Just Another Totally Normal Conversation Between Husband and Wife

Scene: In the car on the way home with 3 kids (ranging from ages 11 mos-6 years old). 

We pick up our conversation already in progress.

Husband: You know how you go to those inner city grocery stores and find something from the past.

Me: Uh, no. (It is funny how I don’t find myself in many inner city grocery store, particularly because I am not sure where the inner city is.) 

Husband: Well, I just found a Tahitian Treat.

Me: Huh?

Husband:  You know it is a fruit punch.  This and Big Shot pineapple soda are the nectar of the Gods. (Doesn’t take much to make my hubby happy).

Me:  Sounds like something you pay $50 for and then have someone say they will meet you around ”da cornder”.

Husband: [Insert an inappropriate comment for a family friendly blog here.]

Me:  I get what you are saying.

Husband: What is all that noise.

Me: What?

Husband:  What is wrong with Sun?

Me: Oh, that.  It is just another regular ride home on a Wednesday. 

Husband: You know I have a whole bucket of earplugs in the garage?

Me: Nah, I just turn the music up.  You know you just interrupted Poision.  That girl is poisioooon.  Never trust a big butt and a smile.

Husband:  Man, we have many blast from the past going on.

Me: Man, someone laid a load and it smells in here.  I have to open a window to breathe. 

Husband:  All you need to finish the look is a cigarette and a beer.

Me: Tell me about it.  I am one step away from Redneckdom.

Husband:  Maybe, a wine cooler.

Me:  Yeah, because I am a classy Redneck.  (fake Redneck accent) “You kids be quiet back dere, Mama is trying to smoke her ciggie and drink her wine cooler”.  Okay, let me go. 

Just another good reason cell phones were invented.

In the Famous Words of Samuel L. Jackson

“I want all these motherfucking snakes out of my motherfucking yard!”   

Well, that might not be exactly what he said, but it is what I wanted to scream, yesterday.  I got out of my car, which can not be parked in my safe, snake free garage, and walked around to open the door for Amber.  What did I see?  A freaking snake!  At first, I thought it was trash.  “Hmmmm…what is this kinda long, black…OH! MY! GOD! moving thing doing on my lawn?”  Of course, I screamed like the little bitch I am and high tailed it back to the car.  I said in a totally calm and non-scary voice to the kids, “Okay, when you get out…RUN FOR THE FRONT DOOR!  DON’T STOP AND DON’T LOOK BACK!”  Amber had her marching orders and in between “What did you see mama?” and running her little butt off she made it to the door without being eaten alive by the large anaconda that had taken up residence on my lawn.  I grabbed Sam and ran so fast, I think it counted as cardio for the day, to the front porch, where, of course, we were safe, because snakes never come onto the front porch.  At least, not those polite Southern ones.  They send out an announcement note and let you know the exact time when they will be arriving to EAT YOUR FACE OFF.

It took me about an hour to come down off my hysteria.  I just knew that snakes were all over the house.  I knew the one outside was just the look out and the others were waiting to eat my babies and squeeze me to death.  I called the hubs, who was at the store for a big sale, and screamed, “THERE WAS A FUCKING SNAKE IN THE YARD!”  Does he comfort me?  Does he offer to come home and make sure all is well?  Oh hell to the no, that would be what a loving husband would do, mine laughed and told me it was probably a king snake. You know the nice ones that eat other snakes.  I would later learn that it wasn’t a king snake at all, but it probably was a snake that eats either rats or earthworms.  Niiiiiiice!

Of course, I had to Twitter all about my experience, because what the hell else do we do in this age of letting everyone know our immediate thoughts right this MINUTE.  I was, basically, told to calmthe hell down and that the snake was probably nothing.  Well, in my books, the only good snake is a DEAD SNAKE.  Oh yeah, I said it, kill all the snakes.  Now, the snake league of the cute and cuddly reptile association will hunt me down and torture me with their snake knowledge: “Oh snakes are our friends.  They are a great help in the eco-system. They keep our area free of mice and other pests.”  Yeah, well can’t they do it without coming anywhere near me, my house, or my kids.  Matter of fact, I would like to get a snake restraining order just so these animals know exactly how I feel about them.  You know, if my blood curdling scream didn’t get his attention.

