TGIM

You read that right: "Thank Goodness I'm Married!" For a whole host of reasons, of course, but this one struck me this morning.

Did a theme park the other day w/ the hub; got checked out...by a few different men.

But that was what struck me. They were men. Adult men. Whose age exceeded my own. By 10 - 30 years. I'm in my early 30's now. If I'm lucky, I get a second glance from a guy who is 28...but that's only if he mistakes me for a younger woman.

This could easily turn into a self-pity party about my brand new, first wrinkles...my saggy mommy body...the list goes on. But it's not really about me.

It's that I pity my single friends.

Perhaps pity is too harsh a word...and yet, I can't think of a better one at the moment, so...sorry, single friends. I'm gonna have to go with pity.

Here I am, catching glances from much older men - and only much older men - and I'm not even looking for a guy. And why do us young 30-somethings catch glances from the older guys? Because the younger guys want fresh-faced, teenage tail.

To put it bluntly.

Any guy between 18 and 30 is looking for a girl between 18 and 21. Any guy between 30 and 40 is looking for a girl between 21 and 25. And men over 40 are looking for women under 40...but preferably old enough to have developed a (drama-free) will and personality of their own, limiting them to women over 25 but younger than the big four-oh. So where does that leave my late-20-to-young-30-to-mid-30-to-late-30-something women? With men who could be their fathers, naturally. Because we sure aren't getting looks from men our own age. Men our age are still chasing young tail.

So thank goodness I'm married. I'm not ready to date my daddy yet.

And I'm sorry to all you women between 25 and 40 who aren't ready to date daddy, either. Botox, gym visits, and microdermabrasion, anyone?

Really?

My son comes out of his room this morning after I'd sent him in to change, and approaches me.

"Hey, Mom! Check it out!"

I turn toward him...clad in only his undies.

"My penis is hanging out of my underwear!"

Aaawww, GEEZ. Thanks, kid. Like I needed that visual.

Aaaaah, Motherhood.

Those Damn Thomas Trains

Kids have a few of the Thomas the Tank Engine trains, and they love them.

Problem being that when my youngest says Percy's name, it sounds very distinctly like "Pussy."

Brings a whole new child-molestation level to her requests for Daddy to come play.

"Daddy, will you play with my Percy, please-please?"

And a very dirty parental in-joke: "Daddy, do you like Percy?" "Mommy, can you give Percy to Daddy, please-please?" "Percy doesn't want to see Daddy right now." "Daddy LOVES Percy!"

Yes, yes he does, thank you very much. Now bug off, kid. Daddy's gonna play with my Percy.

(Man, that was dirty...even for me!)

Thanks, Kid.

My son this morning decided to point out everything in his view that matched his red shirt.

My hair rubberband, his sib's socks, a piece of furniture, the red nail polish stain on the carpet, a random toy, the blood in our bodies, (he's half vampire, did I mention that?) and the best part:

Those red dots on mom's face.

Thanks, kid. I needed that today. Think I'm gonna go put on some makeup, ya little twit.

UGH.

So, my intestines are trying to chat me up this morning...

AND I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THEY'RE SAYING!

Really, it beats the crap out of me!

If they could only speak ENGLISH...

She Wants to be a Soccer Mom

Girl I know...fondest dream? Motherhood a la Soccer.

I'm living a beautiful, successful woman's fondest dream?

Let's analyze this for just a moment, shall we?

I mean, I do spend most of my time having my nails done, visiting the salon for my root-upkeep, and shopping at Neiman Marcus - the outlet, of course - not to mention all those personal training sessions at my in-home gym...

And I love my ice cream bon bons while I'm updating myself on the daily goings-on of General Hospital...

And there's something about watching your maid do your cleaning for you, and your housekeeper heading out to pick up your children from school and day care, and your personal chef preparing your South Beach lunch and putting together your farmer's garden-based family dinner for later tonight, and your gardener cutting back your tea roses, and the dog-walker taking your puppy for a spin around the neighborhood, and that hunky pool boy scooping the fallen leaves from the pool knowing you'll never have to do any of those things yourself that really increases your zest for life...

And did I mention how much I adore my au pair? Almost as much as my kids do...so long as they never start thinking that she's the mom, that is. Oh, and I'm equally as thrilled by how much they love their private tutors...and golf teachers...and piano lessons...and dance instructors, sports coaches, and the lot...

But I must confess...the last time I actually drove my minivan, it was to have my eyebrows threaded, and the last time I actually attended one of my son's soccer games was...well, let's be honest, I let my husband do that. My skin is sun-sensitive.

No wonder she wants my life. It's good to be me!

Are They KIDDING ME?!

Leaving my kid's school today after dropping said child, I encountered exactly 4 other people headed back to their cars, as well.

THREE of them were on cell phones.

WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE SO DAMNED IMPORTANT?!

Really. Did they just HAVE to call their significant other at work to say "I just dropped Jr, and now I'm on the way home!" (Significant Other doesn't give a damn, okay?) Was it absolutely imperative that they immediately telephone the doctor's office to say "I'm on my way, but I'll be 2 minutes late"? Or maybe they had to call up their BFF's and say "My kid is out of the way, so I'll meet you for brunch at 10!"

NONE of those things are important enough that they couldn't wait the 5 minutes it takes to get home to a landline.

"Oh, but we don't have a landline because our cell phones are just so much more convenient!" Yes, and you pay for that convenience out the NOSE, don't you? You PAY MONEY each month - sometimes into the hundreds of dollars! - so that someone can bother you WHEREVER you are. WHY? In the name of all that is sacred and holy, WHY do you want to be able to be reached at every moment of every day?

Are you a paranoid individual? You're afraid your father is going to have a heart attack at any second, and you want him to be able to reach you while you're at Target buying socks (rather than call an ambulance, like he should)? Does having a cell in your purse ease your anxiety about your the possibility of your child becoming ill at school, knowing THIS WAY they can reach you?

Or are you just THAT important that you NEED to be able to be reached? A heart or neurosurgeon, for instance? No? How about...a Blockbuster employee! Because, you know, any one of your coworkers could get mowed down on the freeway on the way to work, and you MIGHT be needed to come fill in! HOW ELSE WOULD PEOPLE RENT THEIR MOVIES if you weren't able to step in for your dead coworker??? Perhaps it is that, as the mother of a Boy Scout, you're just always prepared, and this way your teenager can text you to complain - in abbreviated English - about the load of homework the teacher is currently laying on. Because, you see, THAT couldn't wait until they came home. NO, NO, WAIT...your child needs you to pick them up from school, but you'll be running errands all day and won't be home until the bus would have arrived...then again, you'll get home, check your messages when you notice your kid didn't get off the bus, and race to the school five minutes away to pick that kid up. ("The school might be EMPTY by then!" Doubtful.)

I JUST...DON'T...GET IT.

We are SOOOOO eager to be SOOOOOO connected...doesn't that seem just a little codependent? Or egotistical? Or obsessive? I mean, really, how did we get along without cell phones back when we were kids?

Just fine, thank you very much.

