You’re thrilled you’re reading this, aren’t you?

The thing about pockets is: they’re a great place to stuff things. That’s literally what they’re designed for. The problems start when you introduce a person who is constantly rushing about and has a penchant for losing things (read: me) to a pair of pockets.

Naturally, my rats would have the fashion sense of an 11-year-old girl

Case in point: I’ve been working with my toddler on not throwing things on the floor when he’s done with them. In the past he’d rush to fling empty juice boxes to the floor as though he were trying to create his own personal landfill. As I am adamantly anti-littering, this has become something of an ongoing battle between us. Recently though, he’s started to concede the battle and listen to me.

In theory, this development is great. In practice this means that any time and anywhere my son finds some garbage he finds it imperative to hand it to me. If I were to, say, toss his chewed-on lollipop stick or the grimy sticker he found on his shoe to the floor, I’d sort of be negating the lesson. So where does the garbage go? Into my pocket, of course!

I can’t blame it all on the toddler, though. As I am anti-littering, it’s not uncommon to find my pockets lined with the old receipts and used Kleenex that I refuse to leave lying around. Look people, it’s rude to leave your trash for someone else to deal with. Plus, it’s bad for the environment or whatever. So in the course of a day, my pockets get stuffed with more crap than your average time capsule. In addition to all that crap, I keep stuff I need easy access to in my pockets. So my keys, phone, and lip balm live amongst the garbage in my pockets. Don’t worry, I also keep some Purell in there.

In short, my pockets are only avoiding becoming a rat habitat through a daily cleansing regimen on the train and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. That’s the thing about pockets: they’re a health risk if not managed properly.

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The old me is shaking her head right now as the Martha Stewart inside my head is tsk-tsking me.

Yeah. Me. Apathetic. Who knew?

I suppose I should have seen it coming. I mean, I can’t possibly say “no” to anything that might resemble work, I’m starting a non-profit and I write almost every day on my blog. I raise orchids. I have three kids. I have a house, not an apartment, to fill with crap. Hell, I have a Twitter account to follow! Who’s going to rip off pithy tweets like, “My ass smells like cheese” if not me?

(Answer: half of The Twitter.)

And because I’ve only been seeing what’s in front of me (read: my inbox), I’ve stopped seeing most everything else. Of course, this is a sign to me that I probably need to step away from the computer a bit, but alas, I digress.

Because I am hosting at least twenty people at my house this weekend for my daughter’s birthday, I realized that it was time to get my ass (which, I should clarify, does NOT smell like cheese) in gear and clean the shit out of everything. Annnddd… remodel three rooms. And don’t forget that light fixture and smoke detector that need instillation! I mean, what if people come over and don’t see a mess of smoke detectors everywhere? WHAT WILL THEY THINK?

(End hand-wringing.)

The remodeling is nearly complete, but that means the clean-up has just begun. Half an hour ago, I popped into my boys’ room to get rid of some stuff, change the sheets, and generally clean. Most of the people coming to this party are kids, so it makes sense to have a space for kids to, well, PLAY. Especially in areas that aren’t full of toxic chemicals. I figure their parents will thank me for that.

I’m horrified to report to you that I pulled not one but two gigantic bags of garbage out of a bedroom I didn’t even realize was so bad. Like, I’m so horrified that I may actually sit in the Naughty Corner awhile.

Thanks to my previous apathy, I’ll be spending the next three days solid cleaning the rest of my house.

High time to start a speed habit, huh?

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If we wouldn’t be able to enjoy adult conversation, I would just as soon be in my fat pants drinking the cheap shit listening to the smooth sounds of my children fighting. But since we had already made eye contact with our friends and I had made the valiant effort to zip my jeans, there was no backing out.

My husband enjoys music, yet has no discernible musicality, either. His mama forgot to tell him he was lousy. For the sake of our children’s dignity, I am thankful that he is way too old to audition for American Idol. No one wants to see those pants on the ground. 

