words with forking friends

I love Words with Friends. My darling husband and soul mate, sent me a request ages ago, got me hooked like he was some kind of freaking dealer.

He told me the names of everyone we mutually knew that played so I could request games with them. He fed my only slightly obsessive and competitive nature with the dark goodness that is this word wielding game. I was designed for this stuff. Words are my sole weapon. I can beat the crap out of someone verbally, with a smile on my face and walk away while 20 minutes later they finally wonder "Hey, did she mean that as an insult?" This is so my ace in the hole. My shit. My god-given-ass-kickin' talent. It’s all I got. I can't dance, the domestic skills fairy skipped me completely, and really I have no hobbies or skills to speak of that are any use to anyone.

And he knew that.

And then he stopped. He stopped playing me.

Yeah. Go ahead, call him names, I don't mind. I called him those names too. Mine were even more colorful I assure you.

And if that weren't assholey enough, he somehow coerced our mutual friends into abandoning me on the deserted Scrabble-like island.

No one wanted to play with me.

It’s not like I win every game. No it’s not like that. It’s just that if I don't win them all I sort of shut down and speak in tongues for a day or so. I think that is perfectly reasonable. It’s better than my reaction to Monopoly. My oldest child still gets big eyes and says "ohmygosh no my mom doesn't like playing Monopoly, please don’t ask her to play" after that last time ...
My saintly husband claims I cheat. I don't cheat. I want to, but I don't even know how the frickity frack you would cheat with this game (anyone who knows totally pass those goodies on). I don't cheat, I just rock. Recall a paragraph or so ago, this is my thing. I love it.

I am sure somewhere in our vows there was something about not abandoning your soul mate in the midst of an obsession you started. It was right after the “thou shalt give wifey back rubs every night you jerk” vow. He can't remember saying that one either, but clearly of the two of us I am wired for remembering the sappy emotional times in our life better because I have a uterus, therefore I recall our wedding with a great deal more detail and he should just trust me.
But ha ha, I found other friends. Friends who will play with me. Lots of them. And now I am furiously wording them to death. Like a junkie getting her fix.

But if my darling soul mate ever wants to stop being the jerktastic whineybag he has been for the past few months I will play him again. It’s not like I hold grudges or will attack him with a vicious vengeance with every word bearing a high pointed J, X, or Z that I can think of. Nah. Not me. Never. Trust me. I can let bygones be bygones – and I can slam the word bygones on a triple word square and soundly kick his posterior into word-loving-point-bearing-oblivion.

how serial killers get their names

People in glasshouses are idiots when they start throwing rocks.

The saying goes something like that anyway, but ultimately the point is the same. I am not perfect, so its rare I throw judgement around. Especially about parenting. We are all blindly fumbling through this role that carries more responsibility than anything else in life and trying to act like we know what we're doing while not giving our children therapist couch fodder.

But sometimes, sometimes, you see something that you just can't help yourself but think maybe, just maybe, that person is even worse at this parenting gig than I am.

Case in point, Thing 1's swim practice.

Every week I dutifully take him to practice, and every week there is one particular family that provides the rest of us plenty of mouth dropping moments and times where we all pretend to be coughing rather than laughing. But this past week was a doozy.

Now Brian* and his mom are usually entertainment in that she is desperately trying to keep Brian as a baby even though he is about four now. Usually Brian is pretty obliging with this baby thing, even the week when she announced quite loudly that she had to come to the bathroom so she could "wipey your heiney" and help him. Brian's older brother has swim lessons while Thing 1 is at practice, so for 30 minutes I am a prisoner of circumstance. Brian often provides entertainment, but sometimes its entertainment in the same way nails on a chalkboard make pleasant music.

There was an older kid there (like 8ish) this week and I have no idea who he belonged to. He was just there, and he was actually a pretty well behaved kid. Its not his fault that he is apparently Brian-crack. Seriously, dunno what it was about this child, but the normally just obnoxious babyish Brian was in warp speed. He was running around, screaming, climbing stuff, trying to watch videos on other people's iPads (I am seriously the only person there without one) all while screaming "Look at me David!!!"**

Now while Brian is bouncing off the walls and annoying the crap outta the rest of us his mom is chanting in a sickeningly sing song voice "Gentle, Brian. Gentle." I remember thinking something along the lines of wanting to gently slam into her a few times like her little barbarian had me twice already. But I reminded myself, I am not a judgmental parent. I am not. I don't look down my nose at other parents. Hell, I am a mom of two boybarians, it would be pretty hypocritical to judge someone else I am sure.

