Tag Archives: funny

If Schrodinger’s cat was trying to get pregnant

Posted on November 8, 2015 | 3 comments

You guys remember learning about Schrodinger’s cat?

Yeah, me either. I mean, I vaguely recall something about a dead cat in a box but as for the rest…well, college is a hell of a time, kids.

Luckily, college is pointless now that we have Google and as it turns out, a quick search unearthed that Schrodinger’s cat is indeed a dead cat in box that is also simultaneously alive. Due to something, something, blah, blah, blah, a bunch of smart science junk. But the point is, the cat is both dead and alive until someone opens the box to find out.

I bring this up because it is the perfect metaphor for when you are trying to get pregnant. See, now that our toddler son has gained some independence and is sleeping like a dead cat in a box through the night, my husband and I decided we want to ruin our peaceful lives by starting over with a new needy nipple-shredding newborn. And so every month, we shed our Snuggies and have really giggly sitcom sex. And then for a few weeks every month, I’m both possibly pregnant and possibly not pregnant, with no way of knowing until someone (preferably a doctor but I’m not picky) checks inside the box.

(Get it? Cause “box” is slang for “vagina”? How have I not won a Pulitzer yet?).

Yes, for those few weeks, all possibilities are possible. And it’s the worst. As much as I want another baby, I can officially say that this is no way to live your life. It’s like being permanently in limbo and all my time is now spent debating and justifying every choice I make based on highly limited knowledge.

“Hmm…maybe I shouldn’t drink two pots of coffee this morning. In case I’m pregnant. Then again, I might not be pregnant and drinking all this coffee increases the chances I won’t murder someone today.”

“A glass of wine probably won’t hurt even if I am pregnant. Right?”

“I may not be pregnant yet so I can’t justify eating this ENTIRE bag of Doritos. Can I?”

“Two glasses of wine probably won’t hurt. I mean, these are small wine glasses. Smaller than normal. So technically, it’d be just like having one glass of wine.”

“Protein is good for growing fetuses so I should definitely order two cheeseburgers. Just in case.”

“If I mix this third glass of wine with coffee, they cancel each other out, right?”

It’s like you know the jailer is probably coming soon but maybe he got lost on the way and won’t arrive until next month. Then again, she could already have snuck past you and is living in your uterus. So LIVE IT UP before your freedom is taken away! But not really cause you may already be imprisoned!

It’s exhausting. Especially when you already have a kid and know exactly what to expect when you’re expecting. I fooled myself the first time with dumb, naïve platitudes like “I can survive anything for nine months!” and “It’ll all be worth it when they’re born!”

But the thing is…

You’re not pregnant for nine months. You’re pregnant two weeks past FOREVER.
It’s worth it six months after they’re born. The first six months you are just a feral animal surviving on stale Triscuits and instinct.

As unromantic as it sounds, I also want to be pregnant and out of limbo just to get the whole thing over with. I know I only want two kids, so once I safely pop out another gigantic Viking baby, I can shut down the whole damn factory and forget I even have inside lady parts. (That is, of course, until menopause kicks in and takes an entire decade to slowly strangle everything down there to death).

Of course, I shouldn’t complain too much. I mean, I’m just trying to get pregnant. It could be much worse.

I could be a zombie cat stuck living in a box.

3 Comments

Posted in Family, Humor, Parenting, Pregnancy, Women

Tagged alive and dead at same time, drinking while pregnant, early pregnancy signs, funny, how to tell if you're pregnant, living in limbo, schrodinger's cat, science, when you're trying to get pregnant, zombies

The real American Horror Story

Posted on November 3, 2015 | 3 comments

Once upon a time, a group of evil people who hated parents of small children decided to cast a spell that would torture them on one very special day each year.

So, they sacrificed a goat or some crap and threw in some eye of newt and invented Daylight Saving Time.

