How To Lose A Mom Friend In 10 Days

Who remembers that awesome romantic comedy How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days from the early 2000s? For those of you who didn’t see it, it had Kate Hudson and Matthew McSexy McConaughey and showed their two characters doing everything they could to drive away the other as part of a bet. (They ultimately fell for each other, of course.) I was thinking about this movie the other day when my brain did its thing, jumped to a dozen other things, and then came back to thinking, “How to Lose a Mom Friend in 10 Days would be funny…ooh, blog post!”

So here we are.

Do you have a mom friend in your life that you’re getting kind of sick of? Breaking up is hard to do, especially when it comes to “friends.” Being direct about this sort of thing is tough, and if they aren’t picking up on your Vaguebook posts, you might want to think about stepping up your game. Here are a few ways to say, “I hate you” and lose that mom friend in 10 days or less. (And, no, there will be no falling for each other.)

Buy Their Kids Shitty Gifts

Certain gifts are universally hated by parents. I found this out the hard way before I had kids when I gave a young child a Play-doh set for Christmas. His mom asked — in a not-so-joking tone — what she had done to piss me off. I was confused, since Play-doh is awesome, but I’ve since learned that many parents share her belief that Play-doh is the devil.

In case your mom friend is anything like me and actually wants Play-doh sets gifted to her kids, then consider buying something that is super loud and annoying. If the kid is a baby, this damn dog is pretty much the perfect “I hate you” gift:

Little Man had one of these, and I swear, the thing was possessed. It played music even after we turned it off. We both swear that we heard it making noise one night after we removed the batteries, too. Giving someone that dog will make them automatically reevaluate their life and the choices they’ve made.

If you don’t think Play-doh or toys like that damn dog will do the trick, then just give the kid a box of glitter. Fair warning — the mom friend you’re trying to dump may assault you over this.

Host a Crappy mom Night

I know what you’re thinking — “Why the hell would I want to invite Mrs. Annoying over to my house and spend more time around here?” It could work, though, if you do it right.

Promise a mom’s night that will put all other mom’s nights to shame. Sell the hell out of entertainment and booze. Who can say “no” to that (unless you live in the Bible belt like I do)? Obviously, though, your definition of entertainment is going to greatly differ from the typical’s persons definition of entertainment.

As far as booze goes, break out bottles of Boone’s Farm wine or Aristocrat vodka. Do not, under any circumstance, include mixer for that vodka.

Finger Roll Them

Okay, so Daddy Finger Rolling someone sounds weird as hell, but I think most of y’all probably get what I’m referring to. (Or maybe not, because I’m weird and often snicker at lame stuff that no one else finds funny…like maybe this whole post.) Remember the whole Rickrolling thing that was popular a few years ago, when people would trick someone into going to a YouTube video of Rick Astley singing Never Gonna Give You Up? (Little Man loves that song, by the way.)

One of the top priorities of the parent of a toddler is to keep them from seeing the Daddy Finger videos on YouTube. They’re awful, there’s no end to how many shitty videos there are, and the kids love them. They are the absolute fastest way to getting a migraine.

Text the mom when the kid isn’t asleep and tell them you’ve discovered an awesome new educational video that will make their kid’s IQ skyrocket. When she opens the link, the Daddy Finger song will begin blaring, and as long as the kid is within a 100-yard radius of the phone, he’ll hear it and come running. The mom will spend the next hour watching horrible video after video and will have to listen to the kid beg for it at least 10 times an hour for the next month.

Custom RingTone

If all else fails, there’s one thing you can do to make that mom friend know how much you want to break up with her without having to say it — give her a personalized ringtone. Go with something like Bitch by Meredith Brooks, Fuck You by Cee Lo Green, or Asshole Song by Jimmy Buffet. Tell the mom that the ringer on your phone is acting glitchy and ask her to call it so you can test it out.

If she doesn’t take the hint after that, then you’re stuck with her for life.


Obviously this is just a jokey post that no one would ever do (except use Aristocrat vodka because you’re a cheapskate), but if you were going to drive someone away, what’s a funny way you’d it?

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Just Fix The Damn Sandwich

If you read the title of this post, then you know that I’m going to be writing about food. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, then you know that when I talk about food, I also have to tell you guys about all of my food problems first to set the scene, so to speak. Skip to the story if you know the spiel, or continue reading if you either don’t know the spiel or want to hear it again, because it gives you a little comfort knowing that no matter how weird you are, you’ll never be as weird as the dork with the blog.

