Oh Lordy. The results are in for the first Principal Pal awards of the school year. And I just have one question: who do I have to fuck to get a Principal Pal magnet on my car? 

Seriously. 

I’ll do it. Just point me in the direction of the person or committee or farm animal who decides this thing and it shall be done. And I’m pretty sure my husband will support me on this, if for no other reason than to get me to stop whining about it. 

Honestly people. I swear, I may be driving the only mini van in my neighborhood without one or more of these hideous magnets plastered to the side of it celebrating my children’s excellence. Oh, the shame! Clearly, my kids and I totally suck. 

For real, yo. Neither of my school age kids have ever, EVER gotten one of these awards and it is totally burning my biscuits. 

My neighbor Tammy’s little boy wins one of these God damned awards EVERY FREAKING YEAR like clockwork. And you know what she says every month when I call her in tears to say that once more, I am destined to wander this lonely planet without a Principal Pal magnet on my car? She says, “Oh honey… you want one of mine?” I swear. And she is my best friend. Imagine what people who don’t like me say. Besides, if I just wanted the magnet, I would have stolen one (or four) of Tammy’s by now. That’s not the point.

The point is… I want what every parent wants. I want my kids to be excellent at something and for them (and me) to be recognized in a very public way for it. Is that so wrong? Oh, a full night of sleep and the ability to poop in private every once in a while wouldn’t hurt either, but let’s focus here. 

Look, I totally get why my first grade wild child “Klepto” hasn’t ever received this award. She is a force of nature and not easily tolerated by those with weaker constitutions. In fact, for the second year in a row, Klepto has been assigned to a teacher who has recently been named “Teacher of the Year” at our school. This is no coincidence, people. But poor Klepto, she has no idea. She thinks she is just the most randomly lucky kid ever. Kinda cute, actually. Shhh…. nobody tell her, OK? 

But Nature Boy? My 4th grade, first born? The kid is a saint. Seriously. Ask anyone. He is truly the kindest, gentlest, most empathetic person I’ve ever known, regardless of age. I have no earthly idea how this child could possibly attend this school since first grade and have never won this award even once. I’ll do the math for you. Three full years, with approximately 10 months of school in a year, plus one month so far this year… that is 31 times he has NOT been chosen. THIRTY ONE TIMES. The poor kid! But really, HIS POOR MAMA!!!

Look at it this way, if every class he’s been in so far had about 20 kids, and there are 10 awards given per class each year, that means he has had a 50% chance to win it sometime each year. Three years running now. 

But no. Never. 

AND IT IS KILLING ME. 

Here’s a snippet of the email his teacher sent out today:

Congratulations to Amanda B. for her selection this year’s first Principal Pal! With such a great group, narrowing the choice down to one classmate is not easy! However, due to Ms. Amanda’s consistent hard work, good citizenship, and generous nature, her peers were very happy to recognize her accomplishments. We’re proud of you, Amanda! 

Damn. It. To. Hell.

I’m not proud of you Amanda. I’m jealous and bitter. I mean, what does Amanda have that my Nature Boy doesn’t? 

Does Amanda’s mom volunteer more than I do? Probably. 

Does Amanda’s family donate more money to the PTA? Most definitely. 

Last week when the PTA newsletter contained an obscene typo indicating that children and parents should “Service one another,” (it was supposed to say “Serve one another”… BIG difference!) did Amanda’s mom slam the PTA and notify everyone in the free world about it with her Tweets and Facebook updates like I did? No. Probably not. 

Oh dear. It’s my fault, isn’t it. I’m the reason my children suffer.

Have mercy on them, PTA. Judge not the child for the sins of the mother. 

So, instead of continuing to torture myself, it looks like the best course of action for me is to just accept the things I cannot change. Gee, that sounds familiar… where have I heard that before? 

And speaking of higher powers… you know who else never got chosen for Principal Pal? 

Jesus. 

So at least there’s that. Although, in his case, it probably wasn’t because of his crazy mother. 

In closing, please pray for my children; they clearly need all the help they can get. And if you happen to have an “in” with the principal of their school, do me a favor and put in a good word for Nature Boy before I get arrested for petty burglary or lewd conduct… again.

Thank you kindly!

I have a neighbor who paid a shit-load of clams to have her yard professionally landscaped a few years back. It looks beee-utiful. That lady definitely got what she paid for, y’all.

