Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 4

Rage Gardening™

I have been neglecting my garden. That is not a euphemism for something else; my lady garden is just fine, thankyouverymuch. No, I’ve been failing the plants in my front yard and courtyard (my fancy word for our teeny-tiny back yard).

Part of it is the California drought. Part of it is that I just don’t have the energy. Part of it is SQUIRREL!!!! .

But I have rediscovered my joy for the dirt, the outdoors, and caring for all forms of life. (Except the nasty Pooping Tree.) And I found it through a technique I call Rage Gardening™.

It all started with a dried-up bush. (Again, not a euphemism for anything else.) The fruit no longer grew. (These were LEMONS. Get your mind out of the gutter, JOEL.) The poor sap was beyond saving so I decided to remove it. But this was on a whim, and I didn’t have any tools on me. So I yanked the plant out with MY BARE HANDS. I grunted and heaved and hoed until I achieved sweet release. The dead bush was my trophy, and dirt rained down on me like blood in a Klingon death ritual.

It’s possible I screamed, “Take that, you fucker!” Okay, fine. I totally did.

The high was immediate and intense. I needed another hit. I frantically looked around my garden to identify another sacrificial plant.

I found a mostly dead Chinese Lantern plant. I probably could have brought it back to life, but it was weird and gangly, like a ginormous, floppy chicken foot. So I decided to put it out of its misery. First, I broke off the branches, snapping them like the bones of my enemies. Then I stomped and kicked at the trunk while screaming, “I am crushing your head!” Finally, I ripped out the remaining roots from the ground. Again, all with my bare hands. The dirt on my face and arms and hands was my war paint.

Still, I was not satisfied. These plants were too easy to defeat. I needed a bigger challenge.

I stalked my garden to identify my next target and found a bamboo plant. It wasn’t dead or even dying. But some idiot had put it right next to another bamboo plant. So it looked ridiculous. And I hate bamboo. It’s the herpes of the gardening world.

 

Those red berries were like beady little eyes just glaring at me. I totally flipped off the bush before killing it. Multiple times.

I decided it needed to go. But bamboo plants are tough little fuckers. I needed more than my personal fury to take it down. Armed with my bypass lopper (power tools are not allowed in Rage Gardening™—unless you’re taking down a tree), I hacked the shit out of that defenseless plant. Then I pulled out my 6-foot steel digging bar and went to town on the roots.

Right about here is where I should mention that Rage Gardening™ can be hazardous to your irrigation system.

Oops.

I’m sure I looked like a crazy person. Maybe I even was a crazy person. But damn it felt good.

At this point, my freighbor (a friend who is also a neighbor) Marie drove by, stopped, backed up, stared at me for a moment before asking, “Uh, whatcha doing?”

I wiped the sweat off of my brow. “Rage Gardening™. It’s productive and therapeutic.”

She squinted her eyes. “Huh.”

“Come see what I did in the backyard!” My entire body shook with glee. Like a proud serial killer, I showed her my handiwork and my next victim: the bougainvillea plant.

Marie, just before the slaughter. Doesn’t she look so sweet and innocent? I’ll fix that.

That beautiful and lush plant is (was) deceptive in nature. I call her Bitchavillea. She welcomes rats and regularly attempts to kill us by crawling up the balcony to smother us while we are sleeping. Yellow jackets also seem to love it. And she has the nastiest thorns. Naturally she had to die.

I brought out some wine and some additional hand tools, and Marie and I hacked that asshole to pieces.

With each cut, I screamed “See you in hell, motherfucker!” This is way better than cursing your enemies in yoga—because no one looks at you funny. Well, except Marie. So I poured her some more wine and urged her to give it a full go. Eventually she was screaming just as loudly as I was. Mr. Foxy came outside, looked us up and down, and then ran back into the house. I might have even heard the lock latch.

Regardless, I think I converted Marie to the Rage Gardening™ technique.

Boom. I’m a fucking therapist.

Truly it was a drunken therapeutic afternoon for us both.

