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Dear Hot Wheels Movies Packaging Team:

Why, for the love of Tom Selleck, did you feel the need to stuff EVERY SINGLE ONE of your Hot Wheels movies with music that sounds like a cross between Daft Punk and New Jack City? You do realize, don’t you, that the main people watching your movies are kids between the ages of 3 and 10 and their mothers probably aren’t going to be that excited about their widdle babies walking around flashing gang signs and mumbling “hey hey hey ready for ACTION yo yo yo”.

I’m just sayin’.

Also, why are all your movies SO DAMN LONG. I mean, seriously. We’re not exploring major themes of life here. It’s not freaking Tolstoy. We’re watching about twenty cars race around a frigging race track for….oh my goodness. Two and a half hours? That can’t be right.

Please, from someone who has literally THOUSANDS of your products in her house, including at least two in the couch cushions beneath her (ow), reconsider your marketing tactics.

Love,

Redheadmama

P.S. The characters in your movies seem to have some major anger issues. Perhaps a new “Dr. Phil” themed car might be appropriate?

P.P.S. I call royalties if you actually make that car. DIBS ON THE DR. PHIL CAR!

But sometimes, I have to take a break from all the different medical conditions. Not a break as in complete failure to take care of my child, or willful neglect, or SUDDENLY THIS POST IS BECOMING CPS WORTHY AND PERHAPS I SHOULD RETHINK?

Well, anyway. Henry takes meds twice daily. It’s called Depakote. And yesterday, I told him something very bad that I deeply regret and blah blah blah I’M A BAD PERSON BUT IT FELT SO GOOD.

“Hey Henry,” I said.

“Yeah?” he answered in his little voice.

“You know that medicine you take every day?”

“Mmm hmm?”

“Yeah. Well, the doctor called and he wants me to start watching you very carefully, because apparently? Apparently that medicine makes you GROW A TAIL.”

>>>silence<<<

“You’re lying, Mommy! I’m not going to grow a tail!” (picture him saying this with a lisp and chubby cheeks and yes, you will just about die of the cuteness)

“Well, I guess we’ll just see, won’t we.”

———————–

At this point the decidedly less responsible parent (except on special occasions when Mommy Gets A Little Wacky, like this one) stepped in to reassure Henry that no, he will not be growing a tail, but wouldn’t it be cool if he DID grow one? Like a really long one like a cougar? And he could whip it around at people and just FREAK THEM THE HECK OUT.

Big time.

I don’t get mad very easily (despite the red hair, which apparently is a precursor for a hot temper, which I’ve never understood). So this morning, I got mad, REALLY mad, and completely went coo-coo-crazy.

Of course, it was not just out of the blue. We kind of got mad at each other.

Which now has resulted in two very quiet people who are kind of ashamed of themselves and wishing that they had not lost their tempers.

At the time, getting mad can feel pretty good.

Awesome, in fact.

I chose to let that yuckiness out this morning in the wrong way. And so did my husband. But I’m speaking for myself.

I HATE losing my temper. I HATE feeling so angry that I say and do things that I regret, immediately. I HATE not being in step with my husband, who is my best friend and the love of my life. HATE IT.

I’m getting out some emotions that have been sitting there for probably quite a while, and those emotions, well, they are most likely super toxic. And they need to come out.

But it’s the WAY they come out that is important.

Emma chimes in: “But Mommy, I thought you were a porn star?”

Me: “……..”
Daddy: “Uhhh….”

After laughing hard enough to readjust my spinal cord, we gently explained what a porn star was IN VERY VAGUE TERMS and then moved on. I’m trying to figure out where she got the terms “technology editor” and “porn star” confused; I mean, the two really aren’t anywhere NEAR related. Right? Perhaps I’m missing out on some vital piece of career information, and all this time whilst covering search engines and Web 2.0, I should’ve been shakin’ my moneymaker, or investing that pesky mortgage into something more financially redeemable, like silicon implants. LOST OPPORTUNITIES, YALL.

Um, wait. Scratch that, reverse it. (Thank you, Willy Wonka!)

This week the kids went back to school, which obviously gives me (at least, in theory) much more time in which to do laundry, organizational projects, and you know, WORK.

Work stuff! Yeah! Plenty of time to do that. >>>kicks shoes against the floor<<< Hmm.

Actually, I find myself spending truly alarming amounts of time sitting on my bed staring into space, or playing on Facebook via my space-age-astronaut phone, or drinking life-threatening amounts of coffee. You know, because I CAN, and I’m not being rushed around every which way by three hooligan children.

