Parents, They’re Liars: Part 2


Or maybe I’m the only one who lies to their kid…

A while back I wrote about how I lie to my children. Well, as the Halloween holiday approaches, I’ve realized I’ve told a pretty big fucking lie and it’s gonna come back to bite me in the ass.

I have to give a bit of backstory in order to understand what kind of shit storm I’ve created with what I thought was a small, insignificant little white lie.

Back when Mini 1 was about two and a half, Hubs B and I took him trick or treating for the first time and he couldn’t have been more thrilled with the idea of getting shitloads of free candy. Not exactly at first though… I crammed his screaming ass into a monkey costume and carried him from house to house. The first house was our neighbor, who proceeded to basically dump her entire night’s haul of candy into Mini 1’s bag. Un-phased, he kept howling, while Hubs B carried him to the next house, where the same thing happened—lovely elderly neighbor equals tons of candy and by the third house, it was the same situation. Mini 1 had the haul of an entire night of trick or treating, gathered with stoppage at only three houses. This was when he realized what was in his bag. He proceeded to gorge himself on candy until Hubs B and I took it away. This was where the screaming began again. I vowed he’d never accumulate enough candy to put a horse into a diabetic coma again. So, here comes the lie. (I might just be a horrible parent or an evil genius…idk.)

The next year, I began telling Mini 1 about this goblin, called the Boo Goblin that loves to eat your Halloween candy in exchange for a toy. (Mini 1’s grandma had bought him that stupid Elf on the Shelf the year before, so he was all about shit like that. FYI, I suck at that Elf and should probs do a post about that fucking asshole.) He seemed interested, so I went on to tell him that we could still go trick or treating and collect candy and he’d be able to keep ten pieces, but he’d have to give the rest to the Boo Goblin. He still seemed game, so I ran with it. I explained that if he put all his candy outside on our porch, the Boo Goblin would come along, eat the candy, and be so happy he’d throw up a toy. Again, no complaints from Mini 1 and the Boo Goblin was created.

He talked about it for days leading up to Halloween, mind you, he was only three and half then, so I figured what harm could come from it. I bought a crappy toy at the checkout line of Meijer, Hubs B put Mini 1 in the bathtub after a night of trick or treating and the candy went out on the porch, and the Boo Goblin was born. He “ate” the candy, left the shitty toy and Mini 1 didn’t consume a vomit-inducing amount of candy.

Fast forward several years and that fucking goblin still exists, but now that dickhead is bring Legos and shit for two kids! Motherfucker, this lie is a disaster, and I’m almost certain Mini 1 knows it’s a lie, but he’s fucking with me. He won’t give in and tell me because he’s concerned about his toy gathering going out the window.

And to think, it all started because he was my first kid and I was concerned about his health. Poor Mini 2, he got the shit end of the stick. If I had it to do over again, I’d say, “Gorge yourselves, kiddos! You’re too damn skinny anyway!”

On a side note…where does all that candy Mini 1 and Mini 2 collected go??? Oh, trust me it never goes to waste!



OMG…A lost dog!!


I love animals, especially cute little dogs. I love them so much, yet I wouldn’t get another one if my life depended on it. (That’s another story…our old dog died. Well, we had him put down because he’d had a stroke and had this really horrible gangster swagger, head tilt, housing peeing and crapping, can’t walk straight thing going on. It was devastating to Mini One and Mini Two. Hubs B: “Great, they’re going to hate us. We killed their dog and then abandoned them.” That’s exactly what went down. We decided to put the dog down and then leave on kid-free vacation. Worst. Parents. Ever. DERAILED…)

So last night after a riveting third wheel Friday with BFF, she left and called me only seconds later. Now BFF and I have been friends for 20+ years and together we can be quite stupid.

BFF: OMG!!! There was this little dog wandering in the street. I almost hit it! So I got out and put it in my car.

ME: OMG!! Come back here. That poor dog!

BFF: I think the dog is blind. She’s really old.

ME: OMG!!!

We can be really dramatic when it comes to animals. A few sends later, while waiting for BFF to pull into the driveway, my phone rings. She had found the dog’s owner. What a relief! Well kinda… It turns out the owner was outside with the dog and BFF basically stole the dog from in front of its house and put it in her car and well, drove away. She’s a dog thief! She didn’t intend to be…but like I said, we make poor choices.

Luckily the owner wasn’t too pissed and BFF was able to be a hero in her own mind. I’m sure this won’t be the last stupid thing either of us do, but of course Hubs B got a good laugh out of it. And I was just grateful it wasn’t me who did something stupid, like always.


