Posts Tagged 'motherhood'

Glade Plug-ins are a cock block

Someone once told me my house smelled like a Jolly Rancher.  I remember it well.  Let me clarify; my memory is like my hearing.  Very selective.  I remember someone once telling me I walk like I have a board up my ass, I remember someone telling me that when I talk my mouth moves like I’ve done several lines of cocaine (What?? Thanks!)  And who could forget the brother-in-law who told me the caloric content of iced cappuccinos from Tim Horton’s.  Dick.  Beyond that, I can recall bits and pieces of whatever the fuck I choose apparently- or whatever my sister deems really happened.  She, of course, remembers swimming out of the birth canal.  But the Jolly Rancher compliment??  It always makes me smile.

I have always had a candle fetish.  I like potpourri and incense and cinnamon and tend to impulse buy any new contraption promising to deliver strong scents.  Gone are the days of candles alone!  Wax melts? Scentsy? Wallflowers?  Oil warmers? Febreeze Noticeables? Glade Plug-ins?  Yep, I have them all.  And God forbid when I find a scent I like.  Then I must purchase the spray, the designer one-touch spray dispenser, the decorative things that look like gel, the melting candle cubes, and whatever else I have a coupon for.  I am sure I would give the marketing director at Glade wet dreams.  I wish I could say the same!

The husband does not bitch about much concerning the interior of the house.  Not that he can.  It is an unspoken agreement that it is my domain.  He does not complain about the quantity of candles I purchase; nor does he give me shit about how much money I spend.  Not the he knows.  Another unspoken domain.  But he does not (physically) pay the bills and definitely does not (physically) clean the house.  So we are both happy.  Except for the electrical outlets that I whore out to all my little smell good friends.

We have three kids and a dog.  I do not want my house to smell like we have three kids and a dog.  Therefore, I keep the 16-year-old’s door shut, a three wick candle (or three) in the kitchen, and random plug-ins throughout the house.  I strive to be accommodating.  I make sure I leave one attainable electrical outlet near each of our end tables to allow the husband easy access to our ever disappearing phone chargers.  He still gets angry.  Apparently it is a fucking inconvenience to reach BELOW my plug in and use the other outlet.  Of course, this is only when he is sitting on a certain part of the couch.  If the charger is plugged into the bottom outlet, it does not quite reach past the arm of the couch which causes the husband to have to tilt his head slightly to the left.  Which apparently hurts his fucking neck.  If I move the plug in to the bottom outlet,  this hinders his ability to smoke a cigarette in the garage while using his charging phone.  This also causes him to have to more pronouncedly tilt his head.  Yes- I realize that a longer cord for the charger might solve this issue, but

1.  I REFUSE to buy anymore fucking chargers.  We have had seven I-phones in the past year and I still have purchased three new chargers; two of which we have left that the five of us fight over daily.

2.  It would still piss him off.  Like he mistakenly believes that the electrical outlets are his domain.

My solution?  Charge your fucking phone before you use it.  The husband charges his phone like he puts gas in his car; only when it is below empty  or at two percent.

So tonight the husband moved my plug in to another outlet.  When I noticed, I moved it back.  I figured one of the kids had moved it.  Nope.  So we argued about it for a few minutes.  I tried to rationalize.  I pointed out the fact he still had an available outlet but made the mistake of pointing out the laziness I associate with his lack of understanding.  I know it was a silly argument.  No matter.  He is in bed and I am on the couch enjoying my last Bass.  I will meander upstairs eventually; but I am sleeping with my clothes on tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

i fucking hate christmas(and people who won’t call it Christmas)

I am in a pissy mood.  I don’t necessarily have a reason either.  Sometimes, I like to think that because I have not had a period for the last 17 years that grants me pms days whenever the fuck I feel like it.  What set me off? I had just finished making dinner and my daughter grabbed a can of soda from the fridge.  She asked if she could pour it in a glass.  Let me explain.  I empty the dishwasher almost as much as I do laundry.  I fucking hate it.  While I was making dinner, I realized that the dishwasher had reached its maximum capacity.  However, I pride myself on my dish loading skills.  The husband wholly believes I should never have to load or unload the dishwasher.  We have three kids for Christ’s sake.  I agree.  But they, like him, tend to fuck shit up so they do not have to do it again.  No one in my household understands the concept of rinsing off debris from plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

“What’s the point of washing the dishes before we wash them?”