And that is why generations upon generations of parents have had to deal with the following…

3 Comments

Posted in Family, funny, Humor, Parenting

Tagged american horror story, daylight saving time, daylight saving time when you have children, fairy tales for adults, funny, humor, why do we have daylight saving time, witchcraft

Dear Mommy, life is not a series of memes

Posted on November 1, 2015 | 3 comments

The one piece of advice you get the most when you’re a parent (and, not so coincidentally, the one I hate the most) is that the housework can wait, your children can’t. Leave the dishes and spend time with them! They’re only young once! They won’t want to snuggle on your lap for long! A dirty house means happy kids! When they look back on their childhood, they won’t remember how clean the carpet was, but they will remember all those times you sat on that dog hair covered toxic waste dump of a rug and played Legos with them!

And on and on, etcetera, etcetera.

In theory, this is solid advice. Any quality time you can spend with your precious little minions is utterly priceless. As that other overused phrase goes, you will never be this loved again. So enjoy it. Even those confusing little made-up games they always want you to play that have no rules based on Earth logic and involve an Elmo doll, 37 tiny cars and a Snickers wrapper.

So, yes, those dishes CAN wait.

But not for long. Not for long at all.

I mean, have you ever spent time with small children? These are creatures born with the innate ability to turn a normal, inhabitable house into a “Hoarders” episode within a mere 24 hour cycle. And for some of the more gifted ones among them, they can do it in 15 minutes. One quick trip to the bathroom and you leave a living room that is “cozily chaotic” and return to “holy crap, we’ve been robbed.”

Making it even worse, this never-ending plea to ditch the housework and play “Barbie vs. the Tupperware Monster” for three hours straight is not coming from well-meaning people with real life experience. It’s being shoved down your throat anonymously in the form of the saccharine sweet meme.

There you are on Facebook, just trying to innocently see if your old friend Piper is still a hot mess so you can silently gloat, and BOOM! You’re visually assaulted by a stock photo of a size 0 mom and her baby running through a field of lilies with the passive-aggressive words “Play with me, Mommy!” slapped underneath in a fancy font.

But just because something makes a good meme doesn’t mean you should base your life on it. If we did, we’d have a whole generation of Scumbag Steve’s. And I don’t know about you, but there are no fields of lilies close to my house and even if there were, my toddler would want to plop his diapered butt down immediately and use a stick to poke a dead leaf for five hours. Put that image in your meme and see how quickly it goes viral.

Worst of all, this type of advice ignores the most common and hard-wired aspect of every child’s personality. No matter how much time you spend playing with them, they want more. It’s never enough. They are tiny imagination junkies and as such, will use all sorts of manipulation to make you think you’re neglecting them when you choose to do laundry instead of playing Candyland for the 104^th time. Hell, I still remember forcing my grandma to play card games with me for HOURS as a kid, which the incredible woman DID, with a smile on her face no less, and I STILL got upset when she had to stop so she could make me dinner.

So all this “grown-up stuff can wait, go on a picnic instead!” crap pretty much just serves to make you feel guilty. Which is wrong on many levels but the most important one being the fact that parents are already living in a perpetual state of guilt. Guilt that you’re doing everything wrong. Guilt that you fed them a hotdog for breakfast this morning to avoid a meltdown. Guilt that you didn’t start a college fund for them when you were 15 (which is the only way you would be able to afford college for them). Even guilt over the fact that some days you’d prefer dental surgery over one more mind-numbingly dull game of Hi-Ho Cherry-O.

The last thing exhausted parents need is an unrealistic expectation about what parenthood actually is. Because it’s not sitting in a beautiful meadow while you braid flowers in your child’s hair. It’s sitting on their bedroom floor and trying to pay late bills online while they stick G.I. Joe’s in your hair that you haven’t washed since Tuesday.

Having a child is personally the best thing that has ever happened to me. But it didn’t stop the world from turning. Which is why tomorrow we will go on a picnic. And then we’ll head home, where I’ll plop him down in front of “Sesame Street” so I can finally scrub that weird fur off the tub so the next time he takes a bath he doesn’t get a weird fungus.

