Wednesday, March 30, 2011

I am Mexican, hear me roar.

Let me start by warning you that I am in a mood today.  Therefore, this post will most likely not be funny at all.  If you just said to yourself, “But her posts are never funny”, then I suggest you go back to eating your lima beans and looking at your Land’s End catalog because YOU SIR/MADAM obviously have no sense of humor.  

See?  I’m in a mood.  If you want funny, go over to the right side of your screen and click the links to any of the fabulous blogs in my blogroll.  Peace out.

Today I registered my child for kindergarten.  DMo and I excitedly walked into the school welcome center with our 9.5 billion pieces of identification.  To register for school in GA, you need every piece of paper short of a notarized letter from God stating that you are, in fact, alive.  We were missing some documents, so we went on a 2-hour wild goose chase to find more proof that we were actually GA residents (because my driver’s license and mortgage bill wasn’t enough).  BUT, ladies and gentlemen, this is not why I’m in a mood.

Besides having to provide your life history, you must fill out a form containing basic information about your child.  This should have been the easy part, but the first question stumped me.

Q1.  Is your child Hispanic/Latino?

I am white.  My parents are white.  Their parents were white.  This question was never an issue for me to answer.  This question for my husband, however, was not as easy- his father is white, his mother is not.  My husband looks stereotypically white, just as my children do.  That blue-eyed child featured in the post below (you know, the one that’s trying to kill me)?  His grandmother is Hispanic.  Genetics are crazy.

Going back to Q1.  I called a woman over to ask her two questions so I could fill out the rest of the form. 

Here’s where I get stabby, y’all.

My first question: What qualifies you to be Hispanic?

The woman came over to our table quickly and greeted us with a smile.  People from the South have been EXTREMELY pleasant to deal with.  She introduced herself and asked how she could help me.  I told her I was having a little trouble filling out the race question.  My son is partially Hispanic, should I check the box?  Her response sent chills down my spine.  The woman made a face that resembled the look that you would make if I told you I only brushed my teeth once a week (TOTALLY not true, by the way- it’s more like 3 or 4 times a week. No really, I’m kidding… that’s disgusting. Please forget we ever had this conversation).

“Oh sweetie, don’t make him Mexican.  He’s not Mexican, just mark ‘no’.”

No?   Because he’s only a quarter Hispanic?   But I knew that wasn’t what she meant.  I’ve seen that look before.  I could feel the Incredible Hulk starting to tug on my stomach signaling he wanted out.   So I asked her why.  I kept asking.  She backpedaled a bit, she hemmed and hawed, yet I continued to ask.  I could tell she was getting flustered, so I let it go.

My second question: WHY do you need this information?  

My issue with this had more to do with HER, not with why the school system needs to know my son’s racial make-up.  I’m sure there are logical reasons why the Government needs to know just how many Pacific Islanders there are in a particular region, but I wanted HER answer.  

“Well, we just need it for profiling reasons.  Like, we don’t want all the Mexicans in the same class.”

HOLY S%1T.  What?!  And with that, the Hulk made his appearance.  I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation; mostly because I don’t remember a lot of it (it happens when I “Hulk out”).  I vaguely recall uttering the words “burrito overload” and “baby low-rider pimpmobiles”.  Somehow, we completed the registry and quickly left.  As we were driving down the road, I noticed my child’s concerned little face in my rear-view mirror.  I asked him what was wrong- he put his head down and asked one question.

“Mom, am I in trouble for being Mexican?”  

As I mentioned earlier, my husband LOOKS stereotypically white.  Because of this, there have been many times when a person unfamiliar with his ethnic background felt comfortable enough to make Hispanic racist slurs, jokes, etc. directly to him. I won’t get into this because it’s not my story to tell.  But could you IMAGINE that?  How that would make you feel?  He always takes the high road and walks away.  THAT is the difference between us.  I’m not always the high-road type of gal. 

It dawned on me as I looked at my concerned child that this was the first time out of what I’m sure will many times that someone made him feel bad about who he is.  And that is unacceptable.

To end this extremely long and unfunny entry, let me just put this out there. 

Do you tell racist jokes?  THEY AREN’T FUNNY.  

