn. No such luck.

So, tonight I tried something different. I used the age old guilt, telling them how disappointed I am in them and how I give up my weekends so they can have sleep overs, play dates and that I deserve so much more from them than what their willing to give me. Blah, blah, blah. (which, incidentally, is what I think they heard). Yep, I pulled the oldest parent trick in the book. I made them feel ashamed of themselves-at least I think I did?! Last I checked, they were sleeping peacefully... 

They'll retaliate, I know they will, because I used to! Come the morning they'll undoubtedly send me the big tear brimmed puppy eyes and promise to never let their rooms get filthy again. And I'll buy it. Why? Because their giving me puppy eyes, damnit! Who can resist puppy eyes!!!

For buying their ploys in the morning, I'll deserve a kick to the head. Ninja style.

The "I don't give a shit box".

I don't know about yours, but, my Hubster comes fully equipped with an "I don't give a shit box". 

Do any of you ladies know what I'm talking about?? 

It's where you give him detailed information that he doesn't "remember" when quizzed on later i.e. Driving directions, cooking times/degrees for pre baked frozen meals, kids doctor appointments, extended family get togethers, or (gasp) fill him in on family/friend gossip etc... 

The signs that any of this information is being "filed" away is strangely conflicting, because he looks at you as if it's registering, even nods his head in agreement or makes the appropriate facial expressions indicating he's paying attention. Yet, if asked to repeat said info at a later date, he's at a loss. Even more aggravating is when confronted or reminded of said plans/info, he *feigns*(cough) ignorance and says "Why didn't you tell me this beforehand?!" or (better yet!), mine will sputter, "What are you talking about?!", looking at me as if I'm the crazy one. Hmpf.... As if! 

This is the male defensive strategy, that quite frankly, is equivalent to nails on a chalk board. 

I can't tell you how many times throughout the years this has happened. One of my very close BFF's and I had an in depth conversation one day, with regards to the Hubbies and the fact that they don't pay attention to a word we say. It's also not just us, it goes along with their mothers, fathers, friends... The list goes on. She said that if the info doesn't interest her Hubs in the least, he won't retain said info, At. All. Like when a mutual friend of theirs told her Hubs that his sister was seriously ill, my BFF found out weeks later. When confronted, her Hubs said, "Oh yeah, guess I forgot to tell ya", ummm, ya think??!?! Let's clarify, it's not that he didn't care, it's just that it didn't effect him *directly*, so thereby, it got "filed". 

To be fair, let's put ourselves in their shoes, shall we? You have a wife, kids, boss, parents etc... All of which are sending useless information your way. Be it, (again) family gossip, dinner instructions, Hunny do recommendations, ridiculous jokes that don't make sense or get butchered badly (by the kids of course!) or worse yet, a funny episode on Phinious and Ferb thats repeated over, and over and over again. All of this info is thrown at them, literally bouncing off their ears. They require, scratch that, they NEED a defense mechanism to survive the daily "noise" thrown at them. This is their way of coping, unfortunately, in most cases, its morphed into tuning out the old ball and chain, completely. That's why they can't remember that their supposed to take Freddy to the doctor and are outraged that we *sprung* it on them the night before! 

I even threw my theory at the Hubster one day, when he was being particularly annoying, asking if whatever it was we were discussing was going to be be filed in his "I don't give a shit box". He looked at me kinda funny, to which I explained my theory. He laughed. Laughed!

Now, whenever I tell him something or mention something that doesn't interest him in the least, he walks away tossing over his shoulder, "you know what box that's going into.". Arrrgghhhhhhh!! Men are SO aggravating!

Now, all this means is that I'm missing my manual on how to reprogram the Hubster, and was hoping that one of you still had yours???

The family bike ride, good intentions can go (bleep) themselves.

Last summer, I had brilliantly decided to take the kids on a bike ride. Mind you, I hadn't been on a bike in, oh, let's say... 5 years?! But! I had decided to buy a trailer for my bike (translation, bribed the Hubster into buying and installing one), so the little ones could come along on the adventure that Sam and I had planned.

Ha! "adventure", key word here peeps. 

