Tine vs. Kissing

A kiss, when all is said, what is it? A rosy dot placed on the "i" in loving; 'Tis a secret told to the mouth instead of to the ear. ~Edmond Rostand

This post is going to be a little different from my normal posts since it's part of the "Kiss Me I'm Irish" Giveaway Hop. I'm not Irish, but I totally wish I was. Anyway, the giveaway hop is inspired by Jeri Smith-Ready, author of the books Shade, Shift, and Shine (as well as some other equally awesome novels) and is part of a larger giveaway which involves one of the best prizes ever....an ARC copy of Shine, her book that is to be released May 1. For a book lover like me, having an ARC would be killer awesome....I'm nearly doing an Irish jig just at the small possibility of having that thing in my hot little hands.

By the way, did you ever wonder where the phrase "Kiss me, I'm Irish" comes from? Well, I did a little google magic and there are several possible answers, but I'm partial to the one that says it's in reference to kissing the Blarney Stone. Kissing the Blarney Stone supposedly brings you good luck and apparently if you can't kiss the stone, the next best thing is to kiss someone who's Irish. So there you go.

Now, on to the giveaway. Jeri asked bloggers to celebrate St. Patrick's Day by talking about what they love about Ireland OR talking about kissing...either a favorite scene in a movie or book, or one of our own kissing experiences. Well for me, it had to be about kissing. And since I couldn't possibly pick a favorite kissing scene from a book, I thought I'd share one of my own kissing memories.

I suppose I could talk about my first kiss, but that one is so unworthy of being told it's almost painful. It happened in 10th grade and the fella that did the honors for me was an exchange student from Finland. No fireworks, no birds singing, no angelic choir. I think there were a few dogs barking in the background, but when it was over, all I could think was, "I waited 15 years for this? What. A. Bummer." But I would guess most first kisses are probably less than awe inspiring so I don't feel badly about that.

I would have to say that my most memorable kiss happened the night I got engaged. Cliche!!! I know, I know, but it's true. It was our seventh anniversary of dating bliss and we decided to celebrate by going to the beach. It was the middle of October and we arrived late on Friday night. Walking on the moonlit beach, Johnny held my hand, and said all the pretty words about how much he loved me and what he hoped the future held for us. Then he took me in his arms and with the waves crashing behind us, he kissed me...passionately and perfectly. And then he bit my tongue. I don't know if it was nerves or excitement about what he was getting ready to do but you'd think after seven years, we'd pretty much have the knack of the whole kissing thing under control. At least to the point of avoiding injury. Anyway, as I stood there nursing my injured tongue wondering what went wrong, Johnny finally said those four wonderful words. No, not, "Is your tongue okay?"....."Will you marry me?" I'm pretty sure I said yes, or at least nodded my head. All I know is I ended up with a ring on my finger and a new fiance who was complaining about an empty wallet.

Tine vs. Kissing goes to....Kissing of course. Nothing beats kissing. Reading about it, watching it in movies, experiencing it first hand. There's no competition. I'm lucky to say that I've had more than my share with the most amazing man I've ever met. He's not Irish either, but I'm going to keep on kissing him anyway.

So on to the Giveaway....share your favorite kiss story. It can be a scene from a movie, a book, or one of your own special kiss moments. Write it in the comment section below. You have until Monday, March 19 at midnight. The prize? Well, since this contest is inspired by the Shade trilogy, the prize pack will be all about Shade. You'll get a copy of the book Shade, an autographed Shade bookmark, and a Keeley Brothers button (it's pretty kick ass....it has a skull on it). Also, I will include the Death Cab for Cutie cd Narrow Stairs which features "I Will Possess Your Heart." You'll have to read Shade to find out why this is a great addition to the prize pack. AND......if you win, you will also be entered in Jeri's contest to win her ARC of Shine....which is likely the best prize possible. This contest is open to US residents only.

The winner is....entry #4....Gaby Pendragon. Thanks for entering everyone!

Tine vs. Childish Behavior

This post is going to be disgusting. Think six year old potty humor only worse, because it's coupled with the ingenuity of adults. If you can't handle poo humor, you need to close this window and go back to Drudge Report and TMZ so you can keep up to date with your Lindsay Lohan gossip. You've been warned. If, however, you feel like having a six year old type giggle fest that might possibly make you puke, read on....

My husband's family is obsessed with poo humor. You may think to yourself, "That's normal. My better half farts all the time and gives me the Dutch Oven whenever possible."

I'm sorry, but the Dutch Oven can't even POSSIBLY compare to the poo fascination that has gripped the Manzari family....my family by choice. When I first started dating my hubby 17 years ago, I was slightly horrified at the first family birthday party when the handmade cards came out. I had never seen anything like it. I have two sisters and a well trained brother. Potty humor wasn't something I was really that familiar with....and certainly nothing to the extent of what the Manzaris are capable of creating. On the back of each of the handmade cards from my hubby's siblings were different variations of his name (or age), written out in acronym format, each letter transformed into some poo related term.

With pictures.

And they were disgusting....and disturbingly hilarious at the same time.

Over the years, I've become not only accustomed to these cards, but I have actually participated in the creation of many. The cards have become the most anticipated part of any birthday gift because they result in giggles, tears of laughter, exclamations of disgust, and kudos on brilliant creativity. We keep all of ours in a scrapbook.

