The 4-Day Q-Tip Experiment – IT SUCKS

I guess that I am bored – or OCD, or perhaps just uninteresting.  Any one who has the time or inclination to actually follow through with  4-day Q-Tip experiment, definitely doesn’t have enough to do and shows signs of some sort of ‘disorder’ right?

Even so – I did it anyway.

Firstly, It’s summer time, which of course means that the mess in my home has been amped up like a zillion times the norm, along with noise levels, food consumption, talking,  towel washing (because of the pool), toilet paper usage, the non-flushing of toilets, wrappers and trashed being stuffed in the couch cushions and of course bickering.  I pretty much spend my time from dusk till dawn on the edge of my seat just waiting for something frustrating to happen.

Well, the other day – I had enough already.  I told the kids that they had been off for two weeks now and that there would be some rules. No one is allowed to put a dish in the sink and instead has to wash it. When the dryer beeps, they have to stop what they are doing and race to empty the contents.  Trash goes in the trash can. When they are hungry, they have to find something to eat for themselves rather than whimper, “mama, I am hungry!” And, if they don’t want me to bitch about how dirty their rooms are – they need to keep the doors closed.  So far it’s worked out well.

Then on Wednesday, I noticed a bent, dirty Q-tip lying on the hallway floor between the living room and kitchen.  I am not a fan of used Q-tips. Probably because I find them everywhere, with the ends tinged yellow and brown.  (Yes, I am that crazeee mom who actually lets kids use Q-tips in their EARS….I know shock and horror).  It’s just plain gross. Grosser than a used tissue, and just as gross (to me at least) as going into a public restroom and finding someone has forgotten to flush their floating friends. But a Q-tip lying in the most traveled pathway of the house?


“Whose Q-tip is this?” I quipped, of course only to receive the generic response NOT MINE!  “Well, I AM NOT, picking it up – so I suggest that someone picks up this gross, bent, discolored, germy Q-tip up and puts it in the trash”  (Which by the way is only a few feet away.

Whatever happened after that, I promised myself that I would not sweep, vacuum, or bend down to pick up that said Q-tip.  I figured the kids, by hearing my tone of voice when I ‘suggested’ it got picked up, would swoon in and take care of this little oversight.  I figured if they didn’t my husband would.

Now, fast forward to Sunday.  Yesterday.  And guess what little visitor was still lying practically unscathed in nearly the exact same spot that it was on Wednesday?  Yep – THE Q-TIP.

How do my family members not see it?  How do they invite their friends over, and not feel embarrassed that there is a used ear cleaner lying on their floor?  How many times did they just look down, see it and walk on over it over the course of 4 days?  Why is it so damn hard to pick up a Q-tip?  Or throw away an empty toilet paper roll?  Let me just say, I noticed that Q-tip practically 641 million times over the last four days.  I dreamt about the Q-tip.  I closed my eyes hard and prayed that someone, anyone – would pick up the Q-tip and throw it in the trash so that I could dance in circles under the full super moon.

Nope.  Nada.  Not a chance.  As of last night, the Q-tip – which has now collected dust and dirt from the hard wood floors, still sat in its happy little home on the hardwood floor.  Really!?!

Apparently, I am raising a bunch of gross and disgusting kids, girls nonetheless – that although will NOT step foot in a porta-potty, and have an emotional meltdown when one of their siblings take a sip from their glass, or touch their food – they are not bothered by some persons unknown ear wax lying on the floor.

The good news is that this morning the Q-tip was gone.  Maybe some big roach came and picked it up and carried it off.  Maybe it got stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoes and they unknowingly carried it out of the house.  Maybe the friendly ghosts that creep around my home at night just decided to extend their immortal arms and remove it so I could move one.  Who knows.  Who cares. But I do know, that I DID NOT PICK IT UP.  And when I asked the kids who picked up the Q-tip, they all quoted from The Little Red Hen and said, “Not I!”

My advice.  Don’t bother with a 4-day Q-tip experiment.  You will only be disappointed. Instead, choose to move on and pay attention to the positive things in your life rather than the dirty Q-tips.  Trust me, you will be much, much happier.

That’s My Chair!!!

Kids are ridiculous creatures.  Sure, we love ‘em, but spend almost 24 hours in a house without a power, and you will quickly be bowing your head in gratitude for technology, and TV’s and everything else in the house that makes noise and therefore entertains children. 

