Snickerfodder

Archive for the ‘M & M Inanity’ Category

 

 

Ya gotta LOVE elementary spelling lists.

  

 

 

 

Last week’s words win the prize.

 

  

  

 

My 3rd grader, M1,

came home with

STUPID

on her list.

  

  

  

 

Now, is that REALLY a word EVERY 3rd grader MUST KNOW how to spell in order to be considered ‘well-educated’ or at the very least, ‘competent’?

 

  

  

  

Will

STUPID

 be on the big state

Standards of Learning’ test?

 

  

  

  

What is the EDUCATIONAL VALUE, the LEARNING OBJECTIVE,

in a 3rd grader’s knowing how to spell this particular word? 

  

  

  

 

Will my kid be READING

  

Of Mice and Men,

Flowers for Algernon

or Hey, Dummy

  

IN 3RD GRADE

  

wherein she will

 ENCOUNTER

STUPID

and its synonyms

in PRINT???!!!

 

  

  

  

If my kid misspellsSTUPID’ on her test,

does this mean she will be

 ‘LEFT BEHIND’?

 

 

  

 

What if the STUPID kids misspell ‘STUPID’? 

 

 

 

 

STUPID’ on ANY school-sanctioned spelling list is STUPID.

 

 

 

 

No, I take that back.

 

 

 

 

Let’s go ahead and teach’em

 

 ‘FUCK

 

and each of its conjugations.

 

 

 

 

Then my 9-year-old

will be able to say that

STUPID

on ANY school-sanctioned spelling list is

 

 

 

 

FUCKING STUPID.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My little first grader fared no better last week.

 

 

 

She came home with ‘WORD FAMILIES’.

 

 

You know: 

 

 

AT’   family:  bat, cat, fat, hat, mat, pat, rat, sat, vat, flat, slat, splat…

UG’  family:  bug, dug, hug, jug, mug, rug, plug, slug…

UT’  family:   but, cut, hut, nut, put, rut…

 

 

 

 

One night her homework was to choose

four spelling words from the list,

and then to compose sentences

using each of those chosen words.

 

 

 

 

At the beginning of the school year, it was SHEER TORTURE for my M2 to come up with those measly FOUR easy sentences.

 

 

 

 

Now, midway into the year, she’s a pro.

 

 

 

 

No longer must SassyMama sit beside her and agonize for eternity over the construction of her sentences.

 

 

 

 

At this point, M2 does this assignment on her own, and when finished, she brings her work for me to check.

 

 

 

 

This week, she was particularly quick with her sentences. 

 

 

 

 

In no time at all, she presented her sentences for my approval.

(quite proudly, I must add) 

 

 

 

 

I walk my dog.”

He sat in the chare.”

The sqwerl ate a nut.”

 

 

 

 

My sister is not a slut.”

 

 

 

 

 

I’m pretty sure

 our school district

 would not only

 

 APPROVE;

 

I think they’ll bump’er

 

 straight to the senior class.

 

 

 

 

 

P.S.  She MEANT to write ‘SLUG’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The M & Ms were ‘helping’ SassyMama clean up the kitchen the other night.

(the kind of ‘help’ that pushes mama one step closer to the nearest meth lab)

 

 

  

  

 

BLARING from my very favorite appliance in the world, my under-cabinet TV/CD/DVD player, 

 

came a COMMERCIAL

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ubiquitous and obnoxious SNUGGY plug? 

 

 

  

 

 

Naw; couldn’t be so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It just so happened to be one of those erectile dysfunction ads. 

 

 

 

 

 

GREAT.

 

  

  

 

 

M2, her nose buried in her 3rd  (yes, 3rd ) Nintendo DS game system, was intent on her Mario Bros. game — or so I thought.

 

 

 

 

The ad spokesman cautioned the millions of  men within the viewing (and listening) audience who have the occasional and unfortunate flaccid penis to:

 

 

  

 

 “Ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for sex….” 

