tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78325758577698023752024-03-19T03:09:36.908-05:00Attracted To Shiny ThingsAre you ADHD? Are you in a relationship with someone with ADHD/ADD? Do you work with someone with ADHD/ADD??? How about your kids? Do they have ADHD???? Seriously, you know at least ONE PERSON with ADHD, but you may not know it. They may not know it. I'm here to help. Have you ever skipped school to make Baked Alaska? Ever thought a classmate went retarded? Ever peed standing up? In a trailer court? How about killing the Easter Bunny? Have you ever done that? Well, I have. And LOTS MORE.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-47361040785523732862014-09-29T20:17:00.002-05:002022-08-13T20:54:31.672-05:00Letter to my 4 year old selfHi cutie! You don't know me, but my name is ....... That's right, we have the same name! Now, listen to m...no, I don't want to see your underwear, I need to... I don't <em>care</em> if they have flowers on them. Anyway, what I wanted to....<em>FINE! </em>Show me your freaking underwear, but then you're <em>DONE, </em>got it? <em>You</em> listen, <em>I</em> talk. Yes, those are very pretty, very grownup. Oh, that reminds me. When Jimmy Saunders asks to see your underwear next year, <em>YOU SAY NO!</em> And then you kick him in the nuts and run like hell, got it?<br />
<br />
Now, where were we...sweetie? Sweetie. <em>SWEETIE.</em> Look at me, not at that shiny bike, <em>forget</em> the shiny bike. Next weekend you're going to fall off of it and rip your knees to shreds anyway. Plenty of time for that. Now, this is important. To you, it's 1971 and you have your whole life ahead of y....what? No, I don't have a dog. NO! I DON'T HAVE A CAT EITHER! If you must know, I had two, and they both died. If you're smart, you will <em>never</em> own a cat because all that will come of it is a cuddly furry best friend with a wet cold nose who knows when you feel sad and lonely and she jumps up on your lap and purrs really loud and licks the tears off your face and she lets you hug her even though everybody knows cats don't like to be hugged but she lets you because she gets you. You know what I mean kid? SHE F*CKING <em>GETS YOU!</em> Then she dies.<br />
<br />
<em>Now</em>, you need to <em>listen </em>to me, 'kay? I have some very impor.....What are you...<em>stop sucking your thumb and alternately rubbing your cheek and nose with your index finger at the same time!!! That makes you look crazy, don't you know that??? If you don't stop sucking your thumb your dad is going to yank it out of your mouth at 4:30am every day for a year, and it will f*cking HURT because your teeth will...</em>never mind sweetie. Just don't let him catch you sucking your thumb.<br />
<br />
Now, where was I? Oh, yes.<br />
<br />
You're going to do some stuff. A lot of it will be stupid stuff, or funny stuff, or stuff that nobody else would ever do or even <em>think </em>about doing. So this is just a heads-up and no, I'm not going to tell you to change anything, because then you wouldn't grow up to be the <em>AWESOME </em>person you end up being. So you...what? I just <em>do</em>, ok? No, I'm not telling you how I know because then you'd go and tell your parents and you'd end up in some kind of mental hospital and I don't wa..I mean <em>you </em>definitely don't want that, do you? Oh, that reminds me. We never met. *sigh* <em>Of course</em> I know we really are meeting, but you can't tell <em>anyone</em>, got it? Or I'll come back and beat your ass. Just kidding. Not really.<br />
<br />
Ok. Short and sweet. You're going to pull some bonehead moves. And some super funny moves. You will have some bad memories because of this, but you will also have some pretty funny memories too. Who knows, you may even end up writing about those awesome memories.<br />
<br />
And indeed they are awesome.<br />
<br />
1. That cute boy in 2nd grade will <em>not</em> fall in love with you just because you run past him a lot at recess and then pretend to faint in front of him. He likes <em>STACEY.</em><br />
<br />
2. When Stacey moves away in 3rd grade, it still won't improve your chances of being Mrs. Michael Nimmonsky.<br />
<br />
3. When Mrs. Murphy tells the class that she's going to swat anyone who forgets to do their homework, <em><a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2010/11/mrs-murphy-said-id-never-get-into-good.html">she means it.</a></em> It's best not to test her.<br />
<br />
4. Not everything you read or hear about is going to happen to you. This includes, but is not limited to: going blind, going deaf, going <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2010/10/when-i-was-little-before-there-was.html">retarded</a>, being stung to death by <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2011/01/you-mean-helen-keller-just-woke-up-like.html">killer bees</a>, becoming posessed by the devil, being trapped in a <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html">burning skyscraper</a>, being kidnapped or being <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2011/01/death-race-2000-through-eyes-of-child.html">targeted for death</a> by costumed people in sharp cars.<br />
<br />
5. You are going to want glasses so badly in 3rd grade that you fake your school eye exam. Horribly. Your parents will decide to punish you by forcing you to wear your mom's rhinestone cat's eye glasses from 1963 all evening. When they finally say you can take them off, you will not eat dinner because you are too nauseous. They're going to feel bad but won't let you know. Savor it.<br />
<br />
6. You can have a lot of creative fun by picking a bunch of white wildflowers such as daisies, and putting them in every single glass your family owns, after you have dyed the water different colors, using up all of your mom's food coloring.<br />
<br />
7. It is not a good idea to do this on the Friday before Easter.<br />
<br />
8. Speaking of Easter. <em>DON'T.</em> <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2010/10/i-killed-easter-bunny.html">Just Don't</a>. Seriously. You'll be scarred for life.<br />
<br />
9. When your grandma tells you to stay out of the hen house because you might scare her baby chicks to death....<em>believe her.</em><br />
<br />
10. Grandma Josephine will love you even when you do kill the Easter Bunny and 10 of her baby chicks.<br />
<br />
11. When you steal your uncle's class ring and then give it to your school principal as a token of friendship, <em>you will get caught. </em>Be ready.<br />
<br />
12. When you are home alone one day, you might want to have fun making 10 glasses of lemonade and dying them all different colors, because you want to see what purple lemonade looks like. You should admire your handiwork, and then dump it all down the sink, because when your mom sees what you've done, you'll have to drink every glass.<br />
<br />
13. Your mom will eventually decide that she will not be leaving you home alone anymore. This puts a crimp in your plan to make Baked Alaska because you read about it in a Bobbsey Twin's mystery and baked ice cream sounds <em>AMAZING</em>.<br />
<br />
14. You can solve problem #13 by simply not telling your mom about the Teacher's Institute that one March day in 4th grade. You know only 2 things about Baked Alaska. It consists of ice cream covered in merengue, and it is baked. Your lack of knowledge regarding oven temperature, baking times and merengue recipes will not deter you from "just winging it."<br />
<br />
15. When you are 10, you will spend an entire day scrubbing burnt Baked Alaska from the bottom of the oven. Your mother never finds out. Until the day she reads about it in your blog.<br />
<br />
16. You cannot walk a cat. Especially the feral cat that you catch in the backyard when you are 9.<br />
<br />
17. No cat likes to be dragged by it's homemade ribbon leash. Especially the feral cat.<br />
<br />
18. Those cornrows that looked so awesome on Bo Derek in <em>10</em>? Yeah, well this is East Peoria. You are going to get teased. <em>A LOT</em>.<br />
<br />
Ok kid, did you get all that? Good. What? Oh, I'll be back, don't you worry. Somebody is going to have to be there to unlock the bathroom door next year so the fire department doesn't have to send an engine and 3 firemen to climb the ladder and unlock the door for you.<br />
<br />
Now come here and give me a hug.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-83671185357173872742013-12-15T20:34:00.001-06:002014-06-27T02:19:20.293-05:00Fwd: fwd: fwd: fwd: I hate my autistic daughterI belong to a few closed and/or secret groups regarding Autism and other disabilities. Last night, someone in one of my groups posted the below clip, and some of the parents in my group were dismissive of this mother. They called her names like "bitch", "heartless bitch", "psycho" and more. But an equal number of members came to the defense of this woman. Not in defense of her actions, mind you, but seeming to understand how a mother could reach this breaking point.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/S5Ztv1FoHz8" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I watched the clip, and I tried to figure out how I felt/what I thought. This was hard to watch, because I knew that if she was<i> <b>publicly</b></i> admitting<i> </i>to pushing her daughter and "hitting her on the arm", the odds were that she'd done much worse. Also,
WHERE THE F*CK IS THE DAD?? I'm pretty sure that child has half his DNA, so he needs to get his ass of the couch and do his part. Overall, I can't completely condemn this lady, because thank God she
had the courage to come onto national T.V. and admit to her feelings before she ended up possibly killing her child.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sort of feel like we're putting special needs parents like this in a
double bind. On the one hand, we want these parents to ASK FOR
HELP. We say it all the time. "If only s/he had <i>told someone!" </i>Or, "Holy crap, autism wrecks yet another family!" Then everybody nods and posts "heart" and "hug" emoticons. Someone else puts up a Facebook page in memory of the child. We hold virtual hands and sing "Kum-bay-ya" by the firelight. Then we snuggle deep into our covers, secure in the knowledge that <i style="font-weight: bold;">we </i>would never even consider that as an option. And if we have felt these emotions, we post about it, showing that<i> *we've been there*</i>.<br />
<br />
In <i>NO WAY</i> am I belittling or judging anyone who has done of the above. We all come here via different paths. I'm just pointing out a general trend as I've noticed it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
On the other hand, when these parents DO ask for help, knowing they will be judged, they find
themselves at the center of a public stoning. These parents, warts and all, let it be known that they have reached their limit. They somehow find the courage to express their innermost thoughts, fears, emotions, and personal stories, and in turn, we hurl invectives, pass judgement, and point fingers. If we want things to change...<i>really change,</i> we can't continue to send such
mixed messages to those of us who are, deep down, fighting the
very same fight we are. Not if we expect things to change for the better.<br />
<br />Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-39816002487193206612013-12-11T22:08:00.002-06:002014-06-27T03:56:11.259-05:00You never know what you're going to find at Goodwill, but whatever it is, somebody else didn't want it. With *BONUS* wine and scotch reviews.Several weeks ago, I bought a faboolous pale blonde mink coat for 29.99. This coat is swing-style, with a huge collar I can wear up. It goes nearly to my knees, and did I mention IT WAS IN PERFECT FREAKING CONDITION? I tried it on, and it was a perfect fit. I stuck my hands into the pockets (This is a very bad habit of mine. One day I'm going to get stuck with an AIDS needle, and I will have no one to blame but myself).<br />
<br />
Soo! In the right pocket, I found <i>the original receipt</i>, dated 1972! The husband paid $1233.75 for this mink coat. <b><i>IN 1972!!! </i></b>There were even receipts for <i>storage fees!</i> <i><b>This coat was taken care of</b></i>.<br />
<br />
The heavily embroidered silk lining was in perfect condition. I snapped it up in a heartbeat, and ripped the price tags off the second it was mine. I had a strong desire to wear it out of the store. I had decided that my combination of yoga pants, a Bob Marley thermal, and Sketchers would perfectly offset my new mink coat. I was pretty sure that movie stars wore furs with jeans and such.<br />
<br />
But. Just in case...<br />
<br />
<i>"Smell this. Does this smell bad? </i>I asked my 10 year old son. I shook the fur in question in his face. He inhaled deeply. Because he's a rube.<br />
<br />
<i>It smells fine. It smells like that place. </i>Here, he pointed a finger to the thrift store we had just recently exited. Ok, fine by me. I slipped the coat over my Bob Marley thermal and immediately felt The Swank.<br />
<br />
*sidenote* I have absolutely no sense of smell. None. Whatsoever. Never have. I can't smell babies, cookies, flowers, or my own child's personal scent.<br />
<br />
But....<br />
<br />