I have never professed to be a nature lover or even an outdoorsy girl.  Quite the contrary, I have my place, which is inside my house that is snake free, and nature has it’s place, outside where they immediately hide whenever I walk from my house to my car.  Basically, nature is allowed to exist, but are not allowed to be seen, heard or jump out at me.  Oh yeah, I am talking to you, little lizards who torture me on a daily basis by jumping and running toward me. 

This should be a good insight to my crazy for my therapist, because since I have seen that snake I feel as if I am crawling with them and I am convinced that an alligator is hiding under the car to eat us as soon as we try to leave.  It is all based on scientific fact, you know the river is high and the kids and I look so delicious to the ones who run with the amphibian crowd.  Further proof, will be how I am scaring the crap out of the kids by jumping and screaming at every shadow and the dog’s tail, because I am waiting for the snakes to come on in and kill me in my sleep. 

Now, I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should be eaten by a snake, before I wake.
I pray the Lord my face to smack.

Good night and sweet dreams.

Sadistic Bitch

I thought just buying the DVD would be enough.  It should sit in my DVD rack and the pounds would melt away and the muscles would ripple.  I may decide to do a couple of the routines from time to time, you know, when I am bored.  It would only help me to become tone and fit quicker than just sitting there.

But oh no, you have to do it, like regularly.  And it is going to hurt.  You are going to scream.  You are going to wish the woman on the screen a very painful death that will get more creative as you go.  You may even scream that she hates you and all that rainbow filled support she keeps throwing is just a front.  You hear the subliminal messages she throws at you from the screen.   The one where she tells you that you are a loser because you can’t roll up to touch your toes without the use of your hands.  Or maybe the one where she tells you that you will always be flabby and that not investing in an artificial uterus to birth your children was a big mistake.  Or the one where she screams at you that your excuse of eating for 2 was ALL YOUR FAULT.  Then you will fall in a heap on the floor and cry how you can’t go on and you won’t go on, because a slim stomach isn’t worth.  You will pump your fist and swear that you don’t mind buying the next size up in pants.  A kid may wonder over to make waves on your stomach and you press on, cursing and wishing you were dead. 

Then you realize as you lay on the floor, unable to move from the PAIN, that she is a skinny sadistic bitch that probably hates everyone, because she hasn’t eaten in 15 years.  Then your husband will walk in needing to tell you something so important…and look,  I am so sorry we are all out of time.

Pilates at home, if it hurts then you know it is working or you are dying.  It is a toss up, really.

The Mother’s Race

I, often, wonder how my children will remember me.  Will they remember the times we dance in the kitchen to my laptop, the times I threaten to eat their feet with the vacuum, the times mom took them to the house that smelled like old people so she could talk to a woman that was not related nor friend to us, or will they remember all the times I went batshit crazy over nothing.

I am very rigid.  I admit it.  You can ask what I will be doing anytime of the day, any day, and I can almost give you the same answer every time.  It is just me.  It is my comfort zone.  But sometimes I want to do something spontaneous and exciting for the kids.  Today, that would be a trip to Party City to see if they had gotten an appropriate Spongebob pinata in stock.  When I told Amber, she seemed unexcited.  You know, because it is only for her big birthday party where all her classmates are invited and she just had to have Spongebob everything.  I pressed on, because I just KNEW it was going to be fun.

We found our pinata after much wrangling of wayward children, requested trips to the stockroom for just another look and the dreaded employee who offers balloons.  Then the one thing that no mother wants to see or hear erupted from Amber, “Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom!”.  We walked around to find a bathroom, but there was none to be found.  So I did what any loving and caring mom would do, I told her to hold it until we get home.  I mean I am sure her pea size bladder is able to hold until we make the 30 minute trip home.  My job here is done.  Nah, not really, just put off until a very inconvenient time.

