Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 5

How to Create a Fantastically Horrific Circus-Themed Centerpiece

There comes a time in your life when you’re required to make a circus-themed centerpiece. Maybe it’s a decoration for a child’s birthday party. Or a get-well present. Or an anniversary gift. I mean, really, what represents marriage better than mayhem and pandemonium?

And you know what evil lurks at the circus, right? CLOWNS. Fucking clowns infest the circus. And our nightmares. No circus-themed centerpiece is complete without a clown. And I’m here to show you how to make one. I’m nothing if not sick twisted helpful.

Enlist your freighbor (neighbor who is also a friend) to shop for supplies with you. You know the one who took pictures of you defiling that open house? She will understand your vision.
Go to five different thrift stores to find the perfect clown and doll for a whopping $3.

Google “creepy clown faces” for inspiration and modify the non-descript thrift store clown using black and red markers and your daughter’s red glitter glue. Oh, and use a knife to scratch out some sharp teeth.

After examining the doll more closely, decide her outfit won’t do because blood on a red dress is not horrific enough. Not. Even. Close.
Steal the pink dress from your children’s princess puppet. Because it will really bring out the red in the blood.

Repeat, “Sacrifices must be made in the name of art.” However many times necessary.
After failing to put the red dress on the princess puppet (who knew puppets had such big heads?), find another use for the outfit. BECAUSE IT CAN’T GO TO WASTE.

What else do you do with overripe bananas? I mean, it’s not like I was going to bake anything with it.

Ask your 10-year-old son if he has any small toy knives or swords that you can have for your art project.
Listen to him sigh; then watch him roll his eyes and say, “I’m not helping you with whatever it is you’re doing, Mom. It’s just wrong.”
Find a dull florists’ knife from a job you had 25 years ago. Decide it would spark more joy slicing doll flesh instead of removing thorns and leaves from flowers (or rusting in your junk drawer).
Stab doll.
Laugh like a maniac Giggle and stab doll again.
Search your house in vein for fake blood. YOU NEED BLOOD. KNIVES CAUSE BLEEDING. THERE MUST BE BLOOD.
Text your freighbors to see if any of them has some fake blood. Real blood will do too.
Delight in the quick response and the fact that someone has the supplies you need.

At your freighbor’s house, apply “blood” to doll while eating some of her freshly-baked cookies. Because it would be rude to refuse her hospitality. And nothing pairs with faux murder scenes quite like cookies. AMIRIGHT?!

Back at home, play “Clown Murders Doll” in your dining room and debate what sound a clown would actually make when stabbing someone.
Decide against asking your husband’s opinion about murderous clown noises. And that you need more blood.
Go back to freighbor’s house to acquire the red gel.
Eat more cookies. Natch.
Gather string, markers, and red gel in a supply bag.
Carefully pack your beautiful creation in your suitcase to bring as the perfect hostess gift for your clowning-loving friend.
Leave a note for the TSA so they don’t think you’re a nut job. (No, REALLY. You’re not.)

Replace your friend’s uninspired centerpiece with your masterpiece.

Delight in your attention to detail.

Mourn the loss of your work of art and vow to go shopping again soon with your demented freighbor. (And write another blog post about it.)

Cover Photo Credit: lauramusikanski / Morguefile

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The Road to Hell Is Paved with Clowns

If you have followed my blog for any length of time, you are probably familiar with my stance on clowns. I hate them. Not a normal level of hate, mind you. I loathe everything about them. Their beady little eyes (that bore straight into your soul). Their expressive eyebrows (that signal to their hounds of hell to go in for the kill). Their pasty, white skin (that never sees the light of day because they hunt at night). Their big, red noses (that, let’s face it, probably need some sort of antibiotic ointment—I don’t even want to imagine where those noses have been).

My friend Ashley constantly teases me about my level of disdain for the painted archangels of the circus.

Ashley: How can you not like clowns? They’re so fun and happy.

Me: They’re vile and evil and full of dark, murderous plans.

Ashley: What?! They’re full of joy!