During our stint without power, the kids seemed to work extra hard to get on my nerves.  At first, they were full of new world problems that were fairly insignificant compared to all the newly bought meat that I worried would rot in the freezer before the power was restored.  But then, the fighting and bickering turned to things like chairs.  You would think a candle lit home, a few hours past dusk, and all of the family sitting comfortably in the living room would foster conversation.  But nope!  It fostered arguments.  Every time kid one or kid two would get up, kid three and kid four would steal their chair.  And so commenced the nagging argument of “that’s my CHAIR!”

Let me rewind just a bit.  We have a sectional couch in our living room and a standard sized couch.  And then, we have one single recliner.  Apparently, this reclining chair has some sort of magical powers because the kids are always vying to sit in it.  When one plants their butt down into the cushions, they will holler, “Save my seat,” as loud as possible if they have to get up to pee.  And if they think for a moment that one of their siblings is going to steal their chair (which is pretty much a given at this point) while they pee, they will simply opt to hold it in as lon as possible.

I bowed out of the “Save my seat, ” and “Shotgun,” argument several years ago. Quite honestly, it was too difficult to monitor who sat where when, or last and whose turn it was to sit in ‘the chair’ or the front seat of the car.  This has turned the entire argument over cushioned property into a free for all.  The other night without power, it was an all out war, as the favorite chair in the house was also closest to the candles (and therefore the lights) and the kids all felt that THEY should be the one sitting in it.  The conversations went something like this…..

Mama remember the other day when we were watching Dance Moms and Shelby got to sit in the chair,” or “Mama, I was just getting up to get a cookie and she stole my seat,” or “Mama, you NEVER let me sit in that chair and so and so sister ALWAYS gets to sit in it..”  This went on for an hour or more in the dim candlelight of what could have been a very romantic and peaceful time with the family. Then, I focused on the flickering candle flame and all I heard was screeching and sentences filled with “blah, blah blahs.”

There were tears.  And arguments.  And bickering.  Until eventually, I told the kids in a completely freaked out manner,  that no one under the age of 18, under any terms or conditions,  was allowed to sit in the chair ever again.  From that point forward the favorite chair was to become an adult only chair, perfect for lounging and Kindle Reading, or beer drinking while watching ESPN.  I took this new rule one step further and told them any child under the age of 18 who dared to sit their ass in ‘the chair’ would be responsible for the next toilet cleaning, without gloves, until all the gross spots underneath the seat were completely gone!

This afternoon, I walked in the living room and found kid three sitting in the adult only lounge chair.  As I approached her, she thought I forgot about the deal made the other night.  I walked into the bathroom and came out with the toilet brush, wielding it as though it was sword.  Big blue eyes stared back at me, horrified, that I was actually going to follow through on the chair rules.  I think she sensed that questioning me at this point was not a good idea, so she rose up from the chair, grabbed the toilet brush and Clorox scrub and shouted, “Thats my CHAIR, save MY Seat,” with authority only a middle child can muster.  Then she looked at me sideways and said, “What!  The toilet will already be cleaned – so I can sit in it when I am done.  That’s only fair, right?”

I still cant figure out if I was bamboozled or not.  But the bottom line is that my toilet got cleaned without me having to do it.  And I know that the strong pull to sit in the mafical reclining chair is so strong, that I may very well never have to clean the toilet again.  I think that is what you call a win-win situation. 

School Pick Up Lines – Manners for Asshats

Let me confess that I have probably taught my children more bad words while waiting in and driving through school pick up lines than is considered socially acceptable. 

My kids go to a school where there are no such things as busses, which means that droves of parents are forced to drive their brattlings to school every day.  Every day between the hours of 7:25am and 8:15am and 1:45pm and 3:15pm, the tiny dot of a town becomes the perfect poster child for minivan and SUV commercials.

54732-45515The problem is that people have no manners when it comes to school pick up lines.  None.  Nada.  And when you spend as much time in pick up lines as I do, you realize just how narcissistic many people in this world really are.

With 800+ students, and roads that can barely accommodate a garbage truck, and stop signs that are literally spaced 1/4 mile apart from one another between three different schools - you have to expect traffic, and congestion, and wear and tear on your car.  But you would think that since we do this every gosh darn day of the week, that we would learn that there are certain rules, certain standards of etiquette that people would follow.

