Not a bad place to be… My best girlfriend from college got married and ALL were in the extravaganza, sans Tom, who might as well have been the wedding planner since he was at the very least; orchestrating one of the flower girls, one of the ring bearers, his wife/matron of honor, groom et. al, and the crazy hired wedding planner.  See, I can’t walk and chew bubble gum these days, so since I was in the wedding and so were our kids, as usual, he took care of EVERYTHING.  However, there is one thing he can’t take care of.  And that is my out of shapeness.  And so it goes…

This year San Diego will be the proper spring break destination AND I WILL GET MY DREAM FULFILLED WITH COMRADERIE AND GREAT PHILANTHROPY TOMORROW!!!  I love, love, love a Komen run, and I haven’t done one in about eleven years.  There is something about this group of women, people, force; that drives me.  There is something about cancer that makes me want to tear down buildings with my bear hands.  I KNOW!  Makes NO SENSE.  But none the less, cancer makes me a maniac.  I’d like to think in a good way.  I want to fight.  Fight for the good.  The good in science.  Good in people.  In strength.  In helping others.

I wanted to run.  I wanted to run not just for breast cancer.  But for every cancer.  BUT.  Truthfully.  I AM OUT OF SHAPE!  I tried to get in shape.  I tried to do it quick.  Too quick.  And it didn’t work out so well.  I am not much of a runner any more.  BUT.  That doesn’t mean I can’t be.  I will probably walk this Komen.  ONLY because I want to have FUN!!! And if I run, I don’t know that it will be much fun.

 I just checked out a training schedule for a 5K for poops and giggles…  It is, at the least, a little ridiculous.  (in a good way, because I am sure it works, but ridiculous, and I think you’ll agree- read on…)  Day 1. Brisk five minute walk; then alternate 60 sec. walk wtih 90 sec. run for total 20 mins. Day 2.  Same but alternate 90 secs of walking with two mins of running. Day 3. Same, but jog 90 secs then walk 90 secs then walk 1/8 mile then jog 1/2 mile… Oh no wait I’m sorry, that was work out #1 for weeks one through three!  I can’t even read the chart correctly, let alone get out there and remember, “Am I supposed to be jogging? Or running?  Or walking?  Or doing something brisk?  What really is the difference in a run or a jog? They didn’t say sprint.  I feel dum.  I want my mommy.” 

Confused. You have to alternate jogging,walking, brisk walking, 90 seconds, & 60 seconds, and 200 yards and try and win and rose and not step in dog shit.  And then mix a quart of anibiolic steriods with a pint of electrolites…  I mean really, aren’t I too old for this?  I’m  almost thirty five and a half people.  My brain is melting. 

So, back to the not running thing.  In my geniusness, I went running for the second time last Sunday on MY OWN training schedule and hurt my ankle.  Not a big deal.  Kinda a sissy hurt.  One of my ligaments is really, really, really, sore.  Waaa!  What’s more, I don’t want to hurt it more, thus, I am out of shape, and running right now is not any fun.  Back in the day (say 15 years ago) I didn’t like running, but, I could do it and not mind it that much.  NOW?  I HATE IT. 

And, in reality, my donation, and every one’s donation for me, doesn’t become of less value if I finish my 3.1 miles in 30 minutes or in 40 minutes.

Yes, I can only run a 10 minute mile, but can walk a 13 minute mile.  Go figure.

Now I have to worry that someone is going to call me on the computer and I have to pray it’s not Karaoke night at our house.  How embarrassing!  I think I can sing and I SO CAN NOT SING.  The kids?  They’re cute.  ME?  Nails on a chalk board. 

Or worse.  What if someone was spying on me, I didn’t know it, and they caught me doing something stewpid.  What you may ask?  I dunno.  I might call to Tom in the kitchen and ask him how to spell independent.  “Is it ENT or ANT or INT?”  I’ve had this spelling problem ever since I can remember….  Is it essence or essance? It’s so damn confusing. When you’re from Jersey and your Dad calls Pepsi, Coke, or Sprite, ”soder”  and people say, “How ya doin? Yous wanna go to da muawl and dos some shappin?”  It starts to make some sense, doesn’t it?

