Searching for a costume for a Halloween party has been a big challenge for me this year… mostly because my lazy ass procrastinated and waited until the costumes were picked over, but we won’t get into that. This week, I went to a local store and asked if they had any witch costumes. The guy working there escorted me to an aisle that had a “Naughty Witch” costume. Wow, this baby left no question as to whether you were a good witch or a bad witch! I promise that the only thing I was planning to “ride” was a broomstick but thanks anyway, dude. I also saw a dozen or more other costumes that would instantly make me look like a hooker (and would also require that I become a hooker to afford them). So what do you do if you’re on a budget like me and have no interest in being a part of Whore-oween?
I asked some of my more creative (and twisted) friends if they could brainstorm with me. We came up with some offbeat ideas that might impress, yet possibly scare, others at an adult costume party or event. Here are the results. Happy Halloween!
Pictured above is The Man’s Guide to Female English chart that we posted on the Little White Lion Facebook page recently. There was a ton of feedback. Some people thought a lot of it was a load of crap. Others thought it was spot on. Many females wanted to see a version related to the men. Oh yes.. that we can do!
Here’s our version of The Woman’s Guide to Male English chart for the ladies. How’d we do? (accurate or not, we hope you laughed)
We usually talk about “little white lies” on this site, but today we’ll be talking about little white lines! This photo of a news story has been around awhile but I still think it’s hilarious. This week I saw it on the wall of a popular page on Facebook and I remembered that when it first went viral, I was moved to write something totally mindless and fun. The song “Low” by Flo Rida was popular at the time so the inspiration came easily. (remember shawty having the “apple bottom jeans… boots with the FUUUURRRRRRR”.. such a classic, right? http://www.metacafe.com/watch/wm-A10302B00004706061/flo_rida_low_official_music_video/)
If you read the last blog post, The Mother Load , you know that I started a new job. It’s keeping me very busy and away from writing as much. (boooooo… or hooray if you think I suck) So until I have more time, allow me to post a fun blog - or what I call a “flog”, which is probably what some of you will want to do to me after you read this.
Last year when a friend posted this story to my wall on Facebook, he did so with a challenge: “I bet you can’t rewrite a popular song about this and include a line about crack being like an enema”… oh YEAH??!! I bet I can.
Blow (to the tune of “Low” by Flo Rida)
Dude had pants-on-the-ground jeans (jeans) Stash of pow-der (pow-der) The po-po started lookin’ at that sir He ducked down low (ducked down low) Next thing u kno Booty got blow blow blow blow blow blow blow blow Shoulda worn some sweat pants With the really deep pock-ets (deep pock-ets) He would not have had to stick junk up his ass He ducked down low (ducked down low) Next thing u kno Booty got blow blow blow blow blow blow blow blow
I ain’t never seen somethin that’ll make me go Like this stuff that I put in my hole I was just trying to escape from the po po I ‘z ‘fraid they’d take my stash of snow Not sexual It was necessary, yo It’s like Correctol Didn’t know crack was like an enema, whoa Felt it when I hid all of my blow Ain’t the same when that sh*t makes you go There is pain in protectin’ your snow Next time I put it elsewhere fo sho Ima got big problem down below And I left my I-mo-dium at home So much crack in my crack, can’t take no mo Please coppers can you just help out a bro?
Dude had pants-on-the-ground jeans (jeans) Stash of pow-der (pow-der) The po-po started lookin’ at that sir He ducked down low (ducked down low) Next thing u kno Booty got blow blow blow blow blow blow blow blow Shoulda worn some sweat pants With the really deep pock-ets (deep pock-ets) He would not have had to stick junk up his ass He ducked down low (ducked down low) Next thing u kno Booty got blow blow blow blow blow blow blow blow
A couple of weeks ago, something really cool happened to me. The company where I had been doing some independent contracting decided to bring me on as an employee. It’s a small company for now, but they are expanding and really wanted me to be a permanent part of the team. Knowing several people who are unemployed, and with the current state of our economy, I did not take this lightly. Did I strut around my house like a rockstar for a few days? Oh hell yes! But other than telling family and a few friends, my celebration ended with that victory lap around my crib.
