Tag Archives: children

The Moran Elf Project 2012: Watch it, Bucko.

 The little rat bastard is BACK.  Billy Bob Joe…Merry Christmas; come trash my house.

Let’s face it.  He is creepy, snarky and get’s into all my shit.  But he is very loved, intensely anticipated and he is filled with the stuff that makes Moran little-people-memories. So let’s see what the little North pole Juvie has in store for my clan.  Bring it, Elf!

Welcome, Trouble.

Dec 1: Welcome, Trouble.

Those pretzels were for lunches.  Not a good start.  I may send him out to the Jewel to get new snacks ’cause we are not made of money around here, Elf.  Wasteful troll.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers.  Go Lulu.

Dec 2: State is not for Suckers. Go Lulu.

I was SO pissed off he punched holes in the Cuties with little toothpicks.  Those things are pricey.  I may juice HIM.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

Thanks, Billy Bob Joe, for the Mammories.

I will make him finish that whole glass.  And if he comes back from his little “check-in visit” from the North Pole tonight and that Oberweiss is not fully consumed, then it will still be waiting for him to finish in the morning.  And the day after that.  And the day after THAT.

Cause Mommy Dearest doesn’t screw around.

pirate1 pirate2 pirate3

Bitch Pirate Barbie strikes again.

apples1I think someone is officially DTF.

fishies

Here fishy, fishy, fishy…..

copy

elfbutt

Too much egg nog at the office party, ya little brat?

jar

Jar-head, busted.

repel 3 repel1 repel2

“Creepy Elf boyfriend, I am falling and I can’t get up!”

“I’LL SAVE YOU!”

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I have misplaced my ability to read…

…it must be around somewhere….I used to be able to read all the time…let’s see….let me get my glasses…oops, don’t know where they are either…probably on my head….nope…darn it all to heck…that’s really a shame because I FINALLY got a copy of the middlemarch book , but upon opening it, I realize it’s typeset is sized for readers the size of…

THUMBELINA

The cover is super pretty, ya’ll….looky….

I finally grabbed a spot on the couch…it was really quiet a beautiful breeze blowing in..kid were upstairs and I had about 20 minutes to spare before getting ready for a fun Friday night out…and I stared at the cover for about 5 minutes.  I kind of got lost in it, really.   I ceremoniously adjusted my head on the couch pillow and started to read the first page.

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.”   Kick-ass first line.  This is going to be good.

Then a wet naked Barbie flew over me on the couch.  Oral bomb noises quickly followed,  and ended with a biff-to-the-forehead noise and an “OUCH-UH!!!”  (That’s a new thing that the girls are doing…adding “uh” to the ends of words.  That’s DUMB-UH, WHAT-UH,  COME ON-UH.   WTF is that?  Look, there is even a FB page for it HERE)

 Then Bambi yelled at Cracker for whipping it at her and they had an apology fight.  “You apologize, no YOU apologize.” Someone please fucking apologize because I have read the first line 5 times.  Then the phone rang.  Then I really tried hard to concentrate and while I was reading the first paragraph, I tried really, super hard to concentrate but then I thought about if I have time to take a shower before we go over to a friends and did Cracker leave her Sonic shake in the car because I will forget about it for a couple of days until it smells and OW!!! I  suddenly got one of those shooting boob pains, what the hell IS that when that happens cause I don’t die from it when it happens but it’s in my boob and I think I need to Google that…READ READ READ, concentrate….I came across words like “frippery” and I really wish I could be reading this on my Kindle so I could hit the word and the definition pops up.  I suddenly realized I am going to need a pocket dictionary.  Hey, look.  I am no chump.  I am no idiot.  I was an English Lit. minor in one of my many colleges I attended.  I done read good.   But it’s been awhile and I have spent the last 12 years reading Highlights Magazines, Mattel Toy Assembly instructions and “Everybody Poops”.  (Great read BTW, highly recommend.)

