Yes. I'm Still Here. Barely.

There is a good reason that I have been absent from this blog and all of yours. A few of them, actually.

We returned from our trip to Kansas and immediately Thing 1 was sick, so naturally Thing 2 also caught the snot-laden virus. Then my laptop broke so instead of reading your blogs or writing my own for entertainment, I did 800 loads of laundry. Then we had a snowstorm which produced about a foot of heavy, wet, branch breaking snow. We lost a few trees, many branches and our power for THREE MOTHERFUCKING DAYS.

Isn't an early winter motherfucking magical? The answer is no.

 It was cold. The kids were sick.Thing 1 was acting rabid, snorting his phlegm, hurting his brother, back talking and spending most of his day in time out. Thing 2 was shrieking non-stop and has now fallen (or been pushed) off of every piece of furniture that we own. And I had no coffee. But because Brock is a *grunt* man, he made power with a generator that he picked up at a man store. He restored the heat, refrigerator, coffee pot (bless him) and some lights, but we still had no hot water.  Then I too felt like I needed to prove my worth so I made a snow witch with Thing 1.




"Okay, just put the snow there.... no not there....
okay....maybe mommy should do this part....
no don't touch that part!....Perfect! thanks
for helping little buddy... "
I'm the best mother ever.



She was only with us for a day.
R.I.P. Snow Witch.

 The Snow Witch mother-son bonding was so successful ("I want DADDY to read to me....") that I felt like I deserved a break so I went out on the town with my girlfriend who called herself  Matilda all night, but looks strangely like my other friend Sarah.




"Tilly" posing with a fish sculpture.

 We went into a nearby bar to warm up after the ice belly flop (I was cold just watching) and Tilly looked around, sighed and said, "I wish there were weirder people in here." which made me laugh, yet we decided to stay when we saw a dude handling a giant stand-up bass near the stage.

Tilly ordered a dirty martini, took a sip and said, "Mmmmmmm! Isn't that good? It tastes like adultness." and I ate all the olives and agreed that "adultness" tasted delicious. Then Tilly told me that she never liked olives. In fact, she grouped a few things by flavor and put olives in the flavor group of: dolphins, stingrays and boobs. Naturally.




"Adultness"

 I was pretty fancy with my four-day unwashed hair and two day unwashed body. Ice cold showers are not for wimps and I took one and immediately made myself a name tag that said : Hello, my name is WIMP. Apparently I was giving off some feral smelling "woman-scent" because the unthinkable happened. Some poor lost man attempted to "pick me up". He wasn't drunk and he even had all of his teeth, which was a first for me. It made me think that maybe I have been washing myself too often all these years.  I sweetly declined then took to the dance floor to teach Tilly how to two step to some great Bluegrass music.



Let's be honest, who wouldn't want this?
And why did I decline those braces that my parents offered me?

Refreshed from an evening away, I returned home to my war zone of a lawn, train wreck of a house, and still unruly children and immediately felt overwhelmed again.




I see many good times ahead.... and a visit the chiropractor.

 So I "handled the situation" by putting costumes on myself and the kids and took them to bunch of fun Halloween activities because I am an awesome mother!



Dash from the Incredibles.
He loves Daddy the most.



The beardless Garden Gnome.
He loves Daddy the most too.




I'm Belinda the 80's Mullet Witch.
I'm riding my invisible broom...
what did you think I was doing?

 Then I returned home and the lawn was still filled with 57 truck loads of leaves and a football field full of broken branches and the house was still a pig sty and the kids were still acting horribly, but this time they felt entitled to fun activities all the time. So I did what everyone does, I yelled at my broken ribbed husband to freaking HELP me (clear the counters and discipline the children) and I ripped apart the mudroom closet.... and the laundry closet.... and the broom closet, and then organized them all until I felt better.

Then we put on our costumes and went to a party.



Sonny and Cher.... and a garden gnome.

Then I spent the evening taking pictures of Brock's butt swathed in a four inch piece of plaid fabric and I truly did feel like, once again, all is right with the world.
Until today. Which I don't want to talk about.




You are welcome.




Happy Halloween from Belinda the 80's Mullet Witch.

The MAN Cold, "Daddy" and more crap.

