Soooo close.

I’ve got 7 days, 21 hours and 13 minutes until school starts, and I haven’t done ANYTHING.  So I’ll see ya’ll next week!


Idle threats.

So I admit, I believe in spanking. It happens very seldom, though, reserved for things like running in the parking lot or telling me I’m fat. I do love an idle threat, though. I am forever threatening my kids with the beating of their lives that they know will never happen. They laugh at me. Hysterically. Well, all except Kid Sensation; he ignores me 75% of the time. I have actually gotten pretty creative with my threats.

Some of my greatest hits (ßsee what I did there? I’m funny) include:

“Do it again and I’ll slap your hair straight!”

“You’re going to make me feel like messing you up!”

“Hey, you, let’s fight. Them’s fightin’ words.” (Courtesy of the Simpsons.)

“If I have to get up from here, everyone’s gonna get it!”

“Do you want it from my slappin’ hand or my other slappin’ hand?”

“You must want to wear handprints.”

“Oh, since you said that, I take it you’re ready to rumble.”

“If I wasn’t over here, I’d ruin you.”

“Come over here so I can ruin you.”

“Say it again so I can slap the words out of your mouth.”

“Oh, yeah, come over here and say that while I step on your foot.” (This one sent Wondergirl into a fit of the giggles. My feelings were slightly hurt.)

“Mom SMASH!”

“It’s clobberin’ time!” (Then I had to explain to them what it meant to clobber someone and it took all the fun out of it.)

Like this, except with an amazing afro.
Like this, except with an amazing afro.

“What time is it? Time to kick some 12-year-old-butt, that’s what time it is!”

“You talkin’ to me? Boy, I’ll Jackie Chan you!” (Interchangeable with Chuck Norris and JCVD.)

“You wanna talk crazy to the Mom? Well, the Mom says this….” (This actually scared them a little, as they weren’t familiar with the Rock’s lingo and I was speaking of myself in the third person.)

“Don’t make me….” (This sentence ends in a variety of ways.)

“I’ll slap you over to Grandma’s house.” (She’d just make me come pick them up, and everyone knows I don’t feel like doing that.)

“You like CDs? Well see these fists!” (Actually, that one didn’t work because they don’t like CDs, only mp3’s and “mp3 these fists” makes no sense.)

They know it’s all in good fun, my actual punishments are quite sadistic. Like the time I made The Destroyer and Wondergirl clean each other’s room for fighting. For a week. Or when The Destroyer had to be Wondergirl’s servant for three hours after he said something mean to her—she absolutely relished it and contrived some of the most menial tasks possible, like fanning her nails dry. It was awesome, and it worked.

But they still enjoy my threats of bodily harm. They might be as off as their mother.

Do you randomly threaten? Or are you a good parent? (If you are, you can’t sit with us.)






Is it because they’re cute?

I often watch my kids and their interactions in amazement. You know how they say “kids are cruel”? I think it’s because kids under a certain age are brutally honest. The other day I had the privilege to observe Kid Sensation and his peers at the new library play area. I have to say, not only are kids dead honest, other kids handle this honesty quite well.

I saw a little boy who was contentedly playing alone with some blocks. Another boy came to join in the block fun. The first boy stares at the other kid, sighs heavily and gets up to go somewhere else. Now, a stare, a sigh, and bodily self-removal only mean one thing: I don’t really want you anywhere near me, but since I can’t ask you to leave, I’ll go instead. To me, this is even ruder (ruder? Is that a word? Well, there’s no squiggly red line, so I guess it is) than being asked to leave. This is basically being told that you stink. As a grown woman, I would fight someone who did this to me—they obviously just told the world that I stink. I feel very strongly about that because I don’t stink. The kid who must have stunk didn’t seem to take this too badly, though.

