A Fake, Non-Braggy Christmas Letter

Is it just me or do those braggy Christmas letters you get from friends and family annoy every fiber of your being? It does me so I’ve decided to write a fake one via A Fake, Non-Braggy Christmas Letter – Hot Mess Memoir

Moms Aren’t Allowed to Get Sick – Hot Mess Memoir

That’s one of the many things they don’t tell you before becoming a mother that you’re not allowed to get or be sick. Read on via Moms Aren’t Allowed to Get Sick – Hot Mess Memoir

We’re All Gonna Be Happy Damn It! Practicing Hygge

This Fall, I’d say I’m going over and beyond in trying to secure happiness or at the very least, avoid the winter blues. Here’s how I’m doing it via We’re All Gonna Be Happy Damn It! Practicing Hygge – Hot Mess Memoir

When Your Child Stiffs a Server

When I found out my 14-year-old stiffed a server, I nearly fell off my chair. Here’s how we fixed it via When Your Child Stiffs a Server – Hot Mess Memoir

We’re Goin’ on a Road Trip Friends!

Grab your weekend bag and some wine because we’re goin’ on a road trip! via We’re Goin’ on a Road Trip Friends! – Hot Mess Memoir

Let’s Be Real, You Stink

Last year my son went to 5th grade camp. One of the items stressed to be brought was deodorant. As the 28 year old, creepy Camp Director explained, 

“Cause there’s nothing like 50 ripe smelling boys in the middle of the day,” he giggled, making all the moms uncomfortable at the thought of sending their sons with this man for 72 hours.

Up until today I really haven’t smelled my son’s BO…too often. Really, I could count it on one hand. Sure, him and his brother fall on the floor in a meltdown when you request they take a shower. Or, they can’t possibly fathom my demand that they will be taking a shower EVERYDAY come summer. I know, I’m such a terrible mother.

So every so often I would attempt to keep the deodorant dream alive with hints like,

“Hey, I packed some deodorant for you for your overnight with grammy.”

or

“I’ll give you $5 if you wear deodorant.”

Tonight after soccer practice, P got in the car and suddenly a new odor began to envelope my surroundings. It smelled of gym socks and pine and mildew. I pondered how to effectively get the point across about this growing BO problem.

‘Fuck it,’ I thought. ‘He isn’t taking my hints seriously and this is for his own good.’

With the calmness of a pilot explaining to the passengers our flight time, I said, “P, I’m gonna need you to get in the shower when we get home as you really do stink.”

There, I said it and he took offense.

“Geeze mom, talk about being blunt. Uh, maybe I stink cause I just finished practice?”

“And I get that but dude, start using deodorant.” I was breathing through my mouth while talking and doing this was proving to be difficult.

Had I not been blunt there would have been a whine fest and not the good kind of wine fest that I like. He would have taken his smelly little ass and plopped right down on the sofa rattling off 50 reasons why not to shower.

So there, that’s my story on how my child prefers to smell like a bum that pissed himself, living under a bridge. Go hygiene!

My Addiction to Tiny Houses

I have no idea why I am obsessed with tiny houses. I flippin’ love tiny houses. I don’t know if it’s the ingenuity of the dwellings or the concept to live smaller so you won’t be house poor. Regardless, I’ve browsed hundreds of online tiny homes thinking, ‘could we do it?’

To have the best of both worlds I sent an e-mail to my sister with a Tumbleweed PDF that she should should consider a tiny home. Tumbleweed has an amazing collection of floor plans and there are a few homes that aren’t so tiny.

This was a win win situation for me. She could build a tiny home and I would live vicariously through her. Should the cramped quarters become too much, not my problem.

Surprisingly she responded back that her boyfriend’s parents told them the same thing and they could put their house in their backyard. I’ve never been to their house but I’m guessing it’s huge and I know it sits on a large piece of land.

Not to be outdone, I said she needed to build her tiny house in my backyard. My land is about the same size as a Tim Horton’s, minus the employee parking lot.  I said this in jest, knowing that our HOA is anal and you must submit a bunch of paperwork just to put up a stupid shed.

Below is a screen shot of my sister’s response to suggesting she move to my backyard. When she talks about An, An is her boyfriend’s sister who lives at home because she has cerebral palsy. She has a tricked out wheel chair they lovingly call her command center:

My response?