I do have a lot to do, though, and I am getting a moderate amount of things done. I’m just having a hard time getting back to my Formerly Productive Way of Life.

Lists seem to help. Let’s look at the list I made today, shall we?

• Do at least 5 loads of laundry.
• Fold the laundry.
• Put away the laundry.
• STAY OFF OF FACEBOOK. Seriously.
• Do various paperwork thingies that you’ve been putting off because they’re so BORING and STUPID and ugh. Sometimes being an adult totally sucks, know what I mean?
• Send that stuff you sold on eBay to those people. Realize that the money you made selling that stuff now justifies you buying more stuff. Spend way too much time browsing eBay.
• Plan a nutritious, filling, moderate lunch.
• Eat a banana and a handful of chocolate chips instead.
• Stare into space for 24 minutes.
• Snap out of it and realize that HELLO IT IS 2:15 AND YOU NEED TO GO PICK UP THE KINDER.

Ta da! Yes, very impressive, don’t you think? Actually, I’m kind of embarrassed looking at this, and realizing that it’s really not that far off of what I did yesterday. Wow.

I collect these. Like stamps! Or coins! Or scabs!

Let’s see…..what do I have to show you…oh! Here we go:

Emilio Estevez does not approve of your antics.

Seriously I can’t look at this one with Voldemort without peeing my pants laughing.

O HAI.

Don't try to figure this one out. Just go with it.

No explanation is necessary. OR IS IT?

I could go on all night (NOT EVEN KIDDING) but I’ll just leave you with one more:

I thought I’d just drop a line to tell you how wonderful I think you are.

Actually, how wonderful your hard cranberry lemonade is. Because I don’t know you personally (but I’m sure you’re very nice).

See, I have three demonic wonderful spawns of the devil children, who are here ALL SUMMER. And by the end of the day, this mom? She is feeling a tad cranky! From all the fighting and the whining and the what-not that goes CLANG CLANG CLANG in the pulsing migraine! SUMMER! Whoo hoo!

Whilst making dinner tonight, I decided to pop open your deliciousness, and the welcome “I really don’t give a damn” is now coursing happily through my veins, making it possible for Mommy to NOT LOCK THE CHILDREN IN THE CLOSET or some other such irresponsible, yet completely satisfying shenanigan.

Thank you.

Seriously, THANK YOU. Sweet buttered Moses, I was about to lose it BIG TIME.

Love, RedHeadMama

2) Your kid won’t stop whining about taking a shower, even though he stinks like a bag of Sour Cream and Onion chips and your eyes are watering when he gets too close: Once he FINALLY gets in the shower, run in there really quiet-like and turn the water to Antarctica Cold and on your way out turn off the lights. Don’t wanna take a shower, ya little punk? That oughta learn ya. Mess with the bull, you get the horns.

3) That one lady who always gives you “the look” at the gym as you’re huffing and puffing and sweating while she merely glows in her size 0 perfectly coordinated workout clothes: Go tell the front desk clerk that you saw (insert detailed description here) her throwing up on the treadmill and she wouldn’t clean it up even after you asked her nicely and seriously, is that the kind of establishment you want to run around here? I never.

4) The well-meaning salespeople who keep coming to your door pushing expensive magazine subscriptions: “I have explosive diarrhea, so let’s make this quick.”

5) That one guy who keeps racing up and down your neighborhood street like he’s in the Indy 500: 3 AM. You. A sharp knife. Driveway. Tires. Running away. Laughing. Not getting caught because HELLO, you’re a freaking MOM, and your fingerprints are like nowhere, and even those detective nerds from “Law and Order” can’t catch you. IT’S THE PERFECT CRIME.

It’s scary.

And somewhat gross.

Okay, REALLY GROSS.

And it’s something that my family has had to put up with for a number of years now.

I, uh……

I like to pick other people’s pimples.

Gosh, it’s like I can almost physically hear the collective screams of recoil and jaws dropping even over here behind my computer screen, which is kind of cool, because hello? I CAN READ YOUR MINDS, and so I therefore have Spock-like powers that I will use to accomplish some wildly amazing feat, like telling you while you’re in line at Starbucks that you need to bring me a vente white mocha PRONTO or you’ll grow a tail. POWER.

Anywhodles, my poor family knows all about my sick little hobby, and while they do give me a fair amount of grief/run away from me, they still indulge me (to a point). I don’t do this on the Hubs unless he invites me to, and if he invites me to, it’s because he’s has something in some weird place he can’t reach short of joining Cirque de Soleil. Usually, his are not that exciting, but every once in a while he gets an ingrown hair and it’s all crunchy and I really have to put some effort into it. Tweezers, even, sometimes.