Let me paint a picture… there’s a lovely little water feature nestled among a variety of ground covers, a Japanese Maple that cost more than my first car, and a tasteful array of perennials that warmly welcome visitors all year long. But the coup de grace is the handful of subtle yet effective solar powered path lights that safely guide folks to her front door in a most aesthetically and energy efficient way. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, it’s all about lighting, people. Anyhooooo, the whole package is, in the words of my frequently inebriated and ever effusive Mama, TO-DIE-FOR. 

My yard… um, not so much. 

The only water feature I have is the sound of my toddler pissing into the bushes every time we go outside. And as for perennials, do crab grass and clover count?

I do have path lights, but they are a little on the rustic side:

That’s right, baby. Didn’t cost me a dime. They’re volunteers! FAB.U.LOUS. They are also solar powered, organic, energy efficient, very low maintenance, and hopefully, edible. 

Yep. You guessed it. Wild mushrooms. Let’s take a closer look-see, shall we? 

Oooh, how pretty! Do they remind you of anything?

How ’bout now?…

If you answered “boobies,” YOU – ARE – CORRECT! How awesome is that? Lawn boobies, people… in my front yard. Jealous? Hey, they kinda look like mine too… pasty white, asymmetrical, one with a lazy eye. 

Actually, if I’m being honest (said in my best Simon Cowell voice), my sweater puppets look a bit more like this:

Different color, but otherwise, yeah. Probably not a good endorsement for the Japanese Eggplant Growers of America (JEGA)… “Our veggies look like dried up Cougar boobs! Come on down to the Eggplant Emporium’s close out sale! It’s buy one get one free, folks!” Also, just have to say, this picture is in NO WAY affiliated with La Leche League. I repeat. Breast milk is best. And, the money you’ll save on baby formula can grow in an interest bearing account until you are ready for your boob job or some self-image therapy. So worth it. (Still saving up for mine, obviously). 

OK. Back to the lawn boobies. Scratch that part about being edible (the mushrooms, not my boobs). My research tells me that these little babies are highly poisonous (again, mushrooms). I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities in the wild wild world of mushrooms. Best case: violent gastrointestinal upset. Worst case: death. Ewww, who needs that? I know my neighbor paid way less than that for hers. I just wanted some pretty, organic path lights, dammit. And if they happen to look like boobies, even better. But not edible, and in fact, deadly? Mwah. Mwah. 

Seriously, I know better than to try to eat a wild mushroom. I mean, duh. But I didn’t realize just how dangerous toadstools could be. Get this, toadstools from the Amanitas family, “are the reason why there are no old, bold mushroom hunters. Several members of this group contain amanitin, one of the deadliest poisons found in nature. One cap of a Destroying Angel (Amanita virosa) can kill a man.” Specifically, “their poison can destroy your liver and there is no good treatment available.”

Destroy my liver? Ha! Too late! Mushroom omelet, anyone?

Well, it could be worse. Instead of a front yard full of poisonous spore dropping lawn boobies, I could have discovered a field of Phallus drewesii, a 5cm-long stinkhorn mushroom that smells like rotting fish and, as the name suggests, looks a little bit like a penis:

Lovely. At least my lawn boobies are odor-free. Deadly, but not stinky. 

Oh, or this. A penis shaped mushroom that is an aphrodisiac, hallucinogen, and cursed? Who knew? I’ll just stick with the baby bellas from Publix, thanks. 

Oooh, how ’bout finding one of these in your yard? That reminds me of a bad date I had in college. Not pleasant.

And, best for last, there’s always this. Spoiler alert: another smelly penis mushroom… but this time, DOG PENIS. Double gross.

Suddenly, my poisonous white-trash path lights are not so bad. I doubt if my neighbors would agree, but who has time or money for real landscaping these days? I’m saving up to trade in my Japanese Eggplant for a pair of grapefruit first. Or therapy.

Well tomorrow marks the first official day of Autumn here in the northern hemisphere. You know, the Autumnal Equinox? When the length of the day is equal to the length of the night and the Earth has orbited around the sun to the point at which the northern hemisphere is beginning to tilt AWAY from the sun? Or something like that. Whatever. I learned that last part from my 4th grader last week, so who knows if it is true. Alls I knows is that Autumn means two things:

1. Only 95 days until Christmas.
2. And, I am officially a football widow from now until The Superbowl. 

Sorry to start your Monday with the Christmas countdown buzzkill. But really, I’m doing you a service. By my calculations, the stores will start blaring the carols and wrapping every surface in tinsel in less than one month. If you are mentally prepared for this impending assault on your senses, it will be less of a shock. You’re welcome. 

Now as for the whole Football Widow thing. I have mixed feelings. 

