Mighty Mites! (It's a play on words)

If I were to describe to you what bugs do to me in one word, it would be “psycho”. 

Not just “Eewww, there’s a bug.” But more, “OH MY GOD THERES A F’KING BUG, GET IT AWAY FROM ME!!”  Complete the mental image with a ‘heebie-jeebie’ dance and any idea of toughness that I portrayed to you is gone.  I really do scream and carry on just like a little sissy (pink dress wearing) girl.

I. Hate. Bugs.  Any bug.  Furry, fuzzy, big-eyed, 6 legs, 8 legs, no legs, wings, no wings, black, red, brown, white, green, stinky, crunchy, creepy, buzzing, stinging, biting and especially ones that have an English accent.  It does not matter.  You will never be able to convince me of a bug that is a “nice” bug. 

Now, here is my predicament.  Every spring my master bathroom becomes the hosting ground for the ‘Clover Mite Convention’.  It’s a pretty grand affair.  Clover Mites from all over the yard congregate in this sacred place to pay tribute to my walls, floors, shower, and face wash.  This year will be their 3^rd Annual Event.  While I should be honored that they’ve chosen my bathroom, I don’t want to.  I’m appalled.  I don’t look at it as a celebration.  I can’t help but view this as a rebellion – a ‘tea party’ of some sorts.  I see them with their little picket signs saying, “We have rights too!”  The fuck you do; you little microscopic red, hairy, ugly, irritating little shit for brains!

I have bubble issues and they are invading my personal space.

I cannot enter my shower without it looking like someone had a cayenne pepper party in there.  I’m at a loss.  They. Will. Not. Leave.   This has become rather detrimental to my wellbeing. 

Anytime I see a speck of dirt, coffee ground, crumb – anything resembling a dot – you will more than likely see me bent over at the waist with my nose to the counter top, assessing the situation. 

To the naked eye, below is an example of what you would see:

(This is a dramatization; the characters in this picture are actors.)

Now here is what I see. 

(This is NOT a dramatization, actual footage taken in my bathroom enhanced by Photoshop to make it scary.)

Mr. Fricken Awesome did some research for me yesterday and he tried convincing me that they are harmless.  Regardless of what he told me and what I’ve read with my own eyes, I am a ‘cancer’ and therefore I am stubborn and it is my conclusion that these bugs are out to give me an ulcer.  I stress. Every-fricken-day.  I arm myself with 409® and a water jug and spray them off of my shower walls before each and every shower.  And as if that wasn’t OCD enough, I take inventory of the ones I missed while I’m showering; so afterwards I can eliminate them and give them a water ride down Mr. Toilet. 

This has become a major headache, self-induced - but nonetheless, a headache.  When I am in my bathroom having ‘me’ time, I sit on the toilet monitoring their whereabouts. I literally sat in there one morning and counted the masses of them invading my new package of toilet paper.  Being unable to touch them with my bare hand, I wet down a piece of toilet paper and attempted to ‘dap’ them up, but they just kept sinking in between the sheets.  By the time I was done, my bathroom looked like a small animal had ransacked my Charmin®.  I’m obsessed. 

I should also inform you that I read an article that claims if you “ignore” the little shits, it helps.  I’m sorry, these aren’t humans and I’m not 5.  This is not a case of ‘turn the other cheek’ or ‘be the bigger person’ here.  This is serious and I’m in need of some major intervention.

I’m open for suggestions on how to remedy this horrific act of personal invasion.  I’ll be the one standing on her toilet waving around a plunger and chanting “FREEDOM!!!” until I’m able to come up with a solution.

Birthday's and Pups

Ten years ago today I was getting my seven-foot long ‘bitch horns’ dipped in chocolate filed down. 

The Hospital doesn’t look kindly on wild animals roaming around aimlessly demanding drugs, so I agreed to lay in my bed and only nip at the nosey, over controlling, mildly menopausal ex-mother in law as I prepared to give birth to my 9 pound 1 ounce toddler I call ‘Tony Baines’.

No, I’m not going to coochy-coo this whole blog entry.  I’m simply just explaining to you that I am absolutely in shock that I have a 10-year-old, when it only seems like 10 years ago that I, the woman who doesn’t like anything gooey, became a Mom. 

At the age of 1, I couldn’t believe he was ‘1’.  And by the age of 2, I was convinced that I wasn’t cut out for this ‘Mom’ stuff.  By the age of 6, I grew insanely obsessed with birthday parties and the need to ‘out do’ what I did the year previous. 

Today he is 10, and he became the proud owner of a Puppy.  I became the proud Mom of a young Man.  And Mr. Fricken Awesome (my Fiance) became the Puppy’s favorite. 

Happy Birthday to my favorite kid! 

Spoiled. Rotten.

