50 ways to die on the way to the post office. Okay, maybe not 50, but at least 2.

Have I told you guys that I’m addicted to eBay? Well, I am.

I’ve been selling Homeslice’s baby clothes and rolling my Pay Pal money right over into purchases for new stuff for both kids.  My master plan is to keep this going and not have to spend non-Pay Pal money on kid’s clothes.  So far, this has been a total failure, but I’m going to keep at it because I love hopeless endeavors.

Well, on Monday I had to bring a prepaid package (because I’m slick like that) to the post office which happens to be in a comfortable walking distance from the house, so I leashed Alice up, packed Homeslice into her stroller, threw some sneakers (light up ones! I broke down and went to Stride Rite) on Girlfriend and off we went.

We didn’t even get past Earl and Maudette’s house when the first horrible trauma occurred.  Big, stupid Tequila was wandering around outside without her collar, as is usual, when she saw us across the street.  She came over and I could just tell by her body language that she wasn’t happy about Alice.  I put my leg in between them and could feel Tequila growl at Alice, and the next thing I knew, before I could do anything about it, she had Alice on her back and was attacking her throat and belly. I was totally powerless to stop her.  I grabbed fistfulls of flesh and tried to pull her off, but she had no collar on and there was nothing to grab.  I only outweigh her by a few pounds and if you’ve ever tried to pull an angry dog off someone or something, you know how fucked we were.  I was left standing there beating Tequila with my fists and screaming “NO! NO! NO!”  I watched Alice’s scared face as she yelped in pain.  She was not a dog in a fight.  She was a dog being eaten.

It was horrible, and it felt like ten minutes before Maudette came running out of her house in her nightgown and bare feet and literally jumped on Tequila’s back and threw herself over backward to stop her.  She sat there with her whole body holding Tequila back.  She was crying and bloody from scraping her legs on the curb.  Earl came out with a leash and brought Tequila away. Mister came running out, too.  He thought he was going to have to kill Tequila with his bare hands.

Alice is okay.  She has a couple of bites and bruises and she smelled sick for a day, but she seems to be feeling better now.

Fucking Tequila.

Earl and Maudette keep apologizing, but I’m still pissed.  It’s not like I can call the dog officer either.  They know all about Tequila and they never do anything.  They totally suck.  I’ve called them about another dog, an un-neutered male running around shitting everywhere, and they totally don’t care.

So Girlfriend was traumatized because who wouldn’t be? I was traumatized and shaky, Alice was  traumatized but not really bleeding, Homeslice was confused, but we continued on to the post office anyway.

Still shaking from the Tequila incident, I pressed the walk button to cross a busy street.  I waited.  The cars all stopped.  We started crossing the street, when some old lady decided that traffic was stopped for her and she pulled out of the side street behind me.  I heard her engine and the next thing I knew, she jammed on the brakes and only missed hitting Girlfriend by about 4 feet.

HOLY FUCK!

We got across the street in one piece, but I broke down crying and held Girlfriend as traffic resumed like it was no big deal.  That moment is still on constant replay in my head. I can’t seem to shake it.

I almost called Mister to come and pick us up, but I still had the balls to keep going to the post office.

We made it there and back and we didn’t go anywhere else for the rest of the day because clearly, an anvil was going to fall on our heads next or some such bullshit.

And then a couple of hours later, our postal carrier rang the bell.  I put the fucking eBay shit in the wrong fucking kind of envelope and they wouldn’t fucking take it.

And so the trip was a lesson in 50 ways to fucking die on the way to the post office.

I’m still all fucking fucked up.

Speaking of fucked up, I’m up at Toy with Me today talking about some crazy facts about orgasm that you probably didn’t know:  8 Little known Facts About Orgasms

I’m too hot for a swim burka, thanks.

Guess what, Queefies?

I know you don’t like to hear this, but it’s almost bathing suit season.

I’m wicked sorry.

Hugs.

Remember last year when I searched and searched for a swimsuit that would cover my bodacious postpartum assical area?

And  remember how I cried in the dressing room at Marshall’s and Mister had to come in there and get me and take me home and feed me ice cream until the hurting in my heart went away?

Crap.

Did I not tell you about that?

And do you remember how much trouble I had trying to find jeans this winter after the whole Gap can suck it with their size 16/00 debacle? Don’t even get me started on the POOF! shoes again.

Well, bathing suits are a whole new level of wrong and what the fucking fuck?

It’s the same battle I have with clothing.  Everything is either made for teenage girls, or 75 year old women.  There’s no in between.  I’m totally opening a store called Forever 35 and I’m designing shit for all of us in that no-woman’s-land between high school and retirement home.

