Highlights Of Last Week

Monday:

Pick up boys from day camp. On the way home, 6 year-old Sam casually mentions that he just got in trouble for calling another camper "The C-Word". After screaming, hyperventilating and swerving off the road to frantically dial 411 and demand the number to the nearest military school, hear Sam then explain that at Camp Turtle, the C-Word stands for "cheater".


Tuesday:

Try out new Wii Fit by standing on a computerized board for two minutes while the system performs a body assessment. System quickly reports back that, based on my ability to balance, I must "trip a lot when I walk" and then goes on to tell me that my "fit age" is that of a 62 year-old. Which at least explains why I eat dinner at 3 p.m. and like Johnny Mathis so much.


Wednesday:

After the boys ask to play with all the things they didn't have time for during the school year, spend morning pulling out toys, games and puzzles and setting them up in the playroom. Boys then play with the new toys for approximately 1.5 seconds before running away to whap each other with kitchen towels for the next three hours.


Thursday:

Watch trashy, new summer show "Swingtown" on CBS that's about the decay of the suburban family in 1976, then go to bed and have nightmares about it all night long. Because while the show's amoral wife swapping and casual drug use are perfectly fine, nobody should ever be forced to see those freaky 70's mustaches again. I mean, that shit's nasty.


Friday:

When closing bag of Veggie Booty, push too hard and force a cloud of bright, green veggie dust to suddenly shoot out and land directly in eyes. Stumble around kitchen screaming, "Oh, my God! I'm blind! I'M BLIND!" Since husband is on ground laughing and therefore unable to help, must then feel way to sink to rinse off kale and spinach residue and restore vision. Cry green tears.


Saturday:

After four year-old Jack suddenly announces that, in our house, "daddy is the boss" and "mommy is the waitress", sit him down for the longest lecture of his life, complete with the visual aids of bank statements, pie charts and forensic diagrams. Once Jack finally realizes that both mommy and daddy are the boss and that mommy's purpose in life isn't just to serve her kids, give him a nice, big hug. Then bring him a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk.


Sunday:

In grocery store parking lot, have space stolen by mean, terrible woman in a giant SUV. After she walks by, smugly sneering, angrily mutter under breath for a few minutes. When Sam asks, "What did you say?", simply smile and tell him, "Nothing, honey. Mommy just thinks that woman's a 'cheater' ".

Emily Dickinson's Kids Are Home For The Summer

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne'er succeed.

To comprehend...

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, COULD YOU TWO PLEASE KEEP IT DOWN IN THERE? MOMMY'S TRYING TO WRITE. I SAID MOMMY'S TRYING TO WRITE! WHAT'S THAT? NO, I'LL BE DONE WHEN I'M DONE. WHEN I'M DONE. I SAID WHEN I'M DONE! I DON'T KNOW--20 MINUTES? 30 MINUTES? JUST DON'T BE SO LOUD ANYMORE, OK? YES, YOU WERE TOO BEING LOUD. YES, YOU WERE. YES, YOU WERE. YES, YOU...STOP ARGUING WITH ME! WHAT? NO, I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU PUT YOUR i-POD. CHECK THE LAUNDRY ROOM.

...a nectar requires sorest need.


Not one of all the purple host

Who took the flag to-day...

JESUS, NOW WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? THAT CRASH. THE CRASH THAT I JUST HEARD COMING FROM THE STAIRS! YEAH, THAT CRASH. WHAT? IT WAS? THE BIG JAR OF PEANUTS? OH, CRAP. WELL, THEN GO GET THE VACUUM AND TELL YOUR BROTHER YOU'RE SORRY. YES, YOU CAN DO THAT ALL BY YOURSELF. BECAUSE I'M WRITING. I SAID I'M WRITING. WHAT? NO, IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS WHAT I'M WRITING ABOUT. WHAT? OK, IT'S A POEM. I SAID A POEM! A POEM! NO, IT'S NOT ABOUT INDIANA JONES.

...Can tell the definition, So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,

On whose forbidden ear...

BLEEDING WHERE? ON YOUR LEG? HOW MUCH? WELL, IS IT JUST A FLESH WOUND? OR DO YOU SEE AN ARTERY? WHAT'S THAT? YOU DON'T? WELL THEN YOU'RE FINE. I SAID YOU'RE FINE! JUST PUT SOME PRESSURE ON IT UNTIL I COME OUT. PRESSURE! PUT SOME PRESSURE ON IT! THERE, DID THAT HELP? IT DID? GOOD. NOW GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY ON THAT SLIP 'N SLIDE YOUR DAD BOUGHT YOU. THE SLIP 'N SLIDE! THE BRIGHT YELLOW THING IN THE BACKYARD THAT'S KILLING THE GRASS. YEAH, THAT. NOW, GO! GO!

...The distant strains of triumph, break, agonized and clear.

