Monday, September 30, 2013

How I Became Known as the Whore of Target

My kids have it in for me in Target.  There was the time Hudson yelled “Daddy, that’s not nice!  Don’t hit Mommy!” in Target when he was about 2-yrs old and I was very pregnant.  There was the time both of them decided to yell pecker.  Now this.

I was grocery shopping with Kenzie.  We had just turned our cart down an aisle when a man, early 20s, turned at the same time and our carts nearly collided. I apologized and let him by.  As he was walking down the aisle, Kenzie takes off a few feet in his direction and yells, “Sorry!  SORRY!  I SAID SORRY!”

That’s not the embarrassing part.  This is.

After he didn’t answer she turned around to look at me with a sad face and said, “Mommy, I don’t think that was my daddy.”

Yeah, there were a lot of people around when she said this.  A lot of people who now think I am so unsure of her baby daddy, that there could be that many, that we randomly look for him in public places.

And that is how I became known as the Whore of Target.

Source


Thursday, September 26, 2013

I Love You More Than Chihuahuas

If you were to rank the things that my daughter loves most in life, I would come in behind horses, candy, snacks, Dora, Team Umizoomi, and possibly Chihuahuas.  I can’t really blame her for the candy part.  I mean, candy is pretty great.  I’ll admit the Chihuahua one hurt a bit and Dora is just unfair.  I am not nearly as annoying as Dora and I rarely question people in Spanish.  If I do it's only to ask if you have pain in your wrist as this is literally the only thing I remember from medical Spanish.

I was tucking her into bed the other night.  Basking in the glory of bedtime so close at hand and the thought of Cherry Garcia ice cream waiting for me downstairs, my daughter suddenly looked so much sweeter and I nearly forgot about how I had to tell her repeatedly to remove that pencil from her nose.

“I’m so glad I get to be yours and Hudson’s mommy.”
“Yeah, we like to eat snacks and candy.”
“Ok then…good night.”

This wouldn’t have bothered me too much except that this seems to be becoming a pattern.

“Kenzie, I love you so much.”
“I need to go downstairs and see my Chihuahua.”
“Your Chihuahua?
“I don’t have a Chihuahua.” This was said with a look of confusion like I had been the one to bring up tiny Mexican dogs.
“Ok.  Good talk.”

Oh well, I guess I’ll go drown my sorrows in that Cherry Garcia.  Cherry Garcia loves me.

How she sleeps these days.  Which reminds me, her new cowboy boots and play crib also rank higher than me.




Monday, September 23, 2013

Here's to Conversation

I had just picked Hudson up from school Monday when my father-in-law called me.

“What do you have going on Wednesday? I want to take you to do something that I think will help with your political stuff.”
“Just a meeting in the morning and then I’m free.  What did you have planned?”
“It’s a surprise.”

Wednesday came around.  My father-in-law picked me up and off we went.

“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”

Twenty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of a gun shop and shooting range.  It became clear what we were doing when he started unloading guns out of the trunk of his car.  Today would be the day that I fired a gun for the first time.

We walked into the gun store.  I signed in and signed a waiver.  My father-in-law bought some ammo and we walked into the range.

The first time I heard a gun fired, I jumped.  I’m not sure why, but I didn’t expect it to be so loud.

“Ear protection,” he said handing it to me out of his bag.

He took out one of his guns and showed me the safety, showed me how to hold the gun and how to fire.  I watched him fire a few times, the bullet casings flying all around.  An employee from the store came in and reminded me that I supposed to be wearing eye protection.

“Your turn,” he said handing me the gun.  My hands were shaking.  I held the gun in my hand, acutely aware that I was holding an object with the ability to kill and so was everyone else here.  I was suddenly aware of the trust involved.  That the only thing stopping anyone here from killing someone was their own conscience, morality, and mental stability.

I took a deep breath, aimed, and fired.  The kick caught me by surprise.  After a few rounds, I felt panicky.  I didn’t trust my hands and I put the gun down.  I watched my father-in-law for a while as he shot a .45.

“Here try this one.”
“Are you kidding me?  My hands we’re shaking with the small one!”
“Just once so you can feel the difference.”

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves.  My father-in-law helped adjust my hands and I fired.  The noise and the kick was incredible.  I put the gun down.

“I think I’m done now.”

He shot for a while longer.  He taught me some more about the gun and the bullets. Back in the store, he had me hold some of the combat-style weapons.

I don’t think shooting is for me.  I get the appeal.  I get why people like it, I really do.  I just can’t get over the noise and the implications of what a gun can do.  That does not mean I am against other responsible people enjoying this sport.  I am simply saying it is not for me.

We chatted in the car about the conceal and carry class he took.  We talked about weapons he carried in Vietnam.  We talked about how blind people could now carry a weapon in public in Iowa and we both agreed that was crazy. We went to lunch and continued discussions about gun legislation, everything from background checks, to magazine limits, to assault weapons.

We didn’t always agree.  We did agree on more that we disagreed on.  And most importantly, we listened to each other.  There was no anger.  There was no arguing.  There was only the exchange of thoughts and information.  Then my father-in-law, a card-carrying member of the NRA, agreed to write to his congressman.