I refuse to buy Cascade Complete.  Too fucking expensive.  I do, however, buy Cascade.  The off brands don’t seem to work as well.  Have you ever bought a generic magic eraser? Yeah- not the same.

So I questioned why the daughter needed a glass when she usually drinks soda straight from the can because the dishwasher was already full and the husband had just brought in 6 tumblers from his car that he toted his coffee to work in for the week.  Because God Forbid anyone(the husband) in my house uses anything(a  travelling coffee mug) for anything it was meant to be used for.

The husband gave me shit for giving my daughter shit (yeah- he understands) so I fell silent.  Because I am passive aggressive.  My best friend chose the next moment to call me, when I had already fast forwarded to all the reasons my life sucks right now; including but not limited to the fact that I need a vacation yet my husband gets motorcycles.

“Why did you call me?” I asked her.  Her turn.  She fell silent.

I tried to explain that she called in the middle of one of my “I’d probably be pms’ing if I had a period,” moments.  (God love Mirena!!)

I tried to assure her that it was NOT because she had told me a few hours earlier that she had most of her Christmas shopping done.  She has three kids too.  But they don’t count.  Because they are young and not demanding.  Her husband, on the other hand…

I am Jewish.  I do not like Christmas.  I grew up celebrating Chanukah (pick your own spelling!)  I never had the visceral experience of running down the stairs on Christmas morning and tearing into present upon present that Santa had delivered under an adorned Christmas tree.  Nope-Jews drag that shit out.  Over 8 days.  One year, before my daughter was born, the husband’s best friend gave each of our boys $100.  He gave kid #1 a hundred one dollar bills.  He gave kid #2 one $100 bill.  Kid #2 freaked the fuck out because he thought his brother received more money than he did!  Yup, sums up my thoughts on Christmas!

Two years ago, I asked the kids what they had gotten for Christmas the year before.  Not one of them could remember.  I told the husband, “No more! We are only buying them large, tangible gifts!”

And yet, I still find myself shopping Christmas Eve every year because we do not think we have bought them enough.

Another reason I hate Christmas?  Because my birthday is in December.  What a bunch of shit!  Every year I pray for cash.  So I can buy my ungrateful kids MORE presents.  Christmas music?? Pshaw.  Unless it is “Please come home for Christmas” by Bing Crosby.  The only Christmas song I love.

I am currently trying to arrange a Christmas get together for all of my high school friends and our kids.  Mainly because one of our friends works for Bath and Body works and I want to solicit her for discounted gift certificates.  Not necessarily for gifts; my candle infatuation is quite ridiculous.  But it makes a good cover.

“Just ask her! She’ll understand- she’s Jewish too!” my best friend said when I told her my plan.

She isn’t really.  She may have married a Jew but deep down she is as Jewish as I am.  Which boils down to CHEAP.

My other best friend agreed with I’ve- got- my- shopping- done best friend.

She has five kids- twins and triplets.  And I hate Christmas more?

I do, however, LOVE Thanksgiving!!