For you tree-huggers out there (ahem, Mr. Foxy), don’t be concerned that these plants died in vain. I have grand plans for even more wonderful plants to replace them. But the beauty can only come after the rage is done. So it has been said. And so it will be.

Maybe I should do an infomercial next. What do you think?

Cover Photo Credit: bowie15 / 123RF Stock Photo

The post Rage Gardening™ appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

My Latest Therapy: Rage Gardening™

I have been neglecting my garden. That is not a euphemism for something else; my lady garden is just fine, thankyouverymuch. No, I’ve been failing the plants in my front yard and courtyard (my fancy word for our teeny-tiny back yard).

Part of it is the California drought. Part of it is that I just don’t have the energy. Part of it is SQUIRREL!!!! .

But I have rediscovered my joy for the dirt, the outdoors, and caring for all forms of life. (Except the nasty Pooping Tree.) And I found it through a technique I call Rage Gardening™.

It all started with a dried-up bush. (Again, not a euphemism for anything else.) The fruit no longer grew. (These were LEMONS. Get your mind out of the gutter, Joel.) The poor sap was beyond saving so I decided to remove it. But this was on a whim, and I didn’t have any tools on me. So I yanked the plant out with MY BARE HANDS. I grunted and heaved and hoed until I achieved sweet release. The dead bush was my trophy, and dirt rained down on me like blood in a Klingon death ritual.

It’s possible I screamed, “Take that, you fucker!” Okay, fine. I totally did.

The high was immediate and intense. I needed another hit. I frantically looked around my garden to identify another sacrificial plant.

I found a mostly dead Chinese Lantern plant. I probably could have brought it back to life, but it was gangly and dull, like a an oversize chicken foot. So I decided to put it out of its misery. First, I broke off the branches, snapping them like the bones of my enemies. Then I stomped and kicked at the trunk all while screaming, “I am crushing your head!” Finally, I ripped out the remaining roots from the ground. Again, all with my bare hands. The dirt on my face and arms and hands was my war paint.

Still, I was not satisfied. These plants were too easy to defeat. I needed a bigger challenge.

I stalked my garden to identify a bamboo plant. It wasn’t dead or even dying. But some idiot had put it right next to another bamboo plant. So it looked ridiculous. And I hate bamboo. It’s the herpes of the gardening world.

 

Those red berries were like beady little eyes just glaring at me. I totally flipped off the bush before killing it. Multiple times.

I decided it needed to go. But bamboo plants are tough little fuckers. I needed more than my personal fury to take it down. Armed with my bypass lopper (power tools are not allowed in Rage Gardening™—unless you’re taking down a tree), I hacked the shit out of that defenseless plant. Then I pulled out my 6-foot steel digging bar and went to town on the roots.

Right about here is where I should mention that Rage Gardening™ can be hazardous to your irrigation system.

Oops.

I’m sure I looked like a crazy person. Maybe I even was a crazy person. But damn it felt good.

At this point, my freighbor (a friend who is also a neighbor) Marie drove by, stopped, backed up, stared at me for a moment before asking, “Uh, whatcha doing?”

I wiped the sweat off of my brow. “Rage Gardening™. It’s productive and therapeutic.”

She squinted her eyes, “Huh.”

“Come see what I did in the backyard!” My entire body shook. I showed her my handiwork and my next victim: the bougainvillea plant.

Marie, just before the slaughter

That beautiful and lush plant is (was) deceptive in nature. I call her Bitchavillea. She welcomes rats and regularly attempts to kill us by crawling up the balcony to smother us while we are sleeping. Yellow jackets also seem to love it. And she has the nastiest thorns. Naturally she had to die.

I brought out some wine and some additional hand tools, and Marie and I hacked that asshole to pieces.

Pretending the branches were my enemies, I screamed “See you in hell, motherfucker!” This is way better than cursing your enemies in yoga—because no one looks at you funny. Well, except Marie. So I poured her some more wine and urged her to give it a full go. Eventually she was screaming just as loudly as I was. Mr. Foxy came outside, looked us up and down, and then ran back into the house. I might have even heard the lock latch.

