Category Archives: why I drink

A Year of 1st Grade Edumicaton…

School is OUT for summer. And no one is happier than my Kiddo. He is smart, sharp, and houses an entire ant colony in his size seven shorts. I can now stop threatening to duct tape him to a chair so he can finish his homework and mute the constant lectures about practicing verbal self control.

Kiddo brought home backpacks full of his leftover school supplies, massive amounts of foamy crafts, and his End-of-Year Journal. Yes, after cupcakes, Skittles, and party games he had to sit down and fill in 20 pages of school year memories.

Yeah, right. His a hyper-child on a sugar rush. He filled in those blanks as fast and frantically as his frosting-caked fingers would allow.

The unedited (and yes, it looks uneducated, but he can spell and write normally, I swear!) results:

Let’s hope he doesn’t major in education–lazy teachers of the world unite!

What kid’s favorite subject ISN’T recess? Really. (We know it’s not handwriting or spelling.)

Yes, that’s a boy. Math, science, listening, self control, subtract and add. A girl’s would have said pretty handwriting, reading, gossip, & Bieber.

Forget about learning to READ this year. It’s a good day when he doesn’t get checks for those not listening and practicing verbal self control. He’s going to make a fabulous husband someday.

Well, if he WAS rich then he COULD buy all the Legos in the world. Or maybe just Legoland.

And he’s in love with his teacher. But he still doesn’t listen to her.

At least he’s consistent, considering he still doesn’t listen to me.

He doesn’t need to LEARN anything next year, it just needs to go by faster.

Thank you to my dear friend who introduced my boys to country music. Kiddo has been walking around singing Zac Brown’s Chicken Fried for a year now.

And the Toes song as well. He thinks if he’s singing a song he can say “ass.” Thanks.

He also presented us with his award for “Funniest Boy” in his class. Yeah, I’m in trouble…

Swimsuit Shopping {Part One: The Gray Hair}

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There are two horrors no woman can escape: swimsuit shopping and gray hairs. To endure both simultaneously with a toddler in tow should be enough punishment for a lifetime of sins (including all those I have yet to imagine and enjoy).

Down here in the Sunshine State swimsuit season starts early. Really early. If you don’t get your pale, flabby behind into stores while there’s still a nip in the air every decent suit will be long gone. I didn’t want to end up at the pool party play date in a flowery control-panel suit meant for my Great Aunt Betty or hit the beach in a knot of neon dental floss geared towards anorexic Girls Gone Wild, so I dragged the Kiddo out shopping.

As a SAHM on a shoestring budget, I don’t have the luxury of hitting the department stores or swimsuit boutiques which feature pricey suits that supposedly flatter any figure. Instead I am relegated to scouring the no-frill discount chain stores (a la Ross, TJ Maxx and of course Target), and usually with a whining toddler in tow.

On this particular sad shopping spree, I snatched up every suit that looked like it had a fighting chance of fitting my awkward shape, praying there was one I could wear in public without a sarong or shame. I hauled Kiddo past the toy display and snagged the biggest fitting room with only a slight pang of guilt. Okay, I know technically it is supposed to be a handicapped fitting room, but isn’t shopping with a toddler enough of an impediment to qualify? I parked Kiddo, some Matchbox cars, and the magic baggie of goldfish on the tiny bench facing away from me so he wouldn’t stare at me like I was a sideshow freak. Off went my clothes…and my dignity.

I firmly believe every mother should be handed a certificate in the delivery room to come back for a little “sprucing up” after her kid is weaned to avoid tortuous situations like this. It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. The white walls and harsh fluorescent lighting magnified each lump, shiny stretch mark, and stray leg hair. It was freezing cold. I had enough goosebumps to resemble a plucked chicken.

I discarded the first two choices as soon as I could perform the necessary contortionist moves to get them off. Torn white granny-panties would have been more flattering. The third suit…well, it wasn’t atrocious. At least it covered the saggy post-pregnancy elephant skin no exercise could erase. Stretch marks were covered. Muffin top was at a minimum. Granted, the black fabric made me look as if I had been on display in a funeral parlor for a few days (I’m a far cry from Nicole Kidman’s creamy pale skin, I’m more Sunday Adams in need of a wax). It matched my black socks. It could have been worse.