We just returned from a weekend in Kansas where we had a great visit with Brock's family. We took an exciting plane ride with two wide-eyed Things. We stayed with Brock's brother and his lovely wife on their 40 acre spread south of Kansas City, complete with a pond, a vineyard and tons of awesome "boy toys".Everyone got to witness Thing 2's undying love for "Daddy" and Thing 1 played hard all weekend. It was actually like "Camp Wagner" for Thing 1, yet he acted stoic about everything, like "this is just what I do. I ride camels and other exotic animals daily.". We "did" the KC Zoo (where he rode a camel), there were multiple go-kart rides, fishing was successful, there was an awesome tractor ride, mom and dad pedaled a boat while he steered and there were lots of awesome new toys, including but not limited to not one but TWO new guns that make load noises and were bestowed upon him by his grandmother right before going to the airport. I loved it, "Here's a few guns for you! Good luck in security!" Plus he didn't think that he required any naps during the trip. It was a four-year-old boy's dream weekend . But talk about overstimulating.....


After a smooth sailing weekend, we waited for four hours (over dinner time and bedtime)at KC Airport for our flight, which we discovered was delayed for three hours as soon as we passed through security and were locked in the confines of the gate area. Somehow (because of my fucking awesome Karma), both Things did really well and with minimal flailing, eventually slept on the airplane. Thing 2 naturally was sitting with Daddy, so he was content. Then Thing 1 woke up on the plane with a full blown MAN COLD. He is four, yet has somehow captured the drama and unnecessary whining of a 45 year old man afflicted with one of those flesh eating viruses,  the bird flu?, oh wait, I mean a head cold. O...M....G

This morning I was sitting in Eleanor, refreshed and completely revived after arriving home at midnight and being awoken at 6:15 by the melodious tune of "I'm DONE!!" coming from the bathroom. I was sipping my coffee and watching the news when all of a sudden he appeared at my side- standing very still in a sullen and eerie Children of the Corn-like manner, while breathing through his mouth and snorting phlegm. I showed him where the tissues were and instructed him on blowing methods but he became a limp, whimpering rag doll and couldn't manage that tricky tissue. Weird how he could navigate the awesome go-kart down hills and around trees and over a pond dam at his uncle's house, yet the workings of a Kleenex were far too complex. *moan* Then he asked for his new toy guns and I told him that he could have them when he learned to use the tissue. Then Brock gave him the exact same tutorial that I had just moments before and Thing 1 announced, "I can blow my nose now! Daddy showed me!" and I wondered how far I would have to ram the fork into my leg before I hit bone.

Then Thing 2 woke up and softly cried out, "Daddy!" like he always does, because Daddy apparently possesses magical powers, like a unicorn... or Oprah.

So Thing 1 breathed on me and sniffed his snot and I held the tissue so he could empty his nasal cavity onto my hand. Then I gave him the tissue to throw away and he held it with the very tips of his fingers in a disgusted manner as he shuffled over to the trash can- still gasping for air through his mouth with his shoulders slumped like his muscles have all turned to jelly, yet moments later in the day he found the strength to not only whack Thing 2 int he head with his new toy gun twice (both guns have been confiscated), but also to whack his best friend, who happens to be an adorable little girl, in the head with a stick ,with his baby brother whispering "Daddy. Daddy. Daddy." in the background. Then Thing 1 informed me that Thing 2 "doesn't like you, he only likes Daddy", while everyone was eating the third meal of the that I prepared for them in between the four loads of laundry that I washed, dried, folded and put away. This day was fucking magical. Let it end now before I attempt to sell one or both of my spawn offspring on Craigslist.

The.Fucking.End.

"Daddy"

Dining at Denny's

Thanks to Jen, from "Jen" e sais quoi for inspiring this shitty post, although she didn't inspire the shitty part; that was all me.

Last Friday was a pre-school field trip to a pumpkin patch. Brock took the morning off of work to join his family whilst traipsing around an adorable farm filled with cute animals for petting, pumpkins, corn, and other vegetables and clearly owned by people with a sense of humor.




This is really all it takes to make me happy.



...and this too. They were truly bonding. Not cute at all.



Unfortunately, the pumpkin patch was short lived because Thing 1 started acting all weird and despondent, so we left in search the exorcism to most odd behavior of kids (and me): FOOD. The closest restaurant happened to be a Denny's so out of desperation (okay- laziness) we pulled in and parked.

 I told Brock, "Geez, I haven't been to a Denny's in, like.... 15 years."

Then we walked inside and looked around at the tables full of old farmers, white trash patrons and waitresses that look like they spent all night bellied up to a bar with a pack of cigarettes and bottle of Jack and I said, "Yep, 15 years and it hasn't changed a bit, the exact same people are still here."