 

 

 

 

 

M2, my hyper-tasking-Ritalin-poster-child,  immediately perked up.

 

 

 

 

 

“Mama,  why did that man say, ‘sex‘?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Um…oh, boy…ummm….nnuummm….”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

M1, who just turned a worldly nine years old, replied,

 

 

 

“Sex is whether you are a boy or a girl, stupid dummy-head.”

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

M2, who is six-going-on-26, said,

 

 

 

“Nuh-uh! 

 

Sex is when you get NAKED!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Oh, God and Baby Jesus, help me)

 

 

 

   

  

  

Just then, The Dingus walked in to the kitchen. 

 

 

 

 

 I was able to face neither him nor my precocious children; I remained with my back to the whole flippin’ lot of them, frantically trying to recall where the hell I’d stashed my ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ script

 

 

 

***NOTE to SassyMama-Self:  Find that dagum script  — STAT!    An all-nighter-cram-and-jam session may be needed so that I wouldn’t get caught tomorrow, bright ‘n’ early, with more prickly questions.   

 

***Erstwhile, keep workin’ the ‘Mama’s-just-been-frontal-lobotomized-con’.   Drool for added authenticity:

  

 

 

 

 

“Ummm…nnnuumm…aaahhh…uuummm….”

 

 

 

 

 

Seeing that —  for once —  SassyMama had no sass up her ass, M2 whipped around to confront her father.   

 

 

 

 

 

“Daddy, did you and Mommy SEX in high school?

 

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

HOLY SHIT!  WHERE’D THAT COME FROM? 

 

That one’s NOT in the flippin’ script!

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Oh, God and infant baby Jesus lying in the manger)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I threw The Dingus right under the bus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I let that question (and my hubby)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HANG

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

I was able to muster only a few more weak monosyllabic utterances while pounding a cabinet with my open palm

(that one was genuine; no acting on the pounding).

 

 

 

 

The Dingus wheedled out of the question by saying something akin to:

 

 

 

“That’s something only those who are 10 and older are allowed to talk about.  

 

Until then, it’s not appropriate for little girls to discuss such things. 

 

 

 

When you’re 10, MOMMY will tell you all about sex.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Touché, mon ami, touché. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

God knows how I love my babies.  Though I should have been forbidden to reproduce by court order, God has cursed blessed me with two beautiful, wonderful little girls.   They are bright, happy and active!   I am so very proud when they bring home great report cards, demonstrating their intelligence.

 However…

 

 There is a fine line between genius and idiocy.

 

 

My kid straddles that line.

 

Now, there is no doubt that the kid has smarts, which, I can guaran-damn-tee, she did NOT get from ME.  (All I passed on to my poor progeny:  bad hair, bad skin, bad balance and a bad, bad, bad case ‘o bad-ass-sass.)

The Dingus and I sometimes call her “Three”; she reminds us of Michael Keaton’s 3rd clone in Multiplicity – the one with the goggles and aviator cap.  This handle is most appropriate as she enjoys wearing her Speedo goggles while bathing. 

Now the goggle-thingy might not sound so odd as to warrant a comparison to the movie-clone “Three”, but one must consider the fact that during her bath, she takes to wrapping her entire mouth around the rather large tub faucet and turning on the tap – full-blast.  (Though I keep waiting for little fountains to spring from her ears, I have seen it gush forth from her nozzles.)

When my baby was just a wee one, toddling around, wreaking havoc wherever she could, we kept in her sister’s bedroom a little beta-fish in a clear, square-ish ‘bowl’.

M1 came to me one day, pulled on my shirt, and said,

 

Mommy!  M2’s drinking the fish again!

 

I tore to the room’s doorway.   I nearly tossed my cookies at the sight of my 2 yr. old atop a kiddie stool, bowl in both hands, GULPING the FILTHY, brown, turdy water!!!  UUUUGGGGHHHH!

The poor damn fish was just a’sloshin’ away inside, going on the ride of his life.

