The Quail-Lady Almost Ruins Christmas

The woman who delivers our mail makes me giggle every day.

She is a petite woman who wears a floppy hat, much like this one, which I believe is at least a size too large for her.The hat alone is not what makes me chuckle. It's also the way she scurries.

Yes, I said scurries.

Have you ever seen a quail run? That is EXACTLY the way she makes her way across the lawns as she delivers the mail.

Much like this:


I watch her going from house to house and I just can't help thinking she looks like a little quail the way her legs move at such a rapid pace.

It cracks me up.

I've dubbed her the Quail-Lady instead of the Mail-Lady.

I've told you before, I'm twelve.

Now, I love the Quail-Lady because she amuses me and makes me smile. However, I do have a bone to pick with her.

Santa called and said that he needed to send me something to hold on to for Christmas. He informed me that he would be sending the items to a friend who lives close by.

You know, so none of the Schmitty kids could "accidentally" open the package. 'Cause that would just botch the whole surprise aspect of the holiday.

Apparently that idea is lost on some people. Because as luck would have it, the Quail-Lady took it upon herself to deliver Santa's package to the Schmitty residence.

Um-hum, yes, she did.

Knock-Knock.

"Yes?" I asked her.

"This was addressed wrong!" She proudly exclaimed, "I fixed it and here you go!"

She was beaming as though she had just saved the world.

"It was SUPPOSE to go to the other address," I said through clenched teeth and a smile, "That's why it says C/O."

Blink. Blink.

She tried to hand me the package. I looked over my shoulder for any nosy curious children.

I pushed it back at her.

Blank look. Mouth open to speak. Nothing.

"TAKE IT!" I said as I heard footsteps coming closer.

Blink. Blink.

I began to stammer as I heard young voices getting louder and closer, "Christmas....gifts.....TAKE.ACROSS.STREET!!!"

Blink.Blink.

"OH FORGET IT!!" I practically screamed as I grabbed the package and ran to my room.

So, now I am totally convinced she is part quail. Not only does she run like one, she's got a bird-brain to boot!

Because You Apparently Need A Diagram, Here It Is

Dear Parents of students in my children's school,

You are probably wondering what this diagram represents. If you scroll down, you will see that I have labeled certain areas within the diagram.

This is a diagram of the front of our school. Granted, it is a somewhat bland drawing, however, artistic ability does not matter in this instance.

I have labeled the school, itself, the walkway that leads to the front door, the sidewalk, the crosswalk, and the street.

Basic and to the point, no?

You might now be wondering what those colorful rectangles are at the bottom right of the diagram.

No, they are not pieces of confetti from a ticker tape parade we had in your honor.

Let me elaborate:

1 - 4: These images represent random cars on **** Ave. between 8:30 and 8:45 in the morning.

1-3 have let their children out across the street from the school, some on the wrong side of the car, right into the middle of the street. Said cars have then moved on without a second glance back and tried not to drive directly into the car coming at them from the opposite direction; all while drinking their coffee and texting on their cell phone.

4 is some dumb schmuck who either just moved to town and didn't know of the chaos that is morning drop off or...well, some dumb schmuck who enjoys getting stuck in the middle of a clusterfuck.

5: The mother in this car has stopped, put the car into park, gotten out of the car, helped little Johnny get his backpack on, stepped back and smiled at him, licked her hand and plastered down his cowlick, hugged him, and then waved goodbye with a tear in her eye. She stands proudly on the sidewalk until he has meandered his way through the front doors. Only then does she break from her dream and return to her car. Not once does she realize that she has held up a line of a dozen cars, all of which have children waiting to be educated, just like little Johnny.

9: I will skip to number 9 as an option for number 5. If you must cherish every waking moment, please, pull up to one of the ten open spots on the other side of the crosswalk. This will allow for a very productive flow of traffic. It will also help with my urge to fling my flip flop at your head.

6 & 7: These two go hand in hand. 6, like 5, gets out of their car but not to see their offspring off to the wonderful world of learning. No, 6 saw 7 behind her and, "HiiiiiiEEEEE!! Wait until I tell you what happened to Gertrude and did you see what Sally was wearing to the party on Saturday annnnnnddddd....."7 was so excited to hear the latest gossip she didn't even pull the car up to the curb. She just stopped right where she was and ushered her kids out of the door. Neither 6 nor 7 even knows if their kids went into the school or hightailed it to the swings to play instead.

8: Do you see that big orange-yellow bus behind you? Yea, that one. Did you feel the slight bump when you ran over the orange-yellow traffic cone? Yea, that one. That cone designates the area for the Special Needs bus. Douchebag.

10: This is me. You can't see it, but there is smoke pouring from the window. That? That would be the smoke pouring from my ears.

Please take a moment to study this diagram.

This may not pertain to all of the parents in our school. But, if the shoe fits? Please kick yourself in the arse with it and get a grip!

That is all.

Sincerely,

A fed up mommy

They Don't Like You, They Just Can't Help Themselves

Did you ever have a boy pull your pigtails in elementary school? I had always heard that this was a sign that a boy really liked you. He was too immature to tell you, so he tormented you instead.

