Blue Balls

I once read a theory that men prefer strident noises and firm hand shakes. That they are better at solving technical problems than women, and like the color red.

I would like to take a moment to prove this theory wrong! My basis for proving it's falsehood.  Just a simple day in the life of a wife and mommy.

Here goes:

 If men were better at solving "technical" problems. Why oh why can't they figure out how to put the damn roll of toilet paper on the holder?  Do you think if I left a "technical" manual, of how to do it , it would help?  Also, and forgive me for going here ladies, but I feel I must.  Why is it impossible to get everything that is suppose to be in the toilet...In the toilet?  This is technical.  A technical act.  In fact not getting it in is a "TECHNICAL FOUL" if you ask me.

My husband, will not leave a pick up game of basketball, against 8th graders at the park, until every basket has been made, and every shot has been hit.  Getting the same, point, aim and shoot determination into our toilet...Never.  Not once.    He has yet to make his business land in the toilet with no extra parting gifts left around the rim for yours truly, in 10 plus years.

You'd think I would be use to it, or at least know it's coming when I lift that porcelain SOB to clean.  Nope! Shocks me every time!   I still have the same "UHHHH" body jerking backwards reaction, like I just saw an alien pop out of the toilet,  followed by gagging sounds, then curse words, then sheer wonderment of how the hell "It" got "There" and how it's all even physically possible.

Today while cleaning the bitch, I had a vision of all wives, moms of boys, and anyone else who has the great pleasure of cleaning the bowl.  Clad in there ginormous yellow rubber gloves, (I mean whose hands are that big Rubbermaid?) Toilet bowl cleaner wands in hand,  marching up the steps of the White House, protesting poops and penis's!   News papers would read, today in history women decided they deal with enough shit already!

After my day dream, and a long shower,  I drifted back into my proving this men theory wrong, and thought about the strident noise part.

If men like strident noises so much, how it is that no matter how hard or loud the baby cries in the middle of the night, they don't seem to hear it?  They can sleep right though it. Not even a one eyed peek.

If they like loud noises so much, how come when I yell out real loud for help with the groceries, I still get nothing? No movement, no response. As a matter of fact, I usually have to follow it up with another, louder request, and then maybe I get  a "Oh, sorry I didn't hear you."

So far this theory is for shit.

Lastly, I would like to touch upon the color theory. Truly the real reason I started to write this blog today.

While having a seemingly innocent conversation with my son, at a place called, "The Playhouse". Which is exactly that, a giant play house for kids.  My son was frolicking through the ball pit, delighted to be throwing his body across the balls instead of watching mommy clean the toilet.   I decided it was a perfect opportunity to continue with our practicing of colors lesson.  The ball pit was filled with red and blue balls. You see where I am going?

There I was, ever so sweet, enjoying my doting mom moment. Thinking how brilliant I was to turn fun time into learning time. When I started to explain, slow and loud  "This is a BLUE BALL...Blue balls, these are BUUU-HUU-LUUE BALLS." "Can you say, BLUE BALLS?"   "Try it with mommy." "Buuu-luuue Baaaa-hhaaallllll-sssss."

My son repeated, "Bew Bawls!" "Bew Bawls" over and over and over again! YAAAAAYYYYY" In my high pitch ecstatic mommy voice, I started to cheer and reply, "Very Good Jack." "Blue Balls!" Clapping and jumping the entire time.

It never even dawned on me, that besides the fact it truly was a BLUE BALL, this conversation had any other meaning.  That was until the man, who was sitting across the ball pit with his daughter, started laughing and grunting under his breath, (which I clearly heard) "..Heh Heh ...Blue Balls" like he was Bevis or But head or something. Clearly amused by my little fopar.

For a split second I thought maybe he was laughing at the way I said balls.  No matter how hard I try to lose my NY accent, balls is still a tough one. Then I realized there was no laughter upon my "RED BALLS" lesson.   Just blue!!!