But nope!  Every day, there are multiple asshats who screw the whole process up for the rest of us.

First of all, there is no need to be driving 65+ miles per hour through a school parking lot or around a school. All it does is get you to the end of the line a little quicker, where you will have to wait like the rest of us.  And trying to get as close to the person in front of you as possible, doesn’t actually get you through the line quicker.  It causes fender benders, because at some point – you are going to turn around to cuss at your kids for fighting or wiping boogers on the seats, and then you end up bumping into the car in front of you.  Then, you have literally ruined the entire morning for hundreds of other people and embarrassed your kids all because you wanted to kiss the bumper of the car in front of you.  Not to mention the fact that this is a school zone.  Slow the fuck down you idiots.

Secondly, don’t pull up to the drop off part of the line and THEN realize that you have to fix your daughters stupid hairbow, or finish signing a permission slip -or finish putting on your mascara, or help your kid get his or her jacket on.   This is not a red light.

If you are at the door of the school, your child needs to get the hell out of the car as quickly as possible – and you need to pull forward.  If you need a quick kiss, then so be it – but this is not the time to rehash all the life lessons you have ever taught your child.

I have seen parents STOP the car, put it in park, and then get out of the car (in their pajamas) to get something like a book bag from the back of your vehicle and then run around the car to give their kid yet another hug.  Seriously!?  Did you not realize that your child was going to need the book bag BEFORE you reached the drop off point?  Do we really have to see what you look like without your makeup?  Do you NOT see the hundreds of people waiting behind you.  Asshat!

Rule number 3!  No butting in line.  Who does this?  Butting in line is one of those things that kindergarten teachers spend a lot of time trying to train children NOT to do.  Yet, every day there is some entitled parent who is too damn good to wait in the line like everyone else, and who tries to squeeze around all the other cars to parallel park in a closer spot.  This makes you look like a douche and probably explains why your kid is a douche too.

Rule number 4!  Dont freaking honk!  When you are in a pick up line from hell, there is nowhere for anyone to go.  It’s the grown up version of follow the leader.  Honking is unnecessary.  Trust me, each of us (except for the helicopter mom who has to watch her 4th grader actually WALK in the door of the school before she will pull off) wants to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.  If you honk at me, I will throw apples at your car.  (Rotten apples that have been sitting in my van for 2 weeks or longer.)

Rule number 5.  Dont be a dumbass and sit in line with your car radio on and then get all upset when your battery is dead.  It is a nightmare of mothers everywhere to be ‘that car’ that breaks down in the pick up line.  But to have a dead battery because you were listening to the radio or keeping your laptop charged up is just dumb.  Dumb!  It’s also dumb and rather rude for the asshats driving big old diesel trucks to keep their train like engines running the whole time, which not only stinks but gets hard on the ears after a while.

Rule number 6!  Look for kids.  When I pick up a the highschool, I see near miss pedestrian student accidents daily.  Why?  Because so many impatient parents want to leave the pick up line .3 seconds faster and don’t look for all the high schoolers crossing the street.  The law says that cars YIELD to pedestrians.

Rule number 7.  And this one really gets me.  There is always one or two moms who are running late for the pick up line, so they decide to go and park instead.  The problem is that the line is already 100 cars long, which means they have to drive up the wrong side of the road to actually get to the school.  Then, when you pass them – they act like YOU are in their way and start waving their hands and acting frustrated when their stupid butts are the ones on the wrong side of the road.

If you ever want to see someone’s true colors – then go wait in a school pick up line.  Or better yet, do what I do and wait in three lines twice a day, every day of the week.  It will definitely make you rethink homeschooling and will acquaint you with folks who define the word asshat!


How to Powder Your Balls

Last week, I posted a photo of powdery foot prints on Facebook that led a trail from the bathroom, through the living room – to the kitchen and back again. 

These footprints, were not left by some mysterious ghost or spiritual being who was trying to make me aware of their presence.  They weren’t even left by a hapless 5-year-old who went a little nuts with the baby powder after her shower.  And they certainly weren’t left by me.

They were left by my husband of all people.  A grown, 43-year-old man – who has a fascination with baby powder.  He loves body powder.  If I come home with a fresh bottle of Shower to Shower, he gets literally giddy.

