Undomestic Diva

Epiphany!

I had an epiphany this weekend and I can't seem to get a grip on what it means exactly. All you psychoanalytical types should have a field day with this one.

Admiring my middle guy, L-Dub, fixing me a supposed fruit salad out of make-believe plastic vegetables, I told my grandmother that he's going to be a chef today (after retiring from the UFC, that is) because he loves to cook, or at least pretend to cook, and he's always wanting to help in the kitchen. (Not help me, of course, but my mom who has the patience and actually uses her kitchen.)

Just a little while later I was telling my grandma a funny story about E-man and how he was watching that annoying "I Love Toy Trains!" DVD for the billionth time and saw the little commercial at the end that tells children to stop by their store in Michigan. They show the store, a wonderland of model trains running in every direction, through tunnels and over bridges and crashing into each other... There's nothing more appealing to the E-man. For days, E-man kept asking me if we could go to Mexican. Huh? Finally he said, "Mexican! The place where the toy train store is." Oh. "You mean Michigan?"

The next morning I came out to find E-man with my old bible (from my days of growing up Mormon) and he had it opened up to the back where there are a few maps of what I would assume is, like, the holy land or something. He looked up at me, very seriously, and said, "Hey mom, I think I found the best route to get to Michigan" as he traced his finger across the page.

My grandma just laughed, knowing only the E-man could come up with such a thing. I then told her how he'd just about made me choke on my dinner the other night when he asked if anymore babies were going to come out of my stomach. "Um, no," I replied rather insistently. Immediately, he retorted with, "Well, that's what you were made to do." What? I guess that's what we get for having him in a holy rollin' private Christian preschool.

I asked my grandma, E-man's going to grow up to be a bishop or priest or something, isn't he? Again, she just laughed.

Then there's Big T, my youngest, who will literally throw a blood-curdling tantrum if you don't let him use the vacuum. And I mean, he doesn't just want to push it around; he wants to plug it in, turn it on and diligently vacuum the same two foot square spot on our rug over and over again. One morning, while trying to get a few other things done, I went on ahead and let him vacuum for two and a half hours. And he cried when I finally turned it off. Hey. It's not child labor if he likes it, right?

Suddenly, as I told these funny little stories to my grandma, it occurred to me (epiphany!) that my kids are becoming everything I'm not: E-man the faithful, L-Dub the chef and Big T the clean one.

I'm not sure what this says about me - or about them - or about how I'm raising them, but it's kinda ironic, right? In a funny, ha ha kind of way?? Unless, of course, it means that E-man has been neglected in the spiritual department and is therefore seeking it out or that L-Dub is interested in learning how to cook because, well, I suck at it. And does that mean we live in such filth that Big T, at two years old, is taking it upon himself to handle my bidness?

Shit.

I asked.

ME: You're sure full of piss and vinegar. Where did you get all that piss and vinegar from?

L-DUB: The internet.

Slip-N-Slidin'

It ain't easy being a mom and if anyone ever said it is, than it must have been Candy Ass a man. A stupid, stupid man.

I confess to being less than super when it comes to mastering the role of mother to my three boys who, on a daily basis, tie me up with rope and make me promise to buy them things from the dollar section at Target before coloring a mustache on my upper lip with a permanent Marks-A-Lot before finally letting me go. (You would think I'd find a better hiding spot for all that rope, but apparently I'm raising super smart, MacGyver-quality children who manage to find ways around my cleverness without breaking a sweat. At least, that's what I'd like to think. While bound and hanging from the ceiling fan by my ankles.)

In my shortcomings as a mother, I've been accused by the Fun Police of frequently passing over exciting opportunities for my children in the name of safety and avoiding hospital bills. Oh, it's true that I'm a bit of a hardcore worrywart, but I've got three amazingly raucous little boys that I can't help but be smitten over and simply can't stand the thought of losing one of them in an unfortunate air show accident or via a hungry bear whilst fly fishing in the Sierras.