I struggle to keep the kids from being run over in the parking lot while they are concerned that their balloons will escape.  I know what a tragedy it would be for them to lose their balloons as a Dodge pick up rams them.  *sigh* Then there was the fight to get not only the kids into the car, but the balloons that were so desperate to escape and fly in the wind.  Sam was confused about this balloon thing, but knew he didn’t want his to leave.  Amber knew the deal with balloons and my hatred for them.  She was determined to hold onto her until I, finally, snapped and forced her to release it into the wild. 

Finally in the car, I hear the second thing no mother wants to hear, “Mommy, I have to go REALLY BAD!”.  So now I must play beat the clock.  Of course, I am in the height of the afternoon traffic jam and at a stoplight.  Precious minutes are ticking by and my anxiety level is high.  Amber is quietly sitting in her seat waiting for either a bathroom or her bladder to burst.  The light turns green and we crawl at a snail pace to my U-turn.  Would it be too much to ask for someone to let us in?  I mean it wasn’t like they were going to be any further then we would be.  I find my hole and I gun it, only to find myself behind a car full of OLD PEOPLE.  OH MY GOD, the dreaded car of old people, who don’t care when they get to their destination; they are just happy to be up and out.  I am right there at the Wendy’s.  I just want to turn in, so I can avoid cleaning a urine soaked kid and carseat.  The Car of Death refused to move from their appropriate car link from the car in front of them.  All I needed was a half of inch, so I can get through the driveway.  I thought of running over the curb and through the bushes.  I mean why else do moms have SUVs, if not to get us to a bathroom for our potty challenged kids?  If you guessed I flashed them a smile to get them to move, you have no idea who you are dealing with.  I laid on the horn and yelled some PG language and they moved up.  I think I might have scared them, but don’t mess with a mother faced with a child holding a full bladder/  Finally, we had made it to bathroom where Amber could pee and I could embarrass myself further.

As we are getting out of the car, I am on high alert.  Just because we have made it to the parking lot doesn’t mean the race is over.  I have to get the kids out without the balloons escaping and then have a 5 minute conversation with Amber of why I should take her balloon off her wrist, while making sure Sam isn’t run over.   Then I exclaim at the top of my lungs, “What is wrong with you kids? It is like you lost your brain cells.”  UGH!!!  I really should give classes. 

We make it to the bathroom and my nerves start to calm as I hear the tickle and say to may self that no one died from licking the wall in a public restroom.  Well, I guess we will find out in the morning.  So, what have we learned today, kids?  Never steer off course.  Stay focus.  And don’t gamble with a child who needs to go potty, RIGHT NOW!

A Question for the Masses

There is one question out there that I thought would never be thrown my way.  How could it?  I never planned to have many children and I knew for sure that they would never be THAT close in age.  But last night, it happened…

A typical batshit crazy Wednesday.  The kids were driving me up the wall, I tried to keep 2 very fidgety small children occupied at boring (well, for us, anyway) dance class and finalizing plans for dinner.  Aw!  Dinner.  The holy grail I look forward to all day on Wednesday.  You could even say it is the reason I never throw my hands up, hire monkeys to watch the kids and hide under the covers all day.  I know that at the end of the day, I will be able to sit down, throw parental responsibility to others while I enjoy a hot meal prepared by someone else.  

This Wednesday was a little tricky.  Sun’s Dad’s car blew up on the bridge and he was in the process of buying a new one.  Sun’s mother was not very happy about all this and no one was happy about the process of buying a car.  Have you ever bought a car?  Wouldn’t you rather slide down a razor buck naked and then get a new car?  Yeah, it is a long, boring, painful ordeal that you never really feel good about in the end.  So, our timing was all off.  George had business at alittle Italian restuarant in our area.  It is quite famous and has the best Italian food in the city, in my opinion.  I swear I would pay large quantities of money and even my children for a dip in their red sauce.  However, if you like you can have it on pasta, instead.  We decided to eat there. 

