"No Thank You" Notes

If you don't have kids, I'm certain that you have heard about them.

Unless you are like my sister-in-law who claims she has never seen a realty show. Not once. Not ever. She only begrudgingly admits that she knows of their existence at all.

But you are not her and you will admit that you have listened countless times as your Friends Up-bringing Kids With Inexplicable Tenacity (or FUK-WITS, as I prefer to call us), tell you over and over, "nobody ever told me about.......", before becoming a parent.

For example, the most famous one, of course, is that the expectant mother will poop in the delivery room when she is in labor. "They" say that you just don't care about pooping on the floor at that point because either, "You're just too happy because you are now a mother!"  (barf) or more realistically,  you really don't care because you just want that thing OUT by that point. 

At any rate, yes, I'm a parent and there are things that nobody told us before we had kids because they wanted to have a good laugh at our expense, once we became FUK-WITS, they wanted their kids to have at least a few friends of a similar age with cool parents or more likely, they just forgot because they are tired.

Really.
Fuckin.
Tired*.

All of the time.

So after doing this parent thing for five years now, a few weeks ago I discovered something new and nearly as awful as pooping in front of a room full of strangers.

Kid's birthday parties.

I won't go into great detail because (see * above) but I will summarize by sharing with you the Thank You notes I will NOT be sending out this year, a few weeks after The Not-So-Little One's fifth birthday party.

"Dear XXX,
Thank you sooo much for asking if it was "OK" to bring the rest of your kids and husband to my five-year old's birthday party! 
Although I put your daughter's name only on the invitation, you were unable to take the not-so-subtle hint that this was a party for FIVE YEAR OLDS. 

Far be it from me to exclude your two teenagers, your one year old baby and your husband who has never spoken a word to me! Please let us pay for all of them to eat pizza, cake and have game tokens in exchange for a $9 gift that my kid will likely break or forget about by the end of the weekend.
We're so glad you could ALL make it- oh wait- that's right, you did not make the party after all. 

At least you were kind enough to RSVP via text message telling me (three days before the party) that all SIX of you may or may not make it to the party.

Hope you can (or cannot) make it (or not) again next year!
Love, Sue"


"Dear Grandma,
Thank you for showing up a half hour late and half drunk. We are all very grateful that you live close enough to see your grandkids  often and that you are still in reasonably good health- I mean, successfully navigating a Chuckee Cheese parking lot while half-tanked just proves how good your fine motor skills still are!

Again, we are lucky to have you here and even luckier that your grandchild still thinks that gifts purchased from Walgreens are the shit! 
Funny, me and the Tall Guy think they are shit! Ha, ha!
Love, Your Daughter Sue"


"Dear Old Friend from High School that Has No Kids But Thinks She Knows Everything About Them Anyway,
Thank you for getting my kid that whore-y looking doll that is totally inappropriate for a girl her age.
No, wait, inappropriate for any girl of any age.
Her little arched back, her pouty lips, her sky-high legs and micro-mini skirt all scream, "Five Year Old Girl Toy", I know, but do you really think a teeny, pink, plastic flask is appropriate for a little girl that is genetically predispositioned to have substance abuse and thrill-seeking issues in her future? 
Looking forward to the Hello Kitty Thong you'll undoubtedly bring next year!
Love, Sue"


"Dear Old Friend That I Used To Work With That Is No Longer a Part of 'The Gang' Because
Your Husband Was Fired By One of My Kid's Friend's Mom, Who Is Also At The Party,

You did not receive an invitation to attend my kid's fifth birthday party.
You're welcome.

Love, Sue"

Is That Soo Wrong?

More often than I'd like to admit, I find my internal monologue asking myself, "Is that so wrong?"

Actually, no, that's not entirely accurate. 

Truth be told, it's with more frequency lately my little voice asks, "Is that soo wrong?!?", in an almost incredulous, how-dare-you-ask-that-of-me (but secretly knows I'm guilty of something) kind of voice.

Here's a list of what still has me wondering, is that soo wrong?
(Do your best not to judge, please)

