What Wakes Me Up in the Middle of the Night...

I'm a heavy sleeper.

The Polar Express could run right through the middle of my room and I wouldn't budge an inch.

But something that instanteously disturbs my slumber is...

My dog licking his balls.

I hate it. It equates to someone running their fingernails across a chalkboard.

My 6 year-old Shih-Tzu, Gretzky (appropriately named after the Great One, Wayne Gretzky) loves to lick his nuts, smack dab in the middle of the night in our bedroom. He's not discreet about it either. You'd think he'd like some privacy as he cleans his fuzzy peaches, but he really doesn't care. Although, he does make sure he is sitting right by my side of the bed when starts his nightly routine.

He licks his nuggets with the precision of a pornstar and then pants heavily afterwards.

Ron Jermy has nothing on him.

By the time Gretzky is done, I'm wide awake. Digusted by the slurping matinee. I open my eyes to catch him staring at me. I throw a pillow at him and turn to try and get back to sleep...

and then...

I glance back to see act 2....

Pillow Humping.

Ack!!

Having a Bad Day?

After seven years, I lost my job.

Yes, I became another one of the casualities of this economic war.

It's a rough time out there right now and no one is immune.

I always wondered how I'd react if I was ever let go. I've never in my life been fired from a job so this was pretty interesting. I'd always imagined that I'd get emotional, maybe knock a few things off a desk or two and storm out on my own accord.

But...it didn't happen that way. I was calm, cool, collected. I was assured that it wasn't performance based, but that the company had to make cutbacks and that my position was being eliminated. Did it suck any less? No. But I decided that I was going to leave with my head held high. I was an awesome, loyal employee for seven years and I wasn't about to throw everything I'd worked so hard for out the window by reacting unprofessionally.

I'm hard on myself more than anyone else will ever be. So of course, I ran the gammet of emotions from sadness and hurt to dissapointment and hate. I felt like a failure as a parent; as a mother. But in the end, I felt this overwhelming sense of relief. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I felt like this huge weight was pulled off my shoulders. And believe it or not...I became excited; excited about the new chapter that God had waiting for me.

Anyone that knows me, knows that I'm a pretty spiritual person. If it wasn't for my faith, I'm not sure where I'd be. I live my life with the utmost gratitude and wake up each day with a prosperous mind. I know as I continue on through my journey in life, I will never quite understand everything that will happen along the way, but I trust God.

It's times like these, when your foundation is shaken, that your faith is truly tested. It's so important to keep things in perspective. I've had better days but I look at my short stint in the unemployment field as a little "hiccup" in life; it's an inconvenience.... I'll recover.

And that is exactly what it is: inconvenient.

You know what I define as "having a bad day"?

- When your life is turned upside down after you find that your 11 year old daughter has brain cancer, like my close friends Anthony and Sue

- When a F-16 yet plows into your house and kills your wife, your two babies and mother-in-law while you are at work, like the man in San Diego had happen to him

- When you discover that your grown daughter murdered your 3 year-old grandchild, as in the case with Caylee Anthony in Florida

Those are people with BAD days. I pray for them daily while acknowledging the blessings that I have in my life. I don't have bad days, only inconvenient ones. I know that I can't put back together what God has taken apart..or put a question mark where He has left a period. I just continue to breathe and keep moving forward.

Tomorrow the sun will still rise,

and I will wake up

knowing

that

living

is the ultimate gift.

Why No Christmas Picture Cards?

Ahhh... don't you love 'em? The good ol' Christmas picture cards that you get in the mail during the holidays. You know the ones I'm talking about-- the one with the whole family gathered together in matching holiday sweaters in front of a mock fireplace with the family pet. It's even better when they send along a family letter about all the achievements of little Tad or Morgan...

"...while managing to maintain his 4.2 grade average, Tad is excelling in soccer, football, baseball, band and water polo. His early acceptance into Yale as the youngest genius in history is quite incredible....."

"...Morgan graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Princeton and will travel to Slovenia in the summer where she will continue her Christian mission work..."

If you're a holiday family letter writer..more power to you. It's just hard not to sound like you're gloating when writing those things- as if there isn't a touch of any dysfunction. As proud as I am of my children, I choose not to throw it (via holiday letter) in other people's faces. I just think about the families I know that are going through different issues with their kids and know that the last thing they want to read about is how my kids are kicking ass in everything they do. 

And the picture cards...

My picture cards usually consist of Mia and Sofia (and sometimes I'll throw in an animal or two for good measure). But they never include me. 

Why, you may ask?

Well..here's the condensed version:

I'm not as "svelte" as I used to be and I'm pretty self conscious about it. And when people send me their Christmas picture cards and I've noticed some of their weight gain, I'm the first one to bring attention to it.  I'm just being honest. So..I choose not to send any cards out with me in it. 

It's just a matter of fact.

And if you can sit there and tell me that you don't do that when you receive holiday cards, you're full of crap.