Know what I think of that explanation?

HOGWASH!

Now that I am a mother of two adolescent boys, I am witness to their every day behavior. Boys? Frankly, they are, without a doubt, just plain obnoxious!

My boys can not get through a day, or an hour, without me yelling at them to knock it off.

They harass. They poke. They tease. They trip. They downright torture each other.

Nothing they do is without foolery. Simply getting them to brush their teeth is like....well, pulling teeth. Within seconds they are laughing uncontrollably and I'll hear such a ruckus that I think someone may just fall through the floor.

Now, I'm a fan of being silly. I try to be at least once a day. It keeps you young. But their wild ways are beginning to grate on my last nerve.

This morning I was taking a quick shower, though it was more like I was trying to break a speed record. I know that I only have moments before the lunacy kicks in.

They had a few easy tasks to complete; finish breakfast, get dressed, brush teeth and hair, and wash their faces. The boys had religious education classes and only had a half an hour to finish up before we needed to leave.

I jumped in the shower and began my race against the clock. Just as I began shaving my legs, I heard footsteps pounding across the hardwood floors. It had begun.

I swiped the razor up my legs, trying not to draw blood.

I heard them practically falling down the stairs over each other. They rushed, screeching, past the bathroom. I shaved faster.

I drew blood on my kneecap. The blood actually seemed to boil from the cut.

"BOYS!!!!"

No answer....just more laughter.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOYS!!!" I screamed so loudly, I believe the neighbors ALL heard me.

Silence.

I could hear them slinking past the bathroom door.

"Sorry mom," I heard them whisper. They knew I had reached my breaking point.

As I tended to the wound on my leg, I thought about the upcoming school year. I wondered what girls would fall prey to my sons. I smiled and thought, "better them than me!"

I'll Pick Up The Pieces, If I Have To

Have you ever wanted to vent on your blog and couldn't? Was there ever a situation that got so deep under your skin, that you needed to just let loose on your keyboard, but you couldn't? You couldn't because you were unsure if the parties involved read your blog?

Well, that is my current plight.

The frustration and disgust I am feeling is beyond words. In the grand scheme of things, "it" is truly none of my business. I have no say in the matter, however, I feel scared and worried of the possible consequences from, what I feel, is poor judgment of one individual and denial from another. Unfortunately, this lack of common sense won't fall back on these individuals but that of someone else. Someone I deeply care about.

I feel the need to distance myself from those involved because I can not tolerate what I see and hear. I have offered my advice and have gently stated my opinions. All this falls on deaf ears.

I honestly wish I could elaborate. I wish I could find some answers to my dilemma from you, my faithful readers.

But sadly, I can not.

I must respect the privacy of the one who is close to my heart. The other two? I could care less about their "feelings". As far as I'm concerned, one has none; for to feel, you would need a soul.

All I can do is sit by and watch. As I do, I will be hoping for a happy ending.

One Day She'll Figure It Out

After numerous attempts to have my daughter pick up her belongings on her bedroom floor, I gave her one last warning. "Do you really want this punishment?" I asked her. "Do you REALLY want me to collect it all and put it in "THE" basket?"

As typical as you can get, she crossed her arms and turned her head away. Up went that snotty, button nose of hers.

"Okay, have it your way!"

I began collecting her dolls, their clothing, and her books into a big heap. She just stood there with a big grin, really not caring a bit.

I refused to let her notice that this was getting under my skin. Does nothing phase my children? Grrrrrrr.

I picked up her beloved Ty Beanie Baby. It's a cream-colored Siamese Cat that she calls Kitty.

"Noooooooooo! Not Kitty!!" She pleaded.

"Too bad girlie, I warned you. "

"Oh Yea?!" She threatened back.

She stomped over to her bookcase and plucked up her toy cell phone. She then turned toward me, flipped it open, and shouted, "That's It! I am calling 911!"

snort.

"Hello? 911 lady? E-rest her!" She demanded as she pointed accusingly at me.

snort again.

"That's right. E-rest M-O-M!" She spelled out, I guess, in case they needed to write it down.

She snapped the phone closed and slammed it down on her bookcase.

She glared at me while I contemplated giving her Kitty back. I mean what a performance! How could I possibly deny her the stuffed animal now that she had called the cops on me?

I picked Kitty up by the tail and walked toward R. I dangled her precious toy right above her adorable head and then turned and walked straight out of her room, making sure to shut the door tightly behind me.

Give it back? Did you REALLY think I would?! MUAHAHAHAAAAAA!

If It Weren't For BlogHer Ads In My Sidebar (This Post Would Be Nothing But Expletives)

Please feel free to insert, the obscenity of your choice, whenever you see an asterisk.

I went outside to mow the * lawn. I pulled the stack of one gazillion * resin chairs out of the * shed, because, of course, the * lawn mower is in the BACK of said shed. I wheeled the mower out and grabbed for the metal whatchamacallit that you need to hold to start the thing up. The * whatchamacallit wasn't there. I also noticed a frayed wire was dangling just above the ground.