Regardless, I think I converted Marie to the Rage Gardening™ technique.

For you tree-huggers out there (ahem, Mr. Foxy), don’t be concerned that these plants died in vain. I have grand plans for even more wonderful plants to replace them. But the beauty can only come after the rage is done. So it has been said. And so it will be.

Maybe I should do an infomercial next. What do you think?

Cover Photo Credit: bowie15 / 123RF Stock Photo

The post My Latest Therapy: Rage Gardening™ appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

Only Serial Killers and Parents Collect Teeth

One of the side effects of the medication I take is that I have incredibly vivid and detailed dreams. I’m not talking about sex dreams (although those are pretty great too). I’m talking about the crazy-ass elephants that dance in my head ALL NIGHT LONG. And leave rainbow footprints behind in my brain.

Recently I had a dream about my good friend, Elly Lonon. In this one, I was making coffee for myself in the morning. I should note that when I recounted this part to my husband, he laughed uproariously—because he is the only person who makes coffee in this house.

Anyhow, back to the dream. Before I put the ground coffee into the filter, I poured in A BAG OF ELLY’S TEETH. That I just happened to have with me. Elly wasn’t there with me, just her teeth. I had them. In a burlap sack.

Don’t fret—these weren’t the teeth from her actual mouth. She could still chew and shit. I know that because, well, that’s what I do. I dream, and I know things. I mean, I guess they were from her mouth because they were HER teeth, and teeth come from a mouth. But she still had teeth in her mouth so perhaps she grew a second set of teeth? I know we all do that when we lose our baby teeth, but these weren’t her baby teeth I was brewing—these were her adult teeth. But she still had teeth in her mouth so it’s not like I took the teeth out of her mouth like a crazy psychopath. Are you following me?

I didn’t actually extract the teeth from her mouth myself. She gave them to me. In a burlap sack. Maybe she’s a mutant shark woman?

This is about the point when I was recounting the dream where my husband stopped laughing and told me I probably shouldn’t tell anyone this story because they’ll all think I’m a fucking lunatic.

I swear I’m not. It was a pleasant dream. With delicious coffee. And losing your teeth is supposed to be good luck, right? So I was just brewing a cup of good luck, right?

It just so happened that Elly’s teeth made the coffee even more delicious. I’d like to think that it’s because I want to drink up all of Elly’s words, and that everything she says and writes is magical—just like my steaming morning elixir. And that it’s not because I’ve got cannibalistic tendencies or am a serial killer or anything bat-shit crazy like that.

Yeah. I’m totally going with the IMBIBING HER WRITING part. Work with me, people.

What do you think the dream means? And/or, what’s the craziest dream you’ve had lately?

Photo Credit: brostock / 123RF Stock Photo

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8 Sucky Things Tweens Do That Are Actually Awesome

My 12-year-old daughter wanted to paint her bedroom black. Instead of screaming “Hell, no!” I offered grey as a compromise. Fortunately that color was different enough from her “baby-ish” lavender walls, and she readily agreed.

My little girl is gone, and now I have a tween, which is awesome—even though tweens can suck. But they suck for good reason.

1. Tweens stink because they are busy caring about more important (to them) activities.

My daughter is what I would politely call “hygiene-challenged.” She doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether or not her hair is clean (it’s not) or her armpits reek (they do). She’s more interested in reading books, writing stories, and creating videos. She’s not trying to impress the boys at school because she thinks her favorite fictional characters are way cooler.

2. Tweens are embarrassed by you, but they still crave your attention and approval.

My daughter is mortified by much of what I do—when I wave to her across the school yard, when I wear crazy hats to pick her up, when I blast music in the car. But when I tell her how creative and imaginative she is as she describes her latest (really strange, frankly) story, she tells me, “See, that’s why you’re the most awesome mom ever.”

3. Tweens challenge authority because they are becoming more independent.

My daughter hates school, procrastinates doing homework, and thinks science is pointless (“When am I ever going to care about a cell nucleus?!”). She fights us on every single assignment, but she still manages to earn good grades. She is also witty, sarcastic, and possesses a sense of humor years beyond her age. She defines her own interests.

