Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 8

The Dysfunctional Family Drinking Game

Thanksgiving is a joyful time to give thanks for all of our blessings and good fortune. It’s an annual celebration of family, loved ones, and “the harvest,” right? Sure. But it’s also a time of family bickering, passive-aggressive comments, colossal fuck-ups, social faux pas, and domestic disasters.

My husband and I have hosted Thanksgiving dinner for the past sixteen years, and we’ve experienced all of these things firsthand. To stay sane during these annual “celebrations,” we have developed our own coping strategy. We call it the Dysfunctional Family Drinking Game. It is a secret game that only the two of us play, and it is designed to make us laugh at the foibles and follies during Thanksgiving and any holiday gathering. Wanna know how to play?

Rules of the Dysfunctional Family Drinking Game:

Start out by pouring each player a stiff drink. We like Vodka tonics with a twist of lime. (Yes, the capital V and lower-case t imply the proper proportions.) Make sure to have a bottle of something-over-80-proof ready with shot glasses nearby. You’ll need them later. (If you don’t drink, you can substitute alcohol with anything delicious like chocolate or bacon.)

Any time one of the following happens, you have to follow the corresponding rule:

Backhanded Compliment: Your family, you take a sip.
Late Arrival: Your family, you do a shot.
Food Faux Pas: Your family, your partner takes a sip.
Social Faux Pas: Your family, you take a sip.
Kid Chaos: Social! You both take a sip.
Blatant Criticism: Count up the steps between you and the family member in the family tree. Everyone takes that number of sips.
Bodily Functions: Your family, you get to make up a new rule for the night.
Spilt Drink: Whoever spilt it, shoots it.

Based on past experience, here’s my prediction for how this game will proceed in our house this year. Hypothetically speaking, of course. (All names/relationships have been changed to protect the innocent … and the guilty.)

Round One: The Guests’ Arrival

Upon greeting me, my mother will tell me how great I look with a few more pounds on my frame. How nice of her to notice that I’ve put on a little weight. [Backhanded Compliment: one sip for me]
My husband’s distant uncle will make an uncomfortable sexual innuendo to me about how I keep getting better and better. (And then he will wink.) [Social Faux Pas: one sip for my husband. And one for me too because that’s just weird.]
My brother will bring some slightly stale donuts (perhaps rejects from his Magic the Gathering gaming group?) for dessert. [Food Faux Pas: one sip for my husband]
My husband’s father will note that we still haven’t fixed the back door. “And it’s been three years!” [Blatant Criticism: one sip for my husband and two for me for good measure]
My cousin will bring her obviously sick and feverish daughter to the festivities. Even worse, she’ll try to pass her daughter’s green mucus off as allergies. [Social Faux Pas: one sip for me]

Round One Score:

My husband: three sips

Me: five sips

This equals approximately one entire beverage each because my husband takes bigger sips than I do. Even though I’m smaller than he is, we’ll be about even at this point—both holding steady and just the littlest bit buzzed.

Round Two: The Thanksgiving Meal

My mother-in-law will comment on how surprised she is that the turkey is cooked so evenly despite how dirty the oven is. [Backhanded Compliment: one sip for my husband]
My husband’s cousin will show up half-way through the meal mumbling something about traffic. From the other side of town. [Late Arrival: one shot for my husband]
My sister, who doesn’t have kids or work with kids or know anything about kids, will give me advice on how to discipline my children. [Multiple Infractions: We both just finish off our drink and pour a new one.]
My son will pick up a dinner roll, sniff it, lick it, and then put it back in the bread basket. [Double Whammy! Food Faux Pas and Kid Chaos: Social! two sips for both of us]
My daughter will secretly feed her turkey to the dog. [Kid Chaos: Social! one sip for each of us]
My grandma will say, “What IS this? I’ve NEVER had cranberry sauce like this before!” And not in a good way. [Blatant Criticism: three sips for my husband and one sip for me]
I will burn the crispy leeks, and they will never make it to the pea dish. [To hell with it—one shot for me]
My mother and brother will get in an argument about something completely ridiculous. [Social Faux Pas: one sip for me]
My grandma will rip one during dessert. [Bodily Function: I make up a new rule: If your family member leaves before dishes get started, you have to make the next round of drinks.]

