Stuffed animals. Every freaking kid has them. One day you have no children and a very organized house. The next day you have this adorable baby and a house full of plush, fuzzy adorable stuffed little animals with glassy button eyes littering every corner. They come in truckloads and like Noah’s Ark, sometimes in doubles. Sometimes they show up for no reason other than an in-law thought that your kid HAD to have the promotional teddy bear that he picked up from a trade show. Sometimes, YOU buy them because well, YOU thought the little baby Bald Eagle with the Air Force Academy shirt was just too cute not to bring home. Birthdays parties 1-3, Lord have mercy! And so it goes, the walls of your home start busting at the seams with adorable stuffed animals.

I am not a pack-rat. I don’t like clutter. I do, however, have a very hard time parting with things that hold sentimental value. Sometimes my definition of “sentimental” gets stretched a little but I do try. And I REALLY just can’t bring myself to throw those damn stuffed animals away.

When I was a kid, my mom would read us The Velveteen Rabbit. If you aren’t familiar with the story then the basic premise is that there is this stuffed rabbit that is loved by this adorable little boy. The boy gets scarlet fever. When recovering, the boy has to go away, begs to bring his beloved bunny but instead the beloved bunny gets incinerated in the back yard while the oblivious little boy is off terrorizing sea gulls somewhere along the coast with his new sterile stuffed rabbit.  Since the little boy loved the germ-infested bunny, it emerged from the ashes as a real bunny and migrated next door to eat the neighbor’s tomato plants (ok, I made that last tomato plant part up, but you get the idea).

It ruined me. And yes, I know that “they” are not really alive. I know that “they” don’t have feelings. I know that” they” won’t care if “they” are compacted into a dumpster in between last night left-overs and the neighbor’s bathroom trash, but still! Those black shiny eyes! I feel so guilty every time I try to throw one away. They LOOK at me and it’s like their eyes are saying “NO, please no! Don’t you know the story of the Velveteen Rabbit? What will become of us? Can’t you at least have the decency to burn us so we can turn into real bunnies, kittens, giraffes and Scooby Doo’s and eat your cucumber plants in the back? That wouldn’t be weird. Have you NO SOUL?”

And let’s face it, nobody wants someone else’s used stuffed animals. That’s just gross. Too much saliva involved. I don’t think any of the charities will even take them if I begged. We don’t live in a Pixar film like Toy Story III (stop reading right now if you don’t want to know the ending) where our sweet gently used stuffed pets will gladly be accepted into the arms of a precious little neighbor girl and be loved all over again. COME ON! This is reality! Oh wait, reality suggests that the stuffed animals DON’T GIVE A SHIT!

Am I the only one who has this issue? I’m thinking this might not be normal.

For now, I have about $100 worth of plastic bins in the attic chock full of fake animals that have no souls. And there they will stay along with my Cabbage Patch dolls, high school trophies and wedding dress. Pray that our attic never catches fire or it’s going to look like the Fort Worth Zoo on steroids jumping from our roof.

XOXO

Roxy

The seed has been planted, now it’s time to watch her grow.

We met the teacher. We brought the school supplies. We have the outfit. I’ve been exhaustively practicing my ‘happy face’ and I have officially chewed my nails down to the nubs. Today is my our her big day.

As much as I love you all, today I am locking my communication tools away in a drawer and am going to savor and embrace the day. I plan on squeezing as many memories out of it as I can. I pray I don’t get run over in the car pool lane in the middle of savoring a moment. I should probably keep my eyes open, huh?

Best of luck to reader “Brian” as you ship your own princess off to second grade today as well. Have a great day everyone!!!

Kindergarten Cartoons

XOXO

Roxy

I look at fashion magazines mostly to sniff the perfume samples. Some of the shit that is advertised in there looks like it would be more appropriate hanging on a clearance rack in Rose Costumes in Denton. Obviously those outfits aren’t comfortable because the models are always scowling and look downright mean. I guess I would be pissed off too I had to wear a metal vest with leopard print buttons, but whatever.  I am no fashion critic and can openly admit to being fashion stupid, but damn, who wears this crap?