And I get along without a cell phone just fine now. And so do my kids. No, not everything is instant, but I don't expect it to be. And damn it all to hell, I don't WANT to be reached when I'm browsing through clothing...I don't WANT to be interuppted when I'm perusing the aisles of the grocery store. I just want to enjoy.

People of the world, turn off your cell phones - at least while you're driving, at the movies, attending a live performance, or sitting at dinner - and enjoy just taking a breath, will you? I promise, the world won't end if you don't get that text until later, and that phone call coming in? Or the one you were just about to make? It's not important. You're not that important. And that's okay.

I'm not either.

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaack...

Ate a piece of cheese today: Cotswold, to be exact.

I nearly orgasmed on the spot.

Bad, Naughty Mommy is BACK, people. With a VENGEANCE.

Go Ahead, Judge That Book by its Cover!

Out today with the kiddies running errands, and a man pulls up alongside me...covered in tats...on a Harley...with his handle bars a good six inches above his head...smoking a cigarette...wearing the requisite leathers and bowl-shaped motorcycle helmet...with lit-up-eyed skull and cross bones attached to his black leather bumper satchel.

My first inclination was to roll my eyes in disgust...and partially because it was just so stinking CLICHE. But then I thought to myself, "Come on, you...don't you go judging a book by its cover. Who knows? Maybe he's a retired grandpa who tatted himself up in Vietnam, and now he's with BACA (Bikers Against Child Abuse). Maybe, just maybe he's..."

That was as far as I got. You see, right about then he turned and spat on the ground, smoke streaming from his mouth, and I got a good look at the front of his helmet. On it were two things - both revolting to me, and also serving to confirm that if it looks like a prick, acts like a prick, and advertises itself to be a prick, IT MUST BE A PRICK - the first of which was a picture of a hand giving the world the middle finger. Charming.

But the second was putrescence defined, and I quote: "Dead Girls Don't Say No."

I'd tell you to try not to think about that, but since I'm going to walk you through the horrors, just hang on tight.

1. He's sexually obsessed...and not at all in a good way.
2. He's apparently okay with necrophilia, defined in its simplest form as "sex with corpses."
3. He's comfortable raping a woman if she's terrified enough of him to say yes.
4. He's KILL YOU if you won't have sex with him.

I understand free speech, but if my child were old enough to read that and ask what it meant, I might have to hunt the guy down and take him out in a car "accident."

So, sometimes you CAN judge a book by its cover...and if its cover suggests a chain-smoking, Harley-riding, skull-and-bones-worshipping, ink-covered NECROPHILIAC RAPIST, hey...that's a pretty strong suggestion. Who am I to deny him the judgement he so eagerly seeks?

*Banging Gavel*

By order of the court, that man is a PRICK, and I do hereby sentence him to misery and obscenity for the balance of his chosen life!

*Banging Gavel*

Like I said...if it walks, talks, acts, and advertises...or is that rides? Whatever. Still a prick.

Dog Crap

I checked on the hubby's student loans this evening...just wondering how long it'll take to get that crap paid off, you know.

$15k in loans.

Another TWELVE YEARS (to make 15 years total).

To the tune of $28k.

Meaning we'll have paid out about $13,000...in INTEREST.

Dog crap, man. Maybe not Bull poo, but still, serious Bow Wow bowel movement, nonetheless.

It's like a mortgage on your education. Yeah, there are returns, but when you live with your spouse and children in a place where RENT on a 900 square foot DUMP is $1500 a month, you don't SEE those returns.

Major Doggie doo.

By the way, if you want to share my pain by disclosing your own, great, but if you just want to rub my face in the fact that your life - or your debts - are worse, don't bother, please, 'cuz I'll still be bitter about my own life and then pity you on top of it. But do feel free to vent...

The Baby Body Bitch

No, I don't mean I AM (though some may think so), I mean I am ranting and kavetching about my post-baby body. But Baby Body Kavetch doesn't have the alliteration, so I like this title.

POST BABY BODY. Oh my GOSH. What the HELL. (No question there, just a statement. Because seriously, what the HELL.)

I'd take naked pictures and post them, but if you've never had kids, you'd throw up, and if you HAVE had kids, you'd say, "You got nothin' on me, take a look at THIS!" and I'd throw up. So, no pictures, but please...allow me to describe for you the living hell of having given birth and having to look at yourself in the mirror afterward.

I had perfect breasts...emphasis on HAD. I'm sorry, it's true. They were PERFECT. 34 B, teardrop profile, petite pink nipples, satiny-smooth and gorgeous. If I still had them, they would be my downfall. God would deny me entrance into Heaven based solely on my pride. They were truly fabulous breasts.

And now they are gone. No, I don't mean my fabulous breasts are gone, I mean my BREASTS are gone. You see, one day long ago I was pregnant with baby # 1 and about to get into the shower when I looked up at my naked body in the mirror and panicked. My tender, swollen, miserable baby-baking breasts looked horrendously bruised from the bottom of the nipple down. Seriously, it looked like someone had taken out a baseball bat and beat the hell out of my bosom. I had to think to myself, "What, was I oblivious to my hubby being too rough last night?" and when I realized we hadn't had sex (sometimes I confuse the days...particularly with pregnant brain) I called him into the bathroom to help me figure out what on EARTH had bruised my poor boobs! Neither of us knew what was going on, so I call the OB, who had me describe the ugliness...and then determined that the nasty-ass purple streaks on my boobs were, in fact, stretch marks.

Dear God. STRETCH MARKS? Yeah.

Oh, and those pretty pink nips? Try BROWN. It looked like someone had coated them in cheap self-tanner, in fact, because they were even a little splotchy. The brown (mostly) went away, of course, but the stretch marks? I'll get to that. Long about breast-feeding # 2, of course, my boobs hit 40 DD. That's 6 inches and a gazillion cup sizes larger than my pert little college girl breasts had been. And then they deflated. I thought it was bad after baby1, but OH NO, after baby2 I knew I'd never recover them. They currently look like someone inflated a water balloon to twice its capacity and then deflated the whole thing, letting out all but a couple tablespoons of water. And my nipples are now slightly INVERTED. Didn't know that could happen, didja? And I can scrunch the bottom half of my breast all together into what looks JUST like elbow skin. Only uglier. How about chicken skin? That's more accurate.

The best part, though, is how they hang. They used to dangle beautifully. Now they look like a pair of socks half-filled with rice. At best. And MAYBE fill a 36 AA. With a little help from my water bra or memory foam friends, of course.

To say nothing of my upper arms, which used to be semi-slim. Now? MommyWing. If you see me perching my arm up on something it's because I don't want said arm lying flat against my side for fear of my upper arm looking like it belongs on a trucker. It doesn't matter how long I go to the gym or how many tricep exercises I do, I have MommyWing. Funny, really; when we were at Sea World, we attended the Shamu night show, and they went around the audience beforehand filming various audience members and putting their pictures on the big screen in front. A woman with MommyWing was spotlighted and started to wave...and when she saw her MommyWing flapping in the wind on the big screen, immediately put her arm down against her side and waved that way. I can relate. I hate raising my arm because that MommyWing goes Jiggly-Crazy!

