Tag Archives: humor

Mommy Martydom

Posted on by

44

Some friends and I were chatting and the the above meme card came up, which has been posted around Facebook, and we discovered that we were unanimously annoyed with the implied sentiment. Listen up ladies, this isn’t the 1950′s! Your goal in life no longer has to be landing a husband so you can spend the rest of your life finding shoes to compliment your newest apron or dedicate yourself solely to dispensing little humans out of your vagina like Pez. Supposedly, the sky is the limit–okay, well the glass ceiling is the limit (wink, wink). You can go to college, and not just for your M.R.S. degree. You can have a career. You can have an active social life and go out with friends. The world is your oyster! That is, until you have a child. At that point, you are only supposed to concern yourself with all things mommy. You are allowed to go back to work BUT only if you NEED the income. I’m sure there is a meme card somewhere that says, “Sorry I quit my job and can’t afford my mortgage, I was busy being an awesome mom!”  If your combined household income affords you material purchases like designer handbags or new furniture, you’re not putting your child first. Awesome moms don’t care if the garage apartment is furnished with fabric covered crates, as long as she can spend every waking moment staring at the fruits of her womb. What do you mean Jane called and wants to have a girl’s night out? You’re a mommy! Unless Jane is wanting to meet up at mommy and me yoga or the La Leche League luncheon, what is the point? Don’t you know, when good mommies have babies, their selfish desires and personal need for things like social interaction not related to children is expelled with the placenta? Everyone knows that any mother that would be willing to abandon her child for any amount of time for selfish endeavors like work or socializing with friends or, dare I even say it, imbibe in an adult beverage with other adults is negligent, if not completely unfit.
Here is my confession: This may come as a total shock to some of you but being a mom, in and of itself, does not always make me feel completely fulfilled and blissful. I know that the sanctimommy handbook says that I shouldn’t want anything beyond birthing, breastfeeding and wiping shit from a litter of baby asses but, for some reason, I need to get away from time to time. As much as one would think that watching the school themed episode of Blue’s Clues for the 14th time today would never get old. It does. I know it’s hard to imagine that explaining to a toddler for the 20,134th time why poop goes in the potty and not in his pants could ever get annoying but, believe it or not, it does. I know when I tell people that the wake up, make breakfast, nap time battle, house keeping, bath and bed time routine can get monotonous and mundane, they stare at me in utter disbelief. Alas, I don’t find it as riveting as other moms claim. Look, I love my children. I’ve never loved anything more in all my life. I would literally give my life for any one of them without a moment’s hesitation. They make me laugh every single day. At times, though, they make me consider which kitchen gadget would be best suited for rendering myself completely deaf. That thought ultimately always leads me to my electric wine opener, at which point I reconsider because it is a bad ass wine opener and I’d hate to ruin it so, instead, I decide to call a friend or two and put it towards its intended use.

Wake up and smell the mimosa! Achieving awesomeness in the mommy department doesn’t require women to sacrifice friends and a social life. I can be a great mother and a great friend. I can be a good mother and still have a social life. If your cup of tea is spending every  moment of every day holding or hovering over your children and your idea of socializing with friends is instagramming your latest dinner creation, who am I to judge? If you aspire to be the “perfect mom”, good luck with that goal. A little secret, though: There is no such thing.  I’ll settle for being a pretty good mom, well, most of the time. Sometimes, I am just an “okay” mom. Whether I’m tired, irritated or, at times, overwhelmed, I have my bad days. Usually, I find it is quickly cured with nothing more than a couple of phone calls or texts to decide who’s providing the porch and who is bringing the wine. I like to spend time with my friends. These nights allow me to decompress. I get to be around adults. I get to talk about adult things. Our drinks don’t need to be punctured with a tiny straw; they need cork screws and everyone can pour their own. A night with the girls is the best and cheapest therapy available. We open a bottle of wine or four and talk, gossip and laugh. Truth be told, very little of our conversation centers around our children now that I think about it. We may tell a funny story or two about something they said or did but then it is on to the other topics like husbands and the latest gossip.  Stories will be told about husband fights and we’re going to tell each other when we we’re on the right side of the fight and totally wrong and acting like a spoiled ass. We drink, we laugh, we curse, we vent, we bitch. Karaoke is often involved, even if we are just singing along at the top of our lungs to someone’s play list. Usually, when I get home, my cheeks are almost sore from laughing and, somehow or another, my children are sound asleep, oblivious to and unfazed by my adults only play date.