I’m sorry.  I haven’t been on “my game” for a few days.  I’ve been completely consumed with a ‘project’ lately and I’ve forgotten that I have a blog! 

So, I started thinking about what really irks my goose and aside from the obvious Wal-Mart dwellers, stupid women who can’t drive in my state who are giving me a bad rep, and my continuous inability to increase my heartbeat without getting injured, I’ve opted to bitch about Reality T.V. shows. 

High-maintenance women everywhere are about to throw their ‘Dooney and Burke’ purses at me now.  Trust me, I’m over it.

I know, I know, it’s incredibly intriguing to watch so-called “normal” people go through the daily struggles of what nail polish to pick out and how absurdly irritating it is that Buffy cannot get the tanning bed she reserved.  The nerve!  I particularly loathe the self-centered, spoiled rotten, “My Mommy Bought Me Boobs Because She LOVES Me” ­soon to be 16 year-olds whining and complaining that Daddy didn’t get them Tupac for their “Super Sweet Sixteen” birthday party. 

BECAUSE HE’S DEAD YOU NIMWIT! 

So because Daddy can’t get her a dead rapper for her birthday, she throws a screaming walleyed 2 year-old temper tantrum and demands a McLaren instead to make up for his sour mistakes. 

While we’re on the subjects of 16 year-olds – I just found out today, that there is an MTV series now called “16 and Pregnant” (gasp!)  You have got to be #@%&ing kidding me!?  Now before you chortle and slap me on the head with a “Welcome to 2010” sign, let me clarify, I realize this show has been airing for 2 seasons, but I, unlike 90% of the training bra population out there, don’t sit around from 3 pm to Midnight watching smut television.

This is where you nod and smile and pretend like you are interested in what I have to say about this. 

REALLY?  The last thing I would do (if I had a 16 year-old pregnant daughter) is reward her with her own show!  I may as well paint a yellow-brick road to her vagina and sing “If I Only Had a Brain”.  Are you kidding me? 

This is how I imagine their conversations:

Teenager:  “Mom, I’m pregnant.”

Mom: “Oh honey! How wonderful, now we can finally have that MTV series we’ve always dreamed of!  Let’s go get manicures and lattes to celebrate!”

I couldn’t even fathom inviting cameramen and crew into my home to video my daughter and her struggles with motherhood. 

These are babies!!  Sixteen years is a baby!  Trust me, I knew everything when I was 16, who didn’t?  But it took one death glare from Truman (My Dad); or one tiny resonance of disappointment in TMP’s (The Mom Person’s) voice to set my ass on the straight and narrow.  

Trust and believe, if my son ever gets a wild hair up his ass to play “house” with some little girl, the wrath of all wraths will come down on him.  Just sayin’.

Here’s an idea, how about you do a reality T.V. series about the everyday American Mom that get’s up at the ass-crack of dawn to get their kids off to school, does the laundry, dishes, fields calls from India-R-Us, hides from the ignorant door to door salesman that can’t read the “No Soliciting” sign, fights Wal-Mart and other major grocery store chains, fixes dinner, checks homework, pays the bills and still barely has enough money at the end of the month to pay attention?  Or even of a single Dad, or Mom who works and takes care of their kids? 

I’m not talking about that bimbo from Jon & Kate Plus Eight and I’m definitely not referencing “The Real Housewives from Orange County; New Jersey, Atlanta or fricken Omaha”.  Those women give a whole new meaning to “high maintenance”.  How do these people get these gigs?  Not that I want my own reality show (I’d last a millisecond) and be banned off of the air for making my son sort his own laundry. 

I’m absolutely aw-stricken by the lack of imagination that’s out there. 

Big time representative #1: “Gee Chuck, we need something to draw young kids in, got any ideas”?

Chuck: “Gosh Frank, the only thing I can think of is a spoiled little brat exuding greediness on her 16^th Birthdays and little boys who can’t keep ‘little boy junior’ in their pants and little girls who fantasize about bringing up their babies in ‘pretend land’.”

Frank (Formerly known as “Big Time Representative #1”): “Wow Chuck, that’s brilliant!  We’ll create millions of self-righteous teeny-boppers everywhere that think once they turn 16, they’ll not only get a BMW, but also live in ‘Happy Single Parent Land’!  Excellent!” 

Puke!

I’m done.  Please don’t send me hate mail, or hateful comments.  I’m “on one” today and I felt the need to entitle you to my opinion. 

Da Na Na Naa Na Na Naaaa!

Two weeks into my Metabolic Training class and somehow that qualifies me to sport my “Super Woman” cape and refer to myself as ‘Super Spanky’.

Weird Trainer man has set up 2 competitions within his class. 

