In my family, you were funny if you got a sibling to spew milk out their nose at the dinner table. All five kids have big noses, so it made the whole shoot-out that much more spectacular. It was an extra bonus if someone’s nose milk landed on your brussel sprouts so you were exempt from eating them. (Whenever my dad needs a laugh, he just pulls out my freshman picture out of his wallet. 29 years and it never gets old!)
After all of that practice to out-milk-snot each other, I have traded any pride and dignity to sharing some “Are you frickin’ kidding me?” stories that happen quite often in my life. (The storytelling must be the Irish in me. The Polish gene of cooking and cleaning completely skipped my DNA pool.) There’s plenty of material from my seemly mundane life in the burbs. Married to my old man for 14 years. Daughter (10). Son (8). Part-time copywriter with a vocabulary that peaked at the third-grade level. (Although, many of my words are not appropriate for 3rd graders.) Blessed with girlfriends who keep me sane and cocktailed.
For some reason, whenever I share one of my anecdotes, I’ve been told that I need to write a book. I think people are just feeling sorry for me and don’t know how else to respond. Or they are just uncomfortable. Case and point: my husband streaking during our block party the first year we moved to the suburbs. Fortunately (?), he was buck-naked while his sidekick had on his “lucky underwear” –– a red satin thong. Yeah, you should write a book!
Then along came Facebook. While many facebragged about how their kids made the honor roll or won the big game, I was posting about my son’s nervous penis or my daughter’s bra issues. And people said that they were spitting on their computer screens from laughing. It must be a sign that I’ve come full circle!
So I am giving this blog thing a go. If it makes you laugh, share it with your friends. If you hate it, recommend it to those who annoy you, because they are probably my kind of peeps. If I reach enough like-minded, warped people, my goal is to eventually sell ad space to liquor vendors and antidepressant companies, put together a therapy fund for my kids and get a tummy tuck. (My girlfriend compared my wrinkled, droopy, post-two-kids gut to the boobs on the old lady in Something About Mary. Nice!)
Just be warned that the following information is true. I am just not that clever enough to make this crap up. (And yes, most will focus on feces!)
Thanks for taking a peek at the freak show~
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, “I used everything you gave me”.