Anyway, I spent about 3 hours trying to find something from Victoria’s Secret and if you’ve ever ordered a swimsuit from them before then you know that A) if you don’t buy something in March to wear in June you’re shit out of luck because the thing you want will be on back order until October. B) They have one billionty styles, but somehow not one single thing that will look pretty on your particular particulars.  I don’t know how they manage it. But, I took the risk and ordered three suits which all turned out to be total losers, and I had to take it in the pooper for the return shipping.  Basically, I spent $20 to have my self-esteem assaulted. What a deal!

My beloved Target has lots to choose from as long as you want a triangle top string bikini with mis-matched top and bottoms because there’s no way in Hades you’re going to find a matching top and bottom in your size.  There are an awful lot of woefully disproportionate people out there, Queefies.  I don’t want a string bikini anyway.  I’m almost 36 and although I don’t have stretch marks and I’m in pretty decent shape thanks to my sweaty lesbian friend, Jillian, I don’t feel comfortable in a string bikini.  But, I don’t want to totally pack it in and get a swim burqa either

Actually, I think they’re called “burkinis.”

You know it’s bad when even the model can’t rock it.

And so the Internet search began and you know what, Queefies?

Thanks to a head’s up from Melissa Lion, I found something!

There IS a place where a girl can find something not too stringy, but not too burqua-ish and it is called Popina Swimwear.

I wanted something like that little blue number I had last year that reminded me of  vintage swimwear, like a pin-up girl type thing, and they totally have a ton of stuff just like that! They have a bunch of cute tankinis which I looked at and loved.  They also have  Jantzen Swimwear ,and they make a ton of cute stuff, too.  I came very close to getting this:

Because meow, my friends.

It’s freaking adorable.  I might actually turn around and order it because the more I look at it, the more I kind of want it like a lot and a lot.

But instead of a vintage one piece swimsuit, I decided on this two-piece one for now:

Do you know how hard it is to find a bra top bikini top?  It’s damn near impossible because everything is a triangle or a halter style.  Neither of those look good on me at all.  I need the straps to break up my broad shoulders and also I need them to lift the girls because I’m sorry to tell you Queefies that the glory and the splendor of last year’s nursing boobies have all but disappeared now.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  Literally.

I think we should take a moment of silence….

(                                                                                                       )

And I picked out these bottoms to go with it because my hipster underpanties are flattering on me and so I figured these would be good.

So yeah.  It looks all kinds of awesome, and I get to feel like I’m better than everyone on the beach because my swimsuit came from a small, woman-owned business AND it didn’t cost me eleventy billion dollars either.

Suck it, Victoria’s Secret! I’m rockin’ the hotness this year.

OMG… Popina just sent me an email because of this post and are offering an extra 10% discount just for you Queefs!  Just use discount code “pamster” to get the deal.

Needful Things

Do you think these sandals are cute? (these aren’t exactly the same ones, but they’re similar)

They’re not very glamorous, but those days of hot shoes are all done for me.  You cannot chase some kids around in hot shoes without dying and so these are pretty good.

They’re Borns, and if you’ve ever owned a pair of Born shoes, then you know the joy I felt when I found them, the only pair left at Marshall’s, for only $30.

I about did a happy dance and shouted “SUCK IT! THEY’RE MINE!” as I walked through the store showing them to everyone.

I thought these would be the sandals for me–the ones to go to the zoo and the playground and the grocery store and everything all summer long (I’m totally over flip-flops, aren’t you), and they actually make my ankles looks skinny and they go with everything and I’m just in love with them.

Or at least I was in love with them.

As it turns out, they’re really Satan’s Sandals.

The first time I wore them, they were totally fine.

The second time I wore them they seemed to have sprung some sort of a leak because they started making a poofy sound when I walk.

You know what I mean, right?

It’s like, “step POOF! step POOF! step POOF!”

It’s like I’m farting with every step.

So that’s kind of annoying, right? But whatever. I can deal with it because they look good.

So I wear them yesterday and now the non-poofy shoe has developed a creak and now when I walk it’s “creak, POOF! creak, POOF! creak, POOF!”

Okay, well that sucks, but still. If I go somewhere noisy, nobody will notice.

But then, Queefies, I noticed that they gave my baby toes redness and hurtyness and THAT IS THE LAST STRAW!

Fuck these fucking shoes.

Hurt and humiliation are not what I look for in a sandal.

I can’t even return them because it’s Marshall’s, and I threw all the stuff away already. So now I guess it’ll have to be “step, creak, POOF! OW!, step, creak, POOF! OW!”

Nice.

