Sometimes I worry myself

Dear Brain to Mouth Connection. 

We need to talk.

We need to add a few things to those censors of yours, other than religion (because with your very liberal Catholic ways, you’ll offend someone) and politics (because with your very liberal and every once in a long while conservative thinking, you’re bound to offend someone).

I know.  I know.  You’re better than Mom’s, but that’s not saying much.  It’s like the guy who teaches his kids racial jokes but tells himself he’s better than his dad because his dad was a card caring KKK member.  So yeah, comparing yourself to Mom’s lack of censoring isn’t saying much. At. All.

Please don’t tell any one that you don’t need to clean for your in-laws because you have a “Program.”  Sure, you’re house is cleaner, but you often forget to follow all the way through with the Program.  Like when was the last time you dusted?  Or even swept the bathroom floors?  “Don’t ever speak ill of the Program!  The Program is rock solid!  The Program is sound!”  But only when followed precisely.  That goes for the Bill Program.  So when you laugh and say you have a “Program,” you sound f-ing smug and forget to mention your house could fit into someone else’s house with room to add a basketball court.  And no one likes a smug mama.  Including me.

While we’re at it, what the hell were you thinking when you told another mom your family doesn’t qualify for the scholarship AFTER she was talking about her financial woes?  Now you look like an @ss.  The sick thing is that when you add in the bills you probably have less money to kick around than she does.  AND she already thinks your rich.  I don’t know what gave you away; the lack of haircuts on the boys, the Target maternity pants that you’re praying don’t get holes in them in the next two to three months, the fact you haven’t gotten a hair cut when you needed one three months ago.  At least you tried to mend the burning bridge you just torched with adding, “but we have a lot of bills, a LOT of bills.”  Yeah, I should have made you slap your forehead for that stupidity.

Remember how you were complaining to your BFF, who understands the stupid things you say, about not being able to close the deal on friendships?  This is the stuff that’s probably f-ing you up.  I’d make you read Dale Carnegie again, but that dude f-s you up too.  What with the complete change of every technique you learned to start a conversation and make friends. 

So let’s review:

No talking about religion. 

No talking about politics. 

No talking about having a clean house (Since you’ll eat those words when the baby comes any ways.) 

No talking about money (Just listen and nod). 

And maybe we can have a friend we can actually meet for coffee or something.  You can Thank Me Later.

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And is any one else getting worried that I have complete conversations in my head?

Conversation in my head

The boys love watching the fish at Wal-Mart.  I should buy them a small tank with a few fish.

Am I crazy?  Who will be feeding and cleaning said fish?  I’m about to have a baby.  I barely have time to water the plants.  Wait- what day is this?  Excuse me.

But they would be so happy with the fish.  Maybe it would be a perfect gift for when the baby comes.  It’ll give them something to take care of and make them feel big.

Did you not hear me before?  Are you crazy?  The responsibility would fall on your shoulders.  Like everything else.

I took care of Fish well enough.

Fish was a survivor.  We could have won money if we trained him to fight.  You let him go green half the time.  What kind of responsibility would that be teaching?

This would be like training for a real pet like a puppy in a year or two.

Um, don’t you remember what you told The Husband?  No pets until everyone in the household can and does pick up after themselves.

The Husband wanted a cow.  For milking.

It’s still a good rule.  Who picked up Mr. Burns’ poop when he was with us?

Point taken.  Fine.

I’m glad you can see reason.  Even if this all took place in your head.

At least it wasn’t out loud.  As usual.

Point taken.

But still a couple of fish . . . .

Lord.  Feed me some chocolate.  We’ll discuss this later.

A Delightful Family Planning Discussion with my Mom. Wohoo.

Me: . . . to prepare for my first trimester and –

 

Mom: What?!

 

Me: I said I was planning on buying a few extra gingerbread mixes to prepare when I’m in my first trimester.  You know-

 

Mom: Do you have something to tell me?

 

Like I would ever “forget” to tell my mom that I was pregnant.  She’s the planned third person to know.  I say planned because in both of my previous pregnancies she was out with her girlfriends when I found out and I ended up telling my dad instead.  Besides if I wanted to string her along, I would have done a better job as I am my father’s daughter.

 

Me: No, Mom.  I said “prepare.”  We’ve decided to wait six months.  It-

 

Mom: Six months?!  To start trying?

 

Me: Yes.

 

Mom: But that’s so far away!  Why?

 

Maybe it’s just me, but I do remember her trying to convince me to wait a little longer before the third pregnancy, and now six months is too far away.  Mom, you give me whip lash.  Besides I could have sworn we had this conversation before; she must have been on the computer when I told her, pretending to listen as she tried to figure out 10 down.

 

Me: Because we want to make sure the office is healthy.  Because I want to make sure we’re financially healthy.  I like the idea of spending more one on one time with Sean when Evan goes to preschool.  I like getting into a swing of things before the baby comes.  I like to drop another five pounds.  I want to go to my brother’s Arizona wedding reception.  Because I want to.