Sure, at first, it’s kinda nice. I suddenly have some free time. The Gatekeeper watches most of the major games on the big screen at his brother’s house. Eating his brother’s endless supply of queso dip. Filling his brother’s house with his startlingly emotional outbursts of joy and agony, (and ridiculously LOUD chewing sounds).

But as opposed to the Olympics, which is a nice mini-break for wives around the world, football season lasts for about one quarter of the whole year!  It’s not called football “season” for nothing. Sure, it’s not everyday. But every weekend…  for four months? Suddenly our entire lives revolve around game schedules. College games on Saturdays, pro games on Sundays and Mondays. 

For instance…

ME: “Rick and Nancy want to have us over for dinner on the 12th, hon.”

HIM: “The 12th? Lemme see. Oh, nope. That’s a really important Ohio State game. I need to be on the couch at my brother’s house by 8 PM. Can we be outta there by 7:30?”

ME: “Dude. That is so wrong. I’m not going to go over there for a nice dinner and be looking at our watches the whole time just so you can leave in time  for football.” 

HIM: “Then we can’t do it. Pick another day.”

Ack. Like we don’t have enough things to work around in our schedule… Cub Scout events and dance recitals and library book due dates and electrologist appointments… now I have to factor in televised football games too. Awesome. 

Seriously. Two of my three children were born during football season and you should have seen the terror in this man’s face when he thought I was going into labor with #2 during a playoff game. Thank the Lord it was a false alarm, or he probably would have plugged my birth canal with a can of Pringles until the game was over. He’s got priorities, you know. Alright, alright, make that two cans of Pringles. I cannot tell a lie. 

So there’s that. But the other thing is this… a woman has needs. I get kinda lonely after a while. And I get really damn tired of being a single mother (with none of the benefits like alimony or less laundry). So I’m practicing some footballish phrases that I’m hoping will entice him to stick around. I figure if I talk dirty enough, but with a football theme, he might not be so quick to high-tail it out of here every weekend. You know… the best of both worlds, minus Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus. 

Here’s a sampling of what I’ve come up with so far:

• Hey babe, wanna put it between the uprights? 
• Run the ball right up the middle? 
• Tackle my tight end? 
• Toss it into the end zone later? 
• Go deep? 
• Penetrate the backfield? 

Gosh, is it me, or is this game a little bit dirty? No wonder he loves it! And what’s with all the backdoor talk? Maybe I would feel a little better about this game if the end zone was lovingly referred to as a part of the female anatomy. As in: “AND. HE. COULD. GO. ALL. THE. WAY!!!! Into that vagina.” What? Too much? 

And, excuse me, but, ahem, is it me, or is this game in general, a little, um, homo-erotic? 

Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Just trying to understand the draw.

I was thinking about getting a cheerleader outfit, you know, just for fun. But on second thought, maybe I should get a football player’s uniform instead? Just a thought. And a whole butt load of queso dip. Pardon the pun.

“Where’ve ya been, honey?” she asked. “We missed you.”

“Thanks sugar. It’s a long story.” said I.

“Abridge it, bee-otch… I know it’s gonna be sick.”

“Why, thank you! Well… first I got bitten by a snapping turtle and couldn’t type for a few weeks. No lie. Then I found out I was being cyber-stalked by some misogynistic little-dicked punk ass bitch who was trying to scare me into the dark ages. But mostly, it was just summer. You know… three kids, long days, high humidity. The usual. All I had time for was slathering sunscreen and bug spray and when I wasn’t a-slatherin’, I was washing sand out of crevices and scalps, or busy refilling my glass and praying for the strength to make it to the start of the school year. I fucking HATE summer. Thank GOD it’s over.”

“Excuse me… did you just say you got bitten by a real-honest-to-God-snapping-turtle?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Shut up! You lie like a rug, bitch.”  

“I swear on my children’s children. I swear on the health of my retinas. I swear on…” 

“OK. I get it. Dammit, you are one hot mess, honey. A real snapping turtle? Are you sure?”

“Google it, bitch.”

“I am gonna pray for you honey.” 

“Thanks Grandma,” I said.

And there you have it. I’m back. And I brought you something! This is my new obsession. It’s a little ol’ website called Texts from Last Night… a place where people can submit texts they’ve received and we get to read them and laugh until our boxed wine spurts out of our noses. (Or is that just me?) Seriously ya’ll… thank God I did all my “dating” before the text-age. These kids today are crazy. ENJOY!    

xoxox,

Iris

I’ve got two sick kids at home today sucking the life out of me, so I’ll keep this brief. 

