Shamelessly Sassy

Dirty Dancing & Furniture Polish

When I was growing up, every Saturday was usually cleaning day. My mom put on a VHS of Dirty Dancing or flipped it to some Lifetime movie, and we cleaned our already sparkling house. That Janice is a real cleaner, and it is not unusual to find her scrubbing floors she just washed the previous day.

Anyway, my job was usually dusting and polishing the already clean furniture. Sometimes I even got to windex the windows, but mostly not because I had (and still have) a tendency for getting the glass all smudged with finger prints. I could never kill anyone. Obviously because it’s against the rules and I don’t have that sort of anger in me, but also because I’d leave thumb prints all over the place and wind up on Jailtracker quick style. (I’m certain if I ever got a mugshot my hair would look like a rat’s nest and they display your weight on there, which isn’t very kind.)

When my mom didn’t have to spend her Saturday running my brother or I to any of our multiple extracurricular activities, there were plenty of Saturdays filled with multiple viewings of Dirty Dancing or Overboard and the whole house smelling like the caustic mix of lemon scented furniture polish and oven cleaner. So now when I am nervous or sad, I usually start cleaning and watching Dirty Dancing. There’s just something soothing about listening to Patrick Swayze and pre-nose job Jennifer Grey trying to solve the problems of their youth while living the life in the Catskill Mountains.

All of that said, I’ve been very nervous the past few days and will be for the next few. I haven’t had much time to clean, because I’ve been studying like a fiend. However, I’ve watched Dirty Dancing roughly 10 times since last Monday. The only thing it has caused is for me to miss my mom because she lives states away, and also be sad that Patrick Swayze is dead, which renders me seeing Johnny Castle developing any new smooth moves impossible. Plus, I wonder if he would be as disappointed with the nose job Frances “Baby” Houseman is sporting as I am. It’s almost worth shoving Baby right into that corner.

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Categories me, me, me

When Did I Become a Ma’am?

8 May

A week and some change ago I was in Nashville for my friend Leslie’s Bachelorette party. Somewhere in the haze of events one thing was and still remains quite clear, I was called Ma’am by a curly headed, brunette girl that I’m certain I am only older than by a handful of short years. The kind that do not even have leap year.

I asked her a question along the lines of, “are you waiting in line?” Or some other question that required a one word answer.

And she then said the dreaded words.

“No, Ma’am.”

I caught myself quickly looking around me, thinking someone’s grandmother had stumbled in to powder their nose, straighten their shawl, no doubt ragged from years of use, or apply cold cream. Perhaps while doing those chores they asked her something which would require such a polite reply to an elder. But as I quickly scanned the room and felt her heinous eyeballs continuing to zero in on me, I realized that I was in fact the Ma’am she was referring to. Mind you all of this happened within a second or two, but time seems to slow down when you are caught off guard with an unexpected torpedo to the youth that exists inside your mind.

Soon after, I had what I am sure is only the beginning of a lifetime full of moments in which I asked myself: When did I become a ma’am??? I realize that in the area in which I live and those below the word ma’am is a cornerstone of southern manners. It’s something people often take pride when their young children grasp the concept of using the term. And I don’t doubt that somewhere that curly headed ~~demon~~ girl has a proud mama. But still. It was somewhat catastrophic to my soul in the way that a bug zapper is to a fly.

I asked myself several questions regarding why I was called ma’am. Was it the way the humidity had poofed my hair out enough to resemble a hot air balloon ascending into the evening sky? Was it that I was wearing a cardigan, a clothing staple that I once deemed old and stale but now regularly wear? Was it because my hair was too highlighted and I need to go back to being brunette, which my mother claims makes me look youthful? Could she see the minor line medial to my right eyebrow that I have developed from scowling while studying? Was it my Origami Owl necklace? (It probably was.) Or: Was she just a real see you next tuesday?

Manners or not, ma’am just sounds old to me, and I am not ready to accept that I may be a person worthy of such a name. And that’s that.

Should you ever wonder what triggered my late 20′s crisis, please refer back to this very moment in time. There exists a strong possibility that I drastically change my hair color or pull some other late 20′s stunt that is guided strongly by principles but seems super wild in my mind. Like not returning a library book or drinking out of the milk jug.

(I’m also still trying to solve the mystery of who signed me up for the mass email regarding Thirty-One products. I’m not sure who you are, but that ranks right up there with calling Ma’am. Embroidered cloth bags are for carrying diapers.)

