Rock And Drool

Posted By Melissa on November 20, 2009

On Spongebob and my complete hatred for him

Son: Mom. Spongebob is my favorite. You know why Spongebob is my favorite?

Me: No honey. I have no idea. Because honestly, he grosses me out.

Son: Mom. You should REALLY watch Spongebob. Because? You know what? If you watch it, you’ll love it too. Just like me.

Me: Oh, I doubt it.

Son: Mom. You know what you should do? You should go home. Sit on the couch with your head pointed forward. And you should watch Spongebob until it’s time to come get me. Because then, you’ll love him. And you’ll hate Patrick and Squidsworth just like me. And Mommy. You’ll think he’s really funny and you’ll laugh.

Me: I don’t think so honey. I have stuff to do and it really doesn’t include watching tv.

Son: What Mom? What do you have to do that’s so important? You have to go on your computer?

On God, Adam and Eve…

Son: Mom. You know those first people that God made? The ones that ate the apple and the ribs?

Me: They didn’t eat ribs honey. God made Eve out of Adams rib.

Son: How did God make those people?

Me: Um. Out of Play-doh.

He smiled. I smiled. And I TOTALLY thought he knew I was kidding.
Later that day my sister called to tell me that he announced to her that he knew how God made people. Out of Play-Doh. Apparently he has no sense of humor.

On how babies are made:

Son: Mommy. Are you going to have a baby?

Me: Heck no. You’re my last baby. YOU are the baby.

Son: Mommy. I know how babies are made. The “C” word.

Me: What? Is the C word?

Son: Sex.

Me: It’s actually an S. And do you know what sex is?

Son: Yes Mommy. You told me before. It’s a special hug between a Mommy and a Daddy.

Son: Are you sure it’s not the “C” word?

Me: Babies are not made by the C word. They are made from a few different S words, the F word and various other letters. But Mommy can’t get a baby in her tummy from a C word.

Son: Then what’s the C word?

Me: Never mind.

Son: That’s an N word.

Me: Sigh.

Category: my life | 13 Comments »
Tags: funny conversations with kids, kids, parenting

Posted By Melissa on November 19, 2009

I found a site called Creative Writing Prompts. I have been in a blogging bind lately so I was looking for ideas to spark a post. I found a prompt that suggested writing about a lost lottery ticket. I thought that would be fun. It’s not titled because the only thing I can think to call it is Fuck My Life. So, here ya go…

“Fuck my life.” she said quietly, staring at the embers of the unevenly lit cigarette dangling precariously between her fingers.

She had been in a daze for days after turning her trailer inside out looking for that ticket. But it was to no avail. He threw it out. Her lazy, good for nothing husband who never does anything. For once in their entire pathetic marriage, he cleaned the place while she was at her night job at the local bowling alley.

He never. Ever had done that. In their entire 10 miserable years of marriage. And he laughed at her as she cried at the loss, just like he had done 5 years earlier when she reluctantly handed her baby to the caseworker who would find a family to raise it. He didn’t want it. He let her go through her entire pregnancy thinking it would be ok. When the time came and she delivered, he made her give it away. And she let him.

She was weak. He knew that. He played on that. And again, she let him.

All she had now was her lost child’s birth date to use as a lottery pick.

When the numbers that she played faithfully, once a week, came in. Those same numbers she had played for the last five years. Ever since she was 23, she had used her birthday and the birthday of the baby she gave away as her hopes and dreams on winning the state lottery.

They finally came in. Her numbers. And the ticket was gone. Probably somewhere in the back of a garbage truck on the way to a landfill.

Her one chance to get her out of this life that she so vehemently detested.

He was snoring loudly from the bedroom. Farting in his sleep, the sick pig that he is. God, how she hates him. Everything about him. He ruined her.

Her life was never supposed to be like this. This wasn’t how she was brought up. This wasn’t what she had ever imagined. Her beginnings were lavish and loving. Her gaze swept the sinkhole of a trailer they rented and she sighed.

