Aloha

So this is what life was like before we decided to breed. I had vague recollections of relaxing weekends but I think the hormone surge of giving birth erases your memory of just how good life was B.C.

My kids are with my parents. I'm leaving on a jet plane in the middle of the damn night for Hawaii. And my husband will be following me a couple of hours behind.

Life is damn good. As long as I eventually get around to packing, paying the bills, and cleaning out the refrigerator, I'll be all set to enjoy our trip.

I'm leaving behind all thoughts of the kids keeping up with violin practice and the school rejection letters that will probably be sitting in our mail box when we get home.

I'll see all of you next week.

What's so funny, Mom? *

It's time for... (drum roll...)

Spot the dirty words in the first grader's homework!

This week's episode features Mommy's future career. And here we gooooo...

sore
score
store
whore
before
florist

X (annoying buzzer sound)

Nope, mommy's not going to be a florist. But enjoy your lovely parting gift.

Next week's episode will feature such classics as "ass" and "The penis on the table." Join us again for everyone's favorite game show...Spot the dirty words in the first graders homework!

*This post would be much funnier if I remembered to scan his actual misspelling of "wore" in his cute little first grader handwriting before I recycled it.

Captain Cryptic

You know, there are so many things I would like to write about now. But I can't. Some things are too private.

I think if I still felt safe and anonymous here on the blog, I would let loose. (Remember my days of complaining about AH?) But I just can't do it anymore. And how sad for me.

Why I won't write things that I know no one will ever read is beyond me. I mean, seriously. It's not like I'm forced to publish everything I've ever written. That's what journals and diaries are for. I never will get that about myself but I'm chalking it up to a big oh well.

It's a time of disappointing news, angst and big decisions in our world. And I feel ill equipped to deal with it all. I don't know how to get from point A to point B. And I'm not even sure where point B should be.

I do feel better just from writing this much though. Maybe this post will go away. Captain Cryptic over and out. For now.

Stage Mom, Classic Style

This should be cool.

My daughter was asked to play a violin solo in a community concert Sunday.

She's played plenty of solos in concerts before, but never in one that was free and open to the public. Before it has always been for nursing homes or in-house at our strings school.

For some reason, her teacher asked her to play a brand new song that she only learned to play a couple of weeks ago. Of course, last week it sounded awesome.

This week? Not so much.

This kid kills me. Kills me! She is seriously going to be the cause of the heart attack that finally ends my time here on earth.

To add to the pressure, her soccer team decided to reschedule their Sunday practice and come to the concert as a team to support her. She doesn't know this yet. (How incredibly sweet was it for her coaches to do that?)

Oh! And just for good measure, since my son played his newest song so well at his lesson on Thursday (and since so few ensemble players showed up for the official concert rehearsal on Thursday) his teacher asked if he could have that prepared to play on Sunday too.

We had a mock concert in our living room tonight so the kids could play all the group pieces together and my daughter could play her solo. And it went...not well.

Oh, the pressure of being a stage mom. Who knew it would be as bad for the parents of classical violinists as it is for the parents of pop princesses?

P.S. I'm venting here so as to NOT vent to the kids and make them nervous.

I'm Just Not That Into Self Help

Talk about living under a rock. I guess she who lives in glass fishbowls...or something like that.

I was at Target the other day to buy Chelsea Handler's book and I decided to pick up some more very light reading. I was in a rush but I want to have something completely mindless to read on my long flight to Hawaii.

So I basically just threw any old trade paperback with a picture of Jennifer Aniston on the cover into my cart.

Why did I think that He's Just Not That Into You was a novel?

Oh, maybe because they made it into a movie and movies actually need things like plot and characters. (Man, what I wouldn't give to be the screenwriter on a movie like that!)

But the sad thing is that I'm reading it anyway. I might not need a "no-excuse guide to understanding guys" or dating them, but I could use a little refresher course in dealing with friends.

The problem is I'm not sure which side I identify with more, the guy who's not so into someone or the pathetic girl who believes he really is.

I guess I should stick to Are You There Vodka, It's Me, Chelsea. Now there's something I can relate to.

Things Spouses Say to Each Other

Or at least things my husband and I say to each other.

1) Is that your feet that stink like dead animal. Or is it me?

2) (While holding shirt over nose) Are you ill? No human should make that smell. Should I call 911?

3) Sure we can have sex. Just let's not do that thing you like to do.

4) She/he must get that attitude/annoying whine/horrible personality trait/funky body hair/weird fourth toe from you because she/he didn't get it from me.

5) I love you to death, but...

6) I will pay you one million dollars to put them to bed tonight.
(followed closely by)
How about a blow job instead?

7) You're beautiful/handsome/hot.
(followed closely by)
Are you high?

