Monday, October 15, 2012

Peeing in the trash can...

Last night Corbin walked out of the bathroom, hand raised to give me a high five and he said two words-  'trash can.' 

So you already know that he totally peed in the trash can, right?  I can sugar coat that 1,000 different ways, but the truth is, he peed in the fucking trash can and also all over the floor.  And once again, I got nuthin'.  Nuthin' to say about it at all.  Except this...

I'll never understand the depth of little boys nastiness.  I told you about the booger wall.  I told you about the biggest Baby C peeing in all my pans and trying to wipe a booger in my mouth.  The babiest Baby C proudly pooping on the trampoline.  I told you about precious nephew peeing in a glove.  There's also the story I never told you all about one of my dearest friends- one time, her son pooped in the sink.  Another friend?  Her son was busted bent over in front of a mirror trying to put a quarter in his butt.  All of this makes me scratch my head and wonder if life would be slightly less...intertwined with buttholes and bodily functions if God had given me daughters instead of sons like I politely requested.  Maybe I wasn't so polite, I can't remember.  My point is while some mom is loving playing dolls with her daughter, I'm over here trying to figure out how my kids got pee on their ceiling.  I'm not kidding.  That actually happened.  And honestly, I don't wanna know how they did it. 

My boys are a constant reminder that as a parent and even as a human being, I don't know shit.  It's also a constant reminder that no matter how hard you try you can never, ever be prepared for everything.  And the worst part is, that the stuff you actually prepare for?  It isn't gonna happen, I promise.  It's called 'life getting you up the butt' and it's all about the element of surprise.

There is nobody- nobody- who knew more about raising kids than me.  Before I had kids, of course. Then when you have them you realize that parenting books don't prepare you for much of anything.  I mean, they'll help you keep a baby alive, but actually turning them into productive adults?  That is a crapshoot.   And the best I can do, my friends, is tell you good luck with that!

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Everything I know about marriage...

So, remember a long, long time ago when I told you that I know loads of shit about marriage?  Well, get ready dear friends.  I'm about to impart some wisdom.

  •   One of you is going to be an asshole at all times. Make sure that you are an asshole fewer times than your spouse.

  • Try to not be an asshole, always.

  • The 50/50 rule is bullshit.  Are you comfortable with giving 80% and your partner giving 20%?  Cool.  You're ready to get married.

  •  Give 85%, always.

  •  I promise you than at some point in your marriage, you will contemplate divorce, murder and/or running away.

  •  Don't file for a divorce, kill your spouse or run away and join the circus no matter how tempting a trapeze career appears.  Always.

  • If you're a guy:  Give your spouse attention.  Make her feel special.  Show her that you think about her when you're not together.  Tell her she's beautiful.  Tell her she's brilliant.  Recite poetry.  Write songs.  Make her feel like she's the only woman alive.  The occasional blue box from Tiffany's won't hurt and when is the last time you took her out for a nice dinner or bought her a little gift for no reason you selfish jerk?  Rub her feet.  Tell her she's beautiful again.

  • If you're a girl:  Blowjobs.  And when he doesn't want a blowjob?  Feed him.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

About Lucid Dreaming...

You guys know I'm sorta obsessed with anti aging stuff, right?  (if you didn't, now you do.  Friends?  I'd like to introduce you to Christine's obsession with anti aging.  Obsession?  These are my friends.) Anyway, I recently started taking a couple of supplements that are supposed to combat the effects of aging- and they share the same side effect-  vivid, lucid dreams.  Woooohoooooo!!

Ok- just in case you're curious, they're Acetyl L-Carnitine and Lipoic Acid (recommended by Dr. Oz for memory...if I remember correctly) and something called DMAE (recommended by Dr. Perricone, the skin genius, for skin anti aging benefits).  Technically, I have no idea what they do or even what they do in combination.  All I know is that the nighttime hours just got a whole lot freakier. 

At first it sounds great, right?  Lucid dreaming means that you are aware you're dreaming and that you have some control over what you do while you're spending the night in dreamland, right?  Sorta.  It means that all of your dreams, the good and the bad, are VIVID.  And controlling them?  Yeah, you can IF you have a lot of control over how your brain works to start with.  Hush up.  I can totally hear you laughing.

Honestly, even the really, really horrible nightmares are funny (I know that's weird and I'm sorry.  Actually, I'm not sorry at all, but I'm sorry about THAT.) And yeah, I've been able to do a little of the stuff where you can decide what to dream and then actually dream it, but that stuff has gone horribly wrong.  It's sorta like watching a movie in slow motion in which you're the star.  My problem is that when it veers in the direction of 'ohhhh!  I'm getting ready to enter a forest full of vampires' instead of running away like a normal person, I run neck first into the forest yelling 'yooohooo vampires!  I'm over here!!  And I'm probably delicious!'  Anyway, the lucid dreaming stuff is apparently very, very temporary.  But until it's over?  I'm going to enjoy every creepy, freaky, bitey second of it.  And of course, I'll tell you all about it...

Saturday, September 29, 2012

How my 7 year old son tricked me into buying him a car

This probably doesn't come as a shock to you, but I enjoy taking care of people.  Including and especially sick people.  Tonight, Colin has the stomach flu.  In between fetching him Ginger Ale (no ice, purple straw) and water (crushed, not cubed ice, blue straw)  I came to the realization that when I'm taking care of my kids like this, I'm almost...happy?

Please don't call Child Protective Services or throw around phrases like 'Munchausen by Proxy'.  It's not like that at all.  I just feel really, really super duper useful when my kids are sick.  They're outgrowing their need for me minute by minute.  I've changed my last diaper, bathed my last baby and sooner or later, I'll never struggle to match a sippy cup with a lid again. I hate that shit.  So why am I so sad about it?

I guess what brought this on was Facebook.  Not Facebook, Facebook, but the Facebook that lets you look at all the videos you've posted over the last 5 years or so and get a good look at what your life looked like then.  I found a video of the biggest Baby C when he was a little over 2 years old.  He's 7 now.  Five years doesn't seem like a lot, does it?

In grown up years, 5 years is practically nothing. But in littles years?  5 years is long enough to forget what the landscape of my life looked like on a certain spring morning when Baby C and I discovered a little tree frog hopping around our porch.  I had forgotten the way his eyes lit up when he got excited. How he smiled from the inside out.  (I swear that kid sparkled.  In the best possible way)  I had forgotten his voice.  That sweet, soft voice that I heard so much I actually hoped and prayed for laryngitis.  The way he loved to perform- singing, dancing- anything- that made me laugh. 

And of course, I also forgot the way he would pretend to fall asleep beside me during nap time and then wreak havoc on my bedroom with a sharpie.  How he meticulously lined up all my pots and pans so he could pee in them.  The time he hit me in the head with a boot the day I tried to stop cussing.  I guess that's one of the beautiful things about parenting- the good things fade a little, but then again, so do the shitty things.

I was talking to Stacy tonight and I told her that I thought the best part of parenting happens when there are no bad things happening.  That all that is required for good times to prevail is the absence of bad things.  And that's totally true.  But also?

Tonight as I was fetching the Ginger Ale and water, rearranging the covers, fluffing the pillow, kissing the warm cheek, Colin looked up at me and said 'Mommy?  You're the best mom ever because I can always count on you.  You ALWAYS take such good care of me. Thanks for that.'  Damn.  He totally knows how to work me. He's getting a car tomorrow.

Monday, September 17, 2012

Cussing like a 4 year old...

The babiest Baby C could best be described as a curmudgeon-  he's a surly, grumpy little guy disguised as a charming little guy with wild curly hair, dimples, and the bluest of blue eyes (at my house, they're referred to as 'Connery Blue').  When he's not busy being charming, he's busy as hell being a demon.  Seriously.  Sometimes I think his sole purpose in life is to fuck with me.

Last week, as I was driving Corbin to preschool I pissed him off by refusing his request for a trip to Chick Fil A to eat breakfast (all he really wanted to do was play in that germ infested play area or as I've been known to call it, hepatitis with a ball pit).  He gave me the stink eye, mouth in a grim, determined line and growled 'FINE!  Then I'm gonna...say a BAD WORD!' 

I braced myself.  I cuss like a sailor.  A sailor who never has any intention of kissing his momma with that mouth.  My kids are familiar with the f, s, a, b, and d words.  And if there isn't a swear word to fit the occassion, sometimes, I make them up.  Not that my kids have heard any heard any of that shit directly from me- Frank needs his mouth washed out with soap.  Anyway, I looked at him and said "go ahead.  If it will make you feel better, let it rip."