Tags: feeling old, late 20s crisis, ma'am, shamelessly sassy, wrinkles

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Categories me, me, me

Harold and the Gemstone

25 Apr

Allie got in the car after school on Tuesday and looked sad or maybe tired. This is pretty out of the norm for her, as she is usually happy go lucky. I decided to investigate the problem. In a matter of seconds, the issue surfaced:

Allie,”Ugh. My boyfriend broke up with me today.”

“Well, Allie, you’re 8. I think you’ll be okay. Besides, I think we both know you don’t need a boyfriend. Being 8 isn’t about boyfriends. It’s about playing, having friends, and being a kid. You will have plenty of time in your life to think about how much you want to strangle a boy*.”

Allie,”Oh, I know. But still, what kind of loser breaks up with me? I think I’m cool.”

“That’s an excellent question. You’re smart and funny. You’re always happy, and you’re pretty. Not to mention, you have the best hair out of anyone I know in basically the history of ever. You, well, you are a total gemstone.”

Allie,” Yeah. You’re right. What a scum knuckle. Besides, I already have a new boyfriend named Harold?” All of this said while her sad expression morphed into one of cynicism and giggles.

“There’s a second grader named Harold? Does he go by that?” I asked, trying not to lose focus on the subject at hand and go off on a rant in my head about the things people name their children**.

Allie,”Not even close, that’s just what I call him: Harold.” Then she laughed like a hyena.

And that is why if left to listen to someone for hours upon hours, it would be Allie.

Allie and Harold sittin’ in a tree, R-E-A-D-I-N-G.

*Not all boys need strangled. But some of them do need a slap upside the head. (Not my boyfriend, because he is a man, like a real one and not just someone who thinks they are a man because they’ve gone through puberty. The latter of which sadly accounts for most men in this area. I think any further rants about that would need a whole other post and would distract from this bit.)

**While what other people name their children obviously isn’t my business, I think when naming a child you should realize how much power you truly have in the initial impression they make. If your daughter is born with a stripper name, it may be difficult for her to become President. I would probably never vote for someone called Precious or Trixie. However, I am only one person. So.

Tags: gemstones, kids with boyfriends, parenting, shamelessly sassy, shut up

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Categories Allie, Parents Just Don't Understand

Like Marie Antoinette

19 Apr

Allie is 8 now, and the importance of giving her an educated version of recent tragedy is pretty prevalent. If you fail to properly educate your kids about events, they hear the weirdest version at school. I would much rather have a talk with her about something than deal with the strange and recycled version received at school after swapped through various tiny mouths, like a bad game of telephone.

So Allie and I had the Boston marathon talk. She looked sad, and then she looked angry. And then she looked at me, very matter of fact and said, “You know what they should do to those people? Probably arrest them and do what happened to Marie Antoinette. Off with their heads.” I think she will be sorely disappointed to find out that the guillotine is not a current method of punishment in the United States.

This would probably be a good place to be all, “Hey girl, what’s with the urge to behead people?” But I pick my battles and today the guillotine isn’t one, especially since she just washed a load of laundry by herself. Not to mention, the chances of her becoming a revolutionary is already pretty much 50/50, because she wakes up ready to stop around about some sort of injustice on a daily basis.

I hope you enjoy your children as much as I enjoy Allie. I also hope you find a way to explain things to them that means they aren’t learning them on the school bus. I’m pretty sure the only useful thing I learned on the school bus was how to properly launch an egg at someone’s house, and that isn’t the most practical of things.

Tags: 8 year olds, boston, ginger, Mary Antoinette, parenting, revolutionary, shamelessly sassy

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Categories Allie, Parents Just Don't Understand

Allie on Scents and Feather Boas

14 Apr

While prancing through the store yesterday, Allie stops in her tracks and points to Bugles, “those are so gross. They disgust me. They taste bad, AND they smell worse than feet.”

Me, “I agree. Bugles probably have one of the grossest scents on earth. The smell of bugles could truly make me vomit.”

Allie scoffs, “Worst smell on earth? Clearly, you’ve never smelled diarrhea.”

Me, “Allie, ladies don’t talk about diarrhea, and if they have to, they don’t discuss it in a public place.”

She rolls her eyes then looks at the floor for a moment, quietly calculating if she wants to go on with the conversation or buy into the business of being a lady.

Finally, she looks up at me with a near regal facial expression and wraps an arm around my waist while leaning in to walk side by side down the aisles with me in the style of Siamese twins, “How about Rootbeer? It has a very interesting smell. It’s like you can smell it fizzing.”

