Forgive me for sounding like one of those little quotes in Reader’s Digest from Martha in Podunk, Kentucky…but…
The ENTIRE family (and when I say ENTIRE I mean..ALL of us PLUS the inlaws) made our way down the bread aisle at our local market. There were two other women staring at the selection of whole wheat and white when out of the blue my daughter yells…wait for it…
I TOOOOOTED!
Of course the Kaiser and I burst into laughter and shake our heads. Because what the hell else do you do?
…so I was walking through Mervyn’s (yes, large department store chain…I’m NAMING you…come and get me you bastards) with my family this weekend when I saw a Junior’s PJ display.
Just to review, juniors are, generally, NONadults. This would mean they certainly can not vote, or drink, or do many things for themselves that do not require their parent’s permission.
Being the lounge-wear fashionista that I am (that’s my new way of saying ‘sweat-pant mom’ like it?) I had to see what the kids were wearing in the PJ department.
Here’s where things got fuzzy for me, because I ended up in a blind rage tantrum, making the rest of the shopping experience kind of hazy. I know I yelled more than once “ARE THEY KIDDING?” and I also demanded the Kaiser take out his cell phone to take a picture, to which he replied “but I have no camera phone…” despite my continued insistence he TAKE a picture NOW.
Anyway, what could have possibly set me off in such a tizzy in a public place such as…let me say it AGAIN…MERVYN’S????
Captain Morgan’s rum and Jack Daniel’s whiskey PJ sets, marketed to junior GIRLS.
At Mervyn’s. That’s right, I’ll say it again…liquor pajama pants and t-shirts for junior girls. Because nothing says “I’m Daddy’s sweet and innocent little girl” like “Gotta a little Captain IN YA??”
Cough. Ahem…
I realize I have a martini in front of my children. I realize their Dad BBQ’s with a beer in his hand. BUT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY DON’T MARKET YOUR BOOZE TO MY DAUGHTER UNTIL SHE’S AT LEAST OLD ENOUGH TO FUCKING BUY IT.
Cough. Ahem.
I’m so tired of this. I’m so tired of finding out some asshat company thinks it’s ok to sell my 5-year old a padded bra to boost that cleavage. I’m so tired of seeing those whore-bag Bratz dolls with their blue eyeshadow and thigh highs. I’m so tired of booze companies trying to sell pictures of their bottles on pj pants to my preteen, like its all in good fun.
If anyone is going to teach my daughter to be a cocktail swilling hussy, it’s ME-not you idiots. So lay off. Geez, that is sooooooo the mother’s job, not yours.
I think I shall go write nasty letters to Mervyn’s and Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels now. You know, because I need to yell at someone.
Fuckers.
(and YES, I DO kiss my mother and my children with this mouth—pppppppffffffffft)
I just flew from Detroit to Los Angeles with nary a peep from the youngin’s or a puke OR traffic…OR some sort of meltdown over a broken crayon or broken hotwheel.
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Nobody. Say. Anything. You might jinx it.
It’s come to my attention people actually live here. Like, year-round. NOT just in the summer. I have so many questions..like…do your kids get bundled up like this daily? How do you strap them in car seats? Do you let them play OUTSIDE in these ICE AGE elements? Do kids die of exposure? How many coats do you own? What do you do when the one pair of gloves get wet? Are they allowed to have hot chocolate and marshmallows every single day?
Send warm clothes, please. And many recipes for hot, alcoholic, drinks.
Dear Kaiser, love of my life, father of my children,
First of all, know that we have arrived in the great Metropolis that is Detroit, Michigan and we are safe. We are now nestled in PJ’s and slippers, sipping tea and dozing off.
Before I fall fast asleep while the children you gave me play with their relatives, know this:
I am never flying across the country with these spawns of Satan ever. again.
You may want to call Spirit Airlines and make sure we have seats for our return flight, as I am pretty sure we are not welcome on their fleet of airplanes ever. again.
