BANG!

 

My 7-year-old son is in 2nd grade this year.  His homework is set up a little differently in that every week is given a list of things to do and he just needs to accomplish 5 of them by the next Friday.  Great. There are math worksheets, online spelling activities, and even some games.

Getting my kid to do homework is like getting my husband to drink an IPA.  It’s not going to happen.  But there is one homework activity he really likes, a game called BANG!  Basically, he has to cut out words that are typed on cardstock paper, put them in a bag, and shake them up.  In each set of words, there is the word BANG! on one card.  After you’ve mixed them all up, one person draws a card, reads it out loud to another person, and they have to correctly spell the word to get the point.  If you draw the BANG! card you have to give all your points to the other person.  Each week there are more cards that are added to pile.  So, by the end of the year, this is going to be the longest game ever!  I’m sure there’s a way to incorporate drinking.  I’ll get back to you on that.

One day, he comes home from school and asks if we can play BANG!  Keep in mind it’s one of those nights where there are about 47,000 things going on and I’m already running around like a chicken with my head cut off.   The 2-year-old wants her done, but not the way I’ve already done it. The 1-year-old is pissed only because it’s the afternoon and for no other reason.  My husband had just gotten home from work so he was busy receiving love and praise from the children simply for walking through the door. And I’m preparing 3 different meals for 6 people.  I looked at my 7-year-old with a look that could only be described as “are you fucking kidding me right now?” But I restrained myself.  I said, “Not tonight, honey. But maybe Mommy and Josh will play BANG! later.”  Mostly just to see if my husband was paying attention.  He was.  We both had a good chuckle through the chaos.  He laughed because of the play on words. I laughed because there was no way we would actually have mid-week sex.

We went through the evening as usual.  Ate, put the kids to bed, passed out on the couch watching something too stupid to even remember, went to bed.  Now, allow me to preface this next part with I am NOT a morning person.  I am barely a person at all in the morning.  I am an evil being that will rip your head off if you breath wrong.  All of which are great traits to have with children by the way.  spit takeThat being said, I get up with my son the next morning at 6:30, get him breakfast and sit in practical silence until it’s time for him to go to the bus. As I’m getting his things ready by the back door he says, “Oh hey, Mom. Did you and Josh play BANG! last night?” It was like manna from the comedy gods. So genuine. So sincere.  He definitely thought we were going to do his homework while he slept.  All I could think to say was, “No, we were too tired, but don’t talk to Josh about it. He’s pretty upset.”

I immediately told my husband the story to which he simply replied, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I can’t wait until my son can read this when he’s older.

 

The Shit Remote…

Remember your friend from college who used to insist on taking a picture of his defecation and text to everyone in the group?  If you don’t, lucky you.  If you still have this friend, maybe you shouldn’t.  If you are this friend, stop it!  Now, imagine that giant shit that your friend is strangely proud of had a remote control right next to it.

Allow me to explain.  A little backstory: my daughter, now 2 and a half is recently potty trained.  We’ve got it pretty much down, but she still has this thing.  She always starts to shit in her pants.  She won’t finish in her pants, but she gets the turtle head out of the shell before she says she has to poop.  I think you get the picture.

John wayneOne day she started her daily shit in her Dory underwear per usual.  We ran to the bathroom, her doing her best John Wayne impression. Because walking with shit in your pants is really hard work.  We get to the bathroom with enough time for her to finish her shadoobie in the appropriate arena.  I peeled her underwear off of her, careful not to smear shit all over the front of the toilet…again.

Meanwhile, my 1-year-old is walking around chewing on the remote control for the TV because, well, I’ve just given up as a parent.  Keep in mind, he is obsessed with the toilet.  We’ve already lost a DVD to him taking it for a little swim in the porcelain kiddie pool.  Typically, he only keeps her company while she’s pinching one off.  He’s just sitting in wait for her to be done so he can go to town in the toilet water like God intended.