I also can't smell pig farms, dead skunks on the highway, farts, decomposing flesh, or my own child's shitty diapers.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure I'm winning.<br />
<br />
So, I dropped my son off at home with my teenage daughter, and then I drove to UFS...wait. What is UFS, you ask? ONLY THE BEST FREAKING PLACE IN THE WORLD, THAT'S ALL!! UFS stands for Unclaimed Freight Store. Basically, it's shit nobody signed for, or wanted. So they sell alcohol at ridiculously low prices (name brand alcohol, I might add), as well as flooring, tents, grills, snacks, curtains, and mini-fridges. There is also another UFS across the street that sells furniture, dishwashers, refrigerators, and ovens.<br />
<br />
The most important part about a Friday evening trip to UFS is making sure I'm there way before their 6pm closing time. I parked my car, stepped out, and sashayed in the automated doors. My mink coat swinging. The coat seemed to give me unnatural powers of speaking my mind, because once I found out that UFS was having it's bi-weekly wine/scotch tasting, I stepped right up. The wine girl asked which wine I wanted to try, and I said, <i>all of them</i>. It was cute how she pretended to think I was joking.<br />
<i><br /></i>
Then I meandered over to a table that had a bottle of Kahlua on it. But not just any bottle of Kahlua. This was a bottle of <i>PEPPERMINT MOCHA Kahlua! </i>So of course I had to talk out loud about this amazing occurrence. Which led to me being given several shots of Peppermint Mocha Kahlua. Then, I bought some cut-rate Little Debbie Snacks for my kids, the aforementioned Kahlua, and wine.<br />
<br />
So I'm pretty much rocking it as a parent.<br />
<br />Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-53124180725519789712013-11-03T19:14:00.002-06:002013-11-03T19:14:27.237-06:00Condoms. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! And, they're for marriage.Friday night, my 14-year-old daughter had 2 friends spend the night, and they were watching "Jersey Shore" reruns on Netflix. All of a sudden, the camera cut to an unopened condom on the bar floor. Here is the conversation that followed:<br />
<br />
<b>Friend #1</b>: That's a condom!<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> How do you KNOW THAT??? You're only 13!!<br />
<br />
<b>Friend #1</b>: _____ brought one to school last year and showed it to everyone...<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: OMG WHAT KIND OF SCHOOL DO YOU GO TO???<br />
<br />
<b>Friend #1</b>: He brought one to school in the 4th grade too. It's a pretty bad school.<br />
<br />
<b>DD</b>: BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!<br />
<br />
Then, from the dining room, where my 10-year-old autistic son (child #2) is on the computer.....<br />
<br />
<b>Child #2</b>: Oh, condoms? For some weird reason, THEY ARE ALL OVER MY PLAYGROUND! ALL OVER THE PLACE!<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: *choking* WHAAAT???<br />
<br />
<b>Child #2</b>: Yep. They look like balloons! And they're kind of white. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!!!<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: You don't...you don't...PICK THEM UP, DO YOU??<br />
<br />
<b>Child #2</b>: No. I asked, and somebody told me they're for marriage.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: YEP. TOTALLY! THEY ARE TOTALLY FOR MARRIAGE.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-66629535981974054072013-09-05T21:19:00.000-05:002013-09-05T21:19:00.739-05:00A day in the life.Today,<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"> I had some free time between clients, so I decided to go get my driver's license renewed. Except I wasn't wearing any makeup. Shit. What's a girl to do?</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Thinking....thinking.......</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">That's right. I drove to the ne</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;">arest Ulta and totally used all of their makeup to beautify myself for the stupid DMV photo. Except, in the process, I ended up purchasing $110 worth of makeup from Urban Decay. Which was exactly 3 items. And? I still wasn't able to renew my driver's license.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Well played, Ulta. Well played indeed.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Then I ran a bunch of errands, did a bunch of paperwork, and got home. Not 15 minutes had gone by before I heard my 10-year-old son Z, moaning helplessly for me, from the half-bath off the kitchen. Sometimes he needs to squeeze my hands when has to make a really big poop, so I obviously assumed this was the issue. I cracked my knuckles in preparation, and stepped into the bathroom.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">It wasn't a big poop. Instead I he was perched on the toilet, holding a piece of toilet paper on his left shin, looking up at me with mournful eyes. I was confused, but only for a second. Then I remembered his habit of picking/scratching at scabs and halfway healed cuts. Then this conversation happened:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Z: <i>*moaning* Mamaaa! Help me, I'm bleeding!</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>*sigh* You've been picking at a scab again, haven't you?</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Z: <i>I need a band aid quick! </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>*bigger sigh* Ok, hang on. Let me look for one....</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Z: <i> Owwww!! Ow Ow Owww!!!!</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>*eyeroll* Ok, here. I found one, let me put it on.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">At this point, Z began squealing in agony as he nimbly avoided allowing me to place the band aid on his cut. He is very wily, and his maneuverings required much dexterity on his part, considering that was still on the toilet.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>Dammit Z! Let me put the freaking band aid on you!</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Finally, he allowed me to tend to his cut, and I finished putting away the groceries, mistaken in my belief that we were done with the subject.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">But no, we were not.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">Z: <i>*still on the toilet* Do you want to know what really happened?</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">This gave me pause for thought, as I began to sense that this injury was not his run-of-the-mill picking injury.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>Sure.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Z:<i> I shaved my legs.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>*choking* You did WHAT??</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Z: <i>Yeah. I found a razor in the sink, so I shaved my leg when I was on the toilet.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>............</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">His sister happened to be in the kitchen at this point, and our eyes met in mutual understanding, compassion, and absolute f*cking hilarity. And totally silent laughter, because he's sensitive.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Poor Z.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Despite his sensitivity to to social faux-pas, Z was completely oblivious to the absolute silence following his announcement. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>Why????</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Z: <i>*calmly* Well, I wanted my legs to be all silky-soft and smooth, so I would have something nice to pet.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I should explain that Z is extremely sensory-seeking when it comes to petting soft things, and getting tight hugs. It's just part of the grab-bag that is my fabulous son.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Me: <i>Hmm.....well....I bet you know not to do that again.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Z: <i>But feel them! Feel my legs, didn't I do a great job? I mean, they're SO SOFT!!!</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">At this point, my 14-year-old daughter decided to join in the conversation. She knelt down (he's still on the toilet, remember), felt his legs, and remarked, <i>he really did do a good job Mom. You should feel them.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">So I leaned down and felt my 10-year-old son's legs. And it's true, they <i>were</i> silky smooth.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I nonchalantly grabbed the razor out of the bathroom sink, and tossed into the garbage. Just then, Z called out to me, <i>you should really hide those razors from me. I'm pretty sure I will want to do this again.</i></span></span><br />
<br />
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-48292271519956742862013-08-31T21:20:00.000-05:002013-08-31T21:20:19.920-05:00Minty green eggs sans ham, I met Shinedown, a broken wrist, and Happy Mother's Day!Tonight, I was scrolling through my unpublished blog posts, looking for something to post. Because I'm totally lazy like that. And I found this. Apparently I wrote it sometime in May.....<br />
<br />
Last year, for Mother's Day, my daughter made me green eggs, <i>sans </i>ham.<br />
<br />
I bet you're thinking that she colored them with the green food coloring in our pantry. You would be <i>WRONG</i>.<br />
<br />
She ignored the green food coloring, and instead used the <b><i>8-year-old peppermint extract</i></b> that she found <i>waaaay </i>back in the obscure cupboard that also contained 2 rotten potatoes and a bottle of alum I bought for a science experiment when she was in 1st grade. So....for Mother's Day 2012 I got a breakfast of potentially toxic minty eggs.<br />
<br />
Also? She and my son gave me a flower that "we pooled all of our money together for!" Awww, right? Except when I was looking for change in my wallet later that day, I discovered that my wallet was empty.<br />
<br />
Turns out I paid for my Mother's Day flower.<br />
<br />
Well played, children. Well played, indeed.<br />
<br />
<i><b>This year</b></i>, I decided to take Mother's Day into my own hands. Or hand, actually. Since I broke my wrist 4 days (May 2013) ago at a Shinedown concert.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eFNw0o_CLRk/UZBLJ-nnGGI/AAAAAAAABVI/aLK278MamRA/s1600/broken+wrist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eFNw0o_CLRk/UZBLJ-nnGGI/AAAAAAAABVI/aLK278MamRA/s320/broken+wrist.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>That's right. I AM the klutziest person you know.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
WHICH WAS AWESOME.<br />
<br />
The concert, not the breaking of my wrist. I saw Shinedown in Moline 2 months ago (February 2013), and it honestly was a much better venue than where I saw them Tuesday *cough*Springfield*cough*. Also, I had a broken wrist then.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uYnzq3ySkcQ/UZBMJthON4I/AAAAAAAABVU/IQqsgmJ80EU/s1600/broken2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uYnzq3ySkcQ/UZBMJthON4I/AAAAAAAABVU/IQqsgmJ80EU/s320/broken2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This was the 2nd of three casts I got on this wrist</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I break easily.<br />
<br />
<i>But</i> I got to meet the band, and they all gave me hugs! And Brent Smith <i>KISSED. MY. BROKEN. WRIST. </i><br />
<br />
*swoon*<br />
<br />Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-85079352248167341242013-07-27T20:34:00.000-05:002013-12-06T00:18:30.993-06:00Sometimes when you think you're getting The Bee Gees you actually end up with Bollywood. It happens, roll with it.<strike>Sometimes</strike> <strike>A lot of the time</strike> Most of the time, I like to go to thrift stores. As in, I pretty much meet the DSM-V criteria for an addict, only for thrift shops. And I've scored many a wonderful find, let me tell you. Like the time I bought a 1918 Rookwood Pottery piece hand painted by one of their A+ artists, for $1.98, and sold it on eBay for $405. Or the time I bought a Bakelite poker caddy for $5 at an auction, and sold it for $365. I'm just lucky, plus I have what some people call "The Eye." This is when you can walk into a room full of crap, and miraculously are drawn to the <i>ONE THING</i> that has any value whatsoever. I have that, and I really do count myself blessed. The money I've made selling those treasures has paid for school tuition, winter coats, and one <i>ABSOLUTELY AMAZING</i> Christmas. Also, for my divorce.<br />
<br />
But when I walked into the Goodwill last week, nothing prepared me for what was about to happen. Sure, I may have found a strand of gray baroque pearls set in sterling silver and 18k gold, with matching earrings, but the real magic happened when I was in the check-out lane, perusing the used CD's. That's when I saw a copy of the soundtrack to Saturday Night Live. Woohoo! I opened it up and checked for scratches, and when I saw it was in pristine condition I popped that sweet little baby into my cart.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qfgk4UXmpvc/UfRkPwgT_EI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/n33TcM-ss_U/s1600/saturday+night+fever+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qfgk4UXmpvc/UfRkPwgT_EI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/n33TcM-ss_U/s320/saturday+night+fever+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#WINNING</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