Recently a few of my friends have quit their jobs to stay home with their kids. When women make this decision, it always seems to be met with huge fanfare and a lot of “atta girls” for making the right choice for their families. Each one of them broadcasted it on Facebook that they would now be staying home with their kids. A storm of “Likes” followed, along with all positive feedback. Don’t get me wrong, I agree with the kudos being awarded this decision – in fact, in every case, I posted a “congratulations” and even threw in a few, “you won’t regret it’s”. I’ve been there, and while I don’t regret it, it’s just no longer the path for me.
So here I was, more firmly planted back in the workplace and seemingly more “away” from my kids than ever before. I didn’t send a mass email or post the news as my Facebook status. I simply changed my employer in my Facebook profile info and waited to see if anyone noticed or commented. No one did and that was fine, but I did wonder while I wasn’t viewing myself as a total badass for my accomplishment. Was this a case of “mommy guilt”? Whatever it was, I was pretty content to think of it as “no big deal” until… enter REALITY. (that &%$#* son of a $#*&%!!!) As soon as I was given new employee paperwork to fill out at work, all hell broke lose at home. Join me as I summarize the timeline of the first days of starting my new job:
Day 1 of new job: The vet calls to say the dog is ready to be picked up from being boarded. I show up for what I think is a 5-minute deal. I’m told that he has a serious ear fungus/infection. Here’s the short version: They ran tests. He should be OK. But before you go, we need to explain every little medical “what if” detail to you while you’re here. Oh, and here’s a million drugs for him that cost more than your car…Good thing I have my job! Which speaking of, I’m really late. No big deal. I’ll explain that the dog is like our “firstborn child” and I’m sorry the appointment took all morning. I’m sure my boss is an animal lover despite the fact that he shoots a wide variety of wildlife creatures on the weekends and posts photos of the carnage in his office. But yes! ..he’ll understand. First days are just practice anyway, right?
Day 2 of new job: Oldest daughter wakes up with a high fever. Dad has very important meetings all day and can’t stay home with her, so that leaves me. No biggie. They will understand at work. These things happen and are out of our control. I resist worrying that my “mom-ness” is showing to my co-workers. One of my well-meaning male friends says, “oh no, aren’t you afraid that right out the gate you’re looking like one of those women?” I should have punched him to calm my unsettled nerves, but instead I decide to have a beer and end up having 5. Luckily, I have a job now and we can easily afford the luxury of beer! (even though everyone knows beer is a necessity)
Day 3 of new job: Oldest kid wakes up with a high fever. Dad is running meetings all day and can’t stay home with her, so that leaves me. No biggie. They will understand at work. These things happen and are out of our control… (holy mother of God, everything is repeating, it’s the f’n Groundhog Day movie!) Except now my co-workers hate me. Did I mention I am a key person who is supposed to be working on a very important audit??! Yeah, they are probably wiping snot all over my chair in my absence. Can’t really blame them. I am starting to smell my own suckage.
Day 4 of new job: Oldest kid wakes up with a high fever. Dad is now out of town on business. I take her to the doctor and she is diagnosed with a flu-like illness (can’t we just call it the flu? you’re just as screwed as you are when you have the flu.. what’s with the “like”? FLU would be taken more seriously, dammit!) There is no treatment but she is not to return to school until the fever is gone for 24 hours, blah blah blah. That’s OK because now I too am feverish. OUTF#CKINGSTANDING. Kid takes one couch. I take the other. I doze off and have nightmares about whether or not someone at the office will be willing to pack up all my shit when I get canned… then I wake up and realize that there is no shit since I HAVEN’T STARTED THE JOB.
Day 5 of new job: Still wallowing in flu-LIKE (bastards) misery. Despite the fact that the oldest and I are on day 4 of being stuck sick at home, we are handling it just fine. We’ve put Barbie doll heads on top of coffee stirrers, we’re communicating by playing recorders from her Music class, and we’re considering setting fire to my youngest daughter’s Justin Bieber doll while she’s at school… NOTHING to see here..