WTF?

Yes, that's exactly what I texted Mr. Schmitty. Apparently, the * whatchamacallit is a safety latch. He said that it was broken. REALLY?! Thanks dear, I had no * idea.

He told me I needed to pry two metal pieces apart and rig something in it so the mower would start. He didn't tell me that the * little metal pieces are attached to a * spring that is next to impossible to pry apart.

My hand slipped. I gashed the top of my * right hand. *****!!! It immediately swelled but looked worse than it was. I'd take care of that later.

I tried again.

I did it. I jammed another piece of metal in between the pieces. It held. I pulled the rip cord, and I started the mower. Yippee!

I went to the front yard. I pushed a nice even line through the tall grass.

The * motor died. *****!!!!!!

I went to pull the * rip cord again. There was this strange piece of metal, like a small clamp, at the bottom of the cord.

"That doesn't * belong there!" I said to myself, though probably out loud at this point.

The * clamp should have been at the top of the * cord, near the * handle. It was to prevent the cord from going into the lawn mower.

I yanked on it to pull it back to the top. It wouldn't * budge. I used pliers. NOTHING. The cord and handle lay on the ground. I tried the * pliers one more time. I pinched my pointer finger. I dropped the * pliers and stifled a scream. A huge blood blister appeared.

The sun suddenly disappeared behind the clouds. I swore I heard a rumble.

THAT'S * IT!!! All I could imagine was standing there, in ten feet tall grass, bleeding and bruised, with a dead mower, looking like a drowned rat. Not this lady.

If it weren't for the fact that I am the only adult around for my children today, I'd be typing this drunk as a * skunk!

In The Mood To Spring Clean

It's amazing to me how easily a family can accumulate stuff. So.Much.Stuff.

I've got this nesting thing going on lately. Everywhere I look, I see clutter. I hate clutter. I am a true believer in "A place for everything and everything in its place".

Yesterday, I threw on my old clothes and sneakers and opened up the crawl space doors. I dislike the crawl space and usually make Mr. Schmitty deal with it. But he was unavailable and I was itching to organize. And seeing as its my nature to be impatient, I decided to suck it up and get to work.

The crawl space is about four foot something high, so I can stand, but I need to duck my head and bend my shoulders forward. It does wonders for my aching back. It is also damp and dusty and usually triggers a slight allergy attack. I pulled out all bags, boxes, and containers, as quickly as possible to minimize my sneezing and to avoid traction.

I was also afraid I would see one of these:

Shiver.

When I was finished, I climbed out and began to make piles. Keep. Toss. Sell. You know, like that show.

I told the kids that they could split the money made on any toys we sold at a garage sale. They all want the new DSi. I figured that was a great bribe incentive to get rid of some of their junk.

Yea, well, I'm a dunce. The minute they started seeing some of the old toys, which I must say were in great shape, they started yelling, "I want that! I love this!"

Now, my crawl space is spotless, except maybe for these:

SHIVER.

The rest of my house? EPIC FAIL!

This Maid's On Strike

I have HAD it!

I can't seem to get anything done around this house anymore. And do you know why? Because no one can lift a finger to help out.

I spend my days picking up this and picking up that. When did I become such an idiot? Give me an IQ test and I rank above average in intelligence. But by the end of EVERY day, I am ranting that I am sick and tired of cleaning up after everyone.

Please hand me my dunce cap.

All I seem to get done during the day is, maybe, a couple of loads of laundry and filling the dishwasher. The balance of the day is spent dealing with the feeding, bathing, and caring of kids.

AND CLEANING UP THEIR SHIT....OVER AND OVER AND OVER.

My house is filthy and I've got piles of work on my desk. I can't get ahead.

Now, I've heard of some moms letting their children keep their room anyway they wish. "It's THEIR room, let them express themselves."

I say bull honky. There is no reason that I have to step over things just to get to their dressers. I shouldn't risk breaking a toe in the middle of the night when I go in to comfort someone with a nightmare. I certainly am not putting up with the smell and the possibility of bugs because who knows what could end up under a pile of clothes.

My kids are responsible for keeping their rooms in order. I don't expect perfection, however, I do expect $50 Wii games to be put in their cases instead of strewn on the floor. Which of course I yell about constantly, to which I'm told, "I didn't do it!"

But it's my own fault. I lecture and threaten. But really? I'm not taking enough action.

So, my new plan? They will be reminded ONCE to put their things away. After that I will pick up said object and place it in a laundry basket. If they want it, they have to EARN it back.

I figure I waste a lot of time during the day doing their job....now they can feel what it's like to be me.

"Oh, you want your Gameboy back? Sure, there is a load of towels in the dryer that needs to be folded and put away."

"Too bad you have Gym at school tomorrow, Oh, you need to wear your sneakers? Well, I found them in the middle of the floor after I tripped on them. Go clean up the dog poop in the back yard and you can have them back."

I think that perhaps when they see it's not easy being me they'll think twice before throwing their stuff around.

