He’s known as “The Zesty Guy” and he stars in commercials for Kraft Italian salad dressing. Or at least that’s what I think he’s selling. I actually don’t watch ads very often because it’s 2013 and I have a DVR and a thumb. Plus, whenever I see a shirtless man, I immediately assume the channel somehow got changed to “Cops” and honestly, who has the time to watch Methmouth lead the five-ohs on a foot chase through an Albuquerque Dollar Store again? Not me, Jack.

Still, it’s become very hard to avoid this particular shirtless wonder because he’s on TV constantly. And in magazine ads, too. Like this one:

“Whew! Naked lawn darts just exhaust me, Millicent! Thank God this Kraft dressing is so refreshing to chug! Uh-oh—I feel fire ants! GRAB MY BAGUETTE AND COMMENCE TO WHACKING.”

I don’t know, maybe this six-pack action works on some women, but all it makes me think is that I’m going to find a stray pit hair in my arugula.

Which is still better than the other thought I have while looking at him: “Thank goodness he’s selling Italian dressing and not Ranch dressing, otherwise…”

Anyway, because it’s summer and I have nothing better to do than lose my will to live, I was all set to wage a war against Kraft’s pandering, annoying advertising until I saw that I’d be joining forces with the conservative One Million Moms’ group who is very upset about the “g*nitals” and “s*x” these ads imply. (Yes, they actually use asterisks.) They say that the Zesty Salad campaign is “the most disgusting ad…we have ever seen Kraft produce.” Obviously those chicks don’t remember this glorious ad:

That’s right—it’s a “salad” made with Jell-O, marshmallows and Miracle Whip. Jesus H., if you’re looking for something to protest, you uptight million moms, PROTEST THIS F-IN VOMIT FEST. Even starving kids in Africa would look at this creation and say, “You know what? I’m good with sand.”

Anyway, the One Million Moms, for those of you who don’t know, is a group of a million moms (give or take 999,999 moms) and they try to rid the world of evil things that are destroying our children’s future. Evil things like Ellen DeGeneres, Disneyland’s Gay Pride Day and a Geico ad that they claim “promotes bestiality” because a pig flirts with a lady on an airplane (reality!). As well as anything else that doesn’t fit into their narrow view of how things should be in a “moral society.”

Now, I personally think that spending your days boycotting people you disagree with and ignoring your family harms your children’s future way more than a fun gay guy dancing to “Gangnam Style” with Goofy on Main Street, but maybe that’s just me. I probably have my tolerant he*d stuck up my f*cking a** and need a swift kick to my g*d*mn g*nitals.

So, friends, this is obviously a very confusing time for me. Should I protest? Should I not protest? Should I start recording “Cops” again because, now that I think about it, I really sort of miss Methmouth and his flaming drug acne? I don’t know. I really don’t.  Maybe what I should do is just relax, grab a bottle of wine and a bowl of salad and head to the park for a picnic.

Shirtless, of course.

Slip ‘n Whine

Slip ‘n Jack Up the Water Bill

Slip ‘n Chafe

Slip ‘n Bruise

Slip ‘n OMG It’s Killing the F-in Lawn

Slip ‘n Rip

Slip ‘n Tear

Slip ‘n Patch with Duct Tape Again

Slip ‘n Ouch

Slip ‘n Blech

Slip ‘n Swallow Foot Water

Slip ‘n Possible Class Action Lawsuit Against Wham-O, Inc.

Slip ‘n Get a Coccyx Injury

Slip ‘n Get a Leg Rash

Slip ‘n Get a Head Wound

Slip ‘n  Let’s Just Pour Vodka On Saran Wrap Next Time Because This Thing’s Crap

Slip ‘nto Depression

Of course I make grand efforts to hide my crabbiness, but my summer discomfort is so bad that even the kids have noticed it. In fact, they recently mentioned that I’m a lot nicer in the winter when it’s only 50 degrees outside then when it’s 100 degrees outside in the summer. They’re probably right.

How I ask the kids to get out of the car in the winter:

Guys, could you please gather your belongings and exit the vehicle in a timely fashion? I’ve been standing here in the garage waiting for you for a few minutes now. I’d greatly appreciate your cooperation in this matter. Thank you, gentlemen!

How I ask the kids to get out of the car in the summer:

GET THE HELL OUT OF THE CAR OR I WILL EAT YOUR DUMBO FACES FOR BRUNCH

How I call the kids to dinner in the winter:

Yummy yummy! Who’s ready for the delicious and nutritious meal I just whipped up in our super amazing Crock-Pot? It’s family dinner time! Let’s share our days!

How I call the kids to dinner in the summer:

I’m a sweatfaced pig and want to die, there’s a piece of candy in the sink.

How I tuck the boys into bed in the winter:

You are so adorable! I love you! Have a wonderful night! Sweet dreams, my amazing children!

How I tuck the boys into bed in the summer:

I just put ice in my pants, fluff your own damn pillow.

How I wake the boys up in the winter:

Rise and shine! It’s going to be another beautiful day in Austin!

How I wake the boys up in the summer:

If you haven’t lost your will to live, get up or don’t whatever I don’t care WHY ARE MY ARMPITS MELTING MOTHERF

How I answer the phone in the winter:

Good morning! Aarons’ residence!

How I answer the phone in the summer:

The f-ck you want, Needledick?

I’m not very proud of this behavior, of course, so I’m going to try to be a lot nicer this summer. No matter how hot it gets. But still—if you see my Volvo heading your way in the grocery store parking lot, you should probably run.

Leave me alone unless you have a meat locker.

Larry Polish or Swedish last name, Austin

Boob job neighbor

Did you mean: boob job neighbors, bob bob neighbor, boob job neighbours

No, I meant boob job neighbor

Jason Klinghoff

Jason Clinghauf

Jason Kingheifhof hot heif?? what the hell stupid name

Jason from the 90′s, Wang Chung lover

Lady with all the rabbits and rashes

Blonde girl from Sherman Oaks, SUPER bitchy

Who was that friend of my sister’s who got arrested for pot possession in Idaho?

Guy I worked with at Macy’s who couldn’t spell Macy’s and who got fired for stealing double-D bras and XL thigh highs (allegedly)

That one dude with the 3 nipples? Remember him? I want to say “Kai”?

Stephanie last name starts with a J or P or T. The one from that one summer camp with the mosquito infestation 1986ish

Larry Smith Smyth Smithes Smitty, Austin

Is Cousin Leonard still alive

Gamma Phi Beta who puked on my arm

Alice De something

My friend from yoga with stupid hippie name like Lily Treehouse

Training Bra Susan

Tommy last name rhymes with some kind of pasta

That mom at school who looks like Christopher Walken

Let’s go over each one individually so we stay safe! DO NOT SHRED:

1. Enthusiastic triangles. No wait—I think those are allowed. Or is it exclamation points that are allowed and not triangles? WHAT PUNCTUATION CAN I SHRED?

2. Lady legs or bald toddlers, but only if the lady is wearing a skirt and the toddler is an alien.

3. Hands that don’t have fingernails and/or rubber gloves and/or leather gloves and/or chopped body parts.

4. Men’s ties. Which means my staff is going to have to find other ways to rail against The Man when we all get wasted at the next office Christmas party.

