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.