Me: They are harbingers of the apocalypse.

Ashley: You’re crazy. Clowns are wonderful. You can’t make me dislike them.

Me: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

Fortunately, I happened to be staying at Ashley’s house before a recent conference. Unfortunately for Ashley, this presented the perfect opportunity for me to preach from the pages of Salman-nosed Rushdie’s Clowntanic Verses. I collected supplies from my adorably twisted freighbors (neighbors who are also friends) and did a little shopping prior to my trip. I actually had to bring an extra suitcase JUST FOR MY CLOWN PRANKS. I am nothing if not dedicated.

I guess lovable Ashley had gotten wind of my nefarious plans because she tried to play a few games of her own. She is clearly a much nicer person than I am and oh so cute and sweet…

I smiled and shook my head at the pillow display. Poor, innocent Ashley had no idea what I had in store for her.

For my first trick, I went with the simple and straightforward: “Replace the Beautiful Centerpiece with a Murderous Clown in the Act of Stabbing an Innocent Girl.”

Want to see it closer? Notice the blood on the hands and shoes. In my head, the clown cleaned his teeth with that knife prior to stabbing his victim.

I’m working on a post describing how to make this masterpiece. You can totally pin it.

Yes, I brought this creation all the way across the country from California. Extra “blood” and twine too. I even left a note for TSA. You know, so they wouldn’t think I was crazy.

I sipped coffee and snickered to myself as I waited for my clown-loving prey to discover this monstrosity. Ashley glided into the kitchen, took one look at the new centerpiece, and asked with genuine concern, “What happened to you as a child to make you this way?”

I sighed in defeat (and a little self-loathing). “That’s a long story for another time, Ashley.”

She beamed at me with her sparkly smile. “Well, you won’t make me dislike clowns. I love them. This would make a great Halloween decoration, though.”

Fuck. I thought for sure I’d get a scream out of her. Some shuddering? Maybe even a tear. But I got nothing. Not even a micro-gasp. So I switched gears. When she took her boys to their baseball game, I did what any normal person would do: I put a head in her refrigerator.

No, not a clown head. Clowns don’t put clown heads in refrigerators; they decapitate perfectly happy humans and put those heads in cold storage for other perfectly happy humans to find. After defacing them, of course.

What? Did you think I was kidding?

I sat at the breakfast counter and enjoyed my wine, waiting patiently for her return. Once bubbly Ashley arrived home, I casually suggested she pour a nice cold glass of white wine for herself. And I trembled with excitement.

She opened the refrigerator door, leapt backwards with her arms raised defensively, and emitted an animal-like shriek. Terror emanating from every pore of her body. (That last part might have been in my head too.)

MISSION. ACCOMPLISHED.

She grabbed the head and thrust it in my face. I thought she might kick me out of her house, but here’s where the story gets good. After Ashley cursed me under her breath, a devilish look swept over her adorable, wholesome face. She stashed the head back in the fridge (after retrieving the wine, of course) and waited with anticipation for her husband, Todd, to enter the kitchen.

“I put some beer in the fridge for you, hun,” she called to him in her best Stepford Wife voice.

Todd sauntered over to the fridge, opened the door, jumped back, and shouted through clenched teeth, “WHAT THE?! WHAT IS THAT?!”

Ashley and I burst into giggles. I say “giggles” instead of maniacal laughter because we absolutely did not do that, I swear.

After that prank, our relationship was solidified. We would work together to scare the crap out of Todd. Marriage be damned. Houseguest privileges be damned.

“What do you have next? Let’s get him good!” Ashley goaded me.

I showed her my next stunt, and she shoved me into the pantry whisper-screaming, “JUST STAY HERE. TODD WILL BE RIGHT BACK.”

Oh, hello there. I’m just here to eat your soul.

At this point, I think Todd was on to us. As he entered the hallway, he froze, squinted at me, and yelled, “What is WRONG with you?”

Sorry, Todd, we don’t have enough time to go into that.