I screamed her name, but was simply too horrified to move.  She didn’t move either.

Sated, she slammed down the bowl and turned toward me.

She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand and let out a most-satisfied, “AAAAHHHH!”, like she was in some Gatorade commercial, having just gulped THE most refreshing drink ever dumped down her gullet.

Two days later, the beta committed fishicide; he leaped from the bowl to his death.  I found his brittle little body behind a dolly on the dresser, about a foot away from his bowl.  (On second thought:  maybe M2 ‘freed’ him from his wet, happy home…hmmm.)

Once, when my parents came to visit our asylum, my mother was helping me clean up one of M2’s ‘experiments’ (which, for some strange reason, always seem to involve water….)

 

Grandma:    ‘Oh, my, honey!  She’s so…busy

                     (Oh, how I love my mother’s euphemisms!)

                     I just don’t know how you keep with her! 

                     While you’re cleaning up one mess,

                     she’s already on to another!’

 

Weary Viv:  ‘Oh, no, Mother; while I’m cleaning up one mess,

                      she’s already THREE more ahead of me!’

 

Just the other day (on the same infamous B-BALL KILLA day, in fact), she proudly displayed one of my ‘good’ spoons she had folded to a right angle.

 

The Viv:  “M2, PULEASE tell me you did that with your MIND!”

 

(Nope; with her hands, ‘just for fun)

 

(HEY!  Maybe my hoop wasn’t mangled by the Rude Dude! 

Maybe my idiot-savant kid did it!)

 

The very next evening, during our Chinese class, M2 disappeared into the bathroom.  A couple of minutes later, she stood by our tutor, Ms. E., with water streaming down the sides of her tight-lipped mouth. 

 

WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?

 

Once again I was absolutely mortified by my offspring’s off-putting, yet awe-inducing idiocy.   I demanded that she swallow the water immediately and sit back down to practice the language.

As she shook her head to the negative, my kid became a human freakin’ sprinkler.

As the lady-like Ms. E. wiped the spray from her face, my little Three caught sight of MY face.  (The ALIEN within had emerged!)

At that, she opened up her mouth to reveal the PRIZE INSIDE!:  a  2”x2” neatly folded, water-sodden paper towel resting on her tongue. 

(*Ms. E. is utterly dumbstruck by my kid; she keeps asking me ‘how old is she again?’)

In the six looooong years of M2’s life, I have learned (the very HARD WAY) never to eat or drink ANYTHING the kid proffers and to keep out of her reach:  Sharpie markers, hard candy, hammers, nails, sandpaper, scissors, (hell, ALL sharp objects), duct tape, Crazy Glue, 9-volt batteries, modeling clay, flour, condiments and toothpaste (just to name A FEW). 

 

I thank God on high that she has a healthy fear of the shitter.  

 

My M2 is just the sweetest, happiest, loving little thing, and though she does keep me busy, and though she does keep me waking each day fearing the fresh hell that is to come, I couldn’t adore her more.

Her THREE-ness is what makes her so special (yes’m; ‘at dere’s a pun).

As long as they make Paxil:  I wouldn’t change her for anything in the world!

I know, right now, prison is my biggest fear.

I also know that the terror of being Big Lulu’s bitch behind bars will pale in comparison to the horror of  M2’s impending teen years….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Know when I love my children the most?

 

 

When they’re sleeping.

 

That’s when I remember how Daddy (aka El Guapo and The Dingus) used to snuggle up with them, all toasty and cuddly.  He nicknamed our sleepy babes ‘the whatsisnoozins’.

That’s when I look at them, when they’re whatsisnoozin, all soft and warm and pink and sweet-smelling and so precious… I could just eat’em up.  That’s when I get all-filled with mamalove.  That’s when I look at my babies, my little whatsisnoozins, and I get all reminiscent and mushy and misty….

Then I snap out of my little daylight-daydream, my little delusion, and I realize, “Oh, hell!  I’m gonna have to wake’em up.”

