Category Archives: Only Me

Holy Mother of White Rain Hair Spray!

High school was a difficult time in my life. Mostly because of the stupid battles that I had with my parents every! single! morning! before I’d leave for school. One of the biggest battles that I’d have with them every!single!morning involved my bangs. Specifically how tall they were.
To my parents, everything was a sin and High Bangs was no exception. And yet, every morning I’d bust out the curling iron, the comb (for ratting), the hairspray and most importantly, the blow dryer (You know, to blow the hairspray dry in order to keep the bangs locked into place all day long.)
I’d spend a great deal of time trying to get The Bangs to go perfectly. And getting the bangs to go perfectly involved the proper ratio of height on the top and perfect curl on the bottom. There was nothing more devastating to my 15 year old ass then to have spent (sometimes) hours getting the Perfect Bangs only to have my dad catch me on the way out.
Oh, the drama that would ensue. Drama that involved the measuring of the bangs with rulers (AM NOT LYING) and the pushing down of the bangs by my dad (think: chest compressions during CPR. Only, on my bangs.) And also praying, rebuking and quite possibly, crying.
Good Lord. The Crying.
I never understood why The Bangs were just a big damn deal to my parents, because, seriously. THEY WERE JUST BANGS. I wasn’t having sex, or doing drugs, or ditching school. I was teasing my bangs. And yet, every morning I’d get a spanking or a rebuking before leaving for school because of those damn bangs.
Last night as I was organizing some pictures, I found my junior year high school ID card. Suddenly, it all became very clear to me. My parents anger towards The Bangs probably had absolutely nothing to do with Jesus disapproving of them.
scan0001 copy
And everything to do with not wanting their daughter to go out into the world looking like a cracked out cockatoo.

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You Know Your Day is Probably Going to Suck When….

As you’re putting the only bra on that still fits you, you notice the wire is sticking out of the side, stabbing you in the armpit and as you’re trying to shove that bitch back in and “Make it Work”, you accidentally drop your only clean pair of chonis in the toilet and as you’re fishing them out of the toilet, you hear your daughter call her brother an “Asshole” because he won’t “share his pen.”
Oh, and? You have to make 40 German Pancakes for your Son’s “Food From Around The World” day and have them at the school by 8am.

Dueling Shameful Fitness Purchases!!

Last week I was talking on the phone with Jenny about the Nintendo Wii Fit. Naturally, the conversation turned to “embarrassing fitness purchases.”
One would think that having purchased TWO products by Richards Simmons– “Sweating to the Oldies” (with the Order in the Next 5 Minutes Bonus: RESISTANCE BANDS!) AND “Deal a Meal”– was as bad as it gets, but one would be wrong in thinking that.
I was all “Dude… I once bought a BodyBlade.” And then I sent her the link to an old post I had written about it.

Originally posted 4.24.04
I am always looking for the easy way out of things. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the damn truth. This character flaw of mine makes me a total sucker for infomercial products.
Imagine my excitement when I heard these words late one night while feeling sad about having gained weight WHILE eating chips and dip.
“Get The Body You’ve Always Wanted In Just 6 Minutes Of daily Workout!”
I put down the chips and dip, got out a pen and paper and grabbed the cordless phone.
I saw the device.
“This can’t be for real.” I thought. “That looks wayyyyy too easy. It can’t be true!” I continued to watch. They showed this hot chick with this piece of rubber in her hand, bouncing it up and down. It was working every muscle in her body. They even went into sssssllllooowww mmmmootttttiioooonnn so you could see how every muscle was being worked!
I ordered it for the great price of JUST $100! (Or! Just 5 payments of $19.99! Plus tax and shipping!)
That’s right, a hundred bucks, but hey! Look at that chick! a body like that is worth $100.00 and in only SIX MINUTES A DAY.
I got it a few days later and opened the box up, all excited because in just SIX MINUTES A DAY for the next few weeks, I was going to look like THIS!
When the package arrived, I opened the box full of hope. All I had to do was flap that thing up and down–side to side and I would have the body of my dreams! But then, I actually held that piece of rubber in my hands and attempted to do it just like the hot chicks and the buff dudes in the commercial.
Um…that shit was hard. And not hard in the way that a good workout should be. It wasn’t as simple and moving that piece of rubber back and forth, there were actual things involved that required a bit of skill. Things like “rhythm” and “not feeling like an asshole while working up to said rhythm because ha ha, am I really holding a giant piece of rubber in my hands in the hopes of looking look like this?”
Needless to say, it didn’t work and that box is collecting dust in the garage along with my hopes and dreams of perfectly chiseled abs in just six minutes a day!!!

