The Greatest Day of My Life, So Far

The Greatest Day of My Life So Far | Ponies and MartinisToday, dear friends, I was given the most glorious gift a mother could ever receive; a trip by myself to Target. I laughed, cried tears of joy, and even pranced down the aisles.

You may wonder why this is a big deal. If you do, then you are probably not a parent. A typical trip to Target when you have kids starts with whining for Starbucks hot cocoa, continues with desperate grabs for My Little Pony plush, and ends in a full body meltdown when all entreaties to buy every single Skylander figure is denied.

An expedition to Target with kids is yeoman’s work and I am usually sapped of all energy when I leave.

But today was different.

Upon entering, I noticed the great red bullseye glowed brightly overhead. It sang to me a melody of peace and joy as I selected the cart that I wanted, not the unwieldy two-seated monster my daughter begs for and then uses for a solid five minutes.

Marching toward the dollar section, I make the stunning realization that I don’t have to walk up and down those aisles debating the merits and virtues of Frozen socks versus Barbie sandwich keepers.

Of course, I enter the land of cheap anyway, because it’s obvious I need to stock up on $1 gift bags, hand lotion that smells like plastic, and animal crackers. The frosted ones.

Tearing myself away from the Panda cookies, I spy a My Little Pony stationery set for The Girl and Ninja Turtles lunch accessories for The Boy. I squee with delight, because the kids would LOVE them. Actually, my daughter would also love the cheap Elsa headband, Palace Pets puzzle, the ratty felt fox, and broken basket on the bottom shelf. But, since she’s not there, I DON’T CARE.

Tossing my cheap goodies into the cart, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the women’s clothing section. I only have vague notions of what this couture wonderland contains as it’s usually passed in a blur of voices crying out, “This isn’t the toy section! It’s so boring!”

Instead of bidding the cotton confections adieu, I stroll leisurely past the clothing racks, fingering the items that are 50, and even 70, percent off. Sighing with joy, I find a striped, long-sleeved shirt on sale for $6. It’s such a good deal, I could buy two, and have a little left over for pants. Not wanting to get too crazy, I hold myself back and promise to come back for the striped shirt’s friends when I can get another day away.

Hide yourself sweet distressed jeans, mama’s coming for you soon.

I make my way over to the other part of Target that is forbidden with children; the lingerie section. I could walk through there on a typical shopping outing, but then I have my son trying bras on his head or listening to him and my daughter snicker at the sight of thong underwear. “Where’s the rest of it?!?”

Sadly, I have been known to ask myself the same question.

Bypassing a few choice items from the Gillian O’Malley hooker collection, I ogle some underwear whose comfort is masked by lace and a modest bow. I love a sexy pair of pantaloons, but for day-to-day wear, I need something that I can wear for longer than an hour that won’t rub my ladyland raw.

It’s the little things in life that make me happy, like an un-chafed vagina.

Of course the comfiest britches are on racks that face the aisle, so I get to stand in the middle of Target rubbing my paws all over silky underwear to find my size. Nothing to see here folks, just a lady fondling the crotch covers.

Floating through row after heavenly row, I savor the scent of those weird little soy candles, imaging where I’d put them and then remember that they would sit there and get dusty before I’d light them; planning parties that would need star pinatas, of which there should be none because those things make an ungodly mess; and eventually I wind up in the $5 movie section trying to talk myself into Scrooged because I loved that movie at one time, and IT’S ONLY FIVE DOLLARS! How many people can buy happiness for $5? Me! I can!

My time at Target comes to an end, and I even enjoy the checkout line. No one begs for Pokemon cards or Snickers bars, and I get to make pleasant chit-chat with the teenage checker.

Walking out, I let the majesty of the big red bullseye wash over me. Target is my motherland, and it is even better when I get to savor each and every nuance all on my own. It’s better than sex, I tell you, and no one can ever tell me differently.

Viva solo shopping!

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My Vagina Is Free of Steam

Greetings friends! I am featured over on BLUNTmoms with a saucy little piece about the very best things I think should be invented for my (and every woman’s) vaginal use.

Here’s a little preview to entice you on over to the BLUNTmoms site.