Now, no doubt you know the old saying about letting sleeping dogs lie.  The same wisdom applies to the whatsisnoozins; it’s best to allow them to awake of their own accord. 

This tack especially holds true for M1; waking her can be likened to playing Russian Roulette – only in reverse.  But in this case, you’re praying for that one, singular shot.  You’re praying for that one, singular chance that she will awaken as a pleasant, sweet-tempered angel.  It’s those other chances in the chamber that you sweat.  

From day one, that child has thrown titanic tantrums if awakened.  The instant her eyes open, she scrunches up her face (her ‘uggy-face’) and commences to writhe, kick and convulse as if she were the choreographer of the Broadway production of St. Vitas’ Dance – Supine Extraordinaire.  While gyrating and jactitating, she emits a cyclic composition of low, guttural growls and yelps that builds to a deafening crescendo of screams. 

She finishes each round with a piercing banshee wail that rises until only our canine friends can detect (and run from) it.  My eyes literally cross when she hits that certain note; after which, it takes me a moment to realize that her pitch has merely crossed over the audible human threshold, and that I haven’t actually been rendered deaf by my child.     

This tempest can go on for longer than TWO, FREAKIN’ HOURS

Usually, El Guapo and I take turns watching over her, facing the fury, making sure she doesn’t break a spastic, flailing arm or leg.  However, we are able to spell each other for only a few minutes at a time;  any longer than that inside her room, and there is the real danger of gouging out one’s very own eyes.  While ‘inside’, on the front line, one tends to consider the various ways in which a frilly pink barrette or Dora the Explorer could help one commit suicide.

When she’s in the throes, however, I never leave her side for longer than five or ten minutes; I’d kick myself in the ass if, while I was out of the room, her head spun around and she projectile-vomited all over her dad.  I just gotta be there for that.  (I do remove the crucifix from above her door on my way out though, just to be safe.) 

After so many years of these Wake-Rages, I have learned not to wake the whatsisnoozin!

My kid could freakin’ fall asleep on the porch in the dead ‘a winter, and I’d just toss the welcome mat over her and hope for the best.

Nope!  Not this one!  No matter what, SassyMama here don’t never wake no whatsisnoozin!

 

Can I get a ‘HELL’ to the ‘NO’?!

 

It ain’t worth the splittin’ headache! 

Late for work because the little fuckin’ whatsisnoozin’s still comatose? 

Who cares? 

Find a new freakin’ job! 

The Dingus, on the other hand, has not yet reached this conclusion; like Roy, he mistakenly believes he can actually tame his cute, little whatsisnoozin.

And you recall how well that worked out for him and Sigfried, don’t cha?

 

 

Is it a sin to fantasize about choking your children while sitting in church?

 

Is that wrong

 

I mean, truth be told, The Big Guy did, in fact, bring forth His very own son to suffer and to die a horrible death, did he not?  Am I not created in the image of my God?  Post hoc ergo propter hoc:  why can’t I consider the self-same fate for my progeny? 

 

As a quarterly-Catholic, I was beginning to feel just a wee full-up on sin (no doubt as a result of the vile filth Viv and I have put forth here), and decided to take the famdamily to mass on Sunday evening.  

 BIG FREAKIN’ MISTAKE.

Now, believe it or not, I used to be devout as a convert.  The worst curse in my VWA was “Oh, my stars!”  We were a “good, church-going young family”.  I even taught in Catholic schools!   We never missed mass.  (Nowadays, we never miss the chance to miss it.)

When the M & Ms were mere bundled babes in arms, church was so easy!  If they started to wail, it was effortless to just plug’em with a pacifier.  Piling on the odd blanket or two tended to muffle and/or stifle their screams sufficiently as I tried to open my heart to The Good News.

At the ages of 3 and 1, however, my sweet cherubs would enter the sanctuary, morph into the Wombat and the Wildcat, and commence to wreak havoc upon the church and upon my nerves and very sanity.  The call of the wooden floor, the beckoning of the long, open pews and the large, captive audience would prove too great a temptation for my two to resist. 

