Zombie Elephants And Other Whatnots

As parents we want our kids to dream of wonderment and adventures. We want them to have dreams they are so excited for, they want to act them out all day in the back yard. This is honestly how I thought parenting would be. When I was pregnant I dreamed of waking up with my children and listening to them tell me all about the amazing things that danced through their heads while they were asleep. I knew there would be nightmares, and I was prepared for that as well. Nightmares are soothed with kisses and a quick snuggle.

Ah, the merriment of a new parent’s dreams; also known as: complete bull shit. This is not how it happens folks. At least not in my house. My children are special, all the way down to the dreams they have. This, my friends, is how my kids dream.

PHEOBE:

“Mommy, last night I had a dream.”

“Oh yeah, what happened in your dream?”

“We had a camper and we went to the zoo. At the zoo there were zombie elephants, and they were eating people’s brains,” She says with a huge smile. We obviously watch too much TV. “Because the people’s brains were peanuts.” Maybe I should watch what I say in front of my kids. “When they tried to eat our brains we ran back to the camper and drove home. When we got home there were zombie elephants there too. So, we got back into the camper and drove to daddy’s house.” All the way on the other side of the country, 3000 miles away. “There were NO zombie elephants there, and then I woke up like *gasp*!!!”

“Wow, Pheobe! That is quite a dream!”

“Oh yeah, and some of the elephants had long hair that was gray. Girl and boy elephants. No, no, no, no ,no….It was brown, and only the girl elephants had long brown hair.”

“Not the boy elephants?”

“Mommy, they’re boys, so no.” Obviously not the boy elephants. What was I thinking?

And so go the dreams of my daughter.

THEO:

“Last night I had a dream too! I was a knight fighting bad knights.” So far, we’re off to a good start. “I shot them with my cannon, and they flew up to the sky.” Maybe not as good as I thought.

“They flew up to the sky?” Why do I encourage more detail?

“Yes, because when I shot them with y cannon they turned into butterflies!” Leaning back to a good start. “And then I shot the butterflies!” WTF kid?

“Um, why would you shoot the butterflies?” Again with the encouraging of the details.

“Mommy, because they were bad knight butterflies.” Stupid question mom.

I think I’m doing parenting wrong….still.

Talk Shows And Parenting Don’t Mix

I’m not an uptight parent. I don’t over sensor myself in front of my kids, I don’t lock the bathroom door when I’m in there, and I walk around the house in my underwear when my kids are awake. They have heard me swear although I try not to and they have seen me naked they will be scared for life. To me, it’s life. It happens. Deal with it. In fact, the kids have basically learned to zone me out. They don’t pay attention to what I’m saying especiallly when they are in trouble, and they don’t broadcast the fact that they caught me in my underwear. It’s our crazy little life, inside our tiny little bubble. Outside of that bubble they are well behaved, even tempered children. In general, I am not worried about how they are being raised despite some of my major mom fails.

With that being said, I have a bit of an addiction to morning radio talk shows. An addiction in the fact that I get anxious when I don’t get to listen in the car on our way to where ever we are headed. It wakes me up, it makes me laugh, it causes problems with parenting. Wait….what? Problems with parenting?

Have you ever listened to a morning radio talk show in the car with a five year old on board? It doesn’t matter what else is going on in the car, singing row-row-row your boat for the millionth time or going on a space ship ride through the solar system, when an unfamiliar phrase suddenly fills the airwaves, they are going to pick up on it. Words like bitch, ass hole, and butt nugget usually cause a fit of giggling, but that is about it. The little parrot in the backseat will usually have to ask if I heard what they said, I say yes, they repeat it once, I remind them it’s a bad word, and we drive on. Back to the melody of that damn row boat row-row-row your boat, and the fact that John Smith is a butt nugget and his wife is a bitch is now null and void. Thank you radio talk show for your assistance in asserting proper language with my children.

This is all well and good until they start talking about SEX. For some reason the word sex turns my five year old into a broken record. “Mommy, what’s sex?” she asks as I want to hurl myself out of the car.

“It’s something adults do when they are alone together.”

“Like what?”

“Like something kids don’t do because it’s for adults only and horny teenagaers in the backseat of a car.”

“But what IS it?”