Yet again, helping me prove just how wrong that stupid guy theory is.  Clearly the color "BLUE" had more of an impact on this man then red.

I rest my case, and my dignity today.

The Dreamer.

I'm a big advocate for believing in your dreams.  I think the magic of risking everything for a dream that nobody else see's but you, is fearless.  Quite honestly I think it's  a major turn on as well, and one of the biggest things I admire about my husband.  

 I've also accepted the fact, that life makes no guarantees as to what you'll have, and standing by your choices, and your dreams, can sometimes be a pretty daunting task.  

We've all read quote after quote, and listened to speech after speech, about just how easy it is to follow your dreams. The fact is, it's not always as simple as, "Never say never",  and "Always have a dream in your heart."  Life seems to like the curve balls a lot more than the poets. It's no wonder people have lost sight of what it is that truly makes them happy.      

I'm not sure when the dreaming started to drift out of my own life, and definition settled in, but somewhere in between I got a little lost.   

Ironically as a new mommy, the path I see into my sons future has never been more clear.  With every fiber in my being, I truly believe he can be whatever it is he wants to be.  I've never been  more sure about anything in my life.  I tell him so every day.

This got me thinking.  When did I lose that certainty in my own self? I truly hate the land of beige and predictable and certainly never want to return there ever again.  

Yesterday I had the opportunity to dust off the old "dream" cape, and hang up the  "mommy" cape, ( if only for a moment) and what I learned, surprised the hell out of me.  

I don't have to choose.  I don't have to be defined with just one title. I can still dream my little heart out, and believe in every single one of those dreams.  My back has got room for many capes, and like the true fashionista that I am, I can wear the hell out of all of them!

Even if at the end of the day nobody else see's what I see, you can be sure I will be strutting down the runway in my mind, like god damn Cindy Crawford, to the sound track of Glee, Season 1. 

(Insert the cast of Glee singing..."Don't Stop Believing right about now. )

Side Bar- Have you noticed blogging is really just a big old diary entry we let everyone read. How bizarre is that? 

I promise more bitching and funny to come.  The dreamer in me, had to purge. 

Thank you thank you! 

Assembly is Required!

Fear is not a word I use often.  By nature, I am not a "frightened easily" kind of gal.  I don't check the back seat of my car for strangers lurking inside, and I never owned a whistle or a can of pepper spray in college.   That being said, there are three words that strike fear in my heart.  Three words that render me silent.  Three words that send a cold shiver down my spine, and a sick twitch straight to my eye.

Those words:  "Assembly is required"

Damn you Assembly...damn you!

Is it not enough I pay a fortune for you, and you still want me to put you together! Uhhhhhhhh!

Growing up, we had it easy.  My dad, was the "put-er together guy." You could give that man a screw driver and some crazy glue and it would be up, working, and in fine shape in no time.   Neighbors would bring there Christmas toys over days in advance for my dad to put them together, because obviously they had the same fear as I do.

I always just assumed my dad new exactly what he was doing and enjoyed doing it. I thought it was a god given skill, something he loved.  Now, as a parent, I know the truth.  The ugly, sad, infuriating truth.

Those scars on his knuckles, they are not from falling off his bike as a kid...OH NO.  They are from putting endless screws into endless doll houses for 20 years.  Tires on tricycles then bicycles then cars! Allen wrenching the most ridiculously made screws into holes that just aren't big enough.  All just to get my easy bake oven up and ready for yet another crazy birthday.  Those knuckle scars, they are scars of a real man, a real dad, and I say to all you dads out there. Wear em proud!!!

This new epiphany I am having has put me in some what of a pickle.  You see, I have married a man who has no real tangible man skills what so ever.  He considers holding the flash light a tough job!  I've seen him take water breaks after holding the flash light for my brother in law who was busting his ass installing a boiler, (which by the way, who the hell knows how to do that?) It's the truth. He would tell you so himself.  It's not to say he doesn't have a million other dad skills that will serve him well, just scars on the knuckles won't be one of them.  "Assembly is required" means we are going to have to hire someone.

