Who Needs Barbies When We Have Death Threats?

Should I write a letter or just wait until I have the opportunity to punch her in the face?

This is the thought that has consumed me lately about ...wait for it...a six year old.

And no, it's not my own daughter, thank god. At least not this time.

No, it's about a classmate of my daughter's.

Let me explain. My daughter had a friend over the other day and I overheard my daughter, in her sweet, little girl voice, casually tell her little friend "yesterday, (insert girl's name) came over to me and said 'if you keep talking about me I'm going to kill you.' "

Um, wow. My first thought was:

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

My next thought was:

She must have an older brother.

My third thought was:

This isn't really appropriate conversation to be having with her guest. How to handle this so our little guest doesn't go home and tell her mother...who would probably never let her child in our presence again lol.

My fourth thought was:

Do I write a letter to my kid's teacher, or just wait until I have the opportunity to punch this little shit in the face?

I'm going to KILL you?! Really? The kindy girls I know play with Barbies, and wear crowns, and tell each other secrets and fight over who's not getting their way enough.

What bothered me the most was how casual my kid was about the story.

It'd be like The Hubs coming home from work and asking how my day went and I'd answer with

"Oh, you know, I had lunch with a girlfriend, I double dipped in our hummus, and she said if I did it again she was going to kill me..."

Uh huh.

So I had a sly talk with my daughter about the story; I tried to get the info out of her without making too big of a deal....but then made sure she knew that it kind of was a big deal and that, if it ever happened again, she should make a beeline for the nearest teacher and snitch the shit out of that fucking kid.

OK, I didn't say snitch.

Or shit.

Or fucking.

But you get the idea.

My next task is to write her teacher.

Hello, Ms. Blankity-blank,

So-and-so said she was going to kill my daughter in the lunch room last week, can you make sure to punch her in the face for me next time you see her?

Now, of course, I would never punch a kindergartner (at least not in the face, sheesh...), and I don't encourage violence, but seriously? She wants to kill my daughter for talking about her? What is this...college? In the ghetto? Should I make my kid watch Boys in the Hood so she can prepare for thug-ness?

Where does a six year old come up with this shit? What to do in these kind of situations? Because I know they're only going to get worse. And I can bet, as the kids get older and develop bigger attitudes (my kids included), my face-punching willpower is going straight down the tubes.

Here I am... scolding The Hubs for yelling at another driver...and I want to punch a six-year-old girl in the face.

Someone hold me back.

Relating to My Eight-Year-Old Son = Living on Mars

My son and I used to be buddies. We would read books together, crack jokes, discuss which shirt looked best on him and debate what vacation to take next.

But lately, I am struggling to relate to this boy I created.

Isn't he cute?


If you're a parent, you know our job can sometimes be gross; you get peed on. Pooped on. Puked on. You have to wipe snotty noses and stinky butts. My absolute favorite? Washing blankets with puke all over them, especially the chunky puke. I swear the devil himself invented chunky puke.

It's a dirty job but somebody's gotta do it, right?

But lately, it seems I am perpetually grossed out by my eight-year-old.

He picks his nose and wipes it on the couch, no matter HOW many times I offer a tissue. I put those god damn tissue boxes all over the house...why must he wipe elsewhere?

His fingernails are long and disgustingly dirty. Jack, cut that shit and scrub your hands! You could feed China with what's under those. But he doesn't care.

He farts ALL day long -- really loud, juicy ones and laughs. No "excuse me." Just laughter. I don't know where all that gas comes from. I swear, if he held it in, he's blow up like a balloon and float off into space...

A few weeks ago I made the mistake of letting him buy a fart toy. When he was showing me the product online, it looked cheap, and so I figured he's get it and it wouldn't work.

I was wrong.

Oh, it works. It works too well. It sounds just like a fart and now, when I hear the noise, I question whether it was my son's ass....or the fart toy.

Now that he has the toy, he wants to bring it everywhere we go. To the grocery store. To the mall. Last week, I had to scold him in Banana Republic for "farting" in line with me. Dear GOD, Jack....not Banana Republic! You can fart in Old Navy all you want but, sweet jesus, not Banana Republic!

He also brings it to restaurants. Here's how it goes on most visits:

"Hi, maybe I take your order?"

SquealllllllFFFFaaaarrrrrrtttttttttt! (My son and daughter start rolling with giggles)

Oh for fuck's sake. Yeah, that was a toy, it's not real. Can I get the Caesar salad, please?!

Why are boys so gross? Jack asks me occasionally "mom, why don't you think it's funny?"

Ummm, because I'm a girl?

"But mom, Ava thinks it's funny!"

Yeah, that's because she's SIX, dude. Give her a few more years.

So I'm struggling to relate to my son that picks his nose, has dirty, green fingernails and farts on command. I want him to enjoy himself, and BE himself, but it's taking everything in me not to burn that fucking toy while he sleeps...

The Red Ball 2012

I bet you'll NEVER guess what's only a matter of weeks away?

OK, you guessed it...The Red Ball! I love me some culinary events and this one's my favorite; I look forward to it all year long. I'm over the moon that they keep asking me back! March 10th, 2012, is the day -- so mark your calendars, Philadelphians.