We laughed and laughed, but then she was all “Duuuuuuude. I’ve got you beat. I once bought The iGallop!”
I had no idea what the iGallop was, so she sent me a link to a video on YouTube.

Did you watch? Are you weeping with laughter? For a minute, I thought she was right and she really was The Winner in the contest of bad fitness purchases, but then I looked up “body blade” and I don’t know, man, I think it’s a tie.

Can you do the “Reverse Warrior” with the iGallop? I DON’T THINK THAT YOU CAN.
(Ok. I’ll concede. She totally wins. The only person who could ever beat her is the person who actually paid money for the Oxycise videos.)
I took quite a bit of abuse at the hands of friends and family for purchasing the Body Blade. It was the butt of many jokes at holiday dinners and birthday parties.
“Hey, Y– how are those workouts coming along? I thought you’d be cut by now?”
“Hey, Y– you should give me $100 to beat you with that thing for wasting money on it!”
I got even one Christmas when we had one of those “White Elephant” gift exchange at my in-laws house. I wrapped it up all nice and pretty and dropped just enough hints to make the men think it was a fishing pole. Everyone one of the men got a number, they would take away the box that they THOUGHT contained a fishing pole in it away from whoever had it. My brother in law ended up with it at the end and was all “HA HA! I WON!” to the other men. Then, he opened it up and saw that it was THE BODY BLADE. He was so pissed. “I THOUGHT IT WAS A FISHING POLE! I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN! I DON’T WANT THIS! YOU CAN KEEP IT!”
“Oh hell no!” I said “It’s yours now!”
“But I don’t want it.”
“But you have to take it!”
“Fine.” He said, all angrily. He left shortly after the gift exchange and I can’t tell you how relieved I felt as I watched him walk out of the house with that box in his hand. Iwas so relieved to be rid of that thing I had tried to sell it at yard sales, I even put a “FOR FREE” sign on it once (NO LIE!) and no one would take it. BUT, it wasn’t really gone! Because my Brother in Law didn’t actually take it home with him. Instead, he left the box on the roof of our van.
ASSHOLE! (And I say Asshole with LOVE)
So, unless PigHunter threw it away when we moved, that Rubber Fucker is still collecting dust somewhere in my garage.
The reason that I am telling you about this is because, duuuuuuudes. Jenny is GIVING AWAY A WII CONSOLE AND a copy of Wii Fit!!! All you have to do to be entered to win is to tell her YOUR embarrassing fitness purchase story (either in her comments, which, by the way, ARE HILARIOUS. You must read them! or on your own blog with a link back to her post.) What are you waiting for.. go! Tell her! NOW!


When my first born started kindergarten, I had every intention of being a PTA mom. I imagined spending long hours at school, helping out in the classroom, planning various fund raisers and generally being very active in school activities.
But then, my son started school. I got to know the women in the PTA and suddenly, I realized that Parent Teacher Association was just a cover for what PTA really stood for.
Power Trippin’ Assholes.

