Now that we have kids, vacations are not vacations anymore. They’re basically just a way to spend nine million dollars to be trapped inside a small metal capsule with two douchenuggets for hours only to arrive in a faraway land where the beds are smaller and sleep sucks donkey butt and I eat so much that my clothes don’t fit and I just need another vacation after my vacation. But for some reason every year I have amnesia and book one. Anyways, this is what I REALLY F’ing want on my next vacation:
1. I want my hubby to do all the packing. I’m happy to help out by writing a shitload of post-it notes that remind him not to forget important stuff like bathing suits and to leave me the F alone.
1. When you play any game, never ever keep score. If someone’s a winner, someone else has to be a loser, and you don’t want to teach your kid how to be a loser, do you? Losing in Chutes and Ladders has been known to cause a lifetime of failed marriages and binge eating.
2. If someone says even the smallest mean thing to your kid at school, call the principal immediately and demand they do something about the bullying or you’re going to call your lawyer. The best way to teach your kid to stand up for himself is to fight his fights for him.
Swish swish swish. What is that noise? Swish swish swish swish, WHAT is that??? Oh, wait a sec, I know. It’s my thighs. Awwwesome. Yup, my thighs make a noise when I walk. And if you don’t know WTF I’m talking about, please stop reading this now because you must be one of those women whose thighs have never touched before.
Like once I had this cute pair of black linen pants that I wore almost every day after I was preggers and I LOVED them (translation: they were the only pants that fit without squeezing my gallbladder up into my esophagus). And then one day I took them out of my closet and put them on and I must have bent over for some reason and that’s when I saw it. Nooooooooo. Two gaping holes, one on each thigh, up by the crotch. Eww, isn’t crotch like the worst word on earth? Moist crotch. There, I just made it worse. But I digress.
Dear Thing 1, Thing 2 and my hubby,
I LOVE you guys. Like I LOVVVVVVVVE you. But even though I love you more than life itself, sometimes I just need a break. Not like a six-night trip to the Caribbean (although that would be amazing). Just a wee little bit of “alone” time. Because it seems like someone CONSTANTLY needs something from me. Wiiiipe me, can I have some water, where is the milk, pick me up, is it sexy-time yet, where are my shoes, can I have it Mommy, can I, can I, can I??? Until I’m like AGGGGGHHHHHH, leave me the F alone!!!!! Puhleeeeease, can I please just have a little space? So here are ten things I REALLY want to do alone once in a while:
1. I want to sit on the toilet ALL BY MYSELF. I don’t want to hear someone body-slamming the door, pummeling each other outside, or yelling MOMMMMMMM at the top of their lungs. There’s only one thing I want to hear for seven straight minutes. My own precious grunts.
This is not political. This is personal. You see these two faces? These are the faces behind the Affordable Care Act (aka Obamacare). That’s right. My sweet kids Zoey and Holden are on Obamacare. And so are me and my husband. And I am scared shitless right now.
Years ago before Obamacare, we applied for health insurance. And guess how long it took us to get it? Six months. SIX. One hundred and eighty days of waiting to see if we would be eligible to get healthcare. And not for free. Not subsidized. We waited six months to see if a healthcare plan would accept us so we could pay full price for it.
(Based on a true story)
ME: Holden, what do you want for breakfast?
ME: You can’t have nothing. Do you want some toast?
HOLDEN: I’m not hungry.
ME: You’ll be hungry later at school. How about a banana?
HOLDEN: I’m NOT hungry!!
ME: You can’t NOT eat something (does that even make sense?).
Okay, so I just bumped into this other mom from my daughter’s school and we started chatting. Hmmmm, what should I call her, lemme seeeee, how about Muffy McPerfectpants? Anyways, Muffy and I are chatting (she’s going on and on and on about the homemade gingerbread houses they made last night and I’m going on and on and on about how I can’t stop drinking eggnog straight from the container) when she politely asks me what we are doing for the holidays.
ME: Enh, not much. Just wearing my fat pants all day long and letting the kids have as much iPad as humanly possible so we don’t go insane.
I did something stupid. I mean I do stupid stuff all the time, but this one makes me look like a total idiot. It all started the other morning when I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to get the rugrats out the door for school.
ME: Did you brush your teeth yet?! Is your backpack packed?!! Zoey, stop playing with toys!!! If I see you touch that toy again, I’m going to throw it in the trash!!
F me. Yes, I know those probably aren’t the classiest words to start a post with, but I really can’t think of two better words to describe the shitstorm that I brought upon my house this weekend. Are you ready for this tragedy?
So on Saturday night we went out with friends to a Mexican joint, and I don’t know about you, but when I go to a Mexican joint, I drink. A lot. The menu said peach mango strawberry margarita, and I was like, yummmmmmmmmm, I’ll have THAT.
WAITRESS: Which one?