Monday Random Musings Of A Crazypants

 

If I had to be summed up in one word, there are probably 10 people that would say, “Brat.”  Know that I am completely okay with that.

It was family weekend, meaning I spent entirely too much time with mine.  Kidding.  We took The Circus to The State Fair.  $2,568,564.00 later…  Christ almighty when did The Fair become so damn expensive?  Maybe if I saved my money by sporting a mullet and camo throughout the year--- it wouldn’t astound me to pay $900 for one drink and 5 corndogs.  I may be exaggerating.  Maybe not.

My house is sticky.  I clean and clean.  And my house… is sticky.  After deep investigation, I’ve discovered (as I suspected) BOYS ARE JUST FREAKIN’ GROSS, and I am surrounded by them.  They are always running, jumping, sweating, peeing, and eating--- with their sticky hands all over the place.  I am the only hoo-hoo in this motherfucker, and I am the only one not stickying (patent pending on that word) the house up.  I just cleaned on Saturday, and my wood floors look like a Honky Tonk come Sunday morning.  I want to move the boys and Tim outside with Lorek.  I just have to find a way to convince them during the harsh winter months that it’s in their best interest.

 Lorek says:  Coooome.  Coommmmme.  Velcome to my umble abode! 

Meh.  I don’t let my dog in my house.  Go ahead.  Write PETA.  I care not.  Simmer down.  I let him in the garage in the winter.  I’m not physically able to sleep in the same structure as my dog, as he smells like a pig’s butthole.  Even after a bath.  Even after a rigorous anal expressing done by professionals.  By the way, if I knew how to express his anal glands… I’d do it.  I never shy from any task that makes the world smell prettier, especially when it saves me buttloads (ahahaha) of money. 

Can’t motivate myself to workout.  I easily slide right in to eating left over Fair Cotton Candy, but not yoga, Pilates, the elliptical, and Jillian Michaels is like ghosts---- if I don’t acknowledge, she isn’t real.  Pink cotton candy is my favorite. 

I want a warm, sweet, caffeinated beverage STAT, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.  This makes me entirely more angry than it should.  Refer back to musing #1.

Currently, kicking around the idea of starting a cult.  A cult for sensible people, of course.  There will be no mass suicides or matching uniforms.  Sorry to disappoint.  I hate Kool-Aid and the thought of 70 people dressing a like makes my brain hurt.  Also, if your kids are fucking bad, you can’t join.  Don’t even apply. 

Speaking of parenting.  Some of you are doing it wrong.  I’m not judging you, it’s just an observation.  I’ve also observed that some of you doing it wrong—of the overindulgence persuasion--- like to judge the stricter parents, like myself.  I could give a rat’s ass.  Truly. 

I took my children to the park on Saturday and noticed the playground had more fucking adults than kids on it.  Kids that were well old enough to explore the playground while mom and dad watched from a distance on the provided park benches.  You people make me nervous!  I don’t know if you’re there helping your 6 year old with the monkey bars, or if you are a pedophile.  If your child is old enough, get out of the sand.  Let them make temporary playground friends like we did as kids.  You see them for 1-3 hours and never again, sometimes never even learning their names—Kid in blue.  Kid with snot.  The kid with the hair. 

See I’m not a helicopter parent, but I’ll holler like a fishwife if one of my boys breaks a rule 10 feet from me.  It is not uncommon for me to calmly holler one of my children’s entire name.  Example:  "Bukka  -------- ---------, get back on the sand.  You leave the area again, and we’ll pack it up, Sir.  We. Will. Pack. It. Up.”  I gave them middle names with the full intention on screaming it, just like my momma did and her mother before her.  I lay the rules down when we come on scene.  Break them, and Houston we will have a problem.  I rarely get up unless someone’s hurt.  If I get up because they are being bad, my kids know that the wrath of Satan is about to be leashed upon them.   So that being said, Fat Sucker threw sand in the faces of the other children.  Before I could say anything, my 10 year grabbed him and said, “Dude.  Don’t throw sand! Are you trying to blind everyone?”  It was over.  Fat Sucker didn’t throw sand again.  I didn’t have to holler.  Helicopter mom following her 6 year old boy gasped at my 10 year old’s tone with his little brother.  Gasped.  I thought about throwing sand in her face.  I really did.   She was an overreactor that needed to pay more attention to her situation than mine.  Her son kept running from her--- probably wanting her to get the fuck off the sand.  See my 10 year old knew that if Fat Sucker threw sand again, we would all have to leave (we're like the Marines, no one gets left behind)- all have to leave because one person wanted to throw sand, which let’s face it… major Playground Faux Pas.  Fat Sucker has to learn sometime, and Chubba and Bukka were not ready to go.  I’m sure if I had been standing right next to Fat Sucker, as she was with her 6 year old, I’d been able to grab his chubby hand to prevent him from dusting the crowd.  Let’s face it though, you have to let them throw the sand and piss everyone off, or there’s no lesson learned.  Otherwise, he would have thrown sand the next time.  There so.  Bask.  Bask in my infinite wisdom.  

I still need that caffeinated beverage.  Anyone.  Anyone.