4. I want a card. But not a stupid Hallmark card. I want one of those awesome homemade ones made with macaroni. Only I want the macaroni cooked and poured into a bowl and covered with a delicious cream sauce and paired with a giant bottle of red wine.
5. Jewelry jewelry jewelry. Unless it’s one of those stupid necklaces made with cheap plastic beads. None of that shit. Unless Tiffany’s is suddenly selling overpriced plastic bead necklaces. That can be returned for money. Because I don’t want to exchange it and the only thing I can afford is a stupid ass pen or a keychain.
6. I want you to cook breakfast for me. In someone else’s kitchen.
7. I want to pee and poop alone. I will prepare for the day by downing a tanker truck full of liquid and eating ridiculous amounts of fiber.
8. I want chocolate. But not just any ole chocolate. I want the kind that someone has taken a fat Sharpie to and blacked out the F’ing calorie section.
9. I want a good present. Like one I’ll really like. It’s not the thought that counts. It’s MY thought that counts. And my thought should not be WTF?
10. I want ten “Leave me the fuck alone” coupons with no expiration date.
Twas the night before Mother’s Day
Twas the night before Mother’s Day and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even the fish (because he might be dead, not sure unless I jiggle the tank)
The coats were all slung on the floor without care,
Hoping someone else would pick them up there.
The Mommy was nestled all snug in her bed,
While visions from pinot danced through her head.
All dressed in my nightgown with fat pants on too,
Just dreaming tomorrow I could sit alone and poo.
When outside my room there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,
Someone’s lamp? A book? Did someone fall out of bed?
No, none of these things, something else instead.
I ran to the hallway, threw open the door,
And what did I find? A hole straight through the floor,
A bowling ball is great when it’s where it’s meant to be,
But through my hardwood floors, are you F’ing kidding me?
Ten things Dad really F’ing wants for Father’s Day
Okay, so I really hoped Mr. Baby Sideburns would write something for Father’s Day, but that F’er is so lazy he never got around to it. And by lazy I mean going to work every day so he can put food on the table that my kids won’t eat. And coming home every night to put the kids in the bathtub and shit like that because I’ll tear my hair out and cut my ears off if I have to spend another second with my little love muffins.
Anyways, what I’m trying to say is that he’s an awesomely amazing father and while I’m probably not going to give him any of the following because I got him this totally kickass keychain that says “I am Fartacus,” if I asked him what he really wants for Father’s Day, this is what I imagine he would say:
1. I want an hour on the toilet. I know you think my man chair is that ugly recliner in the living room that looks like a piece of doodie (your words not mine), but it is not. The toilet is my throne. And I want to sit there uninterrupted until I’ve got ring-around-the-tush, until a hemroid (spelled the way it should be) is popping out, and until I’ve made a turd that’s big enough and worthy enough to take a picture of with my phone so I can send it to my friends.
2. I don’t know where you made reservations that day, but I want to be able to wear what I want to wear there (take that Dr. Seuss). I’m not going to be a total slob, but I don’t want to be told not to wear jeans and then we get to the restaurant and there are all these guys wearing jeans.
3. I don’t want to hear the words “I want Mommy” that day. Unless someone has a giant poopie diaper or needs to be wiped. Then it’s okay.
4. I want to leave the house to go somewhere and NOT be told to drive safely. I promise I drive safely all the time whether you remind me to or not, but for some reason you think that if you don’t tell me this that I’m driving down the road chugging a Colt 45 while I’m blindfolded and holding the steering wheel with my feet.
5. And speaking of driving, I want to be able to talk about buying a motorcycle one day. Just talk about it. I’m not really gonna buy it, but I would like to be able to have the dream without you telling me my brains will be splattered everywhere, and not because I got in an accident but because you beat the shit out of me for buying a motorcycle.
