I thought I was pretty intelligent, but I’m beginning to have my doubts. Underneath the honor degree and lightening fast math skills is actually the brain of a very, very slow learner.
This past Friday night Wally and I had an entire night alone. Do you other parents understand what that means? Because I heard “entire night alone” and was unable comprehend what that meant. Wha? Huh? Yous be sprackin’ a language I not understandth.
After thirty minutes it finally hit me what that meant – OH MY GOD! Alone! Overnight! The first time in two years! Needless to say, we couldn’t wait.
We made plans, very nice, mature, adult plans. I planned out a special dinner that Wally and I LOVE to eat but only eat once every two years because the boys absolutely HATE IT, OH MY GOD, MOM, WHY DO YOU MAKE US EAT DOG SHIT?! I even bought artisan bread, y’all, and a bottle of wine. Candles would be in candle holders, tablecloths would be on tables – real adult stuff!
And then, I don’t know what happened? Wally and I got home from dropping the boys off and I think the utter silence in the house – no Mario Galaxy 2 theme song in the background or the sounds of sibling rivalry – sort of caused all of our brain synapses to go haywire.
With all of the mature plans forgotten, Wally and I pretended we were in college again and got completely shit-faced. Who needs a fancy dinner when you can have a dinner of Crown Royal with a side of beer? Not us! And if you care to know the end result of this type of dinner, just let me tell you that I can’t even type Crown Royal without becoming nauseated again, FOUR DAMN DAYS LATER.
I did horribly embarrassing things, like roll around on the floor while singing a song to the Mouthy Housewives that I INSISTED (in the stubborn way only drunk people can insist) Wally videotape so I could email it to them. I flashed my boobs to the camera, which Wally thought was great, and since he thought it was great, surely my co-Mouthy Housewives would think it was great too, why don’t we email it to all three of them! Seeing my boobs will surely make their Friday night! But first let me blog about flashing my boobs on camera, because, hahahaha, stupid shit suddenly turns into the most awesome writing material EVER when you’re drunk.
(Hey, all you school moms that I just discovered know about my blog – I’m the room mom who got drunk, had her husband record her singing drunk songs and then wanted to email out boob videos to her friends. Can we be friends? I have openings for friends! Do you want to get together for coffee sometime? I promise not to pee in it.)
Lucky for my co-Mouthy Housewives, their Friday night remained dull and boring since I never sent the boob movie and have since deleted it. And I took down that blog post. (If you subscribe to my RSS feed, can we pretend like you didn’t read that?)
Then I had the awesome idea that Wally and I should go for a walk around the neighborhood. So I ran to our room, changed into my workout clothes, promptly fell on the floor and was unable to get up. That is, until I knew I was about to pay my penance for consuming 2/3 of a pint of whiskey by myself. I managed to crawl to the toilet and stayed there until 3 am.
The only difference between Friday night and our college days is that it took me until Saturday afternoon, 4 pm, before I could sit up without wanting to puke again. Back in college, a 3 am trip to the Waffle House and 10 hours of sleep took care of everything. So, yeah, this whole slower metabolism as you age really sucks.
You would think I would’ve learned my lesson two years ago when I made a first-class fool of myself at Wally’s company function. Get out with Wally more so you don’t go batshit crazy when you do get out alone. But no! The only lesson I learned was to keep my foolishness at home, which I guess is an improvement but it sure didn’t feel like it while I was hugging the toilet.
I guess it’s time we hire a babysitter on a regular basis and get ourselves out and away. It’s logical, sound advice. It’s what every expert says you need to do as a couple, and hopefully it will have a secondary benefit of preventing horrific hangovers. Here again, though, I hear the idea…hire a babysitter and go out!…and my brain doesn’t comprehend. Wha? Huh? Go blieck blckd what? There you go again, sprackin’ a language I don’t understandth.
What do couples do when they hire a babysitter?
