Archive | January 2012

Are you there Judy Blume? It’s me, Rebecca.

Do you remember Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume? I read it in 3rd grade. Which seems a little young now that I think about it. It’s about this girl, Margaret who can’t wait to get her period. Every girl in school read it. Judy Blume always knows exactly how to capture adolescence and all the poignancy of the years up to adulthood. She’s like the John Hughes of authors. She’s a genius.

Well, I would like to rewrite that book if I could. It would be called- “Dear Eve, You Fucked Up and Periods Are A Bitch”.

God cursed us for Eve’s mistake and gave us labor pains and the monthlies. That’s what Judy Blume should have written about.

I know why we wanted to be Margaret in that book. We wanted to grow up. Every girl dreams of when they’re a grown woman. We put on mommy’s lipstick, her high heels, pretended to be secretaries or something with our purses and ‘checkbooks’ in them when we are 4 years old. I loved it when my mom would give me an old book of checks or a spare check register from the bank.  I felt so grown up! Or maybe she would give me her old library card or something that I could pretend was a credit card. That was like Christmas!

After my visit to the doctor last week, ( Sometimes It Sucks Being a Woman…)  to this week’s ultrasound that my doctor had me do, I felt like this whole ‘time of the month’ business is bullshit. No news here, I know.

No wonder they call it ‘the curse’, ‘being on the rag’. ‘Aunt Flo’ is putting it nicely for gosh sakes!

There’s a blogger, The Bearded Iris, who wrote- If Pollyanna Had a Period. If that doesn’t just crack me up!

Please no more commercials about making us happy about our periods. It’s as bad as Charmin commercials with bears telling us to ‘enjoy the go’.

So thank you ladies and gentlemen for enduring my post on periods. My husband is rolling his eyes and wondering when his next business trip might be so he can get the hell out of the house.

And by the way- the plumbing checked out clean on the ultrasound. The good news- no tumors or polyps in my hoo hoo that I need to worry about. The bad news- no tumors or polyps in my hoo hoo that weigh five pounds and can be removed for any instant weight loss. I was certain that the extra poof in my pooch was something horrible that needed to be removed surgically. Alas, I just need to do more Pilates.

Also, this means that solving my problems will go down in the books as ‘hormone therapy’. This is translation for, ‘we have no idea what the fuck is making you miserable, so try a combination of motrin and exercise and call us next month.’

Be sure to pay the parking attendant on your way out.

This is exactly the book cover I remember from 1982.

No the fuck I won't, thank you very much!

For the record, the boy still has a mullet.

Actually, it’s more like a Justin Beiber-do. It’s really moppy in the front. That would be Justin Beiber circa 2010. We went for the haircut Friday morning and there wasn’t a stylist available before our passport appointment. It’s not like we are cutting edge (pun intended) in our boy haircuts. We go to Supercuts down the street. It’s a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes you get a really good stylist, and some days we get one that went to the Ronald McDonald school of haircuts.

So the boy will have his passport for the next five years and think what a tool he looked like when he was 8 because he didn’t get a haircut.

Murder Mystery Party

I know you are just dying to see our costumes and hear how the party went.

I’ve decided that this blond-anglo-phile is going to be Armenian. I will wear spray tan, and heavy eye makeup like a Kardashian. Because…because… it’s fun for CRYING OUT LOUD!

Also, faking ‘visions’ and telling fortunes that aren’t real is lots of fun too. I’m going to work for Dionne Warwick’s Psychic Hotline.

Unfortunately working the phones keeps people from seeing my fabulous eye liner. Oh well.

My name is Cantara. I tell fortunes and see the future. And I know the way to San Jose. ( A little Dionne Warwick humor there for you.)

What a good sport he is! He even had those slippers with the curled up toes. I told him he could wear this costume again on my birthday when he carries me on my litter.

This is the litter I'm talking about.

Not this litter.

Dear future women of America:

Yeah, I’m talking to you girls. Okay, you don’t read my blog- your moms and dads do. But still, I have a message:

There’s things in this world I hold quite dear to me. Like the health of my family, my family period, polar bears, harp seals, National parks, the air I breathe, non GMO food…

So what I want from you is to go to school, go to college, cure cancer, keep the planet liveable, protect endangered species, invent smart cars, find a female viagra… okay, so that’s not that important. But anyway, my point is DO SOMETHING!