Girls night at my house with some of my favorite bitches

Moms: There is nothing wrong with you if you want to spend time away from your children. Being a great mom doesn’t require you to sacrifice your identity as an individual. I am a mother but that is not the only thing that defines me. I am more than just a mom. These times, with my friends, serve as a reminder of that. We support one another through everything; the trials of parenting, fights with our husbands, losing a member of our wine gang and my best friend, Misty, to ALS.  We can’t always drop what we’re doing and meet on the patio but we have all proven our ability to one another to come through in a pinch. At the end of the day, these girls and the time we spend together centers me.  My marriage and my family are my top priorities but I also make my friends a priority. I am actually a much better mother because I have them in my life. Is there really any such thing as having too much support? I am a good mom.  Having and spending time with friends, doing things that don’t revolve around my children, doesn’t change that. I’ll go so far as to say it makes me a better mom.

One of our last girls’ nights all together with Misty

When I Am Old and Gray

Posted on by

11

The other day, my mother and I spent the day with my grandmother–my ‘Mammaw’. I’ve always been compared to her, physically and otherwise. We are both petite, at almost 5′ 2″, I am almost an inch taller than her and the rest of the family all tower over us at 5′ 5″ and above. In her younger days, Mammaw was quite the baton twirler, from what I am told.  Since baton twirling was out of vogue by the time I was in school, I shook my ass on the dance team. Close enough.  I began collecting shoes when I got my first job at the age of 15. My mother never understood my affinity for shoes and she said she never understood it, growing up, when it was her own mother that took the same delight in growing a shoe collection.  I suppose that would go hand in hand with the love for shopping that we share but that is a fairly common hobby.  Although, she seemed to share my shopping  mantra of “it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission”, a philosophy that, evidently, got her into trouble with my Pappaw in much the same way it did for me with Husband.

She is 87 years old and, as such, there are certain rules pertaining to proper etiquette–not hers, yours.  To my knowledge, these guidelines have not been put in writing until now and this may not be a complete list. Based on my observations over the years, when spending time with a Mammaw:

  • Even if she has just let out the longest, loudest burp that was so disgusting it caused you to throw up in your mouth a little, YOU HEARD NOTHING.
  • If the sound of the gas she is passing woke you up in the next room, even if you are almost completely certain that she just sharted—YOU HEARD NOTHING.

Act  natural. Continue what you were doing. My children have, on more than one occasion, broken this protocol. When everyone else has their heads down, pretending that they didn’t hear her backside trumpeting, and a child announces, “Ewwwww, Mammaw just farted”, do not laugh. Ignore the comment and redirect the child, IMMEDIATELY.

Above all, you can’t get mad. Ever. Even in such scenarios as:

  • You come home to find your kitchen looks like it has been readied for a rave foam party and the bubbles are still pouring out of your dishwasher. Turns out, she put liquid dish detergent in there, instead of dishWASHER detergent. You thank her for doing the dishes and then laugh and tell everyone about it when and where she won’t hear.
  • You realize her method for putting dishes away boils down to just finding a place that the dish fits.
  • On a daily basis, you think you are going crazy because you could SWEAR that you had put your coffee cup down right there but it is gone and you walk room to room, retracing your steps with a confused look on your face. You even talk to yourself: “I know I put that damn cup on that table. What the hell? Did I? Yes, of course I did. I guess I didn’t because it is gone. What the shit did I do with my damn coffee?” You walk into the kitchen and she has just finished rinsing it out. You may repeat the suggestion that if the coffee is hot she should leave it alone but understand that she will forget and this will happen again in about an hour. You must keep it with you or, if you must walk away, assign a babysitter.

