Bored?

Mama Kat wants us to share some surefire tips for staving off boredom.

Not sure what she’s gonna use ‘em for ‘cause I mean, between blogging, and doing her real job (yep she actually has one), and being a mom, and meeting up with the likes of me and BFF in Vegas for weekends of pleasure, I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t have time to get bored.

As for myself, I haven’t been bored in years so initially I was gonna choose on of the other prompts (like the one about all of the different places I’ve lived because when I count it up, I’ve lived in like 20 different houses, more than half of which were before I even graduated from high school. I’m thinking Mimi and Papa were running from the law!).

I mean, what does a person with absolutely no experience with actual boredom have to say about being bored?

But then I realized that I have plenty to say about staving off boredom.

And, not just because of the whole “expert on nothing who knows everything” bit (that’s how I describe myself when people ask me to sum myself up; accurate, right?).

I mean, someone who NEVER gets bored must be doing something right, right?

So I decided I’ll share with you my formula for avoiding boredom for the next five to ten years.

And, here you have it, Dumb Mom’s Guide to Staving off Boredom: Top Ten Ways to Stay Busy and Boredom Free for Years to Come

10. Just Dance. The video game. I do it every. Single. Day. And it is SO awesome. I’ve even lost weight doing it (not a lot, but still). And, if you find yourself inching close to getting bored while doing it, you can always make a video of yourself and enter it in this contest to win a grand. I thought about entering myself, but I’m so good at it now that I probably wouldn’t win. It’s like those girls who say they are “too pretty” to get dates? That’s me. I’m too good at Just Dance to win their little contest. But you might have a shot.

9. Do your taxes. What? Taxes are boring? Shut yo’ mouth! Taxes are a lot of things, but I refuse to believe that they are boring. But, I can see that many of you disagree with me on this point and to give me an opportunity to change your mind why don’t you enter my H&R Block At Home giveaway? Then you can at least rest assured that you are not gonna miss any deductions or wind up in jail because an itty bitty error in accounting caused you to cheat Uncle Sam outta $300,000. Because seriously, is there anything more boring than 5 to 10 in Club Fed?

8. Go to You Tube. And watch the part in Super Bad (please tell me you have seen this movie because it is HILARIOUS) when Seth gets hit by the car (the first time). It makes me laugh over and over and over again. Now, please note that Super Bad features a set of nerdy, sexually frustrated high school boys with serious cases of toilet tongue (meaning they curse like a couple of pirates) so don’t click on the link if you’re easily (or possibly even not so easily) offended, the language is pretty graphic.

7. Watch Tosh.0. Another way to waste a good thirty minutes laughing your chubby little butt cheeks off. You can catch it on Comedy Central every Wednesday night at 10:30 (or 9:30 if you live in one of those strange states between here and California). Or, if you’re one of the freaks of nature who don’t have cable television, you can just check it out on the Internet here. Be sure you check out the crap I said before about Super Bad being all naughty and offensive, this is sorta the same deal (only the cursing is pretty much bleeped out since it’s on TV and stuff) so if you’re “sensitive” just try one of the other 6 things on the list.

6. Send an apology on Facebook. You know to that chick in high school whose boyfriend you stole and then got her kicked outta the Recycling Club for throwing her soda can in the trash? Yep, you could probably kill like 20 minutes sending all of those people you wronged somehow messages on Facebook apologizing for being a mean girl so that when you send them a friend request they will accept it. Or you can go to imsorry.com and do it there (I honestly can’t even believe there is a service for this).

5. Go to Wal-Mart. You can eat up tons of time just “people” watching. And, you can test out all of the stereotypes you’ve ever heard about any one ever. Because for whatever reason, they all materialize at Wal-Mart.

4. Go to Wal-Mart and act like you belong there. I like to do this from time to time, just for fun. I put on my rattiest jammie pants and my slippers and I don’t comb my hair (or even bother to remove the curlers). I don’t put on makeup and I avoid most other forms of personal hygiene, too. Then, I don a shirt that’s WAY too small for me, paint my nails bright red with added rhinestones for extra bling, and I might even throw on one of those trendy little disposable plastic shower cap thingys. To make it more real I like to even grab #3 outta the bed and just rip his pajamas right offa his body. I don’t bother to change his diaper or dress him in any clothing or shoes so that his visibly soiled diaper is easily viewed (and smelled) by passersby. And then, I give him a pacifier, no, a bottle, of soda to bring along with us. Then, when we get to the store I drag him around it while he’s crying (you know with snot and everything) and I yell at him for it (since yelling at a baby will actually make them want to STOP crying). When I finally get up to the cash register I decide to put back at least four things (after they’ve been rung up and bagged, of course), I make it a point to talk on my cell phone the ENTIRE time, and, that’s right, AND I write a check! For half. I use a combination of a gift card and loose change to pay for the rest. I’m telling you it is so freakin’ fun and I look just like I belong there. If fear is a factor, here's a website where you can live vicariously through those of us willing to brave the possibly infected Wal-Mart waters: People of Walmart

