Ode to Saturday Morning, 6 a.m.

Rain, rain go away...
don't want the kids inside all day!
Screaming, hitting, "it's no fair!"
Third time this morning had to stop 5 year-old from pulling oldest's hair.
Hubby is nestled up snug in bed, trying hard to ignore the chaos insuing as I get the kids fed.
Sitting with my coffee irked and annoyed, I have hit my limit...
"Everyone out of the house this instant!"
Out into the garage to make your clatter and when I've calmed down I'll explain what was the matter.
All I crave is 5 minutes peace - a time when the shouting, whining and cries of "Mommmeeeee" will cease.
Being a mom is 24/7 with nary a shot going straight to heaven.
The weekend has come and I feel I've earned a bit of a rest....
So, everyone, please shut the fuck up and stop being a pest!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

If I Gave A Tweet...

Twitter confounds me. It's right up there with the fine line of the facebook status update - either mundane and boring or extremely witty and funny. There never really seems to be a middle ground...and for the most part, I thought that "tweets" were silly, narcissistic cyber shout-outs - the online equivalent of a blog's poor WT trailer livin' cousin.

Then I read an article on TechCrunch regarding a Twitter account called "Shitmydadsays." The posts made me laugh so hard, I nearly peed my pants. With a lot of inspiration and an econo box of Depends, I composed the following "bon mots" as if I really gave a tweet - therefore, if I twittered this is what I'd say:

• I hate it when people stop me to say, "Wow! You look really great today." Then, I have to respond, "Thanks, I finally took a shower."

• Happy Birthday! I heard you're turning 40, but want to hear the best part...I'm not!

• Met a friend for coffee. First thing I said was, "I got dressed today...what the fuck happened to you?"

• If men can come up with remedies for conditions like Erectile Dysfunction, why the hell can't they fix "Man Boobs?"

• Am dropping the kids off at the pool...no shit...literally - I AM AT THE POOL...with the kids.

• Now that I've had three kids, I really should've rethought the location of that "Hamburgler" tattoo...

• WTF!!! WR R HR SPX? (Where are her spanx?)

• Too much green. Too much pink. Too matchy-matchy is what I think.

• Just fucked my husband...will he just get the hell off of me already!

• Why does Eli Manning always look like he was beaten with an ugly stick?

• Just farted in Starbucks and blamed it on the 5 year-old.

• Not all soccer moms are angry and vulgar...just me.

And the list could go on....because this is kinda fun...and because I have so much stuff pent up in my head....and because you know you want to....you can now follow me on twitter here.

All Roads Lead to a Good Moisterizer...

Much to my husband's chagrin, I am nothing if not predictable. For example, when there are two roads diverged at a major intersection...I will inevitablely travel the path to the closest retail shopping establishment.

So...as I sat at the stop light this morning, I had a major decision to make: Turn right in the direction of the car dealership to once and for all take care of the burnt out tail and brake lights on my car......or turn left into the town center to pick-up my much needed deep hydrating boutique moisterizer.

As the light changed, there was no hesitation. Despite my husband's almost hourly chorus of nagging emails, tweets, voicemails, texts and instant messages regarding the car - my actions were intuitive. I made a beeline for the "chi-chi," "fru-fru" cosmetics store. The sentiment, "A good moisterizer is better than any vitamin," echoed through my head. It sounded like some glorious and sage advice that had once rolled off the tongues of Diana Vreeland, Coco Chanel, Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, or at the very least, RuPaul. Yet, it was simply copy for a new skincare product advertised in a recent SELF magazine.

"Moisterizer!" "Vitamin!" "Brakelight!" The words riccocheted through my thoughts like ping pong balls. As I eased my car into a prime parking spot in front of Pottery Barn, I knew that what I was about to do was no small feat. To pull off the equivalent of a cosmetics "quickie," I had to be a woman on a mission - get in, get the goods and get out....without any upsell and purchase of additional products and services.

As I strode confidently across the street, just steps from the open shop door, the bark ring tone on my iPhone rang out. Shit! My husband! Damnit! I stood holding the barking phone as other shoppers gawked and stepped out of my way. "I will DEAL with the car, LATER!" I think I angrily said ou tloud and let the call slink into voicemail. But there would be no message, because, like clockwork, in five minutes, the phone would bark again.