Round Two Score:

My husband: ~three drinks

Me: ~three drinks

(Good thing we won’t need to drive anywhere.)

Round Three: The Aftermath

After eating the kids’ Thanksgiving artwork and too much turkey meat, the dog will puke behind the couch. Bonus points for holiday-themed puke? [Bodily Functions: one sip for each of us]
I will spill wine on the white carpet. Red wine, of course. [Spilt Drink: one shot for me]
My sister and brother will bail right after dessert and conveniently just before dishes. [New Rule Enforcement: I make the next round of drinks.]
My mother-in-law will pack up all of the white meat to take home with her while she thinks no one is looking. [Food Faux Pas: one sip for my husband]
My husband’s uncle will take the wine he gave me as a hostess gift when he leaves. [Social Faux Pax: We will both just finish the rest of the open wine after the guests leave.]

Round Three Score: Does it really matter at this point? Game OVER! We will both win (considerably inebriated) and celebrate the holiday to the fullest!

I highly recommend you try this game at your next family gathering. If the rules are too complicated, then just take a drink any time an infraction occurs. It might prevent you from saying something you’ll later regret.

Warning: You may very well get drunk while playing. So be responsible and don’t drive or use any incendiary devices. Happy Holidays!

Photo Credit: sad444 / 123RF Stock Photo

The post The Dysfunctional Family Drinking Game appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

WTF Is on My Face?

I’ve got something happening on my face. Something bad. Like red, bumpy, meth-face bad.

It all started a few months ago. At first I thought the ailment was acne. Because Mother Nature is an asshole and continues to punish me with pimples even though I’ve moved to the wrinkle-and-whisker phase of life. I tried covering the infestation with makeup. Only then I had a cake-y, beige-y, hot mess going on.

And I picked at it. Because I’m a picker—I just can’t help it. So then the affliction got a little bloody and oozy. My friends would awkwardly stare at my face when we were together. Sometimes, when I wasn’t in the mood for talking anymore, I’d move my chin up toward their faces and watch them slowly back away.

Not surprisingly, the cover-up and picking did little to stop the facial invasion. In fact, it got worse. Certain that it was some sort of deadly rash, I tried cortisone cream—the duct tape of skin creams. And it did help at first, but after a few days, my facial pustules just came back in full force.

One of my rude friends asked, “What’s that on your face?”

“Herpes,” I declared as I gave her an extra close hug.

Then I tried anti-fungal cream, but that didn’t help even one bit. (Thank gawd. Who wants mushrooms growing out of her face?)

Fearing leprosy, I went back to the cortisone cream and posted a picture in one of my writing groups. I had no choice—my husband long ago banned me from self-diagnosing on WebMD, and I needed help because my face was going to start falling off in chunks.

My writer-friend who is also a nurse suggested that it could be impetigo. A quick google search on impetigo resulted in words like “highly contagious,”staphylococcus,” and “Methicillin-resistant staph aureus (MRSA).” Clearly, I was going to die.

“HOLY FUCK BALLS!”

“What’d you say, Mom?” my 9-year-old asked from the other room.

“Oh, uhhh, I said, ‘Moldy Duck Walls.’ It’s a new band.”

Finally, because I like living and all, I dragged my lethal-bacteria-face to the doctor. Turns out the rash is not impetigo. It’s perioral dermatitis—some boring, annoying rash that women get. (Men generally don’t. Assholes. Of course not.) It *could* be related to hormones, steroids, cosmetics, fluorinated toothpaste, chewing gum, facial creams, oral contraceptives, or a variety of other things.

In other words, they have no fucking clue what causes it.

The doctor assured me that I had done nothing wrong and that it’s not contagious. I just got unlucky. But that I was lucky in that it’s a minor malady. Gee, I’ve heard that before. A couple of times.

Perioral dermatitis can last up to two years. TWO FUCKING YEARS. I need to put topical erythromycin on the rash for at least a couple of months. And I can’t wear any make-up until it’s gone. (Okay, that part is actually good.)

Unfortunately, the topical medicine sometimes dries into a flaky, white crust, which leaves me looking like I’ve just woken up from a nap with slobber on my face. Or perhaps dried something else (but we all know that’s not possible).

The other bummer is, since I’ve stopped using the cortisone creme, the rash itches like a MOTHERFUCKER. So I’ve just started telling everyone it’s jock itch and watching them figure that one out.

