Sunday, November 30, 2014

Breaking the Spell

My kids have reached the age where it's often easier to have friends over, because at least then they're amused by their peers, rather than whaling on each other and/or asking me--of all the incompetent people--to entertain them (see prior post titled "Bad With Kids.").

But these play dates create a different dilemma. The scenario unfolds the same way every time. All the kids scurry off into a room out of the line of sight and mostly out of earshot. An erie silence descends on the premises that can mean only one of two things: (1) they are playing nicely or (2) they are up to SERIOUS mischief and mayhem.

An inner debate follows: do I peek in on them or not? If they are playing nicely and catch me looking, disruption will break the spell and result in requests for messy, multi-step snacks (e.g. smoothies), cartoons, "experiments" with spices and food coloring, or similar undesirables. However, if they are painting the walls or pulling every feather out of the pillows one by one or worse--doing something truly dangerous like sticking their heads in a plastic bag or playing "tractor accident" or something--then intervention is called for, especially since I am supposed to be supervising someone else's kids.

I usually creep up to the door in an attempt to ascertain whether we are at war or peace, and can't always tell. I'm not sure what the solution to this dilemma is. It's like some sort of parental riddle of the Sphinx, better left unanswered.

Distressing Signs of Aging

Sheryl Crow and Melissa Etheridge on the cover of AARP magazine. Yes, that is the American Association of Retired Persons, or as my senior citizen father calls it, "America's most odious lobby for rich people, and there are lots of odious rich people lobbies."

Now that Sheryl and Melissa are shilling for a rich senior citizens lobby, I guess that means it's ok that I have arthritis at 37 and a herniated disc in my neck? Ironically, according to my orthopedist, the arthritis is caused by years of athletic overuse. 

Sadly, my attempts to get profoundly lazy in the last decade came too late for my bones. Somewhat ironic, don't you think? Speaking of which, I fully expect to see Alannis Morissette on the cover of next month's AARP magazine.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

"Free to Be Gluten Free" (to the Tune of "Free to Be You and Me")

(Alternate title: "Gluten is Worse than Vladimir Putin").

There's a town that I see 
Where they're all gluten-free
And I say it ain't far to this town from where we are
Take your wheat come with me, throw it out, and you'll see
Grab some rice, come with me, and we'll liiiiive...

In a land of the Telemark skis
In a land of the well-hugged trees
In a land of the amaranth tea
And you and me are free to be GLUTEN FREE!

I see a keg of wheat-free beer, and the time's comin' near
We'll use Tamari in this land, gluten shall be fully banned
Take my hand, come along, bring some herb for the bong
Come along, take my hand, sing a soooong...

For a land of nutritional yeast
For a land that reeks of patchouli
For a land where people quote Gandhi
For a land with a Whole Foods by me 
And you and me are free to be GLUTEN FREE!

Every boy in this land grows to be his own ski guide
In this land, every girl grows to be her own kayak guide
Take my hand, come with me where they're all gluten free
Come with me, take my hand, and we'll ruuuun...

To a land of organic honey
To a land of bad home-made kim chi
To a land of natural pregnancy
To a land of yoga devotees 
To a land of uncircumcised peenies
And you and me are free to be
And you and me are free to be
And you and me are free to be GLUTEN FREE!

Care to Dance?

The only form of physical activity more horrifying to me than running (see prior post titled "Running Scared") is dancing. Literally my worst social-situation nightmare is being out on some town (any town) with a group of women who suddenly announce that they want to "go dancing" (any type of dancing) or even worse, being in a bar where some dude insists on dragging me off a bar stool or the wall and dancing with me. Fortunately, my current occupation as a bedraggled working mother has slashed to almost zero the occasions on which I am confronted with either of these propositions.

I'm not sure what it is about dancing that is so anathema to me, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm profoundly neurotic and dancing is not a hobby for even the remotely neurotic. You need to be able to step outside your inhibitions and let go of mental and physical self consciousness, neither of which I can do (or feel like trying to do) most of the time.

There's a corny saying, attributed to various people in various iterations, that you're supposed to "dance like no one's watching, love like you'll never be hurt, sing like there's nobody listening, and live like it's heaven on earth."