You talkin’ dirty to me?


So a friend of mine recently introduced me to Audible, the Amazon associated “talking book” App. Given that I (a) love to read and (b) spend an insane amount of time in the car driving to and from work, most of which is spent plotting the murders of my fellow motorists, she (and I), figured it would be a better, more productive use of my time.

She was right 🙂

It’s definitely a great distraction listening to a talking book, although I have to say, listening to it is an art form. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve zoned out, only to discovered 3 or more chapters have passed me by and I have no fucking clue as to what’s happened.

Side note: when Hubs A and I were driving across country once, his brother, who I shall refer to as Bro-in-Law, suggested we take the 12 disc talking book of 2001: A Space Odessy…Yes I shit you not, this was a 12 disc monstrosity that I have no desire to revisit again…ever. The fucking movie was bad enough, the talking book…Fuck me, forget water boarding, this is what should be used as a torture device. Naturally, while it was playing I fell asleep multiple times during this boring as fuck riveting book. Don’t worry, I wasn’t driving at the time, so we weren’t in any danger. However, because of the type of book it was, I could pretty much wake up at any point in the storyline, and sweet fuck all would have happened. And yes, I am being serious. I mean it took virtually an entire CD to describe that big black monolith (oh look, I took 3 words to describe it), that the apes stare at…fuck me.

Anyway, I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes, zoning out. So while that has happened with me in the past, it doesn’t tend to happen now, and I’ll give you one reason why…Sex.

Yep, you heard it, sex. This talking book I’m listening to, although dubbed as a crime/thriller, has sex…and plenty of it. And there is something strangely funny about listening to sex while it’s being read out loud to you. And before you start picturing all sorts of dirty scenarios, it’s not straight up porn you filthy perv. There’s no actual moaning or sound effects, but what there is, is thrusting and wetness and climaxing and…oh god, I can barely type this without laughing…seed exploding! Yeah, you heard me… Seed. Exploding. And let me tell you, it’s weird as fuck, sitting in a car, surrounded by your fellow morning commuters, barely awake as you mainline coffee and try not to kill anyone, while at the same time, listening to two fictional characters get off.

What a fucking wake-up call!

And yeah, it makes me laugh…out loud! It also makes me look around. You know, just to check my volume really isn’t that loud that everyone else can hear it too! I just hope to fuck I don’t crash the car or get pulled over, because I’m not quite sure how I’ll explain exploding seed to the cop that’s first on scene.


Happy birthday…from my tattoo guy?

The first person to wish me a happy birthday this year was my tattoo guy. Usually it’s the guy I have our car insurance through or one of the many places I online shop, but this year the winner is Steven. Interesting…I either get far too many tattoos or I haven’t gotten enough and he’s trying to earn back my business. The fact that I have a tattoo guy probably speaks volumes about me, but whatever. I like him and wouldn’t consider going anywhere else.

But to digress a bit, here’s a quick story about BFF since we share Steven as our tattoo guy.

When we were teenagers, long before the fabulous Steven came into our lives, BFF got a tattoo on her lower back, not a tramp stamp, it’s off to the side and far more classy. She swears it was the worst fucking pain of her life and still insists the tat guy made her drop trou right in the front of the shop. So basically it ruined her and she swore up and down she’d never get another. She was like, “Sweet fucking Jesus it was like childbirth. Never again.”

But she’s pretty fickle and a bandwagon jumper, so when I got another one, she decided she’d give it another try. Especially since I told her Steven is fucking awesome. Going with her for moral support, she opted for a tiny tattoo on her foot. Turns out it’s not so bad. She survives and the tat is adorable. Yay for BFF, but not really.

A few days later is the 4th of July and she goes on a boozy bender where she wears no shoes, pokes at the tat with dirty fingers and hits up a few too many bathrooms.

Cue the next day while lying on my couch:

BFF: Do you think it’s infected?

It’s swollen and cratered and puss is forming. It’s as red as an Irishman with a sunburn. It’s totes infected. I feared they may have to take her leg.

Me: Um, yeah.

BFF: Ask Hubs B what to do, he’s in the science field.

Hubs B: *While watching TV* I’m not a doctor.

Me: I have some antibiotics in the cabinet from when I had a UTI. Take one.

BFF: Ok.

Over the course of three days I was texted updated pictures where I teased her without regard for the fact that she may lose her foot, about it being gangrenous and smelling like almonds. Eventually she had to see a legit doctor and not a fake one who has a degree in biology and was drinking a beer while watching TV, because it got mega out of hand. It healed and it didn’t stop her from getting two more after that.