3 Comments

Posted in Family, Humor, Parenting, Pop Culture

Tagged a dirty house means happy kids, annoying memes, cleaning can wait mommy, cleaning when you're a parenting, funny, humor, life is not a meme, parenting memes, play with me mommy

Why parents really go through their kid’s Halloween candy

Posted on October 29, 2015 | Leave a comment

The trick-or-treater always rings twice

Posted on October 25, 2015 | Leave a comment

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it was dark and sprinkling a little bit. But that annoying kind of sprinkle that gets your clothes all soggy.

It was quiet inside the house. Perhaps a bit too quiet. Well, not really too quiet. I mean, the TV was on. And for some reason the fridge always emitted a high-pitch squeal that could be heard throughout the rest of the house. (But everyone always ignored that sound because it probably meant the fridge was on its last legs and honestly, no one really wanted to deal with it).

On the couch sat two nervous creatures. One wide-eyed and tense because she knew what was coming. The other wide-eyed and tense because he didn’t know what was coming but since she was acting weird, he felt there was no time like the present to also act weird. So while she absent-mindedly picked at her nail polish and cast furtive glances in his direction, he awkwardly climbed on her lap, not really sitting and not really standing, but nonetheless blocking the TV from her view anyway.

They sat this way as agonizing minutes ticked by.

Tick.

High pitch squeal from fridge.

Tick.

And then, just when she thought they might have lucked out this year, thought that maybe by some miracle the porch light had burned out, it happened. The very thing she had been dreading.

“Ding-dong!”

And that’s when all hell broke loose. Before she could stop him, he launched his (freakishly strong, by the way) 32-pound body like a rocket off her lap, hitting the floor mid-stride and doing a Scooby-Doo scramble around the corner of the coffee table until he reached the door at the top of the stairs of their second-story apartment, barking and howling the entire time like the neighborhood feral cats had finally gotten organized and were attacking the house en masse.

She, meanwhile, started calmly yelling at him to “shut up!” and “knock it the hell off!” while simultaneously trying to pull him back from the door by his collar so she could squeeze her frame through without letting him through (which, since she didn’t weigh 32 pounds, was no mean feat). This was followed by trying to close said door as he repeatedly launched his entire (freakishly lithe) body at any and all openings. After finally getting the door shut and ignoring the desperate sounds of him howling and trying to dig his way under the closed door, she made her way as quick as she could down the stairs to the front door, which she threw open to some very startled trick-or-treaters. She then breathlessly yelled “Happy Halloween!” over the clamor of what probably sounded to a small child like a dog getting murdered.

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Luckily, the little kids who didn’t run away in terror at the sound of a crazed dog and the sight of an equally crazed swamp witch (and no, it wasn’t a costume, just how the woman looked without makeup on these days) got a giant fistful of candy and went on their merry way, no worse for the wear.

And then she slowly went back up the stairs, back to him, he who had finally stopped barking and was enthusiastically wagging his tail like “gee, wasn’t THAT fun!?”. They sat back down on the couch together, he once again not quite sitting, not quite standing on her lap, she once again not able to see the TV.

And they both breathed a sigh of relief.

Which was quickly followed by another “Ding-dong!”

Repeat 27 more times.

The moral of this story, kids? This Halloween, appreciate your candy. Treasure it. And try to remember through the fog of your sugar-induced mania the sacrifices many of us dog-owning adults had to go through to ensure that the candy got into your little hands.

Thermodynamics, according to babies

Posted on October 22, 2015 | Leave a comment

A mom by any other name

Posted on October 11, 2015 | 1 comment

My baby just said his first sentence.

But let’s completely ignore that for a minute. Yes, yes, I know. What a milestone! Ooh! Ah! What did he say!? Blah, blah, blah. We’ll get to all that sentimental crap.

