Open House Bingo

Remember the Parenting Drinking Game? The one where we got to take drinks for things like the kids tattling or fighting?

Well, now there’s Open House Bingo! Simply keep this bingo card on hand and mark off squares for when certain events happen at Open House Night. At the end of the evening, you get rewarded depending on which bingo pattern you end up with. This game is guaranteed to make dealing with crowds, dodging sign up sheets to volunteer for doing all the things, and ignoring passive aggressive comments slightly less painful.

(Assuming you don’t have superhero vision, you can open this image in a new tab or zoom in to read the small words.)

(In case it isn’t obvious…you’ve got any five in a row, five diagonally, an X, four corners, and full card. For the love of God, if you get the last one, get the hell out of there.)

Based on past Open Houses, how do you think you’d do? Is there anything you’d add to one of these squares?

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5 Times My Kids Make Me Want To Drink

You’ve seen the game; now check out the stories behind the game! 

If any of their grandparents are reading this, I know what they’re thinking right now — “Those sweet, innocent little angels would never do anything to make someone want to drink, you terrible asshole.” Okay, maybe they wouldn’t add “terrible asshole,” but they would definitely be adamant that my children are perfect little babies. That’s one of the perks of being a grandparent — you can know full well that your grandkids are mini terrorists at times, but you think they’re perfect anyway.

I adore my kiddos, of course. They’re sweet, kind, funny, clever, and a hundred other good things. But, despite all of their positive traits, they also have the tendency to occasionally make their parents consider taking up day drinking. Maybe even morning drinking. Here are a few reasons why:

1. Tattling

I’ve mentioned before that I thought the nearly 6.5 year gap between Little Man and Baby Girl would guarantee certain things — like no fighting. I also thought that tattling would be something that wouldn’t be a big deal, or one-sided, if anything.

No.

My kids tattle on each other constantly. Little Man tattled on Baby Girl before she could even walk. Baby Girl tattled on Little Man before she could even talk.

I hate the tattling with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. I also feel bad for the parents of both of my blended families (four kids in the first and five in the second), because I’m sure whatever tattling annoyances I’m experiencing was far worse.

They tattle over dirty looks. They tattle over someone touching a toy or book that they were not using and hadn’t used in forever. They tattle over name calling. Even when one kid calls names first and the other retorts with the same, the kid that lobbed the first insult will tattle. Baby Girl is probably the pettiest of tattlers, because she will tattle over Little Man for looking at the TV while she’s watching it.

Want a drink yet?

2. Interrupting My Bath

For the record, a full post on this reason to drink is forthcoming. It happens that often.

There’s nothing I enjoy more than getting in an almost scalding hot tub with a good book and having a nice soak. These enjoyable soaks are few and far between now, though, thanks to the kids. The little one sobs wanting to join me. The older one comes in demanding help with homework or wanting to pick my brain about something that happened at school. The really old one (I’m looking at you, hubby) comes in to tell me the kids aren’t listening.

Interruptions. Interruptions, galore! And forget locking the door — if Little Man doesn’t use his library card to open the lock, Baby Girl will attempt to break it down.

The most annoying of the interruptions is when the kids come in to ask me to do something that a) I can’t do BECAUSE I’M IN THE TUB and b) they could’ve either done themselves or asked their dad to help with.

3. Destroying My House

It’s a rare thing that my house is clean and organized. I try, but most days I only whittle away at fixing the disaster zone that is our home. Sometimes, though, the moon and stars align and the house is perfect — so perfect that someone could knock on my door and I’d gladly invite them in instead of making them stand on the porch. (Yes, I will absolutely do that…so call first!)

Everyone knows that it’s in a kid’s DNA to destroy things — especially clean houses. (If your kid is neat and tidy and never spills anything, then you’ve simply lucked out with a gene mutation.) So even though I know that the kids are going to mess things up, it still makes me die inside to watch it happen.

