I'm really not that busy

Finding hilarity in the mundane since 2008

I really don’t want to understand this

I took Cooper to McDonald’s for lunch today.  When I took off his shoes so he could play on the slide, he asked if he could take off his socks too.  I said no at first, but he became quite insistent (read: began working up a hysterical fit).  So I assessed the cleanliness of the floor: adequate for a fast food restaurant; the cleanliness of the play equipment: visibly clean; the cleanliness of the other children: not very, which was good because the parents of clean kids would have objected to my kid being barefoot.  With all the variables considered, I let him take off his socks.  Once barefoot, he cheerfully hopped out of his seat and pulled down his pants.

I think I yelled something like, “Gah, what the fu-udge sickles are you doing?  You have to keep your pants on!”

He replied, “But they get in my way when I play with the other kids.”


Boys are gross

Cooper loves those frozen pancakes you get in a big bag at Wal-Mart.  Lately he has begun eating them actually frozen.  Yes it’s weird; however, is that the battle you want to fight at 7 a.m.?  Yeah, me neither.  Plus it saves on dishes.

Today he either lost his pancake, or decided he was finished and couldn’t be bothered with walking to the trash can.  He laid it half-eaten on the chair in my bedroom where it sat unnoticed for twelve hours.

Around 7 p.m. Jack found it, picked it up, and ate it.


So I have a part-time job now.  I’m working a few hours a week at a local chiropractic office.  Helping them collect on overdue accounts and other officey-type things.  The work is easy, my co-workers are swell, and I get to wear scrubs.

Holy shit, why did no one tell me about scrubs before now?  I’ve spent the bulk of the last three years in questionably clean sweat pants and fuzzy socks.  Scrubs are better.

I got scrubs for Christmas and was tempted to wear them the rest of the day.  Christmas.  The day you wear your pajamas all day.  I wanted to change into something more comfortable.

Since I discovered scrubs, I’ve had one question playing on an endless loop in my head: Why don’t women wear these things everywhere?

College girls who go to Target in Hello Kitty fleece and Uggs, get some scrubs, they have Hello Kitty prints.  Eco-mommies who wear yoga pants to the farmer’s market, get some scrubs, they make them in organic cotton and recycled polyester.  Grandmas in holiday themed turtlenecks from Wal-Mart, get some scrubs, they make some really ugly (but comfortable) holiday styles.

Yeah sure, they make scrubs for men too.  But let’s face it, when you see a guy walking around in scrubs, you assume he’s an x-ray tech who wants you to think he’s a doctor.  Not cool.

But when you see a woman in scrubs, she’s automatically a nurse.  Case in point…

Thursday after work, I swung by the house to get Jack and we went to the grocery store.  We were making our annual junk food run for New Year’s Eve.  When we hit the snack cake aisle I knew it was going to take him a while to decide.  Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, Swiss Cake Rolls, Nutty Bars, it’s a life changing choice when you’re eight-years-old.  So I left him pondering and skipped ahead to grab chips and salsa.  When I got back to his aisle, he had not moved and no snack cakes were in his hand.  So I parked my cart and headed toward him, ready to pull out the “choose or go without” speech.

As I walked down the aisle, another family turned up the aisle and started in my direction.  Then something horrible happened.  The little girl in their cart started to choke.  I don’t mean coughing like she swallowed wrong.  I mean red faced, no noise, panicked eyes, CHOKING.  I froze right in front of them.  The mother said, “raise your arms above your head” and kept shopping.  The little brother started to cry.  The dad, jerked the girl up and started pounding her back.  Then she gagged and out came a mint.

The dad then looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “Thank you for coming to help.”  Then he turned to his daughter and said, “That lady is a nurse and she was coming to help you.”  The little girl looked up at me and said, “Thank you.”  The mom said, “Come on, we need cereal.”

The first thing I thought was: Why I gotta be a nurse?  Why am I not a doctor?  Next was: Damn, I’m glad I didn’t have to fake my way through the Heimlich.  Third was: I totally understand that mom’s reaction (or lack thereof).

Since that incident, I’ve decided to limit my scrubs to work and home.  That babysitting course with bonus CPR training I had when I was twelve does lend a bit of credibility to my scrubs, but not enough to actually make me a trained medical care provider.  I’d hate to be faced with a real emergency and have to say, “Sorry he’s bleeding to death, got any medical records you need copied?”

In which her absence becomes clear

So my life has been turned around, violently shaken and left for dead since I last wrote.

Too dramatic.

A not good thing happened a few months ago.

Too vague.