Day 6 of new job: Kid is feeling better. I still feel like asscrack. Despite that, I try to go to work for a couple of hours. The only saving grace to being drugged up and feeling like shit was that I too incoherent to know if my co-workers were welcoming me back or openly swearing at me. “F#ck you” does sound a lot like “bless you” when you’re taking cough syrup with codeine, just so you know. I’m running way behind all day and that continues as I’m trying to run kids to activities after school. My daughter’s soccer coach makes a snide comment about how I’m lucky soccer practice isn’t on the other side of town since we’re never on time and the field is only a mile away from our house. I call him a jackass under my breath and claim victory. (I NEED a triumph.. work with me here)
Day 7 of new job: I discovered head lice on my two daughters late the night before. (apparently in all the glory of the last week, I missed the letter from school that it was going around..YAY!) I thoroughly treat the cranium critter circus on both kids and send them to school as instructed. Despite the fact that I have 18 trash bags full of bedding, clothes and stuffed animals that need my attention, I feel I should go into the office for awhile because I really need to work… ok, ok, it was because I didn’t want to deal with all the bagged lice-ridden shit! While sitting in a meeting about the audit – the audit I had all but managed to dodge, by the way - I notice some co-workers are staring at me. I figured it was just because they hate me until I caught a glimpse of my reflection in my boss’s iPhone. I still had a lone barrette on the top of my head that I had used to pull hair away in my search for lice. Despite looking like a total dumbass, I leave it so I can better see if any of those damn parasitic f’ers are jumping around on my head. I’ll have to rely on my boss’s phone to see them because I know none of my co-workers will alert me.. they all want me to die (BELIEVE ME, you idiots were having more fun than I was!) At this point, I’m hoping their wish for my demise comes true, especially after I get home and see those 18 bags of crap. I am certain that setting fire to them would be easier than de-licing their contents. (but we can’t afford new crap if I’m going to get canned, so I don’t torch it.. YET)
So after enduring a small piece of hell, I learned something that I’m sure I’ll never forget. No matter if you’re a “working mother” or not.. you’re a mother working. The load is still heavy. The reward is still great(even though sometimes you have to search for that fulfillment… yeah, total realist here). The word “mother” stays intact no matter what personal decision you make for your family, and my choice to work outside the home was the right one for me. And after the last week of mad mothering, I was tempted to wear a t-shirt that said, “You can’t really blame me for being batshit crazy, it came free with the vagina.” One thing’s for sure, I’m definitely going to start telling people about my new job! (if I’m ever able to work a full day, that is..)
“Working mothers are guinea pigs in a scientific experiment to show that sleep is not necessary to human life.” ~ Anonymous
The title of the blog is an actual statement made by a bride after her wedding…in public.. actually worse, on Facebook. Was she kidding that she didn’t get busy on her wedding night? I’d rather not know. But this is only one example of the phenomenon known as: The Southern Wedding. I just returned from one and am still feeling the high from all the energy I used trying to figure out if each of the overly-friendly wedding guests like me or really think I’m a jackwagon. Southern folks have this down to an art form. No matter how they feel about you, you’ll probably be treated the same. It’s an awe-inspiring trait I’m proud to possess since I too was raised in the heart of Dixie. But in case you were wondering.. when asked, southerners will tell it like it is. (you’ve been warned)
To our credit though, we will communicate with you as nicely as possible, until you piss us off (and I do not recommend that). For example, the other day I told a friend, “I am not one to judge other people’s poor life choices.” See what I did there? I was using my mad bitch skills, but in a way that might lead some people to believe I was being nice. That’s AWESOME. Add a little, “bless their hearts” to the end of it, spoken in Twanglish, and that’s pure gold, baby. Twanglish is the English language spoken with a lovely and endearingtwang – well at least mine is, ya’ll!
Ok, back to the nuptials. Are you imagining “Steel Magnolia’s”? “Sweet Home Alabama”? Those movies do not and could not truly capture the experience of a southern shindig. For one, the amount of time dedicated to the ceremony is a total crap shoot depending on the religious preference of the happy couple. On a scale of minutes (or an hour or more if you’re really screwed) ranging from: “I’m about to piss my pants but I can wait” to “Oh my F’n God, I should have beer bonged some Red Bull in the car so I can stay awake”.. anything is possible. The shortest wedding I’ve ever attended was a Lutheran wedding that lasted a whopping 7 minutes. I was so happy that I kicked in a post-ceremony bottle of George Dickel as an extra wedding gift to compliment that toaster. They totally deserved it for getting us from the wedding march to the open bar in under 10 minutes. Boom!