3. Teach your toddler to sing. Not those silly, traditional nursery rhymes that will bore you to tears if you have to sing them over and over (I’m so sick of Old Macdonald I could hurl). You gotta teach him popular songs from the radio and then encourage him to sing them for you. I love #3’a rendition of Single Ladies and he even does the dance. So. Funny!

2. Read my blog. Duh.

1. Take a toddler on an outing. So that he can embarrass you with his inappropriately-loud-for-the-library voice and his inappropriately-ridiculous-to-be-coming-from-a-toddler words.

A lovely segue into this week’s Thursday Thank You.

A special thank you to the just-turned-two toddler of the house who has made the library off limits only moments after we were allowed back on the premises after getting our exorbitant fine paid off.

Thank you and you’re welcome.

Dear #3,

Please tell me this is not for real. I honestly can not believe you right now. I know that you are a little bit obsessed with the female gluteus maximus at the moment, but let me remind you that pointing to it, talking about it, or personally addressing it in any way while in public is highly inappropriate. It is not okay for you to shout, “MOMMY! WOOK AT HER BUTT! IS YUCKY!” when another mom bends down next to you at the library. I realize that you may have been given a much better glimpse of it than you ever imagined*, but that doesn’t make you clamoring to get my attention by increasing your voice and/or pointing more frantically and demanding that I, “WOOK AT IT MOMMY! WOOK AT HER BUTT!” okay in any way. And, for future reference, if I shush you by putting my finger to your lips, covering your mouth with my palm, or shoving your face into the floor that generally means that you need to cease and desist, IMMEDIATELY with what you’re saying. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not identify and announce the existence of butts in the immediate area. Just bring it down a notch. I realize that it can, at times, be difficult, but it may help if you ignore the urge to throw yourself on the ground beneath any kneeling butts to get yourself a better look. And, it may also help if you, when presented with an unnaturally large or slightly overexposed butt, just WHISPER your recognition of said butt’s arrival to just me, and remember that it’s cool if you want to talk about it later. Like, when we get in the car!. Because you know, it’s not the fact that you noticed, I mean frankly, we ALL noticed, it’s more the announcement, and it’s excessive volume that I’m struggling with here. I’d greatly appreciate your cooperation on this matter and hope that our library privileges will not be permanently revoked as a result of this incident.

XOXO,

Dumb Mom

P.S. I know that reading is not really your thing so I’ve included a diagram to ensure accurate transmission of this message.

Never do this...

*In #3’s much needed defense, the rump in question was quite noticeable for both size and ill fitting attire (aka her butt crack was in full view to him when she knelt down to pick out her books and he was obviously caught off guard by it. Obviously.). If you are reading this and you think that you may actually be the owner of the “YUCKY BUTT,” you may want to invest in a good set of high-waist mom jeans (it’s time you got yourself a pair), and/or an extra long tank top (you can get ‘em at Old Navy). Just to prevent visually assaulting toddlers thereby making them look like the bad guys.

Join us, won't you?!

Will You Accept this Rose?

Do people ever not accept the rose?

I mean, if I didn’t want one, I would just say so beforehand instead of busting him out on national TV with an in-yo-face-sucka-take-your-cheapo-rose-and-shove-it no thank you.

Because, that would just be mean.

Kinda like signing up for the show and then deciding at the end (after weeks of hanging out on ABC’s dime and a coupla visits to the “fantasy” suite) you really are just not that into any of the chicks so you’re gonna just cut your losses and roll out (thank you Bachelor Brad).

Or.

Like selecting a girl and then deciding right after the show (right after the show) that she’s really not the one you really meant to pick, you kinda like the other one better so you were hoping ABC would like hook you up with her instead. Maybe give you her number, or like bring her (and the one you are dumping her for) on national TV so you can propose (not that kind of propose, slow down, who said anything about getting married?) that you start like hangin’ out in real life (and, thank you Bachelor Jason).