Do you make racist comments?  THEY MAKE YOU SOUND INCREDIBLY IGNORANT.

Please know that I love and appreciate ALL types of humor, from corny to totally inappropriate.  But let me tell you this.   I’ve never heard a racist joke that was funny.  Not once.  And I’d like to think I know funny (shut up SIR/MADAM. Finished with your Land’s End?  Try Quilter’s World.  Bastard).

My kids are Hispanic. Therefore, so am I.  You’d never know it by looking at us.  So if you insist on making comments that would offend an entire race, you’d better be damned sure you know who you’re talking to before you say it.  

And yes, I checked the box.


The Incredible Hulk

Monday, March 28, 2011

This is ME!

I love my boys.  Like the “if you hurt them, I will rip your head off, sauté it, smother it with onions, and eat it” type of love.  This type of love comes a free set of blinder goggles.  Blinder goggles are awesome; they make EVERYTHING your child does approximately 500 times better than it actually is.  Not that I need them, because my kids are fantastic at anything they do.  So when Jillsmo at Yeah, Good Times tagged me in a meme that required posting drawings- nay, WORKS OF ART- created by my children, of course I jumped all over it.  It would be wrong not to share a talent such as theirs with all of you.
So here are the rules.
  • Ask your child to draw a picture of you.
  • Post the picture on your blog.
  • Call it the ‘This is Me Meme’.
  • Pop over to here and add to the link.
  • Then tag some others
I asked both of my boys to draw a picture of me, but my 2 year old declined.  Why?  Well, he’s 2, which means 9 out of 10 times I ask him to do anything he will do his best Chris Brown impression while screaming “NO” until he’s blue in the face (artists are SO temperamental).

My 5 year old, on the other hand, went right to work.  He asked if I’d sit in the chair next to him so he could get everything just right.  I sat in that chair for what seemed like an eternity.  But hey- you can’t rush art, right?!  I bet Mona Lisa didn’t whine when Leonardo da Vinci painted her portrait.

Mona: Seriously Leo, I have to take a piss.  Do you have any alcohol?
LDV:  Keep it up and I’ll paint on a double chin.

FINALLY, DMo’s masterpiece was complete- I couldn’t wait to see it.  I’m sure the suspense is killing you, too.

Genius, right!?  I mean, it looks just like me!  Well… except for the hair.  My real hair looks more like a flowing molten lava of gold rather than the freaky girl from The Ring.

And my neck isn’t QUITE that long.

Then there’s the whole “no arms” thing.  But you can’t expect people to remember ALL of your limbs when creating your likeness.  HELLO, ever heard of a little something called the VENUS DE MILO?

I know that the rules state that I need to tag others, but I don't want to put the pressure of trying to top this masterpiece on anyone.  That would just be cruel.

I just asked my 2 year old if he was SURE he didn’t want to participate.  He politely declined* so I’ll just post a picture of him instead of his art.

Even when he’s baby roid-raging, he’s still cute.



*My 2 year old wants to kill me, I just know it.  He’s staring at me as I type this.  Please send help.

Friday, March 25, 2011

I’ve got a secret part 2: I declare allegiance to the Klingon Empire.

So as you may have read in my post yesterday, my ex-boyfriend William Shatner and I broke up.  Yes, I’m OK- it’s been a long time coming, we’re just different people now.

The break-up was expected.  Do you know what WASN’T expected?  A little someone I’d like to call “Rurickthedamned2”.  

He is NOT happy with me.

Around 3am last night, my child literally exploded.  From all ends.  It was disgusting and I will leave it at that.  By the time I hosed him/his bed/the walls/the ceiling down (seriously, EXPLODED) and got him back to sleep, I was wide awake.  After tossing and turning for a half hour, I decided that I’d check to see if my ex-boyfriend William Shatner had sent me a happy birthday message.  NO, he did not send me birthday wishes for all who were wondering.  The poor guy, he’s probably still too upset.  BUT… do you know who DID send me a note? 

That’s right- RURICKTHEDAMNED2 (apparently the names Rurickthedamned and Rurickthedamned1 were already taken).

Yesterday, I had posted a link to my blog on William Shatner’s facebook page.  What I DIDN’T know was that the Klingon High Council was watching me.  Here are the emails Mr. TheDamned2 sent to me last night.