(If you’re on the PTA at your kids school, please don’t take offense. I’m only talking about the PTA at my son’s school. NOT YOUR PTA.)
Never in my life had I experienced such ugliness in human beings then what I saw in the women on the PTA at my son’s school. They were rude, petty, bossy and man, did they ever love to talk shit about people. It didn’t take long before I realized that the PTA wasn’t the place for me. I decided I’d help out in my son’s classroom and my involvement in school things would end there.
One year, a very good friend of mine decided she was going to try to change the PTA (ha ha ha!) and volunteered to be President. I remember telling her “Look, you know that I love you, but I can’t stand those other women. HOWEVER! Because I love you, I will help you any time you need me. Just be warned– I have NO tolerance for the way the other woman act.”
A few weeks later, she asked me if I would be willing to help her at the book fair.
“Of course!” I told her. “Whatever you need!”
What she needed was for me to volunteer a few hours to help out at the book fair by helping the Kindergarten and first grade students make their book wish lists. Easy, yes?
I got a sitter for Ethan and showed up bright and early on a Monday morning. The first class came in and I walked around helping the little darlings write which books they wanted their parents to buy for them.
While I was helping one of the little girls, we found a book that I LOVED. I called out to my friend “look at this book! How cute is THIS?”
Just then, one of the PTA moms walked in, for the sake of this post, we’ll call her “Fanny.” As in “wears a Fanny Pack.” She was the nastiest one of the group. She looked over at me and I could see that she wasn’t happy. I had no idea why she was mad, but it probably had something to do with my Non PTA ass being there. I ignored her and continued talking to my friend.
“If I had a little girl, I would buy this book for her! It’s just so cute!”
“Ladies!” Fanny said, all Power Trippin’ like. “We’re here to help the kids!”
I looked over at my friend. She had turned white, because she knew that whatever was going to happen next wasn’t going to be good.
“Excuse me?” I snapped back.
She smiled in a manner that made me want to knock her teeth out. “I said we’re here to help the kids.”
“I AM helping the kids.” I said. “I’ve BEEN helping the kids.”
“OH, REEEEAALLY.” She snapped back. “If you’re helping the kids, then explain why you were talking talking to Vicky when I walked in just now?”
I immediately felt a wave of “OH NO SHE DI’UNT” rush over my entire body. Fanny was trying to call me out. In front of five year olds.
I walked over to her, got right in her face (and quite possibly put my finger in her face) and said something like “First of all, do NOT talk to me like I’m a child. Second of all? I am here, volunteering my time. Time that I could spending at home with my toddler, time that I could be doing the 5,000 things that I need to do today, how DARE you walk in here and talk to me like that. I have been here helping the kids all morning. I saw a book that I thought was cute so I said something to my friend about it. I’M AN ADULT, I’M ALLOWED TO DO THAT. YOU’RE NOT MY BOSS AND DON’T EVER TALK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN. EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” (And YES, the head, she was a’bobbin.)
I walked over to my friend and said “I’m so sorry about that, but I will not let that women treat me the way she treats the other moms here. I need some fresh air, I’ll be back in a bit.”
I took a walk to calm down. I realize that what she said wasn’t THAT big of a deal, but after a couple of years of listening to this woman boss people around, degrade people and generally just be a complete bitch to everyone, I HAD HAD IT.
When I came back into the room, my friend told me that the woman had started crying. And then? She told my friend that her husband had warned her that one day, someone was going to snap at her and put her in her place, because she was too aggressive (see: bitchy) and that not everyone was going to “bow down” to her.
I went looking for her to apologize, because,well, I could have handled it in a more appropriate manner. When I found her, I told her that I was sorry for the way that I reacted, but that I was really upset that she felt it necessary to scold me. She apologized as well, but I wasn’t convinced she meant it. I didn’t care though, really. As long as she never spoke to me that way again, it was all good.
For weeks after that happened, Fanny was always extremely nice to me. However, the other PTA moms wouldn’t even look at me. I found out later that she had told everyone who would listen that she was “scared of me” because “I yelled at her for no reason.”
Ah, poor Fanny. *eye roll*
I do feel guilty that I let my intolerance for those nasty women keep me from serving on the PTA. It was something that I had always imagined I’d be a part of when my kids were in elementary school. I just couldn’t bring myself to associate with a group of women who treated anyone who wasn’t in their clique so poorly. I did what I could do make a difference in my son’s elementary school, by helping in his class weekly. Ultimately, the one thing that was important to me was that I did my part to make my son’s experience a good one and I don’t think I needed to be on the PTA to do that.
That said, I plan on giving the PTA a second chance when G-Unit goes to Kindergarten. She’ll be at a new school and hopefully, they’ll be a lot less Power Trippin Assholery and a lot more Parent Teacher Associatin’ at this school.
Have you had an experience with PTA that you’d like to share with me? I’d love to hear it.

