Back to School and Shitty Shoes

I’m not sure what it is about new shoes that gets kids so excited. You buy them clothes and they shrug it off as they mumble something about “more new clothes, yuck.” You buy them new shoes and it’s like you just brought home rocket boosters. Coolest thing EVER!!! You could have the most tired kid in the world, but as soon as you put new shoes on them, they take off like a rocket. “Look how fast I can go!” “Mommy! Look at how cool l look in these shoes!” I’m pretty sure a new pair of shoes every time I failed as a parent would make me the best mommy in the world.

School starts back up again next week. Praise the lord! Back to school means back to school shopping. Despite upcoming trips threatening to drain my back account, I knew I had to at least get the kids new shoes for school. Especially seeing as how Theo’s current shoes smell like cat piss and cabbage…at the same time. So away we went to go buy new rocket boosters shoes. Naturally that day became the best ever as the kids got to wear the new shoes out of the store (shopping highlight for all kids) AND for the rest of the day. Mind you, this was not until I threatened them both with their lives if they so much as got a speck of dirt on them. “Run, jump, whatever…but get them dirty and you are both done. Got it? Good.”

Both pairs of new shoes made it through the day still looking like new. Mission accomplished. Well done, minions! While folding laundry that night, I kept getting a slight whiff of poop. I knew Pheobe had pooped before she went to bed, so I naturally blamed the odor on her typically pungent poo. The next morning I woke up, went down stairs, and happened to look down at the pile of shoes. There it was. Dog poop. On the bottom of Theo’s new shoes. When I woke him up for the day being the awesome mom I am I whispered to him, “Theo, there’s dog poop on your new shoes.” I’m am fairly certain I have never seen Theo wake up so quickly.

“No way,” he said. “Not my on my shoes. Maybe on Pheobe’s, but not on mine.”

I assured him it was, in fact, on his shoes and walked out of the room. Fast forward a half hour. “Mommy, you were right, there IS dog poop on MY shoes.”

“Told ya so.”

“Mommy, I checked because I thought you were lying to me.”

Because I obviously lie about dog poop all the time. What? “I would NEVER lie about something as serious as dog poop! However, when we get home from camp today, you get to clean it off. Awesome, right?”

Needless to say, he hasn’t worn his new kicks since. Instead they sit by the entryway, quietly and dress neatly next to one another. I can’t figure out if he scared of getting them dirty again, or waiting to completely destroy them the first day of school. With school stating in two days, we shall soon find out.

Baconator Fries Cause Disappointment and Sadness

Dear Wendy’s,

It’s a common known fact that women tend to crave certain foods during different points in their lives. When I was pregnant with my son, I craved butter. With my daughter it was sour cream. I may or may not have subjected myself to eating both with a spoon out of a tub. With each woman it’s different. However, when it comes to PMS, all women crave the same thing: fat, grease, and more fat. It’s almost as if we can live without it. We crave it to the point of driving ourselves mad until we finally fold and fill our mouths with mounds of cheese, bacon, and anything fried. Once we have fulfilled this craving, we can go back to nibbling on our salads and sipping our seltzer waters.

When I get that animalistic craving for all things unhealthy it you, Wendy’s, that I turn to. I picture Dave Thomas with his arms out stretched, beckoning me to the drive through window where mounds of food wrapped in a crisp red and white bag await me. Yesterday my PMS grabbed a hold of me once again. I made my way through the wind and the rain on the back roads of New Hampshire, and found myself on your doorstep with dreams of Baconator Fries dancing in my head.  As the drive through window slid open, and the red and white bag touched my hand, I could almost taste the salty fries on my tongue and the gooey cheese sliding down my throat.

My eyes followed the sharp edges of the bag, and plunged inside with desire. Encased in a steaming plastic cocoon, where my Baconator Fries. I popped the top so I could finally taste heaven in my mouth. Once the steam had cleared, this is what I saw.


