Because of Bella

 

My daughter has an unusual excuse that she uses when she tries to explain her way out of something. When posed with the question, “Why did you do that?” a lot of children might rattle off a number of excuses, such as:

  • It wasn’t me.
  • I don’t know.
  • Because I did.
  • Because I was mad.
  • Because the thing in the closet told me to.

(P.S. if your child ever says that last one, move immediately. Nothing ever good comes out of a child saying something like that)

My child, however, likes to use this one:

Me: “Nellie. Why did you get in trouble at school?”
Nellie: “Because of Bella.”

Me: “Nellie, why did you throw that toy?!”
Nellie: “Because of Bella.”

Me: “Nellie! Why did you take off your Pull-Up and poop on the floor?!
Nellie: “Because of Bella.”

Bella is my best friend Rachel’s little girl. They are the same age. And apparently, Bella is Nellie’s scapegoat.

The other night, we were driving to the store when we discovered that Bella was at it again. Nellie was whining that her butt hurt. Nellie whines that her butt hurts a lot. I am pretty sure it’s her go-to “feel sorry for me” complaint, and I also suspect that she doesn’t really mean “hurt”. She says that when she has to pee sometimes, so I don’t think she really knows how to articulate having to pee.

So anyway, we pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot and had the following exchange:

Nellie: “My butt hurts.”
Me: “Your butt hurts?”
Nellie: “Yeah.”
Josh: “Why does your butt hurt?”
Nellie: “Because of Bella.”

We rolled our eyes with a little laugh and decided to humor her.

Me: “Oh, really. What did Bella do that makes your butt hurt? Did she bite it?”

Nellie was silent for a minute, and then:

Nellie: “No. Bella bit me. On the penis.”

……………… Well that’s a HELL of a thing to accuse your best friend of doing, especially when YOU DON’T HAVE A PENIS FOR HER TO BITE. We’ve had discussions with Nellie about what parts she has, but clearly it’s time for a refresher course. And in the meantime, I think it’s time I had a discussion with my friend Rachel about keeping her daughter’s teeth away from my daughter’s non-existent penis.

I’M WATCHING YOU, BELLA.

 

 

My Famous Vagina

So I had a little discussion with some blogging friends of mine not too long ago. They’ve been a source of inspiration for me lately – go figure. Creative women + a little beer = blogging gold. We had a discussion about “famous encounters and connections” recently, and one of mine elicitied a “OMFG BLOG ABOUT THIS. NOW.” reaction so like a good little blogger, I obliged.

Thanks for the suggestion, Suzanne!

SO. My claims to fame. Most of them are nothing fancy or special. Like, most of them are actually secondhand. For example:

  • My dad was Vanessa Redgrave’s chauffer for a summer when he was like, twelve. Did you also know that back in the middle ages – when my dad was young – they gave driver licenses to twelve year olds? Did you also know that in the middle ages they had vehicles, and also Vanessa Redgrave? Now you know. (SIDE NOTE: it’s totally fine if you don’t know who Vanessa Redgrave is. Click here for more information)
  • My grandma was Natalie Wood’s secretary.
  • She was also a contestant on the Price is Right. The awesome Price is Right with Bob Barker – not the imposter Price is Right with Drew fucking Carey. She won everything. Like, the whole show. She won a dune buggy, and a grandfather clock, and some other useless shit that I’m sure she sold for money. I don’t really know – it was before I was born.
  • My mother claimed that she slept with Chuck Norris, BUT, my mother also once claimed that a raccoon bit her on the leg and she yelled at it to make it go away, SO THERE’S THAT.

I digress. Back to my famous encounters and connections. I don’t have many, but I do have these:

  • I once saw Paul Shaffer in an airport in Florida. I was on a band/choir trip, and a bunch of the band dudes were geeking out. They were all “ZOMG PAUL SHAFFER” and I was like “Hurr?” So they all swarmed him at a magazine stand or something, and I stood there pretending like I knew what was going on. He was a dick. (Don’t know who he is? It’s ok, I didn’t either.
  • I have seen Ricky Martin in concert. TWICE. IT COUNTS. Right?