We have sat on boxes for weeks as we stared at our perfectly perfect new furniture that was delivered but needed to be put together.  When we first arrived in Los Angeles I asked my husband, my then boyfriend, and knight in shining armor,  to help me put together the dresser I had lugged all the way across the country.  After we laid out all the pieces he started crying and handed be a hundred dollar bill and begged me never to ask him to put anything together again. There went my knight, and my dresser!

This being the reality of my life, and a character trait I was well aware of when I married this man.  I took a stand today and decided to take matters into my own hands.  I was going to stare "Assembly is required" right in the face, and shut her down!

 I wanted to purchase my son his own little table and chairs for drawing.  He has taken quite well to his new crayons, and while I was at it I thought a nice easel would go fetchingly with his table and chairs.   You never know, he might be the next Picasso and it is my job to nurture that brilliant mind.

I asked around and was boldly instructed by my sister, who I refer to as my mommy guru, to go straight to Ikea, and they will have everything I need.  Obviously she doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does.  The first words out of my mouth were," Uh, NO, I will have to put it together." She replied with a quick, "Oh no, it's so easy, you just screw in the legs."  Okay, okay, how hard could this be right?  Anyone can screw on legs.  WRONG!!!

As I walked through the giant blue doors of the Ikea, I started to sweat. Everything looked so nice and easy in the display rooms, but I had a funny feeling about what lay inside those card board boxes I was lugging out to my car.

How could one kids table and chairs weigh so much?   If no tools are required why do I hear things rumbling and jingling around in this box?  Oh well, I'm in it now so I mine as well face the demon.

As I lay out all the pieces across my living room, my first thought was, "What the hell?", and then, "Oh forget this, I am going to hire someone." Then as if the parenting fairies were looking out above me, ( I think I have been watching to much Sesame Street, forgive my analogies.) I began to translate the damn German directions to English and put my project together.

Waaaaallllaaahhh...would you believe it, a perfectly stable, perfectly put together, table and chairs AND art easel. Look out Picasso, I bet your mother never put together some German engineered truly impossible to figure out, art easel!

It only took 5 hours, 2 knuckle scars, a shit ton of curse words, and one call to my brother in law before I bashed a screw that did not need bashing.  Apparently there is this apparatus called a wrench.  Who knew?!!!

Oh and does Ikea tend to give you extra screws just in case you mess up? I was left with a few extra after?  Weird?

I fear you no more, "Assembly is Required"...Bring on the Christmas Toys!

Murphy's Law

Have you ever noticed the chances of a piece of bread falling grape jelly side down, or right onto the blouse your wearing, is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet, or the day you decide to wear white.

It's like the miraculous recovery my son has as soon as we step foot into the pediatricians office.

 Or how the chances of being seen by someone you know, dramatically increases when you go out sans make-up and no bra.

As parents, (new parents especially), we are always planning ahead.  Filling the diaper bag with all sorts of tricks and treasures to avoid any kind of disaster that may occur. Extra clothes, extra snacks, anti bacterial everything. Water, band aids, Neosporin.   God for bid I was ever stuck in some sort of natural disaster I would be covered.

Actually wait... I wouldn't.  You want to know why?  Because without fail, it would be the one day I decided not to take the diaper bag.  I would be stuck right in the middle of a natural disaster, such as a diaper explosion with #2, sans make-up, no bra and zero supplies to help me through.

As my journey through parenthood moves from bottles and binky's, onto tantrums and terrible two's.  Toddler hood seems to be providing me with enough Murphy's Law moments to last a life time.

I have recently noticed what seems to be two sets of moms out there.  The one's that say, " Oh not my child." and the one's that say " Why is it always my kid?."  I fall into the second category.

Why oh why is it always my kid?  He is on a mission to dump, turn over, smash, pour, throw, and lick, everything he is curious about. There is no child proof spot unturned.  No glass left full, no fragile item not broken, and no hidden gadget not found in the toilet.