I felt oddly at home, yet also like I was in the Twilight Zone as we ordered our food and proceeded to eat and people watch. We heard Old MacDonald talk about the weather and crops and we listened as Flo, with the best smoker's voice EVER, told Gerry that he looked a lot better today because he had more color in his face. But, the best was when two women in their twenties paraded in with a herd of children and were seated behind us, because apparently we were the "romper room" corner of the restaurant. One of the mothers was wearing her pajama pants, which always to me, "Hey, I'm one classy bitch." Then they clenched the title of "Most True to Theme" as they proceeded to talk about all the bars that they frequent in the area... for the entire meal.... in front of their gang of children. The awesome thing was that Brock and I didn't need to make conversation because we had all the entertainment that we required. Then the awesome wore off because PJ Pants McNasty decided that she wanted to engage in a little "parent speak" with us. I blame Brock for looking approachable, because if my bitchy mug would have been facing her, I know she would not have uttered a word.

She took a look at our tiny, string bean-y Thing 2 and led with some of my favorite competi-mom speak of "I'll bet my baby weighs as much as him. How old is he?"

Brock answered "15 months"

I rolled my eyes and said sweetly, "He's 17 months. How old is your baby?"

Bar Hopper McGulicutty said, "8 months. She weighs 18 pounds."

I wanted to say "Congratulations, the Cheetos and Mountain Dew are really paying off. My baby just puked and shit out about 4 pounds of the stomach flu. So, I have been wondering, who watches your baby while you are at the bar? Or do you just take her along?" but instead I smiled, again sweetly, and said, "She's adorable."

Then she went on to tell us all about something, but I don't know what it was because my eyes glazed over and I tuned her out, and we left Denny's, but not before Brock (the FUN parent) overruled my objections let Thing 1 try and fail to snag a stuffed animal out of the quarter eating machine. Then he acted all surprised and disappointed and said "What a rip-off, those things never work." and I rolled my eyes again for that is exactly why I didn't want Thing 1 to "play" in the first place. We would have been better off giving the PJ mom a dollar for her "pour me another" fund.

Well, Denny's, thanks for the burger. It was a blast from the past. Maybe we'll return again in 15 years, so we can see how great those kids of the bar fiends turned out. I've got a pretty good idea that they will be on a Denny's outing with their very own herd of offspring in tow. But I'm an optimist like that.

Fun Times Texting with Brock

I know that this may come as a shocker, but the Wagner herd is not a "techy" one. Brock builds shit with his actual hands and I draw shit with actual pencils which are held by my actual fingers. We also still own a VCR, quite an impressive collection of John Wayne movies on VHS and often reference CW McCall songs.

That being said, Brock and I have dipped our toes into the weird and wonderful waters of texting. While I decided that the water was fine and dove in; Brock in still standing on the bank with one toe barely dipped in, his saggy arsed jeans rolled up around his hairy calf, and he is whistling a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band tune while whittling his own fishing pole out of bamboo.



So of course it is fun for me to attempt some "text talking" with Father Time my husband, and yesterday was my latest success.



My camera isn't working right now but I saw this photo and thought of Brock.



Some background info: Brock came home Monday night and was acting a tiny bit sore. I asked if everything was going okay at work and he admitted to falling backwards into a crawl space while attempting to maneuver a wheelbarrow. When I stopped laughing and dried my tears of pure joy, I asked if I could get him ibuprofen or an icepack, to which he stoically replied "I don't want you to wait on me" and then got up and very dramatically limped to the kitchen to retrieve the ice. Except he wasn't trying to be funny, I guess he just felt that since he admitted to his klutziness that he could fully own the Egor walk that he had been repressing. I don't know what the sight of a man in his forties, hobbling around the house in his socks, bent over holding his possibly fractured rib does to you, but it made me super hot.



If you have been reading here for awhile you might remember from this post that I am not the only one that has a problem with laughing at people that fall. My friend Sarah is afflicted with the same illness, and fortunately for her, she married a man that has made falling into an Olympic Sport.

So here is yesterday's texting between Brock and me- unedited:

Me: How are you feeling today? I told Sarah what you did and she nearly busted a gut with laughter. lmao!

Brock: First tell Sarah to go scratch her ass with a corn cob and what the hell is imao I don't speak russian.

Me: I love you so much Grandpa Jones. You just gave me tomorrows blog post.

Brock: Dont be talkin shit about he haw that theres quality tv


(I can't tell you how much I cringed typing his final response)

Can someone please tell Brock that lmao means "laughing my ass off", because I don't trust myself to deliver the truth and am bound to say something like "Larry's Musty Athletic Odor". And if anyone knows what imao means, I would love to hear it.

Is there a medication for this?

I hate to talk about my problems, but I have something that I need to get off my chest.