1)   Body percentage/Fat Loss competition

2)   “Pull Up” competition

Now, why I opted to sign up for both is beyond any type of comprehension.  I saw the list of who was doing what and for some reason; my testosterone kicked in and my brain said, (in my best macho man voice) “I will do both of them!” (Insert superhero music).

My interpretation of pull ups is similar to this:

Notice my impeccable form and my impressively long arms.  I brought sexy back today and I know that my peers were intimidated.

Now let me show you what my competition looked like:

Showoff.

I’m screwed.  If my mouth hadn’t written a check that my body can’t cash, I would be blogging about sunshine and rainbows right now.   But because I’m ‘Lippy Von Lipster’ I now have two options.  Eat crow, or run away.

Coordination is hard.  My trainer won’t let me wear my helmet and knee pads and I think it’s absolutely absurd that he would allow me to sign up for such an event given my track record. 

I tried to take it back, but he gave me that really annoying ‘pep talk’ crap. “I know that you can do this, you’ll do great!” 

Ok first of all, you’re PAID to talk out your ass.  Secondly, you don’t know me.  You’ve known me for 7 days and quite frankly, I think you’re snowballed.  I show up for training and put my ‘big girl pants on’ so I don’t look like a pussy bed wetter in front of everyone else.  However, it’s a much, much different painting when I get home.  Insta-5 year old comes out and I end up in the fetal position, whimpering to myself because every fricking inch of my body hurts.

(All of the above was said in my head.  I didn’t actually regurgitate all of that in person.)

So I’m stuck.  My “I am woman” (hands beating chest) rant that I displayed is now in full force and I have no choice but to act accordingly. 

Excuse me while I go dig out my cape.

Fake n’ Bake, or au naturale?

I chose fake n’ bake.

In an effort to have some one on one time with Mom No. 2 (my future Mother in Law), she arranged for us to have a nice leisurely, enjoyable experience at a local tanning salon.

This wasn’t my first rodeo.  I’ve been tanning before, and yes, while I usually require my hand being held and step-by-step instructions on how to get in and out of the bed without injuring myself, I’ve never been one to go frequently. 

Whenever the word “tanning” comes to mind, I simply cannot bring myself to throw down $15 for a tan and an additional $60 for a bottle of lotion, just so I can look like this:

I take my skin seriously (said the girl with white-out lines on her skin).  I’m not a fan of closing myself in a bed – for fear of breaking the bed and burning to death.   I’m not tanning bed trained and I am a liability.  If someone tells me “You should do well for 8 minutes” and throws a bronzer at me, promising golden skin – I believe them. 

Gullible. 

Millions of women do this.  Some are professionals.  I’m a rookie.  Anything claiming to make me beautiful should be a dead giveaway that I should run away fast and not look back.  But I didn’t, because a quick dip in the artificial light sounded like a good time.

I took the free bronzer, my borrowed goggles and my idiot brain to my room and felt good about the fact that I too, was going to look like the 20-something blonde, at the counter, that exuded ‘high maintenance’.

I lathered up and climbed into the bed – and spent the next 8 minutes doing the robot with my arms to make sure I didn’t leave any white stripes anywhere.  The first 4 minutes were very relaxing – however by minute 5, I was ready to bail. 

I burned. 

Eight minutes in a tanning bed and I look like I spent all day on an aluminum boat with Crisco on my skin.  Nothing says “sexy” like bright red skin and the inability to stand being touched.  

It’s now day 3 since I baked myself, and I still cannot wear pants, shirts or take a shower without belting out obscenities. 

Mom No. 2 had a much better experience than I did.  Most women would.  I’m the exception.  If it’s “girly” and there is some “guarantee” that I’ll look gorgeous, chances are, it’s not meant for me. 

I enjoy being in the sun, and I enjoy going tanning, on occasion.  However I do not enjoy being the stupid girl that can’t sit down without a donut pillow because her ass is burned. 

My fiancé asked me “Why didn’t you at least cover up your breasts?” 

“Because I didn’t want tan lines.” You know, because I frequent the streets and my local Wal-Mart, naked.

He says to me, “Well you could have worn pasties.”

Now to a woman who looks like a 12-year old boy trapped in 33-year old’s body, pasties would not have worked.  Not even the strongest of super-glues could keep them on. 

While I appreciate the concern, red gingersnaps, are the least of my worries. 

Should I venture into the world of tanning beds and bronzing lotions again, I will wear a bikini top and bottoms, and will more than likely ask the nice girl to limit my playtime to 5 minutes, rather than 8.  

Either that, or buy a bottle of fake sun.  After all, orange is the new bronze. Right?

Sore Tooshy, Muscle-Schmuscle and Parking the Catty Wagon

(DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT MY PICTURE, NOR DO I CLAIM ANY RIGHTS TO THIS, I JUST THOUGHT IT WAS F'KING HILARIOUS)

After my “tipping” incident, I took a moment yesterday morning to reflect on the pros and cons of getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to workout.  In a matter of minutes seconds and through deductive reasoning, I was able to resolve that the only exercise my body was going to get was from my couch to my bathroom – and that was it! 