I wanted to get the word out that tickets are on sale now! Don't miss your chance to attend this soiree (I hear that tickets can, and will, sell out). Just imagine...sampling food from 30 of Philadelphia's best restaurants, complimentary rum, beer and wine bars, live music and beautiful people dressed to impress. It doesn't get any more awesome than this, people.

Want more? Click below to see my past event coverage

The Red Ball 2011 picture preview

The Red Ball 2011

The Red Ball 2010

All proceeds from The Red Ball will benefit the Southeastern Pennsylvania Chapter of the American Red Cross and the operations of Red Cross House. Red Cross House is a unique facility for local victims of disaster, a place where lives are rebuilt, hope is restored, and families are empowered to get back to their everyday lives on their own terms.

Stay tuned to The Housewife Diaries for details and coverage -- I promise to give oodles of updates.

To purchase Red Ball tickets or for more information, visit www.theredball.org or "like" their Facebook page.

The Doctor's Office aka "Wellness Center"

So, as you know, I had the stomach flu over the holidays and, since then, my insides haven't been the same. I think my bowels need therapy, to be honest. Isn't that such a sexy word...bowels. I've talked more about my bowels in the past month than I have in my entire life.

Let me explain. Since my stomach flu adventure, I realized I needed to hit a doctor's office; a real doctor -- not Google. As one of my besties said "Tasha, you need a real doctor, you know, one with an MD behind her name."

OK, I get it. My body hates me, my bowels need therapy and fuck, I don't feel very well, like, ever. Time to make some calls.

I picked a doctor out of a long insurance list, mostly because it was close. To set the scene, I'll remind you that I live in Stepford Land, Philadelphia.

Appointment day comes. I walk in...and the office immediately reminds me of my plastic surgeon's office in Las Vegas.

I shyly walked up to the front desk and was greeted by a woman who had had SO much work done to her face she could give Joan Rivers a run for her money (seriously). I struggled not to stare at her frozen lips while she smiled at me.

What I didn't get when I made the appointment was that the "wellness" center was, not only an MD's office but, botox freakin central in Stepford Land.

Oh boy.

I felt like I was in a reality television show; it was that bizarre. Not in a bad way, just...different. Hell, I've had work done; I wasn't scared of the handsome, well dressed plastic surgeons who strolled in, smiled and said hello as I sat on the waiting couch. But the pictures of the beautiful, botoxed, sucked-and-tucked women on the walls was a little intimidating, mostly because I was there to talk about...my bowels.

Finally, Joan Rivers called me back to get measured and weighed.

Weighed?

Yes, said Joan, but you can take off as many pieces of clothing as you want -- to weigh less!

Cool. I didn't get naked but pretty damn close.

I was then led into an exam room where we talked about, you guessed it, my bowels. I explained how I'd been ignoring this feeling, could hardly eat and had nixed the alcohol consumption hoping it would improve (it hasn't). She made a face about the alcohol and, honest to god, replied

"Oh honey, no wine!? That's awwwwful! You poor thing. Oh well... I know that's not very smart of me to say that as you health care provider..."

Stepford Land, I tell ya.

I was a bit taken back but I rolled with it. Yeah, I told her, I'm pissed! (not really, but I'm a good actress...)

I liked the real doctor that came in after Joan. She asked all the right questions, seemed proactive about my health and (drum roll, please) recommended that I get a colonoscopy.

I'm sorry...what? A co-co-co-colon...what?

I can handle this. I've had two babies, one at home. I'm carrying around silicone gel under my skin. I run with the country club bitches.

No sweat, right? Maybe I could get a pedicure and a little botox during the procedure?

"Um yes, doctor, do you think you could schedule some botox for my face while you're sticking that tube up my ass? You know, to save time..."

I'll have to remember not to bring up the colonoscopy at the country club, though. That would be bad etiquette, right?

That's Right, I'm a Classy Chick

Since I ended my last blog post on a serious note, I'll share some good news!

I've FINALLY found a group of women that I can hang with. They're sassy, they're funny, they like wine and occasionally I'll even get an f-bomb or two out of them. And you'll NEVER guess where I found them.

The country club.

Yep. I've been hanging at the golf course down the street...and I don't even play golf yuk yuk yuk! So essentially, I'm going to be paying a yearly fee to be able to hang out in this bar/restaurant/pool where the common folk can't go?

Essentially, I'm paying a lot of money....for friends.

I tried the YMCA first, if that makes any difference.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

And, since I now live in Stepford Wife Land and have decided to play on their turf in the shark tank, I need some etiquette lessons. Because, although I can hold my own when I'm on my best behavior, once I start to get comfortable, I lose about 20 class points for each hour (or drink) that goes down. Because these women like fine wines, big diamonds, big houses and don't really eat much.

And then there's me.

I like to eat, a lot. I like beer and pizza. I prefer to swear if I'm around adults. I like to show off my boobs. I do like big diamonds, though.

And, although I'm pretty confident I can run with these wolves, because I like these women, I want to fine-tune my Stepford skills (without letting go of the beer-lovin, pizza-eatin, f-bomb droppin me).

Just the other day, I was having lunch with a friend, and I caught myself double dipping in our mutual hummus appetiser. Not once, but twice. My friend carefully had scooped a small portion onto her side plate and was using her knife to spread. I, on the other hand, double dipped my carrot straight from the serving plate. Go me! Luckily, my girlfriend didn't say anything but, I'm sure she was just being polite about my slobber being stirred into our hummus.