The problem is, that like this picture shows below (and the explanation above) he OBVIOUSLY has no idea how to properly (or at least politely) powder his nether regions.  I have always imagined that the reason he loves powder is simply because he has balls, and I know that two little sticky things hanging between my legs would drive me crazy too – especially when its hot outside.  So I imagine again, that the powder helps to alleviate some of that discomfort.  (Any men want to confirm this, please feel free to do so!)

428301_486246241431822_695192921_nThe problem is, that putting on powder after a shower is one thing.  But shamelessly leaving powder footprints all over hardwood floors throughout the house is quite simple another.  After all, WHO pray tell will become so annoyed by the powder that they feel compelled to clean it up?  Yep.  ME! 

Well, apparently according to some of the Facebook comments on this picture, I am not the only women in a relationship with a man who has no idea how to powder his balls. 

There were plenty of women who said, “OMG My signficant other does that too!”

Seriously, guys?

Its bad enough that you leave the little razor shavings in the sink for us to wash down the drain.  It’s annoying but tolerable  that you cannot cook a meal without leaving the kitchen looking like you fed 600 people.  And it’s certainly okay to sit in the bathroom for 30 minutes and forget to spray air freshener before you get up, with the little red ringlets from sitting so long tattooed on your butt.

But this!  This is atrocious.

Leaving powder all over the bathroom floor, all over the house.  So much so that footprints show up.  And then pouring powder down in your boxers and doing the little “snap thing” that makes it look like a cloud of dust is escaping from your britches is downright ridiculous.  You are a grown man.

Do you really need to use so much powder that when you fart, a dusty cloud rushes from your ass?

Plus, do you have idea how difficult it is to mop up powder that seeps into the grains of the floor. (Of course you don’t!)  Today, I am offering a little instruction!  How to powder your balls.  Politely!

1.  Take your shower – dry off INSIDE the shower – and then powder IN THE SHOWER.  Then, and this step is important – before you get out of the shower with powder all of yourself, put a towel down and then get dressed.

2.  Another option is to powder in a room with carpet.  (Although the dust will still get all over every piece of furniture in the room) But at least you wont leave footprints and a dust cloud all over the house - AND powder is easier to vacuum of carpet than it is to mop off the floor.

3.  Get dressed, like totally dressed – then use SMALL amounts of powder on the areas you need it most.  This way, most of the powder will stay in your clothes.

4.  Go outside completely naked – powder your entire body, put on all of your clothes (including socks) before coming back indoors.

5.  Let your wife or partner powder your balls for you.  Chances are she will take much more care to not get powder all over the place, AND you will get a cheap thrill.

6.  STOP SNAPPING YOUR UNDERWEAR AFTER YOU PUT ON POWDER! You’re not 4 years old, and your not a superhero with magical powers to ejaculate itching powder into the air. 

Unfortunately, these are the ONLY solutions I could come up with to this little problem.  But rest assured men – THIS IS A PROBLEM!



I am the MOTHER of That Child!

Confession here. Due to a recent switch in the entire mental make-up of my 5 year old that has turned her into a totally hot mess, I am now the mother of that child.

You know the one.  The little girl that despite being beautiful is determined to wear the ugliest clothes she has in her closet.  The one who has the stinkiest shoes on the planet because she refuses to wear socks and shoes at the same time, because apparently that is some form of rare torture.

Stinky-feet-funny-cartoon-image-300x216The child that has the longest most beautiful hair in the world, who desires to look like Rapunzel – yet refuses to tame the quaff.  despite threatening to cut her hair (which I wouldn’t do without her sort of consent) she sees me approach with a brush and instantly behaves as though I am coming toward her with a shot needle.  Despite the amazing braids that her eldest sister can do – she refuses to allow her hair to be anything but down.  And poofy.

Suddenly, she hates showers.  Suddenly she has an opinion about everything.  And I am just too old, too tired (or too lazy) to fight with her about every little thing.

I know, I know, I am the mother and all that.  I make the rules.  I have the power to decide what shit I will put up with, and what is acceptable

But you see, at this point I am just happy that she brushes her teeth, changes her underwear and takes a shower.  I don’t want to fight with her about every little thing.

I don’t have the patience to do so (nor the time) with three other kids to worry about.  And I don’t want to start out each and every morning with drama.  So I handed over the powers of choice to her.  (And boy can you tell!) As long as the basics are covered – she is clean – her clothes are clean – I gave up giving a damn about her sudden idiosyncrasies.