You know that when you get that Christmas picture card in the mail with all the fun holiday stickers on the envelope and open it to the pic of Tom with his arms wrapped around morbidly obese Nancy with her Christmas sweater and holiday light earrings with their offspring gleefully posing in their reindeer print turtlenecks next to the Christmas tree..........you talk shit. 

Don't lie. It starts with a closer glance of the pic to make sure it's the same people you know, then it's a snicker then you call everyone in the household to come check out the pic and see how big Nancy got. Then it's a phone call to everyone that you know that knows her.

Such is life.

And THAT, my friends,  is why, you will never receive a Christmas picture card with ME in it.

Happy Holidays!

Things I Ponder...

My mind is always on overdrive.

I think about things that run the gammet from silly to sophmoric.

I seriously think it has to do with being a mom. I think that once you start having children, your hormones work together with your brain cells and say, "Hey, let's really screw with her..." (If you didn't know already, the right side of the brain controls creative activity, while the left side controls logical verbal activity; both of which have been highly affected by motherhood). 

Here are a few things I ponder...

Why does my 5 year old need to go potty "real bad" right when the food is delivered to our table at a restaurant. Even after I asked almost 10 times before hand?

Why does my SUV look like a family of 20 live in it? There are crumbs everywhere, books, Happy Meal toys, water bottles, movies, blankets, artwork, socks, hair clips, stuffed animals, fruit snacks and enough jackets to clothe an army.

Why do my kids like the clothes I pick out for them at the store, but once it's time to wear them, they find something wrong with them?

Why are my kids perfectly behaved and neat, model students at school, but are messy and fight like banshees at home?

Why does my 9 year-old insist she needs a cellphone? She doesn't know anyone but us.

Why do I bother printing out those "How to live on a budget" articles and never read them?

Why does everything look better in the catalogs? Nothing worse then getting that cute nightie set from the Victoria's Secret catalog (hoping to look like the waif who modeled it) and then being dissapointed after seeing it on-- looking like you just walked on to a porn set of a Heavyweight Humpers film.

Why is my 5 year-old obessed with the word TAMPAX?

Why do I become so judgemental when I see another women driving the car that I want (BMW 7 Series)? Right away I assume she's a gold digger.

Why do I obessess over the un-perkiness of my breasts?

Why is half my closet filled with stuff I wouldn't wear anymore?

Why do my children look like little cavepeople when I pick them up from school? Their hair is knotty and messy...clothes unkept...shoes untied. These can't possibly be mine.

Why do my kids whine and cry when I comb their hair but when dad does it, they're totally fine?

Why does the dog decide to shit a towel and diarrhea all over the place when my husband isn't home?

Why do I get poop cramps an hour after eating at McDonalds?

Why is my husband so particular about the type of toilet paper I buy? It's to wipe shit. Enough said.

Why is some toilet paper made with lotion? Who wants a moist bunghole?

Why, at 37 years of age, do I still have period accidents like a 16 year old? 

Why can't I ever be the winning 1,000,000th visitor through the gates at Disneyland?

Why do I not have any willpower when it comes to desserts?

Why does my dresser look like a clothing bomb exploded inside? 

Why do my children tell me they need to bring in a store bought snack to school at 10pm the night before it's due?

Why do I feel like keeling over from a heart attack after walking only 4 flights of stairs?

Why has my eliptical machine become a clothes hanger?

Why does my oldest kid not want me to kiss her goodbye at school anymore?

Why do I hate camping?

Why do I pray everytime I see a stranded motorist but never stop to help?

Why do I get drunk after one glass of wine?

Why do I become self conscious when I'm having sex and the dog is sitting there watching?

Why do I tell the nurse at the gynecologist's office not to tell me what I weigh? I turn my head when I step on that dumb scale.

Why do I think about all the vaginas my gynecologist sees and wonder if mine is the best looking?

Why do I lie when my doctor asks me if I do my own breast exams? Does my husband fondling them count?

Why do I look like the "before" pictures in magazines for weight loss ads? You know the ones I'm talking about- the fat, jelly, cellulite butt in a white thong next to the "after" pic of the tan, hard- as- a- rock touchable booty.

Why did I say no, when the urologist asked me if I wanted to watch while my husband got his vasectomy? Ugh, just the thought of burning penis skin turns my stomach.

Why do my towels have to be folded a certain way when they get out of the dryer?

Why am I convinced that my kids' stuffed animals reproduce like rabbits?

Why couldn't I have inherited the voluptous butt from my Latin side instead of the flat butt from my Asian side? 

Why do I have to go to bed matching?

Why are men obessesed with Playboy nipples? They think all women should have light, little, perky nipples that stay that way--- forever.

Why do all my favorite panties look like they've gone to Iraq and back?

Why does my singing voice never sound as good as it does in the shower?

Why does the car always need repair right before a vacation or the holidays?

Why, when I see really obese women, do I think if I closely resemble them?

Why have my bikini waxing sessions become therapeautic?