I now want to turn in my parenting permit and quit. I don’t want to do this anymore, parenting was a real shit decision on my part. Belay my last, someone take these damn kids before I ruin them for life. Fuck! “It’s when two grown-ups wrestle naked. Alone. In the bedroom or the kitchen counter, or the shower, or the backyard.” When in doubt, go with the old standby used in the past. Please don’t ask anymore questions. I would kill for another round of row-row-row your fucking boat! Alas, for some reason, this explanation just isn’t doing it for her. Either it’s not sticking, she’s looking for more detail, or she doesn’t believe me. Naturally, I assume she is looking for more detail. I told you I wanted to turn in my parenting permit. “Do you and Steve have sex?”

“Yes.”

“So you guys wrestle naked?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?” Oh my god, someone remove this kid from my car!

“Only when you’re asleep,” and now I’m the biggest liar on the planet.

“Oh.”

Every damn day the people in my radio have to mention sex. Every damn day I have to sit there and go through this conversation again and again. Stop it, just STOP! Isn’t there anything else to talk about? Gaza? Israel? Cheese cake? The fact that Pi has no end? Anything? Just PLEASE don’t mention sex again! Please, please, PLEASE!!! I mean, I guess I could stop listening in the car, but that would be too easy.

And then I would have anxiety. We all knows what happens when mothers have anxiety, they eat their children, and my children are far too filthy to eat without causing serious health problems. Therefore, I will continue to listen to my morning radio talk show, and continue to explain to my fucking dear sweet five year old what sex is. Maybe tomorrow she’ll get it, but probably not.

 

Turd Burglar

Turd Burglar. Go ahead, laugh. You know you want to.

There is something about that phrase that, even as adults, we can’t help but laugh. No matter what definition you use, it’s funny. Even if you don’t know what it means, you laugh. Maybe it sounds funny. Maybe it brings out the 12 year old in you. Whatever it is, you can’t help but giggle. You still giggle at Lake Titicaca as well, admit it. Now, picture yourself driving down the road with the kids in the car. You have a head cold from hell, you’re trying not to throw your kids out the windows you’re frustrated because the head cold is getting the better of you, and you stop at a stop light behind a Dodge pickup truck with the licence plate “TRDBGLR”.

Looking back I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fully paying attention to anything, so when I first saw the licence plate I didn’t really notice. Then it hit me, TURD BURGLAR!!!!!! If it were possible to fall out of a car laughing, I would have. As you know, it is hard to hide anything from anyone kids while in a car, especially when you are laughing so hard you start coughing. Suddenly all arguing and hitting in the backseat stops. “Mommy, what’s so funny?”

On any other day I would have been able to come up with a quick response, but being sick puts a damper on any whit and quick comebacks I may have been able to muster. “Nothing, it’s just the licence plate on the truck in front of us.”

“What does it say?”

“Um……..” Think Brandi, THINK! Nothing. “It says turd burglar.” Well that was a dumb answer.

“What’s a turd?”

“It’s poop.”

Reminder, the word poop is one of the funniest things you can say to a child. It ranks up there with booger, butt crack, penis, and fart. You can only imagine the fits of laughter that exploded from the backseat when I said poop. It then turned into a chorus of the words poop and turd repeated in unison as if it were nothing more than a simple round of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. It only stopped when Pheobe realized she didn’t know what the word burglar meant, and here I thought I was going to get away with turd being another word for poop and that’s it.

“A burglar is someone who breaks into places and steals things.”

“Why would someone want to steal poop?”

There is no way anyone could explain their way out of why someone would want to steal poop. There isn’t even a nonchalant way of explaining it so you don’t really have to explain it. My kids aren’t “old enough” to understand the, um, sexual meaning especially since they still think sex is when two grownups wrestle , and I’m not about to have my kids calling me a turd burglar because I walked in on them in the bathroom.The best I could come up with is, “You’ll understand when you’re an adult. Just DON’T say turd burglar at school!”

“But can we say it now? In the car?”

“If you must.”

The rest of the car ride was spent singing the new phrase while giggling and double checking about why someone would want to steal a turd. I was hopeful that was the end of the turd burglar incident until this morning when Theo leaned over to Pheoebe and whispered, “you’re a turd burglar.” My ride to work was then adorned with the joyful giggles of the unknowing turd burglars in my back seat.