4. When They Won’t Eat My Food

I know that I sound like the biggest hypocrite in the world right now. The picky eater who drove her grandmother crazy, who has friends who will make her something special when she eats at their home, who is a self-admitted shitty cook is griping about her kids not eating her food. But this is different, I promise!

You see, I am totally sympathetic to the plight of the picky eater, so I have no problem with whipping up something extra to make sure Baby Girl has something she likes. While I do try to get her to vary her food options, I’m also not gonna complain about being a short order cook. This isn’t what makes me want to drink.

This is:

It’s. Exactly. What. You. Asked. For. EAT. IT.

5. When They Watch Crappy TV Shows

The experts all caution against letting your kids have too much screen time because it will melt their brains or something. They neglect to mention that screen time can be dangerous for parents, too, as certain programs will make the parents want to give themselves a lobotomy. Sure, it’s nice to turn on the the TV and let them watch a show while we do dishes, fold clothes, or cry in the closet, but some of those shows are rough.

I used to be super picky about what Little Man watched on TV. “Nothing but PBS cartoons for my son!” since I hated Spongebob just as much as I hate tattling. When he got a little older, he got more free reign with age appropriate shows, and that’s when I discovered just how awful children’s programming can be. I’ve had to sit through Pokemon, Slugterra, and Lab Rats. With Baby Girl, I’ve caught parts of Peppa Pig and Mother Goose Club. (Pretty much everything on PBS kids is still amazing, outside of Caillou, though.) We have a fairly small house and they watch their shows in the living room, so it’s hard to escape.

But, yeah, that stuff totally makes me want to drink. And seeing Peppa and her family collapse in the floor every other episode makes me want a double.

Since many of you guys have already mentioned things your kids do that make you want to drink on the game post, what would your drink of choice be if you did play the game?

Let’s connect on social media! You can find me on FacebookTwitter,  Instagram, and Bloglovin.

Parenting Drinking Game

So, I was working on a post about things my kids do that make me want to drink when I got the idea to create a Parenting Drinking Game. Like the drinking game memes that go around during presidential speeches where you take a shot when the president uses a made up word or something, this is a game where you take a drink when your kids do something at least somewhat annoying or infuriating. I should probably release this after the other post, but here’s something a little fun to cheer up your Monday. (And if your Monday is perfect and doesn’t need cheering up, don’t tell the rest of us.)

(Click the image to view a much larger version!)

What would you add to this list?

If you’re one of the special few who might feel inclined to blast me for promoting getting blasted around your kids, let me stop you right there — this post is meant to be humorous and such comments will be deleted. That’s all. 

Let’s connect on social media! You can find me on FacebookTwitter,  Instagram, and Bloglovin.

#AtoZChallenge: ‘B’ is for Bike

Today’s “Blast to the Past” post for the A to Z Challenge is a repost from October, Lance Armstrong, I’m Not.

Getting older ain’t easy. I’ll be 34 in exactly two months, which will plant me firmly in my mid thirties. I’m not much of a fan of the getting older thing, so I’d probably feel iffy about this if not for the fact that a) I get to go on a cruise with only my husband a week later and b) my husband will turn 40 a month after my birthday. Taking pleasure in the misery of others is always helpful.

A few years ago, shortly after turning 29, I started going through my third-life crisis.

I’m not sure why I thought turning a year older would make things vastly different, considering that my idea of fun was staying at home on the weekends, hanging out with my family, and playing video games or watching Netflix. Who was I kidding? I may not have been old in years, but I was definitely old in spirit. These were things my husband pointed out, but why let things like reason and logic get in the way of a good crisis, amirite?

So, I decided to live it up that year, have fun, and party like it was 1999 (even though I only 15 then and didn’t do anything that remotely resembled partying in 1999). In case you’re thinking that “party like it was 1999” meant going to clubs (something I’ve also never done, because of being a senior citizen in spirit) and other wild things, what it really meant was that we invited a few friends over once or twice a month when Little Man was spending the night at his grandparents. We would have a few mixed drinks while playing board games or watching football games. That’s a good way to live it up, right?

