humor

I SMELL CAKE!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the most supportive hop EVAH: Ten Things of Thankful!

Without further ado, here are my thankfuls for this week…

1. This HOP. Duh. And the fact that it made it to the ripe, still-sexy age of 50! WOOOP! I’m so grateful for this community of incredible people!

2. The ability to muster strength and courage this week, which was only possible with the tiny shred of confidence I’ve managed to build over the past few months. I realize this is vague, but just know I had reason to feel ten feet tall. I conquered something. Something that has conquered me in the past. For now, I rule the kingdom. LIKE A BOSS.

(more…)

Did she just…grab my ASS?!

My guest blogger today needs no introduction. Wait. *strokes beard* I wonder if you could tell who it is just from her/his writing? I’d be willing to bet money you could! His/her writing is that magical. She/He makes you laugh. He/She makes you think. But more than anything, he/she makes you want to be a better writer. I’ll reveal the author at the end, but don’t even consider cheating. See if you can figure it out beforehand. I double dog dare you! Take it away, mystery blogger….

(more…)

I’m Out Way Past My Curfew!

What do tofu and dildos have in common?

They’re both meat substitutes.

WHAT.

Okay, sorry. That was terrible. But I had to get the naughty out of my system – I’m over at Past My Curfew today because Mike was ~~drunk~~ generous enough invite me over to play. I wanted to behave myself over there at his awesome blog. I think I did. Maybe.

You be the judge.

Do it. There’s another joke and everything. Go here.

Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire!

Truth is stranger than fiction!

I’d call it stealing if I hadn’t received permission, but would’ve done it regardless because it’s brilliant and ridiculous fun! In honor of Aussa over at Hacker, Ninja, Hooker, Spy, I bring you my own truth/lie post:

Five of the following facts about me are the truth. One is NOT. Can you guess which one is the lie? (Friends of mine who read my blog….no cheating!)

1. I once won $1,000 with a scratch off lottery ticket.

2. I’ve been sky diving.

skydiving photo: Skydive 509414141eaa4_skydive01_zpsc1a2060f.jpg

Like this. But with screaming and vomit

3. I was expelled from High School my Senior year.

strippers photo: StrippersCluba1 StrippersCluba1.jpg

I was probably headed here

4. I graduated college Cum Laude.

congratulations graduate photo: Graduate CongratsGraduationMan.jpg

Turns out I DO have a brain!

5. I had my first cigarette at the age of eight.

got a light?

6. I once had my tongue pierced

piercing photo: Tongue tumblr_mk4ihsTdtJ1s4wv7po1_500_zps93238975.jpg

cuz I always make awesome decisions

That’s it, folks! Can you guess the fib? Do you have any truths that are stranger than fiction? Can’t wait to hear your guesses!

Screw You, Tommy. Screw. You.

Most of you are probably familiar with the Christmas Elf. You’ve seen him in all the stores as soon as the holidays officially arrived. You know, a week before Halloween. I admit, I didn’t know much about him until last year when my boys started reporting other kids in our neighborhood had elves and I began hearing, “Why don’t we have one, Mom?”

So I told them to wish for one, real hard, and wouldn’t ya know it, the tiny little guy showed up in our house. And by showed up, I mean I went to Target and paid $30 for the “kit” so my boys could have even more joy and wonder over the holidays.

Each child names his own elf. The boys named ours Tommy.

Did his eyes just follow me?

There’s definitely parent benefit to this deal. The elf’s job is to watch kids and report back to Santa. Talk about bribery. I can’t count how many times I’ve said, “You’d better watch your behavior, the elf is watching!” And it works. It really works. But at the same time, it sort of pisses me off that they’re being good for the damn elf and not just cuz they’re supposed to be…but oh well, tis the season of trying to get on that coveted nice list.

It was kind of sweet, too. In case you’re not familiar, the elf moves every night. Each morning when the boys awoke, their first thought was to find the elf, and to hear their squeals of delight did provide me with a smile. At first. But thirty days of remembering to do this (and I didn’t always remember) can beat even the most enthusiastic parent down.

The boys would report to me what their friend’s elves were doing: “Tyler’s elf brings him presents”; “Olivia’s elf writes her notes”; “Caden’s elf has special clothes.”

Oh, so we’re upping the ante are we? I hear you loud and clear, Tommy.

Loud. And. Clear.

I not only had to remember to move him each night, but had to answer endless questions in tiny, swirly elf writing about his age, his life back “home”, and Santa, with little candies and gifts accompanying the return notes. Worse, the marketing dynamos behind this ruse had come up with little outfits you could buy to dress the elves in scarves and booties. Cuz why wouldn’t a stuffed doll be cold?

