Monday, December 13, 2010

Jem Jam, Stewart K. Rockefeller, and Why You Don't Send Facebook Friend Requests to People You Don't Know

When I was in high school my friend, Sarah, had a penpal. Her name was Maria. Only it wasn't spelled Maria. We pronounced it Maria. But I distinctly remember it was spelled differently. I have no idea of the spelling. Please forgive me. It's been 15 years, I'm quickly descending into middle age, and I can't always remember how the names of other people's penpals were spelled.

By the way, Maria? If by some weird twist of fate you happen to be reading this: I apologize. Oh, and I'm an asshole. That should cover the bases.

One day, Sarah was all, "I have a penpal." And I was all, "You know what would be awesome? If we made up a bunch of stories and SENT THEM TO HER? Wouldn't that be awesome? Wouldn't it? Huh?"

I'm pretty sure Sarah only humored me but, even still, the Saga or Maria was born. Our little town was painted out to be the Beverly Hills of Arkansas. All of our friends had different "roles." It was a soap opera in a penpal letter. At one point our entire English class was involved, there was a pimp named Diarreah, and a lesbian exchange student was slated for a sex change.

And I wonder where my two-year-old gets his wild imagination from.

That ^^ story really has nothing to do with anything I'm about to post. I just (a) wanted to tell it and (b) it's a good way to let you know that bullshitting people is one of my top five hobbies.

I can't help it.
I realize it makes me an asshole.
I enjoy it.

Thursday morning I woke up to a friend request on Facebook. Let me go through with a little disclaimer here:

IF you send me a friend request on Facebook
and IF I do not know you
and IF your profile picture doubles as your mug shot

I reserve the right to mess with you.

And to tell all my friends what's going on.
And to post it on my blog.

Enter the Story of Jem Jam. He never knew that sending a friend request to some 30-year-old mom in Tennessee would get him invited to the Maury Povich Show. (Sorta).

FYI: LANGUAGE AND ADULT CONTENT ALERT. Don't say I didn't warn ya.
Also: Special thanks to my girl, Jenn B, leg work on this. (And, yes, she posted it in her blog on Thursday and I'm a Big Fat Copycat but I wanted it for all posterity on *my* little corner of the internet too. So there).


For most of Thursday, Facebook was trying to come between me and Mr. Jam. Like, I totally could not send him a message. And believe me. I tried. It finally let me later that evening and I said this:
Hey, are you Stewart Rockefeller? The Stewart I went to school with at UCF back in the late 90's/ early 00's?? Wow! When did you change your name?

Also, could you explain a little more about what 'rich nigga shit' is to me? You have it listed in your activities and that sounds like something I don't wanna miss out on.

He hadn't messaged me back by the next morning. Fail on his part. Fail.
Stewie, you may go by Jem Jam now but you'll always be StewRock to me. Do you remember that night at the Delta Sig party? That was just the most fun night EVER.

By the way, I think you should know I have a 10-year-old daughter. I'm not saying you're the father but we already paternity tested Brian Robinson and it's not him. Wanna go on Maury? We could totally be on TV! Plus, if it is you then I'm REALLY going to need to know more about this rich nigga shit, okay?
I still haven't heard back from him and tonight he's getting another Brandi-gram in his inbox. I'm determined to be blocked.

I love life. I love Facebook.

Thank you, Jem Jam, for making an ordinary Thursday absolutely awesome. Your friend request was like an early Christmas present.

P.S. Jem Jam is TOTALLY getting his own tag on my blog. This saga is far from over, ya'll. FAR.FROM.OVER.

Monday, November 1, 2010

The Commandments of Trick or Treating

It's over for another year.

The jack-o-lanterns have been (or should be) thrown out. The costumes are wadded up on bedroom floors. The candy buckets are overflowing. The children are hyper. Yup. Halloween has been here.

My kids were adorable (natch). And they had a great time. They didn't net me one single pack of Junior Mints but I did end up with two pieces of dark chocolate Dove and a couple of Almond Joys so I guess it evens out.

Now that the holiday is over, when it makes absolutely no sense to do this, I shall present to you the Commandments of Trick or Treating.

Ready? Here we go.

I. Thou shalt not leave your porch light on if you're not going to be handing out candy. Asshole. I realize that you want to see to put your key in the lock when you get home from your trunk or treat or hiding from all the little ghouls and goblins. But, um, hello. This is the one day out of the year that you KNOW excited little children go from door to door and expect it to be opened when your light is on. Use the garage light next time, mmkay? Sheesh.

