Monday Dare: Excellence in Wifery

Every Monday, I'm picking from the List of Things to Do, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help and Possible Fun to Have. It's a list I made before The Project started and I'm still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please, feel free to throw them my way. I'm calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words "challenge" or "goal."

This week: Let bygones be bygones.

Harv and I often spend Saturday afternoons running errands. Glamorous, I know.

One Saturday, we needed to hit several stores, so we carpooled to a large shopping center. He dropped me off at Target and then made his way to Best Buy.

Ninety minutes later, I got worried. Sure, it's never a good idea to leave me unattended at Target (dammit, Harv, of course we need this avocado slicer), but the real test of our bank account is Harv inside a Best Buy.

I decided to give him a call. After a few attempts, he finally picked up the phone. He sounded a little preoccupied and asked if I could pick up dinner on the way home.

Me: I'm still at Target.

Harv: ......

Me: Hello?

Harv: I forgot that I dropped you off. I came back home to play my new video game.

It's a good thing I woke up right then. It was a dream, but I was pissed. And, I'm still pissed.

So now, any time we go anywhere, I always part ways with a little warning.

Me: You'd better not leave me at *fill in the blank*, you jerk.

Harv: (sigh) I'm not really sure how to defend myself for something that happened in your dream, but come on, I bet it was World of Warcraft.

Me: Don't try to weasel your way out of this. I'm still pissed and I'm not done punishing you.

I'm starting the new year fresh. Harv, I forgive you for leaving me at the store.
______
A big "Thank You" for all of the Monday Dare suggestions y'all have sent. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be able to fit "waitress at the local nudie bar" or "become penpals with a prisoner" into The Project.

A link to all of my previous Monday Dares is here, or you can just click the Monday Dare tab on the side bar.

Please leave some less fucked up other suggestions below. I have 4 slots left on my List of Monday Dares. If I use yours and it wasn't previously on my list, I'll give you credit and link to your site. I'll also send you a $30 gift certificate of your choosing, as long as I can email or snail mail it to you fairly easily.  Don't make me go to an obscure store in New Hampshire to buy it for you, folks.
photo via FranticMeerkat @ etsy.com

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santa, you are profoundly bankrupt

It was pretty exciting growing up in a home where Christmas wasn't a big deal. Did I say exciting? I meant shitty.

As my mom tucked me in on Christmas Eve, she mentioned that Santa had phoned while I was at school, and he let it slip that he would be bringing me 49 presents. I was eight.

It took forever to fall asleep that night. I thought about all the different ways I could rub in my bounty to the other kids at school. The fat man was going to bring me 49 presents...and I hadn't even been good that year!

My little enterprising mind started wondering just how many gifts I could get if I actually behaved. 60? 70? Lordy, if I listened to my parents and stopped hitting my little brother, maybe I could get into the triple digits.

I went to bed that night determined to be a good girl the following year.

I rushed downstairs at 4 am the next morning. I only saw two gifts with my name under the tree. Surely, that asshole was playing a trick on me. Where the hell were my 47 other presents? Was this some sort of sadistic holiday gift hunt? Was Santa going to make me scurry around the house looking for my gifts?

I decided I might as well start with the gifts under the tree. I opened the big box first. Looky here, a Christmas sweater. It was nice, except that it WAS Christmas, so I couldn't even wear it for another 11 months, and by then it probably wouldn't even fit.

Then, I opened the smaller box. A Crayola box of 48 crayons.

The crayons came in handy that night. I wrote Santa a note with my black crayon, except for a few choice words that I wrote in red. Blood red.
____
Merry Christmas, folks.

Any Christmas funnies you want to share?

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photo via RansomInk Shop @etsy.com

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Monday Dare: guilt trips? i run the travel agency.

Every Monday, I'm picking from the List of Things to Try, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help and Possible Fun to Have. It's a list I made before The Project started and I'm still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please, feel free to throw them my way. I'm calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words "challenge" or "goal."

This week: Learn to forgive myself. 

Since Chhichi came into our family last week, I've experienced a deeper love and a greater sense of peace. I used to look at Cal and wonder how I could love anyone as much as my amazing daughter, but now, I know that the heart has enough love for two. 

Wait, are you still with me? Did I just compare buying a doll to birthing a second child? Did experiencing a hiccup in my Project psychically shatter me? 

I'm feeling a lot of guilt. 