And don't even bother me with the against-the-odds statistics; I find math to be a precarious sport of its own.

Because she knew I wouldn't, my mom bought my guys a Slip-N-Slide for a little backyard summer fun. Normally, I'd think Oh, yeah, right... my kids are going to break a bone trying to surf the yellow wave of slippery plastic! And what's summer with a broken ankle in a cast that can't get wet? But today, in an effort to not reach the human boiling point in our sweat box, I broke out the Slip-N-Slide with such furor that the kids just watched, slack jawed, unsure of what to do.

One would think the set up to a Slip-N-Slide would include all of two steps - opening the box and turning on the hose. But oh no, this Slip-N-Slide required blowing up the jaws of some treacherous shark my precious little boys were going to have to wiggle their fannies through before SNAP! the jaws clamp down to eat my young. Then I had to donate a few gallons more of hot air to the ship-thingamajig at the end that, if they survived the jaws of unlife, would save them from eating it into the swing-set Morty's slowly been devouring.

See. Life's full of danger.

Anyway, like a full 90 minutes later, old Jaws here was spraying his water waaaay wayward (which I hear can be a real problem) and was only in the upright position thanks to several propped up plastic bulldozers and loaders who were kind enough to help out. Meanwhile, my boys stood inside watching, their noses pressed up against the sliding glass door, with Big T banging his head against it at a slow tempo as if to say Jesus, could this take any longer? Which, ironically enough, was exactly what I was thinking too.

Finally, three pairs of swim trunks, a whole bottle of sunblock and a frozen green tea later (for me), the boys set out to break some bones have a little fun. I got my camera out, 'cause that's what good mothers do (I'm practicing), and sat my ass down a safe distance from the splashing and waited patiently to dial 9-1-1.

But the boys just stared at the yellow brick road to pain and said, "Um, what do we do?" I told them just to run and slide on their bellies.

Blank expressions from all three.

You know, I said and then did some flailing of the arms and awkward motions to try and simulate the precise body pose one should erect to correctly Slip-N-Slide.

Still, nothing.

And then E-man white-flagged-it and said, "Um, mom, we don't like this thing. Can we play in the mud?"

Uh, let me think about it, yeah, NO. I spent 90 minutes sweatin' and sunburning, blowing what little hot air I have (oh, shut-up) to get this humdinger in the ready position and these ungrateful little brats don't want to play with it????

Not that I would be upset by that or anything. I'm just sayin'.

So I did what the good mothers of America would do and I said, Hey boys, watch your mama do this shiat up right! And I slipped and slided my lesbian-shorts-wearing-fat-ass down that Slip-N-Slide like nobody's business.

Only, because of that damn thing called friction, I actually only made it, like, four feet before squeaking to a stop, when, what-do-ya-know, ol' Jaws managed to spray his blast of water straight into my eye. Once I regained the feeling in my body and was able to roll, whale-style, over and off the now twisted yellow mat, I gingerly looked up at my kids who were absolutely shrieking with laughter.

You know you're hot mess when 5, 3 and 2 year olds laugh at you. BTW.

But you know what? My little Olympic-worthy Acrobatic Feat of Flailing (it's a real sport, google it) sent those kids flying down the Slip-N-Slide for the next straight hour. Of course, they didn't exactly do it belly-style, but I don't know that I truly did either, so their idea of how to go about Slip-N-Sliding may be a bit skewed.

Ah well. I'm just doin' the best I can... you know the rest.

And while the only responses I got from the Fun Police when I told them I actually allowed my breakable little babies on that Slide-O-Death was "it's too bad no one was there to video tape you going down that thing," I knew I had personally grown as a mother, having stretched my personal boundaries. Not to mention my sciatic nerve. I'm pretty sure I over-extended it. But that's what they say, right? No pain, no gain?

[limp]

 

Happy Birthday, Candy Ass

A very Happy Birthday to Candy Ass,

 

who I've loved since I was 15...

who is amazingly funny

as well as handy and smart

who loves his boys

each and every

one of them...

unconditionally

and even puts up with me

 

and is still one hell of a bad ass

despite gettin' old. :)

Love ya, babe.