Party in the Back.

One of the hardest things for me to deal with regarding how my body has changed due to The Hash&trade is the havoc it’s wreaked on my hair.
My hair used to be very important to me. I would spend a great deal of money to have it cut and colored. I wouldn’t think twice about dropping a wad of cash on products to keep it healthy and full of shine.
Oh, the shine. It was so very important to me.
I had pretty hair. It was thick, smooth and very straight. I loved to get cute, stylish cuts. I loved my hair, I really did.
Until I started losing it. And it became course and dull and FRIZZY.
Picture or Video 1922 copy
I took that the night before I was supposed to get it cut by MY STYLIST.
You see, I had an appointment scheduled with My Stylist on Tuesday at 10:30. I was so excited. I was going to cut it all off and get a fresh new look! But, here’s the thing. Somehow, between the time I woke up in the morning, to the time it was supposed to leave for my appointment, I FORGOT ABOUT IT.
I realized around noon that I had missed the appointment and felt all desperate inside, so I went online and googled “hair salons in my city” and found one that had 5 reviews and they were all very positive! People said things like “I love the atmosphere and all of the girls do great work!”
So I called and asked if there was someone who could take me as a walk in and they said “yes! come on in!”
I walked in all hopeful because FIVE AWESOME REVIEWS!! I walked out hopeful still because although I wasn’t too happy with what I saw, I thought “surely, it’s just the way that she styled it! Nothing that can’t be fixed with a thick round brush!”
I tried. The Lord knows that I tried, but I couldn’t get the cut to make any sense at all. Basically, it’s like two different cuts on one head of hair. Or something like that, I don’t know, I CAN’T EXPLAIN IT, so, let me just go ahead and show you.
Picture or Video 1994 copy
Picture or Video 1993
That is the part that I tried to fix, because WHAT IS THAT? HELP ME UNDERSTAND, INTERNET.
Picture or Video 1990 copy
Picture or Video 1992
It’s like she took the scissors and cut one layer at the top, added a little fringe and said “that’ll be $40, please.”
I’m trying to find the positives to having a Cut That Makes No Sense.
Hey! At least I can still wear it up!
Picture or Video 1997
Or! If I want to get really crazazy, I can do a Faux Bob.
Picture or Video 2001
Picture or Video 1998
I know that “it’s just hair” and “it will grow back!” But I just wish I hadn’t let her cut so much off because, what if it takes FOREVER to grow back, with the hashimotos and all? (There. I said it. I’m afraid it won’t grow back.) I probably should just go have the “party in the back” cut off and get a cute short ‘do, but the ROUNDNESS of my face is stopping me from doing that.
Maybe I’ll just go buy a fancy Banana Clip from Target and wear it up in style for the next 6 months while I wait for it to grow out.
*edited to add*
I think The IDEA of the style is great. It’s just poorly executed. I think I may do whatWhoorl suggested and go back to my stylist and have her blend the layers. That just may work (and if it doesn’t. I’m totally chopping it off). Man, it sure is going to suck having to face her and admit that I cheated on her.

Let’s play a game of “Which is Worse?”

