Running Skirt Serves Purpose

Running shorts under the skirt make sure you don't show your badge if you fall down

My daughter started watching a cartoon about a cat sheriff. It's a cute show where the animals speak in an old western accent saying things like "reckon" or "partner" and they break out in song, some really catchy country music. I have an old brown sweater vest I gave to her to wear, just like the cat sheriff. The vest hangs past her knees, but she doesn't seem to mind, as now in her mind she IS the cat sheriff. Everyone else in the family is a character from the show. I am now called, "Priscilla," which is a pretty great name. At the playground, my daughter calling me by a first name, only adds to the speculation that I am my super pale white-haired daughter's nanny.

The intro song to the cartoon is the sheriff cat singing, and in it, she points out the badge on her vest. My daughter, similarly, points out the imaginary badge on her vest. However, when she says badge, it sounds more like "vag," pronounced "vadge," like vagina. I tried correcting her a couple times, but I don't want to make her feel like she is doing something wrong, since she isn't. I can just imagine her at preschool talking to her already skeptical teachers about her "vadge."

I call her my Little Lady since she turned out to be a super feminine gal. Her stance on only wearing dresses and skirts is bordering on anti-feminist. Her fascination with make up is pretty fanatical. I can lure her from the edge of any meltdown with the promise of using lip gloss. If it weren't for her gut busting appreciation for poop jokes and desire to strip down to her underwear whenever seeing water or a sofa, she might be able to join the lady advisors overseeing Kate Middleton. 

My daughter gets her super lady sensibilities from my mother. My mother takes 2 hours to get ready for the day and she inherited this beauty process from her own mom, my grandma Jackie, who takes 3 hours to get ready. When I'm at my parents house my daughter stands next to my mom and participates in the entire beautification process. 

My daughter gets a bit sensitive when I pick her up from school in jogging clothes. She always asks me, "are you sweaty?" If I am, she will shriek and scream, "don't touch me." It's a bit much, but my mom is the same way. To her, wearing jogging clothes in public when not jogging is as wild as wearing pajamas. She actually thinks jogging is pretty ludicrous, and likes to blame any affliction or illness I have on "that jogging." My mom bought me a jogging skirt, which I laughed at and tucked in the back of my closet. It seemed unnecessary to put a skirt over running shorts, but lately it comes in very handy because I can pick up my daughter from school wearing it, and she is so proud of me for dressing like a lady by wearing a skirt. 

George is making out with himself

Miso Purdy and Phone Obsessed

I see you George, even when Im captivated by information that seems to be constantly updating but never changing

A resolution to not sit on my phone during idle time was easily settled upon after being in Mexico for the first week of the New Year. I did not pay to get an international phone plan, so I spent a week without a phone. The phone was zipped up in the side pocket of my carryon bag, unbeknownst to the hotel staff, hiding in plain sight, and I carried on my week of relaxation just as I normally would except I didn’t have a phone always in my hand or within arm’s reach.

Since I didn’t have my phone on hand I went the entire vacation without taking a single picture. The trip was very enjoyable, but didn't need to be memorialized in digital print, as we spent the most of the time in the pool, or next to the pool, or at the beach below the pool. Had I had a camera, and been taking pictures with the same frequency I do back at home, I would have 300 pictures of the same thing. The only time I did wish I had a camera was when I went to Señor Frogs. They have bar stools where the backs are butts in different varieties of undies, with tattoos or kiss marks. Very cute, especially when a baby is sitting in the chair. So I lined up with the kids in the bar stools and asked my sister to take our picture. We were all set to say cheese, and my sister said, "Where is your camera?" I told her I didn't have one and to use hers, but she didn't have one either. Truly a great moment lost forever because my sister was also on a week without a phone and too bogged down to carry along a bulky camera as well.

Another reason a camera wasn't necessary is my not being as picture perfect as I'd hope to be. I'd be haunched over spraying sunblock on the kids and my dad would come up behind and take a great photo of my kids face next to my bright and shiny butt. To wear mascara, even waterproof, is not too appealing because by the time lunch rolls around there will be black makeup smudged down my cheeks giving the impression I have been crying over a bottle of vodka all morning. And my hair, which is a totally different life force in the Caribbean climate is always wet. If I tried to blow dry my hair in Cancun, it would take 4 hours, and I'd probably need to use a blow torch. I took a shower and went to meet my little sister who immediately grinned, and told me my hair reminded her of The Predator. I think she could sense my reaction to punch her in the stomach, and she said, "That's a compliment!" Being compared to a murderous monster from a childhood movie is never a compliment, but I was easily swayed to relax as it is the vibe pulsating through the resort.