 
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The Motherhood Is An Evil Bitch

I don’t take good care of myself. I mean I shower, brush my teeth, keep my hemroids at bay, and wear clean clothing…so don’t start looking at me cross eyed and be thankful the internet doesn’t have a “smell” option. I don’t stink and I can’t imagine kissing me is a horrible experience I keep my halotosis at bay.

I drink out of sheer boredom and I have the occasional cigarette because I was overly bored ; *ducks to avoid a shoe flying at my head* so my liver and lungs obviously hate me. I’ve let my midsection start to resemble bread dough and last month my mother accused me of now having her calves that match so nicely with my thighs. My back fat is starting to resemble fairy wings my daughter might actually be amused with this if she noticed, my boobs threaten to smother me in my sleep, and my ass have formed a close connection with the backs of my legs. I have caterpillars growing above my upper lip and eyebrows, and little volcano sprouts growing from my moles. My grey hair is coming in so fast it glimmers like silver thread in the sun people are actually noticing it from a distance. I have to admit that I wasn’t overly concerned about all the physical appearance stuff with the exception of the bread dough belly until last week. Last week when I went to the nail salon.

Know this, I have a deep fear of nail salons. The way too many men feel about spiders is how I feel about nail salons. Let me explain, nail salons are typically run by Asians. There is a reason the cities throughout Asia are large, bustling, and progressive. The reason is that those people don’t back down. they know what they want, how to get it, and make money doing it. Put that into the world of nail salons. Women hate themselves, truly. We bash our bodies, starve ourselves, and cry to our friends about how our nipples don’t point straight ahead anymore. The people running these salons know this, they exploit it! You go in for a simple manicure or pedicure and end up with gel nails, french tipped toes, eye brow waxing, and on a bad day a Brazilian. They get into your head, manipulate you, and make you feel as if your life will be shit if they can’t change every possible thing about your outward appearance that they can. If they could perform lypo in the back room…..they would.

With that being said, I’m not sure what came over me the other day and caused me to go inside. Maybe it was the sudden quest for the perfect running shoes because I’m obviously a runner *coughs* or maybe it was the sudden realization that there really is no such thing as the perfect running shoe for me. As I found myself leaving the store of shoes, I looked to my right and there it was…calling me… Luxury Nails! “I’m getting a pedicure!” <= famous last words. It was almost as if my deep laden fear of nails salons was magically whisked away in the 95 degree summer heat or perhaps I was delusional due to dehydration. All memory of the beaten ego, vanished. I was strong. I was brave. I could take on these nail salon people, and come out a whole person! I had confidence, damn it!

Through the strip mall door I walk, “I want a pedicure!”

“Pick a color. Sit. Wait,” and so it began…the downward spiral.

I started questioning myself. Is this the right color? Is it trendy? Shit! Am I going to look like every other set of toes on the street? Fuck! My feet look horrendous! They’re filthy! My heals are cracked!

These people are going to HATE me!

If I were the type to hyperventilate, this is when I would have done so. Just as I was about to get up and walk out the door I was called the a chair. I sat and immediately felt the need to announce, like a sinner at confession, that it had been almost three years since my last pedicure….to the entire salon. Then I realized just how hairy my legs were, reminding myself that I hadn’t shaved anything else for a few days either…and I was wearing a skirt. What’s happened to me??? Hair, bread dough belly, homicidal boobs, fairy winged back fat, more grey hair than your average 34 year old? Why on Earth would anyone, especially Steve, want to be with me? In another month or two, chances are, there was a slight possibility I could easily be twice the size of Steve and looking more like side show attraction! I actually let  motherhood get the better of me! Shit! These people were going to eat me alive in here! I was going to come out looking like a skinned cat with pretty nails. My life was over.

I tried to contain my fear as the poor woman at my feet tore filed off layers of callus and dead skin. The calf massage didn’t even feel good due to the sharp barbs of hair protruding out of my legs. As she finished I waited. Waited for her to start sucking me into her vortex of “beauty refinement”. Then it happened, she looked up at me with her evil eyes and asked if I wanted a manicure to go with it. “No, thank you.” I said.

