Can I get an extra couple bucks for taking out the garbage?

Like the majority of the middle class, we’re completely broke. It really helps me sleep soundly at night knowing that if one of us were to get laid off or somehow become unable to work that we would almost instantaneously plummet into bankruptcy and foreclosure, doomed to move in with my mother and wallow in a deep, deep ocean of despair.

We’re slowly clawing our way to a more stable financial status, mostly due to my husband. You see when we met, I was the gal who always balanced her checkbook every month and he was the guy 3 months behind on his student loan payments. So it made sense at that time for me to take charge of the finances and things were going peachy keen until the inevitable – marriage, house, minivan and first child and then well there wasn’t as much petty cash left over at month end for the frivolities that we were used to enjoying; mountains of chocolate covered cherries and ringside seats at midget mud wrestling competitions.

Turns out that my theory of "ignorance is bliss" wasn’t so helpful either. So I handed the financial reins over to my, now fiscally responsible husband, who is mercilessly transforming our debt from a raging, rabid tiger to a cute little calendar-worthy kitten. Part of his budget plan is to supply me with a weekly cash allowance. This allows me the luxury of going out for lunch or purchasing my much needed frivolous items like chocolate and scrapbooking supplies, without disrupting the delicate balance of his budget.

It was actually my idea for the cash allowance because I was getting tired of the daily interrogation. "What’s that you’re chewing? Is that gum? Did you buy that gum? How much was it because I didn’t have that factored in to our budget this week? Spit it out, spit it out right now!!" Alright, that might be a slight exaggeration but you get my point.

I find that I’m much more choosey with my purchases now that I have a limited supply of cash. For example, this afternoon I ran to the drug store downtown with the intentions of purchasing some floss to help me dislodge a piece of apple stuck in my teeth. However, when I found that the cheapest generic floss was still a whopping 2 bucks, I determined that I could probably loosen that apple with my tongue and/or a paper clip over the course of a couple hours rather than frivolously waste 2 bucks that could buy me something else. And while there are somedays when I miss the frivolous spending, I think on the whole, this allowance thing has made me the tight wad that I should have been for years and years.

I did buy $2 worth of chocolate though because, well these PMS hormones aren’t going to quell themselves.

I guess if I had to choose an orifice that would have been the one.

Jessica Simpson and I have a lot in common. We both use Proactiv to control our acne and we both . . . umm . . . Okay, Jessica Simpson and I have one thing in common. I’m a fan of the Proactiv (no unfortunately this is not a paid endorsement) and I find that it works quite well. And yet, as with everything in my life, there is a catch.

You see my skin hates me. It’s almost like it has a mind of its own and it lives to torture me. I like to think of my skin as an angry goddess. Goddess Acnetrius. And for the last few years she and I have been locked in an epic struggle between whiteheads and oil free skin. A battle between oozing pustules and healthy pores.

My skin regime is fairly impenetrable. However, it has its weaknesses and since I can’t apply Proactiv too close to my lips for fear of the benzyl peroxide turning them into strips of fried bacon, I end up getting zits right up against my lip line. Other times they’ll appear right at the hairline or along the jaw and while I’m thankful that I don’t have them all over my face it’s still incredibly annoying.

This week though, during the normal Pre-menstrual siege I was blindsided with a new tactic. A huge pimple inside my ear. I’m not even joking here people. INSIDE MY EAR CANAL. Who knew that was even possible?!

Have you ever tried to pop a throbbing zit inside your ear with a Q tip? Well, unfortunately I have and I can tell you from first hand experience that it’s not a whole lot of fun. Acnetrius, you filthy bitch!

They've been increasing their metacognition all afternoon!

My kids probably watch more TV than they should. And I used to feel guilty about that but now I’ve reached the point where I'm okay with it. Due to our opposite shifts my husband and I are virtually single parents and if it takes an hour of Diego to get dishes done and dinner on the table then bring on that annoying little South American animal rescuer!

We are persistent though in making sure that our kids watch appropriate programs for their age and hence we take in a lot of Nick Jr. in my house. Now if you’ve ever watched Nick Jr. you’ll have noticed, along with earthworms that are able to morph into parallelograms, that they preface each episode by telling you what your preschooler is getting out of the experience. For example, right before Blue’s Clues the announcement states that, "This program increases your preschoolers’ metacognition." I’m not ashamed to say that I had to look up metacognition just to see what it was. Other shows such as The Wonder Pets are touted as being able to; increase my child’s "phonological awareness".

Now at first I found it utterly ridiculous that they were trying to build up these programs as highly educational by prefacing them with these grandiose descriptions of the skills they teach. Phonological awareness is simply listening to something and figuring out where and what it is. And I was going to do what I’m sure was to be a fabulously funny piece on how my cat increases my phonological awareness on a weekly basis by puking at 5 a.m. causing me to lay in bed and try to gauge where she is retching so that I don’t step in it later.