Speaking of crazy, my bum has doubled in size. As have my saddle bags. Giddy up, horsey, 'cuz my thighs are loaded and I'm ready to ride! The best part about queen-sized bum, saddle bags, AND THIGHS, though, is not the sheer size of them...it's the silvery rifts in my flesh stretching from top to bottom. Initially those squishy silver streaks were deep purple, stretched from waist to knee (backside, side-sides, and inside thigh), and made me look like I'd been attacked by HellCat...but eventually they faded into the perfect display for cellulite. *Scratch*Bumpy Fat Pocket*Scratch*Bumpy Fat Pocket*Scratch*.

I'll get to the belly in a minute, but first: the perpetually smiling man face on my body. Seriously, people, picture it: Nipple, Nipple, Belly Button, C-Smile. 2 C-sections, remember? Admittedly, I'd rather have my children yanked from a gaping incision in my abdomen than press my spawn through my gaping vagina, but still...I'm stuck with a (keyloided!) belly smile for life. And even better than that? Eyeball, eyeball, nose, mouth...and GOATEE!!! Yes, ladies, every time I look in the mirror, a hairy man's face is smiling stupidly right back at me. My pubes are positioned and groomed just right to serve as a straggly goatee on his chin. I'd shave it all off if it weren't for the fact that I've TRIED that, and instead of a goatee, it becomes a VERY cleft chin. HORRIBLE.

Since I'm moving toward the belly, how's-about that belly button? What belly button? You mean the one that stretched flat and then protruded with my last two babies? Yup, that's the one. I used to have an innie. My sister told me the other day that now I have an outtie. She is mistaken, and sorely so: I have a HOODIE. Yes, a hoodie. A veritable hood of over-stretched flesh pulling down over what used to be my cute little innie.

But the belly takes the cake. As massive as I got with Baby in the 1st (55 lbs later) I never had a single stretch mark crop up on my belly, but God is nothing if not eager to humble His children, so He made up for it - and then some - with Baby in the 2nd. OH MY FRICKIN' WORD. I didn't know my belly could GET that big. But then it, too, deflated...and that sexy flat tummy is never ever ever coming back. Even with surgery. (Which, by the way, would require them to open my abdomen, fold back my flesh, cinch my abdominal muscles together like you would with corset ties, hack off excess flesh and sew me back up.) So I have the perpetual baby bump in the front. You know, that bump that every woman who has borne a baby has that you wondered about all growing up. ("Why does skinny so-and-so have a little fat belly?" BABIES.) And I don't even need to bring up my youtube video, which, by the way, has over 16000 views. Not a lot, all things considered, but still a healthy number of people watching my child punch a fist into my bread dough belly while they sit in front of their computers. The aforementioned excess skin laps over the top of every pair of pants I own, wobbles dangerously anytime I shiver, shake...or, let's be realistic, WALK, and hangs (much like those things I still call my boobs) like a half-filled water balloon everytime I crawl around after my children. At least it amuses those children. I suppose that's SOMETHING.

Did I mention that, for the first time in my life, I now get ingrown toenails? Thanks, kids. I needed that injury to insult.

Oh, and did I mention my joints will never be the same after Lupus? On a serious note, I'm incredibly grateful that God allowed that to go into remission with # 2, but seriously, my joints creak and pop and basically GIVE OUT like I'm 80. Went to Target with the hub a while back, and just walking, my right knee gave out and I hit the pavement (while a jackass teenage guy in a big truck laughed loudly out the window and yelled something about me being an idiot). Ow. Hurt my knee as much as my ego, bastard kid. Happened once in church, too...I was crossing through a gym-type room on my way home and my left knee went out, hurting my right ankle. A friend leapt to the rescue, but boy, did I feel dumb...and it's all the fault of baby bearing. Lupus. Who GETS that? Geez.

So, post-baby body bites the big one. If you have babies, at least you're not alone in your post-baby body depression, but if you are currently sans-babes, count yourself blessed...at least in that realm. They're great and they're worth it, of course, but holy frickin' cow, I'm a mess. And I look like a candle that melted into ripples...particularly as the weight comes off. Fab.

Hey, honey, come here and knock me up again, will you? I want to see how much more damage I can do! (Grumble, grumble, grumble, grumble...)

From Sex Kitten…

To Domesticated House Cat. Is this the natural default for a woman who has borne a child or two or three? If not, at what age does this happen to your average married Mommy?

'Cuz I'm thinkin' it's 30. In fact, I'm pretty sure. Wait, lemme go check in the mirror...

Yup, it's 30.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go take the bread out of the oven. No, seriously, I'm not kidding. Bread. In my oven. That I baked. And will top with the freezer jam in my fridge. That I made. By hand. From raspberries I picked. I kid you not. (Anyone else want some? I'm sharing!)

Okay, I actually don't have to take the bread out of the oven right this minute, I was just looking for a tidy way to close up this blog entry.

And now there isn't one. Grrrr. Or is that purrrr?

Because I'm facing facts today: I am no longer a Sex Kitten...I am a Domesticated House Cat (that likes sex). (You knew that last part...)

Why is it…

...that, as a married woman, I always seem to need sex more than usual when my husband is out of town?

It's that "it's in your face that you can't have it!" thing, isn't it? Women always wanting what we can't have? Yeah. I thought so.

And I'm frickin' miserable...already.

It's been about 10 minutes.

Bad, Bad, BAD Naughty Mommy!

It's Business Time...

If you want to know what the above refers to, you're going to have go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGOohBytKTU, but there's a very good possibility you've already seen it. It's hysterical.

Anyway, how does this relate to the topic at hand? And for that matter, what IS the topic at hand?

Let's call her "Bessie".

Allow me to explain: my husband works on a client that we like to refer to as "Bendover", and as glamorous as it SOUNDS to work at an accounting firm, basically it means you travel from one client to another and work all day, every day, in various conference rooms at tables full of your compadres all fighting for a place to plug in your laptop while sitting in the world's most uncomfortable conference room chairs.

So he's at Bendover, and it just so happens that his team is all women. (Badder and Naughtier by the minute.) So there he is at the Bendover conference table, the only man amongst women, with a seat facing the conference room door, which, by the way, is always open. There is a girl who works at and for Bendover named we're now calling Bessie who passes by the conference room door multiple times a day on her way to the drinking fountain, bathroom, you name it. And each and every time she looks into the conference room to check out my husband.

There was one occasion where she actually walked in briefly to ask for one of their bagels, and my sweet hubby not only offered it to her...he offered her some cream cheese as well. (I know.)And the knife to spread it. I have this mental image of her leaning over the table in a low-cut blouse spreading cream cheese on a bagel while giggling in a tinkly sort of way and tossing her long (blonde?) hair over her shoulder.

Anyway, here's the thing: I want very much for the hub to do one (or all) of the following: take her picture with his camera phone and email it to me (so I can confirm the blonde bit), invite her personally into the conference room for whatever they're munching in there that day, chat with her at the drinking fountain for a few minutes, or take her to lunch.

Sick?

It's not that I'm encouraging Business Time here...it's just...you know how you feel when some guy takes note of you? When some random, average-but-attractive guy checks you out or stops to chat or is obviously flirting? Aaaaaaaaahhh. (Noticed the other day that all the men pausing to give me a second look these days are over 40. When the hell did that happen?)