You may also want to call any and all convents and or boarding schools for your darling daughter. I believe it might be necessary we ship her somewhere better able to handle M&M grenades and shrieks they could use in Iraq to torture the enemy. Also check with local talent agencies, as I have no doubt she will be a fine actress. She can go from shrieking and crying as though someone was beating her, to coyly smiling at a stranger in a heartbeat.
As for you son, we may need to find him a very good psychologist, because he now has narcolepsy, which he is apparently using as a defense mechanism to block out the horror show that is mother and daughter.
I hope your time at home, in peace, is quiet and rewarding.
All my love,
The Queen
p.s. The Transportation Security Agency and Federal Bureau of Investigations might call to have a word with you. Tell Frank I said “thanks for the donut” and please let Jim know we’ll return his gun and badge just as soon as we can.
Have I mentioned lately how amazing my husband is? Well, in case I haven’t…let me just say the man is a wonder.
Since my surgery he’s been SUPERwonder Dad. From doing everything around the house to taking the kids everywhere from hair cuts to birthday parties.
Which leads me to today…and the Build A Bear Birthday Blowout.
I’m normally not an evil bitch, but every time my husband comes home from an outing with the children, I get all frazzled because they have such a good time with no problems.
What do you mean Count Waffles didn’t have a melt down in the produce section?
Really, Princess Peanut didn’t throw the red ball at you because she wanted the blue ball?
It drives me insane. They always seem to be bizzaro kids for him.
Except for today. When the Build A Bear Birthday Blowout had my sweet Kaiser twitching when they walked in the door. It wasn’t so much that the kids were bad, it was just one of those parenting situations where you wish you had never left the house.
The Build A Bear store was the size of a small bathroom stall. It was the Sunday before Valentine’s Day. One of our kids could care less he was there, and the other had no clue what she was supposed to be doing. Cue Chaos.
My defeated and disheveled husband arrived home with two large bear boxes and 40 more gray hairs. He sat in front of me and talked quickly about the too small store and the throngs of people and the clothing and the kids and the holding of the bears and the holding of the kids and the picking out of the outfits for the bears and how the Princess wouldn’t allow the Bear to be dressed and the Count wouldn’t pick a name and he couldn’t carry the boxes and the bears had to be out of the boxes to carry home but the kids wouldn’t carry them, they just insisted they were not boxed.
This went on. And on. And on. He talked and talked and shook his head and put his hands in the air.
It’s not that I was happy, per say. Just relieved it finally had happened to him. Now we can really share some war stories.
Happy New Year Baby Girl!
“Happy New Year. Now LET’S GO!”
Who are you going to kiss at midnight?
“YOU Mamma.”
…and then my husband kissed my son, my daughter, and then me-twice.
Yeah, I’m good with 2007.
Did you hear about the big APOLOGY?
I think it’s safe to say over 20-thousand signatures, hundreds of nurse-ins across the nation, and countless emails and phone calls made Delta and Freedom Airlines pee their pants.
From Momsrising.org: Emails and calls from MomsRising members, as well as regular updates about the high number of petition signatures, pushed both Delta and Freedom Airlines to issue statements underscoring their commitment to allowing women to breastfeed onboard planes. Freedom Air also noted that the incident would serve as a training opportunity for all employees.
As for my flight home, I thought the 4 Delta flight attendants next to me, in front of me, behind me and walking by me went out of their way to make sure I was comfortable. HRH Princess Peanut nursed more than 5 times and even pulled my shirt up to show the attendants just what she was up too under there. No one batted an eyelash, except maybe the entire men’s soccer team behind us. And I think most of them were more concerned that Count Waffles entire orange juice landed on their flip flops. How a 3-year-old spills an entire airplane cup of juice into his seat, yet manages to NOT get himself wet is beyond me…but there is a very nice soccer team (who made it to the finals, I understand) with citrus smelling shoes in Los Angeles. Thanks boys.
Recent Comments