You can only laugh with her, not at her. When my mother and I were visiting her last weekend, my mother came out of the restroom and asked my Mammaw where the hand towels were so she could dry her hands. My Mammaw searched around the bathroom, muttering about someone taking her hand towel off her sink and then said, “I guess we’ll have to make do” and reached into a drawer, pulled out an incontinence pad and handed it to my mother. I plan on implementing this hand drying method with my future guests by just sticking a few on the counter, next to the sink and replacing a couple of times a week. Less laundry for me!

She asked me seven times in seven minutes how old Number Four was and, as protocol dictates, I answered her each time like it was the first time she’d asked. I’d add to that all the times she has forgotten my name over the years but, to be fair, she has like 12 or 13 grandchildren and probably 20 great-grandchildren. We are a family of MAY-JAH breeders. I’ve had times when I need to yell at my own kids and I call them every other child’s name and even gone down the list of dog’s names, so I can’t even rib her about that one because, on top of having a hundred names to remember, she has the whole onset of dementia. The fact that she gets my name right at all, much less more than half of the time, earns her a gold star.

 

How Did You Find My Blog?

Posted on by

22

Here are some of my favorite search queries that have led people to my blog. They are funny and disturbing.

 

1) Footballs in vaginas - Ouch! Why? I bet half of you are just curious enough to go look for videos.

2) Fuck whole world - Bad day? This blog could make it better or worse!

3) underwear with penis on inside - is there underwear with penis on the outside?

4) little kids dick - Ummm–disturbing.

5) Caillou cake ideas - Ha! I doubt this person liked my opinion of Caillou. If I made a Caillou cake, it would only be so I could stick in a knife.

6) slut tips - That would have all been archived in my pre-mommy blog.

7) penis covered in glitter - it still won’t be pretty. I promise.

8) vagina doorbell - how I feel about this depends on if we are talking about a vagina for one’s door or a bell for one’s vagina.

9) if you fuck a girl in her ass can it hurt her - I feel sorry for the girl with the person responsible for this search.

10) hot sexy mermaids touching there boobs naked - I know! Can you believe the grammar error?

11) fb status getting so weird dat dat day is nt far wen people will update dat they r fucking – I need my decoder ring but I think this person may be trying to make a good point.

12) can i get a humorous story using these following word’s? sarcastic, laughable, mocking, hysterical, cute, amusing, outburst, titter, groan, and smile? - This may be one of my favorites. Though, I can swear that I have never used the word ‘titter’.

 

This is just a glimpse of what search terms people use that land them here. Look for this to be a series. I don’t understand how most of these searches result in this website but they do, which gives me a vivid glimpse of what kind of crazy is out there!

The Penis Game

Posted on by

65

Anyone else remember playing “the penis game” in high school or college? You would take turns saying the word “penis”, each time saying it louder than the person before you. It was best if done in a public place. If you laughed or refused to say it louder or at all, you lost. It was cheap entertainment in those days. Now, it is the story of my life. With three boys, specifically Number Two and Number Three, I find myself inundated with penis talk. Number Two, especially, will take any opportunity to mention the word penis, whether discussing his, specifically, or just making general small talk. It is one of his favorite subjects. Thankfully, he has stopped showing it to everyone that came over for a visit within the last year. There is nothing like having to issue a disclaimer to potential guests that your child might leave the room wearing pants and return, minutes later, full Monty. If you were around my son for more than two minutes, he wouldn’t hesitate to inform you that he had a penis and inform you where it was located. You may be asked if you have a penis. If you answered, “No”, he would express true sympathy for you. Evidently, we are really missing out.