6. For once, just once, I would like the kids to play nicely on the floor while I watch a game. I mean I always see this shit on TV—the dad is sitting back all comfy in his man chair with his hand down his pants while the kids are playing with their dolls and trucks on the floor. But that shit never really happens. Really I’m sitting there trying to watch the game while my daughter is jumping up and down in front of the TV set begging me over and over and over again to change the channel to Mother-F’ing-Caillou. Sure I could go watch the game somewhere else, but then I’m basically a deadbeat father because I’ve been away from the family at work all week. Or I could record the game and watch it once the hooligans go to bed, but then I can’t talk to anyone or answer my phone or look at my texts or read my email or look at Facebook or check twitter all F’ing day because someone’s gonna say who won.
7. WIFE: Which do you like better for the living room, the yellow or the green paint?
ME: The yellow.
WIFE: Okay, we’re going with the green.
WIFE: Whatta you think? Cheese dip or guac?
ME: Cheese dip.
WIFE: Hmm, yeah, I’m going to serve guac.
WIFE: Which shoe? Heels or boots?
ME: I like the black ones.
WIFE: They’re navy and nahh, I think I like the boots.
Get it? So on Father’s Day here’s the thing, don’t ask for my opinion. Or if you absolutely positively must must must ask me what I think about something, when I give you an answer, go with it. Or at least pretend like you’re going with it. Because by the time you actually put the boots on and we’re walking out the door, I can’t remember which one I picked and I’m not looking at your feet anyways. I’m looking at your boobs.
8. For just one day I don’t want to be racked in the balls by my kids. I know they’re just playing and they don’t mean it, but it hurts like a bitch. Whoever designed children to be exactly the height of my testicles deserves to be punched in the face. A lot. The only good news is that I probably can’t have any more kids.
9. I want a blow job. And not the kind that I had to do something to get.
10. Here’s a list of the shit I don’t want my wife to nag me about on Father’s Day: that there’s toothpaste on the sink, that I need to shave, that it’s garbage day in two days, that I put my shoes in the wrong cubby, that I put my clothes on the hamper and not in the hamper, that I’m wearing two different black socks (and WTH does that mean anyway, isn’t black black?), that I didn’t run the garbage disposal, that I forgot to run the dishwasher, that I left streak marks in the toilet (I mean you’re lucky I even flushed because I thought about leaving it in there so you could see how amazing it was), that I parked too far to the right, that I parked too far to the left, that I should wear a jacket even if I’m not cold because the kids have to, that I need to make sure when I pump the soap that a little bit doesn’t drip out at the end and make a mess (WTF, isn’t soap as clean as it gets?), etc. etc. etc.
11. I want a keychain that says “I am Fartacus.” Because I am.
Happy take your daughter to work day! Not really, but your husband totally won’t know and he’ll take her and then you can do awesome things like shower and poop alone all day.
Halloween is to the Jews what Christmas is to the Christians
So I’m sure a lot of you are going to be pissed at me for saying this, but being a Jew is not that fun. We kind of got screwed when it comes t
o pretty much everything. Just about the only things we have that are better are Chinese food and JDate. The rest, not so much.
Let’s take Easter for example. On Easter a super adorable bunny hops around and hides eggs full of chocolate and candy for all the little Christian kids to find. Hmmm, what do the Jews have? Well, let’s see. Oh, I know! We get to hang fake fruit on the walls of a Sukkah. If you’re not Jewish you’re probably wondering what the hell is a Sukkah. That’s because it’s totally lame and instead of chocolate bunnies it involves plastic olives. As if real olives aren’t gross enough, someone came along and said let’s have a holiday where we decorate a hut with plastic ones.
And then there’s Passover. Our firstborns’ lives were literally spared and how do we celebrate? By hiding matzo. Seriously? I mean come on. Apparently we couldn’t come up with something better than searching for flavorless flat bread in the sofa. The least we could do is hide something sweeter like kugel, but probably not in the couch cushions. Over Aunt Ida’s dead body.