I admire his ability to sing like no one is listening, but sometimes my eardrums wish he’d shut the fuck up. Thankfully his music appreciation skills are more developed than his raw talent. Every week he tries to inflict his will upon me by forcing me to listen to The Friday Night Blues. Naturally, he wasn’t disappointed when he found out it was a blues performer at the winery.

As we exchanged pleasantries with our friends, I kept a fierce eyeball on the guitarist.  He assembled the stage minimally with a harmonica, amp, and a big ol’ honky tonk microphone. Still, I knew the rest of the evening would be reduced to nodding, smiling and hoping for short sets.

Then the unexpected happened.

He started playing and I didn’t hate him. He played a little more. And I started to like him.

Like, like him like him. I haven’t had such a visceral reaction to music since I touched myself to Tiffany.

It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome. Yet, I was a glass of petit syrah away from throwing him my granny panties which probably would have dwarfed the stage.

I’m not sure if it was his guitar, his harmonica, or his raspy drawl, but I finally got it. This guy’s stage persona totally made him hot. My reaction didn’t go unnoticed by my husband either. The following week, NPR trumped The Friday Night Blues.

If I’d have known fawning over a hairy musician would have gained me access to the radio dial, I would have played that card years ago. I’m great at faking it. After all, I am married.
Photo Credit: Pacdog via photopin cc

Okay, so that makes at least two of us.

What do you do when the catty mom bloggers come to the cafeteria? Because, let’s face it, we’ve got cliques galore.

We’ve got the memoir bloggers (the cool kids) and the coupon bloggers (chip on the ol’ shoulder) and the crafty bloggers (arty folks) and the weight loss challenge peeps (the jocks) and then the bloggers who do a bit of everything (the floaters with the twitchy eyes).

We should, absolutely, all get along. You know, in a kumbaya bloggy word.

But we don’t.

So how do you respond when the mean girls show up and lace your online community with a stellar burn book? Or publicly tweet baseless rumors? Or, heaven forbid, email your mother your blog?

I’m usually drunk when I blog:
Some people have drunk dialing, well I have drunk blogging. Sure, you may tweet to me that I’m a has-been, but have you noticed I’m drunk and don’t care? I can barely hear you over the fierce Twitter party of one I’m having. Whoa, time to turn up Let’s Go Crazy! I can’t hear you. 

I’m fully aware I’m an embarrassment:
My self-deprecation beat you to the punch. Dear Trolls: I already hate myself. I did this as a preemptive measure to thwart potential slander and hurt feelings. I’m all telepathic, which means you do not want to mess with my ESPN. Oh, I totally saw that. Like three years ago.

My mother is a bitch and I don’t talk to her anyway:
Well, that pretty much ends that threat.

Answer in the fat affirmative:
Yes, I know I’m fat. Which should not be an insult, but I am completely thrilled you have two working eyes. I am, however, worried that they’re not registering to your brain.

When in doubt, Kathy Griffin it:
She made an entire career out of being a D-lister and lives for someone calling her out. And believe me, you can too. With a tiny bit of snark, a few sharp comebacks, and a billion face lifts. Girl looks good!

How Jerry Maguire of you:
Take those insults, head on over to Zazzle, and make a few tees. Nothing says Pinterest explosion like exploiting their taunts in style. Double the traffic if you can somehow work in Nutella and OPI.

I already watched Hoarders this week:
So it goes without saying that I’m already grossed out and terrified. And feeling a bit vulnerable with these two cats. I’m so not above submitting your name for the mountain of asshole you’re under.

You. Are. Welcome.

Do your boobs hang low?
Can you swing them to and fro?
Can you tie ‘em in a knot?
Can you tie ‘em in a bow?

Do they flip and flop and dangle,
Do they wind around your ankles?

Can you do the double shuffle?
When your boobs hang low?

At 21, a friend of mine thought it would be hilarious to give me a birthday card with an old woman on the front who had been ravaged by gravity. I remember we all laughed hysterically, the way the ignorant do. At the time my boobs and ass were so perky they were practically under my chin.