She is so spot on sometimes. I love being Allie’s mom, even when it means she stops me in a craft store so that she can bury her body in feather boas because she claims it is, “the perfect opportunity for a photograph.” And it was.

Tags: boas, Bugles smell bad, feather boas, parenting, sassy, shamelessly sassy

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Categories Allie, Parents Just Don't Understand

Figure It Out: School Pick Up Line

11 Apr

If I take into account that most people are obligated in some form or fashion to follow the calendar, I’m guessing that most people know it is April. That said, Allie’s school began back in early August. She has attended the school for 3 years now, and while every year the child drop off/pick up process changes location with each grade, the process is essentially the same.

You have a pass with your child’s number on it. You hang it from your rearview mirror, or you attach it to your windshield with scotch/duct tape like a total junkie. Then, you follow the assigned line to pick up your child. It’s pretty simple. You pull your car into the line of cars. You wait on your child until it is your turn to pull up and get them. It’s really a painless process that has been well thought out by school officials. At most, the process has only ever taken 10-15 minutes.

Anyway, it is April, and it seems that some people still haven’t mastered the parent pick up line. They have had since August to figure out that all you have to do is to get in line with the pick-up pass placed in a visible spot. But no. At any given moment, a redneck car will randomly pull out in front of you in spite of the fact that you are both hauling around children, or try to cut line. Cutting line is pretty obvious when:

a) YOU ARE IN A CAR!

b) The cars you are trying to squeeze between are roughly one foot apart.

c) The average car is 15-17ft long, which provided you aren’t Ray Charles or Helen Keller, is pretty easy to notice.

A Volkswagen Beetle could not slyly sneak in the line; in fact, a Japanese beetle probably couldn’t sneak into the line. Also: it is a line! And I was under the impression most people picking up children were adults that could follow general principles of decent human behavior like waiting your turn or not charging at a car with a freshly retrieved from school child. But I was wrong, because at least once a week a car pulls out in front of me or nearly side swipes me.

Ugh. Anyway, it may be time to give up hope for those haven’t figured out the process, because if you haven’t figured out how to follow a simple process by now, it is probably never happening.

(Also, while I have publicly admitted my car is a disaster, I still refuse to tape a piece of paper to my windshield.)

(And I know the above picture has nothing to do with the writing, but I think Allie is pretty.)

Tags: complaining, mom blog, parent pick up line, pick up process, shamelessly sassy

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Categories Allie, me, me, me, Parents Just Don't Understand, Things that seem rude but are actually just how my mind works

Get Your Act Together.

10 Apr

Sometimes I think I have my act together. Then I do something like get into my car and get slapped in the face by the reality that is the dump lurking in my car. So in the event that anyone, including myself, was under the impression that I have found the key to doing it all and am using that key to unlock doors with the passion of a matador (ha!); here a few reasons why I am a hot mess:

The cup holders in my car are usually always full since I always have a beverage with me. Sometimes this means that when I go through a drive-thru to procure coffee or a new beverage, I have to empty all of the liquid out of a current cup in my car and dispose of it in an Oscar the Grouch car trash can that I bought 12 years ago. It’s been in every car I’ve ever owned. Obviously I have to pour the liquid out with my arm hanging out the window like a total redneck. Also, most of the beverages are 32 oz, which I think means that I could never live in New York City.
I moved into the house I live in about a year ago. Just this week I unpacked the last box from moving in, not just one box, but probably 10-12 boxes full of pure junk, which I mostly discarded in the garbage where it belonged. Some of it I put into a pile claiming I would have a yard sale that is probably never happening.
I claimed I was going to start a diet yesterday and then I had pasta and fundip for lunch when I was supposed to go running. It was watermelon Fundip, if you were wondering.
I finally gave in and watched the video of Miley Cyrus twerking in a unicorn costume. I watched her on Chelsea Lately not too long ago and liked her. Ugh, the shame. I’m not even ready to deal emotionally with the fact that I think Miley Cyrus is funny.
Chelsea Handler is probably my favorite celebrity.
Now that flipflop weather is officially here, I washed and mated every dirty sock in my house with the help of my sweet boyfriend. He only stopped once to tell me that Esprit sounded like a brand of electronic cigarette, not socks, and that he never pictured himself folding socks during the NCAA basketball championship. I love him, not just because he helps me mate socks and folds them in some weird little army fold that looks way neater than the socks I fold.
I’m caught up on all of the pop culture news I’ve missed out on the past few months, but I’m still slightly behind on actual important news of the world that has an impact on my life.
I spent all day Monday listening to Billboard Top Hits of 2003 and danced some to Ignition Remix while sweeping my kitchen and thinking about all of Aziz Ansari’s R.Kelly impression.
One day Britney Spears started following me on Twitter, and I felt special. Then I laughed at myself.
I drank 24 oz of Diet Coke today, which is kind of a total jerk thing to do.
I was supposed to listen to a third Cardiovascular lecture today, and midway through I felt like my booty was numb, so I quit and decided to walk around my house. Then, I texted all of my friends in my study-text group, who actually were studying, pictures gangrenous testicles.
I was supposed to put Allie’s favorite dinner in the crockpot this morning, and I forgot like a total loser. She asks for very little. #MomFail.

