Where the magic happened…some of you may recognize this place…
Yesterday, I had to pull over the car from a) laughing so hard and b) to write this down. Because I never, ever want to forget this conversation.
The kids and I were driving around yesterday, rockin out to some Blondie and Elvis, interesting combo, I know…but it works. I feel an obligatory responsibility to expose them to the greats like that. Anyways, I love just driving with the kids because they ask me questions and we talk. Mind you, I try very hard to answer honestly. Most of the questions these four_year olds are asking me, I don’t really know the answer to because I never really retain information like why the waves are there. “I don’t know hunny, something to do with the moon and a force or pull….here, have another animal cracker…” And sometimes, they ask tough questions that catch me off guard. Tough being that I know the answer, but just am not sure I should explain what an “Army” or “War” is to my kids quite yet.
“Well, hunny, an army is a group of people who protect our country from bad people.” No, that’s not it…shit.
But yesterday, yesterday caught me off guard pretty good. We’re driving down the road, rocking out to some Elvis and it went something like this:
Lucy: “Mom, how did we get in your belly?”
The truth: Mommy and Daddy rocked out a pretty good hour or so of lovemaking also known as wild crazy sex. Then Mommy elevated her hips just so that the egg and the sperm could meet, and have a chance to get acquainted. Mommy remembers that night, it was a GOOOOOOD NIGHT. Also, I just drove by the place where all the magic happened. I had to explain to my passenger in the car why I was hanging out the window to take pictures. It was awkward, and yet, necessary.
What I really said, “Uh……God put you there.”
Lucy then taking the information and running with it, explaining to Max: “Yeah, Max. God put His hands on mommy’s tummy and said, ‘Poof’ and put us in her belly.”
Max took some time to dissect all this information and then, “No. No. What God did was he THREW us in there! “WHAM!” A slight pause…more thought and then, “Lucy, I know He did. I felt it!”
Oh good gravy. So, thank you God, for being somewhat of an outlet to me not having to go into detail as to how the kids got in my belly. I do believe God blessed me with these kids. Even moreso, kids with amazing wit. Surely, they’re not getting it from ME.
That’s how I roll.
“Who’s that?” “Oh, it’s an experiment. We’re going to follow her around and make her real famous. She’s a moron, so this ought to bode well.”
I won’t bore you with all the information you’ve already been forced to know. Could someone please stop following, snapping, boosting egos and publishing a bunch of nothing, the Hiltons?
How are the assholes at Walmart any different than Hilton with his daughters? Well, the Hiltons have all of their teeth. But atleast Walmart sells something. The Hiltons won’t even sell us their sex tapes. Rude. What the hell are they on the red carpet for?
I would have loved to have heard the conversation when Paris conjured this plan up. She called an agency, “Yes, my name is Paris…yes, that’s my real name…uh huh….UH_HUH, and I need to know how to walk and work the paparrazi. Yes, no, I’m not a model….no, not an actress. I’m a daughter….yes, my plan is to have the paparazzi follow me around, I’ll get all up in the media’s bidnez, then I’ll have bars and clubs pay me to show up. Yes. That’ll be my job. To go party. So, I need you to show me how to walk, because I had like all my muscles surgically removed so I’d be all thin and stuff, because one time, someone told me I looked like, human or something, and so I can’t hold my own body upright. So, I’ll need that, and then I need to know how to not_smile at the camera. And I need to know how to look over my shoulder. Mmm_hmm, like I’m walking on the red carpet backwards. I’m going to need a blank stare to go with it.”
“The readers want it”
Really? This one doesn’t. Maybe it’s because you shove it down our throats. I would be happy to boycott all shows that talk about her but that would be all tv and media. I’d be forced to live under a rock. So, until then, I’ll simply boycott Hilton’s. Nanny nanny. Join me will you?
That’s how I roll.
These children are happy because they are constantly supervised…
Summer, as I remember it, is a time for fun and carefree goodness. Walking barefoot to your pals house to play in the pool, or to the kegger. Ah, to be a kid again, or even in college or, a 25 year_old living at home…
As a mom,summer is a hands_on 24_hour non_stop energy_sucking rapid_fire_questions, bandaid_delving, popsicle_licking day filled with lots of sun block and no time for menial tasks like writing or laundry, or sleep. Atleast when the kids were in Preschool, I had a few hours a week to do very important things like, post on this blog.