I bribed the now bored and whining Kiddo with a lollipop for a few more moments of contemplation.

I shook my hair out of a ponytail and mugged like a Victoria Secret swimsuit model wannabe, boobs pushed out, head down, eyes looking up all sultry. As I glanced up in the mirror a strange sparkle along my hairline caught the light. I tried to brush it off, thinking it must be a piece of glitter. It didn’t budge.

“No,” I whispered, getting closer to the mirror. “NOOO!” My mouth froze in a tight O, my saucers-sized eyes glued to the horrible thing sprouting from my scalp. I turned my head upside-down and scratched at it, trying to shake it loose. I stood up and the let the strands fall back into the natural part. It was still there… No, no, no…I’m too young… It CAN’T be…

It was.

I had a gray hair.

Technically, it was more silver than gray, but it was attached to my 33-years-young scalp. I started feeling dizzy. The walls closed in and I began to sway.

Kiddo sensed my panic and wrapped himself around my naked thigh like a octopus.

I had to pull the hair out. It could not remain. It kept slipping between my fingers as I tried to yank it from my treacherous head. “Get off me dammit!” My elbow smacked the mirror since I couldn’t seem to hold onto the evil thing.

Startled, Kiddo proceeded to wail. I could feel everyone in the store glaring at me through the flimsy walls, wondering if I was in there beating my kid or shoplifting.

In a desperate last ditch effort I looped the hair around my finger and yanked with all my might. The offending hair was torn from my scalp. I, however, lost my balance and fell flat on my rear. Kiddo collapsed on my bare stomach sobbing hysterically, probably scarred for life. His gooey red lollipop adhered to the swim suit. I had to buy it now.

I couldn’t decide if I should laugh or have a meltdown of my own.

Yes, I saved it and taped it into my journal. I’m weird that way.

Wine Pairing Playlist for the Apocalypse

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The final countdown is ON. I never imagined my last day on Earth would be spent at a soccer game. If I had my way I would be listening to the following playlist while hosting a wine tasting of epic proportions.

One song, one bottle (or at least a taste of each). No one will really care as 6 p.m. approaches.

It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) by R.E. M. with Conundrum California White

Rapture by Blondie with Rapture Cabernet Sauvignon (duh)

Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult with Ghostly White

Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley with Redemption Zin

Cities in Dust by Siouxsie and the Banshees with Zombie Zin

Death Don’t Have No Mercy by Grateful Dead with Velvet Devil Merlot

Sympathy for the Devil by Rolling Stones with Sympathy For the Devil Icewine (a gimme)

Waiting For The End of The World by Elvis Costello with Cataclysm Cabernet Sauvignon

Until the End of the World by U2 with Temptation Zin

My Apocalypse by Metallica with Return of the Living Red

The End by The Doors with 7 Deadly Zins

Apocalypse Please by Muse with Plum Loco Sweet Plum & Cherry Wine

When the World Ends by Dave Matthews Band with Pino Evil

Here Comes The Flood by Peter Gabriel with Clean Slate Riesling

Heaven is a Place On Earth by Belinda Carslile with Angel Juice Pinot Grigio

The End by The Beatles with Relax Riesling

and, well, since the end is coming anyway why the Hell not…

Why Don’t We Get Drunk And Screw by Jimmy Buffett with some of my favorite Sin Zin

Party on, Winos…
Cheers!

I am NOT Too Old For a Miniskirt

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Who do these people think they are telling me I’m too old to wear a miniskirt? According to some weight-challenged Brits, no one wants to see women’s legs once we have sagged our way to our mid-thirties. A much passed around post in the Daily Mail proclaims 35 is the absolute cut-off for short skirts. Hubby strenuously disagrees with them and is begging me to buy MORE skirts just to prove them wrong.