After two days of my clown pranks and Ashley’s warm hospitality, it was time for us to depart for the conference. Todd was visibly relieved to see me packing my bags, probably thinking that meant an end to our hijinks. Little did he know that we left him a present in the bathroom.

Long story short, I don’t think I’ll ever be invited back to their house ever again (add it to the list). So if you live in the D.C. area, I’ll need a place to stay next June. Just make sure to tell me ahead of time about something that you love so I can try and destroy it. If you dare…

The post The Road to Hell Is Paved with Clowns appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

What Not to Wear: A Dress Guide

Everyone needs a brand-new dress every once in a while, right? Something special and fun that makes you feel fabulous? Like glitter and rainbows? (That’s exactly why I’m in the market for a new dress, not because I’ve gained five… okay, ten… FINE, I’ve put on fifteen pounds sitting on my ass writing a book and drinking wine for the past two years.)

Now, we all have certain styles that look better than others on us. Me? I’ve got a straight waist and a flat butt so I tend to look better in empire waisted and/or fit & flare dresses so as to give me the illusion of a waistline. And an ass.

I’ve been doing some online shopping at Nordstrom, of course. Why would I actually go to a store when I can peruse the racks in my pajamas while drinking wine? I mean, I guess I could do that at the store too, but the last time I did, Security asked me to leave.

I began my search looking for casual dresses and was generally horrified by what I found. Like NEVER WEAR THIS horrified. Take this “Shirt Dress” for example. This is a “good” look for me after my psychotic break. I’ll be the envy of all the other moms in the ward.

DKNY Cotton Shirtdress: The boots just scream, “Leave me alone or I’ll shank you.”

And here we have the “I’m Wearing My Husband’s Shirt, but I Cut a Hole in It So It’s Sexy” look.

Milly Side Cutout Poplin Shirtdress: Except it’s not sexy. It’s ridiculous. And WAY too expensive.

I can only imagine the conversation that took place within the fashion team regarding this next dress.

“Here’s my latest concept, Ms. Fashion-Designer-Boss.”

“Uhhh, it’s another shirt dress. Can you try a little harder?”

*furiously stitches on pleat* “There!”

“I LOVE IT!”

DKNY Pleat Detail Cotton Shirtdress

Moving away from the overdone shirt dress (far, FAR away), for a mere $1,300, you too can dress just like Holly Hobbie.

VILSHENKO ‘Lauren’ Print Silk Marocain Midi Dress: I don’t think Holly wore those slut shoes though. (I kid, I love those shoes.)

Or a Space Age and/or Mushroom-eating Holly Hobbie:

Mary Katrantzou Snuffbox Print Silk & Cotton Midi Shirtdress: Where is she hiding the snuff? Don’t look too long.

If Pinterest and The Gap had a love-child (and gave said child tissue paper and a glue stick):

Michael Kors ‘Crimson Poppy’ Floral Embellished Sheath Dress: Don’t buy this. I can make it for you with a glue gun for a lot cheaper.

(I actually kind of like that dress. But I worry about birds nesting in it.)

I stared at this one a while, trying to figure out what it reminded me of.

Maia ‘Pique’ Knit Sheath Dress

And then, after the vertigo settled, it hit me. And I puked.

There seems to be a big trend in shift dresses, AKA, pillowcases with arm and head holes.

N°21 ‘Amanda’ Floral Print Silk Shift Dress: Straight from the youthful Mrs. Roper collection.

This one was clearly from a 70s porn-star’s bedding set:

Zero + Maria Cornejo ‘Triptych’ One-Shoulder Light Doppio Dress

This designer got extra fancy and sewed on some of Grandma’s doilies:

Ali & Jay Lace Shoulder Crepe A-Line Dress

Is this lingerie? Curtain sheers? No, it’s the ILLUSION GOWN. The illusion of being a leg lamp.

Alice + Olivia ‘Sally’ Embroidered Illusion Gown

But at least those designers tried. Or they attempted to appear to have tried. Honestly, it looks like this particular designer just took a crap on a sketchpad and then made it into a dress.

James Perse Woven Caftan

Come on, James. Try a little harder.