Our doorbell sounds fucking stupid

I hate clichés. I hate them even more when they turn out to be true. Or apply to me. Paybacks are hell. That would be an apt description of my summer with my 16-year old, kid #1. The husband and I have been tried on all levels. We have caught him smoking pot, lying about smoking pot, influencing his TWELVE year old brother to smoke pot, and stealing our car. Actually, the police caught him stealing our car. I am deaf in my left ear and like to drink beer. The husband likes to drink beer. This apparently inhibits our ability to be awakened in our solid state of slumber regardless of numerous incoming calls to both of our cell phones and even our home phone(yes, we have a landline!)
So the cops ring the doorbell. Let me explain our doorbell. Our doorbell broke. The husband replaced it. With the WORST doorbell ever. It kind of resembles church bells and sounds exactly like the alarm he sets on our computer every night. His alarm goes off at 5:00 am. Then 5:15. Then 5:30. I hate my husband most mornings.
So said night of kid stealing car and neither kid nor cops able to get a hold of the husband or I on cell phone or landline, the church bells go off at 2:30 am. The husband gets up and tries to shut off computer. He mistakenly thinks he needs to get ready for work. Church bells go off again and he realizes it is not the alarm. The he throws on a pair of shorts and goes downstairs. At this point, I am still discombobulated. Not for long.
The husband answers the door and the cops ask if he is missing a car. Husband looks into driveway.
“Why yes, sir, I am”.
“Are you missing a kid?”
And kid #1 walks out of the back of the cruiser. The husband was tired and I am not sure of the exact exchange. The police handed him a plastic bag with kid #1’s belongings, including but not limited to our keys, his phone, some screens, a bowl, and some marijuana. The car, our Saab, see My husband and his beaterPermalink: https://thefbombmom.com/2013/03/11/the-husband-and-his-beater, sat parked in front of kid #1’s friend’s house awaiting our retrieval. At 2:30 in the morning. When the husband has to leave for work at 6:00 am. We sat at the kitchen table trying to wake up and soaking up the severity and the sheer luck of the situation that had just transpired. We knew we had to leave and pick up the Saab. Meanwhile, kid #1 walks upstairs. With the bag. Including his pot.
“Did he just walk upstairs with that bag??” I asked the husband.
Yes. Yes, he had. The husband corrected that situation immediately. And then we begrudgingly left the house to pick up the car.
Okay. A couple of thoughts here.
#1. I am still unsure of how I feel about the cop sending the kid home with drugs. Don’t they pour them out or something? On the other hand, Kid #1 does not even have his license. I am relatively sure it would have cost an arm and a leg to try to get him out of the numerous tickets he could have been issued. No ops? Possession of drugs? Drug paraphernalia? Curfew? He (WE!!!) is lucky. Almost too lucky. What is the lesson learned here?
#2. The husband and I are guilty of every infraction that Kid #1 got busted for. BUT that was more than 20 years ago. And we never got caught.
Sigh. It fucking sucks being a parent sometimes!! There is more to this story but I’ll save it for next time. I hope you appreciate my hiatus. Because I fucking hated it.