I went through this same damn phase with my third child.  Eventually she snapped out of it and I imagine that this one will too.  (At least I hope so) Perhaps some mean little girl in her class will tell her that her feet stink, or ask her why her hair has a big rats nest at the tips where she cannot reach with the brush and this will persuade her into changing her ways.  Or, maybe she will just get passed this phase on her own.

Yesterday, determined to replace her stinking ass cowboy boots that she loves to wear we spent three hours shoe shopping.  And despite trying on over a dozen pairs of shoes and two separate stores - none of them ‘felt good.’  She did like a pair of flip-flops of course because they didn’t hinder her claustrophobic feet – but I can’t go so far as to send her to school in flip-flops in January.  She already is ‘that child’ that doesn’t think she needs a coat.

I wonder if her teachers and other parents take a look at her outfits and her unkempt (however clean) hair and wonder what the hell is wrong with me?  I wonder if other parents walk into the school and see her crazy little outfits that she picked out herself and question what kind of mother that little girl has?  Chances are all the newbie young moms who stick big bows in their daughter’s hair and dress their kids in monogrammed designer clothes (that look clowinsh to me) talk about me behind my back and feel sorry for my poor little hot mess of a kindergartener.

Yep, I have become the mother of that child. 

The good news is that the buck of this disturbing behavior ends with me because she is an absolute angel at school.  Every one loves her and tells  me how sweet she is.   (Sticking finger down my throat) So I must be doing something right.  Right!?


WTF Happened to the SOCKS?


There is something to be said for people who wear matching socks.  It means that they probably sort out their laundry, plucking the losers out right away before they get lost forever.  For a very long time, with a houseful of kids, it was my personal quest to make sure that every sock had a match.  If one didn’t, then we would hunt it down like a turkey on Thanksgiving.  If I didn’t find THAT sock, it meant I was a shitty mother and housekeeper and it also meant that the unmatching sock situation would turn epidemic.  Think about it, if one sock doesn’t match  – your kids will wear mismatched socks that will end up in the laundry basket, washing machine and dryer at odd times lessening their chances of every meeting their mate again.  Sounds stupid, but the lesson here is that matching socks USED to be important to me.

Each person in the house had different socks with different colored toes so that they would never get confused.  I rolled them together, unlike my husband who ties them together (how dumb is that?)  I even made a ‘loser’ sock basket for all the unwanted, holey and mismatched socks so they could sit and wait longingly for the day of reunite.  And when that happened, I WAS EXCITED.  Way too excited to be honest. 

As time changes all things, it too has changed my OCD and the socks.  Not completely, as it still secretly bothers me to see my children wear mismatched socks.  But it certainly doesn’t send me over the edge, manically cleaning under the couch cushions to find a stray like it used to do.  So have I conquered my problem or masked it?

Being a mom is about letting go.  However, the one thing you shouldn’t let go of is yourself and normally that is the first thing to go.  I traded writing and other passions for matching socks.  In retrospect, I am still trading things but I do try to make sure that my trade offs are worth it.  So, think about it.  What drives you crazy?  What do you spend endless minutes or hours doing that is mindless and has no stamp of importance in the scope of life?  And even more importantly, what could you be doing during this time that would inspire, fulfill, satisfy and make your life more self abundant? 

Yes, some days just for fun I like to see if I can get all the socks to match.  And when my almost grown children wear yellow and green socks I think they look stupid.  But I have learned to control my urges to control, monitor and micromanage all that stuff that makes so many moms OCD.  And you should too! 

Dear Life #10 – Christmas Cards

Dear Everyone I Have every known, loved, talked to, socialized with, worked with and for, met on the internet, or passed in any of the various ‘hallways’ of life:

I am so sorry that you have not received my Christmas cards.

I am enjoying yours very much, even though I will be likely throwing them away, eh…I mean recycling them to save the Earth,  as soon as the holidays are over.  Your kids are beautiful and it is great to know that you are thinking of me.  Really, it is.

I am thinking of you too.  Seriously I am.  And I am trying hard not to make eye contact so I don’t feel compelled to buy you a present.

Unfortunately, a sad thing happened.

After spending enormous time and effort hand painting, signing and addressing Christmas cards to each and every one of you, then licking stamps for hours and hours at a time, then loading the massive basket of holiday greetings and well wishes complete with a picture of my beautiful family inside – the DAMN POST OFFICE caught on fire.  Or had an explosion.  Or a chemical leak. (Which explains the persistent strange glue smell that permeates my sinuses every time I walk in there.)