After my successful removal of the shit stained underwear, I ran upstairs to start a load of laundry, because….poop.  When I came back downstairs I noticed the 1-year-old didn’t have the remote anymore.  Not too strange as he usually leaves random stuff in random places all day long.  I walked into the bathroom to see the girl one still sitting with a look of pride on her face over the stench that was coming from the toilet.  “Good Girl!” she shouted as I asked her if she pooped.  Her legs were slightly separated, and as I looked into the potty, I see something shiny.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“I poop!!” She replied.

I took her off the toilet to wipe her nasty ass when I see it.  A giant, grown man turd nestled next to our small, black television remote.  My 1-year-old had sneaked it between her legs, mid shit mind you, and then continued about his business as if nothing had happened.

What. In. All. The. Fuck?!?!?! I got a pair of latex gloves that I normally only use when I cut up jalapenos and plucked the shit covered remote out of the toilet. gag There was no question in my mind to throw it away, but I knew that if we were going to buy a new one, we would need to know what the old one looked like.  So, I kept it out to show my husband when he got home from work.

The minute he walked in the door was halfway through both a Bud Light and the story of what happened to our remote.  This sick bastard, says we should keep the remote.  I’m sorry.  Are you fucking kidding me?  There was literally nothing between it and shit.  He replied, “Literally everything in this house has got to be covered in shit at this point,” and threw it in a bowl of rice to dry out. While I can’t argue with his logic about shit in the house, at least 2 of our kids have straight up shit on the floor in the living room, it’s totally different to see it…in the toilet…touching something you hold in your hand every day.

Much to my chagrin, the remote works.  The rice worked, in case you were wondering.  The fucking thing is sitting in my living room.  While I have disinfected it with a bleach solution, I still refuse to use it.  My husband just laughs at me.  To which I simply reply, “You didn’t see it! You don’t know!”

 

You don't know

 

English Degrees and Parenthood Don’t Get Along

Despite the several typos that are in this post alone, I actually have a degree in English Studies from Illinois State University.  I don’t know why I included the institution.  An English major is pointless regardless of where you got it. The only thing it is good for is creating instances in your life that drive you crazy to no end.

For example, reading anything on Social Media becomes the single most painful experience of your life.  People, one more time, “Their fucking shit is over there. They’re going to have to fucking pick it up.  Hope that helped.  In addition to these obvious errors, there are others that drive people like me insane. I’m not going to go through all of them because I’m sure you’ve already zoned on my nerdiness.

kitten

I will, however, mention my favorite; less vs fewer.  I know, I know, no one cares. Nonetheless, here is very easy way to remember. If you are talking about a tangible object or objects that can be counted, it’s fewer.  If you’re talking about a more obscure concept or something that can’t be counted individually, it’s less.  Example, Jimmy has banged fewer girls than Johnny.  However, Jimmy is less itchy than Johnny.  See the difference?  Ok, I feel better getting that off my chest.

Being a mom and having an English degree could be the most torturous thing ever.  I don’t know how English teachers do it. My oldest is currently in Second Grade and he is all about reading out loud to me.  While I know it is great for him to do so, I want to stick a flesh-eating cockroach in my ear every. single. time.  I love him, but fuck.  I could understand if he was actually sounding out every word like I know he knows how to do, but no. That would be too easy.  He has to dick around looking at the picture and trying to guess what each word is based on the first letter and what he thinks is going on in the picture.  FUCK!  And to add insult to injury, he insists on chewing gum from the moment he gets home until the moment he eats dinner and beyond.  So, he’s half-ass reading while chewing his gum like I just brought him in from pasture.

So, he’s guessing what each word is instead of just reading like I know he knows how to do, he’s chewing a piece of gum like it’s cud, AND like every other waking minute of this kids life, he isn’t sitting still. Today, he actually got a paper cut from just reading a book.

Allow me to paint a picture, he is about 3/4 of the way throw a book we got from the library.  Great.  Feeling like I’m nailing this whole parenting thing.  I look over and he has the book on the couch while he is sitting on the floor facing the couch.  I look back a few seconds later, and he has one leg up on the couch.  A few seconds after that, his head is on the couch, perpendicular to the book.  What. The. Fuck. stupid

“Are you seriously reading that book right now?”

“Yeah.”

Then I hear,  “OUCH!”

“What did you do?”

He actually said the following words, “The book scratched me.”