I did bring a camera on the trip, but every time I went to leave the hotel room, and would see my bulky camera bag, I’d look down at my enormous beach bag bursting with diapers, shovels, floatation devices, sunscreen, water bottles, towels, changes of clothes, and I’d say to myself, “The camera is not coming. I will just hide this in plain sight under a pile of dirty laundry.” 

The camera bag is the size of a child’s lunchbox and when the camera is not in the bag it hangs from my neck with the mindless undulations of a set of large non-bolstered women’s breasts. So I smack a thousand dollar camera in my kids’ face when I am going into give them a kiss, making me feel quite guilty and them utterly confused. At least it wont cost me anything to smack the camera into some doughy flesh, but it will cost me greatly, if I swing around to get my stroller from rolling into the street and hit my camera onto a bus billboard of a woman wearing a thong bikini getting great relief from the scorching sun thanks to her very refreshing Fanta cola. Who am I kidding? If my camera broke, I’d hardly notice it is missing from my life, since I can’t be bothered to use it once I got an iPhone. Since getting an iPhone my camera, that 3 years ago was the height of technology, has been shelved, practically shunned. As if it were on a giant tripod where I drape a black sheet over my head to snap the shot, the piece of equipment has become terribly outdated to me now.

When not on vacation I take about 10 pictures a day, they are mainly of my kids with a selfie or landscape here and there. Probably too many selfies than I am willing to admit to, but I have this condition, it's called Miso Purdy, and I can't help my selfie tendencies. The cell phone camera has made picture taking so convenient, thoughtless, and possibly even reactionary to anything that gives off feelings of joy that it has become less a mechanism of capturing a unique memory and more a tool of cataloging a living life. The idea of taking a picture with an actual camera to freeze a memory more meaningful than a moment where I say, “awe, how cute!” is as preposterous as not carrying around a phone at all.

I think George suffers from Miso Purdy too.

Since returning home I have not been loyal to my resolution. I would really benefit from some type of app that would not allow me onto certain sites during day time hours, or even better, I'd benefit from some self control. I don’t know what it is, but this phone is like crack. I actually have no excuse to even own one for more than entertainment reasons aside from GPS, as I am not working a job where I need to be in constant communication, or read urgent emails. Im still riding the waves of relaxation though, as I don't really care too much. Next month, I can really tackle this issue, along with the self control, and I might as well bump flossing my teeth to next month as well, since they all seem to be intact and functioning well. It's all good.

Where my Frauda and WayBans at?

Don't got my Frauda, but I am tan!!

I am in Cancun, and today we intended to get a bit of the local life, but we never actually found it. The local life does not seem to exist, and every tourist is forced into a trap of indignity with overpriced food, and watered down drinks. This complaint does not come heavy handed since I am floating on a cloud made of nacho cheese sauce and Dos Equis (not a fart cloud, sucio.)
Most resorts here are "all inclusive" so they basically stuff food down your throat all day and whatever room is left is to be filled with beer. Now I see why people do not leave their all-inclusive compound, it is not because a drug lord's henchmen will snatch your fanny pack right from your belt, but because leaving means shelling out gobs of cash for shitty food you could get back at the resort.
I am going to do some more yelping, and get to the bottom of this. Until I get the inside scoop though I will rely on my trusty bracelet that allows me to retrieve any food I want, as long as it is available on one of the many buffets provided, and wash it down with beer.

Got wristband? Got nachos!

The food is good, and I do enjoy the options, but I reckon if someone were staying here for longer than a week it could get a bit tiresome. Where is the quinoa kale salad, didn't that shit originate in South America? Today I had to put on the brakes because I ate nachos 4 times yesterday, in between meals. When I put on my bikini this morning, I had a nacho reality check. If given the choice, I'd rather have beer, so I decided to pick the better of the two vices for my bikini body's sake.
My mini fridge is restocked every day with 4 mini bottles of beer. They are hilariously little, and can be consumed in maybe 3 large gulps. Its good for me though, since I chase 2 kids around the pool all day long and a hangover would make this not as fun as it is. The fear of children drowning does make lounging with my eyes closed and listening to the waves impossible, but there is nap time and I make up for all lost tanning then. I can crack open the little beers after I put the kids to sleep since I have to be room bound from 8pm on.

