A Big Wiener

Having the spousal unit work out of town and only make infrequent appearances on our doorstep has made for some interesting parental problems. I'm not really a single momma, yet I don't have the hands on, daily support of a live-in baby daddy.

Which means, I'm a single momma with a sugar daddy, legally obligated to stay at home, mind his nest, spend his money and not flirt with other boys.

There are no rules for flirting with other girls, however.

Hey, how YOU doing, Sandra and Jen? Why don't the two of you slide on over here and come talk to Big Red?

So many women, so little time.

I digress. I'm one of the lucky ladies out there. I've got a man who loves me, is gorgeous, a great provider, a wonderful father, and more importantly, leaves me to my own devices more times than not.

Life is gooooood.

The dark side to being a single parent 80 percent of the time, (besides having to take out the trash myself, police the children, and become best friends with my buddy, Mr. Rabbit) is I can not go anywhere without my children unless I dig deep into my pockets and shell out a small fortune into the hands of a shifty eyed teen I have to entrust my children to.

After all, a girl can only go begging for baby-sitting to her MIL so many times before rumours start to swirl.

Which means, where I go, they go.

Need a new bra? Let's go, kids. And Frac, try not to put the big ones on your head and chase your sister around the store. It's not cute.

Need feminine hygiene products? Come on, kidlets, momma needs some cotton. Don't ask, don't look and please don't talk loudly when we are checking out said items.

Ran out of Irish Cream for my coffee? Let's go to the liquor store babies! Momma needs her juice.

Now that my darlings are a bit older, things are slightly easier. I no longer lose them in the store aisles, I don't have to worry about potty breaks and they generally do what they are told.

(All right. I bribe them. But still. They respond to it.)

Of course, there are hazards. Like last Friday, when we headed off into the great big city to stock up on food supplies.

After refereeing a fight over who gets to push the grocery cart, everything went fairly smooth. We were laughing, co-operating and having a good time in the midst of the big box grocery chain. I preened with pride, feeling like I was Mommy of the Year, setting an example for all the other harried parents in the store.

Watch me and learn, earthlings. Bwhahahaha!

Soon our cart was piled high with food stuff and Fric and Frac struggled to steer the behemoth cart down the aisles. No problem. Mommy to the rescue. Except every time I tried to push the cart, the damn thing would squeal loudly and draw the attention of all the non-squealing, perfect, cart-pushing shoppers around us.

Which made us laugh harder. Because it only squealed when I touched the darned thing. Which I had to do to turn the cart or manoeuver it around a sea of aisle hogging shoppers.

My kids thought this was hysterical. Which lead to silliness and bad behaviour. Suddenly I was no longer the momma with the perfect kiddies but that Redneck who came to town, scratched her ass in public and let her children run loose like monkeys.

I was rapidly losing my ability to contain the situation and made a command decision to get the hell out of Dodge. Scanning my list to see what items I could forget about, and which items I absolutely needed, I decided the only thing I couldn't live without was wieners.

Story of my life, really.

The meat section was on the other side of the store. Of course, why wouldn't it be? As my son started to imitate a bad circus juggler near the apple section, I debated on leaving them in the produce department and running by myself to get the meat.

Bad idea, I thought to myself as other shoppers were sending us their bad mojo complete with evil eyes. Corralling the kiddies and pushing our monster cart towards the other side of the store, Fric and Frac giggled loudly as the cart screamed to anyone who would listen what a pack of hillbillies the three of us were.

Finally in the meat section, Fric, my always helpful daughter, grabbed the closest pack of hotdogs to her. As she tossed it into the cart with a triumphant look, I snatched it out and tossed it back into the case.

"Honey, if I'm going to eat chicken lips and assholes for a week, I want them to be good," I proudly proclaim as I peruse the selection before me. Every shape, size and type of tubed meat lay before me, like wiener heaven.

"Mom, a hotdog is a hotdog. They're all disgusting until you put ketchup on them."

"No, sweety. You don't understand. You're mother is very particular about the wieners she puts in her mouth. I want them big and juicy."

Yes, I said it. To my ten year old child. Not realizing the double entendre I was stating. However, the matronly woman standing beside me certainly was and gasped in horror at what I had just said. Trying not to make eye contact with her death glare, I continued to focus on the wieners as though my life depended on it.

Except that was difficult to do, with the two men who stood on my other side and had also heard what I had said.

They wiggled their eyebrows at me to suggest that perhaps I might like their wiener selection.