I’ve never felt more fashion stupid then when I had to take my five-year-old back to school shopping, at the mall. And let me say that I share Holly-in-NC’s distaste for mall shopping. It’s exhausting. There are tweens and strollers and human obstacles everywhere. The germ-infested kidnap-friendly play area gives me heartburn. There is never a stairway or elevator when you need one. EVER.  And I get too many painful flashbacks of being a middle school nerd standing with my tray of food looking for an empty seat in the food court. That damn carousel. Thank God there is a Starbucks and an Auntie Anne’s Pretzel shop to help calm my nerves. Anyways…

Between my inept ability to put outfits together and my daughter’s refusal to wear anything with ruffles I knew that school clothes shopping would kick my ass. I can’t seem to get it right in my head how these outfits are supposed to go together. Maybe they’re not supposed to; maybe that’s the style now. Tank tops with scarves? Plaid with polka dots? There are rows and rows of cute little pants with rows and rows of shirts that don’t go with those pants. Man.ne.quins. I need lots and LOTS of mannequins, people!

On our drive over to the mall the exterior car temperature was reading 102 degrees. I think the soles of my flip flops melted off somewhere in the parking lot. When I walked into JC Penney’s I was greeted with jackets, wool leggings and boots.  Huh? Let’s see, school starts August 23^rd. I figure the first cool snap won’t happen until the end of October. So that leaves me with two months of blazing hot weather clothes. We live in TEXAS for Pete’s sake. What’s a kindergartner to wear? By the time the need for cool weather clothes rolls around all I will be able to find are frilly sleeveless dresses with Easter bunnies embroidered on them. So I am left scratching my head over not only how to assemble these outfits but then also how many sweaters I can justify buying while the Snow Cone Lady still has a twenty-five minute wait.

She has some clothes from summer that she can wear; mostly Sponge Bob t-shirts and tank-tops.  Can Kindergartners even wear tank tops? I found nothing in the 40 page handbook that said that they couldn’t but I sure don’t want my kid sent home the first week of school for “inappropriate attire”.

She got a purple frilly dress that makes her look sort of like a ballerina for her first day of big kid school. She looks super cute in it. I told her she only had to wear it once then she could toss it in the box of dress-up clothes she refuses to play with. From what I can tell by observationally stalking kids in the food court, this seems to be in style so I rolled with it.

Now I know how my mom used to feel when she took me shopping at the mall. The only things I ever wanted were shoes; a pair of Kaepas or Keds or high-top Reeboks, she had to figure the rest out herself. Until high school, that is. Then that list got expanded to not only a pair of Cole Haans (I got Dexter’s instead) but also Z Cavariccis and pink ropers. (what a combo!)

Makes me wish our school had uniforms. That would be a hell of a lot easier on this fashion stupid Mom.

XOXO

Roxy

Meet Jenna. That’s the only porn name I know so that’s what I named “her”. When I went on vacation I left Jenna in The Husband’s nightstand with a little tube of peppermint lube. I sent him a text on the way to CO to give Jenna a try. He called me a perve. I called myself a genius.

Guess who fell in love with Jenna?

Jenna actually worked. Jenna blows him whenever he wants her to. She doesn’t try to get new carpet or a new covered patio out of it either. She doesn’t complain that her cheeks are hurting if it takes too long or that he just leaked a little buttermilk and bleach combo in the back of her throat and she has to stop and gag. She never has a headache or a tampon in. If he wants to go to the lake all day, guess who doesn’t complain and withhold a blow job? That bitch, Jenna.

Have I just diluted my negotiating power? Jenna might have to accidentally get stuck under the vacuum cleaner and get ripped to shreds. Momma still needs a covered patio.