I haven't felt this much guilt since I took Cal for her one week check-up. The doctor gave Cal a thumbs up for her health, and he gave me a pat on the back for being such an amazing mother. I mean, I had managed to keep her intact for a whole week. As I left the office, I broke into a huge grin and decided to treat myself to a milkshake as a reward for my awesomeness. Parenting was a cinch. When I got to the car, I realized that something was missing. I patted my pockets down for my keys. I checked to make sure I had my purse and my baby bag. What was it?

I forgot my baby, yo.  

I set Cal's carrier down to make her next appointment, and I forgot to pick her back up. Good thing I remembered my keys. Lordy, I hate it when people are irresponsible and leave their keys all over the place. 

I felt like a failure. Even now, I think about that incident. Thankfully, I am not agile enough to kick myself in the ass, but don't think I haven't tried. 

I've decided not to return Chhichi. I feel a deep sense of guilt that I goofed, but I'm pushing forward.

Thanks for all of your kind words, compassion and support. Y'all are a bunch of enablers. Bless you.

___

Have you ever left your keys, er, baby anywhere? At the very least, someone's got to have picked up the wrong kid from daycare. Or forgotten to pick up their kid at all? This actually happens to other moms, right? Right?!

photo via blueq.com

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i failed. shit.

When my family moved from a podunk town in South Korea to a slightly-less-but-still-relatively podunk town in Texas, I had two things working against me. One, I was a dumber-than-average 5-year-old, and two, I didn't know a lick of English.

Shortly after we moved, my mom got wind of the Great American Concept- garage sales. Every weekend, she convinced my reluctant dad to drive around while she scoped out random neighborhoods for steals and deals.

As we were walking home after kindergarten one day, my mom spotted a garage an apartment sale in a unit close to our own.

I was still trying to learn to speak me some American, so I didn't understand what the mother-and-daughter duo were saying.  Before I knew it, we were inside their apartment. Were we taking a tour? Were we looking at additional items for sale? Who the hell knows; I was five.

In the daughter's room, I spotted a Monchhichi doll. Yes! I'd been eyeing one at the local five-and-dime, and I couldn't believe I was going to get one that day...at garage apartment sale prices, no less.

I started carrying it around. In my mind, we were already at home and I was adoring it and loving it and playing with it. God, I loved America. I asked how much they wanted for the doll in broken English as we were about to exit.

The next five minutes were a little fuzzy. All I could piece together was that the doll was NOT for sale and the little girl was getting a little worried that I was doing some sort of immigrant five-finger discount.

I didn't take that baby home. My mom refused to buy it for me full price. Damn you, garage sales, for teaching my mother to think everything should cost a quarter.

At Target this week, I spotted a Monchhichi doll. I wanted to bring it home for Cal so that she wouldn't have any repressed Monchhichi doll issues as an adult.

Who am I kidding?? She doesn't even know what a Monchhichi doll is!

I wanted it for myself, but shiz, you know, The Project. I stood in front of the display for nearly ten minutes. I gave myself a little pep talk. Surely, if I could resist the temptations of sparkly dresses and butter-soft sandals and manicures and pedicures and fast food and Starbucks and gorgeous sweaters and even new socks, I should be able to walk away from a furr-baby.

Apparently, the market rate for doom is $9.29. I bought it. It's official. I'm a Project Fuck-up.

I thought about returning my new friend, Chhichi, but I've already kissed her and petted her and licked her face, so I'm not sure Target wants her back.

A DOLL did me in, folks. I hate myself. But only when I'm not busy kissing Chhichi's face. 

Is there anything you desperately wanted as a kid but never got? Would you still buy it today? 

top photo via blueq.com

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When "I Love You" isn't enough

It was Cal's birthday yesterday. For weeks, she campaigned for a rock tumbler.
Instead, I got her hand soap. (a.k.a. the gift of life and the best way to say I love you).

Is it just me, or do household items run out allatthesametime? Take toilet paper. When you don't have it in one bathroom, is it even a surprise when you shuffle to another bathroom and find nothing there either? We ran out of hand soap over the weekend. In every bathroom, natch. 

Did I do anything about it? Not really.

I never, ever say "yes" when my child asks, "Can I tell you something?"

The next sentence usually begins with:

• I broke...
• I didn't know...
• Is it true...
• Well, (insert name here) said...

Early Saturday morning, she started the ominous string of words. Trouble was a'comin', I could feel it.

"I don't have any hand soap in my bathroom."

I sighed deeply, then told her to get the body wash from her tub and use it as hand soap. It's called innovation, folks. 

That's what she did for three days. Take the body wash out of the tub, wash her hands, put it back, repeat, repeat. 

On Monday, she forgot this process and had to leave mid-bath to retrieve her wash. Thank you, Jesus, that she didn't slip. 