Tommy was starting to cause me some serious anxiety. In affect, this little elf had me by the round ‘n fuzzies.

I was being tugged in two directions: the innocent exuberance in which the boys loved and interacted with the elf was truly precious. On the other hand, I felt resentful towards the whole expectation behind it, and I was getting competitive with other elves.

At war with an elf. Who wasn’t alive. In fact, I’m the friggin’ elf. My god….I gave him the finger when I walked by…..something’s so wrong with me…..

I made it through last year, but I have to say I was thrilled when it was time to pack that little effer away.

This past Sunday we were unpacking all the Christmas décor, and my 6yo found Tommy inside a Santa hat. I could’ve sworn I deliberately put him in a box in our closet to avoid this very scenario.

I was immediately hit with a barrage of questions:
“How could Tommy be in our Christmas stuff?”
“I thought he was supposed to come from the North Pole?”
“Why didn’t he bring us presents?”
“Is this a different one?”
“Is Tommy dead?”

Well played, Tommy. Well played. I have two words for your tiny elf ears:

GAME. ON.

Have you ever waged war with an inanimate object? Is there a holiday tradition you’re not crazy about? Do you have one of these elves? If so, how do you feel about it? I heart your comments BIG!

And Then Dracula Tweeted Me. The End.

TToT LIKE A MOFO

WELCOME

I’m thankful Dracula sees the value in social media. I’ve mentioned before I love monsters, bloodsuckers, and things that go bump in the night. That’s why when the shows Grimm and Dracula started a few weeks ago, I went a little ape-shit. I followed them on twitter. I retweeted some of their tweets. And then this happened. That’s right. Momma got a tweet from Dracula. (sorry so blurry, translation below)

In case you can’t see it, my nerd ass tweeted, “@NBCGrimm @NBCDracula My two dates for Friday night! #biteme”

(Shut up. I told you I’m a nerd)

And then DRACULA retweeted me and said, “It would be our pleasure.” (to my #biteme)

*SQUEEEE*

Dracula won tweets. Forever. *sigh*

I’m grateful for trying new things. Last night the hubs and I were out to dinner with good friends at an amazing restaurant (Meddlesome Moth), and Vanessa mentioned she’d had their mussels and we should get them cuz they were SO GOOD. I said I’d never had mussels before in my life. WHAT?! She couldn’t believe it and said I must try them. So I did.

SWEET BABY JESUS. Next thing I knew, I look up and half the mussel shells are on my plate, empty, and I’m .02 seconds from lifting the bowl to my mouth to slurp the last of the juice.

I woke up wanting mussels for breakfast. This is a problem.

I’m grateful for creatives. Last night we were fortunate enough to be invited by friends (same ones from dinner) to an art reception showcasing the works of around 40 artists. As we walked around I was blown away by the amazing art in that building. I loved hearing artists talk about what inspired them to paint certain pieces, or take particular photos, because there’s a history behind every work…a soul behind the canvas, if you will. I adored seeing their eyes light up, and hearing the enthusiasm in their voices as they talked about their passion.

I get them. I understand that feeling of being compelled to create, but at the same time, not really understanding this crazy-imperative urge. And that need for others to love what you do, but more than that…to understand what you do. It was nice to be around my people is what I’m sayin’.

Plus my husband bought me a kick-ass necklace. You know, to support the arts…

I’m grateful for my hysterical children. Okay, maybe they’re more weird than hysterical, but right now, this very second as I type, my youngest is upstairs singing at the top of his lungs, “My penis is beautiful!”

You can’t make this stuff up, people. (what is it with boys and their thingies??? GAH)

Aside from that, they are so witty and crack me up constantly. The other day we’re all four in the car, and the hubs and I are discussing something about the boys when our 9yo interrupts from the backseat, “Uh…you know we can hear you. This is just offensive.”

I’m grateful for the blogging community. I’m seeing a trend that’s enlightened me to some commonalities among bloggers. Most of them are introverts, or at least were as children; have suffered from anxiety, at some form, at some point in their lives; because of an introverted nature, a yearn to connect or have a feeling of solidarity exists; are extremely empathetic; are incredibly supportive and generous; are smart, creative people who, at the very least, love to write; and who are some of the strongest, funniest people I’m honored to call my friends. I don’t think I’ve ever been more pleasantly surprised by anything as I’ve been by bloggers. I learn from and am inspired by them each day, and couldn’t be more proud to be a part of this crazy-wonderful tribe.