To my surprise that was the end of her inquiry. She didn’t add on the usual questions and statements. Are you sure? Your nails look horrible. When was the last time you cut your cuticles? How about your eye brows? Men don’t like hairy eyebrows that big, and your mustache, it needs to go. No third degree. No feeling like a tarnished garden statue. Just a look of disappointment. Those I can handle. I’m a mom, my kids give me that look every day. Somehow I ended up walking out of the nail salon with only a pedicure and a bruised ego pertaining to my split heals, leg hair, and talon toe nails.

All this, however, did make me realize that I had let the Motherhood get the better of me. I had stumbled into the rabbit hole, and had been chasing the white rabbit to imminent doom. The Motherhood can be an evil bitch, and will take control of your life. It will turn you into something you don’t even recognize, a crumbled shell of what you used to be before children. As your kids beat you down from the outside, the Motherhood eats away at you from the inside. Just because you’re a mom doesn’t mean you can’t look nice and have nice things. In fact, it means you should try even harder to look nice and have nice things. We’re not raising unkempt grub worms who don’t know what a button up shirt looks like, we’re raising the future pillars of our society! They are looking to US for guidance! Ok, so maybe we and our kids don’t have to dress like something straight out of NY Fashion week, or send our kids to school looking like their name should be Chancy, but we also can’t let the Motherhood get the better of us.

I went home that night, shaved my legs, shaved my lady bits special gift for Steve, waxed my eyebrows, tamed the mustache, and dyed the hair on my head. I even trimmed the mole hair special gift for myself. I went through my wardrobe and tossed anything that didn’t fit right, and made myself promise to do better at taking care of myself. Making myself a better person means that I am making myself a better mother for my children. I’m saying fuck you to the Motherhood, and headed down a one way road to MILF-dom with a few pitstops and wrong way turns along the way!!!
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Shaving, Kids, and Camping Don’t Mix

It’s no secret that I am the hairiest woman you will ever meet hairy. In the past 4 months every mole on my body has decided to sprout at least one absurdly long hair from them. This includes moles on my thighs, neck, and butt. Yes, even on my butt. Then you add my ever thickening mustache, my “happy trail”, chest and nipple hair, and places only a Hobbit should grow hair. If I didn’t pluck my eyebrows the hair there would become one with my eye lashes, who oddly enough seem to be thinning. It’s also possible that I have some back hair as well, but seeing as how I can’t turn my head like an owl and take a peak, I’m just going to assume it is in full force back there as well. But it’s just hair. I can handle hair. My bathroom is outfitted with multiple styles of razors and waxes. I pluck and pull; cut and groom. Even with all the practice I get from my grooming habits, I’m not the best at it, but I get the job done.

In short, I don’t look a Neanderthal woman. I look like…..well….I look girl-ish.

But recently, that bathroom I was telling you about. Remember? The one outfitted with numerous hair removal techniques? Yeah, that one.

It is currently packed away in several boxes in the BACK of a storage unit, NOT at the campground with me. Don’t sit there and shake your head at me saying I should have at least brought a razor with me to tackle at least my leg and arm pit hair. My drunken adrenaline rush to go camping for two weeks with two small children didn’t corrupt my mind as far as causing me to ‘forget’ a major necessity such as a razor. I have one with me, trust me.

What I failed to take into account, however, is that while camping by yourself with two small children, you don’t get to shower by yourself…if you get to shower at all. I have had one shower this entire week, and it was spent saving my daughter’s life from the ferocious daddy long legs and making sure she didn’t drown in the trickle of water coming from the shower nozzle. Not to mention having to run back and forth in my towel from the women’s showers to the men’s to save my son from an equally, if not more, ferocious daddy long legs in his shower. What. The. Fuck. That was our one and ONLY showering experience we will be having while camping. Instead I have set up a “bathing area” using a tarp and string. It gives us the privacy of bathroom but with all the pains wonderment of bathing with a spaghetti pot.

Don’t worry, I now have fire and the water is quite warm and pleasant. This is possibly my one, and only, mommy win for this adventure.

As you can imagine, all these less than stellar bathing accommodations have resulted in a lack of opportunities in which to shave. I am now seeing just how many hairy moles I have, and no longer have a need to wear pants to bed to keep warm. It’s sprouting out of areas I didn’t even know hair could grow. My legs itch and wearing pants has become next to impossible. There are now lines in my deodorant from the patches of hair filling my arm pits. My Hobbit toes are enjoying the camping life style as I trod through the campground with the kids barefoot. I can almost handle all this new hair growth, but what is going to put me over the edge is the hair growing rampant on my lady bits.