Her parents were right. They told her this was what she would amount to. What he would bring her down to be. Living in a tin can. With a loser husband whom she worked her finger to the bone to support. He refused to work. It took time away from drinking. He couldn’t do both. He chose the latter. It was up to her to pay the rent and keep the whiskey aplenty.

“Fuck my life!” she said again, a little louder.

She crushed her cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray and stood up. She felt so misplaced. So discontent and disconnected. At 28 years old, she was a pathetically lost soul. 25 million dollars was an unthinkable, unfathomable amount of money. The life she could have had. The distance she could have put herself between this life and her new one.

Crumpled. Torn into little bitty pieces. Like her life.

Because, for a moment, he was sober enough to notice the squalor they lived in. The dust and dirt everywhere.

He was the most expensive one-time cleaning help, ever. He didn’t even do a complete or thorough job. He did the counter in the kitchen, where the lottery ticket and his bottle of booze sat.

Both were thrown out. Bottle empty, ticket full.

She heard him moving in the bed. Still asleep as proven by the snort and the louder snoring.

She wondered how much money there was in the bank. She smiled miserably to herself in the cold, dark living area of the mobile home. Not 25 million minus taxes, that’s for sure.

She felt hopeless. She had nothing. This…was no life. There was no way to get out. She was stuck.

She grabbed another cigarette out of the package on the kitchen counter, not caring that it was her husbands. Menthol. She hated menthol. Then again, there really wasn’t much she did like.

With each drag she took, it filled her with a greater despair. She exhaled a stream of gray smoke and blew it toward the bedroom where he still slept. She wondered, for a split second, what time he passed out. But it didn’t really matter. He wouldn’t wake up until midnight when he’d stumble his way to the local bar to hang with his filthy friends. It was the circle of his life. And she was trapped in the middle of that vicious circle.

Her heart kept welling up into her throat filling her mouth with panic and bile. She couldn’t stop thinking about the lost ticket and the life she’ll never have. She would never get over it. She would never get past it. This just wasn’t worth it anymore, she thought.

She carefully walked into the bedroom, taking caution not to wake him. She silently crept to the dresser and opened his sock drawer. She reached in and felt around for the cool, hard metal of his precious gun.

Fuck my life, she screamed as she pointed the gun and shot multiple rounds into her husbands sleeping body.

She smiled, the first true smile in a long time.

She place the gun gently into her mouth.

Thinking of the only baby she ever had. The child he made her give away. The life he never provided for her. The lost lottery ticket.

She pulled the trigger.

Category: fiction | 8 Comments »
Tags: creative writing, short story, writing prompt idea

Posted By Melissa on November 19, 2009

I’ve never had it this bad. I can barely keep a thought process going without getting a lump in my throat causing tears to well up. Normally I’m just a demonic bitch. Why the change?!

Fucking hormones. Times like this, it sucks to be a woman.

Which is why I haven’t been here lately. Between blogging and all the stuff about it starting to annoy me compounded with my kids and all the stuff about them. Then throw in my raging case of PMS.

Trust me. You’re lucky I’ve made myself scarce.

I mean, how can a person who felt like crying all through the Ringling Bros. Circus last night be competent enough to write a blog post that is comprehendible? Is that even a word?

I’ve been waking myself up in the middle of the night in tears. And the strangest thing is, I’ve been dreaming about my Grandfather. A LOT. He died the week after I turned 23. I used to dream about him all the time. It’s been years though. Then, all of a sudden, every single night.

If it wasn’t bad enough that I had to deal with MY weepy self! I have a sick kid home. And he wants *gasp* attention.

Damn it!!

Well. I guess tomorrow I can sit home all day legitimately. No one will be able to say a word about it!! Because I’ll be playing the role of “mommy to sick child” and ALSO “blogger and social media addict”!! But shhh, don’t tell anyone that I actually don’t mind using my sick kid as an excuse, OK!?

Anyways. I’m just checking in with you. I’m still alive. I’m bracing myself for each kid to get sick. I’m armed with tissues and tampons for me. Motrin and Tylenol for them.