Go out to eat? Bleck. We don’t enjoy going out to eat anymore. Why would we when what I cook is so much better? Imagine all the beautiful cuts of meat I could buy at the Fresh Market instead of that mediocre $50 dinner! But we can’t cook at home alone, not regularly at least.
Go to a movie? Eh. There are PEOPLE there. People who loudly breath through their mouth and whisper. And I have this big pretty 1080 TV whose picture is, sad to say, sometimes better than the theater.
Do you go to Home Depot and look at ceiling fans without having to yell at your kids? Because, if you aren’t aware, Home Depot has the same air pollution problem as the post office which causes kids to act like TOTAL ASSHOLES every time you’re there.
Help me out here, what do couples besides go out to eat or to the movies?
“Mom, do you have a small box?” asks The Evil Genius.
“What for?”
“To mail something.”
“Like what, your brother?”
He thinks this is funny.
“Hahaha,” he laughs.
But like all evil geniuses, it’s only a polite, clipped laughter and stops as abruptly as it began. So it actually went like this…
“Hahaha,” stop abruptly. “No.”
“Who are you sending it to?”
“The President of Cleveland.”
I nod my head, as if this is the most sane thing I’ve heard all day.
Actually, it is, because I am home ALL day with bored school-age children who do not want to do any summer camp-y activities. At this halfway point of summer vacation, even Dr. Laura begins to sound sane.
“Okay, and what are you sending to the President of Cleveland?” I ask.
A dashing yet devilish smiles slowly grows upon his face, transforming him from your typical innocent 9-year-old to a suave 30-year-old trapped in a prepubescent body.
“Something he has never seen before,” he answers.
And now I’m just remembering that 20 minutes before, evil son asked me what TNT stood for. Do you think I should worry? Or only stop allowing him to watch Wile E. Coyote cartoons?
And then he asks my help in finding a slug.
Hey, Mr. President of Cleveland, I’m guessing you’ve never seen an exploding slug before, have you?
Look at me, torturing my readers in this way. Are you feeling left out? Do you also want to receive random, never seen before, potentially explosive items from The Evil Son? We’ll even create imaginary executive titles for you, too.
This is a repost from Easter three years ago. This whole “working out of the home” thing is still kicking my ass. Who knew not sitting in front of a computer would make you too tired to blog!
This is my special Easter crack:
The shiny pastel foil calls to me.
The brown inner wrapper begs to be peeled back and licked.
The aroma of chocolatey peanut butter is my undoing.
I take a nibble, intending to savor it bit by bit, but I can’t stop myself.
I shove the whole thing in my mouth.
My eyes roll back in pleasure and I sigh with contentment, believing I only need this one hit.
Just this one!
And I’ll be able to walk away.
I chew, swallow, and begin walking away when suddenly the aftertaste hits me like a buy one get one free shoe sale.
Oh. My. God.
I MUST experience that again! And again, and again, and again.
Thus I spiral down into the deep, dark world of Easter crack addiction; where chocolate induced nausea and muffin top growth prevail.
I invite you to take a gander with me down Homework Lane and live an afternoon of my life helping my oldest son with his homework.
FACT OR OPINION
Directions: Read the following passage and use the information to complete the facts and opinions below.
My name is Ishai. I just came to America with my mother and father. In Israel, I lived in a kibbutz. In America, I live in a large city. Just my family lives in the our apartment. In Israel, all of the children lived together in the kibbutz. They were like my brothers and sisters. I miss them, but I like living in our apartment too. I think my daddy likes his new job. He smiles a lot now when he comes home. He tells us funny stories in Hebrew. That’s what we spoke in the kibbutz. I tell him that we are in America now. The he laughs and tries to tell the story in English
Directions: Write 3 statements of fact from the passage. Write 3 statements of opinion.
Me: Ok, Payton, let’s start with the facts.
Payton: *blink blink**
Me: Payton? The facts? Let’s find three.
Payton: I don’t see any facts!