I saw a little girl horde baby dolls. I mean, chickie-poo wasn’t letting anyone touch the babies because everyone else had germs. Those were her words. “Don’t touch the babies cause you have germs.” The funny thing is, I am pretty sure I know who this girls turns out to be. She’s the mom that begs for playdate that turn out to be absolutely zero fun because no one can get dusty or touch anything. Notice I didn’t even say dirty. The girl managed to remain un-beat-up, and other little girls kept approaching her. It probably won’t be until middle school that people start to avoid her like the plague.

My kid, my innocent darling Kid Sensation, shooed another child. Like, he said the word, “Shoo!” to someone else. I swear to god, if another adult, (besides my mama and Grandma of course) said shoo to me, I would lose it. Shoo? SHOO? Like I’m some sort of fly with poop-covered feet? No dice. However, Kid Sensation remained unscathed. 

Well, maybe if I was this fly.
Well, maybe if I was this fly.

One little girl told another girl that her hair was ugly. The other little girl shrugged and moved on with her life. This is not something I would have been physically capable of. If another grown woman had decided to straight up tell me that my hair was ugly without the usual dancing around the subject (you know, the “ Ooooohhh, you got your hair cut. It’s, um, different.” Or, “that color? Humph. Well if you like it…) there would have been no further words exchanged. It would be all “Eyewitness reports say that the suspect, Vida, somehow turned into a wolverine and ripped the offender to shreds. Reports say that the suspect keeps muttering the phrase, ‘They told me Tuscan Honey would look good on me. They told me Tuscan Honey would look good on me’”.

When do we lose the capability to be so honest and accept such honesty in return? Are kids better people than adults? Maybe. But they don’t pay bills or have jobs or do laundry, so maybe not.




Unreal, huh?

So you guys, I’m not usually one for political commentary. Let me rephrase that. I am a full time mother that is on the go from morning-til-night and am so involved in my family, friends, and spirituality that jumping on the interwebs with my opinion usually just doesn’t register. I may discuss things here or there with my inner circle (that term makes me feel so special), but that’s about it.

But I had to share this.

I was having a discussion with Optimus Prime’s mom last week about the Mike Brown case. And she was appropriately outraged. She was so upset that things like this still happened, that inequality in police treatment still exist. I was shocked that she was unaware of that fact. So I related the following story:

I have been in the car when a boyfriend of mine that happened to be black was pulled over for no apparent reason. Several times. I have been in the car when said boyfriend asked to step out of car and searched for no apparent reason. Fortunately, I was not in the car the time he got fed up, cussed the officer out, and was arrested.

However, there was a time when I was in the car.

The time the Big Man got pulled over.

This was when we were first dating. Keep in mind, the Big Man was the first White guy I had ever dated, so at this point, all of my police experiences were the same.

So he’s taking me home in his big lifted Ford pickup. He’s rolling at about 67 in a 60 mph zone. No big, right? Welp, he gets pulled over by an unmarked car. I begin rummaging around for his registration and proof of insurance in the glove compartment.

Officer says: “You know how fast you were going?”

Big Man: “This is bulls—t.”

Um, what did he just say?

Officer: “What was that?”

Big Man: “I said, this is bulls—t”

Oh, god.

Big Man: “I wasn’t going that fast and you f—king know it.”

Oh, god. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. We’re going to jail. I can’t go to jail. I’m not tough; I like Star Wars and think May the Fourth should be a day off. I am not a ride or die chick. I’m a stay home and live chick.

Officer: “Sir—“


Officer: “—you were going 67 in a 60—“

Big Man: “That’s bulls—t and I’m not paying for a f—king ticket.

At this point my eyes are bugging out of  and my hands are shaking with the registration and proof of insurance. I know for a fact that if this officer asks the Big Man to get out of this vehicle the cop will get scared because of his size and then there will be shootout. This man is going to be killed right in front of me and then I’m (for some reason) going to jail. My parents can’t afford bail. I’ll be forced to share a cell with some chick name Brandii who used to strip and got caught selling bootleg DVD’s out of her trunk.

This was what was happening in my head.
This was what was happening in my head.

I hand over the papers. Officer Scary looks at them. He looks at me, hands the papers back to the Big Man.