So, it was no surprise when over the weekend my sister-in-law forwarded a "how-to" graphic with step by step instructions on how to make fake poo with a toilet paper roll. She then challenged us to torment our children with said fake doodie and get the whole thing on video. She made the first successful video today and sent it out to us, reminding us about her challenge. I decided that since there was no school today.....harassment of my children with fake fecal matter was my only goal.

In secret, I found a toilet paper roll and crafted the fake doodie. Then I placed the fake doodie on the toilet in the kid's bathroom. Operation Fake Doodie was underway.

I called the kids upstairs and asked them who was responsible....

Johnny Boy thought it was hilarious that there was poo on the toilet seat, but Alex was determined to prove her innocence and asked me to look at her arse. I can only assume it was so I could do a DNA comparison to eliminate her as a suspect. After I requested assistance from Johnny Boy to get the doodie off the seat and he refused to help, I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. Doodie chase scene ensued....

And after that fun/traumatic incident, we just had to see what Chloe would do. She's a baby. Everything goes in her mouth. Fake doodie was no exception. Note that at this point, the kids still thought it was real and made no effort to stop her.

The kids had so much fun being chased with the fake doodie that Johnny Boy asked me to reform it (remember, Chloe had taken a bite out of it) so they could chase each other around. Then they decided that it was imperative to trick Daddy. Like little ninjas, they crept into the office and placed the doodie on Daddy's computer. I told them it really was a comPOOter now. They thought that was funny. And then Daddy came home...

So that was our day. Lots of fun with a toilet paper roll and water. Now go out there and torment someone you love with some fake doodie...and send me a video.

Tine vs. Childish Behavior...goes to Childish Behavior. Sure it was disgusting and juvenile and totally stupid, but there is just something about poo humor and fake doodie that makes a cold, rainy day a lot less boring...

Tine vs. Losing My Shit

I apologize in advance that this is not snarky or funny in any way. It was just the only way I could deal with losing my shit today....

Today I lost my shit. For about fifteen minutes, it was nowhere to be found. Funny how a photo can do that to you, and a memory of a dream from the night before.

I think about my mom every day. She died November 8, 2005. She was only 54. It's been six years and I still think about her every. single. day. I still miss her every time my children do something I need to brag about...every time my children do something I need her advice about...every time I can't remember how to roast a chicken...every time I wonder if I should go to the doctor's to get that funny mole checked out...every time I just need her special brand of listening. Even though I have so many wonderful memories of her, there are still a shit ton of things I didn't get to share with her. She never got to see my son learn to crawl or walk. She's never met either of my daughters. She wasn't here when I embarked on my dream of writing a book. She wasn't there when we moved into our new house. She didn't get to see my bathroom painted purple. She didn't get to celebrate her 55th birthday with us. It's the big things and the little things. All the things that you share with your mom that I have missed out on in the last six years.

The other day I had a random urge to post a picture of my mom on FB. So many times there are people just whining and complaining and bitching about their lives on there....so unwilling to look for the positive things that life can, and does, offer. I wanted to take the worst event in my life, and turn it into something positive. I didn't want to make any sort of blatant declaration, I just wanted to share something special and happy. I found a picture of me and my mom hugging the night before my wedding. I am so grateful for whoever took that picture. Even though my mom is no longer here, looking at that picture brought me a moment of sincere happiness because I remember that hug....and a million more she gave me. There is something about a mother's hug, no matter how old you are, that's just the perfect place to be. It's knowing your heart is safe because your mother will love you unconditionally no matter how successful you are, or how much failure you stumble through. So I posted the picture. And it got a ton of "likes." More likes than anything else I've ever posted. It was clear that I'm not the only person that realized how special that moment and that woman were.

I guess that singular thought has been working on my brain for a few days. Last night I dreamt about her. Again. Same dream I've had regularly for the last six years. She's alive. I thought she'd died, but she's alive. And I'm so happy and so frightened and so worried. Happy I get a second chance to share things with her. Frightened that she could be snatched away again. Worried about how long I'll get to have her this time. It's always the same dream and it's always such a disappointment when I wake up and realize it wasn't real.

And then this afternoon, I happened to stop and look at the picture on my end table. It's a picture of my family taken about a week before my mother passed. She looks so sick. She was in so much pain she could hardly smile. And I'm mentally whisked back to that weekend when my dad was pushing her around in the wheelchair at the mall because she was too weak to walk and we're all trying so hard to pretend that it's not happening — that she's not dying. We're trying to make her last few days good ones and we're still sending up those prayers for a miracle. And in a matter of seconds, I'm reliving that last year — all the doctors appointments, the tears and fears, the chemo and radiation, the pain she dealt with, the pain my father dealt with, the last few days, the last few breaths.

I cried. Hard. Snot, tears, and gulping sobs. And you know what? I let myself cry because she deserves to be missed like that every day. And I deserve to miss her that much.

If you knew my mom, you're a lucky person and you can understand. If you never met my mom, I hope by knowing me you experience at least a few of the things that made her so amazing. She was generous, kind, thoughtful, supportive, and equally great at giving hugs and flipping the bird. I hope I'm the kind of person she was.

I hope I'm the kind of mom she was.

And I hope that you appreciate your mom....and dad, brother, sister, child, neighbor, mailman, (insert special person here) every day. Tell them you love them. Give them hugs and spend time with them. Make memories with them. One day, memories might be all you'll have left of them so make sure they're good.