First we had to find everyone's helmets, that took *forever* and with much searching and whining (mostly on my part and on both accounts), we realized too late that we had neglected to buy Charlie one. No problem, with much coaxing and compliments of admiration, he gamely wore Audie's old toddler helmet, complete with princess stickers and pink bunnies. Next, we had to get the bike out of the shed. Dear God, what an experience! It was buried under everything you could ever imagine being in a shed. I dusted it off, having been full of cobwebs-hello?! I said I hadn't ridden in YEARS!! Hubster did his job, he attached the trailer. C'mon, If he doesn't dust the house, he isn't about to dust my bike!
 
That being said, we were well on our way, until I looked down and realized the tires we flat. So, I walk my ass into the garage, which by the way could qualify us for a gig on Hoarders. Here, I spend what feels like hours looking for my tire pump... Once found, I start going about the business of inflating my tires, with various calls to he Hubs (at work) regarding the amount of air one should pump into their tires. I'm pretty sure he would've liked to strangle me, but then, let's be honest, when doesn't he?!lol 

Since the tires are all set, the bike is dusted, the trailer's hitched, helmets are on, waters bottle are in place, fruits snacks in each kids pockets and kids are buckled in (whew!) we're ready to roll! Except that I parked my car too close to the back entrance and have, unwittingly, blocked us in. Not only that, but I realized this fact too late, and now have the bike trailer tire jammed into the car's front tire and neither will give... 

This is craptastic. 

So, I'm out there pulling and swearing and kicking at the tires, while the kids are still precariously perched inside the trailer swaying to and fro, as I try to jimmy them loose. I know, I should've just backed the car out a bit, but, clearly, I was in the thick of things sorta speak and well, really, where were any of you with this brilliant idea when I needed it?! 

Finally!!! Bike and car give way, kids hearts are racing from the upheaval and for whatever reason, I cannot get the stupid bike to ride. At all. I'm scratching my head inspecting this bike up and down for the defect, nothing looks outta place to my *untrained* eye. I give it a kick for good measure outta frustration. I get back on the bike and try peddling, nope, the handle bars still look crooked. At this point Sam is sitting on the curb waiting, somewhat patiently, for us to be on our way and the little ones are squirming in their seats in anticipation. All the while, I'm still struggling with those damn handle bars!! Why won't my bike work?! It looks bent, but I have no idea how to fix it.

This is where my kindly neighbor (whose been talking on his cell phone watching me the. Whole. Time.) comes over to offer his assistance. "You look like you could use some help." he says not unkindly, but almost apprehensive, as if he's dealing with a lunatic. Which as I said, he'd been attaching me this while time and is probably convinced I'm an escapee. 
I look up flustered, "I think my bike's jammed, the handle bars won't budge an inch and the tire won't turn." he gently takes the bike from my grasp and deftly turns the handle bars around to face the *proper* direction. "Here you go ma'am, your handle bars were just backwards." His smile indicates he feels sorry or me and is still (as yet) unsure of my sanity. Now, I don't know about you all, but if I were Sam sitting on that curb, I would have driven my bike away as fast as possible so no one knew we were related. The little ones were stuck with me, but Sam at least had an out!! He stayed, loyal to a fault. Poor kid.
I was mortified as I thanked him for his assistance and mumbled  that it'd been a while since I'd been on a bike. Then as swift as one can with a trailer and two toddlers hooked to the end of ones bike, I wobbly took off. With my *helpful* neighbor chuckling while calling out, "I'll just watch ya'll to make sure you make it down the street okay!" 

Wow! I can honestly say, I've never been more mortified in my life. If anyone deserved a kick to he head, it would've been me that day, ninja style! This is also why my Dad is clearly precise in saying, that "to know me is to love me".

My dog must truly *love* me, and here's why:

The dog in my life, insane x4.

He has an uncanny ability to crap the house at the most disturbing times i.e. Like when I'm late running the kids to school (today!!), when the unsuspecting house guest is over or (may particular fav), when he has just been outside. Wtf?! He must enjoy the fufilling feeling of humiliating me.

He also, absolutely, refuses to stay in his yard unless threatened before hand. Literally! If I lecture him before I open the door, he'll stay put. If I forgo the lecture, he must assume "game on" and disappears. Which is really fun when your neighbors bring him back to your yard, knock on the door and lecture YOU on the dangers of leaving your pets unattended. Ugh!