DietChef, some British diet food distributor (a la Jenny Craig), supposedly administered a poll to 2,000 (British, dieting, and riddled with low self-esteem) women asking the age at which certain items of clothing are no longer appropriate.

These legs can still rock a miniskirt.

The Results:

Bikini, 47
Swimsuit, 61
Miniskirt, 35
Long hair, 53
Ponytail, 51
Boob Tube (aka tube top), 33
Stilettos, 51
Belly button piercing, 35
Knee high boots, 47
Trainers (sneakers), 44
Leather pants, 34
Leggings, 45
Ugg boots, 45
See-through chiffon blouse, 40

How is it possible that 35 is to old for a miniskirt but a bikini is just fine until age 47? Trust me, the general public would much rather be forced to stare at my legs in a short skirt than my bit of muffin flopping over my bikini bottom. And how is it that a mere 14 years later at the ripe old age of 61 women should no longer even be SEEN in a swimsuit? What are we supposed to wear, some kind of geriatric swim costume?

Obviously these people have never been to Daytona Beach, home to the never-ending parade of 85-year-old women proudly showing off their tans, tattoos, and sagging cleavage in fluorescent bikinis. (A few of these former biker babes WAY past their prime have made Hubby shriek and spew Cheetos and Kiddo point as if a painted whale just crawled up from the sea.)

For most women, there is a cut off age depending on her body type and modesty level, but are these pollsters saying that their own Dame Helen Mirren should not be allowed to wear any swimsuit? She looks better than me (and probably you too) at the “old” age of 65.

I am rather surprised by the late age cut-off for long hair and pony tails. As soon as I hit 30 my dad told me I was too old for my long locks and informed me I looked much younger once I chopped them off. (I didn’t cut my hair off for him, I just couldn’t handle the then infant Kiddo trying to scalp me as he practiced grasping and pulling.) Should we all be required to go in for weekly set and curls once we hit the big 5-0? It has to do with style people. If you are trying to look like you did at 16, you are going to look old and inappropriate. No matter the length, if your hairstyle is current you can wear it well at any age.

No trainers (sneakers) after 44? Are we supposed to give up exercising completely or only go to classes like yoga, Pilates, and water aerobics which don’t require shoes? No, that wouldn’t work either. Yoga and Pilates are most comfortable in leggings (forbidden after 45) and swimsuits–well, we already discussed that one. And some peoples feet just need to be covered. I refuse to trade in my walking shoes for colored leather flats with tassels AND pantyhose with shorts. My (well over 44) M-I-L just tried hiking the LA canyons in leather flats. BAD idea. I just won’t do it.

Somehow shorts didn’t even make the list. How can that be? Women, heck, little girls even wear inappropriate shorts at all ages. Have these people never cruised the mall or stepped foot in a Walmart? The amount of erroneous shorts choices is just appalling. Some days you just have to stare at the floor to not get freaked out. Oh wait, the list was compiled by Brits–they only wear shorts while on holiday in some sunny, foreign locale. Try and tell a woman sweltering through waves of hot flashes in the deep South she is forbidden from wearing shorts. Do it and run. I dare you.

We should make a list of all the items MEN shouldn’t wear after a certain age. Starting with:

Speedos–forbidden once potty trained–3
Make-up and nail polish–16 (or once they drop out of their garage band)
High school jerseys, jackets and other paraphernalia–the day after graduation-18
Capris–just pick shorts or pants–4 (because it takes a while for their legs to catch up with their waists)
Disney themed apparel–10 (any older and they will rightfully get beat up)
Heavy fragrance (i.e. Polo, Drakkar Noir)–18 (or when they actually get a girlfriend)
Skinny jeans–16 (and a GIRL)
Birkenstocks--24 (once they graduate college and/or stop smoking pot)
Crocs–10
Tank tops–age 8 (or once they stop coming with the matching swim trunks)
Sports jerseys–unless you are actually on the field/court/rink don’t do it
Bow ties–only with a proper tuxedo and then only black or white
Leather pants–never
Navy blazers with brass buttons–65 and up only

Are you a rule breaker?

