I want a parade.  Now, let's be clear, this would not be my first parade.  The first parade was 9 years ago today. At my wedding in New Orleans.  A Second Line it is called.  Sidebar: yes Hubs, I said "my". I realize that it was "ours" but let it go on this one, it's for dramatic effect. Traditionally reserved for jazz funeral processions where mourners walk solemnly behind a casket to a grave site, only to walk/dance back home to upbeat jazzy celebration music, the Second Line has become synonymous with all sorts of celebrations.  When my boyfriend (now husband) and I had been on a trip to one of our favorite towns (NOLA) we saw one, and I said - "I want a parade".  He responded with, "Most people say they love a parade, but you, you say you want a parade".  And I got one - 3ish years later when we decided to get married in New Orleans.

 
Although this is my anniversary - I'm not going to go into details of that super amazing party we threw 9 years ago...people will be talking about that shindig for years. No, today I am going to talk about why I think I want, nay deserve, another parade.  Why, after 9 years, I want to throw down the boatloads of money that it takes to procure the police escort, the band, the handkerchiefs and all the other nuances that go into having one.  Bottom line - we have bloody-well earned it.

Nobody ever tells you when you are growing up, or dating, or engaged, or planning a wedding, or ever, for that matter, that marriage is hard work.  Those in it know - it's back breaking at times.  Then throw in some kids you gotta raise to be upstanding humans, and job moves and global pandemics and all the other shit life throws at you, and marriage is downright hell on a couple.  Nobody ever said it was easy, but they also never said it would suck so hard sometimes.  I surmise that this is because if we knew what it would take to keep it going in the beginning, then the 65% of people that decide to get divorced, wouldn't get married in the first place.  I also suspect that 95% of the people that would have liked to have gotten divorced in our grand or great-grandparent's generations would have walked the fuck out had it been an option to them.

As I write this, I don't really feel qualified to even do so - Hubs and I have only been married 9 years; together for 13.  I have vintage stilettos older than that.  I mean, my parents have been married for like ever, (47 years, I think - sorry M&D if I am off - I have lost track) and we have friends, both younger and older, that have been together for like 25 years - I only associate that number with, like, mortgage terms.  How the fuck do they do it?  How do you evolve as humans separately, and together?  The answer - hard work.

I don't have ALL the answers - this blog isn't meant to be any sort of how-to, because Lord knows, Hubs and I are far from the Waltons - and we take everything day by day.  What I do know is this - the amount effort that is required for true love, honesty, trust, passion, patience, compromise and everything in between deserves some credit.  Milestones achieved for keeping it going, deserve to be celebrated.  Married folk should have a fucking blowout celebration for every single anniversary.  Every. Single. One.  Each year is a major accomplishment.

So, basically, this is why we deserve another parade.  I want to blow-out the fact that Hubs and I made it through another year of partnership, potty-training and pandemics.  I want to dance down a street, with a Hurricane in hand, to celebrate the fact that we survived another 365 days - which is more than 65% of the married population out there.  Gold star to us on that one.  We friggen rock.

That being said, these days I would be happy starting with a simple FB post from my Hubs, that I am pretty sure forgot we got married today, until he saw my FB post.  Yep Hubs, public shaming - but I still love you till the end.

​

I decided today that I am going on sabbatical.  While all the world is undeniably ragged from the stress, fear, frustration, aggravation and exhaustion that the COVIDs have brought upon us - I think us working moms get the cake for holding it together on brink of insanity.  The constant juggle of kids, colleagues, home chores and husbands is enough to make anyone mad.  And so, I have decided, I'm effing done.

Outside perspective says I operate in a constant state of "Too Much".  I yell too much, swear too much, and overreact too much when it comes to my children acting defiantly.  This constant state of overaction then causes my childen to act like assholes, just to get a rise out of me..which works beautifully, ultimately sending me into a shame spiral where I then cry too much.  Why?  Well, for one,  I never signed up for this shit.  When I conceded with the Universe that I would do this kid thing (something I was NEVER fully equipped for)  I did not agree to being home all the time, holding a job, teaching them to be upstanding citizens and aces at   Common Core Math.  Nope, never agreed to that.  Pretty sure had I formally contracted this deal I would have picked that out of the fine print and demanded its immediate removal before signature.  But nooo...here I am...doing all these things...no vacation, no break, no relief.  Until I realized there might be an out.