I got down to about a third of the page and I started to schvitz a little bit.  I flipped back to the end of the book .  746 pages.  That’s a lot less than Volly, my reading project partner.  That’s maybe because my font size is -1pt.  

“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…”  What is that smell?  What IS that?  Is that a rotten orange?  Shit, I forgot to drop off dress at the dry cleaner and I can do it tomorrow….no I can’t do it tomorrow, what is tomorrow, what do I have tomorrow, OMG why can’t I remember what tomorrow i-FOOTBALL scrimmage, right, then drive Papa and Nana to airport and

Shit…ok….“The pride of being ladies has something to do with it…The Brooke connections, although not slightl-“

I was staring at the words.  I was starting at each individual word, trying to process it.  It actually made me feel like I was going a little bit insane.    I heard a fly and thought of the bad meal we had a a local place this weekend because we ate outside and there were flies everyone and I thought about how they poop on everything and how everyone always freaks out and really, how bad could fly poop be, I mean it’s so small that it’s almost as small as the font size in my book.

Then I really start to ride the procrastination train and I start reading the quotes on the back.  Who does that but people who are procrastinating?  Or bored people pooping on the potty?  Then I read the biggest quote on the back.  I quite literally made me jump up, shove a Bath and Body Works 20% coupon in the book as a marker and run into the office to quit reading forever.

“One of the few English books for grown-ups.”  – Virginia Wolff

I am too busy to read now.  I have to go get that shake out of the car, find the source of the kitchen smell and starting drinking heavily.  Then, when I stumble wasted into bed later tonight and read the first page of my book 12 times, I will at least have a very good excuse.

(I have NEVER even blogged the word “poop” before and I think I used it today about 10 times.  See what a bad influence reading can be to a person?)

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One-Armed Wrapping Doesn’t Have To Be Lonely…

I apologize the for low quality of this photo. Perhaps you will forgive me, since I only have ONE WORKING ARM.

I blame Love’s frozen yogurt.  You chilly,swirly bastard.

I was with Cracker yesterday, just leaving an appointment and I saw a sign that had this retro international symbol of awesomeness…

"Open to the public!"

I totally slammed on the breaks and did a U-ey…man, I used to love that stuff!  Where has it been??? The whole Frozen Yogurt Movement!!  It used to be all over the place…wasn’t it?  Am I crazy?  I mean, I think the last time I had one, I was wearing a Bosom Buddies t-shirt.  I kept on telling Cracker it was ice cream, hoping that it wasn’t going to taste like crap.

It was inside of a workout facility for seniors and they were trying to promote the “healthy” vibe in there.   When we walked out, some old lady actually asked Cracker if she just finished working out.  Cracker giggled adorably and said “no”.  And the lady said, in all seriousness, “then you don’t deserve to have that”.  I seriously, seriously almost bitch-slapped her.  Seriously.

So, you remember, you can twist that all up together…two flavors…remember that????  So I got a french vanilla, just for nostalgia-sake, and some sugar free/fat free pepermint.  Holiday party in.my.tummy, ya’ll!

HELLO, SELF, you idiot.  I am allergic to anything NOT PURE.  There is nothing that is pure in a sugar free/fat free yogurt.  Like, what IS IT?  And it kinda tasted like peppermint baby vomit.  But I ate it in defiance.  The whole freaking thing.  I could hear Cracker in the back seat, going “ew” a couple of times, but I think she ate it in defiance, too.  In defiance of what, I am not certain, but has a tenancy to run a little surly.

It took about 30 minutes before I started to feel “THE TWINGE” in my left shoulder.  It can be any joint.  My immune system likes to change it up and leave me guessing.  “THE TWINGE” is quickly followed by the voice in my head saying “Uh oh.  ‘THE TWINGE.’  I will be virtually lame within an hour.”  By the time we finished errands and I am rushing home to teach a lesson, I could barely steer.  On goes the sling.  I really need to bling that thing up.