Realizing how badly this situation could go, and that I was screwed if I turned left or right, I told the kids to back up the cart and head west...we didn't need no stinking hotdogs.

However, I snagged a package of big wieners on my way out, while staring at the floor. A girl has to feed her family, you know.

As we were loading up the car with our loot, I blushed with shame as I thought about the scene in the meat department.

"Next time I go shopping, I'm leaving the two of you locked in the closet at home," I said as I dove to save the eggs my son had almost dropped.

"But why Mom? We had so much fun?" They looked at me, all big blue eyed and innocent.

Devil spawn, I thought.

"It's just easier with out you sometimes, darlin."

"But mom, everybody knows that kids are the greatest thing in the world. And we can always help you pick out a great wiener."

Just what every mother wants to hear. I'm the luckiest mom in the world.

Why Condoms and Kids made me Bananas

***Updated below***

Yesterday, after showering and waddling naked through my house, wrapped so tightly in a towel I resembled a sushi roll, I looked at my suitcase and schwag bags lying on the floor, taunting my lazy ass to unpack and put things away. I could just hear them dare me to leave them on the floor to become permanent parts of the decor. Do it, do it, they whispered.

Not one to succumb to peer pressure (snort), even the pressure created in my mind from two inanimate objects, I took a deep breath and dumped the contents of the bags on to the top of my comforter. There! Take that! I thought. This way, I would have to go through my dirty laundry and schwag and put things away. It was on my bed. My precious, soft bed. I had no choice now.

One would think that I would have immediately started putting things away, right? Nah. I was standing there, wrapped in my towel, and let's face it, it was starting to get a little drafty. As the true blonde I am, I found myself distracted from one task to another, much like a raven with a nest full of shiney coins.

Standing in my bathroom, picking my zits, applying my war paint, er, brushing my teeth, my children wander in and see the mountain of goodies on my bed. Like the starving, neglected children they are, they immediately started to plunder my loot.

"Mom, can I have this tin of mints?"

"Mom, are you gonna use this note book?"

"Mom, do you really need another bag? One that would be perfect to store my legos in?"

Which is fine, because other than the dildo, everything I brought home I brought to impress my children. Look kiddies, your mother is the ultimate at scoring free schwag. Learn from me and cultivate this talent...

Suddenly, my daughter pipes up, "Frac, don't put that in your mouth. It's not a candy. Gross."

My ears perk up, and I ask, "What, what is it? Show me." I'm wracking my brains trying to think if I brought home anything toxic that was disguised as sugary delightfulness.

Fric snatched the offending item out of Frac's hands and walks into the bathroom to show me.

"This, he was trying to eat THIS." She is both disgusted and horrified and completely indignant said offending item was even in my possession.

"Oh. Ya. No Frac. That's not candy. Don't eat it." Shame floods my face and I try desperately not to make eye contact with my daughter's accusing eyes.

(I can just see her ten years in the future on the therapist couch, blaming me for the disappointments in her life and why my perversion is at the root of her disfunction.)

Frac is trying to grab the offensive object back from Fric while demanding to know what it is.

His lovely and ever so helpful sister is now standing on the toilet, holding the item well above Frac's head, teasing him to jump for it.

With great authority, (after she catches my evil-death-glare and decides she had best step down from the toilet before her mother decides to duct tape her to the wall), she tosses the item on the floor and walks out of the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, "Fine, have it. Eat it. After all, it's the only use for a condom you are ever going to have."

Frac bends over it, and examines the orange latex condom on a sucker stick, and mumbles how he thought it was a lollipop.

Examining it, he looks up at me with his big, innocent blue yes and asks, "Mom, what is a condom?"

Thank you Kristen, because having yet another sex education talk with my son while his father is absent is exactly what I wanted to do upon my arrival home.

There really is nothing like watching your nine and ten year olds apply a neon orange condom onto an over ripe banana. I will cherish the memory.

And try to find a way to explain to their daddy why the fruit is now sporting a jimmy.
*******






Thank you Mama Tulip for awarding me a perfect post award for this post. You are a fine Canuck and a true hoser.

For more perfect post awards, please hop on over to Petroville or Suburban Turmoil place to view the complete list. And thanks for hosting the awards ladies. Big slobbery Canadian kisses to you both.


******

Racy Red is back and she's hot n' bothered. Go on over and see the action. Sadly, it's the only action this momma is getting these days.

Also, her gal pal, Hot Mama wants to hear your dirty little secret. You may not want to share, but you sure will giggle.

Crazy B!tch

"Where's my iPod?" Pillows are flying, cushions are being tossed, and I'm growing increasingly annoyed.