Dear Tarjay,

You are my favorite of all stores. I do heart you. However, I am downright upset and frustrated with you at the moment.

Two weeks ago I was happily perusing your lovely aisles. Something I do quite often. I had a small list of items I needed to purchase that day, though I never leave you without a few extra goodies thrown in for good measure.

There was the Transformers birthday present, along with card and gift bag. Some cute Valentine's Day socks I bought for R. They were in the $1 section, no less! She and I were both thrilled.

I rifled through the sock bin, looking for her size. As I was thinking of her feet, it dawned on me that she had grown out of her snow boots from the year before. The shoe department was my next stop.

I hated the idea of having to buy boots, as the past few years have yielded only small amounts of the white stuff, but I also didn't want to be caught off guard. I needed something to keep my little girl's feet toasty and dry.

I started going up and down the aisles of girl's shoes. Sneakers, sandals, and flip flops. Hmmm, maybe I missed them. I retraced my steps. More flip flops, oh and swim shoes. I looked across the way, bathing suits and terry cover ups, as far as the eye could see.

Not one stinking pair of boots. NOT.ONE!

I know people go on vacation in the winter. Most go to warm, tropical places. I know they may need a swimsuit or two. Maybe a new pair of slip-on shoes.

BUT IT'S JANUARY, PEOPLE. JANUARY IN JERSEY!

It is neither warm nor tropical here. It's freaking cold out. It's snowy, icy, and wet. I should be able to buy my daughter a pair of snow boots.

I can't wait for summer either, but please, can you at least wait until March next time?

Yours truly,

Mrs. Schmitty

If The Shoe Fits, Kick Yourself In The Arse

THIS is a triangle:THIS is the color red:

THESE are letters:

D, E, I, L, Y

When you put THEM together you get THIS:The Wikipedia definition of THAT is THIS:

A Yield traffic sign indicates that a vehicle driver must slow down and prepare to stop if necessary — usually while merging into traffic on another road but needn't stop if there is no reason to do so.

Note the enhanced version of THAT definition:

A Yield traffic sign indicates that a vehicle driver must slow down and prepare to stop if necessary—usually while merging into traffic on another road but needn't stop if there is no reason to do so.

For the idiot moron asshat school bus driver that failed to observe THOSE rules in Jersey last week, please consider THIS your lesson for today.

THAT is all.

Those That Shall Remain Nameless

Do you know what I hate about my blog? I hate that many times I can't find a topic to write about. Actually, scratch that. I have TONS and TONS of topics to write about, I just don't.

Want to know why? Because I'm a nice person, dammit.

I write at the expense of my dear Mr. Schmitty and my three beautiful children. I post about my yappy dog. I even poke fun at myself, on occasion. But I'm allowed to diss my family. Mr. Schmitty is fair game because believe me, he isn't exactly an angel himself. He hands it to me quite often enough. My dog, well, she's just a dog. And considering the hell I went through to conceive and birth my children, well, it's my entitlement to mess with them and tell the world about it. Right?!

My loyal readers seem to enjoy those posts. I've been told from time to time that I have indeed gotten a giggle, if not a full blown soda-out-the-nose-snort, from one of my tales.

But I have to admit, my friends, that you are being jilted. I have so much more to give you. I just can't.

Yea, that niceness thing again.

Much to my chagrin, I'm surrounded by great material. Material that is doing me absolutely no good, because I have to actually SEE these people. I have to interact with them and play, yes, NICE.

There are so many people in my life that are just tempting me. Those bastards. They are dangling that proverbial carrot right in front of me. It's hanging there, all orange and fresh, beckoning me to pounce on it. But I resist.

BECAUSE.I'M.NICE!

Many of these juicy stories come from people I may have to deal with for the rest of my life. There is a plethora of hilarious (at least to me) incidents, moments, and observations that I'm just aching to put into words on this blog.

BUT.I.AM.TOO.FREAKING.NICE!

I'm just busting at the seams with their priceless drama, so much so, that it just makes my head spin. And I just hate the fact, that I can't share my sitcom of a life with you, because I believe you would truly pee yourself laughing.

Yes, some of them are THAT entertaining.

I hope someday that I will grow a set. Or they will piss me off one too many times. Or someone will offer me big dough to write a book or something. Because then? All bets are off.

Until then, Mrs. Too Freaking Nice (aka...Mrs. Wimp-ass) is signing off.

I'm Going To Start Stapling Things To His Head

Do any of you have a husband that constantly loses his belongings? His car keys, cell phone, wallet? Well, I do.

It's a good thing the family jewels are attached to his body because we may never have had children.

Mr. Schmitty claims, when he is searching frantically for the above mentioned objects, that they are NOT lost. They are simply misplaced.

I have a theory that we must have a goblin living in our house, that mischievous bastard! And for some reason he's got a thorn in his ass for the Mr. because only HIS things disappear.

For instance, one day last week, the little peckerhead (the goblin, not Mr. Schmitty, of course) must have gotten a hold of the wallet. We searched high and low for it. In my husband's work truck, the minivan, and the front yard. We combed the whole house. Nada.