Photo Credit: maxximmm / 123RF Stock Photo

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Advice to My Daughter on the Eve of Her First Junior High Dance

Memories of my own junior high dances are obscured in a haze of Drakar Noir, Aqua Net hairspray, and raging (and foul-smelling) tweenage hormones. Sadly, I don’t have any pictures from these dances to jog my memory either, but I do have my 7th grade school picture.

(This picture was taken a few months before I started performing daily experiments on the effects of aerosol spray on the ozone layer.)

I remember wearing that exact tank dress and matching earrings to one of my first dances. Just can imagine me in all of my 5’7”, 100ish-pound (then, not now), no-rhythm awkwardness. I was probably mentally fusing my soul to Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode. Or sitting in the corner in a pool of tears and rejection.

My big problem was boys. I was obsessed with them from a very early age. Their actions (or inactions) consumed every thought and filled every mixtape. I devoted entire journals to praising them and then cursing them. They were (sadly) my life.

Fortunately for me and Mr. Foxy, our daughter Erin has not yet discovered the joy, heartbreak, and Axe Body Spray of the opposite sex. (Hopefully this lasts until she graduates from college.) She’s obsessing over books, not boys, and we couldn’t be happier.

As her first Junior High School dance approached, she wasn’t showing much interest in the event. Whereas boys would have lured me there like a mom to wine (oh, hey, I do that too), there was no real pull for my daughter. But I really wanted her to go so she could attend a dance just for fun and to hang out with friends—without worrying about the distraction of boys.

Me (trying to act all casual): So, are you going to the dance?

Erin (rolling her eyes): I don’t think so. Sounds kinda boring. And they won’t play any good music.

Me: I’ll buy you a new outfit…

Erin: Can I wear my Converse high-tops?

Me: Of course.

Erin: Then I’m in.

The day of the dance, I helped her flat-iron her hair and beamed with pride as she put on her outfit. Somehow I convinced her to allow me to take some pictures, but while I got my daughter’s blessing to tell this story, she absolutely forbid me from posting any of those photos. So here’s the dress she wore (which I don’t think I could love any harder):

(That model is a fairly accurate depiction of her mood sometimes.)

As we sat at the table waiting to depart for the dance, she admitted that she was indeed a little apprehensive about the event.

Erin: I’m a little nervous about the dance.

Me: What are you nervous about?

Erin: I hope I’ll have friends there. And that there will be people to hang out with. And to talk to.

Me: Well, I know some of your friends will be there. And you can start conversations with anyone; they all know you.

Erin: It’s hard, Mom. There are also going to be some kids from other schools … and I don’t even know them.

Me: More potential new friends and people to have fun with?

Erin: I don’t know…

Me: Okay, here’s my best piece of advice. Listen up because this is really important: Just don’t be a bitch.

Erin: MOTHER!

Me: What? Do you like bitches?

Erin: Well, no…

Me: Do you know anyone who likes bitches?

Erin: No…

Me: Exactly. So don’t be a bitch. And you’ll be fine.

I expect my Mother of the Year award to arrive any day now.

Photo Credit: ptimages / 123RF Stock Photo

The post Advice to My Daughter on the Eve of Her First Junior High Dance appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

Depression and Anxiety Walk into a Bar …

Okay, I don’t actually have a joke. I’m just awkwardly introducing a different kind of post. See, depression and anxiety have walked back into my life, and they don’t seem to want to leave. Like intrusive houseguests who have overstayed their welcome, they are invading my space and turning me into someone I don’t recognize. (Somebody smells bad in this particular analogy, and I’m pretty sure it’s me.)

I walk around in a fog. I lack the energy and desire to do the things I used to do. Once a careful planner, I can’t even schedule the simplest of activities. I cancel dates, forget birthdays and anniversaries, and generally avoid people. I ignore phone calls. (Fine, I’ve always done that—I’m just not a phone person.) I have doubts about my career choice, my life choices, and even the simplest of decisions. I am exhausted during the day, but my racing heart and mind keep me awake at night. I spend any time I don’t have to be somewhere else in bed—sometimes crying, sometimes binge-watching Netflix, sometimes just staring at the ceiling. All the while wanting to be motivated, but paralyzed by a million simultaneous thoughts and lacking the will to fight.

