Tiny Underpants

Hi blog friends!!! Should I call you that??? No? It’s the worst thing ever??? I have to agree with you, it is… Not only is it super lame, but it’s also a little sad.

Let’s start over…

Happy blog day, everyone!!! Oh, that’s bad, too??? Uuuuug!!! Don’t worry, I’m keeping it short today. I won’t subject my sweet readers to a long day of bad blog. Just a short one.

I spent my day in abject frustration. I didn’t sit down for more than 10 minutes, yet my house looks like a badger got into and tore it a-freakin’ part. Why a badger? Because they’re mean, that’s why.

As I was circling my house, amazed that it was still capable of being messy after I had cleaned it within an inch of its life not 20 minutes before, I realized something…

I have spent my entire day picking up tiny pairs of underpants off the floor.

Every couch cushion I turn over, what do I find? A pair of underpants. As I’m sweeping under my couch… Whoops! Uh-oh! How did those little undies get under there? Think you’re going to dust the coffee table? Nope, not until you move those underpants off of it!

Listen, I’m not just infuriated by the underpants. They’re a metaphor, really. A metaphor for something… Um… A metaphor for the fact that I freaking work all day long and have nothing to show for it except another tiny pair of underpants under the couch mocking me!!! Mocking my sore feet and sweaty brow. Saying, with their very presence, “Ha! You’re never going to be done cleaning. NEVER!!!”

Tiny underpants. As the mother of two daughters, I suppose I must simply resign myself to the fact that this is my lot in life. To pick up the tiny underpants of the world and never stop. Never give up. Fight until I can turn over a couch cushion and not find underwear.

Oh, who am I kidding? This is a battle I can’t win. I’m just going to be happy with the fact that my kids like to wear clean underwear and call it a day.

Face Punches

I have never been punched in the face.

I can’t decide if it’s something I’m missing out on or not. I mean, nothing gets the ol’ adrenaline flowing like a good punch to the face, right? Well, I assume… I wouldn’t know, of course, having lived my life in the shades of grey afforded to the punch-less.

I know it would hurt, but wouldn’t it also make me feel alive??? Alive in a way I’ve never felt before???

Truth be told, not only have I never been punched in the face, I’ve never even been in a fight. Not counting the literal millions of scraps I got into with my brother growing up. Sibling fights aren’t “real fights” in the grand scheme of things, after all.

I’m talking about a bar fight. Or a street fight. Or a Wal-Mart fight over a Playstation on Black Friday. The kind of fight that escalates from some simple smack-talking, a few “bitches” being exchanged, one person calling the other ugly or fat, and then someone reaching their hand out, grabbing a fistful of hair, and IT. IS. ON.!!! Screaming, punching, rolling around on the floor, YES!!! The drama, the unbridled drama, of a fight with a stranger!!! Oh, how I long for it.

Okay, not really.

But kinda.

I think it’s because I am your typical non-confrontational sort. I would prefer to go with the flow, stuff my feelings, and pretend like everything is fine rather than start business with someone. Confrontation is to be avoided at all costs. If a giant lady with a mustache at Wal-Mart tried to steal my Playstation, I would probably hold onto it as long as possible then call her a filthy name under my breath as she walked away with it under her lumpy arm.

I will go out on a limb here and broadly generalize that most women use words as weapons rather than fists and fingernails. This combined with being a complete weenie, has led to my fascination with the mentality of a physically aggressive woman.

How does she make the transition from talking behind someone’s back to slapping someone’s face? At what point does it become okay to reach out and grab the hair? Did she not go to Kindergarten and learn “we don’t hit”? Is her medulla oblongata too small or perhaps she’s “got all them teeth but no toothbrush” (yet another ancient movie reference for ya)?

Important questions, all. And questions that I will probably never get the chance to answer for myself, sadly. I will never have the opportunity to be punched in the face by another lady. Curse you, wonderful parents who taught me to be nice!!! (Just joking Mommy, I would never actually curse you. I’m not in trouble now, am I?). My ween-itude is so deeply ingrained that I can’t even begin to imagine a scenario in which I would pull someone’s hair or they would scream at me, “Bitch, it’s ooowwwwwnnnnn!!!” and take me to the floor.

Maybe I’ll just add it to my “bucket list” (someone please come up with a better term for that, it has to be the cheesiest thing in the universe), something to look forward to in the nursing home years…. “Punch in the face and/or chick fight.” Right underneath “get a boob job.”

Have a wonderful week everyone, and try not to get punched in the face. And if you do, tell me all about it.

P.S. I was doing “research” for this blog, watching video after video of women with questionable upbringings duking it out in the street, and I learned something that I feel is important to share. Should you ever find yourself involved in a kerfuffle, please friends, take them to the ground, sit on them, and start flailing. It is essential to be the person on top. Safety first.

Facebook, I Love Thee

I feel like stay at home Moms have a different relationship with Facebook than the rest of the world.

It’s not just a “social networking tool” or somewhere to indulge your narcissism or a place to catch up with friends.

It is a lifeline. It is a shining beacon of hope and reassurance that there is, in fact, a world outside of this house. A world full of people… People who have conversations… People who get dressed in real clothes and leave their houses to do things… People who aren’t three feet tall and constantly screaming, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”

There are times during the winter months when I am literally (well, not literally, but in all practical application), trapped in my tiny house with my two extremely loud children. No escape, no way out, no one to smooth down my frazzled hair that is standing on end and reassure me that everything will be alright.

It is during these trying times, when we are feeling friendless and alone, standing at the border of Crazy Town and McNutville, that we turn to Facebook.

Yes, it sounds silly, but Facebook takes on a new sense of gravity when it is your only link to the outside world. There are elements in it that cannot be found in the daily life of a stay at home Mom (or at least in the daily life of this one) that at a certain point she craves.

Drama, adventure, pictures of cats, political debate, cryptic semi-sinister status updates!!! It’s all there, just waiting to be checked up on when you take your lunch break. And by lunch break I mean five minutes sitting at the computer while snarfing your food because your children are momentarily silent and still.

Some people avoid drama and political debates (let’s face it, nobody avoids pictures of cats), but I relish them… I relish them with relish, that’s how much I relish them. Not my own drama or political debates, of course (other than the drama created by girl children, which is considerable, but not terribly enthralling), but other people’s.

I see a controversial political opinion and I am clicking on that thing like a cricket in the summer… Um… I think I just made up that analogy (not even sure if crickets actually click), but you get the point. Have you decided to post an open letter of a status update to someone that’s pissing you off? You now have a devoted reader of your posts, me… And keep ’em coming, because I crave drama like a Mandy craves carbs… Which is a LOT.

I know it’s horrible, but I can’t help it! I am a curious sort (some may call it snoopy) and Facebook has provided me a little window into people’s lives that I am not above peeping (okay, staring) into. Friends of friends that leave dramatic comments? Oh yes, prepare to be peeped on. On Facebook. Not in real life. I’m not a peeper in real life.

Again, I know it’s horrible, but I have a valid excuse… The general drudgery and boredom that seeps into one’s bones while doing housework and laundry requires an outlet. Not only for me, but for the health and safety of all that dwell in this house. That outlet is Facebook. And yes, you may be judging me for all my peepy snooping and saying that I have no life of my own and that’s why I so love the Facebook drama of others… Um, yeah, of course! That’s sort of the point.

So please, if you are thinking about posting something nasty about someone who pissed you off… Do it. For my sake.

A comedy podcast by an idiot and her brother.