Any woman who has ever tried to grow out the hair on her bikini line, or otherwise, can attest to the extreme discomfort that goes along with the whole process. The pain and itching is enough to turn any loving and caring mother, such as myself, into a raving lunatic. Now add the bottom of the clean laundry pile, where the sheer underwear live, to the mix. This morning I found myself walking around with barbs in my pants; ripping at my flesh with every step. Luckily I have access to a real shower, by myself, tonight. A shower where I can take my pretty pink razor and can of shaving cream in with me, throw my leg up on the side of the tub, and have an orgasmic shaving experience. So if you all don’t hear from me all weekend it’s because I have become with a private shower and my razor. I bid you ado until after I have painstakingly removed every last strand of hair on my body from my eye brows to my toes and every lady bit in between.

Bear Attacks and Free Children

As parents we can’t help but love our children all the time at least until they grow up and become ass holes. We spend countless hours rocking them to sleep and kissing their boo-boos. We wipe snot from their noses and clean up their vomit. We wipe their butts and scrape their dinner from the walls. Through all this we love them. We may curse under our breath or out loud if it suits you but we still love them.

Three weeks ago I was offered a job in New Hampshire. A job that started…well…yesterday. Panic! So I had three weeks to pack up the house and kids and move 200 miles away. You know, no big deal. Shoot me. And I did it. Packed everything up, moved it, found a school and a daycare, and found a house. Great, right? Not so much. That house I mentioned, it won’t be ready for another two weeks. Stuck in house limbo, I had no choice but to find some sort of alternative. I had three options, stay in a hotel and spend more money than I earn in one pay period, live out of my car with the two kids, or camp in a campground. Being the modern bohemian mommy I am, I obviously chose camping.

How bad could it be anyway? <== That is the question I asked myself as I booked 12 nights at a campground. Yes, you read that right, 12 full nights in a tent…..just me….and two young children….in a tent….for 12 nights.

I was obviously drunk on the adrenaline of moving.

Much like being drunk in general, you wake up the next day asking yourself what exactly you did. By the time I pulled the tent from the back of the car I could feel the hangover settle in. I almost immediately wanted to climb the tallest tree and pretend I was an owl…far…far…far away from my children. Pheobe was screaming for no apparent reason although I’m pretty sure Theo was throwing a baseball at her head and Theo was mocking everyone who walked by.

But I still loved them, unconditionally. I convinced myself all this chaos was due to them being away from me for the two weeks prior and being stuck in a car for the greater portion of that day. I was sure all this would die down by the next day, and it did. For the morning anyway.

All three of us were up and at um by 6am and ready to start our new adventure in New Hampshire. I was starting my new job and the kids were starting their new daycare. A quick breakfast minus the coffee (ugh) and we were off. Life was good and it was just going to get better. At the end of the day we made a quick trip to the grocery store for some dinner goodies and headed to the campground. That was until I remembered we didn’t have fire wood and I didn’t have coffee for the next morning. So we made a stop at the most expensive store in the area, but our problem was solved for about $40. Now staving and ready to eat each other, we finally made it back to the campground. Almost immediately Pheobe was screaming about something, and by screaming I mean blood curdling.

The noise resonated throughout the campground. Trees bent from the sound waves. Campers fled to their tents and campers in fear of the obvious bear eating a small child in a near by sight. Even the lifeguards at the pool herded swimmers to a “safe” corner. To our delight the campground had removed the port-a-potty from our area leaving us to take our screaming masquerade on parade. As we made our way to the bathrooms a mile away Pheobe continued her show intermittently. Any campers still outside then made their way into whatever domicile they had. All I could do was grin nervously as I prayed the campground would not kick us out for excessive noise. Scream. Laugh. Scream. Laugh. Their was nothing I could do to keep this fucking child on a, preferably positive, even keel. Everything set her off.

She didn’t see the squirrel soon enough.

There was a stick in her shoe.

We were walking too fast.

We were walking too slow.

I was talking too loud.

