Alphabet F-Bombs

So last night I was putting Kaya to bed and reading her an alphabet book when we got to the “F” page. I started naming all the ‘F’ words on the page – fox, fence, farmer, when all of a sudden she says:

“Mommy, is ‘fuck’ a bad word?”

Ex-squeeze me??? I didn’t know whether to be more blown away that a 2-year old knew the word ‘fuck’ started with the letter ‘F’ or that my sweet little daughter just dropped an F-bomb on me. I thought a second about how to handle this one.

“Yes, baby, ‘fuck’ is a very bad word and no one should ever say it. It’s an ugly word.”

That seemed to satisfy her – for a minute. The she said:

“So why do you say ‘fuck’, Mommy?”

Oh jeeze. How do I get out of this one? Yes, I have been known from time-to-time, especially in moments of pure frustration and exasperation, to utter the F-word, even in the presence of my children’s innocent ears. For those of you who know me, I am sure none of you are shocked by that revelation right now. I thought back to that afternoon, at Kaya’s ballet recital, when Kaiden refused to get off my lap so I could go snap a picture of Kaya twirling on the stage before her moment was over. I was so mad, before I knew what I was saying I let out: “Fuckin-A!” right into the video camera Siig was using to capture Kaya’s moment for posterity. And now my shining moment of maturity was preserved as well. Wonderful.

Wait a second, I thought, had Kaya heard me all the way from the stage?

No, that was impossible. It must have been some other time I let the word slip. My mouth should be washed out with soap.

“Kaya, if anyone says that word, even Mommy, they have to go in time-out. OK?”

We went back to reading her book. But she was not finished with the conversation:

“Don’t ever say ‘fuck’ again, Mommy.”

Wow, had I just been scolded by my 2-year old?


My little ballerina after her recital, and Mommy's cussing

My little ballerina after her recital, and Mommy's cussing


Did You Miss Me?

Good morning, my legions of adoring fans. So sorry that I have been amiss in my duties and not written a post in a few days. I am sure you have all been on the edge of your seat, anxiously awaiting my next posting. Maybe you even found yourself pacing back and forth in front of your computer, asking yourself: “Why, oh why, isn’t she updating her blog with one of her regular witty, charming and hilarious stories about her life?”

Well, my dear followers (I am sure you number in the thousands by now, at the very least), if you were pondering that question, you are not alone. I, too, was asking myself that very same thing. But my witty, charming and hilarious life got in the way if my blogging. Between swim lessons, ballet lessons, doctors appointments, camp, and writing articles that I actually get paid for, I ran out of time for my blog.

I know what you are thinking – “How could you not write a blog in such a big week for news?” Yes, yes, my darling followers, I agree. Maybe I was just overwhelmed at the opportunities for witty bantor that I found myself, gasp, speechless! What with South Carolina’s Gov. Mark Sanford “hiking” the Appalachian trail when he was really doing the tango with his Argentinian mistress (personally, I think he just got confused), and then the double-whammy of the loss of two 80s cultural icons – Farrah Fawcett and the Gloved One – there was just too much to write about it. I was, alas, paralyzed with good intentions.

Now, now, don’t be mad at me. I know you use my blog as an escape from the daily grind of your life and an excuse to put off cleaning the house or updating that progress report for your boss. I am your ticket to procrastination and entertainment. Oh, the burden weighs heavy on me some days, I just want you to know that. It must be how Michael Jackson felt – all those mobs of fans across the world waiting for you to produce the next big hit or royally mess up again and make the front page of Star Magazine. It’s just so hard being loved by millions sometimes. (Yes, I think in the process of writing this post the number of my fans jumped from 20 to “thousands” to “millions.”)

But wait, I have forgotten to mention another celebrity who we lost this week – Ed McMahon. Fortunately, I glanced at Bye-Bye, Pie (you got to keep tabs on your competition, after all. I mean, with 56 votes in the SocialLuxeLounge Funniest Blog award to her 2,516 votes, we are practically neck-and-neck. And yes, I did just take a minute to vote for myself again.) to take another look at the great photo she had posted of Farrah, when I saw something she had written about Johnny Carson’s faithful sidekick.