What else should be on the Men’s list?

I’ll be sitting here in my boob tube and miniskirt waiting your reply.

Wordless Wino Wednesday

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I don’t usually do this, but I happened to find this old photo yesterday.

{Yes, that’s me on my 1st Birthday. Explains A LOT.}

Survive the Rapture and Get Naked

It was a GOOD day…

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{Flashback to Friday night}:

Today was a good day.

I discovered I was not going to be forced to apply for the lingerie maid job I saw posted on Craigslist just to keep a roof over our heads. (Seriously–scrubbing a gawking stranger’s toilet while wearing a teddie –would that not be the absolute WORST job ever?)

I had three times as many blog hits as ever in my scattered history. I gained a bunch of new followers (thanks and welcome to all of you!) and found dozens of smart, sassy and like-minded women with fabulous blogs of their own. And I discovered I was pregnant.

Just kidding!

(Although I did email that to my parents and nearly cause them to suffer simultaneous heart attacks. To quote my Dad, payback is gonna be a bitch. I was just carried away by all the whirlwind of snarky comments I had been making all day. I am a BAD daughter sometimes…)

But the best news came by way of an after-hours phone call that put an end to a few of the roughest weeks we’ve been through in a while. Hubby still has a job. Praise God, Hallelujah! Moments like that make me wish a was a good little Protestant girl…

His “company” is going through massive layoffs, giving pink slips to over half his office and nearly 5,000 employees overall. After 16 years of hard work and dedication he was informed his position had been cut. Our world was about to drastically change.

Loss of health insurance. Insane cobra costs. Losing hundreds of hours of accrued vacation and sick time. Massive mortgage payments. Credit rating going down the crapper. Meager savings disappearing with one poof of an evil magic wand. I know far too many other families have been suffering in these horrible economic times. But somehow it seems like an F5 twister barreling towards you when layoffs threaten to devastate YOUR home. It’s freaking terrifying.

But now the stacks of resume books and interview kits can be set aside, or at least just casually browsed through instead of studied as if it was the night before the Bar Exam. I may still keep looking for a part-time job (unless someone actually wants to pay me for blogging…hint, hint…) but I can stop practicing Would you like some fries with that? Kiddo isn’t going to end up in after-care just yet. I can stop buying ramen noodles in bulk and testing out unattractive hair net hairdos.

I can still work on my novel. Life will go on.

Today was a good day.

Time to crack open a couple of good bottles of wine to celebrate.

The Slippery Slope of the SAHM Resume

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This afternoon I finally did it. I dug my decrepit resume from the bowels of my computer hard drive. Thank God I remembered to transfer it from the floppy disc it once nearly filled several generations of computers ago. But I think it belongs in those long ago days. It is ugly. It is barren. It has a great big seven year hole glaring out for all to see.

How do I escape from the SAHM black hole?

With half of Hubby’s office about to get the ax and the survivors hoping to cope with pay and benefit cuts, I decided it might be time to test out the waters. I don’t know if anyone will think I am qualified to hold any position. I keep reading horror stories of how college-educated SAHMs can’t even score an interview yet kids with the ink still wet on their high school diplomas get the job. And I suck at rejection.

After I nearly cried in desperation, I edited some of the job description/accomplishments/bragging passages. Honestly, they were written so long ago I have no idea what “increased sales by 70%” even means. Was it $20,000? $100,000? $1,000,000? “I cannot recall,” would not be a suitable answer in an interview.

I am also a career changer. I do not want to go back to the retail 60-hour workweeks and insane customers unless my house is on the line. My last employer, the wonderful State of Florida, is currently laying off a significant portion of its dedicated and experienced staff (a.k.a. possibly the Hubby) so there are no opportunities there. What’s a girl to do?