2 big bottles of Jergens for Christmas…

I love my kids. Most of the time. This past year has been trying. My daughter, kid #3, is hitting puberty WAY too early. I never should have allowed her unrestricted access to her massive consumptions of milk. Yesterday she asked me for a bandaid to cover a zit sprouting in the corner of her nose. She’s 9. WTF?
My 12 year old boy appears to be the most even out of the trio. Kid #2 performs well in school, generally does his homework, and wrestles. He has a great sense of humor. During his off season last year, he took Taekwondo with kid #3. When it came time to graduate from white belt to yellow belt, they both were expected to pass a test that included kicking a board in half. He was very proud. While I was upstairs putting laundry away one day shortly after, I overheard him bragging to his brother’s friend that he broke the board. The kid scoffed, “I’m a yellow belt too! It wasn’t that hard…I broke the board too”.
Kid #2’s response?
“Yeah, but did you break it with your penis?”
And then there is my 16 year old. Full fledged teenager. Full fledged hormones. The reason I hardly posted in April. The reason gray hairs pepper the husband’s goatee. The reason stress hives dot my wrists.
Kid #1 is a sophomore. He frowns upon organized sports. He bitches about cleaning his room and searches the internet for insightful essays he can post on Facebook about why cleaning your room is unimportant instead of completing his homework. Of course, I only see what he wants me to see on his Facebook page. He has not yet deleted me, but we assume a limited friendship. He thinks he can outsmart me. Back when he was young and untainted, he befriended several of my friends. He forgot to limit some of said friends. (Thanks SD!!)
One day last year, Kid #1 ‘forgot’ to turn in 7 assignments and brought home an F on a progress report. His punishment? Leave your Iphone on the table. I had an unexpected day off and began cleaning house. While I Windexed the counter, his phone vibrated and a text message popped up. I called the husband to tell him I thought kid #1 was smoking pot.
“Why do you think that?” the husband implored.
“Because he just got a text message asking if he wanted to smoke some pot after school,” I replied.
Now, the husband nor I were angels when we were in high school. Parenting 101 fails to explain the proper method of dealing with situations you once created for your own parents. Yes, paybacks are hell.
Fast forward a few months to a typical evening at the dinner table. A friend of the husband’s had temporarily moved into our basement. Kid #2 was at a friends house. My daughter, blissfully unaware, sat innocently devouring her grilled chicken. Kid #1 declares he wants a lock for his bedroom door.
I immediately tensed my shoulders, envisioning incense and hookah bowls. (I did not find either of those until a month ago).
“Why do you need a lock on your door? You don’t need a lock on your door!” I quickly countered.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “You know how I like your lotion?”
Silence. I had repeatedly found bottles of my lotion, sometimes scented; other times fragrance-free, littering his nightstand or computer table. Did I really naively believe he was replenishing his dehydrated elbows?
The husband and his friend fell silent, too. Briefly. Then erupted into fits of laughter. I do not know what the husband found funnier; the fact that his kid just told us he likes to jack off or the fact that I was rendered speechless. A fucking first.
I finally gained my composure and waited for the boys to stop laughing.
“Why don’t I just buy you some KY?” I asked Kid #1, trying to make his comfort level match my own. No shame.
“Nah- I’m kind of a dry guy, ” he boldly replied, much to my horror.
I bought him a lock the next day.