"Chicken.  Chicken fat.  Chicken butt.  Chicken butt fat chocolate ding dong.  Chocolate ding dong fat butt crack.  Chocolate...butt crack HOLE!"  This was followed by a very quiet, almost whispered "chocolate ding dong...tea bagging!"  He glared at me.. 

I tried my best to act offended.  I didn't laugh and I'm incredibly proud because inside I went straight to the ugly, noiseless laugh that makes me pee.  Inside, I was dying.  But outside?  I was the picture of horrified motherly composure. I appeared to be mortified and contrite.  He was, of course, thrilled.

I dropped him off at preschool (Christian preschool- pretty sure they would frown at my creative manipulation of the English language) feeling satisfied and a little, I'll admit, like I had won this battle.  Of course, my friends, this means I've yet to fight the war...

Friday, August 31, 2012

Book Review...of lady porn

So you probably already know that 'lady porn' has become a huge deal lately- everybody and their grandmother is reading '50 Shades' (yawn) and since wrapping up that naughty trilogy, we've all moved on to other similarly scintillating reading material. 

First, I wanna say that women have been reading dirty books forever-  have you seen rows upon rows of 'heaving bosom' novels at Target?  Yeah, me too but I quit reading those in junior high, as did most of my friends.  Since then we've moved on to bigger and better reading material.  (side note:  have you ever noticed how, whilst discussing lady porn, everything becomes dirty??  Bigger and better?  Get it?  Oh, fuck...never mind.)

I love Megan Hart's books, so if you're looking for post 50 Shades stuff, I suggest you start there.  They're well written and they get to the dirty stuff pretty quickly.  'Deeper' was my favorite so far and she has a couple of new books coming out in September.

I'm finishing 'Bared to You' right now and, although I will definitely finish it, it's just barely.  The guy in the book comes off like a creepy stalker and his dirty talk is AWFUL.  So now, of course, I'm making a list of things you can't say in a dirty book.  Here's the first part:

**Hang on - this reminds me of a conversation Stacy and I had many years ago about talking dirty where we both decided on a number of words that are just...forbidden.  Ding dong (any ding derivative like 'ding a ling',) hiney, and most euphemisms for vagina. I could go on for days, but you get the point, right?**

Anyway, the following is a list of words and phrases I took directly from 'Bared to You'- I would like to remove these from all forms of dirty talk, forever:

  • Fisted (relax you pervs- this refers to hands being fisted in someone's hair.  It's still gross)
  • Quivering (makes me think you're cold and slightly afraid)
  • Spasming (sounds like it hurts plus they make medication for that)
  • Needy (just never attractive on anyone)
  • Sex (a vagina can't be referred to as a 'sex'- it confuses me)
  • Arousal (can imagine my 7th grade health teacher saying it)
  • Making love or any request to 'Hold me"(I'm still laughing- it's lady porn for Christ's sake- we'll have none of that)
  • Buttocks and/or butt (unsexy as fuck)
  • Chafed (ouch)
  • Panties (Oh God, please stop referring to women's underwear as panties.  Please.)
  • Throbbing, Pulsing, Clenching, Tender, and Aching (Ewww, icky and ouch.)
  • Oral skills (really??  That's what you're gonna call it??  Now methinks you don't have any.)
  • Strained at the confines (makes me thing you're popping the buttons on your pants after eating Thanksgiving dinner)
  • Torso (What. The. Fuck.  Reminds me of the movie '13 Ghosts'.  Remember?  When one of the ghosts was called 'the torso'??  Remember?!? It happened, I swear.)
  • Big, beautiful penis (Hahahamotherfuckinghahaha!!!!  Oh, God- I needed to laugh like that!)
  • Spurting hotly (Gross.  If you're 'spurting hotly' all over a girl, you need to go to the doctor for a shot of penicillin. Or so I've heard.)
  • Convulsive (No. Reminds me of a grand mal seizure- not even a little bit sexy)
  • Stroke (Billy Squier.  Not sexy.)
  • Semen (Gag.  I shouldn't have to add this one, but...)
  • Crown (Of what??  A king??  A baby crowning??  Not sexy in the slightest.  Plus, it makes me giggle.)
  • Anus (I'm already giggling.  And dear God never mention it in the same sentence as the word 'pucker'. Page 234- I'm not joking.)
  • Anal Play (now I'll never stop giggling)
  • Rimmed, Tissues, Underskirts, Mounted (what is this, 1857?!?!)
  • Screwing like minks (sounds like something someone would say when they aren't having sex...ever)
  • Pantyless (barf.  Stop with the 'panties' already!)
Honestly, I have notes in the margin all the way through this book- it made me laugh too much for it to be sexy at all. 

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

First I would like to say that this has, by far, been the best and busiest summer vacation ever.  It seems like only yesterday I was bitching about how long summer vacation was gonna be and hiding wine in various locations around the house in case of a terrible wine shortage type emergency.  I was dreading it for two reasons:  the Baby C's.  I haven't spent a summer alone with my children since...ever.

This summer I discovered that the biggest Baby C has incredible powers of persuasion.  So powerful, that I'm convinced he'll grow up to be some incredibly shady criminal defense attorney.  Which will come in handy because I also confirmed my suspicion that the babiest Baby C is preparing for a future career as leader of a crime syndicate or possibly a rock star with a penchant for black toenail polish and pantyhose. 

I discovered that I won't explode or end up with an alcohol problem that even the Betty can't handle if I go on vacation with my kids.  In a car.  And hotel rooms.  With Frank driving.  I sorely underestimated my attraction to deserted beaches and haunted ships and all things frightening like giant crabs lumbering across the beach at 1am and $3 Apple Mojitos.  It was perfectly wonderful- and when you start a vacation on Friday the 13th it can't be anything but perfect, right? 

Also,  I learned that it's impossible for my kids to embarrass me by saying things like 'boobies', 'chocolate ding dong' or 'do you think my mom is hot'.  I do however get embarrassed when one of my son's friends walks through my closed bedroom door and into my bathroom closet while I'm changing clothes.  What is seen cannot be unseen.  Poor kid.

This has been the summer of the most incredibly surprising and wonderful friendships-  I discovered that I'm a happier, more productive and slightly less bitchy person with them around. Now I have people in my life that I never thought I would have.  And I've lost people I thought I would never lose.  I've learned to cherish what I have and let the rest go. I've enjoyed lending a shoulder to the people I love. And I've enjoyed not being embarrassed when I need a shoulder to lean on.  I have an amazing group of friends (and family) I can be 100% myself with- and that says a lot because I'm weird as fuck. Honestly, though- they're weird as fuck, too.  Funny how we all ended up together.

This has been the summer of discovering things about myself that surprised me.  Of changing, evolving beliefs and of being excited about what the rest of my life holds.  It's taught me the value of being real- really, really real. And honest.  And it's taught me the value of accepting what's really real about other people, too. 

Thursday, August 2, 2012 totally feels like you need to poop...

I always laugh when I read books and magazines when women ask 'How will I know when I'm in labor?  I'm afraid of going to the hospital and being sent home, embarrassed.'  First, if you think you're the most embarrassing thing people at the hospital have seen, then you've never been to a little something called the 'emergency room'.  As a nursing school dropout, I can tell you that the things people put in their butts is astounding- your false labor is nothing.  Do you have a thermometer or a pop bottle wedged in your hiney?  No?? Come back when you do.  Then we'll talk.

Basically, labor feels like you need to poop.  Really, really bad for about 18 1/2 hours.  If you think you're actually going to have to go to the potty, then get your happy ass to the hospital lest you end up on a tv show called 'I Had My Baby in the Toilet at Waffle House.'  I'm not joking about that.  That is EXACTLY what it feels like.

Or, you can be like me and head to the hospital the second you feel anything stirring below your belly button.  (with the babiest Baby C, I sat at Chili's telling Frank "Daaayyyyum.  I need to go the bathroom. I think my puffy chicken was tainted.")  When we got home that evening, I told Frank to go to bed.  That I was gonna drive myself to the hospital, but I was sure I would be back in 30 minutes after they told me, of course, that I just needed to poop. I'm not kidding.  Ask him.)  Of course, this was my second baby, so I was probably dilated to a 17 or something (Side note:  If you're ever curious about the definition of the word 'love', just wait and see how delighted you are when your anesthesiologist comes in to give you your epidural while you're in labor.  I promised mine a bj. Once again, not kidding.) 

Oh!  This is kinda funny.  When the anesthesiologist was giving me my epidural with the biggest Baby C, Frank was all "Christine, you should see this- you would love this-  the needle is like 15 feet long and he's putting it in your damned spine..."  And I was all "I'll fucking go all Oklahoma on your ass and fuck you uppp if you keep....Oh, hell...why, hello handsome...")  With the babiest Baby C, I was a pro- my water broke when he was putting the needle in.  I didn't flinch.  Instead I gave the anesthesiologist a hug and said  "I love you and where were you during conception, when I really needed you?!"

All I'm trying to impart is this-  when you're in labor, you'll KNOW- because it fucking hurts.  And if you do go the hospital only to be sent home?? It's not a big deal at all.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Dear Corbin...

Happy Birthday, sweet baby- I want to be the first person to welcome you to your fourth year on earth.  Can you believe we've both made it this far?  Neither can I, but we did it!  An extra piece of cake for you and a nice present for mommy for surviving this last year- you keep me on my toes!  Thank God, you keep me young, too.

I gotta admit- I'm a little blue about this- three year olds are definitely babies, but four year olds?  That's the line in the sand- you're officially a big boy. 

I see your oldest brother, Kyle, at age 14 and he's almost a grown up.  He'll be driving in two short years.  I met him ten years ago and that time has flown by so fast it's ridiculous.  He looks like a teenager now.  He talks like a teenager.  He smells like a teenager.

I see your middle brother, the biggest Baby C, Colin, and he's looking 8 in the face.  I still vividly remember how scared I was when Daddy and I brought him home from the hospital.  I spent his first year of life terrified I would break him.   (or that he would break me- he was mean!)  He is starting to look like a middle school kid.  He talks like a middle school kid.  He smells like a teenager, though.  He's stinky.

You're my little Joe Joe- the tiny dude who sits on my boobs and holds my face in his hands when he wants my attention.  You're the voice I hear when I walk out of the room that's yelling "Mommy- where you going?  I NEED you!"  You're the frantic race to the front door when I walk outside when I get the mail.  You make sure I'm never lonely  ("Hey mommy- you taking a shower?  Ok.  I'll open the door so you not lonely.") or uneducated ("Mommy I want Team Umizoomi NOOOOWWWWW!!!!") or lazy (Mommy get up and play Power Rangers with me.  I the red ranger- you a Nighlock...")  You're my little Leo- it's all about you, all the time ("Mommy I'm so friggin' cute!")  You're my little tough guy ("Hey, Connie?  See my muscles?  They're huge.")

You're also the kid who pooped on the trampoline.  The kid who gave himself a mullet. The kid who begs for makeup and nail polish (black only, of course).  The kid who redecorated my upstairs with spray paint.  You're the kid who randomly asks people if they want to see his butt.  Your conversation is peppered with phrases like 'chocolate ding dong', 'boobies', 'teabagging' and 'sorry for party rocking, baby girl'.  You're hilarious without trying.  You're too cute for your own good.  You're a criminal mastermind.  Probably.  You're the boy who tells me "Mommy?  You're adorable!" when I tuck him in.  (Side note:  you're very free with the compliments "Mommy, you look like a fairy godmother!" And also quick to point out if I'm slipping "Mommy, where you makeup?  You don't look like a princess today.")

Oh, hell.  Now that I think about it, I'm ready for you to grow up.  But just a tiny bit, ok?

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The post that made me nervous...

This is the only post that, as I'm writing, I'm a little nervous.  No idea why- if you know me in real life then you probably already know this about me.  If not, then...welcome to my life.  You're gonna need to pull up a a chair.  And wine.  You're gonna need wine.

My personality is best described as goofy-  I'm happy go lucky.  I'm joke you if you can't take a fuck.  I'm silly.  I'm always doing something way worse than what you're doing (that's just so you can feel better about your life compared to me.  You're welcome!)  I'm non-judgemental.  I love with every single bit of my heart.  And hate?  I hate practically nobody.  I'm boring like that.  I'm ADHD multiplied by infinity.  I'm a hugger- I'm the Golden Retriever of friends- eventually, I'm gonna jump on you and lick your face.  Plus, I jump around a lot when I'm happy, anyway (would totally wag a tail if I had one...fucking evolution!) Sounds pretty happy, right?

Yeah, usually it is and that's what's so fucked up about anxiety and depression- it takes an otherwise bubbly, somewhat normal person and reduces them to despair.  (These days, I don't give a rat's ass about normal- normal is for people without courage.  Please kill me if I ever seem to be edging over into 'normal territory'.) But after the oldest Baby C was born, I didn't recognize myself.  And I doubt that anybody else would have recognized me either.

After the biggest Baby C was born, I cried every single day when I woke up. Every day without fail, friends. And it took me 6 months to leave the house.  When I did, I had a horrible panic attack in the middle of the happiest place on earth- Target.  I remember Baby C screaming while I tried to make it through the checkout line without passing out-  everything looked like I was in a tunnel.  My heart was beating fast,  my chest hurt and I couldn't breathe.  I wanted to toss my Baby C to someone better, more competent while I ran somewhere ending in an ocean with no cell phones.  That far.  I was overwhelmed.  I was sad.  I didn't understand a fucking thing about postpartum depression.  But clearly, I had it. And it fucking sucked ass.

Anxiety and depression are prisons.  And thieves.  They're prisons and thieves who steal everything you love and replace all the beautiful colors in your life with shit.  The most fucked up part is that when you should be the happiest of happy (you can have everything you ever want- but it just doesn't matter- getting up and climbing out of bed each day is a struggle)  that's when it hits-   like it's waiting...just waiting for you to let your guard down for a second.  That's the fucked up news. 

The good news? I figured out how to survive- it involved the very best of the best of friends- my girls- to whom I'm eternally grateful.  It involved music that speaks to my soul.  It involved love.  It involved everyone who loved me and were willing to tell me that they loved me. (And medication, why lie about that, right?).    Of course, there's help. And the light at the end of the tunnel? Yeah, it's definitely not a train- it's the sun. 

Friday, July 20, 2012

Rules for the Burp Game...

And fine, the fart game.  Just because I know that you'll be unable to rest until you know.

First let me say that this is the most asinine game in history- I think my kids change the rules every so often, probably to discourage me from playing. Also, so they can punch me.  Scratch everything but that last part- they enjoy punching me a little too much and that's just fucked up.

THE BURP GAME:  After burping, the burper must say 'touchdown' before their opponent says 'blitz'.  If their opponent says 'blitz' first, then the burper must find a door handle to touch.  In the meantime, the opponent can punch the shit out of the burper as much as they want.

THE FART GAME:  After farting (side note:  I have friends who refer to this as 'gassing'  or 'fluffing' isn't gassing or, God forbid, fluffing, guys- it's a fart.  That is all.)  the farter must say 'safety' before their opponent says 'doorknob'.  If their opponent says 'doorknob' first, the farter must find a doorknob to touch.  In the meantime, you guessed it- punching the shit out of the farter is required.

My kids added some special rule or addendum called 'the reverse clause' that says when they burp or fart, everything is reversed.  This means that they burp and I have to say 'blitz' or they get to punch the shit out of me until I figure out what I'm supposed to do next.  It is utterly unfair.  They also get to punch me if they randomly say 'slugbug' (you can't convince me that's a real game) or 'sno cone shack'.  No idea why they get to punch me if they see a sno cone shack- punching me is a very bad way to get me in the mood for a little snowy deliciousness.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

The Spitting at Sea World Incident (and what I think of waterparks, fast food play areas and truck stop bathrooms)

They're all disgusting.  So very disgusting...

Let's start with truck stop bathrooms or just public restrooms in general.  No.  Just no.  The best part of my recent public restrooming experience is that Demon is in the process of potty training.  This means I'm familiar with every public restroom from here to...Port Aransas, Texas.   I hate using public restrooms so much that when we finally got to Corpus Christi, I had to pee so badly that I thought I was gonna puke.  I'm guessing that the only thing worse than peeing in a public restroom is puking in one.  And I'm so not a germaphobe- I'd like to borrow somebody else's obsessive compulsive disorder for a minute so I can finally get all the rooms in my house clean at the same time.  

Play areas at fast food restaurants?  After my kids go into one, I'm completely unwilling to touch them until they've been dipped in hand sanitizer.   (It's not like that matters- I love them a little more when they're clean anyway.  And little boys almost always need a bath.) I'm serious about this one- when we stopped somewhere around Austin to eat breakfast, my kids enthusiastically played in the Chick-Fil-A play area.  A few minutes later while we were shopping in Target, the oldest Baby C needed a hug. I hugged him with a stick.  From about 15 feet away.

Waterparks?  Public swimming pools in general?  Like swimming in a toilet.  While we were at Aquatica in San Antonio, I saw a group of adults sitting in the kiddie pool with nary a kid in sight.  You totally know they were peeing, right?  I wanted to tell them they were oh so very busted, but Frank made me leave instead.  I think it was the spitting incident that did him in

Leslie, her eldest little and my three littles (including Frank in there, naturally) waited in line for about 45 minutes so we could ride...I forget, but it was the ride where you go under the sting rays??  Not that I would have known- I was too busy impersonating a cat and trying to keep my face out of the pee water.  Anyway, about half way through our wait, Demon started giving the stink eye to...everyone.  Including the sweet mom behind us and her 3 year old daughter.  Apparently they didn't know the rule about 'no eye contact with Demon until he gives you the go ahead' and he responded to their "oh my, you are just the cutest little guy..." by spitting at them.  Repeatedly.  Frank and I were mortified, of course, but when you're at a waterpark, you're gonna get wet...from pee water or Demon spit.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

"Well, I've only heard him say 'boobies' a few times..."

...and that's the very best thing I heard all vacation.  My friend Leslie said it about Demon- we were discussing how strangely well behaved both of my children had been- and except for a few sporadic 'boobies' here and there and the spitting incident at Sea World ('boobies' happened to our waitress at the hotel during breakfast- she asked Demon if he wanted syrup to which he replied 'boobies.' No idea, people) they were pretty darned good.  For my kids.

We went to Texas, which was awesome because that is my very favorite state.
First, I thought Frank and I made a terrible mistake underestimating the power of my children to stay awake on sheer willpower and sugar- we woke them up at 1:00am and put their little butts in the car hoping they would sleep the majority of the way.  Of course, you guessed it, they talked like machine guns for about 30 minutes.  (where do they get that, anyway?!) After they finally fell asleep, I dozed a little, making Frank promise to wake me in Dallas so I could wave to all of our friends (hello to my sister from another mister Kelly and her family, my former E50 block party participants Karen and Rob, etc.)  Anyway, after waving, I fell asleep until we had breakfast somewhere around Austin.  I love how that works.

The best part of our trip was that it started on Friday 13th, which happens to be my lucky day.  And it was such an amazing day- I saw my babies as they tentatively and briefly dipped their toes in the ocean for the first time (there were a bazillion jellyfish) AND we-- hold your breath-- toured one of the most haunted places in America, the USS Lexington. I know.  Evil girl heaven.

The next day we ventured to Port Aransas which was the best part of the trip for me- I loved how laid back and relaxed everything was.  I also loved the fact that Texas sells wine in GROCERY stores AND they have liquor stores with drive through windows.  I made Frank buy wine at every grocery store we went to, just because he could.  Plus, I  like wine. 

AND we had some awesome traveling buddies- our friends Cole and Leslie and their babies.  What's great about traveling around other families is that their littles entertain your littles so there's more time for things like Mexican Martinis.  (I love Leslie because she is funny as hell and she loves 'mommy's happy hour' as much as I do- it was a win-win for me.)

In Corpus Christi, I ordered wine from room service (vacation fantasy #1) and I drank in on the balcony overlooking the haunted ship and a perfectly deserted beach (vacation fantasy #2). Another night, the boys collected crabs from the beach (which I'm sure is one of their vacation fantasies, but it's not even in my top 20) We ended the vacation in San Antonio, which could not have been more perfect- or any hotter.  I'm not kidding- it was hotter than hell there. Seriously.  It was fucking HOT.

The drive home was even tolerable, although I did threaten to stab Frank in the neck with a fork periodically.  Sorry.  I soooo needed a nap.

Next?  The spitting at Sea World story and what I think of waterparks and truck stop bathrooms.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

This week's wine post...I'll name him 'vodka'...

Welcome to this week's wine post and I'm not gonna lie- it's totally vodka's fault.  Vodka is evil as shit.
I recently ended a phone conversation with my bff, Stacy, in which we discussed, at length, why we aren't married to each other, because we're fucking awesome AND why we can't enjoy 'Magic Mike'.  (Me:  Because my nephew looks like Channing Tatum  Her:  Because Matthew McHoweveryouspellhislastname looks like a douche in a leather vest)  But, I promised there will be Coke icees and she has permission to throw popcorn at my boobs.  It will be a very, very good day. And it will certainly happen very soon.

I'm wondering if AT&T has a 'slobbering' warranty for IPhone's because I keep carrying mine around in my mouth.  I'm serious.  There are teeth marks all over my otter box.  That sounds so much nastier than it is. (*disappointed*)

Taking the kids on our first family vacation.  What?!  It's gonna rain all week in Corpus fucking Christi?!?!  Well...thank God they're civilized in Texas and sell wine in grocery stores...they also sell something called 'Beaver Nuggets' so, I'm good!!

My bff, Stacy??  She's going on a family vacation where she needs a little something called 'bear spray'.  Yuh huh.  I don't think 'bear spray' is something that makes people wanna bare their cash and prizes, but whatever.  I'm totally in.

And vodka?!  Yeah.  You're evil.  Which means that after Stacy, you're totally my number two.  And shut up about being my number two- I still can't order fish tacos without laughing. 

I have some really bad, super bad, awful news for you...

...the terrible two's?  Totally true.  But the Tyrannical Three's?  Much worse!  And nobody is going to prepare you for that shit. 

The Terrible Two's are terrible...kinda.  They're terrible because your two year old, who was totally a baby yesterday, has realized they have a teeny bit of power.  And they wield it like someone with two years' life experience- they're terrible at it.  They'll kick your ass in the grocery store- because they're tired and they just wanna go home and take a nap.  But your three year old?  They'll kick your ass in the grocery store because YOU'RE tired and you wanna go home and take a nap.  Huge difference.

The difference is a little something called premeditation.  And that means that while you're looking at them thinking how cute and innocent they look, they're smiling at you thinking 'I'm fucking taking you out.  Today.  2:00.  I will not be defeated!'  And they won't.  Because they aren't tired.  They're well rested and they're completely ready for YOU and whatever you're bringing along with you.

Today, before 9:30am, I said all of the following:  (I'm so not playing- ask Frank- he'll back me up....well, he might not back me up but he'll at least agree that I was a bitch way before the bitching hour)

  • Stop licking me.  Stop licking that. Put your tongue in your mouth and leave it there.
  • I hope you get worms from licking your shoe/brother/the toilet seat.
  • Yuh-huh!  I AM the boss of you!  
  • Yuh-huh! I AM a grown up!
  • Nope. They're not drums- they're boobs.  And they're mine!
  • I will NOT play Rack City on the way to school. 
  • You can't play with the Ipad while you're pooping, because you'll be touching it with 'poop fingers'.
  • If you take your finger out of your nose for one fucking minute, maybe it will stop bleeding.
  • You did NOT make that noise with your butt, therefore it is NOT funny.  We have standards around here!
  • Please don't put nails in the electrical outlets and put daddy's hammer away before DHS shows up and takes you away!
  • Wait...Keep the nails.  Keep the hammer.  Never mind.
  • The pink Hello Kitty band aids?  They're mine! You used all of your Dora the Explorer band aids-?!?! SUFFER, BITCHES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm so not kidding....this was before 9:30, guys.  In the morning.  And this was just one little boy- I have several of those lying around the house right now.  Sigh...I need so much more wine...

Saturday, July 7, 2012

I'm drawn to weirdness like a moth to a flame, people. If you're familiar with my taste in music, friends, clothing, movies...(honestly at this moment I can't think of a single thing about me that's normal so just go ahead and insert whatever you want in this space______) then you already know this about me.  If you're bothered by weirdness then you should go read something else for a while even if you're on the potty because this just won't be worth it.

I kissed a python yesterday.  And I liked it.  I wanted to bring it home with me.  But that's not too weird, right?  It's not like I kissed it on the mouth.  It was just a itty bitty baby python.  A baby python that someday will be almost as tall as a tiny human being and possess the ability to slowly strangle me in my sleep.  But it was so damned cute.  It made me want to have a baby or a pet.  I think we all agree that it's just best for my neighborhood and the universe in general if I don't repopulate anything. But I totally want a new pet.  A weird one.

Frank said a very loud and emphatic NO to a snake of any kind.  He also said NO to rats.  And anything that rhymes with 'rats'... like 'bats'.  Which is super unfair because I totally love bats right now.  It also unfairly eliminated 'cats', which I love, too.  It also eliminates gnats and probably some other shit, too, but I'm too lazy to go through the rest of the alphabet.  Suffice it to say I can't have any super cute rhyming pets.  And that's so fucking unfair.

Anyway, I can't have a bat but I can have something called a sugar glider which looks suspiciously like a bat but doesn't rhyme at all so I'm safe.  Plus one of my friends owns a couple of sugar gliders and said they're totally assholes (the sugar gliders are assholes- not my friend) and you know what that means, right?  It means they'll fit in perfectly around here. 

Sunday, July 1, 2012

For Dax... on July 18th, I'm taking my amazing nephew, Dax, to see Slipknot and Slayer in Oklahoma City.  I'm excited because I took him to his first concert when he was around 5 (Nickelback. He has forgiven me for that and you should, too) I'm especially excited because he is one of my most favorite people in the world.  Since he became an almost grown up man, we haven't had a chance to spend a lot of time together. I can't wait to catch up with him- we're sooo gonna stay up all night and eat junk food and ding dong ditch the other people in the hotel.  There may be wine involved somewhere, too, but only for me.  But back to my nephew- he's 20.  He wrestles at the very best college in Oklahoma.  He's badass.  And he's so much like me it's scary. 

The first time I held him, I felt completely connected to something bigger than myself- even though I was only a kid myself.  I fell in love in a split second. If you look at the picture my mother took of me holding him for the very first time, it's all love.  Nothing but love. 

You see, God did something funny to my sister and I- he gave brown eyed me two little boys who look suspiciously like my sister.  Blue eyes...fair skin... but at least when I'm out in public, I can pretend they're not mine, right?  Anyway, he also gave sweet baby sister some kiddos who share some startling dna with their awesome Aunt T (that's me).

The weird tumbleweed-ish super duper curly hair?  Dax has it.  The annoying allergies?  Yeah.  He has them.  The love of music?  Yuh-huh.  The creativity?  The hyperactive outgoing  goofy personality?  Yes!  And yes!  The unholy LOVE of scary movies and being scared? The answer is yes. The superior athletic ability?  That's from his dad.  But a lot of what I see in me, I see in Dax.  And in my other niece and nephew, too.  It's crazy how that works.

When Dax was a baby, I realized how badly I wanted to be a mother.  After I became a mother, I realized how incredible- what an immense and perfect gift- being an aunt was.  It was all the awesomeness of parenthood but better because there was no pressure.  Being an aunt is like taking only the very best things about parenthood, minus the stress.  If you ask me, being an aunt is one of the luckiest and best relationships in the world.  It's all good stuff.  How often does that happen?  And besides that, sweet baby sister managed to raise three- count 'em, three- awesome people that I actually like to spend time with.  I'd pick all of them as friends.  That's pretty amazing, if you ask me!

I love being an aunt so much that my bonus son?  My 14 year old sweetpea from Frank's first marriage? The name on my wrist that hurt so much I'd rather drag a flaming hedgehog out of my butt than have that tattoo repeated?  He calls me 'Aunt T' just like his cousins.  That's another relationship I adore...and it's coming up next.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

If there was ever any doubt that I'm possibly slightly nerdy, I'm getting ready to totally erase that for you forever.  Ok.  Now you can suck it for reminding me that by saying 'possibly slightly' I really mean 'totally fucking.'  I am.  And I wave the nerd banner proudly.

I've always been a nerd.  I know I've said it eleventy thousand times, but my first crush really was Eddie Munster, one of the only non rock star, rock stars I know.  While other little girls carried around pictures of Andy Gibb and Shaun Cassidy, I carried a Munsters lunchbox.  This crush was followed very shortly by a crush on Peter Criss (I still have that one) and like a true gateway crush, led to something more serious:  a membership in the Kiss Army.  When I was in the third grade.  This, dear friends makes me a rock star nerd.

Of course, loving Peter Criss led me to actually loving music.  That, and my mom bought me a copy of 'Hotter Than Hell' for my birthday when I was around 8 and I learned all the words to every song in two days. She bought me that record and a snazzy little orange record player.  Which was a gateway gift because in the 80's, Evil Christine discovered metal bands and that was the point of no return for me.  Throughout my life, I've counted on music like it was my best friend.  I moved around a shit ton as a kid- I went to 13 different schools before I was 17. Music gave me a way to communicate.  A way to feel less lonely. A happy place and a way to fit in.  This, dear friends makes me a music nerd.

When I was a Senior in high school, I had one of the most amazing teachers in the world for advanced Anatomy and Physiology.  (I know, right?  Advanced!  As if!)  Mr. Byfield was one of my very favorite teachers.  He didn't let me slide.  He made me work.  He made me love science with a passion.  When I talk about science and how amazing and fun it is, my eyes glaze over a little.   This is totally a gateway school subject because, as a result,  I was actually sad when college chemistry was over.  I loved my Microbiology professor so much I hugged her on the last day of class.  I get a little hot and bothered over microscopes and petri dishes.  This makes me a science nerd.  (and also possibly super, duper strange)

Also, I love to read.  If you give me a choice between watching a movie and reading, I'll always choose the book.  My parents used to have to frisk me for books before we ate dinner.  So I would just read the ketchup bottle instead.  (My parents were so mean!)  My favorite book is 'A Wrinkle in Time'- Madeline L'Engle was totally a rock star.  I re-read that book at least once a year. I love words.  I love language.  And that makes me a book nerd.

This year, I discovered bats in my backyard.  Once, in the middle of the day, there were two precious little bats (see what I mean?) on our trampoline.  You guessed it- gateway mammal because I'm in my happy place when the moon is out and I'm watching my bats eat.  I also willingly attract mosquitoes for them to eat so they can have a yummy bat meal.  Mosquitoes leave a bite on me the size of a cantaloupe.  This, naturally makes me a bat nerd. (And seconds the motion regarding me being strange.  I'm hardly surprised)

What I'm tring to say is that no matter who you are or what you do, you're probablya nerd, too.  And you shouldn't sweat that stuff because everyone is nerdy in their own way.  And that's more than ok with me..

Monday, June 25, 2012

Today as the littles and I were enjoying a dip in the pool, I overheard the eldest Baby C, Colin, telling one of his friends "Ok- watch my butt.  There are gonna be bubbles, but I'm so NOT farting!" Sigh.  I realized that in order to get this kid married off eventually (ie:  not supporting his happy ass for all eternity)  I was going to need to start teaching him some useful shit.  Like, how to be a good husband and stuff.  And to be honest, for someone who lives her days in the hopes that her kids will eventually learn how to make blender drinks because it's a loooong way into the kitchen, that was a most daunting realization.

Women who mother sons are amazing- we're tough, smart, creative and we have more energy that anyone.  We have to be amazing- little boys are the shits.  The shits who will set you on fire when you're not looking.  We can wrestle, make dinner and learn Japanese all at the same time.  We invented multitasking.

I started mentally compiling a list of things my boys are going to need to know before someone will marry them.  AND most importantly, stay married to them. It's a long list, friends.  And I reserve the right to add all kinds of stuff to it.  If you have any suggestions, I'm totally open.  This kind of information exchange has the potential to help mothers of sons everywhere.  And of course, we do need all the help we can get.

1.  Carrying shit.  YOU do it.  This also applies to opening shit, fixing shit and killing shit.

2.  Be a gentleman even if nobody else does it.  Be a gentleman to teachers, sweet ladies in our neighborhood, checkers at Target, waitresses...everyone.  Girls notice.  (On this subject, tip generously.  Girls notice this, too and you should do it even if they don't notice.)

3.  You're cute.  But you're not that fucking cute.  Wipe the toilet seat when you're done.  Yes, every time.  And yeah, I know you don't think you pee on the seat, but you totally do.

4.  You're super protective of me and I love that.  Remember how that feels and always, always be respectful.  To all women. 

5.  While we're on the subject, settle for nothing less than respect from anyone you date.  You are awesome and don't ever let anyone else tell you differently.

6.  The girl you marry??  How does she feel about letting me have free access to your children?  To you??  How does she feel about living close to your mommy?  Most importantly, can her love be bought?  By me??

7.  Don't ever lose yourself in a relationship or allow someone to lose themselves in you.  The best relationships happen when you're both independent and happy.  Your happiness and fulfillment are not her responsibility and vice versa.

8.  About happiness?  You guessed it.  All up to you.  Never depend on another person to make you happy.  And never, ever depend on anything external to make you happy- it needs to come from inside you.  If you 'get' this, it will save you loads of money on therapy.

9.  The baby you create with someone? Its half yours. This means if the baby cries at 3am, get up.  You need to get up in the morning and go to work? So does the mommy.  You're tired and need a nap?  So does the mommy.  You get sick and need a day off?  So does the mommy.  If you cant commit to this, don't have sex.

10.  If you never start drinking or doing drugs, then you never have to worry about how you're going to stop.  Plus, the first time you come home inebriated, I'm shaving your eyebrows.  I'm so fucking waiting for this-- please, give me a reason to shave your eyebrows.  Most guys need eyebrows or nobody will want to have sex with them.  Think about it.


If you know me in real life, you know that during spring break, I had breast augmentation surgery- my second.  What most of you don't know is that already, a little more than 3 1/2 months later, I'm looking at my third boob surgery.  And that is just fucked up. 

What's fucked up mostly is that I was born with boobs- the free kind.  If I have the next surgery, I'll have boobs that cost more than $18K.  And even for me, who  never met a luxury I couldn't justify, that is ridiculous.

The reason I need another surgery is because of a little something called 'capsular contracture' which is another more fancy term for 'wonky boobs.' They look ok in a shirt, but in a bikini top?  Wonky.  Totally fucking wonky.  (and I don't mind admitting this to you, dear friend, because NOTHING about me is normal anyway- I'm so used to it by now)  Do wonky looking boobs bother me?  No, not really.  The main problem is how bad they hurt-  like some asshole is completely pissed at you, only instead of punching you in the face they're twisting the muscle behind your implant.  Really, really hard. 

The worst thing is that even if I have the revision surgery, it's likely the capsular contracture will come back.  So, you might be wondering, what on earth should I do??

I honestly don't know.  I'm horribly shallow and have an insane desire to spend loads of money just trying to look a teeny bit better.   But tonight, as I was researching breast augmentation revision surgery, I started to feel a little sick.  Before my last surgery I googled 'Awake'- and if you're getting ready to have surgery, please don't do this- watching it necessitated a team of very strong and very determined nurses to get me into the operating room.  And some extra drugs.  (side note:  you should ask Frank about this.  I said something along the lines of "OHMYGOOOOODDDD FRANK, we should totally take some of this shit home with us!"  I may have also said "This shit's totally AWWWEESOME!!!"  I don't actually remember.)

Anyway, I started thinking about my favorite aunt, who battled evil in the form of breast cancer (she totally kicked its ASS!  The women in my family are super human like that.  During her last chemo treatment, she wore a feather boa and played a kazoo.  I love that woman more than life itself!!!!)  I started thinking about my aunt and about how cancer almost took her away from me before I was able to tell her how much I adore her and the ground she walks on.  I thought about women everywhere- women fighting breast cancer, fighting autoimmune diseases, young girls fighting a bad self image or fighting abuse, women waging all kinds of wars everywhere.  And me?  The worst that's going on in my life is that my boobs are wonky.  Really, Christine?  That's all you've got?

Plus if you're just looking at boobs, then you're missing the best part of a woman.  NO, I'm not talking about her girlie business- I'm talking about her heart.

Thursday, June 21, 2012


So I know I said I'd write about rock stars, and eventually I'll get back there, but I just had to share one more teeny thing with you- the babiest Baby C started a mother's day out program today.  Two days a week, from 9:30-2:30, from now until August 2, he will be in the loving hands of a Christian preschool.  Stop laughing and no I didn't tell them his nickname is Demon.  It's bound to come up in conversation sooner or later, I'm certain.

When I enrolled him, Frank and I made a bet about how long it would take for me to receive a 'chocolate ding dong' related phone call. (I give it a week.)  We were sort of joking, but sort of not because...well, you know why.  All week I've been preparing my babiest "Corbin!  We must not say 'chocolate ding dong' at school.  You can't discuss your balls or butt.  No singing Rack City. Keep your fingers out of your nose.  And for God's sake, no Power Rangering- there are no Nighlok's at school!" 

But naturally, I forgot something.  And he reminded me this morning as I was unbuckling him from his car seat.  He leaned in and whispered softly in my ear "Teabagging."  I know I looked appropriately embarrassed because he smiled and repeated it louder and louder as we walked across the parking lot.  "Teabagging!  TEABAGGING!"  We walked him into school and up the stairs to his classroom while I held my breath.  Of course, now that I had a minute to think about it, all the things I forgot to tell him not to say were heavily on my mind.  I left him in his classroom and told his teachers "I'm sorry for anything he says.  In advance."  Then as I remembered the things my littles told me about their parents when I was teaching preschool "And don't believe anything he tells you about me.  We think he may be a pathological liar."

I left the building, frustrated with myself for forgetting to tell him not to say teabagging.  As I walked across the parking lot, I hit myself on the forehead with the palm of my hand repeatedly, mumbling "Teabagging.  Teabagging.  Teabagging.  I fucking forgot teabagging."  I believe we're going to be the most popular family on campus.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

OK!  This is the last- the very last- post that isn't about rock stars, I pinky promise.  But tonight I just couldn't say no...and, as you already know, saying no isn't my forte.

I have a very dear friend who confessed (many months ago) that she woke up in the middle of the night feeling suicidal.  The pressures and responsibilities of being a wife and mom were just too much to comprehend.  Granted, this feeling of helplessness was blessedly brief for her, but it left me wondering how many women feel this pressure, this...despair.  And even more, how many women admit this to anyone, especially other women.

After my friend brought this to my attention, she and I started looking around and you know what we found?  We found that there were countless- and I mean that literally, countless- stories of women from all walks of life, all races, all religions who were going through the exact same shit that we were- that we all are.

Something you should know about women, if you don't already:  we can be brutal.  Especially to each other.  We're critical and judgemental. We're harsh and unforgiving.  At least, we are when we're the point that we're adults, we should have all evolved beyond that, right?  Not so fast, Skippy- some of us don't ever get there.

I'm lucky beyond all belief to have a core group of the finest, most beautiful, most genuinely supportive women friends on the planet.  We're tough, but fair.  We may not talk every day, but when we do, we're unfailingly supportive and loving.  We'll also occasionally cuff each other on the ears if need be (and God help you if you try to cuff us on the ears without a written invitation) but mostly, we have each other's backs.  We got this shit, y'all- in spades- and we have no time for bullshit...except for each other's bullshit. We're girl's girls.  We're badass.  And we make no apologies for how much we love each other. 

Some of my finest friends are also related to me and have known me since birth. Some, I met yesterday.  Doesn't matter.  When you get it, you get it.  And we totally do.

Being a wife and a mom is amazing.  Amazingly fantastic.  Sometimes amazingly awful.  Amazingly hard.  Amazingly incomprehensible.  Amazingly exhausting.  I think the key to surviving and not giving in when the middle of the night desperation calls, is the connection you have- to your friends. To your roots.  To your support.  To your girls who have walked before you and those who will walk behind you.  Talk about it.  Reach out.  We're right there beside you. And we're totally ready to hold you up. 

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Reasons Why Tom Cruise Will Never, Ever, Ever, Ever Be a Rockstar No Matter What Amen

First things first:  I'm folding laundry while wearing the cutest apron AND baking my family coconut macaroons while I'm writing this post...about rock if that doesn't give you a glimpse into the strange  mixture of contradictory interests that are me...(side note:  the key to multitasking?  Lowering every one's expectations.  Ps- this post is gonna suck, the laundry isn't going to be folded nicely and the cookies are going to give everyone diarrhea)  But let me get back to the topic at hand- the plethora of reasons why Tom Cruise should not, under any circumstances, be allowed to play a rock star.  Ever. It goes against everything I believe in. AND as you already know, I know loads about this shit, right?

Ok...Let me start with something one of my girlfriends (a fellow lover of metal and all that is holy) said on Facebook 'he's too wholesome to be believable and he played guitar in his underwear 30 years ago- we've seen that already'  Rule #1 A rock star has to have been through some shit- it makes for good stories later- or at least look like he's been through some shit.  AND nobody needs to see them in their undies playing air guitar to a Bob Seger song.

Rule #2  you cannot look like a douche canoe in guyliner.  Period.  Guyliner should make you look never, ever like a douche. 

Rule #3  you gotta look good sweaty.  There is no substitute for this one.

Rule #4  I need to want to see you naked.  AND other women need to want to see you naked, too.  This one is non negotiable as well.  And I don't actually need to see you naked...I just need to want to.

Rule #5  you need to actually play an instrument and/or write.  This is totally personal, but I feel kindred to people who write- that connection

Rule #6   Tattoos and piercings?  Yes!  I'm totally in.  Some of my friends waver, but I don't.  You need a lot of bad ass tats or none at all.  (None is kind of bad ass, too but you can't have a few- it's all or nothing)

Rule #7  I need to love your music.  Or I need to love your passion. Mostly, I need to love your music.

Rule #8  It's ok to be totally broke.  It's ok to be rich as long as you're not an asshole.  It's not ok to be a rich asshole.  I know plenty of rich assholes.  They are not rock stars.

That's all I have for now, but I'm sure I'll add more later!

Ps- the cookies?  They suck for real!!

Thursday, June 7, 2012


Ugh...It's so almost my birthday and I'm lamenting like a motherfucker.  Ya know why?  Nobody and I mean nobody, wants to be 42.  And if you do, you're lying.  And I don't mean on the couch with a margarita.  I mean you're lying through your teeth.  Please don't get me wrong, I'm happy as shit to be alive.  It's just that...well, I remember my MOM being 42 for fuck's sake.  And she was OLD.

I'm not worried about looking old- I gotta face full of poison and nowhere to go, friends.  I'm worried that my life is probably, most likely, maybe half over and I haven't done a lot of shit with it.  Because I think the only unforgivable sin in life is wasting time.  Think about it for a's the ONLY thing we can never get more of.  And it's the one thing, in the end, we'll all want.  Nobody is gonna be all 'Please give me another week- I wanna WORK like a motherfucker!'  We're all gonna say 'wait a minute...I haven't LIVED yet?!?!'

This next year, I promise you this...I'm gonna LIVE!!!  I'm gonna be knocking shit off my bucket list left and right.  And I'm gonna make memories. And I'm not gonna say 'I'm sorry'...not once, for living and for realizing how precious, beautiful and brief life actually is.

Come with me!!

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Hello and welcome to this week's wine post.  As a special treat, I'm sharing a few things said by my beloved Demon this week.  I'm not making this shit up people- I'm not that creative.

A couple of days ago as I was attempting to do yoga, Demon came into the room, shit his pants, then plopped down in the middle of my yoga mat and said "Sorry for party rocking, baby girl."

On the 'baby girl' subject, he doesn't refer to me as 'mom' now-  I am known as, you guessed it 'baby girl.' All the time.  A typical morning at my house sounds like this:  "I need some cereal and please put Power Rangers on the tv, baby girl."  It's disturbing!

Tonight I caught him in the backyard, dancing, wearing only a sparkly blue backpack.  He was singing "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard' and "I'm sexy and I know it."  Except he adds the phrase 'teabagging' at the end.  No fucking idea for real.

After I forced him into a pair of underwear, he sat down and snuggled beside me on our blanket (we've been sitting outside every night watching the bats eat- it's the coolest thing ever).  He looked at me innocently and asked "Can I pee on you?"

After this post, I'm getting back to writing about rock stars because even a little time spent with my kids is too much for anybody to handle.  Especially me.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Chocolate Ding Dong!

Anyone who has parented a three year old knows their penchant for public embarrassment.  They don't possess the self consciousness to get embarrassed...EVER... so that leaves the burden on shoulders of mommies all across the world. And that, my friends, is truly fucked up.

Over the last few weeks, 'Demon' aka the littlest Baby C, has entertained us with the catchphrase 'chocolate ding dong!'  Apparently it's a really useful catchphrase because it has become his standard reply to everything.  Sometimes, he surprises us by throwing in the occasional 'chocolate butthole', but for the most part, he is all chocolate ding dong, all the time.

Earlier this week, the littles and I were catching minnows at the creek.  Some teenage girls from a nearby neighborhood came by and gave us a friendly wave.  Demon, ever the ladies man, asked them "Hey do you see my face?"  They giggled and said they did to which he replied "Chocolate ding dong."

In Wal Mart, we ran into a mother and daughter I knew from the eldest Baby C's elementary school.  "Is this your little brother?"  the young girl asked my older son.  Demon looked at them and said proudly "Chocolate ding dong."

This is a little glimpse into the recent conversations at my house:

Me:  What do you want to eat, Demon?

Demon:  Chocolate ding dong!

Me:  Where are your pants, Demon?

Demon: Chocolate ding dong!

Me:  Where is that God awful smell coming from, Demon?

Demon:  Chocolate ding dong!

Honestly, this reminds me of a time when the eldest Baby C was about the same age.  Whenever someone spoke to him in public, he stuck his finger knuckle deep in his nose.  Every.  Single. Time. No fucking idea why he did that either.  Once again, my children have rendered me speechless.  I have no clue where he got this or why he thinks it is so funny.  All I know is that it's making it's way into his baby book for sure.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

This is why you DO want to become a parent...oh, hell, wait...

I'm getting ready to kick this week's ass, you guys and let me tell you why.  This week has been fucked.  Demon has been in rare form- he and a friend located a can of red spray paint, painted themselves and my upstairs floor, found some blue paint and painted my closet door, threw all the puzzles and books around the playroom and escaped naked, from my yard, tearing around the neighborhood. AND then Demon called one of the Big Baby C's baseball coaches a nasty name- a name that is another word for penis. (honestly, I should talk to Frank about his language.  I have no fucking idea where Demon gets this shit!)  Tonight, Demon outdid himself by throwing dirt directly into my eyes (good shot) and insisting on building 'dirt castles' during the Big Baby C's very last baseball game.  (or almost last.  Colin might be playing summer ball.  Then there's a tournament.  Whointhehell made baseball season so LOOOOOONG?!?!)  Anyway, on our way home, Frank tried to explain to the boys what being a parent is all about.  He stumbled after "Being a parent is so hard- you guys have no idea how much work...when you're tired...and then you go to work..." So I stepped in "What he's trying to say is...OOOOH!!  I LOVE that song- turn it UPPPP- hey Frank that reminds me- did you remember to get my wine??" we didn't do a great job of explaining the difficulties of parenting to our kids (way to go assholes).  Forgive us already.  That stuff is sooooo hard to explain!

How do you put into words how endless nights of little sleep, being puked and drooled on, changing diapers filled with what can only be called foul science experiments gone horribly wrong- how, exactly do you tell someone that those are really the best years of your life?
How do you tell them that raising a toddler is a little like trying to appease a ruthlessly unforgiving tyrant hell bent on genocide?  Genocide plus, he's hell bent on not letting you pee alone until you're 83?  That the screaming, spitting, hitting, kicking little purple faced monster in your shopping cart at Wal-Mart is capable of giving the world's sweetest kisses? That the loving way he looks at you and says 'mommy, you're so pretty' makes you forget about  tyrannical genocide and peeing with an audience?  That when you see your older son hit his first home run, how you could turn yourself inside out with pride?  How you could vow  to happily endure baseballs flying at your face forever if it means that your little guy is happy?  How you can lie awake at night, fearful that your teenage son is getting ready to drive (in two years, but it's never too early to get a jump on worrying!) and he's getting ready to put to use in his actual life all the crap you've been trying to teach him since he was 4?!?! (And I do mean 'crap' because who really needs to know how to make a pinata from scratch?!?!)

That stuff is just impossible to explain, because let's be honest- the payoff of parenting??  No fucking idea when that is.  It may come when they turn 18...or when they have kids of their own (that's a funny thought that makes me really, really happy)  It may never come, I don't know.  I guess my point is, regardless of how rewarding this stuff may or may not be, we're in it for the long haul.  Because you can't quit being a parent- I've tried.  They make you get back in your car with your kids, hand you a bottle of wine, and send your crying ass home.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

My friends are weirder than yours!! And cooler...but mostly, weirder.

Tonight I escaped the house and went to visit my neighbor/brother Jason and his beautiful wife, Connie.  My brother gave me a little grief for not posting anything on here for a long time so  I told him that I had to be inspired to write this shit and that nothing inspiring had happened to me in a while.  And then like fucking magic, someone started a conversation about dick piercing. 

I'm pretty sure Connie was disgusted by the idea or at least not as intrigued as yours truly, because I was all 'I like sparkly things!!' and 'I also like jewelry!' while she was shaking her head.  Then Jason chimed in and said that he thought there was ummm...a reason why guys pierced their junk.  Connie and I laughed and I said 'I don't know?? You can't feel shit up there- it's how we have babies, for the love of God! Can you imagine giving birth to the oldest Baby C if I could have felt it??  You guys saw the size of his head, right?!?!'

It did start me thinking about the rest of my friends and how this is a topic we haven't actually covered before (no idea how we missed it- we covered anal bleaching on day 5 people!)Before I tell you what they said,  I want to make sure you know that nobody mentioned anything about one of us getting our girlie parts pierced- they have been through enough, thank you and most of us are not THAT crazy.

Sweet Baby Sister said that she thought dick piercings were a highway to infection (YUCK) and would probably smell worse than ball sweat. (MF YUCK)

The one person I could count on to take this conversation straight to hell was Jenifer.  And she did:

Jenifer:  Sure. Why not? Especially if it's for my benefit in the long run.  Healing time might be a little too long though. But I don't know how I feel about 'shiny things' on a penis. Dijazzle it and I'm OUT!

Me:  Dijazzle = a sign from satan that the guy has the clap!  What about googly eyes and a smiley face??

Jennifer:  NOOOOO!!  Too creepy!

Me:  But it already sort of has a mouth...OMG!!  Wait!!  One eye like a cyclops!!

Jenifer:  Yes.  What about a tattooed penis that grows into a larger, more intimidating tattoo?

Me:  You are a fucking dick genius!  Like earthworm that turns into a cobra?

Jenifer:  Make sure it's 'tattoo' not 'tatu' from Fantasy Island.  He's not intimidating.

Me:  Yeah, that's not sexy or intimidating unless he was a badass ninja little person.

I'm going to skip the next part of our penis modification convo because it's really, really nasty.  But to give you an idea, we covered:  a sea serpent penis tattoo with lots of colors (for the art, you perverts), no 'mom' tattoos under any circumstances (I'm not putting that in my vagina!), the fact that it would have to be high quality art (prison tattoos say bad things about a dick), the possibility of inventing flavored tattoos because a coconut flavored tattoo just screams 'beach party' doesn't it??, and a certain badass little person we all know who should put a picture of himself on his junk.

With my friends, this shit just writes itself...

Sunday, March 11, 2012

The Haxans "Cold Blood" Full song


Chevelle - Send The Pain Below


"You're not gonna be happy about this AT ALL..."  Frank said as he carried in three bottles of wine and a large bag of chocolate.  "I have to go out of town...tomorrow...for three days!"

I don't remember what I said exactly, but I think it started with an eff word and ended with an eff word.  Knowing me, there were probably a few more liberally sprinkled in the middle.  I'm headed into what appears to be the longest, busiest, most stressful week of my life.  Perhaps I'm exaggerating a little, but really, the upcoming week is going to be hell.  And honestly, please tell me, am I the only mom who is a tad bit panicked by the thought of being alone with her small children for days on end with practically no contact with the outside world and a limited supply of alcohol?!?!

God didn't make me the 'super responsible, menu planning, house cleaning, laundry folding, obsessive compulsive, everything is fucking matching and look, I have makeup on, too' mom.  That's the mom I wanna kick in the teeth because she makes everything look so frigging easy (I have a theory about those moms-- and it begins and ends with a little thing called 'methamphetamine')  He made me the 'let's play tattoo shop with the magic markers because what I really want to do is lay out in the backyard while my kids draw on my feet and fetch me exotic blender drinks from the kitchen' mom.  Or maybe the 'let's make blanket tents in the dining room so I can sleep off my mid morning alcohol buzz' mom.  I'm just joking about all the drinking, but I'm not about the other stuff- when I had my sweet children, nobody told me I'd have to eventually take care of them...alone.

My kids are...well, they're my kids.  Which means that in addition to being high maintenance pains in the ass, they're also HUGE high maintenance pains in the ass. They can't do anything without an appreciative audience- and they can't let me do anything without an appreciative audience.  They're messy.  Like, me on steroids multiplied by infinity messy.  I will occasionally be disgusted by my own messiness enough to clean up my general living area.  They could live in a junkyard with a booger wall and be totally happy.

And when Frank is gone, they just seem to suck up all the free space that he leaves behind.  The littlest Baby C slept for approximately 4 hours last night, none of them continuous.  He hasn't done that since he was a baby.  What. The. Hell.

Does it add insult to injury that Frank is in my happy place (a hotel with a MAID and room service) and he is getting to sleep in until daylight and go out to fancy dinners AND exercise in a real live gym without two children hanging onto his sweatpants and sparkly Uggs while he's trying to put on a little black eyeliner for the love of God and all that is Holy?!?!?!  AND, if that isn't enough, he's in the same state with THE AUNT- you know the one I talk about all the time?!?! 

I think the answer to the question is 'yes', but to be totally honest, I forgot the question and the other moms are hogging all the meth and now I need a nap.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Wisdom from Father Nikki

Ok...this may be one of the strangest things I've admitted to you guys, but here goes...(wait a sec...I mean, we're all friends, right??)

So, since I was 15, I've had recurring dreams about Nikki Sixx.  No, he's not naked.  In fact, he's exactly like what a priest would be.  IF priests had tattoos, awesome guy hair and wore copious amounts of black eyeliner.

These dreams are most useful because there is always some type of wisdom being imparted- he always tries to teach me something.  Like the time when I was pregnant with the Babiest Baby C and Father Nikki tried to teach me Greek while we were in a Greek church.  And I was all "Where's Tommy?!?!  Isn't he from Greece?" and he was all "Focus, Christine. Focus!"  Anyway, last night I had a Father Nikki dream.  These are the gems he left for me:

1.  Guilt and fear have the potential to bind you as tightly as love does.

2. The things we term 'bad'- the far reaching extremes- are just one teeny step beyond what is acceptable and good. If you take one more step, then you'll just be going in circles.

3.  If you can change your perspective, you can change anything about yourself.  The past has no right to have a say in who you are- it wasn't invited here.

I have absolutely no idea what any of that means.  I guess I should stop reading 'The Heroin Diaries' right before bed.

Friday, January 20, 2012

I want to start off by saying that testicles freak me out a little.  Maybe it's the amount of them I see every day, for incredibly long periods of time.  Perhaps it's the constant adjusting of said body part.  Perhaps it's the constant discussion of adjusting them.  I have no idea, but with three boys (I really need to include Frank in there, so let's just say 4 boys from now on, k?) I'm up to my...chin in balls. (You guys are disgusting, really)

What I don't understand is the necessity to work them into every single conversation we have.  A couple of days ago I overheard the big Baby C exclaim “Ohhhhh! I just got hit in the nuts!” “Son”, I admonished, “the correct word is 'testicles'. Please refer to them by their correct name. And furthermore, that ball was nowhere near your testicles.” Long Pause. “Hey guys- mom just said BALLS and then she said we had to call them tentacles instead of nuts! TENTACLES!” This was followed by maniacal laughter.

The very next morning, I had to explain in great deal why the babiest Baby C could not, in fact kick me in the nuts for not getting him a Popsicle for breakfast.  I told him "I don't have nuts.  It would do you absolutely no good to kick me there.  Most useless threat ever."  Of course then, he became obsessed with where my nuts had gone and what had I done with them. I told him that when I was his age,  I had threatened to kick my own mother in the testicles and then mine just... fell off. 

Sometimes folks, you just gotta live in the moment and then stash away a little extra money for their inevitable therapy.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

More pics from Thursday- the rest are...somewhere on here


I have no explanation for this one- it was before the red Bull

Jack Tankersley and Me

Jack and Stacy