That’s about it, except I am forgetting my number one claim to fame. It’s going to blow your damn mind. Are you ready?

When 16 and Pregnant made its debut, I was bound and determined to catch the first episode, for two reasons. One, because I, too, was pregnant (though not 16. Irrelevant.) AND the first girl was from Chattanooga. I watched as Maci navigated her way through the complicated waters of teen pregnancy, fought with her babydaddy, ate at Rain (a local Thai “bistro”.. what a fucking pretentious word, by the way. BISTRO.  You’re a damn restaurant. STOP IT.) and rode four-wheelers while like, nine hundred weeks pregnant.

Anyway I was sitting there, watching, when she had a doctor visit. She was lying there, all pregnant and waiting for her doctor and I thought, “That waiting room looks awfully familiar”. Then her doctor came in, and spoke to her (but the camera still didn’t show her face) and I thought, “That doctor sounds awfully familiar”.

Then the camera panned to the doctor’s face, and I realized:

MACI’S VAGINA DOCTOR WAS ALSO MY VAGINA DOCTOR. DO YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS MEANS?

What this means, my friends, is that Maci’s vagina doctor has looked at her vagina – because she’s a vagina doctor – AND HAS ALSO LOOKED AT MY VAGINA. What does this make my vagina?

PRACTICALLY. FAMOUS. Maci’s vagina and my vagina are pretty much like, BFFs. We should probably go get them vajazzled together or something. Is vajazzling still a thing? I don’t know, when you have a kid you lose touch with pretty much everything that’s cool. AM I RIGHT? Yes. Yes I am.

So anyway, Maci has gone on to be part of the popular show Teen Mom, and I’m left wondering… What about me and my (almost) famous vagina, Maci? What about it? Remember that time we went to the same crotch doc? Remember when we were going to go vajazzling?  No? Pff. I see how it is. You get all famous and forget your kindred vagina spirits (here’s another one of mine, by the way).

So that’s the story of my famous vagina. I hope you enjoyed it. By the way, this post was also partially inspired by a quote that I thought was Hemingway, but I just did a little Googling and it’s not. But here’s the quote anyway: “Write drunk, edit sober”.

The end.

 

 

Ten Things I’d Rather Do Than Listen to Nickleback

I’m back! It’s me! Hooray! I had a great time in Chicago but it’s good to be back home. As my first post back home

Ten Things I’d Rather Do Than Listen to Nickleback

We have a running joke in my office about how horrible Nickleback is and how much we all hate them. Sometimes we’ll “Rick Roll” each other with surprise Nickleback videos and then scream how much we hate the person that got us. Fun times. I decided to come up with a list of ten things I’d rather do than listen to Nickleback. Enjoy.

10. Lick an alligator on the face
9. Be stung by a jellyfish
8. Watch Freddy Got Fingered one hundred and twenty two times – in a row
7. Chew on a rock for nine hours
6. Drink a bottle of Jagermeister and then ride on a roller coaster
5. Fight a kangaroo
4. Shave my elbow skin
3. Be a door to door salesperson for toilet seats in the shape of Lady GaGa
2. Get a tattoo that says “Bieber Fever”. On my face.
1. Swan dive into a swimming pool filled with rocks, hypodermic needles, and vipers

SO, there you have it. My list of ten things I’d rather do than listen to Nickleback. May seem extreme to some, but if you are like me you’d do just about anything to never have to hear Chad Kroger’s awful voice or see his stupid hair again. One day Canada will be punished for producing the asshattery that is Nickleback. And on that day, I will point and laugh for hours

The She-Stache.

One of the downfalls of being dark-headed is that hair shows up everywhere. Unless you’re not into the whole shaving thing, you HAVE to shave or else you look like a big, fuzzy bear. I have light-headed friends who declare that they never have to shave their legs and I usually shut them up by “accidentally” elbowing them in the face. Oops, was that your nose? Sorry.

