Archive | January, 2012

#2: Bad Mom Says “It’s Common Sense Really.”

23 Jan

My weekly “Bad Mom” post isn’t really taking off the way I had hoped. 

Apparently there are just no bad moms out there!  I actually have been a pretty good mom lately, if I do say so myself, and I haven’t really had any stories to share.

I’m proud to say I’ve been keeping it all together.  I think I’m just more of a psycho before the holidays so now that we’re into 2012 I’m a little more content.  I’m not content about the belly bulge I noticed this morning when putting on my skinny jeans, but I digress.  I really can’t do it all, and I’m starting to be OK with that.

So my brief Bad Mom moment occurred this morning while I was driving the Chiquita to Bubbe’s house.  It’s freezing in the car even though I warmed it for about 15 minutes before we left the house.  We’re both bundled up with the heat blasting.  Chiquita is in the back in her car seat sucking on her paci while she holds her bottle and hugs her baby; a black fleece blanket across her legs.

We’re not even down the block when she throws Baby across the backseat.  Then she starts whining.  Ugh.  Soo annoying.  I haven’t even sipped my coffee yet and I’m trying to listen to Kiss FM’s “Dirty on the Thirty” celeb gossip segment and she’s in the back going, “oooh…ahhh….ahhh…ma….” trying to say to me, “Hey, lady, I dropped threw my baby now pick it up for me.”

Diva Eva wants it NOW!

How many times do we have to do this?  I turn around and say, “I’m driving right now.  Don’t throw your baby.”

She follows up with, “oooh…ahhh….ahhh…ma….”

I turn around again and say, “I’m driving right now.  When I stop at a red light I will get your baby.”  And then I turn up the volume to hear “Dirty on the Thirty.”  Nice mom, huh?

At the red light I turn around and grab Baby off the backseat.  I hand the baby to her and say, firmly, “Don’t throw her again because I’m not getting her for you next time.  You’ll have to wait until we get to Bubbe’s.”

She smiles and hugs Baby.  Awww so cute….for about three seconds.

Three seconds later Baby is on the floor again.  I hear, “oooh…ahhh….ahhh…ma….”  I think to myself, we have a seven minute ride to Bubbe’s and I feel like I’m going to kill this kid.  I tell her no and continue to drive despite her rebuttals. 

Seconds later her bottle has ended up been thrown on the floor and this infuriates her.  Where in the hell did the Chiquita get this bad temper?  Certainly not from Moi! :D

Now she’s really pissed and she’s letting me know it.  A tirade ensues complete with pointing at me and kicking her legs.  I want to laugh at this kid, but I don’t. 

I turn around and say, “Hey, I told you not to throw Baby and your bottle.  I’m driving.  I can’t reach it.  You’ll have to wait until we get to Bubbe’s.”

We’re going to be there in one and a half minutes.  I really wish kids understood patience!  She continues with her tirade and finally I’m at my wit’s end.  How many times do I have to tell the Chiquita NOT to throw Baby and/or bottles on our drive to Bubbe’s?  This isn’t a new phenomenon.  She wasn’t born yesterday.  She knows the drill.

Finally I begrudgingly turn around as another tirade ensues and I say (very nicely, actually, I’m not even yelling), “Listen.  How many times do I have to tell you not to throw your bottle?  I can’t pick it up off the floor while I am driving.  How about you just don’t throw it?  I mean, it’s common sense really….”

"It's common sense, Timmy!"

The words escape my mouth, and I think to myself, Wow.  That’s wayyyy f*cked up.  I just told my 18 month old she lacked common sense.

And this just after I argued with Hubs on what a “compassionate” person I am.  He goes, “You?  Compassionate?  The person who thinks everyone is ‘sooo stupid.’  Hilarious.”

 

What are your Bad Mom stories?  I can’t be the only one who is the occasional Bad Mom!  Write me at jlee5879@live.com.