4. Tweens can be annoying because they are finding their voices (at the top of their lungs).

My daughter speaks every word at maximum volume. She plays her punk rock music so loudly the walls shake. She’s found non-mainstream tunes that speak to her soul and give her a boost when she needs it. And she is discovering new ways to express herself.

5. Tweens push boundaries because they need bigger ones to grow.

My daughter regularly questions rules and negotiates new ones. She experiments with swearing (but she always follows the guidelines) and prefaces her profanity with, “Excuse me because I’m going to swear.” (I’m so fucking proud.)

6. Tweens do weird shit because they wear their hearts on their sleeves while they are figuring out who they are.

My daughter regularly draws cat whiskers on her face (thanks Dan and Phil) and random sketches on her feet with permanent marker. She doesn’t care what other people think; it just makes her happy. Next week, some other (odd) new trend will delight her.

7. Tweens don’t want to be babied because they are ready to care for others.

My daughter rolls her eyes when my husband and I reminisce about how adorable she was playing with her dolls. Then she sells those same dolls and donates the money to the animal shelter.

8. Tweens act like they don’t want you around, but they still soak up your time and love.

My daughter spends most of her free time in her room. She barricades herself in there immediately after school, emerging only for snacks and mandatory family time. But she stills wants to watch her favorite TV show with me, and she loves discussing books with my husband.

Raising a tween presents brand-new challenges and mystifying hurdles on a daily basis. My husband and I constantly scramble to find the best approach to take with our daughter and not set off a tween bomb.

Tweens can be stubborn and dramatic, loud and obnoxious, but who they are at the core has not changed. They are furiously defining their limits and personalities. They are becoming independent, unique individuals (who might be foreign to us). Do they drive us crazy sometimes? Yes. Do they test every nerve in our bodies once in a while? Oh, hell yes.

But you know what? They’re amazing. Everything about them—even the crappy stuff.

© 2016 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: creatista / 123RF Stock Photo

The post 8 Sucky Things Tweens Do That Are Actually Awesome appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

Follow Your Dreams and Fuck the Haters

That’s me. Flipping off the haters.

Recently, I taught a course called “Selling Yourself, Not Your Soul” at a blogging conference in the D.C. area. It was not, in fact, a presentation about being a spiritual prostitute.

As you might expect, however, I swore a lot, told some dirty jokes, and was, at times, completely inappropriate. Because I’m Klassy as fuck. (I think I want that on my tombstone.)

Seriously though, I was just being true to myself. And that, not-so-coincidentally, was the theme of my presentation: Be yourself. Fuck the haters. (Not literally though—please don’t have sex with the meanies.)

On my flight back home, I got to thinking about how these lessons apply to everyone, not just the blogging community. They are universal in nature.

So here you go. My talk for everyone about following your dreams.

Do some soul-searching to determine what success looks like in your life. What are your dreams? What is the end game? There is no wrong answer. Write that down and come back to it whenever you’re feeling off-track.
Remember that success looks different for everyone. Stop comparing yourself to others, and just focus on yourself.
You can’t do ALLTHETHINGS. I mean, unless you want to forego sleep and your health and your relationships and all that. So prioritize the goals that will lead to your definition of success. Make a plan. Space it out. Be reasonable.
Summon the courage to use your voice and own what you have to say. Not everyone is going to agree with you. Or even like you. That’s okay. Never apologize for being you.

