Dear Santa, Letter (for adults)
Dear Santa,
I know, I know, this year has passed by SO quickly. I can still feel the pen on my paper from last year’s letter. I won’t pretend it has been easy, Santa. I’m not intentionally selfish when I complain about my first-world problems. Alas, they are problems, they are mine, and yes, they are relative to the world around me. The beauty of first-world living also dampens them, and no, I don’t mean a roof over my head and clean drinking water — blah, blah, blah. I mean Lexapro and Wellbutrin. God bless America, sir.
As I age, my wants and needs, my desires and passions, have shifted and swayed into a world, or a cacophony, of the runniest stacked steaming pile of shit that would put an elephant’s two-ton pile of poop to shame. The stench and the steam are so incredibly toxic to your dear old olfactory senses (you know, the ones you’ve trained so diligently for years to develop the perfect palette for sipping life’s ultimate necessity, wine) that they are now tainted with a runny, stinky, steaming, pile of shit.
Now that I’ve ever-so-appropriately set the stage for you to fully grasp, fully understand, that my world, dearest Santa, is not at all the peppermint bark, jingle jangle, elf singing, toy loving, reindeer flying, three-hundred-and-sixty-five-days-a-year Christmas caroling, and Angels We Have Heard on High, It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, Christmas perfection, you can officially read this letter through the lens of a woman, who needs some serious Santa sugar.
In the past, I’ve asked for things like Brad Pitt, world peace, 500 acres, a small country to call my own, etc., but no, not this year, Mr. Claus. This year, I have adjusted my wishes to set a more realistic tone for my child to observe and be proud of as he ages.
Santa baby, if it’s okay to call you that, I’ve packed on some serious pounds over the past two years.
Side note: To that point, if you need a new Misses, I am ready for a ride on Santa’s sleigh, if ya know what I mean.
I could really use a Sven or Fabio, or someone strong sounding, to work me into some serious shape, to take off some of those serious lbs. Thanks.
I’d ask for world peace; however, I don’t think you’re in the business of annihilation in the form of mass murders. We all know we’ve got quite the list we’d have to hit to accomplish such an insurmountable task (D.T., K.J.U., etc.). However, keep it on the back burner, will ya? Thanks. Next, I’d like Botox twice a year for the rest of my life. I would also like a breast lift that will knock out those twenty-year-old hoes by both sight and physical contact and a cellulite remover that actually works. Get those elves up on that shit, please. I would also like permanent eyelash extensions that won’t somehow give me eye cancer by 2030. Of course, Imelda Marcos’ shoe collection — in size nine. Yes, my feet, they’ve grown with my body.
Santa, can we make America great again? Like, for real? None of these asinine falsehoods from MAGA. Can we run an internment camp where all of the extremists who don’t let people speak the truth, or poke fun at the horror in this world, or who accept that freedom of speech needs a safe space for their souls, yet they-won’t-let-people-they-don’t-care-to-hear-speak-their-truths-have a microphone, outwardly showing their hypocrisy like the dumbass college-aged students they are or are acting like?
Side note: That was my most favorite run-on sentence of the year, and I have many.
Can we corral all those fucks up together on an island called, I don’t know, say, Alcatraz or Molokai? If not, I am willing to give up the small country that I had previously requested as a place of internment for said fucks. Lastly, to this point, can we let people like me take their diatribes and give them a venue for listening ears? Thanks, man. Is it okay to call you “man?” I’m feelin’ like we’re developing this type of rapport with one another. I’m diggin’ our vibe.
Better credit. Like, the best. I need it — badly. How else will I purchase my perfect desert home in Joshua Tree? Are you still “in” with the IRS? Don’t worry; I’ll keep it on the down low. That means “secret.” Not sure how up-to-date you are with the lingo of these crazy kids in this crazy climate.
TRIBE. Can we please take that word back? It truly means something, and it has been decimated by the devils of social media that be. Now people all over FB (that’s Facebook, Santa) and Instagram are messaging anyone and everyone in a continuous manner to “join their tribe of ladies on the path to a better body, soul, brain, belly button, nose, elbow, and earlobe.” I mean, it’s almost as bad as my old boss who hated “the gays” and responded to a FB post where red was the color of a local pride parade by stating, “Oh great, they’ve taken the rainbow already, now they’re taking the color red, too?! They’ve gone too far.” Though I disagree with her sentiments, I do believe I would like to have the word “tribe” back in its rightful home. Thanks, jolly old man.