Linda is a stupid name for a cat

Happy Mother’s Day!! I usually love Mother’s Day. I make the husband take the kids to his mom’s house and I attempt to get some sun and drink some Bass in peace and quiet. Not this year. The high today was 54 degrees. What the fuck? All of the men I know do not care about browning their skin. Yet fathers get their day in the sun in June. So unfair. The husband kept asking what I wanted for Mother’s Day this year. I said, “Nothing! I just want the kids to clean their rooms!”
I should have been careful what I wished for. One out of two isn’t bad, right? I got nothing and the kids didn’t clean their rooms. Kid #1 texted me an r-rated e-card. Does that count?
I did, however, inherit a dog last week. A Pomeranian. Kid #1 kept texting me pictures of a kitten he wanted to bring home. He promised he would take care of it. I hate cats. And litter boxes. And cat piss. And blatant lies. No child of mine would clean a litter box on a schedule that would coordinate with my fervent dislike for cat smell. I told him no and happily ignored his ensuing and multiple pleas for me to reconsider.
My daughter wanted a cat once several years ago. So I begrudgingly relented. A friend of a friend knew someone who wanted to get rid of their cat. That should have been my first clue. The reason I was given? Said cat did not get along with the owner’s other cat. So I surprised my daughter one day and came home with a black and white, part Siamese cat.
“I want to name her Linda,” she said, trying to cuddle the petrified cat.
“Do you mean Glenda,like the good witch?” I tried to clarify.
“No. Linda!”
Ummm… okay. Linda let my daughter pet her 3 times before she darted to our basement. Where she stayed for the next 6 months. Every once in a while, one of the kids would attempt to retrieve Linda from the basement. Linda liked the comfort and solitude of the basement; which she made apparent by pissing on the daughter’s bed. And in her closet. And under her bed. She happily retreated to her basement after thoroughly pissing me off.
After about a year with this fucking basement cat, I had had enough. I knew the cat had lived inside and outside at her old owner’s house so I figured she could use some fresh air. I had the day off work, so after the kids left for school I released Linda. I bid her farewell and went about my day.
A few days later, I was in the kitchen making dinner. The husband came in to sample and squinted out the back door. He pulled the sliding doors opened and yelled at kid #1 to get off of the fence he was hanging over.
“I think I see Linda, Dad!” he yelled back.
“Linda’s in the basement…” his voice trailed off as he saw the look on my face.
“You didn’t,” he turned to me. It was not a question.
“But it’s been 3 days! No one even noticed!” I tried to defend myself.
So in came Linda. Again.
I permitted this nonsense for a few more weeks before I started calling shelters. Apparently I am not the only person who fucking hates cats. All the shelters were full. I had zero takers on Craigslist.
I called my dad to bitch about the futile situation. I’m so glad I did. He came up with a fantastic idea. The woman that lives in the house behind him has cats. Lots of them. And a “Humane Society” sticker on her front door to boot.
“You can walk over to her house and say you found Linda in my yard and ask if it belongs to her,” he suggested.
Game on! I loaded the cat in my car. She was part Siamese so she meowed quite loudly. Kid #3 ran to the open upstairs window.
“What are you doing with Linda?” she cried down to me, sobbing.
I rolled my eyes.
“You guys don’t even like the cat!”
I started the car and made it around the block before that piece of shit broke down. The husband had to come rescue me. Kid #3 was only 4 years old at the time so of course she came with him. And of course she was still crying.
I finally made it to my dad’s house and proceeded with our plan. I knocked on the neighbor’s door and she fell in love with the ‘homeless’ cat and immediately welcomed her with open arms.
Needless to say, we do not harbor what I would call a cat-friendly home. So after all the trouble kid #1 went through sending me pictures and videos of the kitten he HAD to have, he comes home an hour later with a Pomeranian. The same friend of his whose cat had kittens also owned a dog that did not get enough attention. Probably because of all the fucking cats.
His friend’s mom idled in her car waiting to talk to me as all 3 kids AND the husband stuck out their lower lips as they fondled the admittedly super cute Pomeranian. For a second, I actually felt authoritative. But then again, everyone knew the responsibility of the dog’s grooming, access to food, and veterinarian visits would solely depend upon me.
So again, my first logical question for his friend’s mom was, “Why are you trying to get rid of him?”
The mom said the dog did not get enough attention in her house and that Pomeranians are needy little fuckers. Or something like that. I sighed. The dog is 4 years old, potty trained, and named ‘Buckeye’.
I am a huge Ohio State fan. But Buckeye is a stupid dog name. He looks more like a Chewbacca.
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But I guess it’s better than Linda.