But first, we need to discuss what didn’t come before this milestone. Because this is important. Because I’m important. Or at least I should be. I mean, not only did I give the kid LIFE by turning my lady parts into a luxury apartment but I also fed him using my own body and was the one to introduce him to ‘90’s hip hop. If it weren’t for me, that kid would still be jamming to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like some kind of doofus.

And what thanks do I get?

In the 20 months my son has been on earth, he has only called me “Momma” three times.

THREE TIMES.

And I’m pretty sure one of those times he was actually trying to say “nom-nom” because he was hungry.

Now before you get all “well, some kids take longer than others to talk,” let me point out he already says “daddy.” And “alright.” And “hot.” And “balloon.” And “ball.” And something that sounds suspiciously like “crap.” Hell, the kid can clearly pronounce “blueberry.”

He even recognizes 11 letters of the alphabet already, including “M,” “O,” and “A,” meaning that he is technically even able to spell “Momma.”

And yet, nothing. Nada. Zilch. I don’t even get an adorable gibberish nickname. In fact, the closest thing I get to a personal moniker is a loud “AH!” whenever I dare to pay attention to something other than him, such as peeing without his direct supervision.

So when he said “that’s not cheese” at lunch a few days ago in regard to a poorly made mozzarella stick, my elation was also mixed with a tinge of bittersweetness.

(Although as first sentences go, “that’s not cheese” is pretty baller. You gotta love a tiny human who craps his pants but is still sophisticated enough to appreciate a fine Gouda).

I tried not to take it personally but I couldn’t help feeling like I had earned that title. I mean, I EARNED IT. Not just because I gave birth to him but because I’m the one willing to listen to Taylor Swift on repeat when he’s sick because for some reason the music of Tay-Tay, as he calls her, (oh yes, that red-lipped lollipop head got a name before I did) is the only thing that soothes him.

And he is the only person on this planet thus far that gets to call me “Mom.” So the fact that he refuses to is pretty much the equivalent of my husband introducing me as “his good buddy.”

I had pretty much given up all hope and was just cautiously optimistic that maybe by the time he went to college, I’d be bumped up to “aunt who is always telling me I’m too skinny” status. But then, dear reader, I went to visit my family in Ohio. And it was like a light switch went on. He suddenly started calling me Momma left and right. (Well, technically Mom Mom but hell, I’ll take it. I would have accepted Moose Face or any other “M” sound at that point).

And that’s when I finally got it. I finally understood.

He never called me Momma because he never had to before. I’m always there. Every morning. Every night. And pretty much every moment in-between. There’s my big dumb face all up in his personal space. I’m the primary caretaker. And when I am away, Daddy takes over because we have no other family members close by. And since Daddy already has a name, when I return, it’s less “Mommy’s home!” and more “oh good, my meat suit is back.”

Our relationship is essentially that of Master Blaster from “Mad Max.” I’m pretty much just an extension of his body. He rides around on me demanding unreasonable things while I grunt monosyllabic responses and do it, no questions asked, because I’m too tired to ask why he wants to carry the Destin cream and a Tupperwear lid into every room of the house.

But once we got around my large family, where there are roughly 17 moms in any given room at any given time, it finally dawned on him that we are, in fact, two separate people and as such, I deserve a name of my own.

Or some crap like that. Who can follow the logic of toddlers? These are creatures who see rocks and think “yum, I’m going to try to eat this and then stuff it in my dirty diaper for safe keeping.”

The point is, I am Mom Mom. Finally. And there’s no one else I’d rather be.*

*Other than Batman, obviously.

1 Comment

Posted in Family, Humor, Love, Parenting

Tagged 90's hip hop, baby won't say momma, baby's first sentence, baby's first word, first word daddy, funny, humor, mad max, master blaster, parenting fail, taylor swift

My husband is my wingman

Posted on September 27, 2015 | 2 comments

Of all the changes that happen when you have a baby (and there are A LOT, like the never-ending stream of mysterious wet spots that regularly appear on you, your baby and your home that you quickly learn to stop questioning in order to preserve your sanity), perhaps one of the biggest is the way it changes your relationship to your partner.

