At first, it carried some weight.  I would be shattered that I couldn’t go out with friends- for about the first 15 times.  But [...]]]> My mom’s weapon against me and my bad attitude and smart ass ways growing up was “you’re grounded”.  I think it’s safe to say that I was grounded for 85% of my twelfth through fifteenth year.  

At first, it carried some weight.  I would be shattered that I couldn’t go out with friends- for about the first 15 times.  But after that, you just get numb to it.  I began watching more TV and talking on the phone more.  Essentially, my laziness is a result of my groundings- it’s practically scientific. 

The thing is, I remember being an over the top DRAMA queen, and verbose, and smart ass, and rolling my eyes, but as much as I wanted to, I could not control it. No matter how hard I tried, my emotions would always get the best of me.  I like to think I’m passionate.  My mom would argue that I was just a brat. 

Unfortunately, I’m learning that the divalicious, chemically unbalanced apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  My daughter will be 11 on Friday.  She’s been grounded since November- I shit you not.   She’s definitely ahead of my curve.

She’s been begging for a sleepover with some friends and a stay of execution from her grounding.  Yet, her behavior has not improved.  I’m hesitant, but then I’m reminded by my damn conscience of my emotions at that age  and my temper tantrums. 

Then she screams,” you are the worst mother in the world!”  And “this is all I want and then you can ground me for a year.”  Followed by, “I hate you and you’re always on the computer.” And the ever popular standby,  ”you don’t love me.”

So why have I given in?   Because it’s on my terms.  I am leading her to believe that the grounding sticks and there will be NO FRIENDS’ SLEEPOVER.  But secretly, I have e-mailed all of their mothers and they will be here at 6 on Friday for a sleepover. 

Then, starting at noon on Saturday, she’s grounded till 2011.

If you must shave your lady bits, by all means, do it in a CAR

WHILE you’re DRIVING

TO your boyfriend’s house

With your ex-husband in the passenger seat- steering.

You can’t make this shit up.  Floridians- I bow to your brand of dysfunction.

I turned down [...]]]> I made the decision.  I’m sure it won’t come without some regret- eventually.  But I did what I had to do.  And, for now, I’m happy with it.  After all, I am the only person in this house that knows how to put the toilet paper roll onto the dispenser.  Skills like that are invaluable.

I turned down the job.  It was a decision I struggled over for the last week.   My stomach has felt the firey wrath.   I analyzed the pros and cons to death. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.  In my haze, I have wiped my kitchen table with laundry stain remover and washed my face with eye make-up remover thinking it was toner.  Twice.

The control freak in me couldn’t fathom needing to depend on so many people.  One person to drive this one home from preschool, another to watch them after school, another to drive her to her playdate, and another to pick this one up from choir practice and then watch her until I get home.  Composing the daily schedule kept me awake at night.

Ultimately, I decided,  it’s not my time.  The return was not great enough.  My kids still need me.

I think I made the right decision.

I was in the parking lot to comfort my son after getting cut from baseball try-outs.   He’s angsty and 15 and tried to hide the tears and disappointment.   But I was there to soften the blow with pizza and ice cream and pretend I didn’t see his tear stained cheeks as my heart broke for him.   

I was here to blow my sick 5 year old’s nose this morning and say God Bless You after she sneezed 18 times.   

I walked through the grocery store realizing what a luxury it was to have that time.  I did a load of whites and didn’t complain about the 7 socks with no match. 

I learned the dangers of my husband “liking his milk cold” and setting the temperature on the fridge to 32… broken Pellegrino glass and frozen chunks of mineral water.  And I cleaned it without calling him at work at ripping him a new asshole.

I will take my daughter to get her haircut and not bitch about her wanting short hussy layers and side bangs just because it’s breaking my heart that I won’t be able to put her hair in french braids anymore.

I will make my way to Toys’R'Us  to return a defective High School Musical doll that I got her for her birthday.  I won’t even whine to the cashier about both legs coming off as we took it out of the package.

I am grateful that I have the time to do this stuff,  to be present in their lives, for now.  I think  I’m going to enjoy it, while I can.

The closer I get, the more I realize, I have this life down pat.  I could do it in my pajamas.  And I usually do.  