• Considering not letting my soon-to-be-five-year-old (the Bigger Kid of my two) to go to the birthday party of a classmate the day before her own party because the other kid's party sounds waaaay cooler than the one we have planned for our kid
• In response to a text message sent by my 70 year old mom to tell me she cannot talk due to a case of laryngitis, I promptly reply, "It's as if all of my dreams have finally come true!" And no, I did not include an emoticon happy face at the end of my message :(
• Using the cheap pre-grated cheddar cheese for my kids while saving the expensive, imported stuff for me and the Tall Guy
• Pretending I'm asleep when one or more children enter my room before seven am on the weekend and letting Tall Guy get up with them
• Not wanting to invite my daycare provider's nice kid to Bigger Kid's birthday party because it might mean SIX extra mouths to stuff pizza, cake and ice cream into if she decides to bring her husband and all FOUR of her kids
• Not wanting to invite certain adult friends to BBQs at our house because I'm afraid their eight year old son may torture my dog or light the house on fire if left unattended 
• For years, deliberately withholding information about Facebook (specifically, that Facebook exists)  from my mother because I don't want to be "friends" with her on it.                                          Even though I'm "friends" with all six of her brothers and sisters 
• Jokingly asking the Bigger Kid if she would like peanut-butter on toast for breakfast every morning even though she is highly allergic and would likely need emergency medical treatment if even one bite was taken*
• Feeling guilty when Tall Guy offers to let me go overseas for a friend's wedding without him (because we cannot afford airfare for all four of us) but accepting his offer anyway
• Eventually getting mom on Facebook but only after explaining that no, I will not be her "friend" because of the Slippery Slope it would create for me and the possibility of having to "friend" my mother in law**

This is not a complete list and it's probably not the worst of things I've said, done or thought today, much less this week. 

This may have to be a regular thing, though, I think it may be somewhat therapeutic, for me.

What have you done lately that has made you ask yourself, is that sooo wrong?

*The Bigger Kid always laughs and says, no to the peanut butter on toast

**The Facebook thing about my mother-in-law is true. It really is a slippery slope

Shit I've Lied to My Four Year About Old This Week

Regarding songs we listen to while driving to Christ is Our Lord Preschool:

"Locked Out of Heaven" by Bruno Mars

Firstborn: Mom, what is he saying?
Me: Uh, he's saying he feels really sad when the girl is not there anymore. Like if I locked you out of your toy room.
Firstborn: Yeah, but what's he saaying? (song playing at the part where Bruno Mars sings, "'Cause your sex takes me to paradise.."
Me: ??
Firstborn: Mooom??
Me: Um, he's saying that her text takes him to paradise because she sends him really nice text messages.
Firstborn: (now singing) 'Cause your text takes me to paradise, 'cause your text takes me to paradise!
Me: Hey, Firstborn? Uh, let's not sing this song at school, ok? Or at Grandma's house.


"Dear God" by XTC

Firstborn: Mom? What's this song about?
Me: Uh, this guy is talking to God. Like praying.
Firstborn: Why is he talking to God? 
Me: Well, some people do that
Firstborn: Why does he say he doesn't believe in God?
Me: Um, well, see, some people don't believe in God, see. In fact, some people believe in all different kinds of Gods. Or no God at all.
Firstborn: (laughing) That's silly. 
Me: Well...(staring to sweat a little) not to some people...
Firstborn: Yes there is. I knoow there's such thing as God. You believe in God, right?
Me: Um....Well, to be honest, I'm not totally convinced.
Firstborn: Yes there is.
Me: Yeah, I'm not totally sure.
Firstborn: Well, I believe in Him.
Me: That's fine, honey. Everybody has a different way of thinking about a lot of different things in this world and that's ok.
Firstborn: (not really interested in conversation at this point) Yeah, ok.
Me: Hey, Firstborn? Uh, let's not talk about this at preschool, ok? Or at Grandma's house, either.

"Whistle" by Flo Rida

Firstborn: Mom? What's this song about?
Me: Um, it's about a guy and his whistle, I think.
Firstborn: What's he saying?
Me: I guess he is, uh, telling his friend how to, uh, use it, I guess.
Firstborn: Oh.
Me: Hey, Firstborn? This is one of those songs that we don't sing at school, ok? Or at Grandma's house. And maybe let's not tell Dad about it either, ok?

Dear Kids, There's Something Important You Need to Know

There is one thing I would like my beautiful kids to know is that no matter what happens in this world, at the end of the day, my couch is really, really important to me.

The first few couches I lived with after moving out of my Dad's house after college were hand-me-downs or purchased second hand. Please understand that this new, stain-free couch has a special, stain-free place in my heart. I don't expect you to understand this but I expect that you try to help me keep my sanity by adhering to these simple guidelines in regards to my couch and it's blanket-y, pillow-y and ottoman-y accessories.


1) Do not jump on The Couch. Your feet, socks and butt are very stinky and I don't want The Couch to smell like any of them. Plus, the sand collected at the playground flies out of you underpants and socks like a lacerated pinata and into the cushions. Oh, and you might hurt yourself

2) Do not, eat or drink on The Couch. Although we had the forethought to purchase a couch in the darkest shade of brown possible in order to hide the inevitable spills that would occur, I would love it if The Couch NEVER resembles the back seat of my car

3) Do not poo or pee on The Couch. Although a biological spill can be cleaned, it can never be forgotten. And that's part of why I insisted on getting The Couch so soon after having you, my Firstborn. Most people would know better than to get a new couch right after having a baby. Most people didn't have a tripple-accident while using a double-breast pump on their old couch. Use your imagination for an explanation of that one

4) Do not use Couch Blankets to dress up the dog like Lawrence of Arabia. The dog likes to roll in the dirt and eat tortoise poop in the backyard. I would prefer that The Couch does not wind up smelling as gross as the dog often does

"Is there a kid-free family that would like to adopt me?"