XOXO

Roxy

I will be in the Rocky Mountains this week visiting my brother with my parents and two kids. We will be roughing it as he has no air-conditioning in his condo and there is no good Mexican food in Colorado. Hopefully I survive the wilderness.

So, Nightline does this clip called “Playlist” which highlights musicians and the top five songs that helped shape them as artists. While I am no musician, well except for that short stint in first grade when my mom forced me to take piano lessons and I pretty much SUCKED and still twitch when I see a keyboard, I started to think about songs that sort of “defined” my youth.  I thought it would be a fun addition to my IPod collection for the DRIVE.

The Sound of Silence – Simon and Garfunkle

Ahhhh childhood. My parents didn’t listen to the radio so all we had were stacks of vinyl records to shuffle through. They still have that dinosaur stereo system in their living room. I can remember sitting cross-legged with the record cover in my lap and just listening to the whole record in its entirety. It was like a built-in babysitter for my mom. Once, one of the neighborhood boys came over and asked if we had any rock-n-roll to listen to. I said “Yes. My mom has lots of Beach Boys albums”. He never came back.

We Built This City – Starship

Best friend and I recorded this one off the radio onto our jam box tape. We would sit by the radio and wait for the song to come on then hit ‘record’ as soon as possible. “We Built This City” was cut off for the few words from the delay of simultaneously hitting the ‘record’ and ‘play’ buttons and ended with a few seconds of the DJ cutting in with commercials at the end. It didn’t matter. We wailed this song at the top of our lungs for hours at a time all summer long. Wail, rewind, wail, rewind. So much for the sound of silence.  

Smells like Teen Spirit – Nirvana

I became a full-on teenager. I discovered music videos. I snuck out with my friends to the teen dance club. I started wearing combat boots and picking fights with my parents. I started dating a boy with earrings and self-inked tattoos. My parents were mortified yet I was still an angel. No drinking, no smoking, no cussing, no sex and no drugs. I just happened to liked grunge.

Mysterious Ways – U2

My all-time favorite band, U2. Achtung Baby was my first ever CD to own. I ended up selling it in college for cigarette money. College. Bye Bye angel.

I Cross My Heart – George Strait

A country song makes the list! I was born and raised in East Texas for crying out loud. Oddly enough, this song came out after I had retired my rocky mountain jeans, ropers and homecoming mums. It was part of a soundtrack for Pure Country with George Strait. When The Husband and I first met, we watched that movie from the bottom bunk bed of his dorm room at least 15 times. We never saw it the whole way through. It was the first time he witnessed me eating a whole large Dominos pizza by myself in one sitting. It didn’t scare him off and I fell in love. Appropriately, it was the song we danced to at our wedding.

So readers, what’s your play list? Sound off here…

XOXO

Roxy – Have a great week!

So I belong to a book club. Don’t judge. I initially had to be talked into it by one of my girlfriends; not because I didn’t like to read but because I didn’t think that I would enjoy “assigned” reading or sitting around a circular table heavily debating books that I didn’t choose to read in the first place. It sounded too much like school. It sounded BORING.

Well, as it turns out, “book club” was actually code for “girl’s night out.” Sure, we read the books. We discuss them and its fun. Then we cut loose and polish off as much wine as we can in a four hour time frame before retiring back to responsibility outside of the book club bubble.

Well, I blew my cover on Friday. I came home from book club with a brand spanking new tattoo. My one. My only. Permanent tattoo.

 I’ve been toying with the idea of getting one for at least five years. I always knew that I would get a smiley face if I ever decided to do it. It’s been my signature symbol since high school. They make me happy.  I’ve always managed to find an excuse not to get one. I’m too broke. I’ll wait til my birthday. I’m pregnant. I want to wait until after I’ve had kids. I’ve gained too much weight. I’m too old for that. It’s kind of gangsta. Blah blah blah. Well, four glasses of wine, a little peer pressure and another girl agreeing to get one with me and all those old excuses went straight out the window and off our book club went to the parlor.