You know that moment when you open up your bag from the thrift store and think <i>Awesome! I'm gonna to listen to the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever, while I nuke a couple of hotdogs for the kid. I'M SO EXCITED! </i>Then you notice that the actual CD is called, "Check It Out!" and has a bunch of songs that are NOT sung by Barry Gibb or Yvonne Elliman? And then you look a little bit closer and see that the songs are called, <b><i>"Punjabi Party Mix"</i>,</b> and<i> <b>"It Was Wrong Mix"</b></i>, or even, <b>"<i>Don't Sample This Mix?"</i></b> And then you pop it in the CD player, just for Ha's, give it a listen, and....and.... that's when you realize <i>HOLY F*CKING SHITBALLS! I accidentally bought an Indian Punjabi dance mix!</i><br />
<br />
That just happened to me.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/vDolreuYdhA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: blue;">Oooh. They're at a discotheque!</span></i></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/iZ7dqAUcvwU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: blue;">I won't rape you until we're married. I PROMISE.</span></i></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/rHjh9lpcaAs?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: blue;"><span style="text-align: justify;"> Look! Now we're </span><span style="text-align: justify;">MARRIED!!!</span></span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to listen to my awesome Bollywood CD. <i>SO MANY TIMES.</i></div>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-9502352201781587002013-07-23T23:39:00.001-05:002013-07-23T23:39:44.999-05:00Just when you think you're done with word problems, YOU FIND OUT YOU'RE NEVER DONE WITH WORD PROBLEMS.My son has recently Discovered Time. Not time, as in, O<i>h hey, it's about 5:30. Time to start dinner. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
No. He has Discovered Time, as in, <i>It is exactly 4:31pm. How many seconds until dinner is ready?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Basically, he has turned into a Time Nazi. At the beginning of this phase, when he wanted to know what time it was, I would say something like, <i>Eh, it's around 5:30ish.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Which, if you've never encountered a Time Nazi, <i>is totally not the right answer.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The correct answer is, <i>It is exactly 5:28pm.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So now, when he asks for the time, I make him come to the kitchen and find that shit out himself.<br />
<br />
Tonight, on the way to our martial arts class, we ended up discussing how the rate of velocity affects what time you arrive at your destination. This conversation took place completely by accident, and I wish I was a Time Lord, and could go back in time to erase the concept of time, rate of velocity, and all related concepts from his young brain.<br />
<br />
But since I can't do that (legally), we ended up talking about how long it takes to drive a mile. Which is where the rate of velocity came in. Then he dropped it, and I thought <i>Well, that was easy. Maybe his obsessive nature is taking a backseat this summer. Woohoo!!!!</i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4NQM0Ycm_kk/Ue9Vg7VLAhI/AAAAAAAAC94/AkGFEHlp44Q/s1600/no.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4NQM0Ycm_kk/Ue9Vg7VLAhI/AAAAAAAAC94/AkGFEHlp44Q/s320/no.jpeg" width="259" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Tonight, as I was enjoying my 2nd glass of wine, my child posed a question. A question that let me know the idea of Time + Rate of Velocity <i>HAD NOT LEFT THE REALM OF HIS CONSCIOUSNESS.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The question was this:<br />
<br />
<i>If you are driving 59 miles per hour (please note that he did NOT round it up to 60mph. Because that would have been TOO EASY!), and the ocean is 100 miles away (We live in ILLINOIS), how long would it take you to get to the ocean?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Ok, I would like to take this moment to say, <i>WHAT THE F*CK???!! I thought I was done with word problems back in 6th grade. WTF kind of bizarre joke is the universe playing on me? I'm the Language Arts parent, his dad was the Math and Sciences parent!!! F*CK YOU, UNIVERSE!!!</i><br />
<br />
However....<i>HOWEVER, </i>I did not get to the age I am by being stupid. In fact, I am a firm believer in "work smart, not hard." So my first question to The Boy was this:<br />
<br />
<i>Do YOU know how long it will take me to get to the ocean?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
He said no. Just as I suspected.<br />
<br />
So I just made some shit up, I think I said something like, <i>Well, according to my calculations, it will take exactly 1 hour and 39 minutes to reach the ocean. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And everybody was happy.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-15775889204104444742013-07-13T21:08:00.001-05:002013-07-13T21:08:22.477-05:00Goats+tranquilizer darts = PURE WINBack story. My deceased ex-husband had a machete and a field-radio, both of which his grandfather brought back from WWII. My son is OBSESSED with the machete, which I've been wise enough to hide from him because....<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C_0BN5NmsP4/UeDpW2zKUAI/AAAAAAAAC4g/twttQz7YZo8/s1600/AINTNOBODY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C_0BN5NmsP4/UeDpW2zKUAI/AAAAAAAAC4g/twttQz7YZo8/s1600/AINTNOBODY.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Most of the time, Zach forgets about the machete's existence. And then there are days like today, right after I dropped his sister off at tutoring:<br />
<div>
<br />
Z: When I grow up, I can use my machete to cut throught the jungle underbrush, right?<br />
<br />
Me: We live in Illinois. There <i>is</i> no jungle underbrush.<br />
<br />
Z: But just in case, I could, <i>right?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*I have already hidden all sharp knives, scissors, box cutters, and razor blades from this child. Primarily because he has <b>no concept</b> of his own mortality.</i><br />
<br />
Me: Probably not. You don't need a weapon.<br />
<br />
Z: Well, then I'll get a gun! When I'm older you can't tell me what to do, and so I'm going to get a gun. Not to kill anyone, though.<br />
<br />
Me: So what are you going to use it for?<br />
<br />
Z:<i> </i>Hunting.</div>
<div>
<br />
<i>*My son is a big softie, and would never harm or kill an animal. Unless it's a rollypoly. And even then, those were accidental deaths.</i><br />
<br />
Me: You know that means you'd have to actually <i>kill</i> an animal, right?<br />
<br />
Z: I would only hunt ducks. Because they're kind of ugly.<br />
<br />
Me: Ok, except after you kill the duck, you have to rip out it's feathers and take out it's insides. Then you have to eat it.<br />
<br />
Z: <i>*completely aghast*</i> Is that a <i>rule</i>?<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Me: Well, yeah. You can't just kill an animal and leave it to rot. You have to eat whatever you kill.<br />
<br />
Z: <i>*thinking*</i> I know! I'll only shoot <i>GOATS.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Me: And then you'll eat them?<br />
<br />
Z: Oh, I forgot. Do people eat goats?<br />
<br />
Me: <strike>Uncle Asshat ate curried goat in Jamaica, remember?</strike> Some people do.<br />
<br />
Z: Oh yeah! Remember that episode of The World's Biggest Cheapskates? That guy ate a goat head. He even ate its <i>EYEBALLS!!!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Me: *sigh*<br />
<br />
Z: Ok, how's this idea. I'll only shoot the goats with tranquilizer darts. Then I'll sell the goats to farmers. It's a win-win, right?<br />
<i><br /></i>
Me: .......<br />
<br />
Z: Seriously Mom, I'm going to make a <i>TON </i>of money.</div>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-56831342157891150782013-07-06T00:30:00.002-05:002014-07-30T20:54:58.721-05:00Because nothing tastes better than a grilled chicken with a can of beer shoved up its ass.Tonight the kids and I spent the day with my best friend, her 2 kids (who are friends with my 2 kids), and her husband. K and I drank margaritas, the kids swam, and her amazing husband grilled ribs and 2 chickens. It was amazeballs. So good.<br />
<br />
K's husband cooked something called, "Beer-Butt Chicken", and I've never had chicken that was so juicy and yummy in my life.<br />
<br />
If you've never had (or heard of) Beer-Butt Chicken, then you've come to the right place, because I'm going to tell you how it's done.<br />
<br />
1. Buy a whole chicken<br />
2. Rinse it<br />
3. Heat your grill to 350 degrees<br />
4. Open a can of beer<br />
5. While holding the chicken vertically, shove the can of beer up the chicken's asshole<br />
6. Open another can of beer<br />
7. Drink this beer in an attempt to forget the fact that you just anally assaulted a dead chicken<br />
8. Use toothpicks to hold the skin together at the neck<br />
9. Set the chicken, ass side down, on your grill<br />
10. Shut the grill lid<br />
10. Walk away for 1.5 hours<br />
11. Use kitchen shears to cut the chicken open, because that beer can is going to be HOT<br />
12. Eat that ish<br />
13. Go to the store and buy your wife and her friend more margaritas<br />
14. Clean up after dinner while your wife and her friend drink<br />
15. Do some laundry<br />
<br />
Ok, 14-15 are optional, but that's what K's husband did. I'm pretty sure it made the chicken taste better.<br />
<br />
13 is NOT optional, however K's husband seemed to feel that it was, so we got no more margaritas. :(Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-81625472542826449962013-06-17T22:32:00.002-05:002013-06-17T23:19:48.419-05:00Happy belated Father's Day to all the single Mommas out there. Doing it on the daily.Yesterday, I drove my daughter to camp. It's a 6 day camp, and they aren't allowed cell-phones, ipods, or any other means of electronic communication.<br />
<br />
So for the next 6 days, it's just me and the boy. This is what our first day alone sounded like:<br />
<br />
6:43am - <i>MOOOOMMMM!!! Waaakkke upppppp!!!!!!</i><br />
<br />
6:44am - Can we have pancakes for dinner?<br />
<br />
6:59am - Can we have pancakes for dinner?<br />
<br />
7:16am - Can we have pancakes for dinner??<br />
<br />
8:51am - Can we have pancakes for dinner????<br />
<br />
9:32am - Mom? MOM! When are you going to wake up? Guess what?? I found an experiment online...<i>for ice cream!!! </i>It called for, um....milk....and vanilla...and, um...a cup of sugar...and some, um...cocoa powder...and salt.<br />
<br />
9:33am - Can we have pancakes for dinner?<br />
<br />
9: 54am - I come downstairs. The kitchen floor is covered in a fine dusting of sugar, cocoa powder, and salt. Also? There's a huge puddle of milk by the garbage can.<br />
<i><br /></i>
9:55am - I cry a little.<br />
<br />
9:56am - I set my alarm for 6am tomorrow morning<br />
<br />
10:59am - Z informs me that the biggest decision he will ever make is finding the right woman to be his wife.<br />
<br />
11:00am - I totally fall in love with my son, all over again.<br />
<br />
11:06am - Z tells me that his future wife should: like food, not be <i>"too large", </i>have a good sense of humor, be fit but "not stronger than me", kind, smart but "not geeky smart, 'cause then she'll say, "there's no time for love!!!", love to snuggle, love to cuddle, like video games, like to wrestle, and be kind. Not once does he say, "she should be pretty/beautiful/attractive."<br />
<br />
11:07am - Z tells me that "a person can <i>look</i> nice on the outside, but still be ugly on the inside."<br />
<br />
11:08am - I consider my job as a parent well done.<br />
<br />
11:59am - Can we have pancakes for dinner????<br />
<br />
1:47pm - He begins to assemble the ingredients needed for pancakes. Three hours before dinnertime.<br />
<br />
5:12pm - Guess how high I can pull my lip up over my nose!<br />
<br />
5:13pm - Mom, you weren't looking! Watch me pull my lip over my nose! I saw a show with a man who could pull his lip <i>ALL THE WAY OVER HIS NOSE!!!! </i><br />
<br />
5:40pm - Mom, look! I can touch the top of my head with my foot! Watch!<br />
<br />
5:41pm - Wait, that wasn't right. Look now!<br />
<br />
5:43pm - Ok, <i>now</i> I'm ready. Watch!!!<br />
<br />
6:01pm - Look how fast I can run from the stove to the couch! No, you're NOT LOOKING! Look!<br />
<br />
6:05pm - Mom? Are the pancakes ready yet? Can I flip them? That's my superpower, you know. Flipping pancakes.<br />
<br />
6:06pm - Is it time to flip the pancakes yet?<br />
<br />
6:08pm - Yaaay! Time to flip the pancakes!!!!!<br />
<br />