Don’t get me wrong—it hasn’t been all bad. I’ve helped California’s drought by not showering. I’ve decreased my laundry load significantly by wearing the same t-shirt and yoga pants for days on end. I’ve reduced my carbon footprint and saved a shit-ton of money by not driving to any stores.

Still, I’m getting really tired of myself. So is my bedroom light fixture. See this guy? He’s judging me with his judgey little eye.

I finally dragged myself to the doctor to start medication again. That sounds so easy, but it most definitely was not. When you don’t have the motivation to complete even the simplest of tasks, taking that first step to get help seems insurmountable. It took me several months to find a new doctor, make all of the calls, set up the appointments, and get over the financial hurdles. (And I have relatively good insurance. It really shouldn’t be this difficult.)

But it was definitely worth it. Aside from the obvious benefits of talking to someone and putting together a treatment plan, I discovered that my hot flashes are due to my anxiety disorder and not early menopause. #winning?

Now I have a chemical war raging in my body as my doctor and I go through the careful trial and error of discovering which medication works best with my physiology. Unfortunately, our Lexipro experiment failed. It initially made me a human lightning ball, and then it turned me into a non-stop-crying zombie. (Just in time for the premiere of The Walking Dead though.)

So I’m transitioning to Zoloft to see if that’s the right medication for me. I mention this because I probably won’t be around as much—my body is extremely sensitive to drugs. So for everybody’s safety, I’ll be starting a new series on Netflix.

I also mention this because I want to encourage anyone else who is experiencing similar feelings to seek help. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of, and it is most definitely treatable. Even though recognizing the signs and symptoms can be difficult. Even though taking that first step seems impossible. Even though it sometimes takes a couple of tries to find the right therapist and/or medication.

You. Are. Worth. It.

Thank you to my friends who have checked in on me, to everyone for being patient with me, and most especially to Mr. Foxy for pulling double shift on the home front. I promise I’m working on the funny. A brand-new season of Foxy Wine Pocket is just around the corner. But for now, I could really use some good Netflix recommendations. Anyone?

Photo Credit: kmiragaya / 123RF Stock Photo

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The Good and Bad News about Having a Tweenager

You’ve been enjoying the sweet spot of parenting since your children outgrew the pre-schooler phase, but now you’re wallowing in the Tween Trenches. Well, I’ve got good news for you about your tweenager… and some bad news.

The Good News: They can blow their own noses.

The Bad News: They drop used tissues everywhere.

The Good News: Their music is actually pretty cool.

The Bad News: Yours is not.

The Good News: They can feed themselves.

The Bad News: They leave empty wrappers and dirty dishes all over the house.

The Good News: They can do their own homework.

The Bad News: They still yell at you as though you assigned it in the first place.

The Good News: They sleep in until noon on Saturdays.

The Bad News: The soccer game starts at 9:00 A.M.

The Good News: They don’t need a babysitter while you run errands.

The Bad News: They are ALONE in your house.

The Good News: They still love you.

The Bad News: Sometimes.

The Good News: They can get dressed by themselves.

The Bad News: They insist on wearing the same t-shirt everywhere all week.

The Good News: They can bathe themselves.

The Bad News: Only when you force them.

The Good News: They can clean up their own rooms.

The Bad News: They don’t.

The Good News: They can wipe their own butts.

The Bad News: They still smell like ass.

What news can you add?

Photo Credit: eurobanks / 123RF Stock Photo

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You Put Your Meat In There

I like my meat hot and spicy before I stuff it in … a roll. I also like my recipes paired with a good story, and that’s what you’re getting today.

This delicious recipe for Tina’s Stuffed Rolls has been in my family for over seventy years. Although I’ve enjoyed the rolls at various gatherings my entire life, I had never actually made them myself until recently. As with most things food-related, I went to the master, my 95-year-old Grandma, for instruction.

I’m extremely close to my grandmother. We share passions for food, shopping, and inappropriate humor. She is a feisty, loving, and generous woman—who has been known to say some pretty outrageous things. She once noted, “It’s a good thing we aren’t contemporaries. We would have gotten arrested by now.” (That’s probably true.)

Grandma graciously invited me to her house to make Tina’s Stuffed Rolls together. Secretly, I’m sure she wanted to ensure I would make them “correctly.” After all, there are a number of “not-as-good-as-Tina’s” variations out there.