Jlee’s Review – Drew Peterson: Untouchable

22 Jan

The Official Drew Peterson

Who hasn’t heard of Drew Peterson, the handsome and charming Bolingbrook Police Officer famous for being infamous?  Drew Peterson became a household name and media sensation following the disappearance of his fourth wife Stacy Peterson.  He is suspected of killing his third wife, Kathleen Savio, as well as Stacy Peterson.

Bolingbrook, a suburb of Chicago, is close to home for me, and I’ve followed this story since Stacy’s mysterious disappearance on October 28, 2007.  I’ve had friends who’ve spotted Drew Peterson at local bars and an acquaintance who said that Peterson once was in his home during a drug bust.  The word I heard both times was that Peterson was “creepy.”

Funny that’s what I actually thought of the movie, Drew Peterson: Untouchable.  The movie – and Rob Lowe – were downright creepy.  Rob Lowe was a very believable Drew Peterson, it does help though that Rob Lowe is wayyy hotter than Drew Peterson and I have a penchant for older men with gray hair.  Seriously.

Lose the stache and you could be sexy

According to MyFoxChicago.com, the Lifetime movie network says “the movie is based on a true story and follows the fascinating tale of former Bolingbrook police sergeant Drew Peterson’s fall from grace after the mysterious disappearance of his fourth wife Stay Peterson.”

Drew Peterson’s attorney Joel Brodsky calls the movie “hysterical” “filled with inaccuracies” and “bogus.”  I call it hilarity. 

And it’s only hilarious to me that A. Fox also reports that Drew Peterson DID watch the movie from Will County Adult Detention Center where he is currently being held while he awaits trial for the murder of Savio.  Can you imagine watching yourself in a Lifetime Movie – watching Rob Lowe talk about your supposed big dick and refer to you as “Big Daddy?”  Yeah, wtf is right.  And B. It’s just sort of funny watching this jerk believe that he is hot shit, the song “Sexy and I Know It” running through my head.  Sorry, but any man with a creepy stache is soooo not sexy.  Duh!

Rob Lowe did manage to capture Drew Peterson in a chilling and intriguing way which made me wonder if I got pulled over by Sergeant Big Dick would I be flirting with that stache in hopes of getting out of a ticket?  Possibly, but I have enough sense not to get charmed by these narcissistic whackos….well….I do sort of get a hard on for Rod Blagojevich.  Seriously.

Sexy and I know it....

I found the movie to be quite entertaining despite Rob Lowe’s weak Chi-town accident.  We don’t sound like that!  Especially while saying the coveted phrase: “I’m untouchable, Bitch.”

Sadly, Peterson’s fourth wife, Stacy, is still missing and though I don’t know much about her I found Kaley Cuoco’s portrayal of her only drew me in more, wondering about this innocent young girl who was charmed by a sociopath and thinking things like, what got her there?

Stacy Peterson - Don't forget the victims...

You know Lifetime will probably play this movie a thousand times over so I would highly suggest recording this masterpiece to watch on a Sunday afternoon while you’re laying on the couch nursing a hangover.  Be careful though, you might vomit from all the references to “Big Daddy’s” member, I know it almost made me lose my dinner a couple times and I watched it sober.

This brings about a great idea to me – how about a drinking game based on the number of times Drew refers to his manliness or sexual prowess in two hours minus commercials?  Every time he refers to “Big Daddy” salute ladies, salute.

When finally arrested Drew even tells his former co-workers he knows they just want to get a look at his goods.  WOW!  While going down he still manages to think his charm, his stache and his dick will get him out of this mess.  Just like a true narcissist.

 

"I'm Innocent..." says Big Daddy. I say BULLSHIT!

 

What the %$@! is a Facebook War?

19 Jan

Every morning...take your pills and check your Facebook

I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook.  As a person with an addictive personality I find myself often desperate to delete my Facebook account, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

I enjoy Facebook for the ease of being able to “keep up” with friends through status posts and photos, but I despise the drama that comes along with it.

As an emotional person I wear my emotions on my sleeve.  My emotions then work their way onto Facebook.  I try to be real; some people like it and some people don’t.