I will always be grateful for this day with him.  For what he taught me, but most of all for the conversation.  Conventional wisdom says never discuss politics or religion in polite company.  I have never understood that.  Those things are important.  It’s said that too many tempers flare when talking about these things, but maybe instead of banning topics, maybe we should examine the way we talk about them.  Maybe the problem is not the topic,  maybe the problem is how we talk to each other.  I now know for sure that it is possible to talk with someone about touchy subjects even when the two parties are coming from two different sides.  All is takes is some listening along with the talking.  So far all the things my father-in-law taught me that day, for this I am the most thankful.




Friday, September 20, 2013

I’m An Adult Now

This morning while bringing Hudson to school I got a bit weepy.  He was all dressed up for picture day, his cowlicks were tamed and he just looked so grown up.  It made me feel old.  But this isn’t the thing that really made me feel like an adult this week.  The thing that really made me feel like an adult is that I bought a cheese board.

I need the cheese board for an event I was hosting.  I bought some fancy pants cheese (meaning I bought it at Whole Foods) that I felt needed to be properly presented.

The purchasing of a cheese board is the last rite of passage to adulthood.  It goes driver’s license, registering to vote, buying a cheese board.  In my twenties, I didn’t even know that such a thing existed.  Now I am more mature and realize that the cheese board is the key to civilized gatherings.  Without it we might as well just start grunting at each other and flinging poo.  The cheese board has the ability to stimulate adult conversation.  Everyone could be talking about Snooki’s Twitter feed, enter someone carrying a cheese board and suddenly your talking 401ks and derivatives and financial adult shit like that.  (Forgive me.  I just purchased the cheese board this week so I haven’t harnessed all of its power).

Now.  I’m about to blow your mind with my adultness.  I also bought cheese markers.  That’s right.  I have cheese so sophisticated it needs a nametag.  Just looking at the cheese markers makes me want to start taking calcium supplements for better bone density.


I did stop short of buying the pack of assorted cheese knives.  Everyone knows that the pack of assorted cheese knives is purchased the day you get your AARP card and are ready to start discussing your bowel movements in public and I’m just not in that phase of my life yet.  When I am though, you’re all invited to the party.  The only problem is that I probably won’t be able to serve cheese then as it is so constipating.




Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Story Time with Cold Dead Swans

It's story time again!  Today we're going to read the most depressing children's story ever.  What's depression?  It's that feeling that life is not worth living, but don't worry. You'll soon understand by the end of this book.
It's time to migrate swans!

Oh no, that little swan can't go!  I'm so excited to hear what happens next!  Perhaps her swan family will show us the power of team work and help her!  Perhaps she will dig deep and find the strength to fly in the face of adversity!



Or perhaps her family will leave her alone in the cold.

Oh yay, they came back!  See children? That's the power of love, the power of family!

Wait...what's that little swan?  Little swam is ill?  No, don't worry children.  The swan will be ok.  It's not like characters die in children's books.

Ok.  I guess sometimes characters die in children's book.  But I'm sure the swam will come back.  Just wait...

Anytime now....

Anytime now....

The end.  Wait...what? Alrighty then.  Well...kids...there is a a moral to the story here.  The moral of this story is that in the end your family will leave you to die a sad and lonely death.  Good night, sleep...ah fuck it.  What's the point?

Friday, September 13, 2013

Photo Friday: Up goes the sun

Guest Post from Ann

Sometimes you don't have your big, fancy camera with you, but things work out anyhow. Took this with the camera on my phone, which is not particularly great. The lesson here is that if you want to take a photo, you should - with the camera that's on hand.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Things I Said Out Loud

Things I have said out loud in the last 24 hours:

"Why are you eating your napkin?"

"Stop eating your napkin."

"Don't eat the tag."

"Don't eat the book."

"Get the shower puff out of your mouth."

"Are you eating the shower puff?"

"Spit. Out. The shower puff pieces. Now."

"Get the crayon out of your nose."

"Get the crayon out of your ear."

"Don't draw on your face."

"Don't draw on your teeth."

"Stop pinching your nipples."

"You can't eat your toenails."

And finally...

"We're not putting a band aid on your butt."


Tuesday, September 10, 2013

The Chick-fil-A Vagina Slide Story

I would like to start off by saying my blog is not number 1 for anything however, I really think I have a chance of being number 1 in Google searches for ‘chick-fil-a vagina slide’.  Anyway, I promise there is actually a story here.

Every Saturday morning, my kids play soccer.  Our good friends Mike and Lori also have their kids in soccer so it’s become our ritual to go to soccer and then lunch at some kid-friendly establishment.  This Saturday it was Chick-Fil-A.  If you ever want to feel better about your parenting go to any kid-centric restaurant after weekend sports.  I personally felt like mom of the year after seeing a Chick-Fil-A worker summon a child from the playground to eat lunch because the parents were too lazy to get her themselves.  The other thing that made me feel better as a parent?  My child has never once used playground equipment as pretend genitals.