First, we went shopping for the ingredients. Naturally, we made jokes the entire time.

“It’s important to get high quality meat. You like good meat?” she snickered.

“Oh, I like good meat, alright,” I played along, trying to suppress my laughter.

“You want the hard ones, not the soft ones. Always go for the hard ones,” she lectured as we searched for the perfect dinner rolls, and we both burst into a fit of giggles.

We went to three different stores to find those perfect rolls. My grandma prefers French rolls; I prefer sourdough. We agreed to disagree, and I bought some of both. We decided to make the recipe the following day so she could rest after our shopping marathon.

By the time I arrived at her house the next morning, she had already cooked and cooled the meat and grated all of the cheese. With one look from her, I knew I was slacking.

So I quickly got to work chopping the olives, draining and adding the pimentos, and opening the cans of tomato sauce. She watched me with her hand on her hip as I chopped the olives, but she kept her mouth shut.

When I started chopping the onions, however, it was just too much for her.

“Here. Let me show you a faster way to do it,” she demanded, grabbing the knife from me. She proceeded to chop the onions in the exact same manner I was doing, but with a lot more speed. Pretty impressive for a woman in her nineties.

While we were mixing the filling, I asked her, “Where did this recipe come from? The recipe card says ‘Tina’s Stuffed Rolls.’”

“Your great aunt. You know her name was Tina, right?” she teased.

I smirked at her. “Of course I knew that. Was it her family recipe though?”

“She got it from your aunt Alma, I believe.”

“Then why aren’t they called ‘Alma’s Stuffed Rolls’?” I not-so-innocently inquired.

She looked at me only slightly annoyed, “Well, Alma got the recipe from a prominent family in San Jose—the one that owned the pool halls in the 40s.”

“Then why aren’t they called ‘Prominent Pool Hall Family Stuffed Rolls’?” I jabbed.

“Because they’re TINA’S ROLLS. And don’t you try and take credit for them,” she warned. Then she continued, “The first time I made them was with Tina and Alma. We made dozens of them for a wedding shower.”

In fact, the stuffed rolls are a regular feature at my family’s parties. One time, my cousin made these same stuffed rolls at her house. Her neighbor remarked to my grandma, “Aren’t Carla’s Stuffed Rolls fantastic? They’re my favorite.”

That did Grandma in. She wasn’t going to let anyone take credit for the rolls. She made sure that guest (and anyone nearby) knew where they came from, “Those aren’t Carla’s Stuffed Rolls. THEY ARE TINA’S ROLLS.”

So I’m forever calling them Tina’s Stuffed Rolls. Because Grandma said so. And it’s wise to do what she says.

Tina’s Stuffed Rolls

Ingredients:

1 pound ground hamburger
½ pound grated sharp cheddar cheese
¼ cup chopped black olives
¼ cup chopped pimento
¼ cup grated or finely chopped onion
½ cup tomato sauce
1 teaspoon chili powder
salt and pepper
12 small, hard French or sourdough dinner rolls

Directions:

Brown and season hamburger with salt and pepper. Let the meat cool and drain excess fat. Add cheese, olives, pimento, onion, tomato sauce, and chili powder. Mix together and adjust seasoning, if necessary.

Make the dinner rolls into small bread bowls by cutting the top off each roll and scooping out the center. (Save the centers for bread crumbs or another purpose.) Fill the hollowed out roll with the prepared filling and put the top back on the roll. Wrap in wax paper or aluminum foil. Heat at 350 degrees until the filling is hot (about 15 minutes).

Variations: You can substitute any cooked meat (ground pork, turkey, chicken, etc.), any cheese (mild cheddar, Monterey Jack, Feta, etc.), and the seasonings (green chilies, green onions, peppers, etc.). Of course, I cannot be held responsible when Grandma berates you that it’s not the original recipe.

P.S. I love Cholula sauce (Grandpa’s favorite) on my stuffed rolls, but don’t tell Grandma.

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If You Give Foxy a Fish Head…

I promise I know how to behave properly in public. I can keep my voice down. I practice good manners. I follow my own rules of swearing. I’ll only wrestle with you if I really love you.

But, dammit, if you put a fish head on my plate, I’m going to play with it. I can’t just eat around it like a civilized person and leave it alone. In true Foxy fashion, I’m going to turn it into dinner and a show.