6:14pm - Mom! Look!!! I made a pancake taco!<br />
<br />
7:32pm - Mom! I can kiss my own toe! Wanna see how flexible I am? Watch, I can kiss my own toe!!!!<br />
<br />
8:03pm - I come to the realization that this family is supposed to be made up of THREE people, one of whom is having a<i> fine time</i> at camp while the other two-thirds are struggling. Struggling with patience and fine motor skills.<br />
<br />
8:41pm - Mom! I'm going to wrestle with the couch pillows! Is that ok?<br />
<br />
9:04pm - I have to poop. Will you come upstairs with me? I'm not scared, you know. I just like company while I poop.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>This post is dedicated to all the single mommas out there. Taking it as it comes, rolling with the changes, thinking fast, acting faster, and never letting that bitch called life get you down.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>You rock.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-56255842648709209302012-12-26T23:18:00.000-06:002014-07-14T21:07:25.412-05:00LitĀ·erĀ·al; /ĖlitÉrÉl/ :Taking words in their usual or most basic sense without metaphor or allegory. Also, if intestines were awesome, he would be full of awesome. Literally.Two nights ago, my 11-year-old son brought me an unopened bag of Idontknowwhat and said, <em>Mama? What is this?, </em>I glanced over and realized: 1. I'd forgotten the name of the stuff, and 2. I couldn't tell him <em>oh, this? This is the</em> <em>stuff Mama bought to flush down the toilet, to break up the massive poops everybody in this house has recently been experiencing, along with the softball mitt sized wads of toilet paper you still insist on throwning in and flushing down the toilet.</em><br />
<br />
He really wanted an answer, but I was really busy <strike>getting drunk and clicking the "add to cart" button</strike> with some last-minute shopping, so I just said, <em>Mommy's busy sweetie, what does the bag say?</em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-62ujsElTk1g/UNvX6BxoYhI/AAAAAAAAA9s/ePt8yl921_U/s1600/drano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-62ujsElTk1g/UNvX6BxoYhI/AAAAAAAAA9s/ePt8yl921_U/s320/drano.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
At this point, I expected a one-word, <em>maybe </em>two-word answer. What I got was this:<br />
<br />
<em>"Hmm....it says New Drano Advanced Septic Treatment....Breaks down solid waste, paper, oil, grease and protein. Works safely in all tanks and pipes....Just drop and flush..three no mess pouches...1 pouch per month equals 3 months of care... Caution: harmful if swallowed: eye irritant. Read back panel carefully.....SC Johnson...A family company."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Then he looked at me and said, S<em>o what is this? </em><br />
<em></em><br />
That's <em>LITERAL, </em>yo.<br />
<br />Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-35869466830521430332012-11-26T07:00:00.000-06:002012-12-22T22:18:51.698-06:00When an obsessive need meets a brilliant ADHD moment, it's a beautiful thing.I like to brush my teeth. Wait, let me jump back. I have an <em>OBSESSIVE</em> need to brush my teeth. Several times a day. Twice in the morning upon wakening, once after my mid-morning coffee binge, once before lunch, once after lunch, once after I get home from work, once before dinner and once before bed. <br />
<br />
Is that weird?<br />
<br />
I already know this habit goes back to my eating disordered days. I hated having the taste of food in my mouth. I wanted a fresh, clean, minty mouth at all times. <br />
<br />
I overcame anorexia, but the need to have a sharp, shiny-clean mouth has lingered. Which made this morning very difficult, as I ran out of toothpaste and everyone <em>knows </em>you can't have your morning coffee before you've brush your teeth twice. Because your nasty morning breath will interfere with the heavenly flavor of your Starbucks Venti iced coffee with 3 pumps of mocha. Amiright? Of course I am, <em>it's my blog.</em><br />
<br />
So you can probably imagine my horror when, upon dragging my ass to the <strike>bathroom</strike> kitchen sink last weekend, I discovered that my tube was completely and utterly used up. <br />
<br />
At first I was like, <em>no biggie, I'm sure I picked up some extra tubes the last time I was at the store. </em>Because that's what I do. I stock up on toothpaste and extra toothbrushes the way...well, the way somebody addicted to something stocks up on that thing. Not that I'm addicted to brushing my teeth. I'm sure that any of my co-workers would be willing to vouch that they have <em>never </em>seen me walking down the hallway to the bathroom with a toothbrush sticking out of my mouth. <br />
<br />
But when I checked my super-secret new toothpaste/toothbrush hidey-hole (What's that you say? You don't have one? Well, you should. Just in case the Rapture/Zombie Apocolypse/your Mother-in-Law comes to town), I found, to my horror, <em>I had no toothpaste! </em><br />
<br />
And that's when shit got real, yo. <br />
<br />
So I did what any normal person would do when faced with a lack of toothpaste on a lazy weekend morning. What's that, you say? Run to the local Walgreens? Pshht! Not before I'd had my coffee, which I couldn't have because <em>I couldn't</em> <em>brush my teeth. </em><br />
<br />
This is what I did instead:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Dk6OA-2IR0/ULBmkdWWJOI/AAAAAAAAA88/NPDcKGV6QCo/s1600/20120729_125850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Dk6OA-2IR0/ULBmkdWWJOI/AAAAAAAAA88/NPDcKGV6QCo/s320/20120729_125850.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haha. It only <em>looks </em>empty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span id="goog_1769193935"></span><span id="goog_1769193936"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FLBoLFUi4Jg/ULBoBKwbvAI/AAAAAAAAA9E/w2l8KXxfdnQ/s1600/20120729_130016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FLBoLFUi4Jg/ULBoBKwbvAI/AAAAAAAAA9E/w2l8KXxfdnQ/s320/20120729_130016.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ta-Da! Toothpaste for another week. At<em> least.</em><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-80850221011524979992012-11-24T00:14:00.001-06:002022-12-03T21:01:28.659-06:00Why I take medication.1. 6:20pm - Decide that you will use the leftover roast chicken from yesterday to make white chili. <em>YUM!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
2. 6:45pm - Realize that you and your family won't be able to enjoy this feast without tortilla chips.<br />
<br />
3. 6:47pm - Leave the chili on low (it needs to simmer for 15 minutes, you'll be back <em>waayyy</em> before then) and instruct your children not to kill each other while you're gone. They promise they will do their best, and that's good enough for you.<br />
<br />
4. 6:48pm - Halfway down your street, realize that you would really like hair extensions. Tonight.<br />
<br />
5. 6:49pm - Turn left towards Sally Beauty Supply, instead of right, towards the local market.<br />
<br />
6. 6:49-7:05pm - Spend 15 minutes talking to Ruth, at Sally Beauty, about hair extensions, and the difference between fusion and clip extensions. End your visit with a bag of hair and a thingy that gets <em>SUPER HOT. </em>Later you will use this device to semi-permanently glue pieces of hair to your head. You don't see a problem with this, in fact, you think it's really neat.
Ruth tells you that you will need 5 packages of hair, but she only has 3 packages in your color. You decide Ruth is full of shit, and you know that 3 packages of hair will be just perfect. Ruth reminds you that hair is non-returnable. <em>Pfft, whatever.</em><br />
<br />
7. 7:10- Arrive home with your bag of hair and a giant bag of Tostitos. Your children are in the process of killing each other. <br />
<br />
8. 7:11pm-Scrape the burnt chili off the bottom of the pan. Feed it to the kids anyway.<br />
<br />
9. 8:00pm - Hustle the kids into bed so you can...<em> Do. Your. Hair!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
10. 8:05pm - Pour yourself a glass of wine. You deserve it!<br />
<em></em><br />
10. 8:10pm - Wash and dry your hair. You notice that it's never looked this silky and shiny before. You ignore this ominous warning, and proceed to hot-glue strands of some stranger's hair to your head. You wonder if the hair was harvested from dead people. Because the package says, <em>"Human hair."</em> It <em><strong>doesn't</strong> </em>say, <em>"Human hair from a living person."</em> <br />
<br />
11. 8:15pm - Realize this was a huge mistake. But the hair is non-refundable, so you decide to keep going. You've never been a quitter, and you aren't going to start now.<br />
<br />
12. 8:23pm - You now have 14 strands of 12 inch long hair glued to the lower half of your head. This is not what you had pictured. You have some wine.<br />
<br />
13. 8:25pm - You recall the lady at Sally Beauty telling you about a chemical that disolves the glue. Something that has acetone in it. She also warned you not to use products that had animal fat in them.<br />
<br />
14. 8:28pm - You find yourself frantically rubbing at your hair with cotton balls soaked in nail polish. It doesn't work.<br />
<br />
15. 8:31 - You seriously consider rubbing a pork chop into your hair. <br />
<br />
16. 8:35pm - You decide that a hot shower is what you need. The lady at Sally warned you not to take hot showers, or the extentions would come out. You glop on 2 different kinds of conditioner, hoping that one of them contains some form of animal fat. But? The top of your hair looks <em>AWESOME</em><br />
<br />
17. 8:41pm - You now have massive tangles in your hair, held in place by stiff, wet hair glue.<br />
<br />
18. 8:45 - <span dir="auto">AprĆØs-</span>shower, you pry the lid off of your stick of Secret, and suddenly a huge lump of deoderant flies off, only to land in your glass of wine. Of which you have only had one sip. <br />
<br />
19. 8:45:14 - <em>FUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
20. 8:48 - You attempt to comb through your hair, but it's no good. The lower half of your hair is now a huge mass of sticky tangles. And there's no more wine. You decide to put the top half of your hair in a huge clip, to keep it away from what you now call, "The Unspeakable."<br />
<br />
21. 9:00pm - You're already in your pajamas, but so what. You slip your longish black coat over your blue satin striped pajamas. It's cold outside, so you decide to wear your Tamara Henriques striped Wellingtons. The Palistinian guys who run the liquor store aren't going to judge you. In fact, you have an agreement with them. In exchange for them always keeping a cold bottle of your favorite chardonnay on hand, you simply grab a bottle off the shelf, walk into the cooler and exchange it for the chilled bottle you put there several days ago. <em>Yes, you're doing their work for them, but your favorite chardonnay, always chilled? <strong>WIN.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7P3Qg3XXotM/ULBg33yJ0YI/AAAAAAAAA8s/uRmmig6824g/s1600/boots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7P3Qg3XXotM/ULBg33yJ0YI/AAAAAAAAA8s/uRmmig6824g/s320/boots.jpg" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">9:14pm - They totally judge you. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
22. 9:20pm - You arrive home with your chilled bottle of wine, and decide that a low ponytail is always in style. Time for burnt chili and a movie.<br />
<br />
<em>And <strong>this</strong> is why I take medication.</em>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-18571364421129659092012-07-22T00:35:00.000-05:002014-07-30T21:09:51.451-05:00Stuff ADHD people like, part II haven't blogged in FOR<em>EVAH, </em>because I couldn't think of anything funny/witty/poignant, or simply entertaining to write about. Except for that one thing that happened two weeks ago, but I'm not going to blog about that, because I know some gossipy beyotches, and I didn't feel like having my family be the topic of the monthly get-togethers. Again.<br />
<br />
<em>BOOYAH! </em><br />
<br />
But tonight I had a flash of inspiration. You all know I'm diagnosed with a <em>RAGING </em>case of ADHD, but tonight I realized that not all of you may know what that means. So for your edification, I present:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>SHIT THAT ADHD PEOPLE LIKE</u></div>
<br />
(I couldn't put the word "shit" in my title, because I have this agreement with BlogHer that I won't put curse words in my title). Everyone on BlogHer has the same agreement. So, no, I <em>wasn't</em> singled out, no matter what that bitch <a href="http://yeahgoodtimes.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Jillsmo</a> has been spreading around.<br />
<br />
1. Gadgets. More specifically, anything that promises to make our lives easier, or simply more fun, as we are easily bored and often gullible. These objects are initially sold via infomercial between 2-4am, and then end up on the shelves of Walmart in boxes marked "As Seen On TV!". <br />
<br />