I’ve been given a lot of titles in my life — daughter, sister, wife, mother, foul-mouthed bitch. Picky eater is another one of my titles. Always have been, always will be, I imagine. I do try to eat different foods on occasion (such as my husband’s amazing looking salad from Viva Chicken that had kale, avocado, onions, and beans). Unfortunately, no matter how scrumptious the foods look or smell, I have a tough time getting past certain textures, so I’m forever the weirdo who orders chicken nuggets at Mexican restaurants and asks for “double cheeseburgers without cheese” at certain burger chains that refuse to let me order in a normal fashion.

Despite my pickiness, there are a few things that I do like that others consider weird. One of those is the pepperoni sub, something I fell in love with when I was pregnant with Little Man. And let me tell you, that pepperoni sub was the bane of my husband’s existence during that pregnancy. In addition to the tear fests and demands for bags of Sonic’s yummy ice, I would regularly send him out to Jersey Mike’s for a pepperoni sub.

I know what you’re thinking — “A pepperoni sub doesn’t sound so bad. What’s not to like about pizza subs?”

This is where I tell you that when I say pepperoni sub, I literally mean just pepperoni and bread. No cheese. No sauce. No veggies. Nothing but pepperoni on sub bread.

Whenever my husband would go out to buy me these subs, he’d always get looked at like a freak, because it is apparently unheard of in the sub world for people to order subs with one ingredient on them. (I get treated like a freak when I order subs with only turkey and a bit of mustard, but it’s nothing compared to the judgment that comes with pepperoni subs.) He’d explain that he was buying them for his pregnant wife, which would get him a little bit of understanding, but they still thought it was strange, even as far as pregnancy cravings go.

With many pregnant women, their crazy pregnancy cravings go away after their wombs are evacuated, but that wasn’t the case with me. Even though I rarely eat them now because I’ll get ferocious heartburn, I still very much enjoy pepperoni subs.

Earlier this week, I took my son to see the new Ant Man movie. After it was over, I popped into the Firehouse Subs place for a pepperoni sub, since it had been forever and a day since I had one. This did not go well, which you’ve probably gathered from the title of this post.

I placed the order for the pepperoni sub and got this reaction:

I explained. Pepperoni. Bread. That’s it.

I’ve never seen someone look so confused since roundabouts started becoming a thing in the south. The cashier quickly tapped out and called over who I assume was the manager to handle me. He asked what I wanted and I repeated “A pepperoni sub. Just pepperoni on a white sub roll.”

No. Pepperoni. Bread. That’s all.

(By the way — this isn’t the first time a manager has had to be called over to handle my order. Check out the time I ordered a whole chicken by accident.)

He rang it up as a turkey sub, adding a $2 charge for extra meat. Whaaat? I’m only getting one ingredient on this sandwich and I have to pay more? Eh, whatever. I just wanted my sub.

There was much giggling while my sub was being prepared. I was asked no less than eight times if I was certain that I only wanted pepperoni on my sub. Little Man disappeared at one point. I figured he was embarrassed by his mom, but after we left and I asked, he hadn’t noticed a thing. Before I was given my sub, one of the other workers made one last attempt at getting me to put something on my sandwich.

She sounded legitimately concerned for my well-being. I can only imagine what was going through her head. “Is she off her meds? Is she of sound mind to care for the child who is with her? Should I call child and adult protective services?”

I briefly considered telling her that I was allergic to cheese and all of the other things, but I know that’s a douchey move considering how many people with serious allergies and sensitivities don’t get taken seriously, so I didn’t. After I told her that I was certain, she asked, “Well, you don’t want the pickle…do you?”

It made perfect sense that she’d assume I wouldn’t want that pickle, but I did, in fact, want the pickle.

When my sandwich was finally handed over, I left. There was no way in hell I’d have stuck around to eat it in there. I opened it up in the car, and my son, who claimed he wasn’t remotely hungry when we went in the restaurant, commented that it smelled good and asked for a bite. Being the little genius he is, he immediately recognized what a good sandwich it was and asked for half of it, which I gave him.

The confusion and giggling and likelihood that they’ll plaster a photo of me next to the register saying, “Do not serve this woman” was worth it. The sandwich was damn good.