He researched the work truck, while I rechecked the minivan, front yard, and house. Nope. Nothing. Zilch.

I was beginning a slow boil. I really didn't want to spend all afternoon cancelling credit cards and atm cards. FREAKING CHRISTMAS IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER! I didn't want to wait for new plastic to get here!

I heard Mr. Schmitty in the kitchen. He had placed his gym bag on the counter.

"Did you look in there?" I asked, trying not to spit venom. He was digging into my free time. I mean c'mon, the kids were in SCHOOL!!

"Yes."

"Did you look through EVERYTHING? EVERY pocket? Did you take things out or just move them around?"

He looked annoyingly at me and said, "Of course I checked everything! It's not there."

"Okay, okay!" I said as I walked past the counter, "I belie.........OH MY GOD!!!"

"What?"

"OH MY FREAKING......OH MY GAAAAAAAAAAAWD!"

"WHAT?!"

I didn't say another word, I just reached in the opened, side pocket of the gym bag and pulled out his wallet. I had glanced down on my way past the counter and there it was, clear as day.

The neighbors must have thought we were having the best slammin' sex in the world because all I could do for the next five minutes was yell, "OH.MY.GOD!"

Kiss My Grits

Do you know what I really hate? Snobby people. People that think their shit doesn't stink. People that look down their nose at others. Biotches that talk your ear off one minute and completely snub you the next.

What am I in frackin' high school?! Puuuuulease.

Yes, girlfriend, I'm talking to you! The one that so happens to have a daughter in R.'s Pre-K class and a son in T.'s Kindergarten class. And guess who my kiddies are playing with every day?

Yup.

Listen Mrs.-I-Don't-Even-Know-What-Your-Name-IS, I thought you were nice. I thought we could be friendly. I'm a very friendly person. I can be quiet, sometimes shy, but I always offer everyone in my path a smile.

Every afternoon we engage in small talk, as we sit outside the school building on that hard, stone wall, waiting for our girls to be dismissed. Yesterday we laughed as our daughter's walked like crabs in the hallway. It was a skill they learned together in gym class last week.

Tonight was Open House. We had to sit in our child's seat during the teacher's presentation. (You should have seen me getting my fat tush in that itty bitty chair. SNORT!)

T.'s seat is right next to your son's. I sat, hoping not to break the chair, and said, "Wow, our boys are in the same class too!"

You looked at me and then looked away.

[crickets chirping]

Oh no she diin't!

You sat next to me the entire thirty minutes. Right.Next.To.Me. And did not say a word. Not.One.Word!

I should have fallen on her when I was trying to get out of my chair. That would have taught her a lesson!

Who the heck does she think she is? I'm a veteran at this school! Her oldest is in Kindergarten, she's too wet behind the ears to be pulling that crap! She doesn't know who she's dealing with. I KNOW PEOPLE! Heh.

Anyway, that felt good. Tomorrow? I won't save her a spot on the wall.

What Goes Around Comes Around

Yesterday in the parking lot of the grocery store, an old, brown Bronco, driven by a young, twenty-something boy, passed by me. The windows were rolled down and the boy had his music blaring so loudly that you couldn't make out anything but the pounding bass. On the back window of the SUV were the written words, "Benny Go Home", in large painted letters. I walked away wondering two things. I wondered how many times the kid got his heiny beat because of his freedom of speech. I also wondered if the kid understood the meaning of "Benny" because he certainly wasn't being respectful of the locals with the way he was forcing us to listen to his tunes.

I live at the Jersey Shore, a beautiful area that is overrun with tourists in the summer. A lot of the summer guests rent homes for about three months out of the year. The season begins Memorial Day weekend and ends Labor Day weekend. For the people who live here all year round, those 12-13 weeks can be filled with some annoying encounters.

I am a pretty friendly person. But when I cross paths with an actual Benny, it is hard not to want to tell them to go home. I really have to bite my tongue sometimes.

For instance, last night Mr. Schmitty was working an all night, overtime shift and W. was sleeping at a friend's house. T. and R. were restless, so I decided to take them to McDonald's for dinner. When they were done eating they wanted, of course, to go into the Play Place.

While they were playing, I sat in a chair and watched them laugh and chase each other. I also watched, as a two year old boy stood on another chair, screamed for his mother, and smeared his tear-ridden snot all over the glass window. Where was Mom? She sat in the dining area. She smiled at him, waved, and continued to take turns chatting on her cell phone and then to another woman who was seated next to her eating an ice cream cone.

I also watched,as a six year old girl climbed up the play structure, and mooned the entire room. She was wearing a skirt, I would refer to as a hoochie skirt, if she had been older. It was about two sizes too small for the girl, as must have been her underwear, because that was up her butt like a thong.

The mother must have noticed the display of flesh because she suddenly appeared in the room and shouted in her NativeCityThatIWon'tMentionByNameButRymesWithYouFork accent, "Nina, get down and pull your panties out of your crack."

Nice.