Today?  I begrudgingly showed up for more punishment.  Ginger wasn’t able to go, so here’s how our text convo went afterwards.

Me: Workout was good. We did that weird Tabata training today.  Soon I’ll be able to crack a walnut with my butt cheeks!

Ginger: Ha ha ha!! How are the legs?  Mine are still very unhappy with me.

Me: OH God! Yeah, my squats are looking more like the ‘farting stance’ – not pretty!!!

Ginger: Farting stance complete with facial scrunching???

Me: U Betcha!!! And followed with 4 solid minutes of butt busters (bridges).  I now walk like I have an extra large coke stuck up my ass!

Ginger:  You will have to show me these “butt-busters”.  I want to join the coke up the ass club!!!

Me: My pleasure! But this aint no diet coke!  It’s the BIG GULP of all cokes!

Ginger: (insert visual here)

Ginger: Here’s a funny mental image – me mowing the lawn with my pain-flavored jello legs.

Me, not understanding what she just said:  Pain flanored?  

(yes, that’s how I typed it – I have no excuse)

Ginger: Well it’s not cherry flavored!!!

I realize this may not be at all funny to you, but it was to me. 

Side note ** MY blog!

*----*

Ok, onto more important things, I’ve gained a pound and a half!  WTF CHUCK? 

Weird trainer dude, (he’s weird because he keeps texting me shit like “great workout today” – Really?  I think he’s mocking me, because in my head that translates to “I don’t care if you lick windows, take the special bus or occasionally pee on yourself – you hang in there Sunshine, you’re friggen special!”) 

WOW, where was I?  Oh yes, weird trainer dude told us that we will probably gain “muscle” before we actually drop fat. 

Now I’m not a muscle vs. fat guru, but I can tell you, I’ve spent more time in my bathroom these past couple of days than I did prepping for my colonoscopy; and I thought for sure that the extra trips were resulting in fat loss.  I don’t recall picking up extra muscle and slathering it on at anytime during my hourly visits! 

This is bullshit! 

*----*

And last but certainly not least – I promised to talk about ‘mood swings’ today, but I parked the catty wagon and am feeling a bit too chipper.  So we’ll discuss those at a later time.  Say maybe . . . 24 days from now?

Feelin' a little 'catty'

“I’m rubber and you’re glue, everything you say, bounces off me and sticks to you!”

Yes, I’m 12 today. 

I’m feeling a little ‘catty’ and not sure why.  It all started when I saw how cute Kelly Ripa looked today and also how thin she is (skinny bitch) and I decided that she really needs to eat a Cinnabon.  I’m not being ugly, I’m just saying out loud what most women are thinking.

What happens when men see other men (mostly celebrity men) on a magazine or T.V. show?  Do random 12-year-old comments come out of their mouths?  I can’t remember ever witnessing my fiancé saying “Wow, Tiger, eat a cupcake”.  Men just don’t do that.  Or do they?  I’m genuinely curious.  I know women do.  Oh my gosh, I could write a novel on how incredibly mean and spiteful women can be.  And it starts at such a young age and it is picked up somewhere around the training-bra stage and most women don’t grow out of it.  I’m just as guilty. I’m finding, as an adult, cattiness is a learned behavior.  Regardless if it is the parents who are spoon-feeding their tyrants or if it is the media, and it is largely due to my distaste for mouthy little twits who’s vocabulary maxes out at “OMG” and the gossip media.

It’s the small things that can put me into a bad mood.  If I’m out of coffee creamer, if my mirror lies to me and tells me I’m thin, then my pants have to bring me back to reality and have a ‘sit-down’ with me. Even my local news channel can make me catty.  Yet, I still watch it.  Why? 

Men don’t like something, they just don’t deal with it, they have this ability to shut things out and go on with their lives.  Women don’t do that.  We have to analyze it, break it down, knead it, beat it, patti-cake it and shove it up some unsuspecting person’s ass.  (Hiss)

I truly believe this stems from years of bullying and nastiness when I was younger. When I was 11 I went to a public grade school where I first experienced “mean girls”.

I looked like this:

(Please refer to this post for more on why I was channeling a 10-year old boy, rather than a cute little girl.)

Anyway, from the age of 10 until the age of 16, I was taunted over my looks.  I heard it all, and as hard as I tried to come up with some witty comeback, all that would come out of my mouth is “Oh yeah, well you’re  - mean!”  I didn’t learn how to be spiteful with my words until I visited my first Wal-Mart.

