Pat the Wifey

Once you have read your child's favorite book 10,000 times, you start to recreate the story to entertain yourself. I am about to hide Pat the Bunny for a few days (out of sight, out of mind) but before I do, here is my vandalized version:

PAT THE WIFEY

Here are husband and wifey. They do lots of things. Here are some of the things they do.

Wifey pats the husband. Husband falls asleep.

Wifey plays "I have a headache." Husband plays "I didn't order all that porn."

Wifey asks for flowers. Husband tells her to buy some the next time she is at the supermarket.

Wifey looks in the mirror at her saggy boobs. Husband looks in the mirror and trims his nose hair.

Husband feels Wifey's scratchy legs. Wifey uses Husband's "good razors" to shave scratchy legs.

Wifey puts her finger through her ring and wishes it was bigger.

That's all. Bye-Bye! Husband and Wifey are flipping you off! Can you flip them off, too!

Good job!

For the record this is NOT autobiographical.

Sexy True Love

I have found True Love and its name is Magic Eraser! Is there nothing you can't do???

Though I may have an affair with Swiffer dusters down the road...

Sexy REAL Dalmatians

I don’t know if scientists have isolated the Norman Rockwell chemical that is released in the brain when one has a child but it is responsible for the parental romanticizing of family outings. Even a mundane trip to the market is an idyllic painting with Baby Boy skipping through piles of fresh produce as I gently select the ripest specimens for the pie all of us will create from scratch that eve.

However, that snapshot excludes toppling displays of paper towels, flour all over the floor and The Dog scarfing down all of the ingredients as I scream for the billionth time,

“Oven! Hot! Danger! Sssssssssszzzzzzz” (that is what I imagine replicates the sizzling sound of flesh touching the broiler.)

We purchased tickets to 101 Dalmatians the Musical in Boston for the day after Christmas. The selling point was that they had rescued shelter dogs and trained them to be in the show. Real dogs! Sure, Baby Boy is only 19-months old, but we were certain that his obsession with canines would have him riveted, thus quiet and still.

We imagined our family trip to Boston: all dressed up to go to the ever-stunning Wang Theatre; taking in the show (culture!); surprising Baby Boy with a stop at FAO Schwarz; then a scrumptious dinner and back home.

In the weeks leading up, we told Baby Boy of the play we were taking him to where real, live pups would be jumping and dancing just for him. His eyes would get huge and happy and he would let out a breathless, “Hoof, hoof,” which is what he thinks dogs say.

All the road stops at Starbucks must have affected him because once in our seats he continuously rolled from my lap to Darling Husband’s never failing to kick the heads of the patrons in front of us.

“Honey, just sit and wait. The real doggies will be coming out any minute!”

Roll, kick, roll, kick. Never has my son received so many over-the-shoulder dirty looks.

Darling Husband finally took him to run in the lobby as I sat there more horrified at the talk of drowning the puppies (because Dalmatian puppies don’t have spots) and wanting to skin them for coats. Am I just oversensitive in my vegetarian days or is this just macabre?

By intermission no real dogs had made an appearance and none of the ushers could tell us when they would be on stage. One mentioned he “saw some real dogs in the alleyway across the street eating old Chinese food if that would make the kid happy.”

I guess his head kicking reputation had gotten out.

We left, tails between our legs.

Definitely a trip to the biggest toy store would make up for our lies of performing pooches.

“Oh, wait until you see this toy store, Buddy! There is a clock that sings to you and you can pick out any toy you want and then we will eat ice cream!”

His hands clapped in glee.

We walked up and down the wind tunnel that is Boylston ankle deep in frozen crust as the stroller angrily lurched on the uneven ice.

I finally ducked into City Sports to ask.

“Ah, dude that closed like three years ago,” a Team Player said.

“Like gone, gone?”

“Like goooooone.”

Crap.

Baby Boy’s limit on broken promises is two. His howl signified this trip was over. We thawed out in Au Bon Pain. Baby Boy sat eating fruit as Darling Husband and I wallowed in our shame.