Dearest, dearest, darling, divine, dependable, distinguished, dutiful (and all other adjectives that begin with “d” that are delightful), Santa Claus. Can you, will you, please, please, pretty, pretty, please, bring me to the end of my dramatic, dysphoric, disturbing, diabolical, demented divorce? Can we end it all with a group of cheerleaders chanting, “Gimme a D! D! You got your D, you got your D. Gimme an I! I! You got your I, you got your I,” and so on? I’ll run down a football field shouting, “I’m freeeeeeee!!! With two bottles of the finest French champagne spouting out of the top, like Old Faithful on its finest day, all over me, flowing through my lips, and when I reach the finish line, the ghosts of Christmas past will fly away into the abyss, and I will never feel haunted again. And Santa, I’d like it to go down exactly like that, please.
On a lighter note, I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you for the one thing the ladies of the world are craving, an internal vibrator. One that a mere Kegel would turn on at any moment. I’m talkin’ a real, hit the g-spot every time, orgasm of the year every time, kinda device that is so perfectly designed by your most couture elves, who know their way around a clitoris, that is placed in a pussy ever-so-perfectly, and doesn’t need to be replaced for at least five years. And Santa, I’m more than willing to be the test pilot on this one. I’ll happily take one for the team. Thanks.
I’d also really love a two-week stint in some sort of establishment that mirrors a spa. This past year has taken its toll on me, and I desperately need some peace and quiet in a sanctuary where no one can contact me or find me for approximately fourteen days. A place where the world stops spinning on its axis, where the sky is always blue, and the sun is always bright. A place where there are endless amounts of delicious and healthy foods to clean my gut, detoxifying teas to rid me of my toxic year, horses to ride daily, meditations twice a day, calming and beautiful music with the sounds of waterfalls flowing through my ears, and of course, I would not be too terribly upset if we ended the day in some sort of “fun tea.”
However, NO FUCKING WEIRDOS, please! The place that I’ve just described houses the freakiest shaved head, I’m an earth goddess, my name is Moonbeam, and my spirit name is Sunshine, the dirt sings through the air a story of the past (which, yes, I believe, but not in an airy-fairy way), I only eat food that has fallen off a tree on its lonesome, and welcome to my tribe, kind of freaky-deeky, fucks. No. I want cool bitches (oh yes, no men allowed), who have been rocked by life a little too hard but are tough, down-to-earth (not, I am the earth — which we are, but stay with me here), badass bitches to rock this journey with me. Then, we’ll all leave in the back of a sexy farmer’s pickup truck for a day of wine tasting in Napa Valley. Thanks, Kringle.
I’d also really love 300 acres of amazing property using the most up-to-date methods of regenerative farming, an instant pot, a Le Creuset set in red, a microbiome that just won’t quit (it’s simply too legit — pick up what I’m puttin’ down, St. Nick?), Jimmy Choo heels, and a trip down Fifth Avenue with Anna Wintour, in which I get to have the personalized shopping trip of my dreams. Think “Pretty Woman.” Thank you.
I want to go back to Cambodia. I’d also like to consume happy pizza daily and go back to see Ta Prohm. While in Asia, I’d like a first-class flight, or I’m happy to ride with you, “Santy,” on your sled way up in the sky. Talk about the mile-high club! Hot damn! Our destination? Boracay, Philippines — My most favorite vacation spot on earth.
Now, jolly old man, I must state my disappointment in something. I’ve been asking for a Ferrari for approximately ten years now yet my driveway still provides a cold and lonely home for my Kia Optima. She’s treated me well over the years; however, I can’t help but see a shiny red Berlinetta ripping out of my driveway, blonde hair blowing in the wind, and flirting with every human I deem “flirtable” while cruisin’ down the 101. That, sir, is how I’ll get my sexy back.
I realize this may seem like a lot, jolly fella. I must state again, with a mighty emphasized voice and tone, reminding you that it’s been a long, challenging, and brutally trying year. I’ll be the milk to your cookies, Santa baby.