On a side note, I told my husband that I should’ve left, gone down to Subway, and brought back my sub (assuming they’d make it without a hassle) and have a Pretty Woman moment. Show off my wonderful sub and tell them they made a big mistake. Huge. 😉

Just so you guys know, bacon sandwiches are awesome, too. Just add a bunch of bacon to a sandwich and toast it in a bit of bacon grease, and you’ve got the second best sandwich in existence. 

What is the weirdest thing you’ve ever ordered in a restaurant?

A Sneaky Little What?

Hello from the land of viruses, nasty colds, and migraines! Plus general busyness. I think everyone is mostly healthy now, so yay! Yuckiness aside, the past week has been good. My son landed a part in two plays he auditioned for (which most of y’all already know, but I’m still in proud mama mode), one of my posts was published on the Erma Bombeck site, HumorWriters.org, and my husband got our swimming pool open. Good stuff!

Now that I’ve got that out of the way, on to the funny…

We have a dog named Bilbo. We named him after a character from The Hobbit. If you haven’t read The Hobbit (or watched the movie), then you should know that the character is persuaded to go on an adventure with a wizard and a bunch of dwarfs to be a burglar, on account of him being small since he’s a hobbit. We are big Hobbit/Lord of the Rings fans in my house (to the point that I have three LOTR inspired tattoos), so Bilbo was the perfect name for the dog.

And it really was perfect, because that dog loves to steal stuff.

Before we got an invisible fence, Bilbo had free run of the neighborhood. (It’s a small neighborhood in a rural area, where other dogs have free run, too.) All of that came to an end, though, when he started bringing up stuff he’d stolen. At first it was a couple of balls, and then there was a beach towel, which wasn’t so bad, but then he brought up a wild goose, and that put an end to his freedom.

This didn’t stop Bilbo’s thieving ways, though. He has since turned his sights to food. He is super sneaky about it, too. For example, if a slice of pizza is on a plate with some other food, he can swipe it right off the plate without making a sound or knocking anything else over, which is pretty impressive.

Yesterday Little Man was eating a sandwich when the burglar struck again. He had it in his hand and was looking at something when Bilbo quietly sneaked up and took it. Little Man was surprised, but chuckled over it, and said the following:

Whoa! That was true (and hilarious), but whoa!

Now, as some of you have gathered from reading this blog (as well as those of you who know me in real life), I’m not exactly against using curse words. I try to be careful around the kids, mainly because I know Baby Girl would repeat them. Little Man has only dropped a curse word around someone once (in front of two preachers, sigh), but otherwise he knows better and will ask permission before using such words. So, even though “bad words” don’t bother me on any level, I was still surprised that he said that, since a) I didn’t realize he knew the word, b) he doesn’t drop such words without permission, and c) his sister was present.

(Bastard is one of those words that falls in the gray area for me, but if he dropped it at school, it would be a problem, so a bad word it is.)

Little Man was surprised by this.

I laughed and laughed over that. I explained that “little bastard” was definitely not a country saying, and something that he shouldn’t repeat at school or in front of his sister. I asked where he heard it, but he wasn’t certain.

Now let’s hope that Baby Girl doesn’t repeat this. She didn’t appear to be paying attention to any of it, so hopefully I won’t get any calls from the preschool in the fall reporting, “Baby Girl called a kid who stole her blocks a little bastard.”

(By the way, if you’re someone who likes to go on about how their kids would never say such words, this isn’t the place to post about it.) 

I’m Dying: Nail Jaundice Edition

Today’s post was inspired by a post from Mom Life With Chiari, who wrote about nail polish on her blog. She mentioned using a base coat to avoid yellowing of the nails in her post, which made me remember yet another time in my life when I thought I was dying. (In case you’d like a refresher on a different time I thought I was dying, head here to check out the seat warmers from hell.)

This happened two or three years ago…

I’ve mentioned that I’m not the most feminine woman around. Not by a long shot. I’ve talked about how I’m not a fan of dresses, how I can’t get around in heels, and how my makeup skills resemble those of a drunk clown. My boobs and the monthly reminder that I’m not pregnant (or spontaneously pregnant, which was the fear before I met my husband, since anxiety makes you think you could be the next Virgin Mary) is pretty much the most feminine thing about me. Those are definitely legit reminders, but still, y’all get the point I’m trying to make. I hope.