It was now or never. I had a strict timetable to keep surrounding bus schedules and soccer practice. Circling back with kids in tow, was really not the best case scenario. The last time I drug the five-year-old, aka The Crazy Man, along on my quest for the perfect skinny jeans, he discovered eight new GapBody fragrances and to spite me, sprayed them all on his hair - at once. We both left the store smelling like potent combinations of Designer Imposters cologne, Deep Woods Off, rose hips and wet dog. On rainy days, when the lingering smell can be detected in the car, I am reminded of his hijinx and how it touched off everyone's allergies.

When all was said and done, I was able to pull off an impressive trifecta: got the moisterizer, got the car fixed AND got everyone to their practices reasonably on-time. But later, I knew I would have to patiently listen to my husband's monotonous "man-trum" (man tantrum) over car maintenance and why he didn't appreciate my cavialier attitude about brakelight safety. I knew that while, he wouldn't understand it, the explanation was elementary...While you can't go too far on the road less traveled without brakelights, you do, however, have a much better chance of talking yourself out of a fine, ticket or warning with glowing, dewy, well-moisterized skin.

The Official Launch of Crazy Man Blog

Today, I can honestly say that my 5 year-old (he of the drawn on eyebrows) is cooler than most 5 year-olds. Why? Today, we officially launched his blog, Crazy Man Blog...or I should say I actually let him post something on it.

Under much supervision, he creates his own content and pictures and even posts his own comments, like "Spongebob Rocks!" I jump in to add a few minor clarifications or spelling changes. But the concept is all Crazy Man!

After he proudly told his two older siblings about his blog this afternoon, he was gratified to find out that neither of them showed any interest in his blog or creating a blog of their own. "There are just 2 blogs here, that's good," he commented and then proceeded to tell me to type the numeral 2 instead of spell out two because it's "just easy."

Fear not those of you out there who have gotten random emails and/or text messages from him, he will be completely supervised while blogging....I already had to help him create more age appropriate titles for his blog posts, because I quickly realized he was cutting and pasting titles from my blog. "Selling Sex to the Suburbs - Part I" on his blog had to be quickly changed to "Glowsticks Demo, Whatever Part 1." Apparently, he liked the Part I, II and III concept.

Check out his blog, but be forewarned, it is EXTREMELY random and will probably walk a very fine line before becoming a full blown homage to Spongebob Squarepants. Live crazy and enjoy!

Dude, Where's My Eyebrows?

My 5 year-old has always had some type of color-identity crisis when it comes to his hair. During the greater part of the year, his hair is brown. Not the rich, dark brown color that is his older brother’s shade, but a lighter brown, almost dirty blonde. If his hair color were a pair of Gap khakis, it would be “chino cedar.”

However, in the summer, as his complexion tans and his hair lightens, he becomes a three-month blonde. While most of the photos around the house are from summers at the beach, the situation is further compounded by the fact that school pictures are taken during the first few weeks of September - it is no wonder that my little guy thinks he’s blonde (as shown in his self-portrait on the left), because those are really all of the images he sees of himself.

I never realized that his fair skin and light brown hair ever bothered him. From time to time, however, he would ask me about his eyebrows - they are very light and at first glance almost non-existent. His eyebrow issues cropped up again yesterday at pre-school. A number of the little girls had sat him down in the “block area” to examine his eyebrows and see if they were actually there. Some genius parent had thought it was a great idea for one of the girls to bring a small bag of make-up to school – a small collection of Hello Kitty eye shadow, blush and lip balm – it may have looked like a toy, but it was in fact make-up.

He said the little girls kept asking him questions like “Why don’t you have eyebrows?” and “My mom shaves her eyebrows all off, is that what you do?” and “You’re eyes look funny, they look like they are naked.” However, when one of the teachers heard, “You need to draw them on like my Nana,” she swooped in and confiscated the contraband Bonne Belle, Jr. stripper glitter before an eyebrow intervention occurred.

He was telling me all this later in the day, as he polished off a snack and I unpacked his backpack. I hadn’t noticed anything funny about his appearance at school, but now at home, sitting under the lights in the kitchen, he looked different. There was a slight pinkish tint to the top of his head. Thinking he might be bleeding, I began to look him over ear to ear. But no blood, no sign of a cut or scrape. “Buddy what happened?” I asked.

“N-o-t-h-i-n-g,” he said slowly and deliberately, with a look that said “What you talkin’ ‘bout Willis!” “Did you paint at school today?” I asked as I began a second head check, this time looking for any traces of poster paint. “Yeah,” he said, trying to shake his head away from me. I sniffed the pink spot. It didn’t smell like paint. It didn’t smell like poop, either, that was a good start. It was faintly sweet, almost like a candle and smelled VERY familiar.