Hmmm, does he not understand what a fact is? They’ve been covering this concept for a couple of weeks now. Obviously he doesn’t belong in the gifted program if he can’t even remember what facts are! What am I doing, fighting for the retest?!
Me: You don’t know what facts are?
Payton: YES! I know what they are. There aren’t any in this story!
Me: How is that? I see facts in it.
Payton: There aren’t any facts because it’s a fiction story! Ishai isn’t a real person!
Me: *blink blink*
I then spit upon his honor and offended his principles when I suggested we pretend Ishai is a real person. I had to sacrifice a lamb at the stone altar in order to atone for my moral transgression, how dare I throw my honesty into the wind and think it’s okay to make up facts about people who don’t even exist.
What do you do when your kid can outsmart the curriculum at nine-years-old?
I called today to reconfirm my reservations at The Betty Ford Clinic. For the teenage years.
I have a post-Mardi Gras party question and I hope you people can help me out.
Can you Febreeze your hair? Because, goddamn, mine smells like a bar.
P.S. I’m old. Bar smell bothers me now. Bad. I wanted to use my mittens as some sort of face mask so I wouldn’t smell the cigarette smoke. I tried to do it on the sly, holding my mittens up to my nose and breath deeply through them, but I think all the twenty-something guys at the bar noticed because no one tried to pick me up. I can’t imagine any other reason they wouldn’t try to pick me up. Except the crows feet. Or the stray gray hair. And possibly a wedding ring.
I took some great blog-worthy photos and I had really awesome and hilarious punchlines to go with them, but now I’m (mostly) sober and I totally can’t remember what they were. But let’s pretend anyway!
(IMAGINE DARK BAR PHOTO HERE)
Oh, bahahahahaha! Hahahaha! Watch out, I Can Haz a Cheeseburger, Heather is so funny with her photo captions!
I know! Good times, y’all, good times.
And look at this one!
(IMAGINARY PHOTO)
I can’t believe I did that!
Guess what? 14 years ago today Wally and I got engaged.
Also, my boss discovered some really deep philosophical writings in the woman’s bathroom in the one of the bars. I don’t remember exactly how it went? Something about dog poo and dandruff. It was MIND BLOWING. She took a picture of it, and believe you me, you and I will have a serious discussion about this profound spiritual statement.
I know you can’t wait.
But for now, I’m going to bed. I’m not even spellchecking or editing this. (yaaawwnnnnn!) Tomorrow is Joe Cain Sunday, which is almost as big at Fat Tuesday around here. Drinking on a Sunday. I still can’t get over that.
Until next time! Which will probably be tomorrow. Because this Mardi Gras blogging has to be organic.
And THEN I hear Harry Connick, Jr. will be playing.
Well. I suppose Harry Connick, Jr. is fine. But he’s no Dave Matthews, where if he were the musical performer, I don’t give a damn about any recession or pay cuts or falling skies, I would be there and I would not be wearing underwear. Not that I even find receding hairlines that attractive, but, oh, that man’s voice makes me accidentally on purpose forget to wear underwear.
My acts of self-soothing justification have no limits.
What is an isolated housewife on house arrest to do during the winter?
The good news is is that Blissdom is scheduled right smack in the middle of Mardi Gras.
In 20something days, I may not be at Blissdom, but you can still tune in to my blog that weekend for more drunk Mardi Gras blogging. I know you can’t wait, so you’re welcome in advance.
School gets out for Christmas holidays tomorrow and I realized my liquor cabinet is empty.
(recoils in horror!)
(feel free to scream with me.)
I literally have 1/8 of a bottle of Tequilla in there and half a pint of triple sec leftover from the summer rounds of strawberry margaritas.
That just won’t do. I need fortification! (Not to be confused with fornication.) How else am I to survive the Keep-The-Kids-Entertained pre-Christmas requirements of glitter, glue, and felt. I deserve a reward for the hours I will spend vacuuming the glitter that magically springs eternal. In fact, I think there is still glitter on my kitchen floor from last Christmas, that is the reproductive power of glitter!