Love always and forever, you sexy old beast,
Heather XOXO
Halloween for Adults: Your Dos & Don’ts
Let’s face it, Halloween is the best time of year for your inner-child to come out and play. Here are some dos and don’ts for your Halloween experience this year, like, being creepy, but not land yourself in jail kind of creepy and ending up on some registry, scoring the best candy (I mean, not that shit that’ll take out your dentures or aging teeth), getting wasted on pumpkin beer and Halloween cocktails (yes, there are MANY), and picking the perfect costume (no Disney princes or princess’ welcome here – grow the fuck up!). Happy haunting, kids. Here’s to finding your loophole to youth.
DO
- Wear makeup or a mask to avoid the heckling of teenage assholes and the “what the’s” from adults with no soul who opens the door and dare to not give you candy (you know where they live, am I right?)
- Throw some eggs at that vile teenager next door who kicked your cat and called you fat. DISCLAIMER: Getaway vehicle, preferably something with a motor, needed. Our knees and backs hurt. Those fuckers are stupid but fast
- MUST: Do NOT dare go trick-or-treating sans alcohol. We may be old but we’re not masochists! Plus, everything is funnier when drunk. Especially your dumb neighbor’s toupee and their kid’s lazy eye
- Play hide-and-go-seek in a graveyard. It’s still fun (remember, you’re adults, in costumes, drinking in a graveyard. FUN). While there, pick a plot for you and a loved one. Just saying, the clock’s not moving backward, friends
- Scare the shit out of a random stranger. Not too young, that’s just cruel. Not too old, their heart is at risk. A viable option: some mangy teenager who farted in your general direction will do.
- Go to where the rich people live. Or, your local mafia houses. Guaranteed to not get candy corn, Clark Bars, Charleston Chews, or anything taffy (remember, you are old and so are your teeth). Almost always guaranteed to get king-sized candy bars. Score!
- Watch Freddie, or Jason, or those crazy kids in the cornfields or under the stairs movies and drink spiced rum and apple cider while you’re already toasted from drinking and trick-or-treating with face makeup running down your face and old farts partaking in all the glory using run-on sentences because you’re so drunk and you think that it’s really funny because you’re so old
DON’T
- Bring your friend who has kids or borrow their kid to go trick-or-treating. This is about YOU reliving your youth. Don’t squander this once a year opportunity by bringing the rug rats. Plus, they’ll out cute you in every way and make you look a little bit too tall
- Wear any costume a Disney character has worn, a twenty-one-year-old would wear (slutty firewoman, nurse…). Gravity is real, lest we not forget. Men, well, hide your beer belly and shave your beard – dead give-away
- Stay in all night and hand out candy. Get the fuck outta the house and start ringing some goddamn bells, friends! It’s called “please take one”
- Watch children’s Halloween movies. Unless it’s Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin because, duh! That was our time, folks. And, Charles M. Schulz will always rock
- Be sober. I repeat, DON’T BE SOBER. Scaring children, ridiculous cult movies, and trick-or-treating is a lot more fun when drunk. Remember, you only live once and you spent all of your youth doing it sans booze. This year, you’re a booze bag… and don’t you forget it!
- Get so drunk that you start crying on your friend’s shoulder about how you miss your childhood and that being an adult is scary and hard. NO! Halloween is supposed to be scary. Not your fucking divorce or stupid marketing job. #growthefuckup
- Complain that you’ve had too much sugar. Man up
- Bob for apples. That should NEVER have been okay. Disgusting… just absolutely, totally, mind-blowingly, freakin’ disgusting. Hello, influenza!
Okay, now that you know the dos and don’ts of this crazy thing we call Halloween, get out there and start your wild rumpus! Uuhh… I mean, go out there and stir some shit up, yo!
B is for Bath Time & Brandy
“B is for Bath Time & Brandy,” is a chapter from my book, One More Sip of Whine. I had sent my book to one agent, an incredibly dope and off the charts agent, and as expected, heard nothing. I went too big for sure. I thought, “go big or go home, right?” was a good first step. It was not. I’ve been thinking about sending it out into the world again – actually, I’ve just been too fucking lazy to do it – until I have been obsessing over this book, “Crushing It!” – in which I mentioned in my previous post. I have SO much that I want to do in order to shift my life, my career, in such a totally major way that I may just self-publish this. I’m wanting to focus on all of the other awesome odds and ends that I need to push forward and pursue in a very serious kind of way. If anyone has any thoughts on whether I should self-publish, please feel free to leave me a comment! Also, if you want to read more chapters from this book, click on the tab at the top of the screen that says, “my books.”
