Undomestic Diva

It's not Halloween if there's no blood

You know, you just can't have Halloween without a little blood and gore. Only, usually it's all pretend. Not the case here in my household where having three young, raucous boys means having an adequate, involuntary blood donation available at all times.

Now, if only my middle child, LW (pronounced L-dub, of course) had opted to be a back-from-the-dead something or other for Halloween, it would have saved me some time on the make-up. But noooooooo, he wanted to be Spiderman which means clean up time for me. Fantastic.

Happy Frickin' Halloween

and the list continues...

11. Halloween costume D-R-A-M-A

Things I did not sign up for

When I signed up to be a mom, I guess I should have read the fine print. Apparently, there was a lot of fine print. Because I'm almost certain I did not sign up to do or be responsible as a mother for the following:

1. Potty Training

2. Explaining death

3. Pulling teeth (and no, I don't mean the amount of effort it takes a five-year-old to do anything, I'm referring to loose, nasty dangling enamel being pushed to and fro with a spotty tongue)

4. Scrubing poop off carpet, sliding glass doors and newly painted walls

5. Repeating the same empty threats my mother yelled at me when I was her age like "when I was your age..."

6. Being the bad guy

7. Wanting to kick another kid's ass for hurting my kid's feelings

8. Playdates and awkward park conversations with mothers I don't want to be friends with

9. Dinner table noise

10. Sitting in the germ-infested pediatrician's waiting room with my healthy child who is there for a yearly physical

How much time do you have? My list is never-ending... 

Wii, Wii, Wii... All the way home

I fought the good fight this morning. The fight I swore (prior to having kids, of course) I would never fight. I joined the Crazy People of America Association by lining up outside my local Target to get an effing Wii for my boys for Christmas.

And I was TRIUMPHANT!

But I am not proud. True, it was an adrenaline rush once I succeeded. But initially, I almost had a major panic attack when I learned that I would be racing toward the back of the store with two 70+ year old women and their token male companion (in case things got ugly) to snatch up my prize.

Others began showing up before the doors opened. Too many others. And when the curly haired teenager showed up with the keys, there was a struggle. She jiggled and wiggled and twisted and turned. My stomach fluttered and muttered and churned. My heart raced as she pulled the key back out of the lock... WITHOUT UNLOCKING IT! and turned to her BFF and co-worker to discuss world issues - I'm sure - while all us crazy folk got antsy. About half a second before we all broke out into a riot, Blondy decided to actually open the door... a full minute after 8:00 am. (Oh don't you worry... I will be calling Corporate.)

Let me tell you, the doors banged open and I didn't even stop to get a cart. My brain argued against itself as to whether I should go straight up the clothing aisle, making a sharp turn at Men's clothing and accessories OR take an immediate left at purses and jewelry, swing a right at greeting cards and a left after the toys to get to my destination. I ended up choosing my first option, partly because the old ladies were headed that way and I figured they had many more years of experiencing this kind of rush so I'd just follow their lead.

I was about to power walk my way to fame when my stupid conscience tried to make me feel bad about leaving old Grandma in the dust. "Fine," I thought to myself, angry at my mother for teaching me good morals. "But if I don't get the frickin' Wii, then... old Grandma might just get mugged in the parking lot," I reasoned.

As Grandma and I quickly approached the electronics counter, I could hear the sounds of screeching wheels coming from the alternative route. It was none other than our enemies, apparently the stop-and-smell-the-roses-and-get-a-cart kind of people. They didn't this very seriously, obviously.

At once, we all arrived at the Wii aisle in one big clump of carts and purses and anxiety. None of us could actually fit within the aisle because no one would let anyone else in. A snotty Target employee who seemed miffed that we were all up in his video game aisles chastised us and ordered us to get in a line.

Of course it took us a few too many seconds to unravel ourselves into a functional line, but we managed. Some lady with a very porous nose got in front of me and said, "Don't worry, I'm sure there are enough." I was about to kick her ass and tell her "Look, laaaady, there better be enough because I know your ass wasn't here before mine," and that's when Snotty Target Guy informed us there were 10 Wii's and there were... 10 of us.

Whew. Now that was close.

PSA: Halloween Warning

As a prelude to the upcoming Halloween festivities you and your family are about to endure, please, please, puh-lease allow me to post this Public Service Announcement as a kind reminder of last year's Halloween Hell:

Do not forget about the ill affects of mixing kids and candy just prior to bedtime. Minor to major injuries can occur once sugar high has ceased and dramatic outbursts of tears and tantrums have replaced the euphoric joy that a Snickers and Skittles combo gifted your child only a few moments prior. Symptoms include (but are not limited to) crying for no goddamn reason whatsoever, excessive whining, drop-to-the-ground-and-smack-their-head-in-the-process tantrums, and multiple water requests after tucking them in. Parents must ignore these episodes as there is currently no cure for such inexplicable behavior in children. Please note that holding them, watering them and asking them to use their words instead of crying inconsolably will not lessen the drama. Parents of two or more children should seek immediate treatment for PTSS (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome) to avoid permanent scarring.