If you go nowhere else on the Internet today, go see my new favorite thing: Awkward Family Photos.com, Sharing the Awkwardness. Hot damn, this is funny stuff. The concept is so simple… people send in, you guessed it, awkward family photos. The photos are priceless, but the real brilliance is in the captions and the comments. It is a hoot, ya’ll. Check it out and tell ‘em Iris sentcha. 

Specifically, you have to see this one, sent to me by one of my dearest friends who wrote in her email: “This hairy family made me think of you.” I’m sure it was because of the ginormous beave on the mom and not the creepy Electra Complex action. Thanks D! Love you too, Sugar! 

Here’s another gem not to be missed. That’s just not natural. Listen, I should know. One of my BFFs is a professional photographer and she tells me all the time about the crazy shit people want to have captured on film. No, nothing like that. Just stupid stuff like unflattering matching outfits and “silly poses” and crazy moms who shout things at their kids like “SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!”  Just curious, is there a school somewhere that trains budding Mall Photographers to make people pose in ridiculous ways or do you think there are just a lot of photographers out there with really sick senses of humor? Based on the shots I’m seeing at this site, I’ve got to believe that some of these photographers come home sometimes with a picture or two to share while they Pass the Dutchie with their buds saying, “Dude… check out how I made this family all put their fists under their chins. It was fuckin’ hilarious! I could barely take the shot, I was laughing so hard.” 

Something to think about next time you go to The Picture People, eh? Just sayin. 

Work it, you’re worth it!  And SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!  

-Iris

Know what I hate more than anything about going to the gym? It’s not the pain, it’s not the time out of my busy child-rearing/husband-wrangling schedule, it’s not even the increased risk of contracting necrotizing fasciitis… it’s having to socialize while I’m tired, sweaty, stinky and nasty. Shoot, if I wanted to do that, I could just stay home and have sex with my husband. Nothankyouverymuch. 

But alas, it’s almost swimsuit season and I’ve got to firm up these buns and thighs before someone tries to throw me on the grill and baste me at the Memorial Day Pool Party.  Besides, my extensive team of psychiatric advisors tells me that daily physical activity is good for all that ails me. And by daily physical activity, they mean more than just lifting my wine glass to my mouth repeatedly and/or kicking my dog. Dammit. 

So on Monday, I shoe-horned my ginormous post-partum goodie basket into a pair of high-waisted yoga pants and headed off for the YMCA… a.k.a., the “Y-ABC,” according to my scrumdeli-icious toddler “Bucket Head.” And after a very concentrated and effective 30 minutes on the elliptical and three sets of “ow-this hurts” on the machines, I managed to make it almost all the way to the front door without having to chit chat with anyone while pretending there wasn’t a big ol’ pool of sweat collecting around my camel toe, when what did I hear but, “Iris? Is that YOU?” 

Fuck. 

Oh, of all the people. It was Saint Margaret. She is seriously, no joke, one of the nicest people I have ever met in my whole life. And for some unknown reason, she likes me. She really likes me. And we hardly ever see each other anymore, what with all her volunteer work, and church-going, and tennis lessons and my rampant alcoholism, and clutter hoarding, and therapy appointments. 

But there we were, sweaty face to sweaty face, doing the “So, what’s new with you?” dance. I was clearly in a hurry to skedaddle and extract the lycra from my crotch, so she suggested we meet again later this week and do a class together.

“Uh… I don’t really do the classes, Marg.”

“How come?!”

“Well, the last time I did one, it totally kicked my ass. I couldn’t walk for days. And not only that, but it was humiliating. I couldn’t keep up and I was embarrassed. I ended up slinking out before the end of the class with my tail between my legs.” 

“That’s why you have to do the classes! The peer pressure forces you to go further than you normally would on your own! And if you do it with a friend, you will be less likely to sneak out before the end of the class! You’ll see results so much faster!”

“Ugh… really?”

“Yes. Do a class with me. It will be great! Only three more weeks until summer!”

“Oh…kay.” (with a heavy sigh) 

And so less than 48 hours later, there I was, back at the gym with Saint Margaret, walking into a class called “Stability Ball.” 

I know what you’re thinking… but don’t worry, apparently being stable isn’t a requirement. And they supply the balls. 

Neither of us had done this class before and had no idea what we were getting into, but we guessed it was going to work our abs and I’ll do anything to reduce the size of my stretch-marked-muffin-top… well, anything except refrain from eating an entire bag of Boy Scout “Unbelievable Butter” microwave popcorn every night in a reclined position while The Gatekeeper flips back and forth between Law and Order SVU or SUV or SUX and Law and Order Criminal Intent and Law and Order Mail Fraud Division. Whatever.  Just fucking shoot me. 