P.S. I did actually purchase a dress. FINE, I purchased two dresses, but I swear I’m returning one of them.

Photo Credits: All product photos from Nordstrom. Cover photo bowie15 / 123RF Stock Photo.

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Rules for Using Public Bathrooms

The first time I used a public restroom with my father, who had recently transitioned to a woman, was—quite frankly—unsettling. Not because I was afraid any crime would occur, rather, because for the first twenty-four years of my life, she (then he) had used the men’s restroom. Walking arm-in-arm with her into the ladies room was a surreal experience for me. (Probably for her too.)

If any other women in the bathroom noticed, none of them commented. All of us gals went about our business of attending to nature’s call, and my once-male-now-female parental unit felt secure. Imagine what it would have been like for her—a woman—to use the men’s restroom? At best, there would have been looks, comments, and/or ridicule. At worst, she could have been in real danger.

Naturally, I rejoiced when Target issued a formal policy allowing patrons to select whichever bathroom and/or fitting room aligns with their gender identity. I feel it keeps our transgender community comfortable and safe, and I applaud Target for continuing to stand for equality, respect, and inclusivity.

But—let’s be brutally honest—there are indeed crimes that happen in public restrooms. Some horrid ones. So I created my own list of rules to address those heinous acts.

Whether you sit or squat or straddle or stand in front of the toilet seat, clean up your pee. Wipe down the seat. Or the wall. Or wherever you sprayed. You are not a dog, and the bathroom is not your territory. Nobody wants to marinate in your urine.
Flush the goddamn toilet. Was your poop huge? A strange color? An usual shape? Take a picture and text it to your poop club. Then flush that shit down. The product of your bowels is not art. (Unless you created Donald Trump’s face.)
Tell the next patron (or an attendant) if there is no toilet paper in the stall. Do not leave anyone hanging or begging someone else to spare a square. Jesus taught us better: treat others how you want to be treated. I’m certain he was talking about bathroom etiquette too.
Don’t be a fucking slob. Handle your litter appropriately. Used sanitary products and diapers should be wrapped up and disposed of properly. Did you drop some toilet paper? Put it in the toilet. Dirty paper towels go in the garbage can. Not on the floor. Not by the sink. Not wetted down and then thrown at the wall. This is basic common courtesy.
Help a pooper out. Most of us don’t like pooping or farting in a public bathroom. If you hear that happening, make some noise. Sing a song. Flush a toilet to help drown out another person’s agony. (It’s that Jesus thing again.)
For the love of all things holy (and sanitary), do not talk on your phone, eat food, do drugs, or have sex in a public restroom. Gross, disgusting, illegal, and BARF. Don’t solicit sex either. (I’m looking at you, Republican senator.)
Wash your damn hands. Random fecal matter sprinkled around public places is the stuff of nightmares.

So there you have it: my list of atrocities we should actually be worried about when it comes to public restrooms. Follow the rules. Do your part. Teach your children to do the same. If there is a problem—any problem—in a bathroom, inform someone who can address it.

Now can we please stop focusing on other people’s genitals? Well, unless it’s for a good reason. *winks not at all subtly*

Photo Credit: linno1234 / 123RF Stock Photo

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25 Things I Want To Tell My BFF

Although we don’t talk every day, I think about you constantly. An inside joke here, a shared sorrow there—I love these reminders of you, and I want to ensure you know a few things.