However, after giving it some thought, and after my 4 yr. old informed me that Jupiter is a gas planet and that Llamas can pull 5 times their weight and have padded hooves, I started to realize that maybe there is something to that after all. Don’t get me wrong, I still think it’s a little silly to make these cartoons sound like college degrees put to animation, however they are certainly a hell of a lot more educational than any cartoon I ever watched as a kid.

What mind widening gems of knowledge did I get from Scooby Doo? That you can manipulate idiots to do ridiculous and dangerous things if you have the right motivation (Scooby snacks). That the smart girl is always a little chubby and wears glasses? That it’s possible to be a criminal mastermind with the use of a rubber mask and a sound effects machine?

How about the Smurfs? What life lessons did I take away from that? That men are truly running the world and the only way you can get noticed, as a woman is to be blonde, and flirtatious? You have to admit that whole Smurfette situation was just weird. One woman to all those men – how did that work?? And talk about stereotypes – Maybe Handy Smurf was a fantastic operatic singer – did he get to pursue anything other than building? No he didn’t. He was pigeonholed! They all were.

So I say bring on the cartoons. Their little shriveled legs might be too weak from lack of use but at least they’ll know everything there is to know about Chinchillas and that’s a useful skill right? Right? I’m sure the exotic pet trade is extremely lucrative.

Letters of apology.

When your kids are first born, you spend hours and hours in utter awe at the mesmerizing blend of you and your spouse in this perfect little bundle of joy. Then a few short months/years later you start thinking that maybe you should write them a letter of apology for sticking them with certain traits. But then again, on the plus side, you can pass down the knowledge of how to cope with such genetic flaws.

Dearest Aaron,


Let me first stress that your Father and I think that you’re the most handsome young man on the planet. However, being human means possessing certain physical flaws and unfortunately most of yours were passed down through me.

- The cowlick. Don’t ever go for a buzz cut. Trust me, I tried this on you once when you were younger and you’ve got that same swirly cowlick right at the hairline that I have and it’s just not pretty. Thankfully, being a boy you won’t have the terrible bang issues I had as an adolescent, but any career in the military should strictly be avoided.

- The half smile. You have a wonderful smile! However, you should master the skill of the half smile for picture situations, because if you smile fully your eyes will disappear completely just like Momma’s and all that will be visible is teeth, gums and two slits.

- The hairy back. I can’t take full blame for this one personally but it does come from my mother’s side of the family. Let’s just hope that your body hair works like mine and lightens considerably with exposure to the sun so that it’s less noticeable. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to perform some form of hair removal on you whenever you request it.

Love, Momma


My dearest Gwen,

We couldn’t have hoped for a more beautiful daughter, especially considering the family traits working against you and I deeply regret that you inherited:


- My ears. They’re just a tad large and as you age the ear lobe will become even more bulbous and will upturn slightly so that they resemble two large upholstered buttons flopping around on the side of your head. The only way to combat this is to weigh them down with extremely heavy dangle earrings or to cover them with your hair. This will backfire a little if, like me, you also inherit the habit of constantly tucking your hair behind your ears – and why wouldn’t you since they’re so large and enormously capable of such a task.

- My very pale complexion. Several times when you were younger people enquired about the bruises near your temples, only to discover that they weren’t bruises at all but merely the fact that your skin was so thin and pale that the veins were easily viewed through it. Don’t ever plan on getting a tan, unless you consider being covered with 3 million freckles a "tan". I’m hoping that by the time you’re old enough to care – that "pale" will be the new look.

- Your father’s feet. Count out any future plans to model sandal-wear because unfortunately you’ve inherited your father’s toes and while they are certainly not grotesque in any way shape or form, they’re not exactly dainty either. In the future you should go for a peep toe shoe rather than a full open toed option.

All my love, Momma

Now you may notice that most of these traits are mine, and that makes sense since I’m the most conscious about myself, but mostly it’s because Matt’s traits are things that won’t manifest for a little bit longer – like those ghastly chicken legs he had when we first started dating (thankfully they filled out once I fattened him up), his receding hairline or his penchant for gnawing on his fingernails until he bleeds.

And yet despite it all, we’ve made two of the cutest kids I’ve ever seen:

I firmly believe . . .

That people should not be named after geographic locations: Paris, Sydney etc. Some of them aren’t bad but in general the trend should be avoided . . . "This is our son, Istanbul, but sometimes we call him Constantinople, and this is our daughter, Lake Titicaca."

That automatic flushes should be removed from all toilets. They frighten children (and some adults) they’re prone to malfunction so that they flush repeatedly creating a "Niagara falls" effect in both noise and water consumption, and half the time they don't flush anyway so you're stuck touching the same damn button that 50 million other feces infested hands have touched. At least with a handle you could use your foot!

That what the Greeks and Romans referred to as "the Ambrosia of the Gods" still exists today in the form of Little Debbie crème filling.

That a toddler’s desire to shove his finger up his nose to the 3rd knuckle, greatly increases proportionate to the number of judgmental on-lookers. The same goes for crotch grabbing, temper tantrums and the use of the word "fuck".