At first I thought I had been punched in the face.  What do you mean I can't be everything to everyone?!? How dare you think I can't be a stellar Leader, amazing Wife AND Super Mom.  I can be all these things!!!  But notice for one moment what wasn't in there - the part where I was still just Me.  While I was simultaneously building C-Suite PowerPoints, doing laundry and fighting over WTF a consonant digraph was, there was one thing missing...Me.  I had turned into a haggard, dry shampoo for days, toes like a sloth, screaming, irate, legging wearing monster. And I didn't like it one bit - it wasn't me. It wasn't the person I ever wanted to be...but it was the person I had become. 

So, in the midst of exploring how much I had failed as a parent, I decided that I was done being Bad Cop.  I was over being the disciplinarian, the first responder, the hard ass - Atlas holding up the effing world....I was going on Sabbatical.   And so I have.

While he is super amazing and a true partner already, Daddy can now be all those things FULL TIME.  Daddy can be the one to make the rules and uphold them.  Daddy can be the one to set parameters and determine when they have been breached.  Daddy can be the mean guy, because I am going back to being Fun Girl. The happy table dancing girl that only screamed when drunk morons would bump my cocktail in a bar.  That girl was way better than Mommy Monster.

This is Day 1 - or one could say, Ground Zero. We shall see how it goes.  I have faith that Hubs will conquer this task with flying colors, really.  He is far more level headed and patient than I am...much more cut out for this than me.  Maybe he can single-handedly keep our children out of therapy, because God knows that I would get us a group discount with that therapist.  Meanwhile, I am going to sit back, enjoy my Zoom calls with fewer interruptions, listen intently when my daughter defiantly just spills paint all over her room and hand over the towel when my son decides that carrying water from the bathroom through the entire house to the backyard in a broken leaky cup is a great idea.  I hope to walk away from all this with some actionable strategies on how to be a better Mom.  One that holds it all together and is her best June Cleaver self under all this bullshit stress.  I'll keep you all posted...this is gonna be fun.  

Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.” - Abigail Adams​

So...we're moving tomorrow.  Well, sort of.  The "Packers" are coming tomorrow, which  basically means that I need to get off my ass and pack up anything I don't want some random person touching, putting in 14 pieces of paper and precariously throwing into a large cardboard box most likely accompanied by the trash from my bathroom.   This is not a joke - that literally happened to me the last time... bathroom trash, still inside the can, inside a box next to my unused toilet tissue.  Needless to say, that Charmin for sure became trash itself on the other end.

Here's the thing - Packers are both a blessing and a curse.  Knowing someone is going to pack your house simply means that you do absolutely NOTHING until they show up.  We have known we were moving for 8 weeks - I have packed two boxes.  Two.  And they are Spanx/underwear and a boatload of lingerie that I cannot understand how I ever friggen fit in, because I swear all the pieces would be more useful to me as dental floss and mirror cleaners than anything at this point.  Regardless, these are two sets of items that only two people are allowed to handle - myself and Hubs - and let's be honest - he's only really getting his hands on my Spanx if doing laundry - because lord knows it takes 5 minutes to get out of those fuckers, so you gotta plan ahead.

Ok, I lied.  I have packed four boxes.  I also packed all the stuff in my nightstand, and the crap under my sink.   I can only imagine how many tampons and feminine products these people have seen, but they don't need to see mine.

But here's why it is a curse - what isn't happening is me going through my stuff and throwing it away because that is a better alternative than putting it in a box.  So now, once again, a stranger is going to load all my crap into a box, and ship it back across the country where I first accumulated it in the first place.  It's the curse of my own shit!