There is something wrong with me.
I'm plagued with a disease.
Don't worry though, I've been living with it all my life.
I'm not sure what the technical medical terminology is, but I call it Chronic Lateness.



Image from coolcoozies.co.uk

I hate it... I try to change it.... yet I can't shake it.

When I am late (which is 90% of the time), not only do I tend to piss off people, but I also irritate myself which causes me to  sweat profusely. To add to the problem, I almost always get stuck behind about four different drivers going under the mothereffing speed limit. Seriously, usually four different vehicles all driving like they are part of a parade or a funeral procession. And I swear, their one and only goal is to BE IN FRONT OF ME, because often they are the same dillwad driving 55 mph through the roundabout so that I cannot enter, yet they go 30 mph in the 50 mph zone. And no I don't yell at them, nor do I flip them off because I am a motherfucking lady, yo. Plus I have small children in the car so I am normally too busy changing the radio station to a song that is not about some one's ass and do not have time to think up my own substitute words for "OMFG, stop drooling on yourself, get yer head out of yer ass and FUCKING DRIVE" . And there is that last time that I flew the bird at a sorry excuse for a licensed driver, then seconds later I realized that the person I directed it at was super duper old and looked like driving was making them nervous and I felt like a disrespectful asshat, because we should always respect our elders no matter how horribly they drive. Unless they are only a tiny bit older, like Pauly Shore or something, because that shit is fair game.

 

Image from wired.com
Just smile and wave. She can't see you anyway.


Because I am like Pollyanna- the perpetual optimist- I like to think that the stress being Chronically Late raises my metabolism and helps me burn calories, but I'm pretty sure all it does is raise my blood pressure and leave pit stains on my shirts.

I honestly don't know the root of this Chronic Lateness. Have I not figured out the art of time management yet? Like, did I forget how long it takes me to get my "going into public" hair and face on? Or maybe I just can't tell time (I struggle with that whole Left and Right business and telling time is way more complicated than that...)? Or maybe I just drag my feet because I don't like to leave my house for I am a truly a hermit who is merely in disguise as an "outgoing people person"? Maybe, just maybe on the inside I am a 567 pound woman who merely wants to be left alone to eat cheese puffs, talk to her cats and watch "her shows".

Oddly enough, with all the Chronic Lateness in my life, I am almost ALWAYS early to book club- we have wine there.... and converse freely in a kid-free zone.

Hmmmmm..... if you have any suggestions on combating this Medical Catastrophe that torments me, please let me know. And don't tell me to get off of facebook, I've had this problem long before the existence of facebook. I've been afflicted with this "disease" since the existence of PacMan, The Loveboat and John Hughes films.

Oh Shit! Look at the time- Gotta go!

------->But before I do, on an unrelated subject:
Why does Thing 1 turn EVERYTHING that he plays with into a gun?
Yesterday he found a blue polka dotted ribbon and turned it into an automatic weapon.
I think he destroyed an entire city with it.



When did this turn into a weapon of mass destruction?


You had me at "Compression"

I may not know anything about rocket science, diesel engines or acceptable and appropriate social interactions, but one thing that I do know about is yoga pants. As a stay at home mom, I actually feel as if I am a bit of an expert in the field of lounge clothes ....uh.... I mean, active wear. Unfortunately, my "expert" status was in danger of being downgraded to an apprentice level due to the condition of the majority of my work-out clothing.

 

My:

• Sad,
• Stretched out,
• Two wearings from that embarrassing "I had no idea that there was a hole in the crotch- if I did I would not have been sitting like that all day....or at least I would have worn better underwear.",
• Ten years old

exercise pants.

 

So I noticed that Old Navy was having a sale on something that they call Compression and Moisture Wicking Active Wear and I thought, "Hey! I love Old Navy! That is where I first went to create an actual summer wardrobe that didn't consist of a pair of cut off jeans that I found homeless in a dryer at a laundromat. Let's go!" So I called my friend Sarah, my partner in crime walking partner and fellow wearer of yoga pants, and made a super special kid-free date to buy new yoga pants. As a mom of two and someone over the age of "I work out every day", the word compression was the equivalent of "Hello Lover", and as an enthusiastic sweat-er, I saw moisture wicking and thought "Hey! Interview clothes!". So off Sarah and I power walked to our local Ft. Collins Old Navy. Okay, we drove, but I pretty much live in the country.




Hello! It's me (the blonde) and Sarah (the non-blonde) and
our owl cake masterpieces.



 

I feel that I should lead this shopping story with some background information on the evolution of my work-out clothes.

