Laughing Mama's Blog

My inner monologue with myself inside my head put in this blog out in the open for everybody to read.

Jazzy Junk… (AKA: “I wanna take a ride on your disco stick”) January 28, 2010

Filed under: Humor,Life,Women — laughingmama @ 2:12 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Disclaimer: This might be TMI, but I don’t care. I’m fascinated and need to talk about it.


So, yesterday I was innocently checking out Twitter and read something that has changed my life forever. I only follow 21 people on Twitter and mostly they are people I know, people who make me laugh or hot guys. In this instance, it was (the always captivating and hilarious) The Bloggess who provided me with this tidbit of information: there is such a thing as ‘vajazzling’. I was instantly captivated. Apparently after a horrible break-up a friend of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s suggested she wax herself  bald “down there” and bedazzle her “precious lady” with Swarovski crystals to make herself feel better. She took the advice, it did make her feel better and now she’s suggesting that the rest of the female population do the same. I have so many questions. For example, how exactly did this “friend” broach the subject of vajazzling? And how did she get JLH to agree to it? This is how I imagine the conversation going:

JLH: “OMG, I’m just so upset. I can’t believe I’m alone… again.” (sounds of serious sobbing)

friend: “Yeah, that must suck to be you, a gorgeous, wealthy actress with a regular TV series.”

JLH: “It doesn’t take the place of someone who cares about me, loves me. Well hell, at least I don’t have to shave past my knees for a while.” (forced chuckle)

friend: “Oh no, sister!! You’ve got to keep yourself groomed. You never know who’s going to come along and want to get frisky in the back of a taxicab.”

JLH: “You’ve watched too many movies. Or episodes of ‘Blind Date’.”

friend: “Maybe. But all I”m saying is… dress for the man you want, not the TV dinner you’ll end up with if you let yourself go National Geographic. Hell, you might want to even bedazzle that thing. You know… pretty it up a bit.”

JLH: “What??? Are we talking about the same thing?” (sounds of head scratching)

friend: “Yes, honey. I know this place that will glue crystals to it. Can you imagine how sexy you’d feel?”

JLH: “Wow. I’ve never thought of that. That would be cool to see it all sparkly.”

friend: “That’s right! You bling your ears, neck and wrist, why not your vajayjay?”

JLH: “You’re totally right! I’m going to do it!” (girly clapping)

Now if it were me, as soon as my friend suggested that I bedazzle my privates I would have laughed in her face and then conked her on the head with my empty wine bottle. Then, while I was waiting for her to come to, I would have drunk another bottle of wine and then when she woke up we would totally go to the salon to get it done together. So, I guess JLH and I aren’t that dissimilar. She might be a bit nicer to her friends, though.

Another question I have is, if she did it AFTER a break-up, WHO exactly did she do it for? I’m all about doing things for yourself but in this scenario, going out to buy an expensive pair of shoes would have made me feel a hell of a lot better than ripping out my pubic hair and putting glue on the sensitive bare skin that’s left. What JLH did makes me think that there was a bigger plan in play. This would be the perfect act of revenge, wouldn’t it? Imagine your ex stopping by to pick up the last of his things from your place. You could  have conveniently just gotten out of the shower. You answer the door in nothing but a towel. You let him in, point him to a box on the floor and as he bends down to pick it up, you clumsily drop your towel and… KAPOW!!! He gets a face full of Swarovski crystals. I imagine he’d regret ever being an ass to you after he realized you’ve turned porn star. (But not actual porn star because ewww… who wants that? No, I’m talking “innocent” on the outside, crazy, uninhibited, “pretend” porn star on the inside.)

On the other hand, it just might scare him in the way that Lady GaGa scares most men. She looks like she’d be a hell of a good time and up for almost anything, but it might really, really hurt. Same thing with the crystals. Have people forgotten about friction? Do we really need tiny rocks down there getting in the way? And how secure are these things? Do we need to worry about them flying off at any given moment? Will we have to have arguments about who has to sleep in the “shiny spot”? Instead of towels will dustpans have to be kept in the bedside table? And, as one of my friends pointed out, choking hazard!

This seems to be to be the type of thing that might be fun to do once- on a lark. Something to surprise your mate with, to keep things spicy, keep him guessing. But really, no. Is it really necessary to do anything MORE to the downtown area than a bit of landscaping and keeping the street clean? Honestly, I’ve never had a guy say to me, “Well, that’s nice but no thanks. Now, if you had Swarovski crystals glued to it… ” There’s really not much to mess up down there- unless you start talking about adding GLUE. It made me wonder why you would even consider doing this in the first place? I did some investigating and what I found only led to more questions.

Ladies, you’ll be relieved to know that not only can you bedazzle your lady parts, you can also dye them. OMG, why did I start Googling? Yes, it’s true. If you’ve ever thought your vajayjay might be looking a bit old and discolored, there’s now “My New Pink Button” to restore it to its former pink glory. Really??? As if the wrinkles on your face weren’t bad enough, now we have to worry about Pandora’s box showing the years? It seems like a bit of false advertising to me. Not the product, I’m going to take their word for it that it works. I’m talking about the consumer. Especially if used in conjunction with the crystals. Your partner would lift your skirt and get all excited that he has a pretty, shiny new toy but when you get down to business, it feels just like any other one and (in the case of those of us who have had kids) decidedly NOT like it did when it was new and unused.

