A Little Pep in my Step with some Junk in my Trunk

(please be advised that the inserted photo is not one of my own ass...OK, read on.)

It should come to no surprise that I have no shame, and there are not many things that embarrass me.....if there were, half my stories would never be told.

The evolution of my underwear drawer has gone a step further. A new, most delightful undergarment has made its way into my repertoire of unflattering wares.

I was recently in North Conway. Although the main reason of the trip was to take the kids on holiday adventures, the outlets were just a hop, skip and a jump away.

During one of the twice daily trips, whereas I spent the majority of my money in Gap, Banana Republic and Coach, I ended up in an underwear store. (If It weren't for a friend of mine, Cathy, whom i was meeting, my new found undergarment and I would've never met..she was bra shopping and asked that I meet her). Unfortunately for our husbands, were were not in Victoria's Secret or Frederick's of Hollywood. Nope, we were in Maidenform. (which, by the way, might as well be called "Old Maidenform" ) I had absolutely no intention of buying anything (however, my drawers were not paved with no intentions)

Let me start by saying that I have never been a fan of "Spanks". Don't get me wrong...the concept is great, however I am a bigger fan of comfort...and breathing than I am of having skinny thighs...at least most of the time.

Back to Old Maidenform. As I was making my way to the back of the store in search of my friend, Ava was a head of me. I heard her giggling and when I approached her, found her holding onto a pair of padded underwear. Yes, padded underwear. It was similar in shape to spanks without the thigh portion, however with a nice little shapely padding in the rear. My chuckles were swiftly halted by the light bulb that now invisible encircled my head.

I wont lie, I am 36, have had 4 children and wildly fluctuating weight over the years. Couple those facts with the lack of physical activity in my life, and well, my ass hath no fury.

I held them up, and thought...really...is this any different that the under wire, cupped and mostly padded bras I have been wearing since I hit puberty? No. No its not. It a padded butt bra. Period. In true girlfriend mode, Cathy was all for them. Not like my daughter who BEGGED me not to try it on as she had been making fun of them.

"OK, I need to get a true "before" visual. Turn around and let me see your ass" Cathy said. I did as I was told. "You really DON'T have an ass". Thanks Cat.

OK, into the dressing room I went. I pride myself in being a super speed dressing room girl. If I were a super hero, that's what my catch phrase.... "SUPER SPEED UNDRESSER" (that would also be my name if I were a stripper....or in porn)

I whipped off my jeans and began pulling up the butt bra (hereinafter referred to as "the BB). I got just above my knee before the problems began. I already started feeling numb in my upper thigh.....and I was having flashbacks to when I accidentally pulled the undies from the back of my underwear drawer. Finally, the BB was in place. It looked good and I was somewhat wishing it had the thigh aspect. Ava was cracking up so I slapped her in the face. (just kidding)

I pulled on my jeans. I hadn't taken into account the difficulty I would now have zipping and buttoning the jeans with the new, larger rear end.

It took a couple of minutes of me sounding as if I were giving birth before I got the whole package together. I turned to look in the mirror and couldn't believe it. There was actually a definition between my ass and thigh! It was a miracle. I looked like I could have been Kim Kardashian (when she was 9).

I proudly walked out of the dressing room, turned to Cathy and lifted my sweater. She concurred. She said everything I was thinking about my wonderfully shaped derriere. I could tell she wanted to touch it...but she refrained. She could've. I purchased 2 pairs, and in hindsight, wish I had gotten more. On the way to the register, I grabbed a pair of shaping tights for good measure. (this, I would later learned, was a big mistake)

When we got back to the room, I was anxious to try them on with other types of pants. First, wide legged, semi loose fitting pants. Unbelievable. I wanted to NEVER take them off. Next, a pair of black leggings I normally wear with long sweaters or cardigans. Again, marvelous.

Next, I decided to go for the double threat. I opened the control leggings. I scrunched each leg and began sliding them on...one leg at a time. When I got over the knee, the loss of circulation kicked in. I forced them up, figuring the ends justifies the means. Like it wasn't hard enough, I know had to pull them over my C Cup buttocks. It was hard. I yelled to the girls "this isn't working....the leggings are working against my ass bra!! They were trying to suck THEM in too! I was not having any of that, and as slowly as I got them up, I just as QUICKLY yanked them off.

After the trip, and back home to reality, I spent the first two days cleaning and doing laundry. I had almost forgot about my new BB. Until I unpacked looking for a new pair of jeans. I had to go to Home Depot. What better place to show off my new ass then a store geared towards sweaty contractors, right? Yes, I wore them. But honestly, I just wanted to break them in for when I REALLY wanted to wear them.

As a rule, I generally wear longer cardigans to cover what parts I deem not so attractive. My lower half, mostly. However, on this day, i found myself shaking my booty just a little extra as I walked down the hardware isle. Instead of pulling my sweating down in the back every 10 seconds, I was nonchalantly tucking in a tiny corner. The only downside, was that i wasn't able to squeeze my cell phone in my back pocket. A sacrifice I was willing to make.

So thank you Old Maidenform , thank you. Thank you for changing my life. (OK, maybe not my life, but the way my ass looks in pants).

Olivia (Animal Hoarding, Part 23)

Its been a while, although I don't know why...my life certainly hasn't let up any. If anything, it has gotten a bit more hectic of late.

I am sitting here in a dark room, lit only by the lights that adorn my fake Christmas tree. Well, three quarters worth of lights, anyway. You see, the bottom half was destroyed..eaten actually, by Olivia.

As many of you may have heard, there is a new member in my family. Her name is Olivia...a name that took two days to come up with. Olivia (a/k/a Liv, Livers, Baby)is a wonderfully mischievous little 6 month old piglet that I adopted (ok, spent a negotiated $850 on) nine days ago.

Whom you ask, in their right mind, would bring a pig home (hello??????) Ava (10) asked for nothing more than a puppy for Christmas. I came dangerously close to purchasing a long haired Chihuahua a couple of weeks ago during Emma and my weekly field trip to the pet store. It was there that a couple was standing next to us and we began talking. Not caring that they would think me gross, I explained how I had been wanting a mini pig for some time. They mentioned that they had seen an ad on craigslist several months ago, however, it had been gone for a while.

The super sleuth in me took about 5 minutes before I located who would ultimately be my pig broker. Her name was Erin and she owned a little pet store. She had limited information for me except that she could have the piglets in her possession in three days if I wanted to come and take a look see. Are you kidding? The plans to make the 30 minute drive were being made in my head before I hit the end button on my cell phone. More importantly, what and how would I tell Dave. (Eh...I pretty much bought a house before telling him, so in all actuality, this wouldn't really be that bad)

I made the decision to tell him that i was just going to "look" at piglets. For 2 days he asked the same questions....where do they go to the bathroom, where do they sleep, how do they act...etc. Regardless of how many times he asked the same questions, I simply kept my cool and answered "Dave...it is just like a dog or cat...except its a pig" A concept he could simply not grasp. This is what I convinced Ava of as well, as her dreams of a puppy had been crushed by my own pig dreams. (in my defense, since the day I got married, I had made NO secret about my eventual pig ownership)

The day arrived. In one way I wanted Dave to come so that he could understand... on the other hand, I knew he would be a negative energy, so when he got a better offer for the afternoon, I was secretly relieved.

I packed the rest of the family in the car, including my friend (as I needed another adult to confer with). It took approximately 35 minutes before we arrived at the location. We all jumped out of the car with anticipation.

As we entered the store, three piglets went running across the room...they were smaller than Spooky (my cat). They were grunting and running...and skiddish. I flashed back to my teen years when I loved Olivia, my first piglet whom I loved. I had forgotten how cute they were and how much I really liked them.

We spent a good half hour there, however, it only took 30 seconds before I knew one would be mine. There was a plumpy black girl with a white blaze on her nose, a pink boy who did nothing but feverishly hump the store owners leg, and Olivia...who was the smallest...black with white legs. (sort of like me in the summer)
(I wont lie, I chose the girl with the white blaze...however, her price was less negotiable.)

Erin informed me it was a cash deal. I told her I had to get to the bank, get some stuff together, and call her with a time I would be back for her. It seriously felt as if I were buying an illegal child on the black market. Obviously, with my personality, I wasn't halfway home before I knew I was going to get to the bank and go back immediately. I dropped the girls off. Dave was not home. I told them I had to run to the market. Matt and I grabbed a cat carrier, a blanket and a withdrawal slip and off we went.

While in the store, I was getting the necessities. Food, a crate, pee pee pads. The little pink boy was being overly rambunctious. Before I knew it, he was violating my new baby. Matt and I literally watched a rape...an incestuous one at that. I yelled at Matt to do something...he chased the boy off her and Erin apologized. Really? I was seriously pissed....and felt like I needed to take her to my feelings doctor...or pop a xanax in her feed.

We drove home...and I could hardly believe that I had a pig in the car. Next, was getting her in the house as inconspicuously as possible. I somewhat wanted Dave to miss the fact that there was a pig in the house. Moreover, I was afraid my parents would find out. What had I gotten myself into. Either my parents or my husband was going to kill me. Then I remembered that I am a grown woman and I can do what I want. (right?)

