Sarcasm and Salt

I am the Queen of the Quick Comebacks. The Princess of the snappy one-liners. If you know me well enough and I feel comfortable with you, I’ll let my guard down and let ‘em rip.

It’s a blessing and a curse.

I can break tension. I can take the piss out of myself in 30 seconds or less. I can make people laugh until they pee.

But sometimes that’s not the right thing to do.

I’d love to tell certain people in my life to pull their heads out of their respective asses and to do the jobs they, at one point in their respective lives, wanted to take on.

I’d love to tell them that the choices they make to hurt one person will end up hurting innocent third parties so very much more. And everyone will be worse off for it.

I’d love to tell other people that I can’t fix their problems when I’m not told there is a problem until the damage is already irreparable.

I’d love to tell certain people that the accusations and insults they hurl at me are merely a reflection of their own insecurities.

But hate breeds hate.
Misery breeds misery.
And negativity spreads like a fungus.

And I don’t need it.

So, I’m showing some rare wisdom.

I’m keeping my mouth shut.

The negative people in my life just float by like little grey clouds. Let them pour their rain. I have the umbrella of love and patience to protect me from their acidic drops.

I’m surrounding myself with great, supportive, and loving people.

I’m coaching instead of bitching.

I’m relishing every minute of my kids, even the tantrums and tears. Those are the moments of mercy, compassion, and growth.

Sarcasm still has its place in my life. Don’t worry, I haven’t gone soft.

Like salt, it’s great to add flavor, but best used sparingly.

_____________________
This post was written for the “Looking Around” Challenge on Mrs. Flinger’s {W}rite of Passage Project. Go check out the other writers and tell them what you think.

Duck Tail

Step by step, padding my way down a San Diego sidewalk, I spy a little blonde head on a three-year-old boy. He is occupied kicking a rock back and forth. His focus is downward so I cannot see his face. His mother sits on a bench a few feet away. His crew cut tapers to the end of his neck in a sweet duck tail above his collar. I want to touch him. To hold him. To run my fingers through his hair as his head rests on his shoulder.

But he is not you, my Doodle. He is not you.

I wish he was you. My soul misses you.

But I will keep my hands to myself.

For as much as I love and miss you, there is no substitute for the real you.

And that mom could probably run me down and kick my ass for touching her kid.

A little brown package

When one travels, one likes to indulge in food and beverage that is not available in the homeland. Gone are the familiar staples of mac and cheese. Apple juice pouring from a jug has been replaced by vistas of pomegranate martinis flowing from the silvery mouth of a cocktail shaker.

Such decadence comes with a price. And the double chin forming on my ass is proof of it.

So, in an attempt to shed my excess and still allow for some minor, tempered indulgences, my colleague and I walked from the convention center back to our hotel where I quickly changed and sauntered down to the workout room to finish my Chelsea Handler book sweat off some excess fat.

Having burned enough calories to justify at least the smell of an M&M, I traipsed back up to my room, shed my sweaty clothes and did my dining companion a huge favor by taking a shower to rinse off my stink.

The marble-covered bathroom was warmed by the glorious heat lamps as the fans whirred away the excess steam.

It was glorious.

I was in the midst of my post-shower grooming routine when I heard my room door open.

My initial alarm was allayed when I realized it was 6 p.m. and the intruder was likely the housekeeper popping in for the hotel’s turn-down service. No problem. My frosted-glass bathroom door was shut and the fan was still whirring away. She would see and hear the room was occupied, discretely take care of business and whisk herself away after leaving chocolates on my pillow.

But no.

She had to open the door.

Her look of shock and awe was met with my snide “HELLLLL-OOOO!”

“OOH MY! SO SORRY!” She blurted as she fled the scene.

There was something brown on my floor. I’m not sure if it was chocolate…

or poop.

___________________________________

This post was written in part to share my nakedness with the world to create an odd cross-posting for my review site fulfill my duties as a participant in Mrs. Flinger’s {W}rite of Passage Project. This week’s challenge was to write something with a clear plot. I’m not sure if I necessarily accomplished the mission, but feel free to weigh in here or on the project site. Or just share your favorite stories about getting walked in on…or chocolate…or poop…or chocolate poop. Whatever floats your boat.

Yes, Doodle.

Conversations with my nearly three year old, Doodle, often fluctuate from the superficial, to the educational, to the surreal.

Case in point: In the car, the on the way home from daycare the other night. We’re pulling out of the daycare parking lot when he starts in…

Doodle: Dada bump bump!!

Me: Speed bump?

Doodle: Dada bump bump!!

Me: Daddy drives over the speed bumps?

Doodle: YES! Dada bump bump!!

Me: oookay. Fine. Daddy drives over the speed bumps.

Boo: But we’re in Mommy’s car, Doodle!