About half way through swim I am grinding my teeth to the mental tune of "I am not a judgmental parent, I don't judge other people for how they chose to parent" mixed with shades of "Gentle, Brian. Gentle" in sing song tones with sweet little Brian screaming at the top of his sweet little lungs.

Brian tries to climb a shelving unit and mom comes over and plucks the now screaming Brian off of the shelves saying "Can you please not do that Brian?" When he scales the Everest shelves immediately after being set down she again asks him to behave and could he please lower his voice? Are we really asking him to not climb a dangerous shelf? Are we really asking him to lower his voice so the rest of us stop bleeding from our ears?

The tops of my teeth are nearly as smooth as glass from the grinding I am doing all while reminding myself that "I am not a judgmental parent, I don't judge other people for how they chose to parent" and Cindy-Lou Who (who just happened to be with me that day) and Thing 2 are both looking ready to duct tape sweet little Brian's mouth shut.

Brian also was bored with this routine though, because it was at this point the fan hitting ensued.

After running away from mom again Brain stopped and took a wide stance with his hands at chest level. He positioned his hands so that the strangely looked a bit like he was holding an uzi.

He then proceeded to blast David away with one big boom. David even paused here, and when you make an 8 year old stop and say "hmmmm" ya know you have accomplished something.

He then moved to mom, he blasted her with his invisible uzi. Twice.

"Gentle, Brian. Gentle."

Gentle? Gentle?! Your kid is pretending to bring the heat and you are telling him to be gentle?! Okay, deep breath, I remind myself that "I am not a judgmental parent, I don't judge other people for how they chose to parent." I know that not every family has the same gun stance we do -- namely that they aren't toys but rather a first amendment protecting my family right. But never toys. Never something to pretend with or play with. My children never have, and never will have "toy" guns, even of the spray variety.

But that is my choice as a parent. Mine.

But Brian interrupts my self admonishing thoughts when he steps in front of the little cluster of chairs that sit before the glass wall leading to the pool. Me and about five other families are sitting here, all of us trying to ignore Brian.

Brian proceeds to, quite authentically looking I might add, re-load his imaginary weapon all while glaring at all of us.

"Chick-chick" he says by way of preparing to fire.

Machine gun style, he swings his imaginary gun back and forth, peppering all of the parents and siblings with imaginary bullets. And sweet little Brian proceeds to make sound affects to match the volley of repeated fire he is imagining unleashing on me and about 15 others. After about 5 swings he stops, pretends to hold his gun up in the air in a victory pose while throwing his head back and letting out a massively creepy, maniacal laugh.

"Oh gentle, Brian. Gentle, please."

Seriously? You kid just imagined butchering all of us and all you've got is "gentle" while sounding like Snow White?! Screw this I am not a judgmental parent stuff, your child is practicing murdering people and you are asking him to be gentle? This would be an appropriate thing to say if Brian were, say, carrying a glass of water or wanting to pet a puppy. It is not the thing to say when your kid imagines blasting innocent victims away.

So Brain does the only logical thing he can do. He screams "NO!" and pretends to shoot his mom. In fact, he empties an imaginary clip into her.

And what did she have to say to that?

Can you please be gentle Brain?

Its not easy to render me speechless. But she did. I realized my mouth was hanging open and I was staring at her in shock when I noticed other parents doing the same out of the corner of my eye. Too floored to say anything, and seeing that Thing 1 was heading for the locker room and I would be leaving soon, I started packing my brood up and getting ready to leave. All the while sweet little Brian was standing on chairs and moving around the room still pretending to shoot at things and people. All the while, his mom chanted "Gentle, Brian. Gentle." in the same sing song voice, never once stepping in to actually parent him.

On the drive home I actually had "Gentle Brian, Gentle." stuck in my head. And my thoughts got carried away, as they often do, about the type of person Brian would grow up to be. Chances are he will be a perfectly normal, law abiding, well rounded citizen. A stand-up guy, great man, the type of dude who donates to charities, serves food at the shelter on Christmas, and always picks up litter. But ... if that dark side we saw at swim comes out ...