On her birthday, I gifted her with hand soap. I gave birth to her and now I'm ensuring she stays alive. Lathers of love, I call it.
_____
By the way, she got the rock tumbler. Since she loves to read, I surprised her with a trip to the bookstore and told her she could pick anything she wanted. Sixty-seven books later, we went home. I wanted to ask her to put sixty-two back, but I figured the extra was her "bonus" for putting up with me, so I stayed silent. Shitness, me and my stupid mouth.

Have you ever gotten a funny/unusual/crazy birthday gift request?
Have you ever been given a funny/unusual/crazy birthday gift?
photo via Pretty Swell Shop @ etsy.com

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Monday Dare: yes, that duct tape is for my mouth

Every Monday, I'm picking from the List of Things to Try, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help and Possible Fun to Have. It's a list I made before The Project started and I'm still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please feel free to throw them my way. I'm calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words "challenge" or "goal."

This week: Tact. 

Don't let my classy facade here fool you. I have a problem with tact.

Our new home is set behind a gate. When we first moved in, I thought it would protect my family from the rest of the world. It's become evident that the gate divides the rest of the world from my stupid mouth.

Harv let me tag along to his company holiday party last night (mistake #1).

Lots of free alcohol (mistake #2).

I like to make new friends. When I meet someone new, I always try to find something positive about that person (possible mistake #3).

So, I really meant it in the nicest way when I slapped one of Harv's colleagues on the arm and called him a "crafty motherfucker" (mistake #4) after he regaled me with a not-so-brief account of his recent accomplishments.

Did I mention that I told a nice lady to be careful when she walked because her hooker heels looked rickety (mistake #5)? I care, people, I care.

Halfway through a conversation about elderly shut-ins and Jesus (mistake #6), it dawned on me that maybe these people didn't think these topics were appropriate, so I clammed up.

Then I sent myself home.

p.s. Also, never, never, never ask a woman when she is due (mistake #7).

p.p.s. She is probably not pregnant.

p.p.p.s. Or she already gave birth...8 years ago.
___
Ever put your foot in your mouth? Don't be afraid to tell me. I'm not judgey. Well, not that judgey.
photo via blueq.com

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what's a good substitute for swearing? drugs.

It's probably a good idea to sit down; I have some disappointing news. I fucked up really messed up this week. Well, not that much...I've only cursed 19 times since Monday morning. I've been keeping track. And hey, at least I'm honest about it. I must be a saint. 

The count would have been a lot higher, but I concocted a brilliant substitute for swearing.

Drugs. All kinds of drugs. Crack cocaine, crystal meth, marijuana, heroin, LSD, ecstasy.... really, the list is endless.

I wasn't going to share my little trick with you, but my big generous heart won out, so here's the plan:

Every time you feel a swear word reaching the tip of your tongue, immediately substitute a drug. 

I accidentally kicked the toilet yesterday (don't ask). Instead of my usual, I shouted with passion and vibrato, "CRYSTAL METHAMPHETAMINE!"

It worked like a charm.

Because I care about my health (not really, we had some veggies languishing in the fridge), I juiced this morning. Since my juicer hadn't seen the light of day for a while, it was a process just to get one small cup of juice.

I had to find all the parts, rinse off all the dust, wash all the veggies, cut the veggies to fit the juicer opening, juice the veggies, then immediately rinse the parts so they wouldn't "crust," and then I was ready to enjoy my juice.

Since I'm 30-years-young and I've got the coordination of a brand new baby, instead of grabbing the cup, I knocked it over.

"CRACK COCAINE!"

I've gone through so many drugs, I've resorted to looking up slang for variety.

Angel dust, people. It's not just something they sell at Victoria's Secret.

The best unintended side effect is that Cal now associates all drugs with horrible mishaps and she's less likely to become a druggie. I'm not cursing AND I'm teaching my daughter a valuable lesson. BAM! I'm a genius. 
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On a drug-related (not really) note, my mom has been suffering from insomnia. She's tried all sorts of remedies but she's still having trouble sleeping. I thought about suggesting a little pot, but she might like it a little too much and turn into a druggie granny and then I'd lose my best babysitter, so I'd like a little advice, folks.

Any insomnia cures?
photo via blueq.com

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Monday Dare: everyone's got a talent. even me.

Every Monday, I'm picking from the List of Things to Try, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help and Possible Fun to Have. It's a list I made before The Project started and I'm still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please, feel free to throw them my way. I'm calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words "challenge" or "goal."

This week: I will not swear. I am not shitting you. 

