Even Neat Freaks Need a Break

To: Housekeeping at any hotel in which I am a guest
Re: My deepest apologies

Hotel housekeeping, I know you will not believe this, but I am a neat freak at home, taking great pains to make sure everything is in its place.  Clothing is either in a drawer, a closet, or a hamper.  Contrary to my husband’s daily actions, the floor is not an appropriate resting place for socks, t-shirts, or jeans.  Bath towels get placed on hooks or bars to dry and if someone forgets (I’m looking at you Monkey Man) and leaves a towel on the floor, I appear like a Domestic Superhero and swoop down on that towel and give it its proper resting place.

I cannot close my eyes in bed at night if my husband’s dresser drawers are not shut all the way.  If a shirt is peeking out at me, I will get up to make sure it is tucked away properly.  Dishes do not stay in my sink thanks to a dishwasher (and a woman in this house, ahem, who puts them in that miraculous modern-day machine).  The carpets get vacuumed at least once daily if not twice no thanks to an incredibly cute, large, shedding black-furred dog in our house.  There is a canister of Clorox wipes under every sink in this house to ensure total anti-bacterialism in all bathrooms and the kitchen.

However, hotel housekeeping, you do not know the real me.  You know my alter ego, Messy Mommy.  I love to travel, but even more, I love to stay in a hotel and go balls out wild on the hotel room!  There is nothing like opening my suitcase and putting my crap EVERYWHERE. I am not a fan of putting my clothes in the hotel drawers, so my suitcase vomits clothing.  Sure, I’ll hang some things in the closet if I am staying long enough, but it’s just so much fun to see it all spilling out of the suitcase, crying for its real mom to come back and make it all neat and pretty.

But the bathroom is where the real action takes place, as you know.  So many towels, so little time!  And I don’t have to wash them!  What, I only used that towel to dry my hair?  Well it is used and now must go!  I took great pleasure the other day while staying in a hotel when I was done using the washcloth in the shower.  I had nowhere to put the washcloth so I THREW IT over the shower door onto the floor.  Just a simple toss and a wet SPLAT. It was a beautiful thing.  There it sat, amid the other discarded washcloths, hand towels and bath towels, used but only once, ready to be laundered.  But not by me! Ha!

Housekeeping, I realize you know me only as a messy guest.  And I do apologize.  But you must understand that most likely I am on vacation or at least on vacation from being preoccupied with every house detail at home.  I am not breaking lamps or peeing off my balcony (those days are long gone).  Please don’t judge and let a mom live and feel the simple freedom of her life strewn about, for just a few days, without having an anxiety attack.

Filthy First Grader

TO: School Administration
RE: First Grade = First Laundry Load

I propose you bring Home Economics back to school. And please start in First Grade. With just the boys. My reason? In the last week, I have washed 3 pairs of mud and grass-stained jeans, 1 brand new fuzzy fleece-lined hoodie decorated with splashes of lunchtime dirt, 1 pair of Converse that were once gray but are now green with hints of gray peeking through, and 1 pair of blue suede Vans with pieces of Earth wedged into the suede. This is all thanks to that all-important healthy part of the school day – recess. I don’t know what connection you have to the Tide Crime Family or The Stain Lifter That’s All Waste Management Company, but something’s up and I’m suspicious that this school of yours is a front. I think you have a landfill out near Newark Airport filled with filthy, ripped jeans.

I take great care in making sure Monkey Man looks nice for school. I iron his clothes. I blame it on my mother. She would not let my sister or me out of the house un-ironed. When I rebelled in college and went out all wrinkled and slovenly, she’d comment, “What’d ya have a fight with the iron?” I know. I was wild, out of control. Listen, woman, you can’t hold me back from experiencing life in all its crease-free craziness!

I not only iron Monkey Man’s clothes, but I make sure the clothes match. Then I look around at kids in school and most of them look like they slept in the clothes hamper. I wonder why I put myself through the stress of shopping, and just plain trying. My little boy who I send to school in button-down “long-sleeve short-sleeve” shirts (as he calls them, those fake long sleeves under the short sleeves) and nice jeans, white socks and clean, well-maintained sneakers, is an absolute mess when he gets home. When I found out that he is getting this dirty at recess, my first thought was, “So you are sitting in school for almost 3 more hours after lunch time looking like THIS?” Why even bother combing his hair in the morning? Why bother getting dressed at all – just roll out of bed and keep those pj’s on. Hell, let’s not even waste time brushing teeth.