But arguably the most interesting part of the southern wedding experience is the after party. Some of the things you overhear just while you’re working that buffet line can be game changers. A guest at this wedding called my can of Coors Light a “urine daiquiri” because of its alleged resemblance to piss. (HATERS!… but you can bet I’ll totally be using that) Then there was the male guest who felt comfortable enough to ask me, “Hey, do you know what redneck foreplay is? ..Get in the truck bitch!” At first I wasn’t sure if that was the punchline or if he was hitting on me – and as bad as the joke was, thank God it was the latter. No more urine daiquiris for you, dude! (told ya I was gonna use that)
But even more shocking than the fact I actually think this marriage will last (I DO.. HA! bad pun intentional), is what I realized while attending this event. I was in my hometown (which is not always a good thing for some peeps) and really felt “at home”. Not bad for not having lived there for over 15 years! And the credit lies with the fine people of the south. They totally rock at making you feel appreciated and welcome, no matter how long you have been away – or even if you were never there to begin with. So cool to have a moment of clarity like that while watching a childhood friend get married.. and while holding a big ass urine daiquiri! (no, not her, I’m still the one holding the daiquiri.. and hey, I used that term again.. bless my heart)
The day after the wedding, I was still feeling the love from the evening. As I took inventory of the smattering of new zits that had sprouted since the night before and desperately tried to fit into my pants, I made a list of things that I love about southern weddings. If you like what you’re reading, then ya’ll come back to our blog now, ya hear? <– spoken in slightly broken Twanglish.. yee haw!
Top 15 Signs you went to a wedding in the south
You’re consumed with worry that there might’ve been pieces of that chicken leg you ate in your teeth in all the reception photos.
You have a splitting headache and you’re not sure if it’s because of the gallon of sweet tea you drank, or the a-a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.
Because of all that sweet tea, you have to eat sugar packets for a few days after the wedding so your body won’t go into shock from withdrawals.
You’re not sure who kept pinching your ass all night, but you are sure it wasn’t your spouse.
When you mention that your earrings are too heavy, someone tells you it’s OK if your earlobes fall off because they can be used as bass bait.
You’re not sure if you’re having a mild heart attack or if you pulled something while trying to look “less white” on the dance floor.
You cannot get the song “Sweet Home Alabama” out of your head and you fear you never will.
Your bicep is sore from carrying around a big ass plate of BBQ all night at the reception.
Macaroni and cheese was the vegetable side dish offered at the reception.
You’re missing an article of clothing and have no idea where it is. (if you’re lucky, it’s just a shoe)
You have fond memories of when the preacher said, you may now kiss the bride, and the guests shouted, Rolllllllll Tide!!!!!!
The reception could not start until the venue’s wheels were securely chocked.
It was so cool how all the gifts were already wrapped in neat packs of twelve. Take THAT, Martha Stewart!
Your oversight of not having a lighter when the DJ played Freebird was considered a huge faux pas.
You noticed that, clearly, this was not the bride’s first “money dance”.
(Thanks to my good buddy, Kevin Goodman, for his help and inspiration with this list. Without him, I never would have known that my “ big ghetto hooker earrings” could have helped feed the fish.)
A couple of years ago, my dear friend the dark-haired lion made the statement that is the title of this blog. It still cracks me up and is relevant to what I am about to talk about: Passion. NO I’m not talking about anything having to do with sex here (sorry) but rather finding something in life that you are passionate about and doing it. And if you get to experience passion in what you do for a living, it’s the dream, right? At least that’s what they tell us.
So here’s my personal dilemma. I do not have a passion for blogging. There, I said it. I love to write, but I’m not sure the blogging format fits my quirky nature and style. Not to mention, blogging brings in a whopping zippo in bank which means I have even less motivation to do it. Every time I sit down to blog, it becomes more of a task instead of something I can enjoy without looking ahead to when it’s over. Like many of you I’m sure, I am still struggling to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. And what’s even worse is that I have no intention of really ever growing up, so my mind is all over the place (heLLOOOO, adult ADD). But at any rate, I want to find the right niche that suits who I am and make what that is my bitch.