Truth is, I am not sure what has happened, I don’t think that the postal workers are telling the truth.  Maybe all the postal workers quit, or maybe my immense amount of holiday cheer was just too much for my tiny zip code to handle.

The point is, they have lost EACH and EVERY one of my completely personalized cards.  Not one survived.  And I couldn’t even get a refund on my postage.

I know, this is horrible.  You must feel terrible for me, but please…..I am a trooper and I can handle disappointments such as this.

I did have to drink an entire bottle of wine in order to numb myself long enough to fall asleep.  The whole thing has made me sick, just sick……

So, please accept my apologies, and be kind enough to consider THIS your Christmas card.  I love you.  Each and every one of you.

Me and the hubs are great.  (Notice the heart!) Except for the little mishap at the post office, life has been good. (Like I would tell you otherwise, right!?)






As for the picture of the kids.  Here are the girls.  Arent they lovely? They have gotten big havent they?  (The one on the left had just farted and of course, the other three, of course, had to laugh and tease!)


So, without further adieu!  HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM STEF & Company!



Other Peoples Crap Monday

It never fails. Mondays come too early in the week. And with 4 kids playing ball and doing all sorts of other extra curricular activities, the weekends seem busier than the weeks. And my husband is home on the weekends, which somehow, even though he does nothing (and I mean nothing) throws a sticky fork in my schedule.

Worst of all, my kids don’t ride busses to school. I have never once, had the luxury of standing in a bath robe with curlers in my hair (just to embarrass the kids) at my own front door, or on the curb if it was warm enough, with my dogs at my side and cup of hot coffee in my hand to wave goodbye at a school bus. Waving good-bye to a school bus as it putters down the street is a dream of mine. A pipe dream at that.

So, its wake up the kids – give them something that resembles breakfast to eat, yell at them for picking out bad outfits, and remind them that they have to brush their teeth and their hair as I rummage around trying to make lunches. I hear the word, “mama” fifty million times and wonder how work away from home moms are able to get their panty hose on AND get the kids ready for school.

I imagine from above (meaning the ceiling not Heaven), the scene must look like pure pandemonium and madness – because I know for sure that when I get home from taking my kids to school, the house is an utter mess. There are toothbrushes and toothpaste plastered all over the sink, the toilet is full of pee and toilet paper (my kids apparently don’t have time to flush), there are dirty clothes strewn across the bedroom and living room floors and the counter tops are covered in toast crumbs. (And spaghetti because one of my daughters likes dinner for breakfast). Half empty and half eaten ‘things’ are everywhere and their rooms look as if a mischievous Christmas Elf went ape shit. (I hate those elves by the way….they truly are the enemy)

So my Monday starts with picking up other peoples crap. And hopefully a shower. But other peoples crap always comes first.

Mondays, like all the other days of the weeks are a culmination of wiping toothpaste off of things and trying to maintain order in my home. Instead of listening to music while I clean up ‘other peoples crap,’ like Cinderella, I dream my cheesy school bus dream.

On this particular Monday, I wondered what would happen if I didn’t clean up anything. At all! What if I simply decided that I would take a shower, turn on the television and sit my fat butt (it’s not really fat) down on the sofa, relaxing to the complete sound of nothing and no one. (Oh wait, my 4 year old is still home.) So, what if I just hung out with her and watched Franklin or Dora rather than clean like a mad woman until its time to go pick up the kids from school again? Would the world end?

Today, I did just that. Just to see if the world would end. Here’s what I found out. Truth is, I didn’t enjoy it that much because motherhood has made me extremely OCD. And, since I do creative work for a smidgen of a living – I cannot work or think, or even ‘be’ among environmental chaos if I want to be productive. I hung around the house all day, pushing against the urge to deal with other peoples crap. And it made me feel crappy. It made me feel like Peg Bundy. It also made me tired. More tired than I would have been had I done laundry, vacuumed, swept, mopped, cleaned the toilets, made the beds, dusted the ceiling fans (okay, so that one is a lie), cooked dinner, swept the porch, and organized the shelf above the stove. And worse, when the kids got home, I was in a crappy mood that even my school bus dream couldn’t drag me out of.