First and foremost, we all need that. I don't think my husband really GETS how hot he truly is. It's good for him to be sought after by someone other than me. (Not to GET WITH, but to be SOUGHT AFTER.) I want to see what she looks like, hence the camera phone photo, (that's just my personal curiousity,) but taking her to lunch? Well, if she didn't know (or care) that he's a married man, turning her down after really, truly, actively flirting would also be an ego boost.

I know, I know, I'm soooooooo asking for trouble...it's just, why do I think that whole thing is so funny?

Seriously, I'd LOVE for him to take her to lunch and just leave his cell phone on the table (secretly connected to me) during the whole thing.

Ok, I AM sick, but hey...maybe it would give our sex life a boost. I don't know. He's not the type to ever cheat or even look without permission...so I'm SOOOOO not worried. Which is probably why I think it would be so fun. Risque. Daring. (Stupid, and it'll never happen, particularly if you know my devoted and sometimes-uptight-and-intense husband, but seriously, I don't think I'd mind so long as I got to have all the details!)

And the best part I forgot to mention...the hubby was at Bendover yesterday and encountered Bessie, who realized, "Oh, there's Mr. Accountant Man...he's likely going to be here most of the week." Today she showed up to work...in a dress.

Bessie's hoping for business time.

My hubby offered her a cupcake. And she took it. And ate it. The Slut. (If I can ever convince my husband to take a camera phone photo on the sly, I think I'd even consider posting it, 'cuz I know you're every bit as curious now as I am.)

Anyway, feel free to tell me that I'm sick and wrong, but I was just thinking. Bessie. Not Business Time per se, but at least a bit of entertainment for a Bad, Naughty Mommy! (Business Time comes later with me...and when you've got a Bad, Naughty Mommy to come home to, Business Time is really something to look forward to...)

Farewell, Michael Jackson, You Sicko, You...

So, I heard a portion of the funeral on talk radio...

Let me say this:

I realize "he will be missed" and he did "lots of great things", blablabla, but people...I just don't see how he was the greatest role model.

And I'm a Bad, Naughty Mommy. And when a Bad, Naughty Mommy can see that someone isn't a great role model, well...that's saying something.

And I don't understand all the reverence for him. Case in point: Comparing a crazy, black-turned-white, psycho accused pervert ENTERTAINER to MLK Jr is so totally beyond me, it makes me want to scream. He opened doors?! Really?!?! WHICH ONES?!

Maybe it was the doors to teach plastic surgeons what NOT to do, or that they should turn down a patient for ANOTHER surgery after they've had their 20th.

Maybe it was the doors that taught us that crotch grabbing was "really" dancing, or that "oooh-whooo" shouted out in a girlie voice during a song was "really" singing.

Maybe it was the door that made test tube breeding for specific genetic selection - not 1 but THREE kids - the way to go!

No, no, no, it was the door that taught us modern-day parenting skills, like draping your baby over a balcony...or walking your kids around in Muslim-style attire.

Oh, oh, wait, I know, it was how NOT to spend your money and go into crazy-ass debt over building your own private theme park.

I'm sorry, the lesson REALLY was that if you don't like the color of your skin or the flatness of your black nose, you can always change it to your preferred white.

Wait, wait, I've got it...this is it, here it is, wait for it!...it's how to get out of jail for free when you're accused of offering little boys booze so you can molest them. THAT'S IT.

Seriously, no one's heard from this guy in the last DECADE and no one gave a good frickin' DAMN about him until they heard he was dead.

And now they're crediting him with saving the world, ending the arms race, and somewhere in there, bringing equality to minorities.

Did they forget that somewhere along the way he decided he loathed and detested his blackness so much he tried to turn himself white?

So farewell, Michael Jackson. Your kids will miss you terribly, and I'm sorry to them...but I hope that they are raised to function normally in this world of ours, unlike their father. Because frankly, he terrified me.

Laughing Cow

No, I don't mean the cheese...I mean my daughter's reflection on her mother.

Yesterday morning, as she is emptying the contents of her stomach onto me, my hair, and my bathrobe, I did something that filled her both with hatred and panic.

I laughed.

Not only because I am a Bad, Naughty Mommy, however...

You see, I inherited one of the world's worst qualities from my dad: Nervous Laughter. It's awful. Whenever I'm upset by something, nervous about something, feeling especially stressed or out of control, I laugh. Giggle. Chuckle. Sometimes chortle. And it's mortifying.

Particularly when your little girl is already terrified by her stomach heaves, the quantity of what appears to be wallpaper paste emerging from her mouth and nose, and the resultant inability to breathe through either her mouth or nose.

When all was said and done, I'm pretty sure she was thinking to herself, "You COW!"

Laughing cow, that is. Because that's what I would have been thinking.

Thank heavens she has a) an incredibly limited vocabularly, and b) a crappy short-term memory. I only hope it hasn't traumatized her enough that it becomes part of her long-term memory, because when she's 14 and has both the words and the flu, she WILL turn to me and say, "I remember when I was a terrified little girl puking my guts up, and you laughed...just like this. You COW!"

Just watch. It'll happen.

Oh, and maybe I was laughing - just a little - because I was glad it wasn't me, Bad, Naughty Mommy that I am. But that's another story.

Bad Mommy Epiphany

I don't get embarrassed anymore.

No, seriously. I don't. I used to. I remember that I used to get embarrassed. Mortified, actually. But now? Yeah, not really.

Take my peeing in the steam room. I SHOULD be embarrassed. I should be HORRIFIED, both by getting caught, and just generally for my behavior.

But I'm not.

I should have been darn near suicidal after the alli incident. Haven't heard that one yet? The hub and I heard that our favorite upscale restaurant does breakfast, and immediately found occasion to make reservations. I took my alli, like the giant ass that I am, (pun intended,) and then ordered a breakfast burrito. Topped with guacamole and sour cream. Smothered in tomatillo sauce. YUUUUM. And then, toward the end of the meal...WAIT! I DIGRESS! First, let me assure you...we were the ONLY PEOPLE IN THE RESTAURANT at 7:30 AM on a Thursday in, like, October. JUST US. Okay. Anyway, toward the end of the meal, I feel the need to pass a little gas. But when said gas bubble emerged from my patoot, it seemed, momentarily, to swell inside my unders and fill my pants...and then burst.

When you're on alli, that's BAD. REALLY BAD. It usually means you're in for a bright orange mess.

I was thinking to myself, "Man, I hope we go soon," and the bill came, hub paid, and we got up to leave...me walking with my bum angled to make certain none of the few servers milling about could see it...and I noticed that, there on my beautifully upholstered, silvery-looking chair was indeed a half-dollar-sized bright orange grease spot.

Have I ever mentioned that alli grease toots smell like death? So allow me to correct myself: there, on my beautifully upholstered chair, was a half-dollar-sized bright orange DEATH STANKY grease spot. Which grease spot was also on my jeans in about the same size. Oh, and I had to destroy that pair of unders. And wash the jeans three times...in hot water...with stain remover...every time...and then throw them away. Yes, I went to the bathroom and blotted my jeans and stripped off my unders and shoved them in my purse and sat with a giant wad of TP in my pants on the ride home, keeping my bum delicately off the seat so as not to press against it and leave a stinky orange stamp...and with all that...no embarrassment. Just a funny story.