What amazes me about the whole thing, is I can't get my curious kid to try a french fry let alone a vegetable, but out an about walking our dog, he will surely find the one snail slinking along his slime trailed path, and put it in his mouth. "WHY MY KID!"

After a recent trip to the east coast to visit family and friends, we left a few parting favors behind I would like to apologize for.

 My mothers beige rug is now pink from all the water melon juice my son spilled on it, over and over again. My fathers already impaired vision might just be a little worse today, after my son picked up a fist full of mulch and wailed it at him like he was pitching a fast ball for the New York Yankees.

Oh and the reason the remote doesn't work anymore dad...MY BAD.  I found it in the toilet two days after it went missing.

When my in laws try to open the blinds this week in the family room, to let in some beautiful sunshine and have a moment of peace...Not gonna happen!  The damage my son caused by Tarzan swinging from one set up blinds to the other, has rendered them unworkable.  Sorry about that nanny and poppy.  I know a great blind guy!

Lastly to our dear friends who just had a brand new baby girl, who on arrival my son immediately tried to throw out of her vibrating chair, I am very sorry!  It won't happen again.

I'm sure one day a very valuable lesson will come from all of this mayhem, but until then, I think I will hand out warning labels with my son, and possibly some helmets.  You can never be to safe.

Sweet August

After everything that has happened in the past few weeks, "I.e", packing, traveling alone with a monster, airport disasters, bridal showers, and of course staying with my parents.  I barely even noticed it was August!  My most favorite month of the year.

August has been a pretty historic month, if you ask me.  In August of 1959, Hawaii became the 50th state.  I love Hawaii.  In August of 69...Woodstock commenced. I love Woodstock.

In August of  seventy bleep I was born.  I loved being born.

Being born means one very important thing, BIRTHDAY PARTIES, I love birthday parties!

Anyone who knows me, knows I love everything about birthday's.  I love the parties, the cake, the presents, the balloon's, the attention! The bigger the better.  I love theme birthday's, party dresses, cakes with my name on them, making wishes after blowing out  the candles, and of course goody bags.

 Who doesn't love themselves some good old fashioned goody bags. You know the kind.  The kind with the good candy.  The large sized snickers bar and the string candy necklaces.   They are awesome.

To be honest, if it was up to me,  I would still have a super hero themed birthday party, where I get to dress up as Wonder Woman, or Princess Leia.  My friends would be required to wear their favorite super hero costumes. While capes with every one's initials would be handed out upon arrival.    McDonald's french fries and Margareta's would be passed around.  Instead of pin the tail on the donkey, straight up BEER PONG would be the game of choice. Superman Vs. Batman in beer pong.  I could die.

I really think as adults we somehow lose the sense of awesomeness surrounding birthday's.  Remember when you were a kid, and someone asked, "What do you want for your birthday this year?" You answered right?  You made a list of everything you wanted and let every family member you could find know what it was you were wishing for.  Now as adults, we're asked the same question, and generally respond with, "Oh no, I don't need anything."

 "I'm too old for birthday's."

Ya know what I say.....HELL TO THE NO! I want me some presents, and I want me some cake!!!  I want to party, and I will never be to old for a kick ass birthday bash.  I will forever wake up excited the day has arrived, and sleep like the dead when the day is over.

Sure, I might wake up with a few unexpected presents in each passing year.  Thank you grey hair, and new wrinkle on my forehead. But that will never stop me.  I will still dust off my tiara,  pull out my party dress,  grab my super hero cape and go celebrate the joyous occasion!

That being said, if anyone speaks to my husband can you tell him that I have been a pretty awesome girl this year, and deserve many many fine things for my birthday! I have registered at Bloomingdale's and he can find my "wish list" under BEST WIFE EVER, WHOSE BIRTHDAY IS IN 13 DAYS!

Thank you kindly.

Just a lazy day in August 197..bleep
After a Birthday Bash!

Common Courtesy Forgotten.

