Valentine's Day: With and Without Money.

I hope every has a very Happy Valentine's Day! And some money...you know, to actually do something.

Metros of the World, this is the final straw...

Coming 2013: Lots of man crotch.

Apparently skinny jeans weren't emasculating enough. The next trend in Men's fashion are said to be "Meggings", or Men's Leggings. 

Between learning of the existence of Meggings and Kanye West wearing a skirt during last night's Nationally televised 121212 Concert, I have decided that it's my responsibility to write an open letter to the Metrosexual Men of the World, those heterosexual males, for which this trend might become popular.

Dear Metros of the World,

Cut the crap. By doing things like wearing "Meggings" (which are gonna make that sucked in red bull and vodka gut look incredible and force you to wear screen printed t-shirts with sayings like "I'm a Grower, not a Show-er"), you are ensuring that no woman will ever procreate with you. The end is totally nigh.

Things have gone far enough. You tan, you wax, you product. All things that I have cleverly avoided by marrying the last beacon of hope for humanity. A "man's man". For whom eyebrows means one, not two.

But I fear for my children. That they will in some way find this attractive. And I will end up with grand babies who have to wear Spanx to get into their onesies. Whose first hair cuts will be fades. And who smell of a permanent mixture of burnt on tanning oil and Acqua Di Gio.

I know how lucky I am. To have one of the last men of a dying breed. A man for whom pants means rugged jeans, or sweat. Who has embraced with open arms, the body hair and musty smells, with which he has been naturally gifted.

Some women might see this differently. I say it's because they don't know any better. Like how we will never know how fun it is to ride a Unicorn (or maybe it's terrifying, I don't know...)

These women don't realize how sexy a man looks when his jeans are slightly too tight and they sag down under his beer gut. They have never known the embrace of a sweaty man who smells of hard work and is obviously out of deodorant. Or what it's like to have a long makeout sesh with a scruff-bearing male and have a sweet two day reminder of the embrace in the form of beard burn. Or how titillating it is to watch your man get dressed and do the old sniff test as a form of quality control. You might say it's disgusting. I say it's downright sexy.

So please, please Metrosexual Men, don't embrace this Meggings thing. It's the most "unmanly" thing you could do and it's just taking this whole thing a bit too far. I know they don't make 'em like my husband anymore, but could you at least butch it up a little bit?

Besides, they look like they would create a Testicle/Vice Grip situation. So drop this trend like last season's Nike's. Your rapidly dwindling, fist pumping sperm colony will thank you.

Sincerely,

The last SANE woman on the planet. (And my burly husband will tell you, that's a stretch)
Amy Terror

The Bag of Epic Shit-Puke: If this doesn't make you puke, I don't know what will.

1:00 am PST, my 6 year old daughter, Phoenix stumbles out of her bedroom and into the living room, saying that she needs to "poop". She is in the bathroom for all of two minutes and screams "I have a POOP PROBLEM!". I was feeling kinda nauseated and was thinking that at the worst, we would have a Whitney-Bobby situation and that I could maintain.

What I walked into, I was not at all prepared for. I turned and ran into the kitchen, hugged the garbage can and gurgled a gallon of vomit out of my face. Oh. My. God.

So now, I'm puking in the garbage can in the kitchen. Not just once, but I mean like five straight minutes of actively vomiting in there. So Superhusband, Jude, decides to spring into action. Knowing that what I just saw put me over the edge, he was hesitant to enter the bathroom.

"How bad is it, Phoenix?", he screamed from the hallway.

No answer from Phoenix, so he peeked in and noticed the shitxplosion. She shit somewhere in between pulling her pants down and making it to the toilet. It was EVERYWHERE. Gooey brown liquid, oozing all over the floor and in between all of the obnoxious nooks and crannies in the toilet seat. Superhusband gags, but forges ahead. I walk into the hall to witness his heroism. And then promptly return to the kitchen to projectile vomit.

He cleans the poop off the floor like a champ and even disinfects it with Comet. I, stomach now entirely empty, grab my shit-child and throw her in the tub. I stop up the drain and start the water, then quickly pull the plug and pull the plunger to turn on the shower. Thank goodness I had the foresight not to let her marinate in it.

So I tell her to just stand there and rinse her butt off, while Superhusband finishes cleaning the floor.

Oh shit. My stomach is gurgling. I'm gonna puke again.

Superhusband steps out of the way and throws the shit bags into the kitchen trash bag containing my innards. I vomit again while poor, poop-coated Phoenix stands naked in the shower and lets the water run down her back.

I stand up and I think I can handle it now. Ok, just have to get her out of the shower and dress her.

Then I hear it. And then smell it. She starts gagging and then projectile vomits onto her feet in the shower again and again. Hurl. Hurl. Hurl. Giant chunks of noodles from dinner just sitting there in the bathtub. FUCK. I call for Superhusband to step in. And promptly return to the kitchen to vomit on top of the shit bag. Oh. God.

So, I tell Phoenix to hold the puke for a second, throw a towel onto the bathroom floor and whisk her out of the shower. I tell her to hover over the toilet just in case she's gonna puke again. She pukes.