Speaking of TP...and, by default, peeing...as a freshman in college, I went to the dollar theater with my roommate and some of the girls on our floor. 7 of us piled into a little Rabbit, and off we went. On the way back to the car, I hit a patch of ice on the sidewalk, as did 3 of the other girls following along behind me, and we all spun and slid and groped for each other until we fell off the sidewalk. I laughed so hard I seriously, honestly, no lie, pee'd my pants. I "sat" in the front passenger seat on one of the girls' laps with my bum hanging over the edge of the rolled down window in 20 degrees with wind. Everyone was horrified and shocked...mostly by the fact that I wasn't really embarrassed.

Similar pee-related happening as a newlywed. My husband still doesn't know about this (unless you're suddenly reading my blog, love), but one night after we'd been married maybe a couple months, I had a dream about walking through a giant jacuzzi from one end to the other...and woke up having wet the bed. I'm laughing now, just thinking about it. It was maybe 4 AM, and I got up, pee'd the rest in the bathroom, grabbed a towel and slept on it for the next hour and a half 'til we had to get up, and then "kindly" offered him the first shower so I could leap out of bed and change the sheets. (Oh, and put a washcloth over the still very-slightly moist area under the new sheet set.) Hub was baffled that I'd changed the sheets and made the bed while he'd been in the shower, and I think I told him I just needed something to do while he showered, yada yada.

Embarrassed? Nope. Even if he'd known? Probably not. (I still hid it, thinking he'd be disgusted, but...I seriously doubt I'd have been embarrassed.)

So why no embarrassment? I think it stems from my senior year in high school in my Spanish 2 class. I'd already taken 2 years of German, I didn't care about Spanish and couldn't speak a lick (outside of "Puedo ir el bano?") and my Spanish 2 teacher HATED Spanish. (He also taught Portugese, and you know how Latinos can be about Mexicans and anything to do with them. Whatever. I don't get weird about Irishmen, or Scandinavians, or...well, I get a little weird about the French, but again, whatever.)

So one day on a test, we were supposed to write sentences in Spanish at the bottom of our test paper, and I didn't have a CLUE what to write. My answers looked kinda like this:

47. This test is a giant bunch of crap. 51. of my time to be here, so I'm just going to
48. Senor ___ will never read this anyway, 52. write whatever I want, and I guarantee
49. so why do I even bother? 53. I'll still get an A from this stupid class.
50. I hate this class, and it's a total waste 54. Just get me out of here!!!

Turns out, we had to exchange papers to correct them in class. And we did. And when we got to, say, number 49, Senor so-and-so called on...the little chickie correcting my paper. Who hesitated. And said, "I think she got the wrong answer." And he said, "Well, what is it?" And she said, "Um...I don't know if I should read this." And then he DEMANDED she read it, so she did. And he wanted to know what else it said, so she read the entire thing. And then he wanted to know whose paper it was...so I raised my hand, stone-faced. And I swear to you, he had this look on his face...not like he was gonna kill me, but like he was trying his DAMNEDEST not to laugh. And he said he wanted to see me after class. And I said okay, and that was that.

I remember thinking to myself, "Well, self, you can be embarrassed until you cry in front of all these sophomores who are in awe of your balls-i-ness, or you can realize that a few months from now, this experience will have you in tears of laughter." And there was only one answer to that problem: no embarrassment, only amusement. So I look back on peeing my pants, wetting our newly-married bed, streaking upscale restaurant upholstery with death-grease and peeing in a steam room with a mystery woman present as incredibly funny rather than totally mortifying.

Wrong? Perhaps. Easier to live with? Most certainly.

Why be embarrassed when you trip over your own two feet? Why feel humiliated when you try to put on your pants - both legs in one pant leg - and fall over? Why run and hide when your milk-engorged breast leaks through your Sunday dress while chatting up the minister? These things are just too funny! Laugh and share! Don't shrink and fade away!

Anyone else want to share embarrassing moments? Whether you were embarrassed or not, of course...

Oh, for anyone who was wondering...Senor what's-his-name waited 'til everyone left, asked me to be sure to take at least a BAD stab at it in the future...and then started to laugh.

I got a B on the test.

And an A- in the class.

And I still mix German words into Spanish sentences: "Yo soy...um...eine kleine...um...senorita." "Wait, crap...that was German, wasn't it?" C'est la vie.

I'm the Grossest Person in the World...

...but I am a Bad, Naughty Mommy who at least can laugh at myself!

So, today I'm at the gym, and after the water aerobics class, I'm FREEZING, so I head to the steam room. There's this drain in the floor, of course, and it happens to be RIGHT by where I'm sitting, so - since I'm alone - I'm thinking, "Wow, I went from super-cold to super-warm and I REALLY have to pee...and I'm wearing a swimsuit...so..." So you can guess what happened next.
Or maybe you can't.

I scootch to the edge of the bench (so that I'm as close to the drain as possible) and I cut loose. You know how sometimes when pee comes ripping out of a wet bathing suit it kinda makes that whistling noise? (No, you don't...you're too classy to pee without being at a toilet, I know. But I gave birth to children in front of a roomful of people, so peeing nowhere near a toilet is not a big thing here. Bear with me.) Whistle, whistle, whistle...aaaaaaaah. Pee heads down the drain.

About 15 seconds later, I hear this big sssiiiiiigggghhhh, and someone in the far corner stands up and walks out.

Yeah. It's true.

So next time YOU decide to pee through your swimsuit into a hole in the floor of a steam room, be sure you check that those massive clouds of thick, hot steam aren't hiding any white women in white t-shirts and pastel workout shorts who are sitting rigid listening to you whiz down a drain just biding their time until you're done and they can walk out.

If it weren't so funny, I'd be mortified...but since I've farted bright orange pizza grease onto a beautifully upholstered chair in a nice restaurant within the last 12 months, nothing, I say NOTHING, embarrasses me anymore. Except, perhaps, sharing it with all of you.

Hope you got a good laugh at my expense, 'cuz I sure did. Still am, really. Poor woman. Going home to tell her friends and family about her Bad, Naughty Mommy run-in. Maybe they'll laugh, too. Can't blame them, really. Aaaaaaaaah.

Bad, Naughty Mommy Tries to Buy a Swimsuit

It's been said and done and resaid and redone, but it's true: the single worst thing a woman can do for her self esteem is try on swimsuits.

Friday (while doing the aforementioned activity) I learned the following:

• I have no waist
• short legs
• a GIGANTIC bum
• hips the size of Everest
• NO breasts WHATsoever
• tiny (AND ASYMMETRICAL!) shoulders
• a belly lump the size of the Matterhorn (and NOT the Disney one!)
• NO breasts (I learned that a few times, so I had to relist it)
• a misplaced belly button
• flat/funky nipples
• cellulite like the dairy section
• and I look terrible without makeup under store lighting.
• Oh, and I'm short.
• And akward-looking.
• And I have super-long ape arms.