Another thing I planned to do during that little crisis period was get healthier. Because lamely partying like it’s 1999 and getting healthy go hand in hand.

I made a few changes. I started tracking my calories. I used sugar-free mixers. And I bought a bike. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was 13, but I decided that I was going to ride around my neighborhood, get some exercise, lose some weight, and eventually become one of those people who wear tight shorts and annoys the piss out of drivers by riding in the middle of the road.

“That’s a horrible idea,” my husband told me after I informed him of my plans. “Can’t you just ride your exercise bike so you won’t get hurt?” (I have a reputation for being clumsy as hell and have the history of broken bones, scars, and sprains to prove it.)

“No! I want to be out on the open road!”

After much discussion, I got my way, which I expected; I’ve only not gotten my way two times with my husband, and that’s when I wanted to buy a crossbow and buy a foosball coffee table. (For the record, I got my way on the second one a few years later.) He wasn’t happy about it, but we made the bike purchase anyway, with the condition that I wear a helmet, which I thought was lame given my age. (Yet another reason I’m an idiot.)

This is what I bought:

(Okay, that picture doesn’t really do it justice. Here is a picture of what the one I bought looked like, if you want to see the real deal. If you’re thinking that this isn’t the type of bike one would be riding on the open road and possibly on bike trails in the mountains, then you would be right.)

My first attempt on the bike didn’t go so well. More than 15 years and bunches of pounds later didn’t help matters much, so I wobbled down the end of our short road and came back. I was done for the day.

“I think we should just take that thing back,” my husband told me. “This is not going to end well.”

Ha. What did he know?

As it turns out, a lot.

The next day was Saturday, and we were having a small get-together. We had several friends over, got super wild and played Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit, and had a few drinks. (Those of us feeling rather depressed over getting old might have had more than a few.) Around 2 AM, I was feeling a bit crowded since people still hadn’t left, so I went outside to sit on the porch for a bit to get some space. As I was sitting there, I spied my bike at the end of the porch, in all of its beautiful teal and white glory.

Ride me, it beckoned.

It was like I was Frodo and it was the One Ring — I was drawn to it. The next thing I knew, I was riding down my driveway and down my road (which I must add is partially a gravel circle with not a lot of houses and next to no traffic, so you don’t think I was a complete idiot). My plan was to ride to the corner and come back.

I was doing great. If only my husband could see me now! Nary a wobble in sight.


And then, right as I was about to turn into our driveway and make my triumphant return, I lost my balance. I put my foot out to steady myself, except for my foot landed on some loose gravel, causing my ankle to turn in, and I heard a “snap.”

That hurt. A lot. And there was no one around to help me up. I sat there at the edge of the driveway for a few minutes and finally forced myself up and hobbled up the driveway and inside the house.

My husband gave me one look when I came in and knew exactly what had happened.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t even wear your helmet,” he said, which he knew because it was sitting on the end table.

The next morning, my ankle was swollen to the size of a softball, so we went to the orthopedic urgent care where the doctor told me that I likely had grade 3 ankle sprain and would need to wear a walking boot and then do physical therapy. That was a fun way to spend part of my third-life crisis.

I learned a valuable lesson that night — don’t exercise, which was a lesson I should’ve learned the time I tried to use an exercise ball.

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post.

Want to connect on social media? You can find me on FacebookTwitter, and Bloglovin.

Lance Armstrong, I’m Not

Getting older ain’t easy. I’ll be 34 in exactly two months, which will plant me firmly in my mid thirties. I’m not much of a fan of the getting older thing, so I’d probably feel iffy about this if not for the fact that a) I get to go on a cruise with only my husband a week later and b) my husband will turn 40 a month after my birthday. Taking pleasure in the misery of others is always helpful.

A few years ago, shortly after turning 29, I started going through my third-life crisis.

