Archive for February, 2013

Don’t steal beef jerky from Walmart

I am not a control freak. Nor am I a clean freak. I just like shit to get done and my house not be a fucking mess. (The husband goes back to work in 48 days). I swear if dinner is on the table just ONCE when I come home from work in the second half of his ‘recovery’ I will dedicate a page to him. I will title it “An ode to my husband who wears a shirt again”.
I fail to understand how none of the kids have inherited any iota of the clean gene I possess. I know 2 of them are not biologically mine but I have always favored nurture versus nature.
I think my kids are spoiled. All three have televisions, game systems, computers, and Iphones. The boys take the trash from the garage to the curb once a week. All I ask is that they put away their laundry (that I gather, wash, dry, and fold) and keep their rooms and bathroom clean. The husband tells me to shut their doors. It is a constant battle I refuse to lose. I am not a control or clean freak, but competitive? Yes, yes I am.
Kid #3 (the biological one) stands out in this category. She flat out refuses to clean her room. She cries when I tell her she needs to, trying to gain sympathy from the husband. This usually proves successful. I tried to have a rational conversation with her tonight about the situation. It started when I asked her to put away her laundry that had been sitting in a basket in her room for a few days. She was playing on the computer in our room because her computer, through no fault of her own, is not working well. She finished putting away her clothes in less than 2 minutes and assumed her position on my computer chair. Skeptical, I checked her room.
She did hang up the shirts (sort of) and then proceeded to shove everything else anywhere it would fit. Mind you- she does have a sock drawer, underwear drawer, etc. Immediately she breaks out the tears. I tried to rationalize and asked her how she thought we could solve this problem.
“Do you think your room is a mess?” I asked.
“Yes, mom,”
“Why do you think you always make such a mess?” I asked.
“Well I play with stuff and then I don’t feel like putting it away,”
We have diagnosed the problem.
“Well, can you think of any ways I could maybe help you keep your room clean?” I asked.
“Will you make me a list on the white board again?”
I shook my head no. My last list?
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In my defense, I angrily scribbled that list 4 hours after I had asked her to clean her room. I have decided, on that note, to make a more viable list for the kids. Over the years, I have learned that no matter how many things I wish they would do; there are so many more things I wish they would NOT do.

1. Do not put toothpaste on your wall. I realize blue and white make pretty clouds. There is, in fact, something even a magic eraser does not do well.

2. Do not make me wash clean clothes. I become bitter. And angry. And I’ll start reading those notes in your pockets.

3. Do not drink soda in your room. It always ends up on your floor or in the trash can you never empty. (or your closet if you are proud).
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4. Do not steal beef jerky from Walmart. And get caught. Really? How white trash is that?

5. Do not freeze Polly Pockets. It scares the shit of your mom when she goes to get something out of the freezer and is greeted by a deranged doll in ice. I know you wanted to see what a caveman would look like. A forewarning would have been sufficient.caveman

6. Do not ‘accidentally’ order something that requires $80 worth of Microsoft points you have not previously purchased.

7. Do not tell your friend I do not like him because I think he smokes pot. Especially if his mom is one of my best friends.

8. Do not use a hammer and nails to hang stuff on your bedroom door.
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9. Do not play with old school mousetraps. This requires an explanation. Before all of my dogs died, I desperately tried in vain to keep them off of my couch. That sentence requires a future post in itself; but one of the several tactics I tried was laying those old fashioned mousetraps on the couches. One night, the husband and the boys were chasing each other through the house throwing the traps at each other. Trying to be the voice of reason(not what the husband would call it), I warned them that someone was going to get hurt. Enter kid #3. My 8-year old daughter walked down to see what the commotion was about and sure as shit a mousetrap snapped on her arm. I was livid! Of course, an hour later, kid #3 posts on Facebook that her dad threw a mousetrap at her and it snapped on her arm. Thank god the mother in law and various aunts and old babysitters have her account password and removed the post. I realize she is too young to have a Facebook page. Her brother set it up for her unbeknownst to us and it has been monitored very closely since then. Don’t judge.