I got the crate with Liv in it, up the porch stairs and plopped her in the living room. The girls were hysterical. "Is Daddy home?" I asked. Yup.

I heard the footsteps coming. All I heard was "You're kidding right....there is not a pig in here...right?". Ummm......I opened the cage and out she flew like a bat out of hell. Her little hooves slipping and sliding on the hardwood floors. Not anticipated was the fact that Dave, in addition to being a bit pissed, would be scared of her. This just added the cherry on top of the ice cream in MY eyes. It was like a funny little bonus. By the end of the night, he loved her too.

The first night was hairy (no pun intended). Although we could not pet her, she had made her safe place under the kitchen table and as night came, it was apparent she wanted a warm body to sleep next to. Being the loving person I am, I curled up on the blanket to lay with her until she was asleep (this was after I had nursed Emma to bed) Matt's girlfriend passed and thought it odd that I was not with Emma. As she asked "are you still breastfeeding Emma", my tired brain thought she was suggesting that I nurse the pig. Lines, Ashley, I have lines. (not many...but some)

It took several days for Olivia and I to get accustomed to one another. I quickly learned that she was not pee pee pad trained, as otherwise told to me. However, unlike the rest of the animals in the house, I have to clean up after her given the circumstances of her arrival here. In doing so, I nonchalantly vomit behind every pig shit I pick up and dispose of. While disgusting as it sounds, I have learned to accept that if anything, I may shed a few pounds until I get her outside trained.
I quickly learned that in addition to being highly intelligent (4th in the animal world) and clean, naughty and busy were also on the top of the list. I immediately felt as if I had cloned Emma...I now have two toddlers to contend with. Both Emma and Olivia get into similar trouble, and both loiter at my feet like hookers at the free clinic. Cupboards are overturned, plugs pulled from walls, paper shredded..... and than the xanax kicks in and I can deal with the two of them like a reasonable adult.

Unfortunately, we only had her for 6 days before we were to leave on a 4 day vacation. A pig sitter was needed and a good friend kindly offered. I gave instructions to the best of my ability. Although I don't think the terrorizing nature of Liv was anticipated. With every check in call Olivia had gotten into some new, and damaging trouble. I couldn't apologize more.

During the last check in call, my friend informed my that she had a nurse friend of her come for a visit. This woman explained that she suspected that Olivia was with piglets. Are you fucking kidding me? (response #1). Hmm....If I got a $1000 a pop, I could make cake (response #2) Wait, will the piglets be special needs considering there dad is there uncle? (response #3)

I had 3 hours to ponder the situation during which time the kids were excited, Dave was SUPER pissed (even though I told him I could birth the piglets in my bathtub and it would be fine) and I had called and made an appointment with a vet ASAP.

I texted a couple of friends in a panic...one of which said she was going to send the "I think my pig is pregnant" text to " textfromlastnight.com". I called my dad in a panic...he hung up on me. I am thinking of buying an EPT and holding it in her urine stream tomorrow. I don't know if it will work though. So, this could either be the end of the story or a the beginning of the TLC/Animal Planet segment of the blog.

In closing, I feel I can only grow from this experience. I can now imagine how Sara Palin felt. And as one person said, I can now add "pig farmer/breeder" to my resume. ( I needed some diversity, anyway) Stay tuned.

Deck My Bod with Scented Oils....Spa la la la la....la la..la...laaaaa

I am writing this particular entry in order to attempt to win a spa service...or two. Normally, I do little more than scratch silver off a cardboard paper in order to win a contest (or lotto if you will), but this was more than I could resist.

The theme of the "blog" was to be why YOU deserve a day at the spa...why YOUR life is so crazy. I implore the reader to read the previous entries....and hope she agrees. However, I can sum up some of the reasons simply. Her is my bestest attempt as "WOE IS ME" :

1. I have not slept in approximately 22 months for more than 3 hours at a time.

2. I have a herniated disc, and congenitive disc disease which required surgery. I do not go to PT because I couldn't foot the $60 a week, and I cannot have surgery with a toddler at home

3. In addition to my FOUR children, I have 4 pets. A dog whom craps in the house at least once a day, and a cat who is ill...and vomits in the house a least 3-4 time a week.

4. I had a great job, which I lost while on maternity with my Mirena IUD baby...

5. During the last 5 weeks, all three cars I owned have been damaged. My husband hit a muffler on the road which flew up and ripped off his door handle. My Son was in a collision and we are in a legal battle to fix his almost totaled ...4 month old car.

My SUV his a rock on the highway which flew up and cracked the windshield. Total damage of all 3 is approximately $6500. None have been repaired as of yet

6. My 18 month old still nurses. And has not spent ONE night in her own bed..which, by the way is in her room...which by the way is literally, a closet...a walk in, but a closet nonetheless.

7. My teenager is in trouble...a lot. I have to get a babysitter every couple of months in order to appear in court. I also have to make time to meet with his probation officer at least bi weekly. My house has gotten egged, and random hoodlums have shown up in my street looking for a fight in the middle of the night.

8. No one in my neighborhood can alternate driving to school. As such, I am the sole taxi driver for 5 kids plus my baby...I often go to school in pj's and slippers. (cliche, I know)

9. I foolishly got a nose ring 3 months ago...which is now infected, however, I cannot take out until healed. I look like I have a giant wart on my nose.

10. I haven't gone to the hairdresser in 5 months.

11. My husband is unable to "babysit" the kids without them calling me at least 4 times when i TRY and go out.

I am sure I could go on.......but someone is screaming outside...and I think I heard the word "blood".

Life is......Good?

It began a couple of months ago when I received an email from Dave , forwarded from his company, about the annual "Life is Good" Festival. I must have been in a good mood that day, because normally, the very uttering of that phrase conjures up a myriad of negative and sarcastic thoughts in my brain. Not to mention the cost of the tickets. It was $124 us dollars to buy into the notion that life is, in deed, good. Again, I must have been in a particularly good mood.

Fast forward to the day of the festival. I wouldn't expect anything less than to have it fall on the day in which Ava had her first soccer game, and Liza her first Lacross game. Luckily, however, the weather couldn't have been more perfect. (yes...you read it here folks, a positive statement)

I awoke early, (about 7am), and rounded up the troops. (I was in my usual, bitchy, and mostly mean mood) I figured we could at the very least, get Ava's soccer game in as it was early. Showers were taken, uniforms donned, fan chairs loaded in the car, and the Beast (aka my car) left the driveway at 8:30am. I had a few extra minutes to grab my hot Dunkin coffee, and egg and cheese wrap. Now, the particular Dunkin chain normally has me pull to the parking lot when I order food, which rubs me completely the wrong way...if I wanted to park, I wouldn't go through the drive thru. I was completely prepared to verbally assault the teenager who dare utter the words "can you pull to the front for your sandwich?". I was going to tell her I wouldn't do it, and then give her no less than 4 reasons why. Unfortunately, she passed my food out the window. Oh well.

We arrived at the field at exactly 10 minutes before 9. I was perplexed to see no one else with tangerine shirts on. (i know, tangerine is an odd uniform color...and very difficult to match to funky tie dyed knee highs). It would be several minutes before someone broke the news that the game was actually at 10:30. (life is good?)

We went home and decided we would just fore go the game and carry onward to the festival. We packed the cooler, the car and the Kids. It took about 5 seconds for the kids to begin fighting over which movie to watch during the 1 hour ride. I settled it with my usual name calling, threatening to leave the family, and then offering a bribe if they would just shut up. (life is good?)

It was about 25 minutes into the ride when a loud thug hit my windshield....and about 10 minutes later, Dav realized that the windshield had cracked. Why not...I mean, I have only had this car for about 4 weeks. (life is good?)

Ok, shake it off. We get off the exit and there is a plenty of direction as to where to go for the festival. Arrows, policemen and the likes directing us to the parking garage. Which, I might add, was no less than a 30 minute walk to the festival. (life is good?)

Upon admission to the park, we find a decent spot to park our blanket, chairs, and cooler. I am beginning to feel like I am back at the beach. It was lunch time, so we ordered up some overpriced burgers and fries, and tacos (which I would come to regret later on)

I quickly derived that I would enjoy people watching over anything else the festival would have to offer. I was a little surprised how many hippies there still are. Shirtless men with dreadlocks, long haired woman with peasant skirts, wearing their babies in all sorts of wraps. The man sitting to the right was wearing a skirt, and the women to the left were lesbians. (life probably IS good for them)

We headed the the "children" section. A nice woman handed Liza a balloon. She said it was one of the arms to a "person balloon figure" that had come apart. I thought nothing about it.....at that time. Dave and Liza were several paces behind me and the Feek (emma). Dave pulled along side me and was chuckling. (quite unusual). He then proceeded to tell me that everyone was laughing at Liza. I was confused, until I turned around to find the "balloon arm" tucked and protruding from the lower half of her tshirt. It look like a giant penis balloon, and she was shaking her hips an flinging it all around! I swiftly ran to her, and being an open and honest mother, told her "take it out, take it out....it looks like a giant pee pee!". Anyone that knows Liza can imagine her horror. She pulled and pulled, however, the bottom of the balloon was stuck...a woman came alongside and uttered..."umm...what is that supposed to be??" I know, I know....I told her, I know it has a phallic appearance but its an arm...and I am going to pop it shortly. At this point, I could not contain my own laughter. (Life is getting better)

The day dragged onward and it was only a matter of time before we had to use the porno john. (that would be Lizas term for porta john...despite my constant correction). It is hard to be picky amongst thousands of people and hundreds of toilets, however, we were going to try. For each "green" handle, signaling a vacant toilet, Liza would peek in, and report on the findings. A quick shake of the head, a dry heave, a "no TP"....until a thumbs up was attained. This took more time than I thought. Plus, if we didn't get out of the area soon, we were both going to get high from the overwhelming odor of the mary jane. (we were, as it seems, at a modern day Woodstock, after all)

Only about 3 hours into the festival, Emma began melting down. So did I. The task of chasing her out of everyone elses things was getting increasingly more difficult, and the place was getting extremely crowded. There was a woman two blankets in front of us with a 2.5yr old who was constantly nursing. This left me feeling very confused. I felt like I was not the only one still nursing, however on the other hand, I dreaded that this could be MY future a year from now (?).