The kids are fair game as well, although for some reason I don’t quite understand, my oldest’s stuff totally grosses me out. And he gets some pretty decent-sized specimens, too, so it’s a real shame. The other two don’t get much in the way of pimples, but every once in a while Henry will get something good so I’ll bribe him with some Nintendo DS time and go to town; the Nintendo puts him in a trance-like state so I can do my thang.

This disgusting – yes, I fully realize it’s disgusting, and NO THAT DOES NOT STOP ME – habit probably started way back in elementary school, when I used to pour Elmer’s Glue all over my arms, let it dry, and then peel it off. I was THAT kid, you know what I’m talking about, the one who puts pins in her fingers and walks around making zombie noises. When I got to high school and started vainly trying to get a tan (I say vainly not in the sense of fleeting beauty obsession, but in the sense of I have red hair, freckles, and pale skin. There is no tan that is going to come my way unless it comes out of a bottle, and even then, I’m pushing it.), and I got sunburnt out of my mind on a regular basis (all the dermatologists reading this just perked up their ears), I would gladly put up with the stinging burns for the glorious peeling that would soon follow. My goal was to get the biggest strip of unbroken dead skin. Sometimes I would save it and look at it for a while, then put it in my brother’s underwear drawer and laugh and laugh and laugh. Until he found out I was doing that and made me some wonderful “lemonade” to drink (hint: it wasn’t lemonade).

The Hubs asked me yesterday, as I was picking away on poor Henry, who really honestly should get a medal for what he has to go through in this house, WHY it was that I enjoyed doing this? Why? Please explain WHY?????

I have no answer. And I really have tried to restrain myself. But it’s just one of those weird, disgusting little foibles that we all carry around and pretend that we don’t. Come on, you know what I’m talking about. How many of us:

Pick our noses in traffic (I do, and I’ve perfected the “car’s coming pretend to scratch” method)
Peel at our toenails and see how big of a chunk we can get off
Scratch our dandruff (Fun tip: if you do this really vigorously, you can pretend you’re in a snow globe!)
Fart really loudly and laugh so hard we fart again (see Pregnant toots, aka My Most Embarrassing Moment)
See if anyone’s looking and then scratch our Happy Fun Areas

Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Look, I’ll make you a deal: I won’t stare at your engorged pimple with itchy fingers if YOU won’t rip one out and then walk out of the room really fast leaving a cloud of sulfur lingering behind you. Deal? (I’m mostly looking at my Hubs, but anyone else is welcome to include themselves in this pact.)

You might have caught a slight whiff of desperation from the title of this post, maybe a hint of frustration and sheer unbridled coo coo for cocopuffs? Well, your intuition is serving you well, young padawan. Here’s the situation:

Our neighbors, very nice neighbors, have a dog.

This dog barks from 5 AM to about 11 PM, unceasingly.

I hate this dog with a passion that burns with the heat of a thousand suns, mostly because of the barking, but also because it gets out and frightens our children when they are in OUR FREAKING YARD.

We’ve talked to the neighbors and they were appalled that their pwecious widdle snowflake would do such a thing, and promised eternal vigilance.

That lasted oh, like about FIVE MINUTES.

This morning, exactly on time, the &*(#(* dog started barking. The neighbors don’t hear him because they are never home, unlike me, who works from home and therefore is ALWAYS HOME LISTENING TO THAT GODFORSAKEN MUTT.

So, this morning, I did a bad thing.

A very bad thing.

I “encouraged” my 15 year old to aim his AirSoft rifle in the general direction of the dog. If the dog “accidentally” walked into the line of fire, whose fault was that? Certainly not ours.

That silly dog! He “accidentally” wandered RIGHT INTO AT LEAST 15 AIRSOFT BULLETS!

Ha ha! Silly! It is to laugh, I say!

And the %&#(* dog must have thought it was silly too, and had to go somewhere to chuckle uproariously, because we haven’t heard him barking for over an hour now. The only thing we hear is the sweet sound of NO FREAKING DOGS BARKING THEIR FOOL HEADS OFF FOR 12 HOURS STRAIGHT.

P.S. Before you start sending me angry letters or making papier mache effigies of me and lighting them on fire, please know that the dog didn’t actually get peppered with anything, just the sound of it whooshing by seems to put the fear of Jebus into him. Which is awesome.

P.P.S. If you actually do make a papier mache effigy of me, can I see it before you light it on fire? Because seriously, who wouldn’t want a life-size version of themselves sitting on the couch watching Season 1 of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” with them? Not me, that’s who.