Ripping a 7 second odorless fart that sounded like a machine gun with a car backfiring at the very end or unleashing a series completely silent burps that smelled like chicken nuggets that had been marinated in apple cider?
I suppose I should ask the two women who had the pleasure of standing on either side of me while at the elliptical machine at the gym.


I’ve recently developed a really embarrassing habit.
I have no idea why I have started doing this, or why I can’t seem to stop doing this, but I do know that I must be stopped because it’s embarrassing my children
I can’t stop giving people The Thumb’s Up. And I’m not talking about it in a joking manner. I’m talking about using it in actual, real life situations as a valid form of communication.
I’ve already busted out The Thumb twice today.
While at Starbucks, the barista asked me if it was ok that she put whipped cream on Gabby’s hot chocolate. Instead of saying “Yes, that’s fine!” I did this…

Then, while at my Weight Watchers meeting (More on THAT in just a bit) I threw a Big Thumbs Up combined with a wink to the lady who asked if I was happy with the program.
Maybe it’s not as big of a deal as I’m making it out to be, but in my experience, only Assholes use The Thumb’s Up gesture in real life conversations.
Well, assholes and The Fonz.
I suppose there are times in life when using a “thumb’s up” is necessary and/or acceptable. For instance, your husband asks you to help him back the moving truck into the yard by letting him know if he’s going to hit the tree. You stand behind the truck and when you realize he’s going to clear the tree just fine, you throw him a big ol’ thumb’s up to let him know that it’s all good and he can back that shit right up.
But when the Dish Network Technician tells you he’s all finished installing your service, TOTALLY NOT COOL to flip him the thumb while saying something totally not cool like “Right on, man..
I suppose that I have bigger things to be concerned with, like, you know, finding a place to live and um, losing the 30 pounds that I have put back on.
Of course, the finding a place to live is much more important than losing weight and so I’m spending much more time on Craigslist than I am on Weight Watchers, BUT, I am spending time (and money!) on Weight Watchers because over the past few months, I’ve let my weight once again spiral out of control and have put 32 pounds of the 70 that I had lost back on.
(Yes! I am spending my husband’s money on Weight Watchers! That makes you angry, doesn’t it? You’re outraged, aren’t you? Have you created an anonymous account to tell me to “get a job” yet? HAVE YOU? Well, don’t waste your time, because, I got a job. And? I may be getting another job that is actually kind of a dream job, so stop making your head explode by worrying about my life, ok? It’s all good. Alllllllll gooooooood.)
Long story short, I stopped taking care of myself. I stopped making healthy food choices, I stopped working out (except for an Aerobic Dance Class here and there), I pretty much stopped caring. Life got overwhelming and I caved to the pressure by taking it out on my body.
But, it wasn’t all sad and upsetting as one may think. Sure, I hated that I wasn’t fitting in my clothes, and I hated that I didn’t have to put my head down to make a double chin, but I also was enjoying the HELL out of not obsessing over what foods I was eating and going to the gym.
It was actually kind of scary just how little I cared.
I was tired of working so hard to lose weight, I was tired of watching every damn thing that I put in my mouth, I was tired of feeling guilty for having a cookie.
And I won’t lie, it was kind of fun turning into “Doug Heffernan” for a few months. (Yes, I actually rubbed my fat stomach and said “This is for the kids” on more than one occasion.) But, the truth is that being unhealthy is NOT funny. I may be all “ha! ha! none of my clothes fit me! and ha! ha! Look at my belly slap me in the face when I jump!” But deep down, I want to cry.
Because I don’t feel good.
When I finally decided that I needed to get serious about my health again, which was just last week, I decided that Weight Watchers was the way to go.
Hi, my name is Y and I am a have joined and quit and rejoined Weight Watchers at least 40 times.
I’m happy with my choice to once again count points and obsess over everything that I put into my mouth. I only (YES, I SAID ONLY) lost 3.6 pounds in my first week and that pisses me off (and the first person who says “at least you didn’t GAIN weight” gets my thumb up their ass, unless you like that sort of thing, then it’ll be my foot in your teeth.) but it just motivates me to try harder next week.
(And by “try harder” I mean “actually eat vegetables and not use all of my points on coffee and string cheese.”)
I’ve thought about whether I should document my progress/failures/but mostly progress (positive thinking!) in pictures again, but I’ve not made up my mind yet. I am not sure if that was actually more harmful than helpful for my progress. I do know that my pictures and my candor on my battle with this thing called The Fat has inspired and encouraged complete strangers on the internet to lose weight, so that’s one reason to do it, *cue song by Chicago* but I also know that there are some raging, throbbing assholes on the internet who have nothing better to do with their time then create flickr accounts to leave me asshole comments. In the end, I realize that no one really cares what I do, but that it’s a personal decision I have to make.
And I think that I should do it, but let’s be honest, it’s going to be really embarrassing to post a picture with the numbers “203” in the title after having posted a picture like this. (oh, how I miss you oh 170ish waist)
But hey, at least I’m being honest. And at least I’m trying to do something about it and I think that deserves one big old Fonzarelli Thumbs Up.