10. Do not use the toilet when it is plugged.(see I’m poop and puke) https://thefbombmom.com/2013/01/11/im-poop-and-puke

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11. Do not rip up dollar bills. Or $10 dollar bills. Your mom is Jewish and it pisses her off.

This list could go on. But I really wish it wouldn’t.
5 Bass in; NINE words with friends games pending.

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104.8…yeah, I’m getting a sticker

So I have run 4 marathons. Maybe 5. I can’t quite remember. I did not start running until I was about 24. I don’t really even know why. I used to get stoned and go walk (probably trying to walk it off) at a nearby park. One day, there was an athletically fit woman in front of me. She would alternate between walking and running and for shits and giggles I tried to keep up. And I did. My walks turned into runs, the marijuana turned into beer, and the pounds began to drop. I was never overweight; just never really fit. After I started running, I could eat and drink to my hearts content. I would run about 4 miles every day before my 4:00 (4:10) shift and then go to Tim Horton’s to get an iced cappuccino. Until someone ruined it all for me by telling me how many calories were in an iced cappuccino. Dick.
A couple of years later, I read an article in the daily newspaper about the ideal candidate for a marathon. (Runs 3-5 miles, 3-4 times a week). Hmmm. I could do this.
So I started training. Sort of. The big day came and I had no idea what to expect. The rules stated no headphones were allowed. Of course, this was only for the serious runners trying to win. This was also 10 years ago so I do not even remember if I had an Ipod then. I think my longest run before the actual race was 17 miles. Maybe. So the husband, who was just the boyfriend at the time, asked what time he should be at the finish line. I did some seriously piss poor math and told him about 3 1/2 hours after the start time. Poor guy! He complained about shin splints for a week from straining to see the finish line I was no where near reaching.
The highlight of marathon #1, which took me 5 hours, 11 minutes and 31 seconds to complete, can be culminated in one word; Twizzlers. People are really nice during marathons. Thousands of people line the path of the race, some cheering; some passing out water, Gatorade, or stomach repulsing “power shots”. Every year I do not run a marathon I vow to wake up ass early on the Sunday of the race and go tirelessly root for other crazy ass runners. I also vow to spectate with a giant bucket of individually wrapped Twizzlers to hand to the runners around mile 18. Life changing.
The worst part about running a marathon? The aftermath. The aches and pains were quickly soothed by a few Bass pale ales and a ghetto bath. (I did wait until I made it to the parking garage to shed my thermal/tinfoil looking blanket thing and smoke a cigarette.) I am talking about the strange phenomenon that makes people believe that once one has run a marathon he or she will want to do it again with you. But I am a sucker. And that led me to Marathon #2.
I credit the term ‘ghetto bath’ to my best Asian friend’s husband. He so cheapens my marathon thrills. This guy runs ULTRA marathons. What the fuck? As if 26.2 (flat) miles is not enough?? This chap runs 50 mile marathons uphill in the snow in Kentucky. Fuck that. That is not normal. But then again he is married to an Asian woman. Before he quit smoking, he would call soaking in the tub after a race with a cigarette and a beer a ghetto bath.
So the Asian talked the Jew into running the Pittsburgh marathon. Sounds like a bad ethnic joke, right? I concur. Running 26.2 miles through the hills of Pittsburgh is no fucking joke. The marathon took place in May. In March, I bruised my ribs at kid #3’s birthday party. Fucking trampoline. Honestly worse than childbirth. Every time I attempted to move, cough, laugh, or BREATHE I winced in pain for almost two months. The ribs seriously put a damper on training for the marathon.
But of course the Asian one upped me. She had decided not to run because her and Mr. Ultra Marathon found out they were expecting. Two weeks before the marathon, the unthinkable happened. All jokes aside, I would rather break my ribs than ever lose a baby. I was not getting out of Pittsburgh; the bitch decided to run.
Pittsburgh. I was actually born in Pittsburgh but moved when I was 3. I do not remember Pittsburgh. If I had, there is no way in Hell I would have agreed to run a marathon there. The best thing about the Pittsburgh marathon? The goody bag! Socks and snacks. The morning of the marathon came early and humid. It drizzled throughout the entire run(thank god for those a-cups!)