These include: Seal-A-Meal (own it), Ginsu knives (own one), Pro-Active (bought it once), Didi-7 Stain Remover (this shit WORKS!), those flashlights you have to shake to get them to work (bought one, but now I can't find it. The Boy probably has it), The Slap-Chop (America's Food Chopper), Pasta Boat (Cooks, Drains, Steams & Stores!), The Touch N Brush Hands-Free Toothpaste Dispenser (Z used to beg me to buy one, but I knew I would end up with nothing but a bathroom counter full of toothpaste, and anger in my heart), the Roomba (I WISH! Have you SEEN those awesome cat videos???) and The Perfect Tortilla Pan Set (I'm not stupid, I know how to fold a tortilla), just to name a few. <br />
<br />
2. Things that you can put other things inside of. Stacking baskets, food storage containers, 5-foot-tall wine racks in the shape of an exotic fish, floor lamps that double as CD holders and desks with <em>lots and lots </em>of cubbies and drawers are a few examples. This is because we are usually a hot mess in the area of housekeeping, and anything that promises to consolidate space is <em>AWESOME.</em><br />
<br />
3. <em>AHMAHGAHDSHINYTHINGS!!! </em>Jewelry, glassware, mirrors, picture frames, pottery, pretty dresses, <em>shoes</em>, belts with Swarovski crystal belt buckles, purses, gel pens, stainless steel refrigerators, sparkly nail polish, fancy grills, ceiling fans, perfume bottles and KitchenAid stand mixers.<br />
<br />
4. Books and magazines that promise to help us get our homes and lives in order. Once, I read a magazine called "Real Simple" and got the idea to safety pin my kids' socks together so I didn't have to bother matching them. I immediately subscribed to it, because <em>hello??!!! </em>Genius time saving ideas here, people! I've been getting it for 11 months now and I've never opened it. Ever. It sits on my counter for about 4 months and I end up throwing it away because another book I bought called, "How to Clean Your House Without Really Cleaning" said to throw away anything I hadn't used in the past 3 months. <br />
<br />
5. Cell phones, video cameras, actual cameras, iPods, tablets, notebooks, Nooks, chronograph watches, Kindles, GPS devices, fancy pedometers, pens that light up when we write with them, and digital meat thermometers. Because we like buttons, <em>yo</em>.<br />
<br />
6. TV shows about people who are bigger messes than we are, such as: My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding, 16 and Pregnant, Hoarders, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, and Cops. As long as they are an hour or less, with lots of commercial breaks. Because that's when we get on ebay and order cameras with lots of buttons, new facial creams, Shark steam mops and iPods with more space for all the music we download from iTunes.<br />
<br />
7. Other people with ADHD. You may not even <em>know</em> you have ADHD, or ADHD traits. BUT! We will sniff you out like a monkey on a banana plantation.<br />
<br />
8. Monkeys.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-70222822391207437802012-04-08T19:28:00.000-05:002019-03-12T00:04:36.140-05:00About the time I killed the Easter Bunny*When I was little, my parents would ship me off to my grandparent's farm in Astoria for the week leading up to Easter, every year, without fail. It was cool because Mom would put me on the Greyhound bus and wave goodbye. I always used to fantasize that I'd end up in New York and possibly become a famous model or actress, known for my shiny hair and awesome dance moves. But no, I always ended up in Astoria, population 1,193.<br />
<br />
I should let you know, many traumatic events occurred over the years during my Easter weeks on the farm. Like...LOTS. I got my first period, killed the Easter Bunny, and inadvertently cause the death of several baby chicks, to name a few.<br />
<br />
I killed the Easter Bunny when I was 8 years old, which is a very impressionable age, my psychiatrist tells me. A time when great psychological good, or GREAT PSYCHOLOGICAL HARM can take place. It was a balmy April evening, as I recall. Two days before Easter, so I guess it would have been Good Friday. <br />
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br />
My grandparents and I were finishing up our weenie roast, and I had just eaten the last of the toasted marshmallows (sugar was my crack). Euphoric from my sugar high, and momentarily distracted by a bird flying overhead, I wandered off and came upon a nest of two baby rabbits.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BrmkKzDhxKo/T34_OSPiFOI/AAAAAAAAA5I/BMd6Z4vmcM8/s1600/easterbunny.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BrmkKzDhxKo/T34_OSPiFOI/AAAAAAAAA5I/BMd6Z4vmcM8/s320/easterbunny.png" width="302" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="border: currentColor;">
<br />
THEY WERE SOOOOO CUTE!!!! THEY WERE ALL BROWN AND FURRY AND, LIKE, SO SOFT AND THEIR EYES WEREN'T OPEN YET AND O.M.G!!!! I TOTALLY WANTED TO PICK ONE UP AND HUG IT AND SQUEEZE IT AND JUST LOVE IT FOREVER!!!!!</div>
<br />
I quickly ran back and told my grandparents what I had discovered, and asked if I could have one of the bunnies. At that point my Grandma Josephine told me in her Very Serious Voice that I was not to touch the bunnies, EVER!!! Because if I did, their mother would know what I had done, and she would let them die. And then they would be dead. FOREVER. Because of me. <br />
<br />
<em>*GASP!*</em> <script src="https://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1">
<em>
</em>
</script> <em> For realsies??</em> <br />
<br />
Me: "Can I just pet one?"<br />
<br />
Grandma: "No!" <br />
<br />
Me: "Please???"<br />
<br />
Grandma: "NO!"<br />
<br />
Me: "PUHLEEEAAAZZZZEEEE????"<br />
<br />
Grandma: "I said no and I meant NO!! Now get up into the house right now, and I better not catch you messing with those rabbits!"<br />
<br />
As I trudged reluctantly up to the farmhouse, Grandma called after me, "And remember! The Easter Bunny's WATCHING YOU!"<br />
<br />
I seriously doubted that.<br />
<br />
Later that night, while Grandpa and Grandma were watching Hee-Haw, I snuck out to the bunnies nest. There they were, all snuggled up, so cute and cuddly! One of them opened his eye and winked at me, as if to say "It's ok, you can pick us up. Your grandma doesn't know what she's talking about, and we're not talking. Promise!"<br />
<br />
I looked around the woods. I saw no mama bunny, but she could be hiding behind a tree, waiting to attack me.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbIbJUR2qnw/TMDbvMJNvRI/AAAAAAAAAAs/jGM-JOC3Vyw/s1600/mad+mama+bunny.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" nx="true" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbIbJUR2qnw/TMDbvMJNvRI/AAAAAAAAAAs/jGM-JOC3Vyw/s320/mad+mama+bunny.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Shut up. I had a very vivid imagination.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There was nothing to do but just pick one up. I grabbed the baby bunny closest to me and picked him up ever so gently. He was so cute and soft. I named him Henry. Henry and I cuddled for close to an hour, until Grandma called me back to the house. I put Henry back in his nest, swore him to secrecy and promised to come back the next day.<br />
<br />
The next day was Saturday, and I could hardly wait to finish breakfast and go visit Henry. I ultimately planned on sneaking him back to Peoria in my suitcase, but he and I would discuss that later. I had to take his wishes into consideration, after all. And a trailer court might not be the best place to raise a rabbit. Some crazy drunken neighbor might kill him and eat him for dinner one night. I had much thinking to do.<br />
<br />
I ran to the woods, and stopped short. My brain seemed to be short-circuiting. There was Henry's nest. But where was Henry's brother/sister? And where was his mother? And why was Henry laying there alone, ever so stiff and motionless? Almost as if he were...<em>GASP!!! </em><br />
<br />
I was dimly aware that Henry had passed on, but I had to make an attempt to save him. I had seen CPR performed on <em>Emergency! </em>and I had the basics down. But my love for Henry only went so far. I ended up waving the copy of <u>Little Women</u> I had brought along to read to him in his face, hoping that the air I circulated would somehow make its way to his lungs, thus reviving him. No good, Henry was a goner.<br />
<br />
I then turned my mind to the next problem at hand. <br />
<br />
My Grandma Josephine was going to beat my ass. <br />
<br />
Of this I had no doubt. She had never spanked me in my whole life, but I'd never<em> killed</em> anything before either. I felt bad for Henry, but I felt worse for myself. Because of the ass-beating I was sure to get. It never occured to me to just walk away and play dumb, which would have been the best solution, looking back.<br />
<br />
But instead I scooped up Henry and took him to the house. Grandma heard me wailing before I even got to the front yard, and she met me on the porch. <br />
<br />
Grandma: "<em>Well</em>. What have we here, Child?"<br />
<br />
Me (sobbing): It's one of th-th-the bunnies I saw last night!"<br />
<br />
Grandma: "Uh-huh, I see that. And he's dead, isn't he?"<br />
<br />
Me: "<em>YES!!!!"</em><br />
<br />
Grandma: "Did you go and pick that bunny up after I told you not to?"<br />
<br />
Me: "<em>BWAAAAAAA!!!!!"</em><br />
<br />
But the worst was yet to come. My Grandma didn't spank me. She did worse. MUCH WORSE.<br />
<br />
Grandma: "Well. You know what you've gone and done, don't you?"<br />
<br />
Me (whimpering): "No."<br />
<br />
Grandma: "Well, you've gone and killed the <em>EASTER BUNNY!!!"</em><br />
<br />
Me: "<em>NOOOOO!!!!"</em><br />
<br />
Grandma: "That's right. Now, tomorrow morning, every little boy and girl <em>in the entire world</em> will NOT get their Easter baskets, all because of you. Not even in <em>France</em>."<br />
<br />
Me: *sobbing*<br />
<br />
Grandma: "Now. You wait right here, and don't bring that thing in the house. I'll be right back."<br />
<br />
Ignoring the fact that my grandma had just called Henry a "thing", I pondered my situation. I hadn't believed in the Easter bunny since last year, when I found my Easter basket while searching for the Girl Scout cookies in my mom's closet. I knew my mom had put this year's basket in my suitcase, I'd checked the second she'd left me alone with it. So did this mean I wouldn't get <em>my</em> basket? The one my very own <em>Mother</em> had sent with me? The one she <em>wanted</em> me to have? This was serious. But not as serious as what was to come. Because my grandma had a surprise in store for me.<br />
<br />
Grandma came out of the house, carrying a big silver spoon and a brown shoe box. <br />
<br />
Grandma: "Well, it's only fitting that since <em>you</em> killed the Easter Bunny, <em>you</em> should be the one to bury him. So you take this box, and this spoon, and you dig him a nice grave out back. And don't you come back until you're done."<br />
<br />
At this, she turned her back on me and slammed the screen door after her. I was left alone. With Henry, a big spoon, and a shoe box. I sighed and made my way to the backyard.<br />
<br />
And so I buried Henry underneath an old oak tree, told him I was very sorry I'd killed him and promised not to touch and/or kill any more animals. This promise was actually held until the very unfortunate "baby chick stampede of 1975".<br />
<br />
Now, about my grandma. My grandma Josephine totally ROCKED. Now that I'm older and wiser, I realize she had a great respect for life in all it's forms (she just didn't want it in her dining room). She may have been a <em>wee</em> bit harsh, but it's a lesson I never forgot.<br />
<br />
Don't F*ck With Mother Nature.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbIbJUR2qnw/TMD0WtAi0uI/AAAAAAAAAA0/lW3JCereFVs/s1600/henry's+grave.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" nx="true" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbIbJUR2qnw/TMD0WtAi0uI/AAAAAAAAAA0/lW3JCereFVs/s320/henry's+grave.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-48287916425042891182012-03-24T15:17:00.008-05:002014-08-29T22:07:03.336-05:00What? Your mom didn't draw pictures of sex parts for you when she gave you The Talk on a cold and rainy November afternoon in 1978? Weird.Women, think back to when your mom had The Talk with you. Hopefully your mom, or someone, had The Talk with you. If not, email me, I can maybe help. If you don't know what The Talk is, go to bed, it's way past your bedtime. <br />
<br />
I'm going to tell you about the time my mom had The Talk <strike>at me</strike> with me. There are three things you need to know about this encounter:<br />
<br />
1. It was waaay too late. <em>I grew up in a trailer court. <strong>And</strong> went to summer camp.</em><br />
2. She drew pictures. <em>Vivid, vivid pictures.</em><br />
3. Don't <em>ever</em> draw pictures when/if you have The Talk with your own daughter/neice/granddaughter, etc. <em>Unless you want your daughter to someday write about it on her blog. Then, by all means, draw away.</em><br />
<br />