The thought that if you have a wireless computer, a built in camera, and a neighbor who is good at hacking, then they can just step on in and be a voyeur in your home, CREEPS ME OUT.  It’s not that I am worried about someone catching my bra on the floor.  I am pretty confident that on any given day, friends could pop in unannounced, and I could care less if they saw our house in a bit much of domestic distress.  Cause honestly, aren’t we all more alike than we are different?  With young kids, who can really keep it all together.  When the dishes are clean, there’s a ton of laundry.  When you get the laundry put away, there is no food in the frig.  Never ending.

However, I do like my privacy at times.  And I am not that confident to walk around in my underwear in front of anyone but Tom and the kids.  And even sometimes that’s hard.  It can make a girl wanna go run out and get a spray tan in a New York Minute!

Proof?  I am here.  I wrote one of those GTKYFB emails.  (Get to know your friends better..)  And I think I managed to make it a tiny bit laughable.  Which brought me here.

*Clear throat*  “Is this mike on?”  “I’ll be here all week folks!”  I have this notion in my teeny tiny brain that I have to be funny, or no one will come by and read what I have to write, and no one will make a comment.  Which is laughable, because really, in RE -AL-IT-EE, I   AM   TALK   ING   TO   MY   SELF!!!!! 

Sooooooooo, My point is, and I do have one.  I am going to stop being blocked, because there is nothing to be blocked about.  I am going to continue to blog, because no one is listening, and starting tomorrow I am going to get back to writing because I love doing it.  I am going to get back to the topics I have been blogging about- My Life, because that’s what I know, and that’s what I think is relatable- and do my best to be a bit funny. 

Dear Self,

How are you? Have a great afternoon and evening. See you tomorrow. 

Love, Yourself

Anyway, I am better now.  I wouldn’t say all better, because I don’t feel 100%.  But, I don’t feel like I have to stay in bed, or go back to bed, at least until it is my official bed time.  I don’t feel like I need to whine and moan to ease and calm myself,  I don’t need to ask someone else to get me food, drink, or warm blanket.  I am self-sufficient.  Again!  Thank goodness.  Because as nice as it is to have a day off, it is more annoying and depressing to be helpless. 

How do they do it?  Men I mean.  I didn’t come up with what I am about to write about on my own.  So don’t write ME the hate letters.  I got it from fellow wives and girlfriends and the talk radio show last week.  I couldn’t possibly come up with it myself because Tom doesn’t behave this way.  He wasn’t babied and coddled when he got sick.  The way he described it, “rub some dirt on it” was the best way to get better in his home.  He is the youngest of five Irish boys, all born in a matter of 7.5 years.  Not any one of them is more than two years apart, and it’s more like 18 or 9 months apart.  So if you sure as hell want to get the shit get kicked out of you or get teased like you’re the girl in that family, it’s not mearly get sick, it’s ACT SICK.

However, I have found it almost universal at play groups that woman will speak of their husbands with almost disdain, “He is so pathetic.  Our four year old can handle a fever better than he can.”  And on it goes, because where one woman finds solace in venting, oh you better believe another will find even more comfort in comradery.  “You think you have it bad, when my husband so much as gets a cough, he then gets anticipatory grief as if he has a terminal illness and we should all prepare for the end.  He makes eye contact with me, as if to say, ‘I love you.  You’re my hero.  The documents are filed neatly in the home office, call Dr. Kevorkian just to make it easier on everyone else, not me.  Especially you, you deserve it.’  I swear if I didn’t know him better I would have thought he was in the High School Drama club and gay.  You guys don’t think he is gay DO YOU!?”  And then thank goodness the topic at play group can turn to something else, and we can divert Mary, all in harmony, “Oh no, NO, No, no, Don’t be so silly!  He’s so tough, and handsome, and……ya know….cough….tough.  Who’s going to Jane’s pot luck on Sunday?” 

And thank goodness we have each other.  Women.  Because, not only do our husbands get sick.  We get sick.  Our kids get sick.  And we get sick of our husbands, our kids, and ourselves.  And who would we turn to if we didn’t have our girlfriends.  And what would we turn to each other about if we didn’t love our children and our husbands so freakin’ much?

This blog is dedicated to my best girlfriends, our best kids, and my best friend.  With out each of you, I would not be so sick(ly) & happy.