By now you’ve either forgotten about the whole canned tornado thing or you’re waiting for me to admit that I have been suppressing a raging desire to be a pole dancer. Hold that thought while I give a shout out to a person who I feel has got it going on in terms of having passion for what he does. That individual is none other than Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel. Bear with me – since there’s a hurricane heading towards the east coast, this is somewhat relevant to current events…
Truth. I’m talking about that bald-headed weather god who graces us with his blue windbreaker during hurricane season… or even better, his crisp, bicep-bulging dress shirt during the off season.. (this is why I get complaints from my husband about all the sweat on the remote). Some of you women probably dig the dude. Yet you guys are probably about as thrilled with him as my husband when he sees me drooling while watching TWC and says, “I’ll leave you two alone”. But since I mentioned pole dancing, I bet you’re going to keep reading just in case it’s mentioned again.
Despite his manly good looks, the reason I need CantoRehab has the most to do with the way he does his job. The guy loves anything weather related and finds a great deal of satisfaction in bringing a little piece of his world to us. You can actually see the passion he feels for what he is doing. He gets me so worked up about what he’s talking about that it completely slips my mind that he and I are about the same height. So I not only admire Jim Cantore, I am actually way jealous that he has found joy in something that is supposed to be “work”. Yeah yeah yeah, he makes good money and I’m not naïve enough to think that doesn’t contribute to his happiness, but I still see the fire in him when he’s on the job. I WANT THAT. (and no, I don’t mean those honkin’ biceps under that perfectly-pressed shirt… ok, maybe a little)
In terms of a career, Cantore has found his mojo. My goal is to find that in a job. I guess I’m saying I’d like to find my mojob! (or wait, I can’t say that, it rhymes with.. nevermind). And yes, I fully admit I’m a bit obsessed with Cantore. When I was a Girl Scout mom, I suggested that he deserved his own cookie (see photo). Yeah, no dice.. For now, I’ll settle for this rewrite of part of a song I did just for him. You go on with your bad self, my hot canned tornado! You’re doing it right.
“Love in a Blue Windbreaker” ~ to the tune of “Love in an Elevator” by Aerosmith
Workin’ like a dog for the weather fans (whoa) Workin’ for TWC (whoa-yeah) I’m bettin’ the warm front I’m tossin’ (whoa) Is every girl’s fantasy (whoa-yeah) But where am I gonna look? When Categories drop below 5 I really need a girl during a hurricane watch to make my mercury rise!
Love in a blue windbreaker Livin’ it up with temps goin’ down Love in a blue windbreaker You better board up when I hit your town!
The title of this blog is based on a very popular status update posted on the Little White Lion Facebook page. The concept resonated with a lot of peeps and I received some email about it. Everything from, “you are a trophy no matter what”, to “what the hell IS a trophy wife”, to “my asshole husband doesn’t deserve a piece of rusted metal, let alone a trophy”… you get the idea. By posting that I was not trying to diss myself but rather make fun of myself because, unlike a “trophy wife”, I am certainly not perfect.
While I am a “recovering perfectionist” (translation: I gave up on that crap), I do try my best to keep me, the house and everything and everyone in it, in order. Despite my efforts, overall I remain a domestic mess. When that coil thingie in my oven broke, I wanted to throw a party! Not because I actually ever use my oven, but because all the pressure was off to even try to use it. But it gets worse. Recently, my kids were at my mother-in-law’s house and saw her ironing board sitting out in her laundry room. They asked me what it was!! (OOPS ..oh aren’t they just precious playing a joke like that, ha ha haaaaa….meh) So, you get the picture.
I don’t beat myself up too much about my failures as a domestic goddess. I believe in going with what you’re good at and capitalizing on it as best you can. We all have our talents that make each of us the bomb diggity. It’s rewarding to put your focus here and own it! At the very least, be proud of your strengths and feel good about the little things that set you apart from others.
This morning, one of my kids asked me, “do you think I’m pretty?” I told her yes but said the better question was, “do YOU think you’re pretty?” In addition to recognizing their gifts, I’m trying to teach my girls to be their best affirmers. If you depend on others to pump your ego, let’s face it, you’re screwed. One day I will share with my daughters my personal daily affirmation which is a twist on the Stuart Smalley classic from Saturday Night Live:
“I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me…but if you don’t like me, you can kiss my ass!”
For now, I’ll settle for sharing a short ditty that is about my ass, all in the spirit of being your own #1 champion. A few years ago, I discovered a beautiful thing called a velour track suit. Not cotton, not spandex.. velour. Something about this fabric magically transforms my mediocre ass into something more spectacular. And who doesn’t like that, baby?! Because of this, I went out and bought 6 track suits; same brand, same cut, different colors but all velour. A few of my friends made fun of the fact that I chose velour (mixed with a little elASStic as I like to call it because it’s earned the title)… Why not cotton? Well velour is cotton, but more luscious. I may not be the perfect “trophy wife” but dammit, I can rock a velour track suit! Here is my tribute.