Kind Sir (Apparently Klingon princesses are male)
By the order of the Klingon High Council, we demand you terminate your allegiance to James T. Kirk immediately.  Failure to do so will result in your trial.
qoSlIj DatIvjaj

Kind Sir (Seriously dude.  I’m a female.  Look at my long golden flowing locks)
The Klingon Empire insists that you declare allegiance to the Emperor by ramjep. Heed this call.
Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam

Well Rurick.  May I call you Rurick?  I have a few things I need to say to YOU.

First of all.  Thank you SO much for giving me the opportunity to terminate my allegiance BEFORE putting me on trial.  I know you Klingons are a hasty bunch, so I appreciate the chance to consider my options.

Second. DID YOU READ MY BLOG?  My ex-boyfriend William Shatner and I BROKE UP.  I think that qualifies as “terminating my allegiance to James T. Kirk”.

Third.  Not to geek out on you, but I’m pretty sure Klingons and the rest of the galaxy kissed and made up long ago.

I’m going to stop here because… well… this is BY FAR THE NERDIEST THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN.  Just let me know when my trial begins, I’ll need to schedule those days off of work.

I’m sure that this is just an overzealous fan with too much time on his/her hands, but JUST IN CASE…


Sir AMo

Thursday, March 24, 2011

I have a HUGE secret.

I have a secret.  

I have a boyfriend.  His name is William Shatner.

How long has it been going on, you ask?  A while.  Like, 30 years.  The PROBLEM with our relationship is, well… it’s pretty one-sided.   

When I was 7, we professed our love for each other.  Sort of...

Me: I LOVE you, William Shatner!
WS: Space.  The final frontier.
My Mother: AMo, stop talking to the TV, it’s disturbing.

When I was 14, we had to keep our relationship hidden.  My friends were WAY too into “The Coreys”, they wouldn’t have understood.

My friends: Corey Haim is SO HOT!
Me: Heh heh… um, yeah… I liked him in The Goonies.
My friends: That was THE OTHER COREY. Duh.
Me: Oh yeah.  Ha!  Star Trek IS STUPID!  I LOVE THE COREYS!

When I was 25, it didn’t matter to me who knew.  When I met my husband that year, I immediately told him about the other man in my life.  Surprisingly, he was OK with it.  

When I was 33, I decided to write a blog.  A few fellow bloggers suggested I get a Twitter account that ties into my blog.  I’ve always shied away from Twitter- people who “tweet” speak a different language.  # signs, @ symbols, RT, FF… it took a while just to comprehend what the hell these people were saying.  But I’m a smart girl (shut up)- I signed up and figured it out.  And you know what ELSE I figured out?  All I had to do was put a little “@” symbol in front of my boyfriend William Shatner’s name and it would send a message DIRECTLY TO HIM.  Yes, SERIOUSLY.  Twitter is a celebrity stalker’s dream.

I made a very important decision that day.  It was time to end things with my boyfriend William Shatner.  My kids are getting older, I’m married now, and… well… he has no clue who I am.  BUT before the big break up, I wanted to give him a chance to wish me a happy birthday.  So for the past 3 weeks, I’ve sent him a tweet every other day in hopes that today he will remember to write back.  He’s 80, y’all… remembering ANYTHING is a SUPER big deal.


Good morning @WilliamShatner : I'm your biggest fan; I've seen all of your movies. Even Miss Congeniality, which I forgive you for.

Good morning, @WilliamShatner , I hope you're enjoying this Sunday morning as much as I enjoyed Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan.

Dear @WilliamShatner , I (heart) you. Denny Crane.

Dear @WilliamShatner , if you and George Takei entered into a battle to the death, you would totally win.

I'm on a drug, it's called @WilliamShatner . It'll make your face melt!

Dear @WilliamShatner I'm sorry I haven't written in a few days- my son's bday was this weekend. Speaking of birthdays, mine is March 24th.

Dear @WilliamShatner Three things: 1. Good Morning. 2. PRICELINE NEGOTIATOR. 3. 11 days until my birthday. That is all.