So a shout out to Steven for that happy birthday and for reminding me I’m old, and also for making BFF and I want to get another tat. Mission accomplished, Steven. Well played. Here’s to gangrenous tattoos and my 29th birthday!


Naked and Afraid… Oh, hell no


Sunday was the premier of the most recent season of Naked and Afraid, so what better way to spend a Sunday evening than marathoning the previous season with Hubs B and BFF.

For those of you that have never seen the show, let me break it down for you. Basically it’s where these two fuckwits, I mean survivalists are dropped into jungles and shit and are forced to survive…naked with a partner they’ve never met. They get to bring one survival, like knife or a fire starter, something to help them out and they have to last 21 days. They also give each contestant (I call them this, although there is no prize at the end. Just the gratification of completing this journey…fucking lame.) a PSR rating. A Primitive Survival Rating, which is how likely they are to complete the challenge based on their survivalist experiences. It’s a scale from 0-10 and most of the men are rated somewhere in the 7.5-8.5 area and the women somewhere between 6-7.5. (sexist…) It’s a complete shit show, yet totally addictive.

So, we settle in to watch the premier after watching three consecutive episodes. It wasn’t so much that the episodes were hilarious, it was more about the conversations we had while watching.

I find the people who go on the show fascinating because I have no desire to ever do anything outside, besides sit on the beach. I’m afraid of the dark, I fucking hate bugs, especially moths, I have an aversion to things that are wet, so that rules out anything that deals with rain, I LOVE food and not grubs and weird ass shit caught in a jungle setting (one woman ate the brain from a rotten bird head she found on the beach and then was shocked when she got the shits), I won’t go camping, I despise sleeping on anything but a bed, I don’t like hiking or anything that requires me to climb, seeing as I’m afraid of heights and (I say “and” like the list ends here. Trust me it could go on for days) I’m always cold. So to say the people on this show are out of my realm of reality, is a fucking understatement.

As soon as the episode started BFF, Hubs B and I created our own rating system. FBR and DBR…Fucking Bitch Rating and Douche Bag Rating since the people in the premier were just awful. The female contestant complained non-stop. Um, you fucking chose to go on this fucking show, so stop your bitching. And the male contestant was a smarmy asshole, who found himself far too attractive, like he was a catch or something. At one point claiming to his partner after she was complaining about his douchebagness, “Girls would kill to be trapped with me for 21 days.” Really? Only if they like douche bags with beer guts and receding hairlines.

When the episode started I asked Hubs B what he thought his PSR be. Now I think of Hubs B as pretty badass and resourceful, but his response was, “Um…probably a 3.” Looks like I wouldn’t want to be paired up with him. So then BFF asks me, how likely I would be to survive on the show.

Hilarity ensure from Hubs B and then he says, “I give the two of you together 21 minutes,” which prompts BFF to ask if she could bring pizza as her survival item. I then, interject that we could totes survive longer than 21 minutes, which again has Hubs B laughing hysterically.

Hubs B: You won’t even stay in a hotel that has the doors on the outside.

Me: Um, that’s not a hotel, that’s a fucking motel.

Hubs B: Ok, so please fucking tell me, what type of doomsday scenario would warrant you staying in a motel with with the doors on the outside?

BFF: So if it was either sleep in my car or stay at motel with the doors on the outside, I’d choose the motel.

Me: *Long pause* Um…I don’t know. I really don’t like motels at all. Only hotels.

Hubs B: I’m amending my original estimate. 21 seconds…max.

BFF: I don’t like to hunt for food.

Me: Me either. I don’t even know where pizza lives.

BFF: I love food.

Me: Me too.

BFF: I’d go on the show just to lose 30 pounds.

Me: Great diet.

Hubs B: *Shaking his head* You two are fucking hopeless.

In the end, we established that the people who go on the show are fucking nuts, Hubs B isn’t nearly as badass as I thought and BFF and I would likely survive a few second, unless there was pizza involved. Not too bad.


Parents, they’re liars


Did you ever think you’d so blatantly lie to your children? I didn’t, with exception of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, the usual shit, I thought I’d be totally honest with them. Until I realized they’re like dealing with terrorists, there’s no negotiating. So bring on the lies and scare tactics.