Currently, I have stopped puking, but I have stomach cramps that won’t quit.  And as I sit and type, I am feeling sea sick.  It is Bay’s 5th Birthday, so we took her to see Holden at his school for his lunch and his book fair.  I could have fainted before we got to the cafeteria.  JC!  What happened to the woman who was with an infant, spider-man toddler, house to clean, diapers to change, dinner to cook, sex to have, & a smile to keep?  Where did she go?  Now I run a few carpools, write six thousand words of hysterical fodder  for a book and a blog, only to puke out my upper and lower intestines and I am whupped!  Sorry Riggs, I will get my ass in shape I promise, and be back tomorrow, on the straight and narrow with my A game.  This acting like a baby (or a guy, whatever,) is bullshit!  See you in the AM.

Title: Bay Grace

She is turning five Friday.  Where did the time go?  It’s so cliché I know.  But it’s true.  It feels like yesterday she was my little baby.  Stumbling around, ready to trip, and knock her front teeth out.  Now she walks, no struts, around the house like a teenager.  With an attitude, making European runway models look demure.  She’s turning five!  She can dress herself, pick out her own clothes, do it by herself. What happened to my little girl, who used to look up at me and say, “Mommy, pease may I bear my faborit pear ub overall today?”

But, I’m going to go forward with it anyway.  Why?  Because, I think it is a very relevant topic; women my age are doing lots of multitasking and have lots of hormones, and sometimes we want sex, and sometimes we want you to get the fuck off of us.  Also, it’s what is currently happening in my life and that’s what I blog about, duh.  Lastly, it’s good fodder. (And Tom, Jeff, Sheryl, Jen Bros and now Warner & Heather & Riggs, I know you won’t be offended. Thanks for tuning in.)

So here goes….Poor, poor, poor, poor Tom.  Not ONLY because he hasn’t been getting any.  Also, because you can’t predict, not even Nostradomus, which end is up with me and my moods!  Holy shit it’s craziness.  For the past few weeks my libido has taken a coffee break, gone on vacation, gotten arrested, burned in a bonfire, gotten pneumonia, has been stolen and put in Winona Ryder’s purse?  Something, I don’t know what the hell it was.  I haven’t felt this way since I was pregnant, AND our youngest will be FIVE on Friday.

So in the past six years, I have never felt so disconnected from my body, and wanted to stay in overalls 24/7 more than ever before.  If I ever wanted to cohabitate with my Husband like roommates, like buddies, like brother and sister, this was it.  Gross.  “What the hell is wrong with me?”  I would think to myself?  “It’s not you, it’s me.”  It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to Tom.  On the contrary, I was loving on Tom very much.  Just in my own head and heart. 

My body just didn’t have one sexy twinge in it.  Not one.  Crickets.  Not a candle, or a rose, or a chocolate, or a bubble bath would do a damn thing.  I couldn’t get it up to save my life.  He could cook, clean, iron, shop, vacuum, and all my body would do was “Eh.”

“Okay, don’t panic.”  I would tell myself.  You haven’t exercised in a while.  You are the color of toothpaste.  You could put on some makeup ya know.  You’re kinda lookin’ like a dish rag lately, how do you think you’re going to feel sexy?  “Ah good point.”

Yes, these are the conversations in my head.  So as I look back on my PMS week and period week, I decide to pull myself up by my big Polish booties and get my ass moving.  Step one: exercise. EVERYDAY.  Step two: change diet.  EVERYDAY.  Step three:  Read about other people having sex.  EVERYDAY.

And what do you know?  Voila!  I am a changed woman!  I want to be on him.  He’s still the hottie he was two weeks ago.  A week ago.  Yesterday.  But today, I am different.  Vroom vroom.  No doubt the exercise and diet are clutch.  To boot, my cycle is over, and I am most always a bit horny after that.  When I ovulate, I am like Queen Devil Bitch Harpy Venom Slaying Monster.  It’s as if Mother Nature knows, “Now Thomas, you get that healthy Irish Catholic Speed Sperm away from that Polack’s ovaries you hear me!  If you get her pregnant again it will create Armageddon.  You think she’s nasty now, you remember when she was with child?  Run! Run Messiah, Run.”  And so it goes, it’s a win/win right now.  Actually, a win/win/win.  Tommy gets some good lovin, me too.  I feel sooooo much better.  Me again.  And with any luck I may fit back in a pair of jeans.  Wish me luck.

Just a few days ago, Tom and I sat down with a warm cup of coffee to watch the ‘Today Show’ and what we got was a crude cup of reality.  The segment was on TEEN sexting.  I was like, “HUH?”  And he was all, “Eh?”  And I was like, “What the hell?”  And he was all, “You’ve got to be shitting me?”  (No he wasn’t, he hardly swears.)