Dear @WilliamShatner I ran in my first 3.2 mile race this weekend.  That’s 5k in Canadian.

Happy birthday, @WilliamShatner ! I know technically you're 80, but I'm sure you priceline-negotiated that down to 60 or 70.

Dear @WilliamShatner don't forget my birthday tomorrow! I know, I'm being silly- I'm sure you have it written down. Kthanksloveyoubye

Are you there @WilliamShatner ? It's me, PMuff. You will NEVER guess what today is!

Some of my tweeps (a "tweep" is a person you follow on Twitter.  LOOK AT THAT APPLIED KNOWLEDGE!)  even decided to help me with my cause.
If @ doesn't wish @ a Happy Birthday tomorrow, the shat will hit the fan.

Dear @, here on the east coast it's officially @'s birthday. Could you wish her a happy birthday?
I’m SURE he will respond.  Unless, of course, he’s just too heartbroken over the break-up which is THE ONLY logical reason I can think of for his silence.  

Phew, I feel so much better now with that secret off of my chest.  Time to go celebrate my birthday Princess-style… which includes a visit to the accountant and to the vet.  MAYBE a trip to Bed Bath & Beyond, I just don’t know if I’ll have enough time.



Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Need a Chris Brown birthday card? Of course you do.

It’s about that time of the year again where I pretend that I am SUPER excited to turn yet another year older.  You know, that time of the year when people give you cards with ultra hilarious messages that are usually accompanied by an image of an old person doing something equally as hilarious?  Or maybe the card has a sweet and tender message accompanied by some form of soft baby animal.  I don’t know about you, but most greeting cards make me either roll my eyes or vomit in my mouth a little bit.  ANYONE can be a greeting card writer, which is why they are so bad.  Really, all you need to establish your career in this field are the following qualifications:

1.       You cannot be funny.
2.       You have to have a pulse.
3.       You must think that kittens are the most adorable creatures on the planet.

In my new-found old age, I’ve decided that if I am going to complain about something, I need to offer a solution.  My biggest problem with greeting cards is that they just seem so… INSINCERE.  My solution?  My NEW LINE of greeting cards… “Keepin' it real” by PMuff.   

Do you need a Chris Brown birthday card?  Of course you do.

Looking for that card for your rebellious teenager with just the right amount of "nag"?  Look no further!

What doctor's office DOESN'T need a hilarious wine IV card to send to their patients?

Here's one for that passive-aggressive spiteful sibling in your life (click to zoom)!

And of course, a birthday card for any special princesses you may know.  Secretly, princesses LOVE birthday cards even though sometimes they tell you differently. 

Princesses are SO high-maintenence.



Friday, March 18, 2011

It’s been confirmed: I am awesome.

Well folks, it’s been confirmed.   Thanks to my girl Jess from the blog Ramblings of an Emotional Idiot, I am now 100% sure that I rock.  Why, you ask?  Jess has presented me with “The Cherry on Top” award!  And what exactly does this mean?  My 5 year old asked the same question when I told him about the confirmation of awesomeness.

Me: I won an award!
DMo: You DID!? For what?
Me: For some things that I wrote!
DMo: WOW!  Because you have great handwriting?
Me: Well… no…
DMo: Do you get a trophy or a medal?
Me: Um… well just this little button right here:

DMo: Oh... OK… Can I have a snack?

So my 5 year old obviously is too young to understand how awesome this honor that has been bestowed on me actually is.  He’ll understand in a few years.  You know, when he’s a teenager and in therapy due to my over-sharing blog.  His Dr. can explain how awesome this award was, I mean, I’m paying him enough- right?!  

Moving on from my rage over my non-existent overcharging therapist… there are two conditions for accepting this award.  The first is, I have to list three things I love about myself.  WHOA.  That’s going to be tough.  ONLY three things?  But I’ve just been confirmed awesome?!  OK, I’ll TRY.

1.       My hair.  I mean, just LOOK at it.  It’s like a glowing mane of awesomeness.  It has just the right amount of Microsoft Painted fluff to hold my tiara securely in place.  If I had to compare my hair to a majestic animal, I would be so bold as to say a unicorn.

2.       My kids.  They’re yet another extension of my awesomeness.  This award really belongs to them considering they write about 90% of my blog’s material.

