Happy Mother's Day. Now Go Get Undressed For Brunch!

Hubs,

It's time for the (sorta-annual) Don't Screw Up My Mother's Day post.

With such an eclectic mix of Mother's Day offerings, you're probably struggling to choose the best way to celebrate me this weekend. I'm usually pretty easygoing. (Shut up. I am so.) But if you drag me to any of the following events, I will throw the mother of all tantrums. 


Zoo Brunch
Now, I'm down to get my Mother's Day grub on, but putting a big-ass elephant on an advertisement for brunch at a zoo doesn't make me feel great about stuffing my face with gluttonous abandon.

Nekkid Brunch
This aptly named restaurant at a nude-y resort wants moms to join them for a delicious, clothing-optional meal. (Why am I suddenly picturing a plate of two hard-boiled eggs and Polish sausage?)

Some of the website copy:

"Beautiful murals fill the wall along the patio." Biggest waste of money ever. Who's going to notice the art with everyone's naughty bits dangling?

"Every direction you look, it's like paradise" ... and an amateur porn shoot.

"Dine inside in air-conditioned comfort" and your nipples will be harder than calculus by the time the check comes.

Medieval Times
If I wanted to watch a battle during dinner, I'd just tell Daughter that Son tweeted excerpts from her journal. For the record, my money's on the girl. I know he's a foot taller, but she fights dirty. #WW3

"Fun" Run

There's nothing fun about running. I've tried it. And what's all this about a runner's high? I never got high. Lost control of my bodily functions? Yes. But high? Not even close. That's just another crackpot conspiracy theory right up there with dead Paul McCartney and a race of elite reptiles secretly controlling humans.

Cooking Class
Hold up. Let me get this straight: I’m supposed to spend my special day preparing my own meal? Remember when we were house hunting and our realtor couldn't seem to find any homes without a kitchen? (Why can't realtors ever stick to your wish list? Do they not want the commission?) Just because we got stuck with a kitchen doesn't mean I make a habit of going in it. Incidentally, I don't enter Son's room either, but for entirely different reasons.

The event description says “BYOB encouraged.” Yeah, because I'd have to be slurry, slurpy drunk to actually pay for the privilege of cooking my own brunch.


Mother/Daughter Pole Dancing Class
What exactly was the thought process behind this? To give girls a marketable skill so they won't have to resort to more cerebral pursuits? Why not get the whole family involved? Dads can show their young sons how to make it rain up in there and how to hold in whiskey farts during lap dances.

Planetarium Outing

Gazing at the stars from a cushy recliner sounds cool, but it's too risky. Imagine a grown woman busting out laughing when the narrator says, "Astronomers discovered Uranus is full of ice and rock." You know how immature I can be. I can't even look at a map of Thailand without snickering. (Bangkok and Phuket? Seriously?!)

Well, Hubs, I trust I've made it clear what to avoid this Mother's Day weekend. You know me; I'm not one to be demanding. (Shut up. I am not.) Just make sure I'm well fed, well rested and well loved, and we shouldn't have any problems. 

A (Passive-Aggressive) Letter to My Dear Hubs

Hey, Babe!

I bet you're having a fantastic time in Italy. I know you're "working" and you go there as often as most people go to Publix, but you're enjoying yourself at least a little bit, right? Gosh, I sure hope so. One of my Facebook ads this morning asked me if I needed a trip to Italy. Everyone's a freakin' comedian these days.

Speaking of Facebook, I saw the photo you posted last night. That spaghetti and Chianti looked sublime. Makes me feel less guilty about you missing out on the Arby's feast we have planned for tonight.

The kids are fine. They still can't find any of the twelve wastebaskets in the house, nor have they figured out what that mystical lever on the toilet tank does. But, otherwise, they're peachy. School finally resumed Tuesday after a week off for Snowmageddon 2014 and Monday's scheduled holiday. It's a good thing, too. All that forced togetherness had me wondering how much I could get on the black market for a curly-haired Instagram addict and a tall, skinny kid who eats more than all the morbidly obese toddlers on Maury combined.

As we were leaving for school this morning, I noticed a bike on our neighbors' front lawn.