In other words, I'm going to keep swimming in my current swimsuit until I've lost SO much body mass that it eventually just slides off me while I swim. And then I'm going to buy a wetsuit. Bad, Naughty Mommy wins again. (Or, considering the list I've just made, Nature wins and God is laughing...same diff.)

Aaaaah, Vomit.

Why is it that when you vomit your guts up, the best, most comfortable, most appealing thing in the world to do is lie on a cold, hard, recently (and not-so-recently) shed hair-covered bathroom floor? Seriously, post-puke, there is NOTHING I'd rather do than spread out my miserable, half-conscious body on linoleum. Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh.

Woke up this morning at 5ish. Waited in bed to see if the odd nausea would pass. It didn't, so, like the Bad, Naughty Mommy I am, I eventually hit the throne to heave it all up. And why not? No different than pregnancy, which made tossing my cookies once every few months these days look like a walk in the park.

But here's the thing...whilst I lay in bed attempting to fight the wave overtaking my body, I studied the symptoms of nausea, trying to determine at what point it would be necessary to dash to the bathroom.

I noted the following: I over-produce saliva when I'm close to vomitting, I sweat like I've been hanging out in a sweat lodge, but most importantly, I can actually feel my stomach contracting involuntarily.

And that's what made me decide to get up and let it out.

It was stomach contraction # 4. (Thank God THAT'S not a perfume!)

No idea why the need to expel the contents of my stomach - I'm certainly not preggers, and Bad, Naughty Moms everywhere thank God for that! - but I felt better after my traditional post-vomit bathroom floor lie-in, and now I'm right as rain. Random, I know.

My point was that I have finally been able to single out and specify those things that tell me vomitting will be inevitable: saliva, sweat, and stomach. The 3 S's. Watch out, ladies. You never know. (But if you've got a happy IUD, you'll know what it's NOT!)

A Quick Fairytale...

No, REALLY quick:

One day, long, long ago, there lived a woman who did not whine, nag or bitch.

But this was a long time ago, and it was just that one day.

The End

Stunt Driver Extraordinaire

I'm on the way back from the gym today, and it's just me all alone in my underpowered little jelly bean car, and I decide that, since I'll end up arriving at home a good half hour before I told them I'd be back, maybe I can dash down the street an extra half-block to the store and pick up some peanut sauce. ***Tangent Warning!!!***

Every now and then, I start to crave some sticky rice and peanut sauce, and I made jasmine rice just the other day and had a little left in my rice cooker and it was calling to me, begging me for peanut sauce, and...I just couldn't let down that wonderful sticky rice!

ANYWAY, back to the story. So I decide that's what I'm going to do as I'm getting ready to turn onto our main drag, and...I don't know if this ever happens to any of you, but...suddenly I had a mission, and it was like my mind cleared completely, my eyes focused like crazy, and the adrenaline started pumping (mildly) through my veins.

I was a stunt driver. A Bad, Naughty Mommy behind the wheel.

I swear, had I been put on a crazy stunt course right then, whirring and whizzing around other drivers to reach my goal (perhaps saving the world or something), being filmed all the while (because otherwise it just wouldn't be worth it), I could have...I don't know...what could I have done?

Saved the world, I guess.

Or at least shot a stunt scene for a new movie. Whatever.

Either way, I felt the shift, and I was SOOOO aware of everything, marginally more exhilarated than I've felt in, well, a while, and shiveringly eager.

I was master of the road, stunt driveress extraordinaire, ready to take on the world and come out on top.

And then I pulled up to the grocery store and parked next to a minivan and dug my Target wallet out of my MaryKay "gym" bag so I could buy peanut sauce, and the moment ended.

Life triumphs over Bad, Naughty Mommy again.

New Reality TV Show Idea

I've got one...instead of The Simple Life or The Good Life, why not The Banal Life?

They could totally film your average, everyday mom with a couple of kids, (I'd volunteer, but I fear I'm for from normal...Bad and Naughty, Yes, but normal? Not so much...) and we could share in the troubles, trials, and travails of a bored stay-at-home Mom.

Better yet, instead of devoting an hour a week to it, it could be part of a radio morning show, 10 minutes a day, where the mom talks to the radio DJ about the more interesting parts of yesterday, ie. "I changed 16 diapers today and 12 of them contained poop. It made me retch."

I know it sounds like a lousy idea at first, but I'd listen. Or watch.

Just to know that someone else suffers from it, and I can laugh along with them...or maybe laugh AT them. Now THAT would be a show worth watching.

"The boredom of Mommy."

The Banal Life.

Love it.

Mommy Sounds Like a Man

I have man-voice.

I don't think I'm an alto so much as a BARITONE.

Maybe even a BASS. (Read "Base", not swimming bass fish.)

You see, in the car the other day, Incubus came on. I love Incubus. I've seen them in concert twice, and they rock...literally. The song I was listening to, and one that I adore, was "I Miss You," which always reminds me of my husband. LOVE IT.

So I'm singing along, and I'm realizing: I'm hitting the notes!

And it's not like he's pulling a Coldplay and singing falsetto. No. Just good old man-singing.

AND I'M HITTING THE NOTES!!!

If you've ever heard me sing, you know I NEVER hit the notes. But as a baritone? No problem.

Not a tenor...a BARITONE.

Yeah.

If my husband had heard me singing that low, he'd have changed the station. Nothing he hates worse than me singing and sounding like a MAN. Can you blame him? I can't.

Anyway, I sang the song through, thinking "Wow...I'd be a pretty goodman=singer," then, realizing just how horrifying that is, I changed the station.

But the fact remains, I can still sing Incubus...like Incubus. Like the singer. Who is male.

I wonder, when my kids are grown and out of the house, if they'll ever call home and mistake Mommy for Daddy when she picks up the phone? Because Bad, Naughty Mommy sings like a man.

Oh, dear...

One More for the Bleed

So, a few years back a guy friend of mine (long before my husband came along) was telling me about this girl he was madly in love with (and later married, wonder of wonders...after this, I'd have rethought it on her part).

Turns out they snuck off for a weekend somewhere (I know, at 19, you shouldn't have to sneak, but they and their folks were religious, if you catch my drift), and though they didn't have sex (how adorably repressed!), I guess she got sick during the weekend (guilt, maybe?) and puked a bunch and then more or less passed out. (No drinking involved, miraculously. Religious!)

Anyway, she was on her period, turns out, and he'd, of course, heard TERRIBLE things from his mom and sisters over the years about the awful dangers of leaving in a tampon longer than 8 hours. (Hell, I've worn 'em 36 hours. They're all schmucks.)

Anyway, Toxic Shock Syndrome at the forefront of his mind, he confessed to me that, not wanting to wake her, worried about her being ill and needing rest, but being equally as worried about the horrible dangers of TSS...yup, you guessed it!...he took her tampon out FOR HER while she was unconscious.

Wonderful, caring boyfriend or psycho freak?

I leave it to you to decide, but let me tell you my opinion RIGHT HERE AND NOW (and feel free to dispute it if you disagree): PSYCHO FREAK.