I’m not sure why I thought turning a year older would make things vastly different, considering that my idea of fun was staying at home on the weekends, hanging out with my family, and playing video games or watching Netflix. Who was I kidding? I may not have been old in years, but I was definitely old in spirit. These were things my husband pointed out, but why let things like reason and logic get in the way of a good crisis, amirite?

So, I decided to live it up that year, have fun, and party like it was 1999 (even though I only 15 then and didn’t do anything that remotely resembled partying in 1999). In case you’re thinking that “party like it was 1999” meant going to clubs (something I’ve also never done, because of being a senior citizen in spirit) and other wild things, what it really meant was that we invited a few friends over once or twice a month when Little Man was spending the night at his grandparents. We would have a few mixed drinks while playing board games or watching football games. That’s a good way to live it up, right?

Another thing I planned to do during that little crisis period was get healthier. Because lamely partying like it’s 1999 and getting healthy go hand in hand.

I made a few changes. I started tracking my calories. I used sugar-free mixers. And I bought a bike. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was 13, but I decided that I was going to ride around my neighborhood, get some exercise, lose some weight, and eventually become one of those people who wear tight shorts and annoys the piss out of drivers by riding in the middle of the road.

“That’s a horrible idea,” my husband told me after I informed him of my plans. “Can’t you just ride your exercise bike so you won’t get hurt?” (I have a reputation for being clumsy as hell and have the history of broken bones, scars, and sprains to prove it.)

“No! I want to be out on the open road!”

After much discussion, I got my way, which I expected; I’ve only not gotten my way two times with my husband, and that’s when I wanted to buy a crossbow and buy a foosball coffee table. (For the record, I got my way on the second one a few years later.) He wasn’t happy about it, but we made the bike purchase anyway, with the condition that I wear a helmet, which I thought was lame given my age. (Yet another reason I’m an idiot.)

This is what I bought:

(Okay, that picture doesn’t really do it justice. Here is a picture of what the one I bought looked like, if you want to see the real deal. If you’re thinking that this isn’t the type of bike one would be riding on the open road and possibly on bike trails in the mountains, then you would be right.)

My first attempt on the bike didn’t go so well. More than 15 years and bunches of pounds later didn’t help matters much, so I wobbled down the end of our short road and came back. I was done for the day.

“I think we should just take that thing back,” my husband told me. “This is not going to end well.”

Ha. What did he know?

As it turns out, a lot.

The next day was Saturday, and we were having a small get-together. We had several friends over, got super wild and played Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit, and had a few drinks. (Those of us feeling rather depressed over getting old might have had more than a few.) Around 2 AM, I was feeling a bit crowded since people still hadn’t left, so I went outside to sit on the porch for a bit to get some space. As I was sitting there, I spied my bike at the end of the porch, in all of its beautiful teal and white glory.

Ride me, it beckoned.

It was like I was Frodo and it was the One Ring — I was drawn to it. The next thing I knew, I was riding down my driveway and down my road (which I must add is partially a gravel circle with not a lot of houses and next to no traffic, so you don’t think I was a complete idiot). My plan was to ride to the corner and come back.

I was doing great. If only my husband could see me now! Nary a wobble in sight.


And then, right as I was about to turn into our driveway and make my triumphant return, I lost my balance. I put my foot out to steady myself, except for my foot landed on some loose gravel, causing my ankle to turn in, and I heard a “snap.”

That hurt. A lot. And there was no one around to help me up. I sat there at the edge of the driveway for a few minutes and finally forced myself up and hobbled up the driveway and inside the house.

My husband gave me one look when I came in and knew exactly what had happened.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t even wear your helmet,” he said, which he knew because it was sitting on the end table.

The next morning, my ankle was swollen to the size of a softball, so we went to the orthopedic urgent care where the doctor told me that I likely had grade 3 ankle sprain and would need to wear a walking boot and then do physical therapy. That was a fun way to spend part of my third-life crisis.

I learned a valuable lesson that night — don’t exercise, which was a lesson I should’ve learned the time I tried to use an exercise ball.

Dumbest/silliest thing you did in a third or mid life crisis, if you had one?

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