She then picked up, the now slobbering two year old boy, off the chair and placed him on the floor. Oh fancy that, he's hers too. She plopped down on a bench and shooed him away so her friend could sit. She then began complaining about not being able to find competent cleaning ladies in this town. She then turned to a Mexican woman, who was sitting next to me, and asked her if she cleaned houses.

OH.YES.SHE.DID!

I couldn't take anymore. I called for T. and R. to get their shoes. As I was strapping R.'s sandals, I heard the obnoxious voice again. She was now standing and looking down at her feet. Her son had puked on her freshly painted pedicure.

Karma, baby!

Forget The Zohan....You Don't Mess With Mrs. Schmitty!

I had a meeting with the kids on the first day of summer vacation. I told them they were still going to take care of the few chores they had. Daily. Not just when they felt like doing them. They all have their lists of chores and things they need to do, like brush their teeth and hair, get dressed, etc. You know, the things that they have been doing like, forever. The things I, for some reason, need to remind them to do. Daily. Next thing you know I'll be reminding them to breathe.

They are to do all of these things BEFORE friends come over or video games are played. I think that's fair because once fun time begins, well, forget about anything being accomplished.

This morning I found them, in pajamas, rooms a mess, playing Wii. W. was asking if friends could come over. ARE YA KIDDING ME?!

It's only been 3 days since the meeting.

"T., get dressed, please." "T., GET DRESSED!" "HELLLLLOOOOOOO?!" He then began his recent habit of arguing with me. I threatened soap on the tongue.

I told W. to turn off the Wii and clean the pig sty he called a room. He continued to set up a game. "Don't start that game!" I said. He started the game. UUUUUUUUUGH!

I turned off the tv and game console. I started freaking out on them. I think I was justified.

I came downstairs, steam coming out of my ears.

Mr. Schmitty says to me, "When I get back from W.'s church camp meeting, why don't you go back to sleep."

HUH? "Everyone around here ignores me so I flip out. Then YOU tell me I need more sleep?! That's why I flipped?! Are you serious?!

He knew he was doomed. It was almost as bad as the time he excused my justified yelling for PMS. NEVER.EVER.EVER tell a woman, "that's okay, honey, I know you are just PMSing." NEVER.

I told him to go away before I smacked him with the laundry basket I was holding. Any of you that read my blog regularly, know, I may not be able to kick his butt physically, BUT, I will triumph in my own sneaky way. I'm vindictive that way.

I waited for him to get in the shower. I walked in, flushed the toilet and then proceed to pour a glass of, from our cooler, ice cold water over the top of the shower curtain. He was scorched and then I dowsed the burn...'cause I'm thoughtful that way.

"Smell it, smell it, smell it, now take it!"

I'm Thinking Of Quiting The Internet

A few weeks ago my computer freaked out on me. It was running slower than snail poop and it was driving me C-R-A-Z-Y. I Googled for some insight, because that's what I do, I Google. Everything.

Now mind you, I'm not a computer geek genius, though I do know a few things, and am pretty good at figuring things out on my own. Strangely, computer stuff comes easily to me. It's a gift.

I concluded that my computer was probably overloaded with spyware. Considering that I am on the internet working reading blogs so much, it's highly likely that this was the problem. All of the advice out there in the blogosphere said to download AdAware. THEY said that after running it, AdAware would take care of all that naughty, nasty spy and adware. No sweat. 'Cause you know, THEY said it. Plus I had Googled it.

I downloaded the program and ran it. Much to my amazement and complete disgust, my computer had about 837 traces of that SNEAKY stuff in MY stuff! Oh step off, yo!

I clicked on the quarantine button and then deleted these little nuisances. I smiled. I rid my baby of those icky bugs. All I had to do was reboot.

I waited for the computer to run through the startup process. I clicked on my personal icon and the computer read, "saving settings, logging off." It went back to my icon. I tried again. And again. And Again. AND.FRICKIN'.AGAIN. @#((*#&$(WY@)@!!!!!!!

Now, to make a looooooooong story short. A computer geek nerd genius needed to come by. After showing me what a real gift for computers was like and $350.00 later, he gave me some new advice on what spyware program I needed to use. I nodded. I would do anything he said because I had my baby back. Oh how I missed her.

I immediately purchased said spyware program. I was TOLD it was the fairest in the land. If this is so, then will someone please, please answer me a question? Why, as I am catching up on mommy blogs, will my browser spontaneously direct me to such lovely sites as;

• runforcover(dot)com ~ the r has been changed from a c and the n from an m to avoid traffic from the freaks actually looking for the site. Weren't they so clever when selecting their domain name?
  
• ihavenoideawhatthissiteiscalledbecauseiclickedoutsofrickinfast(dot)com ~ let me just say that what I did see pop up on my screen involved a female body part and a body part that should have been boxing someone not playing puppeteer.

How's that for a visual? Can you imagine if my kids were using my computer? W. would have been traumatized for life. Hell, I think I am.

Drop And Give Me Twenty!

Lately, I'm beginning to feel like a Drill Sergeant with my kids. The only way I can get them to do anything is to bark orders at them.