I eventually grew up to be quite mouthy.  You’re shocked, I know.  I am too, to be honest.  But I am working on my inner bitch, and she’s learning that sometimes it’s not ‘ok’ to be so offensive. 

It does happen from time to time.  I really do try to not be so ugly, especially given all the nastiness that’s in the world right now.  See, now I feel bad for my earlier comment.

I’m sorry Kelly Ripa, I didn’t mean it. 

Ok.  That’s pretty much all for now.  I had to get it out.  I was being a bitch, and now I’m not.  We’ll discuss ‘mood swings’ in my next blog.

Weebles wobble but they don't fall down!

I apologize ahead of time if this is too much information.

I endured my 2^nd workout with Ginger today.  It was, by far, more painful than yesterday’s workout and if my legs had a mouth of their own, they would be screaming profanities at me right now.

Going to the bathroom has turned out to be my biggest challenge today.  The day isn’t even over and I know this for sure.  I just experienced, quite possibly, the most embarrassing thing ever, yet it’s too funny not to share.

So us girls have to squat to pee, and while that’s amusing to some folks, it’s not funny when you have no functionality of your quads, hamstrings, buttocks or calves.  It took me longer to sit down on the throne than it did to actually do my business.  While in the process of finishing up, I realized, it hurts too much to stand.  So I sat there.

And waited. 

I don’t know, for an invitation or something because I could not bring myself to stand up.  I did a couple of birthing breaths (hee hee whoooo, hee hee whooo) and in one swift motion I leaned forward and kept going.  Off the toilet, face into the wall, bare ass up in the air.  What’s really bad, is I looked around afterwards to make sure no one saw it.  Yes because I invite people in to witness my tinkling techniques.  WTF?

Realizing that just happened I reached for my towel bar and hoisted myself up.  I turned around and glared at the toilet as if it somehow grew arms and pushed me off, flushed, cleaned myself up and exited the bathroom.

I called my fiancé to tattle on myself.  He’s my biggest fan.

“Honey, I did something so stupid just now – and what’s really bad? I’m going to blog about it.”

Him: “What did you do now?”

So, I proceeded to tell him what transpired in the bathroom.  Silence.  Then his response.

“So . . . you fell off the toilet?”

“YES!”

“How do you do that?”

“I tried pushing off of my knees with my hands and fell over!”

“You’re pants still around your ankles?”

“YES!”

“Way to go ‘Humpty Dumpty’.” 

We had a good laugh.  And as mortifying as it is, it was so worth telling him. 

That’s all for now.  Talk amongst yourselves.  I’m going to go bedazzle my helmet.

You too, could look like this!

My workout buddy says to me, “Just spoke to a trainer from your gym on the phone, want to do a Metabolic training class with me on Tuesday? You will burn 11 calories a minute and keep your metabolism going for at least 4 hours afterwards.”

Now you could tell me that spreading maple syrup on my thighs would make me skinny at this point and I’d probably buy it (not to mention the hours of entertainment it would bring) – so you can imagine my enthusiasm when she asked me this.  “YES! OMG YES! I’m so there! What time?” 

Six o’clock in the morning comes really early when you have to be somewhere.  Worse, it comes even earlier when you regret telling your BFF that her idea, was indeed, a good idea.  I’m gullible. 

Mind you, I have no idea what I’m in for at this point, but given my past experiences on working out I had full intentions of using the elevator after the class in the event that my body required a gurney. 

Boys and girls, today I learned how to stretch. Properly.

Our trainer ‘went easy on us’ today and introduced us to what will eventually be our “warm up”, which consists of a list of 15 exercises geared towards core, hip and shoulder joint stuff.  For lack of a better term.  In the hour that I was there, we did squats, planks, “eggrolls” – here you tuck your legs in, wrap your arms around your legs and fall back rolling on your back and then back up.  As a kid, you could do this for hours; as an adult, I swear I popped every disc in my back out.  But don’t worry, this is good for you!  I learned that I cannot do backwards lunges, I fall over.

I also learned that my hips haven’t been this challenged since I gave birth 10 years ago.

He didn’t even introduce weights to our program today.  I’m not positive, but it might have been the panting coming from the back of room (me) and the pure lack of enthusiasm painted all over my face.  Just a hunch.  It really wasn’t that bad.  I’m just that out of shape.  I have no choice but to show up tomorrow since Ginger (my BFF, I’ve decided that’s her new name) and I were the only ones there under the age of 60.  Mrs. Cunningham (she looks just like the Happy Days Mom) who was there was doing better than I was, and being the competitive, compulsive person that I am, simply cannot allow her to show me up.  I’m such a tyrant.