And. I decided that I’m going to start, at least once a week, to do writing prompt exercises here. So expect my first one later today.

Hopefully I’ll get over this hump. Hopefully I’ll be able to start looking at life in a post kind of way. Instead of having to lock myself in the bathroom to cry every 15 minutes.

WTF?!

Dang PMS. It’s one thing to affect my real life. But my online life? WHY??

Category: my life | 8 Comments »
Tags: crying a lot lately, hormonal change, pms

Posted By Melissa on November 16, 2009

Get it? Instead of another day, another dollar…oh, forget it!!

In light of a recent L.A Times article once again portraying Mommy Bloggers as nothing more than hookers belonging in the Red Light district, more blogging drama has ensued.

It never ends, does it?

But really? Hookers get paid more than most of us bloggers do. And in some places, they get medical and dental coverage. Humph.

That article and the others before it that are so similar. They don’t really affect me, personally, one way or the other. I don’t do a bunch of reviews. And I haven’t been asked to be on any panels. All those cookie cutter articles do is cause outrage on Twitter and to disgust and nauseate me.

But, I happen to have an opinion. Because…well…I just do.

The way I see it, from my almost non-existent corner of the blogsphere is…

Who cares?

I mean honestly? The greater population of the world could give a rats ass about bloggers being sent to California to learn about Nestle while their families are being sent food to cook in their absence.

Most people stumble upon (and I don’t mean the site, Stumbleupon) blogs by mistake when Googling information. So. They sometimes stay to read the post or they go off in search of a source that they would deem more reliable. Because I’m not really sure how many people consider the Mommy Blogger community to be a trustworthy and forthright source of viable information. I do. But I’m in that crazy group of bitches called Mommy Bloggers. And I happen to value most of your opinions. It’s how I roll girls(and guys), it’s how I roll.

The drama seems to be isolated only to bloggers raising a big ruckus about all the going-ons within the blogging community. It’s only other bloggers who care about integrity and full disclosure. Oh yeah and the FTC. One giant eagle eye. Everyone is seems to be scrutinizing each other, waiting for someone to slip and do something *gasp* without integrity or full disclosure. To…LIE. Or…cheat. Oh, we just love when that happens, don’t we?!

And also.

It’s only journalists that care that bloggers are taking over the social media and crowding them out. Because bloggers will take merchandise over cash. Where journalists…it’s their career and expect payment. Right? The rest of the worlds population. They are perfectly happy living their day to day lives in oblivion of what goes on behind the computer screen.

BUT. In my opinion. Newspaper journalists are writing all these negative articles about the Mommy blogging world because maybe? Perhaps? They are jealous and intimidated. Which becomes like one big tattle tale fest. OOOHH, this blogger did this. That blogger didn’t say that and has a closet FULL of stuff. This one didn’t disclose. BLAH. BLAH. BLAH. ARGH!

If you must know the truth? I think it’s horse shit that we, the bloggers, aren’t getting paid to do the same thing that journalists throughout time have been getting paid to do. Maybe not on the same type of scale. But it would be nice if a company wants a review, to give us the product and a stipend. Even twenty bucks or a gift card to Target…which would make yours truly a very, very happy chick.

We put as much work in our posts as some journalists do. We post. We Tweet. We try to draw as much traffic as we can to come read what we are discussing. And it’s fricking hard work. But, I don’t have to tell you that, right!?

And quite honestly. I’ve read some blogs that blow some newspaper columnists out of the water.

They say that anyone can blog. But based on some of the quality, or should I say lack of…it seems that anyone can be a journalist these days too. Even. Steven.

Anyways.

It’s this bloggers measly little opinion that. If other bloggers would stop accepting reviews without some sort of compensation. The companies would get a clue and…well…compensate. Even in a piddly little way like that Target gift card for $20 or $50 bucks.

We deserve acknowledgment too. We deserve to be paid. We are the new source of news. We are the new source of reliable information…as long as we disclose the good, the bad and the hideous. Which, by the way, I love disclosing when I find something to be yucky! Don’t ask me why. I just do.