Well, my life philosophy is a slight variation on that theme: I like to dance like no one is watching--in the sense that no one WILL be watching--because I refuse to dance at anything short of gunpoint; I like to sing in the shower when no one actually IS listening, since the sound of my voice is enough to turn anyone who hears it to stone; I like to love like I'm going to die of heartbreak, rejection, over-analysis, and lack of decent psychotherapy with every passing minute; and I like to live like the world is a balance beam where I continually assess how buzzed I can get after work without compromising my mental faculties too severely and yet still be able to adequately cope with my daily existence.

I know that doesn't really roll off the tongue as well as the original phrase, but there you have it. Anyone care to dance?

Friday, November 28, 2014

The Gear Shakeout

Thanksgiving weekend brought cold temperatures and sun to Juneau, both of which were sorely needed after weeks and weeks ... and weeks ... of 38 degrees and sideways rain.

It also brought the annual gear shakeout, in which I audit my children's winter attire with increasing rage and alarm, and silent (and not-so-silent excoriating): How can we have this many mittens, NONE of which match and NONE of which fit?!; Did we leave the "good" snow pants at school AGAIN!?; Why do we have SO many scarves--seriously, no one under 30 wears a fucking scarf!; Why are all these hats so small? Whose head in this house is this small?! These kids are gonna break the fucking bank!

You finally get your kids geared up and loaded into the car with no small degree of smug self-satisfaction, and turn the key in the ignition only to discover that someone left a back light on all night and you have to jump the car with the other car while everyone freaks out in the backseat boiling in 100 degree snowsuits.

Then you get where you're going, which is a glacier on a frozen lake a 15 minute drive from your house. A glacier that probably won't be there anymore when your kids grow up. And you see your friends and their kids, and you drink hot cocoa and soak in Vitamin D (that doesn't come from a bottle in your medicine cabinet for once) and you skate around on the ice for awhile and suddenly the gear shakeout drama feels like a distant memory. And life is perfect.

And you resolve to devise a genius system whereby you will never again lose another mitten. And the VERY next time you go outside, you do it all over again.

Thursday, November 27, 2014


Adj. "Someone who is so incredibly douchey, that they are entertaining for that reason alone." I posted this definition of Facebook yesterday, but it occurred to me that the promise of Thanksgiving might not bring enough personally known douches. If you are craving someone douchealicious and your own Thanksgiving is falling short, may I present to you O.H.M.'s list of top five celebrity douches that you can Google to your heart's content:

1. Adam Levine: This greasy frontman from Maroon 5 (a.k.a. the worst band ever to strike a chord of music) in his mid-late thirties has a celebrity fragrance and bonked a series of Victoria Secrets Angels before settling on one who is 24 years old and has the word "hottie" as part of her actual NAME.

2. Kimye: The author of a 1,000 page selfie photo collection and the coiner of the phrase "Ima letchoo finish Taylor Swift" got married and had a baby named North West. The end.

3. Bret Michaels: See prior post titled "Paean to Bret Michaels"

4. Rush Limbaugh: This porcine, human incarnation of a pulled pork sandwich is sure to prompt scintillating conversation at any Thanksgiving with his deliciously awful brew of racist, sexist, homophobic, and all around socio-politically vile vitriol.

5. Gwenyth Paltrow: Someone who tells everyone that they need to do hot yoga with a personal trainer every day and put a wood burning pizza oven in their backyard while doing weekly juice cleanses. Because clearly, everyone can do that so easily! It's simple! (see prior post titled, "Simple.").

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Thanksgiving Staples

As you prepare for Thanksgiving by writing your shopping list and gathering your favorite recipes, it's easy to forget to finalize your guest list! Well, once again, it's One Hot Mess to the rescue. Like turkey, gravy, and cranberry sauce, no Thanksgiving is complete without the following thirty holiday staples that every red-blooded American should have around their dinner table:

1.  Someone who is vocally and unapologetically racist and/or sexist and/or homophobic and/or a climate change denier. (Duh, it's Thanksgiving, people).

2.  Someone who is visibly and inappropriately drunk before 5:00 p.m.

3.  Someone who is willing to engage in futile, heated debates and arguments with #1 and #2 (who might be the same person, and often is).

4.  Someone who just returned from something organized by Occupy Wall Street and wants to preach about it to anyone who will listen (often same person as #3).

