Labor Day Tips and/or Birth Control

My son’s 7th birthday is officially today. Thank the baby Jesus he was a million times easier to get out then my first son. I am gonna be real here people; I am a goddamn wimp when it comes to all things medical, especially “down South”.

When I became pregnant for my first son, I would like to think of it as a “surprise”. Inside I had no idea how logically, I would get a baby out of something the size of a penny..or maybe a nickle…I don’t know.

Armed with the knowledge of what it takes to birth a child, my second (and final) child came with a lot more experience and I was prepared to play that card for days.

“We want to break your water Mrs. Hot Mess” the nurse would say.

“No, I would like for you to break it after the epidural. I would also like the  nice man that performed my epidural from 3.5 years ago to do it.”

“Oh I’m sorry but he may have already left for his daughter’s volleyball game.”

“I’m sorry but I’m creating life here which falls a little higher then a volleyball game. I will, neigh, you won’t, make it if I do not have an epidural from this kind man so it would be in your best interest to track him down, stall his Prius and alert him that you have a situation.”

After childbirth: “we would like to cathorize you now Mrs. Hot Mess.”

“No, I have up to 3 hours to pee, I see no reason to even suggest this at this time;” I say as I roll back over onto my 100 thread count sheets to face a “chair” that is supposed to be a comfortable fold down chair when in reality it’s from the same line of furniture found in all business traveler rooms of Red Roof Inn.

And, if anything, if they ask you if you want your new baby to sleep in your room at the hospital, JUST SAY NO. Again, JUST SAY NO! For the love of God, listen to me on this one. Children’s Services will not be called. Your child will not turn out like Marilyn Manson if they sleep in the nursery with 5 well trained baby nurses overlooking their well-being. This will be the last, I repeat, last time you will have uninterrupted sleep for the next 18 years. I can count on both hands how many times I’ve slept past 9 in the past 10 years.

All I’m saying is this:  do not follow the pack when it comes to your body. There is A LOT of room for negotiation to allow you to be more comfortable during pregnancy.Just because Nurse Misery learned a technique at the vocational school doesn’t mean it’s practiced across the board (with the exception of washing hands with soap and water).

Holiday · Uncategorized

Elf on the Shelf Part 2 (view discretion advised)

Last year one night I was becoming increasingly frustrated that my boys did not find my Elf on the Shelf efforts good enough.

“Why didn’t Zipper move last night?”


“Why does Zipper only stay in the living room?”

Jesus! This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, we were to move it to a stationary area and that was that. No props, no notes, no scavenger hunts.

Out of anger I staged the following scenes. Again, if you are offended please look away now. Also to note, I’ve never used drugs in my life and never intend to. Just thought the one scene was pretty ironic and what you get after about 3 glasses of Cabernet.

Elf on the Shelf, Elf behaving badly
The Elf at Studio 54. It’s just sugar all! The dollar is real though.
Bad elf, Christmas, Elf on the Shelf
“There can only be one favorite stuffed animal in this house and you aren’t it!”
Elf on the shelf, Naughty Elf, Christmas
Zipper, we’ve called you hear because we love you and want to see you get better. Put down the pills….

So tomorrow I will post images of what my sons see. I can assure you they have never seen any of these pics. Good night!


I’m Stuck in Foam and Can’t Get Up!

After about an hour of watching my youngest at a gymnastic party I began to feel horribly guilty for not participating in the balance beam, foam pit and those rings that hang down from ribbons. It didn’t help matters that “Story of My Life” was playing.

I slammed my computer lid shut and yelled, “C! Want mommy to play with you?’

“Yeah, sure!” he said in his always adorable raspy voice.

I threw off my cowgirl boots, attempted to hide the collar of my husband’s gold toe socks under my skinny jeans and I was off.

“C’mon, I need to show you something,” C said with pride since I had joined him. I followed in his wake to a trampoline walkway that gave way to a foam pit. A foam pit is a pit of foam cubes measuring to about 12″x 12″ x12″. Secretly it looked fun.

C demonstrated his expertise with the foam pit. He ran as fast as he could, jump, flip forward and land on his back in the pit.

After several turns, including a mother, I decided I needed to jump. I stood at the starting line and yelled over to C who was standing at the cusp of the pit.

“You ready C?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“Are you really ready because I am going to totally embarrass you,” I said as I rolled up my sleeves.

“Oh no!” he said as he theatrically threw his hand on his forehead, rolling his eyes.

I ran as fast as I could and threw my hands up in the air like I was jumping into a pool.

To my relief there wasn’t any hard surfaces and I felt like I was jumping into a cloud. I “swam” over to the sides only to find I could swim over but not up.

I laughed cheerfully while smiling up to the birthday boy’s mom.

“Hey, looks like it’s a little tough to get out of here,” I said.

“Yeah, I had a real tough time getting up,” she said making me feel better about her 60 lb body weight having trouble.

I tried over and over again to no avail. I felt as if my socks were holding me back and I contemplated just leaving them. Like the army or something I thought, ‘No! We don’t leave any garments behind and that includes the socks.’ With renewed gusto, I deemed the situation ridiculous and I was now determined to get me, my dignity and socks out of that stupid pit.