While eating dinner tonight, I look over at Mini 1 and notice his eye is kinda red and swollen. (We had just gotten back from the water park which never fails to elicit some kind of gross fungal infection…athlete’s foot, ring worm, pink eye, etc.)
So I say to him that his eye is looking a little red and if it still looks like that in the morning, we should go to the doctor.

Mini 1 gives me the what-the-fuck face and bursts into near hysteria. Fucking carrying on and bitching and moaning about hating the doctor.

Instead of handling this rationally, I tell him his eyeball’s going to fall out. Yeah, so looking back it was pretty fucking OTT, but fuck it, because the whole scenario got funny.

Mini 2 gives me the what-the-fuck face and then turns to Hubs B and asks if it’s true. Hubs B in all his fatherly wisdom agrees with me wholeheartedly, but tries to appease Mini 1 by telling him we’ll get him an eyepatch. While Mini 2 couldn’t give a shit because, well, it’s not his eye and he’s simply less high-strung. (We call him our Mulley and Hubs B legit wanted to name him Mulligan, as in our do-over.)

Mini 1 is still asking how legit this situation is and Hubs B then tells him we’ll also get him a parrot for his shoulder. And in his best pirate accent says, “Arrh, matey, me lost me eye in a water park accident.”

While Mini 2 and I are laughing hysterically, Mini 1 is fucking sobbing. He storms away from the table and up to his room, calling us insensitive and liars.

Truth, kid. But at least you’ll have a thick skin by the time you reach middle school…either that or you’ll end up in therapy.


Don’t mess with old people and their golf


Old people, golf and their brutal honesty; sometimes I find it downright laughable.

Mini 1 takes golf lessons early in the morning and generally the place is empty. But for some fucking reason it was packed this morning. Oddly enough, the weather was shit, so who knows. But yeah, back to my point…

Every day Mini 1, Mini 2 and I trek over to the golf course and while Mini 1 takes his hour long lesson, Mini 2 and I eat donuts and drink Gatorade. During this time we also observe the mass of old folks who frequent the driving range, putting green and golf course.

And like most old people who are retired, they think they own the fucking place.

Well today they got the shock of their life when the (their) course was filled with what must have been fifty teenagers on a golf outing. Now mind you, these seemed to be rather well behaved teens. No riotous hoodlums or anything. Just kids out for a good time.

Either way…Imagine all the what-the-fuck faces. But that wasn’t the worst of it; it was all the mumbling and swearing under their breath and the outright disgust these old peeps displayed that had me laughing. And when I say laughing, I mean laughing like, you can’t be fucking serious. One person even had the balls to complain!

Complain about what you ask? It was about how crowded the PUBLIC golf course was. Oh FFS…

In the end the kids played golf, most of the oldies left and I began to ponder what my life might be like thirty years from now. I already lack a verbal filter, I imagine it will be shot to shit by then.

I’m fucked.

PM 2

Parenting by PM2


As I post this, I need to throw up a disclaimer:

I have never claimed to be the best parent and this will just solidify that I will never make any list where it says I am and I’m totes ok that.

So here it goes. I have two awesome kids with Hubs B and while we are pretty firm with them, we laugh—a lot—so our sense of humor and our attitude toward life has rubbed off on them. While we find them hilarious, but I’m not sure the rest of the world does.

Yesterday was one of those days where I’m sure everyone around me was questioning my parenting and in rare form, I couldn’t have given a fuck.

While at the splash park with Mini 1 and Mini 2, we walk in and notice immediately a large child in a diaper running around. Both the Minis, stop, take him in and look immediately at Hubs B and me. Shrugging our shoulders and shooing them off to play, Hubs B turns to me and says, “That kid’s fucking gigantic and he’s wearing a diaper.”

Seconds later, diaper kid’s mom calls his name and it turns out he has the same name as Mini 1. I then turn to Hubs B and say, “Of course the Sasquatch in the diaper has the same name as our kid.” This elicits a laugh from Hubs B, but when he looks at Mini 1 he bursts out laughing. “He has your what the fuck face on right now,” Hubs B says and we both laugh our asses off, obviously thrilled that I have passed on this life long skill of pissing people off with just a look.

An hour later, while out to dinner, Mini 2 shows off my awesome parenting skills once again. While coloring at the table, his blue crayon falls to the floor and with perfect inflection and completely correct usage; he calls out, “Shitballs” and crawls under the table to retrieve the crayon. Only to resurface to Hubs B and I laughing. Again, passing along life long skills.

Yep, judge me. But I have some of the coolest kids around. They might be cheeky, but at least I’m raising them with skills that will follow them into adulthood.