I also discovered the salon in NYC which started the “vajazzling” craze. It’s a place called “Completely Bare” and they call the crystal application procedure “completely bare with a flair”. Cute. (If cute means WTF?) They also sell at home waxing kits with crystal tattoos so you can flair yourself. You can choose from such shapes as a heart, a butterfly, a starburst and a peace sign. I imagine it’s only a matter of time before it’s not just crystals but cutesy sayings that can be affixed to your nether regions. “I’m the girl your momma warned you about.” You don’t say. God forbid if someone decides that would be an appropriate place to declare their love for the health care plan. “I want THIS covered.” Although, debating politics naked might be fun.

And speaking of politics, for some reason George Washington crept into my head yesterday as I was thinking about all of this. I know, my brain is a mysterious and wonderful place. I don’t think this is exactly what our forefathers had in mind when they separated from the British to found our great nation. Or maybe it is. They did advocate freedom and what could be more liberating than waxing yourself bald and imitating a disco ball? Also, you know those women back then were au naturale so maybe hairless women dripping with crystals is exactly the type of thing George Washington fantasized about. Maybe we were just a late night draft away from saying “…with liberty and vagina crystals for all”. And don’t flame me, I know George Washington didn’t write the Pledge of Allegiance. I also know that, as much as he might have enjoyed them on Martha, he wouldn’t be gluing crystals to himself.

Although, in 2010 it’s totally possible. Did I mention that they have crystals for guys as well? Google told me that too. I can’t remember the website so I apologize for not being able to point you in the right direction if this is something you wish to do to yourself, but somewhere they’re having a Valentine special where men can get a pretty pink heart affixed you know where. Nothing tells your partner “I think you’re something special” quite like that. I have to admit though, I don’t think I’d trust a salon that calls the procedure for male waxing a “sack and crack”. I’m just saying.

Now before you get all uppity with me, I know body modification has been around forever. Even body modification “down there”. I honestly don’t know why vajazzling fascinates me so much. I guess I just never thought of that as an area that needed to be adorned in such a flamboyant way. I’m not Liberace and if you need to put up a f*cking flashing sign that says “Here it is!!!” then maybe you should find a partner that’s more adept. I’m sure it’s fun, but so are sexy panties. Then you take them off, throw them in the corner of the room and pick them up the next morning. No harm, no foul. I will say that all of this has entertained me a limitless amount over the past two days. It got me thinking that this might make for good TV. You know that show, “Pimp My Ride”? Well, instead it could be “Pimp My P…”. Well, you get the idea. I know who would be the perfect host- I heard Jennifer Love Hewitt might know a thing or two about it. Or Martha Stewart, she’s pretty good with a glue gun.

copyright 2010 by Me


Revelations at the Farmer’s Market… (aka: “Farms Are Hot”) January 15, 2010

Filed under: Humor,Life — laughingmama @ 9:11 am
Tags: , , , ,

Written September 3, 2009

So my mom and I went to the Farmer’s Market yesterday and a few things crossed my mind. First, I love going to the Market. It seems like such a “good citizen” thing to do. You won’t find fugitives and other nefarious characters at the Market. They don’t give a crap about fresh produce. Head to the local underground tattoo parlor if you’re looking for shady dealings. You won’t find any here. (I don’t really know if there even is such a thing as an “underground tattoo parlor” and if they DO exist, if they tolerate shady dealings. I’m just trying to make a point.) What you will find is lots of delicious looking fruits and vegetables and beautiful plants and herbs… and hot farm boys. And I mean hot as in really sweaty. And I mean really sweaty as in “Oooh, you’re working hard. Bend over and pick up that bushel of peaches while I stand here and watch, farm boy.”. I know what I’m coming across like. I’m fully aware. I will spare you the details of what my 30-something hormones are doing to me these days. But rest assured, the “cougar” term has been thrown my way lots of times lately. (For the record, I hate that label. But I’ll wear it proudly like a badge of honor… or a word of warning to unsuspecting hot farm boys.)

I realized today at the Farmer’s Market that in another life I would want to come back as a farmer’s daughter. They’re hot too. No, not hot… sexy. Like sexy in a way that is totally approachable which is even more sexy. Some of you who have never been to our Farmer’s Market or have been to the markets in your hometowns might be scratching your heads and thinking, “Man, Eileen is in a bad way right now. If her hormones are making her think missing teeth, overalls and chewing tobacco are sexy she needs to see a doctor… STAT!”. But let me tell you, our farmers produce gorgeous farm hands.

For example, take the farm girl I ended up buying peaches from. She “propositioned” me as I was perusing her crops. “Wud ya lack t’ try a peeeeeeach?” she said in a slow southern drawl. Once my brain translated it into English I enthusiastically said yes, I would like to try a peach. She took a plastic fork, speared a slice and handed it to me. A normal, ordinary thing to do. But she did it with such charm and grace. Maybe it had more to do with her golden tan, or the way she had the short sleeves on her t-shirt rolled up to her brown shoulders, or the casual way she was leaning on the table behind the produce, or the way the oscillating fan she had pointed at herself was blowing her long sun-kissed hair. As I was contemplating the sweetness of the peach I had just popped into my mouth, I felt a pang of jealousy. Angelina Jolie might be one of People’s 50 Most Beautiful People but she’s got nothing on this girl.