I’m going to kiss it and name it Nemo.

I’m going to have existential conversations with it.

Me: Don’t despair, Nemo. You could have been a giant talking cockroach shunned by society. At least I love you.

Nemo: …

And make bad puns with it.

Me: I swear I’m not angry with you, Nemo. I didn’t call for your head on a platter.

Nemo: …

I’m going to make it sing, “Fish Heads.” (Sadly no video was captured of that moment.)

And I’m going to make it smoke a French fry and wear a crown made of its own tail.

Because it’s a FISH HEAD ON MY PLATE.

In related news, I’m also doing inappropriate things around the Internet this week:

Admitting that wine and my vibrator are the only things that “spark joy.”
Making everyday chores sound dirty.
Eschewing my Back-to-School lists in favor of celebratory mimosas.

Read those essays if you haven’t already. And then chime in. What’s the most inappropriate thing you’ve done lately?

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Sometimes I’m Serious Too

September 6-12 is National Suicide Prevention Week. I lost my brother to suicide three years ago, and I live with chronic depression and anxiety myself. So this week is important to me to say the least.

Talking about mental illness and suicide is also very important to me. I share my experiences because I want to help people. Because I want people who are struggling to know that they are not alone. Because I want people to come to a deeper understanding of mental illness.

Those people also include my children. I wrote an essay for Scary Mommy addressing why and how I talk to my kids about depression and suicide.  Please read and/or share if you are so inclined.

#StopSuicide

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How to Be the Best Crappy Tooth Fairy Ever

Parenting experts want to lecture you on breastfeeding, sleep training, discipline, and all sorts of child-rearing topics. Their unending spew of “helpful” advice can drown you if you’re not careful. Unfortunately they have left several key parenting topics out of their books of lies manuals. Perhaps because the topics are too difficult to tackle. Perhaps the folks are not the experts they claim to be. Perhaps they are just too scared.

Well, I for one am not afraid to discuss the tough stuff. The scary stuff. Like how to be a good Tooth Fairy (or any other mythical creature). I know I was a monumentally crappy tooth fairy, but in hindsight, I have some honest-to-goodness, save-your-tooth-swapping-ass tips that you’ll never find in Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care book.

Get ready to lower your standards and achieve greatness.

First and foremost, determine what kind of Tooth Fairy you are going to be in advance of the first tooth loss. Do you want to be the dramatic Tooth Fairy who farts glitter, gold coins, and gifts with each tooth? (The answer is NO.) Remember that kids compare notes at school, and other parents will resent you for that over-the-top crap. Also keep in mind that you need to select a strategy that you can pull off for ALL of your children. I highly recommend going low-key. It’s much better to be the best crappy Tooth Fairy than the worst overly-ambitious one.
Purchase and/or procure twenty of whatever gift the Tooth Fairy is giving. Each child loses twenty teeth; you may have to do some multiplication depending on how many kids you have. Get the cash and/or presents now; don’t wait until the day you need it. At least 50% of the time, the tooth will fly out of your child’s mouth close to midnight, leaving you shit out of luck if you’re not fully prepared. Hide your stash well enough so your kids can’t find it, but not so well that you forget where it is. BTW, It doesn’t make you a better parent if you dispense $20 per tooth—it just pisses off the rest of us. $1 per tooth is just fine and is much easier on the back account when preparing your stash.
Select the right tooth holder. Do not have your child place a tooth under the pillow for the Tooth Fairy to find. It will get lost. Either by your kid or by you (probably by you). Special pillows also run the risk of getting lost in between Tooth Fairy visits. After years of failure experimentation, we found a simple Ziploc bag works effectively. You (almost) always have one, and they’re easy to clutch in the middle of the night (possibly after a few drinks), ensuring the tooth won’t go flying out of your hand into oblivion (and your child won’t cry when he finds a random tooth in the house). Not that that’s ever happened to me.
Design an effective swap technique. I urge you to steer away from conducting the critical exchange underneath your child’s pillow. Kids can wake up and/or accidentally get pushed out of bed. Might I suggest taping the bagged tooth to the outside of your child’s bedroom door? Or better yet, create a Tooth Shrine in the bathroom. You know, where the kids smear toothpaste all over the sink instead of actually brushing their teeth? Your chances of getting caught red-handed in there are drastically reduced.
Create an elaborate system of reminders. An entire day can pass between the time the actual tooth falls out and the time the Tooth Fairy visits. That’s several hours of other crap filling your head. And once that plastic tooth bag is tucked away by the Tooth Shrine, it might as well be gone from the earth. So set multiple alarms on your phone: “The Tooth Fairy is coming! The Tooth Fairy is coming!” Put your kid in charge of creating and hanging a few “Welcome Tooth Fairy!” signs that you’ll be sure to stumble across throughout the evening.
Don’t drink alcohol that night. It increases the likelihood that you will forget your magical duties. Or, since we both know we’re kidding ourselves about not drinking, just put a Post-It note on the bottle and or glass from which you’re drinking. Or put a note on your pillow that you will see before you collapse in a pile of exhaustion at the end of the day.
Have a back-up plan. Have some emergency cash stashed somewhere in the house that you can raid when you forget where you hid the original cache of goods and/or when you realize that you spent that hoard on some new shoes that you don’t want your husband to know about.
Expect to fail. Yeah sure, that first exchange will go great. Don’t get cocky or expect the rest of them to go as well. Slowly but surely, the Tooth Fairy’s performance will go downhill. Just prepare for the tears (from your child too). You can blame booze, sleep deprivation, memory loss, or maybe some sort of combination of those. All the Tooth Fairy’s issues, of course. Not yours.
When all else fails, point the finger at someone else. At the child: “Are you sure you hung the signs correctly?” At the Tooth Fairy: “The Tooth Fairy must have been very busy last night. Let’s try again tonight.” At anyone else: “Maybe Santa Claus ran into the Tooth Fairy with his sleigh. I hope the reindeer are okay.”

