The Terrible Threes- Three kids, one exhausted mom. A whole lotta snark.

Nickelodeon must burn.

2013-03-21T21:08:00.000-07:00

Nickelodeon, I'm gunning for you.

I just want to preface this letter with my declaration of love for all things Nick Jr.

I mean, personally, I loathe all of these cartoons, but you delight my kids in ways that only you, or an overachieving-guilt-ridden-Maclaren-stroller-yielding-playground-mom could.

And even if you added up all the things that annoyed me about Nick Jr.'s programming and stuck them into a marathon run of the world's most obnoxious show, it would still be less revolting than watching a single episode of Caillou.

Now that we're through the lovefest, this is why I'm angry with you. You are marketing inappropriate material to my 4 and 6 year olds. My little girls, who don't yet think about their bodies in self condemning ways, who think boys are gross and smell like farts (some things never change) and believe in magical deities that bring them candy, presents and money. Those are the girls who are intently watching your every move. And you are leading them astray.

I work from home and from time to time, so to keep my kids occupied (here comes the hate mail) I let my kids play games on your site. These precious little girls were playing a game on Nickelodeon.com the other day and I was appalled.

This was the game that they were playing.

And...five of you have now masturbated to this....

I'm no prude, but unless I'm mistaken, this is supposed to be for CHILDREN. And every single one of these girls has copious amounts of flesh exposed and is posed provocatively. And don't even get me started on their unrealistic body shapes and proportions.

In the game, the player has to dress the "Winx" fairy, who is, of course, posed provocatively and in her underwear and hooker heels (you know, cause all little kids wear those hooker heels). And the fairy is very tall and very, very thin. Unrealistically thin. Like waist the size of an elbow. Like I'm-sure-there-are-kids-in-Ethiopia-sticking-their-fingers-down-their-throats-after-watching-these-cartoons-thin.

I was pissed. So I did what any sane, rational adult would do and turned the game off. I explained to my girls that, while some women might look like that, most don't, and that I did not think they should be looking at images of girls who were unrealistically proportioned and dressed like they did not have respect for their bodies.

I was over it. We had moved on.

Until, we went to McDonald's for Happy Meals.

And I noticed to my (lack of)surprise that their Nickelodeon themed "girl's" toys were even more inappropriate than the game was.

Now I know that these toys are predictably sexist. Girls get makeup and hair brushes and barbie dolls and boys get cars and building sets, etc. God forbid we don't indoctrinate our female children into our western obsession with hair and makeup. But not the point.

This is what really set me off- First of all, they were "Victorious" toys. A show that is supposed to be marketed toward 'tweens and teens, who I doubt are of Happy Meal purchasing age. Second, these toys had pictures of teenage girls in makeup and teen girl clothes, singing songs about DATING their best friend's brother.

And of course as soon as my daughters heard the song, they immediately started singing the lyrics.

"My best friend's brother is the one for me!"

BEYOND INAPPROPRIATE for a 4 and 6 year old.

So, of course, we had an epic battle of wills and resulting little girl meltdowns because Happy Meal toys got taken away. And I don't blame you for making them sad that their toys got taken away. That's just proper parenting. I wouldn't let them play with razor blades either. What I do blame you for is putting ideas in kids heads LONG before they belong there.

Should my FOUR and SIX year old daughters be singing about having a boyfriend?

Since you obviously don't know, the answer is no, Nickelodeon. Shame on you.

What I'm trying to say is, please think about what you are putting out there for these little kids. These kids, who come into this world, thinking we are all perfect and beautiful, regardless of shape and size. I want my girls' to know that they are magnificent. I want to keep them in that bubble as long as I can. Stop trying to pop it.

And stop trying to sexualize them. They are CHILDREN. Innocent little booger picking, crayon eating children. They are just experiencing this world for the first time. Why do you want to corrupt them so soon? Their first loose teeth, first taste of ice cream, first best friend. Everything they do and see is new to them and they have plenty of time to enjoy it all. So why are we rushing toward mini skirts and makeup?

Let them savor these moments free of thoughts about boys and body images. Let them sit in their blanket forts, make best friends of all sexes and shapes and colors and embrace the most magical experience of all, the innocence of being a child.

Sincerely,
A Former Fan of Yours.

I was chosen to be in a book!

2013-03-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

Dining with Children.

2013-03-17T21:43:00.000-07:00

Being a parent, you know that there are certain experiences that are more challenging to handle with children. Shopping. Errands. Peeing. Breathing...

But by far, the most horrible of the horrible experiences has to be going out to dinner with them.

You spent a ton of money and cross your fingers, praying not to have to fork out money to assuage the disgust of anyone having a table within earshot of screeching/reach of flying spaghetti/radius of diaper smell.

As the mom, you give away most of your food and then eat your cold meal in under 6 seconds. Usually between trips to the restroom, blocking the hand-offs of scalding objects and spoon feeding so many people that you feel like a clumsy version of that Indian Goddess chick with all the arms.

Going to a restaurant leaves you fraught with panic, completely mortified and promising yourself (and sometimes the manager) that you will never eat out again.

But last night was different. My children were well behaved. Angelic even.

We were seated next to this little old woman, who was by herself reading a book. Holden, our three year old and Cora, our four year old, sat on either side of me and Phoenix, who is six, sat next to daddy. They colored their menus quietly, as Jude and I glanced awkwardly at each other.

I actually remember saying, "They are being so good that I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing now..."

He shrugged.

What did I do at dinner before children? Should we be talking about something? Oh my God, I don't even know where I'm supposed to put my hands. On the table? In my lap? They're usually moving quickly and filled with children's items.