Well if you ever hear about a serial killer going by the name of Gentle Brain, you'll know who it is.

*Changed his name so the crazy little twerp can't come find me when he is a psycho adult.

**Changed his name because its not his fault that he is Brian-crack, he didn't mean for it to happen.

what the words "tomatillo salsa" *really* mean

As I bravely face the unknown (to me) world of domestic skills I am trying to make things from scratch. I am doing good, though I know my blogging about it sucks. I am just impressed I haven't given anyone botulism or burned the house down. Hollah!

Anyhoo, I made fresh tomatillo salsa last night because we got a hella lot of tomatillo's in our Bountiful Baskets bundle a bit ago. Didn't know what to do with them, and they hadn't decided to abandon ship in fear of my attempt to cook them somehow, so we found a recipe that seemed too simple to screw up. Here ya go ...

1 lb fresh tomatillos

8 fresh jalapenos

2 cloves garlic

1/4 cup fresh cilantro

salt and pepper to taste

You husk the tomatillos, then roast them and the jalapenos until burned then essentially throw it all in a food processor until smooth.

I dropped the tomatillos and jalapenos in a baggie with olive oil, salt, pepper and a little bit of onion powder before I "roasted" (AKA burned the crap out of) them.

Notice that the recipe does not call for seed removal of the jalapenos. Yeah. That is a highly relevant bit of info if you ask me. Perhaps it should be recommended for future attempts at this recipe.

So I do my thing, and it looks good. I smell it and it made my sinus clear right up. So I took an itty, bitty taste of it ...

And after I got done crying and downing 30 ounces of fluids I decided that I just made a lovely salsa ... for someone else to eat.

So the words Tomatillo Salsa in this case actually translate:

Salsa that will feel like nuclear fusion is occurring on your tongue

and will make you cry like a whiney assed baby.

Next up on my attempts to make "real" food and be better at this domesticity crap ... pizza dough. I can't make that too spicy at least!

One effed up "Giving Tree"

I think I was the only child who did not read the Giving Tree as a kid.

When I asked my mom, many years later once I had been given a copy as a gift for my baby shower, why I had not read the book as a kid she said that since Bambi and Dumbo had launched me into a deeply depressive state where I rocked in the fetal position in the corner of my dark room while sobbing that she decided it just wasn't a good read for me.

As an adult I read the book. All of it. Right through the part where the SOB kid chops the tree down. Right up to the part where the tree --er, I mean the stump, kindly lets that jackhole sit on his pathetic stumpiness because he is now an old, withered, useless man who can't stand up for long.

WTF lesson does this teach?! I mean really, what is the freaking moral here???

We wonder why there are people with doormat tendencies? Perhaps its because this book never vilifies that the looser kid who clearly and repeatedly uses and abuses the tree. Perhaps because the main character, the hero if you will, is systematically murdered by his own free will to make an ungrateful little shit of a kid happy. And like some sad little abused dog the tree is thrilled and fulfilled to be kicked -- or chopped -- time and again. The tree gives his shade, apples, branches, trunk, everything to a kid who never thanks him or is grateful even in the slightest. Seriously? WTF?!

I know, I know, the sappy-pants-softies out there are saying "Chrissy, really. Its about selfless love. Giving unconditionally, loving completely. The tree loves the boy and is happy by making the boy happy."

Riiiight. And now lets ask the tree how that selfless giving thing is working out for him, shall we?

Oh yeah, he's not a tree, he's a stump. A stump with old man ass prints.

"But Chrissy, its a classic. Shell Silverstein!"

This part puzzles me more than the tree committing treeicide. Shell Silverstein. Shell-freaking-Silverstein? Where the Sidewalk Ends? A Light in the Attic? Classics, priceless, wonderful and on my kids' shelves.

I don't get it. I don't get why it is a much beloved book, or why parents want to read it to their kids. What message are they hoping their innocent child draws from this? If you love someone its okay for them to treat you like crap? But only if you really, unconditionally and completely love them? Then its okay.

Please, keep your kids away from mine. Not because I don't want their sappy-kick-me-again-please nature rubbing off on my kids, because I know better. My cupcakes will kick your sissy kid's butt in because they asked for it, then I have to deal with the principal or parole officer, whichever the case may be.