I walk in with 3 kids in tow ready to pull up a trough of spaghetti and a truckload of bread.  That would have to wait, seeing that the restaurant was very busy because of Jazz Fest and Sun’s parents were nowhere near on their way to meet us.  Sam occupied himself and a few of the patrons by dancing in front of the jukebox.  Frank Sinatra and other oldies will do that to ya.  He was such an enjoyment of some of the customers that they kept the jukebox going just to watch him dance.  When one of his fans approached me.  He started listing the ages of the kids I had with me: “5 yrs old, 2 yr old and what is she 1 yr old?”.  And then without warning the question flew out of his mouth:  “You do know what causes that?”  I was stunned.  First of all, not all these kids were mine (okay, 2 out of the 3) and second, is 3 kids really that many?  Then I was distracted by a small boy who was causing servers to not only balance plates of hot food but avoid dumping them all over him and a girl whining that she was so thristy that she was on the verge of death.  So, for now, the question was tucked in the back of my mind.

I pose it to you, dear readers, what does cause this phenomenon?  Is it Catholicism? I mean the church does allow us some birth control. Is it Irishness? For the record, I am not Irish, but I think I rubbed up against, once.  Is it insanity?  Meaning, mine. For agreeing to let my husband take a “short business” call outside while I stay with 3 cranky and hungry kids, ALONE.  For the record, that phone call lasted almost 30 minutes and my sanity lasted about 5 minutes.  I am at a lost as to what causes this condition.  It surely can’t be sex, because we all know that that gets less and less with each kid.  What ever could it be? 

Everyone is Doing It.

I am not too upset over this Miley Cyrus business (I didn’t totally unexpect it), but I am upset with the people that shove it under the rug and then walk around the lump pretending it doesn’t exist.  I have reach a place in my life where I am the very uncool and very old woman.  I am shocked at the lack of respect and blatant disregard for manners in young people these days and that proves I am ready for my cane and adult diapers. 

First off, I have a problem with parents whoring (yes, whoring) their children out for a buck.  I don’t care how wholesome you start out the pressure and lure of show business gets to everyone involved and they start to do stupid things.  Why can’t all these kids with talent stay in the school talent show, play and drama clubs to hone their craft and then when they are adults make their way through Hollywood?  And is it so great to be washed up at 18 yrs old?  Sure you got money, but what else are you going to do with your life?

Back to the Miley Cyrus cover and the out/under rage this seems to be causing.  Why is it upsetting?  Because you got a 15 yr old looking like she is getting up from a nice romp in the sack.  We already got Jamie Lynn Spears knocked up by either a 18 yr old or 30 something yr old.  Can someone say Statutory Rape?  But we are suppose to support and feel pity for her.  Then there is the “Well, they are going to do it anyway” defense.  I guess all of us parents should throw up our hands and stop parenting because it won’t matter anyway. 

I understand that chidren have their own opinions and parents can’t control everything.  Hell, I was down on Bourbon street at 16 yr old getting into clubs and nursing an alcholic drink.  But you know what I, also, carried with me?  The incredible fear of what my mom would do to me if she caught me.  And guess what she ALWAYS caught me.  She ALWAYS knew what I was up to.  Not a bad thing to have in your arensal as a parent?  That fear kept me from sneaking out of my bedroom window at night, getting involved in drugs, drinking until I dropped and getting frisky with some boy in the backseat of a car.  All it took was a little boundary check from mom, which involved removing anything that was of value to me for a lenghty amount of time. 

Does this work for all kids, maybe not, but I am shocked when I hear what parents are doing.  Just in this “What is the big deal” post, the blogger talks of parties where there is underage drinking, parents smoking pot and girls making out with each other to impress boys.  Um, could someone maybe pick up a phone and call the cops, because I am sure 2 out 3 of those things are illegal, at least down here in the state of Louisiana.  

And we wonder why our children act the way they do?  It is not because of Miley Cyrus, Britney Spears or Lindsey Lohan, but because of their parents.  These parents seem so involved in making a buck that none of them have stepped up and put their foot down.  You better be damn sure that if I was faced with my daughter topless with sex tousled hair and a sheet, cameras would have been stopped and my daughter off the set.  What I suspect happen is that the parents, themselves didn’t want to appear uncool or hurt their daughters’ careers?  Why is it okay to throw our children to the lions so no one says a bad word about us? 