“I just took a picture of you mom! Look!” C said while turning my phone around so that I could see. This made me sink back into the pit.

“Do you need the rope?” Birthday boy’s mom asked.

“No, I’m fine,” I said like a stubborn 85 year old determined to remain independent and not live in the nursing home.

After 5 minutes of trying and knowing there was a line now of 6 kids,I admitted defeat.

“Send in the rope!” I said like a Fire Chief ordering the jaws of life. Here is  the pic C took of me being saved…with my socks intact:

rope hot mess

I was really pissed and a little aggravated I did not have enough strength to pull myself out of this pit but the foam and my socks acted like velcro not releasing me. Additionally, I felt my arms burn as I tried to pull myself up via the rope. During the rope exercise in school I would normally inch myself up 1″, jump off and say, “I’m good”, failing that part of P.E.

By now a few parents had sauntered over and I could tell they were thinking about trying it.

I looked at them as if I were looking at a teen who was thinking about getting an arm tattoo and just said, “Think long and hard about this. Think long and hard.”





It’s a kid’s birthday, I’ll pass….

I’m currently sitting on a hard as a rock bleacher watching my youngest at a gym for a gymnastic party he was invited to for a class mate. The “gym” is in what looks to be a carport with sides….and was about a 40 minute drive.  This is completely practical considering it’s for a 7 year old on a Saturday night from 7 to 9 PM, in December when it is pitch black. This wouldn’t be bad if it weren’t Ohio and deer are EVERYWHERE! I had a massive buck (that is a male deer for all my NYC and LA friends) dart out in front of me last week. I have been in a vehicle on 3 separate occasions when we’ve been hit by deer, one of the times on my father’s motorcycle.

Despite the time of evening, I sometimes look forward to taking the boys to birthdays because I can bring my computer, work on my blog or books. I noticed the birthday boy’s parents were considerably chatty so I made it a point to take the bleacher to the very top as a message of “please leave me alone this is my alone time.”

5 minutes later the father is following me up for an additional meet and greet. ‘Oh I’m sorry, it was supposed to end at my name is so-so, nice to meet you.’ Nope. I got to hear the history of why they had a party 40 minutes away in the middle of no where.

“Ok, line up!” I heard a teen say to the boys. I gathered he was the cruise director here. He had bleached his hair white, shaved it on both sides and wore it in a pompadour with a blue tint at the tips. He clearly didn’t want to be there yet he needed someway to pay for his ticket to NYC for acting.

The 6 children lined up. Suddenly the birthday boy’s mom stood up. ‘Fuck’, I thought. I knew what came next. In a helium high voice she turned to all the parents and declared “C’mon! Parents can join in too!”

No, no, I don’t want to join. This is my sole alone time that I get to veg and write. I have been to gymnastic parties before and they have always been kids only. Why mess with perfection?

I declined the invite 30 minutes ago to participate and have been feeling like an ass hole ever since. For the past 30 minutes, more parents have got up, taken their shoes off and joined in. I want to scream “STAY WITH ME PEEPS! WE MUST STAY UNITED HERE. If those kids see any weakness we will all be out there before you know it doing a Bruce Jenner.

Stay tuned…….




The Elf on the Shelf Part 1

I have developed a severe aversion to the Elf on the Shelf. I wanted to know who I had to thank for this creepy looking character so I did a quick search in Wikipedia and apparently it was created by a mother/daughter duo who brought the 2nd daughter into the business because of her marketing know how. Overall, I’m annoyed by the 3 of you.

The whole concept would have been fine if it would have stopped there- hide the elf somwhere. It didn’t stop there. Some bored mother(s) (and I’m sure a few fathers) “got creative” and ruined it for EVERY OTHER parent that actually has a lot of things to do….like work. They began to “stage scenes” with the Elf. Suddenly just throwing the elf on the mantle each night or on a Christmas tree branch wasn’t good enough and a signal for children’s services to pay you a visit.

The boys would come home and make comments like “Simon’s elf, Skittles, wrote his name in skittles” or “Thomas’s elf was hiding in their backyard and they had to follow a treasure map to find their elf.”

“Oh yeah? Well Zipper isn’t exactly a very active elf,” was my only response.

As their comments kept coming, I became more and more frustrated with the EOTS. On one of those particular nights my only response was,

“Oh yeah? I bet Johnny’s mother doesn’t have a job does she?”

Sure enough he nodded his head.

“There you go…there you go” I said very content with the answer.

We didn’t even have this little train wreck growing up. In fact, we had nothing that even resembled it. It was basically, “Santa is all knowing. Santa knows every God damn move you make so you better not fuck up.”

When did Santa become a corporation? Hiring middle manager Elves who “reported” to the CEO? Truly this has to be the equivalent of taking production overseas. Now you farm out your responsibilities to Elves? How did that interview go?:

Santa: Please give me a time when you thought outside the box Skittles.

Elf: That is an excellent question Mr. Clause. I would have to say when I took a king size bag of skittles and spelled my name with it.

Santa: What return on this investment did you have?

Elf: The mother’s self confidence went up by 22%.

Santa: Not the children?

Elf: slapping his leg. Hell no! She just saw it on Pinterest one evening hoping it would outdo her frienemies.