And you know I will cry for your weenie child just as hard as I did for the stupid tree.

sky pee and regional knowledge

I remember as a kid overhearing someone talk about needing to put chains on their tires once. In my infinitely Arizonan wisdom I asked if it was because someone was trying to steal them.

We don't do that in AZ.

I use the words coat and jacket interchangeably more or less. Didn't know that there was apparently a difference between the two until I met Paul Bunyan (that would be my husband).

We don't need "coats" in AZ. Sweatshirts usually do the trick.

But I do know what to do if you get bit by a rattlesnake. And I know the symptoms of heat stroke and what to do if someone has it. And I know that walking an extra fifty feet just so you can park your car under that itty bitty tree in the parking lot so you have some shade is worth it.

Chains on tires? Coats? You mean basements aren't just for extra storage space? Huh?

Now when Thing 1 was a toddler we went out of town. And it rained. Not like torrential down pour pull out the rowboat cuz we are going to float away rain. Just a sprinkle. But being raised in Arizona this was a new thing to him, he couldn't remember ever seeing rain before. We were in a big open area when it started sitting at a patio table surrounded by other tables with other non-kid-toting people at them. It was cool and felt nice, so I took a nice deep breath (love the rain smell and never get it here because we only get dirty rain when it happens) and tipped my face back.

Thing 1 was in my lap and I could feel him tense so I looked down at him. He was holding one chubby little arm out in front of him staring at a drop of rain on it. After contemplating the drop for a moment, he suddenly slapped both hands on top of his head. He suddenly turned an accusing glare on me, but as he was presumably about to ask if I had spit on him -- which no, I had never done before and was a total "boy" thing to think about -- he felt a couple more drops but could see I wasn't the one doing it.

Gasping he pointed up at the overcast sky and said "sky leaking?" in the usual soft tones of any toddler.

A few people hearing he subtle little shriek about the sky glance our way and smile. I smile back and say "Yes, the sky is leaking. Its called rain."

Not to be calmed by my sugary sweet tone Thing 1 looks up at the sky blinking rapidly as a few more sprinkles fall on his face and again yells, "sky leaking, Mommy?"

Its rain, I say. Doesn't it feel nice?

"Its wet."

Ah yes, my child the genius. I have always said he is brilliant.

He tries wiping the offending drops off of his arms but more replace them and I can see he is starting to get agitated. So I move to pack up my stuff and take cover even though I am enjoying the minor sprinkling of cool water that my native-Arizonan self rarely gets.

"Why sky leaking, Mommy?"

Because the clouds are full of rain and can't hold any more.

"Why?"

I love that question. At this phase he only asked it about 12,000 times a day. Little did I know then that this was nothing compared to how often he would ask by three.

I put him on the ground so I can gather up his toy and sippy cup. He is standing there acting like he is just drenched still yelling "Sky leaking!" and trying to wipe himself dry much to the amusement of the people at the table next to us.

Yes, its his first time in the rain. We are from Arizona, not much rain there. A couple jokes about the "dry heat" etc ... but I am trying to get moving because Thing 1's voice is now so high and loud bats and dogs in the neighboring areas are registering that the sky is, in fact, leaking.

I finally get everything packed up and go to pick the spastic Thing 1 up when he suddenly stiffens and stares up at the sky. I could see a revelation just happened and I silently prayed to the PleaseDon'tLetMyKidHumilateMe Gods that he wouldn't say anything too horrible. Keep in mind that Thing 1 is at the age where he loves trucks but can't quite say the word right, so everywhere we go he has to yell (he only comes with one volume, even still) "Mommy look at that big truck" only he isn't saying truck. It sounds a bit more like a word for a part of the male anatomy. And just as my luck would have it, everywhere I go there is a big truck that he has to point out. "Look at the big blue truck Mommy, do you see it?" And boy is he observant, can't hide anything from him. So usually whatever comes out of his mouth is comical fodder, but I didn't always have the ability to laugh at the time back then.

His face contorts in pure disgust and he screams in the shrillest voice yet:

EW, it sky pee!!!

Then he began running in circles screaming that the sky was peeing on him while still trying to wipe the "sky pee" off his arms much to the delight of everyone in a 50 foot radius.