In line with being the cranky old lady, I have come to not care what people think.  You say I am a prude?  So what!  You say I am mean? So what!  You say I am out of touch? So be it!  I. DON’T. CARE!  I want my children to know that I am their parent and what I say goes.  And they maybe unpopular with the rest of the teen world, but maybe I won’t have any new babies to take care of or drug rehabs to find.  Never say never, but always be prepared. 

Note: I didn’t provide any pictures, because 1. you can find them all over the Internet and 2. I am not going to add to the freak show that is Hollywood’s kiddie business.  As for Disney, maybe they should stick to the actors that are drawn; they are easily controlled.

Never Leave a Naked Girl Waiting.

One thing I can’t stand is to do my part in something only to have the other party not hold up there end of the deal.  Sometimes I can let it slide, but not when I am naked.

After tons of phone tag and many flips through the calendar, I was able to procure an appointment with my elusive OBGYN.  Let’s be real, I am sure this is not the fave of all of our womanly obligations, but something that must be done.  I want to state now how unfair it is that women must go through such torture while men get to slide through life until mid life before they are violated.  Anyway, I almost cancelled this appointment, but since I had already cancelled a previous one and it was fast approaching 2 years since my annual, I decided to keep it.  Even though, I had both kids with me and had to call in reinforcements at the last minute.  My mom was gracious enough to meet me at the dr’s office and watch my demon spawns while I point my heels toward Jesus and think of handbags.

I totally understand that drs get backed up and emergencies happen, but I am not understanding when I am left in a small room, staring at 4 walls while I am BUCK ASS NAKED.  That is something I will not stand, nor sit, nor lay down for.  As the time ticked by, my rage became more intense.  The positive by product of all that was that I was kept warm and toasty while a breeze drifted frequently across my bare ass.  When did they decide that half gowns and a drape across our lap  was enough to feel comfortable?  I, for one, was not happy when I picked up what I thought was a folded paper gown and shook it to discover that that was all she wrote.  I waited and waited and waited.  The only thing to interrupt my solitude was Sam’s screams coming from the waiting room.  I just knew he was getting restless and that if the dr would just hurry the hell up we could be out of their hair. 

At 430pm (my appointment was for 330pm and half of that time was spent in the exam room, NAKED!), I had enough, got dressed and walked my very angry self out of the office.  Is it so hard for someone to pop their head in and keep me notified that they remember I was in there and the dr would see me sometime this century?  That is my biggest pet peeve.  If people would just keep others notified of what is going on, many wouldn’t get angry for whatever reason.  When we are left alone, we have time to formulate many reasons as to why we have been left alone and naked.  And the casual conversations that were heard outside my door was not helpful at all at keeping me calm.

I was surprised when I didn’t find my mom and the kids in the waiting room.  I had hoped that mom took them downstairs to run off some steam.  I was half right.  My mom met me at the elevator, on her way back up.  I informed my mom that this was a total waste of my time and let the whole lobby know that I was done with this dr.  I should have been done with her on my first visit, and my subsequent visits,  where she hounded me to have my tubes tied.  But seeing that this was 3 months after a major storm had blown my regular dr to GA and I needed to find some place to give birth to my son, I stayed.  I am pissed to this day, but whatcha gonna do?  On the way to the parking lot my mother informed me that they were asked to leave the waiting room, because Sam had become rowdy.  Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me?!  Maybe if I was seen at my appointment time, or shortly after, Sam would have been better behaved.  It pissed me off more, because Sam is the reason that dr got a big payday. 

I stewed in the car on the way home.  I wanted to call the dr so bad and ream her for my treatment, but I talked to the Office Manager instead.  Considering the hospital had overcharged me for Sam’s birth by $3000 , which the dr’s office caught when transferring files to their new computer system 2 years later, I wanted to make sure I, nor my insurance, was billed for the visit.  The Office Manager informed me that the other dr had asked my mom and the kids to leave, because he couldn’t take his phone call.  Well, I don’t know why he wasn’t in his office, but maybe he should talk to his wife (my dr) about attending to her patients instead of whatever else she was doing.