There needs to be a new definition made of blogging, along with new rules and regulations. We aren’t just weblogs anymore. Blogging has become more about life and not just about our own.

Because we bloggers are here to stay. We are getting stronger in number and louder in voice.

So stop the pettiness. And just get along. There is enough room for all of us…journalists and bloggers.

On a side note, for a great read Kelby Carr who wrote about Mom Bloggers deserving to get paid. And make sure to read the L.A Times article as well.

P. fricking S. I’m not JUST talking about review blogs. I’m talking about bloggers who write…with passion. About life. For various wonderful online publications. Those bloggers deserve to get paid for their beautiful work as well.

geez.

Category: Uncategorized | 17 Comments »
Tags: blogging, journalism, social media

Posted By Melissa on November 15, 2009

I was sitting at the kitchen table, absentmindedly stroking my cat Lily who was resting comfortably and purring on my lap. The kids were all engaged in various activities like whining, crying, fighting, screeching and all around acting like completely out of control moronic idiots. Typical kiddo indoor play.

I zoned out, losing myself in a fantasy. One of peace, quiet and pussy. Er…kitty cats. I don’t go there, only my own…to trim around the edges. Not that there is anything wrong with it, of course. It’s just not me. BUT. That is a major digression…

I was in a happy place. A calm, quiet, normal decibel level place.

I was a cat lady living in a house at the end of a street. I was THAT woman that people whispered about. THAT house that kids won’t approach for Halloween. Which is fine because, if the door is opened too many times, a cat is sure to escape. The house that people avoided. Because of how bad it smelled.

But I didn’t care.

Because, you see. In my cat woman world, I leave my house without schlepping an entourage with me. Who cares if I smell strongly of cat piss and even more strongly of some cheap perfume that I heavily sprayed on myself thinking that it masked the cat odors. I was alone. No one saying my name.

I go to the bathroom with the door shut. Even though there are a couple of cats sitting on my lap, on the vanity and rolling on the floor. Also, a few furry felines scratching on the door to be let in. But I ignore them much easier than say…kids.

I sit and sleep in my bed without a kid attached to my arm. There are cats curled in balls all over. But I just kick them off to make more room for myself. They just complain, glare at me, lick their chops and go off to find another comfy place to stay.

I don’t worry about cooking for anyone but myself. There is no one but me to complain about what the menu for the meal is. And then, if I don’t like what I made, I feed it to the cats and take myself out for sushi. If I have leftovers, I would take home a kitty bag. Cats love sushi. Well, mine do.

I tell my cats all my deepest, darkest secrets and they promise with wide cat eyes to not tell anyone. Cats are great secret keepers.

I don’t have to bathe anyone. Or wipe anyone tushies. I don’t have to break up fights, well not kid fights anyways.

Life in my happy place. It’s always, well, happy.

There’s no one to answer to. No one to tell you that you are the worse mother possible. No one making noises, other than meowing. No one making messes.

No one.

Just my cats and me.

Then I realize. If it’s just me, sitting here in my happy place. Alone with a bunch of cats.

Then who the hell is going to clean the kitty litter. Because I sure am NOT doing that. Even in my fantasy.

I guess I’d have to hire Sven the Kitty Litter Cleaner.

Yeah. That’s it.

I’d watch him, in his tight pants. Bent over. Scooping clumps out of the copious amounts of litter boxes. He’d peer over at me, holding the pooper scooper. He’d flex his biceps and squeeze his butt muscles as he clears out all the cat shit from the poop receptacles.

That’s a much better little twist to my cat woman life.

Just as Sven is about to wash his hands and come sit next to me as I write him his weekly check…

A kid starts screaming that they are starving to death and brings me back to reality. It’s time to leave sven and my cat woman fantasy in order to make dinner.

And after dinner, time to get everyone into the showers, backpacks ready for school the next day.

I smile to myself. Because I’m looking forward to the next installment of my fantasy.

The one where Sven grooms the pussy…s.

What? It’s MY happy place.