And so, I decided that I’d like to be a farmer’s daughter. I want to know how to read the weather, how to work a tractor, how to handle the other farm hands with a saucy humor that makes them go, “Wooo WHEE!” and slap their knee. I want to be my daddy’s right hand girl and talk about crops over the dinner table. Oh, and I’d also like to roll around in the hay with a cute farm boy. (Let me remind you this is in my NEXT life. In this life I’m happily married. VERY happily married- see hormone discussion in the first paragraph.) Oh, and rock a pair of daisy duke denim shorts. And wear my hair in a cute pony tail tied up in a bow. And have a great tan. Okay, maybe it’s more about just looking like a farm girl than the actual farm itself. The work might be too hard.

Selling your wares at the Farmer’s Market would definitely be a challenge. They are very skillful at it though. All of them. You’d have to be. You have table after table of tomatoes, corn, peppers, sweet potatoes, lima beans, and watermelons. What makes yours stand out more than the next farmer’s? I saw some cute signs… signs like “They may look ugly but they taste great!”. If I liked tomatoes I would have bought some just because of the sign. The free sample is brilliant. Not only does it prove yours is the best, but after you eat someone’s cantaloupe in front of them, you can’t exactly say with your mouth full and juice running down your chin, “No thanks”. You’re almost beholden to them and have nothing left to do except proclaim, “Bag ‘er up!” and fork over your cash.

While my mom and I were at the market it amused me to find out that she suffers from the same personality defect that I do… “you must like me”-itis. She talks a big game and says that at 75 she’s too old to care what people think anymore and just says what she feels. She may follow that philosophy when it comes to ME, but I had to laugh when we were looking at a table of tomatoes (for her, not me) and the farm girl handed her a plastic bag and said, “Hey, y’all! Pick out what you like and I’ll weigh ’em for ya.”. Mom’s response? “Oh, okay.” and then she proceeded to squeeze and sniff the maters while saying under her breath to me, “These really weren’t what I was looking for though.”. Ha, ha!! Brilliant strategy, farm girl. No one can say no to you!

Most of all though, I realized that I like the Farmer’s Market because of the promise it holds. Hopeful thoughts like “I CAN go home and make a nutritious meal for my family with all this locally grown produce.” or “Boy, these tomatoes, onions and fresh cilantro would make a GREAT homemade salsa.” or “This hibiscus is stunning. I could put it on my porch and enjoy it all summer long.” swirl around my head as I walk through the stalls. The thoughts alone make me happy. I like this make-believe me who leaves with her arms full of bags, goes home and quickly goes to work in the kitchen followed soon afterward by the garden. I know there are some of you who actually do this and I love you for it. It’s what keeps the hope alive. Kind of like the lottery. People DO win… that could be me one day! Instead I leave with my yummy peaches for an after-school snack for Mary since they’re her favorite and a pint of blueberries for Drew since they’re his. It might not be a fresh, four course meal, or homemade salsa, or a garden full of gorgeous hibiscus, but maybe next time. Ta, ta for now farm boys! I’ll be back soon! Rrrrawr!

Copyright 2010 by Me


The balance wheel of marriage… (AKA: “Yes honey, I DO want to go camping!!!”) January 12, 2010

Filed under: Humor,kids,Life,Marriage — laughingmama @ 8:24 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Arnie and I have been together for almost 16 years and married for 14 of them. Somehow in those 16 blissful years we have managed to avoid one of the major milestones of family life in America- going to Walt Disney World. That is, until now. Our kids are getting up there in age and are quickly moving out of the “It’s magical” reaction to Disney and rapidly toward the “Yeah, whatever. Where’s my iPod?” reaction. We have to act fast. So, we’ve decided to plan a trip for this year. Our kids are in year-round school so we’ll take advantage of the cool temperatures and (hopefully) smaller crowds and go during their October break. That’s as far as we’ve gotten with the planning.

We’ve queried a few families who have been there and gotten some good feedback. Some we will use, some we won’t. For example, my brother spent months pouring over guide books, scouring the internet for tips and came up with a spreadshit (no joke, I just typed that. I’m leaving it in there because that was such a perfect Freudian slip!)… I mean… spreadsheet which not only detailed each section of every park and the rides contained therein, it noted whether use of the “Fast Pass” was possible, any restaurants available, the times and locations of any reservations he had made, times of shows and parades and all of it was color coded. This was cut down to a totable size, laminated and bound with three rings to make an easy access reference they carried with them every day. It was amazing. I envied it and his planning skills since I don’t possess them. When I told a friend about it, she asked if he was adopted. I told her no, that he was an accountant.

Other people weren’t quite as organized but enjoyed themselves anyway. They, however, waited for long periods in line. I’m hoping we can be somewhere in the middle. We’ve begun to think about where we would stay. Of course, there are several options. We could stay at a time-share condo close by that my in-laws said they would generously share, we could stay on site at an economy hotel and do a budget vacation, we could go all out and stay somewhere like Animal Kingdom and watch exotic animals being fed outside our balcony, or we could pull our camper the 620 miles it will take to drive there and stay in Fort Wilderness- the Disney campground.

Guess which option I vote for? Guess which one my husband wants to choose? Let me qualify my lack of enthusiasm by saying that I love our camper. It has two beds, a kitchen sink, a microwave and an oven, a refrigerator, a stereo/DVD player and most importantly, a bathroom with a toilet, a shower and a door that closes! We take it out every weekend we can when the weather is nice. We have a lovely campground by a lake that’s only 20 minutes from our door and it’s like a second home to us in the summer. Let me clarify by saying that I’m not THAT kind of girl- the “high maintenance” kind. Okay, it’s not like we’re roughing it, but I don’t mind getting dirty. What I do think I will mind is pulling into Ft. Wilderness, getting the kids excited about finally being at Disney and then telling them they have to wait while their father and I park the camper, level the camper, unpack our wares, set up the water and sewer connection, unfold the bunk ends, slide out the couch, make the beds… I can see you making a face right now. It’s the same face I’ve worn when I think of it too.