Disappointment. The cheese, barely melted, was no bigger than a sneeze and the bacon was maybe one whole piece…maybe. The fries were soggy, and resembled the fresh cut fries promised on tv about as much as a chihuahua resembles a cat. My need for cheese and grease compelled me to eat it, but not until after I nuked it in the microwave to finish the cheese melting process and warm up the soggy fries. Even then, I was left with nothing more than complete and utter disappointment in my mouth.

The whole event has left my PMS induced inner fat girl distressed and still craving anything that will clog my arteries thus causing a heart attack. The fact that the “new” Wendy’s girl is so slender and healthy no longer baffles me. With food this hard to swallow, it’s any wonder she has eaten anything in the past year. i am sad, Wendy’s, so so sad.

Sorrowfully yours,


No Escalator? No good.

This summer my kids became “world” travelers. Jetsetting across the United States from the East Coast to the West, they quickly adapted to air travel. People bringing them snacks and drinks as they watched movies with their trays down and seats back, life in the sky was good. On the ground they enjoyed the mall-like atmosphere of the airport, beyond the security checkpoints. Duty Free and news stands, even a Chili’s!

Perhaps their favorite part however, were all the escalators and moving walkways. Like most kids and grown-ups they were overjoyed by the thrill of attempting to walk backwards or running on all these people movers. As they tested their new found escalator skills, I leisurely rode behind them at a safe distance ready to catch a fall or release a snag.

They have since returned safely to the East Coast, but are eager for their next in-flight adventure. Yesterday, as we passed through downtown, Theo noticed there was a sign for an airport. “Mommy! Did you know there was an airport here?” After traveling over two hours to get to the airport for their jet setting adventure, the realization that there was an airport just minutes from our house was a stumper. Why on earth would we wake up before the sun and drive into the heart of Boston at the beginning of rush hour when we could have slept in and basically walked to the airport?

I tried to explain to him that it was a very small airport, and very expensive to fly out of. “Small? How small?” He asked.

“Really small. So small it doesn’t even have an escalator.”

“Or a moving ramp?”

“Yes, that small.”

The world suddenly stopped moving as Mr. Jetsetter tried to wrap his head around an airport without the trill of people movers. How do you get from flight to flight? What if your feet are tired? What if your bags are too heavy? What if you have to get from one end of the airport to the other really, really fast and you can’t run that fast? How can this even be possible????? After the barrage of questions and a meaningful pause, his only response was, “We can never fly out of there.”

I guess this means flying into/out of Dutch Harbor, Alaska or Guam are out of the question. Bummer.

Did You Know You Have A Hole In Your Butt?

“Pheobe, did you know you have a hole in your butt?”

“Yeah, duh. Everyone has a hole in their butt, even cats.”

“But did you know that’s where your butt penis is?”

“Um…I don’t have a butt penis.”

“I’m totally joking, it’s where your poop comes out.”

I have nothing else I can add to this except: raising boys.

My Vagina’s Pronoun is “She”

When I talk about my vagina I refer to it as “she” and “her”. I understand this is not “normal” behavior, but it’s my behavior, and I’m ok with that. I can’t tell you how many times people have asked me why I refer to my vagina as her own person. Don’t judge me. My answer is, simply put, because SHE is. Let me explain my rational to you.

Think about it, a vagina is…well…have you ever tried to talk to a vagina? The amount of coaxing and urging she needs to do…well…anything! Despite what your brain wants her to do, she is basically going to do whatever she damn well pleases. Pretty sure that’s a woman thing in general. You’re on a date with an amazingly beautiful person. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and suddenly there is a flood Noah’s arc couldn’t even handle. A few months later, you’re on another date. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and…nothing. You’re suddenly so dry tumble weeds just blew across your vagina.

She bleeds…pretty much whenever she feels it fits her schedule. So what if she’s three days early?!?! The 27th obviously wasn’t going to work for her. Besides, she’s 35 fucking years old! Who’s got time for punctuality at 35 after pushing out two kids? Not her, that’s for sure.

