How Concentrating... I SAID GIVE ME A DAMN MINUTE!!!... Works When You Have... SERIOUSLY?? HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY TO STOP LICKING THAT??!... Four Kids

Whether I need to pee, I'm trying to read a paragraph, or just need five minutes to zone out in silence to think of all of the money I spend on kids that I could  be spending in Italy, my children have an uncanny and innate ability to use these moments to ask me a thousand pointless questions that they probably already know the answers to but they hate when my attention is NOT SOLELY ON THEIR ADORABLE FACES IN MY FACE.

This is how close my kids' faces are to my face at any given time of day.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love my kids to the moon and back. Some days I love them so hard to the moon that I have considered starting a Go Fund Me that would create a NASA program to send people there to colonize. Of course, I'd need other mothers to be a part of the program or there'll be a bunch of inbred babies running all over the moon with adorable cyclops eyes and delightful (I'm sure), yet disturbing,  missing strands of DNA. No offense to all of those first cousins who didn't need to look outside their family reunion gathering to find their soulmates. And, congratulations! Your baby is so... human!!

I know this sounds awful, but people who have kids are allowed to daydream and it's not child abuse to dream. I checked. And, for the people who don't have kids, screw YOU.

This is a typical five minute period in my day in which I am trying to concentrate or accomplish something.

THE EVENTS DESCRIBED BELOW ARE NOT EXCERPTS FROM REAL LIFE. SOME OF THE DETAILS HAVE BEEN INVENTED BY A VERY TIRED, OVERLY IMAGINATIVE MOTHER.

ME: *trying to concentrate on what is most likely directions for cooking something for my children to consume like black holes only to ask for more food thirty seconds after it comes out of the oven*

KIDS: "Is dinner ready?"

ME: "Does it look ready?"

KIDS: "No."

ME: "Ok, then."

*brief millisecond of silence*

KIDS: "When will it be done?"

ME: "When I call you for dinner, you'll know it is done."

KIDS: "We'll just sit here and watch you."

ME: "Go. Outside."

KIDS: "OK."

*brief silence while kids erase everything that has just been said from their brains*

 This is what OUTSIDE looks like, children. You should try it sometime.

Also, I found this picture at shakespearesmom.com. I didn't go to the site because I'm afraid it's not a mom blog about how comedy is tragedy plus eighteen dependent years.

KIDS: "Can you call us when dinner is ready?"

ME: "Jesus."

*the kids blink and wait for a response... OBVIOUSLY NOT GETTING IT*

ME: "YES."

*kids scurry off*

*four whole seconds of focused reading... 20 minutes at 425 degrees...*

KIDS: "We're sooooooooo hungry... We wish dinner was ready..."

ME: "Yeah, too bad we don't own a genie and you just have a mom. GET. OUT. OF. MY. KITCHEN."

*collective sighs and moans*

ME: "NOW."

KIDS: "FINE!"

ME: "OK, THEN!"

KIDS: "ALRIGHT!!"

*walking away as slowly as is humanly possibly while dragging their toes across the wood floor in slow motion protest*

ME TALKING TO MYSELF: "Ok... Where was I...?"

KIDS: "WHAT??? WERE YOU TALKING TO US? DID YOU CALL FOR US? IS DINNER READY NOW???"

ME: *opens oven door, pulls burning hot cookie sheet out with my bare hand, makes direct eye contact with all of four children as slowly as they take a hint, and dumps the entire thing, cookie sheet and all, into the trash.*

Then, I grab a jar of feta stuffed green olives from the fridge and drag my toes across the hard wood floor slowly as I simultaneously walk backward and maintain eye contact with the kids until I get to my bedroom to watch Netflix in bed and binge snack behind my locked door.

THIRTY SECONDS PASS

KIDS: *knocking on my locked door* "SOOOO... Is dinner ready now?"

ME: *quietly contemplates the meaning of life while the realization of the inevitable event of my brain exploding in T-MINUS 3 seconds, leaving only a cloud of glitter and pasta as my legacy, slowly washes over me*

3...

2...

1...

 *POOF*

 

My Camel Spiders Can Beat Up Your Camel Spiders

I like to sleep with the air conditioner at a steady 73 degrees. My husband, on the other hand, pays the bills, so he always sets it at 76 or higher when I'm not looking. Our house is mainly made out of brick so everything stays cool for awhile after he turns it up. This gives me just enough time to fall asleep and then wake up at 3am (EVERY NIGHT) to stomp down the hallway, hair matted to my forehead, and turn it back to 73.

I don't know why I run so hot. All of my kids do, too. My husband is the only one who can sleep comfortably in the house without ever breaking a sweat. The kids and I have had full on yelling matches over who gets the fan to point directly at their face for the night. It is not pretty around here when the outside temperature reaches triple digits. And, we just moved to Arizona...