So.

In an effort to stick with The Bachelor theme of honesty-is-the-best-policy-even-if-it-requires-that-I-make-you-feel-and-look-like-a-complete-douche-on-television, I’m gonna join Mama Kat in awarding roses to the 10 people/products that I’d “like to continue pursuing a relationship with” even though I’m not 100% convinced you are my type, that I’ll like you in a month, or that I can honestly see myself hanging out with you sans helicopter, limo, or hot tub.

So, when you find yourself all lonely sitting in a limo with a cheap bottle of wine, tears dripping on your tata-accentuating tube dress with a camera waving around in your face, you can’t say you’re surprised, or that you don’t know what went wrong, or that I’m missing out on the best person, or that the others really aren’t even here for the right reasons.

You’ve been warned.

This could end badly.

And, be sure to note that while I’m giving you a this-means-we-have-to-make-out-later rose, I’m also giving out 9 other of those bad boys today to people (or things as the case may be) that I am probably going to be intimate with later too.

Don’t worry, I might even letcha watch!

10 People/Products I Think I Might Really Like at Least When I’m Drunk, On an Island, Living Rent Free in a Mansion, Riding in a helicopter, a limo, or a vintage car, and/or Being Serenaded by some Formerly Hot Band

1. Hubby. At least, I don’t think it’s the house with the seasonal lake view that keeps me here?

2. The Dudes. Although, if someone takes away our summer pool privileges I’m gonna have to definitely reevaluate this relationship.

3. BFF. No lake, no pool privileges, no wrapping her legs around me in the hot tub (although we did go to Vegas together, but I totally had to pay for my own self) which means I obviously like her for her winning personality (and her party planning awesomeness) because her “perks” leave a lot to be desired.

4. Mimi & Papa. However, when they start wearing diapers and/or forgetting where they left their dentures all bets are off.

5. Bruncle. He can thank his opposable thumbs for keeping him on this list.

6. My Wii Fit Plus. But, the el-bees better start coming off or else we are gonna need to have a serious sit down and discuss where we see our “relationship” going in the future.

7. My camera. Pretty sure that no matter how things shake out with the humans on this list, you and I are gonna be cool.

8. My HP laptop. It was touch and go there for a minute when you got that virus thingy, ‘cause you know, I don’t really do germs, but now that you’re all healthy and stuff, we are good.

9. My Dyson. Wood floors are pretty and all, but brooms aren’t. I hate sweeping almost as much as I hate dishes laundry yard work scrubbing toilets other stuff, but luckily my handy dandy cost-me-a-fortune-so-you-better-earn-your-keep Dyson saves me the back breaking pain of having to sweep a whole buncha wood floored rooms everyday. I have to admit, I’m thinking about hooking up with a Roomba and I don’t even care if it gets me kicked offa this show.

10. My blog. And the 15 people who read it. You guys make my days. Although, if you could just pour on the we-are-totally-here-for-the-right-reasons-you-are-so-awesome-Dumb-Mom-and-we-are-just-so-glad-to-be-heres that would be great.

And, not to be forgotten, Thursday Thank You is gonna stick with the theme of the Bachelor as well by awarding a First Impression Rose.

I am gonna give out this one very special rose to the something in my life that has really made an impression on me. Something I’m gonna keep around, because at this point, it would be wrong to not see where this thing is going.

My garage door.

Thank you and you’re welcome.

Dear Garage Door From Hell, This has been an amazing journey so far. From the moment you busted a spring last fall and came, literally, crashing into my life, I (nor my finances) have not been the same. So much has happened since that first day. The original technician charged us $270 to replace your major spring. After putting that into place he realized another spring was broken so he left to order another part for you. Tragically, he suffered a terrible accident that left him bed ridden for weeks. One of the most severe snowstorms of the decade dumped 20 inches of snow in my yard (and on top of my temporarily garage-less vehicle). We celebrated a few major holidays and then finally, another technician was able to come out. He informed me that, before breaking his lower half into a hundred little pieces, the first technician put your spring on backwards and turned you on, which was a mistake. A seriously stupid, annoying, costly effing unbelievable mistake. Now to fix all the problems caused by that ridiculous error, he would need $215 to get you to even open manually and another $479 (with the $20 discount he’s gonna “hook” me up with) to get you to open the way you should (with a working motor). After getting out in the freezing weather to yank (and push, and pull) you into place this evening for the first time in months I feel closer to you than I ever have. We have shared (and by shared I mean I’ve paid out the nose for you to sorta kinda work a little bit) so much and I anticipate that there is still more to come. Will you accept this rose? XOXO, Dumb Mom*

*I was seriously gonna hand write this like I always do, but the thought of wasting one more penny (in the form of ink, paper, time) on this piece of crap garage made me throw up a little, so I passed. Handwritten notes will make a come back when someone/something freakin’ deserves one.

