Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Harvey and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Twos

My son has recently entered the terrible twos. Well, I am not sure if that is what is happening or if he is possessed by a demon. I'm hoping it is demon possession because that is way easier to fix.

Its bad. Real bad. I mean so bad that those of you looking to expand your families should stay tuned because I may soon have a gently-used two-year-old up for sale in the next few weeks. Or hours. Fuck.

Here are just a few things that have elicited a toddler-size rage in my son in the last TWO DAYS:
  1. I made him put on socks.
  2. I made him throw away the banana peels he was grinding into the carpet.
  3. I made him stop standing in the freezer and throwing all the food onto the ground.
  4. I made him put on pants.
  5. I tried to feed him a carrot.
  6. I gave him milk when apparently he wanted another beverage.
  7. I made him put shoes on.
  8. I put on Thomas instead of Spider-man.
  9. I wiped his snotty nose.
  10. I made him stop licking the cat (seriously).
  11. I made him put a coat on.
  12. I gave him the wrong color woobie (blankie)
  13. I changed his poop-filled diaper.
  14. I gave him water in the wrong cup.
  15. I held his hand in the parking lot so he didn't get hit by a car.
  16. I wouldn't let him beat an umbrella against the glass at the zoo.
  17. I wouldn't let him open a 25th package of crackers when he had eaten none of the previous 24.
  18. I put shorts on him and his knees were naked.
  19. I took my prescription bottle away from him so he couldn't down an entire bottle of antidepressants.
  20. I made him put on pants again. I know, I'm a real bitch about the pants thing.

So, needless to say, The Cool Cucumber is not very "Cool" at the moment. Though I guess he sort of resembles a cucumber because he is being a real dick at the moment. Please send prayers. And alcohol.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Advice Under the Influence

Today I am doing a wrap-up of my web series with ulive, Advice Under the Influence. If you missed any of the episodes or forgot to send them to everyone you have ever met because, you know, you have a life, I wanted to give you a chance to see how much of an idiot I truly am in real life. Enjoy!

How to Dress Your Toddler


If you have ever tried to dress a toddler, you know that it is an infuriating endeavor. In this video I explore some of the finer points of stuffing a toddler into clothing while trying to maintain sanity.

Getting Your Toddler to Sleep


If your kids are anything like mine, getting them to sleep through the night can be harder than Ron Jeremy’s…skull. I have a few tips to help get your kiddos to sleep all night…in their OWN beds!

Getting Your Toddler to Eat


Every played a game of culinary roulette? If you have a toddler/tween/teenager/husband I bet you have. Ante up and see what you can do to make dinnertime less of a gamble.

Why You Should Buy a Minivan


Think minivans are about as sexy as Joan River’s lady bits? Think again. I explain why having a minivan is not only awesome, but also downright sexy. MeYOW!

Potty Training Bootcamp


Ready to commence with commode command? I have some tips to make potty training your tot a bit less shitty (see what I did there? BOOM!).

How to Throw the Perfect Kids Party


Children’s parties tend to make my eye twitch. Crying, whining, endless needs—and that’s just the parents of the attendants. I break down a few insider tips to make your next party a smashing success.

If you share this post, I will buy you FIVE ponies!

I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

How I tried to outsmart grief

When my brother died, my life was put on pause. I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything for a while. I didn’t talk. I didn’t see friends. I didn’t go out. I was just a mute version of myself that look confused and scared. I was confused. I was scared.

Like most people that experience a tragic and unexpected loss, I didn’t believe what was happening was real. I kept waiting for my brother to send me text or show up to a family dinner. But he didn’t. And it started to sink in that I would never see him again. And that scared the shit out of me. Because I knew it was going to break me for the rest of my life. And it did. How could it not?

Being the control freak that I am, I tried to outsmart my grief. To always be two steps ahead of it. To always have a say in how, and when, and where I grieved. Or, more realistically, to make sure that I never grieved, because then it would mean that everything was real. So I tried some coping mechanisms that didn’t work so well.

I tried to medicate my grief into submission.
I doubled up on my anti-depressants in an attempt to numb my grief to the point that I couldn’t feel it. All that really did was make me feel like I had constant grief blue balls. Like I was so close to the relief of crying but could never actually shed a tear.

I tried to drink away my pain.
I drank. A lot. Feeling slightly buzzed was better than feeling completely sad so I indulged in too much wine too much of the time. All that did was lead to an even heavier overall cloud of depression—and it’s super fun friend, weight gain.

I tried to go it alone.
Finding myself mostly alone after my brother died, I decided to stay that way. I stopped having people over like we always did. I stopped making plans to go out. I stopped socializing at all. I stopped being me.

I tried to run away from my grief—literally.
I strapped on my running shoes and tied to outrun my feelings. I would run and run and run. I would think about my brother but mostly I would just spend my time thinking about myself. About how I was going to “fix” this situation. But there was no fixing it.

But some things did work.