Some of these are good changes. Watching someone you used to do tequila shots with now napping with a newborn on their naked chest brings about such a flood of love hormones that you almost can’t stand it. Which helps when 30 seconds later the baby pukes all over said naked chest and you are always inevitably out of baby wipes and clean burp cloths.

Some of these changes are bad. Trying to have a conversation about money while both of you are going on only two hours of sleep and attempting to talk over a screaming, teething 8-month-old brings a whole new level to the word “patience” and the phrase “not murdering everyone with a hatchet.”

And some are completely unexpected. Take, for instance, the fact that I’ve discovered my husband is an excellent wingman.

Ever since we had our son, he has been chatting up other moms at the park and on the playground and in every child-friendly bar we have circled on a map of the tri-county area. He just swoops in, pure confidence and swagger, asking them all about their kids and what is up with those breast-feeding Nazis shaming poor mothers, the nerve of them, and then just as quickly swoops out while giving me a gentle yet firm push forward so I can continue the conversation and hopefully not ruin all his hard work with my awkward jokes about murdering my whole family with a hatchet.

And I often do ruin all his hard work. Because I am just the worst at first impressions. The worst. I’m awkward and I laugh too loud and I wear scary dark lipstick that makes me look like I’m ready for a vampire rave at any given moment.

Luckily, I am amazing at third impressions. You accidentally run into me a third time, I’m bound to charm you once you realize that all that black eye-liner is just a part of my quirkiness and not because I want to sacrifice your newborn to my coven.

Unluckily, however, I rarely get that chance. And if I do ever get that rare third chance meeting, I always forget to ask for the digits and seal the deal because I was never a horny 19-year-old frat brother. I firmly believe that men and women are equals, but men most definitely have a jumpstart on the whole awkward information exchange follow-through.

But none of this stops my husband. He never gives up, no matter how hopelessly I bungle these situations. Because he knows that deep down, underneath my spectacular ability to either insult the home state of whomever I happen to be talking to (how the hell was I supposed to know she grew up in Utah?) or make fun of moms who name their daughters Chanel to the woman who, as it turns out, named her son Chanel, I need mom friends.

Raising young children is a lonely business. Whether you stay home, or work, or some combination of the two, it’s hard to maintain a social life. And it’s damn near impossible to start one when you didn’t have any friends who were already parents by the time you got knocked up.

Because even if I finally do tentatively befriend another parent that puts up with me and our kids get along and don’t try to kill each other with sticks or whatever else is handy, there’s always differing nap schedules and quick trips to the store that end up taking three hours and someone always has an ear infection because children collect ear infections like old people collect sugar packets.

But just like emergency purse crackers and singing toys that have an off button, having mom friends is vital to your mental health once you spurt out offspring. You need other people in your life as interested as you are in poop frequency and consistency and who can reassure you they too don’t bat an eye when their child dumps all the cheddar goldfish crackers on the dirty playground and proceeds to sit down and eat them all.

Which is why I’m happy to report that all that groundwork he laid is finally paying off. I officially have two numbers and an email address in my phone now. And even after meeting up once or twice, I have yet to alienate and/or terrify any of these women. At least not to the point where they have run off verbally screaming.

But no matter what happens, when a gal has that kind of wingman by her side looking out for her, really, what more could she ask for?

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Posted in Family, Humor, Marriage, Parenting, Women

Tagged funny, hipster baby names, horrible first impressions, how to make friends, how your marriage changes when you have kids, jokes about utah, making mom friends, modern parenting, playdates, vampire rave, wingman

Adulting: When stuff turns into a whole, like, thing

Posted on September 20, 2015 | 2 comments

I should have known better. As soon as I walked in, I had a bad feeling. This was going to turn into a THING. It always does.