5) Do cuddle up with Mom or Dad on The Couch if you're not feeling well and need to sit up all night long because you are too sick to sleep in bed. Also know that Couch Rules 1-3 are null and void during these times. Eating, drinking, pooping, peeing and dressing up the dog with blankets are all perfectly acceptable if you don't feel so good. At these times we'll let you do whatever makes you feel better. 

Except jump on the couch. Standing firm on that one.

                                                                           *********

Don't forget to check out the other posts about what some other bloggers think is important stuff to teach their kids. Click on the Theme Thursday button or go check out http://cloudywithachanceofwine.com/1397-2/ if you want to learn more about us a-holes!

Childhood Trauma #43

We had some New Friends over for an evening barbecue last night. They brought their two little girls and their puppy. It was nice- us adults were able to enjoy ourselves while the kids and dogs played/argued over toys/sniffed each other.

By the time they left, the house was actually pretty clean since the kids played mostly outside. The patio table had only a few stray dishes on it because the lovely New Friends helped clean up some of the mess. The kids (and dog) were exhausted and not fighting bed time since they were tuckered out from all of the playing/arguing/sniffing.

Ahh, a successful night!

Until I looked at the two text messages on my phone that apparently had been sent many hours earlier.

Around 6 pm from Angie: Where are you? We're missing your girls and we have a HUGE bounce-house in our backyard!

And later on from Becky: Are you guys ok? I miss you and my girls miss ur girls. Hope everything is ok.

Oh, crap.

I just caused my kid to miss her best friend's birthday party. No excuse. All my fault. We received the invitation a little late, just last week, and so in my mind the 14th must be waaay far away. I had plenty of time to get around to writing it on a calendar...or so I thought.

At any rate, I am feeling beyond bad about this and am trying to figure out a way to tell my kid that she will not be attending a Ninja themed birthday party with a HUGE bounce house.

The only thing I can say for certain is that I will NOT be telling the truth as to why my kid will miss the birthday party.

We can't say it was cancelled because she could eventually find out that it was not- I'm looking for something more imaginative than, "I forgot that it was supposed to be on the 14th and got buzzed with our New Friends at our own barbecue" but less imaginative than, "Mothra came and wrecked Nic's birthday party and Godzilla crushed the bounce house".

I am currently trying to not lose sight of the fact that this is sadly, not the worst parenting mistake I have made this month, much less this week.

I am also trying to find solace in the fact that in the grand scheme of things, missing this party is not the end of the world and will have little affect on my kid's future.

I am also taking suggestions on what lie I need to tell my kid so I come out smelling like roses.

More News on Franklin the F*ck Up

Thank god I found this!

It helped confirm to me that yes, Franklin the tortoise is a fuck up that he is, in fact, a pussy (kindly pointed out to me by http://www.somethingclever2point0.com/ ).

It also opened my eyes up to that suspicious McStuffin family. This is a must read for all parents because it will help you understand what the hell is going on in pre-pre school pop culture that you have become familiar with the past few years. 

If you are not a parent and you know these shows, may God help you.

Anyway, it's Saturday and you are hung-over and the kids have been fucking with you all day. 

And lets face it, you need a nap but you're not going to get one. You may as well read this and at least you'll have a laugh.

Check it out!

Something Clever 2.0: What the Hell is Wrong With Kids' Shows?? (Part 2)...: About 8 months ago, I wrote What the Hell is Wrong With Kids' Shows?? (Part 1) . Now that my kid is a little older, and watching some new ...

Cheers!

Elf on the Shelf or Demon Near the Ceiling? You Decide.

In retrospect, telling our three year old daughter that there would be a small, magical creature living in one or more rooms of the house, watching her every move was probably not the best idea. 

Let me go back.

Last year, one day in December,I heard (from three separate friends) about The Elf on the Shelf. 

"What the hell is an Elf on the Shelf?", thought the living-in-a-cultural-vacuum me of December 2011.

A quick email to a friend with a kid told me what (because of my inexperience with social norms), I was missing out on. 

And at that exact moment, I decided that our home  
MUST 
HAVE 
AN 
ELF.

For those of you as uninformed as I was, let me explain.

