Tuesday, November 17, 2009

THE Talk.

Oh yes, THE Talk. You know the one. The one where you have to tell your precious not so little baby about S. E. X.

Well, I had to have it with my 8 year old the other day. I've been thinking she's about the right age for a while now, but have never found the "right time."

Then, the other day, being the super awesome parent that I am, I was sitting in the family room watching TV. And she came in to watch with me. I really should've turned it off, but I didn't. You forget how open and spongy their little minds are.
And you know, there are a lot of sitcoms out there, that really do teeter on the line of being porn. Seriously. I totally love them!

But not for my kids.

So, I was watching "Two and a Half Men" which is like the epitome of sexual sitcoms on television today, and of course Charlie was talking to his girlfriend of the hour about having sex. And I forgot my sweet, innocent baby was sitting next to me.

Suddenly, she blurts out, "Mommy, do you and Daddy have sex?"

Well, if they ain't the perfect opportunity to have "the talk" and I don't take it, then shoot me!
So, I turned off the TV, turned to her, and asked, "Honey, do you know what Sex means?"

Turning red, she looked down and shook her head, slowly.
"Do you want me to tell you?" I asked.
"I guess," she replied, with an embarrassed grin.

Then, I proceeded to describe to her about body parts, and making babies. Of course, I had to throw in that it's a special thing that only happens between married people, a necessary disclaimer.

Her eyes widened in horror. I asked if she had any questions, and she sighed and said, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

I'm afraid I've scarred her for life.

So, tell me, have you had to give the talk to your kids yet? How did it go?

Monday, November 9, 2009

Post Secret

I've been spending a lot of time lately, reading Post Secret.

What is it about that blog? It sucks you in. Other people's secrets are so intriguing. It either makes you feel like your not alone, and that other people are going through the same thing you are, or you realize that it's really not that bad. Somebody else has it worse than you do.

I have a few secrets of my own. And since this blog is supposed to be my safe haven, I feel no qualms about sharing them here. Yeah, they might seem lame and small, but anything you don't feel comfortable sharing openly to the people in your life is a secret.

My husband is out of town. Again. He travels alot for work. And I whine and complain at him that I don't want him to go. But, secretly, deep down, I like it when he's gone. I like that I get a few days to completely let myself and the house go. I didn't do a damn thing today. I didn't shower. I didn't put on a bra. I'm still in my pajamas from last night. I have dried mascara caked under my eyes. I didn't brush my teeth. My laundry is piled to the ceiling, my dishes are stacked sky high. My kids dressed themselves today, and have been walking around with rats nests and yesterday's ice cream on their faces.

And I. Don't. Care!

There, I said it. I don't give a rat's red ass if my house is a disaster area, if you can smell me from a block away, or if my children are running down the street buck naked and screaming.

Obviously, the man in my life is the glue that keeps me and my sanity together. His expectations and standards keep the family going and staying "normal." He cares what the neighbors think of us.

It's very liberating to me to get a little break from our image and cut loose.

What's more?
I fantasize about being a completely different person. I single, younger, skinner version of me with big, perky breasts and no pooches or stretch marks, no crows feet or smile lines. And all the hot guys want me. I fantasize about different romantic encounters (like with Jason Bateman, for instance).

And I wanna know. Is this normal? Am I completely emotionally cheating on my husband? Or do other women fantasize about what could've been, too?

So, do you have a secret?
Please share! (anonymous comments welcome on this one!)

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Excuses, excuses

Pardon my absence.

I've been busy with sick babies, birthdays, making really shoddy High School Musical cakes for my 8 year old because I'm too proud to actual purchase one, and wiping snot and vomit from all over my children and home.

I'll be back to normal, hopefully, next week.

Thursday, November 5, 2009


Folks, the shit has hit the fan!

I've been going around my neighborhood bragging to everyone about how great everyone at my house has been feeling. No one in my family gets sick! We are SUPER HUMAN!

Well, my four-year-old, Suzie, has been jealous of all of her friends.
She whines to me, "Mommy, why did all my friends get the swine flu and I didn't? It's not faaiir!"
And of course, I replied, "We can't just get you everything you want, just because your friends have it too."

But, being the sensitive, push-over parent that I am, after begging, and crying, I let her go out and play with sick kids.

Lo, and behold, this morning, Suzie woke up and barfed her brains out, coughed up a lung, and had a seizure because of her high grade fever.

Ward and I are so proud of her. This is a major accomplishment in her life, and I'm proud to be a witness, and hold her hair while she vomits out her hopes and dreams. All in the name of peer pressure.

You know what I think of the Swine Flu? Or H1N1, or whatever the cool kids are calling it now?