So, we started talking, ordered drinks calmly, no tantrums or anything. I even got to read the menu. Holden decided he wanted to snuggle with me and he put his head on my arm. I tussled his hair. Cora nuzzled in too. I was in the middle of a snuggle sandwich and I was eating it up. Phoenix ran over to give me a hug and a kiss and then went right back to her seat. They were the perfect children!

OMG! Have we finally gotten to a point where we can go to a restaurant and eat now?!?

I glanced up and I caught the old woman watching us out of the corner of my eye. She was smiling. And I got that swelling of pride, you know, that feeling when you're really killing it parenting-wise and someone actually catches you doing a good job for change. I was a good mom. This woman thought I was a good mom. And my kids are good kids. We've raised good kids. I felt unstoppable.

And Holden looked over at me. And I looked into his big, baby blues.

And I saw that look. That puckered-lip-half-burp look.

And I knew that all that cute shit was over.

I grabbed a napkin and prayed that it was gonna just be a little bit.

BBBBLLLLLEEEEEEEERRRRRRGGGGGGGGG.

I caught the first wave of chunky food with the napkin.

Ok, that wasn't so bad. Maybe nobody noti.....

BBBBBLLLLLLLEEEEEERRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

It shot out like he was mid demon possession. Panicked, I put my hands under the stream, attempting to catch the vomit as it dripped through my fingers and onto my pants and boots. Apparently, you cannot catch vomit in your hands. Cue that "The More You Know" thingy.

BBBBBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

I had run out of napkins and was just watching him, defeated, as he vomited straight onto the table top, which then ran off onto the floor. The Denny's dining room grew silent as people watched in horror, choking back their own vomit and trying to prevent this from becoming a vomit waterfall.

The waiter ran over, probably wishing he had spit in our entrees, an insufficient number of napkins in tow. I tried, unsuccessfully to clean up the gallons of puke.

I swear, two bites = two gallons of puke somehow.

I looked up and the old woman averted her gaze.

Damn.

He had managed to pull off the long con. He ruined, not only the enjoyment of the adjoining tables' meals, but the collective appetite of the entire Denny's establishment. And then we took the parade route to the bathroom, him covered in vomit, and myself attempting to ignore the stares of disgust and whispers of disgruntled Denny's patrons.

Welp, back to "bad mom". And I smell like puke. And we can never go to Denny's again. Cross that one off the list.

Maybe we'll try again in ten years. Hopefully by then they'll remember that it's rude to puke at the dinner table. And if they do puke, I'll remember not to try to catch it.

Working from home. With kids.

2013-03-05T09:38:00.000-08:00

So a little over a week ago, I fell off the face of the earth. I haven't tweeted, blog rolled, facebooked, emailed. I have completely neglected all of my e-sponsibilities.

I have been overwhelmed. Exhausted. Stressed to the max.

Because being the masochist I am, I took a job working from home. And I am losing my motherfucking mind.

Basically, working from home while you have little kids at home with you means that you try to ignore your kids for as long as you can get away with before your head (or theirs) explodes. If you are really bad at ignoring them, you get fired. If you are really good at ignoring them, they probably die. You know, because you can't watch Dora the Explorer without the ambience that the warm glow of a microwaved sibling provides.

One thing is for sure, my kids will not go down without a fight. They will be damned if I'm gonna work and they have decided that they are going to make it impossible. This is basically how it has gone.

So I'm figuring it out. Slowly.

But this is basically what it's like to work from home when you have children:

Working from home with kids is beastly. Because you feel like you are failing at parenting and failing at working all at the same time. At best, you strike a balance and are mediocre at both.

It's a little hellish.

So that's where I've been lately.

Valentine's Day: With and Without Money.

2013-02-14T10:42:00.000-08:00

I hope every has a very Happy Valentine's Day! And some money...you know, to actually do something.

Pervy Spider

2013-02-12T13:04:00.002-08:00

This morning, like every other morning, I sighed in the general direction of the alarm clock, grumpily rubbed my eyes, walked into the bathroom, disrobed and stumbled into the warm shower.

I had just begun to shampoo my hair when I noticed I wasn't alone.

Oh my God, spider!!!

Do I kill it?

It is pretty small, so maybe it's a baby.

I don't want to kill a baby.

My guilt riddled anthropomorphism made me feel attached to this "baby" spider and I decided I didn't have it in me to kill it.

So I left it alone. And continued my usual bathing ritual. Rinsed my hair. Soaped up all the nooks and crannies and rinsed them out.

I tried to forget it was there, but it was clearly watching me. Glaring. I glared at the spider, it glared back. We exchanged awkward, knowing glances.

And then I realized that I was naked. And it was glaring at me, naked.

I felt oddly self- conscious. Standing there, bare before the spider. It must have thought I was some sort of Lena Dunham-esque exhibitionist, baring my copious flesh every time I entered its shower habitat.

So there I stood, naked, anxiously glaring at a spider.

Was it judging me?

Had it seen my neighbors nude as well?

Did it rank us?

Baby or not, it had seen me nude and it had to go.

I turned off the water, dried myself off and stepped out. I grabbed a piece of toilet paper and turned around to seal the spider's fate.... But it was gone.

He just stayed to watch me shower.

And I felt violated. And really, really dirty.

But I can't shower again, because you know... the pervy spider....

Clearly, I can never shower again.

Ever have a bug fly up your nose?

2013-02-08T09:10:00.001-08:00

Eating vomit.
Bones protuding from skin.
Maggots...doing anything.

Those are MAYBE the only things that are more disgusting than snorting a bug up your nose.