The worst thing about the Pittsburgh marathon? While I appreciate encouragement and cheers, please let me tell you how many times we heard the phrase “That was your last hill!” clearly shouted by fucking liars. And the checkpoints were metric. Kilometers add up much more quickly than miles. The Asian and I kept our eyes on the prize. The prize? Gummy bears. Oranges. We missed the bananas and it took us so long we missed the BEER! Apparently a bar towards the final stretch was passing out shots of beer as the runners made their final descent. At least we got the pretzels! I know it is terrible to gauge a marathon based on the food spectators pass out, but really; it is life-changing. Aside from a bomb threat and Mr. Ultra Marathon finishing significantly before us, the Pittsburgh marathon was a triumph.
Or so I thought. This leads me to marathon #3; my favorite marathon. Asian decided we had to run our local FLAT marathon to salvage our (I thought excusable) less than desirable Pittsburgh finish time. The marathon was in October, 5 very short months later. Sigh. I finagled a local businessman into sponsoring what was becoming an expensive habit of mine. Really? Who pays $80 to run 26 miles? This time? Not us! Let’s talk about feeling like “Pretty Woman”. This guy was fantastic! Seven us ran in state of the art running shirts bearing his company logo. He did not stop there. He paid all of our entry fees and took us to buy brand new running shoes and shorts! No clearance rack for me!
One of the girls running this time was a good friend of mine I worked with. We would run after work and then drink beer behind our restaurant in the bowels of the alley where all the employees took smoke breaks. She is quite the Pretty Young Thing- blonde hair, blue eyes, a model smile, and a great figure. PYT is also more than 10 years younger than I am. Running with her sometimes pisses me off. I do not look cute when I run. My curly hair frizzes, I sweat in my right armpit, and I certainly can’t maintain mascara or lipstick. We would run 10 miles and PYT would look like she just finished a photo shoot in front of a fan. Fucking anomaly.
Fast forward to the night before marathon. I made pasta and everyone came over to eat. The plan included plenty of carbs and an ample amount of rest. PYT stayed at my house to ensure a timely awakening. Note to self: Do not plan to run a marathon the morning after a very important Saturday night Buckeye football game. Note to self #2: Bottle of wine #1 should have been plenty. The husband had gone over to a friend’s house to watch the game because he figured we would go to bed early. He figured wrong.
He arrived home after midnight. Because the Buckeyes were losing at halftime, PYT and I decided to run and grab a second bottle of wine. When husband walked in, PYT and I were covered in green glitter that matched our company logo shirts and were drunkenly dancing to the Beastie Boys. It was a rough morning.
PYT drove us downtown; exceeding the speed limit while drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and putting mascara on simultaneously. I feebly drank my coffee and prayed for Twizzlers.
The highlight of marathon #3? Bagels at mile 10. I seriously do not think I would have finished otherwise. After the race, a few of us went out to eat. PYT and I beelined for the restroom. I beat her back to the table where I thankfully ordered a beer. The waiter from hell made a note of my request and then asked me what my daughter wanted to drink. Referring to PYT. Okay. I just ran 26.2 miles for the third time extremely hung over. And you refer to my friend as my daughter? Albeit she is younger but I certainly do not look 20 years older than her! (I hope.) Really, fucko, you have no idea what I would have tipped you for that cold ass beer. Of course, in his very meek defense, PYT did finish the race with her lipstick intact.
I ran my last marathon 2 years ago. Marathon #4. I imagine if I ever gave birth again, I would feel the same way about kid #4 as I did about marathon #4. I already had 3, what’s the point? I begrudged you, marathon #4. I did not look forward to Twizzlers(although some of my very good friends were watching the race and per my request handed me a fistful of Twizzlers!), I did not look forward to the empty promise of a beer shot towards the end, and it was a bye week for the Buckeyes. I did indeed enjoy training with my newest running partner who left me at mile 5. I did enjoy meeting up with one of my best friends who ran #3 with us(Mr. Ultra Marathon’s sister). I did enjoy the icy cold beer after the race was over. But the novelty seemed to have diminished.
I still run and I like it again. I wish I could say I would never run another marathon. But I probably will. I should also probably say something here about the fact that I do love Asians. And the Asian and Mr. Ultra Marathon are proud parents of a beautiful one year old boy who will be running 100-mile triathlons by the time he is 9.