II. If thou art over the age of 12, thou shalt wear a freakin' costume if you expect people to give you candy. Assholes. Come on, jerk. Head over to the dollar store and drop two dollars on a plastic mask.

III. If thou art over the age of 12 - and insist on trick or treating - thou shalt not try to scare my little people who actually are, you know, of trick or treating age. Assholes.

IV. If thou art over the age of 12 - and insist on trick or treating - thou shalt not hang out the window of a car wearing a Scream mask and make a crude comment about my badonkadonk. Asshole.

V. Thou shalt not ever, EVER, answer the door for trick or treaters with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth. Asshole.

VI. Thou shalt control your brats and not allow them to run over other children (namely mine). Assholes.

VII. Thou shalt not hand out those crappy Mary Jane thing-a-ma-bobs. Cheap assholes.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

It Won't Be Like This For Long

One of these days, when there's a movie made about my life -- and I'm in the starring role and Derek Jeter plays himself as my second husband and there are a lot of hot and steamy love scenes *ahem* - the soundtrack of that movie will be made of mostly country music. Not that I don't have a soft spot for gangsta rap and 70's rock but, let's face it, when you need to tell a story . . . you turn to country.

Plus, there are a lot less f-words.

And substantially fewer hoes.

Wow. I've managed to make a sexual innuendo AND used the word "hoes" all in the first few sentences. Classy.


There is one story-telling country song that just fits this chapter in my life, the one I'm living right now. Darius Rucker's (and, I'm sorry, but he will ALWAYS be Hootie to me) It Won't Be Like This For Long.

I remind myself of that all the time.

When I've just changed two dirty diapers and a tiny voice yells to me from the bathroom, "I needa be WIPED!" When I stub my toe stumbling around in the dark kitchen to make a bottle - for the third time - in the middle of the night. When my not-quite-four-year-old has an attitude that would put a teenage girl to shame and my two-year-old is in full on tantrum mode and the baby wakes up every two hours.

It won't be like this for long.

When my Kykers wraps his arms around me and says, "I yuv you Mommy." When K2 smiles her gummy baby smiles. When Jaybird tells me I'm his best friend.

It won't be like this for long.

It really won't. The time goes by so fast. J is already nearly four and, I swear it, I just gave birth to the boy five minutes ago. The years are zooming right along and I know that I'm going to go to sleep one night and wake up and they'll all be in college.

And I'll be heartbroken. (And just plain broke - three kids in college, hello?).

It won't be like this for long. And that's why I wonder why more parents won't let their kids just be kids.

When we were at the zoo a couple weeks ago, we took a break from all the lions and tigers and bears (oh my) to climb around the playground equipment. The boys were doing typical boy things: running UP the slides, swinging from the monkey bars, running from place to place, yelling and laughing and just having fun. We'd only been there a few minutes when a woman and little boy showed up. The boy looked to be in between J and K1's ages. I would put him at three years old, but on the "just turned three" side. The poor boy - his mother wouldn't just let him be and let him play. She followed him EVERYwhere on the playground equipment. She wasn't playing with him. She was keeping him from actually playing and enjoying himself. J and K1 tried playing with the little boy a couple times and finally just gave up and kept shooting the mom their best "WTF?" looks.

The very next day, we were at the play area in the mall when something similar happened once again. J found a couple of friends -- a little boy and little girl right about his age. J and the little girl were hiding in one of the "tunnels" in the play equipment and every time the boy would run over they would shout, "BOO!" at him. Giggles would ensue and the whole thing would start over again. This went on for a few minutes when the little girl's mother came over. "Macy! STOP YELLING! You are being TOO LOUD." This time, I was the one sporting the "WTF?" look. Because, really? WTF? It's not like they were in a library. No one was being hurt. No one was complaining. And, let's be real, they were shouting "BOO" and giggling. Obviously, this lady hasn't made it a habit of being around three preschoolers because they can - and do - make a helluva lot more noise than that.

Why can't we just let them be, let them have fun? Let them play and be loud every once in a while and giggle with their newfound friends. Why can't we cherish the days when they can run into a play area and, five minutes later, find themselves best friends with someone they've never seen before and will probably never see again? It won't be like this for long. A few years from now, that play area will be a thing of the past and so will the instant-BFF phase that preschoolers are so good at.