Or how about the time when I was on girls' weekend in NYC with my Las Vegas Wolfpack....we spent a few hours drinking martinis and eating expensive cheese at The Plaza, for Christ sake, and I took this picture.

I wonder if any of the country club ladies can bust out Too Short or Ice Cube like I enjoy doing? Somehow I doubt it. But I've decided that the first Philly housewife that sings along with me to a 90s rap song is going to be my new BFF, yo!

Etiquette lesson number one: no more double dipping in the hummus.

Etiquette lesson number two: when I feel like swearing, stop, smile and nod. In other words, shut the fuckity-fuck up.

Etiquette lesson number three: keep the cleavage to a minimum and save it for my trips to Vegas.

I think that's a good start...

Happy New Year & Stomach Flu Adventures

Happy New Year! I hope 2012 has been a peaceful start for you and yours. I know it's, like, half-way through January but, for me, the new year has been a rough couple of weeks.

I'm putting "the Housewife" voice away for this blog. Long story but, I've been enduring (and ignoring) a very annoying and persistent feeling of pressure under my left ribs. Not pain...just pressure. To be brutally honest, I've been ignoring it for about a year. That's a long time and I'm fairly embarrassed about not doing anything about it but, when things get busy, mom and her body get put on the shelf. I know many of you can relate to this.

Christmas Eve, my daughter caught the stomach flu and we spent much of the night either hovering around the potty or in her bed with a big plastic bowl. Not fun. Poor baby was still sick on Christmas day and spent her time opening presents laying on the carpet between paper tearing. She recovered that evening. What a relief!

Late Christmas night I also succumbed to this horrible flu, and spent half the night kissing the porcelain gods, puking my brains out.

I spent the next day in bed and, thank GOD, The Hubs had taken the week off to spend with the family. But, the week ended up him taking the kids out to activities as I stayed in bed, not even able to get up to eat. I was sooooo sick. Sicker than I've been in years.

On day six, I was in tears I was so frustrated because I wasn't feeling any better than I did on day one. I wasn't able to play with my kids and their new Christmas toys, I wasn't able to go out to brunch with the family, I wasn't able to enjoy winter vacation with the people I love the most. I went through a rainbow of feelings: frustration, resentment, guilt, confusion, fear. It was like the entire year's worth of super-mom repression came out in one...big...fucking stomach flu.

Not a smart thing to do, but I started googling my symptoms, because I was convinced I could stick this out on my own. I'm a strong, capable woman! I run an entire family! I can do this! I tried to put on a strong face for The Hubs but, inside, I was preparing to die (felt like I was going to). A little dramatic? Maybe. But again, theses emotions of fear and frustration where coming out and I had NO idea they were even in there. Googling didn't do me any good but instead freaked me out even more. (forehead slap, I know)

Anyway, I called my mom in California, God bless her, and cried. I told her I was freaked and sick. She said something to me that I won't forget for a long time. She said "Tasha, you need to go downstairs and tell The Hubs to take you to the hospital right now, and I'm not hanging up until I hear you say that to him."

So I cried a little more and then agreed. The Hubs packed me and the kids up and I visited the ER for the very first time in my entire adult life. I told The Hubs to take the kids home and I'd call him when I knew more. I cried to the receptionist. I cried to the nurse. I cried to the ER doctor. He initially thought I had a kidney stone. He ran blood work and ordered a cat scan.

I waited in my little room on New Year's Day, alone, and cried some more. I sat there for hours and reflected at just how alone I felt. I had no one to call to come and sit with me. No one, other than my husband and my mom across the country, even knew where I was or what I was feeling. I had to just sit there and deal. Just me. Now, let me say how grateful I am to have a loving, supportive husband that could take my kids home for me. So grateful. But I have not felt more alone (since we moved to Philly two years ago) than I did in that hospital room.

The nurse even asked me "honey, do you suffer from some depression?" and I simply answered

Nooooooo, I just need a good cry...

And I did. And it felt good.

The good news is the tests and cat scat all came back normal. Normal?! No tumor. No kidney stone. No elevated levels in my blood. No swollen organs. The doctor said that I probably have IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) due to stress combined with a spasming stomach and a wicked stomach flu.

Sweet.

I was relieved to hear it wasn't something more serious, and I think my sickness was as much emotional as it was physical. But, since then, I've still been dealing with the weird pressure feeling (it reminds me of a baby's foot pushing against your ribs when pregnant -and I ain't pregnant) that hasn't gone away, severe nausea every single day (soooo freaking annoying) and zero energy.

The moral of this story? It's my New Year's resolution: to take better care of my body, cause I ain't gettin any younger. And, I'm telling you, as a blogger that's putting it all out there lol, that so do YOU. Beacuse if you're a mom and a wife, you're most likely ignoring something too. Are you? I'm too smart to let it get to the point it did on New Year's Day again. And, if you're reading this, take this as your signal.

So that's where I've been for the last few weeks. The best news is I'm still here. And I will overcome this. Come hell or high water, I'll beat this bump in the road and keep walkin forward.

Peace, love and hair grease, peeps.

Sing Me a Song, Mom!

This year, the kids have started asking me to teach them Christmas carols. I admit I'm a tad-bit embarrassed that they had to ask ME, when I should have beat them to the punch. The problem is, when I start singing, glass begins to crack everywhere. I wonder if, someday, the cats will come running. At least I have cat food and a litter box.

