Tag Archives: moms

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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Heatherevent: A Definition.

 Heatherevent [spelled phonetically, in case you are truly the biggest idiot on the planet: HEH-THER-EE-VENT]: an annoying and stupid occurrence or event that happens to me on a daily basis.

The Goofball in Question.

Here are some past Heatherevent posts from Facebook.  Stupid random shit happens to me.  It’s a wonder that I make it through the day.

 “Today’s Heathervent: I just walked into the laundry room to change out the clothes and an entire industrial strength ginormous jug of detergent was thrown off the washer during the rinse cycle, shattering the top and emptying the entire contents of new bottle onto whole floor of room. Cocktail, please.”

Could Have Been Worse.

“Heathervent of the day: not only were [Thor] and I stupid enough to be the only people to go out to movie and dinner in a snowstorm last night for my birthday; I insisted on wearing high heeled-boots.  Eventually, I slipped two times coming into house and busted finger. Nice.”

Disclaimer. This is not me. I am totally hotter.

“Medieval Heatherevent: what NOT to do when you have a massive horse allergy – forget to move inhaler to new purse and then completely have huge asthma attack in enclosed space with fog and horses running around. Otherwise you may end up outside missing the whole show with about six really cute fireman and paramedics giving you a neb treatment in the parking lot. *sigh*”

“Beach Heatherevent: Great day at the beach with my cousin [Apricot] and friend [Volly].  See that line from the cooler??? You know how hard is is to drag a cooler with wheels on sand? [Alpha] was pulling it and getting a workout so I tried to help him pull. He grabbed a chair I was carrying off of my arm and when it whipped around, he whacked me right on my face…then two seconds later, [Apricot] bent down to help me and whacked me right across the head. True live stooges action. In other news, [Apricot] just took a day full of gorgeous beach pictures with no memory card. Livin’ la vida loca, bitches!”

Image

“The Heatherevent of the day already happened and it’s a doozy. This was back when the guys and I were performing in NYC.   You know the hair iron that TSA stole at the Dullas airport and I practically launched a nationwide Facebook smear campaign because of the erroneous theft? [PianoMan] and [BassMan], remember how I berated every poor employee we ran into at the airport, warning them to not steal ANOTHER $200 hair iron from me? [Nana Toad], remember when I cried and said that nice guys finished last and called the hotel 100 times to check if they found it? Well, looky looky, check out cookie: I just found it. In the side pocket of the garment bag that I just took to NY. It was sitting in there for 7 months. I suck.”

THOSE AREN’T PILLOWS!

“Coffee Heatherevent: I spilled my Starbucks DOWN the front of my dress walking into work tonight. TWICE. Like, right down through the boob canal. I smell like a grande decaf americano. And roses, thanktoyouverymuch. But I don’t think you should buy below above shirt for $85. (REEDONKULOUS) Instead, I will happily sell you my cute baby doll dress for $8.50.   People are suckers. “

Sadly, there are a million more Heatherevents occurring by the second.  Already this morning, [Thor] had to wake me up because I had both my phone charger and ear phones wrapped around my neck like a fetus.  Weeeeee!

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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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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.

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The Pogues Made Me Blog, Love Aunt Barbara.

drunk.jpgdrunk.jpg

There. I am officially doing it.

Last night, I had a moment of clarity when I realized that here I was, almost 40 years old and moshing with smelly men, and that I needed to start a blog.

Why not, everyone else is doing it. And who the hell is going to read it anyway?

   

So, about my night…

I went to the Pixies WHOOPS I mean Pogues show last night (I bought last nights tickets as a Christmas present for my husband, I thought I was buying him Pixies tickets…when he opened them, he wasn’t going crazy. I said WTF, honey, Merry Christmas, he said, cool, you love these guys. I was so excited that I guess I subconsciously bought the wrong ones.)

 


WOW. What an interesting night. Now, I love the Pogues and I saw them at a summer music festival in the late 90’s, Shane McGowan was not in the band anymore. He is a massive drunk who is an amazing artist but man, google his image. He drank so much he…just…forgot to deal..wit his teeth. Whoops. Eventually he was kicked out of the band in the 1990’s. That festival that I saw was pretty tame for some reason, anyway I don’t remember it being to out of control but you should have seen the oldest member of this boardblog site in the irish MOSH PIT last night.
Shane was so drunk that they made the audience wait an hour and a half before they came out. That sucked. (I heard the next day that he was late because they couldn’t find him. They couldn’t FIND HIM. God, I love that about him.)

I realize that I am an old fart, but I thought I looked kinda cute and I certainly thought I was fooling everyone with my cute little mini skirt, boots and peekaboo top. Until some guy bumped into me and said, “Oh Hey Aunt Barbara. When did you get here? At least you boobs still look good.”

THUMP.
OMG.

I literally was crying in the bathroom. Then I was crying because I was crying in the bathroom. Then I realized how gross the bathrooms are and I cried because everything is so different now, I mean, I NEVER cared about how gross the bathrooms were. Now, all I wanted were some baby wipes and antibacterial lotion.
When, seriously, when did I get old?
I am going to be 40 next year and I literally feel like I am still in my 20’s. I have such a warped sense of self.

Also, I miss smoking. The ban has created a whole other problem.

People stank.

Even before the concert started, as we all piled in like cows to the slaughter, I am smelling the nasty of all these people around me and I realize, I miss the smoke smell. I can’t handle the guy in front of me who clearly has not showered for days after, let’s see (I analyzed his stank for the better part of an hour) curry, beer burps, a random beer fart here and there, uh, and the worst smell, that make me throw up in my mouth a little bit, did someone get a little somethin somethin lately, DUDE. BATHE. O. M . GAWWWDDD.

Then the band started and Shane was spitting and practically puking on everyone through the nubs of his 4 remaining teeth and then people started to sweat. (By the way, the band was amazing. Shane is fucking insane, but he is stilll awesome. Love Spider. And Phil Chevron was back in action after battling throat cancer and it was the highlight of the evening to see him singing “thousands are sailing” – quite amazing. And so ends my mini-review)

I am a little damaged still from the whole scent experience. Lift the ban so I can fill my lungs with smoke instead of stinky drunk Irish college boy.

Speaking of drunk Irish college boy, 15 years ago, this kind of a scene was like a candy store for me. I LOVE drunk Irish college boys. Well, I did but man, it’s hard to look back at what I used to find hot. I was a total tard.

The funniest thing all night was Mike and this other older guy blocking me. They were my bodyguards, shoving and punching people away from me. Mike has his leather coat on and never took it off. We had to leave a little early because we thought he was going to have a coronary.
Feck, we are old.

But the date ended perfectly when we went to our most favorite city hang out, The Green Mill, and drank a dirty martini and listened to Gypsy Jazz…. A great, if not incredibly stinky night. Merry Christmas to me.

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