"Do your homework!" "Brush your teeth!" "Massage my feet!" "Get in the shower!" "Get out of the shower!"

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't start off spewing obscenities raising my voice. I do begin by requesting they do these things. I use my sweet toned-voice. I say please. But after doing so FIFTY.FREAKING.TIMES, I kind of lose it.

Take today, for instance. W. came home from school and our normal routine began. I looked through his backpack while he got himself a snack. While he ate and I looked over papers, I asked him about his day. I got the usual answers to my questions. "Fine" and "Nothing".

As soon as he scarfed down his chocolate chip muffins and washed it down with some milk, he was out the back door. I let him blow off a little steam when he gets home. He's allowed to play in the yard for about 45 minutes before homework begins.

I glance at the table where he has left his paper plate, cup, and crumbs. Again. You see my kids are suppose to actually clean up after themselves before they leave the table. You know, because I'm such a slave driver and all.

I open the screen to the back door. "W. could you come in here and clean up your snack mess, please?"

No response. He doesn't even look in my direction and continues kicking the ball at to his brother.

Maybe he didn't hear me. I'm pretty sure he did, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

I speak a little louder, "Excuse me, W.? You need to come in here and clean up your place at the table."

Nada. No reaction at all. He's now running around the yard screeching in that God-awful, high-pitched voice he uses just to piss off the elderly couple next door. I'm sure that's not his intention, but usually the end result, nonetheless.

AAAAAHHHHHHHH! "W.! GET YOUR BUTT IN HERE-NOW!!!" I scream, not caring at this point who the heck hears me.

"Oh my GOD, MOM!" he says, as though I just hit him in the head with a baseball bat. Not that I didn't think about it. I mean it was just lying there on the ground, all metal and gleaming, calling out to me. "Pick me up, pick me up."

"I asked you three times to come in and clean up your place!"

He whizzes past me and says, "I didn't hear you!"

I almost tripped him. "The whole freaking neighborhood heard me!"

"Well, do you have to yell?"

"Do I have to yell? If I whispered the ice cream truck is coming, do you want some? That you'd hear!"

"Um, yea...."

I'm wondering, is selective hearing an ailment? Is it a virus? I'm thinking it may be hereditary. I'm betting, that if researched, scientists would find that the gene comes from the male species.

Because in the Schmitty house, the apple don't fall far from the tree!

Attention: Complaints Department

Dear Manager of Idiots Petco,

I was in your store last week with my 4 year old daughter, R. You see, she has taken a liking to the baby fish that are in my son's Pre-K classroom. She likes to visit them on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, just to say hi. I decided that maybe I should buy her some fishes of her own so she could see them everyday. I also thought it a good idea to get some for her brothers because you can't buy for one and not the others.

After she said goodbye to the baby fishes as we dropped her brother off at school, we headed off to see what you had to offer. And let me say now, it wasn't much.

I did find the mini aquariums that I wanted. And there were 3 of the 1.5 gallon tanks. Perfect. We grabbed some gravel; blue and green, rainbow, and hot pink. Check. We picked up a few other little accessories. 3 of each, to be completely fair.

Now, to pick out some fish. I must say I wasn't thrilled with the selection, but this was going to be for young kids. They didn't care what kind of fish, they just wanted their own pets to love.

I let my daughter choose the ones she liked. She pointed at a tank filled with rainbow colored guppies. Great....now to find someone to help me.

Seems that's a big problem in your store. As I searched around for an employee, it came to me. Even though I had been in the fish department quite a while, not one person asked if I needed help. Did anyone work there? I know you didn't have many customers, but there had to be more than just the dead animal on his head wearing toupee wearing gentleman working at the checkout.

I looked around some corners. Ahhh Haaa! I found the guy. "Excuse me, could you help me get some fish?" I asked.

"Hold on, I'll be right back," he responded. I nodded, maybe he was helping someone else. A few minutes later he did, indeed, walk by with two bags of fish. Then he disappeared.

R. and I continued to look at the fish. She was beginning to get antsy to leave. So was I. 10 minutes later, still no sign of the guy. Now, had I been alone, I would have abandoned my full cart and left the store. But R. would have freaked. She was too excited.

I looked around for the guy, as I grew increasingly annoyed. I saw three men standing, huddled, near an office door. Suddenly one turned towards me, a large neanderthal man headed my way. I thought to myself, "Finally!"

I saw on your name tag that you were the manager, though I missed your name because you proceeded to walk right past me.

"Um, excuse me?" I asked. "Can someone help me with the fish?"

In a very nasty tone you replied, "He's coming. He didn't forget about you. He cut his finger." You kept walking.

He cut his finger? On what? A dorsal fin?

And what about you? Are you unable to catch fish? Is it some sort of disability? Or just not in your job description?

The guy finally fixed his boo-boo and came over. I told him that I needed 15 fish and 3 snails. He went to work on catching the guppies with his trusty net. He kind of reminded me of Patrick Star from Spongebob.