“I think Ruby’s hair rubbed off on me,” he said. “What?” I said aloud and wondered if Ruby had dyed her hair again? At a local fall fair, the little girl in question had her platinum blonde hair sprayed with hot pink hair paint. The dye did not shampoo out easily and needless to say, for school pictures, Halloween and well into Thanksgiving the little girl’s hair was various shades of pink as if faded and grew out.

I remembered a little blonde Ruby waving goodbye as we left the classroom and crealized that my 5 year-old was fabricating his story as he sat at the table, hunched over with his left hand pressed to the left side of his fore head. “Buddy, what’s the matter?” I asked. “Don’t look at me!” he cried. “Don’t mommy! Don’t look at me.” I had backed him into a corner and was trying to pry his hand off his forehead. “Are you hurt?” I asked and then I saw a small dark pink spot. “What the hell is that?” I thought. “Sorry mommy,” he said. “I used your lips stuff.”

Used my what? Then it dawned on me. Damn it! I ran up to the bathroom were I had inadvertently left a tube of “Baby Doll,” my favorite shade of Lorac lipstick. I surveyed the counter, waste basket, toilet, and inside the three vanity drawers – nothing. Then, in the corner of the tub, an oddly placed towel with pink smudges caught my eye. I picked it up to find the lipstick, broken into pieces and rolled into little pink balls, as if it was play-doh.

“Why did you do that, bud?” I looked down at him. He had followed me up the steps, screaming, “Don’t go in there!” the entire time I searched for the missing tube. In the glare of the bathroom lights, he looked up at me and said, “But I can’t see them mommy! I want them to stand out.” He was pulling at the skin over his eyes and I finally saw the result of his handiwork - his eyebrows were covered in shiny pink salmon “Baby Doll” lipstick.

“Oh buddy,” I laughed and picked him up in a huge hug while frantically motioning to his 10 year-old sister, who couldn’t contain her laughter, to go to her room. “Buddy, you are perfect. You have wonderful, perfect eyebrows. I can see them.” I said. “You don’t need to make them stand out. You and your eyebrows are perfect just the way you are.” Then I said, “Look at me, who is the best little guy?” “I am,” he said. “And who has the best little eyebrows?” I asked. “I do,” he said.

I hugged him tightly once more. “Just because you can’t see your eyebrows, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. You’re a special little guy. There will be times when other’s might not see that, but just like your eyebrows, it doesn’t mean that it’s not there.” He walked off happy, eyebrows glittering in the sunlight. I thought, damn it, where was my camera when I needed it! I was out $19 for the lipstick and if couldn’t salvage the rest of the tube, at least I could’ve snapped a quick blackmail photo for his future engagement party, rehearsal dinner or 40th birthday…but when he hits 40, I’ll be pushing 70 and will probably be in the same eyebrow boat.

Layoffs Have Hit My Computer Keyboard

I have been getting a lot of comments lately about the number of typos interspersed around my blog. Specifically, I am responding to an email from a “mrmizzquote,” who claims that his 8 year-old Ball Python, named “Monty,” could string together better sentences on an obsolete Apple II. “Oooh, how scary…floppy discs! Thems fightin’ words mrmiz!”

As I read the rant, I wondered the following three things: first, would this person put a heart over the “i” instead of a dot when writing out his screen name long hand; second, did he realize that the mere mention of Apple II had me envisioning him as the grown up version of the kid from the Encyclopedia Brittanica informercials ; and third, could he be a bit more original than naming the python Monty? Besides, doesn’t he know that snakes can’t type, as they “have NO BLOODY APPENDAGES!”

Back to my keyboarding issues, I stand by the content as grammatically sound…but yeah, my typing pretty much sucks. It doesn’t help that the “v” key and the “space bar” have been pink slipped due to keyboard layoffs. Not intentionally, but by the brute force of my 5 year-old, who starting picking the letter keys off my laptop like chicklets because he was “bored.” My husband, on the other hand, believes this action is really a thinly disguised smoke screen to somehow hijack his big sister’s Nintendo DS (which, btw, she ended up buying for herself with birthday money, instead of the Snuggie). Regardless the motive, the “s” and “g” keys are hanging on precariously, so I think I’ll have to get all my shits and giggles on the matter out now. Losing the space bar wasn’t much of a blow, believe it or not, but I think it may somehow be contributing to the number of times I have been typing "bitch" lately....However, not having “v” has also greatly cut down on my use of the word vagina…or as they say in France, “c’est la v!”