(It was ’round about then that my personality split; Viv, as Athena from Zeus, sprang from my head.  Once Viv entered the picture, all hope of redemption and heaven was lost.) 

From the moment the M & Ms became aware of the other’s presence, they have bantered and bickered from dawn to dusk.  They are incessantly, figuratively and literally, at each other’s throats.  The M & Ms are utterly incapable of getting along for more than a few minutes at a time.  They always want what the other one has.  They absolutely refuse to share; be it toys, toothpaste, chair space or air.  If one farted, she would insist that the other not be permitted to breathe in the foul air, and she would try to fan it back to her own “side”; after all, it was her gas, and it was intended for her pleasure only

One would think, or at the very least hope, that the M & Ms could put aside their petty arguments and misbehavior for one, measly hour of worship.  Not so; instead, they view the vestibule and become drunk with the prospect and power of mischief.

Back in the days of our weekly mass attendance, it became increasingly more difficult to focus on the priest’s homily and the Word as the M & Ms would require physical restraint.  It wasn’t long before I sat through a mass with a black heart; the most impure of thoughts possible running through my mind.  Mass quickly became torture.  It wasn’t long before it was I who required physical restraint.

To vent my frustrations and pent-up anger, when singing some of my favorite hymns, I  impovise my own lyrics, and I don’t give a shit if any of my brethren hear my stray:

 

We are climbing Jacob’s ladder

(Out of the pit of HELL)

We are climbing Jacob’s ladder

(Soldiers ready; armed to KILL)

 

And this zippy, little ditty, guaranteed to clinch my Mother of the Year award and to take me one step higher on the stairway to heaven :

 

This little light of mine,

(Gonna light your hair AFIRE!)

This little light of mine,

(Gonna light your hair AFIRE!)

(Let it BURN, let it BURN, LET IT BURN!!!!!!)

 

Even the favorite hymn, “On Eagle’s Wings”, fails to move me…unless I envision the majestic bird of prey raising up my children high to the heavens above… and dropping them.

It wasn’t very long until I blocked out completely what was happening at church.  I had my own little ‘sermon’ brewing in my cryptic, caustic mind:

 

(Jesus Christ!  Get OFF her…I said keep your goddam-$40- prissy-assed-patent leather-Mary-fucking-Janes OUT of your sister’s sonofabitchin’ face!  CHHHRRRRIIIIIIIIST ALMIGHTY!  I can’t even hear the mugginhuffin’ HOMILY!!!!!  And I freakin’ PRAYED for these MONSTERS!  WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?????!!!!!!!)

 

And then it wasn’t long before we stopped going to mass altogether.  I’m not sure if it was the fear of committing homicide during the homily or the possibility that I may spontaneously combust the moment the Eucharist touched my tongue.  (And for the record, on the rare occasion that I do go to church, I do not receive unless I’ve endured a 2-hour confession and have done my mile-long penance; I do have some remainder faith within.)

I have such Catholic guilt over not frequently attending mass; I think three parochial vicars have come and gone without my laying eyes upon them.  I have become such a sinner, and I have such a dark, black heart during the mass; my eternal fate is sealed.  I am a hypocrite and blasphemer of the worst kind; I’m headed to Hades in the proverbial handbasket.

And though there are my many, many moments when my inner-Viv rears her ugly, ugly head, and though they drive me bonkers, I  truly do love my children more than my very own life.  Yes, I did pray and pray for my children, and God has blessed me, the least-deserving person on earth, with two amazing (and fun) little girls that I just couldn’t imagine (nor want to live) my life without.  (Although it does cause me to question His ultimate wisdom; how could He possibly entrust me – who should have been court-ordered not to reproduce – with precious children AT ALL?) 

 I adore my babies, and though they may indeed be the spawn of Satan, I could walk through fire for them.

I’m just not willing burst into flame for them. 

Not yet…maybe next Sunday….