"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers"....NOT in this lifetime Blanche DuBois.   Even Tennessee Williams couldn't make the kind of day up, I had yesterday.

Apparently the TSA, and the rest of the world for that matter, doesn't remember anything about being kind to strangers and  helping your fellow man out. Common Courtesy is no longer a lesson learned or a moral followed. People just don't give a shit.   I say, when you go to check in for a flight, not only should you have to show your 17 forms of ID, but you must be handed a very specific, very clear, list of airplane etiquette rules, which you must then read and sign, before getting on the plane.   If you do not comply with this list of rules, for example, taking your disgusting bare foot out, and putting it on the arm rest of the persons chair in front of you.  Your plane neighbor should IMMEDIATELY be able to smack you!  No questions asked.

Obviously anyone who has traveled in the past few years knows the airlines suck, and the process of getting through the airport is just one great big pain in the ass. But we deal with it.  So what  if we pay hundreds of dollars to be treated like poop and told, "Sorry lady, we don't know where your luggage is." Or my personal favorite, when the airline handed me back my very expensive stroller with no wheels on it, NO WHEELS, a ripped off hood, and the steel bars of the base bent in half.   "Sorry mam, we are not responsible for fragile items."

 Right right...of course. My bad, I didn't realize you were transporting elephants under the plane who were shifted around during the course of landing and sat on my stroller.  I will try and find a stronger material than steel next time when buying a stroller. Fragile item my ass!!! I've seen my husband drive over my stroller  a dozen times with the car and nothing happened!

Believe it or not, as infuriating as all of this is I can handle the lack of courtesy the airlines give me.  They just hate their lives and have to deal with the horribleness of people every day.   It's expected. I understand they are going to be of no service to me and they don't care at all.  It is what it is.  What shocks the ever living day lights out of me, is the lack of common courtesy people have towards one another.

Yesterday, while going through security, my son began to loose his shit, literally, and BARF the fresh farm organic yogurt he had for lunch, all over the place. (Why is it always the day they have yogurt?) He barfed all over himself, all over me, all over the floor, all over my soul!   There I was, ALONE, freaked out, and barefoot, because obviously I have concealed some sort of weapon in my flip flops.  I lay there on the floor trying to catch the puke in one hand, rip through the diaper bag for some wipes in the other, all while everything I own is laid out above me on the security line, and not a single solitary person offered to help me.  NOT ONE! Not the security people, not another passenger, not even the freaking janitor!  To make matters worse, when I finally got back on my feet, my poor son stripped naked wrapped in his blankie, puke dripping from my hair,  I went to grab all of my belongings that were just left up on the  security counter and someone stole my watch.  The watch I got for my first mothers day non the less. How's that for a kick in the ass.

When I alerted security, obviously frantic, naked baby in tow, covered in puke.   An obviously annoyed employee, sauntered over to me slowly, and said, "What's the problem mam?" Then rolled her eyes.

"My watch was stolen!"

"Sorry mam, not our problem!" That's exactly what she said.

Defeated, stinky, and completely broken, I wandered off to the first gift shop I could find, bought my son and myself  entire outfits that said, "I'm Crabby, welcome to Baltimore!" Then we headed to our gate.

DELAYED!!!

Of course.

Dressed entirely in gift shop apparel we patiently waited for our plane.

As I sat there exhausted and mentally beat down, I watched, as one by one people cut each other off, rolled suitcases over peoples toes without so much as an "excuse me. " Watched as they blatantly bitched about the children making noise at the gate and how they "PRAYED" those kids weren't on the same flight!

I kept going over and over it in my head.  Not a single person thought to even offer me a napkin when my son was hurling all over me.

I don't know.  Maybe I'm tired of traveling, or just bitter after being puked on. But what I do know is people suck, and common courtesy is gone.

Maybe instead of playing one of those stupid videos that no one watches, on where the airline flies to and how they are the # 1 airline to fly with.  Maybe just maybe they should play a common courtesy video on how to treat your fellow plane mate.

It would go a little something like this.