5.  Ponytails.  OK, this one is BULLSHIT. And elitist. Because, stupid shedder company, many of your customers are going through tough economic times right now and can’t afford to get our hair done at a fancy “salon.” Instead, we just stick the end of our pony tails into a shredder and push the power button.  Now you know how I get my super sexy “Dog the Bounty Hunter after being attacked by a raccoon” look.

And also how I groom my bikini area.

6. Aerosol cans. Seriously? How am I supposed to destroy the evidence that I was the one who spray painted “MILF FREE ZONE” on our neighborhood fence now? It’s like you want me to be thrown in the clink. Jeezus.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, I just inserted my credit cards in the new shredder’s slot as instructed, and the Channing Tatum PPV movie I ordered isn’t showing up. You suck, new shredder and I’d totally return you.

If I hadn’t already shredded the receipt.

The injury happened during a big bike race in Blanco, Texas. Blanco is a huge metropolis about 20 miles from Austin in the middle of the beautiful Hill Country. It’s pretty much just like New York City, as you can see from this picture:

Right after the race started, some other cyclist knocked Chris over during a turn, causing him to crash into a ditch and break his elbow. Then The Hillbilly EMTs brought him to Austin in an ambulance (“Y’all, we loaded him up with pain meds! Heee heeee!”) and the boys and I met him at the hospital. A few hours of agony later, including five scary minutes when the doctor gave him what he called “The Michael Jackson Cocktail,” he was moved to another hospital where a wonderful surgeon gave him a brand new titanium elbow. Which means he’s basically bionic now and don’t think I haven’t heard that news about five f-in million times.

Overall he’s doing very well and has been resting at home the past week. Still, at least once a day, I hear him yell things like this: “Kids, get your butts in the living room right now! I’m on pain meds and I’m letting you watch an R-rated movie! Move it move it move it!” Then for the next two hours: “Okay, don’t say that word,” “Don’t say that word, either.” “No, I’m not explaining what that terminology means until you’re shaving.” “Well, kid, the word ‘balls’ has many meanings.” So that’s been super fun.

Unfortunately, the injury meant that he couldn’t go to the Hall and Oates concert with me last Sunday night. As some of you may remember, we usually listen to H&O on our endless road trips where I’m always regulated to singing only the Oates parts. Chris takes the much more showy Hall parts because he can reach the falsetto notes and also, he doesn’t want me to experience joy.

In his place that night was my friend Maria who was super excited to go and who even dressed in awesome 80′s clothes for the occasion. (Note: At our age,”80′s clothes” is quickly changing in meaning from “the 1980′s” to “the octogenarian years.”)

The concert was really great and Hall and the Oatestache sounded amazing. (And I totally sang ALL OF THE HALL PARTS, SO SUCK IT, BIONIC MAN.) The sold-out crowd at the Austin City Limits theater was on their feet dancing the entire time. Well, except for our lame ass section. Not only did we have someone pass out in the aisle from overindulgence and need medical assistance, we had the German Date Rape Twins sitting in front of us. They showed up 10 minutes late, wearing blue blazers, then loudly talked the whole time while they Googled Hall and Oates on their phones. Seriously, what the f*ck? That’s like Googling “pizza.” Nimrods.

Immediately after the concert, we made our way down to the Austin City Limits theater plaza where we were thrilled to walk into a huge dance party jumping around to David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance”:

Of course we immediately inserted ourselves into the middle of it and began singing at the top of our lungs. Then, as the DJ continued to play 80′s music for the next two hours, we shook our asses like two premenopausal fools. I’m sure we were probably the oldest women there, but here’s the thing about being the oldest women at a big dance party: you own the big dance party because you do not give a shit about the big dance party.

There were a few men there who were older than us, all of them with much, much younger dates. Maria kept yelling, “Is that your professor? You don’t need to sleep with him to get an A! You’re smart enough on your own, baby girl!” But I don’t think any of them listened because they were far too enraptured by their dates’ white goatees, 401Ks and Tommy Bahama shirts.

The two of us knew the words to every single song the DJ blasted, from The Pointer Sisters’ “Jump” to Guns ‘n Roses’ “Welcome To The Jungle” and we weren’t at all concerned about how we looked while we sang as loud as we could and danced like unstable bunnies on Dexatrim. But as far as dancing in a sexy way like all of the other women there? Um, no. After all, why bother being sexy when you could instead hop around like Ducky in “Pretty In Pink”? Any sexy dancing from us was by complete accident.

However, that still didn’t stop some 30-year-old guy in a polo shirt from humping my leg during a Rick James song. Maria and I immediately screamed, “Gross! You’re a sicko!” and ran away from him. He actually looked very hurt, which makes me wonder if this is the way men now court women on the dance floor. Please advise, millennials. I don’t get it.

Finally, after Maria had a beer spilled down her back and I performed some rather spectacular drunken dance moves to “Like A Virgin” (search for it on YouTube under “old blonde lady has seizure to classic Madonna”), we headed home knowing we’d totally ruled the party. Maria even took a picture of me that not only shows her state of mind, but mine, too—blurry, tipsy and having more fun than anyone who remembers when “Square Pegs” was on TV has a right to:

As Hall and Oates would say about a husband with a broken elbow, being the oldest woman at a dance party and a really, really long week, “it’s a bitch, girl.” But even so, it’s still been pretty damn fun, girl.

We’re very happy to be here because not much happens in Bee Cave. In fact, our biggest scandal to date was probably when a head shop called Planet K opened for business and everyone freaked the hell out. Now, in case you didn’t go to college in a pothead nirvana like Eugene, Oregon like I did, a head shop sells pipes, lighters, incense, vaporizers and Grateful Dead Snuggies. And, in the back room, the always fun “adult novelties.” It’s basically the Jeff Spicoli version of Walgreen’s. (#tastywavescoolbuzz)

Not surprisingly, the Planet K development quickly turned into a “Right here in River City” situation, with lengthy emails flying around the neighborhood, all railing about the head shop ruining our city and “teaching our teenagers about drugs.” Because teenagers need so much assistance finding drugs, of course. Those idiots will figure out a way to get high from a paper bag and a tube sock.

There was also one memorable email from a concerned God-fearing woman saying that she and her husband had bravely ventured into the erotica room and her eyes were “horrified by the disgusting latex contraptions and such.” She didn’t include her husband’s reaction, but I’m guessing he probably went back for second and third looks just to solidify his outrage.

Anyway, since Bee Cave couldn’t actually stop the business from moving in, they waited until Planet K painted a big, pretty mural on the side of their building. Then the city council banned murals. In legal parlance, that’s called “a major dick move.” Planet K then retaliated by installing cigarette stands, an inflatable snowman and a huge Ron Paul sign on their front porch. So all of that’s been super fun.

Now, however, things are about to get even more exciting in Bee Cave because in addition to my favorite Austin musician and other assorted celebrities like ex-WWE wrestlers and country singers living here (and, not to mention, the legendary Willie Nelson who lives just down the way and who is probably solely responsible for 99.9% of Planet K’s profits), we have a new star in our midst: The Backdoor Teen Mom (BTM).  Awww, yeah.

If you, like most thinking people, don’t know who I’m talking about, Farrah Abraham was knocked up in high school and appeared on the MTV show “Teen Mom,” then she got a bunch of plastic surgery and recently made (ahem) a backdoor sex tape with a porn star. And now she lives in Bee Cave, Texas. Welcome, neighbor!

US Weekly reports that she’s living in the apartment complex near my house, which everyone calls “The Divorced Dad Apartments” because that’s where middle-aged men go to live after their wives kick them out of the house for cheating. And now with Farrah just down the hallway, what could go wrong?

Apparently, a lot, or at least that’s what a production company is hoping because she just signed a deal to star in a new reality show. I mean, what the hell? We moved out of Los Angeles 14 years ago to get away from this shit and now, with TV cameras about, I’ll probably be seen in the background every time Farrah’s shopping in the back room of Planet K. Um, I mean in the grocery store. Shopping in the back room of the grocery store. Hahahaha! I don’t even know what latex contraptions are! Or why you shouldn’t ever leave one in your car in the middle of summer! (#tastywavescoolbuzz)

All of that said, I do wish Farrah the best of luck in Bee Cave. It’s a nice place to live, even for a backdoor teenage porn star. And if she ever needs to borrow a cup of sugar or a crocheted gimp mask, she’s welcome to come find me.

Right behind the lens of my paparazzi camera, hoping to get a picture of her to sell to TMZ.com.

“Because I was Superstar of the Week!” he answered. “All this week! By the way, you were supposed to come have lunch with me yesterday. I forgot to tell you that. When you didn’t show up, I just told my teacher you were probably getting your toenails painted black again. She said not to say that I saw her roll her eyes.”

And that pretty much sums up how every SuperStar/Rock Star/Shooting Star of the Week has gone around here since the boys started school. They always forget to tell me it’s their special week, so then I look like a jerk for not sending in a homemade photo collage of their life to share with the class.

“Just tell them we don’t own a camera!” I yelled the last time Sam was Grand Poobah of the Week and headed off to school unprepared. “Tell them to close their eyes while you describe what your trip to Disneyland was like! Or you know what? Tell them your mother has bigger fish to fry and she can’t be expected to just whip up a retrospective of your first ten years on a moment’s notice! She has a very long artistic process that prohibits her from being prolific, especially when there are good things on the DVR! And if those losers don’t like it, they can go stick their heads in a bucket! Tell them that! OK, don’t tell them that! But stare at them and deeply think it!”

That said, I’m still better prepared for Super Star week than I usually am for Teacher Appreciation Week. Like all of the times I’ve realized too late that it’s “every kid bring in a single flower to give the teacher” day. First of all, a single flower? Do you know where you can buy a single flower? That’s right, the same place you can buy a single cigarette. Which is to say, “the prison yard.” So most kids come in carrying huge bouquets because their moms “figured the teacher deserves more than one flower,” and then my kids look like chumps for bringing in the half-dead daisy I picked out of the pee-smelling grass behind the Chevron station. I mean, why can’t we have “give the teacher your almost expired Groupons day?” That day I’d totally own.

Anyway, back to Jack’s collection of notes. I was very happy to sit down and read the nice things Jack’s classmates had to say about him and they all made me smile. Here are just a few examples:

Your very kind and sooo smart. Your really good at social studies.

I think that you are a hard worker. P.S. You are cool.

Jack you are very awesom. (sic)

And then there was one from some girl who said he was smart, but “really annoying in music class.” To which Jack replied, “Whatever. She’s the annoying one,” so obviously Ashlynn P. is destined to be my future daughter-in-law because that’s what passes for true love in the third grade.

But while all of the notes to Jack were super sweet, there was one in particular that actually made me worried. Very worried, in fact. Here it is:

Your so cute, cool, hansom, atlete, awesome, pie loving, sweet, Judsony, funny, fast, popular, attractive, nice, good, good at baseball, soccer, tennis, lacrosse, and plus you are sexy, sweet, chill, strong, good at singing, pet oving, sweetie, cooking loving, Mature Person!

Spelling and grammar mistakes aside, what the hell? Does Jack have a third grade stalker? Someone was actually calling him “sexy”? SEXY? Were we going to have to call his teacher and the principal and alert them to the fact that Jack has a Number One Fan and the 9-year-old version of “Misery” would soon be taking place in our tree house? Just who was this little Kathy Bates in pink flip-flops?

I showed the note to my husband and even he looked a little disturbed. “Wow,” he said, “Someone’s sure got it bad for Jack. By the way, why don’t you write things like this for me anymore? Is your wrist broken or something? I’m pie loving.”

But I knew we had to nip this in the bud as soon as possible and possibly hire a security company and some attack dogs or cats, so I immediately sat Jack down when he got home from his friend’s house. “Jack,” I very calmly asked, “do you know who wrote this note to you?”

“Of course I do!” he said.

“And….?” I persisted, hoping that his answer wasn’t going to be “the 15-year-old kid who’s been held back eight times and shaves his beard every morning on the school bus.” And then my usually modest to a fault kid told me what I should have expected all along as someone who lives with three members of the male gender.

“I wrote it about myself!” he said. “Awesome, right?”

So, I guess it doesn’t matter that I didn’t know Jack was the Super Star of the Week. Because he sure as hell did.

But the thing you need to remember, Michelle, is that this whole “healthy movie snack thing” only started because I was trying to help you stick to your diet. Yeah, that’s right, your diet. I’m not the one who’s suddenly all concerned about her weight because the guy at the Costco food court asked me if I was “eatin’ hot dogs for two.” Nope, that’s all you, babe. I still fit into my stonewashed shortalls from college and not just because of my adult ADD medication, either, thank you very much.

Anyway, as an amateur natural foods chef, of course I was more than willing to put together a few “light ‘n tasty” munchies for us to enjoy during today’s matinee. That’s what friends do. I figured it was a great way to get in some cooking practice while also helping you ward off a blocked artery or two. Oh, don’t you roll your eyes at me. We both know how much you love your giant buckets of buttered popcorn, Michelle. Seriously, you sound like a swarm of locusts laying waste to a wheat field whenever you eat it. We both know the entire audience of Midnight In Paris wanted to spray you down with DDT.

But as you know, I happily spent my morning chopping, pureeing, quartering, juicing and garnishing all of the delicious Farmer’s Market produce I bought for us to munch on this afternoon. It was a tremendous amount of work and quite messy, too, I may add. Have you ever had to pick kale out of your inner ear? No, I suppose you haven’t. A Jujube or two, certainly a Twizzler, but certainly not anything that actually has vitamins in it. (Unless, of course, said vitamins are covered in a “nacho cheese product” that came out of a pump.) (Shut up because you know that’s true.)

Once our delicious snacks were packed into their snug little containers, I prepared for challenge number two: getting it all into the theater. This was no simple matter of smuggling in a few water bottles or a lousy bag of microwave popcorn like the cheapasses do. No, this was some Navy SEAL-type shit and I was determined to make it happen. Not that you would know that because you were far too busy drooling over the life-size standee of The Rock to notice any of my maneuverings. But suffice it to say I got the food inside and Matthew the pimply usher got to see his first side boob. That’s all we need to know about that.

Now, before we discuss what happened next, let me reiterate that I did not realize the movie we were seeing was an R-rated horror story about carnivorous zombies. I honestly thought Cranium Munchers 3-D was a biopic about famous mathematicians. So that one’s on me. Obviously if I’d known the actual subject matter of the movie and just how realistic the gore was, I wouldn’t have included certain things on my healthy snack menu.

Things like deviled eggs, for example. I see now that putting a chilled egg in your hand in the middle of a dark theater during the skull-sawing scene was a mistake. But that was still no reason for you to scream, “HOLY FUCK, IT’S A FRONTAL LOBE!” and chuck the egg at the screen like a slimy shot put.

Nor should you have lashed out at me when I passed you the plate of garlic hummus and baby carrots. Yes, I realize my timing wasn’t great since it was during the part of the movie where the gang of undead dines on the Mayor-elect’s toes, but it took me a long time to puree those chick peas and I really didn’t appreciate having them smeared all over my 3-D glasses. Or  the homemade Greek yogurt poured all over my leather purse, my shoes and the watch my parents gave me for graduation, either, for that matter.

And would it have killed you to at least try the unshelled edamame and glass of wheat grass juice before you yelled, “STOP FEEDING ME BODY FLUIDS AND GET ME A MOTHERF*CKING ICEE, BITCH”? Honestly, the whole experience was like a bad Halloween party game with sticky floors, armrests and Dolby Surround Sound.

That said, I still wish you the best of luck with your diet. It’ll probably be a lot easier to resist those buckets of buttered popcorn now that we’re banned from the multiplex for life.

Photo via Parade.com

That said, today I’m sharing with you an essay from way, way back about my son Jack when he was a 3-year-old and obsessed with me. He’s now a 9-year-old and still likes me quite a bit, only I’m not nearly as exciting as I used to be because I don’t understand dragons and baseball. At any rate, Happy Mother’s Day!

MORE MOMMY

I have a stalker. Or “obsessed fan,” if you prefer. He needs to be with me constantly. He cries when we’re not together. His love for me is immeasurable. He’d even get my name tattooed on his arm if he 1) knew what tattoos were and 2) how to spell my name. And the worst part is, no matter what I do, no matter where I hide, there’s no escape from my passionate little groupie. Because he’s my 3 year-old son and he knows where I live.

Jack was first infatuated with me when he was a newborn, which is completely understandable. After all, I was The Lunch Lady. A veritable 24-hour all-you-can-eat Vegas buffet/Nudie Show that was available to him whenever the mood struck. And the mood struck about every two hours. My nipples still quiver in fright at the mere mention of those early morning dinner shows.

All of that changed when Jack turned one and he suddenly couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Because by this time of his life, I’d become the hardnosed Safety Police, thwarting his every attempt to climb into public fountains, lick dogs or jab sharp, pointy things into his ears.What kind of kid wants to be around a woman who won’t let them eat carpet or throw dollar bills in the toilet? Not Jack. It wasn’t until the age of two that he ever so slowly started toddling back to me. Mostly because I was the only one in the house who smelled good and knew how to use the DVD player.

Then the morning of his third birthday arrived and my little son’s eyes flew open with awild glint in them . Running past his pile of shiny presents to the biggest present of all, he hugged my legs with all of his might and decided right then and there that the only thing better than Mommy was More Mommy.

That was six months ago. This is what life with Jack is like now:

Monday: Talks to me for five solid hours, mostly about circles. The checker at the grocery store asks if I fed him meth cake.

Tuesday: Insists on joining me in a crowded restroom, then loudly asks where my penis is. My response, “Peanuts? What peanuts?!? Are you hungry for peanuts?!” doesn’t fool him and only solicits giggles from other stalls.

Wednesday: Is far more thrilled to see me at 4 a.m. than I am to see him.

Thursday: Falls apart when I bend over to pick something up and he can’t see me for 1.5 seconds.

Friday: Competes with his older brother for the honor of holding my hand. However, unlike my long-held fantasy of two gentlemen fighting over me in a rather dashing duel, this one consists of two crazed preschoolers whacking the crap out of each other with half-full juice boxes.

Saturday: Ignores a playroom full of toys so he can help mommy do work on the computer. After two minutes of non-stop fist pounding on the keyboard, he somehows manages to e-mail the Pentagon my pap smear results.

Sunday: He’s carried out of house by husband while digging his fingernails into the doorjamb and screaming “MAHHH-MEEE!” like a 3 foot-high Stanley Kowalski from A Streetcar Named Desire. Alone at last, I sit on the couch alone. And start to miss him after 15 minutes.

Of course I know it won’t be long until Jack will only want me when he’s either wounded or in jail or, if he’s anything like his uncle, if he’s wounded while in jail. And that’s why I try to be patient when he insists on snuggling with me at 2 a.m. Or when he says “Mommy” 5,312 times in a row. Or when he stares at me like he’s trying to memorize every single wrinkle on my face.

But I still look at mothers of teenagers with a little bit of envy. And dream about the day, that beautiful day, when I’ll be able to take a shower without a cheering audience.

]]> <div style="clear:both;padding-top:0.2em;"><a title="Like on Facebook" href="http://feeds.feedblitz.com/_/28/40932075/WendiAarons"><img height="20" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/fblike20.png" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;"></a>&#160;<a title="Subscribe by email" href="http://feeds.feedblitz.com/_/19/40932075/WendiAarons"><img height="20" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/email20.png" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;"></a>&#160;<a title="Subscribe by RSS" href="http://feeds.feedblitz.com/_/20/40932075/WendiAarons"><img height="20" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/rss20.png" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;"></a>&#160;<a title="View Comments" href="http://wendiaarons.com/2013/05/shotlife-for-mothers-day.html#comments"><img height="20" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/comments20.png"></a>&#160;<a title="Follow Comments via RSS" href="http://wendiaarons.com/2013/05/shotlife-for-mothers-day.html/feed"><img height="20" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/commentsrss20.png"></a>&nbsp; <div style="clear:left;"><a href="http://wendiaarons.com/2013/05/shotlife-for-mothers-day.html#comments"><h3>Comments</h3></a><ul><li><a href="http://wendiaarons.com/2013/05/shotlife-for-mothers-day.html/comment-page-1#comment-74129">[...]   Brittany  That's Vandy 2.   Kelby TypeA Parent 3. ...</a> <i>by 20 Bloggers Making a Difference</i></ul></div>&#160;</div> http://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/40932075/0/wendiaarons~ShotLife-For-Mothers-Day.html/feed 1 http://wendiaarons.com/2013/04/the-mom-makeover.html http://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/40640586/0/wendiaarons~The-Mom-Makeover.html http://feeds.feedblitz.com/~/40640586/0/wendiaarons~The-Mom-Makeover.html#comments Tue, 30 Apr 2013 19:18:05 +0000 Wendi http://wendiaarons.com/?p=8043 <div style="clear:both;padding-top:0.2em;"><a title="Like on Facebook" href="http://feeds.feedblitz.com/_/28/40640586/WendiAarons"><img height="20" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/fblike20.png" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;"></a>&#160;<a title="Subscribe by email" href="http://feeds.feedblitz.com/_/19/40640586/WendiAarons"><img height="20" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/email20.png" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;"></a>&#160;<a title="Subscribe by RSS" href="http://feeds.feedblitz.com/_/20/40640586/WendiAarons"><img height="20" src="http://assets.feedblitz.com/i/rss20.png" style="border:0;margin:0;padding:0;"></a>&#160;</div> Every year at this time, my favorite spa holds a contest for moms in recognition of Mother’s Day. Unfortunately, however, it’s not a contest that you can enter by just being a mom. Like you can’t just waddle in there and show them your c-section scar or point to the twitch in your left eye and whisper, “They did that.”

The reason you can’t is because this is actually a “Mom Makeover” contest where the winner gets a full day of spa treatments. (Retail value: $15,000-ish, I’m guessing.) Basically, the way the contest works is that someone you know takes it upon themselves to nominate you for looking like shit. And, if you’re lucky, the spa judges will all agree that you look like shit. And if you’re luckier still, they’ll then collectively decide that you’re actually the shittiest looking mom in town. And then guess what happens? BOOM, your ugly ass is sitting pretty in the pedicure chair. Aww, yeah.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I WANT TO WIN THIS CONTEST.

In fact, I want to win it so much that I’ve been making a real effort to slide headfirst into decrepitude. For example, I skipped going to the gym for about a month, then went back last week and Rambo’ed my way through a 30-minute kettlebell workout. Correction: A 30-minute Turkish kettlebell work out. Which I assume was invented in a scary Turkish prison by some buff American heroin smugglers in the 70′s. Or maybe that’s Thailand I’m thinking of? Obviously my drug smuggling knowledge isn’t as sharp as it used to be back in the days when I hung out with mechanics and Tilt-A-Whirl operators.

Anyway, if you’ve never done a kettlebell workout, imagine taking a 15 pound weight that has a handle and swinging it between your legs and over your head about two million times. Or at least one more time than your gym nemesis Perfect Molly does so you can yell, “In your FACE, Perfect Molly in your stupid Lululemon outfit! EAT THAT ACTION.”  (Note: Perfect Molly not to be confused with my other gym nemesi Granny Frypan and The Cracker. Those two hillbillies weren’t there that day because they were probably hog-tying something to eat later.)

Now, if you don’t know what happens to your body after a Turkish kettlebell workout, I don’t want to spoil the mystery. Let me just say two things: 1) ICU dosages of Motrin and 2) You’ll for sure be asked to climb into the bell-tower and get back to work. So I’ve got that “wow factor” going for me now, which is nice.

The other way I’ve been prepping to win the Mom Makeover contest is by sticking my iPhone directly on my cheek every time I make a phone call. This is an excellent way to make your complexion look like that of the miserable 16-year-old boy sitting in the dermatologist’s waiting room. Seriously, if I told you I’d been manning the chicken fryer at Popeye’s using only my face, you’d say, “I knew it!” But luckily my crop of adolescent pimples fits rather nicely on my premenopausal wrinkle farm.

Of course the best thing to do for a bad complexion is get a chemical peel at the spa, which I’ve done a few times. However, I always wonder how this type of thing was even invented. Did a German scientist drop a beaker full of acid one day and it splashed all over his face? Then two days later did his lab partner look at him and say, “My God, Guntar! Your skin ees now like une baby’s! Und where are your leetle crow’s feet? I don’t know because poof! They’re gone, mine moonchin! You are now totally spectahkular! Hello, Canyon Ranch? We haf da acid miracle cure for da laydees!” I don’t know. I got a D+ in high school Chemistry.

At any rate, I’m pretty sure that with my slovenly grooming skills and rapid aging and two grey eyebrow hairs, I have a really good chance of winning the spa’s Mom Makeover this year. In fact, I just had some professional photos taken to prove it.

See for yourself:

Wish me luck!

One of the things that’s keeping me really busy is the Listen To Your Mother Austin show that’s only weeks away. You may remember (from the dossiers you keep about my accomplishments) that this is the third year I’ve been the co-director/producer of LTYM and it’s always been a wonderful experience (for everyone in the audience when I’m on stage.)

This year we had a huge amount of submissions, then Liz and I had the daunting task of choosing the 13 people for our cast. You can learn about them all on the LTYM Austin website, as well as enter for a chance to win two tickets to the show (that I will clearly be the star of, I mean, who are we kidding here.)

Of course, if you live in Austin (probably because that makes it easier to stalk me), you really have no reason to not just buy a bunch of tickets. Not only because part of our proceeds benefit the St. Louise House that empowers women with children to overcome homelessness in Central Texas, but also because it’s really going to be a terrific show (of my lady guns because I’ll be wearing a tight sleeveless dress that night ka-POW pew pew.)

I’m also excited to say that I’ll be in Laguna Niguel, California next week at the Mom 2.0 conference where I’m speaking on a panel with a few other people (who I will obviously instruct to just keep quiet and not make eye contact with me while I’m giving my sermon on the mount about how to write a proper boob joke.) I’m so excited to be a part of this amazing conference and feel very fortunate to have this opportunity (to show those big time losers the pure power of my blonde ambition and oppressive charm.)

Finally, I’m now a contributor to both the (incredibly fortunate) Lifetime Moms website and the (g-damn lucky) NickMom website where I’ve written a few (insanely funny and dare I say, f-in sophisticated) things lately. Be sure to take a look at them (when you’re not too busy writing fan fiction and/or tribute songs on your mandolin about me.)

Again, I want you all to know that I’m still the same (strikingly gorgeous in a Norwegian royalty type of way) person I always was. I still put on my (very fancy white leather with solid gold snaps and emerald sequins) pants one leg at a time. So never fear  because I’ll always, always have time to interact with all of you (via my lawyer, my manager, my personal trainer, my Serbian bodyguard and Mr. Mondoman, the leader of my cult) whenever you like.

And that’s the promise I make to you (for a small fee.)

So with that in mind, here are a few attempts to make us all laugh, starting with a short clip from one of my all-time favorite films.

1. HOW THE NEWS HAS BEEN MAKING US FEEL LATELY

Marry me, Steve Martin.

2. AN INAPPROPRIATE REDD FOXX JOKE

What’s the difference between a pickpocket and a Peeping Tom?

A pickpocket snatches watches.

3. MY SISTERS AND I DRINKING MY DAD’S 50 YEAR OLD WHISKEY

(On the plus side, it killed any and all forms of bacteria that were living in our bodies.)

4. POSSIBLE REASONS WHY MY NEIGHBOR JUST ZOOMED OUT OF HIS DRIVEWAY

$100 suit sale at Kohl’s

Free haircuts at the VFW

Exciting news on his police scanner

The squirrels finally kicked him out

5. CELEBRITIES I’VE BEEN TOLD I RESEMBLE

The Bruce comment was actually from my mother last Christmas when I was wearing a stocking cap. I honestly don’t know where she came up with that one because my beard wasn’t even showing that day. Plus my leather suspenders are white.

6. VARIOUS COMMENTS MADE ABOUT THE LAST MEAL I COOKED

“Why is there black smoke coming out of my sandwich, mommy?”

“Generally, one shouldn’t use the “Broil” setting for more than 50 minutes.”

“YOU MAKE ME HATE THAT I OWN A STOMACH.”

7. REJECTED REJECTED VALENTINE’S DAY HEARTS

8. THE JOKE MY ENTIRE FAMILY HATES, BUT I THINK IS BRILLIANT

Q: Where does the king keep his armies?

A: In his sleevies!

(Feel free to steal this, but not for financial gain.)

9. THERE’S OBVIOUSLY A CRISIS IN FANILOW WORLD

Because not only is Barry taking the pot, the Mary Ju Wanna, but he’s in a room with both a lava lamp and an exposed brick wall. AN EXPOSED BRICK WALL. Not to mention that he’s dressed like either a Chinese pimp or a fancy iguana on steroids. What the f*ck, Barry? Is this 1950′s Greenwich Village? Shanghai in 1925? Do you think you’re at a “rave”? Or that you’re Snoop Manilow? But seriously, haven’t your lungs been through enough? I mean, they have to sing Weekend in New England a thousand times a year, so those poor bitches are probably begging you for mercy. Anyway, put down the doobage and call me, my man. #worried

10. FINALLY, THE MOST ADORABLE PICTURE OF MY PARENTS EVER

And if that doesn’t put a smile on your face, I don’t know what will.

My annoying neighbors are moving. Heading off to parts unknown. Slippin’ out the back, Jack and makin’ a new plan, Stan. And as I watch them pack up their sticky belongings, I can’t wait for them to leave. But I sure as hell will miss them.

They sold their house in a mere two weeks, advertising it as a “Tuscan Delight!” Of course, the closest that house has ever come to resembling an Italian villa was probably when the 12-year-old genius living there smeared a Meat Lover’s pizza on the wall, but obviously their realtor knew what she was doing. It wouldn’t have sold as quickly being touted as the more accurate “Cat Piss Charmer!” or “Weedy Wonderland!”

When we moved next door to these people a couple of years ago, I eagerly waited for them to welcome us to the neighborhood. I’m still waiting. Sure, I could have gone over there and introduced myself, but doesn’t etiquette say they should make the first move? Besides, if I’d gone over there and made friends, I wouldn’t have felt justified in launching my one-sided grudge match against them. When the suburbs don’t offer enough drama, offer some of your own, baby.

Once I gave them official Nemesis status, I felt free to spy on them as often as I liked. I called this my “daily surveillance.” My husband called it my “weirdly paranoid personality disorder that compels me to peep through the blinds like a junkie on the lam.” Same thing, really. But I figured since they didn’t take five minutes to come over and tell me about themselves, I was entitled to learn about them on my own.

And learn about them I did.

For example, I learned that when the husband (“Hairball Sr.”) is outside in their pool, which is eye level to our kitchen window, he likes to whip out his special purpose and pee in the bushes. Bushes that are also eye level to our kitchen window. By the end of last summer, I’d seen his penis so often, I could probably pick it out of a police line-up were it some day involved in a crime. And let’s just say, it’s a distinct possibility. That thing looks like it’s got plans.

I also learned that on special occasions, the wife (“Mrs. Hairball”) enjoys blasting Def Leppard and pretending that their backyard tether ball pole is another kind of pole entirely. Too bad I never had any spare ones lying around so I could show her my appreciation for keeping me entertained on a bad TV night.

Then there’s the aforementioned 12-year-old genius (“Hairball Jr.”) who’s always fascinating to watch, whether he’s trying to shove his mattress out a second floor window or scaling the roof of his house in flippers so he can jump into the pool. One memorable day I saw him and his equally bright toady friends lighting things on fire. On their wooden deck. Now, assuming they were probably kicked out of the Boy Scouts for insubordination, wouldn’t they still know this was a bad idea? Even cavemen knew “flame plus wood equal three-alarm fire” and their brains were the size of kiwi fruit.

But I admit, as I peeked through my window that particular day, waiting for the deck to go up in flames like a Viking funeral pyre, I actually started to admire him and the rest of the little cretins. After all, they weren’t doing lame adult woman things like folding laundry and defrosting organic chicken. No, they were livin’, man. Flirtin’ with that bitch named disaster. “Who cares if we get sent to a quasi-legal boot camp for at-risk teens,” they sneered. “These cans of Lysol and Aquanet are gonna burn, dude. Burrrnnnn!!!”

Unfortunately, that incident ended rather anti-climatically without a visit from an emergency crew, but I still waited eagerly for one of the 12 year-old’s other moronic schemes to pay off in sirens. When none did, my interest in the anti-neighbors finally started to wane a bit. Alas, grudge matches, like love affairs, quickly grow stale and die when the possibility of serious grave injury wears off.

And so, after months of no real action, I stopped caring about what the neighbors were doing and gave up my daily viewings through the kitchen window. Now these people were no longer my wildly intriguing arch enemies bent on neighborhood domination. Rather, just a slightly annoying chubby family who lived in a badly painted house and who didn’t put their trash cans away in a timely manner. Which didn’t make them that much different from anyone else on the block.

Of course the spy flame still flickered on occasion. Like the day they weren’t home and five muscular African-American men had a hip-hop party in their pool, then left minutes before the neighbors returned. Or the night the genius and his toadies were on our lawn at 2 a.m. loudly calling each other “Feces Face” and wrestling like five year-old girls. But for the most part, the thrill was gone.

That is, until I saw their “For Sale” sign go up two weeks ago.

Suddenly, all the old feelings came forcefully rushing back. I was outraged! Hurt! They were leaving me? Didn’t they know how much I cared about them? Didn’t they know how much I needed their pseudo white trash freakiness in my life? How much I needed their “was that just the wife running topless through the front yard being chased by a gang of poodles” fun? Who was going to supply me with amusing stories I could tell my friends now? The stupid honor student across the street? The old guy behind us who thinks the cable installer is a government operative? The f***ing SCRAPBOOKERS?

But then I thought about it and realized that maybe the weirdos weren’t actually moving because the Homeowner’s Association finally forced them out for violating more deed restrictions than the Clampetts. Or because they were paying their mortgage in money made from selling recycled Budweiser cans. Maybe they were moving because they knew that leaving was the best thing for all of us. I’m sure it wasn’t because they’d seen my beady blue eyes staring at them through the blinds one too many times.

In just a few weeks, an unlicensed moving van will show up to carry my nemeses to an unsuspecting planned community in another part of town. I’ll look out my window and watch them go with a sad, sentimental smile on my face and send them off with a small wave good-bye. Then I’ll sit on my couch and wait for the new neighbors to arrive. And when they do, I’ll think hard about going over to welcome them to the neighborhood. But in the end, I won’t.

After all, where’s the drama in that?

I’ve written a book.

Now, before you get all excited and say “Congratulations, I’m sure it’ll win the Pulitzer!”, I need to warn you that this isn’t a book everyone will love or, for that matter, even condone. It’s not “Funny Mommy Momentz!!!” or an “Adventures of a Suburban Wino” type book. Not at all. (Although that last title is pretty damn spectacular, now that I think about it. Trademark, please.)

The fact is that I could have taken a crack at writing a book like that, a total parenting-humor crowd-pleaser, but in my opinion, that market’s pretty damn saturated. I mean, seriously—how many more hilarious scatological anecdotes can our nation take? We get it, moms. Your kids are poop machines. LOL LOL LOL for the love of god please stop.

Anyway, for my first book, I wanted to write something that still targets the mom crowd, but in a completely different genre. And this is where I might lose some of you. Because that genre is—erotica. As in the genre of the best selling book of the past year, “50 Shades of Grey.” (Also soon to be a movie that hopefully won’t star Kevin James.)

I’m a little bit nervous to type that word, “erotica,” because I know some of you may judge me, but please realize that I wanted to be strategic and write something that had a surefire chance of success. The “50 Shades of Grey” trilogy is a total phenomenon—with headline after headline like “Moms Love Sexy Reading!”—so it seemed like a no-brainer. Experts say “write what the market will support,” so that’s what I did.

However, while “50 Shades” is about a mysterious billionaire and his 21-year-old submissive girlfriend, I wanted my book to really target moms. I wanted to give them a story they would feel was their own humdrum life writ large and, well, super naked and sweaty. And that’s why the name of my soon-to-be-self-published book is this: PTO PASSION

“PTO PASSION” is the hot, spicy tale of PTO President Raquella Roberts who falls hard for the mysterious, hunky owner of the dunk tank she rented for the school carnival. I don’t want to give too much of the plot away, but just know that there’s an amazingly torrid scene between Raquella and Wet Tommy that involves yoga pants, clipboards and the back of a dented Honda minivan. (HOT.) And if you thought the S&M scenes in “50 Shades” were intense, just wait until you see what Raquella does to Wet Tommy when he forgets the volunteer-sign up sheet on Field Day. Trust me, I had to drink a lot of wine when writing that naughty bit!

But in all seriousness, I have to say that I know PTO Erotica isn’t the kind of thing you’d expect from me, a humor writer and rescue cat owner. And I’m sorry if I’ve upset any of you. It wasn’t my intent.

That said, I sincerely hope you’ll continue to offer your support. The absolute last thing I want to do is isolate any of my readers and friends. So if you would please consider buying a copy (or two!) of my book, it’d mean the world to me. The absolute world. “PTO PASSION” and it’s sequel “THE R-RATED ROOM MOM” will be available on Amazon.com, Ebay and at your finer flea markets everywhere starting today, April 1st.

Oh, yeah, that’s right. Today is April 1st.

Gotcha.

“Look at that elderly woman working at the turnstiles,” he said last week when we were in Phoenix to watch an Oakland A’s spring training game. “You would look totally adorable sitting on a stool and wearing a white visor like hers. Adorable.”

“And where would you be?” I asked.

“Probably selling footlongs,” he answered. “Or greeting people up in the luxury boxes. Depends on if I have working hips at that point. You know how tricky stairs can be when you’re that age. Good thing you’ll have your stool!”

Yeah, good thing. Wouldn’t want to break a bone trying to dodge a foul ball or anything.

Unfortunately, this grand plan of his to be hourly employees at the Phoenix Municipal stadium when we’re 60+ didn’t come as any surprise. No, it was just the latest of his ideas for our retirement. Ideas that he seems to come up with every time we go on vacation. Like last summer when he suggested that we spend our Golden Years driving shuttle buses at the Grand Canyon. (“You could wear shorts and honk at people!”)

The summer before that, it was selling Native American trinkets on the roadside in New Mexico. “But we’re not even Native American,” I’d protested.

“Who cares?” he replied as we stood on hot desert dirt gobbling up the Navajo fry bread we’d just bought from a sweaty man named Moosey. “We’ll be so wrinkly by that time that nobody will even notice our ethnicity. Besides, you love turquoise.”

Which is true. If I didn’t restrict myself to one piece of turquoise jewelry at a time, I’d probably look like Santa Fe threw up on me.

But while I’m happy he obviously plans to grow old together, I’m not so sure about the “let’s get jobs” part. I mean, if we’re okay financially, can’t we just spend our senior years like his parents did? Playing nickel slots and drinking free casino whiskey at 8 a.m. before going home to yell, “Pull your pants up!” at the defendants on Judge Judy? They always seemed pretty content.

Or we could be like my parents who travel more frequently than a high-tech weenie trying to reach Platinum status. For example, right now they’re in Hawaii for three weeks spending all of their children’s inheritance at the Waikiki IHOP. (Uh-huh. Aloha OY.) But honestly, I’d be happy if we didn’t even leave town when we’re old. We could just sit at a library computer for three straight hours trying to send our kids an email attachment. We certainly don’t need jobs.

So that’s why I’ve told my husband that I don’t want to captain a boat on the San Antonio River Walk. Or braid tourists’ hair on the beaches of Kauai. Or be “der meatball shaper” in a Stockholm cafe. I’ve even said no to giving tours of Texas wineries with a pet cat named “AARP” on my shoulder, as tempting as that one sounds. But he still doesn’t stop with his plans.

The last time we were in Florida, he saw a white-haired woman riding a bike with a little pink basket and immediately poked me in the ribs. “Look!” he said excitedly. “If we moved here, you could get a bike like that! You’d look so cute!”

“Awww, thanks honey,” I said, flattered. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Yep,” he continued. “Then after I make the sandwiches at the deli, you can put them in your basket and deliver them to all of the office workers around here. It’ll be a blast! Think of the tips!”

I’m just going to go ahead and buy the white visor now. The sun’s going to be pretty bright on that Phoenix stool.

Help! Help! Chris! Can you come downstairs? Hurry!

(panting) OK, OK, I’m here! What’s the emergency?

You won’t believe this, but I just saw a big, black hole on the roof of Jack’s mouth! It’s the size of a pencil eraser! I’m freaking out!

What!? Let me look. Jack, open your mouth. Open your mouth. OPEN YOUR MOUTH!

Open your mouth for daddy, Jack! Open up! Like this! See how mommy’s doing it? OPEN!! Say “ahhh!” Say “ahhh!” OPEN UP YOUR MOUTH NOW! IT’S A MEDICAL EMERGENCY, DUMMY!

Knock it off, Dr. House. It’s open.

Good job, Jack! Oh, my poor, poor sweet baby!

Hmm…OK, I think I see actually something.

Oh, my God, I was right! What is it? Is it a tumor? A hole? It IS a hole! I knew it! How the hell did he get a hole on the roof of his mouth? Has he been eating chemicals? Did he drink the Febreze? Because that stuff kind of smells appetizing, don’t you think? It’s like fruit cake in a spray! In fact, sometimes I even think about licking the couch after I’ve sprayed it, but only when I have low blood sugar and…do you think it’s congenital? Do you think it’s something his dentist should have noticed? This is horrible! We should call 911. Should we call 911? Let’s call 911. No! Let’s just go directly to the ER. We can take my car–I just got gas, which by the way, was $3.00 a damn gallon, can you believe…suitcase. I should take a suitcase, right? Small or large? Maybe just a duffle ba—does this mean he needs surgery? Does this mean he has a disease? Does this mean he can now spit out of his nose, because at least that’d get him on TV, well, reality TV, but…

Are you done?

What do you mean, am I done? Of course I’m not “done.” Our BABY, our precious little 3 1/2 year old BABY has…

Broccoli.

Um, what?

It was broccoli. On the roof of his mouth. And now, it’s gone. It’s a frickin’ medical miracle. In fact, why don’t you call CNN and tell them all about it. Ask for Blitzer.

Oh. Ha! That’s funny, isn’t it?

Not really.

OK, it’s not. But look on the bright side—-at least we know he’s eating his vegetables! Right? Right? Where are you going?

Upstairs. I think I saw a red mark on the cat. Might be scurvy.

Oh, come on. That’s ridiculous. Just leave me…wait a sec. Did you say “scurvy”!?

But because I have two sons and I’m a very nice mother, I wind up seeing almost every children’s movie that comes out. The only way I’ve managed to survive them at all is to sit in the top row of the theater and watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show on my iPhone during the film. It’s a trick that usually works like a charm, however I’ve learned that I still have to pay attention to at least one scene so I can later cite it when my kids ask me which part was my favorite. Once I responded with, “The part where Mary and Rhoda ate the cake!” and my jig was almost up. I must protect my jig.