It's a good thing I'm perfect in every other way because swearing is really my only shortcoming. Well, I guess swearing and that nasty shopping habit. Okay, and maybe my driving skills aren't exactly stellar either. Fine, you beat it out of me, I'm pretty hopeless as a charades partner.

Fuck it. Swearing may be my only talent.

Do you have a Quarter Jar in your home? If I need to explain this concept, you don't have one, which means you and your well-behaved spouse don't have a problem with cursing. This probably also means that we couldn't be friends because I believe in having friends that curse. This puts us both on an even playing field, and no one party can be too "judgey."

We have a Quarter Jar. It used to be the Dollar Jar, but Harv and I were bleeding so much money into the jar that we hardly had enough left in our wallets for groceries. Just kidding. We had enough for groceries, but no fun date nights. Just kidding. We had enough for date nights, but what fun is a date night if you can't swear? Cussin' and wine-in-a-box. Ain't git better than that.

Here's where our Quarter Jar went awry. First, our Jar wasn't an actual jar with actual quarters. Instead, Cal drew a picture of a jar on a sheet of paper and stuck it on the refrigerator. Every time we said a bad word, we were simply supposed to draw a quarter in the jar. Except, Harv and I would draw the quarters exceptionally big, and Cal would try to draw them representative of their real size.

Why were Harv and I drawing them so big (also known as the Quarter Jar Gone Awry Part 2)? We let Cal pick our "punishment" for filling up the jar. Her pick- take a family trip to the bookstore and each of us would get to choose a book. Yes, that's right folks....I could "shit" and "fuck" my way to a brand new book. Every time we slipped, we drew a big, fat quarter in the jar. One of mine even took up half the page.

(On a related note, I am thinking about writing a book on Parenting with Morals and Values.)

Before you get all judgey, you should know that ALL THREE of us contributed to the Quarter Jar. I caught Cal drawing a quarter in the jar, and I asked her what it was for. She admitted she had said the "B" word. Puzzled, I blurted out, "You said 'Bitch'?"

"No, Mommy....'Butt'."

(On a related note, I am still thinking about writing that book on Parenting with Morals and Values.)
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Ever let a word slip when you didn't mean to? How do you handle swearing?

photo via blueq.com

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Obviously, she likes trouble

Since starting this week's Monday Dare, I've only lost two fingers. By two fingers, I mean two small slivers of skin, but you know what, I bet it hurts the same.

A few readers expressed concern that Cal wasn't getting enough nutrition in my home. And by a few readers, I mean Jennifer Clark. Jen has made it her one and only life mission to make sure that somebody in this house is getting proper nutrition.

She left me this comment:

"Dear Elizabeth- OK, you just hit one of my hot buttons. YOU MUST LEARN TO COOK!

The health and safety of you, your family and the Free World depends on this!!!

Get your ass up to Mayberry for some cooking lessons.

A woman your age unable to feed herself.....OY!"

I ignored her offer. Who brings a complete stranger into their home for cooking lessons? Also, what the hell did she mean by someone my age? I'm thirty years YOUNG, bitch!

Then she sent me an email. Before I even opened it, it looked like trouble. Nothing entitled "Girl, you need some help!" can be that good. I clicked it open anyway.

Bless her, she sent a recipe attached to a "P.S. I'm totally serious about the cooking lessons."

Well, lady, if you're looking for trouble, you just found it. I responded:

"To my favorite homie, Jen- You are da bomb. Imma come over, forrealz."

Seriously, that's what I wrote. I figured, if she wants me in her home and around her children, she should probably get to know the real me.

And the rest of our exchange:

Jennifer: January?

(Oh my god, this woman is really offering me cooking lessons. Sweet Jesus, jackpot!)

Me: Do you have fire insurance? If yes, let's get this road to disaster started.You might want to get a needle and some thread in case you need to stitch me up. I will bring a large amount of cheap and tasteless liquor in the hopes of getting you drunk so we don't actually have to cook. Also, I hate to cook.

Jennifer: I have Hello Kitty bandaids.

Me: I told my husband about this and he asked me if I invited myself over. I told him "yes" and that you really resisted but you eventually said "yes" because I offered you booze and a lawn gnome.

Jennifer: Please don't bring a lawn gnome. I'd hate to hurt your feeling by smashing it with a hammer.

Me: Hide your good furniture. I like to put shit under my jacket as I'm leaving.

Folks, she STILL wants me to come over. And, I'm going. And, I'm bringing her a lawn gnome. And, she's going to like it.

Have you ever been over to a "stranger's" house for any reason? Please do not tell me if it includes nudity and an exchange of money or other goods. I am very innocent.
photo via blueq.com

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