See? When you set the bar really low, you are certain to succeed.

Photo Credit: goodynewshoe / 123RF Stock Photo

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12 Reasons Why I Didn’t Shower Today

My Dearest Husband,

Welcome home! I hope you had a wonderful day at work. I know, I know, I look like hell (again) this evening. Honest to goodness, I had every intention of showering today and making myself more presentable, but it just didn’t happen.

There are endless reasons why I didn’t shower today, but here are the first dozen off the top of my head…

Your snoring and the baby kept me up last night so I pressed snooze a couple of times to get a little more sleep. Okay, fine. I hit snooze five times, and I completely missed my window of opportunity to shower before the kids woke up.
Then everyone was cranky and screaming for needed breakfast. And I am the only one in the house who knows where to find the cereal and how to pour milk. Apparently.
After I dropped off the kids at school, I had to go to the grocery store. Did you know I’m in charge of snacks for the class party tomorrow? Me neither. Until our daughter handed me a note this morning that she received over a week ago.
Once I got home, I realized that I didn’t have a clean pair of yoga pants, and it seemed gross to put my freshly showered body back into my less-than-fresh clothes. So I started some laundry instead.
Then I was going to shower during naptime, but guess what? The baby had other plans. Those plans did not include sleep or quiet alone time.
So I decided to exercise while the baby played, and there’s no point in showering until after I exercise. Because, sweat.
Unfortunately the dog puked before I even got my yoga mat in place, and I had to clean that up. That task involved a make-shift hazmat suit, a steam cleaner, and a lot bit of profanity. (She got into the art supplies again.)
Even though I really wanted a shower at that point, Common Core Math (and a hysterical kid) took up the rest of my afternoon.
And then I needed to make dinner. Because we all need to eat to stay healthy—and not attack each other. Didn’t I just do this yesterday?
But here’s the thing: there’s a major drought going on all over the Western United States. So, really, I’m saving water. And money.
And the messy bun look is popular, right? Tell me I look sexy. TELL! ME! NOW!
Besides, I used some baby wipes on all of my smelly parts so I’m clean and sweet-smelling—just like a newborn.

Instead of looking at me in horror, why don’t you take charge of the kids and let me go have that shower now? Which I probably won’t do because a glass of wine and some mindless television sound way more appealing.

Sincerely,

Your Beautiful-If-Slightly-Disheveled Wife

P.S. I’ll try again tomorrow. I promise.

© 2014 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy. (And I don’t have a baby anymore so you didn’t miss any important announcements.)

Photo Credit: dirkkoebernik / 123RF Stock Photo (You didn’t think I was going to include an unshowered picture of myself, did you?)

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