So, two or three years ago, we were planning to go to the beach for vacation, when I decided I should really do something about my raggedy fingernails and fugly toenails. I could have gotten a manicure/pedicure from someone who knows what they’re doing, but I hate that sort of thing, so I decided to purchase some nail polish and give it a go myself. And by “give it a go myself,” I mean, “I enlisted my husband’s help.”

I did a decent job on my left hand, being a righty, but painting my right hand and my toenails was tough. My husband noticed this and offered to help, saying that he had painted his mom’s nails before. Before you go, “Aww, what a catch!” know that his painting looked much like you’d expect if you handed a toddler a bottle of nail polish and told her to go at it.

My husband is supposed to be sitting, not dancing a jig.

Yikes.

I was floored at how bad he did and accused him of lying about painting his mom’s nails. I know his mom quite well, and there’s no way in hell she’d let her nails go around looking like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre had occurred. He very quickly fessed up to lying about painting his mom’s nails. I should have been outraged, because husband and lies and the foundation of marriage being honesty and all that crap, but I wasn’t. He explained that he felt sorry for me and really wanted to help, and being outraged over his pity at my patheticness would be too much.

I very painstakingly painted my nails, using lots of polish remover and cotton balls in the process, and was actually pleased with the results. As long as you didn’t let your gaze linger, it looked half decent.

The vacation went well. I proudly flaunted my nails around, not that anyone noticed, because why would they? Some time passed and I realized that I needed to remove the polish and either a) paint the nails again or b) go back to wearing sneakers. I’m sure y’all can guess which option I selected, being a lazy mofo.

This is where the whole “I’m dying!” thing comes to play. After I removed the nail polish, I noticed that something wasn’t quite right.

Naturally, I assumed the worst.

Having a WebMD degree, I knew that jaundice is not a good thing. Clearly death was imminent, but why was the jaundice showing up on my nails and not the skin around my eyes? Was I a medical mystery? Would my body have to be donated to science? I needed answers, so I turned to the trusty WebMD.

WebMD informed me that my fingernail jaundice (which it called “nail discoloration”) could be a result of a fungus or bacteria. How about that? WebMD didn’t tell me that I had a terminal illness for a change. So maybe death wasn’t imminent and my liver was fine, but I definitely needed to figure out what was causing the jaundice (yeah, I’m still gonna use that term) and how to fix it, because yellow nails…blech.

Rather than set up an appointment with the doctor, I took a few pictures and sent them to some friends in the medical field and asked what was up with my nails. One of them asked if I had recently painted my nails, and I told her that I had. She asked if I used a base coat, and I told her that I had not, because…well, why would I? I was just trying to paint my fingernails, not be a fancy bitch with all the polishes.

She then informed me that when you don’t use a base coat or use the cheap polish that has a base coat in it, that it causes the fingernails to yellow. Now, I did paint my nails in middle school and sometimes in high school, and I know that I never used a base coat and only used cheap stuff since I had no money, but I don’t remember this ever happening. Lucky me, I guess.

My medical mystery was solved. No health issues. No death. Just being a sucky female who purchased cheap nail polish.

Crisis averted, and I didn’t have to embarrass myself at the doctor’s office with my brand new illness.

Tell me about a time when you thought something was wrong only for it not to be a biggie. 

Happy Father’s Day: #MyDadChallenge

In honor of Mother’s Day last month, I created the #MyMomChallenge, where I asked my kids a bunch of questions and recorded their answers. Since today is Father’s Day (and since Eric at All In A Dad’s Work reminded me by doing his own), I’m doing the same Q&A with my kids for their dad.