I'm from a tiny farming town of 600, give or take a few chickens. Like most kids, my fashion knowledge was basically limited to what I saw on the people around me. My family raised horses so that narrowed my expertise even more (I could cover jeans and boots. End of my fashion story.) So when my mom went to the local community center to work out in an aerobics class which was instructed by my aunt, her outfits would consist of items from the dregs of her closet: sweatpants, a gnarly sweatshirt that probably doubled as "fence painting clothes", and her old high school cheerleader sneakers which also moonlighted as painting gear. She didn't buy weights, because that would have been a frivolous purchase (never mind that we owned over 200 horses and standard horse gear for each of them), so she used either two milk jugs filled with water or sand, or a couple of #2 cans of food- preferably peaches.

Because the hoarding apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I was able to recreate this small town aerobics class circa 1984 look for all of you. I even threw in a few classic aerobics moves. You. Are. Welcome.




Feel the burn!



The grapevine (with an audience). A timeless classic.



Bicep curls! Don't forget to breathe!

At the time (and place) that my mother wore something like this, no one batted an eye. However, if I wore this into public in a city like Ft. Collins, I'm pretty sure that people would either try to give me their change or walk in wide circles around me in fear of me striking up a conversation with them (or my imaginary friend).

Minus the hat and fox...uh...er...rabbit? pelt, I would be the equivalent of the man who calls himself "White Owl" that roams Old Town Ft. Collins. Sarah has befriended him, naturally.




Sarah and her new friend White Owl.
This is simply too much awesome. I have no other words to describe it.

 So when I moved out of my small town and realized that people actually purchase things like "active wear" instead of rustling through their husband's closet to find something clean to borrow, I bought some pieces that I thought were cute. Then I wore them through a couple of pregnancies and stretched them to oblivion. On the upside, when the grocery cart is full, there is always room in the back of my pants for that extra loaf of bread. On the downside, I still don't look good, but I don't look quite bad enough that people try to give me money.




Sexy.
"Excuse me ma'am, you're going to have to pay for that
 hoagie roll in your pants."
And no, that is not my husband's chair. Thanks for wondering.


So clearly I needed help... and a mentor (and probably a sponsor). Then Sarah and I pulled up to our local Old Navy.




I feel like this picture deserves its own musical score.

 We promptly made friends with the staff.



I'm normally a hugger, but I opted for a simple hand holding.
She was really sweet. And I'll bet her dog doesn't chase cars.



We don't get out much.....



Actually we were greeted by true staff members in a helpful and non-pushy way, which in my opinion is the best way to be greeted upon entering a store. Don't try to talk me out of my cash immediately, just a simple "Hello! How are you today? Let me know if I can assist you with anything!", which is exactly what we got from at least three different associates. Of course we were side tracked at first by the trendy new fashion arrivals, but once we pulled ourselves away from the cute grey skinny jeans and snazzy sweaters, we followed a chalk-drawn hopscotch board to the active wear section.

We had no problem finding our sizes in a clean, well-organized space where the great deals were clearly marked with signs. We then loaded up our selections and were off to the dressing room for the real test: FIT.

The sizing was typical for what both of us generally buy, but the super stretchy fabric enabled you to go down in size as well. Sarah, who wears a size large, tried on a small to attempt to show me a "what not to do" but her plan backfired, because it actually looked hot on her and did nothing in the form of the dreaded "uni-boob" or "muffin top". In truth, the entire compression line really did seem to enhance each of our assets without pushing our Mom-flesh around in unappealing ways. The look of fitness without the actual fitness! Wahoo! Who doesn't want that?




Here is Sarah modeling clothes in a smaller size than what
she normally buys. No weird fleshy bulges.
Winning!



Showing off our "assets". We are normal. I promise.
*cough*
Thanks to Kim, the General Manager at Old Navy Ft. Collins,
 for snapping this photo!

 We tried a few different looks, which worked well on both of us despite our size differences, and were quite pleased with the low prices. For instance, later the same day I found a similar pair of pants at a different store for $75. Old Navy had their pants priced at $25 during the sale. Trendy, functional and affordable= Triple Threat!




This outfit was by far my favorite, and not just because
it made me look like a Ninja.
Okay, it is because it made me look like a Ninja.

 Overall it was a non-stressful shopping success and a great day out for a couple of boring old moms who are now going to look fierce strutting down Spring Creek Trail with our strollers and screaming precious and well-mannered children.





Watch out Ft. Collins~
You can thank Old Navy!

 Peace, Love and Compression Garments,
Johi

I should probably just stop talking. Dream on.