During my bout with Post Partum Depression I took a brief break from Facebook, not necessarily because I wanted to, but rather because I kept posting crazy talk and people started to worry.

I remember my dad randomly showing up at my house one afternoon and asking me if I was going to kill myself.  I felt terrible; he was practically in tears recounting to me the game of Telephone that ended with him hearing the words “Jen” and “kill herself.”  I was livid.

Things like “Mind your own business!” and “Don’t worry about what I post!” were running through my head.  Shortly thereafter I “temporarily” deleted my account.  I couldn’t bring myself to do the official complete delete.

Looking back I know people were just concerned about me, and for that I am very grateful.  I’m blessed to have people in my life that care about me, and cared about the hardships I went through.

Now I would say my relationship with Facebook is pretty “normal,” with the occasional aggravation over a group of posters that drive me nuts.

1. The Always Sunny Posters: People who only post about how great they are, how great their babies and husbands are, basically how great their lives are. ALL THE TIME.

2. The I Have No Life Outside of My Kid Posters: People who post ONLY about their children and how great their children are; their children’s straight A’s, multiple awards, sports abilities, and organic diet.  Basically their child is Jesus.

3. The Philosophical Socrates Posters: People who post their “philosophies” on life.  Follow their advice and you will be better, smarter, healthier, and happier.  Also known as “Know-It-Alls,” they’ll tell you how to raise your kid even if they don’t have one!

And finally, my favorite:

4. The Passive-Aggressive Posters: People who passively-aggressively write status updates hoping their friends will see what they wrote and feel bad because of something said friend “supposedly” did, i.e., “checked-in” somewhere just to make THEM feel bad.  You know, what you put on your Facebook is all about them.

I’m not saying my posts are perfect and witty; I have sporadic frequent posts complaining about traffic, weather, work, my husband, my crazy family…but sorry, see above.  I wear my emotions on my sleeve so if this is how I’m feeling in life this is how I’m feeling in Facebook world.

Don't you wish you could tell the annoying Facebook posters to STFU???

I’m not going to make an imaginary status update so people think I’m so happy and my life is so perfect.  I will post that I’m ready to kill my kid right now or I poured Bailey’s in my coffee this morning.  I do stay away from posting about my sex life and my bowel movements.  I’m sure my Facebook friends are grateful for that.

You’re probably wondering if I’m going to get to the point of this post which is “Facebook War.”  If you don’t know what a Facebook War actually is, I guarantee you are either currently in one or you’ve been in one at one time or another.

A Facebook War is when you and a friend, an actual friend not a Facebook acquaintance, refuse to “like” or comment on the other’s Facebook page.  This may happen because of an argument you are both aware of that hasn’t yet been resolved – or – maybe your friend is one of the annoying posters listed above, so you decide to ignore them and then find yourself in a mutually “silent” war yet you’ve never actually discussed what the issue is that has caused the Facebook War.

Am I in 5th grade?

What the &*%$ is the purpose of a Facebook War?  Facebook Wars in my opinion are complete ridiculousness, but in saying that, I should probably disclose that I’m currently involved in two Facebook Wars. 

One is because of a fight we had – about Facebook – and the other is because a #4 Passive-Aggressive Poster pissed me off by posting yet another passive-aggressive post (like the 12th one.)   

Will my Facebook Wars end? 

What drives you nuts on Facebook? 

Are you involved in a Facebook War?

 

 

Poop Blame

10 Jan

There’s nothing worse than walking into a public bathroom to the smell of poop.  I see there is someone in the stall doing their business.  I go in the stall to do my business.  And then they flush.  And then they wash their hands.  And then they exit the bathroom.

OH SHIT. (Literally)

Now if someone comes in the bathroom they’re going to think I was the one to cause this stink.  That sucks.

WHAT TO DO?

You can do what I do and carry a Victoria’s Secret mini perfume in your pocket.  Then after they exit the bathroom, but before I exit the stall, I spray the bejesus out of it. (No, my office building doesn’t invest in bathroom spray, wtf, this is 2012!) I also have the courtesy to do this if I happen to be the one making the stench.