I love the trendy top. As seen on TV…

Day 33 of the husband being off of work. We have our good days and our bad days. I met the husband 13 years ago. I met him at a bar because that is what I did 13 years ago. I was with a few girlfriends and we actually were meeting his friend who was a friend of my friend. A local band was playing at a local bar and the drinks were flowing nicely.
The husband’s friend, a guy I will call Tom, is quite the character. One of the girls I was with was hitting on him; he was hitting on the other. In the whole mess of the night, his recent ex-fiancĂ©e showed up. No matter to me. Tom is in my whole “stinky sweaty balls” category of men I never wish to encounter naked. I meandered up to the bar next to my future husband, made fun of Tom, and bought him a drink. That easy? Yes.
The next morning, my roommate and the other girl we took to the bar with us, barged into my room where the future husband and I were post-coital sleeping. “Did you do it? Did you do it?”
I was so embarrassed. My 6 month drought had thankfully ended, but really, did my partner need to know this at 9:00 a.m.? He admitted being terrified. I did not care. The drought had ended.
Fast forward 13 years. No one barges into our room anymore. The kids learned a long time ago that we sleep naked. Kid #2 swears he is permanently scarred for life after trying to wake up his dad once (the blankets had escaped the husband’s backside).
Since he has been off work, the husband has been sleeping a little later and wearing a shirt a little less often. I try not to give him too much shit. His job usually requires significant amounts of overtime working with significantly high voltage and wires and heights that scare the fuck out of me. (Should I insert Primary Beneficiary here?)
If I did not go to work for 3 months, my house would be immaculate, my files would be impeccable, and the cabinets would be organized. Elaborate dinners would grace the kitchen table nightly. My ass would be rock hard after hours on the treadmill. Not that I’m bitter.
The husband? He orders stuff online for the motorcycle he is building in his half of the garage. He bought a motorcycle last year. And another one this year. And apparently he is melding them somehow together into a new bike and then selling the leftovers to a friend to help build his friend’s bike. What the fuck? Are you kidding me? Again, thanks to the overtime I try not to give him too much shit. I asked him yesterday if he was going to start inviting the UPS guy to Thanksgiving dinner. I do believe the husband sees him more than me.
The husband has also been catching up on appointments. Post surgical, the dentist, the eye doctor, etc. I came home from work one day and he proudly showed me his new glasses. Irritated by my lack of the proper response, I shrugged and apologized.
“They look like your old ones,” I said.
He half heartedly agreed and proceeded to tell me about the pair he should have gotten. Military style ones. He said he might go to eyeglasses.com and order a pair.
“What? They don’t have them on QVC?” I asked.
Somewhat offended, he responded, “You’re the one that orders all that ‘As Seen on TV” bullshit.”
Somewhat offended, I responded, “No I don’t. I buy it on clearance at the store.”
On a roll now, he said, “What about all the stuff you order from Jew-pon?” (Groupon, and yes I am guilty.)
He won. But he still buys more shit online than I do.

Things I fucking hate

1. The fact that everyone in my house has beautiful eyelashes except for me! I cannot tell you how many times I have woken up and looked at the husband and asked if he woke up earlier and put on mascara.