Last year, I got a note from his teacher that read: Please make sure Number Two wears underwear to school. That is when I found out that he was going “commando” to school. I would give him underwear to put on in the mornings and, as it turned out, he had been choosing to forgo that item for quite some time before I got the heads up. I had never imagined myself having to perform daily “underwear checks”, much less having to debate with my five year old on the issue. The most embarrasing moment with him took place when he was about 3 years old and we were sitting in a waiting room. I saw his pants had come unsnapped and called him over to me and when I grabbed the snap on his pants, he yelled “YOU’RE TOUCHING MY PENIS!!”. I could have died. Right there. No lie. I was frozen, everyone was looking at me, trying to stifle their laughter and my son just went right on back to playing with his toy.

Now, with Number Three beginning to enjoy conversing about and showing off his penis, I see my life turning into one long round of the penis game. It has become a daily event for me to walk into his room in the mornings and/or after his nap and find that he has removed his diaper and is standing in his crib, with his junk pushed through the bars of his crib, lining up a shot at the toys on the floor. I can’t pay this kid to piss on the toilet but put him in bed and leave a few targets on the floor and leave the room and he is suddenly a fucking marksman.

By the time Number Four gets to this point, I envision myself in a catatonic state, walking the streets in my pajamas and yelling, “PENIS”.

An Exercise in Humiliation

Posted on by

10

I knew I shouldn’t have joined the gym, dammit!  I must admit, though, when the voice in my head said, “you’ll pay for this”, I thought it meant that I would be really sore.  If I knew that this is how it would end up, I wouldn’t have signed those papers.

Yesterday, I decide to go hit the treadmill and a rip60 class in the hopes of dropping a few lumps of fat gifted to me by Number Four.  As I am getting ready, I remember that I have a pair of plastic sauna pants in my closet.  I put them on, since the more you sweat the more you lose.  I ran to the store to grab a plastic water bottle, some ear buds and a couple of post workout candy bars (don’t judge me!).  After that, I head to the gym and jump on a treadmill.  After about 15 minutes, I walk over to the area where the class will be held.  Let me paint this picture for you:  The rip60 class isn’t held in a classroom.  The suspension mount is set up in the middle of the gym.  IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GYM.  It is not enclosed.  It is not blocked from view.  It is held IN PLAIN VIEW, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GYM.  Anyhoo, we warm up with neck and hip rotations, then we grab on to the bands and start doing lunges and squats.  After several sets of these exercises, the instructor tells us to get into plank position and hold it for 60 seconds.  I comply. I bend over and ease down to the ground to assume the plank position on my toes and forearms.  I am straining to hold the position as the instructor begins walking around, counting down and checking our form.  She bends down at my side and I prepare to adjust my form, when she asks, “are you wearing pants under those?”

“No”, I answered.

“Well, your pants are ripped”, she replied.

I sit up and feel and sure enough, there is a rip along my inner thigh.  I tell her I am going to check in my car for some shorts.  As I stand up, I see behind me, there is a small group of people who have stopped and are looking in my direction.  I make another assessment of the situation and realize it is worse than I thought.  The rip goes from the inner thigh of one leg, across my promised land and down the inner thigh of the other leg. The only part of my lower body that was covered were my knees and calves.  I just gave half of Gold’s Gym a free shot of my striped hot pink Hanes her ways and post baby thighs and ass cheeks.  I did it in the fucking plank position too, with shaky legs and clenched ass and all.  Someone kill me.  I ran out of the gym, my arms flailing wildly and screaming “I’M NEVER COMING HERE AGAIN! NEVER!” Okay, not really but that is what I felt like doing.  No, I walked out of that gym with my head held high and my ass hanging out.  I don’t know if I can show my face there again.  Maybe everyone was so focused on my  ass that no one will recognize my face!