Now this next part is going to sound a wee bit agist, and it is. So to my more mature readers, I apologize in advance. When Saint Margaret and I got to the class, I noticed a few, ahem, “older” ladies getting settled in. With the exception of seeing their varicose vein covered legs ballooning out of their lycra short-shorts, having them there gave me a great deal of comfort. If the cast of Cocoon can hang with the Stability Ball class, hopefully, so could I. Maybe I wouldn’t have to sneak out halfway through and spring for a new tube of Ben Gay.

Anyhoooo…. two things. First off, I now see why they keep the music up so loud in these classes: to disguise all the noises coming from the vajayjays in the room. Seriously dudes, can’t someone design some workout clothes for women that include some kind of cork-like apparatus for the hoo hoo? No? Too misogynist?  Well then, how about some soundproof yoga pants? Hey, that is a great idea! I need to patent that. You heard it here first, peeps. 

And number two… why do instructors save all the really hard moves for the end of the class? It started off so easy… we were each sitting, SITTING, I say, on a big rubber exercise ball, lifting little three pound weights up and down, up and down. I especially liked the sitting part. Piece of cake! Then we were doing sit ups with our backs on the ball. Also, not so bad. I was hanging in there! But then, the class got a little bit harder. No more sitting, we were suddenly on our bellies, rolling forward on the ball, doing PUSH UPS with our hands on the floor and only our feet on the ball. I kid you not. You know you are doing something dangerous when the instructor says: “Watch your faces!” Yikes! Excuse me, but any kind of exercise where I have to watch my face is not eligible for the Bearded Iris Seal of Approval. 

I was pretty impressed with myself that I could hang with the modified pushups. I looked at the clock… only ten minutes left! YES! I was going to make it! And then, we entered the Sudden Death Round. Seriously. After 45 minutes, who has the energy to take it to the next level? This crazy bitch instructor (who could not only do all these moves while talking, smiling, and squealing “Whooop-Whoop” to the music) told us to lie on our backs, hold the balls straight up in the air with our feet, and pass the balls back and forth to and from our hands, like inverted jack-knives opening and closing. I never felt so stupid in all my life… including Senior Prom Night 20 years ago, but that’s another story. Nor did I know that I could sing the Star Spangled Banner with my other lips, but apparently I can, and this was just the move to prove it. 

To add insult to injury, not only could I not do the ball handling jack knife move, but one look in the wall-to-wall mirror showed me that everyone else in the class was doing just fine with it, including the one who looked like Kathy Najimy and the three Golden Girls. I’m only 39 years old, and every single person in that class could have kicked my ass with one liver-spotted arm behind their back. Dammit. No wonder my Wii Fit Age enables me to receive a virtual AARP discount card.

But am I a quitter? Especially with the end so near? You betcha. Once I realized there was no way in hell my arms, legs, back, abs, and hoo hoo were going to cooperate with that jack knife move, I snuck outta there faster than you can say “queef.” I was like the old timers at church on Sunday who take communion and keep walking… right to their cars… you know, to avoid the traffic. I’ll just tell Saint Margaret that I sprung a leak and had to go change my Poise Pad. Maybe if she thinks I’m incontinent, she’ll be less likely to invite me to another class and I can go back to exercising the way I like it: alone and without shame, pain, or embarrassing noises. If you don’t hear from me for a while, just assume I pulled a muscle and am nursing myself back to health. Later, taters! 

xoxo,

-Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

Well, The Gatekeeper put the big kibosh on my spending. Dammit. Always the practical one, he’s a little concerned about the state of our economy. He actually told me, and I quote, “You have to stop buying things.” I’m pretty sure he means clothes and shoes and makeup, and not things like the economy size bucket of Oxy Clean required for fighting the omnipresent stains in his drawers. (Note to self: it appears as though saving grocery money by serving lots of bean burritos only increases the laundry expenses… something to consider when planning our weekly menu and budget.) 

So, always wanting to be an obedient concubine wife, I needed to find a way to get my shopping fix and save money at the same time. I don’t use coupons… even when I go to the trouble to find them, and clip them, and bring them with me (and that’s three strikes against me right there), I invariably forget to hand them to the clerk during checkout. Never fails. 

Nor do I wait for sales. Timing isn’t my thing. Neither is patience. Or self-control for that matter. 

Luckily for me, I have discovered the perfect outlet. It’s a little ol’ thang called Goodwill. I know, I know, it’s a thrift store… ick! Honey, listen, don’t get yer panties in a wad. It is totally different than it used to be. Thrift stores are not just for homeless people and Halloween costumes anymore. They are veritable treasure troves of goodness! Yes, it is true, you may have to dig a bit to find that buried treasure, but believe-you-me, it is so worth it.  