I did however learn, that most of my energy spent cleaning during the day is a waste of time. Because regardless of whether my 4 kids come home to a sparkling clean house after school or not – I have to redo half of the chores I did earlier in the day right before bedtime. On this Monday, I learned that laziness is not fun. But I also learned that I waste a lot of time cleaning things, mostly other people’s crap, only to have to re-clean them a few hours later. Most importantly, I realized that my life is literally, 100% about ‘other peoples crap.’ Which is kind of crappy sometimes….

When Did Eating Become UnCool?

Thanksgiving is OVER!  OVAH!  And yes, most of us, myself included, filled up on too much food and polished off leftovers for days and days afterwards.  The holidays and food go hand in hand.

Unless of course you are a teenager in the presence of others.

Then suddenly, everything you eat is big deal.  This is one of the things I miss about my teenage twins being little.  What five-year old cares how many pieces of cake they eat, or how much gravy they slather on stuffing? (Or dressing depending upon where you live).  What 10-year-old asks how much sugar is in the ambrosia, or gives a damn that they have eaten more food in one day than they ate in a entire week? 

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To BRA or Not To BRA, That is the Question

Maybe you know me, or maybe you have read some of my posts.  If so, then you likely know that I am not a fan of bras.  A good day for me is not walking into Victoria’s Secret and having some “bra specialist” squeeze and measure my body and then quickly direct me and my pre-pubescent breasts straight to the push-up-bra section so that I can feel like I am wearing lacy, Christmas ornaments under my sweat shirts.  Seriously, the people who know me and see me every day – would KNOW those aren’t my boobs.  I would feel ridiculous.

I don’t ‘need’ a bra fitting. 

In fact, I don’t NEED a bra. 

When I do wear one, (And Yes, I do wear a bra’ish thing when I leave the house and will be seen in public – so you won’t find me on the People of Wal-mart videos), my kids always noticeHey mom, are you wearing a ‘real’ bra (as opposed to my undershirts with a shelf bra) today? Your boobs look so big?

“So big” being relative to the normal small nubs with nipples when I am bra-less.

The real, honest truth is that I don’t care that I have small boobs.  I really don’t.  I am not making fun of myself in order to hide some hidden complex about my femininity.  My boobs are just fine the way they are, and despite their size produced plenty of milk.  So much so, that I could squirt people from across the room when I was nursing.

And, I can run (not that I do – We will save the running for Snarkfest) without being flapped in the face or suffer from spinal dysplasia.  I can sleep on my side, stomach, back – whatever I feel like without feeling like I am lying on squished balloons filled with jelly.  And most importantly, I can go WITHOUT a bra – without feeling self-conscious.  If I have on a sweatshirt and no bra, chances are you won’t even notice I am bra-less.  (Go ME!)  And, lots of women my age who have really big boobs look overweight, when they aren’t, because their boobs have succumbed to gravity that even Victoria’s Secret BEST bra cannot defy.  (Go me again!)

It looks like for now at least that my eldest offspring may be following in my footsteps.  They have much smaller boobs than most girls their age, and they both HATE wearing bras.

When the three of us get home from being out in public, it’s a race to see who can take the painful, confining, contrapment thing off the quickest.  One of my daughters has hers off IN THE CAR the minute I pick her up from school.  Bra-hating runs in  my family.  And, I have no problems or issues with allowing my teens to run around the house bra-less.

Some moms think that is awful!  OMG, when Daddy is home – you must have a bra on.  (Like any father is really looking at his daughters boobs.  Trust me, HE is trying to pretend they aren’t there harder than anyone else)

I, opt for comfort.  And I extend that same comfort to my kiddos when we are home.  And even though we are all running around bra-less, it isn’t some jiggly-nipply peep show.  It’s not like we are wearing wet, white t-shirts for God’s sake.

So what say you?  To bra or not to bra?  Do you wear a bra all the time, no matter what?  (One of my friends even SLEEPS in her bra, which to me is like an oxy-moron).  Do you or will you allow your daughters to go bra-less, or do you think like that freak Stacy London does, “that the girls” need to always be held up, pushed up, and brought front and center? 

(PS – I don’t think Stacy London is a freak.  I am just pissed that I havent gotten nominated for a What Not to Wear makeover yet!)

(PSS- The boobs in the above clip art are MUCH bigger than mine)

(PSSS – Wonder how many perverts found this post simply because I inserted a picture of boobs) Suckers.