Shit happens. It might slow you down, but don’t let it stop you. Open a bottle of wine and adjust your goals as necessary.
Define your rules and personal standards of conduct and don’t back down. Be true to yourself. Don’t let other people influence you to do something that you are uncomfortable with.
Ignore the haters, the naysayers, the killjoys. People don’t like what you are doing? Fuck ‘em. (Again, don’t literally fuck them; that would probably send the wrong message. Also, I’m assuming you’re not doing anything illegal or unethical or something like that.)
Be proud of the work you do and be your own best champion. Just don’t be a braggy douche-bag. Nobody likes braggy douche-bags.
Find like-minded people and become a support group for each other. Lift each other up. There is plenty of room for all of us to succeed; there is no need for competition.
Follow the golden rule: do onto others as you want them to do onto you. (That includes oral sex.)
Don’t steal shit and claim it as your own. Give credit where credit is due. (Bloggers: Don’t upload other blogger’s memes to your page, even with a tag. Do a direct share. PLEASE.)
Don’t fish for compliments or threaten to quit your pursuit just for attention. It’s not attractive.
Find the places that feel right to you (that’s what she said) and your goals and go there. Don’t try to find happiness everywhere.
Above all, be yourself. BE YOU. I’ll be ME. (That makes me want to sing this song.)

So there you have it: my inspirational-as-fuck talk for the year. Use it as you see fit. Your mileage may vary. Don’t drink and drive. Be nice or Karma will get you.

Photo Credit: Jessica Cobb (I love you, Jessica!)

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25 Annoying Things About Parenthood

Yes, we all signed up to be parents, and for the most part, we love it. (Keep saying that over and over again until you believe it.) But there are some very irritating parts about this parenthood gig—things you want to sling poo at (just like your toddler does, which is also really annoying).

Everybody has an opinion about what you’re doing and how you’re doing it. And they will tell you, whether you ask for their advice or not.
You will never sleep through the night again ever.
The smells—oh the smells! The dirty diapers, the socks, the feet, the armpits, week-old, half-empty, milk cheese-filled sippy cups.
“Family vacation” is an oxymoron.
A large portion of your job is called “Crap Management” where you learn to handle both the literal and figurative forms of excrement. Why do they have so much stuff?
Going to the grocery store or doctor’s office without kids will be your only time off. Of course, that’s only if you’re lucky enough to have someone to watch them when you’re gone.
Kids are the most expensive investment you will ever make. They suck every last dollar out of your bank account.
Kids are independent beings and never do what you want, when you want them to, especially if you let them know what you want.
You will be wracked with guilt that you haven’t done enough for them—for the rest of your life. (But trust me, you have.)
You become a chauffeur. And a short-order cook, a maid, a homework dictator, a butt-wiper, and a professional snot-slinger.
Kids bring every sickness home with them and pass them onto you. (Did I mention lice?)
Kids need to eat—like every single day and multiple times a day. But, spoiler alert, they never like what you make for them. If their friend’s mom makes the exact same thing, however, they love it.
You can give up on having a clean house until they go off to college.
When they’re young, you have to force your kids to take a shower. When they hit their teen years, you can’t get them out of the shower. (Important note: Do not interrupt teenage boys in the shower.)
Children don’t listen to a word you say, unless you’re on the phone, whispering to someone else or swearing.
You will not be able to go to the bathroom in peace again—until they go to school. But then you don’t have someone to fetch you another roll of toilet paper.
Assembling toys requires an advanced engineering degree. And the toys are loud—really, really loud—and require 43 AA batteries.
Inevitably, you will come across a booger collection behind the couch, and another beside their bed, and in the backseat of the car.
Kids are completely irrational; they have meltdowns over the wackiest of things—like putting pants on or not putting pants on.
Babies and little kids never sleep when you want them to. Teens sleep when you don’t want them to, and it’s impossible to wake them up.
They can’t wipe their own butts until age 5, and even then their skill is questionable.
The laundry you slaved over inevitably lines the floor of the kids’ rooms, mixed in randomly with the dirty clothes, of course.
They repeat every word you say, including the curse words. And they mimic everything you do, including doing shots (with their milk, of course).
Kids don’t understand any of the sacrifices you make, and they won’t—until they’re parents themselves.
And let’s not forget about you. You can’t remember anything: what you did yesterday, your children’s birthdates, why you came in the room, where you left your glasses (that are on your face).

You know what though? When I look at my beautiful (smelly), funny (loud), fabulous (messy) children, I wouldn’t trade them for the world. We’re all doing awesome.