Then you have special cases, like mine. I mean special in the nicest way possible. She’s been through a lot. Sex, rape, kids, sex, fingers, sex, abuse, timeouts, sex, dry spells, sex. Let’s just say she’s “sensitive”. Not a huge fan of strangers, understandably. They tend to be either too rough or too gentle or too small. Any time there is a new person, she basically stands up, turns around, and runs away screaming “STRANGER DANGER!!!” I all but have to grab her by the scruff, haul her back, and shove her back in place. Toddlers are more agreeable than my vagina. It’s exhausting, but we have been working through it.

My vagina is her own person. Making evil plots against me while I sleep. Sneering at my date from across the table. She’s wicked and wonderful all at the same time. She is her own person, and I shall continue to treat her as such because my vagina’s pronoun is SHE.

Driving Into The New England Stereotype

I did it. I hate to admit it, but I did it.

I’ve joined the club of soccer moms, obsessed with their kid’s athletic abilities.

The moms who delay the drop off/pick up process every day at school.

I’ve become a Birkenstock wearing, earth loving, hippie.

Someone who covers every last inch of their bumper with social injustice bumper stickers. Free Tibet! Equality! Legalize medical marijuana! Boring women rarely make history! NPR! Warning, I stop for Goodwill stores!

Move over cautious drivers! This momma is now on the road!

I will no longer be able to park properly in parking lots.

I can now sneer at Honda Pilot drivers.

Finding my car in when coming out of a baseball game will now be impossible without activating the panic button.

Coupled with my short hair, I will now solidify my place in the lesbian community. Thus resulting in never being asked out on a heterosexual date again.

In short, I bought a Subaru. I now fall into all the aforementioned stereotypes, and then some. Despite my need for speed, previous Pilot ownership, and brightly covered tattoos; I am now one of “those” moms. This new purchase has given me the urge to go to the nearest Newbury Comics location and buy up all the Slayer and Anthrax bumper stickers they have in stock. I will have to blast Portishead and Primus albums as I roll through the drop off line in the morning. The struggle is real my friends, and I have thrown myself into the thick of it.

Drop Off Line Twats

I long for the day when the drop off line at school is nothing but a distant memory. When I can sit back and reminisce about all the times I almost got out of my car and stabbed people for treating the drop off line like the entryway to their house. When I can rejoice in never having to watch mother’s clothe their children in the car, shove poptarts down their throats because of piss poor time management at home, or just sit and have a casual conversation with the 10 kids sitting in the backseat ever again.

Until then I will have to continue sitting through the daily agony of the drop off line. Teaching my own children the beautiful art of cursing someone out when they can’t even hear me and daydreaming about following certain people home and slashing their tires for being drop off line twats. Every day the same people mess it up for the rest of us. They sit, blissfully numb, in their minivans and Subaru Foresters as they pull up in front of the school, turn their engines off don’t tell me they are trying to save the environment, get out of the driver’s seat, pull school projects out of the trunk, jam lunch boxes in backpacks, brush wayward hairs from faces, and pull fairy dust out of their ass before they finally get back in the driver’s seat and drive off in a puff of glitter and purple clouds.

To them, the drop off line is a time for gathering thoughts and belongings before sending their young on their merry way. For the rest of us, the drop off line is for dropping kids off and getting the hell out of dodge! The majority of parents rolling through the drop off line have their kids fully dressed, armed with lunches, school projects piled high on their laps, and ready for departure. Most kids are lucky parents even come to a full and complete stop when letting them out. I am sure I am not the only one tempted to slow down to a crawl, and let my kid tuck and roll into the schoolyard.

So, if you’re a drop off line twat, quit it. Get your kids ready before you leave the house like the rest of us, and stop doing whatever it is you’re doing in the car. Learn some time management skills, stop treating your kids like little morons who can’t do anything for themselves, and kick those little shits out of the car already!!! Because the truth is, the rest of us know who the repeat offenders are, and have come to the conclusion that you make every morning feel like a Monday morning.