As soon as I opened the door this morning to take my 6 year old to school, it shot up there like a sniper.

I'm fairly convinced the bug mafia put a hit on me for all those spiders I mildly irritated over the years with all my grandstanding, shoe throwing and shrieking.

If you are a lucky bastard and have never experienced the sheer delight of having a bug fly up your nose, allow me to describe the horror.

You see, it flies in and presumably dies in all the snot and gooeyness. Meaning, now you have a dead bug carcass stuck in your sinus cavity. But let's be me for a moment and go with the more disgusting scenario and say that it doesn't die. You have a half dead bug who might have always wanted to have children, but was way too focused on their career and is now contemplating laying it's buggy offspring in your crazy, paranoid little head. Either way, it's vile. And that's only the beginning.

On to the more disgusting question of how it gets out. Well, you know how when you're sick you sometimes get that phlegm at the back of your throat that can't be blown out, but you instead have to snort down your throat and spit out? I'm gonna let that sink in a moment..... And welcome to hell.

Yes, you blow your nose like you're trying to expel brain matter, but no bug.

Fuck, it's too far in there. It's gonna have to go out the other way.

*Snort, dry heave, snort, dry heave, repeat*

Still not coming out. So now, you have to wait for your gooey, winged nemesis to slide down further into your throat until it's palatable. You can feel the lump of bug in the back of your throat and on the verge of puking, you try, fruitlessly, to just spit this fucker out.

*GULP*

And end up swallowing it.

So now, I have a bug in my stomach and I'm entirely convinced that in a few weeks, end of life babies are gonna come shooting out of my nostrils.

Grossest. Shit. Ever.

Mainstream bullying at it's finest.

2013-02-01T08:23:00.003-08:00

Jesse Heiman

Bar Rafaeli

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-3j4-4N3Ng

"Shocking."
"Disgusting."
"Funny."

These are words that were used to describe this Godaddy.com commercial, set to air on Sunday, during Superbowl XLVII.

I just want to say that while I'm not at all shocked or disgusted by the commercial itself, what I am shocked and disgusted at is the insinuation behind the commercial, as well as the reaction of both members of the public who were interviewed, and the hosts who commentated on Good Morning America this morning.

If you cannot watch the video in the link, the commercial portrays Danica Patrick introducing supermodel, Bar Rafaeli, Godaddy's "sexy side" to actor, Jesse Heiman, portraying "Walter, Godaddy's smart side." They look at each other and begin kissing.

"THE HORROR! SOMEONE BEAUTIFUL IS KISSING A 'NERD'!!!!"

*CRINGE* "OH THAT'S SOOOOOO DISGUSTING!!!"

"EWWWW..... HOW MUCH DID SHE GET PAID TO DO THAT?"

You know what, fuck you people. How do you think this guy feels? You know, other than the fact that he "got" to make out with Bar Rafaeli for 45 minutes. Maybe he's funny. Maybe he's a tiger in the sack. Maybe he would be the sweetest damn boyfriend you would ever have. Maybe he will be the greatest man that you have ever known.

But you're an asshole, right? So you would never date a "nerd"? It's disgusting? Really, is it disgusting?

You know what is disgusting? This attitude that "pretty" people are better than others. That nerds should be so lucky as to have one of them step down off of their pedestal for 45 minutes and pay them some attention.

And Bar Rafaeli is an asshole. Because when asked to comment on the commercial she said, "I have always wanted to go into a bar and find the one person who I was least likely to be attracted to.... Just the most unlikely person there and kiss them in front of everyone....Really just make his, um... week." You know the wheels were turning and she wanted to say "life", but she thought better of it.

Check in with us in twenty years, Bar. You know, when Jesse is a millionaire because he honed some sort of actual talent and your tits are saggy and you have nothing else going on, so no one likes you anymore.

Then you can do a second commercial and people can comment on how SHOCKING AND DISGUSTING it is for someone to make out with you. Let's see how smug you feel about it then. Count how many times you chuckle and toss your hair.

And for everyone on Good Morning America and those people on the street that they interviewed who were all to quick to label this guy "a nerd", thanks for leaving the real men to people who truly appreciate them. Enjoy your shallow, meaningless lives and eventual, multiple midlife crises.

Signed,
A wife to one special nerd and friend of nerds everywhere,
Amy Terror

What the hell is a Liebster Award?

2013-01-29T22:47:00.000-08:00

Add the links you say? I just did like 35 panels of strips! Get to cuttin' and pastin' motherfucker!

I am Mommy-ella.

2013-01-28T12:41:00.000-08:00

Ever have a day where you look around your house, survey the destruction and do a cost/benefit analysis of just burning the motherfucker to the ground?

Who needs all this stuff anyway. We will change our names, start over in a new town and own only disposable and self cleaning items.

But alas, I don't want to do 5-10 for laziness inspired arson.

So I have to try to tackle this. And everywhere I look, piles of shit.

Piles of dishes, piles of laundry, piles of paper, piles of garbage, piles of toys.

I'm lucky that I have yet to find an actual pile of shit.

I finally stood up and said to myself that there is work to be done... And I seem to be the only one who's gonna do it. I am the cleaning bitch. I am our household's Cinderella.

Not the happy-song-singing-birds-and-mice-helping-me-sew-balancing-tea-cups-on-my-head-cheery-cleaning-bitch, Cinderella.

I'm the one where she can't handle the nagging stress and constant demands of the household cleaning duties and starts dropping acid, thinks she is dancing the night away with the prince, and comes to around midnight to find herself gnawing on the leg of one of her dismembered step-siblings.