Until today. I’ve thought about the reasons why Arnie is lobbying for Camp Mickey. He has very fond memories of being there, camping with his family as a kid. He said Camp Mickey was almost as much if not more fun than the Disney park itself. It made a big impression on him and he gets this far away nostalgic look on his face every time he talks about it. It’s actually really sweet. I understand wanting to recreate memories for your kids. It’s the same reason we’ve taken our kids to Hilton Head Island which is where my family would vacation every year. But as an adult and as the parent, it’s just not the same. I’ve warned Arnie about this simply because I don’t want him to be disappointed.

But really, who am I to dash his dream for his family? I have learned something in these 16 blissful years- sometimes you’re the supporter and sometimes you’re the supported. A friend of mine calls it the balance wheel and I love that. Events in recent years have meant that the balance wheel has largely spun toward Arnie being the supporter. You know the phrase “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy”? I hate that phrase but Arnie kind of embodies it. He has said before that if he can make my life easier, then his life is easier too and everything is better. This absolutely floors my mom who had a wonderful husband for 52 years in my dad, but he wasn’t the most helpful guy. His many strengths lied elsewhere.  But what Arnie understands is that it’s not just taking care of the “honey do” list (which I REFUSE to have- I’m not his mama, he’s not 10 years old and doesn’t need a chore chart.), it’s recognizing when to be quiet, when to give a kind word and when to say, “Here’s a glass of wine, go take a bath, I’ve got this.” when I’m at my wit’s end or in the middle of an emotional meltdown. Oprah once said that foreplay doesn’t just happen 10 minutes before intercourse, it happens ALL DAY LONG. (And no guys, I don’t mean lewd whistles when we bend over to unload the dishwasher. I mean unloading the dishwasher WITH us. You can spank my ass while we’re doing it- that’s fine! Just have your other hand ready to accept the utensil basket.) Arnie gets this. He tries really hard and is very good at taking care of all of me.

That’s why I’m willing to take one for the team. And not in that half-hearted “Okay, I’ll tell you yes so we can get this over with and I can go to sleep.” kind of way. (For the record, I have NEVER done that. I swear. I don’t see the point, actually. Catching a dead, limp fish is no fun for the fisherman OR the fish. Better to stick your pole in the water when it’s more welcoming. Assuming that’s sometime within the next 48 hours. If not, you may have a problem that I can’t help you with.) What’s the use in doing something for someone else if you’re just going to make them feel guilty or terrible about the fact that you’re doing it? You gotta go all the way, and do it gladly. So, when we were sitting at dinner I looked at him and said, “Honey, if camping at Fort Wilderness is what you want to do, I’m on board. Let’s do it! It sounds like fun!” It’s time the balance wheel spun in my direction even if that means the wheels of our camper will soon be rolling down I-95.

copyright 2010 by Me


So my cable modem went out last week… (aka: “Leery the Cable Guy”) January 10, 2010

Filed under: Humor,Life — laughingmama @ 1:22 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Written August 27, 2009

Let me explain. No, there is too much… let me sum up. We have the Time Warner Cable digital bundle. TV, phone, Road Runner. It has always intermittently gone out. Phone calls dropped, internet down. Oddly though, the cable TV has always worked fine. Except on occasion when the DVR would freak out, turn itself off and reboot. It once did that and came back with a whole new on-screen color scheme. I figured it just had an identity crisis and needed to visit a digital version of rehab. Shut down, come back a whole new DVR. I was willing to let it go… whatever it needed to do to make itself feel better as long as it didn’t lose our recordings of “Wipeout”.

Anyway… me being the procrastinator that I am, just dealt with it the best way I knew how. Chastising the computer “Come on you stupid internet!”, and suffering through lots of “Are you there? Hello? Eileen?” conversations with family and friends. (My mom was the best at that by far. I could hear her but she couldn’t hear me. Suddenly her disdain for what I was doing and my choices were no longer concealed behind meaningful sighs… “Eileen? Hello? Can you hear me? You cut out again. Oh that PHONE! I don’t know why she doesn’t get it fixed…” and slam goes the receiver! Brilliantly hilarious.) Last week though, it cut out completely for hours and hours. I began to become alarmed because if I couldn’t facebook how in the world would I survive??? Not to mention that now there was no way for people to get in touch with me. Cell phone you say? Who are you talking to?? Remember, I procrastinate. My cell phone battery was dead. I looked out the window to the driveway where my charger was sitting in my car. I began to debate myself. “It’s right there… just go get it.” “Aw man, the pavement’s hot and I’d have to put on shoes before going outside.” “That’s why Arnie built the shoe cubby by the front door. Look, your flip-flops are within 2 feet.” “Yeah, but if I go outside with shoes then I’ll feel pressured to check the mail while I’m out there.” “Hmmm… I didn’t count on this. An extra 20 feet does make things more difficult.” Did I mention I was lazy too? You’re finding out all my secrets.

So, I quiet the internal struggle and go to get the charger from my car… barefoot, so it’s just to the car and back. The kids like to get the mail after school anyway. And for what exactly am I rushing to the mailbox? The Prize Patrol will deliver my Publisher’s Clearing House millions in person anyway, not the mailman! Once my cell phone is plugged in and charging I proceed to call Arnie. Since I don’t know the number for the cable company off-hand and my all-knowing oracle is down, I implore Arnie to call and see what they say. Surely they have a little switch at the cable company that they can flick and get me up and running. Uh… nope, and the next available appointment is the next day. Really? On the way to take the kids to school that morning I saw a Time Warner van sitting in an empty lot and it looked like the driver was asleep. On second thought, I hope he wasn’t sick or injured. Who has time to stop and find out these things?