Officer: “Slow down, next time.” And then he walks the green beans away. Just like that. I. Am. Stupefied.

Me: “What just happened?”

Big Man: “He was trying to give me some bulls—t ticket and I wasn’t having it.”

Me: “What do you mean, you weren’t having it? What choice do you have?”

He didn’t understand the question. He really didn’t. Not having a choice never even occurred to him. Being in danger never occurred to him. The possibility of getting arrested never occurred to him. Getting shot wasn’t even a passing thought for him. He believed, still believes, that he has the absolute right to disagree with an officer of the law. What’s even more telling: I still don’t believe that that right really exists. Not for me, anyway.  And I tell my kids that they’d better not even think about it. 

At the end of my story, Optimus Prime’s mom’s eyes were wide. She sat in complete disbelief. But, really, there was nothing she could say.

And I didn’t know what else to tell her. So we starting talking about our boys and internet porn.  I’ll have to tell you about that someday.

I got older. The snacks stayed the same age.

Because of dear old Gretchen, I spend a lot of time in gas stations. And of course, there’s all that junk food at said filling stations, most of it so obviously bad for you that thinking about it makes you bloated and gassy.

However, occasionally, I’ll see the junk food of my youth and I will foolishly purchase said food to try to revisit the past. Sometimes the past should just stay the past, though. For instance: 

1.) Jolly rancher sticks. I was sooo stoked to see these a couple of months ago. In pink lemonade flavor, too! They were like fifty cents, instead of fifteen like back in the day. I didn’t care; I bought four because I wanted to share the joy of these sweet and sour bar of rock candy. I forgot, though, that the instant the candy came in contact with saliva, it becomes glue that sticks your top and bottom teeth together until it dissolves into a pink lemonade flavored knife that slices your tongue up.

“What’s wrong with your mouth mom? Did you lose a tooth?”

“Thut up and get me thome icthe.” I promptly threw the other three in the garbage.

See also: Now N Laters, Laffy Taffy

2.) Big League Chew. I actually saw this at Old Navy. I was so excited to share this with my kids that I forgot that the reason you looked like you had a big ol’ dip in your mouth was because you had to keep stuffing more of the shredded gum in there as it lost its flavor instantly.

See also: Fruit Stripe Gum, Bazooka Joe

See, look at him. He knew this gum was nasty.
See, look at him. He knew this gum was nasty.

3.) Pepperoni Stix. This was all my fault. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that there are no good foods that end in x. (See Weetabix.) I used to eat these constantly in seventh grade. That was probably because I had a seventh grade digestive system, whereas now I have a seventh decade digestive system. You bite into it and weird meat-flavored grease shoots into your mouth and down your esophagus. This isn’t a big deal when you’re twelve—The Destroyer can eat them with impunity. Now, that grease combined with the vague stick shaped meat-ish product is enough to put me in the ER.

See also: Slim Jim

4.) Corn nuts. I guess when I was a kid I never realized how much they smelled like feet. I don’t want to eat feet, you guys.

See also: Fritos

5.) Soft-baked cookies. As a kid, I LOVED these. LOVED them. I think it’s because they were all soft and chewy, not like Chips Ahoy, which crumbled into dust after two bites. I must not have realized the amount of preservatives that have to go into a small baked good in order for it to be able to bend into a U shape without breaking in half.  They’ll survive the Apocalypse, is what I’m saying.

See also: Twinkies

So, it’s Friday. What snacks have you tried to revisit?

Worst. Restaurant. Ever.

Biridie and I went to a restaurant yesterday and it was quite an experience. I warned the owner that I was going to write a scathing review, so here it is.

First, I get there and there’s only one table and one chair. Already a little dicey, but hey, maybe the food was worth it. So we have to take turns sitting at this lonely table which was right next to the kitchen. Whatever.

Then it turns out that the chef and the waiter were the same person. What kind of place…? Fine whatever, I was starving at this point anyway.

He asks me what I want. He’s awfully cute, so I smile and say, “I would like the penne with the roasted red peppers and truffle oil. Oh, and the bruschetta to start.”