Now, completely contrary to this event, were the young couples everywhere. Hugging, kissing, dancing...some even making out. I was a little bit disgusted, but a little more jealous. I felt like rufie'ing myself. Wait, no, I am here with my HUSBAND and CHILDREN.

As I looked around at the thousands of people, my mind begins its antics. I look at each person, and imagine what they do for a living, what their curtains look like, if they have a brother. Then I begin to obsess about how much money was made by the life is good people. At $50 an adult, I don't even think I could count that high. Then, I begin to wonder how many farts were let go during the day, and I couldn't even imagine how many.... given the line at the taco tent. (I know this is insane of a woman of my age, and life status....its the little boy who lives within me..or the seepage of weed into my brain from the bathroom section)

Seven hours later, I had enough. I put my foot down and demanded we leave. I was tired, the kids were tired and we had a long walk to the car. I packed up, began walking (Emma insisted she be carried). I passed a woman and actually stopped her to ask where she got, and the name of her child carrier. Just hours earlier I was saying they looked like chimpanzees carrying their chimp babies....and Ironically, I will be ordering an ERGO tomorrow. I took the biggest whiff I could as I passed the porno johns and away we went.

The kids were asleep with in minutes of being in the beast. Despite the overwhelming smell of beer breath in my car during the ride home (hun), it was another successful mystery ride. Life IS good.

"Run Forrest...Run".....Adventures of A Kiddy Gym Mom

I did something I never thought I would do. In fact, I actually made fun of the parents who did this. I joined a parent /child gym class....with Emma.

The coupon came in the mail for a free trial class, so I thought "what the hell", right? Its not like I have anything better to do.

Most people that know me casually may think that I am a very social person. I like to organize get togethers, I love to throw parties, and I am lucky enough to say that I have a wide range of very good friends...most of which I have known for a very long time..with the exception of a handful. That is because, I am somewhat socially awkward. I do not like meeting new people, I do not like being thrown in a large group of strangers and expected to drum up idle chit chat. Period.

Couple that with the fact that I think organized "parent" groups are plain old stupid. Attending a class is without a doubt a big step in my new found SAHM-dom.

A couple of days before the class, Em and I went to Marshalls to pick her up some appropriate workout wear. I was pleased to find two Adidas sweatsuits. One black with white piping, the other pink with white piping. Obviously, I chose the black as it was much easier to match with my 45 black pairs of sweatpants and 37 white t-shirts.

Coincidentally, the gym class began on the first day of school for the older girls. I would bring them to school, and head on my way. (I wont lie, while in the school yard I did receive some "ribbing" about Emma and my matching gym outfits. However, I knew we looked crispy)

(CRISPY: adjective; definition: neat,clean,trim,fashionable,with it,very good-looking)

I arrived at the class promptly at 9:10. The class was to begin at 9:15. I looked around and quickly began sizing up the other parents and children. I should mention that I bumped Emma up into the class above her age group as I tend (or at least in my own head believe) to breed athletic overachievers.

First off, Emma and I were clearly the best dressed....or at least the most appropriately dressed...for the occasion. There were babies in there with sundresses on for Christ sake.

I mean, seriously, how can these parental units expect there children to outrun, jump and flip anyone in a sundress? Then I though, good. The better for us. While these lily wearing Pansy toddlers were feverishly trying to get their visuals back after having an onslaught of ruffles strewn in their face, my little Mary Lou Retton prodigy will be flipping circles around them. (even if she DID look more like Bruce Jenner)

The "teacher" instructed all the parents and children to sit in a circle on the big red mat. She spoke in an extremely high voice...almost in a song like manner. She was small, and her pants matched Emma's to a tee...which only validated the appropriateness of my outfit of choice.

She handed out bells and began to chant this "welcome" song. Most everyone new the words. This was the first clue that I was a fish out of water, and I felt more uncomfortable then when I first walked in. I was desperately hoping that the rest of the class was less structured, and that Emma and I could roam around and explore the various centers on our own.

Not happening. Contrary to that, ehat happened next was, or could be, my worst nightmare in this type of setting. The instructor began another such chant. This one was meant to introduce the parents and the children. A series of claps and she began to sing "my name is blah blah and this is blah blah and this is ......" Unfortunately, I chose to sit directly to the right of her, so naturally, I was up first. As I continued to clap, I followed her lead with the "song" . "My name Je' en and this is...." I was abruptly interrupted by high pitch Suzy gym instructor. "umm...you don't have to sing. A barrage of giggles passed over the crowd and I wanted to crawl into the foam balls and take my chances that there may be a puddle of toddler pee...or boogers...or poop.

"Oh, sorry...I was just following your lead. My name is Jen and this is Emma...and I want to jump on your 85 pound frame and kick your ass because you just affirmed WHY I don't do shit like this." (ok, the latter part...after "Emma" I didn't actually say out loud)

After that, we were told to run in a circle. As each parent lead their child, I was quickly annoyed by how slowly they were moving. I figured it was a free for all, so I encouraged Emma to dash onwards, and I was very proud as we passed those dress wearing girly girls. (its never to early to develop a healthy sense of competitiveness). When it was over, I gave Emma a high five and repeated to her "we won, we won". Skinny instructor lady came over and put her hand on Em's shoulder and said...its not a competition, we are all having fun). (clearly, I joined the wrong institution)

The rest of the class proceeded uneventfully. I tried to engage Emma in all the activities, but I would be lying if I didn't admit I was intrigued by tattoo covered mom, long pony tail dad, and the mom AND dad who doted over their ginormous headed son.

When class was over, I felt Emma had enough fun that I would sign up for the fall session. It cost a whopping $300, which made me throw up in my mouth a little bit.

We hopped over to marshalls and purchased 2 new outfits. A pink Nike suit, and a purple Polo velour suit.

A week passed and the second class commenced. There were significantly MORE people and I was significantly MORE uncomfortable. Emma was not as thrilled to be here. (regardless of how well she looked in her nike pants and Madonna t shirt). She cried and ran to the door. I forced her to stay and brought her to the uneven bars during "introduction" time (dodged that bullet). She loved swinging her little body all by herself. That is, until, ponytail dads chunky little boy (I swear he was 3) ran in her way and she kicked him square in the face sending him 2 feet into the air. I was mortified. OK, I wasn't mortified, I was impressed. Plus, that kid seemed old enough to know not to run square into swinging feet.

This, however, upset my Em. She again ran to the door. I whisked her up and gently whispered to her "these people are freaks.....and they have no athletic ability whatsoever. Lets go to Dunkin and get some munchkins...you've earned it..and so did I"

I am seriously contemplating whether to go back next week. The money paid is a strong pull, but my urge to resit parent child groups may be stronger.

Don't Let the Bus Door Hit Ya Where God Split Ya!

There is approximately 60 hours before I send my 3 darlings off to their first day of school. When they leave, I will blow them a kiss goodbye, put on my sad face, tell them I love them and I will miss them. Then, as quickly as the speed of sound, I will turn and rejoice and send praise to the heavens.

Maybe I am PMS'ing. Maybe not (probably not). Come April and May of each year (or at leas the last 2), I look so forward to summer. The beach, the outdoor festivities....the mini trips, all of it. This feeling lasts about 2 months. Then the reality sets in. The reality that I will pretty much be spending 24/7 with at least 3 of my children. This is not healthy for anyone. Not them, and certainly not me..... not for my husband.

I begin to hate them by mid August. Don't gasp.....I cannot be the ONLY mother who occasionally hates her kids. I may be the only one to admit it, but I cannot be the only one that feels it. I mean...I love them always. But sometimes. a little bit of hate takes over.

By mid august, they have had enough of each other as well. The girls are close...and close brings fighting. For the past two weeks, there has been nothing but fighting.

Pitch represents the perceived fundamental frequency of a sound. Little girls argue in a pitch that is just decimals below "Teen Buzz". ("teen buzz", for those of you who do not have teenagers, is a high pitched ringtone that the cell phone companies created which CANNOT be heard by adults) The sounds coming from my offspring while they are arguing permeates my brain to what I can only imagine could be simulated by a serrated fire poke stick thrust into my temples. After 2 minutes of this. I hate them. Really. I want to lunge out and poke their little eyeballs out.

