Browsed by
Category: Babble-assing

A Royal Wedding. A Royal Refrigerator? Oh, the pressure!

A Royal Wedding. A Royal Refrigerator? Oh, the pressure!

Oh, yes, you too can have a Royal Fridge!

For those of you who are obsessive about enjoy following the Royal Wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton (I’m looking at you Melisa with one “s”), you can have your very own Royal Fridge. Seriously. If you’ve been under a rock and did not know it, GE actually released this as an ultimate wedding memorabilia.

Let’s forget for one moment that it would scare the crap out of me when I walked into my kitchen in the middle of the night. Or even the fact that I would always feel like the Royals were stalking me. Who needs that kind of judgement? I can hear them now. (No, not literally. I’m not insane.)

“Oh, look Wills. She’s going for that Rocky Road ice cream again. Does she think we don’t see that?”

“Did you see the way she went for those leftovers last night after midnight, Kate? Does she think the calories don’t count after midnight?”

“She’ll never fit into the fashionable dresses I wear if she keeps this up.”

“American commoners just don’t get it, my Princess.”

Like I need the future King and Queen of England judging me in the middle of the night. Or stalking me. And it absolutely would not be good for my diet. I can just see me now when I decide to grab that middle of the night snack or reach for something a little less than healthy. I’d be hitting the ground doing an army crawl towards my own refrigerator in hopes of avoiding their perky, happy smiles. I’d reach for the handle and try to snag some Ben & Jerry’s without disturbing them. It would never work. I’m not always great about getting rid of leftovers immediately.

“Oh my goodness! What on Earth is that putrid smell, Wills?”

“She forgot to clean out the left over sushi again.”

“It’s a miracle I can keep smiling when I have to smell that!”

Nope. I don’t need the pressure of the Royals watching my every refrigerator move. And really? Who wants to drop into an army crawl every time you want to grab a midnight snack. That just isn’t my idea of an ideal boot camp.

What about you? Could you be stalked and/or judged by your refrigerator on a daily basis?

Though, I would be a size 6 in no time at all if I had this on my refrigerator:

Are you sure you want that?


Blog awards? And I thought I just did this for fun. And pain. And you.

Blog awards? And I thought I just did this for fun. And pain. And you.

After getting a kick in the gut, knife in the back, slap to the face yesterday (bitter much?), it was really nice to have someone point me to the fact that I am actually up for a few awards at the Bloggers Choice Awards.

Now, I was more than a little sad to not be in the ranks with Liz at Mom-101 because if I am with her, I have made it, baby. But, sadly, I am not. I tried to campaign to join her, but they top off the number of categories you can be nominated in. Bummer. Honestly, any award that Liz is up for is one I would be honored to be there with her. Though, this particular nomination she writes about is a ridiculous joke. However, you have to love her sense of humor about it. She was nominated for one she deserves, though. (So go. Vote for the one she deserves here.)

To be 100% honest, the best “awards” I get for this blog are the comments, the emails and the friendships. You readers rock.

I have to say after yesterday, it was nice to get a kind email from someone who reads this blog letting me know that there are friends I have met online who are good and kind and caring, unlike some I have met and trusted who put the B in Witch.

So if you feel inclined, go vote. If not, go vote for Mom 101 HERE. That is the nomination that is real.

This is the only time you will see me talk about it or write about. I feel compelled to, though, because someone took the time to nominate me. For that, I am thankful. Again, my readers rock.

** [Edited to explain this one.] This award will be presented to the blogger who demonstrates the best writing ability on his or her blog.
My site was nominated for The Blogitzer!

Does this mean best writing about parenting because best parenting part is SO not going to be ME!
My site was nominated for Best Parenting Blog!

(This one makes me feel like I am being voted off the island and am getting farewell tribute. All time? Ever? Uhhh, not so much.)
My site was nominated for Best Blog of All Time!

(And just no to this one.)
My site was nominated for Hottest Mommy Blogger!

Now remember go love on Liz here.

Mommy Wars? Again? Let’s make it easy! (a follow-up)

Mommy Wars? Again? Let’s make it easy! (a follow-up)

I am thrilled with the response to my last post about finally putting down our foot when it comes to the media and their Mommy Wars. From the thousands of hits, the emails, the comments, I know that I hit a nerve with many of you. It also brought up some great conversations.

Many of said, “I’m mad too, Eddie Jenn!” but then it was followed with “But what can we do?” Great question!

First, everytime you hear that gawd awful, hyped-up, ridiculous term, do something. Email the station. Write a letter. Call them out and blog them. Tell them to stop their made up crap. And, really, do you want to get them where it hurts? Change the channel! If those of us who are fed up with the media stirring up the drama begin to change the channel or turn off the television, they will get the message eventually. Many people brought up a great point. Ratings. They start the controversy in order to get us talking and get the ratings. So, if we turn them off and call them out, maybe they can stop with this idiot, made up war.

Now, I know that morning “news” shows will never be hard hitting like CNN or such. I am never expecting that or wanting that. Report the fluff. Show us the latest gadgets. Give us cooking segments. Interview authors, celebrities, or women/men making a difference. I know it could be a severe naive look, but I am SO OVER trying to pit Mom against Mom. Don’t we all have enough to do raising our children? (The answer to that is YES by the way, media.)

Jay brought up a great point:

On the other hand, you are missing one element from the “Mommy Wars.” Using one of your examples, if the SAHM that “declares” all mothers MUST stay home… you may politely disagree, however SHE may declare war on you anyway. Very similar to political blogs, mommy blogs have a tendency to both polarize people to one side or the other, but even in the cases where the wise people “stay out” or “stay neutral” those that are looking to instigate or preach still do so, and are more than happy to be at “war” with anybody that does not have an opinion that is EXACTLY like theirs.