And then it hits her that SHE is still the one who is gonna have to clean up the gooey corpse mess.

I am that Cinderella. And before you ask, no, I'm not going to murder anyone.

But because our house is a disaster and something needs to be done...

I will be the hero that they need me to be.

I am the one who knows if that's a bug or an old raisin.

The cleaner of puke.

The pissed on and the pissed off.

I am Mommy-ella.

Just don't expect me to be happy about it.

Supernanny

2013-01-24T21:43:00.002-08:00

Bet She'll Flip Out.

2013-01-06T16:29:00.000-08:00

Hand made gifts and why you should love them.

2012-12-23T11:57:00.001-08:00

So, it's that time of year again. Time for mommy and daddy Claus to bust their humps and give all the credit to our favorite rouge attired burglar. Merry f'in Christmas, everyone.

I am already wiped out and it's not even Christmas Eve yet. December 26th, I will be like the Native American guy from One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. I am gonna stare into space, sit on the couch and drool.

You see, Christmas is a magical time of year. For children.

They build Gingerbread houses (which we have to construct "GOD DAMN IT! It collapsed AGAIN!"), eat delicious Christmas cookies (which by the end of the cookie baking, get more and more burnt because the amount of shits given have rapidly decreased), use the power of advanced technology to watch the same Christmas show over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over (you will burn in the fires of hell, Christmas Spongebob!), go to bed on Christmas Eve in their sweet little Christmas jammies (that another adult had to pay to ship to and I had to make sure to wash so that had them to wear) and fall asleep listening to the sounds of what must be Santa (or, you know, two delirious adults, who hate wrapping paper so fucking much at this point that they end up on the deck at 3am, lighting rolls of it on fire).

Christmas is also magical for childless adults, for whom it means quasi-drunk office parties, exchanging presents that they actually like with friends and two weeks of glorious unadulterated fucking around.

But for adults with LITTLE children, Christmas can be hellish. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the cocoa and presents and watching The Grinch 8,000 times (cause I tune it out somewhere around the third time). And I like the end result of baking cookies, crafting and sending Christmas cards. It all LOOKS so magical. When it's over and you can finally breathe.

But, it's in the process of PREPPING for the holidays that you lose your mind. Especially when you are a CRAFTY parent of little children and get the stupid idea that you are going to MAKE all your gifts this year. Our house has become a veritable Christmas assembly line at this point in the season. We ARE Santa's workshop. Crafting and cookie baking and Christmas card address writing. I feel like a fatter, disgruntled, sore-armed Martha Stewart. My apologizes if whatever I send you is smudged from splashes of wine.

I like making thing. No, that's not a typo. I mean THING. As in, ONE. Once it becomes a dozen that have convinced myself to make, it gets tedious. And the kids start begging to help (destroy everything completely) and I have to give them their own projects to do. Which just results in my supervising kid's projects all day and then tucking kids into bed, and then sitting down and staring at a pile of unfinished business. And staying up until 2am to finish crafting crooked, bleary-eyed versions of whatever they were meant to be.

So, basically what I want to say is, if someone gives you something homemade for Christmas, be grateful. Because they have stayed up inhumane hours to make 20 (or more, God bless them) of these. They have definitely not had a meaningful conversation, or looked anyone in the eye for over a week. They are starting to feel lonely and depressed, wondering if it will ever be over. Debated how many feet of string it would take to hang yourself. Started wondering what it was like before they learned how to macrame/cross stitch/ knit/ sew/ glue. And snarling about those bastards who could afford to just go to the store and buy stuff. They have bled, or shed tears for that craft. The only thing that is keeping them going is the thought that YOU will love what they are making.

So I don't care if it's the ugliest fucking thing you have ever seen. I don't care if you open your present and can't even tell what it's supposed to be. Because your friend/child/sibling/parent, etc. lost a part of their soul for two weeks to make that shit for you. They gained ten pounds from stress eating and are falling asleep standing up so much that they are worried they are narcoleptic. And their sanity hinges upon your approval of the gift that they made just for you.

So you thank them. With tears in your eyes. And you wear that ugly-ass sweater proudly.

And next year, as with every year, when I decide that I'm Martha f'in Stewart again, somebody slap me.

Metros of the World, this is the final straw...

2012-12-13T11:40:00.002-08:00

Coming 2013: Lots of man crotch.

Apparently skinny jeans weren't emasculating enough. The next trend in Men's fashion are said to be "Meggings", or Men's Leggings.

Between learning of the existence of Meggings and Kanye West wearing a skirt during last night's Nationally televised 121212 Concert, I have decided that it's my responsibility to write an open letter to the Metrosexual Men of the World, those heterosexual males, for which this trend might become popular.

Dear Metros of the World,

Cut the crap. By doing things like wearing "Meggings" (which are gonna make that sucked in red bull and vodka gut look incredible and force you to wear screen printed t-shirts with sayings like "I'm a Grower, not a Show-er"), you are ensuring that no woman will ever procreate with you. The end is totally nigh.

Things have gone far enough. You tan, you wax, you product. All things that I have cleverly avoided by marrying the last beacon of hope for humanity. A "man's man". For whom eyebrows means one, not two.

But I fear for my children. That they will in some way find this attractive. And I will end up with grand babies who have to wear Spanx to get into their onesies. Whose first hair cuts will be fades. And who smell of a permanent mixture of burnt on tanning oil and Acqua Di Gio.

I know how lucky I am. To have one of the last men of a dying breed. A man for whom pants means rugged jeans, or sweat. Who has embraced with open arms, the body hair and musty smells, with which he has been naturally gifted.