In all the walk/run’s, failed attempts at running a full mile, the Tae Bo’s, working out until I vomit and other fun stories, I have never been so motivated as I am right now.  Granted, it could be the major overdose of endorphins that were released or quite possibly, the supplements I inhaled earlier.  I’m like that annoying housewife that sits up late at night watching the QVC channel purchasing anything and everything that “guarantees” no wrinkles, skinny thighs, better sex or bigger boobs; except for me my QVC is workout trends. 

If someone “guarantees” results, I’m there!  Sign me up, color me stupid and give me a Snuggie – woo hoo!  You would not believe the amount of workout videos I have collecting dust because I was promised to look like Jillian Michaels or Cindy Crawford.  Yes, I bought her video.  Don’t judge me.  However, the reality is, they don’t work because I’m an “instant gratification” girl and when I’m unable to shit out 20 pounds after my first attempt, up on the shelf it goes.  Hey, at least I’m honest.

This new trend won’t last either.  Not because I’m a pessimist, but because I don’t have $300 a month to pay this trainer to make me beautiful.  So Ginger and I will do our “trial” period that was promised to us, and it will back to the ‘drawing board’.

For now, I like this new class, and I look forward to the challenge.

24 Things

Everybody has played the game “Gossip” at some point in their life.  You know, when you’re at those ridiculously awkward boy/girl parties for the first time – ever – and you all sit around in a circle and whisper something in your partner’s ear, and then they whisper what you said etc.?  Ok, I’ll start.  I would whisper something like “Sally has on pink shoes.”  And 20 people later the phrase comes out something like “Sally’s pregnant.” Yeah, kinda like that. 

Ok, my point.

I was blog stalking (something I’m addicted to lately) because I’m constantly striving to be better.  Not better than anyone else, but to broaden my horizons and not be such a Negative Nancy all the time.  So I stumbled upon this crazy funny blog, here, and she totally copied a post from one of her blog rolls, who copied a post, who copied a post – you get the idea, not going to draw it out for you.  So, me being the young impressionable naïve person that I am, I just had to do this!  It’s a post on “X number of things I’ve learned as a Mom” or something to that sort.  Because I’m a team player, and a sucker for clever, witty women, I just had to copy and be that blogger. 

So here goes, here are the 24 things I’ve learned about being a Mom.

1.     Privacy? What’s that?

2.     When you’re Mom tells you “One day you’ll wish you could take naps” – listen to her!

3.     4^th grade math is hard.

4.     Kids give the best hugs.  Ever.

5.     Inside this body lives a gi-normous Momma grizzly bear, with fur and everything!

6.     Not all boobs produce milk.  Sometimes you have to have a backup plan from preventing your child from starvation.

7.     Mutli-tasking is an art form.

8.     Childproof bottle lids are not childproof if you leave the lid off.

9.     Ketchup is one of the major food groups.

10. I now cannot pee without singing “Tinkle Tinkle Little Star”.

11. If you hurt my child, I will hunt you down and make you eat worms, I don’t care if you are only 3 feet tall!

12. I now know the international sign language sign for “poop”.

13. Baby gates were my “break” even if I was only 6 inches away.

14. A kid’s giggle is incredibly contagious.

15. Barney should be shot.

16. The best thing to put you to sleep, is your sleeping baby.

17. I miss my rocking chair.

18. If he wants to be “Harry Potter” 3 years in a row for Halloween, that’s OK.

19. You write your own “instruction manual” with kids.  They aren’t provided.

20. Sometimes its fun to wear 3 shirts, a pair of shorts over our pants and un-matching shoes.

21. Thanks to television, my son used to think that Enterprise Rent-a-Car would come pick you up if you simply did not feel like driving.

22. Fit throwing is a great energy release.  (For me, not for him)

23. I am the best dancer in his eyes.

24. He is the best kid – in my eyes.

I’m so in love with my ‘Tony Baines’.  

Write it down

I read a fantastic book when I was pregnant with my son by Anne Lamott - Operating Instructions: A Journal Of My Son’s First Year.  And I have to say; she is probably my inspiration for writing as much as I do.  If you’ve ever had a child, or are thinking about having a child you need to read this book!  Even if you don’t want to have children, this book is so witty and comical; it will leave you in tears.

I love to write.  It’s therapeutic.  Am I any good at it? That remains to be seen.  I’m not an English major (that sentence right there proves that) and I’m not the most colorful crayon in the knife drawer, however I’d like to think that someone, somewhere is reading this and not scratching their head thinking “What on God’s creation is this chic smoking?” 

I recently entered my blog with a website that will pay me to write about topics and/or products – however I have to be “approved” by some higher authority in order to participate.  I think that’s bogus.  I could totally write about “Tide” or “Tampax”.  I’m not partial.  Granted, if you asked me to write about Global Warming or Politics and Religion, you’d be better off reading “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest” than trying to figure out my take on any of the above.