“He will never believe anything else we tell him,” I wailed as I scolded my tongue on mediocre coffee.

A very attractive older couple I had noticed earlier stopped by our table.

“We just wanted to tell you what a gorgeous son you have,” the silver haired lady smiled. “So happy and well-behaved!”

Baby Boy stroked her fur coat, his mouth stuffed with grapes.

“We don’t have kids of our own, but it is always nice to see families with good children.”

The man leaned in, “Do you like doggies, Captain?”

“Hoof! Hoof!”

“Well, you should ask your parents to take you to see 101 Dalmatians, I hear there are real dogs!”

I guess parents aren’t the only ones cursed with the Norman Rockwell genes.

Sexy Disclosure

Along with eggnog and other mysterious delights the holiday brings comes The Question: Sooooo, when you are going to give Baby Boy a little sibllllling?

Here is the answer I don't have the guts to say to your faces.

Never.

I am selfish. I am lazy. I am thin again. I am sleeping more than 3 hours at a time. I am happy with one and that, my dears, is that.

Wuz the Nite b4 Xmas, Redux

T’was two nights before Christmas and all through the mall

Last minute shoppers began a calamitous crawl.

The stockings were hung, their insides still bare

Wives’ expectations were high, so buyer beware!

The children were texting from their designer beds

While visions of foreclosure danced in my head.

And mama in her Gucci and I on the couch,

(That will teach me to be a Holiday Grouch.)

When out on the street there rose such a ruckus

I slumped back in the leather, hoped it was bupkus.

It just got louder so I turned on the TV

That’s all you can do when the sun sets at 3.

Before the Wii fired up, a knock at the door

There stood a man claiming, “I’m poor.”

His eyes were sunken, overall he looked sick

But he kept saying his name was St. Nick.

“Prove it,” I said, “where is your sleigh?”

“It got repoed,” he sighed. “The deer ran away.

I’ve been living in the park under the trees.

My life is over; no one believes.”

I asked him to come in, got him a drink

Which he gulped right down, thanked with a wink.

It was in that little moment I knew

what this old man was saying had to be true.

“Start from the beginning. What happened, St. Nick?

What happened to Santa, so lively and quick?”

He started speaking as the clock gently ticked

“It’s the children,” he cried. “They don’t see the magic.

They have their fancy gadgets and expensive jeans

They have lost all concept of what this holiday means.

All they care about is what they get at the store

They certainly don’t need elves and me anymore.”

As he sat there crying I suddenly realized

I had become what I’d always despised:

Someone focused on what I could buy,

Time with my family? I hardly ever try.

I’m living to work and ignoring my life

I can’t remember kissing my wife.

When the kids climb on me, I tell them to scat

Really, what kind of father treats them like that?

It is all so vapid, those boxes and bows

Substituting time watching them grow.

In a few short years they will be on their own

What happens then to my baby birds flown?

“Santa, what can I do to make it all better?”

From his foul coat he pulled out a letter.

I recognized the envelope though it was ripped

It was my very own childhood script.

“There was a time when you did believe

In the magic that this season weaves.

Remember that feeling and pass it along

And soon we can right this terrible wrong.”

I promised I would give it a try

and hugged him as we said goodbye.

Then he turned as he walked out of sight

“Now go give your family a big kiss goodnight.”

Sexy Mush

Like most Toddlers, Baby Boy is obsessed with Goodnight Moon.

Like most men of a certain age, Darling Husband is obsessed with his belly, which despite moderate effort, is growing.

Last evening during our 4,000th reading of Goodnight Moon, we asked Baby Boy to point to the red balloon, cow jumping over the moon, quiet old lady whispering "hush" etc. which he did perfectly.

When I asked him, "Where is the mush?"

Without hesitation, he turned and patted Darling Husband's stomach.

Oops.

Goodnight self-confidence.

Sexy Stocking Stuffer

I was in French Club in High School. In order to raise money for a trip to France (that we were never allowed to go on) we sold Toblerone Candy Bars. For those of you missing out on this bit of bliss, they are triangular chocolate bars filled with honey and almond nougat. Right??