I sought solace in my daughter’s tiny arms.
On nights when the darkness was too much to bear, I would slip into my daughter’s room under the cover of night and wrap myself around her to protect myself from the pain. Sleeping next to her innocence was often the only way that I could escape the brutality of my brother’s death racing through my mind.

I made new friends.
It is hard to heal the friendships that are broken by a tragedy. Though I am a very forgiving person, I have never really been able to forgive the people who weren’t there for me after my brother’s death. So I made new friends. Friends that didn’t shy away when I talked about how I was feeling. Friends who checked in on me when things were bad. Real friends.

I got help.
I had to kiss a lot of frogs to find the two therapists that would be my princesses, but it was worth it. They have helped me work through my grief and actually experience it. In a way that makes me feel like I am part of the solution, not just the cause of the problem. The two women who have helped counsel me through my grief are the cat’s pajamas.

I let go.
I let myself be OK with being weak at times. I made myself feel that it was good to express my feelings. I gave myself a pass on feeling obligated to keep up friendships that no longer felt positive to me. I stopped feeling like a loser for still feeling under my brothers death and not over it. I let myself be sad. I let myself be angry. I let me be the new me.

Though I may be a broken version of my former self, it is a self that I have built up from the ashes and I am damn proud of it.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

The Internet thinks I have a drinking problem.

I have recently discovered that the internet thinks I have a drinking problem. It all started when I was browsing my suggested books list on Amazon one day. Once you buy and rate enough books through the site, Amazon starts recommending other books you might like. Pretty sweet, right? Yeah, not so much. You see, while I was scrolling down through the list, I started to see a pattern to their recommendations. What was that pattern, you ask? That Amazon thinks I am an alcoholic.

The books Amazon recommended where 12-step AA books with titles like, “Learning to let go, one drop at a time” and “Drinking won’t cure the sads”. These are made-up titles, of course, but you get the drift. SO not cool, Amazon! What are you trying to imply? Just because I pop bottles like models and enjoy me a good box of wine every day now and then, doesn’t mean I have a problem. I can quit any time I want. Like right now. Or maybe tomorrow, today has been pretty tough. Actually, next week is much better for my schedule…

I figured out that because I was reading a bunch of David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs, both of whom share an affection/affliction for alcohol, Amazon assumed that I was drinking like a successful writer. HA! I wish. I can’t even drink like a moderately successful copywriter, let alone keep up with the likes of those amazing two fuckers. Anyway. I thought that this was maybe just a silly mistake until last night, when my phone told me I was a shitty drunk…

While I was upstairs cooking dinner with girlfriends, I went to text my husband and his buddy, who were downstairs doing whatever men do when they are alone in a room full of power tools, that dinner was ready. As I typed in the “di” in “dinner”, my phone automatically prompted to help me by spelling out “DUI”. Um, what the fuck, Siri? Not only am I an alcoholic, but now I am such an asshole that I would actually get drunk and DRIVE!?! Me thinks not. Ever. Siri, you toothless whore, I know you are after me, what with your blatant autocorrect fails and shitty directions, but this has gone too far. This means war, you electronic slut. Bring it.

Needless to say, after all of these baseless accusations of alcoholism, I need a drink…

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Children's Books That Blow

I love me a good children's book. I could read Giraffe's Can't Dance and The Pout Pout Fish a million times. But not all children's books are created equally. No, some children's book make me want to punch the author in the neck just for writing such an asshole-y book. Such as: 

Goodnight Gorilla.
Dude, if I wanted to make up a story, I wouldn't have bought a book. There are like 25 words total in the whole book. The rest you have to explain. Often times to a child who knows the word, "Why?" Ain’t nobody got time for that. Even worse than Goodnight Gorilla? This one: Tuesday by David Wiesner. Seriously, I need words after a long day of work and momming. Help a mutha out, will ya!?!

I'll love you forever.
"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
As long as I'm living
my baby you'll be."

Adorable, right? Not so much. Why?

"Because that little boy grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was a grown-up man. He left home and got a house across town. But sometimes on dark nights the mother got into her car and drove across town. If all the lights in her son's house were out, she opened his bedroom window, crawled across the floor, and looked up over the side of his bed. If that great big man was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth."

Yes, the overall "chorus" of this book is cute, but the lady fucking breaks into her grown son's house, sneaks into his bedroom, takes him out of his bed and rocks his ass to sleep. Hell-to-the-no you crazy old bat. I am calling the cops. Then I am calling ADT to install a new security system and then I am welding bars on my bedroom window. Stay the flock out, you old coot, I mean mom. Shivers.

Guess how much I love you.
"I love you right up to the MOON," Little Nutbrown Hare said, and closed his eyes.

"Oh, that's far," said Big Nutbrown Hare. "That is very, very far."

Big Nutbrown Hare settled Little Nutbrown Hare into his bed of leaves. He leaned over and kissed him good night.

Then he lay down close by and whispered with a smile, "I love you right up to the moon - AND BACK."

Man, that dad is a one-upping mother fucker. Every time his kid tries to tell him how much he loves him, the dad has to say it the exact same way but just a little better. He even waits until his son is asleep so he can one-up him and Little Butbrown Hare can’t fight back. Asshole.