On THE WORST NIGHT OF MY LIFE, I woke up (sweaty) and went to the bathroom to pee and I notice a swarm of red ants all over the bathroom floor. Great. Just what I needed. I get the only two things that are handy in my half-asleep but full-force-premenopausal state, Windex and a roll of toilet paper. I spray all of the ants and wipe them up and flush them.

 Hate them. Want to torture them.

Then, I walk out to the hallway to turn the thermostat to 73 and notice something weird on the floor...

 This freak of nature is called a Camel Spider. 

IT. MUST. DIE. IN. FIRE. AND. THEN. BE. DROWNED.

Did you know these guys can stand on their hind legs and chase you?

THEY. CAN.

One of these little assholes CHASED ME DOWN MY OWN HALLWAY. I felt violated in every possible way. I already had toilet paper in my hand and against all of my usual, natural instincts, I squished it! WITH MY OWN HAND. I didn't even use a shoe, or a pick axe, or one of my own offspring! But, I did scream. 

REALLY LOUD.

I woke up the entire house and all of my kids started pouring out of their rooms like baby spiders out of a mama camel spider's egg sack. Oh god, I'm not sure if I can finish this post... *gag* *scratch, scratch, scratch* *gag*... 

Ok, I'm going to make it. I also woke up my husband and in my blindingly freaked out state, I jumped toward him (and onto his foot...oopsie!) in the hallway to hide behind him and out of the dead camel spider's line of sight because I'm sure even when they're dead they can see you. And, this isn't even where it ends.

We decided to go outside and get some fresh air, and by fresh air I mean smoke a cigarette (yes, we know they're bad for you...), in the fetal position on top of a ladder where no bugs could reach us. But, there were bugs, oh yes, there were MORE bugs.

We have a water bug problem, apparently. If you're seeing one of these guys for the first time, you'd call it a cockroach, which, technically I guess it is, but not the kind you're thinking of. These little guys live in our lawn and congregate around water. FUN!!

DIE. A. BILLION. DEATHS.

So, I kill about a thousand of these guys and then we head into our room to go to bed. My husband finds one of these suckers that escaped the yard and crawled under the front door and retreated to our room. My husband quickly polished his armor, jumped down from atop his gallant white stead, and dueled the water bug with the bottom of his shoe. For my honor.

Just as I'm about to get into bed, I see more ants on the hardwood floor. Kill. Smash. Kill. Kill. This goes on for awhile. And then I see...

...this asshole.

WHAT THE HOLY HELL IS GOING ON??? 

So, the ending of the story is not happy. I left my children and husband to fend for themselves and moved on to a better, brighter, plastic bubble in an insane asylum where they let me eat Xanax for dinner. I'm sure they'll all be fine.

Update: In an attempt to gain back my affection and amazing pasta cooking skills, and because he promised me in his wedding vows that he'd kill spiders for me until we both die and can't back out now (sucker),  my husband bought some sort of spray that kills everything with more than four legs within a fifty mile radius.

I moved back in to the house. RELUCTANTLY. Do you know how hard it is to cook a casserole wearing mesh body armor and a beekeeper's hat??? 

If Obesity Is An Epidemic, Then May Cold Hot Dogs For Breakfast Strike Me Dead

Ever since I was little, weight has been an issue. Not that I was overweight necessarily as a kid, but it was like everyone around me was so consumed with the number on the scale and the size of their jeans, that I don't think a single meal passed without us kids hearing, "I shouldn't be eating this..."

I still struggle with mixed emotions toward food, mainly because I FUCKING LOVE FOOD.

Now, I know people say this all the time, and it's pretty obvious that people love food because we'd die without it, but when I say it, I mean it in a, "I want to make out with you, scribble your Italian pasta last name after my first name on all of my notebooks, dream of you every single night, get proposed to in the middle of an Icelandic field of poppies, elope, consummate our marriage, and have your tiny ravioli babies," kind of way.

He has his father's olive oil toasted  Parmesan skin, just like I'd hoped.

I'm not picky, though, I think is the real problem. I so wish I had the exquisite palate of a foodie, only allowing the finest of truffles, and the most uniquely plated meals, to pass between my lips. I am completely undiscriminating when it comes to food.

Charred meat? I'll eat it.

Cold hot dogs for breakfast? The baby had one and liked it, why not?

How lazy do you have to be to buy something that slices your hotdogs?

It's called a fucking butter knife, people.

Questionable looking sandwich from a gas station?
No one lives forever.