5.  Someone secretly smoking weed outside in their car (often same person as #s 3 and 4).

6.  Someone coming out of the closet.

7.  Someone who is still in the closet.

8.  Someone who wants everyone to say what they're thankful for.

9.  Someone who is uncomfortable being made to say something they're thankful for and secretly deeply resents #8 for making them invent something at the last minute.

10. An artiste with a pink mohawk and tattoos.

11. Someone who is several months pregnant with their first baby and won't shut up about everything to do with their pregnancy, their baby nursery, and vaccines.

12. Someone who is having trouble getting pregnant and starts crying in response to the insensitive monologuing of #11.

13. Someone who passes out before dinner is served.

14. Someone who passes out during AND after dinner.

15. Someone who is going increasingly senile to the horror of their relatives.

16. Someone who just had Botox and either won't admit it, or, conversely, will not stop being a walking infomercial for Botox.

17. Someone who uses the acronyms OMG, TMI, YOLO, and FML in normal conversation.

18. Someone who won't stop looking at their mobile device.

19. Someone who won't stop reprimanding #18 for looking at their mobile device.

20. Someone who keeps trying to show everyone videos of cats and twerking on YouTube (often same person as #18).

21. Someone dressed like Elsa from Frozen (2014 only).

22. Someone who looks like a serial killer, rolls up in a molester van, and wants to describe the bomb shelter/panic room he is building in his basement.

23. Someone who keeps taking arty pictures of the food and posting them to Instagram.

24. Someone who only cares about the football game and nothing else.

25. Someone who clogs the toilet.

26. A "Lumbersexual."

27. Someone who recounts the plot of "The Fault in Our Stars" in excruciating detail (2014 only).

28. Someone who is an inappropriate flirt and insists on playing their amateur dub-step for you as some sort of bizarre advance.

29. Someone who won't shut up about gas prices, the stock market, real estate, and the Polar Vortex (a.k.a. the Four Most Boring Topics Ever Broached).

30. Someone who never makes it to dinner because of traffic (East Coast and LA only).

BONUS GUEST: Someone who is convinced they have Ebola but came to dinner anyway.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Running Scared

Now that people are mostly over raising chickens, the next thing on the First World's agenda is running a marathon or doing a triathlon. Every time I blink, someone is doing a triathlon or running a marathon, or if not that, a half-marathon, or at the very least, a 5K. They're doing it at home, abroad, or in different states. They're doing it with their friends, with their kids, to raise money, or just for "fun." Well, I've said it before and I'll say it again: the only triathlon I have any interest in training for involves vodka, Benadryl, and sleeping. I would easily medal in all three events, if only someone would sponsor me. (I need to get Absolut or Gray Goose on board and I'll be all set).

Anyway, I used to run regularly before my eczema got really bad and sweating made it unbearable. But even when I could/did run, I hated every single second of it, every single time. Every. Single. Fucking. Second. "There's nothing like the endorphin rush you get from running!," they say. "You feel so accomplished!," they say. "It helps your mood and keeps you physically and mentally healthy!," they say. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'm not arguing with any of that or saying that people don't really feel these things, or that the mysterious rush of endorphins isn't a good high (putting aside the fact that plenty of good highs can be obtained elsewhere and with a lot less effort, just sayin'). And hats off to people who make running part of their everyday routine, much less those who do it for 26 miles in a row. 

I'm simply saying that personally, nothing--NOTHING--made me more miserable than putting on my sneakers, shoving my enormous, saggy-ass tits (pre AND post kids) into a suffocating spandex sports bra, grabbing my skip-proof disc man or first generation iPod (Yes, that was the last time I ran, I think), and "going for a run" five days a week. Be it a treadmill, outside, rain, or shine: No matter what the location or the weather, I was miserable from the second I started to the second I finished. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I would look down at my watch/clock and start counting the minutes until my thirty minute run was over. About an hour later, I would look at the time again and discover that only five minutes had elapsed. WHAT THE FUCK OVER?!? Only while running does the space/time continuum cease to exist and the laws of physics upend themselves so that time moves backwards!

I know running is good for me and I might start making myself do it again one of these days. And I know plenty of people genuinely enjoy it. But fuck knows, I'm not one of them. I mean, running is horrible enough without expending extra energy pretending to like it.

Personalized Christmas Ornaments - Race Day Running Bib - 13929

Monday, November 24, 2014

"You a First World Motha, Motha FUCKAH."