After dinner, I realize that I have to get my nieces’ gifts in the mail, wrapped, so they can be delivered in time for Christmas.  I annually SUCK at all things having anything to do with Christmas deadlines, but  “As God is my witness…not this year!” she says, holding up a radish to the skies…

Look, she only has one arm, too.

Now, I had my arm in a sling, not because it’s frozen, but because if I move it a cillimeter of a millimeter of an eigth of an inch, shooting daggers of pain whip up my arm, through my shoulder and stab my brain.  So, I just try not to move it.

Thor sweetly offered to help, but he was busy helping Alpha finish the project at the last minute that he had TWO WEEKS TO DO BUT DON’T GET ME STARTED.  Cracker was off somewhere having her Barbie’s kiss and hug ’cause that’s her newest thing and Bambi is running around the house like the quadruped Turkish tribe who walks on all fours.  We are strange, yo.

So I had to wrap all these presents.   Bambi eventually returned to Bipedalism and offered to help.  She actually got really excited and put on Christmas music.  She said, with kind of a maniacal and over-caffeinated look in her eyes, “This is great, you guys, I feel like an only child!!!”  *Sigh*  I love her.

And I was thinking while we were doing it, every crease, every fold, every piece of tape thrown on there and the bow, Lord of the RINGS, the bow…all of it was literally made very slowly, painfully and with a helluva lot of love.  And in the end, with all three of us together, Thor and I agreed on one thing:  a nice wrapping job, done well and with care, is definitely part of the present 😉

And I will NOT be accepting Love’s frozen yogurt gift certs this year, thankyouverymuch.

(And you can only imagine how long it took me to type up this post with only 4 fingers from my right hand.  Love, people; that’s love.)

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BAN THE CLAW

THE CLAW

THE CLAW

Do you see this thing? This evil tool from the game room of the pits of hell?

It’s the claw game.  Most of you have seen one.  It’s the gargantuan crack-like monster lurking in the corner of dusty and dirty game rooms in mid-rate family restaurants across the land.

And Bambi is addicted.

I mean it, I am not sugar-coating it.  Where did I go wrong?  Why can’t she be drawn to the mint bowl like Alpha or the lollypop stash like Cracker?  But Bambi aims higher.  Oh, and let me say also that Bambi is a doll.  A gorgeous, sweet, funny, lovable sweetheart and I love her more than anything.  But she turns…Every time we encounter the crappy animal stuffed beast, she spots  it, right at the moment when we walk in.  If she doesn’t find one right away, her eyes bulge with her mission, eyeballs ever searching, jutting, tearing apart the layout with tiger-like prowess.  She makes her mark and she starts to jiggle, jostle around and sweat.  And she spots her Shangri-La.  She is instantly transformed, she is Gollum.  THE CLAW THE CLAW, THE MIGHTY CLAW.  From the second we sit down, she starts the “claw whine” and I know how badly it will end.  It will end with her crying all the way home.  But let me fill in the middle.

She starting the please game.  “PPLLLEEEASSSEEEEEEEE. “

“Honey, you can’t play that game, we go through this every time.”

“But Mommy, just ONE TIME.”

“No, sweetie, no one ever wins.”

(This is when, conveniently, the little brat from the next door table returned with her gloating father, carrying a cheap ass, Korean-stuffed, lower-quality-than-carnival-crap teddy bear.)

DAYUM

“MOMMMMMMMMM-“

“Just- Honey, can we order first?”

Movie in my head:  I walk over the table, grab the satanic prize  from the little brat and then I smack the dad in the face repeatedly while yelling at him for not being a team player.

If parents across the world would just say NO, then the owners of these establishments would remove them for non-use.  But we get suckered in.  Because we are hungry and we want the cheeseburger and draft beer and we can’t have them until they stop begging and we give them a fucking quarter.