Funny side note, I did this just the other day.  I was washing my hands and then putting some powder on my nose and a lady who works down the hall from me came into the bathroom.

“Hello,” she said.  Yeah, these bitches are finally saying hello to me.  I’ve killed them all with kindness.

“Hello, how are you?” I responded.

“Good!  By the way, you smell really good!”

I went back to my desk and texted G that I just took a crap in the bathroom and the lady down the hall told me I smell really good thanks to my Victoria’s Secret mini spray.  She texted me later that day saying she wished she had my spray.  See ladies, I do give great advice!  Jleesblog.com, tell your friends.

Orrrrr….

You can do what you learned in kindergarten.  Blame the person next to you.

What is poop blame?:  Blaming your [bad] smell on someone else, mainly your dog or your child, but also a friend if that’s convenient.  Or better yet, your spouse.

I know we’re adults, but this seriously happens.

I was at a bachelorette party recently.  After a glorious dinner at an awful winery (don’t worry, we trashed them on Yelp!) we went to the bar to get cRaZy, you know as crazy as we 30-something moms get nowadays….OH!  Side note, I remember being at the bar, The Lodge, our favorite as 22-year-old college grads, and making fun of the “old” women on the dance floor, all of whom were probably my age now, and saying words like “pathetic” and “loser.”  Wow, that’s actually a really depressing thought….

In other [crucial] advice I’m handing out for free today, to any of my college readers (I know I have at least one,,, she commented on “My Office Crush is Gay,” Yayyy) please PLEASE try to be nice to us old ladies because remember, you too, will be one of us!  And gosh does it go fast….

Anyways, we’re at this bar – a group of us MILFs – and suddenly there is this God awful stench lingering around us.  WTF.  We’re all looking around at each other.  No one wants to admit this odor came out of them.

Sorry boys. Even hot girls fart...

Here comes the Poop Blame.  Yes, you’ve got it.  My adult friend blamed our other adult friend, and what ensued was hilarity.  I just stood on the sidelines watching this transpire wondering if The Real Housewives do this kind of crap off camera.

Oh my gosh, so embarrassingggg, it just slipped out!

I’m not sure what stinks more – being The Poop Blamer, the one who has to really pull this off for fear of not only being the stink-maker, but now also being the *&%*# who tried to blame it on someone else,,, (you better hope you don’t blush) or being the Poop Blamee, the one who is blamed, who vehemently denies it, and now causes everyone to think they are even more guilty because of their denial.

I actually try not to be the Blamer or the Blamee, I mean, I’m not generally walking around ripping ass [in public] because that disgusts me, and despite my potty-mouth I am a lady.  However, after the Mozzaball incident I did accidentally let one slip out at the bar and while I saw people’s noses around me crinkle I just shrugged it off figuring they’d think it was my husband.  LOL

But, do people really blame their scents on their children?  I really hope not, I mean, I don’t want to scar the Chiquita in any way more than she will already be scarred by having a crazy wine guzzling mom.  Let’s give this kid a fighting chance at a life without therapy.

We’ve established people are ripping ass at work, in kindergarten, in bars…what about at home?  My mom once told me that she never passes gas in front of her husband.  WTF, seriously?  Who does this?

We all grow up saying that we don’t want to do things like our parents did, and I am no exception.  I said I could never marry a man that I couldn’t pass gas in front of.  I’m not going to spend “until death do us part” running to the bathroom every single time I have a little gas.  Sorry, honey, my TV show is more important than the air you are trying to breathe….

I know my husband is sooo lucky, right?  I really am quite the catch.  And he sooo loves hates when I say “ripping ass” telling me ‘do you have to talk like that?’  But, what can I say?  That’s what we Italian girls do. 

I really shouldn’t type cast us all…. 

That’s what this Italian girl does.

Tell me, what do you do?  Blame it on your kid or your husband?  Or are you one of those gas-less wonders? 