Do you ever wonder these things?

It's just me, right?

or... is it?

 

. 

Reflections

Ugh. I hate them.

Mirrors.

Dressing Room Mirrors.

Reflective glass.





I can't help it. I constantly catch myself looking at ...well..myself...off the reflection of glass. It's everything from the glass in the hallway at work, the glass door at the front entrance of the building, the glass in my car window to the reflection off of someone's sunglasses.

It's not pretty.

Reflections add 15lbs to your body.

Reflections enhance every pucker, every wrinkle.

Reflections inflate your thighs and double your chin.

Reflections make your hair look unruly and your arms "sausage-y"

Why do I put myself through this?

I guess I want to see what other people are seeing when they see me. Do they see what I see?

I see a mother who could stand to lose a few pounds (ok..more like 20), a neurotic perfectionist with teased hair, and ridiculously expensive shoes?

Why do I care what other people see?

I don't know. I say I don't care--but, I do.

Reflections are even worse in the fitting rooms. It seems like the more expensive the store, the more horrid their mirrors are. You'd think that the department stores would wise up and invest in mirrors that make you look 10lbs thinner. Revenue would skyrocket from all the women happily picking out clothing after looking like Kima Kardashian in the "trick mirror". I know I would.

Especially during bathing suit season. To be honest, I don't even consider any season bathing suit season. But you know it's fast approaching when every magazine on the store shelf reads "Get that Bathing Suit Body Now" or "The Bathing Suit Workout!" and all the 20-somethings at work are talking about getting into the gym before the summer or sharing tricks on how to make yourself puke after you eat. 

Yeah, yeah~ who has the time for that? I'm a full-time working mom with two young kids and a husband and 3 dogs. I don't have the luxury of any "me" time. I do have an elliptical machine (that's been used approximately 7 1/2 times in the last 2 years) and a variety of different workout DVDs. My favorite part of all the workout DVDs is when the instructor starts the routine and you're huffing and puffing..sweating...and jumping; gasping for air. You're dizzy from the heavy workout ready to keel over. You need water. And then the instructor says, "Ok, that was a great warm-up, now let's start the workout!" That's when I stop the DVD player and sit down with a bowl of ice cream to cool down.

My favorite is when I stop off for my coffee in the morning and I see other mothers in their tennis outfits or workout gear hanging out with no particular place to be. They're all so neat and perfectly tan conversing with one another while sipping on their morning latte, skinny, no whip. "Must be nice.." is all I can think.

And as I walk out of the coffee place, I see a reflection in the exit door. It wasn't the nuerotic, perfectionist mom with a few lb's to lose. It was a pretty cool chick, who's always smiling and living a life of gratitude; a talented, confident woman

THAT is the reflection I choose to see.

(or at least until I get my butt back on my elliptical machine)

;)

Redlight Men

Call me self- conscious.

Maybe a tad neurotic at times.

But if there is one thing that bothers me most, it's the men you come across at red lights.
You know what I'm talking about. You're driving, minding your own business and you come to a red light. And out the corner of your eye, you see another car pull up next to you. You continue to keep looking straight to avoid any eye contact with the car next to you..but then you do it. You sneak a peek and the dude is staring straight at you. You turn around quickly to play it off by either grabbing your cell phone to check messages or focus on your radio trying to act like your fumbling with the stations.

You can feel him undressing you with his eyes.

You slowly look down to make sure you're covered up. The last thing you need is any kind of extra boobage hangin' out of your bra.

The red light seems to be taking an eternity to turn green. As soon as the light switches you press on the gas and the car next to you manages to keep up with you so that the perv inside can keep staring.

There are a variety of men that you meet at a red light. And they run the gammet from professionals to scum bags. Let's take a look at a few that we're all familiar with:

The Landscapers
The landscapers will usually roll up 10 deep~ 5 smooshed together in the front cab of the truck and the rest hanging out the bed. At first they stare, and if that isn't enough to make you turn around, the whistles, kissing noises and "mamacita" cat calls usually do the trick. They like to pull up and get in front of you once the light turns green so that the rest of their crew in the bed of the truck can stare straight at you as you drive behind them. 

License Plate: LUVSBUSH

The Dad
The Dad will pull up alongside you in his old Astro van or Hyundai circa 1988. The windshield has a crack in it with dirty sippy cups on the dashboard and the side windows are marked with handprints. He'll usually have a couple car seats in the back (with the kids actually in them if you're lucky) with a swing set latched on top of the car. The dad will typically have a "laid back" type of pose as he sits at the steering wheel and tries to grab your attention. He'll smile and nod like "Yeah, baby..I know you want a piece of this..." When the light turns green he pushes down on the gas so that he stays up with you side by side to increase the burning desire within you to join him in his sin wagon.