Tine vs. Losing My Shit....I'm not sure there can be a winner here. I'm surviving the loss, but I'll never heal. I'll miss my mom every day. I love you mom.

Tine vs. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Tomorrow is my daughter's fourth birthday and I guiltily realized that I never wrote my token birthday blog for my son's sixth birthday this past July. Oops. I was a little caught up in sending out query letters...blah blah blah. I'm way behind on blogging, but I feel I can't continue without at least acknowledging the boy and his big day, so this post is all about Johnny Boy...the Good, the Bad....and the Ugly.

The thing about boys is that they are nothing, NOTHING, like girls. Nothing. My son has his moments of sweetness and cuddling and kissability — but most of the time there is farting, naked body parts, random yelling, arbitrary punching, and unprovoked growling. My husband sees nothing wrong with these behaviors, but growing up with two sisters and a brother (who is mildly metrosexual), sometimes I'm just not equipped to handle....boyness. But I do my best to see Johnny Boy for all the humor and laughter he brings, despite the dirt and damage he is often responsible for in the process. Here are half a dozen Johnny Boy things that made me laugh in 2011:

1. HE'S A MAD SCIENTIST
One day Johnny Boy wanted to play video games and I told him to go in the playroom and be creative instead. A few minutes later he came out and showed me a drawing of a rocket he planned to build. I told him it was a great idea and I patted myself on the back for encouraging him to use his imagination. Imagine my surprise when about an hour later, he showed me his invention. He actually had "built" his bottle rocket and he wanted me to help him make it fly. I wish I had been able to make that wish come true because it was a brilliant design.

2. Master of Hats
Every day in Kindergarten last year, Johnny Boy would make a "hat" of some sort. In the fall he made one with colored leaves, at Christmas it had trees and candy canes on it, at Easter there were eggs. Some days he just had numbers on his hat or whatever "thing" they had studied that day. I thought it was normal Kindergartener behavior until I noticed that none of his classmates were heading to buses or to meet their parents with daily hats like Johnny's. When I asked the teacher about it, she confirmed that Johnny just liked to make hats. He made them, he wore them, and he didn't give a damn what other people thought about his hats.

Then one day, the class read a book about the Czar's Hat and they each were given all sorts of goodies with which to make their own Czar Hat. When I came to pick Johnny Boy up from school that day, I saw the hat long before I saw him. It was nearly two feet of construction paper awesomeness. He even fashioned it with a ribbon with which to tie the hat to his head. Apparently, all those daily hat making skills came to fruition that day. The teacher told me he was the envy of the entire class. And I must admit, I nearly peed myself when I saw him coming down the hall with that thing perched precariously on top of his head. Awesomesauce squared for sure.

3. These Balls
Why are little boys obsessed with balls? Soccer balls, basketballs, baseballs, golf balls, ping pong balls....it doesn't matter the size or use, Johnny Boy loves balls. But I'm not only talking about sports related balls. Little boys are obsessed with those other balls. You know, the ones they were born to play with. And play with them he does. When he comes waltzing up to me, completely butt naked, and the first words out of his mouth are "Mommy, why do these balls...", I immediately stop the conversation and send him to find Daddy. If there is one thing I DO know, it's that I don't know squat about those balls....and I don't want to either.

4. Are you Peeing? There's No Peeing in Baseball!
Johnny Boy loves to play baseball. He also really loves the trophy he gets at the end. Sometimes, I think he may be more in love with the hardware than the actual playing of baseball. Why do I think that? Because from the first day of practice until the last game, the trophy is all he can think about. "When do we get the trophy?" is heard no less than 943 times throughout the season. When he asked the question again on the last day of the season, we never thought that telling him "You have to finish this game before you get the trophy" would have such soggy consequences. Upon arriving home after the last game, I picked up his dirty baseball clothes and realized the pants were sopping wet.

Me: "Johnny, why are your pants wet?"

Johnny Boy: "I peed in them."

Me: "You peed in them?!?!?! Why?"

Johnny Boy: "Because I had to go while we were playing baseball and I didn't want to stop playing. I wanted to get my trophy."

I guess he figured wet underpants were a small price to pay for .99 cents of kick ass trophyness. I'm not sure there is anything worth peeing my pants for. I don't think I would even pee my pants for an autographed Ray Lewis jersey. Nope, not worth it. I might purposely pee my pants for the chance to meet one of my favorite authors, but I can't guarantee it. You gotta REALLY want something in order to suffer through urine soaked drawers for it....

5. Magic Tricks
One day my husband showed Johnny the Magic Thumb Trick and this was one of my favorite memories of him this year. I will never forget his amazement at seeing my husband sever his own thumb....or the incredible little laugh that accompanied his amazement. Childhood wonder and faith....I wish we could bottle it up.

6. Smells Like Daddy
The best thing about kids is that they're honest. Honestly funny. One day I was just really tired and all I wanted to do was take a nap. But when you have three kids, taking a nap usually isn't an option. There is no such thing as a sick day, so you have to get creative. So, when the baby went down for a nap, I convinced the other two kids to come take a nap with me in Mommy and Daddy's bed. They love our bed and I knew the lure of the coolness of the big bed could be just enough to get me my well deserved nap. I settled in at my spot, Alex settled in at the middle, and Johnny took Daddy's spot. He even got to use Daddy's pillow. Everyone was tucked in and I was just drifting off to sleep when:

Johnny Boy: "Mommy, it smells like Daddy here."