Theo didn’t wait for her.

She farted.

Everything. Set. Her. Off. EVERYTHING.

Back at the camp sight it was discovered we didn’t have a lighter…or a match…or anything fire related other than 2 large bundles of wood. Perfect. More screaming. Related, this mommy cannot make fire appear out of thin air. AKA rubbing two sticks together. Now both kids are starving hungry. I’m about to eat my arm off; or start screaming next to Phoebe. Theo reached his breaking point and started throwing his baseball in any direction that would lead him far away from his now devil sister. Defeated, I sat at the picnic table watching Pheobe as she screamed louder waiting for her head to start spinning. If only I had had popcorn to eat while enjoying the show.

Without fire we were left with PB&J for the second night in a row. Throughout our meal I was reminded several times, by Theo, that I really should have brought fire so we could cook. Thank you captain obvious. By  7pm the showers were closed, resulting in all three of us washing up with cold water with our brand new crab bath scrubber. Oddly enough the cold water seemed to subdue Pheobe and the screaming finally stopped. As long as I continue to freeze my child to death, she might actually shut the hell up. 8:30pm and both kids are tucked into their “beds” giggling. Theo then looked up at me and said, “Mommy, can we stay here forever?”

I responded with a big smile and a sweet voice, “No, next week we move into our new home so we can sleep in our own beds and play with our toys.”

With that, they both settled in and I was reminded how much I love them. Through all the bear attacks screams and frustrations my love for them stays strong. That is until tonight when it starts all over again and I am tempted to tie Pheobe to the guard shack at the campground entrance with a sign that reads:

“FREE! To a good home or whoever will take her!”

 
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This Is Not My Underwear

I am not a morning person. I get up around 5:30 during the week and I hate it. I don’t pop out of bed singing and greeting pretty little blue birds. Squirells don’t pounce on my bed with excitement to say good morning. In fact I’m pretty sure all woodland creatures hear my alarm go off like an air raid siren and hide in little makeshift bomb shelters. My cats head straight for the door to go outside so as to escape my wrath. I know I am not a morning person, which is why I wake up so early. I have to give myself at least an hour to wake up and reach an exceptable level of sanity and even temper. If anything happens before the hour is complete anyone around me is subject to crying, yelling, confusion, and flat out ignoring. It is best not to aproach me for any reason, this includes good morning kisses. The flames in my eyes with ignite and, although not a definate, there is a slight posibility you may get head butted.

I have my morning routine so as to avoid being arrested for domestic abuse and neglect. In the past year this routine has been shortened substantially by my job. We wear scrubs which has allowed me to use less brain power when getting dressed. For the most part I lay my scrubs out for the next day before I go to bed so I can think even less in the morning. Last night this was not the case.

When I woke up after hitting snooze for 40 minutes I got out of bed at the same time BF did. Mistake number one. Remembering I had not set out my clothes for the day I had to scavenge  for something to wear. Mistake number 2. Still asleep, I decided to go through my dresser for something to wear instead of the laundry baskets. Mistake number 3. Let me explain something, clothes in our house hardly ever make it into their respective dressers. 3 of us wear uniforms and the 4th is a creature of habbit and wears the same clothes over and over so the same clothes get worn week after week. Nothing. Changes. Digging into a dresser for clothes is almost like entering the Amazon at night, you’ll never know what you may happen upon.

I start to think maybe starting the coffee before looking for clothes would have been a smarter course of events, but as I open the underwear drawer I decide to continue on my path of destruction and wait to make coffee.  So there I am, puting on my underwear after waking up WITH someone and without having coffee first, when I suddenly realize this is not MY underwear! I take them off and look. I check the tag with other tags in the drawer. This isn’t my usual Wal-mart underwear. I double check the tags again. Nothing matches.

I put the underwear back on. Still not my underwear.

Baffled and confused I go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet, defeated. This is not my underwear. BF peaks his head out of the shower. “Hi baby! Are you ok?”

“No, this is not my underwear.”

“Huh? Who’s underwear is it?”

“I have no idea.” I am so confused at this point all I want to do is cry. Did I bring them home by accident the last time I was at my parents house? Did one of our recent houseguests leave them when they spent the night? This is not my underwear. Where did it come from? And why am I still wearing it?