My main concern now is the black hole. Do I fill it with one of the snarky “SAHM & Domestic ~~Goddess~~ Engineer” job descriptions? It’s not as if I have spent the last seven years on the couch eating Thin Mint cookies while watching HGTV (just a teeny tiny bit when Kiddo was just an infant and napping). I’ve raised an intelligent, independent, well-adjusted kid. I’ve budgeted obsessively and kept us afloat on a single, pitiful government employee salary. I taught myself new skills as I remodeled my house, doing most of the labor myself. I helped run a popular Moms’ Group, been paid to eat popcorn and have interesting Japanese product engineers take samples of my hair. I write and take photos for a blog (although I never made any money from it) and I’m so close to finishing the first draft of my novel (which I may now never finish).

But does any of that count on a resume?

To anyone out there in the real world I’m just a simple Stay At Home Mom.

Soccer Mom Crash Course

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It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the Soccer Complex. Osprey soared through the blue sky over the fields and the air was thick with excitement, sweat, and apprehension. It was the first game of the season…and Kiddo’s first game ever.

I had the requisite folding chairs and Kiddo’s water bottle. Hubby and I should have just settled down in the sunshine to watch a pack of six and seven-year-old chase a ball around a field. Right? Wrong...

This is Kiddo’s first season playing any sport. My Hubby still sacrifices himself to the Soccer Gods each Sunday, so I wasn’t exactly overeager to give up my Saturdays as well. We waited for Kiddo to tell us he really wanted to play. It just took a while for him to tear himself away from his Legos and hours of free play.

His team has had a whopping three practices. Basically, the coach showed them how to kick a ball. We haven’t really gotten to distance, passing or even much aim. Several times the players had to be rounded up from playing tag or picking dandelions. Kiddo was excited to have cleats (excuse me, boots) and knee socks (a.k.a. soccer socks) like his Daddy. Two little girls showed off their new shoes with pink stripes and chased their matching pink balls. Most kids were in Kindergarten. Newbies. Fresh meat.

Hubby (soccer show-off that he is) volunteered to help the coach wrangle kids and herd them towards their correct goals out on the practice field. He had no official position–it was just a fun way to blow off some steam after a stressful day at work. But last Thursday after practice the coach pulled him aside and said he couldn’t make it to the first game Saturday and the assistant coach had been a no-show for two weeks. Could Hubby possibly help out?

How could he say no? Hubby was drafted.

Now, it’s Kiddo’s first game ever and our first time even watching a kids’ soccer match, and suddenly Hubby is the fearless leader of a pack of wild and mostly untrained players. We figured it would be fine–just some low key bumble-bee ball. He’s played for 30+ years himself. How hard could it be?

We arrived to find the opposing team doing organized warm-up drills called out by a drill sergeant. There were a lot of them–the field was aglow with future World Cup contenders zipping along in their fluorescent green jerseys. And they were all easily a head taller than our biggest player and probably double the weight of our smallest. They looked as if they had been playing together since they were waddling in diapers. Ugh oh…

Their coach must be a professional high school football coach and/or a Marine drill sergeant. He paced the sidelines barking orders and calling plays like, “Hey Wolf–get on that kid–take him down!” and “Defense stay in your positions– knock ’em out!”

Coach Hubby ran along with the kids yelling, “Just kick the ball! No, our goal’s in the other direction!”

The other team had fourteen players. They switched the entire squad on the field out every few minutes for freshly rested and watered reinforcements. We had one sub. Our little guys and gals were thirsty, unsure, and exhausted. Their goalies hunched in front of the net wearing special pennies and goalie gloves. Our goalies wore one of Kiddo’s X-men t-shirts and I caught one picking clovers in the grass. At half time the other team had an organized huddle while their coach dressed them down and went over new strategies. At half time our team drank all of their water and tried not to cry.

Coach Hubby just shook his head and muttered how it was like reliving The Bad News Bears. Except soccer instead of baseball. And he couldn’t drink beer at the field–although we probably all could have used one.

In the end, it was a debacle. The league is *not supposed to* keep score, but we went down in flames 13-0.