And don’t even get me started on the frustration of having to find sandals for Girlfriend. We’ve been to five stores and endured countless diva-style try-ons where Girlfriend either refuses to try them on, or she puts them on and kicks them across the store because she hates them and can I ask you something, Queefies?  WHY ARE THEY MAKING HIGH HEELED SANDALS FOR FIVE-YEAR-OLDS?

Don’t little kids run anymore? I want a pair of cushiony flat sandals that my kid can run in without having them fall off or twist her ankle, and I mayn’t have them. They don’t make that kind, and if they do, they don’t make them in a size 12.

I tried to get her a pair of sneakers. She wants Skechers that light up when she walks. That seems simple enough, right? Nay, nay. I spent approximately three hours of library time trying to find some fucking light-up Skechers for under $50. The good citizens of Schmuckytown will weep when they hear about this. I finally found them at Sears.com, and so after verifying with several different sites that this particular style does, in fact, light up, I ordered them. They arrived yesterday and guess what? They sent the wrong fucking shoes. These don’t fucking light up.

So I have to go kick some ass at Sears today.

Those Fucktards.

DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM???

Do you think I should play the blogger card on them? Should I be all “I write a hugely popular blog (it’s okay to lie a little bit when you’re being an irate customer) and I think the Internet would be very interested to know that Sears cannot get their shit together enough to send the correct thing, and to make it up to me you need to refund the shipping costs and give me a free lawnmower.”

They don’t need to know that I already told the Internet about the epic asshattery. Shhhhh!

So yes. I feel like I’m in that movie where people buy the things they’ve always wanted and then it turns out that the thing is infused with evil.

Koo-Koo-Ka-Choo!

Yesterday was my Friday and thank jeebus because I’m ty-id. And I’m very excited because I’m on vacation next week. Mister and I both took time off so we could hang out and relax and have some fun!

NOT.

I’m going to take care of the kids and try to get some stuff done while he installs 3 new windows (suck my dick, Historical Society. I get what I want.) and replaces the clutch in his car and starts work on the patio so he can finish the deck so we can move the gazebo so we can put in a swing set.

You’re really glad you’re not Mister right now, aren’t you?

We’ve been doing what we can to make our dreams for the house a reality, and also we’re trying desperately to gentrify our neighborhood, but so far, it’s just us and the Richard and Micheles and we’re meeting some heavy resistance from the Earl and Maudette direction.

They have a dumptruck now. They park it right in between the RV and the motorboat full of old tires but in front of the flatbed with a pickup truck on it.

Also, they got a puppy! So now in addition to big, stupid Tequila dumping in our yard, the puppy comes over too. It dug a hole under our fence so it could come and play with Alice.

Their daughter gave birth in an ambulance outside the house yesterday morning.

Last night, Homeslice kept waking up because they rented some sort of bulldozer thing and were loudly bulldozing the shit out of their backyard until about 11:00. Can’t they bulldoze quieter for shit’s sake?

I wish I were making this up for comedic effect, but I’m not. It is all so very sadly true.

I love Earl and Maudette though. I really do! They’re actually very sweet people and without them, there would be nothing to look at while I make dinner. I love when Maudette stumbles around on the roof of the RV with a ciggie in her mouth, and a beer in her hand. I don’t know why she does this, but someday I will video it for you. It’s very entertaining.

Also, Earl is kind of sexy. Michele sees it too. If I were going to have sex with one of the neighbors, it would be Earl and not say, Ted from the paint store. He’s creepy in a “I’m so nice and artificially calm you just know I’ve got a retarded gimp chained up in the basement” kind of way.

But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and Earl and Maudette’s son, not the one with all the nails and the rabbit cage, the other son, Sonny McHotSon, is a little sexy too. Plus, he’s a very hard worker with a shirtless landscaping business (hence the dumptruck and other farm equipment).

And poor Mister can’t handle all the patio stuff by himself!

Well, he could, but he can’t really haul stone for the patio with his Subaru in one trip.

And so, because I am a good and loving wife, I went over to Earl and Maudette’s house to ask Sonny McHotSon if he could help Mister out. His dumptruck has “stone work” written right on the side there and so I took it upon myself to wear my new capri pants and my new tee-shirt with the pink unicorn on it (because everyone knows landscapers like unicorns) and my Very Berry lipstain that Drew Barrymore says is super sexy and I went over there to talk to him.

I know.

You’re welcome, Mister.

And I was all “hey, Sonny” and he was all “hey” and he said he’d be happy to help out, and I may or may not have postured and/or rolled around on the hood of his landscaping truck with my thong hanging out of my low-rise capris, and I may or may not have accidentally brushed against his crotchals when I left, and I may or may not have put on my best Mrs. Robinson swagger either. I mayn’t have.