Truth & Avatars

For sometime now, I have been kicking around ideas in my head for a logo and/or online avatar for this site. Since I fancy myself somewhat of an artist, I decided that Sunday was the perfect rainy afternoon to sit down and think up some crazy doodles. While I’m not a professional, my first few caricatures came out looking like a weird cross between “Bill the cat” and Velma from Scooby Doo. I finally settled on what has been posted above and I admit that many of you will run into the streets screaming “It doesn’t look a damn thing like you!” And my response will always be: WTF! Neither did the character they drew of my daughter as Minnie Mouse at Disney four years ago, but I still paid the $40 and framed the damn thing for her room.

Cartoons are hard. I was going for that cute nymph-like “Yoga-Girl,” “Travel Girl,” “Latte Girl” style, but it came out looking more like “Over-Caffeinated, Annoyed, Sleep-Deprived, Big Hair Grrrl!” Let’s face it – no one wants a bad picture of themselves on the internet, let alone a bad self-portrait that makes you, by your own hand, look like Bea Arthur as “Maude.” I mean, even the vast majority of Van Gogh’s self-portraits only feature the side with the good ear.

As I sat drinking coffee and artfully using the eight shades of Crayola washable markers in the house that actually worked – caps on, ink not dried out. My 5 year-old sat down next to me intently watching what I was doing. “Who is that mommy? Hannah Montana?” he innocently asked and my husband chuckled. As I explained, he reached for the hot pink marker, looked at me, then my picture and asked “Mommy, can I draw a picture of you?”

“Sure sweetie,” I said, handing over a new sheet of paper, hoping this exercise would keep him occupied for at least 6 or 7 minutes. What I didn’t realize was the extent of how intently he was watching me. In just under two minutes, he proudly held up his masterpiece. There I was – glasses, highlighted hair and earrings – his version of me, a cross between Droopy Dawg and Mr. Happy.

He was very eager to opine that he thought his likeness of me was better. “See Mommy, I drew the same earrings,” and he pointed back and forth between his picture and mine. Then, as quickly as he had finished the portrait, he was off in search of a sibling to torment…or to draw other pictures of me…as it was eerily quiet in the family room.

Sitting in the kitchen, with the two drawings side by side, I started to loudly and uncontrollably laugh. The little smart ass was kinda right, because between his picture and mine is the real me. My husband looked up from his newspaper to ask what was so funny. I held up both pictures and then he started to laugh. But the 5 year-old, keenly listening in the other room, read our reaction as disapproval. Eager to please, he quickly ran back to the table with what he called "Mommy #2" -- see below.

This time the paper bore a large headline that read “10 Days Later,” and obviously, “Mommy #2” had gotten a Susan Boyle-esque makeover. While very similar to the original picture, a keen eye could quickly point out that my hair was either brushed more neatly or cut shorter, my glasses were gone (thanks to White Out), my nose was smaller, I was smiling and the one new detail that said it all – electric blue lipstick. Pleased with himself, the 5 year-old took both pictures and prominently placed them on the front of the fridge.

As one was “now” and one was “ten days later,” he had cleverly covered all his bases. My husband, however, did not, and upon noticing the drawings were now at eye-level by the fridge door handle said “Well, you did say you wanted to do something to kick start the diet.”

What Is It About 5 Year-Olds & Poop?

“Get down!” I called after my 5 year-old son. He did not listen. As I called out again, he had already adeptly scaled the 5 foot post and rail fence, even though it was wrapped neatly on either side with heavy gauge chicken wire. He looked back at me with a triumphant “I’m king of the world!” smile as he balanced precariously in his shiny black penny loafers and newly pressed green corduroys, both last worn at Christmas. We were in Massachusetts for a blessing ceremony, the barn and animals were on the adjacent grounds. It proved to be too much of a novelty for my youngest child, who still desperately wants any kind of animal, other than one of the three god damn Webkinz he doesn't already have, to call his own pet.

“I’m going to name the big cow ‘Mommy,’” he proudly (and loudly) proclaimed as he pointed to the bored looking animal leaning up against the barn at the far end of the paddock. He seemed more and more wobbly as he strained to get a better look at the pig and the other animals. He was too busy naming the pig after his older brother and the chickens after preschool girlfriends to notice that the wire he was leaning on had begun to bend. He was now balancing his upper torso on the very top of the fence. Head, arms and chest flailing happily on the muddy barnyard side, high polished shoes and clean pants vaguely hanging on to the other.

“Get down!” I said for the third time. I was almost next to him, but not close enough if anything would happen. “Buddy, I can just see you going head-first into all of that mud.” He looked around, as if to survey the ground around him. It was a warmer than usual February day. A warm rain had fallen overnight, melting all remnants of snow.