I understand that some will tell me that the dr has other patients, I should have left my kids with someone, blah, blah.  Well, all I can say is that I keep hearing that the medical industry is treated like a business, so I decided I will treat it like I would any other service driven business and take mine elsewhere.  There is a reason I drove way across the river into Orleans Parish to see my other dr.  He was great, even though he had big hands, understanding, generally cared for his patients and KEPT HIS DAMN APPOINTMENTS, even when he had an emergency.  You were either asked if you wanted to reschedule or wait, but at least they let you know what the HELL WAS GOING ON, instead of leaving you naked, alone and pissed in the exam room.

Sorry, All Full!

It has been so hard to think, lately.  My brain feels like grey pudding that has been left out. It doesn’t smell bad, yet, but it is coming.  It is so thick in here that I can’t compute simple everyday things, like people’s names, appointments and how to deal with a teenager in a 5 yr old’s body.

There are many thing in the forefront of my mind, these days.  None of which I care to talk about here, because not everything needs to be public.  Also, things written in anger tend to come back and bite you in the ass harder than if you just let them slip out the door without notice.  The problem is that I can’t just push these issues to the side.  I have tried. 

Yesterday, I did what I always do when I need a little mind numbing time.  I went to the mall.  After a few choice words lesson for Sam, I made it there without killing anyone.  {Sidebar: I often wonder what people think of me when they see me sitting there screaming at them and making odd gestures.  I know when people do it to me, I laugh, but I never see anyone laugh at me.  Hmmmm…}  My retail therapy did nothing for me, except bring on the guilt.  Did I really need the same shirt in three colors?  Did I really need those two necklaces, even though it was a sale?  Did I really need to eat that Cane’s, when I promised I was going to ride this Depression diet all the way to it’s fullest?   

The only enjoying time at the mall was making up stupid things about the people around me, while Sam and I munched down.  There was one lady who kept staring at us.  I wondered for awhile if she just thought Sam was the cutest boy in the world and plotted to snatch him when I turned to devour another chicken finger?  Or maybe she was a man recently become woman and was longing to have a mirror image of her/himself to pal around with?  Or she was very disappointed in her lunch choice and was smacking herself thinking she could have had Cane’s instead?  Then I snapped back to reality and remember, oh yeah there is a little girl waiting at school for her momma.  I was sad to leave my table and chair in the middle of the mall  to brave the traffic hell that is Metairie, but I don’t think Amber would have understood.  I mean I did make some silly promise about taking care of her no matter what else is going on in my life.  Really, we must read these contracts fully, people.

Another important tidbit that got me going was tonight was Date Night.  Oh, the fantasy of all parents out there.  It should not be passed up for anything in the world.  I had high hopes for date night.  I was hoping that George and I could see a stupid movie, eat a great meal and forget about our troubles for awhile.  I was mostly right, but our pesky problems kept coming up.  They distracted me so much that I did something I have never done in my life.  I sent food back.  There was nothing wrong with the food at all, but I wanted to try something different. I learned that I should just go with my old stand bys.  It seems that I, too, am not a big fan of shrimp creole, especially when paired with fried eggplant.  After that, I felt that the entire restaurant was out for me.  The waitress seemed to changed her whole attitude and I was sure the chef did something gross to my new dish.  I figured what the hell, snot (I am choosing to believe this is all it could have been) is not so bad and ate my dinner.  We left a big tip.  I wonder if I would see my dinner again later that night.

The movie we saw was not great, thinking about it now, but I was so ready to laugh that anything was fair game.  I laughed so hard at a preview I cried.  There is one line that keeps me smiling even today (Are those sad tissues or happy tissues?), so I will give it a thumbs up.  Because sometimes it is not how great the movie really is, but the things it makes you forget for 2 hours.  But all of this was just a small distraction. 