My internal alarm wakes me every morning at just-early-enough-to-get-ready-without-having-adolescent-breakdowns O’clock. 

We’re out of milk… here’s a donut oatmeal.  Can’t find my [...]]]> Hi, I’m wishy washy.  I want a job, I don’t want a job. 

The closer I get, the more I realize, I have this life down pat.  I could do it in my pajamas.  And I usually do.  

My internal alarm wakes me every morning at just-early-enough-to-get-ready-without-having-adolescent-breakdowns O’clock. 

We’re out of milk… here’s a donut oatmeal.  Can’t find my gym shorts… look in the dryer.  She put the last cupcake in her lunch… here, a candy bar from my secret stash.  Sign this, write a check for that, tie a shoe, zip a coat and we’re out the door and arrive on time to 3 schools all before 8:30.   

I’m a problem solver.  It’s like breathing for me.  I do it with ease, but sometimes, I’m afraid it’s all I know anymore. 

In theory, I thought I wanted to be challenged in life and feel more active in society.

Then I get a chance to prove I am capable of more and I become hesitatant.   I convinced her that I was the right person for the job, but I haven’t convinced myself that I want to be that person.  

Sure, I would like things to be different, but I’m not sure this is what I want to change.  I’m good at this, I know this, it’s comfortable. 

I’m afraid of not being in charge of my schedule anymore.  I am afraid of getting dinner started at 7pm after a long day of talking to adults and wearing shoes.   Rushing through “how was your day” niceties.  Shoving a day of catching up into an hour before bedtime.   Makes me sad just thinking about it.

Details that were automatic are now haunting me… half days, sick days, choir, band, baseball, time to do the laundry or the grocery shopping. 

I juggle so many things on a daily basis, but it’s a different juggling act than a working mom and I DON’T KNOW HOW THEY DO IT!

So, I guess I’m a spoiled brat and want a job on my terms.  Is that too much to ask?  I know the answer.

Also, my husband is self conscious of his hairline resembling a vagina in certain lights.  Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that because now, if you ever see him, you’ll be thinking about the unkempt crotch on his head and [...]]]> Bars should be dark.  It hides smeared mascara and shiny foreheads and insecurities (or maybe that’s the booze?)  

Also, my husband is self conscious of his hairline resembling a vagina in certain lights.  Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that because now, if you ever see him, you’ll be thinking about the unkempt crotch on his head and that will just be uncomfortable. 

I was feeling overtly sober in the well lit bar.  The first person that came up to me said she loved my hair and said I was “gorgeous”.  Never mind that she couldn’t stand up and called me a bitch.  I whispered in her ear, “you’re such a sweet drunk.” And then I may have felt her up.  I like compliments. 

It was one of my best friend’s husband’s 40th birthday party.  

People watching was at a premium, but I could only take the cigarette smoke for so long.   If there’s one thing I hate more than skinny girls that wear Spanx, it’s cigarette smoke. 

We had been sitting a table with a couple that we just met (friends of my friend).  We decided to go get a pizza.  The bar was loud and the Heineken draught was large.   This is the conversation that followed in our car on the way to the pizza place.

Husband:   Where are we going?

Me:  You’re the one that brought it up!  We’re going to get pizza!

Husband:  Are you sure?   They seemed pretty drunk.  He seemed interested in going to the titty bars. They might be shady.

Me:  You mean, when you suggested it?  After your 6th beer?

Husband:  Yeah, but you know… I was testing him.

Me:  Stop being a stupid drunk and lying.

Husband:  I think they’re swingers.  I think they’re trying to get us to swing with them.

Me:  You got that from PIZZA???  You’re giving yourself WAY too much credit- they do NOT want to sleep with you!

Long pause- 

Me:  Holy fuck… I don’t know their names! Do you remember their names?  Her name started with a SH sound… Shelley? Sharon?  Cheryl?  Do you remember his?  You stood in that long beer line with him?

Husband:  He’s Russian…  I think it’s Ivan. 

Me:  That’s totally racist.   

I’m not proud.  For the record, my husband sobered up and admitted he was wrong and I WAS RIGHT and we ended up having a great time with “Sh” and “Ivan”.   I wonder why we don’t have more friends?