I’ve noticed that on certain areas of my body, my hair seems to be darkening the older I get. Or maybe it’s post-pregnancy hormones. Or maybe I’m slowly turning into a werewolf. Regardless of the reason, I’ve begun to develop more and more of what I call a “she-stache” over the past few years. My “she-stache” used to not be that bad. It was kind of pesky, noticeable to me but to my knowledge no one ever took note of it before. I had tried various hair removals, including one unfortunate incident with a depilatory cream where I left it on too long, burned my upper lip and ended up looking like Two-Face. I also tried that NADS (heh. Heh heh.) stuff that’s like honey or sugar or molasses or some shit that you smear on your face and then rip off. It worked pretty well, except for the fact that for some reason the stuff made me break out on my upper lip. And I’m not talking just a few measly little bumps, I’m talking deep and painful pimples that lasted for weeks. I thought perhaps it was just the brand, so I wisely chose a different brand of skin-remover upper-lip wax and got the same results: huge zits from the depths of hell.

I gave up on removing the hair from my face, resigning myself to my fate. Then I got pregnant and after my first trimester, I looked like a magical glowing unicorn from heaven. Seriously, I looked awesome when I was pregnant. My skin was clear, my hair was great and aside from some massive stray hairs on my protruding belly and boobs (which freaked my husband out) my face-fur was pretty well under control. Then I gave birth and my body was like “WHAT THE HELL? Did you just push a MINIATURE HUMAN BEING OUT OF YOUR HOO-HA? I’m FREAKING OUT. PIMPLES. WOLF HAIR. UNCONTROLLABLE FLATULENCE. BODY ODORRRRR. ” and my “she-stache” (whom I’ve since named Shelly. Shelly She-Stache) came back with a vengeance. I stare at her with loathing each day, hoping that somehow my eyes will suddenly emit lasers that will burn the bitch off my face but that never happens. Because science is stupid and hasn’t invented laser eyes yet. What the fuck, science?

I guess that Shelly and I are stuck together until I find some kind of hair removal that doesn’t peel layers of my skin off or summon forth the Satan Pimples. Any suggestions or helpful tips are welcome but please say them discreetly because I think Shelly’s begun developing intelligence and I don’t really want to anger her. *side eye*

 

Making An Appearance at BlogHer

Thanks to two of my best bloggy friends Beth and Katie, even though I can’t be at BlogHer in person this year, I will sort of be there. Behold: Popsicle-Stick Natalie.

Watch the fuck OUT, Sparklecorn. Popsicle-Stick Natalie is coming to the party to tear shit up. When she gets drunk she likes to headbutt people and call everyone “bitch”. She also may be participating in a fierce flash mob. She’s already prepared for the amazing BlogHer parties with her makeup and glittery outfit and BlogHer isn’t until TOMORROW. THAT’S HOW HARDCORE THIS BITCH IS.

Thanks, Katie and Beth for bringing me along to BlogHer. Be sure to take lots of pictures. And for those of you who are attending, if you happen to see Popsicle-Stick Natalie don’t be afraid to go up and say hi. Sometimes she bites though, so watch out.

 

When Internetz Meets Real Life.

I’ve come to realize that there are a few different ways people view the internet nowadays. For some, it’s scary and almost a thing of myth. For others it’s confusing and frustrating. There are folks who know it exist, use it to check their “Facepages” and “Tweeters” but only about once a week. And then there are people like me, who pretty much breathe Internet.

Sometimes, my Internet world and the world of those oblivious to all of the wonders the web holds collide. Tonight was one of those nights.

We were walking downtown and veered into an ice cream shop. As we were waiting in line, I noticed a skinny teenage girl looking at me with her head tilted slightly. I blinked at her and she laughed.
“I was trying to read your t-shirt.”
“Oh,” I said with a chuckle.
Awkward silence.
“….What does it say?” she prompted.
Way to go, slick. Social skills. I has them.

Now, the t-shirt in question is a gray shirt with the words “HONEY BADGER DON’T CARE” on it, and a picture of a fierce-ass honey badger. I love it and wear it at least once a week, because I’m fucking awesome.

“Oh…” I began. “It says, ‘honey badger don’t care.’”
She stared at me.
“What does that mean?”
I laughed.
“Oh! It’s this really funny video… Thing… On.. the…….. Internet….. It’s.. Um.. Funny.. On YouTube.”
She was like: *blank stare*
“Oh…” she trailed off, looking confused.