The day I met you, my life changed for the better. You’re stuck with me now. I am forever grateful to have you as my best friend.
When I’m drunk and profess my undying love for you, it’s not the booze. I really do love you that much.
I will always tell you if you have spinach in your teeth or toilet paper stuck to your shoe. I might take a picture first, but I promise I’ll tell you.
I will never spill your secrets. And not just because you’ve got more dirt on me.
You can poop at my house anytime.
When my kids are in trouble, I know they’ll call you because 1) you’ll help them, 2) you’ll love them no matter what, and 3) you’ll calm me down.
While my husband’s snoring drives me crazy, I will gladly jump out of bed in the middle of the night to reply to a text from you.
I cherish our “No Judgment” policy—except when it comes to trying on jeans, because we need our butts to look good.
You make me laugh like no other. You’re my favorite reason to pee myself.
I’ll always give you the last French fry.
I love you more than coffee and wine, but hopefully I will never have to prove it.
I’ve always got your back. And I’ll always have emergency supplies, including tampons, breath mints, lip gloss, and an escape route.
I’d rather take a vacation with you than my own family.
Life has thrown us some curve balls. I’m glad we have each other to make those rough patches easier.
Thank you for talking me out of that tattoo.
Your battles are my battles. Your enemies, my enemies. Your boycotts, my boycotts. (Please don’t boycott bacon.)
You can always lie to your husband and tell him those Amazon packages are really mine.
You are welcome to vent in my house day or night. I have a comfy couch and a bottle of wine with your name on it. Or vodka, if necessary.
You’re so much like family to me that I don’t even bother to clean my house when you come over. Or myself, sometimes.
I’ve lost count of whose turn it is to buy lunch, and I don’t care.
Just give me “The Signal,” and I’ll find a way to get you out of talking to “That Person” at the party.
No one understands my special brand of crazy like you do. Even better, you proudly wave your freak flag with me.
You know things my husband doesn’t even know—like my secret fantasies, my iPhone passcode, and my real weight.
I can’t wait to see what kind of trouble we’ll get into when we move into the retirement home together.
Obviously, we have a true friendship based on mutual love, laughter and respect (see above). Because of that, when I die, I trust you’ll delete my browser history.

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

Photo Credit: mindof / 123RF Stock Photo

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Dick Pics and Breadsticks

I recently attended a writer’s conference in Dayton, Ohio. One of the biggest perks of these type of conferences is that you get to spend time drinking networking with your online writing friends in real life. People you otherwise would not meet in-person.

I shared a hotel room with Lola Lolita, and along with Sassypiehole (just call her Sassy—that’s what I do), we attempted to drink all of the wine in the entire city of Dayton. Three days in a row. Fortunately we never passed stage 4 on the scale of drunkenness.

On the last night of the conference, in denial that my time with my friends would be coming to an end, Lola and I held sweet Charlotte hostage in our hotel room, while Quirky Chrissy ordered pizza and breadsticks and poured wine for everyone. (God bless her.)

As often happens when I’m around, the conversation turned to sex. After badgering each of them to divulge their numbers, I focused my attention to the breadsticks. While entirely lacking in the cheese department, they provided entertainment of another kind. Chrissy and I may have compared the breadsticks to penises that we’ve, uhhh, “seen” before. All while singing, ‘To all the dicks I’ve loved before.”

And that reminded me of my first dick pic. Not a picture of my wiener, since I don’t have one. This was a photograph that my ex-boyfriend took of his schlong. Let’s call him John. Long John Silver.

Decades ago (yes, I’m that old), before the days of digital cameras, Long John thought it would be a great idea to take a surprise picture on my camera. You know, the kind of camera with real film that you have to take to the store to get developed? Imagine my surprise as I was flipping through the glossy pictures of my most recent hiking trip and my eyes were assaulted by that ugly mass of man meat.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like penises (well, one in particular), but I don’t love them enough to want to stare at pictures of them all day. They’re just not that attractive to me. They’re bulgey. And veiny. And they have a beady little eye.

Anyhow, I was appropriately horrified by Long John’s dick pic and promptly tucked it away in my desk. And forgot about it for months. Or years. I don’t remember exactly. (I told you, I’m old.)

Fast forward to a random dinner with my parents. My mom cleared her throat, slid something across the table, and said, “Uh, I found this in one of the pads of paper you were discarding.”

I stared in horror at the picture. Long John Silver in all of his glory. I stuttered, “I… uh… don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a penis.” My mother, always the comedian.

“Yeah… uh… but I don’t know where the picture came from. Or who that is. I’ll just throw it away.” Then I snatched the photo from the table and ran upstairs to re-hide it. I’m sure it wasn’t at all obvious that the picture belonged to me.