I know some of my posts don’t make any sense, nor do they have any real value on life itself, but as I mentioned before, it’s therapeutic for me to jot complete nonsense down.  It prevents me from having to wear the cute little white jacket with buckles and be sent to my padded room. 

If you’ve read any of my recent posts, I bounce around from subject to subject, ranging anywhere from writers block to “Deep thoughts by Spanky.”  I loved English when I was in school, and it wasn’t until I started writing in my college English classes that I realized, I really, really like it. Like, a lot!  I kept journals when I was younger as well, you know, the ones where you are totally boy crazy over some schmuck who doesn’t even know you exist, yet you continue to write about him secretly in the hopes that you’ll have some fascinating and exhilarating news to report by the time you’ve reached the end of your journal.  Yeah, mine was plastic with a lock. 

After my son was born I decided I wanted to journal everything to make sure I didn’t forget his early years.  Yeah, that lasted all of about 6 months since I could barely remember what day it was, let alone sit down for “quiet time” to journal.  I had no quiet time.  What is that? 

But then I discovered blogging!  How lucky.  I’m a bit obsessed with it and while I’m not Erma Bombeck, I do like to think that some people out there can relate to my craziness I call “life”. 

When my son was just over a year old I went through my own little “mid-life crisis”.  Either that or it was a really long PMS cycle because quite frankly I was an absolute mess and completely irrational.  Upon the suggestion of my Mom, I started writing down all my frustrations and then tearing up the paper and burning it – to let it go to the Universe and be “free of my frustrations”.  I know, I know it sounds like total garbage, but it works!  Venting is so good for you and you would not believe the number of times writing it down saved me from saying nasty, ugly things.  Once I wrote it down, burned it and cried over it, I was able to actually talk about it and not be a complete, emotional basket case.  It was my own personal way of telling people to pound sand, but not hurt their feelings. 

I used to always think my calling in life was going to be to bop Wal-Mart dwellers on the head and pass out “I’m with stupid” signs to unsuspecting yahoos.  I never thought writing about it and publishing it to the Internet world would be my cup of tea.

I guess I was wrong. 

Coming out of my shell

I’m not a girly girl.

My Mom had to practically duct tape dresses onto me when I was younger because I refused to succumb to princess-like attire. I played in mud, rode boys bikes, opted to play with boys instead of girls and when I did play with my girl friends, I coerced most of them to ride bikes with me and pretend we were Ponch & Baker from CHiPS. 

When I was 13 I threw a fit at my older sister’s wedding because I was forced to wear a poufy dress and wear lip-gloss.  Everyone thought I was crying because it was a happy occasion for my sister, little did they know my Mother scolded me just prior to walking down the aisle because I was being such a little pill.

I didn’t discover make-up until I was a sophomore in high school, and I wouldn't dare go near hairspray or perfume until I hit my senior year.  My grandpa used to cut my hair because he was a barber in the Army and it was my choice to wear short “boy” hair until I decided to try and grow it out come eighth grade.  Then I sported the ever so fabulous mullet complete with a perm due to my sister insisting I become her guinea pig while she was in Cosmetology school.  Not to mention the ‘Sally Jesse Raphael’ glasses that were ever so popular in the early 90’s.

I have come a long way from my awkward boyish teenage years, however I still would rather purchase my perfume and make-up online than endure the high-maintenance beauty consultants at Sephora or Macy’s. 

I don’t do Tupperware, candle, jewelry or sex-themed parties and my “girl’s nights” are few and far between – although I did venture out and get a pedicure and enjoy a 5000 calorie-per slice piece of cheesecake with my future sisters and mother in law the other night. 

I’m not sure where this prissy phobia came from, nor do I know how to fix it, but it is something that I apparently am missing out on.  I probably opted out of the “how to be a young lady” training that was supposed to happen during the most important years of my life, and I’m probably breaking all the rules when it comes to being a woman, but for the life of me, I simply cannot bring myself to be myself when it comes to hanging out with other women.  I’m like that awkward geek that the popular girls try to make over in movies, but instead of there being a happy ending they usually run out throwing their hands up in the air due to the whining and bitching that results on my part because I cannot bring myself to coo and ahh over lovey-dovey movies or nail polish.  What is wrong with me?

If given the option, I would rather go target shooting or play pool with the boys, and throw back a few beverages while sporting my tattered jeans and sloppy t-shirt.  If I don’t have to be anywhere, I’m usually in my sweats and slippers and prefer not to bother with hair, makeup or anything remotely taking up any of my time.  Luckily for me, I have a fiancé that is either too scared to mention anything to me about my appearance, or he simply loves me for who I am. 

So after spending the afternoon with a girlfriend of mine and her friends watching 80’s movies and eating crap, I’ve decided that I need to make more of an effort to do things such as that, given as painful as it is for me.  It’s absolutely foreign to me to be around women and only women because, well for one, I have the mouth of a sailor, I’m blunt and ridiculously opinionated and – well I don’t do the “girl” thing.  But I have to admit; I actually had a good time today. 

