Why Everyone in This Place Can Go Pound Sand

It was Saturday morning. I was half asleep when I heard Hubby tinkering around in the bathroom. He was heading off to work for a couple hours before he had to rush home and take our eldest to his soccer game. I said a silent prayer in my head about being blessed with such a man… that should have been my first clue that this day was doomed.

I do a ridiculous amount of laundry, partly because of the multitude of bodies that occupy my house, partly because I secretly think they get dressed at night and frequent neighborhood house-parties while I’m sleeping (especially the baby, he’s a party animal) but mostly because I believe these suckers just throw outfits they don’t like (or those that don’t fit) right into the laundry basket. “Mom, will take care of it. Whatever.” Grrrrrr!!! Due to the amount of time and energy I dedicate to laundry, I was more then pissed when my oldest couldn’t find his uniform shorts 5 seconds before Dad was due home. There really is nothing like emptying drawers and laundry baskets in a massive search for shorts at 8 AM on a Saturday. When he finally had the correct shorts on his gangly legs I barely got a “thank you” before he ran out the door. “This Mom shit is for the birds” I thought, as I went to procure a second cup of coffee.

After getting Middle Monkey settled with breakfast I finally had a moment to use the bathroom, but when I finished up, I realized that there was no more toilet paper. I now made a second silent comment about my wonderful husband, mostly complied of four-letter-words. “Monkey???” I called for my 3-year-old from the toilet… surprised that the one time I wished he was in here with me, instead he was no where to be found.

“What Mommy?”

Hey buddy, can you bring me a roll of toilet paper? 

“Bring it where?”

{Are you kidding me} Bring it into the bathroom. Please? 

Have you ever found yourself in capable hands, but those hands are not very reliable, and maybe even questionable? I don’t often ask for much around here, I’d like to consider myself a mothering-bad-ass, so to speak, but I knew, that the 3-year-old knew, where the toilet paper was. I knew, that he could reach it. I knew, that he possessed the skill set to bring me the toilet paper, but, above all, and this is the most important part, I knew, he was fucking with me. Well played kid. You learned from the master. As I sat there, contemplating my next move (with the very real possibility that it would be without toilet paper) I thought back to the day before where I had said no to his request for fruit snacks, where I had scolded him for kicking his brother, where I had turned off Sponge Bob for one of my cooking shows, where I had rushed him to get to school, made him sit for quiet time before electronic time. Shit, I wouldn’t have brought me the toilet paper either.

It was at that exact moment the commode room door squeaked open and I found myself staring at a sweet little hand, holding a perfectly new, perfectly clean, roll of Charmin. “Here you go mommy” said Monkey as he handed the toilet paper into my needy space. “Wow. Maybe this day is looking up!” I thought to myself as I walked back to the living room.

That’s when I saw him.

The baby… or should I say, “The Mummy”.

My 6 month old was still in his excersauser, but both he, and the toy, were covered in toilet paper. An empty roll was beside him, a trail of toilet paper was coming from the garage and he was laughing. Actually, he was cracking up with laughter… {traitor}. It’s hard to yell at someone who’s just, literally, saved your ass. So I let this whole toilet paper incident slide with just a stern talking-to while he helped me clean up the mess and unwrap his baby brother.

When the baby went down for a nap, I finally got a free minute to take a shower. After washing my hair I discovered that my amazing, fantastic, hard-working, hubby had used up all the body wash without replacing the empty container. More expletives, but this time I sung them, Gloria Gaynor style.

I knew better than to ask for help from the Middle Monkey on this one.

Did you know shampoo makes an excellent body wash?




Up Your Mass

This is a story about fate, love, perseverance, genetics… and sweet, sweet ironic bullshit.

A healthy weight and I have never been friends. When I’m super fat (and usually relatively mentally happy) the first words out of people’s mouths are… “What’s wrong?” Then consequently, at times where I’ve been freakishly thin (and mentally miserable) the first words out of people’s mouths are… yup, you guessed it, “What’s wrong?”

People are judgmental.  They are cruel, they are selfish and they usually don’t even realize what they say.  Especially when it comes to a 12-year-old girl, a 21-year-old college graduate, a 30-year-old mother of 1, or a 37-year-old mother of 3.  So I don’t even wonder why I have negative body imagine… I know, straight up know, that’s it’s because the mirror I use everyday is really the attitude of the people I surround myself with.   I’m not one of those bitches who checks her makeup (I rarely put on makeup) or whips out a compact to see if she has stuff in her teeth.  Now that I’m a bit older, I know what’s up, and surround myself with positive people, who make me feel good, more often than they make me feel bad.  Obviously, this doesn’t include my children, whom I have no choice but to cater to their needs.  That I can handle.  None of the wee ones have ever called me a “fat ass bitch”, but they’re still young.

So here’s where the story get’s ironic.

My Hubby had some hardcore dental work a couple of months ago.  I commend him for doing what needed to be done and it just makes him more of a hero in my eyes that he was in crazy pain dealing with our motley crew.  And while his teeth are fabulous now, he had about 2 weeks of bad pain (which lead to eating less) afterwards.

My husband has the metabolism of a hummingbird.  I’ve never known him (in 20 years) to weigh more than 160 pounds.  He’s actually worn the same pants size since we met, extremely opposite from how my weight has fluctuated at least 30 pounds from here to there.

That’s why when I finally noticed his weight loss I was shocked.  Like, over the top, holy shit, floored.  We were changing for an event we had to attend and I saw him shirtless… {OMG, he’s so thin… holocaust thin}.  Of course the first thoughts in my head were that his heavy workload and too many kids was just too much for him.  I felt so guilty that the man I want to spend my life with was burdened.  Ugh, and I burdened him…. It was a very scary, guilty feeling.

When I asked him about it he laughed at my fears…

“Burdened? That’s a laugh.”

I guess I have a marvelous imagination.

He explained that the weight he lost after dental surgery hadn’t come back on easily… or at all.  What kind of bullshit is this?  The dentist could wire my jaw shut for a fucking month and I still wouldn’t lose weight and here is my Hubby trying to put weight back on?  Oh hell no.

So, because I’m not about to be the fat person in this relationship and because I love my husband, I vowed to see this “weight gain thing” through… “I am going to fatten you up if it’s the last thing I do!”

Off I rush to the local vitamin/nutrition store… as I wheel the baby in with his stroller I find a sales clerk…

What do you take when you’re trying to gain weight?

{See gives my body a once over and raises an eyebrow at me}

Not me, I’m not trying to gain weight… Jeez.

I explain to her the whole long story and she sells me a protein powder that’s call… get this… “Up Your Mass”.  The name alone had me in hysterics… proving, once again, that I have the Benny Hill mentality of a 10-year-old boy.  I completely blame Mel Brooks for my sense of humor.


It’s been 2 weeks since Hubby started with the daily “Up Your Mass” shakes along with homemade lunch (in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Lunchbox) and the usual dinner.

He’s put on 2 pounds.

When the premixed protein powder makes contact with my skin I gain 2 pounds.

It’s just not fair.

I wonder how much it costs to have your jaw wired shut?