Ultimately, I know that this is the last summer I’ll ever have the kids all to myself. It’s the last year I can control who they make friends with based, not so much, who they like, but who I like. It turns out, as mentioned here, that I don’t really like kids. I’m pretty picky. It’s a high_standard screening process that usually results in asking some kid where his mom is and to please stop drowning my daughter in the pool. Then some eye rolling, some pats on my own back for my great kids, because it’s all MY doing, and then unabashed judgement on the kid, and then the parents.
So, clearly, my time is taken up judging other preschoolers.
That’s how I roll.
What, you guys don’t know the significance of this day is??? Well, let me enlighten you…it’s a big day. I think Hallmark has a card for it. It’s the EXACT halfway mark to Christmas! I always love waking up on this day with great anticipation of getting to the malls and Hobby Lobby to see if they’ve figured it out as well and put out their Christmas decorations yet. So far, I’m WAYYY on top of it than the stores are, but barely.
It’s also my birthday. And just like Christmas, we’ve been celebrating for days…weeks, months, really. I’ve had two birthday parties. I had to explain to my 4 &3/4 year old in great detail that mommy already got her presents…it was a gigantic roadtrip with my girls that involved a comittment ceremony, endless Route 44′s a flowin’, and lots of money! More on that later. My house is delicious with beautiful flowers, friends visits, and my kids. All brought to me by Ricardo. Even better!
It’s a Happy Day.
That’s how I roll…just a little older.
When I was a teenager, my pals, Al & Carrie and I would hang out at Al’s pool all summer, listening to the top hits & love songs. We’d giggle and gab and talk about stuff because we were girls and that’s what we did and still do. When a sappy love song would come on, we’d sing along and talk about the perfect boyfriend, the true love we each yearned for, the one they were singing about in the songs. The one that didn’t exist. By then, my parents had divorced, and another of us had lost a brother. We went through some crappy times together, just in high school, and yet, stuck together like krazyglue (emphasis on KRAZY) and kept on singing and giggling. Most stuff from my childhood, I don’t remember so clearly, but I remember that summer vividly.
We went our separate ways to college, one to Michigan, and two of us in Texas, each about 600 miles away. We’d get together on breaks. On occasion, we’d write, LONG_HAND letters…by MAIL. No email. Can you believe it? How did we live? We got through college, pretty distant, and drunk, I suppose. And upon graduating, each of us opted to live in our college towns.
Then there’s that time when I fell in love. That was a doozy! Poor guy, never saw it coming. I fell hard, and soon, sobbed happily and uncontrollably over love songs when Ricardo wasn’t there to see what a freak I really was. Soon, one_by_one, we got married and stood in each others weddings. We celebrated those sappy love songs, knowing (hoping) each of us had found that man we’d yearned for, the one in the love songs. It turns out that indeed, they DO exist!
First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby (or two) in the baby carriage. Whether we married into children, or had our own. Soon, all three of us were moms. When I became a mom, I realized that Ricardo is important and all, but now, the loves songs, the really good ones about sacrifice and pure dedication, I was now tearing up as I sang them to my babies. I still do that.
Life happens, and thereto, death. So, when I lost my Dad, love songs took on even a more pure form for me, sending me into a river of tears inexplicably at any moment.
“Hunny, it’s Eminem on the radio, why are you crying?”
“Because, he said, ‘You have one shot, or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted_One moment’ and that’s what my dad might have said to me maybe.” And cue the sobs. I didn’t say I am rational. I was sad and missed my Dad, cut me a frikkin break people. My point is, songs fill a void.
Last year, when Carrie called to tell us she had a brain tumor, I hoped it was some sick joke. But it was not. She’s survived extensive surgery to have most of it removed, a divorce, and then news that there is a new growth where the tumor was. That was all within a year. Al and I rallied up and offered to come in and take care of her. I think Carrie is the smartest of the three of us, because she knew that we love her and would drive her crazy fretting over her. So, she asked that we plan our girls trip, so she’d have something to look forward to in an effort to help her get through the treatments. Now, in between chemo treatments, bald and beautiful, we will finally get to see her. To hold her. And see each other. It’s one thing to gab on the phone, or email, but to just see for ourselves how each of us are doing. To just sit and be still and quiet together. That’s what I yearn for. I’m sure it’s in a love song somewhere.
So, now, here we are, I sit typing, just days away from my girls trip. We try and usually succeed at getting together once a year. But this one is special. We are celebrating life more than we ever could have thought that we should. We are celebrating a friendship so precious, we want to bring others into it. Share it. Preserve it. And I sit listening to love songs again, belting them out, singing them and thinking about my precious, precious friends. They are my family, if my mom had seven girls, instead of two.