Wanna participate in Writer’s Workshop?

Trot on over to Mama Kat’s bloggy blog for the prompts.

Movies for Boys and Moms

If you know Dumb Family at all, then you know that we are huge movie fans.

HUGE.

Even "back in the day", as #2 likes to say, when Dumb Dad and I were dating the theater was our main venue. Sometimes we'd even go to two in one day!

Well, double feature movie dates are a thing of the past, and these days we are lucky if we get to see a movie together once a quarter.

But, it is something we enjoy and it's also something we enjoy doing as a family (meaning mom, dad, & two older dudes, b/c #3 is a serious movie faux pas).

As part of out holiday traditions, we like to take The Dudes to see a movie, of their choosing.

Since someone has to stay home w/#3, this year I won out as the holiday-kid-movie-chaperone.

The movie of choice?

Alvin And The Chipmunks: The Squeakquel, of course:

Movie Trailers - Movies Blog

Something about animated rodents singing Single Ladies was a huge turn off for Hubby and so obviously my cup of tea, that naturally I was appointed (honestly, I wanted to go to The Princess and the Frog, but the furry songbirds were The Dudes' vote).

I didn't expect much from the film, I mean how good can it really be?

There is only so much you can do with singing rodents, a record label vilian, and a corny-guy-next-door type.

And, I wasn't disappointed or surprised.

But, more importantly I didn't vomit, or reach REM.

Since my brain (in spite of my efforts to reform it) is convinced that movie theaters are the perfect places to conk out, my Movie Goodness Scale is based entirely on how awake I stay to enjoy it.

If the film is not Twi-awesome or Hangover-larious chances are good I'm going to fall into a deep sleep for the duration, fall into a deep sleep for a portion, or spend the majority of the film slamming my head into Dumb Dad's shoulder, the chick next to me, and/or the back of my chair.

If it's a film I REALLY want to see I may even use my drink as a wake-up tool by pouring it into my lap periodically. It's a strange method, but by golly it works!

As The Squeakquel was definitely not Twi-awesome or Hangover-larious I did a lot of the head slamming thing.

But. There was just enough mini-rump shakin' goin' on to keep me engaged for the majority.

And, right at the moment when I nearly boarded that sweet lulaby boat to Never Never Land, I was awoken with a high pitched rendition of Shake Your Groove Thang.

Perfect. Those screenwriters/director/whoever is in charge of that crap, knew exactly what they were doing with the song placement thingy.

Geniuses, I tell you. Geniuses!

Plus, it was 100 times better to be at the chipmunk pop-venture than to be sitting with #3 reading The 3-D Solar System Book for the gazillionth time (how's that for a Writer's Workshop inclusion?!).

I'm all for bonding over books, but now that he's memorized Saturn, Uranus, Earth, Mercury, and all the rest of 'em I think it's time to move on.

Besides everybody knows my position on outer space, and reading this book has done nothing for changing that.

Fortunately, Dumb Dad and I were not to be outdone by The Dudes in the movie department this season.

We caught a grown up film ourselves.

Thanks to the hidden babysitting talents of Bruncle (my brother, their uncle=Bruncle), we took in a romanticactionadventuremystery called Sherlock Holmes.

You've heard of it, right?

Robert Downey Jr., Jude Baby DaddyLaw, Rachel Mcadams?

I give it two thumbs up and I didn't even really fall asleep that much.

Okay, so I did find myself startling awake a couple of times near the end (and if you were sitting in front of me and were the recepient of one, or possibly two, swift kicks in the back, please forgive me), but it wasn't for lack of action or intrigue in the film.

It was my own inability to control my faculties when tired, sick, and effing freezing (why are theaters SO bloody cold?). Plus, we rarely ever go to the movies after sunset, and my proprensity for jumping off the sleep action is exactly why.