And please, think of all the arguments I will mediate over whose turn it is on the Wii for the next 2.5 weeks. St. Smirnoff, save me.
Also, we will be staying at my mom’s for two days during the holiday break and I have my cover story ALL worked out. “Oh, I discovered this new recipe for peach bourbon sours, let’s try it, it’s the holidays!” That way it looks special, like I made an effort to share something new with family during the holidays. Really, it’s just my own over-the-counter form of Xanax for when I’m around extended family.
I even have a back-up plan: bourbon-hot fudge sauce, which Christmas elves can transform into special grown-up hot chocolate with the addition of milk, one marshmallow and 90 seconds in the microwave. Or I’ll just eat the bourbon-laced sauce right out of the fucking jar, depending on the level of family tension.
And then we’ll have breakfast with my in-laws one day to celebrate Christmas with them. “Oh, a holiday breakfast, how special! I’ll bring mimosas to celebrate!”
Well-laid and thought out plans, people. That’s how you survive the holidays with a smile on your face and a vacant glaze, err, glint in your eye.
Needless to say, I made a trip to the liquor store yesterday. And let me tell you, it pays to be a loyal customer. I grabbed my big(er) bottle of Crown Royal and proceeded to the check out, but as I approached the register, the employee directed me to a Crown Royal gift set for the exact same price.
People, I have an editor who intellectually kicks my ass, like every time I communicate with him.
It’s like a scene out of You’ve Got Mail, only take out all of the romance and cloying love moments and rewrite it as a slasher spoof where a giant dictionary eats me alive through my email.
I’m already terrified.
The editor’s lines are in red because I felt like I did in 11th grade English when my paper was returned, covered entirely in red marks. I flunked a personal essay paper, y’all, because it was full of run-on sentences and the teacher used my paper as an example of utter stupidity to the ENTIRE CLASS but I survived the horror and never failed a writing assignment again and haven’t had a run-on sentence since.
Also, this is the same editor who won’t allow me to curse in my writing, so there will be a lot of cursing in this post to make up for it.
Fuck.
(That one’s just for good measure.)
So! Without further ado…
You’ve Got Mail! From Your Editor.
Subtitle: Heather is a Dumbass.
Hi, Heather, we really need to aoie nfsdhio oiffhi ufnnvgd llnvgfgj kk in the second paragraph because oiuijvfbiu rg oiuhn iobgft mcvkfbs bhdo bvbstfj erudition. And after you do that, look up hjhoip[n and iohkh, which will ioumngt anr nn fgr ll wpokit and nbniy aih iodfh. All of the above is predicated on the latest revision hio bjibb oibmdftr klhnvbdfdkjghbn, of course.
Of course.
What the fuck is he even saying? I don’t know either! Predicated? Erudition? I didn't know people actually spoke in Vulcan.
And so I say...
“Oh, hahaha! Did you know the Jewish hunt for crumbs by candlelight? Like God cares about crumbs. That’s so insane!”
(crickets)
“Um, Editor, are you Jewish?”
Oh yes, I laughed at the customs of his religion and called them insane. I am awesome.
“Heather, everything in your article must be 100% accurate.”
“Fuck, you mean I can’t make up shit about the Chinese? Thank god there’s Wikipedia.”
“Wikipedia isn’t a valid source for fact-checking, Heather.”
The hell? Dude, it's on the internet and rhymes with encyclopedia, of course it's valid.
I considered starting a philosophical debate on Truth. You know, one of those I can't prove I exist/how would anyone prove these Chinese facts are false/no one can define absolute Truth type debates. But before I could do that, the editor sent me another email with more five-syllable words in it, so I got scared and just did what he told me.
And then he and I had a battle of wills over Mr. Clean. I fucking lost, people. LOST! I still can’t believe it. I have shamed my ancestors. Everything I believed about myself is in shambles. I lost a battle of wills. My god.