He comes home looking like the antithesis of my child because he loves to play football during recess. Translation: He and a bunch of boys throw a ball and tackle each other in the dirt while the adult supervision is off on the side of the field gossiping about what happened on Glee last night. I am a kind, smart mom and I do know that recess is important for his social development as well as his physical fitness. But, for the love of all mothers just trying to get ahead each night with the housework, teach these kids how to do the laundry.

God Bless Frozen Pizza

To: God
Re: A Prayer for Frozen Pizza

There has been an issue weighing heavy on my heart lately. I understand that our world is in turmoil now, nations are at war, and there are people in Beverly Hills that cannot afford a 20,000 square foot home and have to settle for a 10,000 square foot home due to the economy. But selfishly, I need some help.

I find myself struggling with the nutritional value of frozen pizza, specifically Ellio’s Cheese Pizza. I understand the Congress declared pizza a vegetable, but we both know that’s a load of BS.  See, Lord, I really need for frozen pizza to be the next Super Food. I need it to appear on the Dr. Oz show proclaiming that frozen pizza, alone, can fuel the body and fight disease.

As you look upon our dinner table each night, you see the battle that wages in my kitchen. On most nights, I tell Monkey Man, “You will eat what I’ve made for dinner. This is not a restaurant. I do not cook different meals for everyone…blah, blah, blah…” I’m sure you are as bored and irritated with the whole scenario as I am, but you are much more patient than I.

Then there are the nights that I just do not have any fight left in me. Like Rocky without Mickey, I just can’t do it. That is when I thank my good friend Ellio for creating his rectangular frozen pizza.  Defeated, I heat up the toaster oven and try to convince myself that one day Monkey Man will eat asparagus. And mashed potatoes. I guess it would help if I cooked asparagus and mashed potatoes, but you get my point.

Lord, I want what is best for Monkey Man. And what is best for Monkey Man is that Mommy doesn’t lose her mind over dinner every night. He will fare so much better down the road if mommy doesn’t feel the need to eat Xanax like Skittles every day at around 4:30 p.m.

 

If You Give a Mom a Vacuum

To: Laura Numeroff, author
Re: Moms are the New Pigs and Mice

Your pigs and pancakes, mooses and muffins, mice and cookies are all so very cute, but please consider my book proposal.  A day in the life of a mom is quite similar to your dementia-bound animals.  Moms start out with a goal and in the span of 10 minutes,  accomplish a slew of other unintended things.

And now, I give to you:

If You Give a Mom a Vacuum

If you give a mom a vacuum, she’ll want to pick the clothes and toys up off the floor.

As she goes around the house collecting shirts and jeans, she’ll remember that no one has any socks so she’ll do just a quick load of whites. She will daydream about the day her family decides to start their own nudist colony just to give her a break from the endless cycle of keeping everyone hygenic.

While she’s dreaming about starting her own nudist colony, she’ll think about how she would actually look naked and vows to start her diet today.  Right after she eats that piece of chocolate cake leftover from Hubby’s birthday celebration last night.

As she makes her way to the kitchen for the cake before anyone else can get their grubby little hands on it, she passes her desk and notices the grocery list.  The grocery list reminds her that the people in her house eat too much damn food and they need to fast just so she can stop going to the grocery store for three days.  The grocery list also reminds her that she needs lettuce for her salads that she will eat as every meal on her new diet.  When she flicks her desk lamp on to add to her grocery list, the bulb is out.

She goes to the garage to get a new lightbulb and catches a glimpse of her son’s crib against the wall, dismantled and ready to be donated.  She becomes misty-eyed at the thought of her baby, now 7, and feels twinges of wanting to fill that crib again.  Then she has a flashback of getting up 5 times during the night with a tiny tot sucking on her boobs, colic, and puking during pregnancy.  She promptly puts the crib in the mini-van to be dropped off at Goodwill.  Today.

On her way back into the house, she sees the mail carrier walking down the street which reminds her that 1. She is still convinced her neighbor’s newborn daughter is the mailman’s and 2. She needs to mail her son’s birthday invitations.  Upon entering the house to grab the invites, she gets some dirt on the floor in the entry way.

And when she sees the dirt on the floor, you know she’s going to need to vacuum.

 

This? Pizza? Fahgettaboudit!

To: Pizza Hut
Re: Yo, ah, Pizza Hut.  Why you’s in Jersey?

You have wronged so many in Jersey that it’s time you sleep with the fishes.  For many years, I’ve been confused as to why you are in North Jersey or any area within a 30 mile radius of New York City.  North Jersey has some of the best pizza places in the country (back it down, there, Chicago.  You have your own type of pizza).  I’m talking the kind of pizza you order by saying, “I’ll take a plain pie” then when it arrives, you fold your “slice” in one hand and eat accordingly.  New York-style pizza.  You know, real pizza.