Sadly, that is true. There are so many people who want to be in the middle of the “war” because it psyches them up. He is right on with that. However, I honestly believe there are way more of us fed up than there are those who enjoy it. It takes doing exactly the opposite of what these Mommy Wars are trying to achieve. Banding together. Standing side by side and embracing our differences. And *gasp* supporting each other. Moms supporting Moms. I know more of us want that than not. Basically, even if (using my example) another mom declares war on me and my choices, if I never pick up my own weapon, never fire back and [important point here] refuse to let her get me riled up, her shots fired will fall short of her goal. (At least that is what I want to need to believe.)

I am not naive enough to think that the media– especially the morning shows– will become all rosy and shoot sunshine up our collective asses, but I refuse to let them pull me into a war that I did not sign up for. One that I don’t even think exists. In fact, I am not going to let them try to convince me that I should be at war with other moms due to our differences.

Let me make this easy for you.

These people are fighting a war:

real-soldiers.jpg

These people are not:

 

moms-not-at-war.jpg

 

Read More Read More

Remember: Go away. Not towards!

Remember: Go away. Not towards!

I am in Houston right now.

Once you hit the outskirts you begin to see the signs. What signs? These signs:

hurricane-dean.JPG

Seriously? I mean seriously? Do we not remember the mass exodus of 2005? I have to remember the basic rule:

Go away from hurricanes. Not towards them.

Apparently, I tend to get that one wrong. A lot.

 

 

My genes are innocent. I blame it on bottled water.

My genes are innocent. I blame it on bottled water.

I came home from BlogHer with ulcers on my corneas. Feel free to vomit in your mouth over the pain that you must be imagining. It is that awful. The first day, I had to put drops in my eyes every 15 minutes. I didn’t even pee that often when I was 9 months pregnant and I had a 9 pound baby playing soccer with my bladder. Sadly, I was able to judge this by the mid-point of every NickJr show that exists and I was forced to watch listen to.

(Sidenote: If I have to listen to Timmy Turner one more day I am going to jam that little pink hat right down his tiny little pip squeak voiced throat. And Jimmy Neutron? Thinking of putting his big over-sized head into a very tight vice and give him and atomic noogie. I’m just sayin’!)

At least the next day was up to every half hour. I could move on to the Disney Channel half hour shows. (What? For all intents and purposes, I was blind. How could I do anything more with my kids?)

After putting the antibiotic drops in my eyes for about the bajillionth dose that day, I complained about the nasty taste. My wonderful smart-ass son spoke up:

“It tastes bad? You said it tastes bad? You do know you have to put them in your EYES mom. Your. EYES. I’m pretty sure your EYES don’t have tastebuds.”

Who raised this boy? It’s not like he got that kind of smart mouth from me!

And then of course I have my tween who must’ve received that gene from his father as well. While going to put in my new Wild Hogs DVD, I began to get quite irritated with the chaos of the state of our DVDs. They are disorganized. Uncategorized. A mess. The majority of them having been ransacked by the kids. All three of them. So I began to rant about it.

“Where is my new DVD? Where? I have not even had the chance to watch it. What happened? I cannot find it anywhere in this house! Arghhhhh!”

To which my tween looks at me and calmly says:

“The one in your hand, Mom? That one? Ummm, maybe if you had put it on the shelf or say…the DVD player, it would’ve been easier to find.”

Seriously? Where did this come from. I blame their father. Those of you who know their father will most certainly agree. Those of you who do not know him, certainly will agree. It isn’t like I am a smart-ass. Right? RIGHT?!

I’m too tired for an affair in my refrigerator

I’m too tired for an affair in my refrigerator

I am not a great sleeper. No. I must amend that. I am not a great nighttime sleeper. I am either working and get so into it that I don’t realize it is 3:47am and I need to be in bed. Or I start playing WoW because my children (aka: little gamer pushers) begged me to do one last quest with them. As I see the sun rise, I ground them all for making me stay up all night. Because, you know, it is all their fault. I am just the tired parent.

Then there are those nights that I try to go to bed like a person not imitating a vampire and read or do something soothing. I was almost there on Monday night. Sleepy. Listening to my soothing, calm sounds on my Zune. I am just about to start making out with Mr. Sandman. Then, without warning Ozzy Osbourne sceams, “ALL ABOARD!” (The beginning of the song Crazy Train for those of you not in the know.) After soiling myself, throwing the demon possessed Zune across the room, hitting the floor to crawl under my bed, and then checking to make sure my heart was in fact still embedded in my chest, I brushed myself off and stared angrily at my bed. Forget sleepy and soothing. Even Mr. Sandman ditched my make-out attempts. I was officially awake.

I wandered into my family room where (of course) my teen was still awake. I mumbled something along the lines of, “What are you still doing awake?” but I think it came out more like, “Crazy Train. Tired. No making out with Mr. Sandman.  Tired, so tired.” I attempted to read for a while then went back to bed.

The next day the teen asked me if everything was okay.

“Of course. Why?”

“You seem tired. Really tired. A lot lately.”

“A little. I wouldn’t say a lot. Why do you say there is a lot of tired? That makes it sound bad or extreme. I am fine. Why are you so all up in my grill? I need more coffee. Why are you accusing me of being so tired?”

“I found your cell phone in the refrigerator this morning.”

“What? That? The milk was expecting a call.”

Perhaps I need to look into some better bedtime and sleep routines. I cannot afford for the milk to keep up this cell phone affair.