The other day, getting out of the shower, my four-year-old walked in and immediately said, “ Mommy, your boobies are broken. They are falling down.” What a difference a decade makes.

This is where I draw the line. I’ve always had a pair of perky, firm, round breasts. They were like two attention-seeking, people-pleasing little cheerleaders living on my chest. I was pretty famous for them. My milkshakes did, in fact, bring all the boys to the yard. Yes, they were that spectacular! Want references?

Then I had my daughters. I did the crunchy mommy thing. La Leche League needs to add a disclaimer: May cause your balloons to deflate after use. The bigger they are, the harder they fall–I’m proof positive that quote is about breasts. I went from pert symmetry to looking like I was starring in a National Geographic layout. The breasts are tired and they want to take a nap. They surrender. Don’t shoot. We give up.

I specifically invested loads of money in Victoria to know her damn secret. There is no fighting Mother Nature, my arch nemesis–she has gravity on her side. Now, those that were once my shining glory have been reduced to what I can only liken to udders.

I look down (about five inches lower than before) and though I know this is a battle scar that I should view with pride, like a lost limb or a bullet wound from war, I am wondering just what the hell I have to do to rectify this situation. And why are they pointing in two different directions? When did that happen?

Hey, eyes up here!

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I’m not a hypochondriac, not normally. But then I had kids and I was sure that I had a brain tumor.

Turns out, it was just the kids. As I age, I’ve realized that I want to live for a long time… so now I’m paranoid that I’m going to die.

When you’re young, you spend the first 20 years wanting to do everything but not having the means or permission to do anything. You spend the next 20 to 40 years working your ass off to have everything people tried to stop you from having. You’re paying tuition, unless Junior decides to pass on college. But then you have to keep an eye out for the dead bodies in the deep freeze and the mail order brides from Asia charged to your account.

At about 40 you realize–STFU!–you actually have time and money. Life is GREAT. The next day, you discover Web MD.

You have it all, but now you’re developing stress incontinence and your husband is developing erectile dysfunction. You’re taking pills for blood pressure and anxiety and he’s taking that little blue pill. Life’s big joke: You finally have the privacy to buck like monkeys and his junk decides to stop working and you can only go about ½ hour between pee breaks. Honestly, he’s just not that into golden showers.

Menopause rears its three ugly heads. You’re having hot flashes and taking hormones. He’s trying to be anywhere, as long as it’s away from you. You’re sleeping in separate beds like Doris Day and Rock Hudson (you see how that turned out.) He’s going deaf. You’re repeating yourself. The older you get, the more you forget. That cute pregnancy brain you have takes a turn for the worse, until you’re one forgetting away from starring in The Notebook.

You downsize to some hip “multigenerational” subdivision and buy a maintenance-free villa. Shorts pulled up to your neck to keep your boobs from getting stepped on and wearing diapers disguised as granny panties. Mr. Sex Machine sports a bald head and pregnant belly as he walks the neighborhood talking to strangers, his black socks hanging out of his Teva sandals and his shorts pulled up under his man boobs just to keep him from kicking his old man balls as he walks. You wait around wanting to do shit but your kids are too busy. Your license is expired and Alzheimer’s makes GPS useless. There you are wearing diapers, drinking your meals, no teeth, blue hair, and then you die.

I have a cough. I’m 39 and I’m pretty positive that I’ve got treatment-resistant tuberculosis. At least, that’s what Web MD says.

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And as much as I want to be there, this does require me to, gasp, deal with Other Mothers.

I live smack dab in Batshit Central. I used to think everywhere was like this–you know, that I was the problem–until I recently read a quote in Philadelphia magazine that amounted to “Liz’s town is the pits and is filled with insane suburban parents.”

Walking into a cafeteria filled with 200 loons is a practice in, well, zombie apocalypse training. Basically, take Shaun of the Dead–when they pretend they’re zombies among zombies so they can get to the pub–yeah, that’s me.