I am a horrid singer. It kills me but I have accepted the fact. I can hold a general tune but, once I start trying to sing beyond a C note, my voice sounds like a really bad American Idol episode.

"Silent night....holy night....all is calm....all is ahh, *cough,* ah ah ahhhrrrrrooooooo!"

Ehhh, kids, let's put on Pandora instead and I'll print you out the lyrics.

Nice, Tasha.

Growing up, my mom was a beautiful singer (still is). She sung with a couple of groups when I was a kid and would always sing harmony to my songs when I actually had the balls to sing with her.

My kids get a youtube video and printed-out lyrics.

Whatever.

My mom still begs me to sing with her and, you no what my answer is? HELL fucking no, mom. Have you heard my voice in the last ohhh, I don't know, 35 years? Um yeah. Go sing with Ava -- who loves to sing...all goddamn day long. I wonder where she got that from lol?

I'm such an awesome daughter. And (non-singing) mom.

But seriously, my mom should know better by now.

I Have Hoarding Issues

Evidently I have hoarding issues.

The other day I was craving some hot chocolate. I went in search of a box of Swiss Miss that I remembered having in the pantry.

Well, hell. No wonder why I remembered it was in there -- it's been sitting in my pantry since....2006.

Uh yeah.

The sad part is that I pondered on whether to actually drink it. A hot chocolate craving is serious shit, people.

Can you see the "sell-by" date at the top left? If not, let me help you out. It's for August 2006. That means I bought it when we were living in Las Vegas (we've been in Philly for two years already).

That means I packed it, like in a box with my regular food, and took it allllllllll the way to Philly with me. And, even then, the expiration date was over three years old.



Nice, Tasha

I did end up throwing it away but, it made me start to psychologize myself....WHY would I need to keep a cheap box of hot chocolate for that long? It's not like I can say "oh, well, you know, the years just got past me!" I can't say that because I freakin PACKED it...to take to Philly with me. WTF? The amazing, traveling box of hot chocolate!

So I started going through the rest of my pantry because, of course, this must be an isolated incident....right?

Right?

I'm not even going to tell you how hold a can of cream of mushroom soup I found was. I'll let you just use your imagination.

So apparently I'm a pantry-food hoarder. Good thing I don't ever actually cook anything (take-out, anyone?!), because THAT would be really scary....

Being Sane Has its Advantages...

So clearly, now that I'm officially sane again, my brain doesn't want to write as many blog posts. Sorry dudes! I wonder why that is? I guess that's why all the most creative people are a little crazy.

One thing great about being sane again (thanks to both kids being in school full-time) is I can get three times as much done in half the time. Id' forgotten how efficient I can be when I'm on my own! The first couple of times I had the pleasure of grocery shopping sans kids, I remember walking out of the store and thinking "holy shit, that only took me an hour!" When my kids are with me, who the fuck knows how long it will take me. Some visits I wondered if The Hubs would get a call from the police asking to come pick his wife up, five hours later, because she went ballistic and started throwing cabbages in the produce section because her kids wouldn't behave.

It almost happened once. OK twice.

I've also noticed that I'm less careful when I don't have my kids. I drive faster. I honk more. I call drivers really bad names. I flip people off. I listen to nasty rap music, really loud. I know (hope?) I'm not the only mid-30s, white housewife that can knock down an Ez E song like a homegirl. Just ask The Hubs.

Speaking of not being careful, Christmas shopping this year has been interesting. People (customers) turn into SUCH assholes when they're Christmas shopping...have you noticed? I go into a store, minding my own business, not looking to cut anyone off or butt in line, and other (usually old, cranky) women take FULL advantage of my politeness. What the fuck, woman!? I just moved to look at this shelf...and you take my place in line?

So this is where my housewife voice kicks in.

Since I don't have my kids with me, I can behave however the fuck I want, right? Hehe.

So my favorite thing the housewife voice says to me?

Tasha, you could totally fight her....

Fight? Really? OK so I wouldn't actually fight someone, but it's a comforting thought that I could. I'm not scared to put the smack down on granny! I don't have my kids, so bow down, beotch. Don't make me go all Tupac on you...

In reality, I'd probably just give her a dirty look at let her stay in front of me. I'm such a loser.

But I can appreciate that, while my kids are having a blast at school learning how to read and write, their mom is fantasizing about kicking some old lady's ass at Target. Yesssss.

School is the BEST.

Older Kids = Different Life

Hi there.

Remember me?

Nope, I'm not dead. At least not yet.

Kids are back in school. BOTH of them. Full time. I can't believe I can say that! My life has taken such a drastic change in the last few months.

Mainly, I'm sane again.

Yeah, I admit it now that being a stay-home-mom is not as easy or as rewarding as I once imagined it before having kids. I see fellow moms on Facebook that show pictures of their "lazy Sunday snuggles" with their five (six, seven?) kiddos, or how they love baking cookies during the afternoon to enjoy in front of a warm fire while she and her kids practice their Japanese...and I all I can think is "really?"

I envy them.