Some women might see this differently. I say it's because they don't know any better. Like how we will never know how fun it is to ride a Unicorn (or maybe it's terrifying, I don't know...)

These women don't realize how sexy a man looks when his jeans are slightly too tight and they sag down under his beer gut. They have never known the embrace of a sweaty man who smells of hard work and is obviously out of deodorant. Or what it's like to have a long makeout sesh with a scruff-bearing male and have a sweet two day reminder of the embrace in the form of beard burn. Or how titillating it is to watch your man get dressed and do the old sniff test as a form of quality control. You might say it's disgusting. I say it's downright sexy.

So please, please Metrosexual Men, don't embrace this Meggings thing. It's the most "unmanly" thing you could do and it's just taking this whole thing a bit too far. I know they don't make 'em like my husband anymore, but could you at least butch it up a little bit?

Besides, they look like they would create a Testicle/Vice Grip situation. So drop this trend like last season's Nike's. Your rapidly dwindling, fist pumping sperm colony will thank you.

Sincerely,

The last SANE woman on the planet. (And my burly husband will tell you, that's a stretch)
Amy Terror

Pictures with Santa

2012-12-01T16:41:00.001-08:00

Thinking about renaming my car CHILD SLAYER

2012-11-26T08:57:00.001-08:00

8:30 in the morning is too early to have to actively TRY not to kill people with my car. As a matter of fact, I think I'm going to re-name our car "CHILD SLAYER". I will emblazon this name on the hood of my car, throw on some horns and paint flames up the sides.

All of the kids with a little bit of common sense will know to stay away from CHILD SLAYER. There will be tales told about how my car eats children and they will scream and run in fear on sight. When they hear the purr of my engine, they will walk faster through crosswalks and clear the street. It will be magical.

Of course, that will be probably backfire on me, living in the San Francisco area. All of the little hipster kids will jump in front of CHILD SLAYER because they want to die in the most ironic way possible. Skinny jeans, flannels and thick, black glasses will be stuck in the undercarriage. CHILD SLAYER will go all Christine on me and will force me to listen to mixed tapes of shitty underground bands. And it will refuse to take in anything but gasoline made from ears of corn.

That sounds like way too much work. Maybe I should get just start getting a little more sleep.

Can we have cookies?

2012-11-14T20:06:00.000-08:00

Vaginas at the Dentist's Office.

2012-11-08T16:20:00.000-08:00

Today, I am that mom who makes you glad you don't have kids.

Or at the very least, glad you don't have as many (three) kids as I do.

I got a good half dozen, so-hard-they-were-audible eye rolls and an infuriating amount of tongue clicks as we "sat" in the waiting room at the dentist's office. And by "sat", I mean that I stood in the middle of the room, trying to use my feet to direct my somersaulting children back to chairs while my hands were kept busy with paperwork.

Apparently I lost my God damned mind when I booked this dentist appointment for all three kids at the same time. I must have.

To be fair, I did think that because I had made the appointment weeks in advance that by some miracle my husband would come with us to help. Apparently I was insane AND smoking meth.

That obviously didn't happen.

And so I spent my morning/early afternoon frantically hushing my screaming monsters and visually scanning the room for sharp corners that I could use to impale myself if my day didn't start to turn around.

Of course there was plenty of paperwork that had to be filled out as soon as we walked in the door. I hate paperwork. As soon as my kids caught sight of me putting pen to paper, my inattentiveness allowed them to turn into waiting room demons, creeping their sticky-little-kid-fingers up the sides of the chairs of the other patients, cartwheeling into the shins of all of the people, trying so unsuccessfully to ignore their presence.

Ain't working, right? Yeah, it doesn't work for me either.

I scribbled that shit down as fast as I could.

Sorry there's no way this is legible, but it's what you're getting out of me right now.

I handed the forms to the receptionist. And that's when I noticed an unexpected sight from across the room.

Why do I see my four year old's vagina?!?

Face, meet palm. My kid's vagina was out at the dentist's office.

I let her dress herself this morning, in a frantic attempt to shave a whole 68 seconds out of our "running out of the house as fast as we can" routine. So she decided that she wasn't wearing underpants. And the pair of pants she put on had a hole the size of a fist in the crotch.

My child was literally cartwheeling around the waiting room in crotchless pants, flashing her vagina.

Maybe those eye-rolls are warranted.

I nonchalantly jogged back to my seat and covered her up with a magazine, looked down at the floor and let out a good ten second sigh. And prayed to every deity imaginable that no one else had noticed.

We haven't even made it in to see the dentist yet. Not off to a great start.

REVISED MISSION: Make it through the appointment without killing self or children AND make sure that crotchless pants go unnoticed.

So I spent the next ten minutes, sitting next to the flasher in the waiting room chair and holding her legs together before they called us in to the exam room.

"Come on back!" said the receptionist, who I'm sure had to be aware of the predicament I was in.

Alright, three kids, one chair. They were gonna have to take turns.

I had my two year old go first and it became painfully obvious that the hygienist, who could not get him to open his mouth, did not have children.

Also obvious, was the fact that the other patients in the room did NOT want my six-year-old to do a loud, running commentary about their dental procedures.

And the vagina flasher decided that no matter where she sat, it was gonna be spread eagle.

Remind me later to sew this chick's legs together.

Ugh. REVISED MISSION: Try not to kill self or children, carry flasher around to make sure crotchless pants go unnoticed, get six-year-old to sit down nicely and stop bugging people AND coach idiot teenager through brushing my son's teeth by making up stories about spiderman killing the sugar germs.