To My Babies Daddy

Happy Father's Day to one baaaaaaaad man from three in the making.

I See Me - Travis Tritt

And a Happy Father's Day to all the fathers out there... You rock.

Tragedy on the Right Foot

I'm sad to report that tragedy has stuck the UD household. A member of our family, L-Dub's Right Brown Flip, has perished.

There is a heaviness in our hearts today as we mourn a friend, a brother, a pal, a teammate, a confidant.

L-Dub's Right Brown Flip was a part of every adventure we had in the last eighteen months. He (?) walked where L-Dub walked, slept in L-Dub's bed each night, sat patiently below the patio chairs at Starbucks many-a-time with us.

L-Dub's Right Brown Flip never complained or grew weary. He never got lost among the bazillions of toys in the playroom. He was never taken hostage and then eaten by Morty. HE MITIGATED THE CREASES IN L-DUB'S KANKLES FOR CHRIST SAKES!

He was the best. damn. Right. Brown. Flip. EVER.

Honestly, we knew the day was coming when we would have to say good-bye; truth be told, L-Dub's Right Brown Flip was a year past his prime. And yet we still weren't emotionally prepared for the end to come this soon or this violently. The doctors tried to repair it, but alas, they could not as it was a tear to a main artery that no amount of tape could fix. If only you could have been there, listening to poor L-Dub cry over and over "But Dad can tape it! It just needs tape! WHERE IS THE TAPE?!?!"

It broke my heart to have to tell him that, no, tape would not heal this wound and that while we are all suffering the loss of such an important member of our family, it's what the Old Navy Shoe Gods had intended.

How it happened remains unclear. So far police have investigated the accusations towards the youngest, Big T, and the oldest, E-man, whose alibis remain firm. The only witness, L-Dub himself, is much too distraught to give a reliable account at this time.

But no matter what the circumstance may be, we can't focus on our loss, and instead, we look toward the future, knowing L-Dub will choose his replacement wisely.

(I tried - ya know, on the down-low - today to find that "replacement" but of course Old Navy is no longer offering brown. Heartless bastards.)

Oh but wait! What's this??

OK, that was quick. I guess it's sorta like picking the next pope: L-Dub locked himself in his room for a while and came out with the next Chosen One. Perhaps not the choice we had expected, but I guess that's just the moral of this story anyway, isn't it? Expect the unexpected?

In lieu of flowers, please sign our guest book in the comments section of this post. [sniff]

Pre-K Promotion

It's almost summer… (In case you weren't sure.) And how do I know it's almost summer? There's the stale smell of freshly cut grass, heat permeating from the baking cement and the strangely catchy tune of Pomp and Circumstance playing in my head.

I just realized though that I'm getting old. When I was a kid, we had graduation ceremonies. Scratch that, we had a graduation ceremony (singular) and that was from high school. Nowadays, these younguns, they don't graduate from anything, but rather, they are promoted from everything.

Last night we went to E-man's preschool promotion ceremony where they sang some cumbaya-like songs and each got to say what they are going to be when they grow up. E-man is going to – of course – be a "train driver." (Which is convenient since I have a totally rational fear of trains and their ability to fly off the track because some heartless bastard would like to see what a nickel looks like after a train runs over it. DEATH. That's what a smashed quarter looks like.)

OK, so that never happened – not to me or anyone I know of - but I still don't like trains and the fact that E-man wants to be a "train driver" can just be filed under the "It Figures" category of my life.

The ceremony was cute; E-man actually sang and did some of the motions half-ass – which, for him, is 100 percent improvement from earlier in the year when singing was considered a big pain in his ass. And the good news is, only one kid fell off the stage. [snicker]

[that wasn't nice, was it?]

[oh admit it, it was kinda funny.]