Seriously, WAKE HER UP!!! Do NOT make a run for the hana and whip that puppy out on your own!!!

Can you IMAGINE being that girl, 19, religious, waking up from being ill, and finding you're stripped from the waist down with a bloody towel under your bum because your RELIGIOUS boyfriend took it upon himself to relieve you of your trusty cotton friend!?!?!!?!!?!!?!!?

DEAR GOD!!!!!!!!!! SOOOOOOOOOO WRONG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now argue with me. I dare you. Because if I weren't religious myself, I'd be calling that MESSED UP...but using a completely different word than "messed".

Still reeling from that one a decade later. Leave it to a bad, naughty mommy not to be able to let that one go mentally. Yikes. Can I get a yikes?

DIE, BULLET-BIKERS, DIE!!!

Here's the epitome of awful: On the freeway the other day, I saw a young 20-something bullet-biker, and it reminded me of some other 20-something crotch-rocket-owners I saw a few months back. All of whom I was eagerly awaiting imminent death.

You see, we were on the way to the airport, family in the car, when we came upon a group of about half a dozen kids ranging from 18 - 25, I'd guess, riding bullet bikes, crotch rockets...call 'em whatever you want. Anyway, this troop of idiots was zooming down the freeway at somewhere between 75 and 100 miles an hour - EASY - and at those speeds they were whizzing in and out of traffic, popping wheelies, riding on their back wheels with their bikes completely vertical, all the while endangering everyone on the road. Screw the fact that they were endangering themselves. We had kids in the car.

So this is where the Bad Mommy comes through: here I was, watching these freaky fools with a mob-mentality death wish, and I thought to myself, "oooh! I'm about to see someone get snuffed!!!" Suddenly I was waiting with bated breath to see them slice sideways, smack pavement, and be torn to shreds...possibly even winding up under the wheels of some passing semi. And there we'd be, watching it happen, pulling over to help with the police report condemning the stupidity of the damned to official personnel.

I guess, in my (pathetic) defense, I didn't really want them dead...or even to see them die. I just wanted an immediate, swift penalty (or at least a consequence!) for their actions. It didn't have to be death...but that sure would've been interesting. And well-deserved on account of their own actions. Bad, Naughty Mommy comes through once again...

Die, SuperMom, Die

Friend of mine is the ideal mom...a SuperMom in her own right. Loves being a mom ALL the time, gets up at the crack of dawn to work out in the morning while the kids munch on their well-balanced breakfast, stationed as they are around the dinner table, bathes everyone including herself (and if you're a parent, you know what an accomplishment that ALONE really is!), dresses herself and her kids and has her hair and makeup done...all by 8 AM. She plays chauffer for school, music lessons, sports, what-have-you, keeps the house looking tornado-free, the laundry and dishes done, runs all her errands without regular incident, finds time for reading with baby, and sets a do, die, or bust limit of 1 hour of TV each day. Only healthy foods and snacks and meals and such, only soft-spoken tones, family prayers, both kids know who Jesus is...the whole thing.

So the other day she's feeling like a terrible mom because she was ILL. That translates to not working out, staying in her PJ's all day long, letting the kids watch hours of tv and eat the traditionally-accompanying tv dinners...she's pretty sure she completely wasted a day and is doomed to hell for it.

Her wasted, hell-damning day?

My average day.

I bathe maybe every other day, and usually when I'm at the gym because I have two hours of uninterrupted, kid-free time, bathe the kids a couple times a week (when they've been playing in the dirt and I have no other choice), they watch days of tv instead of hours, and I only do housework when I have NO OTHER OPTIONS.

Most mornings not only do I skip a workout, I get up, put in a DVD, hand my kids a pop tart, and tell them to be quiet, eat, and watch the movie while I finish sleeping. No, seriously, I do.

My kids eat canned spaghetti o's...veggie, fruit, and meat-free, often 2 meals a day.

And I yell.

And I don't remember the last time I sat down to read to my kids.

I'm screwed, people. Why? Well, mostly because I don't have even the smallest inkling of a drive to be like my friend, who, don't get my wrong, I love and admire, but I just can't be SuperMom. In fact, I think it's safe to say that that part of my who yearns to be a SuperMom was murdered in cold blood by the Bad, Naughy Mommy..."DIE, SuperMom, DIE!!!"

So really, it's not me who is screwed...it's my kids. Social services, anyone?

Blessed IUD

Haven't had a period in...oh...a couple years now, give or take a few spots here and there. Why? IUD, baby. Oh, and the only way you're allowed an IUD is if you've HAD a baby, so this is one of the very first times I can THANK my children for hanging out in my womb and stretching out my uterus. LOVE the IUD. Did I say LOVE? Because I meant LOVE. NO PERIODS. LOVE IT.

Speaking of periods and IUDs, gross story, so if you're easily grossed-out, skip this:

So, toward the end of my last post-preggers bleed, I wasn't even spotting after 4 weeks. I thought, "SWEET! THE BLEED IS OVER!!!" and started treating things like normal. No pads, no tamps (which we aren't supposed to use anyway, but come on, I had C-sections), nothin'. So one day we decide to take the fam to a nameless amusement park, and as we're on our way in, I feel it let go. Like, SERIOUSLY let go. The two weeks worth that had stored up. I had blood down to my KNEES. Spent a good 20 minutes in the bathroom blotting and soaking up and -- whanot. Oh, and washing down my legs with super-wet paper towels.

And here is the strength of woman: after drying out and cleaning up, Lord knows I couldn't possibly ask a baby (on its first trip to this particular park), a munchkin, and a husband to head home and fix things, (though to my hubby's GREAT credit and he now knowing how bad it'd been, outside of 20 minutes delay, he offered to head home,) I stuck it out.

And burned my clothes when I got home. (Okay, not quite, but they were doomed to destruction, I can tell you that much.)

Moral: If you're currently pregnant or get that way in the future and your 6 week bleed suddenly stops...it's not really over. Be prepared. No matter what. Because God has just that sort of sense of humor. Really.

But when the bleed is done...IUD ALL THE WAY!!! Break it down. $600 (it's actually less) and a doctor visit to put that puppy in equals five years of period-free, no-thought-required, non hormone-based protection with no ill effects when you suddenly decide to go for another baby. It comes out, you get pregnant, no crazy delays. Five years, 12 months in a year, for less than $600...that's like $10 a month for birth control! Tell me THAT doesn't ROCK?!

Anyway, love the IUD, beware the baby bleed, and sayonara for Saturday...Bad, Naughty Mommy

Mommy Needs a Shave

It's true...I shaved my legs a few days ago for the first time in a month or so so that people would shut up about my ape-legs. I am normally covered in hair, and during the first year or two of my marriage, when we were living in a colder climate, I'd go - seriously! - as long as four months without shaving. But I actually found time to shave the other day - and my husband's request - for church.

What Mom has time to shave? I mean, let's be honest here...shaving my legs meant getting BACK into the tub (after a shower) with my little girl standing next to the tub saying, "Eeew, Mommy." Can't even get THAT much time to myself.

And being the Bad, Naughty Mommy that I am, I generally just throw on a pair of boots for church, amusing myself with the fact that under my sexy boots are hundreds upon hundreds of inch-long hairs.