Now, I know, your all thinking Lisa, he's a dog' they don't understand "lectures". I say, "nuts to you!" non believers, mine must, because he lives to torture me. He knows to trot the neighborhood when, oh let's see.... I'm in my pj's, or one of the kid's are home sick, or I'm sick, when there's a snow/hail/wind/rain storm or I'm cooking dinner and lost track of time etc... Usually, he gives me one chance to let him in. If I miss that open window of opportunity, where he's standing at the back door looking in at me and I haven't hauled ass to get there (can animals count seconds?! Mine must...), he disappears.
 
Game on. 

Then he has the balls (yep, balls!), to make me hunt his ass down and *guide* him home. Now this is where I'm sure the neighbors think I'm a lunatic (much like the Hubsters already figured out...). here I am, in my polar bear pj's and house slippers (don't judge me) pulling on his collar and he's not budging. NOT... BUDGING!!! He's 90+ lbs peeps!! He has a  narrow head (and mind, but, whose judging?) and thick neck, so when you pull on his collar, it slips right off his head. He knows this, he lives for this moment. He even gamely bows his head when I come close, taunting me into making the eventual pull for it, which almost always knocks me off balance when it comes free. Stupid dog! 

Thus, it becomes a battle of the wills, his will to torture me and stay outside, my will to kill him (ummm, I mean love him to pieces) and bring the brat home. Where much coaxing, threatening and *soft* nudges to the rear are implemented. Home folks, home! To his err, my(?!), warm comfy couch, that he gets the majority of, while I'm squeezed into a tiny corner! He gets waited on for meals, treats, bedtime, baths, he even gets to sleep the day away, mostly on my blanket and pillow (bastard) and go for the occasional car ride.

I want his life!

I'm totally convinced he wakes up an thinks, hmmmm, what can I do to mess with the bitch today... He hates me, and this is why he deserves a kick to the head. Because really, a kick to the rear end just isn't satisfying enough

The Hubsters "weekend" shirt... My eyes!!! Ahhhhh!!!!

So, the Hubster has a history of favorites with regards to certain clothing items. Remember my intro peeps?! Well, some of his favored items I find *slightly* offensive. I don't know, maybe it's because once he finds a favorite, he wears it to death, much like his aforementioned "weekend" shirt. Ugh!

C'mon!! Be honest, you all have the same struggles! Im not the only one with an unruly spouse, am I?!?!

**side note: The Hubs really doesn't *care* for my fashion critique(s), nor my choice in clothing for him. I know, I know, I'm shocked too!

When he initially picked it out off the rack, I thought, sure, why not? 
 It was decidedly tame, no abhorrent colors or patterns and it was casual, so he could wear it anywhere (I now realize, looking back, that maybe that should've been the red flag!). Well, he's worn this shirt every. weekend. 
He even refers to it as his "weekend" shirt. No joke! I'm so sick of seeing this stupid shirt that once winter got here, I was thrilled to wash it one last time for the season, and pack it away deep within the dresser drawer-in the hopes that he wouldn't find it. 

So fast forward to two weeks ago (we're in the middle of winter), unbeknownst to me, he must've been rummaging through his dresser drawers. We're getting ready to run errands, when he comes strutting out of the bathroom and says proudly, "look, I found a new way to wear my "weekend shirt". 

Crap. 

I turn around in dread and to my great despair, he's wearing that stupid (bleeping) shirt! He'd *ingeniously* placed a long sleeve thermal shirt underneath said polo. Now, I don't know about you all, but, I lack a filter at times.... Seriously, if I were a super hero, curse words and speaking before thinking would be my super weakness (because I can't NOT do it), much like cryptonite is superman's-normally i'd refer to this as my "super power" (mainly because I excel at it!), but there's really no way I can pass these traits off in a positive light... Unless timing, insensitivity and snark are to be commended....

Soooooo, I opened my mouth and blurted, "How in the (bleep) did you find that stupid (bleeping) shirt?!".
  
Now, he's fully aware that I've managed to *hide* his favorite items before. He *lost* his favorite florescent orange fleece pullover with the black trim, during our move home.... No idea how that happened?? As well as his trucker baseball cap. Bummer... Then there was his black skeleton hoodie. Tragic... 
You get my drift, and so did he, he's not easily duped! I have to go to *great lengths* to pull one over on him, and even then, I'm not entirely convinced that I've been successful... 

I must've really pissed him off with this one, because he didn't speak nor blink an eye. He just calmly took his weekend shirt off and tossed it to the ground at my feet. 

Oops, my bad. 

