Texts From Wiener- 3

Look at the times- well the first one is hard to see, but it says 7:07 PM. Talk about a delayed response.

Also, maybe honesty is not always the best policy. Some things are definitely TMI.

Though You Will Be Tempted, Please Do Not Call CPS

Do you ever want to just punch your kids in the face? Like, for real?

I'm not a violent person. I've had my share of people who annoy or piss me off, but I have never been prone to actual physical violence. Ok, so technically I have thrown a remote control at Wiener's head a couple of times and have threatened to kill a few people, but my bark is worse than my bite.

But no one has ever incited rage in me quite like my evil minions. They really are good kids for the most part, but there are still a lot of days I want to literally throttle them.

Now before you get all pc and call CPS, just relax. I have never throttled them or punched them in the face. Like everyone else, we have our good days and our bad. This was a bad day.

The novelty of summer is wearing quite thin around our house. Devil baby actually still goes to pre-school three days a week, but Fifi is here most days. So being bored as usual, Fifi begged Wiener to play a game or do some science or magic tricks with her. He obliged and she had a snit fit the entire time because she wanted to do each part herself and, unfortunately, one trick involved lighting a candle and allowing her to play with fire was a non-starter.

After the scientific experiments were over, both girls whined and begged for more. Fifi was pouting and saying she didn't get to do anything (even though she did) and the situation just went to hell in a hand basket. I went into a frenzy calling them ungrateful little shits that were never happy or satisfied with anything.

Then I did what all other moms do when at whit's end- shut down and drifted off to Fantasyland. You know what Fantasyland is; the special place in your head where you're convinced other kids are perfect and wonder how you ended up with the demon spawn. Then you start comparing yours to these fictitious perfect children and imagine delightful family scenarios you're sure are taking place right this very second in all homes worldwide.

Admittedly, Fantasyland is mostly a product of Disney movies and Facebook posts by braggart parents, but I daydreamed nonetheless:

I was imagining life in the late 1800's. Two rosy cheeked young nymphs were gathered at their father's knee watching in amazement as he performed mysterious feats like producing a doubloon (maybe they were a pirate family) from their ears.

They squealed with sheer joy and their eyes were as round as saucers. "Oh papa, that is a wonderful parlor trick. Thank you so very kindly for spending time with us, sir. It was very fine indeed, pip pip Cheerio." (Maybe they're British. British kids can't misbehave with those accents, can they?)

Disturbed by more whining, I paused for a moment to tell devil baby to shut her baby hole or go to time out. Fifi then said she would pour water on me and watch me melt because I'm a witch. Touché.

I know what you're thinking. I'm just a big fat meanie and why did I have kids in the first place if I wasn't going to adore their every waking breath and delight in their impish ways? Especially since so many want kids and cannot have them, I should be more appreciative of them and never think thoughts of harm or punishment, right?

Whatever, you liars. You know deep down you'd pop the little shits if you could. You're just jealous I have the balls to admit it.

Devil Baby

*No minions were throttled, punched or popped in the making of this post. 

Mom of the Year- Blood Type Edition

Fifi: Hey mom, what's my blood type?

Me: I don't know.

F: Tell me.

Me:  I don't know. Why? Were they talking about a blood shortage on tv of a certain blood-type and you're panicking?*

F: No, but tell me!

Me: Don't worry, I don't mine either.

F: I want to know. Please tell me mom.

Me: I don't know!

F: PLEASE

Me: Look. I don't even know who your sister's father is.

F: (Glares angrily) There is a lesser percentage of getting a certain disease depending on your blood type, so tell me what it is.

M: You are not at risk for whatever shit they are talking about. Go turn the freaking news off now. 

I am an awesome parent. That is all.

*Fifi has an issue with irrational fears, so I saw this coming.

Bad moms in blood-type related lineup. 

Of course it is. When it's not wine.

I Like the Vodka Too

This afternoon I was telling Raquel about a blog I'm currently in love with called Like the Vodka. 

I was explaining the premise- An American wife and Russian husband; she calls him The Russian and posts about their conversations and funny scenarios due to language and cultural differences.

I was saying how it was impossible to read it without herring* his dialogue in a Russian accent whenever she wrote the husband's words.

So I read an excerpt of a post aloud:

The Russian: My friend Ivan is excited about his mother-in-law coming to U.S. She will prepare adish from the bear.

Wife: Where's Ivan gonna get a bear?

TR: He already has, in the freezer.

W: Ivan has the bear in the freezer?

TR: Ecktually, just the hand...

W: What exactly is a bear hand?

TR:  You know, in the front. The bear uses to operate.

W: The bear is a surgeon?

My Russian accent was an epic fail but we were laughing hysterically.

Raquel: We have to get us a Russian.

Me: I just peed myself a little.

R: Remember that hotel where I worked and my boss was Indian and always messing up phrases like instead of 'mountain out of a mole hill' he'd say 'mountain out of a speck' or something?

Me: Yes, bahaahha!

So basically we want a foreigner to hang out with so we can make fun of their accent and misinterpretation of sayings for our personal amusement. Naturally. #morereasonswearegoingtohell

I don't know if this foreigner would follow us around, come over at set appointment times or be a part of our group. It would seem unfair taking them out with us and ridiculing everything they say. But it does sound entertaining, so I'm game.

So when Raquel says 'We need a Russian.'

I say Egg-zectly!

(*hearing... Apropos typo, so it stays)

More fitting than you know.
image via

Quelle Horreur

I'm going to let you in on a secret that might have me ostracized world wide. 

I really don't care about the Olympics. collective gasp

Don't care to watch. Don't care who wins.

I don't think that makes me un- American. Or even un-Chinese, un-Russian, un-Greek and un-every-other-country-in-the-world. And not even un-Olympic.

It's not as if I don't think they are worthwhile and important. It's just that I have no interest in watching them. I don't bother watching other sports, so why should I start now?

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for flexing our country's athletic prowess and some healthy competition, but I don't want to spend hours watching each event. Just listening to the commentators is torture in its own right.

The last few weeks have been an Olympics overload on the senses. The television figuratively vomiting the subject from every orifice. I'm sure my Toshiba would do it literally if it could. 

At dinner one night in Tulsa, our table was flanked by giant televisions replaying momentous Olympic achievemenets like Keri Strug's historic vault. It was also discussed at dinner that Olympian Shannon Miller was from a small Oklahoma town nearby. In the hotel room, Lola and Raquel watched events and marveled over Oscar Pistorius. (I couldn't remember his name so I literally had to google 'who was the no legged Olympian in the 2012 Olympics' #goingtohell)

The news reported on who won which events regularly. Networks aired triumphs and tragedies of Olympics past. Facebook was a flutter with posts about the opening ceremonies and dismay with the time delay.

It has been one giant voyeuristic Olympic orgy.

When it's over just let me know the number of gold medals we won so I can start wagering on how many will be revoked for scandals like steroid use, intelligibility due to sexual re-assignment surgery or inappropriate texting of wing wang photos aka behavior unbecoming of an Olympian.

Now, if they added some events like wine tasting, name that tune and power shoe shopping before your demonic toddler throws a tantrum in the store, I may be down to watch. Or enter.

Or how about an event where participants must make an edible and appealing dinner using the sparse ingredients of a semi-empty fridge and pantry in 30 minutes ala Chopped. While hurdling small children and pets. And refereeing sibling smack-downs. And yelling at a husband to turn down the volume on the god damned television.

I would totally watch that shit.

Even the Queen is bored.