I could sit down to eat any sort of cuisine presented to me and enjoy every moment of eating it with only a few exceptions. Even if someone lied to me and told me blood pudding or fermented duck embryos were something else, I'd try at least a bite and probably like it. My dad told me he has fed me all kinds of woodland creatures under the pretense of it being "chicken," and I loved it. My ex mother-in-law lied to me once and told me I was eating steak and it was actually tongue and, again, loved it. So, the point is, you could probably boil a shoe and tell me it was a traditional dish from my people's land, Czechoslovakia, and I'd compliment the chef on the rubbery texture and delightfully crunchy aglets.

These are called aglets. Who knew they had a name??

Now, knowing that I am a not just a food lover, and may possibly have an eating disorder, I have been trying to workout lately and watch calories and all that jazz. Eating food isn't very much fun when you apply a mathematical equation to it. I don't math, and failed algebra four years in a row. Math B was cool, though.

I have dropped twelve pounds since I have been trying to stay focused on getting healthier and I have another thirty or so pounds to drop to get to my ultimate goal but I would just like to get to the point in my life where I'm not guilt ridden by eating something or forced to sit down and calculate how many minutes on an elliptical machine a western bacon cheeseburger is worth (seventy-three).

 Oh, suuuure, it's fine for this broad to lick BBQ sauce off of her hand, but if I do it, it's uncouth.

Aaaand, restaurant critic is another profession crossed off my list of possible careers.

 The end.


I never leave my home. Please interact with me via social media. 

My Toddler Was A Spanish Speaking Womanizer In His Last Life

We named our two year old son Atticus after Harper Lee's character in To Kill A Mockingbird. The name is different, for sure, but to us it meant that our son would grow up with a solid, upstanding ideal behind his name and we are just both huge fans of the book.

 Gregory Peck, the handsome devil.

There is a great debate going on about whether or not people should buy Harper Lee's new book Go Set A Watchman because she may, or may not have, been taken advantage of in her old age to publish something she never meant the public to see. Basically, Atticus Finch is a racist bastard in the new book and I don't like the idea of naming my kid after some intolerant asshole who is only in existence because some slimy piece of shit conned a 93 year old woman who has limited use of her faculties to sign her name on the grubby, greedy, dotted bottom line.

Here's an article about it...
Our Kid Is Not Named After A Racist

So, anyway, that's the back story on his name and some new info about whether you should buy a book that was probably published without the author's full permission or understanding.

Now, I get to the point of the entry...

The other day my husband and I were goofing around with Atticus and he started yelling, "POMPALINDA!! POMPALINDA!!" He sounded like a soccer fan going bat shit crazy over his favorite team. It was hilarious.

GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!

We thought it was super funny that a kid who can't even say "peanut butter," and who pronounces the word "frog" like our favorite cuss word, would blurt out a longish word in Spanish and say it with such authority and gusto.

This went on for a few hours, and into the next day. Even as we were walking our other kiddoes to school, Atticus' dad and I joined in on the Spanish chant, "POMPALINDA! POMPALINDA!"

Then, I got to thinking. I have heard of hundreds of case studies where children are more receptive to past lives and some can recall them in great detail. Some of them recall past lives that were lived in other countries and these children can point out a specific street or home if driven past the place they can recall in their memories, and, in some cases, can even recall names of family members, friends, and coworkers. And, some kiddoes can speak in other languages never taught to them... HOLY SHIT...

WHAT IF MY KID WAS SOME SORT OF AWESOME ITALIAN MOBSTER IN HIS PAST LIFE?? OR A SPANISH CONQUISTADOR???! 

Your father and I are so proud of your past life accomplishments, son... 

*wiping tears away with sleeve*

Well, as it turns out, we have an awesome friend who speaks Spanish who I could text and ask what this phrase means so I can get to the bottom of this past life business.

Me: Hey! Atticus started saying something in Spanish that we've never heard before. Does Pompalinda mean anything??? I looked it up and it is a place but I can't find it's meaning.

Friend: It depends because 'pompis' means 'butt' and 'linda' means 'cute'.

Me: o_O

So... Basically... All week long we have been running all over town (including various spots on the school campus) shouting, "CUTE BUTT!!"

 I Googled "Cute Butts," and now I feel like eating a gallon of ice cream and this puppy's ass is the only thing keeping me from crying about the sad state of my back end. 

WHY DO I KEEP GOOGLING THINGS??!

And, there you have it. Our little Atticus can't grow up to be the racist monster in Harper Lee's new book because he'll be too busy looking up old flames from the 1920's to cat call as they roll past him in their irresistible wheel chairs and those foxy little crocheted booties.

These are actually adorable and I might buy some to distract people from looking at my oh-so-obvious contempt for squats that is hanging off of the bottom of my spine.

Click here for really inaccurate lessons in Spanish and other languages.

My Mornings: A Series Of Pictures I Stole From The Internet

Every morning I have four kids to get ready to do stuff and things.

This is how every morning starts out. I don't own a cool alarm clock but I do own a phone with a smashed screen. And, nooooo, I didn't smash my phone with a hammer. 