As the commentary was getting underway I say to Tom, “I just saw another segment where a PhD said it’s healthy for OUR demographic to sext each other.”  His reply, “Yeah?  Would it translate to us ever really doing it again?”  Me, “Very funny.  You know I had bad PMS, and now my period.  Come on, let’s watch.”

Daughters sit with their Mothers as the teens talk about sexting and they don’t think it’s unusual behavior or inappropriate for their age.  They comment how they don’t mull over the consequences, every one’s doing it they say, trusting that it won’t get around school, or all over the Internet.  In that voice of naiveté that teens have when they think, “It’ll never happen to me,” or “That’s only for the movies, or after schools specials.”  You know the kind, “Johnny don’t do that” or “Jenny eat something.”

As if I am not in enough shock, here comes the FULL MONTY.  The nacho supreme.  The Britney Spears naked head of them all!  (Or vagina, whatever.)  If a friend sends a sext message and a photo to your teen, your teen can now be registered as a sex offender.  YUP!  You read it right.  SEX OFFEDER.  REGISTERED.  Registered. Sex. Offender.  Picture this:  If your daughter’s fifteen year old friend, who is a boy, sends her a picture of his hot pecks, or his guns, Smith and Wesson, and she opens it and has the picture on her phone, WHAMO, she can be charged and registered as a child sex offender.  I hope that you are good friend’s with his mom and don’t piss her off.  Hope your daughter doesn’t down load it to the Internet and send it into cyber-space.  Hope his furious litigious attorney parents don’t sue.  How much liable damages are Smith and Wesson really worth?  Is it really humiliating?  Or is it really a huge promotion for Prom King?  If your daughter gets mad at him and photo shops his nipples and gives him man boobs, NOW THAT could be bad…I’m just sayin’.  It’s something to think about.  (My Dad’s career was insurance my entire life.  Re-insurance, where they insured insurance companies!  I can’t help BUT think like this.  It’s a curse!)

So, I was all proud of myself, writing the letter, thinking about the talk way ahead of time.  Now I have to traverse the land of technology, blind and bumping into walls.  Because this is something I never had growing up and I need a manual or a translating device.  I need an agent.  A mole.  Not necessarily someone to spy on our kids, but someone that can get me up to speed with the world today.  It’s hard enough to try and get your kids to do better than you did, and have them talk to you, the “you can tell me anything” bullshit.  Yeah right.  Like they’re really going to come home and say, “Hey Mom, I was really curious, soooo, I drank a fifth of vodka, snorted a line of coke, and fucked some slut.  It was great.  Just thought I should let you know. Gnight!”

Not only do we, “we” meaning parents, have to try to get our kids to not have sex by age 12, we have to try and keep our daughter from competing for the most blow jobs at a party, and now we get to make sure they don’t have “Pedophile” on their high school resume.  Honestly, how in the hell do you not become a “helicopter parent”?  It has so many meanings to me….Not only would I be on top of their shit all the time, I would be like a cop, putting them through HELL.

Ah, thank goodness for sweet dark chocolates and cold stiff martinis.

The reason I know my family not only loves me, but they like me, is that I am still alive, and not chopped up in a suitcase with cinder-blocks and at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.  They let me live another day, knowing I would come back to them.  Keeping the faith that I would get my period, get good night sleep, and wake to have a sensible diet.  Carbs of course. A bagel with butter.  Check!  Coffee, drink it down, because no amount of sleep or hormone leveling will ever negate the need for a large Cup O’ Joe.  Check and Check!  Next, WATER!  It’s Saturday morning, so you’re sure as shittin’ last night I had some cocktails and I am dehydrated.  Okay, off to a great start!

Now about that great night sleep….I was too tired to stay awake for dinner.  Ridiculous I know, especially because Tom was making one of my FAVORITE meals.  His famous cheeseburgers.  I am not exaggerating when I say these babies are THE BEST!  They could make a vegan switch teams, I am certain.  I don’t know exactly what he does, but man o man, I don’t need a bun, or a chip, or a mac or potato salad.  Just the meat and a little side of mayo.  I know it may sound gross, and like a big plate of fat, but it is soooo yummy.  I am a polish girl, and if genetics say I have to have big hands and big feet, then I am going to enjoy my burgers.  And so it goes, I had that bad boy for lunch, and all is right in the world and with the Brosnan Clan!

Screw you and thank you, you asshole PMS Goddesses.