And here we go…

1. My dad is _____ years old and weighs _____ pounds.

Little Man: 40; 200
Baby Girl: 5; 4

2. My dad is good at cooking _____ and is not so good at cooking _____.

Little Man: hamburgers; nothing
Baby Girl: pizza for you and me; I don’t know

3. If my dad were a superhero, his name would be ______ and his superpower would be _____.

Little Man: The Human Dad; taking people around the neighborhood
Baby Girl: Spiderman; shooting webs

4. And if my dad were a villain, his name would be ______ and he would use his evil powers to _____.

Little Man: The Hacker; getting on Facebook when his son is playing Minecraft
Baby Girl: Joker; do bad things to superheroes

5. I love it when my dad______.

Little Man: hugs me
Baby Girl: hugs me and kisses me

6. When my dad is driving, he_________.

Little Man: uses one hand
Baby Girl: holds on to the steering wheel and turns it like this (imitates steering)

7. I like it when my dad _______ and I don’t like it when my dad _________.

Little Man: plays video games with me; says “no screens”
Baby Girl: watches TV with me; be’s mean

8. My dad does not like to _______.

Little Man: wipe my hiney
Baby Girl: read me books when he’s working

9. My dad does ________ the best and _________ the worst.

Little Man: buying good watermelons; playing video games (I always beat him)
Baby Girl: cook fish sticks and cheesy tater tots; I don’t know

10. I’m thankful for my dad because ___________.

Little Man: He’s the best
Baby Girl: I love him

Those last two answers, though. All the feels.

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads/father figures out there! And a special Happy Father’s Day to my husband, who sets the bar super high when it comes to his daddy game.

Feel free to join the Q&A! I know Father’s Day is almost over, but don’t let that stop you from recording your kids’ answers. It’ll be nice to have these written down (or blogged) so you can repeat them each year and compare their answers. Even if you’re an adult, your dad will enjoy it. (My kids did a version of this as a Father’s Day card for their dad, and since I forgot to buy a card for my dad, I did the same for him, and he seemed to love it, even though I am 34.) If you do join in, please tag me or add the link to the comment so I can check out your post.

Fuzzy On The Details

Between my drafts folder and the multiple notes saved to my phone, I have so many things I could write about on this blog. I often jot or type things down when inspiration strikes and then go right back to what I was doing, having every intention of fleshing out that idea later. I have 30 drafts saved on my blog with titles of a few words or so. I have at least another 30 topics saved on my phone. Yet I struggle to come up with a blog post that will dazzle you.

If you’re a fan of The Office, then you’re probably familiar with this Michael Scott quote:

Sometimes I’ll start a sentence, and I don’t even know where it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way.

That’s totally me when it comes to blogging. When I come back to many of those blogging topics later, I have often no idea where I was going with them at the time I wrote them down. And I stare at those topics and even attempt to write a few sentences about those topics, hoping that things will click and I’ll find where I’m going with it along the way. I usually don’t.

As you’ve probably already guessed, today’s post is going to be about the topics that I seriously don’t have a clue where I was going with them.

Cussing 100 yards, forget cleaning

I wish I had a clue what “cussing 100 yards” refers to, because it sounds like it would be funny. I’m certain that it doesn’t have anything to do with me hearing someone cussing 100 yards away, so there’s that. And “forget cleaning?” Well, I do that quite often, but why is it lumped together with the whole cussing bit? Am I the victim of autocorrect?

Sharing

Dear past me — be a dear and kindly expound upon your blog post topics, okay? Surely something bland and boring like “sharing” has to be connected with a funny story, right?

More bubble bath

I’ve got nothing. I can’t think of any situation in which one of my kids requesting more bubble bath (and I’m assuming it’s them, because my husband doesn’t take bubble baths and I usually don’t, because my allergies/asthma is very picky about soaps and stuff) would be humorous.

Your face is a vulca

Okay, so “vulca” has to be “vulva.” It has to be. Now if only I knew why I wanted to blog about vulva faces. Did Baby Girl call Little Man a vulva face? Because that would definitely be a step up from what she usually calls him — a meanie or a brat. (Gah.) Clearly I thought it was so funny enough that I’d remember all of the details of it later, but nah.

Bath water

This was on a separate note from “more bubble bath,” so I doubt they’re connected. There are a few things I could write about with something this generic, but nothing that strikes me as particularly interesting. I could write about the kids splashing water over all of creation from the tub, but…meh. I could write about Baby Girl drinking bath water, but…meh. Maybe that’s where I was going with it at the time I wrote it down and couldn’t see that it only had “meh” potential.

Theist spray

This is absolutely my favorite topic that I am clueless over. This one is older, so I know it absolutely isn’t related to when church people showed up on my doorsteps a couple weeks ago, when I hadn’t washed my hair in two days and wasn’t wearing a bra, but dang, it sure would’ve come in handy right about then. Surely I wasn’t planning on a bug spray for religious people, so what the heck was this supposed to be about? Or what the heck did autocorrect screw up and turn into something that makes me look like a heathen?