It was a cold and rainy sunday afternoon in November. I was sketching Holly Hobby on my brand new sketch/watercolor pad, and the year was 1978. Nearly every girl in 1978 was obsessed with: Holly Hobby, Laura Ingalls, Gunne Sax, or a combination of the three. In fact, I'm hanging out in my pink and white Gunne Sax prairie dress right now.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V5mHw94jlss/TZFIHvyG8KI/AAAAAAAAAN0/nMOzEaIVG5E/s1600/dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V5mHw94jlss/TZFIHvyG8KI/AAAAAAAAAN0/nMOzEaIVG5E/s320/dress.jpg" height="320" r6="true" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Jealous much?</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anyway, there I was, 11 years old and happily drawing Holly Hobby. I didn't ask for what came next, I didn't expect it, and years of expensive therapy have yet to erase it from my fragile psyche.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Mom: "Y! Come out to the kitchen, will you? Oh, and bring your drawing pad with you."<br />
<br />
<em>That's right. I supplied the materials for my own traumatization.</em><br />
<br />
Me: "Ok mom!" <br />
<br />
We sat down at the kitchen table, and my mom immediately asked, "Honey, do you know how babies are made?"<br />
<br />
<em>Ok, this was a loaded question. If I answered yes then I would be in trouble for knowing stuff I shouldn't. However, if I answered no, then I was going to get The Talk. Lose-Lose. Crap. I rolled the mental dice and came up with...</em><br />
<br />
Me: Um....do <em>you</em>?<br />
<br />
See? Sometimes it's savvy to answer a question with a question. <br />
<br />
In this case, however, it was<em> not</em>, because my mom apparently then felt the need to prove that <em>yes, she did know how babies were made.</em><br />
<br />
Mom grabbed my pad of drawing paper and took the pencil from my limp hand. She quickly began sketching and no amount of "Whatcha doing there mom?" convinced her to show me what she was drawing. Finally, she set my pencil down and triumphantly showed me this:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-INaUYHTb8rU/TZFGjp1VDSI/AAAAAAAAANs/Jc6hcoggByU/s1600/penis.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-INaUYHTb8rU/TZFGjp1VDSI/AAAAAAAAANs/Jc6hcoggByU/s320/penis.png" height="320" r6="true" width="289" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Ta-DA!!</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
That's right. My mom drew a wanker. With hair. Oh, but she wasn't finished. Before I could swallow the vomit rising in my throat, my <strike>tormenter</strike> mom snatched back the pad of paper and drew this masterpiece:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XDuGpkOchOI/TZFHPys39dI/AAAAAAAAANw/S-YgS3U_lr4/s1600/vag.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XDuGpkOchOI/TZFHPys39dI/AAAAAAAAANw/S-YgS3U_lr4/s320/vag.png" height="301" r6="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>My mom apparently attended the Georgia O'Keefe school of drawing sex parts</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My jaw dropped in shock. My mother had just, in my mind, shown me pornography. I rapidly sorted through the list of appropriate responses in my mind. I came up with: <em>"Ohhh! It's a bomb pop!", "Is it a sea anemone</em><em>?" and even, "That's a flower, right?" </em><br />
<br />
I could tell she was <strike>carefully watching me for signs of unease</strike> completely oblivious to my traumatized expression.<br />
She <strike>gave me a few minutes to gather my thoughts</strike> labeled the penis and vagina as "exhibit A" and "exhibit B". She explained how they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She told me what came out of "exhibit A" (ewww). Then she drew a picture of this substance:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1sCwcUtKknQ/TZFKN1V8IBI/AAAAAAAAAN8/JkK6AAy3cSc/s1600/sperm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1sCwcUtKknQ/TZFKN1V8IBI/AAAAAAAAAN8/JkK6AAy3cSc/s320/sperm.png" height="202" r6="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Bestest. Easter. Egg. Hunt. Ever.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
She explained that there could be only one winner in the race to the egg, which probably accounted for the confused and/or pissed off looks of the losing sperm. <br />
<br />
By this time, I was mentally covering my ears and rocking back and forth. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tehJwQO7ai0/TZHkbBqpi3I/AAAAAAAAAOA/4sAKGV55hw0/s1600/the+talk.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tehJwQO7ai0/TZHkbBqpi3I/AAAAAAAAAOA/4sAKGV55hw0/s320/the+talk.png" height="257" r6="true" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I don't really recall what she said after she drew the pictures of the sperm. Honest. I think my mind was in lockdown. GIGO. Garbage In, Garbage Out, in Cobol terms.<br />
<br />
The next thing I remember was my mother, looking extremely proud of herself, tearing off the pieces of drawing paper with the porn drawn on them. She told me I could keep them. <em>As if!!! </em>The first time she went to the bathroom, I crumpled them up and threw them in the garbage. <br />
<br />
The next day at the bus stop, I told <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2011/01/about-time-i-got-new-best-friend-and.html" target="_blank">Kristine</a> what had gone down the night before. Her eyes lit up, and her only comment was:<br />
<br />
<em>"Did you bring the pictures?"</em><br />
<br />
"Ugghh! NO! I DID NOT BRING THE PICTURES OF THE SEX PARTS THAT MY MOTHER DREW FOR ME LAST NIGHT!" <br />
<br />
To be honest, my mother did a bang-up (no pun intended) job of teaching me the birds and the bees. She was just a few years too late. So, mom's out there? Yeah, talk to your daughters <em>before </em>they know too much to be embarassed, and before they go to summer camp. Personally, I had the talk with my daughter when she was 9, and it was so cool. She was old enough to understand, but too young to be embarassed.<br />
<br />
Peace out. <script src="http://connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js#xfbml=1">
</script>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-42319105942112658372012-03-06T12:25:00.001-06:002012-03-06T23:32:55.884-06:0010 common phrases used in our houseI'm in the middle of writing a gigantic post, because I got not one, but TWO blogger awards, and I need to pass them on. So what if they were the same award, from different people? <br />
<br />
That just means I rock all that much more, amiright?<br />
<br />
Oh, one more thing. This picture goes out to <a href="http://shirleyewejest.blogspot.com/">Shirley</a>.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dY68hWg8dP0/T1QmCkUThVI/AAAAAAAAA3U/vb_fmphnJLg/s1600/nostranglingdancers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dY68hWg8dP0/T1QmCkUThVI/AAAAAAAAA3U/vb_fmphnJLg/s320/nostranglingdancers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just keep your hands to yourself and we'll all have a fine time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
*Update - I just got <em>another </em>award! Being this spectacular comes with it's own set of curses, people.<br />
<br />
There <em>will </em>be more than 10 phrases, because my son has Anxiety Disorder/OCD/Sensory Integration Disorder/ADHD/Disruptive Behavior and also repeats phrases/questions numerous f*cking times in any given time period. So, yeah. Oh, and the kids are in bold. And yes, I'm aware that the formatting is messed up. And I'm obsessive, so I've spent more time trying to line up the word "chicken" than I've spent writing this whole post. Sometimes we just have to Let. Things. Go.<br />
<br />
#1. <strong><em>Is it my birthday yet?</em></strong><br />
<em>No. Not for another month.</em><br />
<em> <strong>Oh, ok.</strong> (five minutes pass).....</em><br />
<strong><em>Is it my birthday tomorrow?</em></strong><br />
<em><strong> </strong>No. It's your birthday in THIRTY DAYS. </em><br />
<em> <strong>Oh, ok. </strong>(five minutes pass)<strong>.....How many minutes are in thirty days?</strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong></em><em><strong> </strong></em><br />
#2. <em><strong>Did you know that a velociraptor was only as big as a chicken? </strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong>Wow, really?</em><br />
<em><strong> Yep. And it didn't even live in the Jurassic Period, it lived in the Cretaceous Period!</strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong>That's crazy!</em><br />
<em> <strong>I know, right? </strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong> </em><br />
#3. <em>WHO KEEPS POOPING IN THE BROKEN TOILET??!!!</em><br />
<br />
#4. <strong><em>I decided I'm going to be a vegetarian. But I don't like yogurt. Or beans. Or vegetable lasagna. Or Tofu. Can I just eat grilled cheese and cucumbers?</em></strong><br />
<br />
#5. <em>You'll have to walk to school today, I need to deal with your brother and I don.....</em><br />
<strong><em> OH MY GOSH!!! I HATE YOU!!! YOU'RE RUINING MY LIIIIFFEE!!!!</em></strong><br />
<em><strong> </strong>What the EFF?? Get your butt out that door and get to school!</em><br />
<em> <strong>I HATE YOU!!!!!</strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong>Oh yeah? WELL, I HATE YOU TOO!!!</em><br />
<br />
<em>6#. WHO THE F*CK ATE ALL THE THIN MINTS??!!!!</em><br />
<br />
<em>#7. <strong>J? Can I hold your guinea pig?</strong></em><br />
<strong><em> No.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em> Please?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em> No.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em> PLEASE???</em></strong><br />
<strong><em> NO!!!!</em></strong><br />
<strong><em> PLEEEEEEEZZZZZEEEEE?????!!!!!!</em></strong><br />
<strong><em> NOOOOOOO!!!!! SHUTUP SHUTUP SHUTUP!!!!!!</em></strong><br />
<em><strong> </strong>(five minutes pass).....<strong>J? Can I hold your guinea pig?</strong></em><br />
<strong><em> </em></strong><br />
<em>#8. <strong>Mom??? Have you given Z his medication?!!</strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong>Yes!</em><br />
<em> <strong>Well, IT'S NOT WORKING!!!</strong></em><br />
<br />
<em>#9. J? Did you take your medication?</em><br />
<em> <strong>Yes.</strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong>You lie. Take it right now.</em><br />
<em> <strong>Sorry.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<em>#10. <strong>Is it my birthday yet?</strong></em><br />
<br />
<br />
And then I found this on the stairs. These are the dinosaurs from my son's birthday cake <em>last </em>year:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S0zjTGq83s8/T1bweAXPAgI/AAAAAAAAA3c/DNWOhzNXjHI/s1600/dinobutts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S0zjTGq83s8/T1bweAXPAgI/AAAAAAAAA3c/DNWOhzNXjHI/s320/dinobutts.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am totally gonna bite your ass. <em>Totally.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-31834832193269727992012-02-15T00:27:00.002-06:002012-02-15T01:30:55.588-06:00Gameboard phrases you will probably never hear in real life. And yes, I meant to split my infinitive.My kids are playing Life, and that got me thinking. And what I thought was this, <em>there are only a few times in your life you will hear someone ask you, "How do you want your $10,000?" </em>Unless you're robbing a bank. <br />
<br />
1. Ha! You have to go to jail because you're standing on the corner. <em>And you don't get $200</em>. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mkckdUdCVV8/TztCQytbuhI/AAAAAAAAA1M/a_LWABGUPiQ/s1600/monopolyjail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mkckdUdCVV8/TztCQytbuhI/AAAAAAAAA1M/a_LWABGUPiQ/s1600/monopolyjail.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That just how it goes down in the 'hood.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
2. Ok, so there are two ways you can get out of jail. Either pick a card or roll a double.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bEhvuo3UARY/TztCwvbtZCI/AAAAAAAAA1U/p8J1r253kyA/s1600/monopolydouble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bEhvuo3UARY/TztCwvbtZCI/AAAAAAAAA1U/p8J1r253kyA/s320/monopolydouble.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bitch eyes blue, gonna kill my landlord.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
3. You just had twins, lucky for you you're a rock star.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ndP-CVkrN0/TztDJCG_TwI/AAAAAAAAA1c/ZBrcZ_BCBFc/s1600/life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--ndP-CVkrN0/TztDJCG_TwI/AAAAAAAAA1c/ZBrcZ_BCBFc/s1600/life.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
4. Hey, you're standing on my lawn! You owe me $500!<br />
<br />
5. Hey, you're on my lawn and I just planted a tree there. Now you owe me $1000. <br />
<br />
6. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.<br />
<br />
7. Ok, do you want the Georgian mansion for $3,500,000 or the Colonial for $295,000?<br />
<br />