And then there’s the mother of all examples. Christmas verses Hanukkah/Chanukah/Hanukah/Hannukah/Chanuka/Chanukkah. See, people don’t even know how to spell it. Growing up, our Jewish moms always tried to convince us that Hanukkah is even better than Christmas because it lasts eight whole nights as opposed to Christmas that lasts just one. Well, let me ask you this, Moms? Would you rather see one amazing huge fireworks show on July 4th or would you rather it be broken up into lots of dinky shows over eight nights?
So when Christmas rolls around and everyone is decking out their houses in twinkle lights and inflatable Santa Clauses and giant ornaments and candy canes, I myself am green with envy. Have you ever seen the dreidel/menorah section at Michaels? No, you haven’t. Because it’s about 1/1000th the size of the Christmas section.
So as you can see, I have good reason to feel jealous. Until yesterday. You see yesterday I walked out of my house and my jaw just about hit the ground. We got these new totally awesome Jewish neighbors and guess what they did. They decked out their house in decorations—Halloween decorations! And they went all out. Ghosts and witches and bats and pumpkins and all sorts of awesomeness. So I was envious of her decorations for about thirty seconds. And then one giant trip to Michaels later, my yard was decked out too. Finally the Jews have a holiday we can go to town on!
Yes siree Bob, Halloween can be to the Jews what Christmas is to the Christians. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not talking about all the religiousy Jesus parts of Christmas. Just the superficial fun parts. Although I have a number of friends who will be pissed at me for saying the Jesus stuff isn’t fun. You tell me, what’s so fun about frankincense and myrrh? I don’t even know what those are. They sound about as fun as, hmmmm, I don’t know, a sukkah?
Look what Home Depot was selling on clearance! For $25, hells yeah I bought it! Here’s what our $25 got us:
1. One giant huge amazing light-up Elmo
2. Instant friendship from the neighborhood kids
3. Instant hatred from the neighbors without kids, especially the ones who only put up white lights and those fake candle thingies in every window
4. A giant tantrum from my kids when I try to remove it on January 2nd
5. A letter from our village asking us to remove it because it’s April
What NOT to F’ing buy my kids this holiday
Dear Grammy, Grampy, Nana and Pop Pop,
Ahhh, yes, here we go again. The most wonderful time of the year. For you. For me it’s more like let’s see how much more crap I can fit in my house until TLC comes knocking at my door because they think I’m an F’ing hoarder. I know that you guys are about to jiz (jizz?? giz???) in your pants you’re so excited about all the shit you can buy for your grandkids this holiday, but not so fast. Before you whip out your Amex/Target/Mastercards, check out this little list of “guidelines” I’ve made for you this year. The following is a list of presents NOT to buy my kids this holiday.
1. Anything alive. Because you know what happens to things that are alive? They die. And you know what sucks? Explaining to my kid why Fluffer Nutter the hamster is as hard as a rock and stuck in his tube. And you know what sucks even worse? Fucker Nutter living a healthy life for years and years to come. Because guess who has to clean his E coli-infested poop cage. Yours F’ing truly. As if wiping two asses besides my own isn’t enough already.
2. Stocking stuffers. Or as I like to call them, cheap pieces of shit. I get enough crappy stocking stuffers year-round for free. They’re called McDonald’s Happy Meal toys. Would you like fries with that? And how about a plastic piece of crap that was made in China and causes cancer.
3. Any toy that hurts when I accidentally step on it with bare feet. I don’t care if the ER doctor is George F’ing Clooney. Getting a bristle block surgically removed from my heel is not worth it.
4. Any toy without an off button. And you know what, I’m going a step further and saying any toy with an off button that doesn’t turn off IMMEDIATELY when you push it. You know the crap I’m talking about. You push the off button and it keeps on yapping, “Woof, woof! Thanks for playing! I’ll see you again later!” I pushed off. If I wanted you to keep talking I would have pushed the dissertation button. It’s like when you’re on the phone and you tell someone you have to go and they say okay but then proceed to ask you a thousand questions.
5. Any toy that requires me to play it with them. Toys are how I keep my kids busy while I’m trying to get important things done around the house. Like the laundry, and the dishes, and waxing my mustache, and pooping. If the box says ages 4+, my four-year-old better be able to do it without my help. Because if I have to do every F’ing little thing with her, the box needs to say ages 40+.