License Plate: 4SKIN

The Boys
The Boys that you'll encounter at the red light usually fall in the 16-20 year old demographic. If they aren't driving mom or dad's car with their friends, they 're in a late model car with rims and a booming system so loud, it'll make your ears bleed. When The Boys try and get your attention, it's always just to show off in front of their homies. They'll try and spit game using lines like "Wassup' baby? What's your name? You gotta man?" And when you continue to ignore them, they'll flip you off and call you a stuck-up whore as the light turns green and they take off. License Plate: BONGHITZ

Mr.Corporate
Mr.Corporate will pull up to the red light with anything red and European (BMW, Audi, Mercedes). It's always an added bonus when it's 120 degrees in the Arizona heat and he has his convertible top down so that you can notice his spray-on tan as he talks loudly on his phone and tinkers with his Blackberry and two-tone Rolex. He does eveything he can to nonchalantly capture your attention. He wants you to want him. He runs his fingers through his hair as he screeches off at green light.

License Plate: GR8-LAY

The Perv
The Perv is a passive agressive perv as he drives up to the red light. If he's not driving a pick-up, he's in an older Yugo with the metal "naked women" silhouttes hanging from his mudflaps and a huge sticker on his back window that reads "Official Bikini Inspector" with the Peeing Calvin sticker in the far corner. The Perv, overweight- wearing his mesh half shirt, will look over at you and raise his eyebrows and pucker his lips. He'll keep his eyes fixated on you as he turns his 2 Live Crew "Me So Horny" cd up loud enough for everyone in passing cars to hear. He'll throw up the "V" sign with his fingers and wave his tongue through it. As the light turns green, he makes the cheeseball "double gun" motion towards you as he drives off. 

License plate: BVR PLZR

Notice that these are usually the type of men that you'll encounter at the red light who need attention. It will never be a Brad Pitt or George Clooney look-a-like tht pulls up alongside you to whisk you away.

But don't let that steal your joy.

Keep looking forward and proceed with caution. 

There will always be red lights and mystery men.

Be flattered and thank God that you still attract that type of attention....BVR PLZR or not.

What's That Smell?

"Mommy, what's that awful smell?"

I roll down my window to take a whiff. "Eww."

"It smells like feet and throw up and glue!" says Sofia

"It smells like that stuff that mommy uses in the wash to makes the white. That bleach stuff! Mom, what's it smell like to you?" asks Mia.

I take in another whiff of the air. It did smell kind of bleachy, kind of bitter--

a scent that only women and homosexual men would recognize...it smelled like semen! The spermatic aroma danced through the air as it poured from the hundreds of trees that lined the streets of the school.  

I thought I was being my usual overly-dramatic self. So I decided to do what I do best...Google it.I pulled out my smart phone and logged on to the internet.

And thank goodness I did. There ARE trees out there with this foul smelling odor!

According to Wikipedia, they're named the Trees of Heaven, (or Ailanthus altissima), an invasive species from China, brought to California by Chinese miners and railroad workers around the turn of the last century. They has since earned the monikers “stinktree” and “ghetto palm” (for their ability to grow in the harshest of urban conditions). 

Ok, not only that..but there were MANY inquiries about this "Sperm Tree" online. A few of the questions ranged from:

There's this tree that sort of smells like human sperm in summer (I think when  it flowers). A pretty strong distinct smell. What's it called? Is there a plant/tree that smells like male sperm?

to comments like:

 

. . .when I took those deep cleansing breaths this morning, I caught a whiff of Sperm tree in the air, and it was it was pleasing to the senses...

So, remember- when you're driving around town and smell the fragrance of semen, it's most likely the beautiful Trees of Heaven and not you... or George Michael.

"Hey mom..you still didn't answer my question! What do you think it smells like?!"

I smile and reply, "Almonds... yes, almonds...."

And with that, Mia sits back in her seat and mumbles, "Ugh, if that's what almonds smell like,  I will never, ever eat almonds...even when I grow up...ever!"

I smirk- Thatta girl...

;)

Never Buy a Joke Book for a 9 Year-Old

The sound of my childrens' laughter is music to my ears. 

It's hard not to smile and laugh with them when you hear the deep, belly laughs emanating from their little bodies. Both my children have inherited one of the greatest things that man can ever receive: a great sense of humor. 

But... they are not stand-up comedians...yet.

On a recent trip to Barnes & Noble, Mia (my 9 year-old) decided she wanted to get the alamanac of joke books: 500 Hilarious Jokes for Kids by Jeff Rovin. 

It should've been called 500 Ways to Annoy Your Parents and Drive Them to Drink.

Like most people, I enjoy a good joke or two. Yes... A good joke or two; not 500 within three days. So, we check out the book and she starts with page 1...in the car. And usually- I'm overly animated at the beginning with my laughter and Sofia (my 5 year old doesn't "get it"):

Mia: Hey mom, What color is a burp?

Me: I don't know. What color is a burp?"

Mia: Burple!

We all laugh in unision. "That's a good one!" I say.

Sofia: I don't get it!

(Sofia starts to get irritated)

Mia continues...