Being the stellar mother that I am, I told him it served him right for reading a book like that, asked him what was wrong with him, and made him sit up to finish reading the book. He stumbled through the remaining pages all while chewing his gum like a long-lost valley girl.

“Did I do good?”

“You sure did! Why don’t you go get a snack.” I react  to my son finishing a book the same way I do to the end of a really intense workout.  “Oh thank you, sweet Baby Jesus!!”

 

thank jesus

I love my son to death, and I want to be a good parent, and I of all people know the importance of him reaching as much as possible.  However, a human can only tollerate that kind of torture for so long. After a few cocktails, I’ll regret having such a negative reaction to his reading…until tomorrow when he wants to read again. I’m convinced this is my punishment for correcting everyone’s grammar at the bar for all those years.  Still not sorry.

When The Vasectomy Fails…A True Story

According to a random Google search, a vasectomy has an average failure rate of 0.15%.  Granted, most “failures” occur in the first few months after the procedure as the pipes aren’t entirely cleared out, if you know what I mean. Many dudes, for reasons that are beyond my understanding, never go back for the recommended 2 and 6-month follow-ups.  Maybe it’s the jacking off into a cup that throws them off, but when you’ve alreadyHappy Sperm invested that much money and pain, what’s a few more wife approved masturbatory minutes?  Whatever the reason, most “failures” are due to the fact that there are still little soldiers hanging on for dear life, and those follow-ups are there to detect those stubborn little bastards.

Then there are the ever so diligent men who can’t wait to get intimate with a Tupperware container to ensure that their investment is secure.   These men fall on the grenade of self-gratification so that their dear wives will never have to undergo an unwanted pregnancy.  On behalf of women everywhere, thank you for your sacrifice.

In the case of my wonderfully loving husband, he is what you would call a rule follower.  He paid a good chunk of money to make sure that I couldn’t use the “baby body” excuse ever again.  He followed instructions carefully after his procedure by taking in samples at both 2 months and 6 months post snip-snip.  That is the technical term for it.  Both his samples came back negative.  So, in November of 2015, we celebrated our newfound sterilization in ways I will not describe as family members may be reading this post.  But I will say this, IT WAS AWESOME!!  No more birth control.  No more hormones.  No more worrying.  Until February of 2016 when my always punctual Aunt Flo didn’t make her monthly visit….that bitch.

Waiting, of course, until after our annual trip to Galena for a weekend of skiing and drinking, both of which are literally at the top of the list of things not to do when pregnant, I decided to take a pregnancy test.  My husband, pissed that I would waste money on a pregnancy test when it was “impossible,” waited in the living room while I ruled out the obvious.  Now, on the packaging for these pregnancy tests, it says to wait 1-3 minutes for results.  I didn’t have to wait 1-3 seconds.  Before I had my pants pulled up there were 2 lines staring back up at me like a giant middle finger.

Sure

I just started laughing, because what else are you going to do.  I didn’t know what to say to my husband.  The competitive German in me wanted to say, “Ha! you were wrong. I was right, suck it!”  But then I realized that no one really won in this situation so that was out.  I just wanted walking into the living room, laid the stick, which I had peed on mind you, on the arm of the couch, and sat down. It was like someone drained all of the blood out of his face.  He just sat in silence….for the next 48 hours.

ugly cryThe follow days and weeks were not great.  I’m not going to lie.  My oldest son told everyone, “My mom is having a baby and she cried about it.”  Yup.  Sure did!

As it always does, time heals all wounds. We have a wonderful almost 1 year old son, who brings so much joy to our lives.  And he’s a really strong swimmer (Ba-Dum-Tish). And as I tell my husband, if our marriage can survive this, it can survive anything.

For the record, he did not ever go back to his urologist for fear he would not be able to control his rage.  He did go see another guy who said his tubes grown back together (also not an uncommon reason for failure).  This time around, I got fixed.  So, if I get knocked up again, I’m straight up buying all the lottery tickets.