The Elf on the Shelf is a little elf-y doll that comes with a book. It's a Christmas-y story about how this random elf will show up in your house, unannounced, on a shelf some morning near Christmas. 

The Elf will then stare, glassy-eyed at the children of the house from high upon a shelf top and observe. Just observe.

That very night, the Elf will go back to the North Pole and report his observations to the Big Man. The Elf will return before daylight, to a different spot in the house, where he will do the same thing all over again. By Christmas eve, Santa will basically have a complete background check on every minor in the family. The book advises that the children not play with the Elf. It also states that although the kids can talk to the Elf, the Elf will not talk back. 

Creepy, no? 
I didn't think so at the time but hindsight now tells me otherwise.

To this day, I have no idea what came over me but once I knew exactly what a shelf Elf was, I knew that I could not spend another Christmas without one. I went to the big-box type book store a couple miles away but the Elf was sold out. In fact, the Elf/book ensemble was sold out at ALL 20 or so locations of three different chain bookstores in a city of 1.5 million people. 
Are you f*cking kidding me?!? 

Eventually, I ordered it online and paid extra for rushed delivery. 

The Elf on the Shelf book/Elf kit arrived on December 20th, two days before our move to a new home across town. I couldn't wait to read the story to our nearly four-year old in our New Home, introduce her to the Elf and start our very own, First Family Tradition!

The evening we closed on the house was spent eating pizza on the living room floor of the new place. When the kids weren't looking, I hid the Elf on a high, built-in shelf in the corner of the room. I brought out the book and read it to the kids- they loved it!

At the end of the book, I knowingly asked, "Do you want an elf to live in our house with you?" the big kid nodded slowly. The little one had no idea what I was talking about and was running around throwing pizza crust to or at the dog. She's like that.

"Let's look around and see if we have an elf!", I exclaimed. I ignored the fact that the big kid reeeally didn't seem all that into the idea- I knew she'd eventually come around.

Finally, the kid turned her head all the way around, her eyes looking up towards where the Elf lay in wait. She paused for a moment and then threw herself face first into the blanket we were sitting on. She did not cry. She did not beg for the Elf to go away. She was silent. 

"Do you see the Elf somewhere?" I said, still ignoring  delusional oblivious unaware that this kid was scared shitless.

The kid sat up, saucer-eyed, "No!"

Me: "Are you suuuuuure?"
Kid: "No!"
Me: (pointing towards the corner shelf) "What about right ov...."
Kid: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

So, although I ordered an adorable little doll designed to enhance a wonderful holiday experience

The angelic Shelf Elf I ordered

I wound up with something that would perhaps ruin my daughter's Christmas for many more years to come. 

At this point I get the much-deserved 'look' from my husband and so I say, "It's ok honey, we'll ask the Elf to go away" 

Me to Elf: "We don't really need an elf this year, thanks! Can you please go back to the North Pole?"
Kid: (crickets chirping in the background as she slowly begins to recover from her catatonic state)
Me: "...but you can come back next year!"
Kid: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
Tall guy: (the 'look' again)
Me: "Ok, never mind  Elf. Just probably go back to the North Pole and help Santa. We don't really want you here. Sorry about this. Bye!"
Kid: Silent, laying face down on blanket again

While she was still passed out from anxiety, the tall guy quickly got up, ran across the room, grabbed the elf from the shelf and ran to hide it in another room. He did not need to run. The kid was still face down when he came back 30 seconds later.

The creepy Shelf Elf my daughter saw

We moved in on December 22nd and the girls adjusted to their new rooms and surroundings pretty well.

Until December 23rd.

We were driving home from preschool when the big one brought up the elf. I told her not to worry, he would not be back.

This year- but maybe next year.... 

(I KNOW. What the hell is wrong with me?? I can't say, honestly. I just really, really wanted the elf thing to work out for some reason)

So yes, I am now driving down the freeway, less than 48 hours from Christmas with a kid that is totally freaking out.

Not surprising that she didn't believe me when I tried to convince her that he actually, probably would not show up next year anyway. 

Nope. Not buying it at all. Trick me once with a creepy elf-creature skulking around my new house, shame on you...Trick me twice, well, still shame on you (you with shitty parenting and lacking in good judgement skills, that is). Nor was she  buying it when I told her I'd write a letter, send an email or a text, to the North Pole. Nothing. 

Crap.

I had a plan to fix this but I couldn't reach the tall guy on the phone so I called my sister.

Sister: "Hey, what's up?"

Me: "You busy?"

Sister: "No. Just driving. Why?"

Me: (in very loud voice) "Hello, North Pole? I would like to speak with Santa. Right away!"

Sister:   "Uh...Wha..?"

Me: (in louder, angry voice) "He's busy? Fine. I'll speak with Mrs. Claus then!"