These are just a few of the topics that I have no idea where I was going when I wrote them down. And even on a couple of them that I have somewhat of an idea as to what I could be referencing, I’m still not sure how the hell I thought I’d get an entire post out of it.

Just so y’all know, this is pretty much every list I make. I used to not make lists, but then I started making them because I was told it would make my life easier. Ha. I’ll go into Target every so often and buy some Greenroom spiral 6×8 notebooks, which I use to keep track of all of my lists. And then I’ll inevitably lose one of the notebooks and start lists in a different one, and then find and lose another, and so on. Currently I have two notes on my phone plus pages of notes in three different notebooks for birthday party plans for Baby Girl’s party. When I try to take it all in and make sense of everything, I inevitably get overwhelmed and start a new list. The madness never ends.

Are you dazzled now?

WTF Search Terms

Full disclosure: all of these search terms won’t fall under “WTF,” but at least a couple will. Since “WTF Search Terms” was more likely to grab your attention than “Mostly Mildly Interesting Search Terms,” I went with it.

More often than not, the search terms that lead to my blog show up as “Unknown Search terms,” but occasionally, I’ll get to see the actual term someone searched for that led them to Dorky Mom Doodles. Most of them don’t even qualify as mildly interesting, so I won’t include those here, but there are a few that either made me chuckle, piqued my interest, or made me a bit confused.

Is this someone’s way of letting me know they’re mad at me? I imagine using “mom doodle” as part of a phrase would lead someone to my site, so tacking on “damn it” (or something like “jerkface that I hope breaks her thumbs”) would be a neat passive-aggressive way of letting me know they were ticked at me. Maybe that’s the case, maybe not, but I did search for this myself and found that I say “damn it” quite often, as this search yielded quite a few results leading to this site.

I can only imagine that whoever searched for this was hoping to find prices on meat and cheese trays, or maybe they were looking for recipes that required meat and cheese. I don’t know which blog post it led to for sure, but I’m guessing it was probably one where I talked about being a picky eater. Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure that they didn’t find what they were looking for.

I’d like to say that the person who entered this search term did indeed feel better after visiting this blog. Well, unless they’re fans of good drawings and sophisticated humor…in which case, maybe not.

This one has me curious. I’d assume that someone searching for “toddler poops in underwear” is either researching how to clean poopy underwear or how to keep the child from pooping in underwear again. The “superhero” part is what made me snicker. I wouldn’t imagine one would need to be that specific when researching this issue, but they were.

There is no question about which post this search term led to. Last year when I did my Calling All Dorks series, I doodled my blog friend Becca’s story about the creepy baby doll in her garage called Baby Howie. I absolutely love that Baby Howie is so legendary that someone searched for him on Google.

I’m including this one because I don’t have a clue how this actually led to my blog. True, my Spanx post is one of my favorites, but spanx is a pretty big thing that tons of stores sell. How on earth did someone wade through that many pages of search results to make it to this blog? For the record, I skimmed over five pages of search results before I called it quits. I saw lots of spanx for sell, a mention of spanx on NPR, and something about Kim Kardashian accidentally flashing spanx, but nothing about a dorky mom wearing spanx.

Carding dorks…is that like making sure that dorky looking people are really 21 or older before giving them their booze? When I searched, I found stuff that confused me because SQL was mentioned. I decided that I’m okay with not knowing what, exactly, “carding dorks 2017” is and why it led to my blog. I don’t want to expend too much brain power on a Friday, after all.

This is the kind of term you hope to get when you check your search terms looking for interesting stuff. Randomness! Penis reference! Oddly specific! I looked this one up and it’s not as interesting as it seems — it’s a reference to line from a movie called Heavy Metal. I did not figure out which post the person was led to, which is a bummer, because I’d totally like to know where I referenced something resembling talking about letting my dork hang out.

What interesting search terms have led to your blog?