2. February. And fucking Valentine’s Day.

3. Same-side-booth sitters. I hate you. And I hate waiting on you. And everyone else hates you too.

4. Some facets of my kids school system. I realize I need to pay for school lunch, school fees, school clothes, and school supplies. I am okay with that. And then they start telling me I have to pay for school artwork (the magnet is the cheapest!) School pictures?? Which season? In the old days, you had to order pictures. Now, they send them home and charge you if you do not return them. Same with Entertainment books they send home for your child to sell. Please–send all of this shit home with my 8-year old who thrills me when she remembers to brush her teeth. One year I bought one of those Entertainment books for her because she wanted a fucking plastic egg that she would “win” if she sold one book. To hell with the trips to Disneyland she could win if she sold 10,000; she just wanted the egg! So we get the egg and of course hers is defunct. I ordered a new one on Amazon for $3.99. The $25 Entertainment book? I found it in her book bag a year later. Fucking egg.

5. Cotton balls. And the cotton in pill jars. Ewwwww.

6. The word butt. Ass? Perfectly acceptable.

7. Running indoors.

 

Things I fucking love

1. Lists!!! I write lists everywhere on everything about anything. Very often an item on my list is to combine all my lists.

2. Birth control. And the fact that mine lasts for five years and I do not have to endure the monthly issues other women dread.

3. Acronyms. I use them often. Sometimes to remember things; more often when I’m being mean.

4. Guessing what time it is when I have not looked at a clock for a while. Making a wish when it is 11:11 or 12:12 or so on.

5. Manila folders. My filing cabinet is organized. I have folders that are titled, “Shit I don’t know where to file”, “Shit I don’t want to fuck with yet”, and “Shit I’m really mad about paying”. Then I have the standard “Shit to save”, “Important shit”, and “What the fuck is this?” Really.

6. Laying in the pool with a beer in my hand and a lawnmower in the background.

7. Best birthday present ever? An Iphone case with a beer opener on the back. And it’s PURPLE.

8. When my husband wears his fire retardant hat. It’s a toboggan or a beanie or whatever the hell you call it. I have asked him several times to leave it on when we have sex. He will not.

9. Toothpaste with flip top caps. Life changing.

10. Q-tips.

The thick black American Express

I have worked at an upscale casual restaurant for the last four years. I have been a server for almost 17 years. Yes; I have war stories. I like my job. I can put up with almost anybody for an hour. The fact that I cannot hear in my left ear definitely helps! Sometimes, all people want is for you to smile and nod anyway.
I like my job on several different levels. First of all, it is not hard work to me. Simplified, I take your order, bring you your food, fill your drinks, and clear your plates. Most people hate receiving bad service. I love it. I am also Jewish. Jew trumps waitress; I will still leave 20% if I receive mediocre(or bad) service but I will graciously over tip if service is sensational. I believe the definition of good service can also be debatable. My definition of sensational service? I never run out of beer and I do not hear my server’s life story. I strive to do the same; be efficient and shut the fuck up.
I also like the people I work for, most of the people I work with, and I have a several regular customers I truly enjoy. Especially the ones with the thick black American Express cards.
The thick black American Express bears no credit limit. Whenever I open a guest check and catch a glimpse of that heavy piece of plastic, I instantly recount every minute of my previous tableside manner and pray I was as nice as I think I was. And you know the saying ‘once you go black…’ Yeah, I never forget the face of a thick black American Express holder.
So one day two gentleman I immediately recognized as said cardholders sat in my section for the second or third time. They were pleasantly surprised when I remembered what they both wanted to eat and drink. Their order was prompt, their drinks kept full, and I said little. The older of the gentlemen usually pays; he is distinguished looking but does not bear much resemblance to Kevin Spacey nor is he bald which I prefer. The younger one will probably look just like him in 20 years. I cruise by the table to refill their ice in their Iced Tea and the older one smiles and says to me, “You’re so good to us! I could just take you home”.
My response? I laugh lightly and say, “I’d probably come”.
And then I stood there.
Are you fucking kidding me? THOSE are the words I chose?
To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement. My face immediately flushed as I struggled to recover from such an obvious blunder. And I realized I could not.