On my quest into town today I passed a "luxury mall" on the bus ride and this seems like the perfect location for overpriced mediocre food. My ultimate goal in Mexico is to tan, and my second goal is to score some Frauda purses and WayBan glasses but so far the latter is not happening. I think the luxury mall is likely killing the knock off market since they strong-armed the Mexican government into cleaning up the counterfeits or these stores wouldn't keep shop. It's quite sad really because it is cutting the middle-class-man from the equation. Some people just want a Louis Vuitton, even if is says Luis Button, because its a status symbol; I am middle class and I buy knock of shit.
When I was in Mexico as a teenager buying a fake handbag was pretty easy as all the markets carried them, now it seems IMPOSSIBLE. I ask and ask, in shitty but understandable spanish, but it is like going down a rabbit hole. It is always my Grandma, sister and I who go on these hunts, and we find ourselves in too many dark alleys to make it seem like casual shopping. Like 3 crackheads jonesing for a score we will follow any beer bellied Mexican in a wife beater down a dimly lit hall to find the purses he claimed to have, but falls very short on his promise. I will never confuse a neon plastic beach bag that says "I am in Cancun Bitch" with a Gucci, but he is judging my mental abilities on some pretty poorly spoken language.
Tomorrow I am going to Isla de Mujeres, so maybe I will get lucky there! As for now, I am happy to report, my tan is coming along splendidly!

Stardate: 2015, the beginning #WhootWhoot

Stardate: 2015

Ring ding dong, Ring a ding ding dong! Its the mother fucking new year! It always sounds so much more exciting than the actual event, which is me in an outdated velour jogging suit laying under a down comforter with a laptop giving me warmth. My boozy friends (Im probably part of the sect) always classify New Years Eve as "Amateur Night" and don't like to go out because they don't want to witness all the pansy ass fucks out embarrassing themselves since they are drinking more than they have consumed since the last New Years. This is a good holiday for me because I can blend in with the masses without having to send out "Im sorry" text messages the next day. It is my get out of jail free card.
Alas, I am home in sweats. Actually, an outdated velour jogging suit. People have not been wearing juicy ass sweat clothes for a while, which is likely why they shut down their brick and mortar and started selling their shit at Kohl's. It wasn't too long before people started wising up to the fact that a $200 jogging suit was likely made for $10.
Back to the New Year. What a fucking year 2014 was! I have to say, cocky ass bitch, it was the best year yet! My babies are my heart, and George surpassed the wretched milestone of baby to toddler. My only advice to new parents: Don't panic, a baby gets much cooler after they hit 16 months and it just gets better from there. Sure, he is still unbearable at restaurants, but at least he is slightly responsive to the mechanisms used in these situations to shut him the fuck up: iPhones.
Life is good now, and I am a happy camper. I carve in my running time, my daughter has her preschool and George, well he is a maniac who gives me endless happiness even though he laughs like a monkey as he shouts, "NO!" to me whenever I ask him anything.
My mom always told me, "baby phase is my favorite because they just sleep on top of your belly while you watch TV." That made sense, but the problem is that period wears off after 3 months, so it is all downhill from there. How do you tell your child, "You were such a good 2 month old, and I doubt you could ever top it?" Self realization: my mom has viewed my entire existence, and considered the first three months to be the most enjoyable for her. Wow, my middle child syndrome is really taking me on a ride right now. I have a non-diagnosed case of middle chid syndrome as I am the middle of 5 children, all born within 6 years. Fucking disturbing to any modern life, but it was very fun as young children, outlook does shift a bit into adult life, although it is nice to never have to make "friends" since I already have 4 besties no mater how awful we are to each other.
So my outlook on babies is much different from my mom's. My first kid was one of those ones that cried non stop for 3 months. I didn't sleep, was practically institutionalized, and then all of a sudden before I leapt off of a bridge, she started sleeping. Except when she was 10 months old, she relapsed and I think I slept 10 hours the entire month of August 2012. I left her with my mom and drank a red bull, which gave me the energy to pass out for 5 hours solid, the most amazing feeling I have yet experienced.