Category: crazy family | 10 Comments »
Tags:

Posted By Melissa on November 14, 2009

Every year, on December 23rd, I throw my youngest son’s birthday party. Every year, over half the kids we invite aren’t able to make it. Family winter vacations. Mass Michigan exodus for the two weeks of break. Lucky shits.

Sad for my son. Although, with my 9 nephews and one niece and the couple of friends with kids that don’t go away, he still ends up having a fun party with plenty of bodies.

This year though. His Kindergarten class seems pretty tight. He wanted to invite the whole group plus a few kids from the other class across the hall. Including the set of twins he has a gigantic crush on. I figure he likes both of them because they are identical and he can’t tell them apart. They’re cutie pies.

I decided that this year, I was going to try to have his party before his real birthday so that HOPEFULLY, kids would still be in town. Also, I figured…silly me…that more people would be around this year. You know, there’s a really bad economy and travel is an added expense that a lot of people are forgoing. Right?

WRONG.

So. I secured December 20th at the gymnastics place that he wanted his party at. I put the non-refundable deposit down on the time and day. Figuring that it was all good in the hood.

WRONG.

So far, out of the 18 kids I invited. Half of them are going to warmer climates. Which sucks. For my poor kid. And for my jealous streak. Because we haven’t gone anywhere over a winter break in…forever. Like, for real.

Anyway…

He’s looking so forward to his party. He’s looking so forward to spending the day with all of his friends.

I’m going to have to do something I’ve never done before. I’m going to have to change the date to sometime after the vacation.

Hopefully, my non-refundable deposit will be transferable.

Poor guy. It stinks for him that I got pregnant on my birthday which made him a holiday baby.

And for g-ds sake people. If we are in the throes of a horrible, awful, terrible economy. Start acting like it! Isn’t it a birthday present more economical than traveling with the family to some fancy all-inclusive in the middle of an ocean?

So, I guess we are in the midst of a random post here.

There is something wrong with me. When I say wrong I mean…different. And by different, I don’t mean like psychological or cosmetic. I mean something internal.

I’ve gained will power. And determination.

WTF is up with me?

I don’t want to jinx it but. I’ve already lost 5 pounds on Weight Watchers. In 5 days. I’ve been walking every day on my treadmill. Despite the pain my plantar fasciitis is causing. DYING!! I’ve been counting my points like a crazy person. I’ve been kind of ignoring the fact that you get those 35 extra points because I really don’t think that is a good route for me to go down. Think tootsie rolls, candy corn and those puffy cheetos that my daughter is eating in my bedroom right now, while watching iCarly with me. I might have to hurt her.

And. AND.

I enrolled myself in college. And I’m going into the Paralegal program. Because that’s what I’m being trained to do in my Dad’s office anyways. So, I might as well become book smart and know what they are talking about when I’m told to write some letter or paper. I won’t be all like ok, with my best deer in the headlights expression. I’m really good at that. Wanna see?

Did you catch that? It was a really good rendition of that look.

Anyways. Let’s see. What else can I tell you that would fit in with my random post?

There are some serious hot dads at my son’s school. Oh sorry. THAT was random.

I’m jealous of people that are driving new cars. I really, really, really want a new one. So badly.

Sigh.

With all the broken bikes, slides, teeter-totter, play house…sitting at the side of my house. Rotting. Collecting huge spiders and dead chipmunks. Wheels of tricycles getting run over by me when I back out of the driveway. I feel like we are the major WT of the neighborhood. So dear hubby. Get. Rid. Of. The. Shit.

Note to self: Next time youngest child loses a tooth. Say NOTHING of the Tooth Fairy. Not if you don’t want a repeat of last night. 3 am is not a suitable time for anyone to be up. And 3 am is not a reasonable time to be discussing with a 5 y/o what he wants to do with the money the Tooth Fairy may leave him. It’s not a good time to talk about anything actually. But the point of this random rambling is my son and his excitement over the Tooth Fairy coming to visit him for the first time.

Oh yeah. Wanna hear something kind of funny?

So, I went to college for about one million years. Give or take. I collected a bunch of credits. I changed my major around a million times. Give or take.