I felt horrible and (lets be honest) slightly relieved that he wouldn't be wearing it again-at least not anytime soon!? (fingers crossed, fingers crossed!!!)
Well, I haven't seen it since and I can't help but wonder if it'll make an appearance this spring?! I also can't help wondering what, (if anything??) the Hubster might decide to *hide* of mine in retaliation if he ever reads this blog?!?! 

If it's my new eyebrow pencil, I'm (bleeped).


**I bleeped my curse words in this segment, because to be honest, there were just too bleeping many of them! I'd like to add, that my Hubster is one in a million, his sense of humor is at times outrageous and always keeps me in stitches! That being said, after this post, if no one's seen, nor heard from me in a while, come LOOKING!!!

A shout out to the Hubster!

The Hubster bought me Lynea UGG boots for Christmas!!! These babies are so unbelievably awesome, that while wearing them, they give me the illusion I'm a sexy hipster still kickin' it in my twenties.

Seriously.

I'm so enamored of them, err, *him*, that I'll even take back every mean thing I've ever said about him, or to him, in the heat of battle and it's aftermath...

*Disclaimer: Above said statement dose NOT include the following instances. Fights and or disagreements, where the Hubs is TOTALLY in the wrong. (i.e. All the time.). Arguments that span years worth of gripes that have, as yet, not been agreed upon-in my favor.
These are all considered battle tactics and cannot be compromised nor will any quarter be given. This notation must be upheld at all times-especially when accepting rockin' gifts that are undeniably well deserved...

That being said, a great big "THANK YOU" to my dearest Hubster! I promise I'll be on my best behavior going forward!

Pfttttt.... Who am I kidding?! I promise to NOT make any *promises* I can't keep! That seems more attainable... I think?! Oh, screw it! Let's just say, I have the BEST Hubs ever and leave it at that. Mwuah!

Ladies, all kidding aside, I highly recommend purchasing yourselves a pair, I'm in love! *sqwee*

Towels and washcloths, there's a reason these should be as disposable as paper towels...

The 4 year old, (oh, let's just call him "Charlie", for shits and giggles) had a little trouble cleaning himself after a rather messy cleansing of the bowels. Instead of calling me in to help, Audie (the 6 year old) decides to take control. “What can I do for you honey?” she says sweetly, (as if she doesn't want to wring his little neck 20 hours outta a 24 hour day!). Charlie, clearly frustrated, “My butts dirty, I can’t get it.". At this point he's gone through a bazillion *tiny* pieces of toilet paper. Annoyed at his own ineptness, he whines, "Help me Auds?”. Ever valiant, she grabs some toilet paper. “Oh, all right." she sighs as if extremely put upon-even though she volunteered for this particular mission. "Bend over sweetie”.
After a few failed attempts, with Auds standing about a mile away and swiping tentatively in the vicinity of his rear end, he's had enough and yells, “MOM! Need a little more help here!”. *sigh* 
I knew it would come to this, but, I let her try anyway and here's why:
Everyone has a "Dad" parenting moment, when they say to themselves, "lets just see what happens".  Come on fellow Mom's, you know what I'm talking about! Where the Dad, Aka the responsible individual in charge *cough*, tends to observe a situation instead of stepping in to prevent the issue all together? This is usually where family "accidents" occur, you know, the ones us women tend to discuss and laugh at during family gatherings??
Such as, "Johnny was showing me how he can walk backwards, when all of a sudden he fell down the stairs! Never saw it coming!" or "Ernestine wanted to make a tent under a folding table and secured the blanket on top with a series of well placed bricks. Ingenious plan I thought, until one of the bricks fell on her head!". Okay, that last one was actually my BFF and I when we were kids, but, where was her Dad when this happened, huh?!? Clearly, that's a tale for another time...
Back to the story at hand, I  walk into the bathroom and grab a warm soapy wash cloth and proceed to clean his foul ass. Mission completed, Charlie's one happy camper scampering away to play. Blissful, with the knowledge that he's now traumatized his sister forever. Two words, Demon. Spawn. Audie looks at me and in a somewhat state of shock, says (with no small amount of disgust), “I am never using that wash cloth again!". Visibly shudders, "Yuck!”.
 
Now I ask you, should I shatter her peace of mind and tell her every wash cloth she uses has at one time touched each of her brother’s, her Dad's and my nether regions?! I could be kind and let her live with a false sense of security, but then thats not how I roll.
**Messing with the kids, not quite as enjoyable as envisioning a mental kick to an annoying persons head, but nonetheless gratifying!

