Please tell two friends…and so on…and so on…

Remember that Fabergé Organics shampoo commercial from the 80’s?  And how that blond chick (who looked suspiciously like a young Heather Locklear) was so psyched about the shampoo’s wheat germ oil and honey ingredients that she told two friends about it.  And they told two friends.

And…then?  All the math in the universe went wonky.  Because on the tv screen at that point, there were only FOUR friends who ALL looked like Heather Locklear.  But by MY calculations, there should have been SEVEN friends on tv (one of them being Heather), all excitedly chatting about their shampoo: some with brown hair, some with bowl cuts, some with zits and so on.

But that’s not what happens.  And while Heather continues telling all of her friends, the math gets even wonkier and everyone’s blond hair gets more amazingly Farrah Fawcettish and so on and so on.

Towards the very end of the commercial, Heather’s boyfriend shows up.  He ACTS like he’s smelling her hair, but we all know he’s really licking the honey off as he lurks behind her.  Weird.

At this point, there are three things that I wanted to tell Heather:

  1. Get some ugly friends already, Heather. Ones with bad hair!
  2. Oddly enough, I’m still waiting to hear from you about the shampoo.  I’m sure you’ll be telling me something about it shortly.
  3. Also, the ingredients in your shampoo? We’re now using in modern times for our smoothies.
  4. Ok, actually four things: and this last one isn’t really directed at Heather.  It’s directed at YOU, reading this blog: I need your help getting my blog nominated by February 1st for The 2015 Bloggies.

So pretty pleasepleaseplease go here: and vote for me for “Most Humorous Weblog.”  You will need to fill in THREE nominations.  Of course, if you’re the smartest and prettiest person in the land, you will naturally put “New Stay at Home Mom” in the FIRST Nominee field and this link in the FIRST corresponding URL field.

If I’m the only humorous blog you read, thank you and God bless!  But you will need to fill in two more blogs in order to complete your nomination.  A few that I feel won’t give me a super duper amount of competition in the “Most Humorous Weblog” category (and which I suggest all the smart and pretty people put in second and third spots) are:

Then please tell two of your friends about voting for my amazing blog…and so on…and so on…and so on.

But get the math right this time!  We want to go all exponential here.

Thanks, Friend!

Into the Woods

One of the last times Hubby, the kids and I went skiing, we decided the last run of the day would be down a slope we had been wanting to try for a while.

Going up in the lift for that final run, we were talking excitedly about how we would shortly be schussing through the woods on a nice, quiet trail – no crowds.  We were so excited, in fact, that we completely missed all of the snowboard half-pipe and orange construction barrier nonsense going on down below.

So when we got off the lift, the signs announcing a pro snowboard competition came as a complete shock.  And the additional signs indicating we should watch for “trail changes” rested very uneasily in my heart.

Be afraid.  Be very afraid.  BEWARE THE LAST RUN OF THE DAY!!!  BEWARE!!!!!

So we started off, trying not to chum in our mouths (ok, the chum-control might have just been on my part, no one else seemed…quite…that anxious) and sho’ nuf – eventually we see the trail we WANTED to take – ‘cept now it’s jam packed with a bunch of outdoor bike racks that the snowboarders seemed to be using on purpose.  And we?  We are directed by temporary plywood signs spray painted with arrows which eventually led us down a series of frightening death plummets.

And lately…a lot lately, this escape-from-scary-mountain has become a metaphor for my life.  With my job loss, my totaled car, the obligations of raising two kids with crookedy teeth, a dog that costs a MILLION bucks allasudden, I oftentimes feel like I’m standing at an icy mountain traverse, sick with fear because getting down that hill-I-never-expected-to-be-on is waaaaay beyond my skill level.  And my thighs are shaky and burning from the strain.  In fact, I’m tempted to walk back UP the mountain with my skiis ON just so I can get back to where the turn went wrong.

The only thing that’s different in Metaphor Land?  Is that there’s no nervous vomit on my ski jacket.  Yet.

To Dream The Impossible Dream

When my parents were here over the holidays, I found myself retelling a story from my youth of how my mother forgot me at soccer practice, so I had to hoof it to the town library, beg a quarter off the librarian and call home for someone to come get me.

Then my mom chimed in with how, one time, the entire family was ready to sit down to dinner, all except for my brother who was a no-show.  Mom reminisced that she grew increasingly frustrated with bro (why would he miss dinner?) when she suddenly remembered she had forgotten to pick HIM up from wherever he was!

[By the way, Mom & Dad – that was a fun visit.  That part about all the cold and snow was a bit of a drag but everyone balancing swords on their heads New Year’s Eve was HI-larious!  And for the rest of you reading this, no, I’m not joking about the swords.  There was even some belly-dancing.  The Class Historian has already submitted proof pictures to the yearbook.]

Since that wack walk down memory lane, Sissy can’t get the concept of a mother forgetting her child out of her head.  You could say she is horrified by fascinated with the idea.  So much so that she’s begun having dreams about it.  She told me this morning how, in her dream last night, I dropped her off at Amanda’s Pet Barn.  When I didn’t come back for her, she called her father to come get her.  But he said he’d be at work for TWO MORE HOURS!  No worries, Sissy confided to me, that was ok because there were bunnies at Amanda’s Pet Barn.