Pizza Hut reminds me of going on a road trip through the South and having the following food choices: Waffle House, Granny’s Deep Fried Crap, or Pizza Hut.  And when I’m hungry for something other than battered cockroaches or deep-fried grits, Pizza Hut is the only option.

As if the actual “pizza” isn’t bad enough – that strangely congealed cheese that blankets the sauce (at least I think there’s sauce under there, I can’t even see it) atop something that they attempt to pass as a crust, Pizza Hut presents the diner with silverware.  Silverware for pizza!  Absurdity.  Yet somehow, the franchise made its way to Jersey.  Who in New Jersey goes to a Pizza Hut?  Idaho transplants? Foreign exchange students from Uganda?

I know who else goes to a Pizza Hut in Jersey.  I do.  Not by choice, ohhhh noooo.  Monkey Man got a certificate from school for a free personal pizza for reading everyday during January.  He got one in December, too, but we forgot and it expired (I consider that a small favor from God).  But the other morning he asked if we could go to Pizza Hut for dinner.  How could we deny our child his reward and the chance to eat the world’s worst pizza?  He would have to learn somehow.

We arrived at about 5:30 p.m., prime dinner-eating time.  And we were the only people in the joint.  You would have thought we were actually in some small Mississippi town rather than next to a major highway in one of the most populated parts of the United States.  When we walked in, there was a long counter waiting for us upon entering, just like in a fast food joint.  But we were not to order at the counter, we were to be seated in the dining room.  To which Monkey Man proclaimed, “This is fancy!”  I guess shiny metal tabletops and a remarkably neat and clean roomful of tables and chairs (again, not a customer in the place) defines fancy.  I have a lot of work to do with this child.

Monkey Man beamed with pride as he received his hard-earned personal pie and Hubby and I shared a cheese concoction layered over a circular piece of cardboard.  As I congratulated Monkey Man on his reading achievements, I also made a mental note to discontinue marking his reading log for this contest.  Young, impressionable Jersey kids should not be subjected to these pizza chains.

So before my kid thinks Pizza Hut is real pizza, get outta Jersey.  And take Domino’s wit chu.

If It’s Free, It’s Not Necessarily For Me

To: My Dad
Re: It Doesn’t Mean I Don’t Love You if I Don’t Attend a Free Buffet

Dad, I love you. Really, I do.  But I have a ton of crap to get done. Everyday.  For the past several years you have asked me to attend our credit union’s annual meeting on a Saturday in May.  Because, what is better than a free buffet? Or a chance to win a 42 inch TV? As much as that seems like the most fun I’ve had next to giving birth to a 9 pounder out of my vagina, I just don’t have the time for it.

I understand that you do not like to hear people say they are busy.  You have worked since you were four, even worked three jobs at once and you had to commute two hours one way to get to one of those jobs.  You know busy.  You were the Mac Daddy pimping the streets of Busy.  And now you are retired, and I am not.  The credit union’s annual meeting in all its free baked ziti and roasted potatoes glory and the allure of that 42 inch TV on a Saturday does nothing for me except give me one more thing to do on a to-do list that is already overwhelmingly long and never ending.  Unless you tell me Rick Springfield is headlining the credit union shin dig, shirtless, and I am guaranteed a hall pass at the all night Rick buffet, the annual meeting just ain’t happening for me.

For some people (the exorbitantly wealthy, single people) weekends are full of leisure activities, sleeping in, shopping and golf. But I’m a mom.  And as sweet as it is for you to tell me to “just sit down” when I’m zipping from one thing to the next in my house , it’s just not reality. While Sir Moneybags takes the yacht out, I am planning lessons for the following week, drafting an article and squeezing in a workout.  When Single Sara and Single Steve party til 4 a.m. and sleep til noon, I’ve already gone grocery shopping, paid the bills, vacuumed, and scheduled dentist, haircut and vet appointments.

There is no time to sit.  You may argue that I sit on the toilet, but I am a woman and my middle name is Multi-Task.  So although I might be sitting on the toilet, I am  cleaning the side of the tub and the outside of the bowl I’m sitting on with some Clorox wipes.

The point is, Dad, that Saturdays do not offer me a day off.  Yes, I do not work my full-time paying job on Saturday.  However, my other boss, your grandson, expects productivity.  He wants a full agenda of seeing a friend, going to a park, and driving his mother crazy. And even when there is a little downtime and the boss stops micromanaging (read: watches 3 hours of iCarly) and the laundry is done and my lessons are planned and I paid the bills and I did the shopping, well, you can sure as hell bet that you will not find me at a bank buffet.  Because I might even be too tired for Rick.  Now, if there are Pop’ems at this buffet, we can talk.

