Lies and Torments I've Subjected My Kids To.

Cooties:

When my daughter was 4 years old and about to start pre-k, I sat her down to have a very important big girl conversation.  The topic?  Boys.  I told her about boys having cooties and how contagious they were.  She listened with wide eyed interest and then asked what cooties looked like and how you got rid of them once you caught them.  Because cooties were invisible, of course no one really knew what they looked like, only that all boys had them.  I told her not to worry though…because in her cubby at school there would be an invisible can of cootie spray.  All she had to do was spray down the boys with her cootie spray (demonstrating how) and she’d be safe. 

After her first day of school, upon picking her up, she was noticeably upset. When I asked about her day, she heatedly informed me that she looked and looked, but could not find her invisible can of cootie spray.   “Now I’ve got cooties too!”  Yeah, some days it’s great to be a parent.

 Amusement Parks:

 I learned a long time ago why they were called amusement parks.  Parents bring their children, watch the children get terrified, and the parents are left very amused.  When my daughter and then step-son were little (4 and 6), we went to MGM in Orlando.  We waited in outrageously long lines in the sweltering heat before finally boarding “The Tower of Terror”.  Within moments they were both terrified and wanting off…NOW.  By the time we got off the ride, they were both white as a ghost and near tears begging NEVER to go on it again.  For the next year, anytime they acted up, just the threat of making them ride “The Tower of Terror” would bring them right back in line.  Thanks Disney!

 My son was a very big baby, and an even bigger toddler.  When he was 2, he was as big as or bigger than most 4 year olds.  During a trip to Universal Studios, we boarded the “Jaws” ride.  It was a beautiful day and we were slowly floating along when a mechanical Jaws burst out of the water mere inches from our side of the boat, displaying a mouth full of big, sharp, white teeth.  My son screamed in terror as he jumped up in the seat and ran across me in a desperate attempt to escape the attacking shark!  Everybody on the boat, myself included (I know…mom of the year), were laughing so hysterically we were wiping tears from our eyes, as my terrified toddler struggled to find the humor in almost being eaten by the giant beast.  Try as I might, I could not stop laughing as I tried to comfort him and assure him it was just a fake shark and NOT going to eat him.  Did we stop there?  Heck no!  I was now amused.  Next stop…“Earthquake”. 

 Christmas:

 They give us parents so much to work with around the holidays, big and small.  From Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny to the Tooth Fairy, society has made lying to our children not just acceptable, but expected, especially at Christmas.

 When my ex-husband’s son was about 7 years old, he started questioning the existence of Santa Claus, and sharing his doubts with my 5 year old daughter.  That Christmas Eve, we left cookies and milk for Santa and carrots for the Reindeer…on a chair visible from the doorways of each of the children’s rooms.  After the kids went to sleep and the presents were placed under the tree, my husband donned a Santa Claus suit and headed for the cookies as I headed for the kids rooms to wake them up.  I snuck in their rooms, and woke them up very quietly telling each one to be absolutely silent so we didn’t scare Santa off.  I told them that if Santa knew they saw him, he might leave fast, or even disappear so they had to be quiet.  They watched in silence was he ate the cookies and drank the milk, then stuffed the carrots in his pockets, before saying “Ho, Ho, Ho” and then disappearing from their sight. 

 When my son (almost 5 years younger than my daughter) was about 8, he came home from his father’s devastated.  “Dad told Santa to put me on the naughty list!”  After thinking about this for a couple weeks, I enlisted the help of my daughter and put my plan into action.  When my son returned from his next weekend stay with his father, on two small hooks by the front door hung a small wool coat, a matching pointy hat and a tiny lantern with a paper scroll tucked into it.  When he asked about it, at first I refused to tell him anything saying only for him to leave the items alone.  At various times, I’d remove the items for periods of time and then return them to the hooks.  Finally, after swearing him to secrecy, I told him that one of Santa’s elves was staying with us while he handled a top secret mission for Santa.  The kids stared at the items begging for permission to read the tiny scroll. While he never actually got to see the elf, I did manage to take a very fussy picture of him to show my son (which I actually pulled off the internet), and just before the elf’s stuff vanished for the last time, we snuck a peek at the tiny scroll which read, “Naughty” then had a list of several names, including the name of their dad!

 Teenagers

 When my kids were little I would to tell them that aliens injected the brains of teenagers with a toxic serum that turned their brains into gelatinous goo until they hit their 20s and their brains started solidifying again.  This made teenagers act in completely crazy ways and do really stupid things until their brains recovered somewhere around their early to mid 20s.  My son was about 6, and we were walking through Wal-Mart when my son excitedly points to a group and loudly exclaims, “Look mom!  They’re teenagers!” as if he was seeing an endangered species or making a rare discovery, eliciting many strange looks from the Wal-Mart onlookers. 

