humor, mother's day, relationships, self-help

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!

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BOOM. GOTCHA!

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.

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humor, Uncategorized

Pajamma Mamma

Pretty sure this is the jammies trying to kill me… #diaperfabulous

I tend to travel light. I bring as little as possible. Mostly because I know I will be buying crap I don’t need and want to bring back. Shoved and crammed into my suitcase. And for the simple fact that paying for luggage after paying an arm and a leg to travel already is not on my list of favorite things. Which brings me to my pajammas. Or, my mamma’s pajammas.

pickle-grande feet peek

I didn’t bring any sleepy time wear on our trip, so I borrowed. No biggie. If I were alone, I’d sleep in the buff. But, I’m not alone. And buff-sleeping isn’t probable. Sigh. Bummery.  Now, since I’m not one to complain -*cough, ha ha, what… I had a tickle in my throat- I realize that out of all of the options of nighties, I chose the pair that wants to jump off my body. Literally. When I’m walking around the house. The jammies want to dive off me to the floor. When I’m sleeping, the cozy creepy sleepies tries to strangle me in my sleep. Yes, over my head. They only get about diaper fabulous; But, they try. They try hard. When I go to tinkle, my fuzzy pant legs get twisted up. I think they’re trying to escape down the toilet. Or the booby hatch. Either way, these damn jammies don’t want to stay on my mammy fanny.
Moral of the story, folks? Bring pajammas when you travel. Or at the very least, some underwear. And not of the granny-panty variety either. Otherwise you could end up swimming upstream a pair of flood pants. Too big for you. And too pickle-grande for your mammy.