“B is for Bath Time & Brandy,” is a funny chapter about the hells of bathing and/or showering your little one in their first two years on this earth. If you’re a momma or dadster, and are reliving these painful memories as you read, I implore you, crack open a lil’ somethin’ – somethin’ to numb the vicious pains of such horrid memories. Cheers, to all the moms and dads suffering with the bath time blues. I hear ya… the struggle feels real. 😉
*image found on Google Images via sillybunt.com
B is for Bath Time & Brandy
I WAS IN NEW YORK VISITING MY MOTHER a little over a year ago, and she was constantly volunteering to give Greyson a bath. I was so baffled by this. Then, when I finally told her she didn’t have to feel obligated to take on this horrible nightly duty, she said, “I love giving the grandkids baths! I’ve always loved bathing babies!” (She’s had 5, yes 5 children by the way.) “Eh-hem, what? Are you some sort of masochist? Have you taken some happy pills today?” I did not say these words verbatim, however, I most certainly was thinking them. Kids are squirmy and slippery, hate to get their heads wet, require about 6 hands to safely and effectively get the job done, and throw water out of the tub, and I don’t know about you, but I feel as though I need some sort of back-y-otomy after this torturous ritual is through. Alas, this is not the job for me. As Greyson got older, I thought maybe popping him in the shower with me would not only be easier, but more time efficient, as well. This newfound idea was as fleeting as a fairy. It went down like this:
Shower #1: I tried to shave my legs. No room. Jumping toddler. Shaving cream missing from my leg. Child licked said shaving cream off of my leg, only to say, “Mmmm…yummy!”
Shower #2:
G: Mommy, you have a penis?
ME: No, Mommy has a vagina. Girls have a vagina, and boys have a penis.
Shower continues. I wash my hair and suddenly scream, shampoo streaming down my face and into my eye. My child has poked me with his finger right into my va-jay-jay while joyously laughing. “VAGINA!”
Shower #3: Greyson thought that jumping up and down, trying to “stomp Mommy,” was fun. This was not fun at all. In fact, it fucking hurt! Also, he decided that helping wash me and eating soap off of his hands was the new shower time fashion… Fuck showers.
Night #4: Back to the hellacious nightly bath time routine. Surely this is better than poking, prodding, and licking me in the shower.
I decided I needed something else, something with the ability to help me relax and let the bath time blues just roll off of my tightened shoulders, something with a bit of a kick, yet with a smile. Something smoother than my baby’s bottom but stronger than his screaming shrieks. Ah-ha! And this was the “ah-ha” moment of the week, of the month, in fact! This is when “B” was not only for bath time, but for brandy. Bath time with brandy… ahhhh… and bath times have never been so very, very sweet.
Sipping My Way to Sanity
Cheers to all you mamas out there who just might be, “Sipping Your Way to Sanity.” Here’s to those who’ve had a killer day at work and came back to a tantrum. To those who’ve tried to leave their house an hour earlier but were busy wrangling the herd. To those who have wanted to basically stick their fingers in their ears, scream “LALALALALAAAAA” and pretend, for a mere moment in time, a blip in reality, that they never had children. This post, my fellow mamas, is for you…
Sipping My Way to Sanity
THERE IS LITTLE MEDINCINE that cures the insane to sane, the child shrieking shouts to child chill-outs, the husband headaches to husband halos. Little in the way of help for such abhorrent ailments. You can’t yell, can’t pray, can’t plead your way to the sanity Gods and Goddesses. When nothing else seems to work, and you feel defeated yet again, this simple solution might find you well: I’ve come to realize that you can most certainly, and should surely, start sipping your way to sanity. This is a skill in which I’ve become quite adept.
Sip, slurp, “Sure!”
Sip, slurp, “What?! No problem!”
Sip, slurp, “Spilt milk? Who cares!”
If I had a prescription pad it would read:
“One glass of wine per hour. Not to exceed one bottle per day.”
And, that would be my doctor’s handwriting. Barely legible, but kinda cute. (Side note: WordPress won’t allow me to keep my original and adorable font). An unnecessary point that I thought I’d share.