Eric, Mike and I were sitting in the playground area watching our various children have meltdowns over socks, kids that looked at them funny, and Chick-Fil-A toys when we noticed a rather large girl straddling the slide.  And moaning.  While wearing a very short skirt.

At this point you might be thinking, “Well, that’s completely inappropriate for a child!”, but don’t worry it wasn’t sexual.  You see, she was just pretending to give birth to the children coming down the slide.  See?  Not weird.  Just a girl using a slide as a birth canal.

“OHHHH…YOU’RE TEARING ME APART!” as one came down the slide.

A rapid succession of children prompted a loud, “AAAAAHHHHH!”

After this continued for a bit, I heard her tell another child, “This says only for up to 5 years old.  I’m 9.”  I would add that although not written, I think it’s probably implied that if you’re using the slide as a pretend vagina, you’re too old for the playground.

A few of the kids decided to go underneath her and climb up the slide.

“OH MY GOD!  YOU’RE TEARING APART MY EGG SACK!”

Cue uncomfortable looks from every parent in the playground trying to look anywhere but the child pretending to be experiencing intense trauma to her “egg sack” from children crawling up her pretend va-jay-hole.

I would like to point out that Chick-Fil-A came out against gay marriage because it violated their moral code.  I can’t help but wonder how they would feel about girls pretending to birth children using one of their slides as a vagina.

You will never look at one of these the same way again.
Source


Sunday, September 8, 2013

Jamaica in Pictures

Eric and I got back from Jamaica this Friday, so I thought I'd share some pics from the trip.


Seen on the way to the hotel.  Welcome to Jamaica, mon where Bob Marley is always with you.



Going into the bathroom in our hotel room.  If it neither opens nor closes, I'm not sure this meets the definition of a door.  I believe the phrase you are looking for is 'This is a wall.'



I'm going to venture a bet that Dongles and Ding Dong don't read the daily paper. Perhaps they would have more luck printing this on a Doritos bag.  Incidentally, Jamaican news is the best news in the world.  I watched a news report one evening about their Minister of Agriculture speaking at a town hall meeting which included a clip of said Minister grinding on one of his female constituents on stage.  CNN, MSNBC...I'm sorry but you just can't compete.

I'm not going to say to the food was bad, but that is American cheese on sushi. Personally, I held out for the franks and beans sushi.

And those three leaves of lettuce were what was loosely refered to as a "salad." Yeah, ok...the food was bad. 

But this was the view from our hotel room...

 And this was the view from our spot on the beach.

And really, life is always good when you have a good alcoholic fruity drink.









Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Where is the Outrage?

While the world is busy discussing Miley Cyrus and her twerking we are missing the biggest scandal yet.  No, I’m not talking about Benghazi or the NSA.  I’m not talking about whether to take military action against Syria.  I’m talking about the scandal in rhythmic gymnastics.


http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/27/sports/panel-clears-rhythmic-gymnastics-judges-suspected-of-cheating.html?_r=0

Yes, that’s right.  Judges testing to qualify to officiate at the 2016 Olympics were caught cheating in testing rooms across Europe.  And worse, according to the New York Times, dozens of judges were cleared despite an investigation that concluded that some of the test scores could only have occurred by cheating.

I can hear you know.  You’re saying “No! Not our beloved rhythmic gymnastics!” and “What the fuck is rhythmic gymnastics?”  This one beautiful sentences from the New York Times sums it up beautifully.

The judges hailed the end of the investigation as an exoneration, but the decision reignited passions among critics who have long criticized the judging culture in a sport known for its soundtrack of classical music and its competitors’ elegant use of hoops, ribbons and balls.

There is a mark on America’s favorite pastime when there are no actual sports on and we are left between a choice of watching Fox News or girls dancing elegantly with hoops, ribbons, and balls.  This longtime judge sums it up best.

Erik Moers, a longtime judge and an outspoken critic of the scandal, wrote in a Facebook post that the move by F.I.G. was “the day fair judging in RG died !!!”

That’s right.  It died.  This happened right after the knowledge that rhythmic gymnastics is actually a thing died.

I do wonder what an exam to judge this sport would look like.  Perhaps they are shown a video of a girl doing an unconventional ribbon number to Ice, Ice Baby and asked, “Fill in the blank.  This performance was a)inventive b)snazzy c)lewd or d) it doesn’t fucking matter because it’s rhythmic gymnastics.   The candidates are then so stressed because they’ve come from a long line of rhythmic gymnastic judges who would never let them live down the dishonor they will bring to their family if they fail that they resort to copying off another candidates test.  “A or D.  A or D. OH MY GOD, I can’t decide!”

This whole story disgusts me.  What about all those children who dreamed of one day becoming a judge of rhythmic gymnastics after they failed at their dream of becoming a rhythmic gymnast after they failed at their original dream of becoming an actual gymnast?  What kind of message are we sending them?

And where is Obama?  When will he stand up and make a statement?  This could be one of his daughters being judged for nonsensical hoop and ribbon dancing.

I for one, will be boycotting the sport of rhythmic gymnastic.  This will be difficult since I’m not sure where to find it and am therefore not sure what channel to tune into so I can angrily change it later.