When E-man's name was called and he got his little mock diploma, I was so damn proud. I clapped, I cheered, I did the whole HOOO-HOOO thing from that Pretty Woman scene and when that didn't get his attention I had to do the OUDA-OOOOOH thing from Baby Mama.

[And yes, I just had to do the OUDA-OOOOOH thing out loud just now so I could figure out how to spell it phonetically. Twice.] [And Morty started howling.]

OK, so I didn't embarrass him like that, but I wanted to. And because I'm a better mom than to ruin his social life at age 5 (gotta wait till the kid's at least 7), I waited until we were home to pinch his cheeks and say, "WHOSE MY SCHNUCKY-WOOKY SCHNOOKUMS THAT GRADUATED FROM PRESHHHHCOOL?" He promptly rolled his eyes, looked back at me dejectedly and said, "Who cares, anyway."

Niiiice. Cynicism. Do they teach that in Pre-K these days? I thought that was something in the 1^st or 2^nd grade curriculum.

But as much as I've bitched about Holy Christian Loves Jesus Praise the Lord Preschool, I have to say, I'm a little sad to see it end. Don't get me wrong, I'm sooo over the holy rollin', but I really like his teacher. She's a freaking amazing teacher. MAD PROPS TO FREAKING AMAZING TEACHERS EVERYWHERE. OUDA-OOOOOH!

DISCLAIMER: I don't know if you're prepared for what I'm about to say next, [those with heart conditions may want to sit this out] but, here it goes anyway… Since I was room mom - -

(I'll wait for you to stop laughing.)

(Still waiting… And waiting… OK! ENOUGH ALREADY!!)

Ahem.

Being room mom, (Yes. Get over it.) I had to give the teachers their end-of-the-year gifts, and damnit, wouldn't you know it, I got all teary-eyed (oh hell, I was damn near ugly crying) when it came to saying thank you.

TANGENT: I just don't get the parents who don't help with the end-of-the-year teacher gifts. Don't they realize how important teachers are in the lives our children? Can't they appreciate an amazing teacher when they find one? They can pay their nanny but can't donate $5 toward a gift??

But I digress. As usual.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah, teacher gifts. So I got a little weepy. So what. It's allergy season. Candy Ass actually had the balls to accuse me of fake crying during "the speech." I can always count on him to change the mood. From sappy to sucky. What a bunghole. If anything, I wanted to fake-opposite-of-crying. (Now wasn't that elegantly put?)

I'm not sure if it's the whole endings-and-new-beginnings thing that has me all hyped up on emotion or if it's merely the idea that I'll be stuck in this sweat box with all three of my boys for two-and-a-half months of sweltering heat over the summer.

Either way, kinda puts a tear in your eye, don't it?

Oh, but I'm sure that what we'll save by not buying a mutha effing air conditioner, I'm certain we'll be paying to the water district – because this summer, there's gonna be a whole lotta ghetto sprinkler fun, plastic pool parties and slip-n-slide ER bills.

And no, that's not a tear in my eye. It's sweat.

Can't. Hardly. Wait.

Mommy, how do you spell...

The E-man never disappoints.

While I was cooking dinner the other night (please, somebody order me a trophy for actually cooking dinner), E-man said he had a question for me.

"What's up, E-man?"

"Mommy, how do you spell sit?"

"Sit? Sound it out."

"Does it start with a C?"

"No. Try again. Sit. S-s-sissss."

"No mommy, not sit. SHIT. Like the stuff that comes out of your butt."

[internal conflict ensues disguised by a thoughtful pause - and maybe a slightly audible snicker]

"Honey, it's S-H so it sounds like shhhhhh."

"Oh."

"But, you probably shouldn't call it that. 'Poop' would be better."

I know. I was really proud of me too.

Because I care about my children's teeth

Just in case you haven't heard, I'm not above telling white lies when it comes to protecting my children from gingivitis.

ME: E-man, you need to do a better job of brushing your teeth.

E-MAN: Why?

ME: Because, I don't want the dentist to have to rip them out with pliers.

E-MAN: Why?

ME: Because it would hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, trust me.