Do you know what he did? He leans over my menu, points at it, and tells me, “That says hamburger. One hamburger with fries coming up.”

WHAT???? Then, the waitress arrives. I guess she only works when she wants to. She washed her hands for like ten minutes, and then came out and slammed down my coffee cup and gave me my water in a flower pot. I shrugged—at least the flower pot was clean. The coffee was excellent, I must say, so I figured that at least the hamburger that had been forced upon me would be pretty good.

Well, it was a bit bland. And the fries were cold. I asked for salt, and the chef/waiter told me I didn’t need any salt. But then he brings me pepper and insisted on putting the pepper on for me. He puts it one everything. Then the waitress comes out and takes my plate before I’m done and washes it. At least she refilled my coffee.

At this point, I’m ready to tell the chef/waiter exactly what I think of him and his establishment. As soon as I open my mouth, he tells me, “That will be $57.00.”

I almost passed out.

“I’m not paying for that. You wouldn’t let me order what I wanted, I didn’t get to finish my food, and—“

“It’s time for you to go.” He ushers me out of the chair and then Birdie sits down before I can warn her about the place.

“What’ll it be, ma’am?” He doesn’t even have anything to write down her order, so I figure that’s why he makes everyone get a hamburger.

“Pancakes with a side of bacon.”

“Coming right up.” Wait a gosh-dern minute here! What the—oh I can’t even.

My review of this restaurant.
My review of this restaurant.

But just when I thought she was getting preferential treatment, he comes out with the pancake still on the skillet and the slams the skillet on the table. I am not kidding.

“Where’s my bacon?”

“It’s in there.”

“I ordered pancakes with a side of bacon. Not bacon pancakes.”

“Just eat it.”

“With what? You didn’t give me any utensils.”

Audible sigh. “Then use your hands.” And he walks off.

“So I’m supposed to suffer second-degree burns so I can pick up this sizzling hot bacon?” But then the waitress come to the rescue and brings Birdie a spatula. Then she disappears again.

Birdie is beside herself. “I can’t believe this place!”

Our chef/waiter/crook comes back out and says “Next time, get a hamburger. That’ll be $82.00.”

“You’d better not read Yelp! My review is going to burn your eyes out it’s gonna be so bad! No one will ever come here again! I’m shutting you down!” We threatened and picked up our bags.

“See you next time!” He waves at us cheerily. He didn’t care what we said. He knew we’d be back. We usually go three to four times a week. You’d think they would treat their only customers better. But they won’t. Because they know we have no choice.

It was time to go, anyway. Cause, you know, this was Kid Sensation’s restaurant, and my niece BeanBean (Birdie’s baby girl) was the waitress and it was her naptime.

Their customer service skills are terrible, though.


Soap for her mouth, please.

School will be starting again in about a month. I can’t even tell you how much I can’t wait for that.

But at the same time, I worry.

I’ve already told you guys about the girls that go to school with The Destroyer. And he’ll be in seventh grade this year, so it’s only gonna get worse. I’ve come to terms with that.

What I’m having a time with is Wondergirl. She’ll be in fifth grade this year, and these girls are getting too grown too soon. Actual conversation from last year:

“Mom, I didn’t know that some girls call their ginas different things.” (Pronounced jy-na, it’s her word for vagina.) I didn’t like where this conversation was going already. I felt like saying, “Well, those girls grow up to be strippers. At places with names like The Lil’ Bo Peek. Is that what you want?” But I try not to shut my kids down immediately. I usually give them about five minutes before shut-down.
“Is that right? How did you find this out?”
“Well, there’s this one girl in my class who calls it her c—t.”
I think I blacked out. I know my heart stopped. I had chest pains, dizziness, and stomachaches. But I forced myself to remain calm.

This is exactly how I felt.  Except I could only scream NOOOOOO! inside my head.
This is exactly how I felt. Except I could only scream NOOOOOO! inside my head.