Anyway, point is, it was so not the movie's fault that I was unable to keep my wits about me for the duration. It was equal parts funny, engaging, and plot rich, okay maybe the plot was not exactly rich, but it did the trick.

My affection for the likes of Jude Law, Rachel Mcadams, and Robert Downey Jr. may have slightly tainted my review, but see it anyway if you get a chance and let me know what you think.

A trailer my dear, Watson.



So, anyway, thank you, Bruncle, for doing your thing. You have earned this week's Thursday Thank You as a result of your efforts.



Thank you and you're welcome.





Dear Bruncle, It's not everyday that I have a reason to praise you so let me just state, for the record, this is BIG. I sincerely appreciate your willingness to sacrifice your time (not that you had anywhere else to be) for Hubby and I to have a night out. There aren't many people I feel comfortable leaving The Dudes with and I'm glad we have you. The best part is that you're cheap: a Chipotle burrito and time to get on the PS3 with Hubby. And, you even did the dishes! Can't beat that. You are turning out to be quite the manny! I always knew you'd amount to something! XOXO, Dumb Mom

I'll Show You Magic

Christmas Eve is finally here. And, after weeks of anticipation you can't imagine how happy we all are.

I will be off celebrating (aka playing Santa like a mofo and throwin' down in this biotch) and will not be back until Monday with another ifriend for dat a** (not sure why I'm all Snoop D-)-double g with it today, it's a phase I go through from time to time: Gangsta Ma is what I like to call it.).

On that note, today's Thursday Thank You is gonna be all gangsta, sent special to a neighborhood punk kid.

I shoved it in a bottle, lit it on fire, and threw it at his house so I'll have to just type what it said here for you.*

It wasn't handwritten anyway (I know, I'm sorry), but, in an effort to keep myself outta the clink anonymous, I went ahead and did one of those every-letter-ripped-from-a-magazine-and-glued-to-a-sheet-of-nondescript-white-paper numbers while wearing cloth white gloves and a sterile suit (those CSIers are pretty amazing these days).

So here it is, thank you and you're welcome.

Dear Creepy Kid,

I think even you have to admit that I have been more than nice to you since we moved here. I mean, you have a reputation. Not just you, but your entire family, and (in case you didn't know) it proceeds you by quite a distance. So, when you wandered into my yard our first summer here wearing just shorts, combat boots, and a beebee gun and attempted to assassinate me, I smiled and offered you a lemonade. And then, when you were kind enough to teach my kindergartener and my 3 year old the word bitch by shouting, "I HATE YOU BITCHES!" down the street at them,* I forgave you and chalked it up to the fact that your parents are drunk, stoners who obviously don't have very high standards for your behavior. I shook my head, gave you the stink eye, and moved on, after telling my children what a nasty mouth loser you would grow up to be, of course. And, let's not forget the hatchet incident. The list goes on and on, and still, when my sweet, forgiving, naive-to-a-fault son invited you over to play Wii one day, I opened my door to you, gagged a little at your ripe smell, let you in and offered you snacks (and they were the good, individually wrapped kind, too). I didn't even wrestle you outta your disgustingly muddy boots; just let you Wii it up in them all over my living room floor. Never mind that I'm still not convinced you didn't steal the five spot I had lying on the counter. Point is, I've given you the benefit of the doubt time and time again. I didn't bum rush you and smash your annoying little plaything into a million pieces when you pulled it on me in my own yard. And, I didn't push you down and threaten to scrub the sh#* offa your filthy little tongue the day you taught my children how to curse like a sailor. It's not like I didn't want to. Because I totally did, but instead I let it slide. You know, because your parents suck and I felt kinda sorry for you and crap. But, guess what Mr. Nasty. Them days are ova. You've gone too far. You have pushed the things-dumb-mom-will-take-from-unfortunate-children envelope too far. Hate to go all street on you, but telling my kid Santa ain't real is just plain evil. Don't hate on his happiness just because Santa's never bothered to come your way. Maybe you'd have a little more luck with that if you weren't running around like some sorta wood imp shooting at random strangers and calling their children bitches. Just sayin'. Your life may be devoid of magic (and the puff the magic dragon type you have goin' on at your house doesn't count), but that doesn't mean that his is, and you had no right to try to ruin it with your mean words and your potty mouth. Take your hatchet, and your beebee gun, and your oversized boots, and your strange smelling hair and STEP OFF!. Keep your ugly to yourself, kid and give me back my five bucks! Don't let me catch you on the street. Santa may not be the truth, but I am, and I'll show you what it's like to be on a naughty list that matters. Break yourself, fool!

