Santa brought me some pajamas that were a little on the large side. Returning them shouldn’t have required this much discussion. Or therapy time.

Julianna (she’s 9): Daddy, what is Mommy doing?

Me: Returning my new pajamas. They’re too big.

J: You mean, you’re too small to wear them.

Me: No, Honey. They are too big for me.

J: In other words, you’re too short.

Me: No, Sweetie. I am an appropriate size. The pajamas are just too big.

J: So, you’re saying that you are too small for your pajamas, right?

Me: No, Puppy. Look, I’m Ok. It’s just that the pajamas aren’t right me.

J: Oh, I see. They’re too big for you.

Me: Exactly.

J: Except for your big fat belly.

Fat Like Santa

While rolling down the road, Isabella (she’s 6) and I are talking about Santa. Inevitably, the conversation heads to my waist-line.

Iz: Daddy, you’re not fat like Santa.

Me: Well, thank you dear. I don’t think so, either.

Julianna (she’s 9) inserts herself into the conversation.

J: Isabella, what did you say?

Iz: I said that Daddy isn’t as fat as Santa.

Wait a minute.

Me: Honey, that’s not what you said. “Not fat like” and “Not as fat as” have two totally different meanings.

Iz: Well. But.. You both have grey hair.

Me: Not helping.

Girls Marrying Girls

Isabella (she’s 6): Daddy, you know sometimes it would be better if girls didn’t marry other girls.

Me: Umm… Why, Honey? Because they will face a life-long struggle against discrimination? They will be shunned by their friends and family, fired from their jobs for no reason, be denied housing opportunities, and be relegated to a second-class existence in the eyes of many, while living in the land where all are created Equal?

Iz: No, because the girls may have too many babies. Girls have babies. Two girls could have lots of babies. Too many babies.

Me: Yes, Honey. Well.. Good point. Not usually how it works, though. But, yes. Girls can sometimes have lots of babies.

Am I over-thinking things?

Dude, Where’s My Car?

Has this ever happened to you? You’re driving down the street. Then, suddenly, you panic. “Did I leave my keys at home?!” Frantically, you start pouring through your mind. All the while you are driving. In a car. Down the street.

“Where did I see them last? The table? My other jacket?! The Red Lobster?”

Driving a car. Actually, driving. A car. The street. “Where the Hell…?”

Oh yeah….. Driving.

Welcome to my Monday morning.

I Hate Every Food Here

To my blog regulars, I know that you’ve heard this sort of stuff before. Here as well as in your own life.

But, things just got kicked up a notch.

After picking the girls up from school Friday afternoon: YAY, WE’RE GOING TO McDONALDS!

Me: Well, Girls. No. We’re going to the supermarket. We need a few things.

Girls: Aw-uh (their disappointed voices rise in inflection.)

Me: But, girls, you can’t have everything you want. While supplies last.

Girls: Yay! I want Chips! I want Yogurt! DORITOS!

Me: Ok. But, you have to pick something for dinner. Real food.

Julianna (she’s 9): I want sushi!

Isabella (she’s 6): I want to think about it…

I park and we walk into Ralphs grocery store. (Technically speaking, there is no apostrophe in Ralphs. Not “Ralph’s.” Non possessive. It is Ralphs. iPhone spell-check be-damned. English professor, help me.)

Approaching the sushi counter, unfortunately, it is out of Julianna’s prized “California Roll ($5.99).” They have the “Spicy California Roll ($7.50).” No, please. They have the “Real Crab California Roll ($8.99).” Nope. “Rainbow Roll ($12.50).” The “Lobster Flown in from Maine Today Roll ($75.99).” Noooo!

Me: Sorry, Honey, they don’t have the plain, vanilla, generic, fake tofu-crab California roll that you insist on. We’ll have to find something else.

Tears well.

Here begins the meltdown…


J (and normally she’s the “good” one, proportionally-speaking): If I can’t have my sushi, then I don’t want anything! And, I’m starving! I’ll starve to death!

(She actually said that.)

Me: Well, Sweetie. We’re in a grocery store, full of food. We’ll find something else.

J: No, we won’t! I hate everything here!

Me (as calmly as I can be, but tempers are rising): You realize, that everything we eat comes from this store, right.

J: No! I’m going to starve to death!

Me: Then, we’ll just go home and find something.