Word up, moms
Ima’ drop some knowledge
The shit they didn’t teach you up at Amherst College
If your shortie’s gonna be a U.S. President
Then you needsta pay attention ONE HUNDRED percent:
From the second you piss on a pregnancy test
Listen to me and ignore ALL the rest
Ima’ lay it out straight! Ima’ lay it out RIGHT.
The shit you need to do to make your kid AIR TIGHT:

Step ONE: Get yo’self some neonatal VITES.
Fish oil, Omega 3s--but sushi gets the RED LIGHT.
Rock that Baby Mozart on your bump, yo
Otherwise your kid be a CHUMP, yo
Your fetus needsta recognize the VIOLIN.
Otherwise all his friends will make FUN OF HIM.

Step TWO: Birth plan! Put that shit ON BLAST.
Don’t let no corporate doctahs make you feel harassed.
No drugs! No meds! No hospital!
You GOTSTA give birth like an animal!
Squat bitch! Shoot that baby straight out yo’ vagina!
Like you a peasant on a rice farm in rural CHINA!
You end up with a C-section?
Yo that’s WACK.
Natch birth all the way or you NEVAH bounce back!

Yo motha fuckah, you in the First World Now!
I’m here to tell you WHAT to do and HOW.
If you want your kid to be rich and famous
Do what I say, you fuckin’ IGNORAMUS.

Step THREE: Get your baby in some baby GROUPS.
Baby music!  Baby yoga! Even baby DANCE TROUPES!
All the other mothas be takin’ classes
Wake up! Get with the program! And put on yo’ glasses!
Can’t you see that your baby might get left behind?
So drop Benjamins for some peace of mind.
Nurse that baby til yo’ titties dry UP
Don’t put no fuckin’ formula in a CUP!
I don’t give a SHIT if it’s soy or organic!
No boobs? Your baby’s goin’ DOWN like the TITANIC.

Step FOUR: Get your kid in the right pre-SCHOOL.
If you don’t, I can’t save you, yousa fuckin’ FOOL.
No gluten! No nuts! No BPA!
No GMOs! No plastic! It’s the ONLY WAY.
You scared yet?
You should be!
Mom-petition is FIERCE
You don’t want yo’ kid to fail like FRANKLIN PIERCE!

Yo motha fuckah, you in the First World Now!
I’m here to tell you WHAT to do and HOW.
If you want your kid to be rich and famous
Do what I say, you fuckin’ IGNORAMUS.

Step FIVE: Sign ‘em up for some extra curriculars
Oh! You didn't know? 
Let me get real particular:
Soccer! Ceramics! Spanish Immersion!
Anything less is like a SICK PERVERSION.
Now, I ain’t tryin to show no disrespect
But if you don’t do this shit it’s like PARENTAL NEGLECT.

Step SIX: Keep scopin’ out the othah mothas
Schadenfreude when they ass blow up like SALLY STRUTHERS
But that ain’t gonna happen if you listen to ME!
Do the Paleo diet and the MAD PILATES.
Harvard! Stanford! Princeton! Yale!
If they don't get in they gonna end up in jail!
Turning tricks on the street like a crack ho'
But don't worry cuz I gotcha back yo
AP classes and the Kaplan prep
Do what I say! Don't make ONE misstep!

Yo motha fuckah, you in the First World Now!
I’m here to tell you WHAT to do and HOW.
If you want your kid to be rich and famous
Do what I say, you fuckin’ IGNORAMUS.

I don't wanna hear no ifs, ands, or buts!
This MY world, you a squirrel tryin' to get a NUT.

I'm out, bitchez!

Sunday, November 23, 2014

"Jackin' (Costco) Samples"

(To the tune of "Ridin' Dirty" by Chamillionaire)


My cart is rollin'
They freakin'
Patrolling, they tryin' to jack a buncha samples
Tryin' to jack a bunch of samples
Tryin' to jack a bunch of samples
Tryin' to jack a bunch of samples
Tryin' to jack them Costco samples
My kids be SO loud
They screamin'
They hopin' that they gonna jack mad samples
Tryin' to jack a bunch of samples
Tryin' to jack a bunch of samples
Tryin' to jack a bunch of samples
Tryin' to jack them Costco samples

[VERSE 1]:

Costco front like they savin' me SCRILLA
But yo' I'm flat broke like Tokyo post GODZILLA
Cruisin' the lot in my hoopty: WORD!
Some bitch ganked my spot
So I flipped her the BIRD.
Can't find my card, the executive membership
Bouncer at the door look like an ex CONVICT!
Rollin' through the aisles with a foot long hot dog
My shorties in shotgun and they startin' a dialogue
Aboutst all the shit that they want me to BUY
As if I'm Donald Trump with mah own HIGH RISE.
We just buyin' quinoa and some hummus and CHEESE.
We ain't comin' home with no FLAT SCREEN TV!