Because I am totally not like that. *Sigh.*

It sounds wonderful, and those kids are so lucky to have their I-love-to-stay-home-and-bake mom. I suppose I was a *little* like that when my kids were babies. But now? I focus on getting through my work day, counting down the hours when the kids come home from school (aka the beginning of daily Armageddon) and then helping them with homework (and they get pissed at me for not just telling them the answers? sheesh), feeding them something (while they bitch about how it sucks) and then taking them to their various nightly activities.

I think I got a shower in there somewhere....

That said, I can honestly say that I have never enjoyed my children as much as I do right now.

Why?

For starters we can carry on a conversation together. They tell me about their day. We discuss politics, what's happening in the news, what to do about the ass wipe bully at school, what books to read next, challenging them to make choices for themselves...I love teaching my children about life. Love it. Baking cookies for them and spending the entire day/night with them, every single day? Ehhhh, not so much.

Usually it's me who eats most of the cookies anyway, especially since the cookies I bake have eyes and stare at me all day (swear to jesus), and eating them just makes my ass fat. So, kids! What would you rather have? No cookies, or cookies and a mom with a really big butt?

I bet they'd pick the cookies.

So god bless you moms who bake and adore staying home with your kids every day, truly. I wish I had a little more of you in me.

But with my kids both in school, it's made me realize how much I was trying to be the Beaver Cleaver mom, but am soooooo totally not. And, you know what? It feels good to let that go.

I like working. I like swear words, especially in combination. I like wine. And I love my kids and feel really lucky to be able raise them as best I can, while still allowing the "me" in and feeling OK about it.

Does anyone see the irony in this post and the title of my blog?

Maybe it's just me.

Music I'm Embarrassed to Love

This week's edition is not just one song but an artist. Yes, the whole artist. Because, not only is it embarrassing to like his songs but, it's embarrassing to like him. Who is it, you ask?

(Swallow)

Lionel Richie.

There. I said it. I like Lionel Richie. Matter of fact, I looove him. His songs, at least. The Hubs is definitely going to give me shit for this one.

I think Lionel is one of those love-hate type of artists - ya either love him or ya hate him. And I imagine that 99% of his fan base is 30 to 40-something housewives. In other words, total losers that wear sweats all day, drive mini vans and have horribly old, chipped pedicures.

Oh god, wait.

That's me.

No no no no. I'm much cooler than Lionel Richie's fans, right?

Right?

Wait, dont answer that.

I'm so going to turn that into a common phrase:

Ohhhhh, she is sooooo a Lionel Richie fan...

So here are my favorites. Enjoy it... or try not to puke!

Conversations with DH

My husband has this new habit that drives me bonkers -- he says "we" when he means me, as in you do it.

DH: We really need to get the laundry done this week.

Me: You mean me?  You mean I need to do the laundry?

DH: No, I said we.  Why would I mean you?  I said we.
-

Me: Just because you SAID we, doesn't mean you MEAN we. When was the last time you did a load of laundry?

DH: Four years ago?

Me: Yeah, that's what I thought.

DH: (crickets chirping)

He knows he does this, and we've even joked about this habit (which he emphatically denies lol). Has he stopped saying "we?"

Nope. 

What's Your Name Again?

I do not like my name. I never have. I was with my sister and her husband at Starbucks a few weeks ago and, after telling the coffee dude my name (he had to ask twice - what is it? TASHA, smart guy...ugghhhhh), I turned to my sis and asked:

Do you ever feel strange saying your own name? Like, it's almost uncomfortable?

Sister: Yes, kind of, I guess.

Her husband then turns to me and quickly nods his head in agreement. His name is Jeff. And, being the funny guy he is, when the coffee guy asked for his name, he casually said...

Paul.

So, when the coffee guy called out "Paul!" my sister and I couldn't help but giggle. I bet the coffee guy thought we were laughing at him....

I LOVE this idea of using a stage name.

To plead my case, let me give you a few examples of why my name annoys me.

- When I tell a stranger my name, I either get "Ohhh, my neighbor's dog is named Tasha! It's such a pretty name!"

Pretty enough for a dog. Uh huh.

- I thought that was a black girl's name?!

Did you seriously just say that to me?

- Before I got married, my middle name was Kay. Tasha Kay. Years back, I asked my mom...mom, why did you pick Kay? Is it a family name? Did you have a friend that you used to love and adore named Kay? Is one of your favorite authors named Kay?

You know what my mom's answer was?

Mom: No, it just sounded good.

That's it? No family significance? No loved ones? Just...sounded good?

Meh.

Here's another reason-

- I visit Panera often (I heart Panera). Once you've ordered, they ask for your name to call you when your food's ready. Most peoples' names are easily called when it's time....

"Dianne!"

"James!"

"Shaniquah!"

Then it's my turn....

"Asiago roast beef with chips!"

Aww shit, that's me.

So, from now on, I'm going to give strangers my "stage" name instead.

A name that no one will tell me their dog, cat, lizard or worm is named.

A name that everyone can pronounce....because Tasha is fucking hard, right?

Taushie?

Tisha?

Trisha?

Tara?

Mother effers.

Yes, I'm white.

Yes, I'm human.

And YES, that's my name and NO it's not short for something.

It's Tasha. Like Natasha...without the "Nah." Seriously, I've suggested this to people before.

I haven't decided what my stage name will be, but I'm open to suggestions. Preferrably something that won't make we want to kick someone's ass after I say it to them....

Shit My Kids Ruined - The Housewife's Version

I wish someone would have told me that, once you have kids, you have to wait a realllllllly long time before you can have nice shit again. Like furniture, for instance.