I know it’s fun to be pretty, it’s fun to hang out with boys and party. I like watching people sing on YouTube. I like movies and reality TV like the next crazed housewife. BUT- we don’t need anymore reality television stars. We don’t need any more pouty, trouty faced girls in midriff tops posing on their iPhone in their bathroom.

There’s a lot of wonderfully attractive famous women out there- Diane Sawyer, Tina Fey, Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet, Oprah, – okay they are all in the media. Hmm, I promise you- there are really pretty women out there that are famous and making a difference in this world.

But you don’t need to be pretty to make a difference. I guess that is my point. History is full of unattractive women who have made the difference in our lives for the better. Who have paved the way for incredible things that I would like to think, no man could ever accomplish.

A Gallery Of Unattractive Women Who Have Made History:

Examples of really pretty women that you probably don’t want to grow up to be like:

My name is Alexis Stodden and I am 16 and married a gross old guy and I make trouty mouth faces for my pictures.

I'm Heidi Montage and I spent $50,000 on plastic surgery that I now regret, to further my career and no one remembers who I am anyway.

Snookie. I wrote a book but nobody takes me seriously.

Ladies- love yourselves!

I am doing this for my benefit.

I am constantly beating myself up for not being ‘perfect’.

The fact that I didn’t work out that day, what I weighed at the dr.’s office, how I forgot to give the kids their vitamins before they went to school. How the kale I had good intentions for but got all slimy forgotten in the back of the veggie drawer in the fridge. How I’ve spent James’ mid life crisis sports car money on eye cream and ‘youth’ serums.

So here’s a picture I will make full size for my bathroom. Except looking at it makes me think that this girl has some serious muscle tone I am lacking. But still- it’s a good message.

No stick skinny folks here. No offense to anyone stick skinny. Just trying to make myself feel better.

And when you’ve got five minutes- watch this video. For the sake of yourself, your daughter’s and granddaughter’s- we need to remember there’s so much out there than what’s in a magazine.

Kate Winslet- “I don’t look like that video.”

Feel free to share, copy, put on a t-shirt; whatever. I know I will.

Fridays, Post Offices and Murder Mystery Parties

Getting passports for your kids isn’t easy. You have to make an appointment during office hours and have both parents and children present. Why is that so hard? Because hubby works and kids are in school that’s why!

So having a day where the kids have no school without it being a holiday, the hubby can work from home, and I actually called the Post Office to make an appointment is really like having the universe converge together in a cosmic kiss of harmony.

Of all things that could make today not so cosmically harmonious- the boy is worried about getting his picture taken. Yeah. You heard me. We will be off to Super Hats this morning to make sure his hair is coiffed just so. He says it’s too long. And it is. He’s kind of sporting the mullet. Third graders with mullets is not a good thing. Correction- any person with a mullet is not a good thing.

This weekend James and I are attending our friend’s Murder Mystery Party. Arabian Nights is the theme. You know what that means?

I get to wear lots of jewelry, eyeliner and self tanner for my costume! I love me a costume party!! And costume parties with sparkly costumes and make up are the best.

And I know you can’t wait to see the pictures. So I will be sure to dedicate my Monday blog to all things me and costumes. Kind of like every blog.

Happy Weekend y’all!

There needs to be a support group for kids like this. Maybe Billy Ray Cyrus is the founder.

Yes, this is my costume. AYFKM? No.

Most suburban husbands are probably disappointed that our modern day Arabian nights parties do not involve harems and hookas.

Sometimes it sucks being a woman. A lot of times actually.

Let me be clear here folks. I will not mince my words. Being a female sucks. Puberty is a bitch, pregnancy and labor are hell and menopause and all the in between is ugly.

Men- let’s see… they go through puberty. They get boners in PE class if they see an elbow of an 8th grade girl. So what? Then when they get old and can’t get a boner from seeing a woman’s elbow, they take a pill to help with that.  I will not sympathize with the male species. Sorry.