For twenty minutes I sat with my butt crack exposed to five of my closest friends and my ass bent over in front of my new BFF, The Tattoo Man. I was sober enough to be concerned that I might have a butt pimple and that I did, indeed, have candy canes on my panties.  I also feared that I might blow a gaseous hot fart right into his nostril as he was trying to ink in the smile and I would end up with the worlds most jacked up smiley face permanently etched into my skin. I warned him that I had eaten a casserole dish of bean dip an hour before I got there. He said he liked bean dip. Alrighty then.

He said that the color could fade in the sun. I laughed.” Dude, I’ve birthed two kids and have the stretch marks to prove it. This part of my back hasn’t seen the sun since Spring Break ‘98. This smiley face is for me and hubby only. Well and maybe my five good friends here and you, Mr. Tattoo Artist, of course and all your artist friends over there behind the counter. Gawd, didn’t that piercing hurt like a mother fucker? That skull on your neck kind of freaks me out. Oh, and maybe my gyno and his army of nurses. OMG, its SOOOOOO cute! Now I will ALWAYS have a smile on, no matter what! Brilliant isn’t it?” (Hiccup)

“Whatever floats your boat lady. That’ll be $50.”

The next day when I anxiously told my husband that I did something well, sort of crazy at book club his first guess was that we smoked pot, and then that we took his Jeep off-roading. I don’t know why, but that made me laugh. He wasn’t surprised when I told him that I got the tattoo. Although, he did do the “I knew it! I kneeeeeew it! You guys don’t even READ the books do you? That’s such bullshit. Book club my ass!” rant shortly after. 

I was loving my new body art until I told fun neighbor what I had done and he said…. “A smiley face. That sounds cute and so you. Is it yellow and black? Oh! Oh! is it like the Wal-Mart roll-back smiley face?”

Fucking book club.

XOXO

Roxy

My first baby is headed off to kindergarten in five weeks. FIVE WEEKS! I’m already getting heartburn.

I signed her up a few weeks ago at the school and left in tears. ALREADY, I’m an emotional basket case. I have packed in as much summer fun stuff as I could before the school system starts holding her hostage five days a week. Seeing all those itty bitty chairs and smelling that strange cafeteria smell made me realize that it’s now a reality. No matter how many adult tantrums I throw, there’s no stopping it.

I’ve started stockpiling school supplies from the beast-of-a-list I downloaded from the school website. We got the important stuff. Princess backpack, check. Hello Kitty lunchbox, check. Bedazzled school shoes, check. What else could the kid possibly need? A trip to the supply section at Wal-Mart almost led me to have a breakdown. I only need TWO rubber erasers, not a package of TEN, dick wads. And why does it have to be a RED pocket folder with brads? Why not green or yellow or carnation pink? Picky bastards.

And then there’s the question of mental preparation. Is she smart enough? Will she make new friends? Will she be able to manage the separation anxiety? Will she get on the teacher’s nerves? Will she say “shit” out loud? Ok, ok, enough about me. SHE will be fine.

I’m not exactly sure where the time went. One minute, I’m changing her poopy diaper and the next minute I am instructing her to not share hats with itchy headed kids. At this rate, if I blink she will be picking out a prom dress. And I will have to tell her “it’s too short.”

Thank God she is excited about starting big kid school. I think the bedazzled shoes might have helped. Maybe I should get some to match. No, wait, that might be weird, right? Right?

Needless to say I am dreading the first day of school. The Husband has been instructed to take that morning off as I will probably need someone to pry me off of her before the bell rings. Ugh, I suddenly feel the need to vomit. I can’t believe I am THAT person.

 MY school supply list is as follows: Kleenex, bacon cheese burger, Kit Kat, camera charger, Prozac and a bottle (or two) of wine. Anything else I should add as a recommendation from people who have been there, done that?