“…say something about patriarchal values or sexism, maybe paternalism.”
Hmm. Paternalism. What the hell is that?
The dictionary attacked me yet again.
The policy or practice on the part of the people in positions of authority of restricting the freedom and responsibilities of those subordinate to them in the subordinates’ best interest.
Of those subordinate to them in the subordinates’ best interest.
What does that even mean? My reading comprehension is limited to no more than 3 prepositional phrases in a row.
Clearly I am in over my head.
And then came the pictures for the article. Ugh. There was another battle of wills since I hate (HATE!) having my picture taken. Unless I've had a couple of drinks and can do something ridiculous, then I'm okay with it. Otherwise, I hate it. But I forced myself to take some, completely sober, and sent him two.
He wanted more photos, I'm sure so he could post them in seedy public bathrooms with notes like, "To drive yourself insane, email this woman. Trust me."
The idea of setting up more photos and actually look at myself in pictures - oh hell no. So I sent him this photo, letting him know what I thought of the idea:
I am SO professional.
But I did it! The article is finished, though not before the editor and I had another email stand off. We were on the brink of writer contract ultimatums – aka literary nuclear war. It was like my own personal Cuban Missile Crisis, how did you people go about your regular day?!
Oddly enough, no nuclear ultimatums were thrown at one another, which proves that I can actually be mature when I want. I just don’t want to very often.
So I’ll be, like, for real published. On paper. But not until this spring, which is an odd experience for a blogger.
You mean it won’t be tomorrow? I don’t understand.
It’s a two-page spread with pictures, which sounds sort of kinky. I wonder if it’s in the center of the magazine? I should ask him if I’m the centerfold. I bet that would make him squirm.
Shit, people, he outsmarts me ALL THE TIME, I have to do something to get back at him. I tried to get back at him by asking people (in the article) to write housewife fantasy suggestions to him, but he edited that out. Apparently editors have that kind of power.
All in all, it was a lot of fun and I discovered many things about myself, such as I was never that smart to begin with. But with the right editor, I can sound brilliant and cultivated. Amazing.
(Seriously, he made me sound fantastically smart, more so than I think I deserve.)
Now I wonder if I ever was an intellectual, despite my honor degree saying so. Was that Heather a figment of my imagination? I’m sure we discussed paternalism in Gender Psychology and I was able to fully participate in the dialogue.
But the combined force of play date cocktails and reading Goodnight Moon 100 million times has permanently damaged my IQ. I can’t recall any words beyond three syllables.
This reintroduction into the adult world after nine years living in the mommy world is more difficult on my ego than I expected.
It’s been over nine years since Wally and I selected a name for our firstborn son and just yesterday (YESTERDAY!) did I realize it rhymes with Satan.
Payton. Satan.
Oh my god, everything is now illuminated! It all makes sense, everything! This is an epiphanic moment!
And this epiphany makes me bipolar. It’s true. I diagnosed myself with the help of NPR.
Last night I listened to Fresh Air’s Venturing into Bellevue’s Psychiatric ER. If you don’t know what Bellevue is, it’s the NYC hospital where all the psych criminals are taken. Don’t feel stupid, I wasn’t aware of it either, but once I found that out, I immediately wondered why famous psych hospitals start with the letter ‘B’. Is that a mandate in the DSM?
The interview was with a shrink who did all the crazy ER intakes and she’s written a book about her experience. Have you noticed how everyone is writing a book these days? It’s why I’ve abandoned writing my book: I hate crowds. And ambition. Honestly, fuck ambition and five-year plans, I stay in the moment. That’s what God tells me to do.
Anyway, this shrink said the difference between schizophrenics and bipolars is that the schizos think the world is influencing them (paranoia) and bipolars think they are influencing the world (mania.) I take this to mean all bloggers are bipolar.