*Kidding! Totally kidding. I didn't actually light the bottle, I just left it on the door step as sort of a warning. Gangsta.

Merry Christmas, yo!

Stranger aren't Scary

This week, Mama Kat suggested that we "talk about a moment when a stranger helped you" which (if you went to the source) was inspired by Matt Logelin's post entitled "Thank You" in which he is thanking all of the kind people who helped him deal with the loss of his wife.

Sad, sad story, really nice dude, cute as a button little girl, you should check him out if you haven't before.

Anyway, it got me started thinking about how I could connect today's Thursday Thank You to Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop (because you know, it's like a twisted little goal of mine, to see if I can connect all of my TTYs to her WW no matter how loosely or far fetched the connection may be).

And, in the spirit of the season I really wanted to make sure that this was a true thank you. Not one of my thanks-for-sucking-douche-bag-are-you-for-real-right-now? thank you's to which you've undoubtedly grown accustomed.

It's not for lack of material.

I mean, I could easily thank the jerkwad at Walmart who decided to clog up the line this week by having the checkout chick price scan about 10 pairs of size 40 jeans only to announce that the pair she really wanted was actually placed on a rack that said $15.98 and "hold on real quick, lemme show you it."

But nope. Not gonna do it.

Even though my baby was sitting in crap pants that stank so badly my eyes were watering involuntarily, I'm going to let it slide.

Mostly.

Because, at least she knew she was being annoying.

Before she attempted to unsuccessfully squeeze past my cart to reenter the depths of Hell clothing department, she looked at me.

Like made eye contact looked at me.

And there was a brief glimmer of remorse there. Like she knew that holding up the line this way, during the holiday shopping frenzy, while a lady with a stank butt, obviously distressed, grabby handed toddler was waiting to be freed from the nexus of evil was wrong.

It was fleeting, and it didn't prevent her from proceeding, but at least she knew it.

And, knowing is half the battle, that's what they always say, right?

So, in an effort to stay bah-hum-bug free, she gets a pass.

But, she wasn't my only "person of interest" this week.

I easily could go with the fool of a woman at the bank who offered me a lollipop after I lodged a complaint about the fact that their ATM machine was always broken.

As in, I say something like: "I come to this bank at least once a week and the machine is out of service every time. Is it always broken? Should I find another bank that can more effectively meet my desire for convenience? I have a small child and it's a hassle to have to go through all of this to simply make a deposit."

And she responds, verbatim: "It's not actually broken, but we like have to put money in it. Do you want a lollipop?"

And then I think: "Um, no braniac, I don't want a bloody lollipop, I want to not have to wait in this drive-up line for eternity, or haul this heavy load of toddler into the bank in the pouring rain four times a month because you people have a money machine that never, EVER has money in it!"

But, nonconfrontational pushover that I am, actually say (after blinking and staring in shock for a few awkward moments, willing her to take it back): "No lollipop, thank you. Just wanna make a deposit so we can go."

I could thank her, you know for being so generous with her candy.

But, nope.

I'm not gonna do it.

Because, while she may not have realized she was being stupid lame insensitive, she also probably didn't realize that it was Monday, or that her bra was showing, or that her teeth had lipstick all over them.

So, I'm gonna forgive her for not taking my complaint seriously.

Just this once.

You know, because it's Christmas.

Both of these people easily qualify as people who deserve a Dumb Mom Special. But, 'tis the season and all.

Finding a time when some stranger, outta the kindness of their heart was nice, or helpful, or not outright mean is way more difficult.

I can easily recall plenty of times when a stranger reminded me that chivalry is dead (like the time I boarded a packed Metro train, 9 months pregnant, carrying a sleeping toddler, and the only person to offer me a chair was the lady with three small children on her lap. True story!), that waving because it's polite is somehow annoying, or that saying excuse me, please, and thank you are not really requirements.

But then, I started really thinking.

Nice. Strangers. Nice. Strangers. Nice. Strangers?

I know about 480 pretty dang nice strangers who help me out every single day!

You guys.

All of you lovely people who a year ago knew nothing about me, or my dudes, or my desire to wash the feet of one extremely handsome pop star, come to my blog, everyday (okay only about 10 of you come everyday, but still) and read the lunacy.