That all public restrooms (including the men’s – let’s hear it for the Daddy’s) should be equipped with baby changing stations.

That there is a special level of hell for people who steal and/or vandalize lawn ornaments, jack-o-lanterns and Christmas decorations. Perhaps a hell in which they go to sleep every night secure in the safety of their neighborhood, and the sanctity of respect for our common man only to wake up in the morning to find that their genitalia has been stolen off their body, mutilated and thrown into the middle of the street. Oh and there’s also a special level for door to door salesmen too. They’ll be forced to care for 50 1month olds and then when they’re all finally down for a nap, and they have one small shining moment of peace, before their butt can even hit the couch there will be a knock on the door, signaling an army of beagles to howl for 15 min. straight.

That you get out of life what you put into it.

That there is nothing better than sleeping late on the weekends, snuggled up in bed with your spouse, the kids and the dog.

That there is no such thing as a comfortable g-string.

That it’s never a good idea to reunite a boy band almost 20 years after their heyday. Because curling up with a screen-printed pillowcase of former pop stars pushing 40 and the guy from Boogie nights will be just a little creepy.

I guess I really do have a secret desire to wear a diaper made out of toilet paper and suck mamosas out of a baby bottle.

A Baby Shower Open House. It seemed almost genius when I received the invitation. I could show up any time between 10 and 2 express my congrats, grab some punch and cake and be on my way. There would be no walking around in toilet paper diapers, no searching for safety pins in a bowl of rice, no memorization of 30 baby items on a platter – it would be pure bliss!

It started out well enough. I was greeted warmly upon arrival by the Guest of Honor. Pleasantries were exchanged, she was genuinely happy I had taken the time and effort to come. I was offered one of the 2 remaining sugar cookies and a glass of luke-warm punch.

However, when I set my gift on the table her mother pounced on it immediately and unceremoniously pawed through the tissue paper in my gift bag to see what I had brought (an underarm thermometer and Diaper Genie II refill – pathetic I know but they were on her registry and she’s only my cousin by marriage). Obviously unimpressed, she then made a show of calling for someone to help her carry some of the "larger" gifts out to the truck. It became a little awkward at that point and I ended up taking my leave without even having to take off my coat.

So in the end it left a bad taste in my mouth and I now refer to it as the Drive Thru Baby Shower. I only wish it had made use of an actual drive thru because it was colder than hell that day and I would have appreciated staying in the car. It’s odd though that I would be offended. After all, wasn’t I celebrating the fact that I could simply show up, drop off my gift and go? Wasn’t I thrilled about the convenience of it all? Deep down was I really longing to guess the circumference of that woman’s belly with a piece of string and earn a free scented candle???

Any type of shower is simply a thinly veiled ploy for gifts. That’s the point really and while I thought I despised the smoke and mirrors (games/activites) that are always employed to make you think it’s an actual celebration rather than a request for free stuff, I’m beginning to see now that people need to shove a balloon up their shirt and try to tie their shoes in the fastest time. Otherwise we just don’t feel that the thought behind that underarm thermometer was truly appreciated.

Life's Little Celebrations/How to properly celebrate your hair growing out.

Life is full of major events that should be celebrated; marriages, births, anniversaries, losses of virginity etc. But I’m a firm believer that little milestones and events should be celebrated and appreciated also, and that’s just what I’m going to do this weekend.

What momentous event am I celebrating?? My hair has finally grown out enough that I can put it in a ponytail!! And it actually stays too – without clippies or chunks of it slipping out . I think you've all been there ladies. An ill advised haircut, executed very poorly and resulting in the necessary purchase of a bevy of creams and gels and most importantly, hats, to make it halfway tolerable. And now, after months of impatient waiting, the celebration of long hair can begin.
Listed below are the planned activities:

Bonfire: The vast array of headbands; the ugly ones, the pinchy ones, the (ack) tortoiseshell ones, that were a necessary evil during the "growing out" phase will be gathered up, doused with lighter fluid and torched in a ceremonial bonfire.

Whiplash: I shall spend the entire weekend whipping my head and new lengthy locks like a 1980’s video babe or a model in a Pantene commercial, or maybe a little like this gal.

Sore arms: I plan on ponying and unponying my hair excessively this weekend. Up, down, up, down – it will be incessant and extremely gratifying.

Accessorize: For far too long my wrists have been bare, or graced only by a watch or beaded bracelet. I must purchase new hairbands and carry at least three at a time on my wrist for emergency use.

Bring out the razor: Now that the ponytail is back it’s time to re-implement the neck shaving routine. Everyone has neck hair I know but mine is out of control and makes the back of my neck resemble Cousin It when I pull my hair up in a ponytail. It’s an unfortunate family trait but one that can be managed with the use of industrial strength hair trimmers and a steady hand (my husband’s hand to be exact– clear your calendar for Sunday night shaving duty my Love).