CANDY ASS: And because the dentist will have to put spiders in the holes to eat all the junk out.

ME: That's right.

Candy Ass Speaks

Let me just set the scene for you. Candy Ass and I are in our living room... He's in his lazy boy chair, feet up, eating Mint Chip ice cream right out of the quart in his Hot Wheels pajama bottoms his mama sewed for him. I shiat you not, I couldn't make that up. (I'll spare you the picture since, frankly, it's just weird.)

Anyway, as I sit on the opposing couch (which somehow just feels safe with what we're about to do and all), I've got my laptop a rarin' to go and well, there's nothing left to do now except maybe try to grab his attention between the ice cream bites and the DIY channel.

Here we go. (My questions/dialog in bold.)

Can you mute the TV?

I guess.

When are you buying me an air conditioner?

That's the question?

Yes.

[long pause]

I'm going to check out one of those room-size jobs in the next couple days.

I thought I'd just skip to the chase with that one.

What I should have really answered was 'What? That new camera I just got you doesn't come with an air conditioner?'

To which I would have had to reply, 'You mean the camera I'm paying for with the wedding I'm shooting?'

Stop typing everything I say.

That's how this works, my friend. Moving on.

If you were to be referred to as something besides "Candy Ass" in this blog, what would it be and why?

[laughs] "Whipped." It's obvious.

Oh PUH-LEAZZE!!

If you could refer to me as something other than "Undomestic Diva," what would you pick?

Peg because you embody the spirit of Peggy Bundy.

What did you think about me calling you a "vag" in my last post?

You've certainly called me much worse.

Who wears the pants in our house?

It would definitely have to be you. Have I ever seen you in a skirt or dress?

I don't think that's what they mean.

I stand by my answer.

When are you buying me an air conditioner?

I already answered that one.

Oh.

If I could "fine tune" one domestic skill, which one would it be?

Housekeeping.

Um, so you're saying I could improve in ALL areas of housekeeping?

Yes. Why?

Does my outfit make me look fat?

[Looks me over.] Yeah, Pretty Hot And Tempting.

[eye roll]

What's the best way for a guy to answer that question?

You always say what I said about Pretty Hot And Tempting.

What's your favorite Starbucks drink?

Zebra Hot Chocolate with whip.

Why don't you ever go get a Starbuck's drink for me?

I have.

Yeah, like twice ever.

What are you going to do for me?

Anyway.

Is there anything I cook that you like to eat?

Ranch potatoes and chicken cordon bleu

Speaking of cooking, how's the Happy Hooker working out for you?

The Happy Hooker is a marvelous invention. I can't imagine BBQing without it.

And your rationale as to why it was a necessary purchase when the Fo Shizzle welcome mat was not?

I don't get much and there isn't a part of the house that seems to belong to me so I at least deserve to get a Happy Hooker.

And now, pal, you can spend all your money on a Happy Hooker of a different kind if you'd like. You don't get much? There isn't a part of the house belongs to you? Let me get you a tissue and you can lie on the couch and tell me all about it you big ass whiner.

BTW, when are you buying me an air conditioner?

Jesus, I answered that question like three times.

Yeah, but several readers wanted to know.

Coke or Pepsi?

Pepsi. And Team Jolie.

Asshole.

[laughs]

Do you have a tattoo?

Of course not. Why would I desecrate this beautiful body?

Jesus.

Do I have one?

Yes...

And your thoughts on that?

Um... whatever floats your boat.

Do you like the show "Corner Gas?"

I haven't heard of it.

Whose on your Hump Island?

Really?

Yes.

Angelina Jolie,

BASTARD!!!

Jessica Simpson and Jessica Biel

Wow. You came up with those awful quickly.

And speaking of sexy, can you describe the lesbian shorts?

[laughs, hysterically]

Nope. The words escape me. But if I had to describe them in one word, I'd probably have to say "munch."

OMG. You're retarded.

But really, how hot HAWT do I look in them?

Let's put it this way: You light up the room.