Poor Ed and Farrah, they are getting overshadowed by Michael Jackson’s death. Not really fair that they all kicked the bucket in the same week. Entertainment Tonight and Access Hollywood must be working in overdrive right now. But as a young girl that grew up on Charlie’s Angels, I have to say that of the three Farrah had the biggest impact on me. (Did you think I was going to say Ed?) I always wanted to be Farrah or Cheryl Ladd when I played Charlie’s Angels with my friends (come on, admit it, you played that game, too), but because of my dark hair I was usually stuck being Sabrina. Still haven’t gotten over that one.

So, my devoted groupies, I hope this latest post has filled the gaping hole in your life left by my absence the last four days. Please don’t be mad at me. I couldn’t bare it. And if someone could please explain to me why I woke up and felt the need to channel Stephen Colbert, I would be much obliged.

Channeling Meg Ryan

balloonsSo, today is my birthday. A whopping 37. More specifically, 40 minus 3 years.

With this birthday more than any other, I cannot help but think of that scene in “When Harry Met Sally” where Meg Ryan is crying on her bed and Billy Crystal is trying to comfort her. When he asks her what’s wrong, she sobs: “I’m turning 40.” And he says: “When?” Her answer: “Someday.”

Well that “someday” for me is getting closer every year. Now it’s looming around the corner. I wish it would go away. But what can I do about it?

I can pretend it’s not coming. In fact, part of me would like to ignore this whole birthday thing. I mean, birthdays just aren’t the same anymore. Nothing beats birthdays when you were a kid. You would wake up and be soooooo excited for the day. It meant presents and pool parties and attention and lots of fun things. And when you got a little older, say 16, there were surprise parties and friends taking you out to lunch and whole days spent at the beach telling everyone it was your birthday. And then you turned 21, and there were drunken nights and dancing and you were the star of the show and boys wanted to buy you drinks, and, and……..

It’s all over now. No more of that. Now, it’s almost a regular day. Even if I wanted to do something fun during the day, who is there to do it with? My husband is working and all my girlfriends are either working or watching their kids. So it’s me, myself and I.  A raging party.

Don’t go playing that pitty-fiddle for me yet. I am going out to dinner with some friends tonight. And I stuck the kids in daycare for the afternoon so I can go to a yoga class. So it’s not all bad. It just used to be so much better.

I figure I have two more hum-drum birthdays until my 40th. Then I’ll go big. I’ll go dancing and tell all the boys it’s my birthday…and have my husband buy me a drink.

A foot is no place for a horse

horseshoeI got stepped on by a horse today. On my foot. While wearing sandals.

Yeah, it sucked, to say the least.

I’ve been in a foul mood ever since. On Father’s Day. Poor Siigo. So I am writing this blog in an attempt to distract myself from my misery and make myself feel better. Not sure if it’s working.

As a present to Siig on Father’s Day, I took the kids out of the house to let him partake in his favorite relaxation past-time – sitting on the couch and watching sports on TV. So me and the kids went to the stables at the bottom of the hill for the pony rides. This involves me paying $5 per kid and leading a pony that likes to stop every minute to take a giant green crap or pee a waterfall or eat mules-ears, and not listen to me begging him to keep going. Yeah, fun. But the kids love it.

Kaiden’s ride went without incident, except for the usual pit-stops. Then it was Kaya’s turn on Mac. Mac was obviously pissed at me for yelling at him to “Giddy-up” and “Let’s go you mangy beast,” so in return for my impatience at his leisurely pace with Kaiden, he stepped on me.

Let me tell you, it’s quite shocking to see a 700-pound animal standing on your sandaled-foot, not to mention that it frickin’ hurt. I literally had to push Mac off me, which wasn’t easy. Then, after making sure my foot wasn’t broken, I cried. Through my tears, I glanced at my children to see what their reaction was at seeing their mother break down. True to gender stereotype, Kaiden seemed indifferent while Kaya seemed mildly concerned.

