December – Thank God’s it’s almost OVER

Dear Faithful “Parenthood: The New Crazy Train” Readers,

I apologize whole-heartedly for my near month-long absence from entertaining you all.

I am blaming it on my children for during the month of December they go from being normal to rambunctious within a matter of seconds.

They do not give a rat’s ass about “Elf on the Shelf” watching over them – regardless if we even have one of those damn things (which we don’t).

They do not give a rat’s ass that “Santa” is watching over them – they don’t care about the “Big Jolly Elf.”

Between holiday parties, family gatherings and wrapping presents (which about 80 percent are still under the tree since once they were unwrapped at warp speed, they were tossed into the “I don’t want this shit” pile) I feel like I have had about 10 minutes to myself.

And now, now we are in the smack-dab in the middle of Winter Break – minus any snow.

I have begged them to play with their unplayed-with-toys. They don’t care. My husband and I spent a lot of time picking out that stuff, only for them to toss it like a piece of trash. A flick of the wrist, and boom, it’s in the pile, along with the wrapping paper. It’s a sad state of affairs in our house.

I have never wanted it to snow so much in my entire life like I want it right NOW. I know, I know … what you all thinking … and I do too … I hate bundling them up with winter hats, coats, scarves and boots for them to slam open the door 15 minutes later declaring, “WE ARE DONE!”

But, without snow this year, they are stuck inside because it’s been raining cats and dogs in Ohio.

I hate Ohio weather. It’s muddy; and it’s ugly outside now too. It’s not even warm enough for hot chocolate.

Back to our Non-Winter-Winter-Break. It sucks. You know, as a parent, that winter break sucks when your kids WANT to go back to school. I want them back in school. I wonder if I could make the school district a trade: You take my kids the rest of this week (minus New Year’s Eve) and I will keep them the first snow day we have in Ohio. I promise …


A Mom



A Letter to my Size 8 Jeans

Dear Size 8 Jeans,

I see you every day, hanging on a sad white hanger. Alone. The faded denim that comfortably fit me five years ago has been rendered “too small” for my body.

I’m so sorry Tommy Hilfiger jeans. I have let you down. You have been pushed into a part of my closet where I dream of wearing you once again. A section of my closet where clothes never see the light of day if they no longer fit, but I refuse to give them away. I refuse to let you go Size 8 Jeans.

Four years ago, I was still able to fit into you, but only if I did the “bend-and-lunge” routine first. Ladies, you know the drill – pull the pants on as far as you can and then lunge forward with one leg. Hold that stance for eight seconds and repeat with the other leg.

But as the years progressed, my body grew and you now sit in the “skinny clothes” section, along with a pair of white capris, a black skirt and cute tops that I can no longer wear in public because of the back fat roll that appears from under my bra strap.

And, ever since I turned 37 it’s as if my metabolism is screaming, “SCREW YOU MELISSA! STARVE YOURSELF TO LOSE WEIGHT!”

I could walk 10 miles a day and crunch from sun up to sun down and it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.

Ever since I turned 37 gravity has ruined my body. The kicker is, my muffin top is still there, but I also have a bigger ass because as the year has progressed, my ass has dropped down. At this rate, by the time I turn 38 my boobs will reach my “under carriage” and my ass will touch my calf muscles.

I wonder if I were to hang myself upside down for an hour a day if gravity could reverse itself? Could the fat cells moving down to my ass somehow move to my boobs?

And, because I want to fit into my damn size 8 jeans, I have decided to torture my body, as well as my self-esteem by taking part in a weight loss program with two other girlfriends.

They are losing weight and keeping it off. I on the other hand, have plateaued since day one. Oh, wait, I did lose 3 pounds one week because I gave up drinking wine, but then I gained 2 pounds back because Fucking Flow arrived. I hate her. She ruins everything.

This week, I’m banking on my cold to put me back at the losing 3 pound mark, plus maybe an extra two less pounds. I needed this cold. I needed to have my taste buds rendered inactive.

Oh, Size 8 Jeans, I swear to God, I will not give you to Goodwill. I will never let anyone else wear you. No one else talks to you on the hanger. No one else touches your legs and whispers sweet nothings or phrases like, “I miss you, Old Friend.”

So, to you metabolism … you are messing with the wrong bitch because by Christmas Size 8 Tommy jeans, I will wear you again. I will feel your fabric on my body … even if I have to wear you on my arms.

Washing Machine Woes: Part II

Well, the bitch isn’t fixed.

In case you all missed the previous column, our washing machine (which is known as a SHE to all repairmen – hence the bitch description) took a dump nearly two weeks ago. The washing machine repairman has been here twice. He SAID he fixed it today, but he didn’t. Not really.

There is still a puddle behind the machine.

And, the best part, our machine is one of those fancy ones that runs on sensors.

Today, after the man left, I washed a load since it’s been starting to resemble a small mountain. He left, and OF COURSE a puddle formed behind the washing machine … in the exact same spot as before.

On top of that, the 35 minute cycle washed down to the last minute … and STAYED ON A MINUTE, SPINNING AND SPINNING AND SPINNING INTO AN EBLIVION. It stayed that way for 15 minutes, and we recorded it for two minutes. Finally, I told Seth to shut it off.

So now, the only person in our family who has clean clothes is the oldest son. Everyone else has a pile large enough in their rooms that soon I will need to rent a forklift to move it from one room to another.

Here’s the thing, remember, I live in BFE and I know there are laundromats within 15 minutes of my house, but they scare me. Like, horror movie, serial killer, stalker scare me. I know how this works …

“A young mom went to the laundromat because her washing machine took a shit for two weeks and she needed clothes. While she was there, a man walked into the same facility, and began asking her for a quarter for the pay-phone outside. She didn’t have a quarter, because it’s 2015 and no one carries cash … although, she did have enough cash to wash six loads of laundry. She had no quarters to spare. The man became irate and started screaming and yelling at her while waving a knife. She tried to fight back, but the only moves she knew were from years of Jazzercise and none of those were coming in handy now – the uppercuts weren’t providing enough punch and the leg kicks weren’t effective either, but she tried. Soon, the man pulled a knife, slicing her throat. THE END.”

So no, I am not dragging my six loads of dirty clothes to the laundromat. Instead, I have a new plan … NAKED AND AFRAID: THE BFE SERIES.

(Feel free to all me Discovery … I am sure we could work out a deal – you bring me a new washing machine, I guarantee your Neilson ratings will soar with my family!)