"I used to think all the time, then I had kids and I kind of stopped thinking. But fortunately I never stopped talking!" ~Johi

I'm going to admit something to you all that will probably come as quite a shock; I say a lot of really ignorant things.

I speak without thinking, I speed read without comprehending, I listen.... but not really, and then I weigh in! Because everyone wants to know what I have to say! Right? Huh? I know. I have higher expectations of myself too.

Luckily I have a series of "fall back" remarks that I feel are the equivalent of a pink sparkly magic wand that erase blame. Nifty huh?

For instance:

• "I'm blonde." *tee hee hee. titter titter. smoker's cough. hairball.*
• "I went to Art School."
• "Having children melted my brain."
• "I suffer from CRS*" *Can't Remember Shit
• "I wasn't paying attention" and/or "I'm not a good listener."
• "I like cheese."
• "Yeah, but did you see my boots?"
• "I'm sorry, I wasn't wearing my glasses. Could you repeat the question?"
• "OMG! Did you see Top Model the other night?"
• *licks glass and sings softly to herself while gazing at the ceiling*

As much as I would like to tell myself that I always strike people as intelligent, witty and charming, I know that sometimes a first impression of me is like a quick trip through the Twilight Zone; one with an ill-timed bathroom break and a theme song by CW McCall on 8-track playing in the background.

Like that one time, when I had just met some dude. I don't remember his name or why I met him (see excuse number 5 above), but I do recall that he told me that he was from Johnstown (a city here in Colorado) and I immediately thought of the giant truck stop called Johnson's Corner that is about 15 minutes from my house that is known for their giant cinnamon rolls and all I could think about was drippy icing and public showers and waitresses named Wanda and I excitedly said to him "Ohhh! I love the cinnamon rolls there!!!!!" *awkward pause* This dude from JOHNSTOWN, not the truck stop called Johnson's Corner, just looked at me like I had stripped naked and performed a Russian Folk Dance with a hot pink rooster perched on my head. I didn't even acknowledge my error but instead looked out across the landscape, played with my hair and started rambling about the state of the cornfields. What was the point? I felt that not only did my hair color speak for itself, but I also had already impressed enough people that day. No actually, I felt ashamed and a bit guilty of my too-quick-to-speak-cinnamon-roll-fantasizing faux pas and if I could go back to that conversation (or the many, many, many like it), I would remember to mention the good coffee, too.

As much as I use, hence obviously adore, my plethora of ludicrous excuses, what truly pleases me is my unabashed friend Sarah, who makes no excuses whatsoever for herself. This sort of business, and the way she can insult a person while simultaneously charming them, are only a tiny sampling of the many reasons why I treasure her friendship and hang out with her basically every day. Like yesterday, which was craft day and today was pumpkins and tomorrow is shopping and drinking. What? So anyway, according to Sarah, you own it and live in the moment. You see, Sarah is not blonde, so she has to rely on things like actual humor and intelligence to get her by. I know. I feel sorry for her too. But don't expect her to feel like life cheated her out of anything.

 "I never feel guilty. It is not in my nature. Life is too short to feel guilt. I don't regret anything either. I used to regret kissing a guy in a bar one night and I realized it was just a kiss in a bar and I stopped regretting it." ~Sarah

Not only is Sarah not blonde, she was obviously also not raised Catholic.



~How do you get yourself out of a situation where you spoke unwisely? And how do you get yourself to stop thinking about really good cinnamon rolls?

I say the underwear ALWAYS goes on first.

.....and then we all got the stomach flu.

So the weekend was filled with purging and upheaval and I didn't even get to clean out any closets.

Luckily it hit the kids first, so there were two capable parents to tend to the needs of the children. Unluckily, it hit Brock and I at almost the exact same time. Brock at 10:45 p.m. and me at 11:55 p.m. on Sunday night. Then he was done and drifted off to dreamland while I was back up every hour until 5:40 a.m. -including the hour that consisted of me trying to comfort a screaming baby and having to throw him back into his crib while still shrieking because I had that familiar mouth watering feeling (Brock was lying in bed because "being up" made him dizzy~ which he told me all about in a overly dramatic man-is-ill-probably-dying-at-any-moment fashion). I swear. I got every freaking detail. Every. Single. One.
Yay.