These are just a few examples of how I've lied to and tormented my children over the years.  To post them all would be a thousand plus page novel.  Ok, so maybe the last one was a bad example of a lie or torture my kids have endured from me as I really think I was onto something with that one!  Luckily for me, though probably unfortunately for them, I still have several years left to inflict more damage in the form of creative lies and torment.  One day, they'll have children and will be able to pass on the traditions just as I am now doing to them.

Midget Mexican Shit Sculptures On Lawn...BAD NEIGHBOR!!

As I pull into my driveway the day before yesterday, I am greeted by what has become an all too familiar sight:  The neighbor’s hundred plus pound yellow lab hunkered down shitting what looks like a little mexican midget in my front yard.  Now if this was a once in a while occurrence, I might be able to overlook it, but it is becoming a regular thing.  What I found most upsetting about the whole event is that my neighbor, an area native and about as redneck as they come, is sitting on his front steps watching his dog make a mini sculpture of him on my lawn, with what I swear could only be interpreted as pride. 

Before I can park my car and get back around the house, the dog has finished his duty and had left a present on my lawn big enough to trip a horse.  Lovely way to start my evening, but having had a long day, I decide it’s not a battle I want to fight right then so it will wait for another day.

Yesterday morning as I’m exiting the driveway, my peripheral vision draws my attention to my rearview mirror, where I immediately catch sight of this huge pile of dog shit.  Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I could almost swear it was waving goodbye to me as if to say, “Have a great day.  I’ll be right here waiting for the dog to shit me out some friends!” I found myself thinking the whole way to work that I should probably pick out a name for my new yard ornament, as big as it is.  Jose’, maybe Miguel, and thinking if you put it next to Chelsea Handler people might confuse it for Chuy.

 

(Credit)

I arrive home yesterday, deliberately avoiding looking at my yard to see if the Mexican midget has multiplied in my absence.  A short while later, my daughter arrives home and finds me out on the back patio, where she tells me that once again, the dog is hunkered down in the front yard making a friend for the pile from the day before.  Obviously my neighbor doesn’t give a shit (those his dog gives plenty) so it’s time I do something about it.   As I have thought about this today, I am really not sure how I’m going to handle this maddening situation with my neighbor, but I thought I’d share a few of my favorite ideas. 

Idea Number 1:  Transport shit via shovel and transplant it on neighbor’s doorsteps in a spot most likely to be stepped in before being noticed.

Idea Number 2:  Using shovel, sling shit from my yard to his, taking special aim to hit his work truck and attached tools.

Idea Number 3:  The classic, “poop in a bag lit on fire at front door”. 

Now I know that all of these are very unneighborly behaviors, but then, so is allowing his dog to leave daily sculptures on my lawn.  I am now up to three piles in my yard from this dog, and if I have to pick them up, there will be repercussions to my neighbor.  I will become the shit bandit.  Exacting my revenge in the stinkiest, messiest method available while returning his beloved pet’s byproduct.

I am now about to head home, and if my yard looks any more like a Mexican midget block party, I just might blow my stack.  I may just forgo the tactical planning, and sling it directly at him!  Lord grant me patience as I go home to face this shitty situation.

Bah Freaking Humbug!!

It’s official…the Grinch has stolen my Christmas spirit.  I’m really not sure when it happened, or even how it happened, only that it definitely happened.  It is now 11 days away from Christmas, and while I did drag the tree and decorations out of storage, and put the tree together, I have yet to force myself to decorate it, or do my Christmas shopping.

When the kids were little and there was that magical anticipation of Santa bringing the toys, eating the cookies and his reindeer eating the carrots we left for them, there was a certain excitement which I find is now lacking (the lie is gone).  Instead, I feel a sense of obligation to put up decorations that add clutter to my already cluttered house; obligation to spend money I do not have and really cannot afford or be the “worse parent in the whole world” in the eyes of my children; and the inability to escape all the cheerful Christmas lights and music that are now everywhere I go. 

It all started around Halloween.  When looking in the holiday aisles, I was shocked and appalled to see scattered Christmas items around the Halloween items before it was even the end of October!  I must admit to feeling pulling forces, much like that of the angel and Satan on opposite shoulders, only for me, it was more like the Christmas Spirit and the Grinch whispering in each ear.  One was saying “Yay!! Christmas music, beautiful lights, egg nog, presents…I LOVE Christmas!”  However, the other was much stronger saying, “Are you freaking kidding me?  Can’t we get through one holiday at a time?  Halloween, then Thanksgiving, THEN Christmas…or just skip Christmas altogether.”

The day after Halloween, I walk into Wal-Mart and see two of the closest cashiers wearing red and white Santa-style hats.  I stopped in my tracks and stared blankly for a few seconds before desperately fighting the urge to go snatch the hats off their heads, throw them to the ground and jump up and down on them like a mad woman yelling, “Bah Freaking Humbug!” over and over.  I had the mental image of the enraged turkey ordering Santa to get back to his sleigh and wait his turn.