Wait a minute. Laundry room. There on the top of the dirty clothes is my underwear from the day before. I look at the style. I look at the tag. I look at what I’m wearing. These are my underwear! My daily routine had caused me to wear the same 5-7 pairs of underwear every week. Back in Novemeber I bought a pack of 3 underwear, evidently only 2 pairs made their way into the rotation. The lone black pair from the pack of 3 had been put away obviously by accident and never made its way onto my bottom until now.

I learned many new lessons today.

1. Coffee is always to come first.

2. Waking up WITH someone is even more detrimental to my routine than priviosly known.

3. BF now thinks I’m even more nuts than he did yesterday.

4. This is the most comfortable pair of underwear I’ve ever worn. I would still be wearing them even if they weren’t mine because on Mondays you’re allowed to be that gross. They were clean, it’s just like borrowing a bathing suit. Don’t judge me.

Nipples and Nudity: Happy Mother’s Day

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a bit left of center and blew the word ‘unique’ out of the water. So this Mother’s Day I feel that I should pay homage to my mother and grandmother who made me this way. So sit back and relax, I’m about to tell you how it was growing up in Maine under the influence of the women who raised me.

My grandmother was an art teacher. In reality I really shouldn’t have to say much more than that. We’ve all dealt with art teachers dressed in homemade clothes with their bifocals dangling from around their neck on a beaded tether. <= That was my grandmother. My first memory of her was when my mother and I were living with her in a small little New England home overlooking the ocean. I ran into the bathroom one day to get my pet hamster, isn’t that where everyone keeps their hamsters? and saw her with her underwear down to her knees bent over spraying them with perfume. As I stopped short in my tracks she simply looked up at me and said, “There is no reason for it to ever stink.” I now know that ‘it’ meant your cooter, but at the time I was convinced ‘it’ was your underwear and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why your underwear would stink.

Throughout the years I watched as my grandmother would shamelessly yank off her shirt in the midst of a hot flash in the middle of dinner and frantically walk around the house in her underwear. When I was in college we would have entire conversations about her boobs and how gravity had taken them south. When she would fart she would say that she was deflating, and we would be in tears every time she hugged someone due to the fact that every hug would inevitably squeeze a fart out of her. After she passed away in 2008 I found a bottle of her husband’s Viagra (he had passed a few years before) in the night stand on his side of the bed. Right then it was confirmed that up until 2006 my grandmother was still at least trying to have sex.

As they say, the apple never falls too far from the tree. They also say that your children are three times worse than you were. Enter my mother. She isn’t an art teacher, but she did want to be a hippy. Every summer growing up my mother would walk out the door in her underwear and start mowing the lawn. It’s quite possible I miss this the least since leaving home. Quite often more than I’d like to admit if my brother and I heard rapid footsteps coming toward the kitchen we knew that she would soon be sliding across the floor in nothing but her socks yelling “Ta-da!!!”

Summers growing up included happening upon my mother on the back porch sunbathing topless every weekend and winters being mooned by her in her ancient night-gown. The older I get the more stories I hear and the more comfortable she feels about going bra shopping with me for herself.

And that’s how it was for me growing up. Listening to their stories about sex and boobs, and wondering if I was ever going to have nipples like my mother. They were never shy about nudity and taught me it was a normal part of life. Even now I have conversations with my mother on the purpose of ‘manscaping’ and how an underwire bra helps to combat the look of gravity.

It’s because of them that I now  put on deodorant in that little area where my thigh meets my crotch cracks BF up every time he sees me do it, enjoy pants off Friday, encourage BF to motor boat me, and have taken my shirt off in public more than a handful of times…ok, that last one was probably due to tequila but my mother always taught me to never blame the alcohol. Therefore I blame it strictly on genetics. Thanks mom!*wink wink*

So this Mother’s Day I want to thank my mother and grandmother for molding me into the free spirited nudist I am today. Without the constant influence from them both I can only imagine that I would have become a stuck up bitch who doesn’t know the first thing about wacky sex and underwear perfume. I miss my grandmother every day and continue to be thankful every time my I come to realize my mother is becoming more and more like my grandmother. This means one thing….I am sure to stumble down the same path and so is my daughter. Watch out world, this mommy is undressed for a reason!

I Have 3 Cats?