Are you saying my legs are, um, a little pale??

Yes. They could use a little sun.

Don't you think I could probably get rid of the lesbian shorts if we got an air conditioner?

I don't think you'd ever get rid of the lesbian shorts - they're almost a part of you. It's like that old bra and --

OK. Got it. Next question.

If you had your choice to be anywhere in the world with me and these kids of ours, where would it be?

Montana. Tamara in GA would probably love it if I said in Georgia next door to her, but I wouldn't ever say that. So, Montana.

If it weren't for me and the kids, where would you be right now?

[smiles waaaay too happily] I'd be sitting on the couch in my underwear eating ice cream and watching TV.

Like you're doing right now?

Maybe I should change that to "driving home from the Sierras."

Too late.

Where would you take me on a dream vacation? To show your undying devotion. Because I gave you all these kids. And because I'm the greatest wife ever.

I can't think of the name of it, but I heard about this place where you can rent your own island. I'd take you there.

Do you think I'll ever nab that dang "Mother of the Year" award?

To me, you're mother of the year.

You're full of shiat. You're just trying to get people to like you.

So?

Describe the qualities you like best about me.

You're witty, thoughtful and

(do I need one more?)

[long pause]

There's just so much to like about you. It'd be easier if you asked me what I didn't like about you...

That's coming next.

Oh great.

Fine. You're creative - without a doubt.

Describe the qualities you like least about me.

You're a control freak, you're worrisome and I don't know what else.

Oh. Stubborn!

If you could say one thing to me without any repercussions, what would it be?

[big sigh]

I guess I'd just leave a hundred dollar bill on the pillow and walk out.

Are you effing serious?

Fine. I'd find a loving way to encourage you to be more... domestic.

But then I wouldn't be the Undomestic Diva.

That's true.

When are you buying me an air conditioner?

Goddamnit!!

Which came first: the woman with the opinions or the mom with a blog?

The woman with the opinions for sure.

Is there a post you wish I had never written? Which one and why?

Eh. It's hard for me to know when I don't read your blog.

Ha. Ha.

It would have to be the recent one about me leaving you for the day to melt in the house so I could sit in the air conditioner at work. That's false. I left because I had to get work done.

How come you normally work from home but that day you HAD to go to the office?

I told you, it was too noisy here.

You mean, too hot?

[sigh]

Sum up our marriage in 6 words or less.

My balls are in her purse.

Well aren't you just so effing funny.

What surprises you the most about me?

It's been 12 years. I don't think there are any surprises left.

What's your biggest pet peeve about me.

Dinner ain't like mama fixed it.

You're just asking to die, aren't you? That was below the belt, Asswipe.

Have you finished making those kitchen cabinets yet?

[looking offended]

Are you kidding me? The DIVA (in capital letters, please) won't let me start.

Liar.

What's your favorite thing to do in the whole world?

Fly fishing.

What's your best feature?

My devotion.

TO WHAT?

To the Diva and my three boys.

OK, fine.

Describe yourself in 6 words or less.

Shy, humble,

You are NOT humble.

Humble, work in progress. Or I could just say "awesome."

That must be the "humble" part speaking.

Would you ever start your own blog?

No. I don't have time. Plus the Diva would be jealous of my writing skillz (please spell with a 'z')

Can you quit calling me "the Diva?" It just sounds weird coming from you.

What do you think of my blog?

I'm very happy you found something you love, an outlet that gives you a break from the hustle and bustle of the undomestic life you live here.

And it's certainly much cheaper than your love for photography.

My BFF Tamara in GA would like to know: "Is it true that you secretly love me & it pains you so greatly to hear the voice of the one you can't have so much that you prefer to not answer the phone when I call. Answer wisely boy."

Fo' shizzle.

You did not just say that.

[laughs]

Did you enjoy this little Q & A session?

Um... yeah.

Is there any ice cream left?

No. I ate it all. Is that part of the interview?

It is now... so I can show people how selfish you are. Bastard.