Back in the 90s, I wanted to be Gwyneth Paltrow. I rocked dark brown lipstick, a Sliding Doors pixie cut and had a mean crush on Brad Pitt.

As the years rolled on, the love faded and the annoyance washed in. With every one of her macrobiotic diets, $250,000 “must haves,” and that conscious uncoupling, my eyes rolled a little further back into my head. 

What sent me into a Little Orphan Annie, nothing-but-the-whites-of my-eyes roll, was Her Royal Goopness’ pronouncement that we must steam our vaginas, because there is something in that magic steam that will make your uterus squeaky clean.

I don’t know about you, but there are many things that my lady-land needs more than a steam bath. 

What do we need? Read more over on BLUNTmoms. Thanks, love y’all, mean it.

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Goldfish, Cleanses, and One Popular Pony

Goldfish, Cleanses, and a Popular Pony | Ponies and Martinis

Hello, friends! I come with glad tidings; I am featured on not one, but TWO fantastic websites today. I don’t know who I owe a handjob to for this tremendous honor, but I will do my best to not find out because I am not an enthusiastic dick wrangler.

And with that bit of TMI, let’s get to the previews, shall we?

First up is a piece I wrote for BLUNTmoms, called A Hate Letter to a Cleanse. Yup. It’s about how I went on a cleanse and suffered the most embarrassing moment of my life. Feel free to laugh at me; I do it all the time.

Excerpt:

Over the years, I have tried many different diets, and exercise regimes… whatever I thought might make me thin or healthy (or both). One of the most memorable was the time I tried a 10-day cleanse–not only because I couldn’t have a glass of wine for 10 days, but because it resulted in mind-blowing embarrassment.

To give you a little context, a cleanse requires eating clean, or not eating anything you can’t pronounce, taking a variety of supplements that expel the toxins in your body, and probiotics to restore what has been flushed out.

It’s as awesome as it sounds.

Read the rest on BLUNTmoms.

Second, I am featured for the first time on Crayons and Collars, a great site for families juggling pets and kids. My story is called What Happens When Kids Pet the Fish, Or Why Carnivals Are Evil. This not a how-to for goldfish, so please do not do as I do, or, more precisely, as my kids do.

Excerpt:

When I took my kids to the school carnival, I didn’t think anything bad would happen. We had been in years past, and it had always been the same; eat a hot dog, win horribly cheap prizes, and come home with face paint that’s impossible to scrub off.

This year was different. This year, there were goldfish.

All I can say is, “Poor Fishy.”

Check it out, and as always, enjoy, share, and then share again.

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New Year’s Resolutions I Can Keep

New Year’s Resolutions I Can Keep | Ponies and Martinis

I resolve to be more beach-friendly this year.

With the very best of intentions, I start off the new year with an ambitious resolution or two, like working out every day or not yelling at the kids. And slowly, but surely, I fail to keep them. This is why I still carry some baby weight and my kids are deaf.

This year, I have come up with a few resolutions that I know I can stick with.

1. Wear yoga pants more often. I have kept my yoga pants isolated to the gym, but I think I have been severely limiting my comfort. Have you ever worn those things? It’s like rolling in butter and lying in velvet all at the same time. I won’t wear them out in public, like one of those people from Walmart, but, I’ll wear them for lounging, kid drop-off, and girls’ night. Maybe I’ll buy my friends a pair or two too.

2. Drink more wine. I love, love, love wine, so when the kids go to bed, I pour myself a glass. Unfortunately, life gets in the way of me enjoying it. There’s laundry to fold, dishes to do, and eventually, it’s time for bed. Sometimes, I don’t even drink the whole thing. I know! It’s the saddest story in the world! There will be no more sad stories in 2015. God as my witness, I will finish my wine.

3. Act like an idiot with my girlfriends. When I had kids, I stopped going out with my friends. Oh, there would be brunch or coffee, or a night in, but nothing like the bacchanal we’d had in our 20s. I miss those days, when we’d go out looking super skanky, dancing like the rhythmless white girls we are, and knocking back a few Manhattans. We’d sing along with Bon Jovi and do things that I am really glad were not captured on video. Of course the next day would be hell, but it was worth it. I need to do that again. But, this time with a better hangover cure.