For the two or three people who read my blog, (thank you Tom, Sheryl, & Jeff,) you know that I have not been myself the past few days.  Okay, I have been exactlymyself.  My very bitchy, clumsy, short-tempered, PMSing self.  Shut the hell up.  Anyway, I am here to say that I decided, yes happiness is a choice I know, wa wa wa to all you sunshiny fuckers out there who are without disgustingly raging inconsistent hormones and have not birthed babies and moved 1000 times in five years, I DECIDED I would do something different this morning so NOT to want to start my day downing  xanax with my coffee. 

Decision Numero Uno:  Get out the door earlier.  Everyone knows, being five minutes ahead of schedule can make or break you.  If you are five minutes behind, it can add 100x more aggravation.  I start to talk faster.  In order to make our kids move faster.  I talk louder, in order to make them move faster.  And, I tend to sound a bit meaner.  NOT ONE, of which, helps. Ever. Never.  Ever.  Although, it is very, very, effective in making me feel like shit.  It makes my adrenaline rush, my blood pressure rise, thus starting my day immediately with a headache.  A+ for Mommy.

Number two:  (I was going to say Decision B: to be silly and dumb, but that would totally annoy Tom, so back to English for you babe!)  Be chipper.  Really chipper!  “Hello World!  Here comes Baylee Grace Brosnan!”  Get her all pumped up for the day.  Be in a great mood myself.  It will rub off on her for sure.  Those peanuts can be manipulated like putty.  They are like little chameleons. If you’ve seen five year old girls, those tiny bitches, they can switch best friends faster than my Grandma Jesse could slap back a well aged Scotch.  (Bless her heart!)  Seriously, it worked with Bay; she was on board, singing, dancing, jumping with glee, spinning around the house, happy as Clinton in his own cum.

Keep on, Keepin’ on:  This is where my brain starts to bleed, and things fall apart.  Time to get into the car.  It’s a short walk down the driveway, open the door, climb in, sit and strap.  Not complicated.  What’s the big deal?  Ohhhhh, I could punch the effer who messes with me on the struggle of a Mother (female-35yr.old-PMSing-harpy/demon) vs. 5 yr. old daughter with Polly pocket and littlest pet shop pretending to go to Disney, with Jackie Chan and perform Karate on every bad guy that they encounter. Then when she FINALLY gets to her door, she has to draw, with her finger, in the morning dew, on my car, a ‘beautiful lady bug.’  And then tell me about it.  “Look Mommy, isn’t it so cute!?”  I answer yes of course, trying not to implode, and tell her to get in and strap for the third or fourth time.  Oh, My Head, Is THROBBING!  She climbs in and I think I am home free.  Thank goodness, because I have had it.  I planned on being early, or at least on time.  Now the little shit is going to make us late!  How freaking early do we have to get up!? 

As she gets in the car, and I think she is going to sit down, there is one more scene with Jackie, Polly, & Pet shop.  I calmly take the toys, gently, so NOT to scare her that she thinks I might beat her, (by the way, she ACTS LIKE THAT, we DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT spank, touch or discipline our children in any other way than the most calm we deem appropriate, with time outs and consequences; taking their most prized possessions away.  Don’t get me wrong, we are not in a glass house and are NOT perfect, BUT we are not physical with our kids.  It’s just when I raise my voice a teenie tiny bit, you would think she is in front of Hitler!) I tell her in my loud and annoyed voice, (so she doesn’t grow up to be a Narcissist) “SIT DOWN AND STRAP!  YOU DON’T GET YOUR TOYS UNTIL YOU LISTEN! I WANT TO BE ON TIME! STOP TAKING SO LONG!” 

In her sweetest, most mouse like voice, with her chin down and her eyes up, batting her eye lashes, AND talking like she’s three, “Am I in twob el?  Ur scarin’ me?”

OH for crying out loud!  I have been screaming at the top of my lungs, “GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!!!!!!!!!!!” in MY HEAD for the last ten minutes, given myself a migraine, all to avoid this.  WHY? WHY could I have not hung on for 120 more seconds?  Someone, PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!! Tell me I can do better tomorrow!  Tell me she won’t win every time!

If this were thirty years ago, I would have had my ass smacked up into that car, several times, (I wouldn’t have to climb in myself, yippee, and I would be flyyyyyyingggg!) and then told:

“I’LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!!!!”

Hello World, here comes Baylee Grace Brosnan!