My 10 year old’s birthday always falls in Lent.   As students at a Catholic school, my kids are strongly encouraged [...]]]> We are in the midst of our birthday season.  Friday, my baby will be 5 (hold me!) and next week, my 10 year old technically turns 11 (but I’m pretty sure she’s mentally going on 17- hold me tighter!)

My 10 year old’s birthday always falls in Lent.   As students at a Catholic school, my kids are strongly encouraged to sacrifice important things and change bad habits during this season.  Each year, the 10 year old does her best to cheat her way into heaven and not piss off Jesus too much with her lame sacrifices. 

You see, she lives and breathes for sweets.  She would kill for them.  If I hadn’t stepped in, she may have already killed for them.    Our dog ate her huge Hershey’s Kiss from Valentine’s Day and I won’t  tell you what she did to him because I don’t have the strength to deal with the PETA freaks, but I will say that I had pry the remnants of the slobbery chocolate out of the dog’s teeth and physically put it in the bottom of the dumpster outside to ensure that she wouldn’t try and recycle.   

Imagine the roar from Chris Farley’s “Gap girl” protecting her french fries… that’s my daughter with her sweets. 

Since she’s doesn’t like my ideas of keeping her room clean, not throwing temper tantrums or not rolling her eyes (a suggestion, ironically, at which she rolled her eyes), it inevitably comes down to sweets.   She’ll suggest something like I’ll give up the blue marshmallows in my Lucky Charms or not lick my fingers after eating S’mores.  She’s a giver. 

It’s surprising that she still fights the abstaining.  It’s not like she hasn’t been warned.   

When she was 8, she ambitiously and carelessly, gave up cake for Lent.    We had a big bowling party for her birthday.  There was a huge white cake with chocolate mousse filling and buttercream icing- the kind of things her dreams are made of!  You may think this was cruel, but it was her BIRTHDAY, for Pete’s sake!  I didn’t see any harm in her having a piece of  her own birthday cake.  And the party was held on a Sunday (I never heard of this rule when I was younger, but some of the kids mentioned being able to have what you gave up on Sundays.)  She was very reluctant to eat the cake because of guilt.  My mom and I were pretty much the meddling drug dealers applying the peer pressure, at this point.   She gave in and ate the cake and had a great time at her party.

I will never forget her face looking up at me from the toilet that night asking me if God was punishing her.   Every bit of the pink and black decorated cake had come back up.  I felt so bad for her, since I was the one that encouraged her to have some, but couldn’t help but find it kind of  funny, too. 

The lesson was lost on her.

This year she gave up donuts.  Until the morning of Ash Wednesday when my husband had a fresh box on the counter that he had brought home and she quickly modified her offering of penitence- to cookies.

One year she gave up cookies.  She then ate crushed up Oreos on her ice cream- and made a quick clarification, “I gave up CHOCOLATE CHIP cookies.” 

One year she gave up ice cream.  The family ate a fast food place that also serves frozen custard and I wouldn’t let her have any.  She then wrote a legal dissertation of how “frozen custard” has a silky smooth consistence because of the pure butterfat, egg yolks and real cream they use and is clearly NOT the same as ice cream.

Life’s discords- some small, some big- are all the truth serum I need.  And next thing you know… watch out!  Don’t step in the word vomit! 

I sometimes wish for the passive- aggressive, avoidance tools that make my mom so goddamn chipper and positive-  but then I reach for  the meds and voila- passive- agressive in [...]]]> Honesty is my curse.  

Life’s discords- some small, some big- are all the truth serum I need.  And next thing you know… watch out!  Don’t step in the word vomit! 

I sometimes wish for the passive- aggressive, avoidance tools that make my mom so goddamn chipper and positive-  but then I reach for  the meds and voila- passive- agressive in a bottle without sacrificing my principles… gotta love technology.   

So, I’ve been having a tough time if you hadn’t picked up on all the sappy introspect. 

The stress of being a grown up yesterday broke my head a little (read: migraine).  The Stair Master tried to kill me.  I updated my resume and I had a job interview – as in real slacks instead of yoga pants, blouse in place of bleach stained t-shirt and heels!    I’m 99% sure the migraine was my body rejecting being a functioning adult. 

