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    It wasn’t my idea to take a 1 year old and a 3 year old camping

    July 13, 2008

    On Friday, The Husband decided we were going camping this weekend. On Friday, specifically. Like 4 hours before he got home from work.

    I am not a fan of camping. Heck, I’m not a fan of the great outdoors. You’ll probably never actually see me with makeup, but girlfriend understands the importance of bathing. Even with these crazy kids, I find the 90 seconds needed to scrape the scum off my body every day.

    So spending the night in a muggy tent with three smelly men and a dog and no hope of a shower beyond a bird bath in the sink of the less than sparkly clean bathroom with the rice cooker plugged in under the vanity? Not. So. Much. But my husband? He comes by his persistence honestly. If he says we are going camping, there is nothing left to do than to pack the bug spray, the 600 thread count sheets for the sleeping pads and pray to God they’ll be enough light when you show up so you can at least read up to the swim suit fashion page in the latest US Weekly that arrived 10 minutes before you left because God knew your children didn’t want to be fatherless.

    His desire to go camping? Because it was the first weekend without rain in nearly a month and a half. Bless his heart for not saying the first “nice” weekend in a month and a half because 94 degrees does not represent “nice” weather in my book. The park? Perpetually full. The man had no worries. Nothing says having faith in your decision like driving 130 miles one way to take a shot that there will be a spot at the campground available.

    Oh, Baby, there were THREE spots left. Two on 40 degree slopes and one in between a family of 7 and 2 tents which never seemed occupied the entire time we were there.

    The ride was relatively quiet. Quiet because The Boys decided to sleep the entire trip. I can’t think of better preparation for a camping adventure than having your 3 year old who gave up naps altogether about 8 months ago sleep for 2 1/2 hours (from 5:30 p.m. to 8:00 p.m.) on the way. The Baby was sporting a fever and cried until I set up his crate in the tent. I know. Who brings a pack-n-play on a camping trip? Um, people who tried to leave it home the last time and had a baby screeching like a banshee for 9 hours.

    It was about 9 o’clock when The Boy started to really wake up. It was right about the time my husband handed me a stick to use to roast marshmallows. A stick that I spent the next 30 minutes envisioning as the recipient of numerous bathroom breaks by all manner of dogs and boys.

    TB: MomMomMomMomMOM!!! CAN I HAVE A S’MORE?

    Have you met my child? His inside voice? Doesn’t exist. I would like to apologize to anyone who went camping the other night within 2 miles of us whose purpose was to commune with nature. The Boy? He scared nature away.

    Two hours of flashlight play, nearly falling into the fire 4 times, giving the dog lots of water, flashing the light in his brother’s face two times, breaking the lantern, eating a half a box of graham crackers, repeatedly asking to pee outside and being “shushed” 9 trillion times, he finally went to sleep.

    And then we were UP WITH THE SUN. A mere 12 hours after arriving, I was forced to put The Boys into the truck because they were being so damn loud. I could hear them yelling in the truck. I peeked in the window to find them eating the last of the Altoids, slamming back my leftover Dr. Pepper and chewing gum. I hurriedly took the tent down as The Husband loaded up the 9 camping chairs he had positioned around the fire. 6:59 a.m.

    The horn blew.

    Again and again and again. I broke into a dead run and flung myself into the truck, yanking a feisty 3 year old off the horn.

    TB: Mom. You didn’t say we couldn’t blow the horn.

    No. No, I didn’t.

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    Happy Father’s Day, Daddy-O!

    June 18, 2008

    My mother called the other day to ask how Father’s Day went. She wanted to be sure I had properly honored the father of my children, my baby daddy, the king of the house, the primo rooster.

    I was going to write my annual, beautiful, tear-inducing tribute to my husband on Father’s Day, but I was too tired. I was too tired because we spent Father’s Day doing what my husband wanted to do.

    I spent two hours holding up a 60 foot gutter with my head.

    First I would like to say, what the hell is up with the unigutter? I thought gutters came in sections. Sectional gutters. Pieces of gutter. And how did they get that 60 foot gutter to my house in one piece back in 1987? Did it come on the back of the truck with the rest of the house? When my husband asked me to hold up the gutter while he replaced the rotten wood behind it, I was all, are you crazy? Then Father’s Day rolled around and I had to do it. We put The Baby down for his nap, threatened The Boy with death if he climbed out the window and onto the roof with us and then we fixed that gutter.

    That bad boy was heavy. I was holding it up with my hands but that was too hard. The Husband looked over and saw me balancing the 200 pound gutter up with my head.

    D: Babe, it’ll take us 30 minutes tops.

    30 minutes tops? 30 minutes. THIRTY MINUTES. I should have known better. I have done fix-it projects with his father. Time is suspended in this family. But I was all, it’s Father’s Day, whatever you say. I blame you, Mom. The replacement wood was 1/4 inch too long and suddenly I heard the miter saw revving up on the roof. My husband doesn’t mess around. Why carry those boards back down to cut when you can cut them on a 40 degree slope of a roof while your wife is holding up the gutter with her head?

    My head now has a flat spot and I’m 3/4″ shorter. But by golly, that gutter got fixed for $16.27. I wonder if I could fix the A.C. for $16.27…

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    I think I hear the world’s tiniest violin playing

    June 11, 2008

    So you guys are so awesome. After I published that post I went back and reread it. Wah, wah, wah. The Cake Lady told me she doesn’t think the tree falling counts since it didn’t fall on my house. I think she is probably right. LOL. Don’t say anything mean about her because she was just trying to lighten the mood. She agrees that my life is horrible. Although from the thunder last night, it’s only a matter of time. I shall try all of your car-related suggestions.

    I’m speaking at Blogher. How ridiculous is that? You have one picture with this man and suddenly people think you are going places.

    it doesn't get bigger than Mr. Big

    But what I really want to do is to submit my funniest blog post for that reading they are having. So I thought I would get your suggestions. I don’t have a short list. I don’t even remember what I wrote. But if you have a suggestion, just leave it in the comments. Jen, you don’t have to leave yours. I know the red bra story is your favorite.

    I’m doing a Mommy Needs a Cocktail Party in Allentown, PA tomorrow night (Thursday). It’s at the cousin’s house. I’m sure she won’t mind if you wanna come. You should totally come. Email me and I’ll let you know where to be. And if you want to see how messy my workshop was before Susie Sunshine showed up and straightened my ass out, head on over to Work it, Mom and Mommy Needs a Business. Leave me a comment telling me if my clutter exceeded your every expectation!

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    Because you can never run into too many idiots

    May 27, 2008

    Sunday and Monday I did another one of those crafty shows. I made a new BFF (Hi, ELLEN!!!), Wendy brought me Smart Food popcorn on her 7-Eleven run and I had a fabulous time.

    Instead of waxing poetic about the 9,999 people who “ooh’d” and “aaah’d” over the MNAC shirts, I would much rather tell you the story of the guy who said the wrong thing. I decided to write it over at my brand new Mommy Needs a Business blog at Work it, Mom! because, well, it seemed funnier over there than here. When Nataly asked if I would blog at Work It, Mom, I told her that I could only write there if I didn’t have to pretend that I have a FRIGGIN’ CLUE about what I am doing. So basically is all half-assed, all across the internet.

    So go over there to find the story. Just so you know, I left out the part about the much younger girlfriend who laughed at his comment. I left her out of the story because I too was once that girl who dated the guy who said the stupid things and I thought he was funny. Until I realized that one day he would be 43 and still trolling for chicks on Match because God forbid he ever become a grown up. She too will wake up one day and realize the error of her ways and marry the Nice Guy.

    Head on over to my new digs at Work it, Mom! to see exactly what I said to Prince Charming when he made smart ass comments about my Mommy Needs a Cocktail shirt. Go to my first post and leave a comment for a chance to win a MNAC tee or a My Mom Doesn’t Want your Advice tee. Just do it. Even if you don’t want the shirt. Not that it’s a CONTEST for attention or anything. I mean, it’s not like I asked you to vote for me on a reality show or anything.

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    Mommy Needs a Cocktail goes to the West Wing

    April 23, 2008

    I have friends in low places.  Friends who are able to eat at the White House. Probably because they are also eligible for the perfect attendance award and the “Most Likely to Not Talk When It’s All Said and Done Unless There Is A Book Deal In It” award.  Me?  I’m going for the food.  Curious to know what a West Wing Grilled Cheese tastes like.  I imagine it will be made with Havarti in lieu of yellow American cheese.  The bread?  Sourdough in lieu of Wonder Bread?  I’m tempted to stop on the way and buy a camcorder.  Cause I’m sure they allow random videoing in the White House.  Can you imagine the first Mommy Needs a Cocktail vlog from the White House? Now that?  That would be friggin’ hilarious.

    I have had a bit of a wardrobe issue.  Bless her heart, The Cake Lady offered some of her clothes.  Did I mention that I never was a double zero?  No.  I went from 6X in the 5th grade to a junior’s 5.  And that was many, MANY years ago.  We didn’t even HAVE double zero when I was growing up.  Well, we did, but we called it Limited Too. So I had to pass on her gracious offer but I do find myself curious about the possibilities of wearing the latest and greatest in Mommy Needs a Cocktail wear.

    Could we just take a moment to pause while we wait for my mother’s heart to beat again?  You’d think I said I was gonna wear a crop top, cut offs and flip flops into the Oval Office.  I am sporting this hot belly ring but no need to have someone freak out in shock from seeing it and fall into the red button.

    I sent a tweet to Kimberly and she sent one back that I could wear a black tank as long as I wore pearls.  I don’t think she was serious.  Zug?  She said I should wear an “I’m blogging this” t-shirt.  But do I really need to spend my lunch break explaining what a “blog” is?  I don’t think so.  I have tomato soup to conquer.

    I’ll admit my friend was a little concerned.  It’s not that he said the actual words, “and please don’t dress like a slob,” but I felt them hanging out there somewhere.

    And what are the odds that I’ll be able to twitter?  If there is a God, and he loves me, my signal will be clear come 1:15 p.m. on Thursday.  Will be tweeting any and all lipstick marks on glasses and leaving some of my own for future DNA potential issues.  I will do my best not to get arrested.  Or thrown out.  Because that is just tacky.

    So what do you think?  What should I wear to lunch? Oh, and we need a name for a sister parenting blog for PBS Parents that rolls out in a month.  I know.  What the hell?  Who are these people and why are they giving me writing jobs?  Don’t they know who I am?  So give me fashion advice and/or your best idea for a name for a parenting blog written by three sisters for the icon of all our childhoods.  I gotta go find a right shoe.  All I keep finding is a left one.

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    It’s as fresh as the air in a eucalyptus forest

    February 22, 2008

    So we are downstairs sitting on the couches, drinking the coffee I made from the beans The Cake Lady brought. 

    CL:  The boys are being to quiet.  We should check on them.
    K: They’re FINE.

    The fact that I am such a moron amazes me too.

    CL:  Seriously.
    K:  Listen.  We have nothing upstairs.  Not even nothing dangerous.  Just nothing. 
    CL:  But we haven’t HEARD them.

    The Baby was asleep but I decided to check on The Boy and His Lovah so his mother would feel better. I did the low crawl up the stairs and listened at the bedroom door.  They were going on and on and on and on about nothing.  I have no idea where they get it.  We went back downstairs to go on and on and on about nothing. 

    K:  I told you. 
    CL:  I know you did, but I don’t trust them.

    10 minutes later they came down the stairs.  Without their shoes.  Which, might I add, is something I NEVER would have noticed.

    CL:  Where are your shoes?
    Harrison:  I left them upstairs.
    K:  I’ll get them. 

    I raced up the stairs and threw open the door.  My sinuses could not have cleared faster if I had stepped into the Roman baths. I raced back down the stairs.

    K: Where is it?
    The Boy: I don’t know, Mom.
    K: Where is the bottle of Vick’s Baby Rub?
    The Boy: Mom, what are you talking about?
    Harrison: We don’t have it.

    I snatched him up because he was closer and shoved his feet into his mother’s face.

    CL: Yep. Where is the bottle?
    Harrison: We didn’t do it, Mom.
    K: Where did you put it on?
    CL: Just tell us and it will be okay. We just need to know that you didn’t eat it.

    Not exactly. It won’t be okay. I don’t care if you ate it. I just want to be sure that when I step into the bathroom, I won’t lose both feet from underneath me.

    K: Yeah, what she said. Where did you put it?
    Harrison: Just our feet.
    CL: Good. Why did you put it on your feet?
    The Boy: That’s where it goes.

    Nana. We have Nana to thank for that one.

    And the bottle is still MIA.

    If your bored, you can also find me over at PBS waxing unpoetic about my former dating life and Pride and Prejudice. Leave a comment so I look popular. You don’t even have to tell me I look pretty…

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