I’m grateful I have access for my friend’s memories My memory is fried. Between motherhood and anti-seizure medicine (a.k.a. migraine meds) I’m a zombie – so when I don’t remember…oh, say…yesterday, I rely on others. This came in handy yesterday when I had no idea what to wear for the aforementioned art reception, and was on the phone with bestie, Robyn, warning her of my impending outfit dilemma and the downward spiral that was sure to follow. The following was our conversation, to the best of my memory:

Robyn: How ’bout a dress? Why don’t you wear a pretty dress?
Me: I don’t own a dress
Robyn: Yes you do. What about that pretty silver one, don’t you have a silvery/grey one?
Me: I’ve never had a silver dress in my life
Robyn: Yes you did. You wore a pretty silvery dress on a date with Jim like a year ago…with red flats.
Me: Red slacks? What are you talking about?
Robyn: Yes, I remember it. Go look in your closet. You wore it with cute little red flats. You sent me a picture of your outfit that night.
Me: Are you saying slacks? Like tights? *walks to closet*
Robyn: No, you idiot. Flats, like shoes. (she’s sweet)
Me: *Lightbulb* OH MY GREY BANANA REPUBLIC DRESS!
Robyn: There she is….

Thank you, Beanie, for your steel trap of a memory, and for staying on the phone with me for 45 minutes while I tried on that dress with two different pair of tights, two different pair of shoes, and choosing the accompanying cardigan, and waiting while I texted you photos of all of them for your approval. Once again, you saved my ass.

I’m grateful for rule breaking. Cuz this is TEN things of thankful, and although I’m thankful for a million things, this post is getting too long so I’m stopping here. LIKE A BOSS. BOOM. EPIC AND SHIT. HOLY SHIT BALLS (<that one was for you, Amanda) and all those other sayings I like.

The Apple Don’t Fall Far From The Nut Tree

One of my favorite childhood recollections is one where my whole family is gathered around the table for a big holiday meal. I glance over, and there’s one of my aunts looking right at me, completely serious…with an entire stalk of broccoli hanging out of her nose.

This is my family in a nutshell.

The most consistent theme running through my family memories is humor. Not just witty remarks and fart jokes, we’re talking complete lunacy. It would take a novel to recount all the bizarre/hilarious stories (and don’t think for a second I haven’t thought of that), but a recent conversation on a group email stream inspired me to really think about where I come from. The following conversation is verbatim, except where it isn’t, and yes, they are being completely serious. *names have been changed to protect the deranged. **yes, everyone still calls me Bethie, which I adore.

Polly: Meredith, do you have my braid of hair?

Anne: Yes, I believe I do. It’s somewhere around here in a paper bag.

Marge: Aunt Destiny’s hair? That has to go to Bethie when we’re all gone.

Polly: No, I’m talking about my hair. Aunt Destiny’s hair is being kept by Karen and probably won’t go to Bethie, although you never know. It does have to stay in the family. If they run out of people to hand it down to, it will have to come this way.

Me: What the what? A bag. Of hair. Why does Anne have a bag with your hair in it (ew)? And why is there some other hair (who is Aunt Destiny? that’s a stripper name btw) and why does her hair have to stay in the family? IAMNOTTAKINGIT.

Polly: Aunt Destiny’s hair is charmed. It is carried to ward off evil and disease. Generations ago, she died at a young age but had magnificent hair which they cut at her death. The family thought it brought good luck (but not for Aunt Destiny). So they kept it. Now our cousin Karen has it.

Marge: We’re a very superstitious family.

Me: How can I just be finding out about this? A bag of dead-girl-charmed-hair is a big matzo ball. You can’t just drop that in casual conversation. Wait, why does Anne have a paper bag of your hair, Polly? Don’t tell me yours is “charmed” too? *winces while waiting for answer*f

Jane: What until you hear about the knife from Da’s shop. You’ll probably get that too.

Me: WHAT

Polly: Don’t listen to her. My hair is just from when I cut it all off ages ago. You couldn’t give it to the Cancer Society back then, so you just kept it. Somehow Anne ended up with it.

Me: Uh-huh. I can’t believe I’m going to ask this, but if your hair is in a paper bag, what is the charmed hair in?

Polly: An ivory case

Me: Of course it is

This is my family. They’re zany, superstitious, clever, dramatic, funny, creative, and you should avoid taking them in public. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

How would you describe your family? Does yours have strange traditions or superstitions? Are there things about yourself you’re glad you got from them? Can’t wait to hear from you!

Lock Jaw and Night Vision, Heed the Farning!

Definition: Farning. Using fear to impress danger upon someone. ex: Don’t eat that or you’ll die. My mom was the master of this. Still is actually. She’s very…mmm…dramatic is a good word. I say this with affection. Probably.