Me (mumbling): "That's because that's where Daddy sleeps."

Johnny Boy: "Oh."

The curiosity was killing me.

Me: "By the way, what does Daddy smell like?"

Johnny Boy: "Underwear."

Yeah, he set me up big time there. After that there was a lot of giggling and potty talk and unfortunately, no napping. Oh well, at least there was giggling.

Tine vs. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly....goes to Tine. When it comes to Johnny Boy, there is more Good than anything. Sure, I'd rather not see his naked ass running around the house leaving fart trails in his wake, but he has the best laugh and a great sense of humor....when he can manage to use words other than poop and turd. Johnny Boy is smart, curious, creative, sweet, and above all.....loving. I'm lucky to be his Mommy. Has it only been six years? I feel like I've been his Mommy forever...and that's a good feeling.

Tine vs. Target Triage

I went to Target today. You might be asking yourself, "How is that different from any other day?" Good question, seeing as how I'll use any excuse I can dream up to require a visit to good old Tarjay. What? We're all out of toilet paper? Let's go to Target, they have toilet paper there. What? We're all out of pencils and underpants? Let's go to Target....they have BOTH of those things there. What? We're all out of shake weights, light bulbs, and candy corn? Let's go to Target....they have EVERYTHING. And if they don't have it, that just means we don't need that shit anyway.

So, the girls and I went to Target. I don't even remember what we went for, since my shopping list was one of the casualties....I'll explain that later. All I remember is that there was blood....lots and lots of blood. And....oddly enough, the incident occurred in the battery section. Let that sink in. There was an injury...in the battery department. How coincidental is that?!?!?!

Okay, so we're in the battery department and I'm looking for some C's and D's....batteries people, batteries. Get your heads out of the gutter. Anyway, I'm looking for batteries and I notice out of the corner of my eye that Alex is wandering around looking at her feet, trying not to step on the cracks in the tile. She proceeds to bump into the fire extinguisher hanging on the pole behind me. I didn't think much of it since she barely hit it and didn't complain. Then, about 30 seconds later, she starts whining that her head hurts. I turn around and her face is covered....I mean COVERED in blood. She looked like she just stepped off the battlefield of Braveheart or something.

Let me just say that inside...inside I was FREAKING THE HELL OUT! There is nothing like a bloody, gushing, wound on your child to make you totally lose your shit. Seriously. My son has had to have stitches in his head twice and even that hadn't prepared me for what happened today. There was so much freaking blood and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why she was bleeding so damn much.

Despite the Niagra Falls of blood gushing down her face, I didn't want to scare her so I did the most logical, white trash thing I could think of — I used my shopping list as a makeshift compression bandage to stop the blood flow. Let me just say, I would not recommend using a shopping list as a bandage. Not only did it smear blood all over her forehead and up into her hair, but later, after I had her all cleaned up, I could no longer read said list and had to wander aimlessly up and down each and every aisle until I remembered the other things on the bloody list. And I still forgot the damn shake weight. But I digress.

Anyway, she was bleeding profusely, I had my little white trash shopping list bandage pressed to her forehead, I plopped her on the front of the cart, and calmly made my way to the front of the store where the bathroom was so I could clean her up and see what I was dealing with. I've always wondered what kind of super power would be most useful to have...flying, super strength, super speed.... After today, I think I'd go with mind reading. I seriously would've liked to know what all of those other shoppers and Target employees were thinking as I calmly walked through the store with a severely bleeding child who had a shopping list stuck to her face.

Tine vs. Target Triage....goes to Tine. I kept it together people. I literally thought she was going to need 15 stitches with as much blood as she had on her face and hair. She was like a little red oompa loompa. But I kept it together and I did NOT lose my shit. And I'm so glad I wasn't one of those basket case moms that calls 911, the fire department, and the National Guard just because my kid is a clutz. After I had her washed off, I discovered that the wound was miniscule...I have no idea where or why all of the blood had to happen. I've had paper cuts worse than that wound. It didn't even need a bandaid! The one good thing is that I discovered something important today. A situation is what you make of it.

And for the record, the shake weight was not (nor will it ever be) on my shopping list.....bloody or not.

I do have to give a big shout out to the Target employees because they immediately stepped in to help when they realized what had happened. The electronics dude materialized out of nowhere with a paper towel to replace my blood soaked shopping list and he called up front to let them know what was going on. The manager met me in the bathroom and stood by to make sure we didn't need to call an ambulance. Everyone was very helpful and willing to do whatever I needed. I know the poor manager was relieved when he didn't have to write up the report on "The Little girl who walked head first into the fire extinguisher."

Tine vs. The Booger Bomb

That's it. I'm trading in my plush Armada with cushy carseats and dvd player for a horse trailer. That's the only thing that could possibly solve my problem. You know what I'm talking about. Riding around with three carseats in the backseat, kids mere inches from each other, no barriers....they just can't resist the temptation to torment one another. Invading each other's personal space, knocking toys out of hands, poking, prodding, hitting, pulling, licking, whatever. They just can't leave each other alone!