4. Enjoy mindless entertainment. I finally read The Grapes of Wrath, a few fascinating books by Bill Bryson, and watched the Ken Burns documentary series on Prohibition. I am so much smarter now than I was 12 months ago. But, dammit, I want to take my edumacation down a notch. I won’t go to the dark side and start watching the Kardashians, but I need more Amy Poehler, Doctor Who, and Arrested Development. The Joad family is way too depressing. Sweet baby Jesus, someone find them a Habitat for Humanity house and a union to join.

5. Nap. Oh, naps. How I do love thee. With every fiber of my soul, I worship you, O, great nap. This is a no-brainer. And to accomplish this, I will…

6. Stick to the basics with housecleaning. Scrub the toilets, vacuum up the tumbleweeds of dog hair in the hall, wipe down a few jelly smears, and call it a day. Dirt can only help my kids, right? Build up their immune system and stuff? And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll burn my house down and start over. Perfect.

7. Lose my filter. For most of my life, I have worried about what other people thought of me. I always had a frank personality that I kept locked away like a crazy aunt in the attic. This year, she is breaking free and taking over. Here comes the crazy, and it’s going to be good.

I may not manage to keep any of these resolutions, but I am going to do my damnedest to try. I mean, seriously, how fun is this year going to be?

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Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World

I don’t know if you’re aware, but I am the Worst Mother in the World. It’s true. I have been given this honor by my darling daughter for a growing list of offenses.

You may wonder, “How cruel to her daughter could she be?”

Oh, it’s pretty bad. Children’s Services may be knocking on my door once they’ve read this.

Seven Ways I am the Worst Mother in the World | Ponies and Martinis

I am pretty fierce with my cubs.

1. Give me chocolate, or I will burn this house down. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and if it were up to my daughter, she would fill her tank with chocolate. She’s not picky about what kind of chocolate. It can be delivered via the chips in cookies, chocolate covered popcorn, or the random miniatures that we still have left over from last Halloween (or was it Easter?). Since I love to torture her, I make her eggs, oatmeal, or pretty much anything that isn’t chocolate. She usually greets her breakfast with a whining, “I don’t want it! It’s gross! I am going to die if I eat this!” I pause. Will the whining stop then?

2. I want ALL THE THINGS! Can you imagine anything more hideous than not buying a child every toy they desire? It must be torture to be taken through the grocery store, walked past boxes of Elsas, plushy ponies, and all of the other little plastic shit toys they have on the shelves, only to be told that they are not there for toys, but milk. Who needs milk when you can have a pull-apart Olaf? Priorities, people!

3. Thou art a villain, Mother! Heaven forbid I try to do anything for her. Despite the fact that she can’t tie her shoes yet, she insists on trying. How is that bad? She doesn’t want to learn HOW to tie them. She twists the laces into knots and bursts into tears when they don’t magically pop into a bow. After 20 minutes, her shoes are soaked in tears and I’m ready to let her wear slippers to school. Maybe that’s her point.

4. Her royal highness does not allow jeans to touch her body. I love a good pair of jeans, sadly that love has not been passed on to my daughter. They rub her belly, grip her non-existent thighs, and steal her strength. Instead of having a full meltdown every morning, I have invested in leggings of all colors and fabrics. Of course, the pink leggings are superior to all other leggings. Bright pink, preferably, with or without animal adornments. Kittens are acceptable, turtles are not. Heed the rules, or there will be mutiny!

5. I don’t need to learn how to read. Why are you making me? My daughter is in kindergarten, and she is learning how to read. Not that she believes in learning anything. If she can’t read a word correctly the first time, she storms off, pouts, and refuses to return. When I drag her limp body back to the table, she gives me answers in monosyllables until I finally release her back into the wild. Obviously, it is a cruel mother who makes her learn how to read unimportant words like “they” or “have.”

6. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Me. Me who? Me, who will never let you pee alone again. It’s silly, but I like to use the bathroom by myself. I don’t care if I’m in there for a minute or an hour, I WANT TO BE ALONE. My daughter knocks on the door, and laughs when I lock it. She picks the lock and bursts in on me home-invasion style. Instead of robbing me of all my toilet paper, she insists on staying in the room. “I won’t look at you peeing, Mommy. I promise,” she says. When I kick her out and throw myself against the door to keep her out, she cries, lamenting my vile nature. “All I want to do is see you!” No, she wants to play in my makeup, paint her toes, soak herself in my perfume, and wind up looking like the main harlot in a French whorehouse.

7. You are killing me! It took my daughter 2 years to finally grow something that vaguely resembled hair. Since it was nothing more than peachfuzz for that time, I didn’t get a lot of argument when I brushed it. As it got longer, her resistance to my ministrations grew. If you ask her, the detangling spray is poison, the brush rips her hair out, and her soul dies a little with each stroke of the brush. The only reason she lets me near her tresses, is because I threaten to cut it if I don’t get to untangle the knots. This doesn’t prevent her from cutting it herself, though.

So, as you can see, I have earned my blue ribbon for Worst Mother in the World. I’ll wear it with pride because it means my daughter will be able to read and won’t look like a harlot. At least not until her college years.

Lion image is from the Wikimedia Commons

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My Dog Ate My Daughter’s Poop

My Dog Ate My Daughter's Poop | Ponies and Martinis

The Offending Canine

Weekends. They are a time to live the good life by enjoying exploits at the Home Depot and making tough decisions like what toppings to get on the pizza.

They are not a time for fecal follies.

Once my kids left the explosive diarrhea and sodden diaper phase of their life, I thought I had most toilet traumas behind me. While it’s true that I cannot go a day without flushing the evacuations of my daughter’s bladder, my days are otherwise free of bodily fluids.

I was getting too soft with this cozy situation and my daughter could sense my weakness, sniffing it out with the precision of a lioness hunting a gazelle.

She went in for the kill this weekend.

I was heading into the living room when I saw the entryway was blocked off by two boxes, with my daughter on one side and the dogs on the other.

Me: So… what’s with the boxes?

The Girl (pointing to the couch): My poop fell out and Sparkles ate it.

Me: Wait. You pooped on the couch? And Sparkles are your poop?

The Girl (laughing hysterically): No! I didn’t poop on the couch!

Me: Sparkles pooped on the couch? And ate it?

Girl: No! Poop fell out of my butt, I stepped on it, and when I wiped it off, Sparkles ate it.

Me: On the couch?

Girl: Mooooom! You’re not listening.

Right. Because it’s so very clear what has happened.

Girl: I was pooping, IN THE BATHROOM…

She throws an exaggerated eye roll in my direction, and continues.

Girl: … and I didn’t want anyone to see me. So, I waddled over to shut the door and my poop fell out.

Me: You were walking around with your pants down? And poop in your butt? Why?

Girl: I didn’t want anyone to see me!

Of course. Makes sense.

Girl: The poop fell out, and I stepped in it.

I realize as she’s talking, that her feet are resting on the coffee table. The same feet that have stepped in her own waste. I am willing to bet her tootsies were not washed after she pranced in the poop. Therefore, my coffee table is now enveloped by fecal matter.

Girl: I wiped the poop off my foot…

Wiped? Did she wash her hands afterward? Probably not. Ugh. What has she touched?

Girl: … and then Sparkles ran in…. AND ATE IT! IT’S SO GROSS! UGH! She can’t be here if she’s eating poop!

I tuned out her continuing narrative, and began a mental triage of the situation.

I need to clean her feet, the coffee table, the path from the bathroom to the table, every surface everywhere. Oh, hell. I’m going to burn the house down and start over. I’ll never be rid of the poop.

Half a tub of clorox wipes later, I was no longer crawling out of my skin, trying to escape an all-encompassing feculence.  I also gave Sparkles more than a few snacks to clean the crap out of her teeth. I really couldn’t even look at her until I had. It was too disgusting.

Moral of the story my friends: Never poop without shutting the door first, and if you have to get up, make sure there is no poop in your butt or a dog will swoop in and eat it.

Good talk.

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