I don't get it. I don't understand it. I want my kids to be safe and happy. I want them to be respectful and I don't want them to annoy other people or get on their nerves and I don't want them to be "those Walker kids."


I also want them to live. I want them to enjoy their childhoods, to embrace being small.
I want them to skin their knees and to fall down while they're playing. I want them to get dirty and to play in the rain and make mud pies and have grass stains on the knees of their jeans (just not their good jeans please -- I have to be realistic here!). I want them to climb trees and not worry about falling and breaking an arm. I want them to explore and discover and learn by doing. I don't want them to be afraid or be held back or be so sheltered and so over protected that, all the sudden, they're 18 and can't remember ever hanging upside down from the monkey bars. Or jumping up and down in a mud puddle. Or just being a kid.
It won't be like this for long.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

A Day in the Life of a Toddler

I originally wrote this back in early '09, when Jaidan was pretty much the same age that Kyan is now.

Back when I thought there was no way possible than any two year old ever in the history of the world could be as, well, two as my Bird.

I learned my lesson.

Oh, I have learned my lesson.

It's why I'm fully expecting Karis to be stealing cars and mugging old ladies once she hits the Terrible Two's.

Anyway, since we've already had a morning. And since I'm thinking I'd rather be working at freakin' Lowes again than be a stay-at-home-mom. And since Kyan woke me up at 7:00 this morning begging for pancakes and then spent 45 minutes yelling, "BUT I DON'T WANNNNN EAT PANNNNNCAAAAAAKES." Since all of that . . . I'm going to share this with you.

I tweaked a few things, but it's mostly the original that I wrote a year and a half ago. Which is why it says "baby brother" rather than "baby sister" and "Wow Wow Wubbzy" instead of "Yo Gabba Gabba." And if I were to write it now it would also include wrasslin' matches with Big Brother. But other than that? Two year olds? They're all pretty much the same.

A Day in the Life of a Two Year Old

Any random Tuesday
1:30 a.m.: Awake from the floor beside your toddler bed that your parents spent three hours, buckets of sweat, four f-bombs, six GD's, at least 13 other "unsavory" words, and a few drops of blood putting together. Take matress off of said bed and prop it against the bed frame. Proceed to "slide" down it while yelling "wheeee" at the top of your lungs.

If this action has not awakened your parents:

Proceed into Mom's bedroom and tap on her forehead while whispering, "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" until she wakes up. When she opens one eye and growls, "WHAT?" say somethign totally off the wall. "I scratchy my butt" is a good example.

2:00 a.m.: Climb into bed with Mom. Even though you are significantly smaller, make sure to turn your body in such a way that she has about 6.2 inches of bed. Snore. Loudly.

7:30 a.m.: Wake Mom up by climbing on top of her and pulling her eyelids open. Make sure to shout "Get up, Mommy" at the top of your lungs four or five times.

7:35 a.m.: If Mom is still asleep, go wake your younger brother up. Steal his binkie and stick it in your mouth so that he'll scream and Mom will have to get out of bed.

7:37 a.m.: Mom can't go to the bathroom without you! Hightail it back to her end of the house so you can accompany her to the restroom. Bonus: Ask at least 13 times if she's going "pee pee or poo poo."

8:00 a.m.: Refuse to eat the pancakes you told Mom you wanted for breakfast 15 minutes ago. Demand a poptart instead.

8:22 a.m.: The Backyardigans just went off! Throw a fit and demand Mom bring "Pablo" back. As soon as she hunts down your favorite recorded episode, run to your room and play for the next several minutes.

9:15 a.m.: Ask for a cookie.

9:17 a.m.: Ask for a cookie.

9:18 a.m.: Ask for a cookie

9:19 a.m.: Ask for a cookie

9:20: Climb in the pantry and get the cookies yourself. Stuff two in your mouth before Mom realizes what you've done. Sidenote: Coordinate with baby brother so that he knows to throw a fit at exactly 9:21 a.m. It's important that Mom be sidetracked so that you do not have to serve the full sentence of your timeout.

10:15 a.m.: Physical Fitness Time! Pull all the sheets, comforter, and pillows off Mom's bed. Jump off the bed and into the pile repeatedly.

10:30 a.m.: Climb on Mom's bathroom cabinet. Take the tube of toothpaste and squeeze it all over the sink. Make sure to get some on your hands and rub it all over the mirror.