Do you know parents with say, toddlers, that have "nice" furniture? Nice as in no food stains, scuffs, teeth marks, marker pictures, etc. on them?

Yeah, me neither.

The hubs and I went shopping for a dinning room set recently and it went kind of like this....

White padded seats? Um no, the kids will destroy that in less than a week.

Chairs that have lovely, but delicate, legs? Um, no.

Smooth, waxed table top? Fuck no. Take one fork to that top and it's ovah.

Nothing left to browse? Alrighty then...next store!

We just needed something sturdy, wood, and didn't have light-colored fabric anywhere attached to it...and preferably something that could handle a kid getting on top of it and practicing his tae kwon do on....

You should have seen the sales lady's face when I said that.

Jack uses our living room couch as a trampoline, and has even mastered a front flip on it. Sweet. You know what kind of material our couch is? Microfiber. You know why we bought that couch? Because it's easy to clean. No other reason. Just that.

I miss having nice stuff. The Hubs just bought me a beautiful new leather couch for my office (I'll show you on my next video blog!) and I've forbidden the kids to even breathe on it.

No sitting on that couch...it's MINE!

Ava, get away from that couch! Jack, no tae kwon do near that couch! It's MINNNNE! I will scream it like a banshee.

But do you think the kids listen? Nope, not really.

Not only do the kids eventually ruin our furniture, Ava thinks that everything that's mine...is hers. Occasionally I will catch her in my makeup, or jewelry, and she even strutted down the stairs wearing my hot pink undies on her head once.

Just a teensie bit awkward.

Ummm, Ava honey, you look so pretty. Now go take that off... (but I admit I was tempted to take a picture for blackmail when she's 15)

If you've read my profile, you know I love lip gloss. I have them scattered all over the house. And, for the past few years, I've had to hide them. Why? Because Ava EATS them.

The final straw was when I picked up one of the tubes, proceeded to spread it on my lips, and a bunch of cold, stinky, slimy slobber came out. Grossssssss.

Ava! You cant eat my lip gloss. It's bad for you! And it's MINNNNNNE!

But mom, it smells like food.

Great.

I wonder if poison control has ever taken a call about a girl eating her mom's lip gloss?

So I imagine the day when the kids are older, and I can buy new furniture because I like it, and not because it's sturdy and already recessed. I imagine the day when I can leave my lip gloss and earrings out without fear of never seeing them again. I imagine the day when I can walk into the kitchen and not find trash on the floor and a half-eaten waffle on my laptop.

I figure I only have about 20 more years to wait.

Deep Thoughts -- Boy Hair

My five-year-old daughter gave herself her first self-haircut yesterday.

Oh great, now I'm one of those moms. You know, the mom that other moms hear about, and immediately think...

1. They're not watching their kids closely enough -- how else could a kid have enough time to cut their own hair off?

or..

2. Why is that mom letting her five year old play with scissors?

Why must we judge each other like that? But then again, I totally judged myself when my kid came walking into my office with half of her hair layered like Tina Turner's.


Oh God. I mean...ummm, uhhhhh, errrr, Ava what did you DO?

I think my jaw dropped to the floor and, after seeing my face, Ava gave me a look like "oh shit, I fucked UP."

But, instead of trying to explain to Ava who Tina Turner was, I told her something instead that I knew would freak the crap out of her -- enough so, in fact, that she would never do that again.

I told her that, if she cut her own hair, she'd have BOY hair. Ewwwwwwwww. (Cackle!) Her eyes got very wide, her lip started to quiver, and she almost started crying. Almost. I had to choke down my giggle, which came out more like a snort.

Is that bad? Am I a bad mom for traumatizing my daughter by telling her that she'll look like a boy? Boys aren't bad -- I have one that I love dearly. But if you understood my daughter, who is a total girly-girl (which is shocking to me -- I always envisioned myself with a tomboy daughter...), that telling her she'll have boy hair is MUCH more effective than showing her a picture of Tina Turner in Mad Max.



We parents have to find what works best for our family, right?

You Look Exactly The Same!

Have you ever had someone, who you haven't seen in many years, hug you, pull back and excitedly exclaim "you look exactly the same!"

This phrase has always confused me.

Is that supposed to be a compliment? Or is it just a person telling you the first thing (crappy or not) that pops into their head when they can't think of anything else to say?

I just had someone tell me this a few weeks ago, and I hadn't seen this person since I was about, oh, maybe 14.

14! That was 20 years ago.

Ummm, OK, so I look the same as I did when I was 14? Well sure, I'm still the same person. Same skin tone. Same freckles. Same hair color (for now lol). But seriously? What am I supposed to say to that?

Um, thanks?

But here's the thing that I realized after I got over being annoyed....

I kinda do look the same.

Here's me at the homecoming dance, junior year. I was sweet sixteen, had a driver's license, was sleeping with a hot guy who had a motorcycle, his own apartment AND graduated the year before (and I don't think my mom still knows how many nights I snuck out to go see him heehee) and a great group of friends. Life was good in 1993.

See what I mean? OK, I have almost the same hair. But dammit, it's all highlights now! If I didn't dye my hair it would be dishwater-brown and grey.

Did I really just admit that?