Mia:How do turtles communicate with each other?

Me: I don't know. How do turtles communicate with each other?

Mia: With their shell-phones!

Again- we all laugh in unison

Sofia: I don't get it! (Sofia crosses her arms and is starting to whine at this point)

17 jokes later-Mia still continues-and I become a little shorter with my rhetoric

Mia: Oh wait..this is a real good one!

Me: what?

Mia: this joke.. it's a real good.

Me: (frustrated) Geez..well then tell it already.

Mia: Ok, ok...oh this is funny.... ok...What did sushi A say to Sushi B?

Me: what?

Mia: You want to know the answer?

Me: Yeah

Mia: You really, really want to know?

Me: Yessss

Mia: Guess.

Me: NO! I do not know what the hell sushi A said to sushiB!

Mia: WASABI?!

Sofia: I don't get it. (tears are shed)

AND.. the jokes kept flowing even after we got home:

In the kitchen...

"Mom-Why did the dog go to court?! He got a barking ticket! Get it?!!"

In the bedroom...

"Mom- Why did the orange stop half-way up the hill? It ran out of juice! Get it?!!

In the garage...

"Mom- What do you call two spiders who just got married? Newlywebs! Get it?!!

While I'm on the toilet...

"Mom-  Why did Tigger look inside the toilet? He was looking for Pooh! Get it?!!

She would not go away. The jokes just kept coming and coming and coming. As I screwed the cap back on the Cuervo Gold, I had formed a plan. The next morning, Mia walked into the kitchen looking for her joke book. It had magically disappeared . Awwww....

I re-directed her attention to a new episode of The Dog Whisperer on T.V. and she forgot about it for awhile.  I gave it a few days and then it magically re-appeared. She was so excited when I gave it back to her. I suggested that daddy would LOVE to hear her jokes. She skipped off...

"Daddddyyyy....I got a good one"

Yes! Let the other parental unit share in my suffering! Bwahahahahahahahahahahaha <---my evil laugh.

"Mommy.."

I looked down. It was Sofia.

"Knock, Knock....."

The Thong

I have to admit... when the thong became THE item to have, I was a little resistant. I mean, how comfortable could a piece of material rubbing between your buttcheeks be?

Don't get me wrong. I like sexy underwear. They say wearing sexy panties underneath your work clothes can make you feel sensuous...like a naughty vixen underneath the conservative outer wear. But honestly, if I'm sitting at my desk trying to pull a piece of lace out of my labia, then it aint' happening. Plus, after having two children, I'd rather not look at myself wearing a piece of silk with dental floss attached. The tummy and booty aren't what they used to be- especially when the tiny little straps dig into my fleshy hips and the butt floss is wedged so far up, I get a rope burn on my brown star; just NOT a pretty picture. And you gotta make sure that you're waxed and smoother than a baby's bottom down there if you're going to attempt to wear a next-to-nothing-made-for-a-porno thong; there's nothing worse than looking like you're hiding a Furby in your undies (doesn't do anything for the look you're trying to pull off). It doesn't help either when your 5 year-old goes, "Ewwww" when she walks in on you changing into your thong. My 9 year-old is more inquisitive, "Mom, are you missing a part of your panties? Am I going to have to wear those when I'm older? Do all mommies wear those? How about my teachers?"

But...I do buy thongs; pretty, breathable smart thongs. I buy thongs for the reason they were intended- to avoid any pantylines. I like to be comfortable. Normally, I prefer the Jockey bikini panties. No, they aren't the high-waisted,Little House on the Prarie, grandma briefs that you're thinking of. They're the cute, cotton panties that are a tad more flattering.

Would my husband love for me to walk around the house with nothing but a thong 24/7?

Of course.

But..really? Who does that??

Here are a few things that irk me about the thong:

- When ladies/girls wear low waisted jeans so that their thongs show on purpose

- When 400 lb ladies/girls wear low waisted jeans so that their thongs show on purpose

- When you put on a fresh, clean thong and then have to take a shit

- When the material in the front isn't enough to cover the tummy bulge

- When you try your thong on and you look nothing like the models who wear 'em

Another thing that bugs me: when I walk into Victoria's Secret and I see 13 year-olds' buying thongs. What the hell? They barely have hair 1 on their "cha-cha" and they're going through the bins of thongs with careful precision like they have someone to impress. Scary...

If it isn't bad enough...

Then Sisqo goes and makes a song about it..

"...Baby make your booty go da na da na

Girl I know you wanna show da na da na
That thong th thong thong thong..."

As much as I complain about the thong, I'm also thankful for it. (And also maybe a little jealous that I can't walk down the runway like a Victoria's Angel with the perfect little butt and not a stretchmark in sight.)

Long Live the Thong....

Just Swing

It's not easy for me to relax.

I'm not a relaxer.

It's part of being a mom. There are always a million things going on and you feel you're on this endless treadmill. And life can become overwhelming. But, I must admit, I recently found a way to escape, if only for a few minutes, from the hustle and bustle of my daily life.