OH.MY.GOD! I don't know if it was the guy's first day and he wasn't quite experienced with the ways of the net or it was his coke-bottle glasses that were throwing off his depth perception. I thought I would die of old age in that store! And then the moron guy dropped one of the poor creatures on the floor. He pinched at it numerous times, probably gouging it's sides with his fingernails, before he was able to pick it up.

And do you know what he did? He put that one in the bunch for me to buy! OH.YES.HE.DID! I told him to get rid of it.

When my torture was over, I paid and left. I went home and my daughter and I set up the tanks. The time to place the fish in their new homes arrived and I opened the bag that the guy had given me.

4 were swimming on their backs. Are you kidding me? I divided the remainder of the fish between the tanks and the kids began naming their new charges.

Minutes ticked by. I kept checking the tanks, as I was quite uneasy with how some of the fish looked. One by one my son T.'s fish started to go belly up. I can't even begin to describe to you the tears that flowed. Just know you should be ashamed of yourself.

By the next morning we had 2 fish left. I began to think I did something wrong, that I was to blame.

My husband and I packed up our kids and went to your competition. Yes, that's right, we went to PetSmart. I should have gone there in the first place. I usually do, I just happened to be in your neck of the woods the day before and I wanted to save gas in my van. My mistake.

We purchased 15 new fish. It is now a week later and they are thriving, buddy! THRIVING! I even think one or two are pregnant, so my daughter will be getting her babies after all. No thanks to you!

In case you haven't gotten the gist of this letter, I want a refund. Just so you know, I will be including a copy of my receipt. I would be including the dead fish too, whose death toll has risen to 15, but my children felt the need to give them a burial at sea. I couldn't deny them that. And honestly, I don't think the post office would deliver something that smelly.


Mrs. Schmitty

P.S. And a refund means cash, no store credit please, as I won't be stepping foot in your store again.

Lock Me Up And Throw Away The Key

Mr. Schmitty has been working the later shift all week. This leaves me alone to run the joint. The kids have been fairly cooperative, which is lucky for them.

For those of you who don't know, I have been diagnosed with PMDD (Premenstrual dysphoric disorder). PMDD is a severe form of PMS which affects about 5% of menstruating women. Not every month is as bad as others, but some months are REALLY bad.

That would be this month.

I am the most irritable, moody bitch right now. I don't want to be a mom, I don't want to be a wife, hell, I don't even want to be in the same room with myself. I just want everyone to leave me alone. Don't touch me, don't talk to me, and seriously, don't piss me off.

And pissing me off is easily done at the moment. Like, don't breathe, k?

I've been channeling Linda Blair all week. My head's all spinning and I keep spewing out curse words in foreign languages.

This I do, of course, in my own head because, well, I don't want to lose the kids to foster care. On the outside I'm all, "Sure, honey" "Of course, sweetie". On the inside, I'm ready to run screaming from the house.

I have to keep my cool. The kids aren't the problem, the dog isn't the problem, hell, Mr. Schmitty isn't even the problem! Well, at least this time he isn't.

I have absolutely no one to pawn the blame off on. I have to take full credit for my foul attitude. It's me and my screwed up hormonal system.

It sucks to be a girl.

I Told You So

W. has completely outgrown his bicycle. When I say outgrown, I mean outgrown! It's bad. His knees practically hit the steering wheel. Mr. Schmitty and I have been casually looking at different ones for the past few months but have put it off because, well, it's been winter.

The weather has changed. It's been gorgeous. It was time to buy the poor kid a bike before he jammed a knee cap.

Mr. Schmitty and I were at Target on Friday. While I was looking at the clearance racks he walked up and said that he found a great bike. He wanted me to take a look.

It was a cool looking one, however, I had one problem. It was a 24 inch bike. I told him it was too tall for W.

He told me, that a guy at a bicycle shop, told him, that an almost 10 year old should be riding a 24 inch.

I asked how he could say that without even seeing W. get on a bike. He's not short, but he's not tall either. I think 24 inches is too high.

Mr. Schmitty disagreed, I guess because he's a MAN and because another MAN said that his SON should be riding a 24 inch bike...well dammit...he SHOULD be riding a 24 inch bike!

His son is almost 10. He has yet to understand his son. He has yet to know what reactions his son can have. He.is.fricking.clueless.

I kept that thought to myself. I gave my objections another shot. "It's twice the size he is used to. It also has hand breaks, which he's not used to. He's going to be scared and freak."

"He'll be fine."

"Fine.Whatever."

W. was thrilled to see his new bike sitting in the living room when he got home from school. He buckled on his helmet and had Mr. Schmitty bring it outside right away.

He could barely swing his leg over the seat. The bike tipped. Mr. Schmitty had to hold it up.

I stood, arms crossed, shaking my head.

He straddled the bike. He was on tip-toe. I was thinking one false move, and I won't be a grandma some day.

W. jumped up on the seat and tried to peddle. He jumped down, swung his leg back over the seat and threw his helmet across the driveway.

"THE.BIKE.IS.TOO.BIG!!!" He begins to cry and scream.

Mr. Schmitty looks at me with a total look of defeat.

There is only one thing left for me to say, "Need the receipt, dear?"