Okay, here’s the chizz (or shizz, or whatever it is the cool kids are saying these days)… Tony got laid off.

He is fine, I am fine, the kids are fine.  Everything is fine, fine, fine.

Until June.  When the insurance runs out.  Then I will be feeling un-fine.  Until then I choose to smile, nod, and feel…. fine.

Clearly, my life has changed a bit since I last wrote.  Let’s go over some of the changes.

  • Tony no longer travels four days a week.
  • We now have a car payment because his job included a car and we aren’t good sharers.
  • We have another cell phone to pay for.
  • Tony is home during the day.
  • My computer has become “our” computer.
  • And by “our” I mean his until I throw a temper tantrum or steal it when he goes pee.
  • Cooper started mother’s day out.
  • Cooper loves mother’s day out.
  • Cooper is still a complete brat.
  • Except at mother’s day out.
  • Jack is exactly the same.
  • Tony is mildly medicated.
  • I am more strongly medicated.
  • Tony is home all the damn time.
  • I have a part-time job.
  • We went through our budget and cut out all the stupid things we were doing to waste money.
  • We did this without arguing.
  • Really.  No arguing.  Where the hell is my Nobel Peace Prize?
  • Tony has lost over twenty pounds simply by eating smaller portions.
  • I am now eating his old portion sizes and expect to outgrow all my pants any day now.
  • Shut up, I can still zip them if I lie down.
  • Tony doesn’t go out of town anymore.
  • Ever.
  • Seriously.  He’s here when I get up, he’s here when I go to bed.  He never leaves.
  • We got rid of Dish network & AT&T and bundled our TV, inernet, & phone with Cox cable.
  • I love Cox.
  • I would shout that from a mountaintop, but am afraid people would misunderstand and make inappropriate suggestions to me.
  • I have clearly lost my train of thought….

Stay tuned.

We Really Need a New Dry Cleaner

I’m not sure how to tastefully proceed with this post.  I’ll just be frank, it’s about poop.  Not cute kid poop.  My poop.  If you don’t want to read about my poop, stop reading now, I’ll understand.

Okay, consider yourself warned.

This morning I awoke with a bellyache.  It’s Friday and I hadn’t “gone” since Sunday, so the bellyache was no surprise.  I’m not a daily “goer”, but that’s a long time, even for me.

I decided it was time to give nature a helping hand, so I took a pill that is supposed to work quickly and without cramping then went about my usual school-day morning.  Since it’s Friday, I needed to drop off Tony’s dry cleaning after taking Jack to school.

As Cooper and I set off for the cleaners, I had the same thought I have every Friday morning: we have got to get a new dry cleaner.  We’ve used the same cleaners for years and originally chose them because the location was close to our respective places of business.  But now, I have no place of business and Tony’s work either takes him out of town, or leaves him holed up in his home office like a hibernating bear.

About halfway there, I had the feeling that I needed to pass gas (Warning, things go downhill fast from here.  You should really stop reading if you know me and want to be able to look me in the eye without giggling).  Having taken that particular pill before, I knew that what felt like a tiny fart might actually be big and… here goes… wet.  So I clenched my cheeks and pressed the accelerator down a bit.  As I wove in and out of the morning traffic, the feeling passed.  My relief was short lived.

I arrived at the dry cleaner and was glad to see only a single truck in front of me.  Soon my relief turned to annoyance and then outrage as I witnessed the dry cleaning employee and driver of the truck chatting and laughing rather than conducting business.  I was just about to yell, “Hey, lady about to shit herself back here” when the truck pulled away.  Yes, I can still refer to myself as a lady with a straight face.

I was handing the bag of dry cleaning over when the first wave of cramping hit me.  What.  The.  Fuck.  That’s not supposed to happen with this medicine.  I took a deep breath, concluded my transaction, and pulled away from the window.

I navigated the parking lot with one hand and wiped the sweat from my brow with the other.  Then a wail went up from the middle row of the mama-mobile.  I had forgotten to request a sucker.

I sighed, clenched my butt tighter, and circled back to the dry cleaner.  I was now behind three cars.  Another cramp hit and I think I passed out for a few seconds. When we got to the window I said, “wejustdrovethroughandIforgottoaskforasuckercanhehaveoneplease?” The man looked confused, but the cries of, “sucker, Sucker, SUCKER!” from the back cleared it up.  He handed me three suckers and I tossed them behind me.  My tires actually squealed as I pulled away.

Things got much worse after this.  I can’t remember the exact order of events.  I was a bit distracted and they all felt simultaneous to me.  I’ll cheat here and use bullet points.

  • Cooper freaked out again because he wanted me to take his sucker wrapper.  I wouldn’t take it from him for it for fear that reaching back would create a millimeter of space between my ass and the car seat and a millimeter would be enough for crap to come shooting out of me.
  • I realized I did not have my purse and driving without my license makes me ridiculously paranoid.
  • I also realized I was not wearing underwear, which meant there was only one layer between me and the car seat.  I was not interested in testing the absorbency of my pajama pants so I began to sit on one of my hands as if it’s presence would hold the poop in.
  • I tailgated someone and got flipped off.  Normally I give a cheerful wave to anyone who flips me off, but I didn’t have a free hand.
  • I did a rolling stop at a sign that is often watched by a cop.
  • My mind slipped into a day-mare about being pursued by the cops while driving without my license.  In this imagined scenario they chased me all the way home and shoved tickets under the bathroom door while I pooped.
  • Cooper freaked out some more because the sun was in his eyes and I wouldn’t give him my glasses.  They were my regular glasses and giving them to him wouldn’t have helped with the sun and would have rendered me blind.  More day-mares about traffic tickets ensued.
  • I used the center turn lane to pass a very old man who was driving a very old Cadillac.
  • I sped on a street that is often patrolled by a cop.
  • I cursed aloud for using a dry cleaner so far away from home.
  • I had more day-mares.

Finally, I arrived home.  I jumped out of the car, left it running, and left Cooper buckled in.  In the house, I called out to Tony, “GetCooperoutofthecarIhaven’tpooped sinceSunday!” Then I shuffle-ran to the bathroom while holding both hands over my butt-hole.


I’ve been absent, but I feel like coming back now.  And that’s all I have to say about that.

I have some stuff rolling around in my head.  I’ll probably tell you about it, but I’m going to start with an easy little anecdote.

Cooper just got up from his nap (notice I did not say woke up from his nap).  He asked for a piece of candy.  I reluctantly agreed.  He chose Starbursts and specified that he wanted, “all of them.”  I opened the package & handed him the two candies.  He looked at them and said, “No, I want all of them.”  I explained only two come in the halloween package.  He replied, “Dammit.”


I’m a crappy mom.


Potty break = Fail

So I was gonna write about the lady who felt herself up while talking to me in Big Lots the other day.  But something else happened before I could get to that.  As far as disturbing goes, it’s really hard to top a grown woman grabbing her boobs and jiggling them up and down all while talking to a complete stranger, but for me, this does.

This morning Cooper and I resumed our Monday morning Wal-Mart trips.  Everything was going just like it always did.  We got some popcorn chicken, considered the popsicles and ended up choosing the same ones we always do, and smelled all the bubble baths until we found the best scent.  It was great fun.  When he’s in a good mood, Cooper is fabulous company.  When he’s in a bad mood, the sky darkens, sinkholes appear, and birds drop out of the sky plucked and charred. But that’s another post altogether.

This morning one major thing was different from the last time we had a regular school schedule.  Cooper is no longer wearing a diaper or having accidents.  Mostly.  Today there was an accident.  He ended up covered in pee.  And… it was pretty much my fault.

It was 8:35 and I was down to four items on my list.  I was silently congratulating myself for the speedy shopping trip, when everything ground to a halt.  Cooper said those words that all mamas hate to hear in public: I have to pee.  Let’s face it.  NO ONE likes to use public restrooms, but when you have to take your child into one, the dislike intensifies to revulsion.

So we went to the back of the store because they have a “family bathroom.”  I like these better than the ladies room because they have the tiny little toilets that only kids can use.  Knowing that no one took a grow-up sized dump in it or dealt with other adult hygiene issues on that toilet makes it easier for me to let my little one use it.  However, its still a public potty.  Just a very tiny one.

So Cooper went pee-pee in the potty and we clapped and danced and all the shit you do to make your kid stop wanting to wear diapers.  But, we didn’t flush because it was an automatic flusher.  Big mistake.

I guess automatic flushers don’t always recognize when little boys have peed in the potty, so it didn’t flush.  I was going to manually flush it, but I wanted to pull up his pants first.  When I went to pull up his shorts, I grabbed his belt loops and this lifted him off the ground instead of just pulling his shorts up.  That caused him to fall forward at the waist right toward the potty.  I was certain he was going face first into the piss filled bowl, but he stuck his right hand out to catch himself and it went into the bowl instead.  I was instantly relieved that he hadn’t smashed his face into a public toilet, but my relief turned to horror when I realized his open hand hitting the toilet had caused the contents to splash all over him.  His shirt was soaked, his face was wet, there were even drops clinging to his hair.  My baby was covered with Wal-Mart pee water.

I died for just a second.

Then I smiled and said, “Oops!  Let’s dry you off.”  I scrubbed his hands and face with soapy water.  Then I quickly bought the last four items on my list, went through the check-out, sped home, and threw the frozen stuff & milk into the fridge.  Then I drew him a nice big bath with his brand new bubbles.

He’s fine and hasn’t even mentioned it again.  I’m traumatized and will never again allow him to leave the house without using the potty.  Twice.

The other day I murdered a braless lady

One day last week, I took the boys out for a fast food lunch.  We are all trying to eat healthier, but sometimes a kid just needs to eat some crap and climb around in plastic tubes for a while.  Because we were just going to McDonald’s, I didn’t take any special care with my appearance.

That means I didn’t shower, was wearing at least one thing I slept in, and my hair may not have been brushed.  Basically, I looked like I look right now.  Here I’ll take a picture…

Yeah, so I look like hell a lot of the time.  Whatever.

I’m sitting there reading while my kids burn off their empty calories and get those preservatives and additives well distributed in their cells so a few can mutate into cancer in forty years, when a lady stops by my table.  Now, I like to talk to strangers, but I don’t like them invading my space or touching me, my kids, or my stuff.  This lady leans over me and rests her saggy right boob on my left shoulder.  Then she grabs my favorite bookmark which was handmade by Jack in kindergarten.

“Oh how sweet.  I’ll bet you treasure this,” she said.

“Yes, I do,” I replied, barely resisting the urge to snatch it from her.  Actually, I didn’t really resist, I was momentarily paralyzed by the shock of her unfettered breast touching my person.

“Those boys, sure are cute.  Are you their mom or grandma?”


*blink blink*

*blink blink blink*

Several more moments of blinking pass before I have fully processed what she said.

Then I clicked my dentures, adjusted my wig, grabbed my cane and beat her to death with it.

Job Hunting for Schmucks

I’m not sure how it happened, but around 11 a.m. today, Tony and I found ourselves alone in the house with nothing to do.  Because he travels frequently and I usually have a child or two requiring my attention, this is a rare occurrence.  Of course we did what any healthy, young, married couple would do.  We went to the movies.

That’s not a euphemism.

We saw Dinner for Schmucks.  On the drive home we discussed the movie.  I felt it was silly, but in a good way.  Tony was bothered that the title is “Dinner for Schmucks”, yet they never refer to the dinner as such.  They call it “the dinner” or “dinner for idiots”, but I don’t recall hearing the word schmuck even once during the movie.  This didn’t bother me until he pointed it out.  Now it’s driving me nuts.  Damn mind control.

When we got home we did what any healthy, young, married couple would do.  We went to our respective computers and checked our email.

Again, not a euphemism.

I was delighted to continue my schmuck themed day with this inbox gem.  It’s an actual cover letter that accompanied a real resume submitted by a legitimate job seeker earlier today.  I can’t say who sent it on to me, because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but I promise it’s not fabricated.

That’s it, no more cuteness allowed

Today Cooper was particularly cute.  His hair was combed, he was clean, and his clothes matched right down to his shades.  He said hello to strangers, smiled his devilish little grin, and held up three fingers in a wobbly “okay” sign to indicate how many fingers old he is.  You know, the complete opposite of his normal appearance and behavior. An older man in line with us at the bookstore found him particularly charming and asked for my permission to give him a quarter.  I agreed, and as he fished through a handful of coins to pick the shiniest one, he told me he had grandchildren and even great-grandchildren he had never met.  He said, “My kids told their kids I was dead.”  As Cooper snatched the coin into his greedy little paw, my mouth spoke, “Thank you.”  At the same moment my brain slapped me upside the head and said, “You fucking idiot, you just taught your kid to take money from a pedophile!”

Elves, knives, and razors… Oh my!

So I was attacked by the Keebler Elves today.  No, they didn’t force feed me an entire package of Fudge Stripes.  I can do that without any help at all, thank you.  Seriously, here’s what happened…

I was sitting on the couch working on a post that was sure to bring world peace, end world hunger, and make the World Cup finally end, when I heard a tiny knock on the front door.  I didn’t see anyone through the peephole, so I threw the door open prepared to run down some ding-dong ditchers.  However, no children were beating a hasty retreat from my house.  I looked around in confusion when a little voice called, “Hey, lady, look down.”  And there they were: Ernie, Ma Keebler, the tall one who packs the fudge (between the EL Fudge cookies, get your mind out of the gutter!), the token Puerto Rican, the token black, the female in purple, and the female in yellow who looks like Michelle Duggar.