Or I may’ve. I can’t remember.

I’m just looking forward to watching Sonny McHotSon take his shirt off in my yard.

Maybe his dad will come over…

PS: In case any of you feel bad for Mister that I’m lusting after the Farm People next door, don’t. I caught him and his friend out in the backyard with a pair of binoculars pointed at the single mom’s house. They were “looking at the roof.” At night.

Okay, so maybe she has some violent tendencies…

Maybe I shouldn’t have watched The Sopranos while I was pregnant?

I couldn’t help it though. I was obsessed.

On Saturday night, we went to visit Mister’s cousin Rob and his wife Kristin and their 2 little dudes. Their son Oliver is just a couple of months older than Girlfriend (had she been a boy, her name would have been Oliver, btw. We both picked the same name. What are the chances?) and they had a wonderful time together and I’m sad that they’re related because their babies would be divine.

Not only that, but Girlfriend has already gotten the upper hand in the relationship and so there wouldn’t be any strife like I described to you the other day:

_MG_8851-39

She pretty much has shit under control.

I’m very proud, obviously.

They’re demanding a re-match, but I don’t know. I think it’s best to go out a champion, don’t you think?

And speaking of inappropriate behavior, it’s a Toy with Me day today: Condoms For Kids – How Young Is Too Young?

Elliot, and a vision in mango splendor

So, the bunny is cute.  I guess.

Girlfriend named it Elliot, even though we don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy yet, so I WIN and thank god because calling the vet to make an appointment for Sparkle Sparkle Butterfly Sparkle would have made me sound like a total jackass.

I don’t know if Elliot is going to be a permanent member of the family yet, but I have to tell you guys it’s awfully cute to see him scamper around the house, playing with the kid’s toys and hiding under Girlfriend’s blocks.  She seems to have litter box trained herself and doesn’t poop all over my house.  He does, however, shit in Alice’s bed.  I have to figure out a way to convince him that that’s not such a good idea because Alice is still unconvinced that the bunny isn’t food.  I can’t say I blame Alice for being a little annoyed with Elliot.  I almost never enjoy people who shit in my bed.

So that’s my update on the bunny situation for you.  I have to go hose Homeslice off now.  She’s painted herself in mango.

Crissy and Mister from a cultural perspective or whatever

Next time I feel like running away, pour me a drink, would you?

My battles with Mister and Girlfriend are so typical, and I know that, I just forgot to mention that yesterday.  For me though, it’s not that Mister’s an insensitive douchewad (although he can be at times.  As we all can), it’s that he’s a guy.

Here’s what I think happens to us, all of us.

We live in an interesting time where we are trying to re-define some gender roles that our parents began to re-define when we were little kids.

Here we women are, no longer so much relegated to the kitchen and responsible for 100% of all the household duties and childcare.  We are educated.  We have goals that belong only to us and have nothing to do with our husbands and children.  Many of us have to work outside the home because surviving on only one income is impossible.

We owe our mother’s generation a heartfelt “thanks mom” for standing up and saying “FUCK. THIS.” And they went on strike (I remember the day my mother did it.  We were beside ourselves.  We thought she was crazy.) and they said “it shouldn’t have to be like this.”  And they made it so.

As girls, this became a part of our idea of what it would be like when we grew up and had families.  We know we shouldn’t have to do it all.  The problem is, our husbands and partners grew up watching their dads come home from work, crack open a beer and dig into a lovely dinner our mothers prepared (while grumbling and popping pills or drinking wine or sometimes smashing dishes and locking themselves in their rooms and crying).

Our mothers have helped re-define motherhood and womanhood, while at the same time showing us how to pull off our traditional roles, the guys haven’t had that experience.  They’re lost.  They find themselves in a sea of roles that they have to learn for themselves.  They are burdened with having to figure out how to be husbands and fathers in a whole new way to a whole new generation of women who expect equal partnership.

There are growing pains.  There are resentments.  There is jackassery.

I always try to remember to say “thank you” when Mister does the laundry or the dishes or changes a diaper.  I want to encourage such behavior because he is doing his part, but if I don’t leave Mister a list of what needs to be done, he plays video games because he assumes everything is under control even though the sink is full of dishes and the floors are gross and there’s piles of laundry.  He’s just not tuned into that stuff.  He simply doesn’t see it because he’s not programmed to think it’s his job.  We recently had a fight about that.  I went to Target with Homeslice so he could get stuff done without her being in the way, and when I came home, he was playing Zelda in the basement and the chores were untouched.  I asked him why he wasted that time and he was incredulous.  He said I needed to “take responsibility” for it because I didn’t give him a list of stuff to do.  I thought it was pretty obvious what needed doing,  but he  just didn’t see it.