What Rhymes With…

To: Dr. Seuss
Re: The Time is Now, Now is the Time…to Listen to a Child’s Rhyme

Yes, you inspire a love of reading in children, blah, blah, blah.

Did you ever once think about your rhymes and the twisted ways in which children would use them?  Okay, fine.  It’s not like you invented rhymes, but seriously, you certainly encourage the rhyming.  The “cat, hat, sam, ham” words, they are like the gateway drugs of the rhyming world.  You suck kids into thinking of every possible rhyming word, sensical or not, then BAM!  You let them loose on their parents.  And then this happens.

While visiting Hubby’s parents for lunch, Monkey Man was getting a little wild and running around yelling, “Sucker!” to everyone. Yes, when he’s not being his sweet-as-pie angelic self, he channels Lucifer.

Hubby asked Monkey Man to stop saying “Sucker” because it wasn’t nice, and regardless that his parents thought it was funny.  Grandparents’ house politeness trumped mom and dad’s amusement.  Monkey Man obeyed and switched gears.  Instead of “sucker” he went right to the “things that rhyme with sucker.”  I totally give the kid points for practicing his Language Arts studies while in a 5 year-old fit of silliness.

“Bucker, Ducker…” came out of his cherubic little mouth and then to his Grandma he said, “Hey Fu**er!” I must note that he had no idea what this word meant and this was innocently said in a rhyming frenzy.  I must also report that Grandma, wife of a minister, did not keel over after hearing this awesome use of the English language.

“What did you call me?” Grandma barely stammered.  “It’s okay Grandma, I didn’t call you a Sucker, I called you a Fu**er!”

And…It’s a Rap

To: My Husband  
Re: Yo, P. Daddy, Give Your Son Back His T-Pain Microphone

It is not so much that you are Caucasian of British and northern European descent.  Robert Van Winkle wasn’t your “typical” rapper, either.  But Vanilla Ice didn’t wear button-down shirts and v-neck sweaters paired with J Crew dress pants.  Some might argue that even though Vanilla Ice dressed like he was from da ‘hood, he still couldn’t bust out a rap.  But I beg to differ.  As soon as I hear those first stolen beats from Queen’s “Pressure,” I want to put on my MC Hammer pants, bust out some Running Man moves, and start rollin’ in my 5.0.

But back to you.  In addition to your white man uniform of choice, you also have no clue about what the kids are listening to these days.  Unless a sports announcer decides to throw down a beat about last night’s game while you listen to Sports Talk Radio on some AM station in the car while driving to work, you and the rap world are at opposite ends of the universe.  And I’m pretty sure neither Drake nor Jay Z host a show on NPR, your other radio station of choice.  You, dear husband, are your own caricature of a white guy. You are a handsome, nicely dressed preppy white dude whose only connection to east coast or west coast is that you live on the east coast and have visited the west coast.

So imagine my…my…I’m struggling for the right word.  Was it my delight?  Horror?  While the scene I stumbled upon when coming home that night nearly made me pee my parachute pants, I also wanted to quietly slip back outside and perhaps punch my eyes out with some blinged out knuckle rings.  Because a 30-something dad who wears brown socks and khakis, listens to public radio and thinks that Pitbull is merely a breed of dog, should never grab his kid’s T-Pain microphone and rap in the family room when he thinks no one is watching.

Welcome!

To: My Readers
Re: Let’s Do This Thing!

This memo is in reference to you being so awesome for joining me here! Maybe you followed me from You Are Kidding Me! (youarekidding-me.blogspot.com, which I must add, is still very much alive and kickin’) or maybe you were sitting on the couch after the kids were asleep, productively multi-tasking: surfin’ on your laptop with one of the Real Housewives on Bravo in front of you and a tall glass of pinot next to you.  However you found me, thank you, and welcome!

I secretly wish I could be the boss of everyone (C’mon, I am a mom.  All moms want to tell everyone what to do and how to do it) and tell them exactly what they need to do in order to make my life easier. Memos from Mom is a blog done in the style of business memos.  Well, maybe not quite the exact style, as I’m sure professional business memos do not reference child vomit, Entenmann’s Pop ‘ems binges, dog diarrhea, and a mom’s crush on Rick Springfield.  However, like business memos, I will address various situations and problems and even throw out a thank you here and there.

Moms want to rule the world, but want to feel like they are not alone in their quest for power in a role that sometimes feels powerless.  Memos from Mom will be full of memos to my son, my husband, the moms on the playground, corporations, the government, rock stars, you name it.  My hope is that just when you think you will self-implode from the stress of mommyhood, you can read a memo, laugh, and know that you are not alone.