Awwwwkkkkkwwwaaarrrdddd.

I realized then that unlike myself, some people do not enjoy spending their free time on blogs, Facebook, and YouTube looking up Auto-Tuned newscasts or hilariously narrated videos about vicious wild animals. Some people go outside, play frisbee, hike, and do other things that don’t involve honey badgers and parody commercials. I felt really awkward and dorky for a second, and then I started thinking about how funny honey badger was and decided I didn’t care what the teenage ice cream girl thought of me.

Honey badger and I have two things in common. We’re both mean and like to eat bees, and we both don’t give a shit. Okay so that was three things. Shut up. Here, go watch this brilliant auto-tune video of a crazy lady talking about a robbery.

P.S. If you’ve never seen honey badger, check it out here. It’s not safe for work, or little ears. But it is funny as shit.

 

The Nellie 2010 Human Alarm Clock

Tired of wondering and worrying whether or not you forgot to set your alarm, or if it will go off at all in the morning? Maybe it’s time you stopped relying on a machine to wake you up and started using the Human Alarm Clock system! With the Human Alarm Clock system, you have a reliable and foolproof way of ensuring that you never sleep in again. Ever. For the rest of your life.

Introducing The Nellie 2010! The Nellie 2010 is reliable and trustworthy when it comes to waking you up from even the deepest sleep.  Do you crave variety and get tired of hearing the same old sound each and every morning? Well, the Nellie 2010 has three settings: coo, whine, and scream and you never know which sound you’re gonna get! It’s a fun surprise every single morning of your life, forever and ever!

The Nellie 2010 is guaranteed to make sure you are awake when you need to be. She is so guaranteed to make sure you’re awake on time, that she often goes off 15 to 30 minutes before you planned on being awake! Now that’s an alarm clock that you can rely on to do the job right! Did I mention that you never, ever again have to worry about sleeping in? Ever? I mentioned that, right?

The Nellie 2010 tends to soil herself from time to time but clean-up is easy with a few swipes of a baby wipe. She needs regular feeding and lots of hugs and snuggles. To ensure the Nellie 2010 keeps in proper working order, praise her and love her regularly. The Nellie 2010 also works as:

  • A means of exercise (running after her)
  • A vacuum (eating goldfish crackers off the floor)
  • Cat trainer (her constant shrieking keeps felines in line)
  • Recording system (you say it, she repeats it)
  • Comic relief
  • Heart warmer
  • Expert cuddler

The Nellie 2010 is not available in stores. Please inquire in the comments if interested. The Nellie 2010 is prone to sudden fits of whining, tantrums and screaming. Mommy Boots is not responsible for any havoc and destruction the Nellie 2010 may wreak. By acquiring the Nellie 2010, you acknowledge that you will pretty much never sleep past 6:00 A.M. ever again.

 

 

Your Fancy Period

If you are a woman, you know that having your period? It sucks. It sucks ass. It’s painful, it’s messy, and it makes you feel slightly homicidal. All of those ads that tell you to “have a happy period” and show women like, horseback riding and playing volleyballs and shit make you furious, don’t they? When I have my period, I want to sit on the couch and watch Steel Magnolias while shoveling enough chocolate to kill a large dog into my mouth. I sure as hell don’t want to ride a fucking horse and the only thing I want to hit a volleyball at? Pretty much anyone who speaks to me or looks at me funny.

So when I was browsing through the sale papers yesterday and came across this ad, I stopped in my tracks and laughed out loud. The geniuses in the feminine product business have come up with a brilliant way to make your period fun. Not just fun, but artistic and fabulous! Behold, the maxi pad that you can bleed on in style:

Please excuse the poor quality of this photo, it was taken in the throes of hysterical laughter with my cell phone.

So, observe the ad. It says that plain pads have their place in the history books, and has drawing of a pad; half of it plain white and the other half has a nifty purple swirly design. There’s a helpful addition, the word “boring!” with an arrow pointing at the plain white side.