The parents still cheered as loud as we could each time one of our players got a foot on the ball or made a run towards the goal. We took pictures and gave pats on the back. We shouted words of encouragement. Since there were so few players, we quickly learned all their names and ages and previous experience (or lack of). We discovered who had unexpected speed and who wasn’t afraid to lock horns with kids twice his size. We saw how amazing our kids were no matter how they played. And they did play well–the other team just played better. We were all proud.

After the game Kiddo knew his team had been spanked. But he still had fun. And so had Hubby. That made it a great day anyway.

And I hope when our team gets into the swing of things we come back and kick the green team’s collective ass.

Snooki Writes a Booki–Not A Shore Thing

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The degradation of society is complete. Snooki wrote a book: A Shore Thing. Excuse me–a mind-numbing “novel” providing a few hours of oversexed and undereducated entertainment for the masses. Someone please bring me some tequila–as long as it’s not a body shot off a juicehead gorilla. (Huh?)

Apparently she is a little confused about which way the words go…

It is my habit to race for the remote when realty show celebrities are mentioned. This morning, however, I nearly snarfed coffee through my nose as Matt Lauer interviewed the Jersey Shore guidette on the Today Show. I just couldn’t look away as this Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi described how we can tell she really did write the book (using crayons? dictating into her cell phone?) “’cause like it’s all my language…” Supposedly it took her three months to write along with her co-writer,Valerie Frankel, who helped her through all the hard work. Writing a book is hard? Um, like, no way? I hope Ms. Frankel received an extremely lucrative paycheck to compensate for dumbing herself down enough to write this trash.

Below are some of the *novel’s* finer quotes (courtesy of the New York Post)

* “He had an okay body. Not fat at all. And naturally toned abs. She could pour a shot of tequila down his belly and slurp it out of his navel without getting splashed in the face.”

* “Yum. Johnny Hulk tasted like fresh gorilla.”

* “Any juicehead will get some nut shrinkage. And bacne. They fly into a ‘roid rage, it is a ‘road’ ‘roid rage.”

* “Gia danced around a little, shaking her peaches for show. She shook it hard. Too hard. In the middle of a shimmy, her stomach cramped. A fart slipped out. A loud one. And stinky.”

* “Gia had never before been in jail. It wasn’t nearly as gritty and disgusting as she’d seen on TV prison shows. The Seaside Heights drunk tank — on a weekday afternoon — was as clean and quiet as a church.”

* “I love food. I love drinking, boys, dancing until my feet swell. I love my family, my friends, my job, my boss. And I love my body, especially the badonk.

I’m not sure if I was overwhelmed with curiosity or nausea when I heard that Simon and Schuster agreed to pay this skank an ungodly sum of real money (would she have noticed if they used Monopoly cash?) to write this tale of guidettes with “one goal in mind: hooking up with a sexy gorilla.” I think I’m gonna hurl.

I don’t watch the train wreck some consider a show. I would have been thrilled if I never knew any of these cretins were sharing my oxygen. But one night I flipped to the Jersey Shore (while the Hubby was out of town so there were NO witnesses) to see what the big deal was. After five minutes I could count the brain cells being sucked through my glazed-over eyes.
It was painful. It was depressing. It was…reality? Whose?

And how may people who may be interested enough in Snooki to plonk down 25 bucks of their bar tab money actually READ books? Maybe they should have made a comic or a picture book?

Snooki’s Top Ten Reasons you should buy her book:

You’re watching Snooki presents on ‘Late Show’ 1/10/11 – TV Replay. See the Web’s top videos on AOL Video

Last April, after she was arrested for disorderly conduct, her judge asked if she was “trading her dignity for a paycheck.” How many Shore fans are going to trade their paychecks for this 289 page tome? (Amazon can bundle it with Here’s the Situation: A Guide to Creeping on Chicks, Avoiding Grenades, and Getting in Your GTL on the Jersey Shore by Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino and Gym, Tanning, Laundry: The Official Jersey Shore Quote Book by MTV if you really want to destroy your mind.) You bet your badonk I’d rather save a tree or use it for toilet paper.