Me: "Is that your bike?"
Son: "No."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Son: "I'm not 100% sure."
Me: "THEN GET OUT OF THE CAR AND GO LOOOOOOK!"
Son: "Oh, OK."

The punchline: Daughter put Son's bike in our innocent neighbors' yard in retaliation for Son putting her iPod on top of my car. Isn't that hilarious? I laughed at an unnaturally high volume for a full minute. Those little jokesters of ours!

They both had soccer practice Monday night. Drop offs at 7:00 and 7:30 at two different fields went smoothly. In between the 8:00 and 9:00 pick-up times, I sat in my car eating leftover, lukewarm Pizza Hut and wondering if you were sleeping well all alone in your quiet hotel room.

Oh, I had to buy daughter new cleats because she inherited your giant feet. Did you know the poor dear can't play well unless she's wearing cute, overly-priced shoes?

Our three Yorkshire Terrorists are living up to their nickname. Old, senile Sassy is still pissing in the house every chance she gets. She stepped up her game today by taking a dump in the living room. And the pups (hmmm ... maybe if we quit calling our 2-year-old dogs "puppies," they'd quit behaving like puppies) are still absconding with everything that isn't nailed down. Socks, hair bows, expensive American Doll accessories, important papers--anything that fits through the pet door. By the look of the backyard, our goal of starting our own landfill is coming along great.

Don't worry: our vow renewal plans are going swimmingly. My seamstress is soooooo creative. She's doing all sorts of things I never even imagined (or asked for). You won't see my dress until we're on the beach celebrating 15 years of wedded bliss. But I think I'll be just as surprised as you are by the finished product.

I don't want to give you the impression things are all bad. Why just an hour ago, I received an email from a lovely gentleman who apparently met me on some beach. Now he wants to give me a cut of $18 mil in unclaimed funds that his deceased customer left behind. No strings attached! I don't know why he picked me. After seeing me in a swimsuit, he probably realized how desperately I need lipo and laser hair removal. Anyway, I better go so I can email him our bank account information.

Ciao, mi amore!

At First Sight

This week's Trifecta challenge is to write a 33-word follow-up to this snippet:

The first time I saw. . .

The piece should be exactly 38 words, and all words must be one syllable each.



The first time I saw you, I fell hard.

Big feet, red face, head cone shaped.

You were just right.

Now here you are ...

Huge feet, peach fuzz, your dad’s bowed legs.

You are just right.

My son.


As my first born turns 14 this week, I wonder what happened to that chubby little boy who arrived on his due date (albeit after 24 hours of labor). Now he's all legs and I can count his ribs. Sigh. In a flash, I went from picking him up to looking up at him. 
 
Fortunately, he hasn't completely changed ...

 

Whenever, Wherever, However

Sunlight streams into our bedroom via discount curtains I've been meaning to replace. It’s Saturday morning. He’s already awake, reading emails about budget constraints, delivery deadlines, or whatever. The workaholic ditches his iPhone once he notices my newly conscious state.

“Come snuggle.”

He pats the void between us—the one very recently occupied by a wild-haired toddler. I slide over, taking my place inside his warm arm.

“How come she never wakes up when you carry her back to bed?” I ask.

“Well, I’m a ninja, so ...”

I smile at his silliness. I smile at the sensation of his words reverberating from his chest to my cheek. I smile because I know what his snuggle invitations mean. After nine years, I’m onto his schemes. And I’m a willing accomplice. We are thieves, stealing little moments between potty accidents, toy battles and nightmares featuring vague monsters.

As usual, my feet are ice. But he doesn’t flinch when my frigid toes breach his soft leg hairs. His hand is on my ass. It’ll end up there several more times today. (A quick slap if we pass each other in the kitchen preparing tonight’s kid-friendly cuisine. A little squeeze while we retreat down the hall, having tucked each child under a Disney-themed bedspread.)

I’m covered neck to ankle in flannel pajamas older than our oldest offspring, yet I shiver when his lips sweep my forehead. As I stretch to nuzzle his neck, I feel him growing against my hip. 

“The door?”

“Already locked,” he declares.