H1N1? What kind of name is that? Is it a chemical concoction, like Hydrogen, and Nitrogen? Yeah, I paid attention in Chemistry 101. I totally know my Periodic Table of Elements.

Ok, not really, I found a smart nerdy guy who let me cheat off his answers if I showed him my boobs. Survival of the fittest, people!

But, I digress, what was I saying?

Oh yes. H1N1 flu. I look at it as the same thing as the 9-11 World Trade Center attack, or that poisonous stuff in the ceiling in the 70's....what was that called? Google?......oh yes, asbestos. Remember the asbestos in your mail scare earlier this decade?

Yes, I believe that the swine flu is a terrorist attack on the United States. I mean, come on, it's epidemic (yeah, I had to look that one up too....don't you just LOVE Google?).

I really think that some middle eastern suicide freakazoid American hater infected his flock (or head of whatever they call it) of pigs with some deadly, mutating, highly infectious disease, then made out with the female pig, and flew in to out beloved Motherland, and started exposing massive amount of people, which of course, spread to other masses. Throw in a little media stunt to scare everyone and there you have it.

Complete pandemonium.

Oh my Golly Gee Fiddlesticks! My baby has been a victim of a terrorist attack!!
Run for your lives!

p.s. If you need me, we'll be hiding out in our bomb shelter out back.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Dream a Little Dream....

I dreamt last night that I was having an affair with Jason Bateman. But in my dream he was Justin Bateman. Wait. Which is it? Jason or Justin? I'm so confused.


in my dream Jason was this famous comic actor in movies and stuff (far-fetched, I know), and I was a beautiful, stunning, and skinny regular person, and he just fell head over hills in love with me. Oh, and the sex was really hot!

Seriously, brain? Jason Bateman? That's all you could come up with? There are hundreds of really, hot famous guys out there to fantasize about and my sub-conscious settles on Jason Bateman? What. The. Crap.

Ok, ok, he's kinda cute. I could do worse.

I know, I know I'm a married woman. I shouldn't be having dreams about affairs with 80's child stars, I know.

Just to set the record straight this isn't a husband-bashing blog. It may have seemed that way in my last post.

I love my husband. Really, honestly, I do. He is a very, very hard working, good man, who happens to be believe in polygamy.

What? No it's no like that.

The man is married to his job. I keep joking that if he keeps working as late as he does, he's going to have to have a futon put in his office to sleep on.
So, sometimes, my lonely subconscious needs a little TLC. Okay?

I also had a dream last night that I became an uber famous writer, just from writing my snarky little ideas on my blog. That would be sooo cool!
I could be like The Pioneer Woman, or Dooce, or Perez Hilton.

Ugh. How do people like that get so famous? I'm too poor to hire a P.R. department.

Maybe my one reader could shout out to the masses about how cool I am?

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Where to Begin?

I don't want this blog to be a downer. But, I need somewhere to go. Somewhere, completely separate from my world, my reality. Somewhere, I can come and just talk to the universe. Get things off my chest, without worrying about who's reading this, or who will judge me for my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings.

Today has been okay. I got some housework accomplished. I hate housework. More than cats hate dogs. Especially...well...all of it. I avoid it like the plague. And I am married to Ward Cleaver. And believe me, my name ain't June. I grew up in a home where cleanliness was optional. Oh, we bathed, and took care of basic hygienic needs, but it was no big deal, if dirty clothes landed on my bedroom floor for months on end. Basically, I grew up believing that there are more important things in life than cleaning all day.
My husband grew up pretty much the opposite. And he expects me to keep an orderly, well-oiled machine....uh...home.
Have you seen that email going around? The one that shows a Good Housekeeping from 1950? The one that says if you want to keep your husband happy, put on lipstick, having the house sparkling, keep the children quiet, and have the fire going and a hot dinner on the stove when he comes home from a hard day's work at the office?
Yeah, that's my husband. He is the type of man to come home from work, and ask me what I do all day.
Forget that I've been slaving all day, driving kids this way and that, cleaning and pressing his shirts, mopping floors, cooking dinner.
Gag me.
I'll let you in on a little secret. I wait until an hour before he's supposed to get home and make a mad dash to make it look like I've been working hard all day. He can't tell the difference. What's the big deal if I sit down on the couch, watch Oprah and eat bon-bons for a little while every day?

You know, one day, when all of my kids are in school all day, I might go out and and get me one of them fancy job things. Like maybe I could be a secretary, or a department store clerk, or an Avon lady! What a dream!

For the record, I hate Oprah. And bon-bons. And my dream job? Well, it'll never happen to who cares?

regular, ordinary, plain old not June