A little kindness makes everything nicer

The other day, I took The Dictator and The Hormone King to Red Robin for dinner with my dear friend (Goob's mom) and her son (Goob). Goob's mom was able to hook me up with free kids' meal coupons...with Hubs planning some sort of strategic warfare on the opposing baseball team at Lamppost Pizza, I figured, what the hell? All I'd have to pay for was myself. Sweet!

The Dictator was in fine form that night. He was singing. He was sliding. He was yelling. He was touching. He was dancing. He was leaning. He was picking his nose...and eating it.

He was doing this all IN THE BOOTH AT RED ROBIN.

I threatened. Icounted. I gave The Look of Death. None of it was working.

Finally I realized I was going to have to get my stupid fat ass out of the booth, drag his little whiny ass outside and beat the hell out of him.


I hate it when they call my bluff.

I rolled out of the booth, grabbed his wrist and started walking...all with him yelling, "I don't want to go outside! Are you going to smack me? Are you going to smack me?"

So, I'm dragging him by his wrist. He's whining and I'm fuming. I'm plotting in my head the consequences I'm going to dole out on this insolent little creature. Talking? Spanking? Squeezing? Pinching? There are so many options.

As I'm perusing my mental rolodex of punishments, a sweet Red Robin employee jogs ahead of me to open the door for me.

Now, this is normal procedure. But in this particular instance, all I could think was, "Huh. He just opened the door for me to go beat my son. That was awfully considerate of him."

Kindness, kids. I'm all about kindness.

Smell my face

I was on the computer tonight when The Hormone King came up to me and boldly stated:

"Hey mom, smell my face."

I did, believe it or not. It reeked of Right Guard Extreme.

The village idiot put deodorant on his face. Why, I asked him?

"Why not?"

He amuses me like no other.

Football is BIG

The Hormone King is playing football, all four feet and 62 pounds of him.


It should be interesting, if nothing else.

So, we went to his first team meeting on Tuesday and it went a little something like this:

Big hair. Big boobies. Big jewelry. Big makeup. Big wallets.

And me. The boobies, I got covered. Everything else...not so much.


This season is going to KICK ASS.

Do you think they'll have an open bar at the games? Cause I'm gonna need it.

The battle for pus

Tonight, The Hormone King and I had a knock down, drag out. About what, you ask?

A zit. A freaking zit.

The little shithead wouldn't let me pick it.

I LOVE to pick. Nothing makes me happier than to spend a good 40 minutes of my life picking somebody. Anybody. On those uber rare occasions when my face is blackhead-free, I chase my husband around the house looking for an imperfection to squeeze. If he's not around, I scrutinize my kids...usually unsuccessfully. When they're hiding in the closet, I gravitate towards the dogs.

Seriously. It's that bad.

The Hormone King is just that...a hormone king. Hormones = oil. Oil = grease. Grease = zits.


*Sidenote: THK has armpit hair. It's very fine and babyish, but it's there and it makes me want to vomit. This puberty thing is kicking my ass.

Anyway, he was getting ready for bed tonight when I noticed he had a great, pointy, juicy blackhead on the side of his face. I immediately sprang into action.

M: You have a zit on the side of your head. Lemme get it.

HK: No. You don't stop when I ask you to.

M: I will, I promise. Come here.

HK: No! I'll do it myself.

M: (getting desperate) If you let me pick it, I'll give you $2.00.

(I swear, you guys, this is what I'm resorting to).

HK: No! Go away!

M: (more desperate) See your nails? They're long. I was going to cut them tonight, but if you let me pick that zit, I'll put it off for three days.

HK: Seriously, mom. You're scary.

M: Dammit! Did you hear me? I said I'll let you grow freaking talons, dude! That's insane! I'm desperate!

HK: (running away) I'll do it! I'll do it! Dad! She's out of her mind!

I chased him, but he got away. I even held his hands behind his head, but turns out you can't pop a freaking zit when you're holding someone else's hands. And it's absolutely gross when your kid licks your arm to force you to let go.

He won this battle, but the war is just beginning. He's 11, for God's sake. The hormones are just starting to do their work on him.

I will be victorious.