Oh, Crap!

Sometimes, when I am having a very serious conversation with my mother in law, I wonder if she is thinking about the she saw me shit on the table while giving birth to her grandson.
I know that I’ve never been able to get past the fact that she saw me make The Birth Poopie.
It was already awkward for me to have anyone but my husband in the room with me, just because, well, I don’t like anyone but him seeing my bare ass and That Precious Thing between my legs where all of The Magic happens, SO the fact that she was RIGHT THERE watching when I crapped on the nurses hand is horrifying to me.
I have never found my mother in law so annoying as I did the day that I was in labor. Don’t get me wrong. She really was wonderful and helpful, but then, she busted out the “beautifully scented massage oils” and decided that what I needed was a “sweet, gentle foot rub.”
Oh hells naw.
I know she had really good intentions, she saw me lying there in pain, and wanted desperately to do something to make me feel better, but, and I really can’t explain it, her soft touches on my body were not helpful at all because when you’re in unimaginable pain, someone rubbing your feet gently with oil “feel good” as much as it makes you “want to kick people in the teeth.”
I remember how she would squeeze a little bit of the oils into her soft, little hands and how she would rub my feet so gently while telling me to “just breathe” in a sweet little voice. And I remember thinking “Oh my God! I’M GOING TO KICK HER IN THE FACE!” I wanted to scream at her to stop! “STOP TOUCHING ME!” But, I knew she was just trying to help and didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
Had I known that a few hours later, I’d be shitting in front of her while the nurse lied and said “No! You’re not pooping! Keep pushing!” whilst wiping my ass, I just may have kicked her in the head to have spared her from ever seeing such a horrific thing.
Honestly, I don’t understand how she’s never once used that against me. We’ve had several huge fights in which lots of yelling and screaming took place and not once did she throw “CHILD BIRTH SHITTER!!!” in my face.
She must really love me.