The problem with this is that we shouldn’t be drinking a bottle of wine per day. I wish that were an acceptable thing to do and that I wouldn’t be a shit teacher, colleague, and mom if I opted to imbibe daily in such a fashion. In fact, I wish that style was in fashion! I’d rock the shit out of it! Quick! Someone get Gucci into the wine making industry! I think this would make the winos of the world look more acceptable. Though, I think my face would get fat, my liver further damaged (four years of college plus about ten more because my mind never left that ‘university of booze’), and I’d most likely stop going to the gym (God bless Zumba classes and treadmills with TVs), and in turn gain an additional thigh, which Lord knows I most certainly can’t afford to gain. I sometimes pretend there is a parallel universe where all of the “no, you shouldn’t-s” are “yes, you should-s” and vice versa. Yes, I could see myself in a perfectly pretty place like that.
I had a crazy day at work last week. My students were fucking mental, and getting ready for multiple concerts makes my anxiety soar through the roof. You’d never know it by looking at me but I truly detest the weeks leading up to performances. The day itself? Totally cool as shit. Ugh. I came home and G-man was sick and in quite a mood, it was raining hard, again (note-to-self, this is what makes Oregon so beautiful so I should forgive Mother Nature…again), and I totally forgot to go to the store for food. What’s worse? I. Was out. Of wine! How could I have let this happen?! Someone upstairs must hate me today (rule of thumb for mothers: place blame elsewhere…always). So, instead of going to get food, I plopped my kiddo in the stroller, walked with the speed of light to the wine store next door (yes, next door- a blessing or curse in disguise… you decide) and voila! Bought myself a sultry and too expensive beautiful bottle of Pinot Noir. Oh, yes, I did. “Food? Pshhh… I’ll throw some things in a pan!” “Crying baby? Double ppshh! I’ll turn on the tube while I throw things in a pan.’ “Students and looming dark concert cloud following my sanity to hell? Triple pshhh! I’ll drink that shit away!” I confess, those are the days where I very well might have the entire bottle of wine. Plus, that shit spoils if you leave it overnight, right? (wink)
In reality, at the end of the day, all is forgiven. When my little man tells me, “Mommy, Ms. J (his nanny) doesn’t have eyeballs,” or “When I get older I’ll have a vagina then, okay?” or “Mommy, you need lemon for the hummus. You don’t know?” After he had gotten me all of the hummus ingredients without me reminding him, and I had actually forgotten the lemon. What a precious piece of pie. He’s my main squeeze, and it is he who is truly my best medicine.
One More Sip of Whine
A holiday gift to yours truly was to get a move on with my book, “One More Sip of Whine.” It’s a book comprised of short stories about my adventure thus far, as a mother. It’s raw, real, honest, foul-mouthed, and I hope, hilarious. *Side note: As I write this, I am at a ‘child play land venue’ downtown Portland. Why do I love it? My child is amongst the other batshit crazy kiddos in what looks like a cage in a kiddie jungle, as I sit and type this with a glass of pinot grigio. Bless the man or woman who created this space. I think I’m in love with you… *Back to business: I’ve previously shared a few of my chapters (each short story is a chapter) with you all and thought that I’d share the beginning of the book: My introduction, and the shortest and very first chapter of my book, “Dear Abby.” I’m SO excited that my book has been through its beta readers and is now in the editing process! Do I realize the harsh reality of getting a book published? I think I do. I’m totally stoked about it anyway and am proud of myself for attempting to move in this direction!
I wrote another book about my experience as an expat in Beijing, China that I will self-publish when this current book is all said and done. It’s called, “Crazy China Sh#% (Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God? I do).” This book was written to better explain to my friends and family what my life was truly like on a daily basis whilst living in such a foreign place. I’ve just started 2 new books as well. My first ever, to be self-published, e-cookbook AND a book that details Greyson’s life as a 3 year old, month-by-month. Writing is my therapy and a place that lets me escape and relax, a comfy pocket of my life to retreat to. That being said, I love cooking & eating food just as much, hence this blog! And, I did name it foodgalleygab… let us not forget the ‘gab’ portion of this space and place! I’d love to hear your opinions on my intro and first chapter, or opinions on any of the other 3 chapters that I’ve previously posted. Many thanks and I hope you enjoy this crazy book journey with me, as I’ll post the whole process as it happens. Happy Saturday!