I came across it unexpectedly on the playground at the kids' school. I've always passed by them and never thought twice to try them out...

The ever-so-lovely, swings.

Like I said, I didn't plan this. But one morning, Sofia asked me to come to the playground area before school started. She wanted me to push her on the swings. So I made my way to the sandy play area and started to push her. And the higher she went, the louder she squealed with delight. I sat on the swing next to her to take a breather.

I started to sway back and forth..back and forth...back and forth. Hey, this was pretty cool. I then grabbed each chain to hold on to and started to pump my legs back and forth. I had a pretty good rhythm going and I started to go higher and higher. I probably looked pretty silly as I swung in my Christian Louboutin heels, but I didn't care.

As I rose higher with every swing, I was magically transported back into my childhood. I felt like I was in Kindergarten again with my dad pushing me higher and higher until I felt like I could touch the clouds. I felt the wind blow my hair back while the morning sun warmed my cheeks. I looked down at my feet and I no longer saw my heels, they were transformed into my red, Keds sneakers that I used to wear on my little 5 year-old -feet. I was free without a care in the world. I was a kid again.

Tears started forming as I basked in the glory of it all. I didn't want this ride to end. I wanted to jump off this magical time machine and remain 5 years old...

But the bell rang. My swing quickly slowed down and my heels reappeared. It was time to go back to real life, grown-up stuff. I hugged my kids before they ran off to their classrooms- each of them carrying a piece of my heart with them.

I walked away from the swing and then had to take a look back.

"Thanks," I said, "for letting me be a kid again...."

I pull my car keys out of my pocket and walk out the gate into my reality.

The Great Poo Stand-Off

Sometimes I feel like my brain lives in a Jerry Seinfeld-esque type of world.
I think about the most insane things and find comedy in the minutiae of every day life.

Like a few days ago...

In our office, the bathrooms are out in the hallway and we share the facilities with all the other offices on the 4th floor. It's a pretty intimate atmosphere in the ladies room. There are only four stalls and everything echoes... everything.

That's why, when nature calls and I gotta "back the big brown motorhome out of the garage", I take the elevator down to the 1st floor where usually no one uses the restrooms. My code for this is "2-on-1". (Thank you to Cindy Dias for sharing the code).

On this particular day though, I had company. As I was sitting in the stall, trying to take care of business, another woman walks in. And out of all the eight empty stalls she decides she is going to take the stall right next to mine.

I hate that.

I start to contemplate whether I should just finish up or wait. I hate to be rushed. She probably just came in to go pee. So, I decided to hold it all in until after she left.

But..

She didn't leave.

She had the same intention I had.

She was doing a 2-on-1.

She started to tap her foot. She wasn't leaving anytime soon.

It was a Poo Stand-off.

I wasn't about to give in.

I started to whistle.

She started to hum.

I refused to lose this battle. I would not go down without a fight.

I could feel her smirking on the other side.

Who did she think she was?! I was here first!

I started to play solitaire on my phone.

Then... I heard it....

The burst of a fart, a splash and the unraveling of toilet paper.

Hahahahahahahahaha (that's my evil queen laugh).

She quickly gathered her belongings and left the ladies room as I proudly did the cabbage patch dance while still sitting on the toilet.

Was there a point to this story?

Not really. It was just one of the little annoyances in life that I'm pretty open about.

Now you will never visit another ladies room again without thinking of me and my
Poo Stand-off.

“Lee Lee Can’t Go to School Today”

 

So , it’s 8pm on a Saturday and I’m in the loft of my house watching an addicting Lifetime channel. You know the ones I’m talking about- the shows that suck you in after watching two minutes of it and then when it cuts to commercials, they run a preview of the next Lifetime T.V. movie (usually starring Valerie Bertinelli or Judith Light) to play right after the one you’re currently watching. And the shows all have cheesy titles: My Lover, My Son or  A Father for Brittney or the ever so popular Bastard Out of California. I confess, I am one of the millions of women who get sucked into these programs. It’s like crack. I’ll even hold my pee just so I don’t miss the good parts! Thank God for TiVo.  

 

My 9 year old, Mia is sitting with me and a commercial comes on. The screen opens up to a small African village with a sad girl sitting outside a hut. The male voiceover has a serious, yet sad tone:

 

“This is Lee Lee. She can’t go to school today because she has her PERIOD..” (extra emphasis on the PERIOD).

 

It was a sanitary pad commercial for the Always company with their charity initiative in Africa. Part of the proceeds from the purchase of any Always product will go to helping women in African with their sanitary needs.

 

Mia looks at me with her eyebrow raised, “What’s a period?”

 

Ugh. THE question. How am I going to handle this? Do I tell her the truth? Do I dance around the question? Do I fake a coughing fit and leave the room?

 

Damn that Lee Lee!