Anyway, as my leg hair is again growing in full-throttle, I ran my hand over my leg this morning...and discovered about a hundred ingrown hairs. Always happens. I spend an hour or so scratching a few layers of skin off my shins to dig out the hairs, let them grow another month or two, and shave all over again, moisturizing and digging out, dreading the ingrown hair.

And that's when I begjn to think about my good friend The Hairless Wonder. She's half American Indian and other than your everyday average hair, she's got nothin'. Seriously. Girl can shave her legs and go almost 2 weeks before finding even a hint of leg hair. No happy trail sprouting up, no stray nipple hairs, no random chin hair, never needs to pluck her eyebrows or bleach her 'stache, no ingrowns, and if she got a bikini wax, I swear it'd last a year. Truly unbelievable.

I love her to death, don't get me wrong...but I'm SO bitter. SO VERY BITTER. Some Moms have all the luck. No kids hounding HER in the shower while she balances on one stork-like leg with a sharp implement in one hand...because she doesn't NEED to balance on one stork-like leg with a sharp implement in one hand. Now please excuse me while I go scratch off a few more layers of my flesh to free my evil leg hair, and line up some long pants for the next few days so that no one will know I'm not shaving. Oh, and I'll pull out my Sunday Boots while I'm at it. Nothing like being a Bad, Naughty Mommy on Sunday!

Quittin' Time

I'm serious. I know all the Super Moms out there and all those women who can't have children and want them desperately will think me demonic for saying this, but sometimes I just want to quit! Throw in the towel! Be DONE with motherhood!

Before you begin to fear for my children, I'm not going to go nuts and drown them in the bathtub. Not to worry. I don't want to leave them on someone's doorstep or abandon them at the mall...today. It's just that all too often I want to quit.

I won't and I don't, but I wish I could.

My kids are sick. It's really sweet when they snuggle up to you and just want to be held and comforted...but reality kicks in when they send a giant hacking cough into your face, you're up at 3 AM again to wipe up the vomit and change the sheets, you're pinned to the house and your big outing for the day is checking the mail, and that's only the very start.

I love my kids, and I want them to be well...For me.

When they're not sick, they're bored and getting into everything they shouldn't. The require selfless service from stay-at-home Mom every 12.2 minutes of every day from 6:59 when they wake your from your dreams to 8:07 when they FINALLY get tucked in. The sweet side of me loves the tucking, loves the "come sit with me on the couch, Mommy," loves the "Mommy, can you get out of the bed now and be with me?"

The dark side of me wants to say "Go climb up on the bloody counter and get yourself a box of cereal so I can sleep another 20 minutes," "No, you sit on the couch and watch Polar Express for the 400th time while I blog," and "'Night, kid. Don't get up or make a sound or I'm disowning you. It's after 8, and now it's Mommy time."

I'm (VERY SLOWLY AND PAINFULLY AND BY FORCE) learning selflessness, but I'm just friggin' not there yet. The truth is I'm not sure I ever will be.

So...Anyone want to rent some kids? And I say rent because I want the money to go get myself a massage...and maybe a mani-pedi. I'd let you borrow them, but you'd just give them back. If I require you to rent them, you'll keep them longer because you want your money's worth. And then perhaps I can make a little extra...when I expect payment to return them.

Love 'em...but I want a stinkin' nap! Selfless, schmelfless!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm being hailed by a child half my size and 1/5 my weight to fetch it some water, so No More Blogging for Bad, Naughty Mommy. What a pisser.

Dora the Whorer...I Mean, Explorer...

So I turn on Dora for the kids this morning, and the previews for other Dora shows are on first. (I usually forward through them.) The introducer-lady is talking all about Dora and her adventures, and then says, "So lap dance and sing along with Dora..."

Lap dance?

WTF?!?!?!?!

I swear, I had to run it back at least 4 or 5 times to determine that "lap dance and sing" (which took less than a second for the announcer to say!) was ACTUALLY "Laugh, Dance, and Sing."

Oh.

Well, then, that makes a difference.

Unless you're like me, and you've already permanently cemented in your mind an image of a cartoon Dora giving her cousin Diego a lap dance wearing nothing but her backpack (while her backpack chants "Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum...delicioso!"). Fab-u-lo-so. Hate children's programming.

Backside Bulimia

I'm on alli. It's great. I've lost about 20 lbs since I started it, and I can eat just about anything I want and not gain weight. (I have kids, people, let's be real. Your butt collects fat, your underarms collect fat, your boobs...well, they deflate just to tease you, but everywhere else? BRING ON THE ALLI!)

That's not what it's for, you argue. That's true...but since I'm no longer feeling the same desperation to lose weight, alli now has another use: backside bulimia.

You see, I can eat anything I want - fatty, calorie-laden, or downright obscene - and I don't have to vomit it up...I'd never want to do that. What was the point in the first place? Instead, I take an alli and, after some uncomfortable cramping (nothing for someone who has been hospitalized for menstrual cramps) EVERYTHING comes out the other end. When there's that much fat in a meal, your body doesn't discriminate, you see...mix it with a little alli, and everything drops out the bottom.

Oh, if I were disciplined, I'd be losing weight still. And I may yet. I haven't reached my goal weight yet, and though I am well within the normal BMI of the average-framed woman for my height, my goal is 10-15 lbs from here. But when you've already lost 20, the difference is not nearly as big as it used to be. And I can focus on really losing weight during the weeks my husband is out of town, being reasonable (or unreasonable!) in the meantime. Who cares? Alli takes care of all of it.

If I'm being honest with myself, the "treatment effects" never bothered me in the first place. I'm naturally gassy, I've had horrendous cramps all my life, and I'm not easily (okay, never) embarrassed, so a death-scented grease fart causes barely a blush. Eh. And again, if I'm being honest, pizza grease streaming from my rear end is a comfort. Treatment effects rock. WHY? Because that's fat that is NOT being absorbed by my already-voluminous butt. Oily discharge during the passing of gas is a comfort, not a challenge. I get to see firsthand proof of the fat not adhering itself to my thighs. I imagine it's the way a bulimic feels watching the food splash into the toilet. Except I'm still getting enough calories to be healthy, preserving my reproductive organs, and retaining the enamel on my teeth.

So I have Backside Bulimia. So what? Costco makes it a reasonable investment, and alli gives me the freedom, the confidence, and the power to do exactly as I please. Hallelujah to that!

In the Beginning, God Created the Mom

And on the First Day She bore fruit from her loins, and stayed Home while the Dad toiled, that she might eat Bon Bons.

And there was much Rejoicing in the Land.

And on the Second Day, she was awakened at a God-awful hour by the unholy, screeching cries of the Fruit of her Womb seeking nourishment from her battle-weary Breast, and Mom discovered within Herself a Darker Side, slated toward Evil.

Or at least Naughtiness.

And She embraced that Naughtiness, and became Bad, Naughty Mommy.

And God did strike her down with lightning, but She proved impossible to Defeat, and rose up once again to Reign over her Home and strike terror into the hearts of Dads and Fruit and God Himself.

And she Repented Not.

Welcome to Bad, Naughty Mommy.