Turns out. Come June. If I take the classes that my guidance counselor recommended. I’ll be walking the stage at the Palace of Auburn Hills in June, graduating with a silly little Associates Degree in Liberal Arts. Sadly, with all the time I put in, I should probably have a Phd. or something by now. But no. So many random classes. So many that I…flunked due to heavy partying.

But finally. I’ll have something to show for my couple thousand years getting higherly edumakated.

And then. I’ll go on to rule the world. That’s ok. It’ll be fun when I’m in charge.

Little hint. Start collecting seashells now.

That’s it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be more inspirational. More articulate. More…interesting.
Maybe.

Category: crazy family, my life | 10 Comments »
Tags: going back to school, life, random, weight watchers

Posted By Melissa on November 13, 2009

I spritzed my neck and wrists with the sweet smelling perfume, Paris. My favorite. I hurriedly applied my lipstick. Planted Mommy kisses on the back of my childrens hands. Told my ex-husband, who was my free babysitter that night that I wouldn’t be out too late. And I flew out of the door.

I was meeting a couple of friends at Champs. Back when it first opened in my area, it was a fun and crowded place to hang out. The perfect place to meet up for a quick couple of drinks.

I parked Franklin, my green Honda Civic that was totaled a few months later. Checked my lipstick to make sure it was still on after I had just blotted it on my children.

I walked in. Looked around. Spotted my friends sitting at the bar, already drinking and smoking cigarettes without me. I noticed they were sitting next to a couple of really nice looking gentlemen. It always makes for a more interesting evening that way.

I took the seat they had saved for me. It was next to a tall, very good looking guy. I smiled at him as I sat down. He did the look over. You know, the up and down to check me out. I guess he approved of what he saw…he smiled back.

Somehow. The group of my friends and the group of his friends ended up in conversation. Joking around. Flirting.

The male group, all single. The female group. All married except for me. I was engaged but didn’t wear a ring. Simply because I wasn’t given one.

The handsome guy didn’t ask. I didn’t mention it. We chatted.

Somehow, it came up that I was divorced with kids. He asked the typical questions. How long were you married, why did you divorce type crap. I answered. We talked a lot about him. I pretended to be interested.

He ordered dessert. I ate the whipped cream from it. He watched, so obviously turned on by a woman who loves good whipped cream and isn’t afraid to show it.

Suddenly. Unprovoked and out of nowhere. Like he was trying to convince himself. He announced to me that he wouldn’t date me. He doesn’t date women with baggage. Even though he finds me very attractive.

Baggage?!

He was referring to MY children. As though they were a piece of carry on luggage or a cheap imitation designer bag. The word was said like it was nothing more than a explicative. A curse. A spit on the floor.

Me? I got pissed. For so many different reasons.

After I wiped the dessert from my lips and the shocked expression off my face, I explained to him that I wasn’t in the least bit interested in dating him. I think there may have even been a snort or a huh in there. I was getting married in July, which was one of the main reasons I would not have dated him. The minor reasons being that he was too old for me as I was 31 and he was…gasp…in his 40’s. And besides, anyone who would think of my children as baggage would never deserve time with us anyway.

We continued to chat for another couple of minutes while I polished off his whipped cream and ate some of the ice cream on his plate. Then, I thanked him. Offered to fix him up with my soon to be sister-in-law. And turned my back on him.

That evening shouldn’t have been very memorable. It was quite boring. I returned home earlier than expected. My ex was very pleased considering that, normally, when he would sit I’d stay out until the buttcrack of dawn. I didn’t have to pay him. So why not? Live it up, right?! You’re only young once.

But. For some reason. This night stayed with me. That part of the conversation with that ass remained etched in my mind. Because never. EVER. Had anyone referred to MY children. Part of my body. My heart. As baggage. Before that or even after.

The men I had dated, prior to meeting my now husband, many of them didn’t have children of their own. Not one of those relationships ever broke up because of the fact I had my own children. They just didn’t work out because of our dynamics.

Children are not baggage.