Even the baby turns into a total pestfest when she's harnessed up in the carseat. She's always flinging her leg over the side of her seat to kick Johnny Boy and he in turn smacks her which of course results in hissy fit, drool inducing, baby screeching (aka Chloe-The-Howler-Monkey). Usually, the little PITAs resort to the same old tricks of annoying each other, but Alex came up with an ingenious new form of torture. This conversation actually occurred yesterday in the car after I picked Johnny Boy up from school.

Johnny Boy: "Mommy! Alex put a booger on me!"

Me: (attempting not to giggle) "Alex, why did you put a booger on Johnny?"

Alex: "Because I didn't want it anymore."

Johnny Boy: "Well I don't want it either!"

Me: (still trying not to giggle) "Alex, that's really gross. You shouldn't even be picking your nose at all. Definitely don't put boogers on anyone."

Sounds of squabbling and arguing issue from the backseat. I can't quite make out what they're saying but it sounds like they're battling over who is going to have the booger....and apparently, neither of them want it.

Suddenly, it's quiet.

Me: (worried) "Johnny, where is the booger now?"

Johnny Boy: "I put it back on Alex."

Of course.

Me: (getting really worried now since she's not complaining.) "Alex, where is the booger?"

Alex: "I don't know."

Me: "Did you eat it?"

It was worth asking. She's well known for booger consumption.

Alex: "No."

Me: (getting frantic since the thought of a lost booger in the car seriously grosses me out.) "Well, is it on you?"

Alex: "I don't know."

Me: "Well....look!"

It's quiet as she searches.

Me: "Is it on you?"

Alex: "I don't think so. I think it fell off."

Fantastic. This means some day, when I'm least expecting it, I will probably be ambushed by Alex's disgusting, long lost, booger bomb. Who knows where that thing is hiding out?!?!?! It's like going in the woods and thinking you might have a tick on you, only instead of a blood sucking little insect that you can light on fire, it's a slimy little green nougat of nastiness that is most likely indestructible...unless you eat it. Um....no thanks.

Tine vs. The Booger Bomb....goes to The Booger Bomb. I was terribly unmatched in this battle, I don't even know how you fight a misplaced booger. There is no winner when a booger goes missing....unless, of course, you're the booger waiting for your chance to hitch a ride on some unsuspecting victim and deal out humiliation. I can only hope I'm not that victim.

P.S. Um....so I thought I made up the word Booger Bomb. I googled it and wouldn't you know....not only am I not the first one to think of that term, but someone illustrated it. It's a weird, weird world out there....

Tine vs. The Spazoid Klutz

I had a ten minute span today where I was a total spazoid and nearly destroyed a grocery store. Okay, not really...but it was looking like that was a definite possibility.

I was on my way to a friend's house and decided that since she had been having a tough time lately, I'd stop at a grocery store and pick up some flowers for her. I pulled into a Shoprite parking lot and as I made the turn to park my gas guzzler in a spot, I heard a "BaBump BaBump!" as the car rocked violently. I was desperately hoping that I hadn't taken out some old lady or anything and was relieved when I looked back and saw it was merely a curb. I didn't just rub up against that curb though. I took that thing head on, Monster Truck Gravedigger style. For once I was driving my SUV like it was meant to be driven...totally recklessly bad ass.

After parking, I got out of the car to see a cart boy staring at me like I just ran over a group of blind nuns or something. I looked at the car....no damage. I looked at the curb....it appeared I was not the only one who had done battle with it. That thing was Torn. Up. Big time. Obviously, there was something wrong with the curb if everyone was hitting it, right? I wasn't about to admit fault for this one. I looked over and the cart boy was still staring at me, as if expecting an explanation.

"Wow, I didn't even see that!" I exclaimed. "I can't believe that even happened! I never hit anything." Which is mostly true...with this car at least. I've scratched up the front sides of it trying to squeeze it out of the garage, but I don't go around hitting things on a regular basis or anything. At least not on purpose.

The cart boy just looked at the back of my car....which is all kinds of smashed in. His eyebrows arched up and he gave me a look that said, "Yeah, right lady. This ain't your first curb smashing rodeo." And I'm pretty sure I heard him mutter, "Damn woman driver." I wanted to explain to him that the huge dent in my bumper wasn't my fault. My husband did it. He was talking on the phone while backing our car out of the garage. He's the one that slammed into his truck with my car...while still in the driveway. It totally wasn't my fault at all. But something told me cart boy wasn't going to believe a word of that after watching me go all Bigfoot on the curb. I felt like smashing his shopping carts Monster Jam style but I'm pretty sure he would've called the police. He just looked like a rat fink. Know what I mean?

Besides...a couple months ago my rear tire popped a few miles from my house and since my car was full of little kids and $200 of groceries, I drove it home....shredding the shit out of that tire. It takes talent to destroy a tire that badly. I could hardly get the damn car up the driveway because the rubber was melting off the wheel. I couldn't, in good conscience, try to convince cart boy I'm a good driver because honestly, I'm a car's worst nightmare.

So I just let cart boy keep thinking his evil-woman-driver thoughts and I toted my kids into the grocery store in search of cheer up flowers. We browsed the flower section for a while and after the kids had picked out the prettiest bunch, I lifted the flowers out of the rack and was rewarded with the sound of a bucket of water splashing to the ground. There was no bucket, but somehow, yanking the flowers from the rack released a dam of water that was now creating a small pond in the floral section of the store. It wasn't just a little water either, the kids were ready to strip off their clothes and do the backstroke in it.