So as I was lying in bed this morning, I hear the sound of my husband rummaging through his drawer. Mistakenly, I sat up and said "Can I help you find something?" only to be greeted by the sight of my husband's pasty naked arse peeking at me out from under his tee-shirt. I was not ready. You see, we have "discussed" this multiple time. The conversation has gone like so:

Me: Please stop wearing a shirt with no pants or underwear. It's creepy.
Him: But I'm cold.
Me: Then you should put on pants.
Him: But it's comfortable.
Me: I don't give a fuck what it feels like. Just stop. For the sake of our sex life. Stop. If you are going to be without bottoms, you need to be shirtless too. It is the way it works for men.
Him: Fine.
Me: While we are on the subject, you can't wear "just socks" either.
Him: Whatever.

And I hoped that I would never witness that kind of Shirt-But-No-Pants horror again.

In his defense, the poor man was in the middle of getting dressed and apparently out of clean underwear. Although... it didn't seem like that much time had gone by since I had washed our clothes... but I had spent the last few days washing only the children's items, seeing as they had been the ones puking on their bedding. So I momentarily forgave him of his peek-a-boo booty and jumped out of bed to help him find some bottoms ASAP. And when I reached into the drawer I immediately found not one, but FIVE pair of clean underwear. FIVE. I didn't even dig. Like, at all.

Shirt with no pants: Not excused. Major Foul.

Man's lack of ability to see things directly in front of them: Fucking mind boggling.

Image of my husband in his "comfy outfit": Burned into my brain. Forever.

Guess what I did today? I washed ALL of his underwear.

DAILY TIP: To you men out there. Here is the proper order of getting dressed: UNDERWEAR. Pause, show pecs and abs, then add pants, flex, then shirt, and lastly, socks. Sexy? Yes. Difficult? No.

P.S. Hey guys! The fucking can opener is in the fucking utensil drawer where it has been for the last fucking 14 years.

P.P.S. I read this to Brock for his approval pre-posting. His response was to defend his nasty shirt-no-pants habit with "But it is kind of like playing double duty; you keep warm but you are ready for action at any minute."
I started laughing and said ,"But you are not going to GET ANY ACTION Brock! That is my point!"
He said, "You don't know that!"
To which I responded solemnly, "Oh, but I do."

Love Wins,
Johi

Love Letters and Other Demands

Here is where I tell you that both of my boys are pretty dang cute. I know every mom thinks this, but I KNOW this because the only people who don't smile at Thing 2 are with service dogs and Thing 1 got his first love letter today at preschool. His admirer is blonde, adorable and full of sass, so obviously I approve. Plus she is a take-charge kind of gal, which I dig. For instance, instead of asking "Will you marry me?" she wrote "I'm going to marry you." Like....*check* husband business handled! Now onto which My Little Pony I am going to play with....




I covered her name for privacy.
I love everything about this, especially the "I like you really much".
And check out her penmanship. She is FOUR years old.
This looks way nicer than my grocery list.

This precious little blonde's mother also told me that her child was planning on "showing Thing 1 their basement." When this mother inquired what her child was planning on showing my little boy, her little girl answered "that is a secret". Then her mom told me that they needed to stop listening to Katy Perry and Ke$ha. Then I decided that her mom was going to be my new friend.

As I was admiring the letter, we were all talking and started walking outside to take our kids to the playground. I was outside, around the corner of the building when I had the nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. You know that feeling: Something isn't right here. Something feels wrong. What is missing?.... Then I realized that the "something" that I was missing was only my baby.

Oh My GOD. What is WRONG with me????

I ran back inside and quickly found Thing 2 in the classroom, charming all of the preschool teachers. I can't quite describe to you how I felt at the moment, but it was a mixture of relief, horror and "I'm a total asshat, please bring me a bucket of water so that I can drown myself now".

In that moment, my truth was brought to light_-that nagging thing that I had been fearing. Forgetting my child was that tiny confirmation that I am in utter burn out mode and I really need a break from my life. Just for half a day. Just a little time for me to walk through a crowd without worrying about Stranger Danger or my kids running away. No entertaining anyone. No screaming. No whining. I need a bit of time to eat a meal (my entire meal) in peace, without complaints, screams (did I mention this already?), food on the floor, food on the head, food being grabbed from my hand or food on the ceiling. A little quiet time away so that I can shower and breathe and feel rejuvenated. A small healthy break so that I am recharged and fully prepared to not only meet the demands of MOM, but to also, once again, enjoy those demands. 

I'm going to call a friend and get some of that tomorrow, because I officially declare Saturday the 8th of October "MOM'S DAY OFF". Go tell your friends. *Someone please email this to my husband.

Feel free to follow my lead. Do it soon, before you too get so brain damaged and comatose that you accidentally leave your child/children in the school/grocery store/park or at home alone with the dog. Besides, I know that I have earned it. Half my work is done. I already have one of my kids married off. Yay me.