© 2016 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: arturkurjan / 123RF Stock Photo

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Food Fuck-ups and Other Party Disasters

As much as I’d love to cook with the expertise of Julia Childs or throw a party with the casual ease of the Barefoot Contessa, I’ve resigned myself to the sad truth that I will never be a domestic goddess.

In fact, quite frankly, I have a long history of fucking up things.

Like the Christmas I turned Tyler Florence’s beautiful Braised Braicole into beef jerky because I forgot to put foil over the roast in the oven. (Always cover your meat, folks.)

Or the Thanksgiving I charred the crispy leeks while making Food and Wine’s Baby Peas with Bacon and Crispy Leeks recipe.

My sister-in-law so helpfully photo-documented this screw-up. (My only consolation was I didn’t botch the gravy like Mr. Foxy did.)

Or the time I set out to surprise my husband with Caprial Pence’s decadent Pear Tart with Chocolate Cookie Crust. I went to several stores to find the correct chocolate cookies. I picked fresh pears and lovingly poached them in white wine (and then drank the rest of the bottle). I carefully whisked the custard ingredients. About halfway through the baking process, while I was on the phone detailing my feat to a friend, I realized I had forgotten to put in the sugar. (I’m sure it had nothing to do with the wine.) I had to throw away the entire thing.

Anyhow, the point of this self-flagellation is that I’ve learned to embrace my culinary imperfections. I’ve become more creative, flexible, and clever. I improvise.

For example, I didn’t bungle a batch of brownies; I created a new midnight snack.

I didn’t permanently stain my carpet, slippers, and bedskirt. I sacrificed wine in the name of popular meme art.

I didn’t make a complete ass of myself in the grocery store (and cut my leg in the process); I challenged folks to an abstract art competition.

My friend Jill from Spilled Milk Studio created the masterpiece on the right from my shopping disaster.

I didn’t forget to buy birthday candles because I was so focused on purchasing enough booze; I created a learning opportunity for my children.

See? It’s all about how you position it. (That’s what she said.)

If you enjoy laughing at other people reading about the foibles of ordinary women trying to be perfect, you will LOVE my latest anthology, I Just Want to Be Perfect. Go get it now!

Photo Credit: hootie2710 / 123RF Stock Photo

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Having Fun While Your Mom Is in the ICU

My mother almost died a few weeks ago. Like—was rushed by ambulance to the ER, spent nine days in the hospital, needed multiple transfusions in the ICU—almost died.

To say the experience was scary and stressful is an understatement. But, I also had some fun. And, because I’m nothing if not helpful, I’ve compiled a list of ways you can have fun while your mom (or another loved one) is in ICU as well.

Appreciate the firefighters’, uhhh, skill as they load your mom into the emergency vehicle. Take a stealthy a picture to show your mother later. Because you know she’ll appreciate it.
Admire the fancy barf bags in the ER. Pretend to puke. Perform a puppet show for your unconscious parental unit.

Say, “Azrael? Are you dead?” any time you re-enter your mom’s hospital room.
Then say, “Fortunately, you are only mostly dead.”
Any time she gets a shot or a new IV, reassure your mom, “It’s just a little prick… Bet you never thought you’d be happy about that, eh?”
Talk your doped-up mom into making obscene hand gestures. Be sure to capture a photo.

Then entertain yourself the nursing staff with your E.T. impersonations.
While she’s sleeping, confess all of the bad stuff you did as a child. Don’t leave anything out.
Embrace your 12-year-old boy humor when reviewing the bed controls.

While pet-sitting her dog, break the “ABSOLUTELY NO GLASS ON THE PATIO” rule.

Then do it again the next day because it was fun.

Even her dog is scolding me.

When FaceTiming your husband at night, put on a clown nose to see if he’s really paying attention to you.

Do things you know would really annoy your mom, like leaving dishes in the sink overnight and not making the bed in the morning.

Console yourself that your mother’s snoring dog is still quieter than your snoring husband.
Delight in the new use for your carry-on bag—it’s a mobile office!