She has a knowing look

My next kid was an absolute dream. I considered him freakish because he would lay down and fall asleep. I had no idea that babies could behave this way, and after having him realized how my daughter is likely just a person who will always be screeching and hollering, and if all babies were like my second then couples would easily be procreating 10.
With my daughter, every night was pacing the carpet, and her crying was endless. I had to set her down because I felt so much fucking frustration it was freaking me out. At the time there was a big "Don't Shake Your Baby Campaign" because people were shaking their babies to shut them up. I had never thought this would be a good solution for her because it seemed obvious that the repercussions would be devastating, but in a world where people need instructions on how to wipe their butt, we need pamphlets on how to not physically abuse our children.
I was talking with my friend who is a lobbyist and she told me about a campaign that was going on regarding "Don't Shake Your Baby." There was a big hubbub over billboards targeting Latina women where it showed a Latina woman with iPod buds in her ears, and it said, "Shake your booty, not your baby." The reasons why this shit is offensive is about 20 points long, and the ads were pulled, but it seemed to me like they completely hit the wrong demographic. First of all, Latina women are not going to shake their baby, ever. I went to Walmart this afternoon and could clearly classify the subset of society who would be baby shakers, and I doubt they are concerned about earbuds, but rather a different type of bud.
This next year, my kids might offer me a dose of new frustrations. I hope they will eat their $6 kids type meal I buy them at a restaurant rather than throw it on the floor. It is not a nice sight to see me hunched over retrieving french fries off the ground, and THANK GOD high waisted pants are back in style, I'd hate to be plumber cracking it through that. It is always a loosing game in a restaurant; I can buy them the $6 kids meal that they don't eat, or I don't buy the kids meal and they eat my entire plate of food. Given my new years weight loss ambitions, I should just let them eat my plate of food.
Yes, my kids are helping me get thin! I am going to be bathing suit ready by Mexico!
That shit is 2 days away, so I will need to just work-it-girl because I don't think they can get me where I need to be by then. All my 2014 resolutions have been rolled into 2015: get fit as fuck, learn German and publish publish publish!
So ringing in the new year: to all the bloggers, cloggers, loggers, and floggers, we have another 365 days to work our beautiful buttocks off, so try not to shake your baby and shake your booty.

Eat your fucking kids meal! Well, ok don't. You're doing me a solid

Fish Death

Waiting to get home...

When we came home from a five night trip to Southern Califirnia I was sad to find our betta fish died. Our trip was supposed to be 2 nights shorter and it wasn't till the last night that I remembered about our fish.

I woke up at 3 am in a hotel room that was probably 100 degrees. During this trip I had been catching up with people and this involved, as it usually does, frequent meetings to drink beer and eat food. When I woke up hot and sweaty I felt glutinous, and it didn't help I was in just a bra and underwear. Having an 18 month old in the pack and play makes rummaging through the suitcase for pajamas a "high risk" activity that could disrupt hours of much needed sleep.

It was the fear that he would wake up crying from the heat, uncomfortable since his fleece pajama suit is hardly a breathable fabric, that motivated me to risk poking around the hotel to turn the thermostat down.

When I tiptoed back into bed it dawned on me, our fish Betta (creative name points) might be floating in her fishbowl. I guzzled the bottle of water next to me and after cooling down, fell back asleep.

The nice thing about being dehydrated on a road trip is that there is no need to stop frequently to pee. We made the 5 hour drive in 6.5 hours, which is very good for us. Sure enough, Betta was dead. She wasn't floating on top of the bowl though, she was laying on the rocks at the bottom.

Fish Bowl for rent: Must be nice looking red Betta costing less than $10

I flushed her down the toilet. I had to keep scooping the rocks off her because when I'd tip the bowl the rocks would cover her up. It was weird and gross. When my daughter asked where is Betta, I told her I dropped Betta off at her uncle's and he is watching her. Finally all the Investigation Discovery and Women Who Kill has paid off. I disposed of the body and thought up the perfect cover up within minutes, calm and collected under pressure.