Their father, and my dear husband, rarely has to deal with this. Except for the 2 hours a week I escape to the movies. This should be my "wind down" time. However, God forbid I have a couple of hours to myself. Not soon after I settle in my chair with my large bag of extra buttered popcorn, and large half diet pepsi half cherry pepsi it begins. My cell phone rings at least 3 times....and then I begin getting text messages about whom did what to whom, who said what, etc. It is at this moment. I hate them. And then I hate my husband for not dealing with whatever issues they are having.

Its not bad enought that the younger one go at at. My eldest, Matt, who will be 17 in less than a week has, for some strange reason, been home more then usual over the past couple of weeks. He lays on the couch, day in and day out. Occasionally, he will get up for something to eat or drink (after asking my to get it for him and getting denied). He fights with his sisters just as much as they fight with each other. It is hard to imagin that a 17 year old can fight with a 7 and 10 year old, but it is a given if they are home and within a 20 foot radius of each other.

He specializes in physical torture of his sisters. He baits them to say something to him...an insult, or whatnot. This, in turn (and in his mind) gives him license for retaliation. His specialty is the big toe in the mouth....or any rubbing of his "after football practice" dirty socks on their person. This elicits screams and cries....followed by the need for them to shower. This can happen several times in a day. I hate this.

I have prayed. I have prayed for September 1st for several weeks now. I sometimes think I am not cut out for this homemaker shit. I hate my kids at least 33 1/3 of the week, I tell my husband I have a "match.com" account. My house constantly looks like "hoarders" and my yard like Fred Sanfords. My bureau is filled primarily with sweatpants and sweatshirts, and my mascara had expired 6 months ago.

I spend entirely too much time on facebook....and read the braggings of other mothers' wonderful lives, children and husbands. Then, then my common sense kicks in and tells me that that is all a crock of BS, and that I am surely the poster child for the American Homemaker (and prozac as the two are not mutually exclusive)

Yes, there are, I am sure, many mothers who will truly miss the company of her children. I, admittedly, am not.

So, as three loves of my life begin the new school year, I am left with but one sleep deprived, nipple addict. I will enjoy a somewhat neater house for 6 hours a day. I will make 3 less lunches a day and I will not miss acting as referee and manager of "could be" inmates.

So, to all my fellow mothers sending little (and big) ones off to school. Think of me at 9am on September 1 sitting on my couch with a cup of coffee and a ginormous smile on my face.

Happy 2010 School Year!

Hitting the 802...Vacationing for Dummies

I'll begin with the story in numbers.....

802 - That would be the area code for Vermont...the most recent vacation destination.


200 /4.5 - the number of miles followed by the time TO GET to the 802.


3/4 - Three days, 4 nights.


2 - That would be adults on the trip...My dear friend Tara, and myself

5 - the number of children - (ages 10, 7, 7, 3, 1)

19 - the number of annoying children's songs on the travel CD


2.5 - the number of children who vomited in my car


3 - bottles of white wine consumed - (not by me)


As with any idea I come up with in my brain, it began out with visions children singing camp songs in the car enjoying the snack pack I lovingly prepared followed by fun in the mountains...doing a myriad of different activities.

An invitation by my eldest brother to visit him and stay in his place (a two bedroom unit at a tennis lodge near Sugarbush Mountain). Little did he know what we were to bestow upon his simple bachelor lifestyle..poor guy.

I knew Matt could not come due to football scheduling, and I knew I could not leave him alone...due to the inevitable parties he would throw in my home. As such, I decided to take the girls all by myself...and invite a girlfriend along. She agreed...despite the mere 5 days notice. (i made sure to invite her after she had consumed several glasses of wine)

We decided to leave at noon on a Tuesday. Whilst my travel buddy (T) logged a few hours at work, I feverishly (over) packed the car, gassed up, hit the ATM, and got the goody basket prepared for the drive.

I picked up T and her kids. We loaded in the extra car seat and her bags. The arguing as to whom was sitting near whom, and in what row began. I should've foreseen what was to come. The eldest children sat three in a row in the back seat while the little ones sat in the middle row of my "not so roomy" SUV.

I gleefully put in the travel CD which boasted fun songs such as "Michael Finnegan", and "99 Bottle of Pop on the Wall", and 17 others. As I sang along, T asked (visably annoyed) if I was going to sing the entire ride. "Yes, yes I am "

James, (a/k/a the wild one) her youngest child who is 3.5 was more than happy to be seated in front of my one working DVD unit. This was a god sent as I would soon learn James is one of the most energetic human beings I have ever met in my life. The movie kept him still and silent...for a while. (and thanks T...for packing him a light saber)

Emma, however, is not yet into movies (as she is nearly 18 months old). As such, fun for her is screaming my name over and over until I physically look her in the eyeballs and ask "what". I am used to this behavior. T is not...and was visibly annoyed. ( I give her credit for not busting out her wine nips early in the trip) (Emmas soon came up with the name "NOCCA" for T...and would scream her name over and over as well)

The girls in the back row were doing well. Little arguing and singing and playing. All was good in the car....at least for the first hour.

It wasn't until we hit a bit of Boston traffic when Abby (7) and not my child, uttered to her mother that she was not feeling well. It was not until THIS TIME that T told me she suffered from car sickness. (Probably wasn't a good idea, then, to give her sour patch kids, cheese puffs, juice boxes, chips, etc in the first leg of trip)

......ugh oh, on no....Oh my God...Shit, T, what? WHAT?? "Get her a bag...a bag!!!" T launches over the two babies with a grocery bag I had taken for garbage....Poor Abby then begins to purge the snackings of the morning.

As most of you know, I boast an impressive gag reflex when faced with disgustingness. What you may NOT know, is that I have passed this gene to my offspring.

It wasn't long before Ava could not hold it in...while Abby had a bag, Ava had only her small hands cupped in front of her. With two girls vomiting in the back row, #3 was sure to follow. Heaves from Liza were next, although I am unsure if anything actually came out of her. Emma couldn't be left out, so she began mockingly heaving herself. I opened my window and took deep breathes as my eyes filled. I was hoping I could hold it in. The scene was similar to that of the blueberry pie eating contest in the movie "Stand By Me".

Once that was over, we were able to laugh and continue on. The smell of vomit was not that bad..thank goodness.

So, between Emma screaming (earning her the nickname Screech) and James' obsession with the dvd (uttering frequently "I cant hear it...or get my headphones...or change the movie...etc), the moment the two of fell asleep
was relieving. Only, however, to be replaced by annoying elder children asking "are we there yet...how much longer" approximately every 20 minutes. A question to which I replied, 15 minutes. (regardless of whether my navigation said 2 hours, 3 hours or longer).

Fortunately, the remainder of the ride went relatively smoothly. At approximately 4:45pm, we arrived at our Vermont destination. The kids jumped out in excitement. My brother was swarmed. Within a few minutes, the kids were fighting over who was sleeping where, T had her glass of wine and my brother looked ill.

The first night was uneventful...we let the kids swim in the pool and we got something to eat. Bedtime, night #1, was annoying to say the least. I cannot understand why kids just cannot go to sleep when they are told. However, within a half hour, I had turned into Hitler, and T had consumed a glass or 5 of wine...so she was relatively relaxed. When I finally settled myself and Emma in the fold out couch, she proceeded to projectile vomit all over the sheets...and herself...and me. WTF.

Morning came and I neglected to realize that my brother thinks hes is the General in the army of moms and kids. It felt like T and I were just one of the kids in my brothers camp...his years of training working with troubled youth were being used on a couple of tired mothers. geesh. He also didn't realize that getting 5 small children awake and ready to leave the house in 20 minutes was a near impossible task, and that his drill Sargent instructions were falling on deaf ears...except for T, who was so intimidated by his time scheduling that she didn't shower for 4 days for fear there was no time.

Finally, we made it into the car. The first leg was us following the General. Ten minutes in, and cell service was unavailable. This wouldn't have been an issue except it was apparent that the G didn't know that kids needed to eat breakfast within a reasonable time of wakening. As such, the wild one began screaming that he was hungry...over...and over...and over. I began tailgating and using my version of sign language to elicit some form of understanding from G, that we needed food. He eventually gave me the thumbs up sign. Unfortunately, there was still another 20 minutes til food.

We stopped, ate (about 1 hr to make 4 bagels and 2 iced coffees...), and destroyed a gift shop. The General had insisted on being our chauffeur. He hopped in the drivers side of my car, leaving me to squish between screech and the wild one. I became James' personal DVD attendant, and Emma could barely take that my breasts were so close to her face...and she was making me feel like a live drive up window. (I did NOT succumb to her wishes, by the way)

We did a lot of fun activities and I tried my best not to have any psychological issues during most of them. The Alpine slide required a trip up the mountain in a ski lift. I made it to the front of the line...then chickened out. The zip line was also high up...and therefore gave me slight angina...I could not do that either. I let the kids do it all...with few stories of broken heads or death.