I bring this up because many of her farnings had a definite effect on me. I guess this is a good thing when your intent is to keep a child from potential harm, but what if it continues well into adulthood? Here’s a sampling of my ~~nut farm~~ childhood:

1. Don’t talk on the phone during a storm or lightning will strike the house, go through the phone line and fry you like an egg. (even though this is only relevant if you’re on an “old fashioned” plug-in phone, I still won’t talk on my cell phone during storms)

2. If you get scraped by a rusty nail and you’re behind on tetanus you’ll get lock jaw and night vision. (Can you imagine the visual I had of this as a six year old? Although I’m intrigued by the idea of night vision, I’m still horrified by lock-jaw, cuz LOCK JAW)

3. Check all canned foods for botulism. If you eat something with botulism you’ll die within 5 minutes. (I still obsessively check cans for the “pop” and will not use one if it has even a tiny dent. I was so paranoid about this, I wouldn’t even eat canned food unless someone else was home until I was well into my twenties)

4. If you see a van driving next to you, RUN! Kidnappers drive vans and grab little kids and you’ll never see your family again. (um…no joke, I’m still scared shitless of vans. In fact, I’m quite skittish and always feel vulnerable when out in the open. My BFF finds this highly amusing)

5. Don’t take hot showers if you’re on your period, you could pass out, and could hit your head on the tile and drown. (*blank stare*) (To be honest, I think I heard this one from Girl Scouts, but my mom added the fear element of a head injury and possible drowning because merely “passing out” wasn’t enough of a warning. Obviously)

Now, maybe I was a super sensitive kid who took warnings very literal and that’s why they affected me so profoundly. OR, maybe the farnings were a bit too…hmm….harsh given my age at the time and could have been phrased more gently. *shrug* But it does give me pause when considering how to warn my own kids. For instance:

I see my 9yo playing in the street the other day. My warning, “get out of the street, you could get hit by a car” is no longer making an impact. I can tell. Cuz he’s still in the street. Herein lies my dilemma. How far do I go to impress upon him the gravity of the situation while not causing him to cower in the house the rest of his life cuz of mommy’s colorful description of brain matter on the asphalt?

When my 6yo is scared/mad he’ll run out of the house and hide under one of our cars (charming, btw). A few Saturdays ago he was upset he was being left with a sitter and did just that. The sitter was already in the house. The hubs and I had somewhere to be. I ~~stomped~~ walked patiently to the car. He was wedged all the way in the middle and refused to budge. What did I do? I reverted to what I knew.

“Hurry and get out from under there! There’s a storm coming, you can’t be near large metal objects when there’s lightning!” (FYI, there really were *storm clouds.)

Awful, or not? I mean, that’s true about lightning, everyone knows that. And it worked! We got him inside and made our movie on time. Yes, he’s terrified of lightning now, but he already sort of was so I still see this as a WIN.

The thing is, I know my mom’s heart was in the right place. I get it. I bring it up all in fun, I mean, if it wasn’t for her farnings, how would I know to go through my kid’s Halloween candy for signs of foul play. You know, cuz Mom warned me how people stick needles in Tootsie Rolls to inject cyanide, and open Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups to insert razor blades and then replace the wrappers.

WHAT.

*by storm clouds I mean some grey clouds on the horizon. And by grey clouds on the horizon I mean an airplane. Shut up. That plane was ominous as shit.

So how far is too far? Was I just overly sensitive as a kid? Do you use fear to keep your kids safe? Did your parents ever give you farnings that still stick with you? I LOVE hearing from you!

Chaos Elves: 2: Collections

The 6yo has a strange habit. A collecting habit. But he’s not collecting toy cars, or video games, or baseballs. No, that would be too…predictable. He’s just collecting.

We’ll be at the park/zoo/beach and he’ll run at me with feverish intent, only to hand me a small length of broken shoe string, or a feather, or a bottle cap. “Here, for my collection,” he’ll say before running away. He collects anywhere inspiration strikes. Small piles of these random accumulations sit in various bowls, drawers, and niches all over our house.

There seems to be no specific criteria for what makes it into his ~~trash hoarding~~ stockpile: anything goes. He’s even handed me wet, wilted reeds from the bottom of pools. When asked what purpose these items serve, he answers simply, “To remember.”

I’ve come to realize these tiny tokens enshrine moments. They are his way of keeping memories alive, which makes the piles around my house (and bottom of my purse) like little photo albums, filled with special snapshots of his life.

Well damn.

That tugs at my heart a little. I might even be tempted to use the word endearing.

And then I recall that this is the same child who – at the age of four when I told him he couldn’t have candy at the checkout counter of Target – screamed repeatedly, “YOU’RE A PENIS!”

Not so endearing anymore. Nope. Notsomuch.

Oh, please share with me your kiddo’s worst, most embarrassing tantrum! Mine have done it all…and I mean ALL. I LOVE hearing from you! You all make me laugh more than anyone!