I looked around and there were no employees nearby and I was already dreading catastrophe number three. Things always happen in threes you know, so I rushed the kids to the checkout line spouting off warnings. "Don't touch the rotisserie chicken, the whole building will probably catch on fire," and "Be careful around the Back-To-School display....that's all we need is stab wounds via pencil," and "Look out for the candy display. You fall in that and you could come out with diabetes." Okay, I know that's not true, but store displays are freaking death traps. For real. A couple months ago I took out a six foot tall, glass candle display with a shopping cart. It did not end well...for the candles that is. Bad shopping cart driver versus candle display is an unfair battle. Broken glass and vanilla scented wax were EVERYWHERE. Which just proves my point that we needed to get out of there fast before catastrophe number three reared it's ugly head in the form of a deadly store display rack.

I quickly paid for my cheer up flowers and we bolted for the safety of our curb mashing car.

Tine vs. The Spazoid Klutz...goes to Tine. We ended up making it out of Shoprite without further incident which I count as a win. I did feel a bit bad about the indoor swimming pool we left in the floral section, but it's not like I did it on purpose. We avoided setting the store on fire, we eluded the danger of falling into a pit of pencils, and we escaped the lure of the sugar coma inducing candy display. In addition, we earned the flames and skull that adorn the Armada when we off roaded in the parking lot and gave the curb a serious ass whooping. I'd call that a definite win for Tine.

Tine vs. Bitchy Me

Bitchy Me is totally controlling my life....and man...she is all kinds of evil. She is always making me do things I don't want to do or don't think I can do. Plus she calls me mean names.

I've been having heel problems since last fall...really severe pain which makes it painful to walk and even harder to run. I went to the podiatrist and he told me that I have plantar fascitis, massive heel spurs, and arthritis. Basically at 37, I have the feet of a 93 year old woman. GO COUGAR FEET! But seriously, I run four miles, five days a week and sometimes my feet hurt so badly I really don't want to exercise. Unfortunately...or maybe fortunately...Bitchy Me doesn't ever let me off the hook...

Me: "I don't want to run today. My foot hurts really badly..."

Bitchy Me: "Stop being such a Wuss. You pushed out three babies without any painkillers. If your vajayjay is that badass, your foot can put up with four miles of pain. Get your ass on that treadmill."

Me: "Yes Ma'am."

I hate to admit it, but she was right. And because I complained, she forced me to run an extra mile....and she made me run the entire workout in less than a 10 minute per mile pace...which is really fast for me. How fair is that? What a bitch, right? But a bitch that is determined to keep my ass in size 8 jeans. A bitch that has her sights set on size 6 jeans. A bitch that knows I like my coke and berger cookies. A bitch that knows I need to log in serious calorie burn or I'll look like the big blueberry Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka...

So I run on my treamill a lot and I always run on it in the basement while my kids watch TV so I can keep my eye on them. A month ago I decided for a change of pace, I'd let them swim in the redneck pool while I ran laps around my back yard. They get to swim, I get to run outside, and I can still keep my eye on them. It was a win/win situation. It was about 163 degrees outside that day so I suggested for added fun, the kids should shoot me with water guns every time I ran past. They thought this was a great idea and it kept me cool. Five laps into my totally awesome, multitasking exercise....I stepped in a gopher hole and damn near sheared my leg off at the ankle. Oh yeah, serious ankle rolling. I fell down on the ground, the kids got all excited thinking I was "playing dead" and they continued to douse me with their water guns. Do you think they took it easy on me as I lay sprawled on the grass moaning in pain? Hell no. They totally took advantage of the fact that I was an easy target. Finally I managed to crawl my sorry ass up to the deck, the kids still shooting me of course. I was quite sure something was broken.

I wrapped my ankle in an ice pack and sat on the deck as I tried to decide what to do. It was hot as the devil's asshole outside and I had just severely injured myself, it would have been so easy to just sit there and skip my exercise for the day. I considered my options for a good ten minutes.

Me: "Ow. My ankle really hurts. I think I broke it."

Bitchy Me: "Stop being a Pussy. There's not even any bone poking through the skin. Get your ass out of this chair and finish your run."

Me: "But it really hurts..."

Bitchy Me: "You know what's really going to hurt? Looking in that mirror and seeing love handles because you were a sissy and skipped your exercise because of a little pain."

Bitchy Me is brutal, but she had a point. I got up, ignored the pain, and ran another 40 laps. The next day I went to Hershey Park for my son's birthday. My sister Laurie asked me, "What happened to your foot?!?!" I looked down at my left foot and it seriously looked like (as Chris Rock would say) I was baking bread in my sneaker. Swollen and bruised skin was spilling out of the top of my shoe. And even though it hurt really badly, Bitchy Me made me walk on it All. Freaking. Day. Man she's a tyrant. But as she pointed out, "You can't ruin your son's birthday just because you're a clumsy bonehead." If I hadn't gone, I would have totally missed seeing my kids hanging out with giant candy. What a loss that would've been!

So I've got these bum feet that always hurt and delicate ankles that sprain really easily. Add that to the fact that I'm a total klutz...and I'm just a disaster waiting to happen. It's really quite amazing I manage to make it through most days unscathed. A week ago Tine the Klutz struck again. I was walking down the stairs while carrying my daughter and suddenly, my right ankle rolled and there was a sickening pop. I somehow managed to not drop or hurt my daughter at all, but my ankle was destroyed. As I lay on the couch that night with my foot propped up in a desperate hope that it was merely another sprain, my ankle just continued to get bigger and bigger.