I am still swimming in my grey pudding and hoping that it doesn’t suffocate me.  I wonder how things will turn out.  I wonder if I will come out smelling like a rose or stinking the whole place up.  Maybe I will settle for something inbetween.  There are so many questions that will only be answered with time.  My biggest complaint is that I can’t just relax and leave this all to a power much greater than me.  I am such a control freak that I need to know NOW.  And only knowing NOW will let me relax.  I am missing so much, because I have let others take up brain space. I just don’t know exactly how to serve the eviction notice.  It is in my hand, I just can’t tack it to the door, yet.  I am hoping and praying (Yes, praying) that very soon I can take that hammer tack my notice to the door and walk away.  Whatever happens is going to happen and I need to be okay with that.

Baby in the Corner

This is what happens when you don’t pick up your Elmo toys when
asked nicely by your mother.

This is your reward for listening to your mamma.
Not seen: Mom quietly weeping in the corner as she tears off her ears.

 

It’s Vocabulary Time with Southern Dad

This morning, as I hit the snooze button for the second time, I was awakened loudly by a little girl that refuses to sleep pass 3am, these days.  {Oh did you think that sleep problems were only for the small and immobile.  Yeah me, too.  I am coming to realize that sleep problems get worse as kids get older, because they have the ability to wander the house unattended.  Which is fine, as long as you let sleeping parents lie.}  I jumped from my bed, because it is picture day.  Must. Stop. Child. From. Picking. Out. Her. Own. Clothes. For. PICTUREDAY!  I had explained to Amber that she would have to wear something nice for school today.  I should have further explained that nice meant something nice for normal little 5 yr old girls, not nice for rising teen starlets who need to hooker it up for the cameras.  *sigh*

I ran to her room and saw her standing in a denim skirt with mauve footless stockings searching for a shirt.  She wanted to wear what she wore to Catechism the night before.  My strategy with Amber is to minimize arguments as much as possible, so I had agreed to let her wear this outfit to church.  However, I would be damned if I was going to have photographic evidence of how I let my daughter dress to avoid a knock down, drag out fight.  So at 5:30 in the morning, Amber and I stood in her room throwing loud statements back and forth.  She wailed, screamed, stomped and I yelled, screamed, stomped and maybe threw a shirt or two.  Then I decided it was time for Amber to learn a little something about compromise.  I told her she could wear the plaid shirt she wanted, but she couldn’t wear the denim skirt with the tights.  Of course, I should have just stabbed her in the heart, which would have hurt much less than suggesting that she wear her new capri pants.  HOW DARE I?!  Where are the cops when a little girl needs justice?  Needless to say, she didn’t understand compromise and we both lost.  Which is the bastard definition of compromise: No one wins.  First causalty of Vocabulary time for the day.  And lesson 1 for me: arguments that are avoided one day will bite you in the ass another.

As her punishment and a way to get all of these small, loud and arugmentive people away from me, I told her that she could not watch TV and had to do her homework.  Take that loud and annoying little girl.  That will teach you to mess with me at 5:30 in the morning.  What I should have said was do the writing portion of your homework, so I don’t have to worry about it later.  What my husband heard was do the reading portion of your homework, so he can work on his laptop and pretend to listen.  Aren’t we the greatest parents around?   Lesson 2 for me: When trying to avoid parental duty, remember that the other parent, when left alone with children, will avoid his duty without your knowledge and you will end up with more work in the end.

As I was getting ready for the day, I heard a strange sound.  It sounded much like a boing from the cartoons. I ignored it, figuring that my mind was playing sleep deprived games on me.  I should have paid closer attention and raced downstairs before George gave his definition of one of Amber’s vocabulary words.  “Daddy, what does job mean?”.  That is when George’s ears perked up.  Here was his chance to give me grief and pass down his knowledge to the next generation.  George’s definition of ”job”: “Just Over Broke.  They give you enough to keep you coming back, but never enough to get you ahead”.  I had heard this definition enough during our dating time when I worked as a salesperson then manager of a retail store.  After my ears started to bleed with this constant propaganda, I decided to quit and let him support me.  That is when I decided he was right and I started my career as a pampered, middle class housewife.  You know, he is right.  I am much more ahead than I ever was with a J.O.B.  Lesson 1 for husband who thinks he is so clever: When you spew propaganda, people will begin to believe you and then it will bite you in the ass. 

Have fun on your NON-JOB, honey, I will be spending your money.