Sister: "Oh."

Me: "We do NOT want an elf at our house this year! (now yelling) DO YOU UN-DER-STAND ME??? WE DO NOT WANT AN ELF! EVER!!!"

Sister: (apparently to whoever was in car with her) "What time do we need to get there by...uh-huh...ok..."

Me: "Thank you very much, Mrs. Claus. You have a merry Christmas"

Sister: "Glad I could help. Merry Christmas to you too!"

And we did have a merry Christmas a couple days later, the elf and story book safely tucked away (along with my dream of a family Christmas tradition), on a shelf high above the washing machine.

That dream haunts me almost daily as I do the laundry for four very dirty people.

And now it's October.
It's getting near that time again....
She's almost five now....

Oh yes, you know I'm thinking about it.

And yes, someone needs to stop me.

Franklin the F*ck Up

Have you seen Franklin, the cartoon about a stupid little tortoise?

He looks nothing like this but I don't know about copy write laws and blogs and stuff yet.

If the answer is No, then clearly you do not own a child under the age of five or you don't have the Nick Jr. channel or both.

At any rate, it's a good thing because this little turtle is a total fuck up. 

Every episode involves him either blowing off some responsibility or not knowing the basics about modern American culture. 

For example, Franklin did not water Mr. Rabbit's petunias (even though he was specifically asked to) and went out to play instead. Or the time Franklin had NO CLUE about a major American kid phenomenon, The Tooth Fairy. I mean, what kind of kid- tortoise or not- has never even heard of the Tooth Fairy?? I don't give a shit if tortoises don't have teeth- I don't have  a prostate but I know about the cancer that winds up there in most people's Grandpa's, for Christ's sake.

This has me in a bit of a tizzy because my kids really love the show and I typically don't mind them watching one or two half-hour shows a day (it allows me time to do necessary household chores...or write this blog) but I feel like I'm doing them a disservice by letting them watch this loser tortoise. 

I am starting to think this tortoise kid is retarded- NOT that there is ANYTHING at all wrong with retarded tortoises- I just don't know if Franklin is 

1) representative of his species 
2) a good role model for my children 
3) being pervy when he takes his shell off (yes, he took it off at his doctor appointment) and runs around all neked.

And besides the fact that tortoises cannot talk or ride a bicycle in real life, as a biologist and former zoo keeper, I find it ridiculous that Franklin can take his shell off.

Piss off, Franklin.

You Can't Leave...All the Plants Will Die!

Even in high school, I always knew that I would say the same things to my kids one day as my parents said to me growing up. I grew up with just my dad and he was about ten years older than most dads and so most of his quotes were those that were popular in the 30s or 40s. Think, "cat's pajamas" , "don't be a wise guy", "nice peepers" , "don't take any wooden nickels", that kind of stuff.

So I'm not sure when or why it happened but I used a Bill Murray quote from Stripes to force my f-ing kids to move their asses give my kids some encouragement to get into the car faster so I could make it to a class at the gym on time for a change.

"I WANT YOU" (as long as you are over 18)

I don't remember in what context I yelled, "THAT'S THE FACT, JACK!" but somehow it worked. Even though it was a funny line in one of the best movies ever, I yelled it in a kinda mean way in response to one of the kids demanding to know why we had to go to the gym that day. After I yelled it, the kid's got that quiet look on their faces that said, "Oh shit, Mom's about to lose it!" and they scurried like cockroaches in the direction of the car. 

But the thing is- I was not pissed! Quoting that line for no explicable reason for the first time in my life kinda made me smile on the inside and sorta brought me to a cool, calm place. There, for a brief moment I was able to fantasize (as I'd done many times as a way-too-young-to-be-fantasizing-about-men-in-their-mid-thirties girl) about hot Bill Murray from the early 1980s. 

And so the next day, again, something came over me while the little fat kid was trying to sneakily eat crackers on the couch. I had told her "No" a couple of times but she was basically ignoring me. 

Finally, I yelled, "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!"

Well, guess who moved their ass and their crackers off the couch?

That's right, Jack Nicolas.

No, not really, but she seemed just as surprised at that moment as he probably was when he learned that Shelly Duvall was going to play his beautiful wife in The Shining.

So now I've decided I can use movie quotes to help me frighten encourage the kids to listen to me, no matter how out of context the quote because the kids obviously are not keeping up with the pop culture of the 80s or 90s. 

Plus, pretty much anything I yell at them scares the shit out of them.

Dumb-asses.

Cute, sweet little dumb-asses.

Currently accepting suggestions for out of context quotes from old movies that can be used to scare my kids into doing things while lightening my mood.......

I See Dead People (in my closet)...

I just saw my dead Dad in my closet.

"So what?", say you? 