I love that he assumed we’d have sex this morning. I love that he’s in the mood although he spent the greater part of last night with tiny feet in his back.

Once upon a time, we had sex like freshly paroled ex-cons. Nowadays we take it whenever, wherever and however we can get it—which occasionally amounts to quickies in obscure parking lots before relieving the sitter. Sometimes we’re too damn exhausted for anything beyond snuggling.

But not this morning.

#

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "whatever" as defined below:

WHATEVER

(adverb) Used to show that something is not important

Word count: 333



Dazzle Me

This weekend's Trifextra challenge is to write a 33-word piece including these three words:

myopic
dazzle
basin


Wanna truly dazzle me this Christmas?

Keep the diamonds. Instead, how's about you teach my tragically myopic children to use garbage cans, rinse toothpaste out of the basin and flush their @&*%$ toilet?

The Story of Us

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: a 33-word free write.

Hubs and my upcoming vow renewal (in honor of our 15th anniversary) has me feeling all gooey and lovey-dovey lately. Groaning and eye rolling are perfectly understandable.

First blind date

Hello, fate

Married fast

"Will it last?"

Honeymoon

Baby soon

And another

Joined big brother

Fifteen years

Sometimes tears

Mostly smiles

Despite trials

Love abounds

And surrounds

You

Me

Us



Before stretch marks, worry lines, gray hair and all
the fun bonuses that come with children.

In the interest of full disclosure, that kid on the right is
really about 4 inches taller than me. (Thank you, heels!)

Rut

Last week I had a piece of caramel popcorn in my hair for three hours before I realized it—and only then because the pest control guy pointed it out.

“Lucky for me your keen eye isn’t limited to spiders.” The joke fell flat. Maybe I should’ve smiled.

I’m a stay-at-home mom. That’s not a misnomer. I don’t get out much. With three kids under age 4 in tow, I need a sedative just to pick up the refill of my prescription sedative.

Lately I’m like a live-in companion to a man who pays me in boob gropes and beer farts. Our Sunday night sex appointments are currently on hold until The Walking Dead goes on hiatus. Good. I practically get knocked up just folding his boxers.

The most thrilling part of my day—besides taking my bra off after dinner—is ogling my new neighbor. Every morning at precisely 10:25, I let Disney Junior babysit the twins and confine Manning to the ExerSaucer. (Hubby took advantage of my post-delivery euphoria when it came to naming the last kid.)

Then I position myself by the window. Like clockwork, Hot Dad strolls past a few minutes later enroute to the park with his pristine little princess. She never has grass stains on her clothes or bruises from a Mega Bloks brawl.

Monday it took longer than usual to free Maisy from Mason’s headlock, so I missed the sexiest ass ever covered in khaki.

Yesterday I woke up early to decipher the triple stroller. For an extra Pop-Tart, Maisy let me brush her hair. I pulled on my nicest yoga pants and a fitted top rather than one of Hubby’s huge, holey concert tees.

Hot Dad was pushing his daughter on the swing when my brood arrived.

“Hello,” I chirped.

“Hey there.” His smile heated my insides. That, or my shirt was cutting off my circulation.

“My mommy watches you in the window,” Mason announced.

Sigh.

I’m expecting a restraining order notice any day now.

# 

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "companion" as defined below:

COMPANION
a :  one that is closely connected with something similar

b :  one employed to live with and serve another

Word count: 333



Can I Just Be Chased By a Chainsaw-Wielding Otherworld Monster Instead?

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: write a 33-word explanation of what scares you (or your character). I can handle psychotic clowns, serial killers and possessed dolls. But this truly scares the crap out of me:

“That’s it. You’re done with that kid.”

“No!”

“Are you crazy? You just said he hit you!”

“I love him.”

“No, you don’t. You’re 15.

“But … I’m pregnant.”

(pause)

"Quick! Hide Daddy's gun!"


DISCLAIMER: The gun thing is tongue in cheek. I would probably say something similar in this scenario because smartassery is a coping mechanism for me. Hubs doesn't even own a gun ... yet. :)

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: write 33 words that follow this illustration in a book:



Artist credit: Dan Duford
www.poisonedplayground.com

Luke grabbed Lilly and pulled her up the embankment.
They ran until they cleared the brush.
"Mum was right,” Lilly said breathlessly once they reached home.
“Liam’s face really did freeze like that!”