We kept spreading the joy though, because he was still yelling that it was gross for the sky to pee on him all the way to the doors, then chattering about how he wondered if I had seen that the sky peed on him, "did you see Mommy, did you? Did you?" the whole way to the elevator.

I was reminded of this story last night when Paul Bunyan came inside and asked to hold Thing 2 and promptly took him outside. When I walked out there I could see that we were getting one of our 10 annual rains for Arizona.

I looked over at Thing 2 to see his reaction and he was alternating between looking at us and looking at the rain. And the "sky pee" story came flooding back to me.

Um, guys? It looks like the sky is peeing on the house.

Why aren't you bothered by this? I pee on you and you flip!

Can't wait to hear if Thing 2 interprets the world the comical way Thing 1 often did.

Does.

Still does and I suspect always will.

Happy 10th birthday to my Thing 1. I love you, even if the sky wants to pee on your head.

Things That Are Different Once You Have More Than One Kid

After being a mom of one for nearly a decade I really didn't expect two to be that much of an astronomical difference when Thing 2 came along. I mean really, there is two of everything now. Right? I can handle that, I so innocently thought to myself.

I'd laugh at my nieve, innocent self if I didn't think I'd wet my pants. Here they are, the

Things That Are Different Once You Have More Than One Kid

Two kids now, that means two of everything ... right? Oh wrong. Wronger than wrong. Somehow that math doesn't work. I know math, I was good at it Before. That's before with a capital B because it was Before this. Before two kids. Because Before there were two kids I was good at math. I even taught it. But now that Before is gone I realize that either some magic happened or I now don't know how to multiply by two. Why you ask? Well because I am pretty damn sure that I have more than "two." Not more than two kids. I can count them easy enough. But there is definitely more than twice the work. More than twice the cleaning. Way more than twice the laundry. More than twice the kid crap. And sleep, I totally get less than an eighth of what I used to do on a bad day. Don't ask how the math works, remember I can't do it anymore because its post-Before.

Have I even looked in a mirror today? The answer is yes. I make a point of it. In fact, I panic if I haven't looked in the mirror and am leaving the house because its the fastest way to do a quick systems check. You know when NASA is preparing for a shuttle launch and the Flight Director checks that everyone is a "go" at Misson Control (think Apollo 13) prior to launch? Same thing.

Just a quick check that all systems are go for Operation Leaving the House. Shoes?

Check and check.

Pants?

We're "go."

Shirt?

Check.

Nothing weird on the face?

We are "go" Flight.

Seriously, I do have to check. Even with checking real quick I still have the occasional panic attack that I forgot something important, like my shoes don't match or I forgot to put a shirt on. Don't judge, it may be you someday. Mirrors used to be for vanity. I wanted to look a certain way when I left the house. Now, mirrors are just my double check that I won't be arrested or make someone need therapy when I leave. Clothing is all I need to be ready. I think being able to brush my teeth and shower is for special occasions, and make up is just so I can hide the bags under my eyes.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I forget everything. I haven't left either kid anywhere yet. I haven't lost them at least. But anything and everything else? Well lets just say you would need to be a bit worried if your livelihood depended on my purse remaining safe. Who am I kidding, I don't carry a purse anymore, its a backpack-diaper-bag-emergency-supplies-case-that-also-contains-my-wallet. Last night my husband innocently asked me at about 6:30 what was for dinner. My response? "Oh, wow, I totally forgot about food today." We had bean burros.

Bladder control? Wait ... what's that? I remember back in the day ... oh about fourteen months and six days ago ... when I would have this signal travel all the way from my bladder to my brain alerting me that it had reached the critical fullness mark and needed to be emptied soon for the sake of comfort. I remember thinking "oh I hope I don't need to sneeze" because I would have to concentrate and flex really hard after Thing 1, but its not like anyone else would notice. Now? Now?! Well that sensor in my bladder, it seems that it waits a bit longer to go off because its not longer a matter of "hey you need to go when you have a sec or this could get uncomfy." No, now its more like,

Hoooooooly crap why didn't you go to the bathroom an hour ago?!? WTH made you think you should drink fluids?! You had better hope no one notices you running like someone tied your knees together to the nearest bathroom while holding your breath and praying you don't sneeze, cough, or have to speak.

It might not be the sensor, it might be that I now have about an equal ability to "hold it" as a potty training three year old -- but I have to go NOW! -- but whatever it is, its way worse after Thing 2.