Without fail, I would eat the entire box and it always shocked me when I had to pay $50 for the box out of my own pocket (or whatever I could steal from my mom's purse).

My tight jeans, however, did not lie.

Skip ahead several years. Baby Boy and I are at the gourmet shop by the house and I found a huge bag of mini size Toblerone bars!! I bought them all for "stocking stuffers" but I imagine the only thing that will be stuffed this week are my thighs.

Sexy Pap

I had my annual "lady part" exam today. I love my doctor because every year she says, "My, don't you have a beautiful vagina!"

Seriously, can we ever hear that enough?

Sexy Santa

My Christmas wish is for an Anti-Santa to come and take all the toys that have taken over my living room AWAY!!

The Sexy Unfound

When I was in college, my roommate and I rescued (or stole, depending on what side of the law you are on) a pair of ferrets from the animal lab. Poor little things had numbers tattooed across their necks and one was almost blind. We named them Opal and Saturday.

The amazing thing was what incredible hoarders these little ones were. It took us several days and accusatory fights before we found the remote control, bras, phones and a negative pregnancy test (phew!) tucked neatly in a far corner under the bed.

Anytime anything went missing, Opal and Saturday were the obvious targets. The good thing was that their tiny ferret brains only ever thought to hide things under the bed, so nothing was lost for long.

My son is a ferret. He, with lightening speed, grabs and hides things before you even realize what has happened. Your only clue is his shit-eating grin with his small hand turned up by his face and a squeaky, "Where? Where? Where?"

I found Darling Husband's iPod buried under the ash in the wood stove. I found several library books tucked between couch pillows. I even found my favorite shoes under the dog bed. Lately, however, I have not been able to find the things he has hidden. Sadly, he quickly forgets not only what he has taken but where he chose for the final resting place.

My phone has been missing for hours now and no matter the bribes or intense questioning, all I get is "Where? Where? Where?"

I guess the bright side is that I wanted a new phone anyway.

UPDATE: found it in the toilet. Goddam you, "If it's yellow, let it mellow..."

Sexy Snow Day

Sadly, when you are a mom and the radio blares that school is cancelled, rarely that means rolling back into sweet slumber until noon. Kids smell "Day Off" at 5 am and start the day with the gusto of a bride at the Filene's Basement wedding dress sale.

We are suppose to get upwards of a foot of snow today; as of now I gather we are over halfway there. It is so beautiful how the puffs gather in the V's of the limbs like feathery webbing. Absorbing the beauty takes about 4 minutes...I have 8 hours (solid, since Baby Boy has decided not to nap for the past week) to figure out some creative way to entertain him.

I finally dragged the Forbidden Kitchen out of the basement. (It was given to us and Darling Husband refuses to let Baby Boy play with said kitchen. He has never said as much, but I think there is some part of him that really thinks it will "make him gay." ) There isn't even a drop of pink or a frilly gingham apron or hint of Vanilla scent, nonetheless...

For two hours I have been relaxing with coffee as Baby Boy sets plastic cupcakes in the fry pan, sticks small spoons in the pants and his head in the oven. Little Sylvia Plath.

Let the snow fall! I am being served paper pancakes and all is right with the world.

If only this sticks for another 5 hours...

Sexy Slips

Freudian Slip of the Day: Overheard a woman touting the wonders of an intimate marriage, "I don't desire other men at all. I love having a monotonous marriage!"

Oh, sweet monogomy...lol

Sexy AA

I took Baby Boy to see Stellaluna the play this morning and then out to lunch--it was a lovely date. There is a cafe that has not only excellent food but a play area for kids, a combo as hard to find as rich AND good-looking.

It bugs me however, that despite plenty of open seats in the non-kid area, people will sit next to the toys and then glare at the kids as they do kid things.

Today there were two women in deep conversation on the sofa next to the giant chalkboard, which Baby Boy is obsessed with. He quickly became obsessed with their phones and books that were spread across the table. I quickly became tired of pulling him away from their things and finally decided to teach them a lesson--mainly, if you hate kids, then go away.