“Hi. I just need to get new eyeglasses. I have my old prescription right here.”

“OK, when was your last eye exam?”

“Honestly, I just need new glasses. No need for an exam.”

“Ma’am, I need to know the date of your last eye exam.”

“Um…sigh…five years ago, I think.”

You would have thought I told them I pluck out the eyeballs of orphans every week and used those in lieu of contacts.

Even better yet, I’m lying. It was seven years ago.

“But, I mean, how have you been getting eye contacts?”

“I-800-CONTACTS.”

You would have thought I told them I also kick baby goats in the groin after stealing little orphan children’s eyeballs.

“Oh, that’s so bad. You shouldn’t do that. I can’t believe 1-800-CONTACTS lets you do that.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell them that getting contacts using an ancient prescription via the Internet is literally one of the easiest things in the world to do. The only thing easier, of course, being ordering a hooker online who also brings you a bagful of heroin and curly fries.

So instead I just shrugged.

And this is why I hate adulting. I’m just so bad at it. See, in my mind, if I need new glasses I should just be able to walk into this strip mall eye place with my ancient prescription, pick out some Zooey Deschanel wannabe frames and haul my adorkable ass home in time for lunch. And, as long as I can still kinda, sorta see with my current prescription, also keep ordering contacts from the Internet until the day I die.

But instead, I get busted by THE MAN and I’m now stuck filling out a mountain of paperwork, answering questions about insurance with a blank, vapid stare and getting the third degree about leaving the space marked PHYSICIAN’S NAME blank.

“You don’t have a regular doctor?”

“No. I have an OB-GYN. Does she count?”

“What do you do when you get sick?”

“Mix Nyquil with wine and shop online for secondhand books.”

And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, I was then informed I was legally obligated (yes, legally obligated in my state) to get professionally fitted for contacts by their office within 90 days of this initial exam. Which seems like a special sort of anal bureaucratic overreach.

“But I just want new glasses.”

“Would you like to schedule that today?”

“Um…how much does that cost?”

“$95.”

“With my insurance?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah. I’ll wait.”

“OK, but remember, you only have 90 days and if you try ordering from 1-800-CONTACTS again, they’ll have to verify your prescription through us now, which we can’t do until you get fitted.”

“Son of a …”

See? What did I say? It totally turned into a THING. All those years in school wasted on advanced math classes when I should have been studying up on how to handle stuff that turns into a whole THING without rolling my eyes.

Why do these seemingly simple things always get so complicated? I just want new glasses, but suddenly half my day is gone and my wallet is empty. I just want a teeth cleaning, suddenly I’m scheduling surgery to rip out my wisdom teeth. I just want a regular checkup, suddenly I’m being lectured that mixing Nyquil and wine is not medically advisable and here, call this specialist about that mole that is probably nothing but will most definitely kill you if you don’t see him.

Ugh. These medical professionals and their obsession with my health.

And, let me stop you right there. Because I know what you’re going to say. That now that I’m a mom, it’s my duty to make sure I’m healthy and will live forever so I can smother my grandbabies with love and sausage and slip them $20 when no one is looking even when they’re in their 30’s like my grandma did. I’m well aware of that, which is why I now exercise on a regular basis and eat fruits and vegetables on purpose and not just when they’re garnish for my cocktail.

So, I’m slowly trying to get my adulting act together.

Just don’t rush me. I’ll get fitted for my contacts and find a regular doctor and even schedule a teeth cleaning right after I renew my recently invalid driver’s license. And fix the mysterious clangy noise on the car. And call the handy man about that tiny large-ish leak in the middle of the ceiling. And buy underwear with actual working elastic. And…

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Posted in Health, Humor, Parenting, Women

Tagged adorkable, adulting, baby goats, bad at adulting, dealing with health insurance, funny, I don't want to adult today, making doctor's appointments, martyred mom complex, thanks obama, Zooey Deschanel glasses