Now, MyDaph, my college best friend, is close friends with Carrie and Al. I am beaming with pride that my friends are friends of my friends. So, we’re all gathering in a few days. And let’s not forget my online girlfriend, Julz(HOLLA!). I’m dragging her with me too. I’ll have my high school girlz, my college girl, and my post_babies girl, all in the same cabin. I can’t wait for Julz(HOLLA!) to meet the others and see that she is as extraordinary as they are. It’s like we’re destined to be together. Maybe we should form a band or something.
Saturday, we’ll head out to what I firmly believe will be the most therapeutic trip I’ve had in a long time. We’re bringing together 5 of the best WOMEN I’ve ever met. There’s others too. Somehow this group of 5 women is special. We deserve this moment to be together and sing silly love songs.
Ricardo is a bit concerned and has alerted the media, the fire department, the judge, and the police that we’re coming. As he should.
That’s how I roll.
Some friends and even family at times have sent me fan mail. I know. I’m that good folks. I get fan mail. But mostly it’s an inquiry about my other man, Ricardo.
“OMG, did you get divorced and remarry someone else!?” Pishaw. He’s not getting away from me THAT easy. More than once or twice, I’ve reconnected with someone and directed them to my blog of infinite wisdom and delight, only for the response of “Who’s Ricardo and what happened to HusbandX?” Including our lawyer. That must have been awkward. I’m sure the thought of “Neither of them called me to handle this” ran through his mind.
No. You see, Ricardo is not his real name. When I started this blog, I figured it would be best to only drag my husband into this brutal literature of comedy we call life at my house, if he had some kind of anonymity. He was okay with that, so in an effort to let him feel like he was even in control of THAT morsel of life with me, I let him choose his own name.
Why Ricardo? You say. Well, with every name, there’s an explanation, I suppose. So, here it is. Back when I was in grad school, I had a professor who I worked with in statistics. Yes, don’t tell anyone, but I secretly like statistics. So, ProfessorBrilliant (we’re still pals and he’s still brilliant) brought to my attention a little study he found that suggested the following:
In a black family, the mother is the one really in charge, calling all the shots.
In a hispanic family, the father is the one really in charge, calling all the shots.
And in a white family, the child is the one really in charge, calling all the shots.
If you think about it, off the stats, and in a social forum, this is very true. So, I went home and told Ricardo about it. I think I was pregnant at the time, so he wanted to change our last name to Perez immediately. But since we never did that, he gets Ricardo.
That’s how I roll. With the one and only Ricardo. (So he THINKS he’s in charge, statistically speaking.)
You know you’re getting old when you site the movie Caddyshack to some lifeguard who, mind you, is in charge of watching my children in water, yet hasn’t the maturity to know about a BabyRuth referral. Mo_ron.
Seriously, y’all. I’m at the pool, we’ve been there a long time. Every pool break the kids just kept wanting to stay. It’s the first day this summer that we’ve been able to swim. Ricardo keeps explaining that we live in Nebraska now, and summer hasn’t even begun yet? Really, hunny? Because mine has. The kids are out of preschool. They GRADUATED! Remember that? So, to me, it’s summer time. Apparently mother nature and the rambling idiot that can’t make up his mind, otherwise known as a weather man, they disagree with my theory. So, I let them stay.
We are very white folks, people. And by white, might I remind you of just how pastey I am, let alone, my sweet defenseless children. I put sunblock on them every break. I think. I don’t know, I was having too much fun slurping down margaritas and watching the kids have a ball all while lounging, painting my nails and reading a friend’s book.
It occurs to me at some point, that I might need to round the kids up and do something for dinner, make it look I’m a substantial contribution to society and my family and all that. So, I tell the kids. They’re having fun, and really do a great job of leaving when I say leave. So, they accept their fate of 10 more minutes and all is well with the world.
That’s when I look up and see a mom mention something to the lifeguard. Now, IF I were a “cougar”, I’m sure I’d mention just how cute this lifeguard boy is. But since I’m not, I won’t. Because clearly, he might have gotten a ride from his mom to work today. And that’s just wrong. Anyhoo, so, the mom says something, the lifeguard hops off his stand and comes to the zero entry of the pool, walks in a little, and looks down. Takes his glasses off, looks a little closer and confirms, we need to evacuate the pool because someone has just evacuated their bowels in the pool. My kids do as they are told and jump out of the water.
Good job, kids. So, after they are safely out of the nasty water, I start giggling. The lifeguard boy isn’t quite sure what to do now. I’m texting Ricardo, because to me, it’s funny. I’ve never seen this happen before, except on Caddy shack.
So, I say to the kid, “Heh heh, is that a BabyRuth in there?”