We made it through the rest of the appointment relatively unscathed. Everyone had perfect teeth and no cavities. Thank God. Cause I would have had an apocalyptic scale meltdown anyone needed teeth drilled today.

Lesson learned. Never taking all three kids to a dentist's office at one time by myself.

Oh, and I will be doing a vagina check from now on every time we leave the house.

Five things the Presidential candidates and my children have in common.

2012-11-06T09:59:00.003-08:00

Today is election day and regardless of the issues and who you support (or who makes you want to burn effigies), it is your responsibility to get out there and vote. Have your voice be heard.

I mean, sure, the electoral college will totally be the deciding factor, regardless of who wins the popular vote, but it's still super important to stand in line and fill out your ticket.

And sure, the candidates are both pure evil and regardless of who wins, it will still mean the same policies being implemented and the rich will still get richer...

Alright, so maybe I'm a bit cynical, but hey, today marks the end of what we really care about.

NO MORE POLITICAL CRAP ON FACEBOOK!

So anywho... Everyone, enjoy your election day, exercise your freedoms...

And here is my contribution.

Five things the candidates and my children have in common.

1. They look really creepy when they try to force a smile.


She's a write in candidate. Vote Phoenix Terror 2012.

2. Whenever they are in charge of spending, somehow I end up broke.

Yes, we really needed those seventeen jars of peanut butter. And private jets for all our buddies.

3. They always seem to get themselves in a heap of shit.


Totally a brownie btw. Just for visual effect.

4. They are massive flip-floppers.

"Mommy, I want to be something you are gonna have to make because they don't sell it in stores for Halloween."

"Oh, you made my costume already ? I meant that I wanted to be a Disney princess."

"I want vanilla ice cream!"

"Oops, I meant chocolate. NO! Strawberry!."

"Women shouldn't be able to have abortions!"

"Abortions for everyone!"

Make up your goddamn minds already.

5. When they get riled up, they don't listen to a thing you say.

So whichever candidate you decide to vote for:

Whether it's Obama riding a Unicorn:

Or Romney-Jesus:

Just get out there today and vote!
HAPPY ELECTION DAY!

(P.S. I stole all of these images, minus the ones of my kids off of the interwebz and do not claim ownership of them)

(P.S.S. I'm voting for Roseanne)

The Bag of Epic Shit-Puke: If this doesn't make you puke, I don't know what will.

2012-10-28T02:09:00.000-07:00

1:00 am PST, my 6 year old daughter, Phoenix stumbles out of her bedroom and into the living room, saying that she needs to "poop". She is in the bathroom for all of two minutes and screams "I have a POOP PROBLEM!". I was feeling kinda nauseated and was thinking that at the worst, we would have a Whitney-Bobby situation and that I could maintain.

What I walked into, I was not at all prepared for. I turned and ran into the kitchen, hugged the garbage can and gurgled a gallon of vomit out of my face. Oh. My. God.

So now, I'm puking in the garbage can in the kitchen. Not just once, but I mean like five straight minutes of actively vomiting in there. So Superhusband, Jude, decides to spring into action. Knowing that what I just saw put me over the edge, he was hesitant to enter the bathroom.

"How bad is it, Phoenix?", he screamed from the hallway.

No answer from Phoenix, so he peeked in and noticed the shitxplosion. She shit somewhere in between pulling her pants down and making it to the toilet. It was EVERYWHERE. Gooey brown liquid, oozing all over the floor and in between all of the obnoxious nooks and crannies in the toilet seat. Superhusband gags, but forges ahead. I walk into the hall to witness his heroism. And then promptly return to the kitchen to projectile vomit.

He cleans the poop off the floor like a champ and even disinfects it with Comet. I, stomach now entirely empty, grab my shit-child and throw her in the tub. I stop up the drain and start the water, then quickly pull the plug and pull the plunger to turn on the shower. Thank goodness I had the foresight not to let her marinate in it.

So I tell her to just stand there and rinse her butt off, while Superhusband finishes cleaning the floor.

Oh shit. My stomach is gurgling. I'm gonna puke again.

Superhusband steps out of the way and throws the shit bags into the kitchen trash bag containing my innards. I vomit again while poor, poop-coated Phoenix stands naked in the shower and lets the water run down her back.

I stand up and I think I can handle it now. Ok, just have to get her out of the shower and dress her.

Then I hear it. And then smell it. She starts gagging and then projectile vomits onto her feet in the shower again and again. Hurl. Hurl. Hurl. Giant chunks of noodles from dinner just sitting there in the bathtub. FUCK. I call for Superhusband to step in. And promptly return to the kitchen to vomit on top of the shit bag. Oh. God.

So, I tell Phoenix to hold the puke for a second, throw a towel onto the bathroom floor and whisk her out of the shower. I tell her to hover over the toilet just in case she's gonna puke again. She pukes.

I grabbed Superhusband some gloves and plastic bags and he scoops out the chunks of puke and bags them up, finishing up by rinsing the tub out with Comet, which is apparently our official sponsor of the night. I get Phoenix some clothes and Superhusband hands me the bag filled with puke. Which I also place in the world's most vile trash bag. And then I puke for another five minutes straight into the toilet.

Phoenix goes out to sit on the couch and I hand her our small bathroom garbage can to puke in. Then Superhusband and I need to remove the bag of Epic Shit-Puke from our house. I carry the whole can out in case the bag had a hole in it, Superhusband following at a safe distance for moral support.

Dear Mr. Garbage Man,
I am so sorry that we left you a bag full of Epic Shit-Puke. It is by far the most vile garbage bag the world has ever seen. As a matter of fact, I'm sure there is someone you aren't fond of in your life. Consider it a gift, light it and put it on their lawn.