We try to avoid this.  Mike and I do a “claw check”  when looking for a place to eat, much like the old “kid friendly-non smoking” peek in from days of yore.  He double parks and I run in.  If there is a claw, we move onto the next Applebees-barnabys-Hackneys-TGIF’s-crap place that we are looking to dine at…

Santa even had the elves construct a real claw game for HOME.  She plays with it non-stop, while I crouch in the corner and whack my head repeatedly with a wooden spoon to the beat of the circus song that plays over and over and over and over and over an

This should sate her, we gave her the crack pipe.  We let her use it in the comfort of our home.  Surely, she need not go out to get a buzz.  But crack kills, kids, crack kills.

We had an incident the day after Christmas.  Damn, I let my guard down ONE MINUTE.  We were heading to meet family at Buffalo Wild Wings.  It was my cousin Coconut’s birthday and we were all coming together to celebrate.

THERE WAS THE CLAW.  Stop staring at me, you big red greedy whore. You thief, you stealer of little tykes’ hopes and dreams.  Starter of addictive personalities.  DON’T EVEN LOOK AT IT.

What could we do?  We couldn’t leave, this was not our gig.  I could have said, “a table please, very far away from the claw”,  and an older motherly hostess would, with a twinkle in her eye, lightly chuckle while winking and lean in to whisper, “I completely understand, let’s see what we can do”.  And she would put us in the farthest corner from the devil box.  Alas, we didn’t have Aunt Bea, but this young waitress at the prime of her life with her tight sports jersey and her perky, non-breastfed boobs and she would not get it.  She will know soon enough when she starts to breed, but this time,  the slutbag she seats us right smack dab in front of it.  Not directly near it, but riiiiggghhhttt where Bambi can stare at it.

Who am I kidding?  She would have found it.  All the kids were walking around, scoping out the video situation.  Planning and strategically toying with our money in their quick little minds.

I was at the women’s table with the mommies and the offspring.  “A round of chicken tenders, chocolate milk back, for everyone!  And three beers for us, please.”  Cracker was getting a cold and was not recovered from her 5 minute nap in the car.  She whipped off her shoes and hunkered down into doublefisting both her and Bambi’s chocolate milk.  Seven minutes after that, the caffeine kicked in, her legs started to pump and spin like the Road runner, and for the next hour, I chased her while she did laps and half tripped every nubile, perky breasted waitress in the joint.  My beer was neglected.  I needed one of those hats with the beer holders and the straws – Spongebob recently owned one of those.  So J.

And everytime she came back, she went to me first.  Ol Battleaxe Betty who tells it like it is.  “No one ever wins, sweetie.  They make them that way.  Yo-”  (And piping in from the party of 8 in the corner) “I got one Daddy!  I got one!”

Bambi claws at me, “SHHHEEEE GOOOOTTTT ONNNNEEEEEE, MOMMMMYYY PLLEEASSEEEEEE”

“Go talk to your father.”

And Mike who is sitting at the guy table, shoving habanera teriaki wings in his mouth with one hand, and alternating drinking his beer and playing computer poker with the other.  He licks his fingers clean and gives her money.  And the  nightmare continues.

Mike gave the lil nugget almost THIRTY dollars in the span of an hour and half.  Are you fucking kidding me?  AND, it was in 4 quarter increments.  Do you know how many times that means she went back to him to ask for more?  And he gave them to her?

Oh, but by no means was she alone in all this.  She had a partner in crime.  My cousin, Felt and his wife, Teeth, have two adorable little boys, Heisman and Wrestler Fan.  Heisman and my very sweet Alpha were happily content at the end of the table, wolfing down smily face fries and taking turns with the Nintendo DS.  Apricot’s little guy, Star Wars kid, who is like a 4th child to me, brought a little buddy along with him so all the boys were content in their mini-man-dom.  Cracker continued to run laps while gnawing on a chicken tender, which leaves us with the dynamic duo, Bambi and Wrestler Fan.