This being said, my friend OnPoint moves houses and cities like I move jobs - every couple of years - and I am pretty sure she doesn't have packers every time - but she stills has a bunch of shit, so maybe it's just the emotional connection we have with our shit that keeps it moving back and forth.  I 

Well folks, the title says it all.  I will set forth a warning now - this post contains several references to excrement, poop, doodie, shit, #2, poopies - whatever you call it...the entire passage is about shit and the shit we go through when dealing with shit.  There are no pictures, to protect the innocent and the weak stomachs out there.  If you choose to read on, it is at your own risk.

I would like to start out by reiterating the fact that the majority of my mommy life is grounded in the mantra that if I don't laugh, I will cry. So I try to take a humorous approach, as much as is soberly possible, to all things that hit me.  Now, sometimes, the laugh resembles the scene from Tom Hanks' Money Pit, where the bathtub falls through the floor after he has taken buckets of water up to put in it.  He just starts laughing, because if he doesn't, he will break down in utter defeat and cry like a baby.  The laugh is hearty, and boisterous, and painstakingly fake - but if you are going to go crazy, you might as well do it with a smile, no matter how manufactured.

Next caveat- we are potty training my son right now, and he is to be forgiven for all things he does as he learns his body. I get that.  However, it was the process of potty training my first kid that caused me to swear off having any more children,  because I NEVER wanted to go through that shit again (excusing the pun).  Alas, I was blessed with another child, and subsequently cursed with another round of potty training. 

For those of you that haven't been through the process, it SUCKS. I would compare it to maybe the Epilady razor back in the 80's - just as painful as electronically picking out all your individual pubic hairs in a circular motion slowly - and just as tedious as having to shave regularly.  At least when you wax it is fast - but the Epilady - the Epliady took time...a slow torture. Potty training is no different. As a recovering germaphobe, it might possibly be the single hardest thing I have ever done as a parent, and the reason I refuse to buy one of those mini potties - fuck that - I am not picking up your peep and poop and pouring it anywhere...go in the fucking toilet and flush it down.  Now, I know that if this is the hardest thing I have had to deal with, then I am much luckier than some, and I thank God daily for that.  But seriously, for me...this is The Gauntlet.

Which leads me to the incident we had the other night.  Picture this - bath time, all is well.  Both kids are playing nicely, enjoying the magical healing waters that transform your nasty little petri dishes  into clean and harmonious angels.  Your son stands up in the bath, and says - "I go pee pee in the bath" while simultaneously releasing a faint spot of gas from the other side.  Seeing no evidence of urine at the moment, you respond quickly and say, "No pee-pee in the bath" and you pull him out and place him on the toilet to sit there and pee.  You see no evidence of anything in the water. Crisis averted!

Moments later, you turn around to see your daughter still sitting in the bath..when suddenly, you see something floating in the water, making its way around her.  You think, "Oh please lord, no".  Yep, you have suddenly re-found religion. But, clearly God was on the other line, because what do you see floating toward you, but a big ole' human log.   YUP.  A huge piece of shit, perfectly shaped like Mr. Hankey and making its rounds in the calming bath waters.   Your first reaction?  Well, you scream out like Spalding in Caddyshack of course - "DOODIE!"  

Soon you realize your daughter has been sitting in this water for at least 2 minutes.  So you immediately pull her out, call for your husband to shower her and scrub her with a bar of soap that will be thrown out immediately, while you find something, anything, to fish a fucking human waste snicker bar out of the bathtub.  Thank god for that ziplock that happens to be sitting in the hall that your daughter kept LOL dolls in, but of course, never picks them up, so, awesome Girl - for once your disobedience has done me a solid - excuse the pun again, please.

From there, you empty the tub, and painstakingly spray literally EVERYTHING in the bathroom with Clorox, regardless of its proximity to the tub, considering for a moment if you should spray the kid still sitting on the potty.  Meanwhile, he stands up and proudly proclaims - "I DID IT!".  Yes, Son...yes you did. Strangely, you are somewhat proud that a little poop made it into the toilet - and for a split second, you are transported to a happy place - until you remember that the entire bathtub, including the toys must be sanitized immediately...and you are brought back to your own personal hell.   