Which is actually a funny joke.

What did the zombies get when they crossed the road?

Brains.

And that’s kinda what’s lacking when I enter the cafeteria.

All of them don’t like me. Which I am totally okay with.

The feeling is mutual.

“All of them” is not accurate. More like the ones who are always there don’t like me.

All suburban parents are not like this. It is seriously where I live. Everyone I tell my stories to–the stuffed squirrel in a cage, the mom who won’t let her daughter say vagina, the stalker, the woman who stands guard because her adopted son may be snatched by the League of Birth Mothers–is all: really? 

And I’m all: totally. 

You sign your kid up for a little thing called Girl Scouts in kindergarten and suddenly you know everything about everyone when you wanted to know nothing. And then you’re stuck feeling incredibly awkward while holding a bat debating who and which one is going to lunge.

I could, potentially, have to be prepared for the next nine years.

OMG.

Why didn’t someone warn me? Like, in a book: The Mamapocalypse: The Survival Guide.

A few bullet points on how to volunteer while simultaneously avoiding mombies would, I’m sure, have taught me all that I needed to know.

• Avoid direct eye contact
• Color coordinated velour tracksuits circa 2003 = be at the ready
• Confirm all emergency exits
• Do not say anything remotely Liberal
• Talk only in scrapbooking terms

Mombies are known to gather:

• Near stop signs at 8:15 am and 3:30 pm
• Once a month under the banner of the Parental Torture Association
• On a soccer field near you each Saturday; times vary

This is all very important stuff; it would have been incredibly useful BEFORE we entered the elementary years. The baby years were all nicey-nice preschool play.

Tonight, I sat down and met another new person. All I could think was: she looks nice. What crazy is she hiding? What would the survival guide tell me?

Be. At. The. Ready.

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Except, maybe, when I’m in the car on that long road to nowhere and I gotta go.

I mean, seriously, have you ever seen a package shake like that? Does he have a back problem? Because I have a set on me and, whoa, I can’t go up or down the steps without fear of knocking myself out. I have considered an emergency alert bracelet for braless laundry days, but I went and bought out of control animal print pants instead.

Because I’m sexy and I know it.

On laundry days I may or may not have a fro and sock-less slip ons, but I am fairly certain Ron Jeremy is not in my basement.

Fairly certain. I’m not 100% here.

I know that shaking your humongous package in slow-mo is gag inducing. Oh, I totally gagged. And then I pounded on the table with tears at how funny I thought this was. You mean to tell me there are guys in Speedos, tanning their pasty selves, and then wiggling all over a bar?

How exploitative.

And hilarious!

Did I mention there’s an update to the Michael Jackson’s Beat It leather?

Oh, there is.

With a bedazzled Speedo. And a bat that Dude #2 pulls from the middle of his legs.

Someone’s clever.

I love the idea that these guys are not sexy at all–by far–but think they are. Since it’s the New Year, the hate yourself weight loss commercials are, well, completely out of control. I can’t watch my Real Housewives with the normal amount of self-loathing. Now, I get to feel stabby about my muffin top too. Instead of my choice in programming.

Sexy is about confidence. Sometimes it’s about shaking your balls.

If you don’t have them, work with what you got.

Hit the gym because you want to get or stay active. Don’t go because some commercial shamed you into it. If you have the confidence to roll out of bed with leopard Hammer pants and glasses with no lenses and still call yourself sexy? You’re crazy enough for me to believe you too.

And that’s exactly what I aim for: people with just enough crazy to think the party starts when I arrive.

How Ke$ha of me.

I hate myself just a tad more for actually writing that dollar sign.

I love people who are fun to be around. Not sloppy fun, but self-deprecating. Like, for instance, being a super tall white guy with peach fuzz on your chest and walking around like your last name is Pitt.

Which makes me a Jolie.

Now where in the hell is that thong of mine?