Ahhh, the joys of parenting. I guess the old adage is true: No pain, no gain. I gained a horse-shoe imprint on my right foot and the knowledge that wearing sandals while leading your kid on a pony ride is dumb. Siig got two hours of alone time. My kids got to see their mother cry.

The real winner in all this? Definitely Mac, who’s probably still laughing in his hey. Bastard.

There. Now I feel better.

My Son the Dictator


Every day since I have lived in our house – which would be about five years – I have driven by this beautiful meadow and never stopped. Well, I couldn’t take it anymore. Right now, the meadow is absolutely amazing, what with all the wildflowers blooming and the creek in full stream from the snow melt. So one day this week, I decided that was it – we were going to go explore the meadow. Me and the kids. Our first real nature hike.

It didn’t take too much arm-twisting on my end since I told Kaiden and Kaya they could pick flowers. They liked that idea – of being free to pick flowers and not get yelled at like they usually do after grabbing flowers out of someone’s garden or a store’s flower boxes. Immediately, Kaiden declared himself the leader of the hike, which will come as no surprise to anyone who knows Kaiden since, along with being a self-declared vegetarian, he is also a self-declared Leader (in case you are wondering, he is a Leo). If I got out in front of him on the trail, he would yell at me. Clearly the sign of good leadership.

Our fearless leader

Our fearless leader

Despite the beauty of the scenery and the optimal Kodak moments, Kaiden would not pose for a photo for me, being the self-declared Stubborn Child that he is. And, of course, since he was the leader, his younger sister followed suit and also refused to let me take a photo of her, which is normally a favorite past time of hers, being the self-declared Movie Star that she is. Nevertheless, I managed to slyly snap a few covert photos. (I did almost work at the CIA, after all.) 

Stubborn One refusing to pose

Stubborn One refusing to pose

Secret Agent Mommy nabs a photo

Secret Agent Mommy nabs a photo









 As we were heading back, Kaiden said, “Now which way is it to our car?”

In hindsight, I realized this was a rhetorical question, but at the time I made the grave mistake of telling our Dear Leader the answer to his question (maybe I should start calling him Kim Jong-Il). I was immediately put back in my place of Lowly Follower.

“No, Mommy! Don’t tell me!” he said. “I want to think.”

And I thought to myself, “Oh good. Because I am so done with thinking.”

What a relief to know I don’t have to think anymore.

I have an almost-5 year old who wants to do it for me. After 30-some years of thinking, I have been relieved of the job. What a load off my back. I’m starting to thinking living in a dictatorship has its pluses, after all.

In case you are wondering, this means that Kaiden will be writing all future posts. He just has to learn to read first.

Follow the Leader

Follow the Leader

Wanted: Temporary Maintenance Supervisor

pigstyNext month, I am going on my first-ever BIG trip without kids or husband since I’ve been married. And I am absolutely terrified.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not scared about being away from my children or hubbie. In fact, I am actually looking forward to it and think it’s much deserved, seeing as I have never left my family for more than 2 days.

No, the reason I am nervous about leaving for 4 whole days is much more mundane: I am absolutely petrified about what my house will look like when I return. You see, Siig is a bit of a slob (that’s the understatement of the year). I accepted this fact about him early on in our relationship. It’s just who he is. Messiness is in his DNA. I’ve observed how it is physically impossible for him to put things back or pick things up. He takes OJ out of the fridge, it doesn’t quite make it back in. He brings a jacket into the car, it will stay there for the next year. Dirty socks on the floor? Those soon become part of the furniture.

So, part of my job as his wife and roommate has been to become Maintenance Supervisor. I am constantly maintaining the household, putting away his crap, minimizing the clutter. I allow him his piles of clothes that spring up everywhere as long as they stay in our room and on his side. Once they spread to the living space, that’s when I draw the line and throw a tizzy-fit.  Siig CANNOT  put clothes back in drawers or hang them on hangers to save his life. We have tried everything imaginable to find a system that works for him – hooks, baskets, chest of drawers – to no avail. Sooo….the floor it is. The downside for him, however, is that this means I cannot distinguish clean clothes from dirty, so I don’t do his laundry. I look at it as his just reward for being a total slob.