Those kids were nothing, if not diligent.  At one point, Wrestler Fan, I think was amazed at her determination and put all his efforts into grabbing one for Bambi.  And we all rejoiced!  Our champion!  Our knight!  Victorious!  Slaying the dragon and bringing Guenevere the riches of the world!  Now she can shut it, sit down and eat her mac and cheese.  But it wasn’t the one she wanted.  She wanted the MONKEY. And there were tears.  She flung the unwanted stuffed alligator at Cracker, who screeched with glee and whipped it at the couple behind us.  Bambi was finally cut off.  “You are CUT OFF.”  She remained pouting at her seat, in claw rehab.  There she moped, moaned, keened and wailed until I finally chugged my Blue Moon and declared to Mike, “Wipe your wing-stained mouth, help me grab Cracker and let’s hit it.  I can’t stand it anymore.”  And we dragged Bambi to the car, and she cried the whole way home.

The next morning, my cousin and Coconut’s wife Apricot called me, trying to entice me with bloody mary’s and HBO mockumentary marathons.  As tempting as it was, I was in my own different little rehab, so I had to decline.  But before we ended our chat, she added, “So, wow, Bambi really is addicted to the Claw.  You weren’t kidding.”

Thus,we move on..we start anew, we remain vigilant in our quest for non-claw dining and we strive to encourage home use.

And the bright side is that, although she is tiny enough to do it, she has not been one of the Chuck E Cheese idiots that have tried to climb inside.  Dumb, Bambi ain’t.  😉

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Swiper NOOOOOOO Swiping! (If you are going to take something, go swipe me a glass of wine.)

I am declaring this as an official statement.

Here Ye, Here Ye, pilgrims of Motherhood! I am officially sick as hell of children’s television.

Even as a college student, I had dreams of being a mom. As I lied in the arms of my college bofriend, I planned out what it would be like. No TV allowed, just blocks of clay in the corners of rooms and paint in buckets so they could paint the walls. I would make all my own organic foods picked out of our garden. I would hand stitch all of their clothing with hemp and frolic in wild open fields with my babies, wearing weaved daisy crowns on our heads and some shit like that. What an asshat.

Then I had Alpha. Oh, I was a proud first mother with all the best intentions. I would not even DARE to let him watch anything when he was a baby. I logged his bowel movements in an excel spreadsheet. With multiple tabs. I made homemade apple sauce, peas and he only drank soymilk. When Bambi came along at a whopping two pounds, we were freaked out for a year so: TV became a little more familiar. Thomas the train and Bob the Builder became familiar friends. By the time Cracker came around, it was hot dogs, pudding, goldfish and after-dinner drinks for Mommy and Daddy. I started to get an itchy rash when hearing Elmo’s voice and my butt would clench listening to the teletubbies theme. But believe you me, bucko, that shit was ON.

Cracker recently became completely obsessed with Dora the Explorer. Ahhh Dora, our little bowl-cut bilingual friend. I love her and I love that she teaches my children to say “por favor” instead of the ol’ stanby “please”. Cracker was previously addicted to Dora’s madcap animal rescuer cousin, Diego, but she has since moved on…

I have taped every episode on our DVR and she would scream “Dddoooorrraaahhh!” at the top of her voice. It’s on quite a bit. There are, of course, regulated breaks. We go out side, we play, we eat, we do puzzles, we read, we play with all of her Dora and Diego toys, but somehow it slowly creeps back on…

I find myself cleaning one room and as I am doing that, the kids are utterly destroying the family room that they are in. When I return to the room*, it’s feckin TRASHED

(*This is not my home, merely a prototype. You get the idea and most probably relate.)