I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do right now or not.  At this point, I’m grasping at straws.   Throwing spaghetti at the wall.  Taking a stab at it.  Did I mention I use cliches when I’m unsure?

During the interview, honesty struck again. 

Interviewer:  What are you most proud of?

Me:  I should probably say my kids, here, huh?  Um, yeah, no.   I mean, I’m proud that I have I survived being a stay at home mom for this long and they’re good kids and all, but I’m proud of my writing…

That’s right.  I said that.  The second it came out of my mouth, my head started typing WTF! WTF! WTF!  (Note to self- less computer time).  But what the hell was I thinking?   I also may have mentioned poopy diapers and having hot flash flop sweats and eggs drying up. Yes. I’m certain.  I did say those.  

What I meant was that I was proud that I found a way to stay sane and by no means should they google any part of my name and search for my babble that I spew on to the Internet, because that would be silly.

So, I walked out of the interview, fairly confident about the way it went (in hindsight, I’m not sure where that confidence came from).  Sat in my car, stopped sucking in my gut, and looked at my reflection in the rear view mirror.     I swear, it was lint, but for all intents and purposes from the interviewer’s perspective,  I just did an interview with a booger hanging out of my nose.

Don’t change anything.  Fuck all those dorks that can’t keep up with your format changes. They are probably the same idiots that fill up my homepage with their Farmland, Mafia, and Bejewell bullshit. That’s not what Facebook is about! I’m here to applaud you on what you are doing right.  For the good of society.   

I know [...]]]> Dear Facebook,

Don’t change anything.  Fuck all those dorks that can’t keep up with your format changes. They are probably the same idiots that fill up my homepage with their Farmland, Mafia, and Bejewell bullshit. That’s not what Facebook is about! I’m here to applaud you on what you are doing right.  For the good of society.   

I know it’s for a bigger purpose… to simplify stalking.  And I, for one, thank you and your voyeur lovin’ technology.

How else would I know that the head cheerleader has become fatter than me? And that my gaydar in high school was RIGHT ON.

Or that someone I used to do very illegal things with- the least of which was smoking pot- is a born again Christian, Bible beater that uses Facebook as a lure to  bring people into “Jesus’ arms” while quoting Christian Rock group lyrics.

Sure, I shiver at the thought of having been friends at one time with people now that go to Monster Truck rallies and watch Nascar, but if it weren’t for you, I may have made the grave error in judgement and renewed those friendships- that could have been ugly! 

Granted, I don’t want to become a fan of an old classmates Plumbing Company even though I ignore the request once a week (it may be because he has a porn mustache and in my opinion- porn mustache and plumber’s crack is just too much to wrap my mind around), but I can deal with little hiccups like that.

So Facebook, keep on keeping on.  And a lot of my Catholic friends are “giving you up” for Lent… don’t worry, they’ll be back.

So yesterday was Valentine’s day.  I don’t pretend to like that day. I never have. But this year- I REALLY wasn’t in the mood!  

I didn’t change my Facebook status to show me and my husband and say how we met and how long we’ve been together. Corny!  Or maybe [...]]]> What’s a woman gotta do to get some love? 

So yesterday was Valentine’s day.  I don’t pretend to like that day. I never have. But this year- I REALLY wasn’t in the mood!  

I didn’t change my Facebook status to show me and my husband and say how we met and how long we’ve been together. Corny!  Or maybe I just have a bad attitude- possibly, both.

It’s no secret that we’ve been under a lot of stress and stress is hard on a marriage- we’re no exception.

He’s working a lot and resenting it.  I resent that he resents it and thinks I do nothing.  He resents that I write this and I’ve probably already said too much.

It’s fucking butterflies and rainbows here, folks.

No gifts or niceties were exchanged.  Well, I take that back… we refrained from telling each other to screw off yesterday- you know, in the spirit of the made up Hallmark holiday.

He did call on his way home last night (11pm) and asked if I wanted him to pick up anything for me for Valentine’s day from the 24 gas station.  And what woman’s heart wouldn’t be warmed by THAT gesture?