Frozen turned up to the maximum 
Elsa and Anna tryin' to jack for some
But we packin' pizza: five-meat take and BAKE
5 poundsa chocolate chips and bacon, NO NITRATES!
Smoked salmon jumpin' off, mini apple sauces
Kelloggs fruit snacks? Yo FUCK those, bosses!
Mixed nuts, avocados, and Annie's MAC,
Kale that goes bad before the next time we back!


I be rollin' deep with that Charmin shit
12 rolls of Brawny, no harm in it.
Lookin' at the booze, you know a mothah need buzzin'
Margarita mix and tequila COUSIN!
Up to the checkout we OUTS now.
No fuckin churros! No POUTS now!
Bitch up in my grill 'bout American Express
I rock the AK Airlines Visa! GO FUCK yo'self!
Make way, make way, yo this line is chaotic 
I need to be GHOST before I go psychotic!
Scope my receipt like I stole some cola
I'm scowlin' at this fuckah like he gotst Ebola.


Load the rig mad tight with the cardboard boxes 
This is one of a motha's harsh paradoxes:
Doin' 60 down Egan Drive like dis
The fuzz pull me over, ain't got TIME for this!
My kids gotta pee and they startin' to cry
And my phone's blowin up like the FOURTH OF JULY
Where you at?
When you home?
Yo stop TEXTIN' then!
Unless you never wanna have sex again!
Get home. OH FUCK! Where's the goddamn coffee?
Yet I somehow have a 20-pack of Oral B!


Saturday, November 22, 2014

Every Pot Has a Cover

Except if you live in my house. Then every pot, pan, and lid looks like the clusterfuck you see here. And not a SINGLE pot has a cover, or at least not one that fits. 

Not only that, but not ONE Tupperware, Corningware, glass Pyrex, Rubbermaid, or off-brand storage system seems to have survived my ability to systematically destroy its reason for being by throwing all of the pieces together in a giant, useless mish-mash. Then I do my part to kill the planet by using Saran Wrap and aluminum foil to replace the lids I can't find anymore. 

And whatever you do: don't leave a pot or pan here after a potluck. There's nothing lucky about your favorite spring form cheese cake pan being forever sucked into this gyre. I don't even know what a spring form pan is or does, much less where it wound up after it visited my sink as a guest a few weeks ago.

All of this is great for domestic harmony, too. Lots of yelling ensues when various users cannot find a matching pot and lid, and people trying to watch cartoons or read a book or otherwise hear themselves think do not enjoy the loud banging around and cursing that accompanies daily navigation of this cabinet.

I think I maybe need like an anti-Pintetest website to post photos and stories of all of my copious domestic and other life fails ... Oh wait a minute ...

Friday, November 21, 2014

Holiday Gift Suggestion

I'm taking a break from my budding career as a hip-hop mommy blogger to make a holiday gift recommendation to my loyal readers.

The former owner of our house got the "Blue Press" gun catalog, fetish porn, and sundry Nazi-esque propaganda delivered straight to his (now our) mailbox. More than seven years later, I'm happy to report that we continue to receive this literature, and boy is it convenient. ESPECIALLY this time of year.

Fellas: for that lady in your life, consider this petite, glamorous handgun
this holiday season. Can't you just picture kissing your number one side-piece under the "missile" toe as she gracefully handles her very OWN side-piece while clad in a skintight dress and blue toenail polish? 

This handgun-for-her makes an EXCELLENT companion to the Blue Steel Chinese throwing star stocking stuffer, which fits nicely in the camouflage stocking emblazoned with a charming swastika! 

Make this Christmas the one where you cuddle up by the fire with some
sizzling hot and sexy rapid-fire firearms. Don't wait! Get yours while supplies last!