P.S. Mom, I’m so glad you’re doing better. xoxo

P.P.S. I drank all of your wine. And your beer.

Photo Credit: arnoaltix / 123RF Stock Photo

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The Really Important Chapters Missing From Parenting Manuals

Parenting books seem to focus on the very basic aspects of raising babies and toddlers and gloss over the really important things—like how to change a squirming child in the back of your minivan after a diaper blowout and how to deal with teenage angst and heartbreak.

I’m writing a new book with parenting tips to address all of the missing topics from the existing manuals. Here are the proposed chapters:

1. Learning to Accept that You Will Screw Up (But the Kids Will Be Fine)

2. Bottle Versus Breast: Do What Works for Your Family and Screw the Rest of Them (The Same Goes For Everything Else)

3. Cut Off the Onesie and Other Tips for Handling Bodily Fluids

4. It Won’t Always Be Like This: Getting Enough Sleep and Other Delusions

5. You Are Not Alone: Finding Your Mom BFF

6. Dealing with Unsolicited Advice: Ignore, Nod Politely, or Beat a Bitch Down?

7. Cleaning Your House With Children: Get a Dog and Lower Your Standards for the Next 18 Years

8. What Is that Smell? A Guide to Identifying Common Stenches

9. Walking: Pray It Happens Later Rather Than Sooner and Why Child Leashes Aren’t Evil

10. They’ll Eat When They Get Hungry and Other Food Strategies

11. Badges of Honor: Coming to Terms With Your New Body and Effective Camouflaging Techniques

12. It Only Gets Better: Great Sex After Baby and Other Myths

13. Raising Independent Children: Slacking Off and Other Ways to Teach Self-Reliance

14. Lock Up Your Vibrators, Store Candy in Frozen Vegetable Bags, and Other Ways to Hide the Good Stuff

15. Managing Grandparents: How to Avoid Rivalry, Excessive Spoiling, and Unrealistic Expectations

16. Screw Sorting: Put the Legos in One Giant Bin and Other Toy-Management Techniques

17. Bribes, the Illusion of Choice, and Other Strategies for Eliciting Desired Behavior

18. “Terrible Twos,” My Ass: Three Is the Worst Fucking Age (Until the Teenage Years)

19. Wait Until Your Kids Are Ready and Teach Your Boys to Sit Down When They Pee: Successful Potty Training Tips

20. Sharting: Teaching Your Children the Difference Between a Fart and a Poop

21. Managing Meltdowns: A Guide for Every Age, Including Yours

22. Waking You Up in the Middle of the Night and Other Annoying Ways Kids Express Love

23. Starting School: It Hurts You More Than It Hurts Them

24. Dentists, Doctors and Parent-Teacher Conferences: Navigating Through Your New Circles of Hell

25. It’s Illegal to Lock Them Up: Effective Discipline Strategies

26. The Friend of My Enemy Is My Friend: Using Peer Pressure to Make Your Kids Do What You Want

27. A Low Bar Is a Good Bar: Save Time, Money and Sanity by Not Encouraging Extracurricular Activities

28. The Sweet Spot of Parenting (Ages 6 to 10): Enjoy It While You Can

29. Facing the Real Parenting Horrors: Hygiene, Homework and Hormones

30. Your Daughter’s First Heartbreak Will Hurt You More Than Your Own: Getting Through It Together

31. Teenagers: Texting as Primary Communication and Other Ways to Get Along With Them

32. Thank God Facebook Wasn’t Around When We Were Kids: Managing Technology and Social Media

33. Handling Other Moms: Qualities to Look for in Friends and Mastering the Art of “Fuck Off”

34. Disguising the Humble Brag: Do Not Gloat About Your Children Because Murphy Will Bite You in the Ass

35. They Will Repeat What You Say: Rules of Swearing

Appendix: Recipes for Eating Crow: How to Cope When You Say Things You Thought You’d Never Say and Do Things You Thought You’d Never Do

I predict an international bestseller.