“Just Like Cotton” – to the tune of “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure
Show me, show me, show me Your boo-ty magic 80% cotton weave She said Track pants made in China She said They turn this mom into a MILF Show me that elASStic And I promise you I promise that, my bum will a-maze you My bum will a-maze you
Ve-lour Soft and fuzzy Ve-lour Wash with colors only Ve-lour Just like cotton
Kid birthday parties. Who cringed when you read that? Most of us moms have been to countless of these and in many cases would rather have a raging case of PMS with no Midol in sight than attend one of them. It can be especially stressful when it’s your own kid’s party and you’re hosting a crapload of sugar-seeking, sweaty young kids at your home who are desperate to be entertained. WINNING! (not)
I recently threw a party for my 6-year-old and decided to have it at our house because we have a backyard pool. I thought it would be easier and definitely cheaper. Overall it went off without a hitch, but the day did have its moments. The worst being when the dad dropped off his kid and said, “My daughter can’t swim at all and doesn’t like water. See you in 3 hours.” Outstanding! Thank you so much for bringing your kid to free daycare today, asshole. Shouldn’t the parent of the child who can’t swim want to stay for safety purposes?? That puts no pressure on the “responsible adult” to keep this little landshark from drowning, huh?! Fantastic.
Well despite the fact that one kid clung to the side of the pool, terrified to move, the entire time (and you know who I’m talking about), the day was a success. I’ve started to believe that the period of panic before the party is probably tougher than the event itself. I stress way too much about what could go wrong (a kid puking in my house.. something besides the birthday candles being set on fire.. a child forgetting to take a dump somewhere other than the pool..). I am not a big worrier by nature, but I have to admit that kids make me nervous - especially when a bunch of these little shits are together en masse.
So this year I decided to make a list of survival tips for kids’ birthday parties. I got so cracked up at the thought of using some of these that I forgot to have my usual pre-party freak out. Maybe they’ll help you too. Party on.
Top Ten Tips for Surviving Your Kid’s Birthday Party
Pre-party, get your doctor to prescribe something for anxiety.
If you have a male doctor, blame it on your period. Talking about your period to any man tends to freak him out and make him agree with whatever it takes to shut you up.
If you have a female doctor, she probably already prescribed something for you anyway because she knows you’re a mom and could snap at any moment. If not? Tell her you could snap at any moment.
Taking something that has been prescribed for you is perfectly legal and you won’t get in trouble for being bombed at your kid’s party!
To save money, do NOT give out goody bags. Tell the kids their reward is that Mrs. Lion did not spank them at the party. (talk in the 3rd person too – they’ll be too afraid to question you)
However, DO give a prize for the quietest child, and announce at the beginning of the party that you will be doing so. If you’re really brave, just hand the winner one of the crap birthday gifts that your kid received at the party. (that’s a bonus money saving tip for you)
Ask each kid who their favorite person is who’s attending, figure out who has the most votes, and then let THAT kid run the party. Let’s face it, they won’t listen to your anyway if you’re in charge.
Hold up a beer and ask which kids know what it is. The ones that do probably have the cool parents that are worth getting to know socially. (you might as well get something out of this)
Play some Tom Jones music at the party. When the kids request the Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber, tell them that this will be those boys in about 40 years so they might as well get used to it now. (those little musical jerks might even lose some fans over this – you’re welcome, parents!). If they want female singers, put in Amy Winehouse’s ‘Rehab’ because that’s where all those little Disney mini hookers are going to end up anyway.
If any of the kids seem bored and ask you what they can do, tell them to fix you a sandwich. (in the same spirit as #5, you’re in hell so you might as well get something out of this)
If a child actually says she’s bored, hand her a box of Clorox wipes and your Swiffer. If you’re really brave, have her clean up dog poop in your yard – or if you’re lucky like me, in your house! (don’t ask)
Make the following announcement – “Any child who invades my personal space has to rub Mrs. Lion’s feet!” Works EVERY time – no one will get near you. (don’t forget to keep the 3rd person theme going)
Wear your t-shirt that says “Gold Diggers. Like hookers….but smarter.” Some parents will be too afraid to let their kids stay. For the kids who do stay, make sure to explain the meaning of each of those words. That should reduce attendance at future parties.