“I am laughing my ass off right now but yes, that is a fair assessment.”

Hot Mess Hits the Road

Get ready you guys! In less than 24 hours, we will be off to Cincinnati. Home of the Reds, Bengals, WKRP and the finest purveyor of vibrators, Pure Romance.

We are driving there for a huge soccer tournament. P was invited to play with an older team because he’s that good (you have to say it like Will Ferrell in Stepbrothers).

Only stories can come out of this weekend. I theorize this on the basis of several facts:

• It is to pour all day Saturday and all day Sunday. We have absolutely no shelter.
• A road trip for a few hours with children is definitely interesting.
• For an entire weekend, the entire Hampton Inn will be overtaken by prepubescent boys.
• In addition to the entire Hampton Inn looking more like Lord of the Flys, we are getting connecting rooms with another parent and son.
• There were about 20 other hotels that could have been selected at the same rate and cooler. Instead, images of the rooms show what look to be a Value City Furniture Showroom.
• P’s game on Sunday is at 8 but really it’s at 7 since we have the time change that morning.
• He has 1 uniform and 4 games. You do the math. I get to fight over the 1 to 2 washing machines on site with 100 other soccer moms. Bring it bitches, I’ve got my Tide Pods ready.

So get ready for a fun filled weekend. I’ll take pictures and post them on Twitter.

Good night to all!

Cooking to Me is Like Cleaning the Toilet-Part 1

I hate to cook. Let me be clear, I HATE TO COOK. It doesn’t mean I can’t cook, I just NEVER find enjoyment in it.

Cooking is a chore, plain and simple. When I hear the following phrases like”I needed a big open kitchen since that is where everyone loves to hang out,” or “there is nothing like the smiles on their faces after eating my cooking,” I want to throw up in my mouth.

Here are some of the reasons I detest cooking: 

1. At the top of my list: you have NOTHING to show for it. It’s gone. It may have taken you 45 minutes to prepare but it’s inhaled in 10.
2. There is no guarantee it’s going to come out right. Do you know how many times I’ve tried a dish with $30 ingredients, followed the directions to a t and it comes out tasting like ass? I get so angry knowing I could have skipped cooking and eaten at Chipotle for less.
3. It’s a chore. Like cleaning the toilets, it’s a chore.

“I want to come home and chop onions. I want to look like Tammy Faye Bakker 5 minutes into slicing so I can run into the bathroom with stinging eyes and wait it out. I also enjoy then smelling like I just spent 8 hours working in a restaurant. Where do I sign up?” 

“I cannot WAIT to make risotto so I can spend 15 minutes scrubbing a pan while my hands become the consistency of sand paper. I don’t need to rest after a 9 hour day. I need to scrub pans!” 

“Pedicure? Shopping? Reading? No foolish girl….I want to cook!”

It’s not like I haven’t tried to like cooking. I’ve given what I feel, a decent effort. My first BIG cooking attempt was quiche. I love everything French so why not attempt quiche? I found a recipe in a magazine and headed to Kroger for the ingredients. The grocery list was pretty easy: cheese, egg, pre-made pie crust and a few other ingredients I forget.

Excited to get started, I rushed home to our 1 bedroom apartment and laid everything out on the midget size ledge the apartment called expansive counter spaces.

‘This is too easy,’ I thought. I was so excited for my husband to get home and try what I had prepared. His mother had nothin’ on me.

The quiche came out and voila, it looked like quiche!!! I was so excited and hungry. I had set the table while the quiche had been cooking so we were ready to roll.

I placed my creation between us, sliced the first triangle and politely gave it to my husband. After blowing on it for a few seconds he took a bite, paused in mid chew and furrowed his eye brows.

‘Look ass hole, this is my first attempt so don’t screw with my thunder now,’ I thought.

I blew on my bite, popped it into my mouth and as I chewed I realized something was VERY wrong with this quiche. I began to scrunch my face up tight like I do when something disgusts me.

“Dear God!” I said. “This is awful!”

C being smart, kept his mouth shut and was preparing his second fork full when it dawned on me. The filling of the quiche was perfect; nothing wrong with it. It was the pie crust that was off.