Flintstone sour gummy vitamins fucking stink

I have not smoked for 9 days, 22 hours, and 7 minutes. I have been at least a pack a day smoker for at least 20 years so this is a huge milestone in my life. I work in the restaurant industry, am married to a smoker, and am constantly(though not always justifiably) stressed. I drink large quantities of beer. I enjoy the act and smell of cigarette smoking. My father smoked. I am orally fixated. All of my friends smoke or used to smoke. Most of my co-workers smoke. See? I have excuses.
Please let me tell you how and why I quit. I have only tried a few times before to quit, even though I never really wanted to. I figured I run, eat pretty well, and seldom have health issues. Belligerent? Yes. Intelligent? No. Those commercials with the smokers talking through the tracheotomy really affected my point of view. I do not like pain and I do not want to be in pain when I am older. And I want nice teeth.
A year ago I bought a Groupon for laser therapy, a form of acupuncture, that was supposed to be 80% effective for smoking cessation. I felt duped. 2 years prior, I tried Chantix. Crazy Bitch. Crazy dreams. I continued enjoying my cigarettes and then my best friend decided to quit because doctors found a nodule on her lung. A few weeks later, another one of my best friend’s mother had a tracheotomy. Then, my boss asked me if I wanted to quit with him and his wife on Monday, March 11. Maybe it was the “happens in threes” theory. Maybe it was just my time…
I decided to try the patch this time. I had already purchased the patch and the box sat unused in my medicine cabinet. March 11th rolled around. I should have set that patch right on my nightstand. Instead, I had to physically get out of bed and rummage through all the shit in my medicine cabinet trying to find that damn patch. It should not have been hard to find considering the box had a bright orange clearance sticker on it. I grabbed the package and read through the directions, which thankfully did not include a mile long list of possible side effects like so many of the commercialized new age drugs that can cure anything from dry mouth to dry vagina.
As I read through the instructions (peel off patch and stick it somewhere), I noticed the expiration date. There was a reason the box was 75% off. I breathed a sigh of relief and went downstairs to enjoy my morning coffee. With my morning cigarette. I resolved to buy another unexpired patch after work and happily went about my day.
A few days later, I had a few more excuses for not yet purchasing the patch. Kid #3 had stayed home from school Monday and Tuesday because she did not feel well. I rarely get sick; yet this bout I did not remain unscathed. I had not felt that bad in years. I always pride myself on being a ‘good’ sick person. Apparently I am not. It’s that patience thing. I do not have time to be sick. I can’t just lay around and not get things done. How fucking frustrating! I contracted a cross between the cold and flu which was highlighted by an acute headache, plenty of body aches, and a nasty cough. I was miserable. The husband was scheduled to get his wisdom teeth taken out that Thursday so I finally decided I would try to quit Friday. I knew he was not supposed to smoke after having the procedure done and I felt like hell anyway. I purchased the patch and waited for Friday.
Thursday morning I transported the husband to the dentist. They had given him a prescription for some hallucinogenic drugs that would knock him out during surgery. After the procedure, the nurse gave him and I instructions. She asked if he was a smoker. He feebly nodded.
“So am I, “she said conspiratorially, “Just make sure you leave the gauze in.”
What the fuck?? Are you kidding me? My one chance to have the husband NOT smoke for a few days. Ruined!
He lit up in the car. I angrily resolved to stick with my quit date.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed and stuck on my new patch. The hardest part of not smoking for me is not having that first cigarette in the morning. I am not one of those people that can wait a little bit before I light up. Nope- I stumble down the stairs and beeline for my coffee and cigarette. So Friday morning I poured my coffee and detoured to the living room as opposed to the garage. I kept busy and tried not to think about smoking. And I made it.
Somehow, I always imagined if I made it through just ONE morning the next would be easier. And it was. Day #2 was a Saturday. I put on the patch and went to get my coffee.
The coffee in our house is a volatile subject. I like my coffee strong; the husband likes it weak. This discrepancy has caused us to engage in heated arguments. He calls my coffee ‘Jew crack’. I call his coffee ‘hillbilly pisswater’. There was a stretch of time when our coffee maker was really fucked up and brewed Jew crack. I left work one day and went to the doctor because I thought I was having a heart attack/ panic attack or both. Thankfully, it was just the super strong coffee. Since then, I have limited my coffee intake to a cup or a cup and a half.
For the first few days after I quit smoking, I texted the husband to ask him if he had brewed the espresso we sometimes make because I felt so jittery. No, no he had not. Someone explained to me that since coffee is a stimulant and tobacco is a depressant, I was drinking straight stimulant without offsetting the caffeine with my cigarette. Sigh. I stopped enjoying my coffee. I also mistakenly thought the cold and flu symptoms would go away once I quit smoking. Wrong again. I should have known there would be repercussions when I stopped doing something I had been doing for 20 years.
And then bitch mode kicked in. The husband calls me passive aggressive. Not this week!
My new best friend? Sugar coated lemon drops. I have never been a gum chewer. The patch was giving me a weird looking rash so I took it off and have been free balling it since.
I finally started feeling better Thursday. I have an app on my phone that tells me how long its been since my last cigarette and the health benefits of quitting. For the last few days, the app has told me nerve endings have begun to regenerate and my sense of smell and taste have begun to return to normal.
This may or may not be true. I did go to grab kid #3 Flintstone vitamins this morning and almost threw up. Those sour gummies smell like shit! Thankfully, the Bass still tastes great!(I’m saving my lungs; fuck my liver!)
Oh, and the husband got dry sockets.

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.

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-fiancée 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.

 


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