 

Really, it’s the smartest thing to do.  This way my husband isn’t completely stressed as they pull out of the worst time of year (ask any business owner who does business to business work; they all hate the holidays and the end of the year because it’s the end of the budget and important people are off on ski trips.  My husband can be a real Scrooge.).  We’ll know how long it takes to get to the preschool and the schedule, so I can work it in with breastfeeding.  Maybe I’ll even make a friend or two who can carpool with me.  I wouldn’t want to miss my brother’s second reception.  So now instead of wobbling my way through the Northeast coast, I’ll be vomiting.

 

Mom: You don’t have to wait so long.  You could get pregnant sooner and have a January or February baby.

 

Me: I don’t like winter babies.

 

Mom: Why not?

 

My husband: (Walking into the room) Why not?

 

Me: Because I like summer birthdays.  I don’t want to have birthdays close to Christmas.  And all my really cute maternity clothes are for the summer.

 

Do I have to have multiple reasons for every decision?

 

Mom: I guess it makes sense not to have a birthday close to Christmas.  Your brother’s is in November.  (Duh)  All your birthdays were three months apart; if we had another, it would have been born in February.  How about March?

 

Me: Late March would be fine.

 

Mom: See, that’s not so far away.  Besides you never know how long it’ll take you to conceive. 

 

Oh, you mean it may take us three times in a month versus the magic once?  Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it.  Did I just hear laughing?

 

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Husband, Wife, Penis Blogs

Me: My blog is doing really well right now.  People really like the penis stories.

 

Husband: I don’t know.

 

Me: What?

 

Husband: “They only think about their penises.”  That’s really controversial.  You’re going to make people mad.

 

Me: What?  (What you actually read my blog?  What you actually think that was controversial?  What you’re upset because I think men think with their penises?)

 

Husband: Yeah, you’re talking about your boys there.  It’s not right.

 

Me: First off, it was a joke.  Sarcasm.  Second, these are boys; you all DO think about your penises all the time.  Third, the people who read these are moms who have been or are going through with it; THEY know it’s a joke.

 

Husband: It’s just not right.  You probably offended people.

 

Me: (After a long pause wondering if offended my blog friends, then realizing you would totally call me out if I did.)  Honestly, you’re quite touchy about this.  It’s just a stupid generalization.  We all know SOMETHING has to be going on in your heads than just your penises or else you would never eat.

 

Husband: I think about other things.

 

Me: (roll of eyes) Obviously.  But this is just like my theory on human relations.  Men are stupid.  Women are evil.

 

Husband: I’m not stupid.

 

Me: (sigh) Do you remember when you thought that was actually funny?  When we were dating?  Or maybe you were just a little drunk?  Women learn in middle school how to be manipulative, and men learn to fight.  A man will kick your ass, but a woman will destroy your life.  All women have potential evil lurking in their soul.  All men are potentially rendered stupid under women.

 

Husband: I’m not stupid.

 

Me: Remember M?  How she would hang on you to make her boyfriend jealous and me pissed off, ready to kick her ass, but you never noticed?  Or how about the time she told her boyfriend you hit on her and he called you wanting to fight and you said dude, I’m MARRIED and I would NEVER do that to you if I were single?  Or how about J that TOTALLY convinced her boyfriend she wanted a kid and now will NEVER do it?  Those women did EVIL things that men would never EVER think of and were completely blind to.

 

Husband: Good point.  But I’m not stupid.

 

Me: (Sigh.  New tactic) Fine, you’re not stupid and you don’t always think about your penis.  By the way, did you read the one about the bookworms?

 

Husband: No.

 

Me: How about the one about the second child?

 

Husband: No.

 

Me: So which ones did you read?

 

Husband: The penis ones.  They’re always the funniest.

 

Me: Ah.

 

 

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Men’s chores: A Conversation

I bet you think it will be between my husband and I, and you would be wrong.  During my daily conversation with my mom, I mentioned how I asked my husband to fill up my SUV that he was borrowing.  Amazingly enough he didn’t forget, and I was very glad.  (Which in a way is kind of pathetic that I get excited that my husband does something I asked)  Any ways, the conversation:

Me: . . . So he actually filled the tank.

Mom: You know, Pauline’s (a friend of my mom’s) husband always fills up her tank. 

Me: I know, Mom.  (Can we feel a lecture coming on?)

Mom: And your dad fills up the Mustang about 95% of the time.

(And here I thought he did that just to get away and be on his own for a little bit.  My dad’s a lone wolf.)

Me: I know, Mom.  It’s just I feel that who ever is driving the car, when it hits an eighth of a tank, can go fill it up or at least replace the gas they use.  My problem is he has left the car on empty when I’ve had the kids.  So it’s nice that he filled up the tank.

Mom: Well, we just think it’s a husband’s chore.  (silence)  What are you thinking?  (Is it that obvious?)

Me: I was thinking that you raised me to believe that there were no men’s chores or women’s chores.  They were just chores that needed to be done.  If the dishes needed to be done, then someone would do it.  If the garbage needs to be taken out, someone will have to do it.  You taught me to do “guy” chores.

Mom: (pause) I was a good mother, wasn’t I?

Me: Yes.