The next day we were supposed to leave for a five day vacation at the beach. When I woke up Monday morning I could barely walk. My 93 year old cougar feet were on fire, my ankle was ginormous, and I was fairly certain I was going to throw up because it hurt so badly. I was literally crying from the pain as I hobbled around trying to make my bed. I told my husband I needed to go to the doctor because there was no way something wasn't broken this time. 

As I waited for him to finish up what he was doing and haul me into Patient First....

Me: "I guess we're going to have to cancel vacation."

Bitchy Me: "Whachyoutalkinbout Tine?"

Me: "I can't walk. I definitely broke my ankle this time. No way am I going to be able to go out on the beach and walk the boardwalk with a cast and crutches."

Bitchy Me: "How have you lasted this long in life being such a Pansy Ass? Take some advil, wrap it in an ace bandage, and get your ass upstairs and start packing."

Me: "But it hurts so badly I think I'm gonna throw up."

Bitchy Me: "Pain happens, but suffering is optional. Stop being a Crybaby."

So I listened to Bitchy Me and what do you know....I dealt with it. Even when it looked like I had a parasitic twin growing out of my ankle and my entire leg from calf to toes was purple and sore....I dealt with it. She was right. Suffering is optional.

Tine vs. Bitchy Me...goes to Bitchy Me. Bitchy Me has amazing willpower and I respect that. She never lets me give up just because I'm tired, or sore, or hurt, or even broken. She never lets me miss out on things when I'm uncomfortable or in pain. She saves me a lot of money on doctor copays and what's even better...I can eat that donut because she forced me to run those four miles (plus the extra one) even when I didn't feel like it. If I had listened to the pain last week, I would've missed out on so many memories with my family at the beach and probably would've been laid up on the couch bored out of my mind. Bitchy Me does get me in trouble sometimes. She's the one that sasses back at people who are being total assholes. She's the one that almost got me involved in a throw down on Friday, but that's another story. Usually, however, she's making me do things I didn't think I could do. She's encouraging me to be better, do better, and enjoy life no matter what's thrown my way. She's the one that makes me run that extra mile, the one that makes me reread my book and edit it, the one that makes me send out another query letter no matter how many rejections I've gotten. She's the one that taught me that pain happens, but my suffering is optional. I love you Bitchy Me.

Tine vs. "I Don't Know"

There is probably nothing more nerve wracking than using a public restroom with my daughter in tow. Whenever I have to take her into a public restroom, I always feel like I'm in one of those movies where there is a bomb that needs to be diffused before the whole building blows up.....only instead of a bomb it's my daughter who's about to piss her pants. And instead of diffusing the bomb, I've got to fully mummify a toilet seat in under ten seconds for her to sit on before her little girly bits finally give out and she douses my shoes in half a dozen juice boxes worth of urine.

And public restrooms never have the nice, thick, Charmin with which to make a toilet shield to protect my child's cheeks. Oh no. The toilet paper is so thin it's damn near transparent and it's on a big ass roll the size of a Monster Truck tire. It takes a delicate touch to get the paper off the roll in pieces big enough to actually cover the seat. Usually I just end up with a pile of toilet paper confetti that I sprinkle on the seat, hoping it can create enough of a barrier between the germ infested toilet and my child's sensitive hind parts. The problem with the toilet paper confetti cover is that when she stands up, it looks like she sat on a chicken and I have to essentially pluck off all the disgusting, soggy, toilet paper bits before she can pull up her pants. *shudder* and *gag*.

As if mummifying toilet seats, unrolling the massive drum of potty paper, and plucking soggy paper off my child's ass wasn't horrifying enough for a bathroom experience...more often than not I'm doing the pee pee dance too. I've had three kids and my girly bits are all kinds of malfunctioning. I go to the bathroom no less than 93 times a day. So you can imagine the torture I suffer as I wait for her to finish her business. I bob up and down nervously, watching as she sits amidst the confetti pile trying to decide if she has to drop the kids off too. HOW DOES SHE NOT KNOW? Either she has to go or she doesn't, right? But no. She always has to sit on the toilet FOREVAH and think about whether she has to go or not.

Okay, so after a good five minutes of hanging out in the stall, my bladder is usually screaming like a pack of teenage girls at the Breaking Dawn premiere. Finally, she's done and it's my turn. With a stall the size of a small coffin, it takes extreme skill to get her off the toilet and get myself in position before I either accidentally knock her into the filthy tampon bin or she makes some kind of comment about my ass being hairy (not that it is of course). The whole time we're in there, all I can think about is all of the germs that are crawling all over that toilet, knowing there is no amount of bleach and hand sanitizer that will make the world right again. (But maybe that's just the OCD talking...)

So that's the normal public restroom experience. Today, we were at the beach...in a public restroom...in a restaurant. I think that's some kind of triple whammy....Dirty toilet triplified or something....The trifecta of toilet filth. The only way it could have been worse was if the stall had been out of toilet paper altogether. Anyway, we go about our normal bathroom routine. My daughter gets off the toilet and while I'm doing my thing, I tell her to pull up her pants. I finish and when I look up, I see she still hasn't pulled up her underpants or skirt.

Me: "Alex, pull up your underpants."