Fine. Next day it will have to be. I will interject here that I did kind of have a hissy fit. It might have gone something like this…”WHAT?! TOMORROW? THAT’S JUST NOT ACCEPTABLE. WE CAN’T EVEN CALL 911 IF WE NEED TO. ISN’T THAT A VIOLATION OF SOME KIND?!”. Yes! Says my very smart and justice minded EE husband. Yes! A FCC violation! (I’m now secretly squeeing because I’ve managed to get him fired up which means he’s going to call Time Warner back.) “I’m calling back and seeing if they can’t get someone out today.”. SQUEE! “Thanks baby, I love you!”. Now, if I were Time Warner and had a man on the other end of the phone with an authoritative (albeit sexy) sounding voice spewing words like “FCC violation” at me I think I’d send someone over to their house immediately. Apparently though they have lots of men with authoritative (although I doubt they’re all sexy) sounding voices spewing words like “FCC violation” lots of times during the day. They give him the 1-800 number for the FCC and put us on a waiting list for that day. Ouch. Oh well, such is life.

Now my day just got exponentially harder. Not only will I have to do something productive with my time now that I can’t facebook, I’ll have to be on the lookout for TWO vans. Prize Patrol AND Time Warner. I’m surprised I didn’t wear a path in the carpet going from the couch to the window. Did I say productive? Oh no, I meant destructive. Daytime reality programs are entertaining but they’ll rot your brain. Well, needless to say there was no Time Warner van and no Prize Patrol. To say I’m disappointed is an understatement. Especially when I remember that Ed McMahon passed away this summer so I’m wondering who exactly will be delivering me my millions?? And now I’m pissed because I can’t even look it up! My Rolodex/dictionary/encyclopedia/newspaper/bootlegged-concert-video-player/e-mail machine is down. Ugh.

The sun rises the next morning. It’s a brand new day. I take the kids to school and I’m relieved to see the Time Warner cable van is gone from the empty lot. That must mean the driver wasn’t injured and might be on his way to my house right now. The kids barely get out of the van before the automatic door starts sliding closed and I peel out of the carpool line. Must go! The cable guy waits for no one! Of course, when I pull up to my house I see no van. (Either one.) I sit and wait inside. And because I’m also obsessive (more “Eileen’s personality flaws finally revealed”) I have checked the phone and laptop every few minutes just on the off-chance that the cable gods have smiled upon me and shown their mercy. This time my cries of “Please, please, please, please, please” have worked. I have a dial tone! And the little animated computer in the lower right corner of my laptop taskbar is blinking back at me which means it’s alive. IT’S ALIVE!!

Ding dong! I freeze. I’ve practiced my excited/surprised/”Who are you people and why are you on my front porch?” face for weeks. Okay, months. Is this my time? I catch a glimpse of the Time Warner logo out of the window on my way to the door. I try to hide my disappointment when I open said door. Standing there is the cable guy who is a good 4 inches shorter than I am, has thin blond hair and I swear to God, slightly pointed ears. Now I’m trying to hide amusement as I think about a forest of “cable elves” and wonder if at night, he parks his van beside a tree in which he and the other cable elves live and repair DVRs. I smile and blink, several times I think. He smiles through a closed mouth and invisible lips (do elves have lips?) and blinks back at me. Suddenly we are at an impasse. Who should be the first person to speak in this scenario? It’s not something you usually have to think about is it? Conversations happen all the time between two people- even strangers. Someone just has to start it. Maybe I was being stubborn. He was after all the one who rang MY doorbell. Of course, we called his cable tree first. I concede and say, “Hi… want to come in?”. His response? A terse “Yep.”.  I’m detecting a bit of an attitude. It could just be me though. I’m still disappointed he’s not the Ed McMahon replacement so maybe I’m just projecting.

He’s now inside, standing in my foyer. More blinking ensues. Does he think he’s here for tea? Should I offer him a seat? Or just insist that he go ahead and do his f’ing job? You know, the one he came here to do?? Being the bigger person (*snort*), I take a stab at what he’s thinking… “So, you uh, want to see the modem?”. “Yep.”. Well, what he lacks in height he certainly makes up for in personality! Hmmmm… I thought elves were more sociable. That’s what the commercials have led us to believe. False advertising I claim! I bet this one can’t even bake. We go upstairs and I lead him to the desk. Did I mention that since the time the cable elf first walked in our door, our dog has been sniffing his crotch? I’m not sure what he’s so interested in there but I know for damn sure that I don’t want to know. I leave him to his work, pleased to see that he had no problem fitting under the desk to check the wires, and go downstairs to let the dog out in the backyard. I’m not one to hover over workers in my house. The only thing worth stealing upstairs is our 52 inch big screen TV and I think I might be able to catch him sneaking that one down the stairs.