I don't know why "Parent" was never a job showcased on the Discovery Channel show, "Dirty Jobs".  Between the poo, the puke, the spit, the spoiled food the colds and the germs,  it is quite possibly the single most disgusting job on the planet - and you don't even make minimum wage.  What kind of crock is that?!?  Sure, sure, seeing your child grow up and become an amazing member of society - yes, that's fantastic.  But come on...there has to be at least some recognition for what it takes to get them there.  Ya feel me?

At the end of the day, we survived LogGate2019 - and are now all the wiser.  The moral of the story is - and I think this is a great life lesson in general - never trust a fart.  Period.

Soooo...I am thinking that I may have a bunch of un-diagnosed psychoses (is that event the word??) going on in this head of mine.  I mean, I have always admitted to being bat shit crazy, there's no denying that, but I think it is really starting to effect my everyday way of life.

Let's put aside that I think I am for sure ADHD - my assistant with vouch for that.  Or that all those years of excessive partying have, without a doubt, depleted all my dopamine reserves, making me a variable ass hat to just about everyone that crosses me.  Let's put all that in a box and unpack it at a later date.  For today's discussion, we can simply focus on my ability to obsess over seemingly stupid, pointless and uncontrollable things.  I can't let them go. I sit there, over-analyze them, reanalyze them, then over-analyze them again.  Any attempts of utilizing any sort of "Letting Go" method is truly futile.  I keep trying, and it keeps coming back.

Interestingly, some of my obsessions are at least somewhat productive.  Take hotel rooms for example - I am a complete and utter hotel snob.  Much to my husband's chagrin, I am pretty much 100% guaranteed to get into any hotel room and immediately call the front desk to change.  Don't ask me why, but I am never satisfied with the first one.  Now, I will tell you, that nine times out of ten, after huffing and puffing and getting all bitter that I can't just take the effing hotel room and be happy, Hubs is usually thanking me, because we have gotten a bigger room, a better view, a more premium spot or whatever.  The way I look at it, these types of obsessions are for the greater good, so, you're welcome.

However, the majority of my obsessions come in the form of me not letting go of some idea that I have in my head, a story if you will, of whomever or whatever I feel is important at the time.  A quick search on the National Institute of Mental Health website defines Obsessive Compulsive Distorder as "... a common, chronic and long-lasting disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, reoccurring thoughts (obsessions) and behaviors (compulsions) that he or she feels the urge to repeat over and over."   Welp, that pretty much sums up my day.   Awesome.  I might as well be locking and unlocking my door 17 times and never stepping on cracks on the street - wait...I already do that.

What I want to be able to do is blame this disorder on all the assholes out there that make me think and feel this way.  Ya ya, I get it, nobody can "make you feel any way but you".  And I agree with that - but I don't imagine this shit to begin with - the stories or people come from somewhere.   So to all those bosses who I end up obsessing over because you hate me - and then I ultimately sabotage my own career trying to get the hell away from you, to the mental escapes that consume my day deeming me patently unproductive, to the ego inside my own head constantly telling me I am worthless - FUCK ALL Y'ALL.   This shit has got to end.

Two of my favorite books of all time are by David R. Hawking, Ph.D -"Power versus Force" and "Letting Go - The Pathway of Surrender".   In both these books, Dr. Hawking talks about the variable energy field that we and all beings omit.  Depending on your mental state, you omit certain frequencies, and then those frequencies in turn attract similar energy into your life.  Law of Attraction type stuff.  Like attracts like.  In "Letting Go" he explains how one needs to just be one with a feeling, in order to take away its energy.  Then you can simply release and let it go.  I do this, probably 187 million times a day.  No joke, I am pretty sure I am trying to let go of at least 187 things at any given moment.  It's exhausting.  What I wish, was that I never obsessed in the first place. That before it actually became something I needed to let go, I would just not let it be a thing at all.