 

 

 

 

Tips From a Retired Bartender

It feels like a lifetime ago since I was last slinging cocktails behind a bar.  And if I said I missed it and those were the best years of my life would you think less of me as a parent?  Wait….I don’t care.  Those were the BEST days of my life.  I stayed up all night.  I slept all day.  I got all the attention I craved as a self-conscious 20-something.  It was a great life.  There were, of course, some down sides.  People being the main one.  I Hate People

There are a lot of people when you work in the service industry.  People who have never worked in the service industry.  On the rare occasion that my husband and I actually get to go to a bar, I still pay attention to how bartenders/servers are treated by the general public.  Same bar problems; same bar place. If you’re in your late 20’s and beyond, please pay attention.

Always Tip.  Your argument for not tipping is invalid.

Drink In Your Lane. Chances are in you’re in this age group you at least have a job.  Maybe not a great job, but a job none-the-less.  You’re, for all intents and purposes, a grown up.  Please act as such.  Walking up to the bar in your $200 jeans, $150 shoes, $600 purse and asking what the specials make a bartender want to punch you right in your outrageously debted face.  Now, I understand drinking on a budget.  Why do you think you can find me on any given Friday wine drunk as fuck on my couch watching the new season of Better Call Saul at 10PM? However, don’t drink some disgusting concoction that is only on special because they got a case of shitty flavored vodka for free and need to get rid of it.  You’re not in college anymore.  Order a Well vodka and soda, and move on.

Read the menu.  That’s why they’re there. A bartender’s time is precious.  Especially if they’re busy.  They make their money off tips, so volume is key.  If you don’t know what you want, just ask them to come back around, or backup from the bar until you’re ready.  DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT ask the bartender what they have on draught, make that poor bastard rattle off all the craft beers with small descriptions of each, and then order a Jack and Coke.  Read the fucking menu!  Anymore, bars are really good about describing what beers and booze they have.  Granted, if a bartender isn’t busy, they would probably be more than willing to talk IPA’s with you, but if the bar is 3 deep, decide what you want before you get to the plate.

Leave your Wolf of Wall Street impression at home.  giphySo, as a young professional you might be kind of a big deal within your company, industry, region, whatever the case may be.  And good for you.  Buy a round for your friends and celebrate.  But overall, the rest of the people in the bar, including the bartender, don’t give a fuck where you work.  There is nothing worse than some cocky bastard walking up to the bar, pushing people out of his and making a spectacle of himself to get a drink. “Do you know who I am?” “Don’t worry, I know the owner here” “I work at XYZ Company, this place would be nothing without us.” It does nothing but makes everyone hate you in every way… and assume that you have a very tiny penis.  It is a great way to get ignored….for the rest of your life.

Make a connection. At the end of the day, bartenders are people.  They want to be treated as such.  Ask their name.  Spark conversation, preferably interesting conversation.  If you create that connection, you will get served immediately.  You might even get a free drink or shot out of the deal.  It’s basic human nature.  We help out the people we like.  The girl who hangs over the bar to get your attention and then leaves you a $0.50 tip is going to get ignored the rest of the night.  The girl who makes small talk while the bartender is obviously annoyed by the one guy who is trying to order for 20 people, will always get served as soon as he sees her walk back up to the bar.  Shocking!!  Bartenders don’t want to be treated like shit.  It really is that easy.

In conclusion.  Tip your bartender.  Know what you want. Get to know them.  Don’t be a dick.

The more you know

I Don’t Know How To Talk To People Who Are Good With Kids

Mr Rogers

I am, admittedly, a mediocre parent at best.  I mean, I love my kids, I don’t beat them, they are all still alive, and according to their pediatrician, they are healthy and thriving. But I am not a baby-talk mom.  I don’t do the whole pandering thing very well.  I talk to my kids like they’re just short adults who can’t drink.

Recently, I took the babies to a Story Hour at the public library.  The gals conducting the Story Hour were great.  One was older, in her late 60’s I would say.  The other a little younger, maybe in her 50’s.  They were very welcoming and patient and calm with the kids.  They spoke their language and read each story with the kind of enthusiasm I give a really well-crafted Old Fashioned.   I was not only in awe of them, I was painfully awkward around them.  My daughter has the social anxiety of someone who grew up at Grey Gardens, and wouldn’t let me go to save her life.  Both ladies would try to engage her in some conversation without forcing her or making her uncomfortable.  Saying things like, “I like purple. Do you like purple too?”  “Would you like to color with all your friends?” “Oh, I love your picture.”  And, “Aren’t they all just so great?!”