11:30 a.m.: Convince Mom that the ONLY thing you'll eat for lunch is hotdogs and salt and vinegar chips. Offer her lots of breathy kisses.

12:00 noon: Make Mom kiss Handy Manny, Puppadog, and your stuffed sheep nite-nite a minimum of three times each.

12:00 - 1:30 p.m.: Refuse to nap. Instead, sing "Single Ladies" at the top of your lungs for an hour and half straight.

1:30 p.m.: As soon as Mom gets you up from "nap," demand fruit snacks. Ask for "Spotchapants snacks" (or however *you* happen to pronounce Spongebob Squarepants fruitsnacks) a minimum of EIGHTY BAJILLION TIMES.

1:45 p.m.: Insist on "helping" Mom pour your drink.

2:30: Art class! Find a stray highlighter and/ or Sharpie and continue decorating Mom's mousepad. Get the blue -- you used pink last time.

3:15 - 3:45: Tell Mom you need to go potty at least nine times in this half hour. Once she drops everything and runs you to the bathroom, refuse to go.

4:30: Just in case she really meant it when she said she was going to put up a "free to a good home" ad for you on Craigslist, give Mom a break. Sit and quietly watch Wow Wow Wubzy for the next 22 minutes. Sidenote: This is a good way to get an extra afternoon snack. During the commercial break, climb into the pantry, retrieve a bag of chips, and say "Pleeeeeease, Mommy?"

4:52 p.m.: Baby brother has been down for a nap approxomately 15 minutes. Go wake him up.

5:05 p.m.: Ask to go to Wal-mart.

5:06 p.m.: Ask to go to Target.

5:07 p.m.: Ask to go to Wal-mart.

5:08 p.m.: Ask to go to Target.

5:09 p.m.: Ask to go to Wal-mart.

5:59 p.m.: Tell Mom you're sooooo hungry.

6:00 p.m.: Refuse to eat your dinner.

6:30 - 7:00 p.m.: Bath time! Keep in mind: Your bath is not over until every single square inch of the bathroom is covered in water.

7:30 p.m.: Insist that you want to watch those god awful Wonderpets. Ignore Mom when she mutters things about Ming Ming under her breath.

Bonus: If Mom's favorite show comes on between 7:00 and 8:00, make sure to ride your fire truck repeatedly through the living room at top speed with sirens blaring and you yelling "iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!"

7:52 p.m.: Insist on brushing your own teeth. They are not truly clean until you have sparkly blue raspberry toothpaste covering every inch of the sink.

8:00 p.m.: Climb into bed and make Mom bring you your baseball blanket, football blanket, Lightening McQueen blanket, Diego pillow, Handy Manny doll, and every stuffed animal you own. Ask her to kiss each of these things no less than four times each. Bonus: Wear one sock and a backward baseball cap to bed. Double Bonus: Insist on taking a hard, metal toy to bed with you. Triple Bonus: Make Mom give it a nite-nite kiss.

8:02 p.m.: Every time Mom tries to turn the light out yell, "Wait! Just one more kiss!"

8:07 p.m.: Throw just enough of a fit to make Mom feel bad for not giving you the 97th "one more kiss."

8:08 p.m.: Drag your toy box over to the light switch, stand on it, and turn your light on. Begin to play.

8:20 p.m.: Run and dive for your bed when Mom comes to check on you.

** Repeat the previous two steps at least twice. **

8:49 p.m.: Fall asleep in the middle of your toys.

Monday, March 22, 2010

How to Annoy the Pregnant Woman

As of Saturday, I am 37 weeks pregnant. Two weeks from now, there'll be a new baby girl in this world, ya'll! It's totally and completely just flown by. Something I didn't expect to happen considering I got a positive on the pee stick at just over four weeks. But you know what? Imma tell you something.

*Whispers* I'm over it.

I'm over it.
I'm done.
Fini, Finis, Finito.

I'll just be downright honest and letcha know: I've done some complaining but this pregnancy has not been that bad. In fact, it really hasn't been bad at all.

Other than the CONSTANT tiredness. I never did get that second trimester burst of energy.

Oh, and the heartburn. The people who produce Tums are going to feel the pinch once I'm no longer pregnant.

But, now, here I am at 37 weeks. Which means I've passed that magical 36 week mark where it's okay to admit you're not walking on sunshine.