This past spring break, my husband had earned a fat discount on a hotel through work so my family took a trip to Hilton Head, SC. After a couple of days of being there with him and our two kids, I posted the following Facebook status: “I am too tired to make rational decisions, my hotel room is too crowded, and I have no cash…really spring break hasn’t changed that much from college.” True, right? (LITTLE WHITE LIE Alert! ….No, make that a BIG one) In reality, the differences in the spring breaks of today and the spring breaks of the past are huge. And it’s the same way with all “vacations” when your kids are along versus the ones when they were not. The freedom we once had is gone just like the cash I referred to in my status update.
I spent some time thinking about this while my family was at the beach and actually found myself missing the more carefree days of my earlier years. We all have these moments. There were times when I felt better though, like when the very fine, young Portuguese pool towel boy told me that I looked “very hot”. Lucky for me, I had consumed just enough rum runners to believe that he might have meant something other than the fact that I was really sweaty. SCORE.
After I had spent enough time pining away for the days when I was less spent, I got pissed at myself. It’s not my nature to wallow in thoughts of what was. I would prefer to find something that I do have and focus on what a lucky bitch I am. The kids that I didn’t have then? Yeah, they annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but they still totally rock. I may not have the free time that I used to, but what I do have is time with them. And that’s something even a hot Portuguese pool boy cannot compete with, even with his shirt off (well unless I’ve had too many rum runners and I forget that I have kids…).
Another thing that I got to experience now that I didn’t then is pool chair flags. If you aren’t aware of the phenomenon, let me enlighten you. At the hotel where we stayed, they have these dandy flags on the lounge chairs around the pool. When you want to order something from the bar, raise your flag and a waitress takes your order and brings it out while you sit on your ass. Boom!
Raise your flag. Get a beer. Am I deserving of such a luxury? Well hell yes, I am! I’ve worked hard to reach this point in my life. I never got to have something as magical as a pool chair flag when I was younger, so you’d better believe I am going to appreciate that bad boy to the fullest.
In honor of my new discovery, I rewrote one of P!nk’s ditties. P!nk probably does not have P!ty Parties and she would probably kick my ass for even thinking about it, right? I dedicate this to appreciating any vacation you are fortunate enough to have, and to finding the freak within yourself who gets excited about a flag attached to a pool chair. Cheers!
“Raise Your Flag” – to the tune of “Raise Your Glass” by P!nk
Right right I need Coors Light Gettin’ too hot in the bright sunlight Beer is healing, yo.
I’m lovin’ this chair too much Far too weary to get my ass up Where’d that waitress go?
Kiddie splashes, my joy dashes Call me only if you’re drownin’ Gettin’ antsy Buzz ain’t happ’ning This is serious… So raise your flag when your beer’s gone And you are la-zy All us tired moms…we will never be, never be Anything but loud And we need pity…booze makes us complete So just come on, and come on, and Raise your flag! Just come on and come and Raise Your Flag!
Slam slam that beer can What part of hurry don’t you understand? Wish you’d just sprint out (sprint out already) Can’t move, stuck to this spot My bikini top is held by one weak knot It’s still on – for now (so freakin’ on for now)
Where’s that waitress? Losin’ patience Went on break and left me hangin’ Bitch is so slow She’s no Flo Jo This is serious…
So raise your flag when your beer’s gone And you are la-zy All us tired moms…we will never be, never be Anything but loud And we need pity…booze makes us complete So just come on, and come on, and Raise your flag! Just come on and come and Raise Your Flag!
Oh shit my can is empty… that sucks!
You’re too cool for the wade pool (I mean…) And you’re kids think you’re a fool (think you’re a fool) Order booze and let it go We can always, we can always charge it to the room…
So raise your #&%*)! So raise your flag when your beer’s gone And you are la-zy All us tired moms…we will never be, never be Anything but loud And we need pity…booze makes us complete So just come on, and come on, and Raise your flag! Just come on and come and Raise Your Flag!
Just come on and come and Raise your flag! Won’t you come on! and come on! and Raise your flag! Beer me Just come on and come and Raise your flag…beer me.