The thing is I was prepared for coochie. I was prepared for va-jay-jay. I was even prepared for,*gasp* the p-word.
But the c-word? In fourth grade?
So I stammered out a weak, “Really. Well, first, let me tell you that that is not a very nice word for a young girl to use. I’m not even going to repeat it.” True story: I never even heard that word out loud until I was twenty and started working retail. We had the universe’s worst district manager, but even then, I had to clutch my pearls when someone called her that. But when I was nine I. DID. NOT. KNOW. THERE. WAS. SUCH. A. WORD. And I sure as heck didn’t know to apply the word to my vagina.
Then it dawns on me: in what context in the fourth grade did this conversation take place?
So I ask. Wondergirl replies off-handedly, “Oh, she got a hair on hers and showed it to us in the bathroom.”
My knees almost gave out. Is Wondergirl telling me that another girl in her fourth grade class decided to pull her pants down in the bathroom in front of a bunch of other girls while telling them, “Hey look you guys, I have a hair on my c-word”?!?!? Is that what happens in fourth grade?
I still didn’t freak out. But I sure did pour myself a vodka tonic. We were WAY beyond wine at this point. If I had had a Valium…
I told her that when she pays bills in her own house, she can call her vagina whatever she wants. Until then, certain words were off limits.
It has never come up again.
Can you see why I’m a bit worried? What’s next? Whew, I need a vodka tonic just thinking about it. Please you guys, tell me that that was the worst and it get better. Even if you don’t mean it, just tell me that. Otherwise, I’m going to need some kind of prescription.

Not social.

This weekend I thought briefly about getting back on Facebook.  Then I took another sip of wine and realized that it wasn’t going to happen.  To be honest, I am not big on social media.  Not because I’m just too cool for school, it’s just that social media overwhelms me.  Every time.  I have no Facebook, I don’t have Twitter, and lately I’ve even been Instagram failing. Instagram–where all you have to do is put up a picture–exhausts me. 

Is it because everyone else is having such a great life?  Maybe.  But I have realized (and I know this is a trip because I write a blog that is all about me) that I really am not that interesting.  I don’t think that a picture of my family standing in front of some scenery is interesting to anyone else but my family.  And when I say my family, that excludes me.  Nor do I think that a picture stating some random accomplishment of mine is very exciting to anyone else either.  “Hey look at me!  I just finished a triathlon!  I’m so great!”  (Although I think if I posted that, either the next line would be “By, that, I meant finished watching one.  Haha.” Or an obituary containing the following statement,”Vida was awarded an honorary triathlon trophy after her attempt to put on a Lycra suit before the event resulted in an explosion killing her and wounding four others, three of whom are in still in critical condition.”)

The bad thing is, if you are a decent person, when other people post stuff like this and you know them personally–or, really, even if you don’t–you are forced to be positive.  You can’t look at someone’s Instagram picture of their meal at Red Robin all smiling and pointing at their burger and leave a message underneath that says “BOOORING!”  It’s rude. And then other people call you names and caps yell at you and tell you how jealous you are.  Of a burger.  

I don’t Twitter because I would buckle under the pressure of having something witty and interesting to say. I don’t have to be witty and interesting in real life because I’m pretty.  (None of that is true. I don’t have to be witty and interesting because I’m already married so I don’t have to make friends if I don’t want to.  The Big Man is stuck listening to whatever I feel like prattling on about.)

I guess I could post all of my fails to Instagram and such.  Like instead of posting a picture of a delicious meal that I cooked, post one where I failed miserably and ended up with some type of burnt goo.  Or instead of me looking hot in an outfit, post one where only prayer and a blowtorch could get me out of said outfit.  Oh, and how about instead of posting how pretty my makeup looks, post the time I tried the smoky eye and ended up looking like the Hamburglar. 

It was exactly this terrifying.
It was exactly this terrifying.

I actually sat down to write about something else entirely.   I have no idea how I got here.  Oh well.  I’m going to go post this on Instagram now.  Be sure to like me! Or you can message “BOOOORING!” if you want.