They are innocent bystanders along for the joyride that their parents take them on. Only sometimes, it’s without the joy.

My past relationships. Past friendships. Past entire life.

All that? Baggage?

I think that stupid expression is so misguided, wrong and hurtful.

Because really?

It would be me that’s the baggage.

I’m the receptacle for any and all the ramifications of the choices that I made.

The past, the kids, everything that goes along with me?

That is what I carelessly toss inside to be carried and jiggled around on my life’s journey.

And I may not have treated my baggage…myself…with the type of respect I deserved.

But I took really good care of that precious cargo stored within.

I ended up marrying a nice big piece of luggage with a whole lotta crap shoved inside.

Between him and me…

Good thing we found a place with lots of storage.

Category: my life | 14 Comments »
Tags: baggage, children, divorce, dumb expressions, life

Posted By Melissa on November 11, 2009

Ah sex. One of the only real and true perks of marriage. Why do I say it like that? Well, because it’s fun, entertaining, free and it feels good. Everything else in a marriage…well, not always so fun, sometimes entertaining, maybe cheap but not always free and sometimes, I would rather stick my face through plate glass. Or is that just me?

When you first start seeing each other. Say, after the 3rd date or so, you start a new phase of this budding relationship. Screwing. Yeah, you know you didn’t wait that long either! Anywhere and everywhere. It doesn’t matter if it’s high noon on a Saturday, the shades are up and the neighbor that lives a split hair away is out watering his garden. Yet, he isn’t paying attention to his impatiens and weeping cherries! No, he’s watching your naked body move up and down in the window. But you don’t care. Because tomorrow, same time, same place, with your new lovers butt as the window display.

Then. A couple of weeks later. You decide you’re in love. You can’t live without each other. You’re having the best sex of your adult life. And you…even swallow.

You. Get married. Ironically, you wear a white gown. Even though you haven’t been a virgin since 2 weeks after your 16th birthday. Listen lady, just because you didn’t have sex the night before your wedding, it hardly means you’ve revirginized.

Sex. It’s still good. Actually, it’s even better. There is a certain comfort level knowing you’re screwing the shit out of your spouse. It’s still happening all the time. Every day. And condoms? The sponge? The rhythm method? Pull out? It doesn’t matter. It’s all good. EXCEPT the sponge. Those things sucked.

Oops. You get knocked up. Turns out, of all crazy things, on the honeymoon.

Pregnant sex. Intense orgasms. But it gets a little strange as you get rounder. Also, when the baby is practically hanging out of your vagina and your husband can actually feel the baby’s head with the tip of his penis.

Things start to change. The frequency. The intensity.

You were used to pouncing on each other on top of the take out Chinese food on the dining room table. Any time, any place. Within reason, of course. But certainly there were not many things to keep you both from passionate embraces. Or just quickies.

Now. You have a baby. You have to wait 6 weeks to resume activities. Even though you’re bleeding for even longer than that. Not to mention that the baby is constantly suckling at your breast, barely leaving any time or energy to get back into the loving mood.

But finally. You want your husband again. Badly. And he wants you. Badly. You’re getting hot and heavy. And the baby.

Starts screaming.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

So you unlock yourselves from each other. You go get the wee little one. You nurse. You lay that sweet baby down in the middle of your bed.

And you both rendezvous on the floor to finish the business at hand. While the baby sleeps soundly in your bed. Oblivious to what his parents are partaking in.

It continues like this for a couple of years. Yet. You’re still able to have sex, regardless of the fact that you are both exhausted from life as a family, on a regular basis. High five for that one. And oral sex.

But.

The kid gets so big so fast. Another couple of brats…er…offspring come along. It’s a noisy, full, fulfilling household.

He brings home the bacon. You burn it in the pan. OK. No one taught you how to cook and you don’t understand what the big deal is if you order in pizza every night. You LOVE pizza.