I remained relatively worry free until the river swimming....when the thought of Vermont Black Bears consumed my every thought. I was not used to NOT scanning the water for sharks...however, this time, I was scanning the river banks for bears and the river for water moccasins (not the shoes...the snakes). At one point, my bladder was such that I thought I was causing kidney damage. As I walked to the outhouse, the overwhelming thought of a rapist/murderer hiding inside left me with a very real choice. I am now prepared for the game "Would You Rather"....should the question arise..."Would you Rather enter an outhouse with a potential ax murderer, or pee in the bushes with the chance being mauled by a large snake...or killer bear (or mountain lion)?". I chose the woods. Actually, I chose a flat rock. This was not the smartest choice because I neglected to take into account the splash radius from a rock as opposed to grass.

That night, we ate at the best pizza restaurant ever. My only complaint was that it was all natural..which was fine until I realized there was nothing for me to drink. When I asked for Diet Coke, the waitress explained that they only served natural cola. I inquired as to what the hell that was. She explained and I was still confused. After she left our table, I nonchalantly proceeded to my vehicle and smuggled a diet coke can /contraband to the table. I asked for a cup of ice and sneakily poured it whilst we ate.

Over the course of the three night, Tara enjoyed her wine, and I was slightly disappointed there was no Dunkin Donuts. Aside from me screaming at the group each night, a couple of bowel accidents, the lack of toilet paper (and food), we had fun. T and I narrowly fit in with the locals....with her and her giant whit leather/flower purse and I in my shiny flats.

We contemplated getting married just because its legal. However, a thankful General said goodbye to us all, and we decided we best leave the same sex loving, cow infested, no fast food town to the locals and retire to the big subburb of Cowessett.

MOMCATION NEEDED

Every once and a while, a full time parent needs a vacation. Its a different kind of "hard" work....when I worked in an office...at least I could come home. I have little escape. I haven't had a night sleep in nearly 18 months and the lack of sleep has potentially caused what I think is similar to what the ramifications would be to a stroke patient.

There also comes a time when you need to recognize that certain things that you are doing are probably not altogether healthy...and are indicative of you needing a break. A few things have occurred and have had me reflecting on this very point:

1. I pretended to call a realtor and make an appointment to look at an apartment

2. I have started to drink during the week. (not during the day...not yet)

3. My nieces and nephews have nicknamed me "leather nip" ( time to end nursing I guess)

4. I asked my husband if I could get a boyfriend

5. I got my nose pierced in an effort to try and regain some youth (?)

6. The girls asked me when I was getting that apartment

7. I threw myself on the floor and faked a seizure to test my kids emergency response action. I died shortly thereafter.

8. I actually said out loud that I missed working. (uck)

9 I don't really think the "no wire hangers" lady was all that bad.

10. I have started to think that smoking cigarettes may be the lesser of two evils (the other may be considered child abuse)

11. Instead of "time outs", I use " I will clean the toilet with your toothbrush"

12. We make sex appointments. There is a skipped appointment fee due of 5 thousand dollars.

13. I thought about letting the pets out when the fisher car began screeching the other night.

14. Liza often shouts "Mrs. Duggar would never say or do that to her kids"


I often think about the woman of eras past.....I am sure they tended to families with a smile on their faces and cookies and milk in their hands. Actually, I know a couple of moms who are like that now...and I am impressed.

However, I admit that i can only fake it to make it so long before the real me comes out. Sorry mom.

OOPS.....I Did it Again...

OK, another risk. That is, a risk of sounding like a total wack-job mother (again). There is a good friend friend of mine, "Peg" who frequently utters the same phrase to me... "What's wrong with you?".

There are, I am sure, many things wrong with me. I probably do many things with/to my kids that most parents wouldn't think of. Waxing their eyebrows, piercing their little baby ears. I recently took Matt over state lines for his first tattoo (in my defense, I was potentially saving from him from getting a bootleg tat, or hepatitis from same basement hack)

Today, I did something I probably shouldn't have. It was a "What is wrong with me?" kind of moment. I heard my friend, "Peg", loud and clear in my mind.

I'll take you back a couple of days, when Ava had been asking me to get a haircut. I have a weird thing about my girls hair....it is long, and beautiful, and the thought of cutting it makes me cringe. Last year, she wanted a bob cut...a notion I squashed instantly. Liza nearly made me suffer an honest to god stroke, when, in 2006, she lopped of an entire side of her hair.

I think I am living vicariously through their mane.

Back to the other day. I agreed as I will admit to being sick and tired of spending a good amount of time brushing her "after beach hair". The knots, the seaweed, the sand. Its disgusting. Picture an old time movie...the older wealthy woman sitting in her satin robe at her vanity. Maybe its her husband, her child, her foreign servant. Standing lovingly behind her, brushing her luxurious locks....100 strokes. This is not at all what goes on. Ava is screaming the entire time sure that I am pulling her hair out with each stroke. I may be...it's hard to tell between seaweed and hair sometimes.

I take her to a walk in chain salon (as I am also sick of paying $40 for a kids haircut). The woman holds up the ends of Ava's hair and tells me that about 6 inches off the bottom should be taken off, as it is dead. "Cut 6 inches off that kids hair, and YOU'LL be dead" I thought to myself. "No". I explained my adversity to cutting my girls hair and told her to throw in some long layers...the front could be shorter and angled to the base of her neck, and the back could have a "V" shape. About 15 minutes later she was done. No product, no dry, and $11. Perfecto Mundo.

It wasn't the best haircut, but I guess you get what you pay for. Ava, however, loved it. She stared at herself all day, and ran her hands through her hair over and over again. She must have asked me 1000 times if I liked her hair. I had to tell her if she asked again, I would put soap in her mouth. She never really cared about her hair before, and now...she asked for a couple of highlights. This is where the story begins.

Highlights. I thought, "why not". A couple of little blond streaks on the side of her face...its summer...no big deal. right? wrong.

I had purchased this highlighting kit....must have been years ago, because I have been a flat brown forever. It was a blond cap kit ( I don't know why I thought I could pull that off on myself in the first place)

I told Ava to get into an old shirt, and seat herself at the kitchen counter. I read the directions (read might be a bit strong...I skimmed the directions. mistake #1).

I thought to myself, eh...capped are so 80's..maybe early 90's. Foils are whats what. I opened the cupboard and whipped out the Reynolds Wrap. I cut strips from the roll and then cut again in half. I made a pony tail in the back of her head with the back and bottom portion of her hair as I had only planned on doing the top and sides of her head. I put on my plastic gloves, and mixed the powder and activation cream. There were two other tubes...that I somehow ignored.

I took sections of her long hair and as a hairstylist would, took the pointy end of a comb, and weaved through the hair so as to grab just the right amount of strandage.

Emma, at this point, decided to have a complete meltdown. She was screaming and tugging at my legs....it was never ending and a full out tantrum. Less I mention it was also 98 degrees in my house with 100% humidity. She was pulling on my sweatpants and making me very nervous. Naturally, I could not touch her due to the bleach mix covering my plastic hands. My pants fell to my ankles and I thanked God for 1. Nobody was over.. 2. I was wearing underwear 3. It provided heat relief. (It did, however, restrict my mobility for a bit)

I began to rush through the job as the baby required my attention. I finally finished. The box said to leave it on for 60 minutes. I went up to try and get Em a nap while the color "processed".

About a half hour passed and Ava came up...I decided to check the inside of a foil. I don't know what I expected...but this was not it. I blurted "holy shit" and grabbed her and ran into the bathroom. I instructed her to take her clothes off and jump in the shower. First, we began feverishly ripping out the 11 foils. She yelled after each one. "I LOOK LIKE BRITTNEY SPEARS! "...."Actually, you look more like Britney Spears and Carrot Tops' lovechild...or daughter of Chucky and his bride."

Some chunks were orange...some white. She looked like children of the corn maze. Her hair was like straw. She quickly jumped into the shower. It looked better wet, and once the white mix was out we thought it might not be that bad. It was. It was bad.

After we had washed her hair, I blow dried it. She was blond...orange. Her left side wasn't bad. Her right side was clearly the side done during the pantsing.

Luckily, I had a dark brown color kit that I had planned on doing myself later that day. I told her we would fix it. I made her pull it into a pony tail and find the thickest headband she could find. As a consolation prize and apology, I took her and the girls to their first ever trip to Toys R Us. When we returned, she surprisingly flaunted her do all over the neighborhood. (which I felt happy that she liked being different, yet embarassed that I did this)

I was later able to dye her hair back to its original color with the exception of one stray, blond strand. It is her favorite strand of hair on her head, and she later came to me and stated" Mommy...I miss my blond hair". I dread the "carpet matching the drapes" talk.

And yet again, I ask her if she is happy that I am her mom...or would she rather have a "normal" mommy. She quickly answers that she has the most fun of anyone. Thanks, babe. And remember, $5 if you dont tell daddy.

Read THIS.

Book Club



definition- a group of people who meet to discuss a book or books that they have read

(names have been changed to protect the identity of the overly well read)


OK, at the risk of sounding like an illiterate, ignoramus, I am going to voice my thoughts on book clubs.....and reading in general.

I guess I just don't get it. I have heard of runners "high", and I think that I have also discovered a readers "high".

"Zara" is probably my most well read friend. She is a regular at the local library. (if the library were a bar, and her name were "Norm"...well, you get the idea). I spend a good deal of time with Zara. Enough time that I am not embarrassed to express my confusion over the book thing..unafraid that she may find me ignorant. I frequently ask her if she has seen this show or that show....she looks at me confused and I swear she wouldn't know who Oprah was if it weren't for that damn Book Club. ( I don't watch those episodes)

Zara and "Constance" (another well read friend) frequently speak of their conquests when they get together. (those would be the books they have completed) - they talk about he words, the pages...the smell of the pages as they flip through the book...holding the book to their bosom as they read the words that bring them joy. I became uncomfortable...I felt like I was listening to the sorted details of their sex lives....except I would've been a little more intrigued....and less confused. (really....Zara spoke of the smell of the pages as I might speak about Zac Efrons pectoral muscles in a recent edition of People Magazine) (he's 18+...right??)

I am a movie person....and a television person. I cannot help it. It is what I enjoy. It gives me pleasure. I also enjoy reading magazines....particularly ones with content related to that in which I watch on the television or in the movies.

A couple of years ago a good friend attempted to put a book club together. She invited me...although my invitation included the phrase "I know you wont be interested but.....". I don't know why, but I felt a bit insulted.... ( even though I was an admitter of the fact that dislike reading books). I was going to show up.....with my own plan for a "club".

We met at a local eatery....a luncheon place fashioned for yuppie readers..with expensive sandwiches and leather seating corners. Not my type of place, but appropriate for the venue I suppose.

I joined my friends and being the natural born leader as I am...I began to sell my idea....rather than a BOOK CLUB, we should have a MAGAZINE Club....we could all read the weekly issues of People, US, OK....and debate "Team Edward or Team Jacob".....or "Who Wore it Best", or whether Brangelina will be adopting any more village people...or androgynous babies.

Or a movie club! We could have a smashing time drinking wine and using phrases such ad "nobody puts Jenny in a corner" or..." wax your eyebrows on....wax your eyebrows off "....just imagine for a second....

It didn't fly. I quit the book club. I knew I would never read a book. Hell, the best invention after the birth control pill, was children's books on CD.

I will admit to reading 2 books....and actually enjoying them. I was a bit disappointed, however, when coincidentally, the movies were made. (Had I known, I could have picked two OTHER books.)

The first, "Of Mice and Men" was a classic favorite. If for nothing else that to be able to call people "Lenny" when the situation was appropriate. (and to know that most people know what analogy I was attempting to make).

The second, "The Lovely Bones" was also disturbingly enjoyable. It was slightly embarrassing that during the previews at the movie theater, and the title revealed, I blurted out loudly " I READ THIS BOOK...I READ THIS BOOK"...pointing at the screen like a first grader who spots her teacher in the grocery store. And then, quietly to myself " I read this book....Damn. another waste of my time".

A girlfriend gave a group of us one of her favorite books for Christmas one year. I honestly gave it my best shot. I did....I gave it my best shot. I could not get past two pages without sawing wood. It was written in a old time southern dialect and I found myself reading each line several times in order to understand what the hell I was reading. I quit and admitted my failure.

I do understand the importance of literacy for my children's sake and I have been fortunate to have kids with an appropriate age difference to where they can satisfy each others reading requirements for school. Ava is required to read 20 minutes a night. Liza needs to be read TO 20 minutes a night. -Killing two birds with one stone..... (not that I condone killing any birds with any stones)

I do not apologize and realize I am in the minority amongst my peers. They love me despite my disdain for the written word...and love of the DVR. (ironic given my forum here, I realize)

When the "KINDLE" come out with a version which actually narrates to me...and has pictures...I may consider delving into "books". Stay tuned.

Zoo Me

I am the best mom in the world. The reason? Because I unselfishly go to the places I LEAST like to go. The thing is, I don't remember I don't like them until I am actually THERE. I feverishly plan these excursions...and for the most part, with enthusiasm and gusto.

Maybe I overestimate the "fun" and underestimate the "feek" (a/k/a Emma). Maybe I used to enjoy these places before I had an overactive toddler jumping out of her stroller and running around like a patient broke loose from the Amityville Insane Asylum (circa 1901).

At any rate. Today was no different. I had plans to go to the beach, however, the weather deterred me. A friend mentioned she was going to the zoo. (she has a zoo MEMBERSHIP...and legitimately ENJOYS the zoo. She also has a library card and is actually a better mother than I)

I tell the kids we would be taking a trip to the zoo. My eldest daughter doth protest. She, like myself, is lazy and is concerned about "all the walking."

When we get to the zoo, we were lucky enough to get in with the membership. I guess we passed as a unisex couple. We also sort of looked like a mixed race family. I bore the little tan ones, she, the light freckled ones. It was totally believable and I was the wife.

As we passed through the gates, Emma had only tried to jump the side of her stroller once from the parking lot. I thought I may get lucky (or the dose of Tylenol I gave her before vacating the house kicked in)

Immediately to the left was the stroller and wheelchair rental. I wanted so badly to be pushed around the park in a wheelchair. If my real husband had been there, I may have offered a little "somethin somethin" if he agreed to push me through the park.

I found the first exhibit most interesting. Not the animals, but the way the zoo strategically placed the carnivorous, zebra eating African wild dogs right next door to the zebra exhibit,

Why would they do that? Would the zebra smell drive the dogs completely mad? Would they make them more interesting to watch?

That was it for MY level of animal interest. I was much more interested in the patrons. Much like I was when I spent my afternoon at the playground. (oh, except for the snake eating a mouse...that was pretty cool)

There are not many places I frequent where there are this many people for me to gawk at and criticize. I know I am no fashionista or beauty queen, but this is not about me.

I want to conduct a social experiment and determine WHY patrons of zoos, parks, and the likes attract the people that they attract. These places are not cheap. (says the woman who sneaked in as a lesbian).

The hair. The outfits. I fit right in. My hair was in a sloppy pony, and a 10 year old informed me halfway through that my tank top was on inside out. oops. (maybe its a little about me)

My feet began to hurt at the elephant exhibit. I was ready to take the kids to the auto exhibit....you know...the one through the exit gate. My girls looked forward to the elephant exhibit the most....for no other reason than to try and get lucky enough to see one urinate.

Emma, at this point, had been in and out of the carriage more times than I could count. A woman also in our "group" had a 6 month old who, through the duration, sat quietly and observantly and not once reached for her mothers breast with her mouth open wide. I wished for a second I could switch the babies out...they were about the same size...and I could switch them back at the end of the trip.

Topping it off was the woman we were two steps behind during our trip. Each time we caught up with her, she was nursing her (maybe two month old) baby under a pretty nursing cape. Fine by me except the sight of her caused me to lactate. Thank goodness for the extra padded bras I sport these days. I was frightened that the baby goat in the farm area was going to get a wiff of me and jump the flimsy railing.

Next up...my kids wanted to eat. I had promised them a Dels, however none of the stands took debit cards. They had to settle for something at the real snack restaurant. (I had foolishly left my snacks in the car...and therefore HAD to purchase food) I was appalled, but not surprised to find a tiny hotdog and small fries cost me $8. And I had to buy two.

OK, I had enough. My uncomfy flip flops, milk soaked padded bra and inside out wife beater needed to bust a move out that zoo. Several more exhibits to go and I was home free....three hours later. With a smile on my face and a spring in my step, we sailed across the parking lot to the animal I affectionately call car. In we went, tired, dirty, smelly and happy.

Robin "Hood"

A dedication to my good friend, Meg.

I wasn't sure whether to Blog or Tweet this one......

Approximately 2 weeks ago, I was packing for a day at the beach, when I heard a frenzy of bird noise coming from the maple tree in the front yard. My super keen bird sense....my sixth sense, if you will, kicked in to full gear. I knew there was baby birdie danger about.

I sprang to my feet and made a mad dash out the front door. Sadie, my beagle/shepherd mix, was staring vehemently at the ground with her ears pricked up. All these factors could only mean one thing....a baby had fallen from the comfort and protection of his little birdie nest.

I scoop him up and assessed his condition. I am not a veterinarian, however, I do possess the unique talent of spotting animal injuries.....and broken wings are no exception.

He was stunned....silent and still, he lay in the palms of my hands. We would name him "Robin...Robin XI" . Yes, very poetic, I know.

OK, Ava, today you earn the right of passage, in baby bird nursing. " What...? I have to let the baby bird suck my boobs?" (oi)

I instruct her.... "Get a box, fill it with grass, and a small cloth. Put some dry dog food in a plastic cup and add water. This is what he will eat. You mush it up, put in on your finger and stick it down his throat. Don't worry, you'll get used to it

Now, in my experience , baby birds need to eat every hour or so. I truly didn't need this extra burden, but what was I to do....it was either that, or leave it for my cats to murder...and I just couldn't do it.

After settling Robbie in his new, temporary home, I continued to pack up the car. I told the gang that the bird would be coming with.

Dave was appalled...and could not believe I was taking the bird to the beach. I had no choice. I explained to him the needs of the hatchling....he told me to get a job.

As we drove, Ava was very good with the bird. She asked if this was one of her birthday presents. I was about to blurt out in laughter, but the lightbulb went off instead. "yes...yes it is...in fact...it is you only gift. Happy early Birthday (suckaaaa)

As we arrived at the beach, and unpacked, I carefully wedged the box in the jogging stroller. Emma had to be carried.