J (tears are streaming down her cheeks): No! There’s nothing at home to eat. I’m going to starve to death!

(Her last full meal was three hours ago.)

Me: Honey. We’re in a GODDAMN Grocery Store! They have 25 aisles of EVERY FUCKING THING you could ever eat!

(For the record, that was only the voice in my head. Security was never called.)

Me (actually): Well, Julianna, what do you want?

J: I. Don’t. Know.


Here’s where things heat up.

Me: Well, then I’m ready to leave.

J: Noooooooooo! I’ll. Starve. To. Death.

Yes, people begin looking.

Me: Then, pick something!

J: I don’t know what it is, but I want it!

Me (reasonable-ish): Please calm down, Puppy… What is it? What does it taste like?

J: I don’t know!

Me: You don’t know what it tastes like?! Ok, Does it come in a can? Or a box? Or something I cook? Is it frozen?

J (now, just below a scream): I! Don’t! Know!

Me: So, you don’t know what it tastes like or looks like? What is it?

J: I! Don’t! Know! It didn’t have a picture!

The guy in aisle 7 is smirking. Go to Hell.

So, we begin trudging up the aisles, looking for this mythical, magical Unicorn of food.

Me: Is it soup? Chili? Pizza? I can make spaghetti. Stew? A packet of Fajita flavoring? Light Bulbs? Motor Oil?

Guess what? She can’t find it.

J: I! Don’t! Know!


A hostage no more, I make a break for it.

Me: Honey, I’m done here. All I know, is that my dinner will consist of two items: Mar and Tini. (I didn’t actually say that last bit, just thought it… But, I am done here.)

We head to the cashier. I start dumping the baby carrots and pasta on the conveyor belt. Suddenly, I’m being screamed at.

J: Fine! I’ll have the STUPID pizza!

We roll back, grab the F-ing DiGiornos pizza, then finally check out.


At last, we get home, I throw that crappy pizza in the oven. 23 minutes later: Ding! It’s done. I slice it up. Let it cool. Slap it on a couple plates…

A minute or two to cool… Then,

Julianna: I Hate the cheese! It’s Horrible!!!

Me: STRAIGHT TO HELL FOR YOU!… (I think I actually said, “Straight to BED for you.” A little less emphasis there. But, there isn’t any available audio recording to verify. So, it’s plausibly deniable.)

Me…: Now, Miss Mar and Miss Tini, Have you met? Hang on…

Isabella: I’ve decided. I want her pizza. And, some Doritos.

Lady Hugs

I’m talking to men, here… Here’s the deal with hugging women.

I totally get the uneasiness. Boobs are generally involved.

But, that is not my point.

There are 5 different hugs a guy can administer to a woman, especially during the Holiday season:

1) Top of chest. Neck. Maybe a sideswipe. Professional. You’re cool, right?

2) Totally Platonic. Full on, but, yeah, no.

3) These aren’t real. But, I will bang you until September.

4) You’re the Love of My Life.

5) Best one: Just hug me.

Number 5 is my favorite, but Number 3 also sounds good.


Ladies, and yes, I am talking to you (unless you’re a dude.)

Boobs. I totally get the anatomy. Believe me. A fan.

But, what is up with the bra straps? I see them at the store, restaurants, subway, work…

I understand the anatomy. I appreciate them. Both! You need the support.

I get that.

But, (and this is a fashion statement), I don’t need to see your straps, clasps, or cups. If you are wearing a halter top, plan ahead. A tank top. Plan.

A tube top, God help you.

Here’s the deal: I will never object to boobage. Never. Just don’t shove them in my face. (Poor choice of words.)

(People tell me that I’m funny. I’m doubtful.)

Yeah…. I know.

So, I haven’t been posting much recently. Bad shoulder. Can’t see straight. Brother died. Family tragedy. You get my point.

So, I’ve been dialing it back a notch. Life gets in the way of a silly blog every now and then.

But, I can’t resist this:

My First Grader. Doing her “B”s


She’s six. What kind of hippie school is this? (I’m not the only one who sees this, right? ’cause I may need more therapy than I suspected.)

[Update: I’ve had numerous comments about this post. Something about “Boob.” I was ONLY addressing the fact that the bus doesn’t have a door. Just a floppy window. There’s no door! Believe me, if I wanted to talk about boobs, I will.]