That Time I Wanted To Be Like Buffy The Vampire Slayer

There was a time when I wanted to be like Katniss Everdeen. There was another time when I wanted to be like Lance Armstrong. And yet another time when I wanted to be like Meg Ryan. If you’ve read those posts or at least somewhat know me, then you know that none of those attempts went well. And before all of those mishaps, there was the time that I wanted to be like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is one of my all-time favorite shows. (And curse you, Netflix, for removing it and taking away my instant access to the Scooby Gang.) I love the story lines, the dialogue, the kick ass female roles, the wonderful, witty Joss Whedon brand of humor. And Angel — oh my. Aside from what happened to Joyce Summers, there wasn’t much to dislike about that show.

In 1998, my dorky high school freshman self had one goal, aside from marrying one of the Hanson brothers — to be like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This was rather problematic, though, as we had nothing in common —

I was not to be deterred, though. (And not being deterred is basically the root of all of my mishaps.) One day I was flipping through a magazine when I saw my Buffy connection: her signature black boots. Well, boots that looked like her signature black boots, anyway. Those went on my Christmas list that year, along with requests for various band t-shirts, a combination safe, and the Buffy the Vampire Slayer soundtrack. I later realized that a black leather jacket would help pull off the Buffy vibe, so I added that. I briefly considered adding a crossbow to the list, but figured that wouldn’t fly.

(For the record, I’ve since made plans to purchase a crossbow, but my husband vetoed it. He thinks it wouldn’t end well. Party pooper.)

I didn’t get the jacket (I purchased that on my own later) or the combination safe, but I did get the black boots, soundtrack, and some other stuff. I was happier than a kid on Christmas. Oh, wait! (Yeah, that was corny.) After we finished opening presents, I dashed off to my room to try on the $40 fake leather high heel boots that came up just a few inches below my knee. After I zipped them up, I stood up, looked down, and admired myself.

Dorky pajamas + slayer boots = high fashion.

I know what you guys are thinking — you only wish you looked this cool in high school!

Or not.

Naturally, my next step was to parade myself back to the living room and show off my boots. And this is where things got dicey.

So, in addition to not being very coordinated, I had also never worn high heels, and the heels on those boots must have been three inches. Attempting to walk in heels when you’ve never done so and aren’t coordinated results in walking like you’re drunk, and this is the sort of thing that really cramps the style of an aspiring vampire slayer.

After some stumbling around, I made it back out to the living room, showed off the boots and mentioned how much I liked them, and went back to my room, where I took off the boots and silently fumed over how much I sucked at walking. (The lack of walking abilities still causes me to fume 19 years later.) Throughout the rest of Christmas break, my routine was to put on the boots, practice walking, throw them in the back of the closet in a fit of rage, and repeat.

Considering that I still walked very much like a drunk in my boots, the smart thing to do would have been to not wear them out in public, right? Trying telling that to 15-year-old me. When the first day of school after winter break came around, I was determined to show off my boots. Much like Rudy believed in himself, I believed that somehow, if I had my chance to show off my boots, that I’d do them proud. My feet and legs and sense of equilibrium would magically come together and I would carve out my place in history.

Since we lived at the end of a really long driveway, my grandmother would drive us to the end to wait on the bus in the mornings. When she saw me stumbling in her back door, she suggested that I wear my sneakers. I insisted that I could walk just fine — a phrase I would come to repeat quite often during my rum drinking sessions as an adult — and kept them on.

When the school bus rolled up, I slung my Eastpak backpack over my shoulder and tried to walk up to the bus as smoothly as possible.

And then I had to go up the rather steep bus steps. This is where things went south:

Yep, I fell up the bus, so to speak. After I got up and got myself together, I did a short walk of shame to my seat, where I tried to ignore the snickers and guffaws, and told myself the rest of the day would go better.

It. Did. Not.

I did make it off the bus, but I stumbled all over the halls of that damn high school. Wearing those high heel boots to school is probably one of the top regrets of my life, right behind getting the same haircut of the chick with the short hair from the first season of Survivor. (Y’all, I had serious haircut issues back in the day.) At the end of the day, when it was time to go home, I made it up the bus steps without falling again, but I’m sad to say that I didn’t make it back off in the same fashion:

The boots were put back in the box. They were rather scuffed, so there was no way I could take them back, either. Over the next few years, I’d dig the box out every so often and put them on, hoping that I’d magically be able to walk in those heels, but that never happened. Eventually the box disappeared, and I assume that my grandmother must have donated them to Goodwill.

Let’s all take a moment and raise a pretend glass for my dead slayer dreams.

Who did you idolize in high school?