Doodle: MOMMY’S PURPLE BUS!

Me: Yes, Mommy’s purple bus.

Doodle: GooooTHAWAY! No lighs. Kistmas ov-ah.

Me: No, Doodle, we’re going this way and yes. the lights are gone. Christmas is over. What do you want for dinner tonight?

Doodle: Thawaydadashoose!

Me: Yes, Dad’s house is that way. We’re going to mommy’s house tonight.

Doodle: WizTeeb?

Me: Yes, Steve will be there.

Doodle: YEA! And makcheez?

Me: Yes, we’re having mac and cheese tonight

You can file a box of this under "How to bribe a 2.5 year old."

(Heaven help us if it’s not mac and cheese. If that were the case, the rest of this conversation would be the sound of my beloved blonde-headed boy screaming MAAAAKCHEEEEZ! over and over again. Alas, it was mac and cheese night, so the saga continues…)

Doodle: PAAAAHK! Mommeee! PAAAAHK.

Me: Yes, Doodle. That’s the park. We pass it every day. It’s still there. It hasn’t moved.

Doodle: PWAYGWOUND! NIGHT NIGHT PWAYGWOUND! Too dawk, Mommy. Pwaygwound go nigh night. Too dawk.

Me: Yes, Doodle, it’s too dark to play at the playground tonight. We can come back on Saturday and ride bikes and play. Okay?

(Oh crap, now I opened the Pandora’s box for a toddler who sees Saturday coming in T-5 minutes.)

Doodle: NO MOMMY! TOO DAWK! PWAYGWOUND! NIGHT NIGHT!

Me: I know, Doodle. I’m talking about this weekend. It’s only Monday now. We’ve got five days to go.

Doodle: ONE TWO THWEE FOOOR FWIVE!

Me: Yep, five little man. Five.

Doodle: Go Mommy House?

Me: Yes, we’re going to mommy’s house.

Doodle: MAKCHEEZE!?!?

Me: Yes, we’re having mac and cheese.

Doodle: TAHMAS!

Me: Yes, you can watch Thomas.

Doodle: POOTER!

Me: Yes, you can play on the computer while I make dinner!

Doodle: BUMP BUMP MOMMY! BUMP BUMP!

Me: Yes Doodle, speedbumps. We’re almost home.

Doodle: I HAS PEEENUTS!

Boo: WHAT?

Doodle: I HAS PEENUTS! DADDY HAS PEENUTS! TEEB HAS PEENUTS! MOMMY NO PEENUTS! BOO NO PEETNUTS!

Me: Yes Doodle. Do you know why?

Boo (the ever-helpful sister): Doodle, you and Daddy and Steve have a PEEENIS because you are BOYS! Me and Mommy have VAH-JAI-NAHS because we’re girls. Right Mommy?

Me: Yes, Boo. You’re right. Now. Can we close out the personal part inventory while I try to back the car in?

Doodle: MAKCHEEZE MOMMY! MAKCHEEZE!

Was that as exhausting to read as it was to write? Imagine living it for the five-minute drive between daycare and school every day. That said, I wouldn’t change a damn thing. MAKCHEEZE, PEENUTS, and BUMP BUMPS and all.

Blue over Red

I picked up my 6YO Boo from school today. She was a chatterbox full of news from school over the past few days…

Boo: Guess what, Mommy?

Me: What Boo?

Boo: I stayed on blue today.

[Okay, a quick explanation is due here. In Boo's class, each kid starts his or her day with a blue poker chip (gotta love a Catholic school in Vegas). If they behave, they stay on blue, if they don't, they move from blue to green, green to yellow, and yellow to red as their behavior deteriorates. There are few offenses that will lead a child from blue to red instantly, namely direct and deliberate disobedience of a direct order, intentional harm to another classmate, and apparently this one...]

Me: Good for you, sweetheart.

Boo: Guess what, Mommy?

Me: What Boo?

Boo: Sierra (Boo’s BFF) was on red.

Me: Oh no. What happened?

Boo: She runned to the bathroom.

Me: She ran to the bathroom.

Boo: She RAN to the bathroom

Me: Ohhhh-kay. And?

Boo: I seen her running and told Miss Kindergarten Teacher.

Me: You saw her running. Was Sierra okay?

Boo: Yes.

Me (puzzled): So, why was she running?

Boo: I don’t know. She was just running and I told on her. And Miss KT put her on red.

Me: Well, Boo. It’s not nice to rat out your friends like that. Was she hurting anyone? Was it any of your business?

Boo: Well, no. But Miss KT  told us to tell.

Me: Sigh.

How do you teach a child to respect authority and follow direction without encouraging her to become the class tattle tale?

________________________________________

This post was a part of Mrs. Flinger’s Write of Passage Project. Go check out the other writers and give them your feedback.