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Categories me, me, me, Uncategorized

Detriments of COPS Reloaded

4 Apr

I’ve been watching a lot of COPS Reloaded lately. That’s definitely not anything I ever thought I would say, let alone begin a discussion with. It’s really the kind of thing I should be embarrassed about, but enjoy so much that I am unable to comprehend or even slightly embrace the shame that should be associated with such a pleasure. There’s just something about observing idiots running on foot from law enforcement, and when caught, claiming that it was for absolutely no reason. They just tend to take a brisk jog when the blue lights and sirens begin working. Don’t we all?

Anyway, last night I found myself asking Austin if he minded if we watched “just one episode” of COPS before bed. He laughed but kindly obliged. On said episode, I began to empathize with what I convinced myself was an innocent young man running on foot from cops who were chasing him with a car for no good reason. Obviously he was really bright with lots of potential and didn’t need the additional pressure that is brought on by being chased by a car.

When caught, he was wearing the big, saggy sort of jeans that when observed you can’t decide if they are the gangster version of capri pants or if the person is just preparing for a flood with super short jeans. The pockets of his jeans,capris, and/or shorts were cleaned out and among the contents were multiple packs of Kool-Aid.

“How neat!, ” I said, wanting to believe that he was simply creative about the transportation and purchasing of beverages. “He just carries around Kool-Aid. Maybe he’s cheap. He’s like those little old women who go into restaurants and ask for water and lemons to make lemonade. Only he asks for water and uses the sugar packets to make his own Kool-Aid.”

Austin, while looking at me like I may be slightly sheltered, “I’m pretty sure he’s just actually storing drugs in the Kool-Aid packets.”

I gasped and continued to pull for televised, gangster friend. In fact, I stayed faithful right up until the Kool-Aid tested positive as cocaine. Then I accepted that perhaps my empathy the derelicts on cops was a bit ridiculous.

At the end of the episode, I think what I remained most puzzled about is why that young man didn’t buy new pants that fit if he was bringing in all that cash money slinging Kool-Aid packs full of cocaine. Someone should obviously educate him about the merits of nice denim.

Tags: COPS, Cops Reloaded, Kool-Aid, koolaid, law enforcement, pop culture, television

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Categories me, me, me, Pop Culture

Head Shavin’ Kind of Crazy

2 Apr

I’ve made the executive decision, as my own personal executive mind you, that if I make it through the next few months without going Britney Spears style head shavin’ crazy from stress or something that screams lunatic in some equal manner, I will reward myself with something strange I have always wanted like a pink El Camino or a crushed ice machine. (Finely crushed ice and not that crap refrigerators spit out and try to pass off as crushed. Ugh.)

I have my second of two 225 question tests of the week to take tomorrow. Just as I was settling into bed and thinking about how badly I needed a good night’s sleep after listening to 8.5 straight hours of lectures with minimum break time, Allie’s day of coughing turned into a night of vomiting. I began cleaning puke and consoling her while also thinking about how asking how a week could get more frustrating only seems to result in that actually happening. So perhaps I should stop. I usually know better than to question the inevitable but sometimes the optimist in me plays hooky.

I’m sure everything will end up being fine. But there is nothing like an extraordinary amount of self-imposed pressure to induce a head spinning sort of dizzy and frustration.

Also, there exists the guilt of focusing and worrying about your test as your child has the pukes and feels like yesterday’s garbage while vomiting up the evening’s dinner. I guess my point, really, is that part of me sort of wishes I was half of a Siamese twin so that I had an extra set of arms and even another brain to use. There just aren’t enough arms to console a sick baby.

It’s times like these that I wish my Mom lived closer than Florida so that I had some back up arms or at least someone to make fun of me for having to scrub up vomit. Because if you are palm deep in puke, you need someone to make you laugh.

It could be worse: I could still be wearing weird outfits like this throwback from cheerleading camp11 years ago.