But the truth is, I don't know if there is any human on the planet that doesn't obsess over SOMETHING.   Most narcissists obsess over themselves.  Most pessimists obsess over the negative.  Optimist obsess over the positive.  Bird people on birds, cat people on cats.  Everyone has a little bit of crazy in them.  Heck, even Mother Theresa was insistent to make the world a better place.  So really, maybe I just need to use all this crazy for good.

That's it!  That's the game plan.  I gotta get out of my own head, and put all this back into giving back to the world around me.  I gotta get out of myself, and back into the greater good.  Put the "all" back in altruism.  Maybe we all should do that.  Taking a moment to act beyond ourselves is the best thing we can do. 

Now...where is that damn Junior League group I keep paying dues to and never do anything...Mamas - I'm coming home.

There are moments in a parent's life when they wonder how bat shit crazy that stork must have been to think they were capable of being a viable parent.  You know the scenes - incidents when you hate yourself for screaming at your helpless potty training kid, for having had a poo accident in a department store and literally contaminating everything between the crime scene and the bathroom, forcing you to buy $200 worth of shit you don't need out of guilt, disgust and embarrassment - all the while,  wondering why the hell you had kids to begin with.  Or the nights, after a long and exhausting day, where you plop your kid in front of the TV, just so you can have a moment of veg and peace.  Or the times when you immediately hand your kid your phone in a restaurant, already running the NickJR app, just so you can enjoy a conversation with grown ups for like 20 minutes.   Or...in my case...the day the school asked my 6 year old to tell them "All About Mommy".​

Ladies and Gentleman,  what you see to the right and below is real - it is unedited, and only the names have been crossed out to avoid CPS detection. Please note, my daughter is 5, so she did not write these answers, she dictated them to someone else, who wrote them for her.  So yes, there is at least one adult witness to these.

The day I found this in my daughter's backpack, I laughed and cried simultaneously. On the one hand, I was proud that my daughter was so accurate with some of her answers.  On the other hand,  did I mention CPS? 

​Let's break this little gem down piece by piece, shall we? ​

Question 1: Name - good job Sweetie, so glad you actually knew my name - and didn't just put "Hey Mom" in the blank space.

Question 2:  Age - 18 - thanks Baby Girl - if only.  At 18, I might have actually had energy to handle two kids. OH, and if that were true, then your ass would be in college now, and I would have my life back - with a little time left to enjoy it.  

Questions 3,4 and 5: I do love to snuggle - that is super cute, I do tell her not to interrupt - that she interrupts me while saying it and best of all, I know she knows I love her.  Bravo.  #MomWIN

Question 6 - harmless, I pretty much love me some protein and veggies - but I was both thoroughly impressed and slightly disturbed by that fact that she speaks in descriptive  dietary terms.  She is either going to be the healthiest kid on the planet, or well on her way to a lifetime full of yo-yo dieting and negative body image like the rest of us crazy women.

That was the easy part - if only she'd stay in that vein.  But noooo.

Question 7 - Yup, my 5 year old told her recorder that her Mommy "likes to drink VODKA". First of all, what kind of fucked up teacher asks a kid what their Mommy likes to drink?  A teacher that knows the answer is going to be something to call CPS about for sure!!  I feel violated and set up.   If 75% of the class didn't have "Wine", "Mommy's Juice" or "Cocktails" then those fucking kids aren't paying attention - and shame on their parents for lying to them.  On the flip-side, clearly I am too honest with my kid, because she flat out said "Vodka" - quite specific, but also, extremely accurate.  YES teacher, my Mommy drinks Vodka.  And to the teacher that was passing judgment - fuck you - if you don't smoke weed every night when you get home after dealing with like 70 Kindergartners, then you are the fucking crazy one.

Question 8- My mom's job is to "GET MONEY".  Well, again, factually accurate, but also not very elegant.  I feel like I may need to stop talking about vodka, and start explaining to her what I do for a living.  I mean, technically I am in sales, so GET MONEY is 100% the goal, but she comes from a long line of Marketers - we gotta work on her creativity. 