When I made my way back to the dinner table, my mom—ever the medical professional even in retirement—added, “Well, the reason I mention it is—and maybe it’s just the angle of the photo—but the curvature on the penis could be Peyronie’s Disease. And he should have that evaluated.”

I died right there on the spot.

The moral of this story is obviously to let your mom check all your dick pics for potential diseases before spending any time with said dicks.

P.S. Long John? On the off-chance you’re reading this blog, I promise you that I completely destroyed the photo and the negatives. But I do hope you eventually got checked by a doctor.

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The Poop Club

Not to be dramatic or anything, but I almost died last week. Like, I couldn’t walk or talk or even move beyond (barely) breathing. I did cry a lot though. And my insides melted into the mattress as my body tried to incinerate itself with a very high fever. I picked up this nasty bug—named the Erma Flu—at a writer’s conference the week before. And it KICKED. MY. ASS.

As I was fighting for my life, I became addicted to Sons of Anarchy. In case you’re unfamiliar with the television show, it’s about an outlaw motorcycle gang called Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original. Or SAMCRO, for us insiders. They drink a lot of booze, commit heinous crimes, and have a bunch of tattoos. And Peggy Bundy kicks serious ass in it.

In my feverish state, I became a member of the SAMCRO gang. I rode out the chills as they rode their bikes down the streets of Charming. When they littered the backroads with bodies, I littered my room with tissues. While they took shots of whiskey, I threw back some electrolytes. I was a part of The Club.

In addition to raising hell in my bedroom, I sang Hot Blooded (my temperature really was a hundred and three) very loudly and sent several hot and sexy texts to Mr. Foxy.

I’m romantic as fuck.

Sadly he largely ignored me. Usually, he will exchange witty, texty banter. But for some reason, Sick Foxy is not someone he likes to chat with. Well…that and Pooping Foxy.

See, try as I might, I cannot get him to engage in conversations about poop. For some reason, he is opposed to discussing it. Considers that a “personal” matter. “TMI.” And he thinks I’m “crazy” and “a little gross.”

Fortunately, I’ve got friends who understand me and appreciate these kinds of texts. Together, the three of us make up The Poop Club. It’s totally like SAMCRO except without firearms or motorcycles.

As luck would have it, I beat the flu in time for our annual meeting this past weekend. I even brought matching pillows for everyone.

Our mascot is incredibly soft and fluffy.

It was a wild club gathering. We tore up the streets in our Uber. We guzzled beer in three different bars. While we didn’t kill anyone or piss off the ATF, we did get pissy-eyed drunk as we bid farewell to one of our members who is moving to Washington D.C. We even paid a visit to a tattoo parlor. One member suggested that we tattoo our Poopy mascot on our backs, just like SAMCRO. Fortunately, we weren’t drunk enough to actually try, but I did get a little color.

Getting inked..like a motherfucking gangsta.

And here’s the finished product.

See? I’m totally ready to join SAMCRO. I just need a teeny tiny motorcycle to match my tat.

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Stink Avoidance, Cookie Acquisition, and Other Survival Skills

As the youngest of six kids, I was farted on a lot. At least once a week, one of my brothers would sit on my head and let one rip. Eventually, I learned to recognize the warning signs—the glint in their eyes, the snickers, the less-than-stealthy movements—and I’d scramble behind the couch before a stinky butt made contact with my face.

As you might imagine, growing up in a large family taught me a variety of survival skills. Both of our parents worked, and from 3:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., the house turned into an after-school-special version of Lord of the Flies. Allegiances formed and reformed, depending on the day’s battle. Duplicity and creativity were crucial in order to persevere.

I developed hiding strategies and evasive maneuvers, in addition to gas-avoidance tactics. While I was not the fastest or the strongest, I was the smallest so I could hide just about anywhere and devour the best snacks. If I wasn’t hungry, I would stash the food for later. It took expertise to effectively conceal the nacho-cheese chips. My favorite food-hiding spot was the bathroom cabinet, behind the toilet paper that nobody ever put on the roll. To think my evil plans would have been foiled with just one ounce of responsibility.