"Leavin' AK"

Only nineteen days before Christmas
I fire up the Mac, and I get down to business
AK in December be long and burly
AK Airlines got us all by the short and curlies.

We got companion fares in the decent amounts
But there ain’t JACK SHIT in my mileage accounts
Two kids! Two adults! Round trip! Mad baggage!
They be eatin’ up my ducats like a bear eats SKUNK CABBAGE.

I ain’t triflin' with the Christmas stampede
But I’m feelin’ more pressure than a steak SOUS VIDE.
This airline’s profit margin is revolutionary
I’m droppin’ 5 large on an east coast itinerary!

Leavin’ AK
Bend down, assume the position!
Mad hours, mad loot!
PEACE, college tuition!

Drag ass outta bed at the breaka day
Just to get my titties felt by T.S.A.
And the shorties actin’ up and I’m yellin’
‘Cuz a twelve-hour flight ain’t no GAME O’ CROQUET!

Choke-up, choke-up, time to go through security
I’m screamin’ at my kids to show some goddamn maturity
They be straight trippin’ ‘cuz this hour ain’t NICE
And they up on my iPad like WHITE ON RICE.

No gold! No platinum! No MVP!
So we rock the ghetto 27 A, B and C.
All these mothah fuckahs be on the bums rush
Just to cram into a seat where you hear the john flush.

Leavin’ AK
Bend down, assume the position!
Mad hours, mad loot!
PEACE, college tuition!

Doors closing. Tray up. Switch to airplane mode.
Yo I’m tunin’ out this lecture like it be the TAX CODE.
Pass out! Read a book! Watch ANOTHER cartoon!
Son, I’m in over my head like Charlie Sheen in PLATOON!

Cart rolls.
Yo these kids are DEMONIC.
Pirate booty SNACK PACK and a VODKA TONIC!
Use your inside voice or you be swimmin’ with the fishes!
‘Cause you talkin’ more smack than James Joyce in “ULYSSES.”

Turbulence kickin’
Now this plane feels uneven
And I’m prayin’ to a God that I don’t even believe in.
Kids be quiet! Yo, my rage is notorious
I'm losin' my shit like I was OSCAR PISTORIUS!

Leavin’ AK
Bend down, assume the position!
Mad hours, mad loot!
PEACE, college tuition!

Hit the ground at SEA/TAC in the L-48
Scope out where we landed
Yo, FUCK the N-Gates!
Move up move up
Yo we can’t be late
Pickin’ up speed like a cop on the interstate
No time to play and Qdoba can WAIT.
'Cuz we can’t get re-booked at no discount rate!

No, we ain’t “almost there”
This ain’t HALF the battle
You got SCHOOLED in geography
We still in SEATTLE.

Leavin’ AK
Bend down, assume the position!
Mad hours, mad loot!
PEACE, college tuition!

Thursday, November 20, 2014

"Who Da Boss?"

6:15 on a school day mornin’
Roll my ass outta bed and I yell out a warnin’
You know I ain’t playin’
I’m aboutsta crack skulls with all your mad disobeyin’!

You want waffles?

Ima’ get my coffee!
You dictatin’ this show like you was MUAMMAR GADDAFI!

Get dressed, brush your grill, grab your coat and hat.
Jump into the whip and strap your ass in STAT!
Listen to the teach when she drop that science
I don’t wanna hear reportsa non-compliance!

Who da boss? That’s ME
You better hear this stanza
I be bossin’ you around like I was TONY DANZA! 

Rollin’ into work by 8:08
So I can start reviewing documents and bring home da cake.
No time to take a leak, no time to read Slate
Gotta rumble with the fuckahs who be suin’ the state.

Scope mah Outlook calendar: I’m back-to-back
This day is movin’ faster than a cheetah on CRACK.
5:00 p.m. in the crib and it’s WAR like IRAQ.
I open up the door, it’s like, DO DIS, DO DAT.
Well lemme set you straight, like a flat-brimmed hat:
I’m da boss in this house, you need to check yo’self
Your attitude is bigger than the CONTINENTAL SHELF!

Who da boss? That’s ME.
You better hear this stanza
I be bossin’ you around like I was TONY DANZA!

Sit down, eat your dinner, and finish your vegetables
Pick up your fork and get your hands off your genitals
We gotsta keep it real with that spellin’ practice
Make your brain razor sharp like a CHRISTMAS CACTUS.