Question 9 - and hands down, the most fucked up of them all - "When my Mommy is alone she likes to"...wait for it.." go out and drink at a bar".  YUP.  That was her answer.  My kid thinks that when I am alone, I go out and drink at a bar.  Now, first of all - aside from work travel where it is a common occurrence  to eat alone and have a cocktail with dinner- I don't think I have ever, in my life, gone out alone to drink at a bar.  I feel like that is breaking every cardinal chick rule of common sense.  Girls don't drink at bars alone - you are asking to be Ruffied.  That's just nonsense.  And also, when I am alone, I am usually going to Costco, or in a miracle moment, getting my hair done, or going to workout to attempt to hide my hideous post 2 babies belly,  or any number of other errands that work far better alone.  Would I like to go out and drink at a bar - SURE!  Alone, no, but go out for sure!  Seriously, where in fuck's name did she get that crap from?  Best part? Ya, the teacher now thinks I drink vodka at home, then go out to a bar alone to drink more.  #MomOfTheYear.

And finally - Question 10 - she closes strong with "I love my mom because..." to which my kid replied, "because she gives me everything".  Bravo kiddo - your teenage, drunk Mom spoils you rotten - awesome.

All and all, I have to say, in some ways, the kid has me pinned. Someday, when she is a teenager, and I am checked into Passages Malibu, because she has officially driven me to drink - she will look back on this Kinder treasure and laugh.  But I can't help but wonder - have I been too honest with my kid?  Should I have been lying and embellishing and giving her the June Cleaver treatment? Cuz truthfully, I think that is bullshit.  ​

My answer to myself is no.  At the end of the day, we are all only doing the best we can, and if the best I can do is be wildly transparent with my kid, and treat her like the mature little kid she is, then that is what she is going to get.

That being said, as of this moment, I put a Sicilian Blessing (aka curse) on my girl that she will have a daughter just like her someday. Watch out Baby Girl - your Nani pulled that shit on me when I was 16 - and here you are - and I couldn't be more blessed.   Feel free to come visit me in the Old Folks Home in Florida when your daughter dictates your Biography.  God Willing I will be there to see it.  

Have you ever stopped and just wondered, "When the fuck did I become an adult"?  I feel like I do this far more often than I should at age 41. For some reason, my body tells me I am an adult, my age reminds me I am an adult, but my brain still wonders why I taking out the garbage cans like "a mom would do"...which I am, but still can't wrap my head around it.

For instance - I sometimes think about how grown up it would be to own a house, and cart around kids, and juggle work and personal life - you know - like old people do - and how far away from that I am.  And then I stop, look around, and realize that is my life.  I have totally turned into my mother! WTF?!?  When did that happen?  I mean, I remember when my Mom turned 40 - I am pretty sure I was 15 and living in Florida ( a place my whole family moved to because my dumb ass got into so much trouble they had to move me 3,000 miles away) and I just remember thinking - "40! That is so old! I will never be that old!" And yet, here I am.  That old plus 1.  

So why is that I wonder?  Why do I still feel like that "old person" is so far away from me? Why do I still feel like I should be able to drop everything and just take shots and dance on tables?  For those of you that know me well, it is most likely because you know I would still be the first to drop everything, take a shot, and dance on the nearest table - but that's not the point. The point is, I can't seem to grasp the fact that I am an adult.  It baffles me that as an adult, I still have the same damn  insecurities I did when I was 20, but now, they seem even more annoying because I feel like I should have grown out of them by now.  Like, why the hell have I spent 20 years thinking it would be 20 years till I got a clue - when in fact, I pretty much never would have clue!  It's a vicious, sick and twisted circle of life.