8) I love you so much. I'm so horny for you.
(followed closely by)
Are you drunk?

9) Will you check my episiotomy scar for me?
(or also)
How's your scrotal incision doing?
(or maybe)
Will you see if this is a zit on my asshole or something worse?

10) Are you going to blog this?

A Leg Up

I was sitting with my pants around my ankles just a bit ago. And I realized something.

I only shaved one leg last night.

Yup, one leg is as smooth as a stretch of Gulf coast beech. The other is as prickly as a Southwest cactus.

Story of my life, people. Story of my life.

Let's Review

On Saturday morning (also known as Valentine's Day) my husband had on a brand new UnderArmour shirt for his hockey game.

"When did you buy that?" I asked him.

"Yesterday," he told me.

I assumed he went by the exchange during the work day. "So you went shopping, huh?"

"Yeah, but I didn't get you a Valentine's Day gift since I know you didn't get me anything," he answered as a $100 gift for him sat hidden in the back of my car.

That night he explained, "I didn't think we really did Valentine's Day."

He should have checked the blog.

Rich People are Obtuse

What I signed up to bring: brownies

What they have me listed to bring: deviled eggs

What they're getting: shit

(What they'd get if they ate my deviled eggs: the shits)

Shhhhh

I really appreciate silence. More than most people, I think.

I will not listen to things that I can read. I'm not a fan of NPR, not because I'm not interested in the news, but because I'd rather read it. I don't like podcasts or audio books. I can't stand electronic people yammering at me.

And while I could chat with my best friends forever, I can't stand the idol gossip and chit chat of people I don't know.

I have television shows I like to watch, but I prefer the volume to be at a sedate 5 or 6. When I watch T.V. with other people, they blare it way too loud and complain that I have supersonic hearing.

But I'll crank the radio up in the car if I'm going to sing along. I don't want to hear my own voice.

So, how is it that I would birth two children who never shut up. Never, ever, ever.

(If you think I'm exaggerating, come take a car ride with us. I'm not sure how they manage to breathe.)

Hey, Look!

I was nominated for a Blogtation of the Year award. Scroll down to August.

Definitily one of the classiest things I've said in a while.

(Thanks, Blogtations.)

Parenting by Sam Kinison

I've decided to stop yelling. I know, I know. You're thinking, "You? Tuna Girl? You yell? Never! I won't believe it!"

I can't believe it either. I never used to yell. When the kids were little I can even remember telling my husband, "You can't be mad at her. She's two!"

And I would never just yell at random people. But I've been yelling at my kids way too much lately. I feel like nobody (and I mean, seriously, nobody) ever really listens to me and so I have to raise my voice to be heard.

But we all know that strategy not only makes me a sucky mom but it just plain doesn't work. The more you yell, the more people tune you out.

So I have made a resolution. A very serious one. No more yelling.

The problem is that now I find myself expressing anger or frustration with sarcasm. I know screaming, "Would you please, for the love of god, pick up your mess!" isn't good for my kids' psyches (okay, obviously, I'm only talking about my daughter here) but I'm guessing calmly stating, "Oh, no please. Leave your mess right where it is. We all know that you think I'm your maid and that my life revolves around cleaning up after the princess," probably isn't very good for her self esteem either.

I guess I should have resolved to stop being a bitch.

But at least I'm not a loud bitch. At least not until I get PMS. Then we'll see how much resolve I really have.

Aquaman

Every time we join a swim school the place is staffed by matronly middle-aged women and cute college girls. And one hot man.

And my kids always get assigned to the hot man.

Remember Mr. Nathan. Ah, Mr. Nathan. Hottie swim teacher extraordinaire. How I miss him so.

Now the kids have a private swim coach. Tall, very dark and handsome. With a great smile. And bonus! He loves my kids. He thinks they're funny and "great".

For some reason at yesterday's practice he decided to get out of the pool and follow the kids up and down the lane on the deck. Um, hello tattoos.

I had noticed the indiscernible one on his chest before.

"What's that?" my son asked him.

"That? It's a tattoo," he replied.

"And it really hurt!" I added.

But yesterday I saw that he has a superhero inked above his naval.

Hmmmm.

There's just something about a guy who moves with confidence. Not bravado. Not ego. Just a natural confidence and masculine grace that say "all man".

Yeah, I signed the kids up for Sunday clinics. Just so that they'll be ready for swim team.

I swear.

Watch Your Mouth

Sometimes I say things I shouldn't.

Like this weekend. My husband was telling me that his father had to put his dog down.

He said, "He was pretty upset. That dog's been around for almost twenty years. They were close."

And I said, "Yeah, well, when you treat your dog better than your own son, you tend to build a relationship."

Woops.

I could probably curb this nasty habit. But why?