Then a couple of weeks ago my genius system was put to the test again when I found myself walking into the movie theater with five kids. FIVE. I’m still not sure how that happened. I’m assuming either someone slipped a roofie into my box of wine or I went into a fugue state after Spin class and one of my devious friends took advantage of me. Who knows. At any rate, I was like a f***ing Duggar at the multiplex that day. (Albeit a Duggar with incredible hair and the ability to pronounce the word “Icee” in less than six syllables.)

I had four boys with me, all easily controlled with buttloads of popcorn and the threat of kissing them in public, and one girl, Allie. Allie is pretty much my favorite 11-year-old girl in the world because she’s basically a middle-aged curmudgeon in pink sparkly tennis shoes. I always have to stop myself from gossiping about who’s getting divorced and why with her because I forget she’s only in the fifth grade.

Last summer we had a party at our house and all of the kids were outside throwing rocks at each other while the moms drank wine and told funny stories in the living room. Guess where Allie was? Right next to me listening to every word. Seriously, if she started shopping at Chico’s and getting hormone replacement therapy, nobody would blink an eye. She’s like my four-foot-high, less wrinkly twin. (Lucky Allie!)

The movie we were there to see that day was some stupid animated thing involving aliens, and we quickly realized that the rest of the neighborhood had had the same idea as us because the screening room was packed. So packed, in fact, that we couldn’t sit in my usual back row and had to take seats somewhere in the middle. AKA the worst possible place to use your iPhone without someone complaining. I immediately began to panic that I’d actually have to watch the alien crapfest, or try to sleep, but then I remembered that Allie was next to me. And here’s how Allie saved me that day in the movie theater:

During the trailer for a movie starring The Rock:

Me: Every graduate of the Yale School of Drama is now slowly killing themselves with a garden tool.

Allie: I know, right? Take me outta my misery, rake!

_

During the trailer for an animated movie about cave people:

Allie: How many fart jokes do you think that masterpiece will have?

Me: At least 100. Maybe 102 but the director probably can’t count that high.

(low chuckles, high fives)

_

During the alien movie’s first act when one alien burps on another:

Me: “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeBUUUURRPPPP.”

Allie: Wow, talk about pandering.

Boys: HAHAHAHAHAHA! BURP!

_

During the sudden outburst from the toddler behind us:

Allie: It’s called Benadryl. Look into it.

Me: PREACH.

-

During the scene where two alien sidekicks show up:

Me: Oh, a wacky character voiced by George Lopez. How original.

Allie: What, was Tracy Morgan busy? LAME.

-

During the end credits when some of the audience started to applaud:

Me: Dear God.

Allie: I wish my parents let me carry a taser.

And so on. You get the idea. The entire movie just flew by that day with Allie’s help and for that, I’m forever in her debt. Now if I can only convince her parents to let me take her with me to Oliver Stone’s next movie. I hear it has some burping in it.

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The human foot has 2,000 bones in it.

If you break one of those 2,000 bones, you will never get your Chi back.

The best way to keep your foot bones safe is to put happy thoughts out into the universe.

Happy thoughts aren’t always about cute puppies, FYI.

But looking at cute puppies can lower your blood pressure by like, 120 points. On average.

Too much red meat can damage you reproductively.

But eating raw vegetables will turn you into a “Fertile Myrtle.”

So if you’re dating an unemployed mandolin musician and don’t want to have a baby with him because he’s somewhat of a flake and smokes too much pot on weekends, don’t eat salads.

The best advice can be found cross stitched on a pillow by a Grandma.

Bob Dylan invented that yoga pose where you stick your head between your legs and hum.

Or maybe it was ex-Beatle George Harrison who invented that pose.

George Harrison died before Ringo and that is a travesty of The Universe. YOU ARE MISSED, GEORGE.

At any rate, don’t do the hum/leg pose if you’re feeling faint.

Torso twists make your liver work more efficiently.

Inverted poses increase your creativity. But don’t try to paint upside down!

Many in the know say that the human ribcage is one of the seven wonders of the world.

The human ribcage was harder to construct than the Taj Mahal.

Some people call their ribcages their “Taj Mahal” but it’s really a personal choice.

Passing gas is our body’s way of saying, “Hey, brain, I’m relaxed. It’s all good in da hood.”

On average, you pass gas 10 times in an hour-long yoga class.

A few of you pass even more gas than that! I think we all know who!

We all have a third eye that we need to KEEP OPEN AT ALL TIMES.

Some people have four eyes, but none of those people are in this class because you people aren’t that advanced yet.

If everyone discovered the right way to breathe, there’d be no more wars. Give peace a chance! Inhale!

FYI, the right way to breathe is with your whole entire glorious body.

Innnnn, oooouttttt. That’s breathing.

Ouuuutttt, innnnnn. That’s breathing, too.

It’s never good to not breathe, even if it’s allergy season and you’re full of phlegm.  A doctor would agree with that advice, I’m pretty sure.

Yoga mats are 20% off in the lobby!

______________________

Also, be sure to take a look at The Mouthy Housewives talking about the idiots who work at Mattel over on The Huffington Post.

And I even have my picture in the back of the magazine, even though I look drunk and/or super chunky. And we all know that only one of those things is true. AND WHY AM I WEARING MY PHARMACIST’S GLASSES?

But I guess I should be happy I’m even in the position to joke about celebrity fashion considering that I’ve worn the same outfit since 1984:

And also because I consider these to be matching socks, despite my husband’s claim for the past 20 years that I’m totally wrong. But like I always say, it’s all in whatever matching criteria you decide to use. (I have another pair just like it!)

Of course I thought that with my big news I’d for sure be the Big Deal of the Family and they’d finally let me play my Manilow CD during Christmas dinner. But then my dad had to go ahead and ruin it—-by getting honored by the Congressional Medal of Honor Society. Yeah, that’s right, the Congressional Medal of Honor Society. He was named a 2013 finalist in the Citizen Before Self Award and just how am I supposed to beat that? Ain’t no Paula Abdul caption hilarious enough to get the attention of the Congressional Medal of Honor Society.

But in all seriousness, my dad is an incredibly wonderful and amazing man. He served in the National Guard for 45 years, then became a very active volunteer for disabled veterans when he retired. One of the many things he’s done (and he’s done a lot) is founding the Northern Nevada Wheelchair Program where he provides wheelchairs and ramps for any veteran or veteran’s spouse in need. Here he is with one of the vets he helped get a very needed wheelchair:

My dad’s program is completely run on donations and volunteers and he and my mom both devote a lot of time and energy to it. For that reason, I’m thrilled he’s finally getting some well deserved recognition. (Although he is very humble and has never, ever wanted any attention or awards. I think that’s the North Dakota in him. He just does these things because “it’s the right thing to do.”)

Last year, my dad was in a serious accident and needed to use a wheelchair himself, but that still didn’t slow him down because he knew there were people out there who needed help. I really couldn’t be more proud of him. He is truly one of the best and an incredible role model for my sons and their cousins. And I’m not just saying that so I get to play my Barry songs during Christmas dinner, either.

Love you, Mom & Dad. (So much that I’m not even going to say anything about your matching sweaters.)