Well, you should know right now that he is not haunting me or my house. 

Not unless....you don't think?

Waaait a minute....Not unless he's haunting us in the form of scorpions that invaded us four months after moving into a new house. Possible, but not his style. If you've ever heard the phrase, "outdoorsman", let me introduce you to another, less-known phrase- "indoorsman". 

That was Dad. A real indoorsman. And a Republican. That went to The School of Hard Knocks and never, ever took a wooden nickel from anyone! If this guy were to haunt me it would be more subtle and far less "outdoors-y" than rabid scorpions creeping through my house at night. He would haunt me in the form of The Macneil/Lehrer Newsgroup or Fox News being transmitted on all channels on my TV whenever we were trying to watch Weeds or making sure the mayonnaise jar was always empty, no matter how many times a new jar was purchased . 

So no, Dad is not haunting me, nor was he living with me when he died last October. I guess now he kinda lives with me but to be technically correct, I'd have to change the verb, "living" to "staying". As in, "My recently deceased Dad is staying in my closet".

And I just said, "Hi" to him.

Ok, ok, re-reading that it sounds slightly c-ra-zee, but I assure you it is not. Or maybe it is. I don't think it's as koo-koo as it sounds, though. 

Still unsure what to do with his ashes six months after he died last October, I finally picked up Dad from the funeral home. Dad had always said he wanted, under NO circumstances to have a funeral held on his behalf. He said they were "depressing" and a waste of money. He also was sure to remind me every few years starting when I was about ten years old to "pull the plug!" if it came down to it and to cremate him afterwards. Yes, these were the types of conversations my dad and I would share after my parents divorced. They weren't met to scare me, rather, I think Dad knew that I'd be there and I'd be the responsible one in the family, regardless of my age.

However, what Dad neglected to tell me was, what the hell we were supposed to do with him afterwards. The one time I asked Dad what he wanted done with his ashes he told me he wanted me to put him on the mantel "so I can keep an eye on you". Clearly I could not depend on a straight answer from this guy so I never brought it up again.

Fast forward ten years and you'll now find my Dad's remains on the top shelf of our closet, resting comfortably between my kid's humidifier and an old flour container. The flour jar contains some weed my husband purchased sometime in the previous decade that he hasn't decided to smoke yet. It is no coincident, by the way, that his decision to purchase the aforementioned pot was probably made an hour or so after the last time he smoked it.

We- my sister, my Dad's girlfriend of ten years, Kay, and I debated the merits of several different places that might be a nice, final resting place for him. At first my sister really wanted to shove Dad in the ocean, I think because her new boyfriend, "Skippy"*, lived on a boat in San Diego. Skippy had kindly offered to take the entire family out on his boat to find a place where we would go chumming with Dad. I wasn't a huge fan of this idea but I didn't really care too much, really, where Dad wound up, as long as it  A) wasn't my mantel or B) was alright with Kay. Honestly, though, the whole thing sounded like a  big hassle. I'd have to drive six hours across the desert and then get on a boat (which I totally hate) and then I'd have to meet this, Skippy person. 

I didn't know much about Skippy but what I did know, was a little iffy.  

First of all, he was a dude in his early 50's that went by "Skippy" and if that wasn't enough, he'd lived on a docked boat in the San Diego harbor for the last 20 years. I remember seeing movies and TV shows in the 80s  where the main character lived on a houseboat or some shit (MacGyver,  Sonny Crockett of Miami Vice fame and the gruff, but loveable, Quincy, ME) and it seemed super-cool and we all made plans to all live on house-boats one day, when we grew up. 

"My, what supple ankles you have, Crockett!"
"Why thank you. It's the fresh ocean air. I live on a boat, you see..."

Of course I was in my teens at the time and I also thought wearing a white tube top with overalls and unlaced Doc Marten's was the sexiest, most imaginative fashion statement a girl could ever make. Ever. Eventually we all (well, most of us) grew up, got rid of our overall/tube top ensembles and moved into houses built on dry land.

Totally not me (not enough tube-top) 

But boat-houses aside, Skippy was new to the family. He'd only been dating my sister a few weeks and to offer to basically host a funeral for our entire family was a little weird, I thought.

I couldn't figure out why this guy want to throw a funeral for a grumpy old guy he never met. Shit, I didn't even want to go. Besides- who throws someone a funeral?? Do people normally do that kind of thing or is it just my wacko family? 

It just seemed off to me and I knew whatever we'd wind up doing would be a tough day for me and everyone else. So I didn't want to make the day that much worse by trapping myself on a stupid boat. You see, unlike a lot of people, I fucking hate boats (and in a strange twist of irony, I wound up married a man that would wind up working on a boat for much of his career-just my fucking luck). I also knew that I wouldn't feel comfortable grieving in front of this guy that was an absolute stranger to me. My sister argued that she and Dad, only weeks earlier had a conversation about how much he loved San Diego when he lived there in the late 60s. However, Kay was quick to point out, if he loved it so much, why did he leave it? Ha! In the end it seemed like a giant hassle to do something that none of us really wanted to do. 