Ladies, I don’t think I’m alone in saying that I can now breathe a sigh of relief. No longer do I have to shed my uterine lining on a plain, white maxi pad! No, now I can have my monthly visitor with flair and pizazz! Gone are the days of slapping a boring white cotton pad onto my panties! Finally, I can decorate my underwear with a fun design. Works of art, really. Beautiful swirls of purple, maybe blue, or gasp! Perhaps even a fun, girly shade of pink. Squee and flail!

AREN’T YOU THRILLED? We can finally giggle a little as we walk around with our little secret artwork in our undies! No one will ever know that not only are we on the rag, but we’re having fun with it by having it on a cutesy little swirl design! AHHHH IT’S SO WACKY AND FUN!

So, seriously, this is one of the dumbest fucking things I’ve ever seen in my life. A design on your pad? Are you fucking serious?  I’m sorry, but a little purple scrolly design isn’t going to take my mind off the fact that it feels like someone is grabbing my uterus and twisting it into a knot and I’m retaining so much water it feels like you could poke me with a pin and I’d leak. When I’m on my period, I want all the chocolate forever and an Ibuprofen. NOT AN ARTSY MAXI PAD. Call me crazy, but I know that I can’t be alone here.

So, Kotex, until you start including a big fat chocolate bar with each purchase of your whimsical pads, I will stick to my plain, ‘boring’ feminine hygiene products. Take your purple wackiness and GTFO.

 

Welcome to Crank City. Population: Nellie

The past few days, Nellie has been cranktastic. Even her grandparents, who normally praise her behavior until they’re hoarse, commented on how nothing seemed to make her happy. Nellie is a happy baby by nature and is very easygoing, so when she gets cranky it’s definitely out of character.

I started noticing it on Friday, when she and I took a side trip to Hobby Lobby before picking up Josh from work. I put her in the cart and she was happy for approximately 5 minutes before she began whining at me and stretching her arms out. At this point I’d already put a few things in the cart, so I calmly explained to her that mommy couldn’t hold her and push the cart.

Unfortunately my words did about as good as a bunny rabbit pleading with a hungry cat not to rip out its’ entrails and eat them for lunch. Come to think of it, the rest of the Hobby Lobby trip I was pretty much the bunny rabbit. Nellie won, and I pulled her out of the cart. It’ll be okay, I thought to myself. I’ve held her and pushed the cart before. But this time Nellie wasn’t just content with riding on my hip. Ohhhh no. She decided that she wanted to push the cart. Considering she is approximately two feet tall and cannot reach the handle to push the cart, I had to hold her so her little hands were wrapped around the cart’s handle. I then had to continue pushing, but also steer the cart with my free hand so we didn’t crash into the lovely knickknacks that lined the shelves of the Hobby Lobby.

Soon my sweet babe became bored with that and started to scream. I plopped her back down in the cart and handed her a sippy cup. She sipped happily for about a minute and then tossed the cup onto the floor. As soon as her juice hit the ground with a “clank” she began to wail and point. Ever the obedient servant, I bent down and retrieved it, handing it back to Her Crankness. I turned my head to admire a particularly pretty flower pot when I heard the cup hit the floor again.
Clank.
I turned my head slowly to look back at Nellie, who was staring at me doe-eyed. Then she started whining, reaching, and squalling for the cup.

This continued pretty much the rest of the time we were at Hobby Lobby. I tried to placate her with keys, toys, even a riveting pack of baby wipes which she could open and close. Nothing was making her happy. I became that mom. You know, the one desperately pleading with the screaming toddler to just, “hold on for one second because mommy’s almost done”? The mom who is sofuckingclose to being through with her shopping trip so instead of abandoning the cart and carrying her yowling offspring out of the store, she frantically presses on with a wild look in her eyes? The mom that I used to glare at before I had children?

YEAH. I became THAT MOM. And I silently apologized to every single woman that had ever been the recipient of my smarmy, snarky, childless glares in the past as I pushed my screaming, thrashing kid in the cart toward the checkout lane.