"Frac!! Fric!! Where the hell is my iPod?"

The silence was ringing in my ears. I was expecting a chorus of "Not me's and I Don't Know's." Hmmm. Could it be? Could my children be ignoring me?

I stopped ransacking my house for a moment and walked into the kitchen where they were both sitting looking remarkably angelic. (They sure didn't get that trait from me...)

"Hey! TweedleDee and TweedleDum! What did you do with my iPod?"

I find it's not so easy for my darling children to avoid you if you stick your sharp, pointy nose in their faces.

There were definite signs of squirming. I knew it. They knew where my music machine was.

"Fess up and I promise not to hang you by your toes from the ceiling fan. But the offer of clemency only lasts for thirty seconds. The first one who rolls on the other wins. I shall not be so merciless to the other..." I warned, using my scary policewoman voice.

Fric and Frac eyeballed each other, their solidarity wavering as the ceiling fan silently swooshes up above them.

"Dad told us to hide it!" They both cried in unison. (It was impressive, really. They should become sychronized swimmers. I'd make a fortune. Bwhaahahahah!)

"What do you mean 'Dad told you to hide it?' I don't think so. He loves you. He wouldn't knowingly put you in harm's way." And anyone who stands between me and my fix of B.B. King deserves harm.

"He told us to put it away until he came home. He said that it wouldn't hurt you to listen to the radio like he has to every day." My poor kids. They looked miserable. But who's scarier? A dad who is out of town or a momma who's eyes are starting to bug out of her head while her skin goes a scary red shade?

"He's just jealous that he doesn't have a cool toy like I do." I say, in a sing song voice.

Very mature. Both of us.

"Um, Mom," Fric reluctantly starts, while trying to avoid eye contact with the foaming beast of a mother standing in front of her, "I don't think it's that. He says he's trying to protect us."

"PROTECT YOU? FROM MY IPOD?" I screech. "What in blue blazes for?" That's it. I don't care if he's some fancy bigwig on the site up there. Screw professionalism. I'm gonna call him and give him a piece of my mind....

"Not from your iPod, silly," she continues, "from YOU."

"Me?" Now I'm totally mystified. After all, I am the parent model of decorum, grace and dignity. Why would my children need protection from me? I make sure to place pillows beneath them every time I have to string them by their toes to the fan. Just in case the duct tape slips. I am thoughtful like that.

"He says you have inappropriate music taste and-"

"If he thinks I'm going to listen to an hour worth of radio commercials every time I have to travel to the city, he is out of is ever-loving mind," I mutter as I'm hunting for the phone.

Suddenly, it hits me. "Innappropriate musical taste? What is he talking about? What is he, my mother?"

Frac had scampered to his room by this time, happy that Fric was taking the heat. He's a pansy like his daddy. Fric rolled her eyes and starts explaining to me like I am like her mentally challenged sibling. "He thinks some of the music we listen to in your car is not for kid's ears and he told me to hide your iPod and tell you that."

"How would your father know what we listen to in my car when he's out of town? Hmmm?" Who's ratting on who here?

Suddenly, Fric looked guilty as hell.

"He overheard me singing Crazy Bitch the other day while I was in the pool, playing with Frac." Her angelic look was starting to be shadowed by the horns she started growing out of her head.

"Oh." Shit. Bad mommy, bad.

"Well one song isn't the end of the world. Right?" I can see the silver lining in every cloud. It's a gift.

"Um, it wasn't just one song. When he heard me singing that song he asked about all the other music I have heard. I couldn't remember all the names but I did remember Nickelback, Bif Naked and uncle's band...Spawned Something."

The colour drained out of my face. My daughter just told my husband that not only do I allow her to listen to sexually inappropriate songs and music by angry, sexually frustrated lesbians, but that I on RARE occasion play my brother's death metal rantings while my virgin-earred children are trapped in a vehicle with me.

Fuck me.

"Well, next time remind him that I also shove B.B and Aretha down your throats, will ya kid?"

Later that day, while in my car to drive to the city, I looked in the rear view mirror and asked Fric and Frac if there are any requests. I am D.J. Mom after all.

In unison, while their devil horns grew proportionately, they both yelled "CRAZY BITCH!!"

Ya, that's what their dad thinks too.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ---- -----

I'm off to my first trip to the U.S, and leaving the kids in their Christian-music-loving grandparent's capable hands to reverse all the musical damage I have subjected my children to. I will see you all Monday.

Until then, be good. Or be naughty. Just make sure to tell me about it.