Jump in the tub now you be smellin’ RANK
I gotta pour myself a glass o’ pinot blanc
Just to handle all your guff, son, you be CRAZY stank
I’m your mother, mother fuckahs, you can take that to the BANK.

Who da boss? That’s ME.
You better hear this stanza
I be bossin’ you around like I was TONY DANZA! 

Pajamas! Water! Stories! Songs!
This bedtime routine is takin’ HELLA long.
Get undah the covahs’ I be sick of negotiatin’
Dock your allowance? Maybe THAT will be motivatin'!

It’s 8:00 p.m. in the nine-oh-seven
You actin' wack like Woody Allen and Soon-Yi Previn. 

You can't be up all night this ain't no 7/11!
Close your eyes! Go to sleep! And please stop talkin’
Getting you to bed is like a conflict in the BALKANS.

Finally it’s time for me to sneak out the door
Volunteer all my time like I’m in the PEACE CORPS
You ain’t the boss, cuz you don’t get paid.
But neither do I, yet you be throwin’ SHADE.

Get upstairs to the couch and I rock the Netflix
Eat a bowl of ice cream and some dope raw cake mix
Pass out like a junkie on Canal and Third
Do it all again tomorrow! I am UNDETERRED!

Who da boss? That’s ME.
You better hear this stanza
I be bossin’ you around like I was TONY DANZA! 

Peace, I’m out...

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

"It’s Raining Sideways in Juneau, Yo" (Based on SNL’s Adam Samberg’s "Chronicles of Narnia")

Rainy Sunday, wake up at the ass crack o’ dawn
Call up a dozen moms cuz I can’t be alone
What up, moms?
Sistah wife! What’s crackin’?
You thinkin' what I’m thinkin?
Yeah, it’s happenin'!

But first we gotta make our kids put on their gear
We rock the Hellys and the Xtra-Tuffs all DAY up in here!
They got the triple insulation with the steel toe built in
The slip-resistant outsole that flex like Paris Hilton
No doubt those boots got all da bomb rubbah
I needsta have those kicks like an orca needs blubbah!
One, no two, no three WARM LAYAHS
I ain’t tryin’ to hear my kids bitchin,’ playahs!

Yo, who’s got the snacks?
Oh shit, not me!
Better hit Freds or better yet the I.G.
I got some Annie’s bunnies and maybe some M&Ms
Rainbow Foods shook me down for like all of my Benjamins.

Egan Drive let’s go
Step on it, sucka.
What you wanna do, moms?

It’s raining sideways in Juneau, yo
I said it’s raining sideways in Juneau, yo
I said it’s raining sideways in Juneau, yo
Yeah you heard me, this shit is BLEAK.

Yo. Stop at the drive-thru
For a phat soy latte
Without it I ain’t ever gonna make it til’ karate.  
Move all that shit out the back of my car
Make room for your ass like an inn with five stars
I reach between the seats and I pull out some quartahs
Girl scowlin’ like she never heard a melting-down daughtah!

Roll up to the playground
The equipment is WET
But we be playin' nice like a string quartet
Get out a towel, ‘cause dryer is BETTER.
And every kid here is fuckin’ crying, getting wetter.

The moms down south be askin’ how we do it
You get the dope threads and you just say SCREW IT.
Now simmer down son, I ain’t got blueberries!
That shit is out of season, they be comin' on the ferry.

It’s raining sideways in Juneau, yo
I said it’s raining sideways in Juneau, yo
I said it’s raining sideways in Juneau, yo,
Yeah you heard me, this shit is BLEAK . . .

A Day of Conflict, in Nine Haikus


Why every morning
Do you fight with me so much?
I am your mother!

Fuck you bathroom scale!
Your number is a cruel joke
All about that bass.

I need coffee now.
There is not enough on earth
To keep me awake.


Is it lunch time yet?
No, it is just ten thirty.
I’m fucking starving!

Please no more emails
About pledge drives and pot lucks.
Someone just sued us.

Holy fucking balls!
It’s almost time to go home.
I’m scared of my kids.


Why is this so hard?
It’s only three hours ‘til bed
But feels like three years.

Please take a bath now
Your crotch smells like a sewer
How can you not care?

Give me Benadryl
And a stiff vodka gimlet
Sweet blackness of sleep.