6. Barbie dolls. I know I’m supposed to be against them because they give my daughter a false sense of a woman’s body shape, but that’s not what I’m worried about. My kid has no sense of negative self-image yet. If she did, she wouldn’t be doing naked downward dog every night while I’m trying to get her into a pull-up. Nope, I’ll tell you who doesn’t need to see hourglass Barbie bitches everywhere. Me. If I want to feel like shit about my body I just look in my full-length mirror. I don’t need a nine-inch plastic doll to make me feel like a hippotomus hippapotamus (how the F do you spell this word?!) hippo.
7. This toy:
Don’t you dare buy this. I know it looks original and all, but I’ll bet this is the kind of shit Jeffrey Dahmer got when he was a kid. I can already picture it. First my kid will be playing with this, and before you know it she’ll be playing with the neighbor’s cat carcass, and then one day the police will show up to take what I thought was leftover meatballs out of my garage freezer but really it’s our babysitter’s head.
8. And speaking of carcasses, stuffed animals. To say we don’t need anymore is the understatement of the year. You know that game where there are a million stuffed animals in a big glass box and you have to steer the claw to try to pluck one out? Sometimes I feel like I live in that. One day I fully expect the claw to drop down through our skylight.
9. Talking dolls. For one, they creep me the shit out. The way they talk without their lips moving like ventriloquists. Freeeaky. And here’s another reason I can’t stand them. Do you know what talking dolls say? Shit like, “Mommy, feed me,” and “I wet myself, Mommy. Time for a diaper change!” This is the kind of crap I already hear like 40 times an hour from my own kids, so why in God’s name would I want to hear more of that?
10. Horns, drums, cymbals, pianos, microphones, guitars, maracas, tambourines, bells, whistles, mp3 players, karaoke machines, sirens, rattles, buzzers, alarms, toys that beep, buzz, or have one of those annoying ladies who sings like she’s all serious and shit like my middle school guitar-wielding music teacher.
That’s it. Good luck out there! You’re gonna F’ing need it.
Love and kisses,
Because I’m The Mom
You know that moment when you’re holding onto the par
achute and walking around in a circle and all the kiddos in the middle are smiling (except for that one kid who always cries) and you’re singing Pop Goes the Weasel and you can’t help but think, WTF has my life come to?
How to hold a Momlympics
So last year I’m sitting in front of my TV set watching the Olympics when Usain Bolt comes on and runs his little race and my hubby is all like, “Holy crap did you see that?! He is so amazing!” And I’m like, “Yeah, he is,” but I’m totally bullshitting him because really I’m like, “Whatevs, that’s nothing. Have you seen some of the shit moms do on a daily basis?” I mean I’d like to see Usain Bolt push a baseball through his penis (the best male equivalent to giving birth I could think of).
Anyways, it made me think. Who the hell cares if Michael Phelps can swim across a pool at like warp speed? Or that some sixteen-year-old waif can spell the entire Chinese alphabet with a stupid ribbon on a stick above her head? You know who’s holding this world together and leaping buildings in a single bound every day? Moms, that’s who. So this year when the weather’s nice, I’m gonna hold a little event in my backyard. Dah Dah Dah Dahhhhhh! Ladies and gentlemen, Moms and Dads, Rug Rats of all ages, welcome to, drumroll please, the Molympics!!!
Just to give you a feel for what the Momlympics are all about, here are a few of the events:
Event 1: Hair-doing
MOM: Stay still so I can do your hair!
DAUGHTER: F.U. Mom, I just chugged a Red Bull!
In this event each mom will be challenged to put her daughter’s hair into a ponytail while her daughter is jumping on a pogo stick after chugging a Red Bull. Up and down and up and down and falling off, all while Mom attempts to put her hair up. First one to get all of the hair into a reasonable ponytail wins this event.
I Heart My Little A-Holes Page 8