 Fox in Sox.
“When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles
and the bottle's on a poodle and the poodle's eating noodles...
...they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle
bottle paddle battle.”

Dude, seriously? Fuck you. I can't even get this nonsense to make sense in my head, let alone have it make sense when it comes out of my mouth.

Anything by Walt Disney.
Dude, stop putting it into my kids that their parents might die and that we will leave them alone with the worst relative we can possible find. Seriously. Just stop.

These are just a few of the children's books that make my eye twitch. What are some of yours?

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

How do you love me? Let me count the ways…

I have never been a girl who wants her man to show affection by buying her shiny things. Every time one of my ghosts of boyfriends past bought me some piece of fancy, shiny jewelry I would just think, “Wow, this guy doesn't know me at all."

Ain’t no shame in love that is bought by the carat, but I’m with the kind of girl who falls head over heels when her husband gets on Etsy and buys her a necklace that reminds her of her brother who she lost.

Instead of, “My man loves me this many carats,” I prefer, “My loves me love me this many shitty diapers.” My husband loves me so much he emptied the dishwasher and trashcan without me nagging. He loves me so much he spent an extended stay at my parents house and didn't complain once. He loves me so much he watch the kids so I could go on a girls weekend.

Roses die, chocolate just makes my chubby ass even chubbier and where the hell am I going to where a fancy pair of diamond studs? I prefer more humble displays of affection, like giving me a second opinion on whether this mole looks funny to you, or rubbing my crusty, non-manicured feet while I watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

If I came home to a house lit with candles, chilled champagne and Barry White, I would ask my husband who the hell he was expecting and immediately set out to seek vengeance on the tramp. But if I came home to a house where a frozen pizza was already in the oven, a load of laundry was spinning in the washer and the kids were happily entertained watching an episode of that terrible little bastard, Caillou, I would jump my husband’s bones the minute those kids hit the sack. Or not. It’s been a really long day and mama's tired…

But I guess Marilyn Monroe wouldn't have been as famous had she sang, “Cleaning up my cat's puke is a girl's best friend."

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

So long, five second rule

Let me start this whole post off by saying that I am about as far from a germaphobe as you can get. I have eaten “found” Skittles off a dorm community room floor, tinkled in many a porta-potty and raised two kids past the age of two. I have seen, smelled and touched things no man should ever have to see, smell or touch. But when my babies were babies, I was a tad more sensitive.

Now, did I hose every person that dared entered the breathing space of my precious babies down with hand sanitizer and offer them a respiratory mask? No. But I was more cautious than I am now, where I often see my kids chewing on mystery items they have “won” from the couch cushions.

Back in the good ol’ days, when I was wrangling screaming infants, a dropped paci could result in both me and my baby losing our ever-loving’ schmidt. But nowadays, there is a new sheriff in sanitation town: Bert & Bratt, a portable sterilizer developed by two moms that instantly de-icks your baby’s goods.

DUDE! Where were you ladies back in 2009 when I was scalding myself with hot water to clean my daughter’s pacifier while she made all of Target think I was torturing her in the bathroom?!?!

Anyway. The Bert & Bratt sterilizer is ridiculously easy to use, super cute and small enough to fit in your diaper bag (all things that these moms totally get are important). Just take your baby’s paci, sippy cup top or small teether, toss it in the opening, close it, hit the start button and BOOM: four minutes later your have a germ-free way to talk your tot out of embarrassing you in public.

Paci placement
Let the light show begin
Dude, it is so tiny and cute and weighs NOTHING!

And the best part? The ladies at Bert & Bratt are so awesome they even want to offer one of you a free sterilizer! Just enter below and I will draw one of you lucky duckies to have one of these beauties for your very own!

a Rafflecopter giveaway
This post was sponsored by Bert & Bratt but you Boozehounds know I would NEVAH EVAH subject you to anything I didn't think was amazeballs on my own. For realzies. 

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Friday, January 24, 2014

An end to a tragic tale.

Today I face the demon that I have been fighting since April 23, 2012 head-on. I will look my brother's murderer in the face today when he pleas to a mere 25 years for taking my brothers life of just 43 years.

I miss you, brother.

So today I need your help.

First, I need you to keep my family in your thoughts and prayers today. We will need them.

Second, I need you to help others who will face the same things that I have by donating to the Crime Victim Advocacy Center. The Crime Victim Advocacy Center is an amazing agency filled with even more amazing people. They spend their time helping people who have been victims of violent crimes, sexual assault and domestic violence, just to name a few.

The Crime Victim Advocacy Center has helped me in ways that I can never repay in the last year and a half. They have provided me with incredible counseling services, advocates to help me navigate the murky waters of the legal system and countless other priceless services--all for free. Without the help that the Crime Victim Advocacy Center has provided me, I am not sure that I would be here today.

So please, help the Crime Victim Advocacy Center help others like me. You can donate here.

Thank you!

The Sally Struthers of PTSD

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. Seriously this time. This one is important.
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...