Simon Says

“Sara wants to be Madonna circa 1985 for Halloween.”

“Cute,” Gary said over the razor hum. “Wait. Not that cone bra thingy?”

“That was the ‘90s.” I laughed. “No cone bra. Promise.”

I rinsed off my apricot mask and steeled myself for a debate.

“Simon says he wants to be a witch.”

Gary eyed my reflection. “Witches aren’t boys. He can be a wizard.”

“But he wants the pointy hat, the broomstick,” I countered. "The green face."

“If Simon wants to be green, let him be the Hulk.”

*

“Simon says boys on the bus have been teasing him.”

Principal Bennett furrowed her brow at us. “What sorts of things are they saying?”

Simon shrunk in his chair, his eyes imploring me.

“They’ve been saying he's gay,” I said.

“You know how middle schoolers are.” She waved her plump hand dismissively. “Everything’s ‘gay.’ It means ‘stupid’ to them.”

“Well, they call him ‘faggot.’” I thought my throat would close up. “One kid stuck his crotch in Simon’s face and asked if he wanted to suck his …”

I couldn’t look at my son. He’d begged me not to come.

Ms. Bennett stood up. “Simon, please wait outside.”

Once the door closed, the principal sat beside me.

“May I be frank, Mrs. Flask?”

I nodded.

“I think Simon’s wardrobe choices make him a target,” she said. “Perhaps more suitable attire would put an end to the teasing.”

* 

I stood on the porch trembling. I’d just returned from shopping with Sara, who was home from college. We had walked in on Simon with another boy.

“Simon says he loves him, Mom,” Sara explained quietly, touching my arm.

“You knew about this?!” I pushed her away.

*

Gary came home from work and found me in tears.

“Simon says Misty wants a divorce.”

“Why?!” He asked. “What happened?”

We’d been so thrilled when they started dating. And when Simon proposed to Misty, we knew his previous troubles were behind him.

“I don’t know,” I sobbed. “Simon wouldn’t say.”

#

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "mask" as defined below:

MASK

a: a protective covering for the face
b: gas mask
c: a device covering the mouth and nose to facilitate inhalation
d: a comparable device to prevent exhalation of infective material
e: a cosmetic preparation for the skin of the face that produces a tightening effect as it dries

A Birthday Poem for Hubs a.k.a. Suck It, Hallmark!

I tried to find the perfect card

To celebrate you, Honey.

But this blog post will have to do 'cause

Cards cost too much money.

Your (cough) cheap-ass (cough) frugal wife

Would rather die than pay

Six big ones for some mass-produced,

One-poem-fits-all cliché.

So I'm like, "Who needs Hallmark?"

I've been known to drop a rhyme.

And since I'm gainfully unemployed,

I certainly have the time

To tell you just how blessed I am

to have you in my life.

Thanks for puttin' a ring on it

And making me your wife.

As housewives go, I'm not the most

Domestically inclined.

But when the laundry's piling up

You never seem to mind.

You snake out slimy clumps of hair

Each time the shower clogs.
And that's a lot of snaking since

I shed more than the dogs.

You rescued me from snow and now

We're close to Mickey's house,

Which means I get more visits with

My favorite cartoon mouse.

You're always so supportive of

My "projects," and my schemes.

Your faith in me inspires me

To go after my dreams.

Truth is I'm no day at the beach.

Let's face it: I'm a pain.

My snarky, stubborn streak would drive

A lesser man insane.

You take the time to know our kids

When some dads barely bother.

Our babies are so fortunate

To have you as their father.

I never thought I'd find a guy

As awesome as my dad

Then I met you and, I must say,

I didn't do half bad.

Well, that's your birthday poem, Hubs.

I'm sorry if it sucks.

I know it's not a Hallmark, but

I did save six whole bucks!



Helping Daughter
reach new heights

Guiding Son through
life's little storms

 











He does claim them
most of the time.

Sorry, ladies. He's all mine.