This is Thing 1 with a different girlfriend.
I hope he can keep their names straight....

 Peace, Love and Stellar Parenting,
Johi

And then I proved to everyone that I am always accountable for my actions.

Dear Sarah,

At first I was secretly pleased when you called and told that that you could not power walk after we dropped off our kids at preschool today because you needed to clean your house. You see, I slept horribly because Thing 2 screamed for an hour in the middle of the night, plus I am inherently lazy so I am always prepared to squirm out of anything that requires exertion. And I also wanted to catch up on the episodes of Desperate Housewives that are on my DVR.

Since we didn't walk and I am a selfless mother, I passed on the TV and decided to take Thing 2 to the library for some quality mommy/son interaction and bonding. Except the mother effing library didn't open for half an hour, so I had 30 minutes to kill in the shopping center by the library. Some evil genius put the library right next to a bunch of horrible, boring stores like DSW and Sephora, which never have anything I like... because who likes SHOES or make-up? Oh yeah, I DO and DSW is my damned kryptonite.

So I was casually browsing sensible shoes, like black New Balance for our walks because any white sneakers that I own look like dog chew toys within two wearings. Then with an crazed gleam in my eyes I mistakenly took a wrong turn somewhere by the handbags and I accidentally got sucked into the vortex of the boot aisles. True to the boot whore that I am, I fell in love 20 times in five minutes. That was when I decided that it would be a good idea to "just try on" some styles. My slipping on genuine leather boots "just to see" is like a raging alcoholic ordering a Cosmo "just for a sip".

So I slipped my Clydesdale-esq hoof into a pair of B.O.C. that claimed the color "Whiskey" and I immediately started to drool.... not only was the color enticing, but they fit like a custom made condom. And I may have been hyper and making conversation and cracking jokes with random people in the aisle as I silently marveled how the boots transformed my giant step-sister clod-hoppers into Cinderfuckingrella's dainty feet. Then I remembered how I have never once regretted a boot purchase and I quiet easily talked myself right into spending $129 with only a minimal amount of sweating, and it is all your fault Sarah. Not only are my thighs getting bigger (and I'm certain that has NOTHING to do with the way that I am inhaling chocolate like the cure for cancer rides solely on the amount of Dove that I can consume), but I also am going to have to tell the children that NO, there will be no porridge! because mommy needed shoes. But I took my baby to the library so he can feed his mind with books and knowledge.... *cough cough*

 Again. Nice going Sarah.Why the hell did you need to clean your house today?

Unconditionally Yours,
Johi

P.S. Do you think I could power walk in these?




Whoops! Am I wearing new boots? That's weird.

P.P.S. You had better start practicing your rendition of Beast of Burden (and your moves like Jagger, for that matter).

P.P.P.S. I think I will put them on with a flirty silk nightie when I show them to Brock. I am a firm believer in the sales technique called "distraction".




LOOK! PONIES!!!!
See? You forgot all about the boots.... didn't you?



Think of me when you slap a pumpkin

In case you haven't noticed, it is fall. Fall is the best season of the year. The. Best. I will challenge you to an arm wrestling match (with my sister standing in for me) if you dare to disagree.

The crisp air, the changing leaves, those big, round, orange pumpkins that you just want to slap slap slap! (Or is that just me?) It is fucking magical. Plus, I can be my true witchy self and everyone just thinks that I am in costume. Awesomesauce.

Now....where is my broom?


Today we decorated for Halloween at the Wagner house. And here is where I tell you that my husband has collected an entire Halloween Village. It is a small village: only three houses, but that is about all I can handle.



For Erin H., because you love this as much as Brock.


As we were ignoring the the Things  he was removing his cherished haunted treasures from the Styrofoam packaging, I was making a creepy decorative gourd arrangement on our entertainment center, complete with an eerie drawing I made in high school of my great grandparents. I didn't intend for it to be ghoulish, but it kind of is...




Pre-lights...






Post-lights...



Great Grandpa's eyes follow you a little....
Muahahaha!

 

My ceramic gourds made me remember something that a friend directed me to a few years ago; something that is even better than pumpkin lattes, haunted villages, ghostly pictures, football and the sweet smell of nutmeg and decaying leaves in the air. Please, for the love of all things fiercely wicked, read this post (preferably out loud in a dramatic voice to someone who understands comedy) from the Timothy McSweeny website: it's decorative gourd season motherfuckers

You can thank me later.

Until then, enjoy autumn and please slap a pumpkin. I think you'll discover a new source of joy. I really do.

Peace, Love and Decorative Gourds,

Johi