Wounded Knees, Wounded Pride: A Water Park Story

The summer of 2002 I had one of the greatest ideas I’ve ever had as a parent.
I got season passes to Raging Waters.
I was only on contract for 10 months out of the year, so I most of the summer off with the kids and most summers were spent trying to think of what to do next so that the boys would not kill each other or so that I would not write to Maury to ask him to send my 5 & 9 year old to boot camp.
Every morning, we’d wake up and as soon as the boys started fighting I’d yell “Get yer trunks on, we’re going on some water slides!”
The first few times there were a blast. We’d go on every slide that they could ride, we’d grab an inner tube and float around the “tropical river”, or we’d just hang out in the wave pool.
It really was the greatest summer vacation we’d ever had.
Until the day I decided to break the rules.
There was this awesome ride that I wanted to take the boys on, but Ethan didn’t meet the height requirement. Every time I’d walk by, I’d be tempted to try to sneak Ethan on because I’m telling you, this ride was The Awesome. I’m trying to think of a way to describe it this ride. You sit on an inner tube and go make your way down through a series of drops, twists and raging waters, kind of like white water rafting? I don’t know, I’m at a loss, but trust me, this ride rules.
One day I decided to sneak Ethan on. I had a great plan. I’d let each of the boys go on their own inner tube, but I would hold onto Ethan’s so that he didn’t get ahead of me, or flip over.
We grabbed our inner tubes, headed up the hill to the front of the line. While we stood in line, we went over “the plan” to make sure nothing bad happened.
Andrew would go first. I would sit next to Ethan, making sure to hold onto his inner tube. If we got separated, we were to all meet at the bottom of the ride.
Perfect. What could go wrong?
Absolutely EVERYTHING, that’s what.
It started off great. No one questioned Ethan’s height and so the hardest part was over (so I thought!) We had successfully broken the rules! Let the fun began!
Five seconds into the ride, I lost my grip on Ethan’s inner tube and he started to float away from me. Andrew was already farther ahead than I would have liked, so I started to freak out. I noticed a big dip was coming up and I panicked. I screamed at Andrew “MEET ME AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RIDE IF WE GET SEPARATED!! DO NOT LEAAAAAVE WITHOUT MEEEE!” Then, my Psychotic Over Protective Mother Skills kicked in and I jumped off of my inner tube and tried running to catch Ethan’s tube.
littledipper1.jpgThere was just one LEEEETLE problem. It was a WATER SLIDE and um, there was a huge dip coming up and um, it was all slippery and uh, I fell all the way down that huge dip, hitting huge rocks all the way down.
I could hear the people standing in line watching GASP as I flipped, skidded and was tossed down stream with the rushing water. I finally landed in a little area where I caught up to Ethan’s tube. I grabbed onto it. Ethan was crying hysterically, I was bleeding from my knees, arms and back and an employee from the park started shouting at us to exit the ride.
I picked Ethan up, dodged the incoming riders on their tubes and made the walk of shame to a set of rocks that I had to climb up to exit the ride.
People in line were staring, I was bleeding, Ethan was crying and the employee was PRETTY FREAKING PISSED OFF.
He helped us off, asked if we needed first aid (um, howza’bout a couple of bandaids, dude?) and asked us to never do that again.
I started crying because Andrew! My poor Andrew! Where was he? Had he followed “the plan”? Luckily, he had and was standing at the bottom of the ride waiting for me. He was visibly upset because it had taken me so long to get there.
As we made our way to the bathroom so I could clean my bleeding wounds, Andrew began to scold me “that’s why they make rules, mom, so that no one gets hurt!”
I felt like the shittiest mother to have ever expelled children from her vagina.
I had spent my entire life as a mother teaching my children to follow the rules because “rules are made to keep you safe!”
I stood there with gaping holes in my knees and said “You’re right, it was wrong of mommy to try to sneak Ethan on the ride, I’m sorry.”
That one little decision pretty much ruined the rest of our summer at Raging Waters because Ethan was traumatized and refused to go on another slide that wasn’t “for babies”.
I spent the rest of the summer bored to tears watching my boys play in the little kids wading pool, longing for the good ol’ days of speed slides and “Drop Out”. But I was just grateful that our season passes weren’t revoked and that we weren’t banned from the park for breaking the rules and almost dying on the freaking roaring rapids water slide.


I have a history of doing really bad things with scissors.
Every time that I pick up a pair of scissors to cut someone’s hair, I know that I shouldn’t do it, because it always ends up badly. But every time, I convince myself that “this time I can do it! Because, this time, I will be careful and will just cut this ONE LITTLE PIECE.
And every single time, I screw up in a very big way because “I have to even it out!” and an innocent victim is left without sideburns, or with an entire chunk of hair missing in the back of their head, or with a hairless dog peenie.

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