3.       I love how down to Earth I am.  That is really hard to achieve when you are this awesome.

The other condition to this award is that I need to pass it along to 5 other bloggers that I adore.

1.       Southern MOMentum – The girls over at Southern MOMentum never fail to make me laugh.  Also, they have SUPER awesome contributing bloggers.  Check THIS ONE out- I dare say she is even MORE awesome than I am.

2.       The 21st Century Mrs. – LOVE her blog!  And anyone that invents a game called Leprechaun Bingo is awesome in my book.

3.       Disco Lemonade – SumSum is not only hilarious, but she is also a fellow Michigan native.  Double awesome! I’m also giving her this award just to try and bribe her to write more often.  

4.       Yeah. Good Times – I think that my avatar and the Good Times avatar are distantly related cousins, what do you think?  Not only is this woman awesome, one post featured a cat vomiting a rainbow.  SOLD! 

5.     Ninja Mom Blog – Do I even need to give you a reason why this blog is awesome?  It’s called NINJA MOM BLOG.  Enough said.

That’s all I’ve got, peeps- happy Day After St. Patrick’s Day to you.  Take some aspirin, wipe off the day-old smeared mascara from your face, and for God’s sake BRUSH YOUR TEETH- you’ll feel better. 

And for any of you who were wondering, the word “awesome” was used 14 times in this post.  Awesome.  Make that 15.



Tuesday, March 15, 2011

My semi-irrational fear of furniture salesmen

9 months ago, my husband and I flew to Georgia to perform our 3-day marathon house hunt.  Because we were moving from Ohio, we had very little time to look and even LESS time to make a decision.   We selected our house out of the billions we saw because we fell in love with the neighborhood.  The NEIGHBORHOOD- not the house.  It’s not that I don’t like our house; I just don’t particularly know how to furnish it.  Our previous house was about 1500 sq. ft. smaller than this one, so we have quite a few empty rooms.  My kids call them the “dance floor rooms”.  About a month ago, I was about to give up, hang disco balls on the ceilings, and start an underground rave.

Why would I give up, you ask?  Well, it’s simple.  The minute I walk into a furniture store, a wave of anxiety washes over me.   I know THEY are near.  

I am afraid of furniture salesmen.

After walking past my plethora of empty rooms this morning, I decided I’d had enough.  This fear of mine is irrational… right?  Furniture salesmen aren’t really THAT scary…  So I hopped in my car determined to buy what I WANTED, NOT what the salesman wanted me to buy.

As soon as I arrived, my palms got sweaty.  I felt nervous, but it was time to go in.

I should have turned around then, but I pressed forward.

I'm now a proud owner of a teal and rose sectional.  SURE I came in there for a dining room table, and yes I realize it doesn't match anything I own- but really, this sofa was the right purchase for me... my BFF salesperson said so.

Do disco balls go with teal?



Friday, March 11, 2011

Joe Biden is TOTALLY stalking me.

Did you know Joe Biden has a Facebook page?  No, not that fake FAN page… a REAL one.  He’s sort of under an “assumed name”, but I totally know it’s him.  I stumbled across it a few minutes ago accidentally while performing the Google search “Who is the Vice President?”  Yes, I KNOW… how irresponsible of me to not know who the Vice President is.  But hey, it’s not MY fault… he hasn’t shot anyone or invented the internet or ANYTHING!

So I thought I’d share a little of his page with you, you may need to click on the images to enlarge them.  Here’s his profile.  Apparently, he’s not a huge fan of Idaho.  

Here are some of his statuses.  Wait, that Miley Cyrus link ISN’T REAL?!

JDogg is also a fan of FourSquare.

Here are some of JDogg’s interests.  Who DOESN’T hate when someone secretly puts your name into the Goblet of Fire?!

Oh, hello…. What’s this?!

 Thanks, Joe Biden, I like you too!

Happy Friday, everyone!


Monday, March 7, 2011

Monkey Joe’s is the Devil.

I can’t believe it, my son turned 5 on Saturday.  Because we had been celebrating his birthday all month long, we decided that there would be no party on the actual date.  What I’d like to know is, when did birthdays turn into Mardi Gras?  When I was a kid, you got 1 DAY of celebration.  You know, your ACTUAL birthday. 