Our bathroom wars were not isolated to food and toilet paper. With eight people vying for the toilet, I was forced to pee in the sink on more than one occasion, though I figured this made me a problem solver. That tendency towards flexibility benefited me in other areas as well. There was only one coveted frozen pizza left? No problem, I’d eat it for breakfast before anyone else got their paws on it.

But life wasn’t all theft and deception. I learned the power of teamwork. With a partner, one of us could act as lookout while the other stole enough cookies for the both of us. We’d toast our victory with milk, never once considering the release of our personal gas supply as a weapon.

Now that I’m older and have children of my own, I’m grateful for these life lessons forged from strife and sibling rivalry. Especially when I hide in the closet eating dessert for breakfast.

One time the entire family walked in on me, brownies in my hand, my chin covered in chocolate crumbs. I channeled my best-actress skills and said, “Oh hey. Would you like some protein bars with spinach and tofu? They’re delicious.”

Both kids turned away in disgust, and my husband gave me a conspiratorial wink. Thank goodness he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He must have been afraid I’d fart on his head.

Photo Credit: diego_cervo / 123RF Stock Photo

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Dancing the Dead Dog Jig

Sometimes out of nowhere, a song latches on to your brain, slithers through the gyri, and won’t leave until you stick an icepick in your ear.

Actually, that happens to me quite frequently. Commercial jingles and 70s sitcom theme songs surprise and “delight” me by their random appearances in my head. (Unless it’s Friday. I hate that shit.)

Naturally I feel obliged to infect entertain everyone around me by sharing those songs.

Loudly.

A few nights ago, Mr. Foxy and I were sitting on the couch watching television. (Surprisingly I hadn’t fallen asleep even though it had been dark for a couple of hours.) And our adorable dog was curled up between us.

I burst into song. “She’s a happy dog, a happy dog. Hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba.”

My husband, who is usually unfazed by my shenanigans and ridiculousness, eyed me with a furrowed brow. “Uh, what the fuck are you singing?”

“A song from our childhood. Don’t you remember it?” (We’re about the same age. Actually he’s twenty months older than I, and for eight months out of the year, I get to say he’s two years older. But who’s counting?)

He shook his head. “No. I’ve never heard that song.”

“Really? ‘She’s a happy dog? A happy dog? Hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba?’ You never heard it?” I eyed him doubtfully.

His face contorted like he had eaten a bad shrimp. “Hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba? NO.”

I took a gulp sip of my vodka-tonic. “Huh. I wonder where I heard it then.”

Because my husband is a Google Search Ninja like me, he located the song in the time it took me to trip up the stairs to our bedroom. “Is this it?” he asked as he walked into the bedroom behind me.

I clapped furiously! “YES! That’s it!”

I was walkin' down the street on a sunny day
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
A feeling in my bones that I'll have my way
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
Well I'm a happy boy (happy boy)
Well I'm a happy boy (happy boy)

Then I grabbed his phone and started singing again and dancing a jig. “I’m a happy boy. Happy boy! I’m a happy boy! Happy boy!”

I continued dancing while I brushed my teeth with his phone in my other hand. The buzz of the toothbrush drowned out the song, but it couldn’t stop my body from moving. (The vodka had nothing to do with it. NOTHING.)

Mr. Foxy scowled and blurted, “Uh, can I have my phone back now?”

“NO! I’M DANCING!” Toothpaste splattered across the mirror. (Performance art at it’s finest!)

He wouldn’t relent. “Seriously. I’m done with this song.”

But I was more stubborn. “No way! I want to hear it again. It’s so happy.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Have you actually listened to the lyrics?”

“Of course. He’s a happy boy! Hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba!” (I used jazz hands, people. JAZZ HANDS.)

His voice became forceful. “No. You need to listen to the second verse.” He grabbed his phone and played it for me again.

This time I stopped dancing and actually listened, mouth agape. “Oh dear god. What have I been dancing to?”