I grabbed Superhusband some gloves and plastic bags and he scoops out the chunks of puke and bags them up, finishing up by rinsing the tub out with Comet, which is apparently our official sponsor of the night. I get Phoenix some clothes and Superhusband hands me the bag filled with puke. Which I also place in the world's most vile trash bag. And then I puke for another five minutes straight into the toilet.

Phoenix goes out to sit on the couch and I hand her our small bathroom garbage can to puke in. Then Superhusband and I need to remove the bag of Epic Shit-Puke from our house. I carry the whole can out in case the bag had a hole in it, Superhusband following at a safe distance for moral support.

Dear Mr. Garbage Man,
I am so sorry that we left you a bag full of Epic Shit-Puke. It is by far the most vile garbage bag the world has ever seen. As a matter of fact, I'm sure there is someone you aren't fond of in your life. Consider it a gift, light it and put it on their lawn.

Sorry again,
Still puking,
Amy Terror

What it feels like to watch Honey Boo Boo for the first time.

Brush Your Teeth, Kids.

You probably shouldn't call mom a whore.

Winning Nerd Fights. (NFMM-Not-For-Mom-Mom)

My Fourth Kid.

Bathroom Aim.

Sitcom Solutions.

Mom Solution/Dad Solution

Toddler Laws of Physical Propulsion.

Irish people do not tan.

So Jude and I packed up our all of our earthly belongings and our pint-sized clones and moved from New Jersey, where we lived all our lives, to California last year.

Not having previously been a California resident, I had gotten the impression that as soon as you move to California, you are tan as fuck.

Not so much.

You see, my friends, I have what you call Irish people skin.

I go to the beach and people have to shield their eyes because my flesh is so white that it reflects the sun. Medieval queens used to drink arsenic to have skin as pale as me.

Irish people do not tan. They burn.

It's like some sort of Fairytale curse, you go out in the sun and it decimates your skin. You try as hard as you can, you sit out, you go tanning. But you just turn lobster red, hurt like a motherfucker and all your skin peels off from head to toe. And low and behold. The same shade of ultra white person lies in wait underneath, mocking you.

The best you can hope for is that some day, maybe your millions of freckles will connect together, giving the appearance of the presence of melanin.

Irish People Skin should be classified as a disease.

"Stay out of the sun. If you have Irish People Skin and the sun hits it, you will blister from head to toe and all of your skin will fall off".

We are like vampires without all the cool sexy stuff. Like when Kirsten Dunst tried to cut her hair in Interview with the Vampire, or trying to clean the house with three kids. It's pointless to try.

My husband, however, is Irish and Portuguese. But he has Portuguese skin.

I hate that motherfucker.

He sits in the car when it's partly cloudy with a sweatshirt on and gets a tan. He just has to look at the sun and absorbs its magical rays and tans. He is a bronze God.

The only thing that good about being Irish is having a ridonculous alcohol tolerance.

That and being able to buy cool Irish stuff from my lovely Mother-in-Law http://www.deaconapparel.com/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=54

Lesson learned. SPF 100 it is. And for all you beach goers whom I blind at some point, I am deeply sorry. It's not my fault I look like the guy who played Powder. Blame one of my horny relatives who decided to bed an Irishmen.

You know, cause pale, clammy guys with freckles are irresistible.

I do hope he's kidding.

My husband, Jude, is a funny, funny man.

He is the inventor of super grown-up phrases the likes of "Pussy Butt", which is what happens when a woman gives birth and her vagina rips to her asshole and the inventor of "Mr. Happy Cock", a character he created, which is essentially a drawing of a penis with a face on it.

We are both twisted individuals, so we have seemingly serious conversations about things that could only exist in the atmosphere of our warped relationship, or inside the mind of Stanley Kubrick.

How one of those conversations went this morning:

Jude: "Hey, you knew I was getting up soon, so why did you get up and feed the kids? I was gonna do it in a minute."

Me: "Trust me. You did NOT want to handle that. Holden was covered head to toe in piss. Even his arms were soaked."

Jude: "You know what that means, right. That means it's time for him to use the potty. No more of this diaper stuff."

Me: "Ok, well we have to buy him a little potty. Like I keep saying. He can't use the big toilet. It's scary and it's too big for him."

Jude: "Why don't you train him to use a bucket?"

Me: "WHAT?!?"

Jude: "You know, get him to pee in a bucket. You have to dump it anyway. It's really the same thing as buying a potty and we don't have to spend any more money on it."

Me: "You're kidding. Please tell me you're kidding. Because I'm not going to teach our son that's it's a big boy thing to do to piss and shit in different areas of the house. I'm not dealing with that."

Jude: "Why? That's manly. That's straight up GG Alin shit right there."

Me: "If you ever get so manly that you feel the need to defecate in different areas of the house, I'm divorcing you. Here's your divorce papers, please don't shit anywhere on the way out. Anyway..... So we need to get him a potty. It has to have Elmo or something on it so he wants to use it."

Jude: "I will draw Elmo on the bucket."

Me: "Yeah, but you know you will end up drawing dicks on that bucket. And I think it will be a little off putting for our two year old to try to pee in a bucket with a picture of Elmo with a big dick."

Jude: "So, I'm gonna go make coffee...."

God, I love this man.