You see, there are two coexisting trends right now that are working together to create the perfect shopping environment! First of all, people are desperate for ways to cut back and save a buck. Being thrifty is totally hip right now. It is the new Green. And secondly, people all over this nation are striving to simplify their lives. They are glued to shows like Clean Sweep and Clean House and some poor schmucks are even sending pictures of their cluttered homes to Oprah in desperate hopes of landing a free clutter-busting-makeover from Peter Walsh himself. Suckahs. How desperate can you get? Bygones. Anyhooo, everywhere you turn, people are filling their SUVs with STUFF they no longer want or need and are dropping them off at thrift stores left and right. And wouldn’t you know it? Some of that STUFF that people are just dying to get rid of is pretty darn nice! We’ve been a nation of excess for so long, charge-charge-charging our way into this economic crisis, that many of us who are “drowning in clutter” are actually drowning in a pretty fancy sea of Pottery Barn knick knacks that just have to go! 

And here I am, smack dab in the middle of a perfect storm of clutter-clearing, treasure-hunting, bargain-shopping, and husband-evading. The air is ripe with possibilities. 

My goal is to take more to Goodwill than I bring back home with me, but so far I’m about dead even. I feel pretty good about my purchases though and have strived to buy only things that I think we truly need.

Here is one of my favorite purchases to date… it is a hand painted lampshade that I procured for about $2.00. 

Isn’t it purdy? Only problem… I figured out pretty damn quickly why someone got rid of it…

Here’s what it looks like when you turn on the lamp:

Fugly. Oh well. I still like it during the day. And for two bucks? Shoot. Can’t beat that with a stick! 

One thing I’ve figured out is that not every Goodwill store is the same. Here in North Georgia there are a few Goodwills that are much nicer than others. Sometimes they are very disorganized and it is hard to find what you want. At other stores, you walk in and I swear you can hear angels singing. Have you ever seen organization in a thrift store like this?

Seriously ya’ll. That is so pleasing to the eye, ain’t it? All the clothing racks in this particular store are like that. They must have Rain Man managing it or something. Me likee. 

Another thing I’ve noticed at these thrift stores is the plethora of discarded teacher appreciation CRAP. Por examplo:

This tells me two things:

1.) teachers do not appreciate this junk. You should see the number of “World’s Best Teacher” coffee mugs lining the shelves of these thrift stores. I know you love your teacher, but he/she does not want another apple-shaped Christmas ornament, coffee mug, or pencil holder. If every parent in the class pooled their $5.00, that hard-working teacher could buy something they really want and save themselves the hassle of making another trip to the thrift store to drop off all the clutter they keep receiving from you people. 

2.) if you insist on buying this tacky shit for your teachers, go buy it for pennies on the dollar at the Goodwill! Then, put a gift card or a nice crisp five or ten dollar bill in that hideous mug and know that you are supporting a local charity and your teacher in a way she’ll appreciate. Trust me on this one. 

And speaking of teachers… 

Damn. Where are Stacy and Clinton when you need them? And Richard Simmons too. 

Which brings me to my next point. If you are new to thrifting, you might want to stick to housewares and books. It can be difficult to find clothes you like or want at thrift stores. There is a lot of stuff like that dress above. I did find a fabulous “like new” winter coat for $4.00 that I am just tickled about… and hopefully once I wash it in extra hot water it will be much less likely to tickle me back. I also found a really great pair of pajama pants. They were the right size, a good brand, a great fabric, already broken in and soft, and in great shape:

… at least I thought they were in great shape, until I lifted one of the pant legs to check for rips and discovered this:

Look closely at the crotch (like you usually do, ya cheeky monkey!).  D’ya see that? Yep. It is a big ol’ blood stain. Ewwww. Ladies, ladies, ladies. How could you? Didn’t your Mama ever tell you that you can’t just leak your monthly moon juice all over your PJ pants and stick ‘em in the Goodwill bag?! For Pete’s sake! That is why God invented Oxy Clean, honey. Gross. 

Yeah. I bought ‘em anyway. So what? 

OK, one last tip. Don’t take your kids with you when you shop at Goodwill unless you are well medicated, have a strong stomach, and are in the mood to negotiate. For starters, as you well know, kids are nasty little varmints. Maybe that sounds a tad negative. What I mean is that children, being so trusting and adventurous, and enthusiastic, don’t necessarily mix well with “previously owned” housewares. In other words, if your kids are anything like mine, you can bet that they’ll stick used Scooby-Doo sippy cup straws into their mouths and lick dusty artificial fruit while simultaneously trying to convince you to buy these items for them. Or they’ll grab a hideous dusty figurine, hold it up to their little face, and plead: “Oh MOM! Look how cute! How could anyone part with this?”

