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?