My daughter has the social anxiety of someone who grew up at Grey Gardens, and wouldn’t let me go to save her life.  Both ladies would try to engage her in some conversation without forcing her or making her uncomfortable.  Saying things like, “I like purple. Do you like purple too?”  “Would you like to color with all your friends?” “Oh, I love your picture.”  And, “Aren’t they all just so great?!”

I could NEVER do that.  I would say things like, “Would you like a Xanax?” “You’re never going to move out of your parent’s house if you can’t even talk to people,”  and “Your picture looks like Michael J Fox drew it.”  All grossly inappropriate.  Funny, but inappropriate.

Since the girl spawn wasn’t feeling awfully social, these ladies kept trying to engage me in conversation instead. They used nice words, didn’t make fun of anyone, didn’t say one swear word, and spoke with sincerity.  What kind of witchcraft is this?!?!

Them: “Oh it’s ok.  I have those kinds of days too.  We don’t always have to talk if we don’t want to.”

My Thoughts: “Yeah…It’s not ok to not speak to people who are speaking to you!  That’s fucking rude!  I’m not trying to raise an asshole over here.  I’m sorry she’s being so fucking weird!”

My actual words trying to sound like a good mother: “Oh yeah… (awkward laughter) It’s ok… (awkward laughter) She’ll get there…(awkward laughter) What are you going to do?… (awkward laughter) Thank you…”

I don't know what to do with my hands

The Russian, mail-order-bride mom spoke more fluent English than I did.  All I could think about was how uncomfortable I was, and how I couldn’t wait to get out of there, pound a beer, and drop a series of F Bombs just to bring be back to homeostasis.

So, to everyone out there who truly enjoys children in all their bizarre glory, and who can genuinely make the effort to engage them on their level, I applaud you. I find you weird and completely unnatural. But you are clearly a better person than me and much more qualified to raise my kids.

 

Our Lord and Savior, Chuck E. Cheese

A few years ago when I was blessed with only one child, my mother and grandmother came to visit.  My son was only 3 at the time, now 7.

A little back story, Glamma and Granny, respectively didn’t think that Mommy exposed to the children to religion enough.  Mommy thought they have the rest of their lives to make their own decisions, and that religion is a very complex issue that needs to be addressed carefully.  Nevertheless, we agree to disagree.

During this particular visit, the grandmothers were doing a bit of recon on the toddler.  Asking questions like, “Do you know who Jesus is?”  “Has Mommy taught you about how much Jesus loves you?”  I don’t think they were ready for the answer they received.

My mom, or Glamma, for these purposes, asked my son if he knew who Jesus was.  He replied with a very unenthusiastic, “Yeah.”  Regardless, the grandmothers were very pleased that he at least recognized the name.  Maybe I’m not such a godless heathen after all.  Glamma continued her questioning with more detail, “Did you know that Jesus loves you so much he died for your sins?” My son, still unphased by the grossly age-inappropriate question, replied, “Yeah” without even looking up from his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  Finally, Glamma asked him, “What else do you know about Jesus?”  The boy, finally realizing he was involved in an actual human conversation, looked up at Glamma with deep, sincere eyes and says, “Glamma, do you mean, Chuck E. Chesus?”

About a year later I was sitting on my patio with the same child.  Who was still an only child…those were the days.  Anyway, it was a Friday.  Good Friday to be exact.  In a moment of religious guilt, I asked my son if they told him what that day was at school.  He answered, “Yup.  It’s Friday.”  “You are not incorrect, my darling child,” I responded. “But today is also a special Friday.  It’s Good Friday.  It’s the day we celebrate that Jesus died for our sins.”  I was terrified this was going to turn into a morbid conversation about the details of His death. But instead, he looked at me like a teenager looks at an adult who calls it “The Facebook” and says, “That’s the mouse, right?”

 

Chuck E Cheese.gif