Ooooh ho ho, Sweetie!  That’s SO clearly a dream.  Because in real life?  When you’re trying to reach someone to come pick you up??  It’s cold and dark and you have no money and cell phones haven’t been invented.  Also?  There are NO bunnies.  Never bunnies.

Steve Martin Calling

Steve Martin the comedian has been calling my home phone.  I don’t ever actually talk to him, he just leaves a message…but I KNOW it’s him because A) he SAYS it’s Steve Martin and B) he puts on an Indian accent and does this hilarious shtick about how I’m wanted by the U.S. Treasury for some “enforcement action.” 

U.S. Treasury?!?  Ohhhh, so funny.  What: Is the U.S. Treasury gonna GET ME ‘cause I had that random thought that one time when I saw the commercial about the Special Collector’s Buffalo 24 karat Gold Coins and wondered who actually buys them?!? 

Admittedly, it would have been even funnier if Steve had said that the U.S. Treasury AND the Thought Police will put me in front of a grand jury as a federal criminal for ignoring his phone call.

But he’s the pro, so we’ll let him say whatever he wants.  Though you have to admit “Thought Police” would have been a gas.  Then he tips his hand by mentioning that my ignoring his call will be considered an “intentional second attempt to avoid appearing before a magistrate judge.” 

Not only is this quintessential Steve Martin, but it also reveals that he’s now speaking in code and he clearly wants to offer me a job in his next movie.  Since, as we all know, magistrate judges are wig-wearing, black-robed judge-y types in England and not America, I’m pretty sure the movie will be a period piece filmed in England.  Most likely involving Hugh Jackman. 

This will be a great personal and professional opportunity, in which case I’m totally gonna call Steve back.  So it’s convenient that Steve repeats his number twice so I can make sure I get it right.  Because when yer gettin’ on the horn to give someone a jingle about a job, you wanna make sure you get it right.  “My number is 562-398-3824. I repeat 562-398-3824.”

I’ve included Steve’s number here in case you want to be in the movie with me.  We could always use extras in the big, sweeping English period pieces Steve and I (well, and Hugh) are always filming together.  But hands off Hugh.  He’s mine.  I just thought it would be helpful to give you a fair warning on that.

Or – put in Steve’s own words as he wraps up his voicemail messages to me, “I’d like you to cooperate with us and help us to help you.”  Whataguy.  Words to live by, I think we all agree.

So call Steve!  Call him NOW!!!  And tell him you want a part in his film.  He’d appreciate it.  I’d appreciate it.  But that’s just us – Steve and me (well and Hugh too, but HANDS OFF HUGH!) – that’s just what we’re all about: always trying to help us help you. 

Thank you and you’re welcome.  And this is not a scam.  This is totally for real.  

The Name’s Potter

When we go to the bagel place, everyone stays as far away from Sonny as possible.  The kid is just a total disaster when it comes to cream cheese.  One time, after he took Sonny to the bagel place, Hubby found cream cheese in his EAR – not Sonny’s ear, HUBBY’S ear – and Hubby hadn’t even been eating anything WITH cream cheese…but Sonny had.  It was a freshly toasted bagel that day and everyone knows that warm bagels make the cream cheese particularly gooey and more likely to get into other people’s ears.

Why all the chit-chat about cheesy ears?  Well last time we were at the bagel place, Sissy, Hubby and I were huddled across the table from Sonny while we all enjoyed our breakfast on the restaurant’s patio.  A school bus went by and Sonny was the only one who could see it from his side of the table.  This prompted him to ask why a school bus was out and about on a Saturday morning?! 

We explained how it was probably a school sports team going to an away game.

[Disclaimer: My kids don’t ride the school bus to away games.  They are driven there by their chauffeur.  The chauffeur drives a 12-year-old completely totaled minivan and isn’t very nice on the mornings when she’s driving to away games.  Also her hair is pretty messy at that time of day.  We’re considering firing her.]

This caused Sonny to begin speculating on how most kids get to school – by bus or by car? 

[Disclaimer: My kids don’t ride the school bus to school either.  They are driven to school by their chauffeur.  The chauffeur drives a 12-year-old completely totaled minivan and isn’t very nice in the morning.  Also her hair is pretty messy at that time of day.  We’re considering firing her.]

I explained that he and his sister were probably an exception going to school in a car because most kids go to school by bus.  But I further explained that when I was his age, I actually took a train to my school.  My school was named Hogwarts.

And then I busted out laughing because that was completely funny.

At which point Hubby leaned into the table and said in a serious voice, “Kids.  It’s time we told you.  Mom’s name is actually Sherry.  Sherry Potter.”

And then he starts laughing like a loon too.

That’s frickin’ funny.

Anyway, that’s all I wanted to tell you.  That I’m funny and I married a funny man.  And I went to Hogwarts when I was younger.  And in addition to being funny, I’m magical.  My specialty is magical disguise.  I can disguise myself as a grumpy, messy-haired chauffeur.  I hope I don’t get fired.