Here are some additional things I think about when I am in denial that I am an adult:
1)  I need a vacation.  I can just book a last minute ticket for the man and I and be sitting on a beach with a cocktail by tomorrow at noon. (oh wait, I have 2 kids and a dog to deal with).
2)  I hate this job - surely since I have no responsibilities, I could just quit and deal with it later. (Wake up bitch - the alarm is going off - it's 5:00 am- stop dreaming)
3) Disciplining a kid? Nah - I will be the cool mom,  my kid's best friend, they will be so awesome that I won't ever have to be a bad guy. (Nice try, TigerMom)
4) Hey old man driver, move over, young gun passing you on the left.  (wait, so I have been driving for way way more than half my life? My husband would argue that I am still the shittiest driver he knows - but fuck him - he is an AutoElitest.)
5) Oh, I'll just binge watch that show for 24 hours straight with no interruptions. (Tell that to your two-year old that wants Team UmiZumi morning, noon and night)
6) And while on the topic of binge-ing - sure I can eat pizza and Oreo Cakesters and ice cream with a side of wings and a shit ton of vodka and not gain a pound. (Fuck you brain, that isn't even funny to dream about. I eat a piece of lettuce and I gain 5lbs - #hormonessuck)
7) That little pee I did when I laughed, ya, that's just cuz I hadn't gone for a while.  (Ya, that my friend, is incontinence and it is a result of two kids, a shit-ton of exercise that is aging you and a failing pelvic floor.)
8) No problem, I will just go to the gym after work. (Sorry - the MomLyft is on shift today and everyday).

These and many other things flood my brain daily.  I guess the idea of adulting is easier to think as a distance. Denial is bliss.  As my mother always told me - you can't help growing old, but you can choose not to grow up.  Bravo Mom, Bravo.  I guess it's not so bad that I have turned into you.  LOVE.

Ah, Valentine's Day.  Once, a holiday reserved for red roses, red wine and red lingerie, those memories seem like distant dreams, fading rapidly with each passing Mommy year.  These days, instead of the excitement of companion surprises, drunken dinners, and even drunker sex, I now look forward to just another excuse for endless Mom self-shaming and compounding guilt.

This year, the first of what will be, like, another 12 years of elementary school Valentines (God-Willing), I totally effed up and didn't properly read the 6 paragraph note that told me I needed 29 total Valentines for my daughters Kindergarten class.  Please note that my kid's actual class as  "Later Gator" has only 11 kids, but apparently we have to buy for both the morning and late classes, and that all those Valentines were due on the Monday BEFORE Valentine's Day, which this year, falls on a Thursday.  Of course, I only realized this the Tuesday AFTER the Monday deadline, having ordered these super cool Sunglasses Valentines that were scheduled to be delivered on the 13th.  Best part?  I thought I was being all hip by buying Valentines for all the kids in the After School Care program too.  But of course, since I didn't buy enough of the expensive Snoopy ones for the whole 29 kid group,  I now have to use the shitty After School Care set for the classroom, re-purposing the cool Snoopy ones for my 2 year old Son's class, resulting in a ridiculous surplus of shitty emogi glasses, since I won't have enough for the fucking After School Care kids, because there are like 40 of those bastards.  

Yep, as is so signature Me, I am too little, too late on the Valentine's task.  Of course my Mom Besties (who I adore by the way), OverAchiever and Pinterest Queen have not only completed their Valentines, but turned them in by the 4 day ahead deadline.  So while I want to hate them for having it all put together, I also can't, because had I not texted them panicked about the date deadline I had just read, secretly praying that they had fucked up like me, but not being even remotely surprised when, of course, they had been done for days, I would have sent too few.  I basically have to thank them for causing me Mom Shame.  Ya ya, I get it, nobody can make me feel that way but me, but right now, fuck that, I am already feeling guilty, I at least need to deflect some of this shame by saying my amazing friends are FuckTards when they are on point. To hell with ownership, for the moment, I will be weak and petty and shame them for being too perfect. 