XOXO

Roxy

Best friend from high school is an aerobics instructor. She weighs about 95 lbs dripping wet, even with her implants. Yeah, I know….barf. She recently asked me to come to one of her classes near my house. She said it would be like a “party”. Would there be cupcakes and ice cream at the end? No. Now I know how she stays so skinny, she obviously smokes crack.

I decided that it would be good for me to try something different since this whole running in 100 degree heat thing hasn’t really been working out for me. TURBO KICKBOXING. What. The. Hell. Was. I. Thinking?

I arrive at the gym, confident and apparently delusional. The stench of sweat steam hits me like a wall when I open the door. I fight the gag reflex I am getting from inhaling other people’s vaporized body fluids and proceed to the torture chamber, the aerobics room.

At the front of the chamber is my itty bitty crack head friend with her microphone and big cheery smile. Immediately, I look for a place to hide. DAMN MIRRORS, there’s no safe place in this hell. The back of the room is a glass wall, which to me looks like a big fish bowl for the row of MILFS on treadmills on the other side to watch the little goldfish get eaten alive by a shark to the tunes of Lady Gaga. So I nestle into the middle, picking the strongest looking girl to be beside in the event that I pass out and need someone to catch me before hitting my head on the hardwood floor.

The music starts thumping and crack head starts bouncing around. Everyone follows along except for me. I have no clue what I am doing. Crack head cheerily pipes up and points directly at me, drawing way too much attention to me, and cheers “yay Roxy! So glad you made it! You’ll do great!” Then she gives me a big thumbs up and a wink. I’m convinced this is a long-time coming payback for kissing her cousin my Senior year.

Have I mentioned that I was the only person in my graduating class that couldn’t do the Electric Slide?

The music keeps pumping and my undiagnosed ADD is kicking in because I can’t focus on the music and the instructions at the same time. Arms are punching, legs are kicking, feet are jumping and Roxy is rapidly getting a headache. I’m flopping around like a fish on a hook. Each sequence is done four times. I manage to finally nail each move on the fifth sequence, you know, the one that doesn’t exist.  I blame it on the mirrors. Everything is backwards and I am doing EVERYTHING opposite of the whole class. Strongest-girl-in-the-class-who-is-supposed-to-save-me almost stomps on my foot because I have managed to take over her spot. I pray that she stomps hard enough that I can be injured and get the fuck out of here.  Instead she half smiles and moves a few arm lengths away from me. I put my hands on my knees and gasp for sweat vapor.

Then crack head squeals “Great warm-up everyone! Now, let’s get to work!” What. Gasp. The. Gasp. Fuck. Gasp.

They say time flies when you are having fun. The stupid clock on the wall was broken, because time sure as hell wasn’t flying. It was stopped on the runway due to engine failure.

I managed to make it through to the end of the class without killing anyone with my flailing arms, so that was a bonus. I thanked crack head for nearly killing me. Gave her sweatless waif body a hug and crawled to the locker room, leaving a trail of coffee concentrated sweat behind me.

On the way home, I rolled with windows down and pulled over to buys a Snickers, the BIG kind.

XOXO

Roxy

Nothing like laying your head down on your pillow after an exhausting day and falling asleep immediately.

At first I thought that I had a bubble in a vein in my head. That’s what it felt like. When you are half asleep nothing really makes sense anyways. It felt like that little bubble was making its way along the exterior of my cranium into my brain to kill me. No, no, that’s not possible. I’m dreaming. I rubbed my temple then snuggled back into my pillow.

There it goes again. I start to wake up a little. What the hell is that? Is there a cat on my pillowcase? No, no, no…dreaming. Go to back to sleep. I stretch, roll over on my side and snuggle back into my pillow again.

Then, I fucking HEARD it. A “little” bastard beetle ran right the fuck over my ear, Helloooo Clarice. Mother fucker started doing laps around my scalp. Its creepy hairy beetle legs were burying themselves in my roots looking for a place to lay its fucking eggs.