He snatched a book from the table and scooted away. One of the ladies screeched out "He took my Alcoholics Anonymous book!" causing everyone to stop mid-sentence and stare at the former drunk.

I guess they need to add a new step #1: Defining Anonymous.

Sexy Scientist?

It's interesting that when you are trying to conceive, you can predict to the hour when you will get your period. These days, I can't even tell you in what week Aunt Flo is coming to visit. This isn't necessarily a problem since I don't make a habit of wearing white pants, but I never seem to have Tampons around when needed.

I got my period last night and after digging through closets, suitcases, dop kits and my glove compartment, I located three slightly squashed tampons in my "summer going out" bag. I should mention here we live a solid 20 minutes from any sort of store and all the neighbors have already undergone The Great Change, so popping out for supplies really isn't an option. Usually I can catch Darling Husband before he leaves work and bribe him into stopping, but invariably he comes home with Super Giant Extra Beamy ones that fit women who have had 12 kids...at once.

Then I caught my Mad Scientist Darling Son, in the kitchen happily dunking the golden Tampons in Dog's water. His glee at watching their rapid and exponential expansion would have been hilarious not given my current dire situation.

It will be nice when he is old enough to drive to the store and do that walk of "shame."

Sexy Sharing

When I was young and people mentioned Black Friday, I became very scared. For some reason, I believed I would be forced to eat black jelly beans all day and mandatory licorice is a terrifying concept to a seven-year old. Not that the real Black Friday is any better--shopping at Walmart at 4 a.m. is akin to drinking cod liver oil after brushing your teeth. (No offense to those of you who enjoy the taste of minty fish.)

Black Friday is called such because it is usually the day retailers move from “the red” into turning a profit. Black is a gloomy (albeit slimming) color. A day of complete unbridled spending on everything you never knew Person X really needed should at least be called Maroon Friday, which is the color of buyer’s remorse.

This year I propose we invent a new type of Friday that pulls away from the in-your-face marketing of the season and gets back to basics. I seem to recall lyrics from a Christmas carol mentioning compassion, reflection and loving your neighbor--though I could be confusing that with an episode of Desperate Housewives.

Pink Friday: a day of total selflessness. While I agree supporting the economy is vital, there will be ample time for last minute crusades to find the perfect, or at least returnable, gift. Let’s take this one day to support those who really need help, not argyle socks.

Here are some wonderful causes to inspire your inner-elf:

The Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee; elephants.com. They provide care for sick, old and needy elephants that have been removed from zoos or circuses. $30 feeds an elephant for a day. They also educate the public on the crises facing elephants in the wild as well as in captivity. If you ever are in the area they welcome volunteers.

Your local animal shelter or Petfinder.com: Along with the housing crisis came an overabundance of pets dropped at shelters. If considering giving into Jr’s obvious hints for a pooch or feline, please adopt rather than buying one at a pet store. Adopting our dog was one of the most wonderful things we have done for our family.

A Billion for a Billion; www.wfp.org/1billion: The World Food Programme launched a campaign that challenges the billion internet users to help feed the billion starving people in the world. Just a $5.00 donation feeds a baby for a year. $50.00 feeds a school-aged child for a year.

Blessings in a Backpack; blessingsinabackpack.org: One in six American children don’t know where their next meal is coming from. In a country like ours, that statistic is disgusting. This charity sends children home with a backpack filled with food each weekend. $80.00 feeds one child for a weekend for the entire school year.

Any Soldier; http://anysoldier.com: This organization puts your mail and packages into the grateful hands of the soldiers overseas that don’t receive a lot, if any, mail.

Give Yourself: donate blood; pick up trash around your neighborhood; work in a soup kitchen; read to the elderly; smile at a stranger; use your local library; ask a teenager what music you should listen to...there are tons of ways we can all help make our communities the places we want them to be.

Shop Locally: If the potent pull of Black Friday’s deals is too much for you, then please support your local boutiques, artisans and watering holes. As much as I love Starbucks and Target, we need to maintain the charm and uniqueness that makes our cities shine, regardless of how much tinsel we throw around.