My little dog spot got hit by a car
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
Put his guts in a box and put him in a drawer
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba

He smiled an annoying I-told-you-so smile. “I told you. It’s horrible.”

I couldn’t disagree. “It is SO horrible. He’s a happy boy with his dead dog’s guts in his dresser drawer? That is so terrible. So incredibly disgusting … I. LOVE. IT.”

After another five seconds of Google ninja’ing, Mr. Foxy said, “That song was made famous on the Dr. Demento show—I know it was a favorite of yours. That’s probably where you heard it. In fact, I think we have traced everything wrong about you back to that show.”

Mr. Foxy fell asleep that night as I sang him a lullaby. One of my other favorite songs from the Dr. Demento show, Dead Puppies.

He woke up singing the lyrics.

So, my work is here done.

Photo Credit: cundrawan703 / 123RF Stock Photo

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13 Strategies For Parenting Your Tweens (That Worked On Your Toddlers)

The “sweet spot” of parenting abruptly comes to a halt when your child becomes a tween. It’s loud and messy and sometimes very ugly. Ah, the cacophony of the tweenage years.

Tweens are often compared to oversized toddlers – and for good reason. Both toddlers and tweens are going through an intense period of growth: emotionally, physically, and mentally. Both are learning who they are, pushing limits, and trying out new skills.

Fortunately, you are already well-equipped to handle this new territory. Because, with a few adaptations, the parenting techniques that worked for your toddlers can also help with your tweens:

Stock up on snacks. This tip might be the most important. Tweens need extra calories to keep up with their bodies’ growing needs. The snacks will differ from when they were small, but you still need to keep them well-fed. Be prepared to find chip bag carcasses, sticky cups, and the remnants of food all around the house; it’s a small price to pay to keep the beasts appeased.
Give them their space. Tweens need their alone time. Take advantage of it to give yourself some quiet as well. Check in on them from time to time, but back away slowly and carefully.
Let them sleep. Ensuring your tweens get enough rest is absolutely essential. It doesn’t matter where they sleep … the car, the couch, the floor. Anywhere is acceptable. Just let them be. Cleaning drool from the couch cushions? Totally worth it.
Give them the illusion of choice. “You can do the dishes or the laundry. You pick.” It works every time. Well, almost every time.
Use bribes liberally. Call them “incentives” if you need to rationalize them. The bribes change over the years (and become more expensive as they become tweenagers), but they are well worth the investment to reward desired behavior. Don’t feel guilty about it for even one minute.
Accept that their behavior will be irrational at times. There are massive amounts of hormones RAGING in their bodies. They are exploring new territory (and sometimes reacting very poorly). You won’t understand it. Just give them a safe place to go a little crazy.
Set firm boundaries. You are going to have some absolutes. Make those known. Loudly. Then don’t back down.
Walk away from the tantrums. Tweens will try to drag you back in with the “I HATE YOU!” technique, but you need to ignore that shit. Seriously. Walk away. Until you both calm down.
Praise, praise, praise. Tell them what they did right. Tell them how much you love to watch them perform/play/compete/etc. Tell them how proud you are of them. Feeding their ego is critical (in preparation for the times you need to take them down a notch).
Find their currency. Figure out what they most care about … and then take it away when they behave badly. It works like magic. Use Wi-Fi passwords liberally.
Remember they’re always listening. Kids don’t miss a thing, and they will repeat your words and actions. It may have been funny when your 3-year-old yelled “FUCK!” at the family holiday party, but it’s no longer humorous when your tween gets suspended for the same behavior.
Watch them like hawks. When they were toddlers, you were trying to keep them from eating books and painting the walls with their feces. Now that they’re tweens, you’re trying to protect them from much bigger and much scarier dangers. Don’t take your eyes off of them.
Tell them you love them. Show them too. Sure, tweens won’t appear to appreciate your words the way toddlers did. But they need to hear them. Every single day. Even when they roll their eyes at you. Especially when they roll their eyes at you.

© 2015 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: mandygodbehear / 123RF Stock Photo

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