“Dear God!” I said out loud upon realizing what I had done. “I used a graham cracker crust!”

C just looked at me, expressionless. I could tell he was trying to figure out what to do next since I was not only mad and hungry but hangry. I was hangry.

I was so mad at myself. Mad for taking the time and money to buy this and especially mad that all I saw was “pre-made” on the pie shell, paying absolutely no attention that it was for cheesecake.

I’ve since made quiche WITH the proper pie crust though it hasn’t been in years. Since it’s not chicken nuggets or mac and cheese my boys hate it and I think my husband just has flashbacks.

 

 

 

Hot Mess Sister Goes to Jail For Not Peeing Part 2

So we left the story off of my sister going back to jail: Hot Mess Sister Goes to Jail for Not Peeing

I didn’t have much time when I was writing the 1st part and I didn’t want to sacrifice the integrity of the phone call I had with my mother, having not spoken to her in 8 years. Again, I was NOT prepared to talk to her and having been thrown completely off guard pissed me off.

In lieu of reminiscing over years gone by and apologies, I picked up as if I had spoken to her a day ago.

“So what did G do to violate her probation?” I asked as if I asked my sons why they didn’t unload the dishwasher.

“Well you see,” my mother started like a professor, ” when you are tested, you have to squat in front of a female officer. They have to watch you pee. G has had real issues with this. After 30 minutes, they wrote her up for not being able to pee.”

G being too timid to pee in front of someone was ridiculous. This wasn’t her first rodeo. Hell, it wasn’t even her 9th. I wanted to remind my mother that she once worked as a phone sex operator and has lived a pretty open life.

“Yeah but G is not the only person on Earth to be on probation.” I said. “She could have peed if she tried.”

“I don’t know,” my mother said indifferently. This was code for I’m done talking about it and wish to change the subject. “I’m just telling you what she told me.”

Then she continued on to another topic that was equally frustrating.

“I must say, your sister did win that $75,000 settlement from the rape case and bought me a diamond tennis bracelet. She got mad at me though for getting mad at her for blowing all the cash in just 2 months.”

“She bought you a bracelet?” I asked rolling my eyes.

“Yeah. Said it was for stealing my jewelry over the years and pawning all of it.”

I couldn’t believe either one of these people’s logic. As my cousin pointed out to me later that night, rape cases aren’t settled like civil matters. It’s not a “Hey you, sorry about the rape thing. My bad. Lemme give you some money to make it all go away.” I guess the Neverland Ranch would be the exception. And I’m not being cold here. My sister has claimed rape on at least 3 separate occasions. Each time finding out she had lied.

The fact that my mother found a diamond tennis bracelet (probably stolen) as an acceptable sorry gift for the thousands G has stolen from her is ludicrous. I nicknamed my mother Mr. T because of all the diamonds and gold she wore. Couple that with the 3D, Eighties sweatshirts and she was complete train wreck.

In addition to all that my sister had stolen, when G isn’t vacationing off the coast of the County Women’s Prison,  you’ll find her plopped on my mother’s sofa, catching up on Days of Our Lives.

The last straw came in the following declaration, “I’m just done. I can’t do this anymore. I’m too old for this. I mean, I’ve lost so many relationships over G, Charlie, the guy with the yacht, it’s been hard.”

I’m so glad she remembered to mention Charlie, the man she broke up with years ago after finding globalladies.com on his computer. Charlie would later marry a Russian, divorce her and start dating my mother again. That’s a whole other story.

At no point did my mother mention my sister or me nor her 2 grandsons. Additionally she failed to mention the regret she obviously didn’t feel for having never met her now 7 year old grandson.

I wanted to hang up on her at this point as it was like talking with a tweener.

“Mom, I gotta go.”

“Wait, before you go, how are the boys?” She asked in a sing song voice.

Attempting to break away as quick as I could and still shocked, I seemed to be quoting a tampon commercial.

“Sporty. They’re sporty. Fun and smart. Yep, so smart.”

So I have had absolutely no time to research more things about my sister. I need to call and see if it’s public record as to why she violated her probation. Anyone out there have a black sheep in the family and have experience about the whole pee in the cup thing? Would love to get your take on it.