Hairy Goldfish

*twirling my mustache, giggling

Anyone with kids knows that the battle of the “Put Things Away” game is never-ending. Or a husband. Who leaves socks all over the floor. Or rubber bands. Huh? I don’t know…So, when push comes to shove, I like to play pranks. Not only to prove a point; But, to open the eyeballs of said minor. And get them to PUT. THEIR. CRAP. AWAY.  Let the games begin!  The game is quite similar to jingling keys in front of a toddler to distract the tyke away from a hot stove. Just a tad more manipulative. Or passive aggressive. Actually, it’s more like the- mommy’s flipped her lid -game. We need sedatives – STAT. Who’s doing all that sceaming? Oh. It’s me. Oopsie. My bad.

When I Costco, I typically buy the snack pack boxes. You know the ones, miniature bags of snack garbage the kids can just grab and go. Welp, I accidentally bought the Goldfish snacks that were in the oversized large bags instead the last time. Ah, I just love the idea of grubby little hands all inside the bag of chips everyone communally is going to eat from… *sarcasm. I’ll pour them out into a bowl. Or cut the bag down to the munchies so my hand doesn’t have to touch the greasy insides of it. It’s the O.C.D. And it’s quirky. So hush. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Ironic twist of events? Not really. I tend to get sidetracked. Case in point: a mere two sentences ago. Anyway, Sir Interuptor-patomus…In Costco. And other places. In every place actually. Not just in Costco. I like butterflies. Chasing butterflies with glitter is always fun.

One would assume, when one is done using any item in the house, one would proceed to return said item to its original place. Especially food. Neat and tidy. Packaging closed and sealed up. Freshness bound. Organized. Hell, I’ll take the category, “Thrown in the Cabinet by a Timberwolf” for the WIN, Pat! As long as it was put back near its resting spot. It’s not TOO much to ask. Really.

So imagine my not-so-surprise when I find the large open Goldfish bag on the coffee table, not put away. I digress, at least it was rolled up. I exhale a huge sigh and head for the bag. Grab the bag. Pick up the bag. And the fucking Goldfish go spewing all over my living room floor. Out of the bag. Of course they did. On a carpet that which, was not, vacuumed. Of course it wasn’t. Which I had previously requested be done as well.  And wasn’t executed. BAH!



Tap. Tap. Tap. I’ll show you, you little monster you. I scoop up all the little yellow crackers and put them -bit by bit- back into the plastic sack. Hair. Debris… and all. Roll the bitch back up. And shove it in the pantry. Ha! Right up front. And I wait. Patience is a virtue. And wait. Something about a dish best served cold? Criminy, and I wait some more. What the hell. I freaking forgot about it. Well, a month goes by and the boy hasn’t said anything about the dirty food satchel. Hmmm.. maybe he’s not eating them. Nope. He’s been eating them because the bag moves around the pantry space every few days. Finally, last week, I ask him if he wants a snack, and I mention all available crunchy nibbles to choose from and my son says, “I haven’t really been eating the Goldfish because everytime I do I keep getting hair and stuff from inside the bag. I think we should write them a letter about it.” And there it was. The moment I’d been waiting for…

So, you have been eating them huh? Yeah. And I really think we need to write an onion letter to the company. Get some free – Let me stop you right there my young, darling consumer rights activist. You know how I’m always asking you to to put shit away? Uh huh. Well, one day, over a month ago… You didn’t put these fishies away. I always put them away. No. You don’t. Let me finish. And I picked them up and well… His face went from interest in my storytelling to obvious disgust. “Mom. I’ve been eating hair!” Yeah, that… well, here’s the kicker. You’re going to love this part. I also asked you to vaccum that week too. And well, you didn’t do that either. So, if you think about it. Had you swept the floor. There wouldn’t have been debris in your hairy Goldfish. Mom! You’re so gross! Yes. Yes, I am.

Moral of the story. He puts stuff away now. Wipes down my kitchen countertops. And has since learned how to use a mop.

Ah, victory.

Potassium Pick-A-Part

Leg Cramp! Bananas 911!

Leg Cramp! Bananas 911!

I’m a banana freak. I eat em, mash em, purée them, put those yellow babies in bread and yes, probably choke em down… a little too sexily. I can’t help it. I’m a pervert. But so are you guys… speak for yourself. Alas! But, here we are. Ha! Pervs! I knew it. Bananas are also good for cramps (not lady cramps-the sugar in them will make your moody space worse-believe me I’ve tried), but these fruit sticks are good for leg cramps, arm cramps, brain cramps… things of that nature. Huh? Or, at least that’s the rumor. Not committing to the brain cramp suspicion; But, it could explain why there are so many bad drivers. So, imagine my surprise when I have been depleted from a midday romp, (uh *blushing… shhhh, everyone needs a lil momma-feel good time, *wink), AND I’m starving AND I reach for a ‘nanner… AND my calf seizes up. Ouch. Yeah, seriously, what the hell.  