Note: After dating a mere six weeks, I had the chance to me Skippy in person, at my Dad's "Celebration of Life" ceremony (Dad- In case you have the internet wherever you are, it was NOT a funeral, per your explicit instructions. We had a celebration of life party for you, ok? Geez, get over it!) I also had the opportunity to view the new tattoo Skippy had gotten on his back the week before. It was the face of a beautiful woman. A woman that bore an uncanny resemblance to my sister. Yes, that's right, the 50 year old, guy-that-lives-Sonny Crockett-style on a houseboat was just wacky enough to get a tattoo on his back of a woman that he'd been dating less than two months. My estimation of him as "iffy" was right-on and I'm thankful Dad didn't like San Diego more or who knows what would have happened if we had let Skippy throw us a funeral out on the deep seas.

And now you know why Dad remains (or Dad's remains remain) in my closet. 

Believe me, it is super tempting to put him on the mantel just to screw with the tall guy but then the little people might have questions about what's in the box and then there'd have to be a serious discussion. And then they'd be up late at night crying about Grandpa in the box and I'd have to stay up late and that would seriously cut into my drinking time. And watching Tosh reruns. 

But the question remains...what do I do with Dad?

Still taking suggestions but please, please, please, don't offer to throw us a funeral, ok?

*Names have been changed in order to protect the recently tattoed innocent

You're Not Going to F-ing Believe This

The other day I- No, someone broke my fucking cup.

Yes, that cup.

I want to call it my $5000 cup but I haven't gotten the hospital bill from the last week's visit so I'm not sure what I will call it. For now, I'll refer to it as Cup II.

It was quite literally hours after posting about the demise of my first cup. It's taken me a couple of days to write about it. I was strangely upset about the whole thing that night. Nothing a couple (three) vodka and diet tonic's and a stern look from my annoyed husband couldn't cure, though.

"Why are you getting so upset? It was only cup a cup?!" the tall guy said,  AS IF IT WERE REALLY ONLY A CUP! Jesus, I mean what world is he living in??

I can't say for sure why it was so upsetting but I can say the event occurred as if it were in slow motion. The tall two year old grabbed Cup II from the middle of the kitchen table with her eerily long, orangutan-like arms and began to drink, then shake, then drop Cup II directly on the floor. 

And that's when I lost it. 

I'm not sure exactly what I said, I'm not violent so I don't hit/kick/punch kids/husband/dog physically but probably emotionally, yeah, I'd say, yeah, I do that from time to time. I think I blacked out the specifics from that night (or I just blacked out entirely after the V& T's mentioned above) but I'm guessing I gave the kids a verbal sort of slap. Why freak out on both kids and not just the one that did it? I don't fucking know. They were both there, they were all, like, looking at me and everything. Besides, if the little one didn't break it that night, there's an excellent chance the big one would have broken it later on anyway. 

Besides, I already said, "I lost it" so just give it a rest already.
(Psst- that was kinda a verbal slap- see, not so bad, eh? Just a little sting. No scar.)

Anyhow, I always know when I lose my shit in front of the husband/kids/dog because they get all quiet and avoid eye contact with me for a while. The dog is the only one in the house smart enough to 1) not argue 2) make herself scarce. I knew the tall guy was right because I really shouldn't have been that upset about the cup. It wasn't even worth $5000. It was probably more like six or seven hundred dollars, max.

I'm guessing the only reason I was that upset was because I think I thought by writing about it earlier that day, I had sort of purged myself of the negative emotions attached to the loss of the $5000 cup, the day I had to take the little kid to the ER alone because my husband was out of town and most importantly, it really was (another) awesome cup.

To be fair, I really should be counting my blessings right now because if you remember my fist post about my $5000 cup, you'll know that just the lid broke. What I did not mention is that I kept the bottom (also known as the cup part) of the original $5000 cup. And as luck would have it, when that certain little someone in my household accidentally dropped Cup II on the kitchen floor, it was only the bottom part that cracked. 

And so....

Yes, I still have a cup. 

I used the still-intact bottom portion of my $5000 cup along with the lid of Cup II to make one still, totally ok working, lidded, clear plastic, totally awesome cup. PLUS, I now have TWO kick-ass blue plastic straws!

I shall call it Super Cup.

And I will not delude myself into thinking that I will treat this one differently, I shall not. 

And I will not allow myself to imagine years together, instead I will cherish the simple moments with Super Cup.