He shot himself back up, upright, gave me a sheepish sideways glance and said, “It’s not just mud mommy, there’s poop, too.” And without missing a beat, he gracefully hopped down off the fence and was off if search of his siblings. I was left there with the animals thinking, if that had been any other kid, there would have been tears, dirty clothes and a long ride home.

But, I think my 5 year old philosopher nailed it, because, sometimes mud is mud and poop is poop…and sometimes, it is just mixed together.  And that is life!

Potty Training Will Only Get You So Far….

This morning, I got the phone call that every parent dreads.

The nasally, annoyed voice of the preschool secretary was on the other end. “Your son has messed his pants, again,”she said with great disdain, placing too much emphasis on “again.”

Damn it, I thought, as I watched a long list of emails load. I had only been home for 15 minutes, hadn't even touched the steaming latte and was angry that the day would be cut short. I took a deep breath and tried to think of a plausible excuse to buy me a little time. She had gotten me on the home phone, so my usual stuck in traffic or just checking out at the grocery store stories wouldn’t fly. “I have an important call for work coming in any minute; I’ll be over as soon it's done.”

“No,” the stern voice reprimanded, “You need to come NOW, it is a very bad accident.” Now, how exactly do you respond to that? You can’t, really. Besides, how could I, in good conscious, let the teachers and preschool students suffer through whatever stench my son had created? “Of course, I’ll be there in five minutes.” I hit refresh on the computer screen one last time and grabbed my keys. “Little shit!” I thought figuratively, but hoped literally and began to replay the 45 minute bathroom scene that had occured this morning in my head. At the time, my stubborn 5 year-old either couldn’t or wouldn’t go.

For close to three days now, something had been brewing and he was now the 4 ft. equivalent of Mt. Vesuvius. The combination of chicken nuggets, bananas, Skittles and chocolate milk would prove toxic. When I did drop him off this morning I had a passing thought of issuing the following warning - Better start clearing the block area, the sand and water table, housekeeping and the circle time rug, kids, because, it’s just a matter of time before he’s gonna blow.

I pulled into the school parking lot and did not see a SWAT or disaster team. My biggest fears began to abate. No sirens, flashing lights or haz-mat suits, these were all good signs. I mean, after all, how bad could it be? Did she really need to say it was a “very bad accident?” Would I need the Jaws of Life to extract him from his underpants?

I fully expected a scene of this magnitude when I arrived...

Potty training had always been a problem spot, for the little guy. And it was becoming harder and harder for our family as a whole, to reconcile the lack of potty interest with this whip smart little boy who could single handedly reprogram the universal remote control, log onto the internet, take cell phone photos of my behind and send them out to random people with the text “big mommy’s butt”, and compose and save PowerPoint presentation slides on my hard drive titled “No Running in Wal-Mart,” “My Star Project,” and “Big List of Farts.”

Whatever I tried, bribing him with candy, small toys, extra "Naked Dance Party" time -- didn't work. He was completely unfazed about running around all day with poop in his pants. I was beginning to wonder if he just didn't care or couldn't smell. As I warily entered the class room, the teacher came over and said, “We’re very proud of him, today.” I looked confused. “He pooped on the potty, but he just forgot to tell us he needed help cleaning himself up,” she explained.

“Hey Buddy,” I said, as peaked into the bathroom. Ahhh. I was hit first by the smell, then by the scene of the crime. "Hi Mommy," he said, unsure of how I was going to react and sounding a tiny bit sad. As I tried to piece the forensic evidence together, I concluded that in his excitement of pooping on the potty at school, he simply decided that the best way to clean himself off was to wipe his ass on the ceramic toilet bowl, effectively smearing poop on the seat, the base and along the wall as one would thickly spread Nutella on a rice cake. Then, I hypothesized, he simply pulled up his pants and said “I’m finished!” before anything could be done otherwise.

I looked back out in horror at the teachers. “We would have cleaned it up,” they both said, “But it's not in our contract." Which could just as well be translated as "The cheap-assed dollar store notepaper you gave us at Christmas definitely doesn't cover wiping the adult-sized shit from your son's ass.” I cleaned him all up and helped him change into the emergency set of clothes kept on-hand at school and gave him a big hug. I decided to take him home to celebrate his first poop at school and minimize whatever bad feelings the clean-up had caused. Email can always wait, spending time with a 5 year-old can not. As a wise mom once said, "the road to kindergarten isn't easy - there are lots of potholes, poop and thrown out underwear along the way".