Lately I’ve been having, female issues. That’s code for menstrual cramps worse than normal. I think I lost about half of you at this sentence. But before you completely click on over to ESPN or Maxim or whatever, Golf Digest, for crying out loud- this may be helpful for you. You probably have a wife or girlfriend who has been through the same thing. You might use this as a cliff’s notes reference guide for the future.

I had to go to my gynecologist which is in the big, shiny city. There’s a parking garage with stalls the size of shoe boxes and elevators that are slower than sloths at feeding time. There’s usually a 15 minute wait in the waiting room, on top of a 20 minute wait in the exam room while wearing a paper gown. Usually my luck is when the nurse calls me back to the exam room, I’m caught off guard somewhat engrossed in my People magazine (thank God they have those in the waiting room and not just copies of Parents or Fit Pregnancy!), and I follow her to the room where she asks me how I’m doing, how are the kids, blah blah blah. Checks my blood pressure and then has me step on the scale. I haven’t even undressed yet and I kind of have to pee. I don’t want to make her wait while I use the bathroom, so I slip off my shoes and suck in my gut and step on the scale. I don’t know why I suck in my gut, I just do. They have digital scales now, not those old fashioned types like from The Walton’s anymore. You’d think these would be to my advantage since it’s like the one I have at home.

The nurse has me read the number. I really didn’t want to see the number thankyouverymuch, but okay. It’s 1_ _ !! Yeah, like I’m going to print it. 10 pounds more than last January, 8 pounds more than my scale at home, and 15 pounds more than the scale in the Bellagio hotel bathroom in Vegas that James and I stayed at 4 years ago. ( I loved that bathroom scale.)

I felt like someone punched me in the gut.

I shit you not- this ad was in the Pregnancy mag in the exam room I was forced to read whilst in my paper gown after leaving the People in the waiting room. Below this image it said, "actual customer 4 months post partum". Bitch.

She has me put the gown on and wait. But I did sneak off to the bathroom before getting undressed. So in the privacy of my room, once I was undressed, I stood on that stupid, f*cking scale again, and I was 2 whole pounds lighter! Well amen to that!

I was sure to tell my doctor this when she came in with my chart.

I like my doctor. She’s very nice. Especially for a hoo-hoo doctor. She didn’t deliver my kids because she only started with this practice 4 years ago, and I miss my old doctor, but this doctor is a pleasant replacement.

After getting prodded (‘scoot a little further down the table please’) she sent me for blood work and an ultrasound in the coming weeks.

The lab for blood work was just down the stairs. So I sat there waiting for 20 minutes (not bad really) and was starving since it had been 4 hours since my morning oatmeal. But I was thinking that between being hungry and depending on how much blood they draw, I can count on losing another pound.

The phlebotomist was a funny guy that talked about heavy metal bands with me, of all things. I don’t mind getting my blood drawn. It hurts, I don’t look, and I hate the cotton ball with the piece of tape around it afterwards, but there’s worse, so I manage.

I’m on my way to the parking garage now, find my parking stub, drive up the swirly parking garage lanes to the top and then get the joy of paying the attendant on the way out.

Going to the doctor is so flippin’ expensive.

Because now I’m depressed since I’m thinking of all the weight I’ve gained, my ovaries and how I hope there’s no tumors on them. Or maybe I do because if they take them out (the tumors, not my ovaries) that could be a few pounds I lose right there.

So I go where any girl would. The mall. I need croissants and tea, and I need them stat.

Tea, croissants, and some makeup is all it takes to get this girl on track again. Well, not really. I was still sulking during my car ride home and then went to go cry on James’ shoulder while he worked from home today.

The good man he is asks, “Would you like some wine?” It was 2 in the afternoon, he was kind of kidding, but he knew what to say. Heaven forbid if he said, “oh you just need to go to the gym more times than you sit on the couch writing on your blog”, I would have smacked that ass hat across the room. (Ass hat is my new favorite word by the way, I will be using it more now.)

So I leashed up the dog and ran around the block listening to Adele and Mumford & Sons. Sometimes when someone is sadder than you it makes you feel better. I even gave James half my croissant.

So you see fellas (who are still reading and haven’t clicked over to Maxim yet), if there’s one thing you get from this post- just get your woman a glass of wine for God’s sake.

Here is the chart James has laminated in his wallet:

The only memorization necessary is "Here, have some wine." Click on the photo to see it full screen.

Ooh, mama’s pimp wagon

Okay, that makes no sense. I do not employ hookers, I am not giving pimps rides to their ‘hoods. My daughter used this phrase the other day. I shudder to think if she knows what a pimp actually is. What I’m really talking about, is my sweet ride- the minivan.

okay, THIS is a pimp car.

You know you want one.

I’m about to go somewhere so controversial, so visceral with some readers, it’s going to give you white knuckles, beads of sweat over your top lip, heart palpitations.

I like my minivan.

Boom. I said it. Yeah. Hell, it’s in my blog bio for crikey’s sake: Mom of 2, wife of 1 and I drive a minivan.

Holla bitches!

Okay, so some of you wonder why I swear in my blog and rarely in real life. Yes it’s my alter ego. But seriously- I’m a woman of cliche’s. I was PTA president, live in the ‘burbs, drive a minivan and wear yoga pants like a uniform.

I gotta have me some swagga. Like Ke$ha waking up in a bathtub filled with bodily fluids that aren’t her own, like Steven Tyler wandering the streets looking for dudes that look like ladies, like Colin Ferrill going to a paternity test at the clinic… I need to live through the page! The WORD people!!

I’m getting off topic. My post is about minivans.

Why do people hate them so much? Geeze! My super blog diva friend PEOPLE I WANT TO PUNCH IN THE THROAT confessed to her readers that she wants a minivan. She has like 30,000 fans on her Facebook page, which says two things: 1)My fans need to get busy, cuz I’m way behind. 2) There’s a lot of people that think she’s the bomb.

So if she says she wants a minivan that’s cool right? Wrong! Boy did she get hundreds of comments and some people were just downright mean.

For example:

“Just because I have kids doesn’t mean I need to tell the world by driving a minivan.”

What does this comment actually mean? Tell the world? When you go out in public as a family, aren’t you telling the world then?

I could sympathize if she said, “Just because I have kids doesn’t mean I need to show off my saggy ass and stretch marks in a bikini to the world”. Okay, this makes sense to me.

Here’s another:

“I would die in a minivan. I would much prefer my SUV.”

Okay, you would die in a minivan? People this is what I call a FWP (First World Problem). Really? If you did die, there would be plenty of room to stretch out.  OH SNAP!

I don’t go ragging on all you SUV drivers. Most minivans and SUVs get the same miles per gallon. They can have the same seating capacity. I don’t know why you need some big hulking beast of a vehicle to go to the mall or drop your kids off at school, but hey, if it works for you, then great.

I do like my slidey doors on my Odyssey. I know for certain I have saved many a dings on cars parked next to me.

Do I want to have a ‘real car’ one day? Sure! Will I miss the roomy interior and automatic doors and the fact that you can walk to the back of the van practically standing up? Yes!

But let me just say this in honor of my minivan-

It’s a Honda- so it’s a beast and has stayed strong for 100,000 miles + (knock on serious wood here)

It has more horsepower than your average car on the street. My favorite- when I take on one of those FAST and the FURIOUS wannabes at a stop light. You know what I’m talking about. Some 19 year old kid with his cap on sideways in his souped up Acura

You've all seen these at a stop light near you.

Integra with the bass pumping and his really loud, obnoxious tail pipe and he thinks he’s going to over take me. BWAAHAHAHA!!

Take that you Fast and Furious wannabes!

I like to speed away and wave and smile, pump my fist up in the air, toss my hair and blare Adele over my speakers. Yeah- this mama owns the road peeps!

Also- I can parallel park like nobody’s business and I can park in those shitty stalls in the parking garages we have downtown. Let me see your Escalade do that!

SO there you have it. My ode to the minivan. I’m proud. It’s all good.

And no, I don’t have those little stick figure stickers on the back window of our family members and the cat and dog. I don’t have a bumper sticker about my honors student, and I don’t have a side mirror that’s held on with duct tape. I have one bumper sticker I never had the guts to put on the back. James thought it sent a bad message to our neighbors.

He’s like, what does that mean actually?

What DOES this mean?

He’s got a point. Especially with all these ‘pimp’ connotations.

I think this is what is called, irony.