This has been a Public Service Announcement paid for by the Mothers of Not Enough Birth Control Organization. Thank you.

Aren't kids fantastic??

If you want the truth about something, anything, just ask a five year old. Or any kid under the age of 8 who does not yet comprehend the idea of tactfulness. Often, you don't even have to ask them what they think, they're perfectly willing to tell you on their own.

Sitting at the dinner table the other night, my four year old, the E-Train as we call him (long story), asked my husband and I "Did you hear the news?" We exchanged glances, wondering why in the hell a four year old even cared about the news. Confused, I asked him, "What news?" He promptly and happily replied, "That you're stupid."

Now my kids can come up with some off the wall BS that sometimes makes me shake my head and wonder why exactly I kept having children, but this time I was truly stunned. As if he weren't even speaking English, I said, "What??" Which, of course, only provided further proof of his breaking news. "You're stooooopid. That's what the news says" he repeats slowly, careful to enunciate each word in case I'm just too stupid to understand.

Needless to say, my husband quickly dispensed of him from the dinner table so I didn't go Andrea Yates on him. Lucky little bastard, let me tell you. At least this joyful little exchange of love and warmth took place in the privacy of our home. There have many times when I haven't been as fortunate.

It merely requires a public place full of non-kid-friendly patrons for your child or, even better, someone else's child to point out the big red zit on your forehead or the spot of who-knows-what on the back of your pants or to ask you life's most pertinent questions like, "Why are your teeth yellow?" or "Why do you have so much hair in your nose?" and best, "Is my butt gonna get as BIG as yours?" That's when you just smile as you grind your teeth and quietly reply, "I don't know you little shit."

But it doesn't just happen to me, I know it. And yes, I'm glad others are suffering too. That's right, I take absolute joy in the fact that someone else is being ridiculed and humiliated by their child also. 'Cause you know it's funny when it happens to someone else.

As I watered the plants in the front yard, I saw a man walking his little girl and her friend home from the nearby elementary school. As I stood there thinking how sweet and angelic girls must be, how loving and calm they probably are in comparison to my raucous boys, I overhead the daughter of the man say to the other little girl, "My mom makes my dad wear his shirt all the time because he has hairy nipples." I just smiled and waved they walked past.

Now, I'm may be stooooopid, but THAT is funny.

Venti BTL sweetened, please

I have an addiction that is out-of-control and frankly, I'm not ready to quit. There's no 12-step program (yet) for my - and every other Starbucks lovin' freak's - seriously frightening coffee addiction. But that's ok because I am absolutely fine with the fact that I need coffee like fish need water, people need oxygen and women need Target.

One-pump mochas, grande drips with room for cream, tall coffee-light frappuccinos - no whip, tall-in-a-grande extra ice carmel macchiatos, cappuccinos with extra foam and the seasonal indulgences like gingerbread lattes and pumpkin spice lattes... I love them all. I've even added tea to my resume, finding refreshment and thirst quenching goodness in the arms of passion tea lemonades and my new favorite, black tea lemonades sweetened. I don't discriminate.

It does however, get a bit embarrassing when baristas know your drink before you order, call you by name like an old pal and qualify as godparents to your children. For me, it's not just the store in my neighborhood... or even my city... or my Target. I can be a city or two away and find a barista who knows my name and drink. My husband says this is grounds (heh, heh) for intervention. I think he's kidding himself.  

I suppose you could say my addiction is a point of contention on the home front. My two year old feels he's also entitled to a "hot coffee" whenever we merely head in the same Northwesterly direction as our closest Starbucks. My four year old, a cloned copy of my husband the Candy Ass, whines each time we enter the Starbucks shopping center complaining, "Why do you have to get a coffee EVERY time we go somewhere?" My husband has learned to just shut up and deal, giving up on the idea of talking me out of my very serious needs.

And my needs are serious. Whether we're going to a Saturday T-ball game,  heading to Anaheim to visit the Happiest F-ing Place on Earth, or going to the bank to get more money for more coffee, my Starbucks stop gets factored into our departure time. I think MapQuest should seriously consider allotting time and including a map to the nearest Starbucks when giving you directions. It's just natural.

I don't see the problem with my undying love of the bitter percolated heaven that is coffee. When I start adding whiskey to spruce it up a bit, then maybe there's an issue. But for now, I'm good. Right? 

Some genius, out to make money and a name for himself, needs to begin a support group for coffee addicts' families though. You know, just so they can learn to cope. Maybe they could come up a catchy acronym to brand it like CAFFE: Coffee Addicts' Families For Encouragement. (Hmm... makes me kinda want a tall caffe vanilla latte... maybe that won't work after all.) Either way, I'm almost certain the problem doesn't lie with me so much as everyone else needs to just GET A GRIP AND ACCEPT ME FOR WHO I AM!! Damn it! 