And I will not, for a moment think I can keep the hands of an especially tall two-year old off of any of my stuff, much less my beloved Super Cup.

Instead, I shall look forward to the day where, because of some unpredictable "accident" at the hands of a two and a half year old, I can shop for another cup- perhaps one of stainless steel, at the nearest Starbucks.

Don't Bother with the Anti-Jinx

I broke my $5000 cup the last week.

Yes, I own a $5000 cup.
Owned- a $5000 cup.

It's not lame, like something from a pimp-type dude in a Snoop Dogg (the artist currently known as Snoop Lion) video. Nor is it super cool in a Holy Grail type of way either. 

It was sooo much more than that.

My $5000 cup was made of clear, however well insulated plastic with an awesome blue plastic straw that had this cool little bump-thing towards the bottom so that no matter how many times you dropped it in the laundry room on your way out to the car, late for something, it would never fall out because it also had an equally cool, clear plastic, twist-on lid. It also had a super-sweet logo on the side, in blue, that read, Cardon Children's Medical Center.

You're probably wondering where I got such an amazingly cool cup and why it had the logo of a pediatric hospital on the side. Relax. I'm getting to that. Still not done telling you how cool it was and how happy it made me and the inevitable tragedy that eventually took it from me.

I used to fill it with lots of ice and water each day before work. I would lug it around pretending to be as cool and sexy as that lady on Weeds looked with her Starbucks or whatever, while teaching at a small, weird high school part time. I loved this cup because for the first time in my life, this cup made me feel something. It made me feel hydrated. Really, well hydrated.

Until the day it broke.

I didn't notice at first because it was just the edge of the lid. But that was enough. One day I noticed that every time I accidentally knocked it over or dropped it on the floor, it leaked. 
It actually leaked! 

What the fuck?? I thought to myself (or may have said out loud in front of the high schoolers. Maybe), I paid 5000 fucking dollars for this piece of shit and it doesn't even stand up to being dropped roughly every other day for about a year?!? 

I was beginning to think I'd overpaid for my cup, as I tried to remember who may have dropped it last and therefore, who I could blame the tragedy upon. And then I saw the silver lining because that's just like me. I'm a. "cup is 1/2 full kind of..." 

Fuuuuck!!!

Anyway, I'm actually more of a realist that had a one-night-stand with an optimist that either scarred me emotionally for years or gave me a non-fatal but super annoying STD and so I occasionally see the brighter side of life (Yes! That's two Monty Python references in ONE blog! Don't get that anywhere else, do ya? Sweetness). So I was thinking, "I could get a new cup..." and then I thought the words that would of course TOTALLY JINX ME...."the next time the kid is in the hospital"......

So here's how I got that sweet cup. Last October my bigger kid was hospitalized following a scary night battling asthma unsuccessfully at home. Once admitted  and stabilized and many hours later, I left the kid with a nurse and ate alone at the cafeteria where I purchased the cup along with my lunch.

Daughter went home fine about 36 hours later, in good health, very tired but breathing ok. A few months later the bills totaled about $10,000. Our private, family policy deductible? 

You guessed it.
Five grand.

I used to not believe in the "jinx", except when we'd mimic Laverne and Shirley as kids, yelling,"Jinx! Buy me a Coke!" anytime we uttered the same thing at the same time as someone else. But as I've gotten older, and yes, crazier, I've grown to believe in The Jinx.

So the minute I even thought those evil thoughts about getting another $5000 cup at the children's hospital, I knew I was doomed. And as if to confirm it, the Happy Bunny calendar hanging on the pantry door said the tall guy I share the house and kids with was leaving town for the week. 

God damn, it.

I.
AM.
FUCKED.

I even tried to reverse The Jinx by planning an Anti-Jinx inducing trip to Starbucks so I could buy
a $25 plastic cup there, even though I hate coffee. But as you know, the Anti-Jinx never, ever works. It just makes the Jinx Gods angrier. And then they have to think up worse shit for you to deal with so they can laugh harder when the shit hits the fan, as we all know it eventually will.

Fast forward 24 hours- Tall guy leaves town.

Fast forward another 44 hours- Short kid hospitalized.

Fast forward 52 hours- I'm hungry and alone in the ER except for the happy toddler covered in stickers, watching her very own TV and wearing an oxygen mask.

Fast forward 72 hours- kid home, dad home, I'm home. We're all sleeping through the night again. We're all fed and happy. And I have a band new cup to replace the old one that somebody else (probably) broke.

I'm pretty sure I won't be able to call it my $5000 cup since the kid didn't spend the night there, but I am currently making plans to treat this cup better. 

This time it will be different.
I will be careful with this one.

I swear on my mother's....

Oh, God-damn it.