I will always wear bangs, mostly because I have a ridiculously large forehead. To give you an idea of how big, one of the nicknames the asshole boys in jr high gave me was "elephant woman."

Seriously.

But I got my revenge on him about ten years later when I was thin, hot and bartending at a very cool sports bar. He was hitting on me, recognizing me from somewhere but couldn't remember where. Oh yeahhhh, I wish I had a picture of his face when I asked him if elephant woman rang any bells. Asswipe.

Anyway. So I've come to terms with the fact that I haven't changed a bit since high school (as they say...). *sigh*

But ladies, have you noticed that it takes three times as much effort...to look exactly the same?

So I'm working my ass off to keep up with my hair, my skin, my body, my teeth, my nails...to look like I did when I was 16? That just doesn't seem right.

Then again, I'm not sure I wants to see what happens if I stop caring...I might get upset when people stop telling me I look exactly the same lol.

The Housewife Crashes NYC!

So to say that I've had a busy summer so far would be an understatement....

Both kids are in swimming lessons right now, Jack just started tae kwon do and The Wolf Pack was here last weekend for a visit...while I'm trying to keep up with The Hubs, work, cooking, cleaning and everything that comes with being a housewife.

Is it time for school to start yet?

No really, I'm having a pretty kick ass summer -- no complaints from me.

While The Wolf Pack was here, we decided to hop on the train and spend a quick night in New York City (since two of us had never been there before, including me). By the time we were headed home Sunday evening, we were moderately hungover, exhausted with very sore feet and had a ton of pictures on our cameras.

So thanks for everyone for hanging in there with me! School starts back up in September and then I'll have more time to blog (and I'm really looking forward to that -- for the reals!).

BTW, this is my new favorite song for summer. There's something about Katy Perry that bugs the crap out of me (I can't figure out what) but I can't resist her bubble gum, sugary pop music. Loves! Enjoy the song (see if you can catch all the cameos in the video) and try not to laugh at my NY pictures!




This was the view from our hotel room at The Strand. Very nice place and I would totally stay here again!

The Strand also had a rooftop bar with an incredible view of the Empire State Building. It was even better after dark.

Times Square, bitches! There were SO many people here. The energy of this place was overwhelming, but in a good way. I wish I could put it in a jar and take it home!

Central Park. Once of my favorite parts of the trip.

High browin' it with martinis at The Plaza. I'm a classy chick, even in places like this...(those coasters were leather. Leather, I tell you!)

Rockafeller Center and I had to stop by my employer's main office -- the NBC tower.

Grand Central Station...where's the flash mob when you need one? I almost started singing "do-a-dear" at the top of my lungs but then I decided I didn't want to get arrested....

The Wolf Pack at dinner. The food was just so-so but we had a good time. Wine pairings always make the night more fun heehee!

And you can see that the wine was starting to affect us here....


And even more here at the roof-top bar after dinner...but daym, we look hot, right? All that anti-wrinkle cream I'm using is paying off. It doesn't hurt that I've got a cute wolf lady beside me, either.

Hope you enjoyed the pictures. As I said, you'll start seeing more of me come September, in full sass-mode -- whether you like it or not!

9 Days, 7 States, 5 Hotels & 1600 Miles...Phew!

Where have I been? On vacation, that's where! I'm busy trying to get through the enormous pile of vacation laundry, while catching up at work (gee, only 150 emails to sort through!) and attempt to entertain my kids since they are both out of school for the summer. Oh, and I turned 34 yesterday, too. Wow.

So while I'm catching up on that, here are a few pictures from our days on the road; 9 days, 7 states, 5 hotels and 1600 miles...phew! And nobody killed anyone while in the car. Do I know how to plan a road trip or what?

Popsicles in front of the Lincoln Memorial. The Hubs and I were quoting Forrest Gump on the way up the steps and MLK on the way back down.

The main reason for the trip: my oldest friend (we met in preschool when we were four!) got married under a big tree in the South Carolina country. Fireflies, moonshine, banjos and accordions...love it. This is one of my favorite pictures of her -- she looked lovely -- just married and she's looking at me. Her face made me cry!

After the wedding we drove into the Virginia mountains and stayed near a fun indoor/outdoor water park called Matanussen Resort. I would definitely recommend it -- we had a blast! And Jack even learned how to boogie board on their pipeline. I was so impressed with him! Cute, right?

One of the best parts about traveling around The South?

THE FOOD.


I finally got to try a fried green tomato -- something I've been wanting to taste for years. Until last week, I had never even seen a fried green tomato, much less tasted one. My review? It was GOOD. Crispy on the outside, soft and seedy on the inside. It reminded me of a fried zucchini with a much stronger flavor, but in a good way. We also sampled real sweet tea (or "swate tay" as they call it in the south), boiled cabbage, sweet potato pie, ribs, home fries, collard greens....YUM. I know I gained at least five pounds on the trip but, who the hell cares! I got to eat a fried green tomato, people! And BTW, I've totally mastered that I have to let the server know if I want sweetened or unsweetened tea when ordering -- out west, you order an iced tea and you get unsweetened. Period. There is no swate tay (giggle).

The Hubs and I finally got to show our kids how to fish; we've been wanting to do that for a long time. Such a peaceful picture, isn't it? Little did we know chaos was about to commence; this picture was taken right before we locked ourselves out of our friends' house and I almost got my eyes scratched out by a demon cat...but I'll save that story for another blog post.