My Great Dane was hungry and likes a challenge. 

After I finish hitting snooze for about an hour, I wake the children.

Then, I stumble toward the coffee maker.

I then proceed to answer 50,000 questions out of four tiny people and spill my coffee all over myself.

Today's reason I spilled my coffee all over myself.

This ugly, coffee wasting, mother fucker flew at my face this morning.

I have a neighbor to corroborate my story.

And a pair of pants and my favorite shirt to Woolite.

Then, there is the hour long game we all play that we like to call, "Mom, Where's My Other Shoe And Why Aren't You Psychic Enough To Know Where Everyone In The House Puts All Of Their Shit?"

Then, there is the hair brushing fiasco.

I drew this in honor of my youngest daughter. 

This is exactly what her hair looks like every morning when she wakes up. 

Feel free to print this out and color it next time you want to shave your kid's hair off.

Adult coloring books are all the craze and are very relaxing.

And, just before the kids are ready to walk out the door for school, the entire household erupts into one final, beautiful, chaotic display of, "WHAT AM I FORGETTING???"

And, then, as quickly as the house exploded, it is calm.

EERILY CALM...

Where...

is...

my...

TODDLER?????

Obviously, this isn't my kid.

When my kid does stuff like this my first reaction is to call an adoption agency, not pick up my phone and snap a picture to savor the moment in which my brain forgot all of the anger management training I had to endure as a teenager.

How Sweat And Cheese Brought Tina Fey And I Together As Best Friends

This is my idea of what  personal trainers should look like.

Not. A. Drop. Of. Sweat.

THIS is what I imagine myself looking like after about twenty solid minutes of cardio.

 The only difference would be that I wouldn't have headphones. Or that tacky shirt. Or a Penis.

But, other than those things, the picture above correctly depicts my perspiration problems at the gym.

Besides the obvious sweating issues, there are several other reasons that I could never successfully start a career as a personal trainer and the sooner I learn what my weaknesses are, the sooner I can start focusing on a career path that makes sense for me.

Like, for example, cupcake tasting would be an EXCELLENT career move. And, this is where I tell you in the form of Tina Fey/Liz Lemon memes, the other reasons that I will never train another human being to become more fit.

 I think this is pretty self explanatory.

I love cheese. I want to classify every cheese eating experience solely by the time of day.

I am VERY socially awkward. And, consequently, this makes me sweat even more than normal.

HOW THE FUCK DO PEOPLE PICK OUT CUTE WORK OUT CLOTHES??!

Aaaaand, not really even sure if this is an actual Tina Fey or Liz Lemon quote, but I loves me some wine.

And, beer.

And, anything with a proof of more than 0%.

And, I'm pretty sure if I had someone I needed to meet at the gym on a Friday night and my husband brought home a bottle of wine I'd call in a bomb threat to the gym.

So, if this blog has taught me anything it's that I should be Tina Fey's best friend for a living, and I feel so relieved to have finally found my calling. I mean, it's like it was DESTINY or something.

I'll Never Be A Cowgirl

So, awhile back, my husband and I were were getting a feel for our new town and happened upon an antique store (we aren't antique aficionados, we just like weird stuff)  that contained within it MY FAVORITE CHILDHOOD TOY.

I wasn't sure what this thing was called to google a picture of it so my daughter suggested just looking up "Chime Balls." Weird, because that's what they are really called!

After a few short days, between the neighborhood kids and our Great Dane/Mastiff mix (I like to call him our Grastiffane), the ball was ruined. Forever. Broken beyond all repair.

I was sad. Also, I wanted the little horses inside of it for whatever nonsense art project I might be making in the future. I told my husband to break open the ball and GET ME THOSE HORSES.

It's a wonder this guy married me.

I made my husband cut the bottom of the toy off with a handsaw and find me fishing wire. 

My brain knew this toy had to be preserved in some sort of way.
The metal thingies hanging in the picture are the things that make the Chime Ball chime.

WIND CHIMES!!

Well, my brilliant plan didn't work out as planned (as usual). I loved the idea of it but couldn't hear the chimey things.

This is literally how close you need to be to hear the near silent chimes that I made out of the guts of my favorite childhood toy.

So, my husband decided he wanted to help me fix the logistics of my chimes issues... 

The horse got all tangled up and then the whole thing started tilting.
FUCK. IT. 

CHILDHOOD RUINED!!!

So, today's epiphany is that I will never be a wind chime maker.  Or a cowgirl, because trying to loop fishing wire around a tiny plastic horse was hard enough. Although, after I told my husband I'd never be a cowgirl, his response was, "Yeah, but you could be a reverse cowgirl..." 

So, I forgave him for screwing up my childhood-memory-chimes and then we kicked the kids outside for awhile.