People didn't really notice....regardless of the fact that in big bold letters on the outside of the box read "LIVE BIRD". It wasn't until I continuously brought him out to feed did we become a true spectacle. It went so far as the stroller needing to be rotated throughout the day so as to keep Robbie from being dehydrated. I missed a rotation, and was eagerly awaiting an old lady anxious to tell me to get my baby out of the sun....just so I could have the pleasure of uttering the phrase "Its a Fucking BIRD".

At the home front, the most difficult task was keeping Robin from the three cats....two in particular who are known for slaughtering mostly anything smaller than a bread box.

The bird had to be kept in the girls bedroom, with the door shut. We skillfully wedged the box in the window jam and fashioned a perch. By the second day, he was ready to sit in a branch and look around, and the four walls of the brown box was not going to work.

With Ava at school, I was the sole caretaker of robin. I checked on him often, and fed him as needed. It wasn't much longer before he began testing out his wings and was able to fly a few feet at a time. Of course, he still was not safe outdoors. This meant a whole lot of bird shit and purell were in Ava and Liza'a future.

Several days and many loads of laundry later, Robbie was strong enough to fly high into the trees. We practiced with him by throwing him off the deck. He acted as a boomarang at first, but soon got the hang of it. I knew, per past experience, that he would come back for feedings.

What I hadn't accounted for was the fear of god he would afflict on my neighbors. It hadn't occurred to me that he would swoon at any human in earshot looking for food.

Picture if you will, Jessica Tandy or Suzanne Plechette, in Alfred Hitchcock's 1963 thriller, "The Birds".

As my neighbor walked innocently down her driveway, she had been unexpectedly bombarded with the likes of Robin. Diving into her head, she swatted and jumped into the back seat of her SUV.

This happened to a few members of her family, and regrettably, to a mother of one of her daycare students. For the next several days, she would call and ask where KUJO was before exiting her home. He husband made mention of whacking Robbie onto his hot grill....and I fear he is serious.

The task of keeping Robbie safe was getting increasingly more difficult, as he would fly from the trees to the deck railing and wait for me. Did he not realize the danger lurking? Did he not fear the canine/feline occupants?

With the baby hanging from one arm, Robbie on my head and a cat or two in the other arm, I frantically and was constantly trying to get the cats into the basement. It was no easy feat, and I teared a couple of times...and admittedly, but only for a moment, wished the cats would eat him just so I could have a little reprieve.

Two days ago, Robin came for his breakfast. I made him scrambled eggs (oh..the irony). I noticed that he had a bit of laryngitis and I was a bit concerned. He ate less then usual, and flew away into the woods.

It was the last I saw of him. I am now left to wonder if I raised him well enough to join his fellow robins in the wild, or if his laryngitis was a sign of something more serious. I checked on Webmd, but to my dismay, there was nothing in regards to wild birds with lack of tweet.

Muffin Top Mondays

There are three things that I collect in excess. Today, and given the time of year, I will share my love/hate relationship with bathing suits.

I was not kidding, when, in an earlier post, I mentioned my 100+ bathing suits catalogued in ziploc baggies in my drawer. Further, on the front of each bag (of the separates anyway) there is a little drawn picture of the contents (illustrated by yours truly...in black sharpie). There is also the letter "T" for top or "B" for bottom.

I unleashed the baggies from there winter hideaway...and as they lay strewn amongst the dust bunny's on my floor, Emma played as if she were in a giant, wonderful ball pit.... (except it was a giant wonderful bathing suit baggie pit)

I began to make separate piles. Black. Brown. Tops. Bottoms. Sets. Halters. Bandeau..and so on.

Next...the scary part. Trying them on. Obviously, they all fit when they were purchased. However, my body is a bit altered due to the accident I had in July, 2008. Moreover, my winter was spent in part with a Twinkie hanging from my mouth at all times....sort of like my own oral tracheotomy tube. (I may be one of the few people who actually gained weight AFTER the birth of a baby)

I certainly have enough suits to get me through the summer...perhaps even enough to NOT duplicate. However, the recent new "curves" will result in a majority of them being left alone.....alone in their little, airless baggies. Tops are not the problem. I can make most of them fit..one way or the other. I cannot, however, cheat on the bottoms.

After about an hour of torturing Ava with the swimsuit fashion show, (yet another item for her to add to HER therapy issues) I had pretty much figured the weeks suits out.

I put thought into the suits I wear...not unlike most women, I imagine. There are several factors that go into the process.....is my mother going, is there anyone (like an old school rival) that I need to impress, will i be swimming in the ocean, etc.

Additionally, each day of the week constitutes a different "fit" of the suit. They are as follows:

MUFFIN TOP MONDAYS

Most people attend the beach during the weekend. As such, they use Monday as a recoup day -A day of catching up on laundry, giving the kids a rest, and so on.
As such, the beach will be the least crowded on a Monday (unless, of course, it is a Holiday Monday)
It is on these days, that I will don a suit in which the bottom is a bit tight, resulting in the all to well known "muffin top".

TUBE TOP TUESDAYS

Most of my suits are halter style...and I'm not ashamed...these days, the girls need a lift..and before I inject them with silicone or saline, halter suits are the summer solution to a good hoist.
As such, after 3 plus days of this style, the tan lines tend to get a bit significant.
It is this reason that tube top (a/k/a Bandeau) suits are necessary...to attempt to fill in the faint white tan lines with a bit of color.

WOOSHIE WEDNESDAYS(wooshie - the female nether region)

This is simple - straight forward. It is by Wednesday, the the "Beachy Clean" of Saturday morning has grown in a bit. In order to avoid a mid week slashing, Wednesdays suit is usually skirted. The End.


THONGY THURSDAYS

I do not actually wear a thong (refer to the evolution of my underwear drawer). However, my ass seems to disagree with my brain and is constantly sucking the elastin (which is made to HOLD the rear end of my bathing suit) up into my grill.
HOWEVER, on thongy Thursday, I have been forced into a shave and will once again wear an unskirted suit. Thursdays are not generally crowded, either. I will once again wear a suit that MAY be a little small on the bottom. It is on this day that I choose to wear a bottom that displays a little bit of my butt cheeks. My reasoning for doing this AT ALL is because...lets face it...even when it is NOT thongy Thursday, wedgies are unavoidable. And I would rather have a couple of tanned cheeks, than blinding white ones.

Fuggedaboutit FRIDAYS

I leave Fridays open. I am usually exhausted and throw caution to the wind. All suits are eligible on this day. I may even wear a tankini on a Friday...to give my stomach a rest from all of Monday through Thursdays sucking in.

SEXY SATURDAYS

Saturdays are when most people go to the beach. "Sexy" may not be the best adjective, but in all honesty, I do try and wear my "better" suits. The girls need to locked and loaded, no butt chunk can be excessively hanging out there. But there needs to be a bit of flare to the suit.... You never know if you are going to run into an ex lover....or high school frenemy. Am I too old for Sexy Saturday..probably.

SUBDUED SUNDAYS

Sunday is, and will always be...Family Day. Although approximately 35 family member attend our beach, Sunday is the day when most of them attend at once. Subdued Sundays bathing suit is similar to Sexy Saturdays, without the extra effort of looking too good....I would probably wear a skirt on this day as well. My mother has an opinion so its just as well to look appropriate for my age, marital status and motherness.

Ridiculous, or plain genius......this is just more proof that I may need to get a job. Surfs Up.

The Mystery Ride Mayhem....

Anyone who knows us, knows of the "Mystery Rides".

Shortly after entering the world of the unemployed, I decided to take advantage of my time summer off with some good ole' fashioned family fun.

Rather than taking a full week of vacation time, Dave had decided to take every Friday off throughout the summer....these days would be known as "Mystery Ride Friday". I would chose a destination in New England, usually within a 2 hour car ride. Occasionally, we would do an overnight. The night before our trip, I would tape a list to the girls' bedroom detailing what they would need to pack (bathing suit, sneakers, warm clothes, etc). It was such a secret, they weren't even allowed to keep their eyes opened as we approached our destination (as they can now read.)

For example, they were not able to open their eyes until they were actually ABOARD the Block Island Ferry and opened their eyes only to me staring directly into the eyes of the Beluga whale at the aquarium.

It was so much fun, and provided such good memories that I had decided to extended "Mystery Rides" to extend year round...not every week, but at least once a school break or so.

It was Christmas break, and I had been dealing with some teenager related stress at home. Dave wasn't able to get away, however, I needed the break. I don't know why I thought taking the three girls away on a mystery ride......by myself.. over night... would be the break I needed, but I planned it just the same. It was going to be our "girls only" night. I packed a beauty bag full of nail polish, facial masks, candy and celebrity magazines and off we went. Destination: Boston. Agenda: Mall Shopping, dinner, mani/pedi & facials (give by each other in our room) swimming, and to throw a little education in there... the Boston Museum of Science.

The car ride there wasn't too bad...Emma, who mostly screams her head off in a car, slept most of the way.