I get myself something to drink and notice him rush out the front door. Maybe he did sneak the TV past me after all. Bastard! No, he’s just going around to the side of the house. I get comfy in my big chair and surf the internet. It seems really ironic that the guy is here to fix something that isn’t broken anymore and that I’m currently enjoying it right under his nose. He comes back a few minutes later. “All done.” he announces like a 2-year-old finishing his Cheerios. “Really? Wow.” I say and wait for further explanation. More blinking. Clearly you have to be direct with this elf. “So, what was the problem?”. I know it’s an ODD question, but I just had to ask. “Loose connection at the house.” he “explains”. Sounds to me like #3 on the “Things Cable Elves Could Find on a Service Call” checklist. Meh, what do I know. I decide to push him further anyway. I’ve never seen an elf get angry before. “And you’re sure that’s it?”. “Yep.” Obviously I won’t be seeing one get angry today either. Maybe he’s an elf animatron. “Okay” I say and reach for the doorknob. As he’s leaving I say, “Well, I’m sure my friends and family will appreciate being able to have a full phone conversation with me.”. I don’t know why I said that. I guess I’m just like my mother… I hate dead air. I need to fill it up with incessant talking. (Secret #4 about me if you’re counting.) Cable elf turns around on my porch and says “Yep.”. More blinking back and forth. And we’re back to where we started. At least we’ve come full circle. I feel a sense of closure. Not sure what he’s feeling though. He’s still staring, smiling with his mouth closed, hands in his pockets. Is he slightly nodding his head? At what? Why is he still standing there? Does he want a hug? Should I offer him some water for a job well done? Can you even give elves water or do they multiply like gremlins? This has just become extremely uncomfortable. I do the only thing I can think of… close the door, really slowly. Just before it shuts all the way I peek out of the thin crack and say “Thanks.”. He’s still standing there. “Yep”. Yeeeaaahhhh…. note to self: check the connection to the house before calling the cable tree again.

Copyright 2010 by Me


Moms (and dads) put up with lots and lots of crap… (aka: “My Kids Like To Potty All the Time, Potty All the Time”) January 7, 2010

Filed under: Humor,kids,Life — laughingmama @ 9:50 pm
Tags: , , ,

Written September 8, 2009

Disclaimer: Sorry, I’m a mom. I have to talk about poop.


I don’t understand why being out of the house means my kids have to go to the bathroom. Without fail, 100% of the time, always urgently and at the wrong times. It’s been this way ever since they were able to don big kid underwear. A 10-minute “quick trip” to the store was dragged out to 35-40 minutes because of either repeated trips to the restroom or one 20-minute marathon pit stop. I’ve become a master at scoping out the locations of any and all bathrooms wherever we happen to be. Name any store within a 30 mile radius and I bet I’d know exactly how many they have, where they are and if they’re kept clean. My kids and I naturally have become public restroom connoisseurs. Mary often announces her approval with a nod of her head and declaration of, “This is a nice one!” I never dreamed that half of my time shopping would be spent in the bathroom having a conversation with a five-year old between a closed-door about what he/she had to do next and what it ended up looking like. Although, this beats the days when I had to go in with them to “make sure they didn’t fall in” and they would proclaim in a very loud voice, “Mommy, your pink underwears is pretty!” I’m sure the other patrons were just as thrilled as I was.

Thankfully, with Mary and Drew being 8 and 7 we’ve moved into a comfortable place with them and their bathroom habits. They take care of themselves and I rarely have to know about it. Except now we have a boat. And a whole other world of bathroom emergencies has reared its ugly head. We should have been forewarned. Last summer gave us the best bathroom story in our family… ever. We were camping at our local lake and some friends of a friend had a boat. They were extremely generous with it and took all of our kids plus the two dads out on it. The moms stayed behind, relaxed on shore and waited for their arrival. When they came back a couple of hours later, as the boat was just about to reach us, I was greeted by my son (windblown hair sticking straight up just like Kramer from Seinfeld) who loudly declared, “Mommy, I pooped on the boat!” I looked at the other kids who all nodded furiously like a gaggle of bobble heads. I then looked to my husband who was gathering towels. He just shrugged, turned around and apologized to the boat owner for what must have been the 100th  time. The boat owner himself, a great guy named Steve, slapped Arnie on the back, told him not to worry about it and shouted to Drew as I removed him from the boat, “Drew buddy, we’ll never forget ya!!” Great. My kid was the one they’ll be telling all future passengers about. “Have I got a story for you… one time we had this kid on the boat and he crapped all over it!” I couldn’t wait to hear the story.

So, after I got the kids showered and dressed and interested in some down time inside the camper, Arnie pulled me outside and was laughing so hard he almost had an accident himself. This is the story he told…

Apparently out of the blue Drew had to go. Remember the urgent and always at the wrong times discussion? It applies here. Luckily the boat was anchored and the other kids were swimming. Unfortunately, Drew was on the boat. And it was too late to think up a plan. Drew began frantically screaming about the immediate exit of his poop just before Arnie witnessed it. He did the only thing he could think of to do- pick up his son and throw him overboard. I must say here that Arnie is a safety engineer and would never put our children in harm’s way. My friends used to tease me about how, as babies, I would strap my kids into their highchairs using the five-point harness so they wouldn’t slide out of the bottom. We’re very responsible parents and therefore Drew had a life vest on. He didn’t, however, have swimming trunks on anymore. Before Arnie had tossed him in the water, he had the forethought to strip our son down so the poop would have a free and clear exit. And exit it did. It followed Drew’s trajectory out of the boat exactly. So now, not only was Drew flying out of the boat in a perfect arc, he had a lovely shit rainbow behind him. He landed in the water, a tangle of ass and elbows. He immediately came up sputtering and once Arnie assessed that he was okay, he instructed him to swim to the back of the boat and then turned his attention to the mess Drew had left behind on the seat cushions.