And, you don't make fun of me (even when I deserve it), and you don't act all judgemental or rude (even when I do), and you say nice, sweet, encouraging things (even when I know you're lying), and you totally suck up to me (even when I don't pay you), and you make me laugh, and you make me smile, and you tell me I do the same thing for you (even though I'm not always trying).

Technically, you are all (okay, not all of you, but most of you) strangers. We haven't met and probably never will.

You could easily be hairy backed homeless men who read my blog at the Y so you can "pleasure yourself" with my kids' photos.

Which is fine.

Because you're not mean, or rude, or hateful, or ugly.

Which is all I really care about.

When I started this blog less than a year ago (my first post was December 29, 2008; I'm almost 1), I never imagined that anyone I didn't bribe or have blood ties to would ever read it.

I never imagined that I would be writing it daily, or even at all, in a year.

I didn't do it for the free crap (although you know I love it), or the connections (because no one was supposed to start reading it), or to make money (but it does help), or even to further my career as a writer (I imagined I kissed that dream goodbye in the 4th grade).

I really just did it because BFF and then Mimi told me to.

And then I kept doing it because I liked it.

And then, I started doing it even more because you all liked it too.

So, thank you (and you're welcome).



Thank you for reading, and commenting, and helping my blog become a place that makes me happy.

You may technically be strangers, but you don't really feel like it anymore.

But, don't get too crazy or anything, because I'm so not into cyber stalking.

It's creepy and it's weird, much like real life stalking, and if you start sending me random I-wanna-meet-you-because-I-love-you-and-I'm-curious-about-how-your-hair-smells emails I will get a restraining order, I'm not above that.

P.S. TOMORROW IS THE VERY LAST DAY TO ENTER THE MERRY EFFING CHRISTMAS PHOTO CONTEST! SO GO HERE AND DO IT NOW!

Happy Turkey Day

Hope you all have a joyful holiday.

Nothing today, but tomorrow is gonna be BIG!

Big news that is way more exciting than getting up at 3am to wait in line for two hours outside of HellMart for a $45 DVD player that you will only get if you can muscle Big Booty Bertha and her boobilicious mama outta the way for it.

Come here instead, it'll be SO worth it!

Oh, and thanks, family, for being you.




You're kinda awesome!

It's a Playground

not an ashtray, or a toilet, or a king sized vibrating bed in a low budget motel.

It is a place where children, innocent C-H-I-L-D-R-E-N, go to play.

It's supposed to be safe, and inviting, and free of venereal disease transmitting debris.

So, in my infinite wisdom I've decided to compile a list of playground don'ts to help those less informed members of society learn to navigate a playground with ease and assurance.

(Please note that when I say "I've decided" that is to imply that Mama Kat decided when she selected the prompts for this week's Writer's Workshop. I know it appears that I am attempting to take credit for her bright ideas, but that is not entirely (partly, but not entirely) true. I'm convinced that since Mama K (my new term of endearment for her) and I met recently we are connected on a more existential level and that we are now sharing thoughts that other, regular people, are not privy to. It's like our brains are co-mingling at all times (which sucks for her because I'm sure that the constant images of JT shakin' his money maker are starting to make her ill). So, for future reference, just know that if Mama K comes up with a particularly awesome idea, you know, something super innovative and impressive, it probably really came from me.)

What Not to Do at the Playground (provided you don't enjoy being stoned)

DON'T SMOKE at the playground and leave the butt in the sand box so that my one year old picks it up and starts sucking on it while I'm Tweeting to @jtimberlake. I need other people to not behave like neglectful, inconsiderate losers so that when I'm feeling like doing so there aren't so many dangers lying around to make it impossible.

DON'T HAVE SEX at the playground and leave the condom (although round of applause for safety!) in the sandbox so that my one year old picks it up and starts sucking on it while I'm Tweeting to @jtimberlake. Okay, he didn't actually get it into his mouth, but he did have it filled with sand and was attempting to bat at other children with it.

DON'T LET YOUR DOG DEUCE in the grass adjacent to the playground. I have a really bad habit of forgetting #3's shoes at home and then letting him run barefoot through the park. Allowing your rat-tailed mutt to leave his excrement in random places causes me to swear loudly when #3 slips in it. So now, not only am I being ostracized for having a sh** footed toddler, but I am being glared at for my creative expression as well. I mean the bags are RIGHT. THERE.