Ok, so maybe I need to cut back a little. 

Nah.

 

Still burning

As you already know, we in Southern California are under siege, at the mercy of unrelenting fire, wind and heat. 60 + mph winds began around 2:00 am on Sunday and have not stopped yet. Meteorologists keep extending the "high wind warnings" and it doesn't look good.

It's literally raining ash and blowing debris... pieces of roof, embers, Halloween yard decorations and trash. The dryness and smoke make my nose feel like I've snorted chlorine and my eyes tear in my own house. At 7 am today it was already 81 degrees which is unbelievably cruel on Mother Nature's part.

I feel completely awful for those who are facing the devastation of lost homes, frantic evacuations and chaos. I can't imagine losing everything you have... just gone in minutes. Photographs, children's preschool artwork, everything. 

Could we just get back to normal so I don't feel so guilty about wanting to bitch about more trivial subjects?

On fire

Unless you're living under a rock, (or just avoiding the ever delightful news on a Sunday) you've probably heard that Southern California is on fire. (Malibu, Castaic/Piru among others. Many others.) This includes areas within just a couple miles of me and the view from my front door is frightening. I've posted a few photos taken this afternoon in an album to give you an idea. (Photos are horrific, but I wasn't about to get closer.)

Who am I?

Like I even know the answer to that one. But, let me give you an idea  of who I am: a mess.

I grew up Mormon and have not seen the inside of the Mormon church since the day I turned 18. Mormons, in general, are great people. But I wasn't so faithful. I'm not sure if it was the fact that a bishop once told me I'm going to hell for not believing or the "no coffee" rule that led me astray, but I no longer consider myself Mormon. And let's just leave it at that.

Speaking of coffee, it's my number one vice. I would divorce my husband if I could have a meaningful relationship with the mermaid on the Starbucks cup. I also swear way too much and like it. I have a terrible mouth which my two-year-old has now inherited. This both scares me and makes me quite proud at the same time.

I write a monthly column for the local newspaper on parenting inconveniences and then promptly receive hate mail and totally relevant advice from 80 year old men. I have my own photography business and do weddings, portraits and events on weekends. I guess I'm still considered a SAHM - a title I loathe. I guess you could say I'm a desperate housewife in the sense that I am desperate to get out of the house...wife.

And oh yeah, I've got three young boys, far too close in age, that I have given life to and now pass on my sarcasm and hatred for inconsiderate people on a daily basis. On good days, my boys amaze me. On bad days, my boys amaze me. I'm starting to think there is some sort of science behind the "getting-back-what-you-gave-your-parents" theory. Ugh.

I am married. To a computer guy that is incredibly intelligent and driven... just not driven to do my website. [jerk] It follows the same protocol of other professionals - the way psychologists always have the most effed up kids and how landscapers usually don't have nice yards. We met when I was 15 and have been together since. (I'll wait while you roll your eyes and simultaneously gag.) We usually don't agree on much and are both so stubborn that we end up in these healthy stand-offs to see who gives in first. But when we're good, we're great. And I still think he's sexy.

I suck at cooking and don't really have much of a desire to be good at it. (A real estate agent was once showing us houses and trying to sell a particular one by pushing the "large gourmet kitchen" which, for me and only me, was a total waste of space.)

There are a few things I can make, and I do attempt making a home cooked meal at least five nights of the week, but it's not always fabulous. Or edible.

At least once per meal, I have to call my friend Tami (who is BETTER than Martha, BTW) and ask her some retarded question like, "Does a teaspoon mean a heaping teaspoon or just level or... which one is the teaspoon again? The big one or little one?" We won't even discuss the Easter I ruined for my kids when I was in charge of hard boiling all 60 eggs. Let's just say there weren't any egg salad sandwiches to be had.

I also have a tendency to burn myself in many of my cooking attempts. Reference: The Fire of 2003 and/or The Chocolate Fondue Explosion Using a Homemade Double-Boiler. I could go on but I might embarrass myself.

I also despise cleaning enough not to do it until things get borderline NASTY. I really wish, truly wish I had the motivation to scrub urine off of toilets or obliterated Poptart pieces off the high chair seat on a daily basis, but it just ain't happenin'.

I am good at laundry... in the sense that I can handle washing cold only, don't use fabric softner (when do you put that in anyway?) and never seem to get around to actually folding it.

One might call me undomestic.

Other things you should know about me: I frequently go off on tangents and never return. I try to pass myself off as "tenacious" instead of ungrateful. I love my kids to no end, but that doesn't mean I can't complain about them. I'm not warm and fuzzy, I'm cold and sarcastic. I don't like showing affection - ever - but I am very emotional at times.

Told you I'm a big ol' mess. But if you can deal, I hope you'll stick around and not take things too seriously.

Stay tuned for updates, I'll be posting frequently.

~ Megan