3, 2, 1…Too Many Mozzaballs

8 Jan

I’ve always been an eater.  I eat like a good Italian girl should.  Pizza, pasta, cheeses, vino, … the list goes on.  Unfortunately, eating [like crap] makes it difficult to keep a decent figure once you’re 30+ even if you work-out.  And a decent figure will satisfy me, I guess, but I read wayyy too many gossip magazines, and I wanna look like Jessica Alba,,,,or my current celeb crush Mila Kunis! 

You don't get this bod eating carbs! Photo courtesy of www.usmagazine.com

What I don’t want to be is a frumpy 30-something mom – which speaking of 30-something, this a total side note – but I discovered this amazeballs blog (oh double side note,,,,um… ‘amazeballs’ apparently is on the list of words to be banished in 2012, wtf, I just started using this word?!?). 

Sorry,,,back to the amazeballs blog.  I randomly discovered this blog Thirty-Something Fashion and LOVE it!  So check it out if you have a chance!  Carly is one hot mom! ;)

So, anyways, normally I try to eat fairly healthy by eating five small meals throughout the day and drinking lots of water, but I do drink my wine and occasionally splurge in moderation.  That said, over the holidays I went a bit overboard. 

For one, the months of October, November and December were soo busy I rarely made it to the gym.  Excuses, excuses, I know.  For two, what with it being the holidays and all I let myself splurge a little more than usual with the ‘ole “new year, new me” saying going through my head every time I picked up a cookie (or 12) to eat.

Coming up on NYE, and Hubs and I are deciding whether to go out for the evening.  We’re kicking around some options and keep going back to hanging out at home with the Chiquita and ordering pizza.  This sounds like a solid NYE to me, honestly, my Juicy Couture jammies, some red wine, good ‘ole Dan’s Pizza and the two most important people in my life.

BUT, after lots of hem and hawing we decide to go out.  We decide on this nearby bar for $50/person all-you-can drink from 7-midnight plus a pizza buffet.  I bought these amazeballs (lol, sorry I had to) sequin pants and couldn’t wait to get done up for a fun night out.

Sequin pants from Forever 21

We get to the bar at 7 on the dot, we’re not going to waste a second of free booze and free pizza, and we find out that the pizza buffet doesn’t start until 10:30 pm.  Thank goodness I ate a banana at 6:30 pm or I would have been starving.  I was already hungry.

I ordered a glass of cabernet; Hubs ordered a vodka.  I knew I had to keep my drinking under control – we didn’t want another “JUST STOP TALKING” moment – so I was sipping rather than chugging.  Not that I chug wine, but believe me, I can toss back a glass to get a buzz on. :)

I was actually pretty hungry and our friends were, too.  They decided to order some apps.  I asked the hubs if he wanted to order.

“No,” he said, “We paid $50/person for a pizza buffet so we’re going to eat pizza!”

LOL, I make us sound sooo cheap!

Our friends order calamari and shrimp and lots of yummy items.  My stomach is growling, and I’m trying to drink my cab.  I’m having one of those nights where the drinks just aren’t flowing for me, but I do have a buzz. 

At 10:30 my girl whispers to me that the pizza buffet is ready upstairs.  We go up to this small room with a few tables which are already occupied by other drunken party goers.  There is a long banquet table full of pizzas – cheese, sausage, pepperoni, and veggie. 

Hubs fills his plate full of pizza and says, “I’m going to take this downstairs and see if the others want any pizza,” as I grab a couple pieces of cheese.

I don’t really want to go downstairs and eat in the middle of the party, I think, as I grab a mozzarella ball at the end of the buffet line.  I dip the mozzarella ball into marinara sauce and pop it in my mouth.  Mmmm, that’s amazeballs, I think. J

“Well, I’m going to go downstairs,” Hubs says again.

I nod, as I’ve already stuck mozzaball #2 into my mouth.  “OK, go ahead; I’m going to stay up here.”

“What do you mean you’re going to stay here?”  He asks.

I take a bite of mozzaball #3 and say, “Yeah, I’m going to eat up here.  I don’t want to eat in front of everyone.”