However, all of the prior celebrating was long forgotten when the actual day rolled around.

DMo:  I can’t WAIT for my party tomorrow!

Me:  D, we already celebrated your birthday.  You remember, at Disneyworld?  And again at school?  Is this ringing a bell?


Me: *Shudder*

If I had to describe hell, I think it would look a lot like the overcrowded bounce house of death that is Monkey Joe’s.  Look, I get it.  Bouncing is fun.  BUT bouncing with 500 other sugar-fueled children who are willing to crawl over your lifeless body to go down a slide is NOT.
However... because I felt a tad guilty about not having a birthday party for my son, we decided to extend DMopalooza and headed to Monkey Joe’s.

As soon as I stepped in the door, I realized that the next two hours of my life would be sheer torture.  I remember thinking that they should offer armor or fake sumo suit rentals- I know I for one would have taken advantage of that offer.

If I had to guess, I’d say that there were about 1.5 billion people packed into the place.  When you first walk in, you see several large-screen TVs with very comfortable looking chairs for those parents that decide that they don’t need to supervise their children.  I’m sure there will be people who disagree with me about this- but this is my opinion regarding the parental TV haven.  IF YOUR KIDS ARE YOUNG ENOUGH TO THINK THAT BOUNCING IS AN AWESOME TIME, THEY NEED TO BE SUPERVISED.  Quit watching the f’ing TV for an hour and make sure your kid isn’t being “THAT kid”.  Who is “THAT kid”, you ask?  He would be the one who is using the smaller kids as a step stool to climb the netted walls.  “THAT kid” turns the bouncers into an Ultimate Fighting Championship Octogan.  I watched “THAT kid” (who I’d estimate to be about 6 years old) shove a 2 year old into a wall for absolutely no reason approximately 5 times.  But hey, I’m sure his parents were completely engrossed in the ESPN2 table tennis world championship that was on at the time so they were unable to do anything about it.  

I decided against my better judgment to let my youngest son go into one of the dreaded bouncers.  After he walked into the tiny maze that led to a slide, “THAT kid” entered right behind him.  As he began slamming into the walls and trampling the younger kids, my son froze at the top of the slide paralyzed with fear.  He wouldn’t come out.  I knew at this point I was going to have to go in and get him- so I crawled in (with my shoes on) to rescue him.  About 5 seconds after I crawled in, a power-drunk 13-year old started hysterically blowing her whistle to get me out of the bouncer.  MA’AM, YOU CAN’T BE IN THERE WITH YOUR SHOES ON!  YOU HAVE TO GET OUT NOW!  After briefly fantasizing about body slamming the whistle blower for calling me ma’am, I calmly told her I was trying to rescue my son.  About 3 seconds later, I was pummeled to the ground.  It all happened so quickly- I wasn’t sure what was going on.  But then I saw him.  My arch enemy “THAT kid” was back, and had knocked me over.  Between the frantic whistles, the screaming, and having just been run over, I slumped up the ladder, grabbed my boy and slid down the slide.  I was reprimanded once more by the prepubescent shoe police and went on my way.

I looked at my phone to see how long we’d been there thus far: 17 minutes.  17 minutes in Monkey Joe’s time is about 7 hours in real time. Exactly 53 minutes and 27 seconds later, we finally escaped.  The kids passed out about 2 nanoseconds after we got into the car. My husband and I sat very quietly for a while- finally I said something.

Me:  I have to tell you something.
SMo:  What?
Me: I hate Monkey Joe’s.
SMo:  Then I promise we won’t have your birthday party there.

I may or may not have punched him after that comment.  But I think what my husband was getting at is this.  It’s not about me anymore.  It’s about my precious angels who’ve been brainwashed by a giant purple gorilla to believe that Monkey Joe's is the ONLY acceptable place to celebrate their birthday.  So congratulations Monkey Joe.  You may have won this battle, but you won’t win the war.  And seriously, think about the armor rental thing.



FYI- I’ll be posting my most recent entries at Princess Muffintop on Facebook instead of my personal account.  So click on the Muffin to the right if you’re interested!