Which means it's okay for me to say:

I'm over it.
I'm done.
Fini, Finis, Finito.

And mainly because I have approxomately 7 pounds of fetus currently pressing down on my diaphram and I cannot breathe unless I am in a reclined position. It makes walking fun. Ditto trying to climb stairs.

Anyhow. I went back to the doctor today and it went like this:

"You're measuring perfect. Heartbeat is perfect. Blood pressure is perfect. Weight is perfect. Urine was perfect. You've pretty much had the perfect pregnancy." Which is good and all but an extra 50 lbs (HOW is that perfect?? How, how, how?) tells me otherwise. I'm not complaining though. I know how lucky I am to have (thus far) gone through this pregnancy complication free. Can't say the same for my past two pregnancies with their high blood pressure nonsense.

I digress.

This list started over on Facebook today and I thought it was just too good to not share with the blogging world. I mean, really, it should be printed in a book. The Handy Guide on How to Deal with a Pregnat Woman or She's Knocked Up! Leave Her Alone! Perhaps that would be even better.

Here it is though, ya'll. A little list I have (oh-so-creatively) titled

How to Annoy the Pregnant Woman:

1) "You know you're not supposed to . . . . " *Fill in the blank -- eat fish, drink caffeine, etc*
I know that, okay! I KNOW! This ain't my first rodeo and, even if it was, the very first thing they give you at your very first doctor's appointment is the great big list of do's and don'ts.

And, by the way, any doctor worth their salt will tell you that BOTH caffeine and fish are okay in moderation! So, stuff it, random lady at McDonald's and let me enjoy my Coca-Cola.

2) "Really? I loved being pregnant!"
Good for you. I'm going to go ahead and assume you didn't spend the first half puking up every single thing you attempted to eat, did not have constant UTI's, feel like you were going to have to rip your esophogus out through your mouth due to never ending heartburn, or gained 30 pounds in the first trimester alone.
I'll also make the assumption that you're one of those disgusting pregnant women who had an actual "glow" that was not attributed to sweating.
And that you were not pregnant in the south. In the summer.
** FYI: "I loved being pregnant!" are four words that should never, EVER be uttered to any woman past her 36 weeks who cannot breathe or eat a full meal due to the human being taking up every square centimeter of space in the middle of her body.
3) "Wow! I only gained 15 pounds when I was pregnant!"
Stuff it, skinny bish.
** Exceptions granted for peeps who had to deal with GD while during pregnant. Because, ya know, I'm going to assume that they aren't bragging that they only gained 15 lbs since there's was due to a medical condition. Skeletor that weighs 120 when not pregnant? Stuff it, skinny bish.
4) "How'd you come up with THAT name?"
Ummmm, obviously we LIKE it if we're going to name our CHILD that and they are going to have to go through the rest of their LIFE with it and we're going to have to say it somewhere in the neighborhood of 34958934 times followed by "No" and "Stop that" during their toddler years. So being all condescending when asking how we came up with it? Stuff it, rude bish.
5) "You're STILL pregnant?"
Nope, I just enjoyed the belly so much that I bought a prosthetic one. Hello! Who wouldn't want to breastfeed AND carrry around an extra 30, uh 40, erm 50 pounds attached to their middle?

6) "You're HOW far along? Are you having twins?"
It does not matter if a woman is pregnant or not. It's NEVER, EVER cool to insinuate that she's somehow bigger than she should be. Making the insinuation WHILE she's pregnant? Good way to lose an eye, buddy. Or some other body part.
7) "I never had any morning sickness!"
Really? Come over here and let me puke on you so that you can at least experience it.

8) "Labor wasn't all that bad."
Shut.Up. Just shut it.

9) "Can I touch your belly?"
Um, do I KNOW you? Can I touch YOUR belly? No? Then don't ask me either!
10) "How many kids? You do know what causes that, don't you?"
Hmmm . . . seventh grade Biology was a long time ago. Maybe I need a refresher course. *Rolls eyes*
11) "Are you planning to breastfeed?"
What the? Am I asking you what you're going to feed your nine-year-old for dinner? Mind ya own, pardner. Mind ya own.
Dude . . . if you have more, I would LOVE to see them in the comments. ^That is TOTALLY therapeutic.

P.S. I will be handing out cyber ass-kickings to anyone who comments with "I LOVED being pregnant." Just sayin'.