Unicorns and Me Time. They are both fictitious as far as I can tell. Actually, that's not true or fair. Somewhere there is a much maligned unicorn just wishing people would see him/her for who they really are. Me time? Yeah, pure fantasy. But in reality, it was ever since Thing 1 came along so that's not new.

Don't get me wrong, I love my kids. I love being a mom too. I am really happy. Genuinely. I even am beginning to feel like I am getting the hang of being a mom to two.

But some days I wonder if that last bit is actually me being delusional based on the lack of sleep.

Woody, bringing SexyBack

There are times where perfectly acceptable things are happening, but once taken out of context that perfectly innocent and okay thing suddenly seems deplorably sick and wrong. Usually, I am all over sick and wrong, I think sick and wrong stuff is hilarious 99.999% of the time, and I am quite often the one perpetrating sick and wrong.

But my sister, Cindy Lou Who, is an even greater master at sick and wrong than I am. I have to give credit where it is due, the child is a genius.

She will laugh her pasty pale tail off at a perfect stranger who faceplants in a store. This usually leaves you desparately explainging yourself to the very offended and possibly injured person, and for the record there is never an explanation that makes that scenario okay if you are the one who fell. Nothing in this world is more funny than body functions. Unleash a belch, or weld your gas and she'll laugh in admiration like nothing in the world could be funnier. Unless you happen to fall flat on your ass while doing it. If you could swing a minor injury while breaking wind and maybe sneezing you've got yourself a new best friend.

In reality, CLW has Angelman Syndrome, and a wicked sick sense of humor. She also has no concept of right and wrong and has way better things to do with her time than worry about stupid crap like social constraints and acceptability. She's just too rock star for that. She's usually too busy eating pop tarts or playing with one of her 14 Woodys.

Wait, what? Yes, you read it right. Now who is sick and wrong?

Okay, still me, I lead you there, quite on purpose. It illustrates part of my point actually.

CLW loooooves Woody from Toy Story. Loves him, downright obsessed with him. Its adorable, I assure you, but when you have seen Toy Story -- any of them -- as many times as any member of my family has you either go a little insane or you try to find some humor in the situation. Or both.

So the Woody jokes, we've done them all, said them all. Or so I thought.

While taking CLW to school today I had the radio playing because it usually knocks Thing 2 out. CLW has a giant stuffed Woody (seriously drag your mind out of that gutter) with her and is making him dance to whatever is on the radio.

We pull up to a stop light, and she is in such a good mood, and really its quite contagious. So a new song comes on the radio, SexyBack. I haven't heard this one in a while, love love love it. So I am tapping the rhythm in my I have no natural sense of rhythm way on the steering wheel while she makes Woody jump up and down to the music. She hands him to me, wanting me to do something silly that will make her laugh. And I am a good sister, so I oblige. I do the most natural and reasonable thing possible: I make him dance. Not just the bouncy dance she was doing, I am moving his arms, singing along and making him really work it. I think I had him doing the Madonna Vogue arms at one point, and there was some definite jazz hands, as much as a two foot tall stuffed cowboy can pull off.

Now lets roll play for a moment. Picture that you are some cool guy on a motorcycle at a stop light. You are waiting for the light to change, maybe feeling impatient wanting to get where your going ... who knows, maybe you're late ... when you notice something out of the corner of your eye. The woman in the car next to you is holding a two foot tall stuffed Woody from Toy Story. And she is making it dance. I mean really making it dance. Making it dance and sing. To SexyBack.

I'm bringing sexy back. Them other !#$%ers don't know how to act ...

Yeah, of course it was at that part. No, I did not say "them other exclamation point, pound sign, dollar sign, percent don't know how to act."

Back to being me in my car, with my laughing sister, who for all intents and purposes appears to be maybe 15 or so. In reality she is in her 20s, but between the two of us we clearly do not look like either of us should have a stuffed doll. Making it sing and dance is a whole new level of strange. Add to that the song ... yeah I am sure this guy thought we were massively weird.

At least, given the stunned and slightly disgusted look on his face I am guessing so.

And somewhere around a water cooler today ...

No seriously, it was sick! And when it got to the "you can whip me if I misbehave" part she made the doll wiggle its hips ...