And We’re Back

Am I too old/mommyish to add “like cooked crack” to that title? Probably? Very well, then, I’ll just leave it at, “And we’re back.”

We got back from our Carnival cruise on Saturday, but shortly after getting home and taking a shower (and shaving my legs, which was the main thing), I was off to the urgent care to get my ankle and leg X-rayed.

This is how the second day of vacation went:

I slipped in the water area and slammed my leg on a stone tile corner and twisted my ankle. Ouch. (For the record, there were probably 100 people out there on their lounge chairs, but since I avoided making eye contact with anyone after that fall, I’m not doodling them.)

I’m the Queen of Clumsy, so wiping out wasn’t much of a surprise. I was able to get around okay during the vacation (largely due to the part of my leg that I fell on remaining numb the whole time, which is wearing off now). But by the time I got home, the swelling in my leg was so bad down to my ankle that I couldn’t get my Crocs on all the way and between that and the numbness that remained in my leg, I was encouraged to get an X-ray. The doctor initially thought I had a fracture and put me in a walking boot, but messaged me later and said it might be something else and to wear the boot and follow up with Ortho. So that’s what I’m doing.

That aside — and a few Baby Girl tantrums aside — the vacation was a blast. We went to the Bahamas again and had a stop in Princess Cays (very pretty) and Nassau. Little Man and I had booked an excursion to swim with the dolphins at Balmoral Island, and I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to do it because of my leg/foot at first, but we made it and had fun. Balmoral Island was absolutely beautiful with crystal clear water, so hopefully we’ll make it back there soon!

Baby Girl loved the “Mahamas” as she called it, even though she was a little confused on what, exactly, the Mahamas were. At first she thought it was Charleston, and then she thought it was the cruise ship, and then she thought it was Fort Moultrie or Sumter (out of Charleston Harbor).

I also had a bit of confusion myself as we left Charleston. I saw a boat pull up alongside us and spotted a big gun, which I loudly announced.

I had visions of modern-day pirates running through my head, but as my husband pointed out, it was just the Coast Guard. Sorry for the alarm, fellow passengers (who still aren’t doodled).

The kids really enjoyed themselves. Between the pool, water slides, arcade, and other stuff, they didn’t complain about being bored or whine about screens a single time. Baby Girl loved being able to get ice cream 24/7, too. One morning we did the Green Eggs and Ham breakfast, which was really cool. Little Man was the only one brave enough to try the green eggs, though! We took the kids to a couple of the PG rated comedy shows, and Baby Girl almost made one of the comedians lose it when she did an extremely loud fake laugh after everyone else finished laughing a few times. Lordy.

Usually I’m glad to be back home by the end of the vacation, but that’s not the case this time, which is a testament to how fun it was. Also, Laundry Mountain is back, and I really don’t wanna fold clothes. (And, since I’m writing this post three days after getting home, it should really all be taken care of by now.)

So, yeah…good times, great memories made!

I’ve got over 100 emails from blog subscriptions to catch up on, so I’ll be dropping by soon. I’m glad everyone seemed to enjoy my throwback posts from last week! 

No, That Isn’t A Popsicle

If you’re reading this post, then the Dorky family is officially on vacation! We’re going on a cruise, so I’ll have limited access to Internet over the next few days. Since I won’t be creating any new posts, I thought I’d take the opportunity to share some of my early posts that most of you likely haven’t seen.


Originally posted in April of 2017…

My kids go by the “what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is also mine” rule.

My food? Also their food, even if I have the same thing that they have. My radio? Obviously theirs. My Playstation? Well, you get the picture. I say “no” sometimes, but “yes” is far more prevalent since they’re a) my offspring and b) cute. (My husband, though? You better bet that “no” accompanied with other not-so-nice words happens when he tries to get a bite of my steak or swipes one of my ice-cold Cokes.)

I’m used to sharing, but there’s one thing that I thought would remain mine and mine alone, for at least a decade, and that’s feminine hygiene products. However, since both of my children are like dehydrated people in deserts who see mirages of water everywhere in cartoons, the kids see candy everywhere and have tried to make me share my Aunt Flo-inators as well.

Note to Baby Girl: this is the first red flag that you need help with your popsicle addiction.

Now Little Man won’t think the fact that he’s called me “Mommy” is the most damaging thing I’ve posted online anymore.

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