 

Confessions of a Tragically Cool Mom

Me: "So, you're actually gonna let me deliver pizza to you ... in public?"
Son: "Yes."
"In front of the whole cafeteria?"
"Yes."
"Do I need to wear a bag over my head?"
"No."
"Can I hold the pizza up with one hand and dance like this?" (neck moving, hips swaying, duck face)
"No."
"Will you hug me?"
"Yes."
"Really?!"
"I might even give you a kiss on the cheek."

Tomorrow is Son's 13th birthday. Today he was willing to risk supreme humiliation to treat his friends to celebratory pizza. Yep, he let me come out of hiding to deliver said pizza. Every kid in that cafeteria now knows Son has a mother. For the record, there was no kiss on the cheek, and the hug was that one-armed, sideways kind usually reserved for stinky people and pervs (of which I am neither). I got the last laugh though, because I'm pretty sure my fly was open while I was there.

It's like this: If we're to be seen together outside the confines of our home, Son would prefer I hold myself to a minimum standard of conduct. Specifically, he'd like me to refrain from dancing, singing or going off on people. Hugs should be quick, and kisses should only take place under the cover of darkness.

This whole "my mother's very existence mortifies me" thing has gone on for about a year now. It coincided with the appearance of his armpit hair, for whatever that's worth. Son doesn't seem to be embarrassed by his dad. Just me. Apparently, Hubs is better behaved than I am. The thing is, I'm actually quite cool. Don't believe me? Here are some facts that attest to my coolness:

• I don't wear mom jeans. I wear mid-rise bedazzled jeans even though my butt crack shows when I sit down.
• I know at least four Ke$ha songs.
• I can rap. Don't put on Ice Ice Baby unless you want me to break it on down.
• Jamie Foxx once asked for my number. That was, like, 20+ years ago. I'm still waiting for him to call, but I deserve cool points for that nonetheless. 
• I own a T-shirt with Thor on it that says "It's hammer time." 
• I can turn my tongue upside down and flip my eyelids inside out. I'm practically a circus act.
• Able to name nine "Star Wars" planets, I am.
• I have a mustache key chain, for crying out loud.

So, obviously Son is the one with the problem, not me. Case in point: Daughter and all her little friends think I'm über cool. Oh, yeah. I'm a big hit with the female-under-12 demographic. Daughter begs me to show the girls how to do "the running man," and it's not even so they can laugh behind my back later.

One day Son will realize how freakin' cool I am. I mean, if he's embarrassed by me now, just wait 'til I'm sporting elastic-waist, polyester pants, orthopedic shoes and have more hair on my lip than he does. You'll see, Son. You'll see.

Happy birthday to my amazingly handsome, incredibly talented, impossibly skinny son. Love you mucho!

 

Is it me, or did he look embarrassed even back then?

 

Girl, You Must Be Field Trippin'

Daughter and I just spent three days in Colonial Williamsburg for her fourth-grade class trip. I passed the background check (I guess an unnatural obsession with Rick Springfield doesn't make one unfit to care for children), so her school let me be one of the chaperones.

It was a great trip. You just can't beat living museums for educational value. Recreations and actors in authentic costumes performing activities how they were done in the past really bring history alive. The colonial wigmaker guzzling a Big Gulp and sporting a cleavage tattoo kinda brought me back into the 21st century, though.



Daughter at Jamestown Settlement



I learned a lot--and not just about colonial times. After more than 20 collective hours on a bus with a bunch of fourth graders and sharing a hotel room with three little girls, I learned that:


• I love kids--as long as they're my own
• Bus bathrooms are an endless source of fascination for 10-year-olds
• All chaperones are not created equally (apparently, laziness isn't detected during the screening process) 
• I may or may not be smarter than a fourth grader, but I definitely have better hygiene
• Some people shouldn't reproduce; if they decide to pop out kids anyway, they shouldn't inflict the results of their crappy parenting on others (i.e., you screwed 'em up, YOU take care of 'em)
• In fourth grade, "boyfriend-girlfriend" means never talking on the phone and never, ever being seen together in public (basically the kind of relationship some grown men would kill to have with their girlfriends)
• My stress level is inversely proportionate to the percentage of charge left on my iPhone