At the end of the buffet table is a TV plus a small unoccupied table with no chairs.  The room is full of loud drunks all chowing down on pizza.  I prop my rear against the table, and I’m in the perfect position directly across from the TV and the mozzarella balls.  There is a HUGE tray of them. 

Hubs looks at me with a perplexed look on his face.  “You’re really going to stay up here all by yourself?”

“Uh-huh,” I nod, as I pop #4 into my mouth.

Hubs goes downstairs, and I finally feel free.  I put about 10 on my plate, but for some reason continue to take them directly out of the tray.  Who cares about these other drunks, I think, I’m not even drunk anyways, just slightly buzzed and frickin’ starving.  Booty still perched on the table I pop #5, 6, and 7 into my mouth.

After #s 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 20…I finally go downstairs.  Looking back I wonder if those other party goers were watching the girl in the sequin pants stuffing mozzaballs into her mouth.

I get my 3rd glass of cab and sit by Hubs.  He’s finishing up his pizza and still has two mozzaballs on his plate.  “Are you going to eat those?”

“Didn’t you eat enough?” He asks.

I smile and stuff them in.  It reminded me of the movie Elf when Will Farrell was popping cotton balls and stuffing spaghetti in his mouth.

Nom Nom Nom!

About a half hour later my tummy is not feeling so good.  In fact I can’t even bring myself to get back on the dance floor; I’m literally stuffed, and pretty sure that mozzarella is expanding in my size 2 sequin pants.  In fact, I can’t even get up off my chair or finish my glass of cab.

My friend comes up to me, “You’re being lame!”

“Dude, I just ate 22 mozzarella balls.  I feel sick.”

“What?  You ate how many mozzarella balls?”

“I seriously ate, like, 22 mozzarella balls.  Mozzarella is expanding in my stomach,” I say, as I push out my stomach at her.

She grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd.  “You just need to take a crap.”

We escape to the bathroom, and I tell her, “No, I don’t have to take a crap, I’m seriously about to birth a mozzarella ball.  I feel f*cking sick!”

I wash my hands and remind her, “G,,,I ate like 22 mozzarella balls!  Seriously.” (Now, there’s another word that needs to be banned.)

The girl at the sink next to me looks over and says, “Ohmigosh, those mozzarella balls were amazing!” (Another word for banishment.)

I go, “I know.  I just ate like 22.”

“Don’t worry, I ate like 15,” She says and walks out.

I look at G.  “I’m not joking, I seriously ate like 22.”

G telling me to liven up in the bathroom

We go back out to the party, and I look at the clock.  It’s 11:30 pm.  I seriously wonder if I’m going to make it to midnight I feel that sick.

G is talking to some other peeps, and I look at Hubs and say, “I honestly don’t know if I can make it to midnight.  I seriously feel so sick.  I ate 22 mozzarella balls, you know.”

“I know,” he says, “You’ve told me.  100 times.  Let’s just make it to midnight and then we’ll go.”

“OK,” I say, rubbing my tummy.  “But, at 12:01 am we’re out the door.  I’m about to birth a mozzarella ball.”

I barely managed to choke down my 3rd glass of cab and am desperately waiting for midnight to arrive.  At 5 to midnight they are passing out glasses of champagne.  I take a glass thinking I’m magically going to feel better when the clock strikes 12.

We count down 10, 9, 8…this literally feels like forever.  Finally 3, 2,… “Happy New Year!”

Hubs and I kiss.  Everyone around us is shouting, kissing and toasting.  Balloons are falling.  Noise makers are ringing.  I have no idea where our friends are.  I look at Hubs and say, “Grab your coat, let’s go!”

We make our escape through the door at 12:02 am.  By 12:10 am we are at home.  I’m sitting in my living room knowing that something inside me is not right.

Hubs goes out to smoke a cigar.  “I’ll be back, baby,” he says as he pats my head.

And then it happens.  12:15 am.  I jump up.  I run to the bathroom, sequin pants still on.  And I vomit.  Yes, I vomit up 3 glasses of cabernet and 22 mozzarella balls.

Happy New Year! Don’t you wish you were my friend?!? 

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