I moan and I cry a little bit and I send them to their rooms. (“DON’T MESS ANYTHING UP! I JUST CLEANED IN THERE!”) I cry because I KNOW that they are trashing the rooms that I just cleaned. I pick up the shit that I have tried to throw away numerous times and has been stealthy picked out of the garbage can by little hands. I find an eleven month old banana stuck in the bottom of the Lincoln log holder and I think I crawl over a little urine on the rug and my blood pressure rises with every bend of the waist and Dora is turned up to volume eleven and our little Amiga is bitching and moaning about Swiper stealing something, (Diego’s Bobo’s are not much better) and I have to yell,

SWIPER, YOU LITTLE FUCKIN’ DELINQUENT, STOP TOUCHING HER DAYUM SHIT AND PISS OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then I cry because I have cramps and look at the clock and see how many hours it is going to be until I can have a glass of wine. Usually it is around 9:30am and that is always a very unfortunate thing.

Next fantasy…no more TV.

Where’s my glass?

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The Shopping List.

grocerylist1.jpg
My fucking Easter Grocery list.
DAYUM, I had a day. I am not going to bore you all with the insanality of Mike and I trying to prepare for our family Easter Birthday party at our house tomorrow. Let’s just say, today involved a lot of snot, fevers, hangovers, cleaning, shopping and me army crawling under a car on the wet slushy ground to try to get my fucking Easter grocery list.
To protect the innocent i.e. my children, I will refer to them as (Kid A: male. 8 in two weeks) ohhhhh, let’s call him….Apple. No, that’s gay. But if he is we will love him anyway. Let’s call him…Alpha. That’s masculine.
The middle one (Kid B: Girl. 6 years old. Insane like her mother) will be Bambi. The little one, kid C, the runt of the litter shall be herein entitled Cracker. (Cause she’s crazy like her mother)
Alpha and Cracker (this is already a disaster) are having birthdays in two weeks. Cracker was born on the date of the month the day before Alpha, insuring him a life time filled with resentment, misunderstanding and jealousy. And speaking of Jealously, Bambi, literally the Most Jealous Person In The World, is very lucky that the other birthdays fall near Easter, so for a lifetime, she will be showered with Cadbury bunnies, useless stuffed animals and all the peeps Bambi can shove into her little mouth, all under the guise that “she is special and deserves presents, too.”
But back to the fucking Easter shopping list.
I leave the kids with…Mike. Oh well, I already outted him and he is not so innocent anyway. Oh, and one thing, I always forget my lists. I will spend hours on a grocery list, categorizing them by aisle sometimes, for ultimate efficiency. I have been known to actually type them up in an endearing little word document, complete with bullet points. I start these lists sometimes moments after I return from a previous grocery run, when I need to add all the things that I forgot to get on that trip. Needless to say, I work hard on these lists and I quite literally always forget them. I leave them on the counter or shove them in my coat pocket and leave my coat in kitchen. Often, it makes it to the car but it gets lost in the Mcdonalds bags, outdated Mapquest directions and ye ol’ forgotten grocery lists of times gone by…
The point is, I rarely have a list when I get into a store. Then I get in the store and I roam the aisles aimlessly and in a very unorganized fashion, as I drool and mope and give dirty looks to the people who are crossing off things on their little fucking lists with their little fucking pens and I hate them and I always forget at least three things.
Well, I threw this list together today. I think I even wrote it on the back of a Chase deposit envelope on the way to our 5 million dollar Costco run this morning. It wasn’t neat, it wasn’t alphabetized or categorized by aisle or expiration date, but God DAMN it, I was gonna remember to bring that fucker IN with me. Super T (Target with food, The Ultimate Tarjjjayyy) was ridiculous. I got the last possible spot in the last possible corner of the very impossible end of the mall. But I grabbed my fucking Easter grocery list and I went a-walkin. I was chatting with my cousin….Apricot….and I was bitching about how much money we have spent already and WHHHHHHOOOOOOOSHHHHHH
a gust goes by and I’ll be damned if that fucking list didn’t blow right out of my hand. And now watch me as I chase after it because It.Will.Not.Defeat.Me.It.Will.Not.Define.Me.It.Will.Not.Bring.Me.Down.
And it lands literally in the exact middle of the undercarriage of a car parked in a handicapped spot. If I got out a ruler or measuring tape or some sort of Numb3rs Charlie Eppes math graph and figured out the exact middle point of the exact piece of inch that is directly in the middle of under the car, I could not have gotten closer. I CANNOT REACH IT. My cashmere sweater and my jeans are all wet and I am starting to laugh a little like a loon.
I KICK THE CAR! I SPIT ON THE LIST! I TRIP THE OWNER OF THE VEHICLE!
I do not of these things but I want to because I am PISSED.
I didn’t even see the owner of the car, but come ON, it snowed yesterday but now it was sunny and all the snow was slushy and melting and awww man, do I have to get DOWN there on my hand and knees? I am still talking to Apricot who I hang up on by mistake when I have to fucking LAY DOWN on the ground to try to reach the fucking Easter grocery list.
There is a lady staring at me. I feel compelled to explain my situation and I am happy to have an audience.
“I am having a day. (Crazy person laugh) I dropped my shopping list and it went under this car and I can’t reach it and blah blah blah blah blah (interspersed with crazy lady laughing)”
She stares at me for what is a really kind of an uncomfortable amount of time. She says nothing but goes into her trunk and pulls out this thing. This glorious, beautiful, long, pointy thing. I think its an extendo-broom.
She’s says, “I use to clean house, yes?”
God love her.
She squats down and grabs that little fucker and I am jumping up and down in the parking lot like I need to be parking in my own handicapped space for mental reasons. I actually think I may have hugged her, I am too embarrassed in front of myself to try to remember exactly what I did but I think I said things like,” you are an Easter gift” and something about Jesus. I don’t know. Don’t make me look back, but the point is…
I got the fucking Easter shopping list.
madatlist1.jpg
It made it into Super T and for the first time like…ever…I FORGOT NOTHING.
Happy Easter.
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Feck.

FeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeckFeck

I love the word, fuck. Love it. But since it’s St’ Patty’s time, I like to say FECK. Feck Feck feck.

I am going to write a book.

I have decided this. My life is and always was, excessively goofy. It is pretty much a daily occurrence for something ridiculous to happen to me. And I think I owe it to my children to write this shit down. I am working on the outline now and I have already run unto a problem. I am getting to the high school years and now I don’t know what to do. I need to make a call here because there is some FECKED up shit and do they really have to know everything about their mother? I mean, I don’t know half of what my parents did and frankly, I. Don’t. Wanna.

Do they need to know about how I lost my maidenhood or how I scaled my wall drunk at their grandfather’s 40th birthday party? Do they want to read about how I chugged a bottle of Jack Daniels and peed on Sean Gorley’s living room carpet, only to wake up in his soccer uniform (shin guards included)? Must they hear about me trying to make out with a hot BBQ and do they really need to know about my crazy Boulder band daze?

I think not. So I will have to be really selective. But that crazy stuff. That’s the shit that I want to remember, too. It’s good for me. It puts hair on the chest. Reminds me that my kids are never going to be allowed to leave the fecking house. If I had my druthers, they would all be put in a convent until college. But then they might come out weird.

And so what do I call this blockbuster? Oprah’s next book club selection and the reason for my future Pulitzer?

Mama was a Slut but now she makes a mean PB and J? Mommy is bad with money and let me tell you why? How to fuck up a perfectly privileged childhood and education by Mommy? Hmm…Not so much.

I think I will focus on the fun stuff and remember that my children, even if full grown will be reading this and while I want to give them a true account of the many faces and places of Mommy, I want them to respect me. And so I guess I have to respect myself and leave out the scary crap. Maybe I should do and unabridged adult version. Entitled Mom does Porn.

Oh, this will be fun. One more thing for me to fit in my already insanely busy day.

Feck.

keyboard.jpg

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