I’m not a big fan of cleaning in general anymore much to BF’s dismay. But I do it as rarely as possible because I have to. Yesterday BF went on a cleaning frenzy which he only seems to do when he’s sick and I was told that on Sunday we were cleaning our bedroom.*cue crickets*
I hate cleaning my bedroom more than cleaning anything else on this planet. I’ve scrubbed sea creatures off of harbor markers and climbed into sewage tanks to clean out filters. Can someone go tell Mike Rowe that for me? But there is nothing which needs cleaning that makes me more miserable than cleaning my room. This isn’t a new thing like my overall disdain for cleaning which came about after the birth of my daughter. No, this roots down much deeper.
Growing up I was ‘that’ kid. There was a clean path from my door to be bed and that was about it. Dishes piled up on the tv and dirty clothes were shoved under the bed. My parents would ground me until my room was clean. There were times I would be grounded for upwards of a week or more.
As I grew older and had my own place I made an ultimate decision that my bedroom doesn’t have to be clean because no one actually has to come into my room except me. It’s a privilege of being an adult in my world. When I was dating I rarely had men over to my house, and if they did come over it was for dinner and a movie and then out. No one was allowed in my bedroom!
And to this day no one goes in my bedroom really, except me and BF. And I like it that way. To me the bedroom should only be used for two things, sleeping and sex. That’s it. It’s not my safe haven. It’s not my point of Zen. It’s not a place I entertain company.
So when BF informed me that we were going to clean said bedroom on Sunday I was immediately taken over by my inner child and pouted. And I continued to pout about it for 12 hours until I went to look again for my missing slipper. I got on my belly to look under the dresser which hasn’t moved in almost 4 years. I started pulling things out from underneath. A sock. A sewing project. A bra. Jeans. A sweater. Then came the big discovery………I had no idea I had a third cat made of dust bunnies and cat fur!
So tonight I am going to clean my room while BF is out! Not sure how much wine its going to take, but I will have that damn thing cleaned! There will be no more random cats found in my bedroom damn it!
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Little Golden Arches

Penis envy. It’s something us women know all to well. You men have it so easy with the exception of random hard ons being able to stand up and pee. You can pretty much whip it out and pee where ever you damn well please. From trees, to the backs of buildings, to side alleys. You can even pee into a soda bottle while driving and never have to stop. It’s unfair. This is why women have spent money trying to come up with different aperatuses that will bless us with the ability to pee while standing. Unfortunetly none of theses have eliminated the need to wipe.

As we women grow up we are reminded daily that we will never truly be able to join the ranks of men who can perform such a marvelous feat. We learn to deal with it, and move on with a smile knowing that there are certain things we can do that men cannot. Women may or may not remember back to the time they first whitnessed a man peeing standing up. Maybe you walked in on your father in the bathroom. Maybe some guy was peeing up against a tree at the campground. Maybe you were lucky enough to grow up with brothers constantly trying to perfect their name in the snow or simply showing off the fact that they don’t have to sit down and you do. <= This, is exactly what my poor daughter has to put up with every day.

Theo is constantly trying to pee on anything that will hold still long enough for him to do his business. And yes, he even peed on me from the porch one day. Pheobe will stand there and watch in wonder as Theo makes perfect little golden arches to unsuspecing plants and sidewalks. At 3 years old, she has already come to realise that this part of life is unfair.

As we stood outside the house waiting for the bus the other morning, Pheobe perked up and said she had to pee. Instead of running her inside like a normal mother I looked around for a tissue or napkin to help her squat behind a bush. As I frantically ripped apart the car, I heard one last desperate cry to go pee. Quickly I turned around only to hear these words fly out of my mouth, “Pheobe! You’re not a boy!!!” But it was too late. Her little blue pants were down around her ankles as she popped her little pelvis forward and commenced to pee on the side of the house. She looked up in glee at the fact that, she too, had made a perfect little golden arch that was now trickling down the stones. She had done it, and she couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t tried it before….until that little golden arch petered out and soaked her pants.

I wish I could say that she learned her lesson, but I can’t. Later that day, while at the playground, she almost tried it again resulting in BF and I both blurting my previous statement out in harmony. She’s stubborn, and there is no doubt in my mind she will, in fact, try it again.

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