Once at the ladder ready to re-board, Drew looked up at Steve who, unfathomably, had not witnessed any of what had just occurred. Steve reached for his hand to help him up but then noticed Drew’s lack of swimwear. “Boy, why are you naked?” was Steve’s question to my son. I think at this point Drew burst into tears. Arnie was at the ready with a towel and gathered him up to try to calm him down. Word quickly spread and Steve became all too aware of what had just happened on his boat or rather, TO his boat. After getting Drew decent again, Arnie scrubbed Steve’s boat like it’s probably never been scrubbed before. I don’t know how many rolls of paper towels he went through, but it must have been an elm tree’s worth.

On the ride back to the shore, Steve was very sweet and let Drew drive the boat and touted his talent as the best captain he’d ever seen. He even let Drew do a few figure eights, which thrilled him to no end. As I was putting him to bed that night Drew told me, “Well, this will be a day I’ll never forget!” No doubt. And now I’m guaranteeing it. And yet did we learn from this life lesson? Well… no.

The second time we were at the lake with our new (to us) boat and the kids we had a similar event happen. This time it was Mary. But this time we were close to shore. Of course, not close to our campsite, so we trudged through the woods until I thought she might have some privacy, she did what she had to do and I handed her some leaves (hoping they weren’t poison ivy). The next week I came across a small roll of “Charmin To Go” encased in a plastic holder at the grocery store. If it hadn’t have been for my kids and their incessant need to go in public I would have never, ever known there was a need for such a product. I would have looked at it, laughed and thought, “What, for when the truck stop is out? Who’s going to carry that around with them?” Boat owners. Boat owners with kids, that’s who. Thank you, Charmin. Thank you for understanding my kids’ needs more than I do. You just get them.

Copyright 2010


My first blog

Filed under: Introduction — laughingmama @ 2:56 pm

I sort of feel like I’ve just given birth. For months people have been telling me I need to start a blog. Much like being married and kid-less, you get all kinds of advice about what you should do with your reproductive organs and questions about why you haven’t done it yet. Such was the case with this blog. No I’m not blogging about my reproductive organs… yet; and for the record, I am no longer kid-less, thank goodness. My two children provide me daily entertainment and figure prominently in my musings. But I digress… this is the story of how I came to be a (dramatic pause…) blogger. Four months ago I had a fateful trip to the dentist. As I was sitting in the chair, all these thoughts came flooding into my brain. Some of them were even cohesive and came in the form of complete sentences. I felt like there was a voice in my head talking to me and I wondered where it had come from. I hadn’t been given any nitrous oxide so I couldn’t have been hallucinating. It must have been my own voice sharing its inner monologue with me and it was kind of funny. When I got home, I decided to type it out and chose to share it with my friends as a note on facebook. I have no idea why. I expected to “publish” it to my wall and quickly forget about it. Within hours, three of my friends had commented on how funny it was and my husband was looking at me as if he had never met me before (in a good way). He said, “In 15 years I’ve had no idea you could write like that. That was some funny shit!” Over the next couple of days I had more positive comments and my mom had heard from some of our out-of-town relatives who had apparently read my note and they thought I was funny too! This response intrigued and encouraged me. Somehow, writing this first note opened the flood gates. Suddenly I was hearing this inner monologue everywhere- at home, at  Wal-mart, at the farmer’s market. Every time I heard it, I wrote a note and inevitably someone would say I needed to start a blog. I wasn’t convinced. These people on facebook who were enjoying my writing were my friends and kind of had to be nice to me. I had no idea who I’d run into if I started a blog and didn’t really want to hear that I wasn’t as talented as my friends thought. Also, I thought (and still think) “Who the hell gives a crap what I have to say?” It’s not thought-provoking, won’t solve world hunger or create world peace and is riddled with punctuation errors. Well, fourteen facebook notes and countless suggestions to start a blog later and here I am. If you’re reading this, I hope you’re entertained and please forgive me for my overuse of commas- correct punctuation ain’t my thing. I’ll start by re-posting the note that began it all. I’m not sure what to do with the other ones. When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know. Feel free to tell me I suck. I’ve got my big girl pants on and can handle it, I promise.


If you were me at the dentist today… (aka: “Plaque on the Bottom, Hope on Top”)

Filed under: dentist,Humor,Life — laughingmama @ 11:56 am
Tags: , ,

Written Aug. 25, 2009

Okay, so I was sitting there this afternoon in the dentist chair with all these thoughts floating around in my head and decided I would write a facebook note and share in excruciating detail my experience. Hope my discomfort makes you laugh. I mean, after all the dentist is a weird place. They play soft music so you SHOULD be mellow, they put you in a padded chair so you SHOULD be comfy, they lay you back in a reclined position so you SHOULD be relaxed but then they come at you with gloved hands carrying sharp tools, shove them in your mouth and then all you can taste is latex, metal and soon your own blood.

All of a sudden your hands are clenched in a silent prayer for mercy and your eyebrows are so furrowed they’re meeting in the middle of your forehead. Your eyes are darting left to right because you don’t know where you should be looking. You can’t stare straight ahead because a cold harsh light you’re sure was used in the inquisition is directly above you making you wonder what dental atrocities are being uncovered in your mouth. You can’t look to the right because a stranger’s masked face is just inches from your own and you don’t want to be that creepy patient that just stares into the torture administrator… I mean, hygienist’s eyes. You can’t look to the left because… well, there’s just nothing interesting over there and it would be even more creepy to be staring off into space at an invisible point on the wall. Closing your eyes is an option but what are you? A zen master? An expert at self-hypnosis? No, I didn’t think so. And no amount of internally chanting “find a happy place, find a happy place” will lower the volume of the scraping going on just below your nose. So you keep your eyes roaming and try to STOP your tongue from doing the same thing.