Yesterday, I was reading a book, watching t.v. and running on the treadmill.  I find this a very effective approach to running…which makes it less like running and more like reading a book while watching t.v.

Anyway, Garth Brooks was on the Today Show for some big reveal of his new song.  The song is about God talking to a baby and telling the baby that there’s someone waiting for him – a loving angel, tender, tough and strong.  Then God tells the baby that, “It’s almost time to go and meet your mom.”

Waaaaah!  WAAAAAHHHHH!!!!  <–That’s me HEARING the song about a baby going to meet his mom, and not the actual baby IN the song, in case you didn’t know.

And then?  Then it’s the LEAST like running on a treadmill that anyone has ever seen; And the MOST like standing still on a treadmill while sucking in huge gobs of air.  I state for the record, Your Honor, that it’s really hard to cry and run simultaneously.  As is the case when you’re laughing too hard, your knees get all wobbly.  But it’s the BREATHING that’s the problem.  You can’t BREATHE if you’re trying to run AND cry.  So it’s best just to stop altogether ‘til the cryin’ is done.

It wasn’t even so much the song that started me crying (ok, it might have been, which just pissed me off because what dope cries over a Garth Brooks song?!?), but it was also the memory it brought to me of my own little son, when he was a newly minted three year old.  As I was putting him to bed on his third birthday, he asked me where he was before he was three.  I explained he was two.  Before that, one.  So we kept going back in time, but he wasn’t looking for the eventual, “From Mommy’s tummy, Sweetie.”  He wanted to know where he was BEFORE all of that went down.  Before he existed.  Esoteric for anyone, much less a three year old, no?

So I explained that some people say that babies are just a twinkle in their father’s eye.  Weird.  And sometimes people say that babies are angels in Heaven before God sends them down to earth.  Pause, two, three, four… “Did you rip off my wings, Mommy?!”

Yes, Baby Boy.  Yes, I ripped off your wings.  There’s only room for one angel in these here parts.  Because have you heard?  Garth Brooks says I’m an angel. 

With that sweet memory re-lived and my breath caught, I start back up running on the treadmill.  We angels have to keep up appearances, ya know.

Let’s paws for a moment

Now that it’s the New Year, we have to get going on the Awards Ceremony.  You know how I hate waiting to the last minute on things like this.  So with that in mind, I’d like to propose that Teddy Bear the Dog receive the “Most likely to look like a peg leg without actually BEING a peg leg” award.  In case you can’t tell which is the faux peg leg, he’ll hold it out towards the camera for your viewing pleasure.

And if I know you, you’re going to totally derail this blog unless I tell you why Teddy’s gone all peg-leg on us.  And I know you, so it was the result of puncturing his paw on something in the back yard.  We only clued in to the puncture wound once it started smelling.  Why yes, I AM a good dog mother and we can all agree that the smelly paw thing is extremely nummy, nummy num. 

Then yesterday, as I was running on the treadmill in the basement, I heard a weird, high-pitched siren coming closer to the house at a rapid pace.  Weird.  In particular, it seemed to be coming from the direction of the back yard.  Weirder and weirder.  So I paused the running and headed upstairs.

When I got to the door of the backyard, I realized the “siren” was really a loud, keening noise coming from Sonny’s mouth, along with the words “amputated” and “help.”  But since HIS limbs seemed to be intact, I glanced into the backyard and saw Sissy crouching amidst a bloodbath-in-the-snow.  It didn’t appear to be her amputation either.  Instead, she was competently performing triage on the dog and calming instructing Sonny with the words, “There’s a LOT of blood.  Go get Mom!”

Oh crap.  I guess I’m the mom they’re coming to get.  And it DOES look like something got amputated out there in the snow.

But lucky day!  No accidental amputation, just Puncture Wound, Second Verse, same as the first, a little bit louder, and a little bit worse.  This time there are stitches involved.  And the prescribed pain pills are extremely bitter.  I wonder if we should give any to the dog.  Ha, ha.  Get it?  Like I was eating the dog’s pain meds and found them bitter.  Oy.  If ya gotta explain it, it loses its funny.  Moving on… And now?  The dog is up for a SECOND award.  This time, it’s the “Foot in a Bag” award.  Which is better than the “Foot in the Mouth” award any day of the week so you can just shut it.  [see pic] 

What with all the snow (and now blood) in the backyard, if we didn’t bag it up, Stumpy McGee’s bandage would begin disintegrating immediately á la mummy fresh out of the sarcophagus looking for eyeballs.  So we bag it up. 

Some other award ideas include: Sonny as “Most likely to think the dog’s foot was amputated in the backyard or then amputated by an Animal E.R. doc and no one had the heart to tell him” award; Sissy as “Most Likely to BE an Animal E.R. doc” award.  And both kids?  “Most likely to leave foot puncturing devices scattered throughout the backyard despite repeated warnings from their mother to PICK UP THE FOOT PUNCTURING DEVICES ALREADY!” 

Just some ideas.  Nothing’s written in stone.  Just some ideas for the awards ceremony.  Only brainstorming at this point.  No right or wrong ideas.  Just brainstorming.  But we really do have to get going on this.