 

"Well, honey- having your period is a part of womanhood. All females, even animals get it. As your body matures, you will bleed once a month.Girls can start as early as 10 years old. But all this is necessary as you get older in order to have babies. It’s nothing to be ashamed of- it’s a part of life. It's a part of being a woman."

She looked at me like she had just witnessed me skin a cat.

"Are you serious?!" she asks.

"Yes"

"Well, where will I bleed from?"

"Your vagina."

At this point, she looks as though she was going to faint. I continue to keep a straight face as she is thoroughly disgusted.

"THAT IS GROSS. How do you stop it from getting everywhere?"

"Well, honey..pads or tampons. They both are made out absorbent material, such as cotton, that comes in various sizes that fit snugly in or outside the vagina to absorb the flow. And you have to change it every few hours"

I felt like I was in the middle of a really, awkward after school special.It was killing me to be so "technical".

"So... is that what you do?" she asks.

"Yes"

"At work?!"

"Yes"

"At your desk?!"

"Uh, no honey..i leave my desk to go to the bathroom."

**Silence**

"Oh boy..I can't wait to go to school and tell Jade!"

I patiently discuss that the conversation needed to stay under our roof and that there might be girls at school who's parents don't think they're ready to hear about periods. She understood and that was the end of the "talk".

Mia became pretty comfortable discussing this in the open with me. It actually started to make ME uncomfortable. I was in the bathroom one day and she knocks on my door. In our house we never lock our bathroom doors, normally everyone does their business with the doors wide open. But on this particular day, I just happened to close the door...

Mia knocks.

"Yes?" 

"What are you doing?" Mia asks

"Going pee"

"Are you sure you aren't putting one of those tampons in your butt again?!"

I locked the door and vowed that i wouldn't come out until she was 40.

I have an amazing relationship with my two girls and they've both inherited my sense of humor and sarcasm. I'm not perfect and maybe our "talk" wasn't ideal..but what I do know is that she knows that she can discuss anything with me regardless of the topic and we'll always find humor to navigate our way through.

It's been a few months now and I think she's over the shock of it all (as am I). I click on the T.V. and get comfortable to watch my Tivo'd Lipstick Jungle episode. I turn to hear footsteps and it's my 5 year old, Sofia.

"Mommy...what's a period?

"Miaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

 

 

 

Keeping up with the Baumunks...

Friends are always asking my 2 daughters what they want to be when the grow up. My 9 year-old Mia wants to be a marine biologist and my 5 year old wants to be a veterinarian.(And so do their friends). I think animals are an obsession for little girls (maybe it's the innate sense of nuturing that females are born with). Recently my friend, Teri told me that at her son's kindergarten graduation each child had to tell the class/parents what they wanted to be when they grew up. The occupations ran the gammet from firemen to NBA stars...and...SEVEN, yes, SEVEN dolphin trainers. Sea World will never have to worry about a shortage of trainers for our friendly ocean friends.

Before my girls were born, i had a plan for their future. My children would grow up to be corporate attorneys. They'd share a practice Baumunk & Baumunk with Disney as their top client. They wouldn't have to worry about men or $. Because the world would be theirs. Of course, they wouldn't want me or Charlie to work so we'd just travel. As toddlers, I even had them trained:

"Mia/Sofia, what you do you want to be when you grow up?"

"corprit turneys"

Unfortunately, that is not how I see things laying out. Mia insists that she'd have her own medical marine biologist office and she'd also work part-time at the zoo and I would answer the phones back at her office. After she'd get done helping the animals get better at the zoo, she'd go to her waitress job at RA sushi. Sofia just mimics what her older sister says, "And me, too!"

Mia has also questioned me regarding different occupations:

While sitting at a stop light waiting to turn into the AZ Mills Mall she looks over to an establishment on the right hand side of the street:

"Mommy, why are all the men going into that building?"

I look over and see that the aforementioned establishment is "Christy's Cabaret" strip joint. I smile and look back at her and tell her that they are picking up doughnuts. It's a doughnut shop.

She stares back at me with a "you've-just-insulted-my-intelligence" glare. 

So..I decided to give her an honest answer...

"Well, Mia..when you drop out of school and don't go to college and get your education, that is where you'll end up."

She furrows her brow, "What exactly do you mean?"

I continue, "If you don't get your education, you will end up dancing naked in front of fat, ugly, sweaty men on a pole."

Her jaw dropped, "ARE YOU SERIOUS? THAT'S DISGUSTING! That is what happens there?!!!"

And with that, the conversation ended.

A few months later my father was visiting and we came to the same stoplight in front of the mall and Mia taps my father on the shoulder,

"Grandpa Bernard, if ya' don't get your education you're gonna end up working there...dancing naked on a pole in front of fat, ugly, sweaty men."

My father just shook his head.

"And another thing grandpa-- they don't serve doughnuts there."