Granted, I’m not about to go out and do something dramatic like wear a dress or anything, but spending time with some good-hearted gals and absolutely no testosterone, was not as bad as I had anticipated.  Who knew? 

I’m a tomboy, and probably always will be, but I don’t mind “taking one for the team” on occasion and letting my inner “girl” come out. 

Baby steps.

What's your biggest accomplishment?

I’ve been struggling lately with my feeling of accomplishment.  I’m not talking about the feeling you get when you clean the house, or tackle five o’clock traffic without road-rage; but the whole graduating college, or landing that big job you strived for.  For some reason I had this idea that unless I’m June fucking Cleaver, I’m not an accomplished female.

When I was 24 I gave birth to a toddler.  Ok, well he was 9 pounds 1 ounce and that is rather large for a first baby, and mind you it may have been the Epidural that clouded my image of what newborn babies should look like, but I’m fairly certain that they aren’t supposed to hold themselves up in those little plastic boxes that they stuff them in to weigh them. 

I was a horrible pregnant patient.  From my 7^th month on I swore, everyday, that I was giving birth and was adamant that the hospital admit me before I single-handedly ripped every nurse and doctors a new mouth by way of their asshole.  However 70 trips later and still not dilated to a 3, I was inevitably sent home to continue to try various techniques in an attempt to get this child out of me.

I tried everything from castor oil to stair climbing and still; my stubborn little boy would not budge. 

For the past nine years, I have regretted not cherishing that calm before the storm.  I had absolutely no idea what was in store for me nor did I realize that being a Mom would be such a painful experience.  I always heard the saying “It’s hurts me when you hurt”, but I had no clue what it meant, until I witnessed my son’s first fall.  His first broken bone and his first hospital trip.

Granted, there were times where I contributed to his boo-boos. 

I had baby gates strung all over my first apartment when he was just over a year old.  I was rushing around trying to get dinner prepared while talking on the phone.  I had a headset on my phone and he was following me around with my Tampax hanging out of his ear (I can only assume he was mimicking me) as he also had his baby monitor up to his mouth and was yelling “Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah…”  Annoyed by this repetitive noise I climbed over the baby gate to snatch the monitor away from him and remove the Tampax from his ear and he started crying.  I hung up the phone and told him he couldn’t play with mommy’s tampons – they were not toys.  I went to climb back over the baby gate and my knee caught him on the way up – there went my son, flying across the living room.  I panicked with my leg in mid air and tried to reverse my motion, which caused me to fall flat on my face.  I don’t even know how I got over to my son as fast as I did, but I grabbed him off the ground, extended him out in front of me and did the “mom inspection” and then pressed him close to my chest and collapsed onto my floor.  I sobbed.   I could not believe I had just kneed my son across my living room!  Who does that?

I felt so horrible that I unwrapped a new tampon and gave it to him to play with in the hopes that it would cover up my guilt. 

I’ve spent countless times wishing through his bad days that all I had to do was give him a Tampax to make it better. 

As a parent, you want to coddle your child and hold their hand all through life to shield them from any immanent danger that may be lurking.  I’ve learned the hard way that coddling at a young age, results in “Why is my son such a wussy?” in the long run.  I’ve had to wing myself off of the urge to jump at the sound of every whimper and do the ol’ “Cowboy up” song and dance.  As I’m trying to teach him to try harder, be tougher, pay attention, don’t interrupt, mind his manners and put the toilet seat down; I’m also teaching myself to be patient and he’s not going to know the common sense of a 25 year old at the age of 9. 

I’m learning that an accomplishment isn’t measured by how big your house is or what kind of car you drive, but it’s measured by how great the hug is when your child walks through the door un-scathed and full of stories from his day at school.  I’m learning that an accomplishment isn’t landing a six-figure income for me, but it’s knowing that even I can screw up as a young mom, and still fix it later on to help steer him in the right direction.

I’ve been consumed by the idea that I have to have something to show for myself.  Well I do.  I have relatively good health, and loving, caring fiancé who puts up with my chaotic mellow-drama, and I have a son that continues to lift me up, when I’m having a bad day.  He’s come a long way from that short stubby little rug-rat that used to follow me around mimicking every move I made. 

I’m doing something every day that never felt like an accomplishment.  I, along with millions of other Mom’s out there, have the hardest job ever.  There are no raises; there are no pension plans, or retirement benefits.  I don’t have a 401k option nor do I get vacation or sick days.  There is no interview process or probationary period.  I don’t get to quit and I can’t get fired.  I love my job, and even though I’m in constant training, I’m learning that it is a huge feat.

I am a Mom, and that is something to be proud of.