OK, GUYS--MOMMY'S DONE. I SAID MOMMY'S DONE! NOW WHERE ARE YOU TWO? ARE YOU IN THE KITCHEN? THE PLAYROOM? WHY IS IT SO QUIET? (long pause) OK, WHO LOCKED THIS DOOR?

Reality TV Shows I Would Win

America's Next Top Hand Model


Top Microwave Chef


America's Got Talent, If By "Talent" You Mean A Kick-Ass Dora The Explorer Impersonation


The Amazing Race To The Wine Bottle


Project Runway, Far Away From The Babysitter Who Just Told You She Likes To "Party Like Winehouse"


The Biggest Loser: Car Keys and Visa Bills


So You Think You Can Dance? Like A Psychotic Toddler?


Survivor: Target Greatland

The Joke Lesson

Hey, mommy, wanna hear a joke?

Sure, Jack.

OK. Why did the…no. How come the…no. Knock...no. Hmmm. OK, what did the car seat say to the window?

I don’t know, what did the car seat say to the window?

Hey, dude, nice carpet! (loud giggling) Wasn't that a good one?

Not really.

What do you mean?

Well, I'm sorry, honey, but your joke didn't make any sense. You see, a classic joke is constructed of two parts: the set-up and the punchline, which you had. But then those two parts also have to be somewhat related, otherwise your joke just lays there stinking up the room. Like yours did.

Oh. Well, want to hear another one?

Sure.

OK, why did the butterfly go to his house?

I don’t know, why?

Because it was on the carpet! (loud giggling) Was that a good one?

No, that bombed, too. Plus, your timing was a little off.

Oh.

Hey, don't worry about it--comedy's hard. Just ask Adam Sandler. He's been trying to be funny for 25 years.

Really?

Uh-huh. And your jokes are already more sophisticated than his. I mean, you haven't laughed at an arm pit noise since you were 3 years-old, right?

Right.

Listen, how about if I tell you a joke? Just to show you how it's done. Ready? Why did the lollipop cross the road?

I don’t know, why?

Because it was stuck in a chicken! (loud giggling) Oh, man! Was that a good one or what? Slap me some skin! Come on! Hey, why aren't you laughing? That was gold, Jerry! Gold!

Sorry, mommy, but I just don't think you're funny.

What? Why not? That joke was perfectly put together.

Yeah, but you're a mommy. And mommies aren't supposed to be funny.

Oh, OK. We'll definitely have to talk about THAT later. But first, how about I tell that joke again? And this time, I'll add in arm pit noises.

The 40-Year Warranty

After 40 years on this earth, it's finally come to this.

I'm getting implants.

I've selected the doctor, scheduled the surgery and reluctantly kissed the $3,000.00 payment good-bye. Everything's set. One month from today, I'll be strutting around town, proudly showing the world my new implant.

Oh, yeah. I'm just getting one.

You see, unlike a lot of 40 year-old women who spend a small fortune on cosmetic enhancements that can actually help them talk their way out of a speeding ticket, my cash is going toward something that won't help me do anything more glamorous than chew my food. Because my new implant is a molar.

I'm just that sexy.

Last week, my one remaining baby tooth, a bottom molar, finally cracked--in half--and needed to be yoinked out. Meaning that now, not only do I have to go through a painful procedure to get a fake tooth put in its place, I get to pay for most of it, too, because my insurance company considers the whole thing to be somewhat "cosmetic". Which I guess is understandable. After all, I'm sure there are tons of women out there who wouldn't bother to fix a smile that made them resemble Lil' Abner, right? I'm just vain.

But as painful as my broken tooth was, it really came as no big surprise because recently, I've noticed that most of my body parts must have come with 40-year warranties. Bumper-to- wrinkly-ass-bumper. Which means that now, because I've reached the advanced age of 40 1/2, those babies have started to expire faster than you can say, "Who ordered the liver spots?"

Sweet Jesus, I'm falling apart.

Two months ago, my right foot suddenly threw in the towel and developed plantar fasciitis (Latin for "Why the hell does my foot feel like it's in labor?) True, I probably shouldn't have done a Bikini Bootcamp in 30 degree weather without stretching first, but still. This never happened in my 30's and now I have to ice my foot every day and shop for summer sandals in the Women's Studies Footwear section of DSW. And believe me, there's nothing stylish about good arch support. Nothing.

Add in my missing tooth, hair follicles that recently grew tired of producing pigment, delicate eyelid skin that just doesn't have the strength to be elastic anymore and arm muscles that apparently had quite the blow-out of a retirement party, and it's obvious what my future looks like. Expensive.

That's why yesterday, I put my cracked, little baby tooth into a blue, plastic box and mailed it to my parents. I figure that after 40 years, that one, small dime I'm owed from the Tooth Fairy has accrued itself quite a bit of interest. And judging by the way things are going, I'm sure as hell gonna need it. Soon.


For anyone looking for some really, really funny blogs, check out Christy and Jessica. They make me laugh out loud. Oh...LOL. I just got that.