DON'T PUT YOUR DOG ON THE SLIDE. It's just ridiculous and when my kid punches your dog in the throat because it lumbered into his personal space, don't look all aghast at me. Your bad. It clearly states that this playground is for C-H-I-L-D-R-E-N between the ages of 0 and 12, and for the record people-who-haven't-had-kids-yet-but-like-to-pretend-their-pets-are-their-babies, if it didn't actually slide outta your vajayjay or get ripped from a seriously-this-feels-like-I've-been-cut-in-half hole small incision in your belly, it's not your baby*!

DON'T TALK ON YOUR CELL PHONE the entire time. Seriously, I'm all for taking a short call or whatever, but what do you think texting is for? Obviously it's to prevent you from annoying the crap outta me at the park while you use that I'm-being-cute-and-playful-in-my-mind-but-it-sounds-really-effing-whiny-to-the-rest-of-us voice to talk your husband into letting you get the nanny an extra day each week. Please know that when my kid hands your kid the sand filled condom I'm not even gonna bother to knock it outta her hands.

DON'T FORGET TO READ (between) the signs. If there is a huge sign posted that says no skateboarding, rollerblading, or rollerskating on the play structure I think it's safe to assume that means your obnoxious, loudmouthed, way-too-big-for-jungle-gym-play son should also refrain from riding his Razor up and down the bridges. And, the fact that he got caught on my foot and took a mean header immediately after he rolled over #3's fingers is so not my fault it's not even funny.

DON'T FLAUNT YOUR GOODIES. I know, it's a public place and you and your kid are allowed to enjoy whatever culinary delights you desire, but I've been eating lettuce and water all week (trying to fit into my grown up pants again) and you're killing me with the cookies. Plus, #3's new "song" is the cookie song ("I wub cookies, I wub cookies, I WUB COOOOOOOKIES!"), which gets progressively louder as it's sung repeatedly until his affection for cookies is rewarded with one. So, unless you're planning on sharing soon, you might wanna get outta here with those.

DON'T MENTION THE WORDS NANNY, SPA, OR POTTY TRAINED anywhere near us. These or sore topics and it would just be mean.

DON'T SPREAD THE SWINE. I know, I'm buying into the paranoia here, but seriously, if your kid looks like he's carrying the plague how about you just pretend he is and keep him home. And, I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. We were just at the park yesterday and #3 started coughing. The mom of the girl next to him swooped in and put a SARS mask on her kid. Okay, she didn't really, but she did get out the hand sanitizer and go to work on those fingers. I made sure #3 planted a wet one right on her hand before we left!

Feel free to print these off and share them with all of your friends and family; it takes a village and moms like me will thank you.

Speaking of thank yous (subtle, right?!)...

I need to award this week's Thursday Thank You.



It's going out to a very special someone who I'm sure will never have sex on a playground again (KIDDING!)...

Justin Timberlake!

And, I'm only doing this because I think you're awesome, and I'm all drooly over you right now, and I want to share your undeniable awesomeness with the 3 people who read this blog.

Thank you, and you're welcome!

Dear Justin,
Thank you for inviting me to your concert (you Tweeted it, that totally counts). I was so happy that your charity event corresponded with my blogging event last weekend. I really enjoyed being a part of such an important affair (you workin' the floor) and am proud to say that I donated to such a valuable charity. I had a wonderful time with you and your friends, especially at the after party. You know, when we shared our moment?! I'm sure you remember it just the way I do: I was shakin' what my mama gave me (you know, trying to catch your eye), you noticed (how could you not, I was seriously doin' my thang) and rewarded me with that sweet smile (the one that obviously was meant to say that you love me), I rewarded you with a loud scream and a ridiculous little jig (although, since I was submerged in water up to my knees, I doubt you saw that, and I'm hoping you didn't catch a glimpse of my girdle either, I'm a little concerned about whether or not my wet dress had become transparent in the water). Now that I'm back home I hope you don't mind that I continue to interact with you. I plan to Tweet you regularly, from the park, while my kid plays with a dirty condom, cigarette butt hanging from his lips, and a mangy dog humping the crap outta his leg. Hope you don't mind. XOXO, Your oldest Biggest Fan, Dumb Mom

I've decided to break this note into a series of 140 character Tweets, nothing like killing him with kindness!

And, if you want to learn more about Justin Timberlake's charity concert, feel free to check him (and me, one of my @thenagainphoto Tweets actually made it on his site!) out here: justintimberlake.com


*Adopted offspring are meant to be included in this definition as well, point is, dogs, cats, and other furry friends don't count.