Only they weren’t smiling, and they were wielding tiny knives.  Ernie stepped forward and said,  “We’re gonna cut you good, bitch. Uncommonly good.”  Then they all jumped forward and began hacking at my legs.

I started screaming, “Why?  I’m a loyal customer!  I tell everyone I know that Townhouse taste better than Ritz!  Why, Ernie, why?”

Ma Keebler said, “Like you don’t know.  You’ve been passing off our Soft Batch cookies as homemade, bitch.”

“No!  No, that’s not me.  It’s that über-mom across the street.  The one with all the kid-related bumper stickers on her van.”

Then Ernie held up his hand for them to stop, “You mean those bumper stickers for every activity the kid is in?  Like ‘Rosedale Softball, Jordan #9’ and ‘Junior accordian champs 2007 ‘  I hate that shit.”

“Oh my gosh, me too!”  I said.  “Like you need to advertise that you’ve martyred your whole life to your kids’ activities.”

“Okay, boys, let’s head across the street.  Sorry for the attack.  Here’s a coupon for Gripz.”

Shaken, I shut the door.  After I caught my breath I headed for the pantry and pulled a package of cookies down from behind the George Foreman Grill.  As I bit into the chewy, chocolaty perfection that is a Soft Batch, I thought to myself, “Meh, she probably had it coming.”

Okay, here’s what really happened….

Halfway through my shower I realized my razor blade was dull.  I had to climb out of the shower dripping wet to look for a new one, but there were no new razor blades in my cabinets.  Finally I found a single blade disposable razor.  I stood there shivering and debated.  Which is worse, fancy four blade that’s gotten dull, or unused single blade?  I went with the unused single blade.  Now I look like I was attacked by knife wielding elves.

lem. on. ade.

Cooper is extremely willful.  I don’t mean normal, three-year-old, testing the limits of his control, willful.  I mean drive your mama to drink, willful.  He will go to bed complaining that he wants to play with his mini-bowling pins a little longer and when I wake him the next morning he pops up and says, “I bowl now.”  This kid is less dog with a bone, and more wolf with a filet.

So tonight we were headed out for some home cooking at Neal’s Cafe (cause Lord knows there was none to be had at our house). On the way, we asked Cooper what he wanted to eat.  He replied, “Macaroni & cheese and lemonade.”  We were immediately concerned that Neal’s might not have lemonade.  So we began a round of our favorite game: Can you outwit a three-year-old?

It started with a simple,”What if they don’t have lemonade?”

He replied, “I want to drink lemonade.”

Then I threw in a, “I bet they have Sprite.”

He replied, “I have lemonade.”

So Tony got philosophical on him and said, “If we were going to a restaurant without lemonade, what would you order to drink?”

Cooper said, “LEM. ON. ADE.” (He seriously added pauses between the syllables.  I’m so proud to be raising another smart-ass.)

I’m pretty sure he also mumbled, “You fucking idiots, what do you not understand about lemonade?”

As we were being seated, I noticed Hi-C lemonade on the soda dispenser and breathed a sigh of relief.  Then I picked up the menu and saw they only have mac & cheese on Mondays.

If you keep that up you’ll go blind

Several weeks ago I went to a new eye doctor who was either a complete loon or a total genius.  I’m leaning toward loon.  During our in depth discussion of my retina, optical nerves, eating habits, and obstetrical history, he said I was slowly going blind because I had babies and gave them all my folate during the first trimester.  Great, just one more way these damn kids have ruined me.  High blood pressure: check.  Belly fat: check.  Occasional urinary incontinence: check.  Failing eyesight: what the fuck?  Anyway, Dr. Loon also determined I have a lot of headaches.  I pointed out I don’t have that many headaches.  He replied, “You will because you eat cereal and drink coffee.”  This morning I woke with a headache and my first thought was, “Shit, Dr. Loon cursed me because I didn’t get the blood test he advised.”

Cut to 7:10, Jack is bouncing off the walls, Cooper is cranky, and my coffee is still steeping.  I need Jack to sit down, I need Cooper to shut up, and I need a tourniquet and syringe so I can mainline the coffee.  Since we’re fresh out of drug paraphernalia, I opted for this…

Now it’s an hour later and that coffee is history.  I finished it off with a nice bowl of cereal.  Oh, and my headache is gone too.  Take that Dr. Loon!








I love everything about you, even when I don’t like much about you.  Happy third birthday, tooter pants.

I drink beer because as little as a teaspoon of water can drown you

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