We play a game called fishbowl where my kids and I hide under a blanket and we scream at an imaginary diver who is coming toward the bowl. If seen from outside the bowl, three heads are under a blanket shouting, "Leave us alone diver. We need personal time. Go away diver!" 

When in our fishbowl tonight, my daughter said something about fish heaven. I gave a side eye look, thinking, "you're on to me!" But she quickly moved on to some other topic. Maybe I am going to go through some Hamlet shit now, but it seems as if all the next day she has been mentioning the fish. If there is anything I have learned from years of watching Law and Order it is this, NEVER confess, thats the only way they can ever get you. 

I think the boy is on to me

Homeward Bound

My look of longing is due to staying just one day too long on my trip to see friends and family for Christmas. I feel like  listening to Simon and Garfunkel while crying because I can't bare being away from home a minute longer.

Had we just left yesterday I would probably have felt a trip back would be a priority, but presently I feel like never returning again.

My kids had the urge to return home after the first day of the trip. The trip peaked for them after the first night when we went swimming. Watching me shriek from the chilly pool temperature and even more chilly air was pretty funny for them. They are part polar bear because even with chattering teeth they were crying as I pulled them from the water to go to our room before they became hypothermic. If they'd just sit in the hot tub with mommy we could have stayed longer.

From that point on they became unhinged, to put it nicely. My daughter's behavior at breakfast was an indication of how things would be. Saturday she started screaming how she hates eggs but was insistent on ordering an omelette. The following day she crumbled when I told her French Toast was not an option. During these scenes I avoid looking around because I don't want to see sympathetic looks or, even worse, looks of annoyance. I see how they burnt out much faster than me since every holiday party we went to they were honed in on by every other patron and by the time they recovered from some relative yapping one inch from their nose, another one swoops in to blow their tongue in their face, inadvertently spitting in their face and mine as well (although that part was likely intended). 

Buzzed adults love getting a baby's face. Their drink sloshes around and ice cubes clink as they move into the kids. The kids reaction involves them screaming in terror and then trying to climb up my body like a bear climbing a tree, which involves a lot of fingernail gripping. The buzzed adult is unfazed by my kids' rude reaction, and it's likely because they couldn't understand my kids were saying, "go away, ahhhh, scary, help me mommy!!!" Regardless I apologize.

My favorite morning was taking the kids to Santa Monica. We parked, loaded up the double stroller and started toward the beach. After a stop at Jamba Juice (my daughters brand recognition is starting to slow us down as I was unclued in on her passion for Jamba Juice) and my plowing the stroller through the sand like Boxer from Animal Farm. The sand stretched at least a half mile, but it was worth the work because the kids ran to the water like we were in the Bahamas.

I thought they'd surely halt when their little toes felt the cold Pacific, but they are polar bears, and they let the water cover their feet as I kicked off my shoes and chased them before they walked out deep enough to be swept up. 

Of course, a wave came and soaked us, and forgetful mommy didn't bring a change of clothes so they went pants free as we walked the pier and rode the Ferris wheel. 

The Ferris wheel was a leap of faith since either one of them could have pulled a reckless move which led to them diving off the side. We survived although I had to keep my son in a vice grip and constantly tell my daughter to stay seated on her butt.

After Santa Monica there was still THREE days to go. So we endured people spitting in our faces. Last night I woke up at 3 am and had the realization that we left our fish at home, and she might be dead, since she hasn't eaten in a week. Hopefully she is much more resilient than us, who cry and complain frequently. After our final breakfast at the hotel buffet, we packed up the car, and I vowed to eat salad for the rest of the week. We are going to Mexico on Friday, and we won't know anyone. It's going to be great.

Here is my daughter excited to be heading home and pretending to captain the ship. As I Tetris in our luggage and thousands of presents, she orders me around. For people who don't speak 3-year-old, it loosely translates as, "Mommy, get me the fuck out of here!"

Christmas Shopping

This morning I went shopping with my mom, sister, and the two kids. Going shopping with an 18 month old is about as enjoyable as going to the dentist, which I have been putting off for three years. My kids and I went to Starbucks as my mom and sister went to pay for their merchandise. My mom and sister went at the sales lady like two piranha fish, and I knew to leave the register and go to the food court to get the kids cake pops and have an iced tea. The frustration from watching them talk to a cashier is enough to give me a heart attack, so I have to leave. 