On Saturday, I had to go back to Hobby Lobby (a different one) and it was pretty much a repeat of the entire debacle the day before. Screaming, throwing, pleading, wailing, grabbing. I had pretty much decided that Nellie just hated Hobby Lobby. That the whole time she was in the store she was thinking how much she hated crafts and was all,  “fuck yarn. I hate yarn. That fabric offends me. Who needs colorful pom poms? WHY ARE THESE STICKERS SO EXPENSIVE? I HATE THIS STORE. DON’T WISH ME A GOOD DAY, I WILL TAKE A CRAP IN THAT EASTER BASKET RIGHT NOW, I DON’T EVEN CARE.”

Yesterday, however, we almost had a repeat performance of I Hate Hobby Lobby Starring Nellie Rose at Walmart. After about the tenth time of retrieving Nellie’s sippy cup, I decided she was just going through some personal baby issues and hated the world. I debated playing her the CD Jagged Little Pill, because it was always good for me when I felt angsty. She whined and cried the whole way back from Walmart. When we got home and I climbed in the backseat to release her from her carseat I saw her gnawing on her fingers, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.

She’s fucking teething. Her mouth is hurting. It’s her damn molars breaking through her soft, sensitive gums. I’ll be a son of a bitch. THAT’S why my kid has been such a cranker the past few days.

We got inside, I set down the groceries and gave my lady some Tylenol. About a half an hour later? Much less cranky, easier to please and not gnawing all over everything like a cracked out beaver.

Sigh. It’s been a while since I had a mom fail, so I guess it was a little overdue. While I hate that her molars are causing her so much pain and discomfort, I am kind of glad that it is teething and not just a general hatred of crafts in general because one day, maybe, I might get into crafting. Probably not because I am so un-crafty and uncreative that if I tried to knit, I would probably somehow start an accidental fire and if I tried to scrapbook, it’s likely that I’d accidentally cut my jugular open and bleed to death all over the pages.

But it’s nice to know that if I do decide to start crafting, the Hobby Lobby will be there for me and won’t have to fear the Wrath of Rose.

Christmas Rabies

I’ve been possessed.

I’ve been possessed by the Holiday Spirit. It’s taken ahold of me, and I am pretty sure that I need an old priest, and a young priest.

I’ve always really enjoyed the holidays, the Christmas season in particular. For me, it’s never been about the religious aspect of the holiday because I’m not a Christian. For me it’s about childhood memories, decorating the tree, family, food, music.. The feeling in the air of excitement, the lights, the snow…. Well, not so much the snow anymore since I live in the South but you get the idea.

I mentioned in a previous post that I never, under any circumstance, decorate before Thanksgiving nor do I listen to Christmas music. For the past few years, I’ve kicked off the holiday festivities by decorating the tree the evening of Thanksgiving after we’ve come home, and watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. I will not watch the movie during any other time of year. Just hearing the opening credits puts a smile on my face.

I don’t know if it’s because this is my first year as a mother and I want to make the holiday season as special to me as it is to my daughter but I’ve been chomping at the bit for Christmas to get here ever since seeing adorable Christmas piggy banks at Target back in October. I salivate at the thought of cutesy little snowman knickknacks perched upon my counters. I squeal at the sight of decorative hand towels for my kitchen (which I’ve already forbidden anyone from actually using). I think I’ve come down with Christmas Rabies. There’s practically red and green foam frothing from my mouth whenever I set foot in Target (Christmas Rabies is different than normal rabies.. You don’t need any shots in the stomach, and really the only side effect is that you smell like candy canes and hear nothing but Christmas music playing in your head for a month straight).

I’ve already broken my own rules about decorating and today? I caved in to pressure and listened to the Christmas station on the radio that’s been live since right after Halloween. I heard my favorite Christmas song, “Happy XMas (War is Over)” by John Lennon and I just said screw it and blasted the radio and sang along.

I know I should respect the bird and all, and I will do plenty of respecting tomorrow when I’m gobbling it down (gobbling it down.. get it?) but I just can’t help it. Christmas Rabies have infected me, and I’m seeing the world through red-and-green-tinted glasses.

Hallelujah, Holy Shit!
Where’s the Tylenol?