“What’s a BabyRuth?” Say what!? “I don’t know what a BabyRuth is, but I was supposed to be off my shift in ten minutes.” Poor guy. I’m sorry sweety. But I’ve ended many a shift cleaning up poo. So, I just kept giggling and texting. It’s all checks and balances.
It turns out my kids, and ME, are fried. I’m pretty upset with myself and am on a mission to let those kids have fun in the sun and not expose them to melanoma in the process.
That’s how I roll.
I’ve never liked Barbies. Not even when I was a kid, and certainly not now. But, Lucy has some. I’ll buy them for her, people. I’m not a total jerk. Ofcourse, when I buy them for her, I make sure she knows about it, “What does mommy say about Barbie sweetie?”
Lucy: “She is fun to play with, but she is plastic, disproportioned, no one has feet like that and she needs to eat a burger.”
“That’s right sweetie. Have fun playing!”
Personally, I’m jealous. Barbie has a play house in Lucy’s room. And it’s bigger than a crib. Also, Barbie has a better wardrobe than me. That’s not much of a stretch. Farley the Wonder Dog has a better wardrobe than me, too.
Lucy doesn’t really play with her Barbies much. And I’m happy to report it. But the other day, she opted to bring one in the car. That’s better than something with little pieces, or a ball, that always strays away and I ultimately put on my contortionist costume to get it back to my sweet little angel. So, we’re rollin down the road. And Lucy is role playing.
The first thing I hear is, “Can I lose my head for a minute?” It’s a mockery voice, and I was just about to yell at her on the complexity and hardships of being a mommy before she mocked me, when I realized, she was using her mockery voice for Barbie. Even better was she’d plucked Barbie’s head off and was using it as a finger puppet.
I used to think that Lucy was my favoriet because it was her water that broke when I went into labor. I was praying for it to happen, so she’s my angel. But today, today she’s my favorite because she’s just ripped the broad’s head off and is using it as a finger puppet.
Lucy and Barbie were in full_on dialogue. It went something like this:
Barbie: “Can I lose my head for a minute?”
Lucy: “Sure ‘Mom’.”
Barbie: “See my brains? I have to go to my program now.”
I had to pull over I was laughing so hard. I have no clue what program she’s referring to, but the fact that my daughter chose to mention that Barbie is in a “program” is absolute perfection.
That’s how I roll.
Is that frosting on your face, ma’am, or are you just happy to see me?
So, the other night, I’m laying here on the couch, minding my own damned business when thoughts of sugarplums start dancing in my head. Dangit. I was supposed to be good this week. Because Lori said the scale wouldn’t go down unless I changed my diet. I can only assume she would be referring to the late night sweet tooth of which my dentist has addressed much to my shagrin, as well. Darn you sugarplum fairies.
I do what every other person on a diet does. I start making inventory of what I have in the pantry. Most people on a diet, at this point, have eliminated crap food from their pantry though. Inventory: Marshmallows, mandarin oranges, chocolate syrup, peanut butter, a can of icing, shredded coconut…wait. A can of icing, son of a bitch! I go straight to it, pull off the aluminum seal and grab a spoon all in one very graceful and speedy swoop.
But, it’s vanilla, not vanilla cream, or whipped or anything like that. It’s not doing it for me. And you people with will power and discipline thought us dimpled_thighs wouldn’t be so picky. Pishaw! So, while I’m continuing to eat it, I choose to make things better.Ante up. Perhaps, I could make this can of icing HEALTHIER even. I get up. See, aerobics too. Take the can of frosting and dump it into my mixer bowl. I whip out the peanut butter. That’s protein, right? Kablammo! A cup of peanut butter. Did I just invent peanut butter icing! Nah, let’s add some antioxidants….that’s in chocolate right? Peanut butter chocolate icing.
The conundrum was, with such beauty and art in this delightfulness, I couldn’t just use a spoon to shove it in my mouth. No, that won’t do this new INVENTION justice. I searched in a panic. Nothing. DAMN! DAMN! DAMN! I resolve to just use my finger, and then the banana catches my eye. That’s it folks, I just added protein, antioxidants and finished off my daily intake of fruits all with a can of frosting. Oh Happy Day!
Fast forward to this evening, again, I’m laying on the couch, and I remember that I rolled by the dessert aisle and grabbed some brownie mix to use as an excuse, woops, I mean vehicle for the newly invented frosting. Is it me, or am I the only one who buys brownie mix to go with a kick ass peanut butter chocolate frosting I totally made up on my own. Is that just me?
That’s how I roll.