Sorry again,
Still puking,
Amy Terror

Eating babies: Not just for Greek Mythology anymore!

2012-10-23T13:22:00.000-07:00

"Awwww. What a cute baby! Wait, what?!? That's a cake?!?"

I'm gonna give you a second for you to get there too....

HOLY SHIT, PEOPLE EAT THESE?!?

I know, right? So I understand, in my rational brain, that this thing is made out of cake and marzipan. But holy motherfuck, how do you cut into a baby? Yes, it's a baby made of cake. But...but...It's a baby!

And how do you not feel like a terrible person eating this thing? I mean, how do you not feel like a sick fuck?

"I want the head!"

"I want to eat the baby's foot!"

I feel bad when I see a stuffed animal sitting by itself on a shelf in the store, I could never take a knife and cut into a baby. I'm sure my kids are relieved to hear that.

Although, on second thought.... maybe I will get some of these to keep around the house in case my kids get really out of hand. I can make an example out of it when they start fighting.

"Oh yeah! You want to hit each other? Well this is what happens to kids who misbehave in this house!"

*whips out marzipan baby*

"Mom, whatcha got there? Is that a BABY?!? OHMYGAWD WHAT THE HELL IS SHE DOING TO THAT BABY?!? MOM HAS FUCKING LOST IT! SHE JUST BIT THE HEAD OFF!"

"RUN! EVERYBODY RUN!"

They will hold their knees and rock like Bart Simpson in the episode where he's scared of his clown bed. "Can't sleep, mom will eat me."

Marzipan baby cake, probably like $150. Tormenting children, priceless.

Either I'm a big pussy, or migraines are the devil.

2012-10-22T22:46:00.000-07:00

I have headaches. Who doesn't? And I have, in the past, had really bad headaches. The kind where you want to punch the next kid who whispers in your direction right in their cute little button nose. These type of headaches usually accompany a night of persistent drunk-foolery and many sentences that end in the word "bitches!"

But today. Holy shit. Today, I experienced a big girl headache. I had a migraine.

I have heard women utter the phrase "I have a migraine" before and I thought I knew what they meant. I'm sure for most people, when you say you have a "migraine", you just usually mean that it's a bad headache and you're a drama queen. Or you want to get out of sex, or chores. But I get it now.

I was all fine and dandy, watching the kids play Wii and all of a sudden, double vision. Then the lights were too bright and my eyes refused to focus. I strained to see. I started seeing spots and started praying to like 10 different deities. It was terrifying. And lasted like an hour. I honest to God thought I was about to die.

I was convinced that I had either had a stroke or some sort of rare double retina detachment (which would totally only happen to me), so my bff drove me to the ER, where I sat, panic-stricken and mentally repenting for all the sins I have ever committed.

"I'm having a heart attack or a stroke or something!" I said when I walked up to the registration desk.

The nurse took my vitals and shooed me back into the waiting room. That should have been my first sign that I wasn't on death row yet. But there I sat, in the squeaky plastic waiting room chair, shaking like a leaf and convinced I was gonna drop dead, my heart pounding out of my chest.

"We ran some tests and everything came out fine," they said.

"A complex migraine can mimic a stroke," they said.

Now you tell me. After I have already promised myself ridiculousness to the tune of "I'm gonna start working out," and "I'm not eating any more red meat." Well fuck that noise.

Part of me feels like a pussy, because I made such a big deal out of having a migraine.

The other part of me... Feels like I survived one hell of a migraine. I'm still not entirely convinced that I'm not dying. Migraines are no joke.

How life changes after becoming a parent.

2012-10-18T01:03:00.001-07:00

I have been a parent now for six years. That's long enough for it to seem like forever, but not so long ago that I have completely forgotten what it was like to be a childless individual. I started thinking about all of the things that have changed in the last few years...

Single people, you will be in denial and say this stuff will never happen to you, but I and the other parents will assure you, it will.

And your adorable little monsters will take over your world and leave you searching for the pod that your new, sock-stuck-to-your-ass-wearing-two-different-shoes, self hatched out of.

First of all, when I was childless and heard a baby cry, it did nothing. I didn't pay attention to it. At most, maybe it was irritating. Now, when I hear a baby cry, I panic. Usually because I have a momentary lapse in judgment and for a split second, get a pang in my stomach and think that this baby is something that I have to attend to. I know it's not, rationally, because I don't have an infant. My kids are toddlers and older. Usually, they will yell about one of them hitting the other, or how they have to pee, but there are no more baby cries in my house.

But you see, having had three kids, I spent the better part of these last less-than-glamorous six years running into rooms the millisecond that my miniature people started screeching at the top of their lungs.

Many of those years meant seemingly unending nights of being jolted out of glorious sleep and having to bend to a baby dictator's every whim. Sleep deprivation is a torture tactic and if I had whatever information those little interrogators wanted, I would have given it up faster than a teenage girl with low self-esteem.

So when one of my neighbors' babies cry, I get war flashbacks. Fortunately, my brain kicks in right after and I have, what has to be the greatest realization in the world:

It's not MY problem.

Sorry to anyone who currently has a newborn. I'm not gonna sugar coat it, it's pure hell. And every time I hear a baby cry, it brings me right back into the foxhole.

Heil Baby.

Second, my standard for what I will wear outside of the house has lowered.
Oh, did I say lowered? I meant disappeared.

That's right, I now have absolutely no standard for what I will wear outside of my house. I have become one of THOSE Walmart people. You know, the hefty lady who wears her pants up to her boobs like it's a shirt, because apparently you don't need a shirt on if your pants are stretchy and you're sexy enough.