Yep. You guessed it. I am now the proud owner of this sad little cow. Don’t worry, he’ll be back at Goodwill sooner than later, I hope. Along with those previously stained pajama pants, once I get my fill of them. 

Happy Thrifting! 

xoxo,

Iris

Hey ya’ll… sorry I’ve been away for so long. I haven’t thrown in the towel, I’ve just been airing it out a little. You’ll thank me later. Nobody wants a musty, stanky towel all up in their biscuits. 

Things around here have been crazier than a soup sandwich lately. Here’s just a sampling of some of the bacon-infused side dishes overlapping on my cafeteria plate the past few weeks: 

• The Gatekeeper and I were called in for a “conference” about Klepto’s behavior with four of her Kindergarten teachers (including Art and P.E.), the Assistant Principal (i.e. “Bad Cop”), and the school counselor. Turned out it was actually an invitation to a “Let’s all complain about how much we can’t stand your evil child” bitch session. Yikes. It was bad ya’ll. I cried afterwards and I wasn’t even riding the cotton pony that day. 
• Klepto (the very same 6 year old girl middle child) was diagnosed (for the second time) with Sensory Processing Disorder. Totally accounts for all her wacky antics over the years. Who knew there was a medical explanation behind sticking ABC gum to your twat? 
• Klepto had a friend over to play who picked at a scabby wart on the back of her knee and bled all over Klepto’s dress up clothes, my sofa, and the carpet. Let me tell you something… nothing puts a damper on a play date like hearing your child scream “MOM! Amber’s BLEEDING!” No, wait… there is one thing worse… it turned out that the bleeding “wart” was actually an infectious disease known affectionately as Molluscum Contagiosa. Nice. Thanks a lot, bitch. And my kids wonder why I don’t schedule more play dates. 
• My perfect first born stole a Lego Star Wars Storm Trooper head from our friends’ house and then lied to me about it. As if my world needed to crumble any further. Is nothing sacred? Poor thing, he’s so damn attention starved. 
• And speaking of petty theft, Klepto stole something from her art class and was ratted out by her peers. Assholes. Yep, got a conference call from the teacher and the assistant principal that day. Ah, good times. I’m pretty sure this poor girl is being profiled. She can do no right at that damn school. 
• Flew to Miami with my husband for a weekend without the kids! Lord have mercy… my knees are still wobbling from all the Mojito inspired hotel sex. That town is crazy, ya’ll. 
• My baby turned two years old a couple days ago. Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset… seems like just yesterday I was holding an ice pack up to my battered hoo hoo, cursing the day I drank too many margaritas and let The Gatekeeper play “just the tip” without a rain hat. Memories. Time sure flies when you’re fighting the axis of evil (aka The PTA and The Ultra Conservative Fucknut Neighbors proudly toting their anti-Obama bumper stickers) and trying to raise a family of non-hydrogenated global citizens. Sigh. No wonder I drink. 

So anyhoo, I’ve clearly been too busy to attend to things like my hygiene, my taxes, and my blog. Sorry about that. Especially for you fellow suburban hostages who rely on my Mommy Smut for your cheap, voyeuristic, daily “Oh Thank God My Life Doesn’t Suck as Much as Iris’s” fix.

Hopefully it won’t be so long between posts, but I can’t make any promises. Shit, if things don’t calm down around here soon, I may be writing my next post from the Betty Ford Center. Do they have Wi-Fi there? 

One more parting thought: don’t look back… you never know what you’ll see. 

Kiss kiss,

Iris

Oy vey iz mir, ya’ll… I am turning into one of those mothers. 

You know exactly what I mean… the kind of mothers I frequently write about in less than flattering terms. In my neck of the woods, we call them “Helicopter Moms.” In other words: mothers who hover. They are as common in suburban Atlanta as Loblolly pine pollen spores, and about as appealing too. But now that I’m fixin’ to become the spokesmodel for Helicopter Moms International, I’m thinking that the hovering mother archetype is about to become a whole lot more interesting. 