So Halloween came and went, and at the beginning of NOVEMBER, the Christmas lights started going up all over town.  Everywhere I went, I was reminded that the big day was approaching.  Despite my desperate attempt to remain in denial, my attempts were defeated by the ever increasing number of holiday lights in the community, the Christmas carols being played on every radio station, and worse of all, the charitable collections at the entrances and registers of every place I go to shop, reminding me that there are those less fortunate than I. 

At this time of year, when I’m already feeling financially pressured, to be guilted at every checkout line and store entrance to donate to those “less fortunate” than me, I’d really like to ask, where can I put my name on the list to be considered for the list of “less fortunate”?  Does it come with some sort of membership card that I can flash discretely to the charitable collectors as a silent, “back off buddy” without the guilt associated with declining to give away my change after every purchase?  Sure, the “Would you like to donate your change today?” might be a harmless question meant only for the good of some family that is down on their luck this year, but how many other families are down on their luck and just barely getting by, yet aren’t really members of the “less fortunate club” YET? 

Feeling the financial pressure of maintaining our households AND providing the latest and greatest gifts for our children that we can’t afford, going further into debt so that the retailers can line their pockets during a holiday that has become more commercial than spiritual, we are further pressured by the constant barrage of donation requests at every checkout and store entrance, usually in front of long lines of our neighbors and fellow holiday shoppers.  Then, not only do the entrance collectors hit you up when you go into the store, they hit you up a second time when you leave (because you should now have more change). I swear it’s almost maddening! 

In a final effort to find some small spark of Christmas spirit, I sat down to write a letter of my own to Santa.  It read as follows:  “Dear Santa; For Christmas this year, please bring me a large bottle of valium, understanding creditors, and a Less Fortunate Club card to brandish to the constant barrage of holiday charitable collectors in lieu of merely showing them they are number one.”  Something tells me Santa has another gift in mind for me this year.

Bar Room Blow Job

Tonight I gave my first bar room blow job.  I tell you this not to brag or boast, but merely to recount the experience.  I never thought I’d be saying this, much less writing about it for the world to read, but since it took place in a bar, I cannot reasonably expect it to stay private.

It started innocent enough…the bartender talking about my man-friend’s birthday, then she asked if I would do a blow job him.  She told me that she’d do it, but she felt kinda weird being that her husband and I would be there, so I HAD to agree.  I mean, geez.  That was last night. 

Tonight was his birthday, so I go to the bar where my man-friend is moonlighting.  The bartender and I are talking about his bday blowjob, when one of the waitresses, who’s listening in, hearing about his upcoming birthday gift says, “You’re gonna do it here in the bar!?”   It’s then that I realize that she (much like most of you) was thinking we were talking about oral sex, rather than a provocatively taken shot.  I about fell out I was laughing so hard. 

With great amusement, we explained what we were actually discussing. With what I can only describe as a sigh of relief, she says, “When I saw you go into the bathroom earlier I was watching to see if he followed you.”  Still laughing, I informed her it would take place on the bar in front of her before in a bar room bathroom, though judging by her noticeably flustered state, I think the bartender and I found it much funnier than she.

The bartender asked me if I was ready, but I wasn’t.  I needed to finish my drink and get a little more courage built up.  I mean, it’s not every day you do a blow job in front of friends and strangers alike.  Then it’s time.  A chair is positioned, and my man-friend is seated.  I must admit, my heart was pounding, my palms where sweating, but I couldn’t let that stop me.  Both of us are feeling the pressure to perform…then the plastic shot glass filled with some concoction is placed between his legs on the chair.

The plastic shot glass contained brown liquor topped with some type of whipped cream that was described by one of the onlookers as "toothpaste like" in appearance.  As with any first time, it was awkward and lacking in finesse, but I did a little dance and rubbed a little bit, before kneeling down and bringing my lips between his legs to take the mystery shot.  I was feeling a little relieved as I took the cup in my mouth and tilted my head back, until nothing came out.  Sucking a little harder, I was surprised when, without even a courtesy tap, my mouth was filled with an indescribably textured gooey liquid that at first I wasn’t sure if I would spit or swallow.  Suppressing the urge to gag, I managed to gulp it down.  (I must admit to feeling a moment of déjà vu)

(no this isn't me, but another bar bj'er)

It was pretty disgusting and took me a minute to get my gag reflex under control and make my eyes quit watering.  A few minutes later when discussing the vile drink with the bartender, I was telling her about the difficulty getting the liquid to release, my surprise when it finally did, and my reaction as to not knowing if I’d be able to swallow or have to spit it…suddenly I understood why the drink was called a blow job!