I catapoulted out of bed screaming “OMG!OMG!GawDaMotherFuckerHolyFuckingShit!”  I started slapping myself in the head and popping around like a Orville Redenbacher kernel, ripping my hair out in chunks and stripped down to nothing all the while squealing like a stuck pig…in the dark. Where the HELL is that stupid light remote? (Nowhere of freaking course). FUCKING REMOTES!  I ran to the bathroom and jumped in front of the mirror to do a quick inspection to make sure I wasn’t wearing the beetle like a backpack. I  frantically brushed my hair out then starting ripping the pillows and sheets off the bed.

Good thing I wasn’t being bound, gagged and dragged out of bed by a serial killer because The Husband didn’t flinch through the whole debacle….until I spotted that bastard on HIS pillow. THEN his ass woke up. That beetle was at least two inches long. The Husband wrestled the thing down with a tissue and tossed its ass into the toilet. Sinonora mother fucker. Husband went right back to sleep, snoring…with his mouth wide open.

Needless to say, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I felt like shit was crawling on me all night. Thank God that thing wasn’t a spider, or I would have had to have been sedated.

 Besides a bad one night stand, has anything icky ended up uninvited in your bed?

XOXO

Roxy

We met up with some friends the other night to eat Mexican food. As I was lifting my carefully assembled beef fajita to my open salivating mouth, Friend (we’ll loosely call him a “friend”) looks up at me and says “Hey, why didn’t you call me back today?” Then blankly stares at me.

First of all, DON’T interrupt me when I am about to eat something that requires both hands to eat especially when I am starving AND dining without kids. THIS IS PRECIOUS TIME, ASSHOLE.  If any of the carefully placed shredded cheese or Mantequilla sauce falls out of the bottom of my fajita during the pause you just made me take I might throw the remaining fajita in your face and have to start over.

The question perturbed me so I went ahead and took the bite into my masterpiece and spent extra time chewing up the grizzle before I swallowed. He stared at me waiting for an answer.

Me: “I saw you called but you didn’t leave a message.”  Next!

Loose Friend: “No, I didn’t leave a message but figured you would call me back when you saw that you had a missed call from me.” Blank stare.

 Me, not wanting to start a debate because I had a whole sizzling hot pan of cow I was anxious to finish, flatly answered “I don’t call back unless you leave a message” and then I promptly asked him to pass me the extra napkins so I could wipe off the melted butter running down the side of my neck.

So, really is there some kind of phone call etiquette book that I am missing? He’s not the first person to get pissed at me for not calling back without a message. Are there rules I am just not following? If you don’t leave a message then I assume that you are getting your question answered elsewhere. Unless you come up as “Oprah” on caller ID, I’m not ringing your ass back without a reason.

I don’t even have a long winded message to sit through. It’s the standard number message and a beep. How hard is it to say “hey, I’m bored, call me back”? Cause guess what, I WILL!

Now, when I worked it did drive me crazy to get  the message “I have a question. Call me back.” Really? Really? Here’s an answer to a question… You’re a dumbass. WTF is the question you have? Just leave it on my voicemail or give me a hint so I can start pulling shit up for you. Most likely, I could’ve called you back with an answer but when I (will most likely) get YOUR voicemail back I still won’t have an answer for the question that you didn’t leave me.  What a waste of fucking time.

If I have 15 consecutive missed calls from you then I assume that your car has already sunk to the bottom of the lake and there is no need to call you back. Shoulda called 911. I hear they are pretty good at answering the phone…or Dominoes.

Then there’s the dropped call and who is supposed to call who back. I always thought the original caller called back but apparently 90 percent of my friends and family haven’t heard this rule so a dropped call results in two solid minutes of cellular arm wrestling.

Emily Post, what would you have done?

XOXO

Roxy