8. Looks like I'm going to visit Gramma Nut in her peanut brittle house.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tTN9uuUHcmE/TztD_9riaPI/AAAAAAAAA18/jDLTq3pWFaw/s1600/candylandallergic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tTN9uuUHcmE/TztD_9riaPI/AAAAAAAAA18/jDLTq3pWFaw/s1600/candylandallergic.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>BUT I'M ALLERGIC!!!</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">9. I'm tired, can we finish Life in the morning?</div>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-42082448913714576752012-02-09T22:08:00.005-06:002012-02-10T22:45:02.924-06:00Autism isn't a big deal, right? Wait, can you answer that later? I'm watching Adventure Time right now, and it's my favorite show.My son was given a tentative diagnosis of autism in November, by the developmental pediatrician in charge of the ASD clinic at our local center for disability services. The dr. decided he wanted Z to go through a formal ASD evaluation which includes the ADOS, a SLP evaluation, an OT evaluation and a play-based evaluation, in addition to my son meeting with the doctor again. <br />
<br />
*FYI- For those that don't know, that's Z in my header, this was taken 2 years ago. He's the one wearing the Spiderman Viper costume with the legs tucked into his cowboy boots. At his sister's gymnastics class. Note the WIDE, OPEN SPACE all around him. And the way that everyone is acting like, <em>oh, that kid? I actually hadn't even NOTICED he: 1. was there 2. was wearing a costume 3. has worn this costume to the last five weeks of gymnastics practice.* </em><br />
<br />
His evaluation is in two weeks, and my child has no idea he has this tentative diagnosis. Had. He <em>had </em>no idea. Until tonight. <br />
<br />
See, I've been stressing over how to break it to him, sincerely believing he would freak out. Because he freaks out when we go through the car wash, or if the toilet is to loud. But I knew I'd have to discuss it with him at some point, and tonight he seemed relaxed enough to broach the subject. It went nothing like I thought it would. <br />
<br />
Me: "Hey, Z? Can I ask you a question?"<br />
<br />
Z: "Sure."<br />
<br />
Me: "Do you ever feel like you just don't know what people are talking about, or you don't know what they want from you? Or do you feel like you don't know how to make friends?"<br />
<br />
Z: "Yes!"<br />
<br />
Me: "Huh! Well, would you like to find out why you're having these problems?"<br />
<br />
Z: "No, not really."<br />
<br />
Me: "You don't?"<br />
<br />
Z: "Nope. I'm good."<br />
<br />
Me: "*sigh*.......Hey! Do you remember Dan Ackroyd? That guy who wrote <em>Ghostbusters </em>and <em>Dragnet?</em> Did you know he has autism?"<br />
<br />
Z: "He <em>does?"</em> <br />
<br />
Me: "Yeah! And he's totally cool, isn't he?!"<br />
<br />
Z: "Yeah!"<br />
<br />
Me: "Well, how would you feel if somebody told you that <em>you</em> had autism?"<br />
<br />
Z: "Um, I don't.....can we talk about this later? This is my favorite show that's on right now." (Adventure Time. A show obviously created and written by people taking massive amounts of hallucinogenic drugs.)<br />
<br />
Me: "Well, just tell me. Would you be upset?"<br />
<br />
Z: "<em>No! </em>Of <em>course</em> not! Oh, shhhh! This is the best part of the show!"<br />
<br />
<em>silence......</em><br />
<br />
Z: "Wait, why? Do I have autism?"<br />
<br />
Me: "Well, the dr. thought you might, but he wants to be sure. So you're having an evaluation in a week to find out."<br />
<br />
Z: "Oh, ok."<br />
<br />
Me: "So you're ok with all of this? I mean, no matter what, you're still the same awesome Z, right?"<br />
<br />
Z: "Of <em>course </em>I am! I'm still me and I.....oh, wait. This is a new episode. I don't mean to be rude, but can we talk about this later?"<br />
<br />
My kid is totally awesome.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-23830573862580037672011-12-24T13:07:00.001-06:002017-05-03T21:51:00.624-05:00And yet, surprisingly, most of us survived our childhood.Our kids are spoiled beyond belief. I know I've blogged about this before but it really annoys me that my kids think I'm abusing them when I declare a "no-tv" night. So, I decided to make a list of things my generation never had as children, along with a list of what we had instead. And we are still alive to blog/talk about it: <br />
<br />
1. School lunch "choices."<br />
1a. Listen kid, the school cafeteria is not a restaurant. People who work in restaurants don't wear hair nets, and you aren't made to stand in line and give Jimmy Walters cutsies everyday, because if you don't? He'll punch you in the breadbasket later during recess. <br />
<br />
Whatever the school gave you, you ate. Or not. <em>What's that? You say you can't eat the school's beef and noodles ever since Kathy Durst</em> <em>threw up right next to you the last time the school served them? What do you mean "everytime I think of beef and noodles I feel nauseous and think of the janitor's pink sawdust"? Tough shit.</em><br />
<br />
2. Car seats.<br />
2a. A special seat? For the kid? Strapped securely in the car? Ha! You're joking, right? I regularly laid in the back window area, or hid in the wheel-well. And whenever the car came to a stop, I'd roll out of the back window onto the seats.<br />
<br />
In fact, we never even used our seat belts, since my dad stuffed them in between the seats every time we got a new car. Because they got in the way, and anyway, who wants to sit on those things? Not us. Too uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
3. "Safe" or "age appropriate" toys.<br />
3a. Every Christmas, I was the gleeful recipient of toys made out of glass, tin and things with sharp parts, along with candy or gum cigarettes. Those things were awesome, because when you blew through them, a puff of powdered sugar "smoke" would appear. <br />
<br />
When I was 8, I got a "Nurse's kit" for Christmas. It came complete with 3 glass bottles of tiny candy pills. I can clearly recall carrying it around the trailer and saying things like, <em>Looks like it's time for me to take my medicine!,</em> before downing half the bottle.<br />
<br />
4. Go-gurt, fruit snacks, probiotics, or almond butter.<br />
4a. Ho-Ho's, Twinkies, Zingers and Ding-Dongs. Those were our snacks. In fact, I clearly recall a time in my young life when my breakfast consisted of nothing but Ding-Dong's and Tang. <br />
.<br />
5. Finally seeing the Trix Rabbit getting to eat Trix.<br />
5a. Ha! No<em> way</em> could the Trix Rabbit be allowed to taste the fruity goodness that was in every bowl of Trix cereal. Oh, sure, he tried. But he was smacked down Every. Single. Time. And kids <em>LOVED</em> that crazy rabbit. We rooted for him during each commercial, even though we knew how it would turn out.<br />
<br />
In fact, the Trix Rabbit represented everything that defined childhood in the 1960's/70's. <em>You don't get something just because you want it, kid.</em> If the Trix Rabbit had ever been allowed to eat Trix, I imagine that would have pitted child against parent in a rebellion not unlike the French Revolution. <em>Viva le Lapin de Trix!</em><br />
<br />
6. Child-specific clothing stores such as: Justice, Aeropostale, Abercrombie & Fitch, American Eagle, Gap Kids or The Children's Place.<br />
6a. Special stores that catered just to kids? HA! We had JC Penney's, Sears and Bergner's (for the rich kids). Didn't like what they had to offer? Tough shit. Now put on your Toughskins and shut the fuck up.<br />
<br />
7. Computers, passwords, cellphones, the internet, cable tv, daytime cartoons or video games.<br />
7a. Uh, wtf? We had books, Barbies, GI Joe, Magic 8 Balls, marbles, jacks, crayons and phones with curly cords that got tangled when we played with them as we made crank phone calls.<br />
<br />
8. Caller ID.<br />
8a. We could make crank phone calls because nobody had caller id. Conversly, when someone called us, we just....answered it. Without knowing who it was. <em>Every. Single. Time.</em><br />
<br />
9. Build-A-Fucking-Bear.<br />
9a. If we had<em> ever</em> told our parents we wanted <em>anything</em> resembling this item, they would have said, Y<em>ou want me to pay an exorbitant price for a teddy bear that isn't even STUFFED? And I should pay extra so it sounds like a dinosaur whenever you pinch it's left paw? Then you want me to buy it a fucking cheerleader outfit? </em>Fuck that, get your mom to take you to the fabric store and she'll make one for you.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-53805886675064567672011-12-20T21:41:00.005-06:002012-03-11T14:09:36.399-05:00Know what little kids and drunk college boys have in common? THEY ARE LYING LIARS. Also, they sometimes pee their pants when they drink too much.Today, I thought I'd dedicate this post to an issue that has bothered me, and others like me, for some time now. <br />
<br />
Our kids lie about us.* Usually in public. And often quite loudly.<br />
<br />
Do you know those people who say, <em>"Oh, children are just so refreshingly honest!" </em>or,<em> "Young children don't know how to lie at this age. That's how you know they aren't lying when they say their parents are beating them!"</em> <br />
<br />
Bullshit. I bet they don't even <em>have</em> kids.**<br />
<br />
Or how about this one?<br />
<br />
<em>"Children and drunks. They always tell the truth."</em> <br />
<br />
No. <em>NO THEY </em><em>DO NOT.</em><br />
<br />
Do you know how many drunken college boys have slung an arm around my shoulder and slurred wetly into my ear, "buh ah <em>love</em> you bayhbeeee!", only to never be heard from again?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXPaEtHz49c/TsP1CWrD42I/AAAAAAAAAuY/_lhACNcxWLk/s1600/eleven.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BXPaEtHz49c/TsP1CWrD42I/AAAAAAAAAuY/_lhACNcxWLk/s1600/eleven.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleven. The answer is <em>always</em> eleven.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Equally duplicitous, if only slightly less obnoxious, is the species known as <em>Toddlerus Americanus, </em>or, in layman's terms, any American child who still has not fully committed to the concept of dry underwear, drinking from an open cup or remaining fully clothed when in the public arena. I expect that toddlers of other nationalities are little liars as well, but as my experience has only been with the children of my country, I will leave the foreign toddler-liar issue to my bloggy-peers in Asia, Australia, South America and Africa. <br />
<br />
Case in point. When my son was 2, I took him to the local Walmart Supercenter for some groceries and various sundries. As I lovingly stroked his cap of angelic blond curls and kissed his cherubic cheeks, he looked up at me adoringly with big blue eyes framed by long curly lashes. Then he widened those baby blues and loudly asked:<br />
<br />
<em>"MAMA? WHY YOU SAY YOU NO LOVE ME??"***</em><br />
<br />
This is him, at age 2, in "Lord of the Flies" mode:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mE6Hj-6MPws/T1zwBkALHXI/AAAAAAAAA4E/tk7dJV5mAiM/s1600/zachbeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mE6Hj-6MPws/T1zwBkALHXI/AAAAAAAAA4E/tk7dJV5mAiM/s320/zachbeach.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I take no prisoners</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
So you can see why the Walmart ladies were so aghast, right?<br />
Everybody in that aisle turned toward us in shock. That's right. Every white-trash (I call <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2011/01/trailer-court-wars-part-i.html">trailer trash</a>! I grew up in a trailer court, so I can say that!), toothless, wrinkled and scraggly-haired woman turned a judgemental eye towards <em>me</em>.<br />
<br />
Even women who looked like this:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--dKcqv6z-9g/T1zw512fgSI/AAAAAAAAA4M/IDatfMIDZsA/s1600/whitetrashlady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--dKcqv6z-9g/T1zw512fgSI/AAAAAAAAA4M/IDatfMIDZsA/s320/whitetrashlady.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah judge you, an' ah have found you wantin'</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
My most immediate thought was, <em>Oh HELL no! You did NOT just say that, you lying little shit! You are SO LUCKY we're in public where I can't give you the beating you so richly deserve! DON'T YOU KNOW I F*CKING LOVE YOU!??</em><br />
<br />
But of course if I'd said any of those things, I would have been chased out of Walmart by an angry group of scraggly-haired women carrying pitchforks, Yoo-hoo Chocolate DrinkĀ® and porkrinds.<br />
<br />
So, ever opting for the truth, I sweetly said (in a voice sure to carry to the farthest corners of the liquor aisle that we <em>just</em> <em>happened</em> to be in), "What are you talking about? I love you! I've never said I don't love you!" (This is true. Shut up.)<br />
<br />
My young son, oblivious to the drama, but somehow convinced that he was right, decided to argue this fine point.<br />
<br />
<em>"Yes you do! You say it ALL THE TIME! You say, 'Zachie, I NO LOVE YOU!" (collective gasp, myself included).</em><br />
<br />
Let me point out a minor problem in my son's claim. How many adults do you think tell their children, "(insert name here), I no love you!" No matter how stupid the parent, or how poor their grasp of the basic rules of English grammar, not once have I ever heard a parent utter that particular phrase. And I have come across my fair share of stupid parents, let's just make that crystal clear. <br />
<br />
I don't recall how this story ends, but suffice it to say that I was traumatized that day. This is why I advocate the use of <strike>ball gags</strike> alternative childcare arrangements when you need to do your weekly shopping.****<br />