Sexy.

Alright, I'm not that bad, but I'm getting there.

And it's not that I don't care, it's just that I no longer have room in my brain for shame.

Slippers to the store?

Yup, I've done it.

Shirt coated in chocolate/coffee/poop?

I'll still wear it.

Pajamas around the house AND at parent teacher conferences?

Yes sir.

As a matter of fact, I have so little awareness about what I typically leave the house in, that I sometimes, forget to even put a bra on before doing school drop off.

I'm pretty sure the entire school has gotten a glimpse of what I'm working with.

No. Shame.

Sorry kids, but right now, I am the target demographic for pajama jeans.

I vaguely remember what it's like to use styling instruments. Now I'm lucky if I have time to brush my hair. At least I remember to cover the important parts.

Also, when I see moms in heels, it makes me chuckle. Cause with three kids running in three different directions, I would make it all of 30 seconds before I would have to kick them off in order to catch whoever was running directly into traffic.

Third, my brain ain't what it used to be. I used to use it for things and stuff. Like college papers and thinking really hard about theoretical crap that totally would have made me rich if I wrote it down (God, you are a GENIUS when you smoke enough pot).

Post kids, I have to wipe a second time because I can't remember if I wiped or not after I just peed.
Or why I came into whatever room I wandered into.

Or which kid I was supposed to ground when we got home later, cause they did something that I kinda remember pissing me off.

And that we are supposed to do something, I think, sometime this weekend, but I cannot remember what day, or what it is that we are supposed to do.

They say you never can really make up for sleep debt. So you can thank your children for killing off all the necessary parts of your brain.

That shirtless Walmart lady probably has lots of kids.

Fourth, I panic about everything. Partly because I'm insane, but mostly because I'm worried about my kids.

I'm worried that they will get hurt, that they will be hungry, wet, tired, thirsty, catch the swine flu... That we will be well enough equipped to handle the Zombie Apocalypse (we gotta get on that plan of stockpiling guns already, Jude).

I am constantly thinking of how to prevent disastrous scenarios.

Because every time your little pile of cuteness stumbles out into the world, a million things could go wrong. They could fall and crack their little baby head open like my Cora did. We had to get her head glued last year when she fell off of the BOTTOM step of a slide and smashed her head on a set of steel steps. Which gives her a leg up experience-wise for getting into the WWE, but gave me a heart attack.

They could have their cute little ball roll out in front of a Mack truck and get hit and die and have to be resurrected in a pet cemetery, only to come back as a creepy, murderous version of their former self.

Okay, so maybe not the pet cemetery scenario (although I am HORRIFIED to let my kids play ball near the street now. Thanks, Stephen King.) But you get the idea.

Which leads me to my fifth and final contribution (mostly cause I have to go to bed).

I love my kids so god damned much that even seeing fictional children, or kids that I don't know get hurt, killed, etc. makes my brain explode and tears shoot out of my face at 100 mph.

When I see pictures of kidnapped children on Facebook, or read stories about babies who get cancer, I blubber like an uncontrollable moron. This has singlehandedly ruined my enjoyment of Law and Order and any other show where they have an affinity for doing story lines about raping/murdering children.

Not that I should, in theory, enjoy that sort of story cause obviously it's kinda sick.

I'm just saying that it would be nice to be able to enjoy a good baby murder now and then.

But now I get flooded with all this stupid emotion.

Thanks kids. I can't hear a baby cry without bugging the fuck out, I look like hell, I'm brain dead, I have panic attacks over everything, and I can't even watch someone snatch a fictional child without doing a quick headcount and sniffing back a tear.

We haven't even hit the teenage years yet and if this were Tekken, I would be in the red right now.

Face it, we're all screwed. The one thing that keeps me going is the notion that one day they are all gonna be wiping my ass.

Oh, and wine. Ass wipin' and wine. Mommy fuel.

I need to never Google anything. Ever again.

2012-10-16T12:36:00.000-07:00

No, this is not some convoluted advertisement for Bing.

I love to Google.

I would probably say that I spend a few hours a day browsing things on the web and a good half of that is usually spent Googling.

I'm a curious person, I like to know things. Generally out of boredom, so, like the rest of civilized society, I Google.

But some times, my crazy brain takes over and I Google out of paranoia. It's like drunk texting, but for lunatics.

And some times, a crazy person just isn't meant to know things.

Like how if you are forgetful, it could be a brain tumor, or how elbow pain could mean you are having a heart attack.

Google has pegged me for dead a good hundred to a hundred and fifty times.

And each time it's with something new.

And I always fall for their schtick.

"Holy shit, my elbow has been bothering me. I'm having a heart attack! My chest does feel kinda tight now that I think about it!"

"Oh my God, why is my heart racing now?"

Could it be because Google just informed me that I'm dying?
Probably.

Could it also be because I'm having a heart attack in my twenties?
Not likely.

But boy, am I gonna check my pulse and freak out because of the off chance that Google might be right.

Googling your medical symptoms is like going to a 95 year old doctor, who is blind, deaf in one ear and calls you "Sonny", regardless of your age or gender.

He has no idea what's actually going on with you, can't read your diagnostic information, so he just guesses you have Polio, "cause it's what's goin' around, Sonny".

And you know it's wrong. Cause, you know, how the fuck could you have Polio?

...but maybe, just maybe....

Fuck.

"Do I have Polio?"

And this is why, I need to never Google anything, Ever again.

What it feels like to watch Honey Boo Boo for the first time.

2012-10-14T00:56:00.003-07:00