I imagine the only thing more creepy to a hygienist than a patient who stares blankly into your eyes is the patient who has no firm control over their tongue. Or, worse yet, the patient that has “tongue sex” with your fingers ON PURPOSE. (Side note, a friend of mine just graduated dental school and she has first hand experience with this phenomenon. Lucky her, it was an inmate in prison! I’m sure he thought about that for weeks.) And now that you’re thinking of your tongue doing the horizontal mambo with the hygienist’s fingers it seems impossible to avoid. You zig left, she zags the same way. You go right, there she is again. “To the roof of your mouth!” you command the pink muscle but alas, foiled again. There’s no escape and not for the first time in your life you wish your mouth was bigger.

And then what glorious humiliation is now unfolding? A build up of saliva has begun to seep out of the corners of your mouth. Yippie! The latex octopus retreats only to return with what looks and sounds like a miniature version of your vacuum hose. And it’s clear! I can actually SEE my saliva being sucked out of the pools that have formed around my gums. Who wouldn’t want that? SHLORK!! “Oooops, sorry!” says the dental terrorist. No worries, just a bit of cheek tissue. It grows back, doesn’t it? And now “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison is playing on the stereo and you laugh to yourself because it’s one of your favorite songs and your feet involuntarily start tapping. That must have cemented your status as “The Crazy Patient” for the day.

You are the embodiment of an oxymoron… toes tapping, mouth slack-jawed, hair lazily falling to the side juxtaposed with tensed muscles, clenched fists, nervous eyes scanning the room. The image makes you want to laugh but since you can’t you start to tear up and the drop that rolls from your eyes elevates you to “Crazy Patient of the Week”. You wonder if there’s a prize. Oh look! There is. It’s called floss. I hope that whoever thought up the idea of one person flossing another person’s teeth is enjoying a nice hot toddy with Lucifer right now. What the hell? If that’s not the most awkward interaction between two people I don’t know what is. Yes, some of my teeth are really tight together. I should have had teeth pulled and braces at 15 but I chose short-term vanity over long-term dental care. Sue me. But I don’t know why that means the hygienist has to saw the floss back and forth like she’s chopping down a sequoia. On the other hand, I got a nice static charge built up in my hair from the back of my head being shaken to and fro. If I had a balloon right now it would stick. Fun!

So now the near death experience is almost over. You know this because the chair is being moved into position for the dentist to come and “evaluate”. As you wipe your mouth and swallow the rest of the grit left behind by the rotating wheel of liquid sandpaper known as the “polisher” you almost feel violated. But then you remember you actually volunteered for this gig. And are spending over $100 for it! As you’re going over in your head the things you’d rather spend $100 on (shoes being number one on the list), the dentist appears. You’ve been going to him for over 30 years and in all those years you’ve never once had the moxy to give him a nose hair trimmer for Christmas. You’re lamenting that fact right about… NOW. Why doesn’t HE have to wear a mask? Geez. Hair club for men needs to research the chemical makeup of the lining of his nostrils and put that shit to good use. Clearly it’s a fertile piece of real estate. More scraping, only this time it’s accompanied by genial bantering between the dentist and hygienist. He even stops to gesticulate with his hands. WHAT? WHAT?!!!

At this point you’re unclear whether or not you should close your mouth or sit there like a tranquilized monkey with your mouth hanging open for no good reason. You choose the latter in the interest of time savings. You can’t be expected to open and close your mouth 51 times. 50 times, yes, but the 51st time would just take too much time that you just don’t have. Thankfully he remembers his patient, you, and resumes his inspection. But really, the story they’re sharing is enthralling. Children finding their presents from Santa in the closet before Christmas. You’d chuckle in that “I’m from Martha’s Vineyard, holding a smart cocktail in my tennis whites talking to someone named Muffy” kind of way… if you weren’t busy trying to keep your tongue away from the dentists fingers, your eyes averted from the hair forest above you, and the saliva from making its way down the entire length of your chin. Yes, a few more wiggles with the sharp pointy object and lo and behold you’ve been declared dentally sound. A pat on the back and a jaunty “Merry Christmas, I guess!” from the dentist (you see, because in 6 months Christmas will already have passed.) and you can finally give your Martha’s Vineyard chuckle a try. You cough instead because your mouth is like the Sahara. Oh well, good try old chap. The hygienist gives you your parting gifts of toothbrush, evil floss and the bill.

You make your way to the front desk trying to will your glands to now produce MORE saliva instead of less and feebly attempting to find your chap stick so you can give your parched lips a bit of a reprieve. There you see the same receptionist that has graced the desk for those 30 plus years. Her face is alarmingly tan. Like, freakishly so. She’s a nice enough lady and always asks about your family. Always. The same questions. Always. “Where’s your sister now?”. “She’s in Charlotte.” (and has been for what.. 14 years now? That means I’ve answered that question 28 times. 28. 28!!) She did say she liked my hair so we’ll lay off her. You write your check, make your return appointment for March and breeze out of the office. In the car you check your teeth, run your tongue over them and feel how smooth they are. Eh, I guess getting your teeth cleaned is a lot like childbirth. The end result is worth it and you forget the pain. Although, I really would have rather brought home a new pair of shoes.

Copyright 2010