Alex: "I already did!"

(The stress of being in the stall is starting to get to me. The bomb is about to explode).

Me: "No you didn't, I can see them around your ankles. Pull up your underpants now."

Alex: "I'm wearing two underpants."

She lifts her shirt and sure enough, she has pulled up a pair of underpants and another pair are around her ankles. I stood there dumbfounded for a good 30 seconds trying to figure out why she had on two pairs of underpants....

Me: (finally) "Why are you wearing two pairs of underpants?!?!"

Alex: "I don't know."

And then she pulled up the second pair and her skirt and looked at me as if nothing was wrong. Maybe nothing was, but it's been bothering me all day. Why was she wearing two pairs of underpants?!?!?!?! It reminded me of the time, when in total sleep deprivation, I double diped her when she was a baby....and just as I was that time, I was completely confused today. I could not wrap my brain around the fact that she was wearing two pairs of underpants.

Why? It bothered me all day...

Tine vs. "I Don't Know".....goes to "I Don't Know." I actually googled "Wearing two pairs of underwear" just for fun. And guess what? It's not all that unusual! Guys wear tightie whities under boxers, some girls wear two pairs of undies with tights (one on top, on underneath), and I found multiple blog posts about little girls who accidentally put on two pairs of undies just like my Alex. The reason I'm gonna have to give this one to "I Don't Know" is because I can only imagine how uncomfortable it was to wear two pairs of undies all day long and she never complained. AND....because she didn't think it was weird. I hope that she will always be able to shrug off her differences and be as self confident and self assured as she is now. So what if she wears two pairs of underwear? That's just how she rolls....

Tine vs. The Guilt Trip

I think my kids have a hidden stash of crack in the house somewhere. Don't ask me how they got the money for it. Maybe it's all those discarded coins they find in parking lots. Maybe they're stealing out of Daddy's chocolate jar and are selling pilfered candy on the rugrat blackmarket. I don't know. All I know is that since summer started, they spend every waking moment going ape shit like a bunch of rabid dogs chasing tennis balls. 90% of their time is spent running around the house, screaming like their underpants are on fire. The other 10% they spend begging me for fruit snacks and for the password to the ipad so they can play angry birds.

Summer vacation. All day long with the precious little vessels of love I created, that are now home for summer and full of the irritating bits of behavior they picked up at school and dance class. I guess that's why parents get all giddy when they see "Back to School" flyers. They just can't wait for that peace and quiet that only school can bring. I admit....I can finally understand it. I love my kids, but I can only take so much noise before my brain shuts off and I start to drool. My kids have caught the summer bug and I think it's totally incurable. There is no way to turn off the crazy once they get started. Yelling doesn't work, timeout doesn't work, and don't even get me started on bribery. Bribery only works as long as it takes for them to earn their treat and then they're running around whacking each other with construction paper swords (which are surprisingly good at inflicting pain) and screeching "coconuts" and "poop" at the top of their lungs. I can't explain coconuts, so don't even ask. But watch the video, it's totally true. I can't make that kind of crap up.



Yes. He bashed himself in the coco'nuts.' See? I told you they were crazy.

The one place I absolutely will NOT stand for the ape shit is in the bathroom. I'm already razor challenged as it is. If they start flipping out in the bathroom, I might lose concentration and lop off a knee cap or something. Last week I had just finished showering and was attempting to get ready for the day....get my hair brushed and apply all my toiletries in the correct places. Suddenly, the peace and tranquility evaporated when my son and daughter burst through the door, wrestling and screaming and brandishing toy swords. I have no idea why they thought the bathroom was a good place to fight. I can only imagine it had something to do with the acoustics and the possibility that I might spontaneously combust from annoyance.

I calmly said, "Cut it out you two. It's all fun and games until someone gets whacked upside the head with a lightsaber." And then the thinkable happened. Surprise, surprise. My daughter got whacked upside the head with a freaking lightsaber. She started screaming and then went completely beserkoid with her saber, smacking my son repeatedly with it. Scuffling, crying, screaming, whacking....someone stepped on the baby and she was freaking out, sitting in a puddle of her own hissyfit drool. I accidentally poked myself in the eye with my hairbrush and that was it.

 "Oh my God! You are driving me insane! Get! Out! Now! Before I break those toys into tiny little pieces and make you eat them for lunch!" Good sense finally took over and they ran for safety, closing the door behind them. I hate yelling at my kids. I'm really good at it — an expert even — but I hate yelling and I was feeling like crap for losing my cool. Minutes later I heard a slight "pshhht pshhht pshhht" sound. I looked down to see a piece of paper sliding under the door. Curious, I went over to see what it was. Damn. Yup, that's right. It said "I Love You." Obviously the handiwork of my son. Let the guilt trip sink in. As if I wasn't already feeling like enough of an ass for losing my cool...he pulled the "I Love You" card. You'd think I would have learned my lesson with the treadmill, but apparently not. I should know by now, nothing good ever comes from losing my cool. Well, that's not entirely true. There is one good thing...I can always blog about it, right?

Tine vs. The Guilt Trip goes to....Tine. Sorry, but I guess I'm pretty good at forgiving myself. Plus, ten minutes later I could still feel the pain of my skewered eyeball and the baby was still losing her damned mind from being trampled. And, after delivering the guilt trip note, they ran downstairs and were pegging each other with matchbox cars. When does school start again?