1. Brush your damn teeth before you get on a plane and bring mouth wash or a freaking pack of gum!  News Flash...your bad breath is as offensive to me, as my baby crying is to you!

2. Keep your feet in your seat! Don't even think of taking your socks off!  The next GNARLY toe I see creep around the corner on my arm rest is gonna get a pencil stab right to the nail! I mean WHO ARE YOU!

3. DEODORANT people. PLEASE. Why is this even an issue. Take a shower before you get on the plane and for the love of god don't wear a shit ton of perfume or cologne to cover your stink!  It's awful!

4. Your seat is not a lazy boy, don't push it into my knees when it won't move anymore.

5. Yes, kids can drive you crazy, but have a little patience for crying out loud.   The poor parents are being tortured and doing everything short of taping their children's  mouths shut to keep them quiet. You were in deed a child yourself once, and I'm sure you can find it in your Grinch heart to understand.

Okay...I feel better.

Oh and if anyone happens to see a White Michel Kors watch on the wrist of someone who is obviously not fashion worthy, rip it off their arm and let me know.

Thanks!

Mommy Deal!

Lets face it, in the early parts of our lives, we spend most of our days blaming our mothers for not letting us do something we wanted to do.   Then we spend the later parts of our lives, blaming them for everything that went wrong.    At the ripe old age of thirty- whatever, I am still pissed my mother wouldn't let me wear my high top converse sneakers to girl scouts , instead  forcing me  to wear "lady" sandals, forever setting in motion an unhealthy obsession with shoes...(and girl scout cookies) I still bring it up, every chance I get.  


    As kids, my sister and I were particularly good at  plotting the demise of our mothers plans for dinner. Over and over again we bitched about what it was she was cooking.  We  plotted everything from training the dog to attack when she entered the kitchen, to just plain stealing all of her pots and pans. We rarely made it down the hallway before we were defeated.   Billowing smoke and curse words involving some recipe that had gone wrong would fly out of that kitchen like an Andy Petite pitch.  It was a war zone for a skinny 9 year old with no ammunition, and I never stood a chance.   Something was always on fire.  One of us kids was always assigned the job of wind maker under the smoke alarm, flapping our arms with a dish rag feverishly, making sure it didn't go off a million times and worry the neighbors.  


The smell of some poor cow who had given it's life, wafted around the dinner table ,all for some hamburger that looked like a meatball. Thank god for the hamburger buns as a KEY, or else some nights we weren't sure if we were waiting for spaghetti or ketchup.   It's probably why I am a vegetarian today  and my sister a perfectionist in the kitchen.  


In my mothers defense, it really wasn't her fault either. I'm sure she would blame her mother for her lack of culinary skills.  You see my mothers mother happened to think KFC was gourmet.  We often found unidentified objects floating in our Thanksgiving dinner, and I'm pretty sure I once saw my dad pull a shoe lace out of his pasta, and just tuck it into his pocket like it was no big deal.  It always made for a hilarious holiday and emergency stop to the drug store for Pepto Bismol on the way home.  


So here I am a mother myself, and although I'm skilled in the kitchen, I'm clueless about so many other things.  Petrified I'm screwing my son up already , desperate to ensure he's a decent human being, and possibly a classically trained musician, I have no idea if I'm doing it right.  This mother gig is pressure. I want a guarantee. I want to know that my son is gonna be amazing, and thank me for it ,in some fabulous speech he will make, while excepting his "best artist of the year" award, for writing a song about his mother.  


So I came up with a plan.  I sat down with my 19 month old today and I made him a deal.  While he splashed around in the bath tub, giddy with excitement over a new body part he had just discovered, I promised to never ever make him wear "lady" shoes he didn't like, IF he promised never to do anything illegal, always stay close to home, thank me in some kind of speech he will give one day, never blog about my mistakes or whatever blogging will become in the future,  and never tell daddy how much we really spend when we go shopping.  We high fived to seal the deal, and nosey nosey nosed! 

I think it's a pretty solid deal!