My typical goofball kids. I wonder where they get that from?


Here we are sitting in front of the United States Capitol building. We were sweating our balls off that day (it was 87 and soooo muggy yuck!), but we got to tour the whole city on a trolley which gave us a nice break from the heat.

Today, The Hubs is back at work, the kids are happy to be sleeping in their own beds again and I've got leftover birthday cake in the freezer. Life is good!

Yard Wars

I've met most of my neighbors. It can be a tricky thing to meet the neighbors, mostly because our homes are on an acre each and it's a long walk to the next house....yuk yuk yuk!

OK not, really. The real reason is people here mostly stay to themselves. There are lots of retired folks near us and, although they will wave back at me if I wave to them, they usually just do their own thing. No problem.

Another thing I want to mention is in Philly, fences aren't a popular item in yards. No one has a fence! When we first moved here, I swear we saw people driving down the street, their heads out the window, while they proceeded to holler and whistle out the window for someone named "Sparky!" or "Chance!" I can only assume their dog ran away.

Um, well DUH. Call me crazy but, when you don't have a fence around your yard, your dog *might* run away.

Also remember that I came from Vegas...where the best plants were the cactus and the palm trees on the strip. I suck at growing and maintaining plants. I've never had a garden. I know how to water house plants...and sometimes not even that. So, when it comes to the yard, I claim ignorance (and I don't have any damn time to learn, either, so don't suggest it all you crazy garden people!)

So anyway, our yard also doesn't have fences, so we sort of share a yard with the neighbor next to us. They're an almost-retired couple. I've only met the woman once -- when she came over to introduce herself. I think I got two (maybe three) words in. She told me how she had a master's degree in horticulture, what prestigious college her kids attend (because I fucking care, right?), that my house needed a new roof and that the bamboo in my yard would eventually take over my entire grass area. Um, thanks?

Her yard is amazing. It has fountains, beautiful flowers, perfect dirt and she is out there working on the yard ALL.DAY.LONG. Every day. But can you blame her? She has a fucking master's in horticulture.



I'm out in the yard every day, too. But I'm relaxing on my patio, basking in the sun, playing Words for Friends while my kids scream and laugh on the Slip and Slide.



There are weeds growing at the edge of my yard.

The flowers I bought to pot are still in their original plastic containers.

I even killed my grass in the spot where the Slip and Slide was....tee hee oops.

And every day, I hear my beotch neighbor rustling around in her bushes, an occasional cough, a random spray of her hose.... I imagine her peeking through her flowers, glaring at me while I sit and lazily play on my phone....while my weeds grow and the bamboo takes OVAHHHH!

I even once heard her husband talking smack about our yard. Not sure if he knew I was on my patio or not, but either way, I don't care. My yard is actually very big and very lovely. Weeds and bamboo, too. I'm just waiting for The Hubs to hear something they say about it, because he's the type that would put the smack down and yell something (hugely profane) right back at them...while I hide my face and silently snicker

But let's save that for another blog. *wink wink* By the way, those pictures aren't really our yards.

Music, Cocktails, Dancing....and Dishes

In between packing lunches, driving to baseball games and keeping up with my crazy busy life (when actually, it's not my life that's busy; it's my kids and husband that are busy...I'm just the glue that holds it all together, which means I'm busy, too) I have a certain hour every day that I take for "me" time. This hour is what keeps me going and I look forward to it every afternoon.

You want to know what I do?

I do the dishes.

First let me say that I HATE doing dishes. That was my main chore as a kid -- just ask my little brother...I used to pay him a dollar to help me. Only we didn't have a dishwasher for a portion of my childhood and, once we did, it was one of those pull-it-around-and-plug-it-into-the-sink ones. Yeah, cause we were old school like that. Anyway, I hated the dishes then, and I still hate them now.

However, I have found a way that makes them fun...and so, I've created my "me" time.

My secret? I plug my ipod into my Bose speakers, turn up my Pandora station (my favorite right now is the Vast station) and...(this is the best part)....dance and sing loudly around my kitchen. I'm sure the neighbors would get quite a show if they tuned into my kitchen window every afternoon at 4pm.

Sometimes I will have a cocktail. Sometimes I will have peppermint tea. But always, I have my favorite music, dancing (which always makes me happy and burns calories, too!) and the dishes. If I'm lucky, my kids will come and join in on the dancing. And somehow, before I know it, the dishes are done, the kitchen is clean, and my day is better.

Need your own inspiration? Just to give you an even better visual, here are some of the songs I've been loving on lately.

This first one is such an uplifting, fun song. I sent it to The Hubs and he said "catchy but it doesn't have enough rage in it for me...." So funny -- he listens to old man music but he still pretends he's in a mosh pit teehee.

Good Life by One Republic



I just discovered this next song and I LOVE it. Love. Love. Love. It's gritty, sassy and it makes me want to put on my cowgirl boots and dirty dance...meow!

Ain't No Rest For the Wicked by Cage the Elephant



Here's an oldie but goodie. You know how you forget about a song, and then hear it a few years later and love it all over again? Yep, this is that song for me.

Walk Into the Sun by Dirty Vegas



Somewhere a Clock is Ticking by Snow Patrol



Get Activated by Gerling



Howlin' For You by The Black Keys



Price Tag by Jessie J