“One More Sip of Whine”
Introduction
I NEVER THOUGHT I’D BE WRITING this book because no one could’ve ever prepared me for the absolute insane and yet, insanely wonderful ins and outs of motherhood. There are no words, however, I’ve tried to use many in this book to describe to you my experiences. Did I ever expect that a little person would be poking me in the vajajay and screaming “vagiiinnnaaa!” Or shouting like a madman “I’m crazy, mommy! I’m so many women!” Excuse me? No, I absolutely did not expect this to be my life. It’s a totally and completely, crazy and fucked up ride. I’m not going to preach to you about the latest studies in child rearing because I’m making my own up as I go. Unless, of course, the study states something that I’m already doing right, in that case, I win. Killin’ it as a mama. I have no idea why I thought when I became a mother I’d be in the elite five percent of motherhood. I’ve been knocked off that pedestal… hard. Those elite moms are often what I will refer to as the ‘mother shamers’ in this book. Also, it’s a code name for ‘not taking responsibility and feeling totally okay about my batshit crazy child rearing ways.’ I’ll get all real on ya at times and explain the seriousness of some of my struggles, but the rest? Well, that’s just a comical twist on the fact that bringing a kid into this world challenges every last sane and sleep deprived bone in your body. And, that sometimes, I think a glass of wine is the best medicine for almost all child related ailments (for you of course, not your child, I’m not that much of an asshole).
It’s the moments when your kid escapes the shower wearing his underwear on the top of his head while shouting “I’m so cute!” And, now you’re running late to a birthday party only to notice you failed to put mascara on both eyes after you’re miles away from home, but your new philosophy since becoming a mom has become “fuck it!” To virtually every facet of your life. Phew! Words to live by. When the word ‘sex’ is something you think you remember from your college years, and the word ‘poop’ is something you use in almost every sentence. When you think the world is over because your child might not be going to Princeton, when in fact, he has yet to begin preschool, and you’ve not figured out why all the mother shamers got on that shit while their kid was still in utero. Yes, it’s all of these beautiful moments that at the end of the day, make your life so totally weird and nuts but somehow, makes it the best life you’ve ever lived.
My lil’ man is the coolest little shit on the block. His name is Greyson and he rocks at life. He was born in Beijing, China because I was working there at the time and I think that makes him even more rad. He is bilingual and bad ass and I love him more than Brad Pitt. G is the reason my world spins so crooked but so right. My husband, bless his Scottish heart, deals with our shit daily and I think is entertained by our unpredictable ways. And this, folks, is my life.
DEAR ABBY
DEAR ABBY:
I’m a total mess! I’ve screwed up and this mistake can’t be taken back. I’m losing my shit and it all began with me getting stupid drunk in Shanghai on Valentine’s Day almost three years ago. I mean, I could barely see straight kinda drunk. Weeks later, I found out I had done it; I’d gone and gotten myself good and knocked up. Fast forwarding, I now have this little baby… fast forwarding some more, I now have this little toddler… and his dad, my husband. My boobs have never felt the same and I barely breast fed (which I cried about daily for 6 months and am pretty sure I’ve been added to the Motherhood of Shame list. You don’t believe me? I assure you, it’s real. It’s a secret, or really, not so secret society of mother ‘shamers’), I’m developing cellulite overnight, my baby hair is coming in at a rapid rate and I regularly look like Alfalfa, my husband tells me I’m sexy and I tell him to ‘shut up’ because we both know that’s a big fat lie, and I’ve ignored my friends for approximately two years now guaranteeing me little return in the friendship department. I love my child but I think I love my brandy and wine almost as much. I thought I was a tiger mom but now I think I may be the most underachieving mother and wife who’s ever lived; and guess what, I’m TOTALLY okay with that! What’s wrong with me?! Am I going to hell in a hand basket with an empty bottle of booze?! Surely, the Devil knows this is my worst fate, and I will, therefore, receive just that. What can I do to score some sweet points with the Mother Goddesses? I’m a good person, I swear! Wait, I don’t think I’m supposed to swear. See! I don’t even know the rules of this sick and twisted game they’re calling “motherhood.” Help me, Abby! Help!
-MOMMIE DEAREST
DEAR MOMMIE DEAREST:
Has it occurred to you that you may be affecting your husband’s self-confidence and possibly giving your child a litany of bad examples with your love affair of alcohol and general disregard for the people in your life? You say you’re a ‘good person’ but this may not be the side of yourself that you’re letting your child, husband, and friends see or get to know. I’m not advocating for ‘tiger mom’s’, however, I do not think accepting failure is the alternative you should take. Perhaps reflect on the impact of your actions to others and to yourself, and then slowly make positive changes like thanking your husband and spending quality time playing with your child; pick up the phone occasionally to check-in on your friends to maintain or rebuild your relationships.
*FOUND ON GOOGLE IMAGES FROM CAFE MOM
Dear Santa Baby
Dear Santa Baby is a post of two letters that I’ve written to “Santa.” My mother always asks me what I want for Christmas via email and I always respond with a list, and then a fictitious letter to the jolly old dude. If you don’t want insight into my ‘interesting’ sense of humor, workings of my odd brain, if you’re easily offended, or don’t think life is funny and meant to be laughed at, stop reading now and just continue to follow my blog for the good eats. 😉 I mean, my true wishes? To be a blogger full time, to publish an amazing cookbook with a bonafide publisher. For my book, “One More Sip of Whine,” to hit the ground running and find an incredible publisher to work with, and, of course, to find a magic skinny and happy pill. One that puts me in both of those states permanently. Hehe… seriously though, those are my magical wishes.
My first Santa letter is the one that I’ve just written to my momma, and the second letter is one that I randomly just found from 2008! Enjoy, and I hope you still come back to my blog for more of me and my grub. Happy holidays friends and followers! MWAH! XO
Dear Santa Baby,
This year’s been a rough one, sir. New house, new three-nager, the ol’ ball n’ chain, and of course, the turds and turdettes that I teach daily. I know, I know, I can feel your tears for me now, and I knew you’d understand. This being said, I think I’ve been an extra good girl this year, as I’ve endured the wrath of ‘poverty’ (house poor), politics (Trump-o-la), and pain (I have a hus-child, ya know). What more can a girl go through before the good people of the Lotto decide that my good reward should come now, this very year, this very Christmas, and be GRANNNDDDD.
A few things: My closet and all of its glorious inhabitants have been suffering from a severe lack of vitamin D, as I’ve gotten fat and can’t wear those goods in the outdoor venue in which they are so deserving of. Also, I live in OR so naturally, my skin is suffering from the same lack of vitamin D. This all being said, I would like the following 2 things from you:
1- A magic skinny pill so that I can eat everything I want and still maintain the svelte figure of Giselle Bundchen. Thanks
2- A trip to Bora Bora for some well-needed sunshine, sanity, and surf
A Series of Poems on Motherhood
Dear Moms (and Dads),
Here is a snippet from my upcoming book, “One More Sip of Whine.” It is 5 different styles of poems – mostly humorous. #3 is my particular fave. I have no doubt that you can relate! Parenthood is the craziest hood you’ll ever roll through. My goal was to express that in 5 short poems. I’d love your opinions before the editing of the book is completed so please leave comments! Enjoy the read!
Some Mothering Poems to You, From Me
1- Roses Are Black
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Someone took over your life that was you.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Your days are now filled with pee pee and poo.
Roses are black, violets are dead,
Deep down you must know you are out of your head.
2- A Haiku of Truth
Like thunder, their roar
Rain, your tears that start to pour
Scream, shriek, more, more, MORE!
3- A Tangled Slew of Rhyming Words
Shitting, pissing, screaming, unfit
Mommy shouting daddy “fuck it!”
Penis, ‘gina, keep your hands off!
Headaches, hormones, “need a wet cloth!”
Dolls that make shit tons of noise,
Oops! Mom broke those talking toys!
What the fuck was one and done?
I should’ve said “boy run or none!”
Thomas, Blippi, Tayo, Poli,
Oops! Mom ‘broke’ the fucking TV!
I want, I want, I want, MOMMY!
I give, I give, MY SANITY!
Hitter, biter, licker, kicker
Bruises, scratches, ice packs, LIQUOR!
Try to cook and then relax,
Mama needs her pills, XANAX!
Knock it over, pick it up!
Someone needs a bigger cup!
Tissues, boogers, burps, and farts,
Legos missing favorite parts,
Bath/story/bedtime blues,
Redundancy turns into booze,
I do not want green eggs and ham!
Shove it, be a fuckin’ man!
Brush your own teeth! Go to bed!
Where is my mind, I’ve lost my head…
4- A Cozy Couplet
Baby brewing in the womb
Sanity is leaving soon
5- Acrostic Poem for Dummies
Brainless act in Shanghai
Aspire for perfection – fail and sigh
Body shaming boobies – Buh-bye!
Your youth is gone – a new one – arise
*Found on Google images via PopSugar @ popsugar.com
Xanax & Xylophones/Husbands & Headaches
Xanax & Xylophones/Husbands & Headaches is a post from my up and coming book, “One More Sip of Whine.” It is a humorous tale of my experience in motherhood thus far. Crude, raw, honest, crass, foul mouthed in nature sums up this book. It will be released this summer on Amazon Kindle. Enjoy the chapter and keep a look out for the release! I will post on my blog when that date has arrived. Let me know your thoughts in the comments. Thanks!
Xanax & Xylophones/Husbands & Headaches
NOISE. HEADACHE. CHILD. HUSBAND. Noise. Headache. Child. Husband… and the cycle continues. It’s Groundhog’s day here at the Rugile/Burns household but I’m not getting paid Murray style moola for this gig. Through my long and winding road that I’ve travelled, where did I fail to turn towards the path of enlightenment? Maybe I should consider embracing Buddhism. I do love those bald and fat bellied statues, especially in my garden. Also, I think I could really get down with meditation, or at least the music, especially when coupled with a sweet massage. Lastly, I freakin’ love Thailand and any excuse to go back there is a good one.
I am sure I’ll mention this many times; I am a music teacher. Colleagues come into my classroom regularly and ask me how I cope with all of the incredible noise. To which I retort, “what noise? Oh, that? I’ve stopped hearing those sounds years ago.” I say this coupled with a ‘pish-posh-like’ flick of the hair and slight ‘tude. I don’t hear the children, their instruments, their exuberant yelps, dog like whines, cat clawing arguments etc. It’s not that I don’t give a crap, I have simply learned to block them out. I could never do this job if I heard every last itty bitty freakin’ bang, crash, or curse. I’d go “bleepin’” mental. However, when I am home, I hear everything. I hear lil’ G’s adorable laughter and Thomas’ (my husband) silly toddler voices and then… screech! The sound of a record going tits up and my ears and brain begin to bleed. Once the bleeding starts, it’s almost impossible to stop. In fact, I sometimes begin hemorrhaging. And then, once again, all of the mother shamers swim up, thirsty, ready to chew me to shreds. They can smell me from a million miles away. “There she goes again, ruining her child… again…” However, I should really say, “There she goes again, ruining her children… again…” Remember, I, too, am a wife, which means, I have a ‘huschild’. It goes a lil’ somethin’ like this: The banging of the metal xylophone (the loudest instrument on earth- thanks Gymboree), throw in the tambourine (Thomas’ go-to and most favorite musical toy- ‘bleep’ me), screaming, add some ‘singing’; “Danny Boy,” with some interesting lyrics and about 5 different key changes in one phrase, kill my musical ears now, Sky news (Thomas is Scottish) blaring from the television in the background, the sound of my somewhat broken drier banging harder than a whore and her pimp on a headboard, and then, right when my brain is about to spontaneously combust, someone decides now is a really great time to throw in the lovely timbre of the recorder, but not before shot-putting a couple of drum sticks in my general direction. I love my life, I love my life, I love my life, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can… Mommy needs a Xanax, ‘children’.
Now, every time, okay, almost every time I see/hear my munchkin doing/saying something that is fairly questionable I ask myself this, “What would Xanax Heather do?” and, voila! I have my answer!
Heather: “Sh**, should he be standing on the countertop that close to the edge?”
Xanax Heather: “‘Bleep’ it! He’s allllll gooood.!”
So, I go with the latter.
Heather: “Two pancakes. Greyson, mommy said only two pancakes!”
Xanax Heather: “‘Bleep’ it! Have three. No, ‘bleep’ that, have ten!” … “Let them eat cake! Let them alllll eat cake! Mwahahahahahahahaaaaaa!”
So, again, I go with the latter. Once adopting this new and glorious frame of mind, this adorable and insane new philosophy, I find myself breathing easier and needing “one less sip of whine.” Catch my drift? Good.
*A cleaned up version of a chapter in my upcoming book, “One More Sip of Whine,” which will be published on Amazon Kindle this summer. Tales of motherhood told through a raw, crude, foul mouthed, and humorous lens.
*Image from Dreamstime
https://www.dreamstime.com/stock-illustration-overwhelmed-mother-woman-messy-room-illustration-background-image53592840
-Written by,
Heather Rugile