The shrink (I can’t remember her name because I’m bipolar and it’s all about my influence, not hers) told the story of a young man arrested for being naked in Times Square and barking like a dog, and he was ranting about some manifesto he wanted Howard Stern to read. Plainly no one told this guy to do as Howard and keep lewd animal acts & manifestos in the recording studio to avoid arrest.
During the intake, this patient began talking of how we’re all connected, each one of us to the other, everything is connected; that his molecules and the shrink’s molecules were mixing in the air in between them, thus connecting them together.
Dr. Shrink Lady said something about how many people may have similar thoughts, but it’s the crazy ones who actually voice them. And sharing your mystic epiphany without a filter will land you in Bellevue.
So if I ever get to visit NYC, I need to pack either a muzzle, a Brita filter for sharing, or my own straight jacket. Or maybe all three! Because I also believe we’re all connected, that everything is connected, and I often have mystical experiences without a filter.
(A mystical experience is what happens when you’re cleaning with ammonia and you breath too deeply, start coughing because you don’t have that goddamn filter, and when you can’t catch your breath, God suddenly yells in your ear to get the hell away from the bucket. I mean, that’s how the mystic goes for you too, isn’t it?)
I also think I’m God. And so are you. Because we’re all connected, namaste and reality is an illusion and my kitchen table only exists because I believe in it.
So naturally I’m bipolar too.
Except NPR Dr. Shrink Lady said bipolars on a manic episode do not need sleep.
Are you kidding? I’m a mother. I’ve been exhausted for nine years.
So I’d mentioned last week that I was under self-imposed sobriety. Well, self-imposed sobriety lasts only as long as a spontaneous trip to the beach with another family.
On Wednesday last week, a girlfriend and I suddenly decided to load the family up and go stay in Gulf Shores where we spent many hours worshiping at the Church of Surf, genuflecting to the holy spirits of Corona and José Cuervo.
(insert here gorgeously staged pictures of corona bottles with ocean background and a tall margarita glass, sweating in the hot sun that, if I were a proper blogger, I would have thought about taking. But, being an improper blogger, I was too busy being in the moment to think of blog-staged pictures.)
Two cases of beer and entire fifth of Tequila later, here I am, feeling quite well for my age and the number of strawberry margaritas consumed. Except for my finger.
My god. My fucking bird finger.
Let me do you, dear reader, and the entire internet a huge favor right now and issue a warning against approaching the wood pilings on a beach house while you’re in a “I’m not drunk but damn I feeeeeeel gooooood!” state. You may wonder what could possibly happen when you’re actually in control of yourself but just happy and in love with the world?
You could get a splinter shoved up under your bird fingernail like me. UNDER your nail. As in hmmm, let me cut off almost half of my entire nail so I can possibly get it out with a needle and tweezers up under your fingernail.
How did I get through it without a trip to the ER and nice numbing shot? I have a special mantra I chant anytime I’m faced with pain, or even potential pain, like at the dentist…
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
A nine-and-a-half pound baby through your vagina with no meds.
Really, you’ll be amazed what you can physically stand when you have that frame of reference. And if that doesn’t work, I go with a second mantra…
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
A ripped vagina stitched up with non-functioning meds.
Again, amazing what perspective does for you.
But still. It hurt. A lot.
Wally hovered over me in the bathroom while I attempted to dig out this splinter, and I could tell he was getting huffy and impatient with how long it was taking me, which in turn distracted me from my Painful Vagina Mantras. So I sent him on an alcohol mercy mission with instructions to make me an extra-strength margarita. I don’t know about you, but the first thing to go when I drink is feeling in my lips, the second, fingertips.
So he comes back and I swig, dig, swig, dig, swig, and dig some more.
Wally is still impatient with me.
“Would you just push the needle in and get it out?!” he finally said.
“I have an idea,” I replied. “Give me your hand and let me shove a needle up underneath your nail.” I held my hand out expectantly, waiting for his.
He walked out of the room without a word.
No wonder women are the ones who have to give birth.
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
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