I hate when I’m wrong. When I’m right, I like to rub it in. Nicely, but rub it in good. Saying I TOLD YOU SO, is very gratifying. Especially in marriage.


Origin of IRONY

Latin ironia, from Greek eirōnia, from eirōndissembler

First Known Use: 1502
plural iro·nies

Not this kind of irony.

Definition of IRONY

a (1) : incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result (2) : an event or result marked by such incongruity b : incongruity between a situation developed in a drama and the accompanying words or actions that is understood by the audience but not by the characters in the play —called also dramatic irony, tragic irony

Here’s the shiz– I got a speeding ticket in the school zone at Emma’s middle school. Craptastic. It has one of those flashing school zone lights with the auto camera that flashes if you go over the speed limit and they mail you the ticket. When it was first installed James got a warning mailed to him. Boy did I ride him on that one. And don’t get your bloomers in a bunch- I nagged him incessantly on why he needs to heed to the 20mph law for that strip of road. It’s a school zone for pete’s sake, they don’t put those signs up for nothing, I yelled.

So what happens? An envelope comes in the mail that HE opens (I need to get the mail first apparently) and was actually feeling guilty thinking it was his (the cars are registered in his name). He politely says, ‘the Honda Odyssey was photographed in front of the school on Dec. 8 at 2:38 pm going 29 in a 20’.

Curse you camera ticketer machine thingy!

Curse you camera-ticketer-machine thingy!

I wanted to answer, ‘oh, that was the day some punks took the minivan for a joyride and happened to drive by the school’.  But instead, I just looked at him and said, ‘yeah, so?’

Hubs- “looks like it won’t go on your driving record and will just be a parking infraction.”

Me (nonchalantly)- “oh, lucky me. How ironic since I always nag you about that huh?”

Hubs- “yep, surprised it was you not me.”

Me- “aren’t you going to rub it in?”

Hubs- “no”

I hate when he’s the better man. Dammit.

So then I said, “the good news is I returned the library books that were way over due and they were going to charge us for and they found the one that was turned in but they thought was missing and were going to make us pay for, so really my money is just going to the city anyway.” (okay, our library is a County library, but give me a flippin’ break)

The point is- What I thought I saved in library books fees, I owe in speeding tickets.

And gosh darn it, James is nicer when it comes to rubbing stuff in my face. So there. I said it.

'Slow down ma'am, this is a school zone'

No more excuses

With snowpocalypse, snowmaggeddon, and clusterfuck 2012 now over, there’s no more excuses. I have to get shit done.

(courtesy Seriously, if this wasn't a cluster fuck, I don't know what is.

I’ve had PTA stuff I was supposed to do over 3 weeks ago. Donation piles I’m supposed to take to Goodwill. Bills I’m supposed to pay. Laundry that is waiting to be washed. (Owen hasn’t had clean socks in two weeks, but he’s easy going that way.)

Last week, despite The Shining-esque type of days where the snow kept falling, the lights flickering, (for some have been out of power for days so I have nothing to bitch about) and the never ending wet sloppy boots, mittens, snow pants hanging over the vents to dry merry go round I was doing; it was kind of nice to blame it on the snow.

Kinda like what I looked like wandering the house for 4 days in my long johns.

A sampling of my excuses:

Gotta drop off those PTA certificates- oops can’t, the school is closed.

Gotta mail those bills- oops can’t, out of stamps and hubs won’t let me take the minivan out in the snow.

Gotta make dinner- oops sorry, mac n cheese three nights in a row since Amazon Fresh won’t deliver.

Gotta do laundry- oops better not run the washing machine in case we lose power mid cycle and then the clothes would just sit there and rot.

It was fantastic! I ate popcorn and watched Kardashians for three days straight with Emma. We painted our nails, baked cookies, watched Harry Potter with Owen. Drank Old-fashioneds. (me and James did, not Emma)

(courtesy What's better than a Kardashians marathon during a snowpocalypse? Between, Keeping up with the Kardashians, Kourtney and Kim take New York, and Khloe and Lamar, there's always plenty of episodes on E! (Producers are looking into the next round of franchises; Kris takes on Menopause, Kendall and Kylie go to prom and Bruce finds his balls)

Now the streets are clear despite the 3 foot piles of black snow along the curbs. The gym is open and calling my name. School is back in session, Owen’s going to need fresh socks eventually…

Crap. I’m out of excuses…

wakey wakey mama bear. The cubs are restless. Is it spring yet?