This latest episode at the homestead Asylum, got me thinking, Auds has an astonishingly good point! Towels and washcloths should definitely be made to be disposable. By disposable, I mean burned, bombed and destroyed, never to be seen again. When washing/drying your face/hair etc.. have you ever thought, (just THOUGHT?!) about the disgusting crevices that that particular piece of cloth has journeyed on various parts of your families/house guests bodies?!
Peeps, there's a reason  these should be as disposable as paper towels. Because really, does a washing machine ever *truly* make you forget, that the towel your drying your hair with was used only a week or two ago, to clean up Cindy's puke or (in our case) Charlie's poopy butt?! I assure you, I now avoid that particular wash cloth like the plague. 
Which leads me to yet another observation, (of which is far worse), using hotels and hospitals complimentary towels/washcloths, that multiple strangers have used on the disgusting crevices of THEIR bodies?!  Yikes! 

Happy showering! *snicker* 

P.s. Don't even think of kicking me in the head, that's my thing! ;)

Styling mishaps, a lesson learned.

Okay, so one of the things I *really* wish my Mom would've imparted, words of wisdom wise, was to never, ever, under any circumstances, should you over pluck, nor *shave* your eyebrows. 

I'm sure you can figure out where this is going?! Basically, it comes down to this, I'm an idiot. No, I'm not judging myself too harshly, trust me. I remember looking in the mirror during my teens thinking, hmmm, my eyebrows are a bit fuller than I'd like. Yet, it was the late eighties and no one gave a rats ass about grooming eyebrows, so I figured I was fairly safe. Now we've entered the very early nineties, and still no one gave a rats ass about grooming eyebrows, but for some obscure reason, I got it into my head to *fix* them anyway. Here's where things go terribly awry....

I didn't know one was supposed to pluck or wax the offensive hairs and having decided that I needed to resemble Demi Moore to the full extreme, aside from having her pixie cut from Ghost, I was going to shape my eyebrows. 

My BFF had come over to hang with me, over the years she'd gotten used to my styling mishaps. So when she walked in and stared at me, it wasn't out of character for her to notice something was slightly "off" in my appearance. 
She looked me over rather intently, so perplexed was she at trying to figure out what I'd done. "Why do you look different?", She was really frustrated. Smashing my bangs to my forehead with her hand she eyed them critically, "Did you cut your bangs again?!" she accused.
 
Side note, since I was very small, I'd aggravate both my Mom and our beautician by cutting my own bangs and by cutting I mean butchering... My BFF knew me so well! 

With her hand still smashed to my forehead eyeing the trim line of my bangs, I replied, somewhat in disgust at her criticism, "No!" then calmly, "I shaved my eyebrows.". She was utterly dumbfounded, "you shav-?!?!". She couldn't even finish the sentence so stupefied was she by my casualness, given the hack job I'd done. 
To this day, when I recall this conversation, I crack up and almost wet myself from the remembered incredulity on her face, that I could do something so stupid! Not to mention giving her props for willingly being seen in public with me!LOL!!!

Okay, twenty something years later, I don't find my eyebrow mishap as funny. I mean it's a funny story, there's no doubt, but man the regrets I have! 
First of all, no one ever tells you that your eyebrows thin as you age, nor that they'll grow back at odd angles, or that they'll never truly be reshaped accurately again. This is why I have to draw or fill mine in every time I leave the house. Also, like a dumb ass, I've been known to ask the Hubster if I look alright before we leave for any given event. What a big mistake that is, because his response is always an unfailing *innocently* inquired, "Sure, but did you intentionally draw your eyebrows on crooked?". Or when we're at Walmart and I say to the Hubs, "Hey, don't let me forget my eyebrow pencil.", he says, "Why not just cut your losses already?" and my favorite, when he has a long gray eyebrow hair and I repeatedly ask him to let me pluck it, he deadpans, "I've seen what you've done to your own brows, there's no way your touching mine!".  Kick to the head folks, ninja style. 

While I give him points for being humorous (because he really is funny!), he's also intelligent enough to know NOT to make me draw in my angry brows! .\/.

So, this is why my daughter and I will have a LONG ass, *in depth* talk about never waxing, over plucking and above all NO shaving of said eyebrows. Best advice I can give, is have them professionally done, or leave 'em the Hell alone and if you see me coming at you with a razor, run like the wind!!!!