Ways to Ruin a Bitch’s Day

Posted on by

12

There is more than one way to skin this cat.  I admit, I have little patience for bullshit, HOWEVER, I usually do a good job of masking my desire to torch a kitten and put my head through a wall.  Give credit where credit is due!  I know that instances that puzzle me or piss me off would garner the same reaction from every other normal person.  Here are a few guidelines for being a positive presence in normal society:

  • Let me begin with an act that, albeit well-intentioned, is extremely irritating.  Let me paint you a picture: You are walking into a store or mall or any other public building and, as you open the door, you notice that about a quarter-mile back another person is headed for the door.  You, vying for the “good Samaritan” award, decide to hold the door open for the stranger in the distance.  What you may not realize is that you have now obligated a stranger that is half a football field away to haul ass to the door to avoid seeming ungrateful for the gesture and to ensure that your good deed is not carried out in vain.  I didn’t come to McDonald’s for a cardio workout, dammit!  For future reference, unless the person is less than 5 feet away or doesn’t have arms, you are relieved of your self-imposed position as door valet.  
  • That brings me to my next topic–elevator etiquette:  For starters, let people OFF the elevator before you get on.  Second, it is, actually, VERY rude to practically hurdle over the stroller in front of you, even if it is a reflex brought on by the intense fear of having to wait for the next elevator.  Unless you are in possession of a human organ that is about to expire, wait in line like every-fucking-body else.  Also, going back to my first point, don’t hold the elevator for people who are more than ten steps from the doors.  On the other hand, don’t be an asshole and start punching the door close button when people are right behind you.

Finally, and most importantly, have you been wondering if that woman next to you in the checkout is pregnant?  Are you dying to ask her?  Don’t!  A good rule of thumb is, unless a woman specifically states that she is pregnant or you see an infant dangling from a woman’s vagina, NEVER ASSUME PREGNANCY.  If you really want to ruin a bitch’s day, ask a woman who is not pregnant when she is due.  If you want to make bitch want to jump off a cliff, find a woman who has just had a baby, rub her belly and ask her when she is due.  If you are really quiet, you can hear what is left of her self-confidence shatter.

 

What would you add to this?

Random Musings and Bitching

Posted on by

5

Maybe I am still a bit hormonal or oversensitive but I want people to STOP telling me, “You look good for having just had a baby”.  To me, it is the same as saying, “You look like fat dog shit but it’s okay because you just had a baby”.  I know I look like shit.  I haven’t brushed my hair in weeks.  I haven’t lost even a portion of the baby weight and I haven’t slept since the second trimester.  You don’t have to try to convince me I look decent, especially when you are so horrible at it, you basically tell me I look like ass. 

Moving on–I have been telling my husband over and again, I would really appreciate him taking on the laundry, including folding and putting away (the steps he ALWAYS ignores), on his days off.  Number Four has proved to be more than a bit overwhelming, especially when coupled with a busy toddler.  I have never been up for any awards for housewife of the year but the house seems to have gone to hell in a handbasket since the latest arrival.  So, the other day, the hubs has a day off and he decides he is going to roll up his sleeves and help me get some shit in order.  The garage.  I shit you not.  He spent all fucking day organizing the muthafucking garage.  It looks immaculate but what the shit am I supposed to do with a clean garage?  I might be pissed about that one for a while.  

Finally–When you call a doctor and tell them that your child has been coughing and congested and they ask, “Does he/she have a temperature”?  Well, I sure as shit hope so!  I would think not having a temperature would indicate that one was a bit late with the call to the doctor.   I am just sayin’

The Justhadababy Diet Isn’t Working!

Posted on by

5

Number Four is six weeks old and I only weigh ten pounds less than I did the last hour of my pregnancy.  What the fuck?  Here is a picture of me naked:I have been so disciplined with my efforts to get back down to my fighting weight too!  I know all the dieting rules and tips.

  1. White food has no calories.  With that in mind, I have been eating a lot of bread and things like pasta with alfredo sauce, mozzarella and parmesan cheeses and things of the like.
  2. The calories in hot foods/liquids are burned up.  If I want a drink, I have stuck with hot chocolate and room temperature Dr. Pepper (it’s winter.  Our heat has been on inside the house.  It counts.) I like cheese but cold cheese would have too many calories so, instead, I have queso or grilled cheese.
  3. I like Oreos.  A lot.  But, I know better than just to cram the cookie in my mouth!  I break open the cookie and lick out the filling, which is white and, therefore, calorie free.  I throw away the cookie part or, if I want to eat it, I heat it up in the microwave.
  4. Wine burns calories.  Just opening a bottle burns 500 calories.  I drink wine several times a week.