We arrived at the hotel, checked into our room, and headed out to dinner. We did our girly stuff and went to bed. This was easy. Why was everyone making such a big deal about it? If Kate can do it with 8, I can certainly do it with 3...right?

We were in walking distance to the museum. Off we went. It was a balmy 32 degrees outside. Ava and Liza complained, and I had Emma buried against my body to keep her from freezing to death. I was pushing the stroller with one hand and holding her with the other. I hadn't anticipated the distance before hand.

Damn...there must have been 10,000+/- people there. It was a bit overwhelming.... and it WAS school vacation. Luckily, I had purchased my tickets at the hotel so I didn't have to wait in line.

About 20 minutes into the exhibits I remembered something. I hate the museum of science. Shit. Why did I do this. "Ok kids...lets make our way upstairs" (the chickens hatching is the one thing i DO enjoy...go figure.)

Emma needed to nurse. Luckily, there was a little monkey viewing area with stadium style seating. I parked myself and went at it. It took about 5 minuted before 4 snotty nosed kids were standing around staring at me. "Umm....I am not an exhibit...go find your parents" ...little jerks. I was so annoyed that I didn't notice Ava and Liza were missing. WTH. How am I going to find those kids in this craziness. I stood up, pulled my shirt down, and off we went. I figured they wouldn't leave the floor, so I focused my attention to the general vicinity of the chicks.

In my travels, I came across the human reproductive room. God, I hope to hell they did not enter here. What was I thinking? The entrance has a life like statue of a naked woman...and there are penis sketches on the wall. OF COURSE THIS IS WHERE THE LITTLE PERVS ARE!!

As I entered, I heard an all too familiar sound. Counting, panting, the sound of a woman straining, screaming. Oh God. Either TLC is on in the snack bar...or....

I entered the dark, circular viewing area to find a giant screen. With a giant vagina, and a giant head emerging from the giant vagina. I felt like I was going to pass out...but before I did, I glanced down to see Ava and Liza...eyes bulging, mouths open.

Lets go...right now! "but mom...mom.." I didn't want to cause a spectacle...nor did I want to get into this discussion at that moment.

I mean really, shouldn't they have an attendant...checking ID's or permission slips or something? Seriously, our children can't watch most 8 pm tv shows, but hey, show them some birth, and penis drawings on the wall and call it "science" and its no problem ??

After a couple of "stab me in the eye with a butter knife" hours getting educated, I was ready to leave. After all, it was New Years Eve day. (not that I had any big plans, but I figured we should be home to celebrate with the rest of the family)

I hadn't realized that it had begun to snow...and snow badly. It was bad enough that I contemplated staying the night. Nah...I had an SUV, it should be fine.

I knew it was going to be ugly when after 1.5 hours, I had only traveled about 2 miles...and hadn't made it to the highway. A woman aside of my was honking her horn with a vengeance. Cover your ears girls. I rolled down my window and yelled "Stop honking your fucking horn....no one can go anywhere". (Emma was sleeping at this point....and if that horn didn't wake her, my profanity wielding voice wouldn't have)

The kids were horrified. And I explained what adults were allowed to do when other adults were being unreasonable.

Another half hour, we had made it to the highway. Unfortunately, Emma had awakened and began her screaming. She wasn't letting up and it was making the rest of us unnerved. As soon as I could, I pulled off the highway. I had no idea where I was and could barely see. As I scanned the area, it was apparent we were not in a very good area. Emma was getting progressively more agitated to the point of actually choking herself. I was yelling at Ava to undo her belt and hold her.... I had no choice but to pull over and nurse her. There we were....in the projects...pulled over in my Lexus with my shirt half off and my kids crying in the backseat. I gave her enough to hold her over until I could get somewhere safer. There was, what appeared to be an Inn a couple of miles up. As I approached the building, I noticed a bunch of shady looking characters coming in and out of the building. Ava expressed her level and discomfort and I agreed. We went on our way, and after 15 minutes, came across a strip of storefronts which appeared to be open. I pulled up to the curb and unloaded my cranky crew. No sooner were we out of the car when a large, dirty black man came barrelling towards us shouting barely audible profanities. The girls grabbed my legs and my eyes teared a bit...we are not city folk and were most uneasy about the situation. The man passed and a quick lesson on both crack addiction and tourette syndrome was in order.

We ducked into the pizza store a few feet in front of us only to find a gaggle of even scarier people...one of which was staring at Ava like he hadn't had a meal in years and he was Hannibal Lector. Out of there we went, which, to our delight, was an Asian Nail Salon. Manicures for all.(except Emma...she just got more boob)

A young, fairly attractive girl was getting her nails done..so I naturally struck up a conversation with her. I was surprised that she was in such a neighborhood, but after a couple of minutes, I realized we were very close to Boston University. She explained that the "Inn" I stopped at was in actuality, a Homeless shelter. And that the characters I met on the street were residents of the shelter. Ahh...that explains A LOT. (I still didn't like it)

After about an hour, we decided to get back on track. We walked out of the salon, only to find crackhead/Tourette guy loitering over my car with his buddies. He obviously had some sort of lung disease as he was incessantly hurling spit OVER my vehicle.....completely freaking me and Liza out. I shamefully looked at the young girl and explained that my KIDS were a bit frightened and that we lived in typical suburbia. She offered to walk us to the car. I gladly accepted.

We were safely in and the snow seemed to be letting up. Thank goodness because I had no more snacks, 1 bar left on my cell phone and maybe one more diaper.

Approximately 4.5 hours later we arrived at home. I was tired and stressed to my limit. The kids were happy to be home.

When asked about their trip, they did not recall the wonderful mother/daughter bonding time in the hotel room. No. The highlights were, in no particular order:

1. Mommy yelling the F word at a stranger
2. A black man on drugs trying to attack us
3. A man trying to kidnap Ava in a pizza parlor
4. A man spitting on my car making mommy throw up
and last, but certainly not least....the giant vagina.

We will all remember the night mommy took her girls on a mystery ride....and we will laugh about our adventure. Happy F'ing New Year Kids.

Beachy Clean.....

Today was a significant day in the year for me. Not because is was my 36th birthday, but because it marked the first day of the 2010 beach season.

I went to bed happy last night...knowing that today was going to be in the mid 80's, and I would keep my girls out of school so that we could experience the first beach day together. (ok, I wanted to be able to enjoy a little sun time while they chase the baby around)

The house was awake at about 7am...far too early for a non school day. As I opened the drapes, I was excited to see the sun is beaming in!

The first item on the agenda...I need to take a shower. Normally, I would not shower prior to going to the shore, however, a clean shave is required. Shaving for summer is dissimilar to shaving in the fall, winter and even spring. You see, in the summer, the most skin is exposed and reaches approximately 2 feet above the knee...all areas of which needs to be clean and neatly shaven. Not to mention, a bathing suit is going to be worn.....in pubic...I mean public. (bringing me to the real issue)

Anyone who has seen Sex and The City, (the first movie) can remember the scene is which Samantha is all over Miranda about the "situation"...and the horribleness of it. There will no "Situation" in this camp.

I should have purchased a new razor for the event....older razors tend to cause the job to take longer than necessary. As such, I figured a quick scissoring was initially required.

Unfortunately, the only scissors I could find were from my scrapbook box....and anyone who does scrap booking knows that scissors used for scrap booking do not have straight edges. The ones I had have a pretty wave and peak pattern...nice. (nice for paper, that is. I will leave it at that)

So, on to the rusty razor. The rusty razor cut me in 4 places. Which lead me to my bathing suit choice.

I have a bathing suit compulsion comparable to my shoe compulsion. I keep my suits catalogued in two drawers. Each suit is kept in a ziploc lunch bag. I have lone tops and bottoms as well which are kept in their own baggy's. I have drawn a picture on the bag so as to know what is inside. There are 108 baggies in all. Clearly a problem, I know.

Today's suit will not be one of the better ones, as I know the beach will not be crowded, and no sense wasting a super suit on a bunch of seagulls. I had little choice anyway.

Due to the bikini job that looked like it was done by Michael Meyers, I had to wear a skirted bottom. (not an old lady skirt, but a skirt just the same)

Next, I had to blow out my hair. Again, not something I would normally do. However I had to have my picture taken for my beach club ID. The pictures are usually small and grainy, however, I feel it necessary to look my best. I even put a little eyeliner and lip gloss on. I had to compensate for my license picture which is 7 years old and was taken 2 weeks after I gave birth. I had tried to bribe the woman at the AAA DMV for a new pic at last renewal, but she wouldn't do it (i had also done my hair and wore good makeup).

I walked to the office door of the beach club, hoisted my boobs up and a bit out of my bikini top to elicit some some cleavage ( in the event they made the picture) and proceeded in. Unfortunatley I wasn't able to get my pic done for issues related to the beach club.

SO, I made sure to have Ava take my pic on the beach so the effort I put in was not wasted (I could at least get a new Facebook profile picture).

The remainder of the day was filled with a sandy crotch, runny eyeliner, breasts flashed (thanks Emma) to an old man sitting in front of me, and a bunch of crabs. Happy Birthday.

I ponder how funny that my life has come full circle - ...the difference being that in my late teens, sandy drawers, runny eyeliner and exposed boobs were the result of a good date (the crabs.... a result of a bad date)