© 2016 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: Elnur / 123RF Stock Photo

The post The Really Important Chapters Missing From Parenting Manuals appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

6 Things I Overlook Because I Love My Husband

“If I could loan you my eyes, you would see how perfect he is.” My grandma declared this any time someone would dare insult my grandpa. She adored him, and he her. They had a true love affair.

I believe everyone should know such intense love—a feeling so strong, a bond so tight, a connection so deep that certain flaws get overlooked, because no one is perfect. Take my husband for example.

While he can always find the TV remote (even if it’s hidden in the couch cushions), he absolutely can not find any easily locatable household object ever.

“Where’s the flashlight?” he’ll ask.

“In the utility drawer.”

“No, it’s not. I checked.”

So I have to press pause on Netflix, put down my drink, get up from my chair, walk over to the utility drawer, and pull the flashlight out for him. “Yes, it is.”

“Oh. I didn’t see it.”

Replay that same scene a dozen times a day with dish towels, notepads, pens, paper towel rolls, and spatulas.

My husband believes in fairies. You know, the Soap fairy who refills all of the hand soap dispensers? She lives in our house apparently, along with the Toilet Paper fairy who jumps at the chance to replace every empty roll. Why would my husband do that when she loves it so much? There are Lightbulb-Replacing, Bed-Making, and Vacuuming fairies too. If he doesn’t see these things happen, it must be a fairy.

Here are some of other flaws I overlook on a regular basis:

Our bed is a battlefield, but not in a good way. I think my husband must dream of being a ninja because he throws his arms across the bed and accidentally whacks me on a fairly regular basis. Sorry, sweetie, you’ll never be the Karate Kid. I build a wall of pillows and sleep as far away from him as possible because he also has restless leg syndrome. Despite my best efforts, I often wake up in the middle of the night terrified that we’re experiencing an earthquake—only to discover it’s his leg repeatedly kicking the mattress.
Dishes—why is it so impossible to put them in the sink? Or better yet, into the dishwasher? He leaves coffee cups all over the house, empty snack containers by the couch and the computer, and dirty dishes all over the counter. Apparently he can’t take two more steps to put an item in the sink, or maybe it’s just a magical force field protecting the empty sink from dirty dishes. Oh wait, I’m talking about myself. I do this. Nevermind.
While he was a star basketball player in high school, he can’t seem to score any points getting socks and underwear into the hamper. Clothing litters the carpet around the hamper, the bathroom floor, the floor by the dresser. I’ve considered installing a scoreboard on the hamper to reward desirable behavior.
My husband once ruined my favorite sweater by washing it with a new pair of jeans. The blue dye looked like tears on the light fabric as he conveniently declared, “I can never do laundry again.” And he doesn’t ever. Fortunately, he never complains when I have to rewash loads I’ve left in the washer too long or when he needs to get dressed in the laundry room.
He farts. I’m not talking a minor emission here and there. He ejects gas with such force that it vibrates the furniture and registers on the Richter scale. Our children have learned never to stand behind him because the sheer force of the wind can knock them over. Now I firmly believe that a person should be comfortable in his or her own home, but for criminy sakes, his farts are so thunderous they scare the dog. There should be a new name for what he does. Fartlosion? Atomic Stink Bomb? Colon Quake?
Speaking of deafening noises, can we discuss the snoring? That human chainsaw is so disruptive my son asked to change bedrooms because it wakes him up at night (he’s already at the other end of the hallway). I have no sympathy for him though, because I have to sleep with the roaring grizzly bear. I buy earplugs in bulk. Honestly, I’m surprised we haven’t been fined for breaking the neighborhood noise ordinance. On the other hand, I don’t need to pay for a vibrating bed because I’ve already got one.

Of course, I’m certain I’m not the easiest person to live with either, but the last time I asked him what I could change about myself, he brought me a cup of coffee (that he brewed) and replied without hesitation, “Nothing. You have no quirks.”

So I guess he really is perfect—perfect for me.

© 2016 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: nomadsoul1 / 123RF Stock Photo You didn’t think that was really my husband, right?

The post 6 Things I Overlook Because I Love My Husband appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.