As Official Maintenance Supervisor, I have seen what happens to the house in my absence.  Forget four days, a few hours is all those kids and Siig need to turn the house into a disaster scene on par with Hurricane Katrina. Last Wednesday, I returned from a board meeting at 10 p.m. I was nervous to enter the house, knowing full well that I would have some tidying up to do. But nothing prepared me for what I discovered. The entire pantry had been emptied into my living room. I found out later that the kids had discovered their Easter baskets (Note to self: destroy baskets next time) and decided to go “Easter egg hunting” in the pantry. Cereal boxes, diapers, nails, hammers, bottles of medicine, forgotten swim floaties – you name it, it was in the middle of the living room. Basically, two years of crap I had been hiding away in the pantry was now covering my coffee table, couches and floor. There was nothing to do but cry.

And curse. Of course, I cursed Siig’s name in vain a few times for leaving me with this terrible mess to clean up at 10:00 at night when I so badly wanted to go to bed. Could it have killed him to pick up one or two things? Would he have pulled a muscle, altered his DNA? I did cut him some slack because he has to wake up at 5 a.m. every morning, so I knew he was tired. But why did he let the kids have their way with the pantry in the first place? For fuck’s sake, he could have at least vacuumed the cornflakes off the carpet. That would have  at least reduced my heart-attack to a minor stroke.

So, you can understand my fear about leaving for four whole days. Who will assume the role of Maintenance Supervisor? My 2-year old? I think not. I am worried that for four days, no dishes will be done, not one toy will be picked up, no clothes will be put away. My house will turn into a pigsty. And I’ll be the one to clean it all up.

What’s a girl to do? I’ll be in Alaska visiting my 24-year old sister. If Siig doesn’t promise me that he will keep the house in order, maybe I’ll just threaten to stay and get a job on a fishing boat. It can’t be any harder than cleaning up after one messy husband and two toddlers who have been left to their own devices for a long weekend.

Help Me to Forget

candlesSo there is a very, very, VERY, important day coming up. June 23rd. It’s mucho importante for two reasons.

For one, it’s my birthday. I mean, in my opinion it should be a national holiday. I know what you’re asking – “It’s not already?” Yes, sad but true, not everyone is aware of the glorious day I came into the world – yet. So what if my mom, for the first time EVER, forgot my birthday last year. It’s not like she was there that day!  She also forgot my anniversary last year as well. Bad momma! She has since made it up to me by taking me shopping.

Anyways, it’s not like I am really excited about my birthday anymore. Turning 37 is nothing to jump up and down about. It’s just one year closer to 40. But feel free to send me gifts or ask your boss if you can have the day off. I’ll even write you a note if you need one, like I did for myself in high school so I could get out of class. (Yes, I forged my mother’s signature. Now I forge my husband’s.)

The second reason June 23rd is important – and should be immediately penciled in on your calendar – is that that date is the last day to vote in Social Luxe Lounge’s blog awards. I’ve been nominated for Funniest Blog (so what if I nominated myself? Someone had to.) and need your help. Now, I don’t think I’m going to beat top contenders like Barefoot Foodie, with 1,464 votes (and my personal laugh-my-ass-off favorite, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to vote for her!), or Mommy Wants Vodka’s 670 votes (you might have to vote for her once just because of the name). But with 40 votes I’m in the running for hmmm….maybe 8th, 9th place?

Right now, the Beet Goes On, Annieology and Tales of Wit and Charm are my closest competitors. Give me a nice birthday present and help me pass them in votes. I need something to look forward to on June 23rd, and it can’t be another gray hair.

You can vote one time every day until June 23. What else do you have to do? What else would you want to do?  I can’t think of a better way to pass a few minutes of time, in my humble opinion.

So please, I beg of you, help this poor girl forget that on June 23 her 40th birthday is right around the corner. It’s either that or I drink myself into a frenzy. You decide.

If you feel so inclined to vote for Wind in Your Vagina just because of the name, I totally understand. But please, keep it to yourself.