Side note, Mom self-shaming is a bitch.  Why do we feel we need to compare ourselves to other moms, and why the fuck can't we just be proud of the fact that we are keeping these small humans alive?  Why is it that the minute I see that I missed one of the 76 ongoing kid deadlines, I go straight to:  "Oh shit! My kid is going to be the only kid without Valentines and she will be humiliated, and she is already having trouble bonding with kids in her class, this is going to make it worse, and she is going to be the only depressed Kindergartner, which will lead to her being a depressed adolescent that will most likely be prescribed Lithium,  which will result in excessive drug use in Middle School that will then, of course, lead to her hanging out with all the wrong kids going into High School. And once in High School she will somehow end up fatally attracted to the Christian Slater from "Heathers" type kids and her lack of self-control due to all the drugs and depression will make her vulnerable and manipulable to enter into suicide pacts with other misunderstood youths and then I will need to 5150 her ass and check her into some posh rehab like Brittany Spears where she will shave off all her hair and try to marry her long lost pre-school friend whom she happened to see in group therapy because they just can't believe that fate would bring them together.  All because I fucked up her Kindergarten Valentines."  

It's official...Amazon may be worse for your cupboards than Costco, and the addiction to buy from it runs deep.  

You see, I am a recovering Costcoholic.  Once upon a time, I used to think that buying 17 toothbrush heads, or 9 jars of peanut butter for the low low price of $15 was a steal - a bargain - a no-brainer. And then I realized how much pantry space is actually required to house that shit.  To this day, I can't help but buy 179 packs of fruit snacks along with a 6 pack of brownie mix.  But I have admitted the problem, which is the first step, so there is light at the end of my tunnel.  Or so I'd like to believe.

I have come to recognize that Amazon may be much more of the sketchy pusher.  Have you ever noticed that the "Amazon's Choice" products often times are in bulk?  And although you don't have the need for 4 white t-shirts, you buy them anyway, because, well, if it's good enough for Amazon, the world's authority on retail, then it is good enough for me.

That being said, let's get real here; my entire life is bought on Amazon.  There are packages on my doorstep every day. Every. Single. Day.  This is in no way an exaggeration. I literally placed an order for a pack of 2 pens once - and got it delivered 2 days later. I could have driven to Office Depot and just bought the effing things and been done.  But that would mean walking into a store, and who the hell has time for that anymore. Instead UPS gets to visit my doorstep daily and get barked at by my dog.  Every. Single. Day.   But this frequency makes me feel like I should be far more savvy than I am when it comes to falling into the Prime trap.  Apparently not.

My most recent endeavor was to buy all the supplies for my daughter's 100 day T-Shirt.  Now, this is about the most basic concept in the universe - decorate a T-Shirt with 100 items, and wear them on the 100th day.  Cool! I can get on board with that (famous last words - chances are there will be a blog post about that experience after this weekend when we do it). But nonetheless, we're on it.

Thanks to the creative jump from Pinterest, my daughter decided she wanted to make a rainbow out of jewels and buttons.  Sweet.  So let's go find some jewels and buttons.  Now, you must remember, this shirt needs only 100 items on it.  Here is what I ended up with:

For those of you that may be math challenged, I have now purchased 1,470 pieces of glueable flare to complete a 100 piece t-shirt. OH, and I needed a few more glue sticks, so I will now have 200 - which should last me until I am 117 years old.  Why!!!  WHY?!?  Why?  Because how can you say no to 870 rainbow buttons for $8.99?  And to top it off, I can now bedazzle every single pillow, cushion, brush, frame, jacket, shoe and gym bag in my house - with some to spare for the even lower price of $7.79.  Shipped for free to my home, just in time for us to host the t-shirt creation gathering with our friends.  Isn't that AWESOME?!?

No. That shit is stupid.  I will never bedazzle anything, ever. WTF am I going to do with 800 fucking buttons?  I don't sew.  And what about 500 plastic jewels?  500 chocking hazards that will most likely be consumed by my  fucking retarded dog, resulting in my need to pick up pink bedazzled  shit in a couple weeks.  The rest of the pieces I am going to stuff  in a closet and they will clutter my house with all the other crap I buy in bulk. 

Fuck rehab for drugs - I was the tidiest MO-FO on the planet when I was on drugs.  I need rehab for Bulk Shopping.  If anyone knows of a nice beach side facility for that, save me a spot...I'll bedazzle your shower kit for free.