<br />
And just so you know, I'm not the only parent whose child lies about them. I have a friend who taught her three-year-old daughter to scream, "<em>This is not my real mommy!",</em> just in case she was kidnapped and people were around.<br />
<br />
Her child decided to test out her newfound powers. At Walmart. As my friend was in, you guessed it, the liquor aisle*****, her child loudly proclaimed, <em>"THIS IS NOT MY REAL MOMMY!!!"</em><br />
_______________________________________________________<br />
<br />
<em>*Of course, kids don't lie all the time. </em><br />
<br />
<em>** </em><em>Do I really have to say this? *sigh* My attorney says I do. Fine. <strong>If a child evidences any abuse done to them, by all means call the police and/or DCFS.</strong> For serious. In fact, if this is news to you, you are to stupid to be allowed to read my blog. Go away now. You make me feel stabby.</em><br />
<br />
<em><strong>***</strong>That? Oh, that was a big, fat lie.</em><br />
<br />
<em>****<strong>This blog in no way is meant to be indicative of the way you should actually deal with other human beings in real life.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<em>***** HAHAHAHA!!!!! Ok, she was in the card aisle. But that's not nearly as funny.</em>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-67809973808850349822011-12-14T08:17:00.006-06:002011-12-30T21:25:31.699-06:00Who says love and trauma are mutually exclusive?; or "Santa's Little Narc."Tonight, I got a text from my friend <a href="http://shirleyewejest.blogspot.com/2011/12/santas-enforcer-elf-on-shelf.html">Shirley</a>, telling me about some dumbass craze that's sweeping the country. Elf on the Shelf. <br />
<br />
Have you heard of it? If so, you probably have one in your home. If not, it's basically like subjecting your children to McCarthyism for a month. Only Joe is wearing an elf hat. And ladies underwear (but only if you believe that rumor, of course.)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-30b-Z_Ohf98/TuWsfIZWk8I/AAAAAAAAAvA/0yZSCPpvF9k/s1600/elfjoe.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-30b-Z_Ohf98/TuWsfIZWk8I/AAAAAAAAAvA/0yZSCPpvF9k/s320/elfjoe.png" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>What's Victoria's Secret? ME. And I'm STILL watching you.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Anyway, I googled this elf/shelf thing and that's when I realized something. <br />
<br />
<em>Elves are assholes. </em><br />
<br />
I decided to put my deductive reasoning skills to the test, and I came up with the following:<br />
<br />
1. <em>If </em>some parents buy these elves.<br />
2. <em>And </em>the elves are assholes.<br />
3. <em>Then </em>some parents <em>just might be</em> assholes.<br />
<br />
Not sure if you're <strike>an obsessive</strike> a loving parent, an asshole parent or somewhere in between? Then take my quiz!<br />
<br />
1. If I owned an Elf-on-the-shelf I would:<br />
<br />
A. Read the Elf story to my child every night before bestowing Eskimo/butterfly kisses on his/her face, and quietly tiptoeing out of the bedroom. <br />
B. Thoughtfully position the Elf on an easily accessible piece of furniture, take a photo of it for my child's scrapbook, and then make sure I'm in bed by 10pm <em>sharp.</em><br />
C. Have a <strike>few</strike> lot of glasses of wine before deciding to make snow angels on the kitchen counter with the elf and a handful of flour. Then post the pix on twitter before passing out in a drunken stupor on my bathroom floor:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NkGlR_OnbVU/TuaQJ_eh58I/AAAAAAAAAvQ/ysH1_-HvCbY/s1600/elfmesswithkids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NkGlR_OnbVU/TuaQJ_eh58I/AAAAAAAAAvQ/ysH1_-HvCbY/s320/elfmesswithkids.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>What do you mean, I have to "hold it" until morning???</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
2. My personal mantra is:<br />
A. My child is a precious gift, and my duty as a parent is to protect his/her sacred innocence. At any cost. Also? My child has a Spirit Animal.<br />
B. Yeah, I love my kid. But who says love and emotional trauma are mutually exclusive? Besides, if I mess with my kid, it toughens them up for the real world.<br />
C. Back off! My parents locked me in a box every night for 8 years and I turned out <em>JUST FINE!!!</em><br />
<br />
3. Something I think about often is:<br />
A. Knowing I would <em>DIE </em>for my child. Several times in a row, if I could.<br />
B. Sure, I love my kids. But I need some <em>me time</em> too, you know?<br />
C. If you mix up the letters in "Santa's Elf", it spells "Satan Self."<br />
<br />
You know the drill, mostly A's? You're a living saint. A martyr. And your child will probably have Mommy Issues. Let's just hope he doesn't turn out like Norman Bates.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zZ0VR4y2Sm0/TugojdpH9wI/AAAAAAAAAvo/_mXLThTSswI/s1600/normanbates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zZ0VR4y2Sm0/TugojdpH9wI/AAAAAAAAAvo/_mXLThTSswI/s320/normanbates.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>"A boys best friend is his mother"</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Mostly B's? You're somewhat sadistic, but in a <em>grounded </em>sort of way.<br />
<br />
Mostly C's? Hahahaha!!!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QwyTtdKzSxA/TuaTPAzJevI/AAAAAAAAAvg/Uv6TAHTSZiE/s1600/elfIMTELLING.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QwyTtdKzSxA/TuaTPAzJevI/AAAAAAAAAvg/Uv6TAHTSZiE/s320/elfIMTELLING.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Santa's Little Narcs</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-70011130521390903842011-12-14T08:17:00.002-06:002011-12-14T08:17:52.948-06:00Dear Kmart: So why did you put this display up if you didn't want customers "causing a disturbance"?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwkHOQZ2gnG4KFfR5FLBaTpsEmUx4KRD9ivk2GQIa4CNqVf4gUm7CZpJTZVBwP5T7r1ZMAUtm2nHCIfy8lZ8A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7832575857769802375.post-20459053693683407182011-10-16T13:28:00.003-05:002016-04-28T00:49:20.201-05:008 ways having kids will change you. Irrevocably. Seriously, there are no take-backs.People are always saying stuff like, "Oh, having kids will change your life! You will grow as a person! Et cetera. This is true, but not always in the good way. So before you decide to have kids, read this. Discuss. Ponder. And kiss any plans you have to be in charge of your life goodbye for at least 18 years. It will feel like longer. Trust me. I'm the woman who <a href="http://attractedtoshinythings.blogspot.com/2011/07/maternity-ward-doesnt-accept-returns-i.html">tried to return her newborn</a> to the hospital, remember?<br />
<br />
1. "Moms have eyes in the back of their heads!" - You suddenly hear a scuffle break out behind you, accompanied by the sound breaking glass. Quick! What do you do? Turn around to address the issue? No way, too expected. Instead, find any shiny/reflective surface nearby and use it to your advantage. Window, coffee pot, computer screen or crystal vase, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that your children <em>actually believe you have eyes in the back of your head. </em>Respect, yo.<br />
<br />
2.<em> "</em>You will step in front of a speeding train/bus/car to save your child's life!" - True. But under no circumstances will you let them have more than three (3) of your Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies. You will feel strongly about this. But you know what? They will <em>always</em> find your super secret hiding spots and eat them anyway. Every. F*cking. Year. Seriously. In the past 4 years I haven't had a Thin Mint, even though I've purchased 23 boxes.<br />
<br />
3.<em> </em>"Having children will change your body, but it's so worth it!"<em> </em>- Bullsh*t. I mean, yeah, kids are great and all but here is a list of things that will happen to your body as a result. Most of them are irreversible:<br />
<br />
a. Your ass, thighs and stomach will suddenly attract fat the way plasma collection centers attract crackheads. You'll tell yourself your child(ren) were worth it. But you and I both know there are some days when we DON'T FEEL THAT WAY AT ALL, ACTUALLY.<br />
<br />
b. You know your bladder? What do you mean you've never thought of it before? After kids, it will forever be at the forefront of your mind. This is because you will lose control of it every time you laugh, sneeze, yell, jump, cry hard or cough. Forever. Get used to it.<br />
<br />
c. Your boobs will never fully belong to you, ever. Even if you don't nurse your baby, your children will still grab them whenever they hug you, or when they feel anxious. Because kids are attracted to soft things, like Build-a-Bear animals, lovey blankets and tits. So get used to being felt up until your child turns 5. 7 for boys. <br />
<br />
4. "Children are <em>so</em> <em>honest!"</em> <em>-</em> Do you like to swear? Is your mother-in-law a b*tch? Then guess what. One day your kid will walk up to your MIL and say something like, "Last night Mommy told Daddy that you're a f*cking b*tch! Can I have a cookie?" <br />
<br />
5. "I can't remember what my life was like before kids!" - Remember that awesome honeymoon you had in Punta Cana? The lazy mornings having sex, eating a leisurely breakfast and drinking Pina Colada's on the beach? Then having more sex before getting seriously drunk at the five-star restaurant and tumbling into bed to have, yes, more sex? Well, be sure to videotape every precious moment, because that's as close as you're going to get to those wild, carefree days of yore. Now you will be awoken at the butt crack of dawn by a wailing infant, demanding to be fed, changed, held and burped. <em>At the same time. </em>Sex? Bah! That's what led to this pernicious developement in the first place! Sex = BAD! <br />
<br />
6.<em> "</em>You will discover a strength you never knew you had!" - Do you embarass easily? Tough shit. Three years ago, my son wore his Spiderman Viper costume to his sister's gymnastics class one Saturday morning. Then he continued to wear it every week for the next 8 months. With the costume pants tucked into his cowboy boots. So everyone could see the boots, of course. <em>Which is <u>just</u> fine. </em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bmjMCgFES6Q/VAf2O0e0EOI/AAAAAAAAE6s/1kErip15ps4/s1600/zach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bmjMCgFES6Q/VAf2O0e0EOI/AAAAAAAAE6s/1kErip15ps4/s1600/zach.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
7. "I want my kids to share every detail of their precious lives with me!" - No. No you don't. At first, you think you do. On the drive home from work, you will ask your special little girl/guy what s/he had for lunch at daycare, who s/he played with and you may even ask what was the best/worst thing that happened that day.<br />
<br />
Then your son turns 8. And all he wants to talk about is dinosaurs. Or the Magic Treehouse book he is currently reading. And how Sharktopus could <em>totally </em>beat up 5 Spinosauruses, <em>at the same time</em>. Then, once you arrive at home, he constructs a diorama to further drive his point home.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GnsoO2WE0Ik/VAf39pUKlAI/AAAAAAAAE60/o6t-_zxJidA/s1600/zach%2Bdinos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GnsoO2WE0Ik/VAf39pUKlAI/AAAAAAAAE60/o6t-_zxJidA/s1600/zach%2Bdinos.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5BPsm_hl3mI/VAf4ESHBneI/AAAAAAAAE68/nni5fYBKZgg/s1600/zach%2Bdinos2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5BPsm_hl3mI/VAf4ESHBneI/AAAAAAAAE68/nni5fYBKZgg/s1600/zach%2Bdinos2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It is at this point that you begin to drink wine. Regularly.<br />
<br />
And the girl? She turns 12. And...<em>DRAMA!!! </em>Kirsten <em>totally </em>told Steph and Jaspre to <em>not sit with me</em> at lunch, when everyone <em>knows</em> that Jaspre and I are wearing <em>best friend necklaces!!! O. M. G. </em><br />
<br />
By the next day, your daughter and Jaspre are besties again, because that Kirsten was just <em>trying to break us up!!! </em>This will happen at least twice a week, every week. For 6-7 years. Get used to it. Buy wine in bulk. I highly recommend Yellow Tail Chardonnay. It has a crisp, tart flavor with a refreshing aftertaste reminiscent of oak and <em>I don't give a f*ck.</em><br />
<br />
8. So, yeah. If/when you have a child, you will know what it feels like to put your heart out there, for anyone to stomp on it. You will experience every hurt that your child experiences. You will decide that tuition to that out-of-district but oh-so-wonderful school is more important than a vacation this year. You will wake up in the middle of the night, for however many nights your child needs you too. You would gladly trade places with you child, so they didn't have to experience life's pains and disappointments.<br />
<br />
Because this is your child, and this is what matters.Yvonnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07375335549032033674noreply@blogger.com0