If the Buckeyes played in the Super Bowl, I’d watch it

Super Bowl Sunday… Day 26 of the husband being off. I spent the morning cleaning my house, the afternoon at a first birthday party, and the evening not watching the Super Bowl. Since the husband has been off work, there is some futility in putting forth the effort to clean the house. My morning routine rarely falters. I get up around 7:00 a.m. and spend the next three hours trying to get more than what is humanly possible done and make it to work by 10:00 a.m. This never works out. Years of working nights and being ultra-productive in the daylight hours has ruined any possible chance of evening productivity. That and I feel naked without a Bass pale ale in my hand past a certain hour. (Which varies; some days I get off work at 3:00 p.m., some days I am done around 5:00 p.m.). Except for Fridays when I work from 10:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. I call this my cash cow day.
My husband sleeps in on the weekends. But I swear that man has a “the wife is mopping right now” radar. Without fail, every time I start to mop the kitchen marks the exact time he decides to wake up and meander downstairs for his coffee. This happened this morning at 11:37. Really? The fucking vacuum makes noise. Not the mop! This also applies to cleaning our bathroom. The very same day I choose to spit shine the toilet and sink is the day he decides to shave his head. I am not sure if he does the front of his head over the toilet and the back of his head over the sink, but either way both are desecrated.
And if that wasn’t fun enough, after cleaning the house it was time to go to one of my best friends birthday party for her one year old. Oh my! I have not voluntarily been around that many babies in a long time. Don’t get me wrong- I like my friend and her kid. I like the other kids(babies) that were there. That is just a chapter in my life that has happily passed.
I never really liked babies. They scare me. I don’t mind when they have control of their heads and all but I prefer the talking kind. When I found out I was pregnant I was petrified. I had been on the Depo provera shot for seven years when I found out I was expecting. Four and 1/2 months expecting. Two things here: 1. Missing nearly half of my pregnancy was arguably one of the best things that have ever happened to me. 2. I should have known.
I had gained a little bit of weight, but I run so I was in shape. I had been kind of tired so I was not running as much. I attributed the weight gain to lack of running. I remember beer not tasting good (WTF??) That should have been the clincher. I kept telling people I was losing my “mojo”.(Thank God!) And then there was Old Navy.
My mom and my sister both got breast reductions. After my sister had a baby, she tried to no avail to breastfeed her firstborn. Her double-d’s had graduated to k’s (K!!!!!) while pregnant and cut off my nephew’s circulation in his leg when she would try to feed him. Not I. Gravity failed me. I wear a size 11 shoe and sport an A cup. In fact, the best bra I ever bought was an “almost A”. Or was it barely B? I don’t (like to) remember. What the fuck is that? An A-minus? At any rate, I had bought a tank top from Old Navy that made me look like I had cleavage. I was so excited I went back and bought one in every single color; and even a few of the striped variety. Yup. Two weeks later I found out I was pregnant. Baby came; boobs left. Bye bye cleavage.
My sister loved being pregnant. She swore her nails were beautiful, her hair grew faster, and she felt vibrant. My sister lies. I hated every minute of being pregnant. I hated being tired, I hated trying to shave my legs, and I hated the fact that everything I chose to eat posed an issue of some sort. I especially hated the fact that my husband did not want to have sex with me. I figured he was near expert since this was his third child. He knew the routine; you can’t hurt the baby through intercourse. I still took the time to outline my “What to expect” books and show him that it was perfectly okay to have sex while pregnant. It took me all of the remainder of the ten months to realize he did not think he was going to hurt the baby. He just did not like me fat.
The birthday went well. My friend’s one year old is gorgeous and the food tasted great. The husband chastised me for wanting to pick up a six pack on the way.
“But it’s Sunday!” I tried to rationalize.
And, oh, how things have changed. Came home, did not watch the Super Bowl, and will try to pretend I am asleep so we don’t hurt the baby.


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