With a line of five people behind them they begin explaining simultaneously to this poor woman, who never stood a chance of understanding, that they wanted to pay part of the total with a gift card and the rest on a credit card to get an additional 20% off, and use a $25 off coupon. All the while they maintained a sideline conversation amongst each other where my mom told my sister she pays for it all, and then she will give her cash later.

Watch Frozen for the 40th time, or go shopping?

When my mom and sister walk up to me having my tea and watching the kids run in circles they were beaming from the rush of achieving a killer shopping deal. They confused the sales lady so much that she ended up overriding the price of a $250 jacket, and she sold it to them for $47. My mom and sister were giving each other a jumping high five as they walked out of the store.

After the mall we went to Del Taco to feed the kids some lunch. I ordered baby George a quesadilla, I had nachos, and my daughter ate a chicken taco. My mom and sister both ordered $1 menu burritos, and then after looking at the receipt lectured me on ordering too expensive of food (my food with the kids totaled $5). My mom was explaining to us how great the new Property Brothers show is on HGTV and an older couple came up to the table and complimented us on how cute the kids are. My mom thought they came up agreeing with her, that they found the Property Brothers to be cute also. They went cross eyed in confusion as my mom replied to their compliment with a 3 minute analysis on the latest episode of the renovation show. Then my sister and I started laughing and had to tell my mom, “They are talking about the kids, not the Property Brothers!” As they walked away, my sister looked at my mom, and said, “Why would you think they were talking about the Property Brothers? How would they have known we were talking about that unless they were sitting in on our conversation?” I told my mom to ramp up the Omega 3’s and my mom said, “What do Omega 3’s have to do with hearing?” Then my sister looked at my mom, and said, “Mom, I don’t think that had anything to do with hearing.”

After we finished eating my sister insisted we go to Old Navy so she can look at flannel shirts. I figured we would be able to go to the store and get the kids home to nap at a decent time. As we pull out of the Del Taco parking lot there are cars lined up behind me waiting for the drive thru and I needed to focus in order to maneuver out of the lot. My mom and sister were loudly harassing me for having a dirty car, and giving me the unnecessary advice to not back into a car. I lost my cool and shouted for them to chill the fuck out so I can back the car out. Before they both started in on me, “Uh oh, Alicia is grouchy,” or “Jeez, Alicia, were only trying to help,” or a favorite of theirs, “Alicia, you’re still hungry that’s why you’re grouchy. You didn’t eat enough,” I had to apologize for being rude.

I drove over the curb and we made it out of the parking lot without having to wait for the drive thru to clear out, and we were off to Old Navy. When we entered the store, as if my sister knew the store by memory, she looked to the left and throwing her arms up she shouted, “They are sold out! I knew it!” I was relieved, “OK, well let’s go home then.” But my mom was already off. She was deep into the store, lost in a shopping daze, and I knew this short in-and-out shopping trip was going to take much longer than they led me to believe.

George really like shopping, deep deep down

I found two shirts on the clearance rack that were 97 cents each and then headed to the register. I bought them as my kids were falling apart from exhaustion. My daughter started crying because I told her I wouldn’t buy her a princess wand displayed along the check out line. We were in line for 30 minutes, and I knew all the glitter and glowing plastic shit lining the wall were going to make her go goggle eyed and cry. Of course my sister said she would buy it for her. I could see all the tough no-nonsense-live-off-the-land Nevadans shaking their head in disbelief at how my kid was spoiled to the core while my son was rolling around on the ground when they knew just as much as me that he needed to be at home napping in his crib.

Instead of acting like a bitch and complaining that we should have never gone to Old Navy, I projected my frustration on the long check out line. “That line was ridiculous. They should get more cashiers. I just waited 30 minutes to buy two dollars worth of clothes.” My mom looks at me as she is buckling in my daughter and says, “Mom and pop shops are having a really hard time these days.”

I yelled, “Mom! Old Navy is not mom and pop!” They can teach me how to be a bargain hunter, eat off the dollar menu, and how to be a better driver, but I have to take my opportunity to teach her on the difference between Mom and Pop shops and a chain of stores owned by one of the largest retailers in the US. Finally, I am able to give her a useful bit of information.

Here we are, relaxing after a tiring day of shopping that was much more fun than watching Frozen, again.