OR! That’s just an excuse to be a shit ass and Bill Cosby was totally right about men being smart because they screw up household chores purposely so they won’t be asked again.

I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt on that and just say they’re clueless and we need to teach them how to sniff out a shitty diaper and how to see a pile of laundry.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ve just had too much academia crammed up my ass, but I want to believe that men want to be equal partners in all things domestic and that they don’t want to be married to overburdened, exhausted, frigid, shrews.

Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe they’re all shitbags.

I don’t think my husband is purposely being a dick.  We just have to learn how to share the responsibility equally instead of the house being primarily my responsibility and him “helping out.”

I also need a full-time j-o-b so I actually have ground to stand on here…

This is like, way too huge an issue to deal with in a single blog post, but there it is.

Some days I wonder why I don’t just run away forever

I try pretty hard to take care of everybody around here, Queefies.

I wake up in the morning with an overwhelming list of things to do and NONE of them are for myself.  My life, my entire existence, revolves around taking care of my family and making sure everyone has what they need. I literally have zero time to myself.  Even when I’m exercising, I have to pause the DVD about 6 times in 20 minutes (I counted) to tend to somebody, but I do it because it’s all that stands between me and a blaze of glory.  My husband has time to read, and participate in message boards, and play video games, and take pictures of everything, but I’m wearing three- week- old toe nail polish.  I’ve been trying to find time to at least take it off for two weeks, but I just don’t have it.  I look down at my feet and I just want to cry.

But you know, I take care of them all because I love them so much.  I want them to be happy and well cared for.  I married this man, and I made these children.  It’s my job to love them and care for them.

What breaks my heart is that on most days, they hate me. I have this beautiful family that I love so much, but I’m the loneliest person in the world sometimes.

Take this morning, for example. Mister hates me for wanting to strip our bed so we can hang our sheets out to dry before it rains for the next 3 days.  There’s something wrong with me for wanting to do this.

Girlfriend hates me for refusing to let her wear a dress that’s two sizes too small to school. Later, she’ll hate me for brushing her hair and for making her breakfast, and for asking her to brush her teeth and put her shoes on.

On most days, I end up crying out of utter frustration because everything I do is a battle.

I remember my mother going through this same thing every day.  I remember her crying her heart out in her room and I vowed never to be like her and now I am.  I am just like my mother.

I’m the bitch in the house.

Is this what it’s about?  Is this what motherhood is?

Am I doing it wrong?

I didn’t think it would be like this.

I thought that if I tried my hardest every day and took very good care of everyone, we’d all be happy.

But instead, Mommy is a bad person who makes us brush our teeth and sleep on clean sheets.  We should yell at her and tell her to go away and tell her she’s crazy and tell her we hate her and we don’t want her.

I think I need to go away for a while and let them fend for themselves.

And right now, Homeslice is cruising around the play room pointing to things and asking “wassis?”  She came across one of Girlfriend’s dolls sitting in a little shopping cart and I told her “it’s a baby.”  She picked it up and snuggled it and said something that sounded very much like “mother.”

How fucking cute is that?

This is why I do it, I guess. It’s because of moments like that that I stick around and keep trying.

This motherhood thing is quite a ride, you guys.

So here’s what I was thinking about when I buttered my toothbrush with face wash this morning

What if we try to trade Girlfriend the bunny for something else like…a dog.  Dogs are way less work than bunnies and I don’t have to defend a dog against a cat, a dog, an infant, and a five-year-old, and she’d probably take the trade and I can’t deal with the heartbreak when we have to give the bunny away and she’s going to cry to death and holy shit I have a ton of crap to do this morning before work somebody kill me. Why are so many people suddenly following me on Twitter?  I wonder what’s going on.  I’m always the last to know.  I have to hang clothes out on the line somehow and how does one gain three pounds overnight?  Another dog wouldn’t be bad and Alice would have company but it has to be a smallish non-shedding housebroken dog who likes cats, dogs, babies and kids.  What are the chances of finding all of that in one dog? Not too good. A puppy would be better but I can’t handle a puppy right now.  I already clean up shit from the cat and the dog and the baby and wipe Girlfriend’s ass and I’ll bring it up to Mister and see what he thinks.  Work is going to be boring tonight HOLY SHIT WHY IS MY MOUTH BURNING?

Toy with Me today!  Wild Things: Animals are Pretty Kinky.