But you notice that you are starting to get a FUPA. Too many pups and too much pizza are to blame. Well, that. And the fact that working out isn’t in your game plan. Nursing and chasing around kids definitely doesn’t help in the weight loss. Not when your eating the buttery crusts from the copious amounts of grilled cheese sandwiches your kids want to eat, morning, noon and night.

The kids grow. So do you. Actually, so does your husband, now that it’s been brought to your attention.

For awhile, the kids went to sleep early. And slept through the night. You were having a grand old time testing out toys and having relations regularly. Just like old times.

The only thing you had to cut out was morning sex. Getting busted too many times by your precocious kids while you were “cuddling”. And yes honey, moms and dads cuddle naked. Yes honey, Daddy likes to be on top of Mommy when we are cuddling. Run along and watch television. When we’re done “cuddling” we’ll come make you breakfast.

Suddenly though.

The kids are older. They know that you aren’t really cuddling. They know that Mommy isn’t really singing. They know that Daddy doesn’t have a splinter in his penis.

Then. They become teens. Who never sleep. Ever. Not even a little bit.
Even worse. You aren’t young anymore. And you need to sleep. A lot.
So their waking hours and your waking hours means…

They need to be sent away to boarding school if you want to schtup before 11pm and still get 8 hours of sleep. For real, you need your sleep. And they don’t seem to need theirs.

When you are able to have sex. Not 2 or 3 times a week anymore. Like when the kids were young. You have to shut the door, lock it, soundproof the room. Plus, you have to lock your kids in their rooms because they like to put their ear to the door and giggle at the fact their parents are doing what they learned about in Family Life. Sex.

This. Will continue for a few years.

Until finally. They leave. They go off to college. They get lives of their own. And I’m not even going there with them and sex.

But you? By now, you’re just to fricking tired and old to have sex as often as you did when you were young.

Here’s hoping though. That it will resemble, a little bit. With fine lines, wrinkles and all. The pre-kid days of intimacy.

Only then, you can romp at 9, catch the news and weather, and get a good nights sleep. Assuming you can sleep because, from what I understand, old people don’t sleep. They just lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.

Oh, the things to look forward to.

Category: my life | 27 Comments »
Tags: family, kids, parenting, sex

Posted By Melissa on November 10, 2009

Every day, I promise myself tomorrow. More tomorrows have flown by through weeks and months than I can even keep track of.

And I still haven’t done what it is that I do, a couple times a year. Without success, might I add.

Join Weight Watchers. Again.

So today. I dropped my son contentedly off at Kindergarten, where he was excitedly placing his birthday invitations into each of his fellow students class mailboxes.

I said goodbye and I hurried out to my car.

And drove myself, without even consciously thinking, over to the Weight Watchers building where, for the second time in a little over a year, I signed up.

I promised myself, as I held my breath while I waited for my credit card to be approved, that this time it’s going to be different.

This time. I will succeed.

I have no excuses anymore. (Except for that damn Halloween candy)

There is no reason why I can’t do this. Sadly, this time I have more weight to lose than last time. But that’s neither here nor there.

I have a treadmill so there is absolutely not one excuse for me to not work out.

I’m tired of ignoring myself in the mirror. My quitting smoking excuse. Is getting old.

I have determination. Today, at least.

Baby steps, right? One day at a time.

And today is the first day. With my baby step leading me to ignore the Halloween candy which, I SWEAR, is calling out for me to come and eat it. Can’t you hear it? Melissa! Melissa! I’m a Twix bite size. Come eat me. Mwahahaha.

I’ll just keep walking on my treadmill, my Slacker app on the Duran Duran station playing loudly into the earbuds.

Haha Halloween candy. I can’t hear you.

Hopefully my kids will eat the rest of that candy before I have a chance to give in to the temptation.

But just like quitting smoking. I won’t stop trying until I succeed. And if I can quit smoking, you’d think losing weight would be a piece of cake.

Without the cake, of course.
(Wait, how many points are in a piece of cake?)

Category: my life | 19 Comments »
Tags: joining weight watchers again, losing weight, quitting smoking, weight

Posted By Melissa on November 9, 2009

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Category: Uncategorized | Enter your password to view comments
Tags: