The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: funny moms (page 1 of 2)

We all have that one friend…

we all have that one friend

Not THAT friend. Although we all have at least one of those too, don’t we? (Or at least YOU do, because that would be me…splash!)

No, I’m talking about that friend who hasn’t quite yet figured out which form of electronic communication to use and when.

You know the one…he/she sends out massive group emails on Facebook and spammy DMs on Twitter to say “Thanks for the follow!”

Yeah, that friend (or Grandma…whatever.)

Well I have a thing or two to say about them. And it’s posted In The Powder Room. Please join me over there.

So far the response has been either “LOVE IT!” or “Such language!” so if you don’t like it when I swear, maybe sit this one out and go look at pretty things on Pinterest…like this gorgeous Valentine pin board my friend and colleague Kim is curating for In The Powder Room. I pretty much want to live there. {Sigh.}

with gratitude and a solemn promise to never butt-dial or DM you,
~Leslie

My Top 5 Most Popular Posts of 2012

Good God it’s cold.

I need a laugh. How about you?

But I’m busy waxing cabinets today (not a euphemism) and thought it would be fun to look back on my most popular posts of last year.

Top 5 Popular Posts at The Bearded Iris in 2012

 

According to page views, here are My Top 5 Most Popular Posts of 2012:

ermahgerd blogher12 guidebook5.) ERMAHGERD: The Preparing for BlogHer’12 Edition

This post was written a few days before I flew my freak flag all over New York City for the BlogHer ’12 conference. Getting ready for a conference that big brings out the cray-cray in everyone, so it is no surprise that so many people stopped by to see me raising the bar on what to wear and how to behave. The comments are even more fun than the post…particularly because The Bloggess herself stopped by to say hello. Schwing!

 

Aw nuts button4.) Aw, nuts. Or, how puppies and testicles are related. 

Have a seat boys and girls and let me tell you the story of my sweet little Bucket Head and how he discovered his nutsack.  Actually, I’m surprised this one isn’t higher on the list because I honestly think it is the funniest thing I’ve ever written. If you are new here, this is THE ONE. Please check it out and let me know if you think it’s as funny as I do!

 

iris hospital2-13.) I put the FREAK in freak accidents

Not all freak accidents are funny, or have a happy ending, but I seem to have a knack for inflicting really stupid injuries on myself, and according to the comments on this post, SO DO YOU! Oh-em-gee, you guys are even klutzier than I am, and I adore you for it! Solidarity, yo!

 

pissed2.) I might have to change grocery stores after this.

If you have ever experienced the frustration of shopping with a four-year-old, well-meaning strangers who interfere with your parenting, or the soul-crushing disappointment of bait-and-switch gum ball machines, this is the post for you. If you are a humorless troll, this is also the post for you. Frankly, it’s not my best work, but it really raked in the page views because of the train wreck factor of the comment thread. Read the comments and marvel at the awesomeness of the parenting blog community who came to my defense against a few trolling a-holes.

 

Elf on the Shelf Dobbie on the crapper by The Bearded Iris1.) The Return of Dobbie, The Inappropriate Elf on the Shelf

Yes, Dobbie returned, and he was more ornery than ever. In fact he was so popular this year that I found several different citizens of Facebook cropping off my watermarks and claiming my inappropriate elfing as their own work. (Douche-waffles.) Sadly, Dobbie was not crowned one of Baby Rabies’ Top 11 Inappropriate Elves this year because the competition was just too stiff and I did not do a very good job asking for votes. Oh well, in my heart Dobbie will always be a winner.

Thank you for being here with me. You are the lead in my #2 pencil.

(Heh heh heh, I said #2.)

~Leslie

Boobs, when bras attack, and Rob Delaney loves me

Last night two of my girlfriends and I went to see Rob Delaney perform in Atlanta. He’s a comedian I’ve come to know and love through his consistent hilarity on Twitter such as:


 


 

And those are some of his cleaner Tweets, so don’t bother following him if you are *uncomfortable* with combos like filthy high chair straps and Mexican prostitutes. Trust me on this one. Personally, I think he’s magically delicious, but you know me; I’m not quite right in the head.

Also? I don’t mean to brag or anything, but Rob Delaney told me he loves me (and my raunchy friends). Kinda. So I’ve got that going for me.

rob delaney loves the bearded iris on twitter

But when you’re a 42-year-old WAHM like me who doesn’t get out much, a Wednesday night out with the girls can be a real killer.

In fact, I woke up with a strange limp today. And the only explanation I can come up with is that I must have laughed so hard at the show last night that I injured myself.

You see, I don’t have one of those glorious out-loud laughs like some people. I’m more of a silent-but-deadly laugher. My friend Kate though, who was sitting on my left last night… she has one of those amazingly contagious hearty “guffaw” laughs. Her laughter actually turns heads and makes other people smile and laugh along. Comedians should pay her to sit in the audience; she is that good.

But me? Since my laughter is so quiet, I think I developed a tick as a child to slap myself in the leg repeatedly when something is really funny so people will see me and know I’m laughing along. That’s right folks. I’m a knee-slapper. A real-live-honest-to-God-knee-slapper. And I laughed so hard last night and slapped myself in the leg so many times that I injured myself.

Jesus, I’m getting old.

And when you’re old, and tired, and injured, and super lazy, you tend to throw your clothes on your bedroom/desk chair at night instead of putting them where they belong.

messy office and bedroom

But this is (one of many reasons) why you shouldn’t do that:

the bearded iris has a bra stuck to her back

Yep. That’s my bra…

…stuck to the back of my sweater.

I got up from my desk this morning to get more coffee and when I walked by the mirror, out of the corner of my eye I noticed something long and black slinking behind me.

Y’all, it scared the bezeezus out of me.

For a second there, I thought a raccoon or a stray cat or something had snuck up behind me.

Thank God I was home alone because I’m pretty sure I shrieked a little. And then when I figured out it was just my bra from last night I was so relieved. That’s fucked up, right there. “Oh thank God that’s just a bra on my back and not a raccoon.”

bra vs raccoon by the bearded irisI can’t decide if the lesson here is that I should get out more or put more effort into putting my things away.

Regardless, I am just grateful I didn’t drive my kids to school this morning and walk them in to their classrooms. As if my kids need yet another reason to be embarrassed by their mom.

One last thing: some of my blogger friends and I have volunteered to be “big sisters” for some new(er) bloggers we know. I got paired up with a cutie-patootie named Stephanie of Binkies and Briefcases. I liked her right away because she has a tutorial on her blog for making Sweater Puppets.

As in, puppets…made out of recycled sweater sleeves. Duh.

Only, bless her heart, she didn’t know that the term “Sweater Puppets” is actually a euphemism for “boobs.” 

Of course, as her official blogging big sister, I set her straight…eventually. Once I stopped laughing, that is.

Ironically, Stephanie has a really large pair of actual sweater puppets herself. In fact, she wrote a really funny letter to Santa about her fun-bags that I published for her today In The Powder Room. Whether you have boobs, wish you had boobs, or just enjoy boobs in general, there is something for everyone in her post today. Do yourself a favor and check it out.

Yours truly,
Leslie

Something even better than cat shit!

When my friend Nora said “call [Iris] a mommy-blogger and get your ass kicked,” she was just kidding. Or maybe it was a typo and she meant to say “get your ass kissed.”

Just thought I’d put that out there, because as luck would have it, I have been nominated by one of my scrumptious readers for Babble.com’s Top 50 Mom Blogs of 2010!!!

I mean seriously. What a sweet surprise! So much better than finding the Trail of Tears my cat created with her magic butt brush the other day…

Although, not quite as good as finding a little face in the used tampon receptacle in the ladies’ room that one time. That’s a gift that just keeps on giving.

When Maggie nominated me the other day, I was ranked at #891. But after a few friends helped to spread the word on Facebook, my rank (last I checked) has rocketed all the way to #111. That’s out of 994 nominated blogs! Very exciting!

If you are here reading my schtick and you enjoy what you see, would you please vote for me? It’s a little tricky, but I think you can handle it. Step one: go to this link.

Step two: sort the list by “popularity.” (Here’s a pic to show you where to do that, Mom…I highlighted the sorting tabs in yellow.)

 

 

Step three: at the bottom of the screen, navigate to page 3 and look for The Bearded Iris. If I’m not on that page, that means I am already on page 2, doing the Mom Jeans Fist Pump and embarrassing the shit out of my kids.

When you find The Bearded Iris in that list of 994 nominated Mom Blogs, click on the “I like this blogger” thumbs up symbol. Then pat yourself on the back for doing something nice for someone else. Remember, what goes around, comes around. Justin Timberlake said so.

And if you couldn’t find my name, try sorting the list alphabetically and navigating to page 17 at the bottom of the screen. I should be somewhere around there. If you still can’t find me, God help you. You clearly have no business being on the Internet. Go play Mahjong or watch a Murder She Wrote marathon. (I’ll call you later, Aunt Doris.)

Okay friends, if you are still with me so far, you deserve a special treat! Bucket Head got ahold of my iPhone yesterday and recorded a song using my favorite new app: Songify. It’s so easy, even a four year old can do it. Even an undersupervised four year old with a speech impediment whose favorite words are: penis, butt, ffffomit, and dajina. Enjoy!

Bucket Head Might Have Tourette’s (Like His Mama)

giggling like a school girl,

-Iris

© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.

 

This job is crap.

First day of summer vacation and I’m already crying Uncle. And so are my kids.

There’s a very pretty woman in my neighborhood who takes her 6 or 7 children on a structured walk every morning around 9:30 AM, rain or shine. The kids appear to range in age from about 10 to newborn. The older ones are usually on bikes or scooters, the younger ones are often in an industrial grade stroller. And the baby is usually strapped to the mom’s front in a very elaborately wrapped organic cotton sling. She homeschools all 6 or 7 of those kids and I’m pretty sure she gave birth to each of them with her back pressed up against a tree in her yard.

Our paths cross all the time when I’m walking Ike. They look like a preschool on a field trip. She always seems so completely unruffled by all those kids…even the older ones who are up way too far ahead and doing figure eights on their bikes while cars are zooming by, or the littler ones who have dawdled and are way behind. She just smiles and keeps on trucking. I’ve never heard her raise her voice or snap at any of those kids. She just seems so at peace and happy. And her kids seem equally happy just doing their thing, day in, day out.

One time a few years ago, I was in my front yard doing some gardening when she walked by. My kids were in the yard with me and they struck up a conversation with some of her kids. One thing led to another and then next thing I knew, we had a total of 8 or 9 kids in our backyard for an impromptu playdate. It was sheer chaos.

There we were, two very different moms trying to make small talk while our vajillion kids did the human equivalent of two dogs sniffing each others’ butts. And you know me, I’m sure I made some wise crack like “Damn, how much wine do you drink to tolerate all those kids all the time?” or “Shoot, if you ever want another kid, I’ll just give you one o’ mine!” I don’t think I need to tell you that she didn’t find me very amusing. And frankly, the feeling was mutual.

One of the toddler-ish looking ones came up to that mom with a dangerously full diaper full of fresh news. He wanted to jump on my trampoline and Mega Mom said, “Sure honey… go for it.” But I was like (in my head), Aw hell no! That load is already creeping up that kid’s back. Don’t you see or smell it? WTF! I don’t even want this kid in my yard, let alone bouncing that ticking time bomb on my trampoline!

Instead, I kindly suggested: “Why don’t you change his diaper and then he can get on the trampoline.” She looked at me like I was wearing an Abortion ROCKS! t-shirt. Fine, she would change the diaper (reluctantly), but she wanted to use my powder room because they were potty training and little Mr. Stinky Pants needed to actually see his poop go into the potty or it would totally mess up his training process. Whatever.

I was on the spot so I let her go inside while I stayed out and supervised the rest of the mob (just shoot me.) Longest five minutes of my life. What was she doing in there? Why was it taking so long? Ugh, was my bathroom semi-clean? Was there toilet paper? Who was crying and why?

When she finally came out, she was carrying the dirty diaper in a grocery bag she must have rooted through my kitchen to find. And she was very complimentary about my decor. It was weird. Really weird.

It’s even weirder now because every time I pass her on the street and say hello, she always acts like it is the first time she’s ever seen me in her life. I reeeeeeally fucking hate that. Clearly she doesn’t watch Oprah or she’d know that the one thing we ALL have in common is the desire to be loved and validated. Acting like you’ve never seen me before or flushed your kid’s shit into my septic tank makes me feel bad, lady. Damn, I already feel like an invisible vessel for grandchildren and PTA donations most days. Throw me a bone and just pretend you remember me, k?

I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. I think maybe she just has a severe case of Mommy Brain, with all those kids and all. Or maybe she’s vision impaired and can’t see me. Maybe it’s not about me being so forgettable and more about her not having a great memory, or social skills, or enough energy to do anything more than walk around the block and pretend to be so calm and composed. Maybe she’s doing everything she can to hold it together and make the rest of us think she’s so together so she doesn’t break into a million little pieces or drive her Econovan into the Chattahoochee. God only knows. But I desperately want to believe that she knows something I don’t know.

So there we were this morning, the first day of summer: Cartoon Network blaring, dog pacing, kids fighting, and I found myself thinking about Mega Mom and her peaceful daily walks. Maybe that daily walk is THE KEY to parenting like it is with Dog Whispering. Shit, if Ms. Mommy Brain can do it every day with her umpteen spawn and that sweet smile on her face, I should surely be able to do it with my three kidlets and a mildly psychotic dog.

Famous last words.

“Saddle up, Ankle Biters. We are walking the dog as a pack today.” (Groans all around.)

TV off.

Teeth brushed.

Sneakers, check. Poop bags, check. House keys, check. And we’re off!

Not ten minutes in and 4 year old Bucket Head is whining. “My feet hurt. I hungry. I want to go home.” Now I don’t know about you, but there is nothing that makes me want to stick my head in the oven quicker than the sound of a kid whining. It’s torture. I’d rather have papercuts on my eyeballs than listen to that. Honest to Pete.

Then 8 year old Mini-Me starts teasing the Whiner by telling him she is faster than he is. He’s going through a phase where he absolutely HAS TO BE first at everything. She knows this and loves to get his goat by saying “Yay! I’m FIRST! I win! I’m the WINNER!” Naturally, Bucket Head begins to cry. He can’t go on. He just can’t.

All the while, Ike is trying to pull my arm out of the socket and I’m doing my damnedest to channel my inner Cesar Millan and be the pack leader I’m called to be. I’m yanking his choke chain, giving the signature little side foot pop, and making the “Ch!” sound all at the same time, hoping he’ll get the message to focus and stop pulling. Frankly, I think he just wanted to get the hell away from the Teaser and the Whiner. Can’t blame him, really.

Yeah, he’s pretty excitable. And that’s just what he looks like when he sees a squirrel. (Or a delivery truck.)

At one point a rogue Chihuahua charged us to challenge my leadership and I thought for sure someone was going down. And we were only halfway around the neighborhood. Not good. Not good at all.

Finally, Ike pooped. I scooped it up, double bagged it, and handed the bundle to my 11 year old, Nature Boy to carry so I could focus on leading my pack home. Without missing a beat, he turned to me and said “This job is crap.”

I couldn’t agree more.

And only 77 more days of summer vacation to go. Yes. I’m counting.

dreadfully yours, and now without my daily dose of Oprah,

-Iris

© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.


Sweatin’ with the Oldies

This was originally published in May of 2009, but a funny post over at Declutter Daily reminded me about it and I think the timing is right to crack it open and dust it off

Know what I hate more than anything about going to the gym? It’s not the pain, it’s not the time out of my busy child-rearing/husband-wrangling schedule, it’s not even the increased risk of contracting necrotizing fasciitis… it’s having to socialize while I’m tired, sweaty, stinky and nasty. Shoot, if I wanted to do that, I could just stay home and have sex with my husband. Meh.

But alas, it’s almost swimsuit season and I’ve got to firm up these buns and thighs before someone tries to throw me on the grill and baste me at the Memorial Day Pool Party. Besides, my extensive team of psychiatric advisors tells me that daily physical activity is good for all that ails me. And by daily physical activity, they mean more than just lifting my wine glass to my mouth repeatedly and/or drying my kale. Dammit.

So on Monday, I shimmied my goodie basket into a pair of painfully high-waisted yoga pants and headed off for the YMCA… a.k.a., the “Y-ABC,” according to my scrumdeli-icious toddler Bucket Head. And after a very concentrated and effective 30 minutes on the elliptical and three sets of “ow-this hurts” on the machines, I managed to make it almost all the way to the front door without having to chit chat with anyone while pretending there wasn’t a big ol’ pool of sweat collecting around my camel toe, when what did I hear but, “Iris? Is that YOU?”

Shit.

Of all the people! It was Saint Margaret. She is seriously, no joke, one of the nicest people I have ever met in my whole life. And for some unknown reason, she likes me. She really likes me. And we hardly ever see each other anymore, what with all her volunteer work, and church-going, and tennis lessons and my rampant alcohol dependence, and clutter hoarding, and therapy appointments.

But there we were, sweaty face to sweaty face, doing the “So, what’s new with you?” dance. I was clearly in a hurry to skedaddle and extract the lycra from my crotch, so she suggested we meet again later this week and do a class together.

“Uh… I don’t really do the classes, Marg.”

“How come?!”

“Well, the last time I did one, it totally kicked my ass. I couldn’t walk for days. And not only that, but it was humiliating. I couldn’t keep up and I was embarrassed. I ended up slinking out before the end of the class with my tail between my legs.”

“That’s why you have to do the classes! The peer pressure forces you to go further than you normally would on your own! And if you do it with a friend, you will be less likely to sneak out before the end of the class! You’ll see results so much faster!”

“Ugh… really?”

“Yes. Do a class with me. It will be great! Only three more weeks until summer!”

“Oh…kay.” (with a heavy sigh)

And so less than 48 hours later, there I was, back at the gym with Saint Margaret, walking into a class called “Stability Ball.”

I know what you’re thinking… but don’t worry, apparently being stable isn’t a requirement. And they supply the balls.

Neither of us had done this class before and had no idea what we were getting into, but we guessed it was going to work our abs and I’ll do anything to reduce the size of my stretch-marked-muffin-top… well, anything except refrain from eating an entire bag of Boy Scout “Unbelievable Butter” microwave popcorn every night in a reclined position while The Gatekeeper flips back and forth between Law and Order SVU and Law and Order Criminal Intent and Law and Order Mail Fraud Division. Whatever.  Just fucking shoot me.

Now this next part is going to sound a wee bit agist, and it is. So to my more mature readers, I apologize in advance. When Saint Margaret and I got to the class, I noticed a few, ahem, “older” ladies getting settled in. With the exception of seeing their varicose vein covered legs ballooning out of their lycra short-shorts, having them there gave me a great deal of comfort. If the cast of Cocoon can hang with the Stability Ball class, hopefully, so could I. Maybe I wouldn’t have to sneak out halfway through and spring for a new tube of Ben Gay.

Anyhoooo…. two things. First off, I now see why they keep the music up so loud in these classes: to disguise all the noises coming from the hot pockets in the room. Seriously guys, can’t someone design some workout clothes for women that include some kind of cork-like apparatus for the hoo hoo? No? Well then, how about some soundproof yoga pants? Hey, that is a great idea! I need to patent that. You heard it here first, peeps.

And number two… why do instructors save all the really hard moves for the end of the class? It started off so easy… we were each sitting, SITTING, I say, on a big rubber exercise ball, lifting little three pound weights up and down, up and down. I especially liked the sitting part. Piece of cake! Then we were doing sit ups with our backs on the ball. Also, not so bad. I was hanging in there! But then, the class got a little bit harder. No more sitting, we were suddenly on our bellies, rolling forward on the ball, doing PUSH UPS with our hands on the floor and only our feet on the ball. I kid you not. You know you are doing something dangerous when the instructor says: “Protect your faces!” Yikes! Excuse me, but any kind of exercise where I have to protect my face is not eligible for The Bearded Iris Seal of Approval.

I was pretty impressed with myself that I could hang with the modified pushups. I looked at the clock… only ten minutes left! YES! I was going to make it! And then, we entered the Sudden Death Round. Seriously. After 45 minutes, who has the energy to take it to the next level? This crazy bitch instructor (who could not only do all these moves while talking, smiling, and squealing “Whooop-Whoop” to the music) told us to lie on our backs, hold the balls straight up in the air with our feet, and pass the balls back and forth to and from our hands, like inverted jack-knives opening and closing. I never felt so stupid in all my life… including Senior Prom Night 20 years ago, but that’s another story.

To add insult to injury, not only could I not do the ball handling jack knife move, but one look in the wall-to-wall mirror showed me that everyone else in the class was doing just fine with it, including the three Golden Girls. I’m only 39 years old, and every single person in that class could have kicked my ass with one liver-spotted arm behind their back. Dammit. No wonder my Wii Fit Age enables me to receive a virtual AARP discount card.

But am I a quitter? Especially with the end so near? You betcha. Once I realized there was no way in hell my arms, legs, back, abs, and hoo hoo were going to cooperate with that jack knife move, I snuck outta there faster than you can say “queef.” I was like the old timers at church on Sunday who take communion and keep walking… right to their cars… you know, to avoid the traffic. I’ll just tell Saint Margaret that I sprung a leak and had to go change my Poise Pad. Maybe if she thinks I’m incontinent, she’ll be less likely to invite me to another class and I can go back to exercising the way I like it: alone and without shame, pain, or embarrassing noises. If you don’t hear from me for a while, just assume I pulled a muscle and am nursing myself back to health.

noisily yours,

-Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

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