So needless to say, I am still trying to steer them in a positive direction when it comes to their future careers. If caring for animals is what she and her sister choose as their career path, so be it. I will love them no matter what they decide to do--(yes, even if it is swinging on a pole). But the marine biologist/ veterinarian gig seems to be on top of the list right now and I will do everything I can to encourage them to live their dreams.

---But I'm still making the Baumunk & Baumunk wall plaque (just in case)

To All the "Other" Women

A few years ago, someone very near & dear to me experienced what could be one of the most life challenging moments a person could ever endure: after 20 years, her husband left her for another women….and married her.

There are never any words that can help ease the pain of the situation. Yeah, I can call him every name in the book, talk about how idiotic & self-centered he is, question his sanity..etc. But I'm going to take a moment and reflect on the decisions that "the other woman" makes when she decides to get involved with a married man…..

 

An Open Letter to all the "Other Women":

 

The world is full of men. The world is full of a lot of single men. What is the attraction of getting involved with a married man? Some might say that you're insecure and don't feel that you're worthy of getting anyone better than someone who is already attached. Is that true? Did your daddy not love you enough? Did you not get the attention from your father that you so desired as a girl growing up? Was mom out whoring around the trailer park with every Tom & Billy Joe Jim Bob? Are you so hurt from your own family's dysfunction that you want others to share in your misery?

 

Desperation comes to mind when I think of you. Were you really so desperate for a man that it didn't really matter that you were taking someone else's? I am sure that it doesn't bother you that his wife and 5 year old son are paying the price for your happiness. I'm sure it doesn't bother you to know that he gives his wife only $200 a month for food & necessities to support their child that she is now raising alone..just so he can afford to buy you the new Coach bag you've been wanting

It baffles me to think why you would want to be involved with a man, who 8 years ago, stood in the presence of his family and friends and swore before God that he would be faithful to his wife. How can you spend time with a man that can't be trusted? Do you think that you're so special that he would never lie to you?

 

Oh.

 

But Wait. I forgot.

 

You're different.

 

With you, he's a different man. With you, he is a gentleman that makes you feel like a queen and spoils you with diamonds and fancy dinners. You love him the way he needs to be loved. You understand him. He treats your 5 year old daughter like his own. He promises you the world and romances you with wine and flowers. He listens attentively to your dreams and ambitions.

 

You're different.

 

You don't f**k. You make love. He makes you feel special and you do things in bed with him that his wife couldn't compete with…(or at least that is what he tells you.) 

 

You're different.

 

He'd never leave you for another woman. Your body is addicting and leaves him wanting more. It's golden.

You're different.

 

I hate to break it to you, but your coochie is no better than hers, the waitress at Chili's or the whore on the corner selling it for profit. A man is going to screw anything with a hole.

 

But, oh yeah—you're different.

 

You've never met his wife, but you've affected her life more than you'll ever know.

I know one day that you'll end up being the "other woman". And believe it or not… I don't think his wife should hate you. All she can do is pray for you.

 

Just remember that what goes around comes around and it's your turn next.

 

Here's to you getting what you so richly deserve...

Platform Flip Flops

Maybe it's me. Maybe it's a sign of getting older. Maybe when you hit motherhood, cells automatically form that give you an acute sense of fashion...

An open letter to all the women out there who think that platform flips flops are the shit.

Nothing ruins a cute summer outfit than a pair of ugly ass platform flip flops. You know which ones I'm talking about, the thick-3inch-sole flips flops ...Ew.

I'm not sure who thought it would be cute to design a flip flop such as this? I believe the first pair that I saw over 4 YEARS AGO were made by Steve Madden. And women are fooled to think that just because Steve Madden came out with it, it's stylish, hip and cool. Don't get me wrong, I love Steve Madden. But there is some shit that he comes out with that makes you wonder what the hell he was smoking when he sent these awful mounds of rubber into mass production. Before long the shoes end up on the shelves of Marshall's and Ross where they lay to rest before they're donated to the orphan children of Tijuana, Mexico. (And even they won't wear 'em).

Oh but wait, you can purchase them in a rainbow of colors from daisy yellow to trailer park white. Trailer park white is the best because then you can see how dirty your feet constantly are by the brown imprint it makes inside the flip flop as well as on the outside. 

Oh hold on.. it's not just the flip flop, it's the ugly, dirty feet that go inside them that make them "oh so attractive".Nothing  screams "white trash" more than a woman wearing these horrible flip flops with jacked up toes , chipped nail polish with the visible dirt resting behind the yellowish toe nails.

Why does this bug me so much?

I don't know. I think I have pretty good taste in the shoe arena.I admit, I'm a shoe whore. And to see such a horrible accessory screw up a cute outfit is such an outrage.

So ladies, go to your closet, your sister's closet, your friend's closet and even your mom's closet and start a bonfire with these monstrosities.

And really, ladies.. take a poll. I did. Men don't like 'em either. If your man says he does, he's lying and just wants you to break him off some. 

Open a new chapter in your life and go buy your self a decent pair of flip flops (Old Navy 2 for $5).

You'll really thank me for this later....