I try stretching it out, downward dog style, and it doesn’t seem to alleviate it. Damn you, yoga. Maybe too much momma feel good time? No, that definitely cannot be it. AWAY. Silly. Radical thoughts. Still with my unopened bannana in tow, I grab a heating pad and flop on the couch for a solid twenty minutes. Hoping the heat of this electric walk-around-furnace will bring release to my lopsided dead leg. Nope. I give up on the portable heatery thing and I hobble my way to a nearby staircase and attempt an alternate the stretch of the calves event. As I pedal each foot up and down on the step, I don’t seem to be finding any letup. Hmmm, still not quite busting that bitch out. Blast it. I aimlessly cruise around the house venturing to “walk it off” until I acquiesce. And take a big belly flop onto the hard tile floor. My banana stumbles across with me, airborne until it finally plunkers down into my line of sight. On the floor. After a couple bounces. Adding a light dusting of bunnies to the peel.

I lazily reach for the yummy potassium-rich goodness, in all my exasperated glory and finally concede to munching down on this little crescent moon shaped treat. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. And I hear a voice from above. Hello. Are angels singing? What are you doing. Is that you, God? No. It’s my honey asking me why the hell am I laying lifeless on the floor, slobbering all over a banana…

“Babe.. I had a cramp.”

The EXponential Kiss Off Rant

I see you crazy pants!

I see you crazy pants!

There are some exes in my Rolodex I don’t mind hearing from… from time to time. Actually, I’m lying. I could care less. And frankly, I’d rather not. I like to think an ex died or simply vanished. Or disintegrated. Disintegration would be a great one. All in favor? Anyway, If I do happen to run into one, I’ll be cordial or -more likely- just pretend I’ve met their unknown twin. We all have someone in the world that holds a resemblence to our likeness. What’s a Rolodex. Nevermind, pay attention. I’ll play dumb when they say hello. Using my name and everything. Oh hello. Gosh, you do look familiar sir; But, alas, I havent a clue to who you are. Have a beatufiul day…. *wink

So then there are exes that stalk my parking garage and circle my building when I have done all I can to cut all ties to that dickhead’s manic hysteria. Let me share with you a recent, exboyfriend-almost-encounter. Holy Stalker Batman!  I had just parked my car and I’m just minding my own business, talking the phone to my mother about… likely, nothing in particular and I get up to my floor level and what do I see out of my cell phone oblivion peripheral?  You’re what? Right. Aforementioned dickhead. Terribly attempting to make his swift escape without being seen… and, what should have been an easy three point turn, naturally, wasn’t.  Because it’s him- the neanderthal screws it up by making some sort of twenty point turn. Let me elaborate. Remember the yellow, holely toy balls, made for babies? You know the ones, they’re round, they have all kinds of shaped holes for you to match and stick the like-shaped blocks into the ball. They’re usually yellow. They are yellow.. with all different kind of shaped holes on the… Ok. You get it, right? Maybe slower adults -like said woodchuck moron- should play with these. Work on his cognitive skillset that he could put forth into the world. I know, helpful suggestions are a positive. I’m a giver.

Maybe watch a few seasons of Burn Notice...

Maybe watch a few seasons of Burn Notice…

I stray… Ok, so I see this stalking parody playing out and not only do I notice him, his crappy driving incompetence, and his lackluster attempt at creeping up on a person. I mean, it was really like watching Wiley Coyote. He was also in his mother’s car. Oh my God. I know. Yup. You know, there are fairly clever shows on television to aid in the many ways one could follow a person undetected. Clearly, this fellow hadn’t watched any of them. And likewise, I’ve come to the conclusion he didn’t factor in that he could roll through my  apartment complex incognito. Keep your day job super sleuth! Neither in his vehicle, nor his mommy’s. There are NO other carros in my domain that look like either of those vehiculos. It was totally him and even if you confronted crazy pants; he’d lie and deny. Dumbass. I should have taken a picture. I mean, I can rock some pretty sick selfies; but, when there’s an AHA! moment happening, I completely drop the ball on relaying these events immediately to social media. Hmmm, I might need to hire an assistant for this… Noted.

Evidently, I have disintegrated you from my life for a reason. Three great reasons, actually. Exes. Are exes. For a reason. There is NO logical explanation whatsoever -unless you share kids with a former spouse- especially when I am in a committed, loving relationship do I need to conjur up your ghost into my new reality. Let’s have a seance. Bye casper. Not so sidebar: If I have had to block your number from calling/texing, block and report you across all my social media for harrasing my pages, and I have basically fallen off the face of your earth? It’s time for you to let this pony go and move on with your life. Hi-Ho Silver, AWAYYYY! Yes, you screwed up. I’m a catch. And I’m pretty freaking fun, funny AND awesome. Yeah, I’m a triple threat. Deal with it. Away from me. By yourself. And for fucks sake, save your gas money and refrain from visiting. Crazy pants.