A Good Parenting Day

Gosh darn it. Every now and then one of those squeak in there. I usually fill my blog posts full of gripes and complaints about my family. It’s easier to bitch and moan and make jokes. But yeah. I’ve got good kids. Most of the time. This will be a complete braggy type parent post that some of you may roll your eyes at. And there are no cuss words either. Some of you will rejoice in this, and some of you will be disappointed. Can’t please everyone.

The Pinewood Derby for my son’s Cub Scout troop happened over the weekend. The kids and James, and James, (mostly James) have been obsessing over these cars. Sanding, painting, weighing, graphite, more weighing… Owen had his title to defend, this was serious business.

Last year Owen won and had still been recovering from some stomach bug. He had probably lost a couple pounds off his already svelte frame and wasn’t feeling so great. I was in Chicago celebrating my brother’s 50 birthday. I remember the text I got from James to say Owen had won. I was thrilled and sad that I missed it.

This Derby was special for me. My first to watch. I braced myself for Owen to be eliminated early. Just to keep myself from being disappointed. He kept winning. Heat after heat, he edged out faster than the other cars. It’s funny watching the different reactions from the boys. Some a little aloof and not really invested emotionally if they got eliminated. Some heartbroken to see their opponents car inch over the finish line before theirs. Crying silently into their dads sides, hiding from their friends to not show the tears.

Owen was aware of this. He knew that sometimes losing is a part of winning. There’s losers for there to be winners. He maintained his composure, not boasting, just smiling.

One heat, there was a tie. An absolute dead heat where none of the dads or judges could tell who won. Owen looked directly at me as if to say, what happens next? Heck if I knew. This was a Pack first. The competition was getting faster. No more cars where the wheels fell of mid-track. No more cars where the gloppy paint job of some 2nd grader would slow it down. This was the big leagues. The bullet trains of Pinewood Derby cars. They decided to have a rematch.  Owen’s car won.

In the final round, it was the same story. A dead heat. Owen’s car and his opponent. A rematch would determine the winner. Funny, I don’t think the ol’ days of Pinewood Derby’s had iPhones, FlipVideo and camcorders to give us the photo finish! You could tell Owen was beaming. He was full of happiness. All the scouts shook each others hand in good competition. There was cake to celebrate. I asked if Owen wanted a piece. He told me no, he was too excited to eat.

By this time I needed a cocktail. It was only 3 in the afternoon, but all that cheering and tension had put me on edge.

Awhile after with milkshakes and cheeseburgers and friends to celebrate (and a margarita for mom) we went home to XBOX, Spy Kids and of course a hot pot of tea.

Later that night, it seems like sometimes when I just want the kids to go to bed, they do things like get along with each other, or read quietly to themselves. Which makes it hard for me to push them to get their jammies on and then I get distracted. That night Owen asked me about 9/11. The kids seemed enthralled in my memories of that day. So I spent 30 minutes telling them of all the events that unfolded while I watched on TV with Emma as a baby.

They said that in school they don’t teach them about the Pentagon or the plane that went down in Pennsylvania. We talked about the innocent moms and dads that died that day. How dads went on business trips and didn’t come home.

Both kids were getting teary eyed. I wrapped up my stories and sent them to bed. I didn’t need nightmares keeping them up.

Both children hugged me tenderly and told me how great I was. Part of me is thinking, how unbelievably sweet. The other half of me is thinking, I can’t be this good. My tears rolled down my nose onto Owen’s blond head.

I rubbed his back like I always do and kissed him goodnight. He thanked me again for being ‘the best mom’. One of those reasons for achieving ‘best’ status was that I let him snack a lot and play video games. (hmm, I think this just makes me lazy, but I’ll take it.)

I kissed Emma goodnight in her bed. She was peaceful and content. No sassing, no drama. No complaints. Just an ‘I love you’ while her eyes were closed and she was already half asleep.

It was a good parenting day.

The final race at the finish line. Owen's is the Batman car on the bottom. I don't know how James got this shot. A clear winner for sure.