Can someone please tell me, now, why the hell I am not already in my pre-pregnancy clothes?  Hell, I should be a fucking waif, given the level of discipline I have demonstrated!  What do I have to do?  Exercise?  That will be a cold day in hell.  Let me tell you something, if you see me running down the street, call the fucking police.  Rest assured, I didn’t take up a healthy hobby, I am in fear for my life.  Treadmills make no sense to me.  First of all, it requires you to run, which is bad enough, but to top it off, you don’t go anywhere.  The same goes for stationary bikes and stair climbers.  What kind of sick, twisted mind made fucking stairs that don’t get you anywhere?  But I digress.

I think I need to increase my wine intake.

Romance Isn’t Dead

Posted on by

13

20111222-013526.jpg

My husband and I have been together for 11 years and have managed this in spite of our four children. At the end of the day, it is all about keeping the romance alive. You have to avoid taking each other for granted and keep the home fires burning.

When my husband wants to be romantic, you think he buys me flowers or surprises me with jewelry? My husband is too romantic to waste our time and money on those tired clichés. He puts real thought into how to woo me and gets creative. One of his signature romantic overtures is to wait until I am leaning over to empty the dishwasher and to come up behind me and start humping me from behind. That makes me melt.

Another thing, he is always focused on me and my well being and health. For instance, if I tell him that my throat hurts, he doesn’t hesitate to inform me that semen will make me feel better and to offer me a dose of the cure. NO STRINGS ATTACHED. Or if I complain about being fatigued, he immediately concerns himself with my protein intake and, again, doesn’t hesitate to offer the opportunity to get my “protein injection”. He is nothing if not a giver.

Our fourth child just turned one month old and he is always checking on me from work. Just the other day he sent me this text:

20111222-012034.jpg

Seriously, I love that man. People don’t get our senses of humor most of the time but it is what makes me love him so much. He cracks me up. Making me laugh is the best romantic gesture he can make. Okay, aside from that wedding band upgrade I have been bringing up for the past year, making me laugh is the second best gesture.

20111222-014423.jpg

You’re Barking Up the Wrong Tree

Posted on by

4

If you have come here expecting to be regaled with tales of perfect children being raised by perfect parents, you are in the wrong classroom. If you have come here thinking I am going to share parenting tales that will make you feel like you are being sprinkled with skittles and unicorn piss, you took a wrong turn. I am a mother of, as of recently, four. I am a stay at home mother. Let me state, I am a stay at home parent by choice. For the record, since so many fail to comprehend satire or sarcasm, I adore the fuck out of my children. The fact that I am afforded the OPTION to be a stay at home parent is not lost on me. With that said, if you expect me to blow sunshine up your skirt and feign that every fucking second is the best minute of my life, you are going to be disappointed. Suck it.

Number One is a huge help but she is too close to being a teenager for my comfort and her attitude is a reflection of the upcoming teen years, much to my chagrin. Talking to Number Two is like talking to toast. Number Three is full blast into the terrible twos and proving that the worst is yet to come, since his response to every request is, “why” or “no”. Number Four is a boobaholic. He is tiny but, DAMN, this little boy spends more time at the tit than all my other children combined.

When you are sleeping in two hour increments, you can tell me not to bitch. When you combine that sleep deprivation with multiple children, you can preach to me about my voicing my exhaustion , much less drawing any humor from all of it.

Take a fucking joke. If you say that full time parenting is a breeze or that stay at home parents should shut up and color: get bent. If you spent any significant time with your children you would realize that parenting is not absent of frustration and, dare I say it, fucking boredom. I love my kids but day after day of Super Why and Caillou could break Ghandi. When you spend the majority of your day refereeing arguments over the last juice box or who gets to pick the next movie or who’s turn it is to play Angry Birds, let’s talk. Until then, your opinion is a “moo” point. It’s like a cow’s opinion. It doesn’t matter. It’s moo. (-Joey Tribbianni)