It’s funny. I used to pride myself on my anti-hovering ways. My children are pretty independent… mainly because they have to be to survive (“Hey, put that homework down… this cocktail isn’t going to refill itself you know.) But suddenly, I’ve been backed into a corner and the Mama Bear in me is coming out with a vengeance. That’s right people… the tide has turned. One of my children is in danger at school. That changes everything. Helicopter Mom? Uh, no. Try an AH-64A Apache Attack Helicopter armed with AGM-114 Missiles & Hydra Rockets.  How do you like me now, muthahfuckah?!

The Apache Military Helicopter... or what it looks like when a foul mouthed, easily provoked, booze whore with anger management issues becomes a "Helicopter Mom."

How did this happen? 

Well, you may recall that my middle child, Klepto, is a bit of a, oh… shall we say… handful? If you’ve spent more than 30 seconds perusing my smutty blog, you are already well acquainted with some of her antics. If you are new to my world, you might not realize that in the past six months alone, this child has: 

• stuck a wad of nasty chewed bubble gum that she found on an arcade floor into her panties
• trashed every pair of shoes she’s owned within minutes of placing them on her feet
• stolen numerous insundry items and lied about them
• started a dog-riot at the animal hospital and then told my vet that I had diarrhea

and there are probably more that I either couldn’t bear to write about or have unconsciously blocked out of my mind because they were so horrid. 

Now listen up, because this is important: it is totally acceptable for ME, her mother, to say these things and label my child “a handful,” but if someone else does that… they better prepare to have their limbs ripped from their body and shoved up their ass. 

In the interest of brevity, I’ll spare you the gory details for now; but let’s just say that Klepto is struggling with some mild behavioral issues at school and I am less than satisfied at the approach the teachers and administration are taking to support her. More details to come, but just prepare to be disgusted with the failings of the public school system. Don’t get me wrong, public school is perfectly fine for some, maybe even for most kids, but it is not working for my Klepto, and I’m definitely not the kind of woman to stand by and idly watch that happen. Look at me… do I look like the type of person who does anything half-ass? 

Thank you. I rest my case. This is just how I eat a piece of fruit on a balmy summer day… imagine how I’ll take on the superintendent of education. 

The silver lining is this: through these trials and tribulations of motherhood, I am becoming a more compassionate person. Instead of continuing to feel so annoyed, and yes, threatened by these mothers in my town who seem on the surface to be so over-involved, I am finally starting to adopt a “live and let live” attitude. We are all just doing the best we can for our kids. Each child is different and who am I to make assumptions or judgements about what those mothers are choosing to do to care for their kids? In fact, I think I might even have to change my tune about homeschooling. Shit, for me to say that, you know that things are really bad for my poor daughter right now. But also, I have a couple of really good friends who have recently embarked on the homeschooling journey. These are phenomenal, well adjusted, balanced women… not your typical Helicopter Moms.  And they made this choice due to the shortcomings that they found to exist in their local public schools and the frustrating untapped potential of their children that they alone are uniquely qualified to recognize and develop  in their own loving homes, at their children’s own pace. I salute these women and I pray that if the time comes when I need to make a similar decision that they will guide me with their wisdom and experience and ample supplies of humor, organic produce, and tequila. 

And so, I’m off to learn the ways of the Helicopter Moms. Look for me in the carpool line, at the cafeteria, and volunteering in the classrooms on a weekly basis. You can’t miss me, I’m the potty-mouthed woman in the cute apron feeding my children organic fresh-baked goods and fighting with “the man” to change the world one fucked up school policy at a time. See you on the side-lines, fuckahs. 

Peace out,

Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

Valentine’s Day is not my fave. 

If you love someone, you should tell them all the time… not just on one over-the-top day. Just sayin’. 

I told my husband this when we first started dating back in 1995 as part of my “I’m really low-maintenance… you hit the jackpot with me, pal” façade. Mistake. Big mistake. Now the man thinks he can just skirt through every holiday without giving me cards and flowers and candy and jewels. Dammit. I had no earthly idea that in less than a decade I would become an invisible vessel for grandkids and PTA sponsored fundraising. That changed everything. I am definitely no longer as low-maintenance as I was 10 years ago… and not just because of all the new hormone induced facial hair. I need some attention, fuckers. Is it me, or can you relate, ladies? 

Maybe I’m just bitter because I didn’t get a single Valentine this year. Yeah yeah, I know, I’m being a hypocrite. That whole “T’is better to give than to receive” thing is a load of crap, sorry Jesus. I want to receive. And by receive, I’m talking about more than just a bean burrito dinner followed by falling asleep farting in our Snuggies watching You Don’t Mess with the Zohan (note to self: must reorder my Netflix queue to coincide with holidays more appropriately.)  Mama needs some romance. And for the record, “Are we gonna do it later, or what?” doesn’t really get the juices flowin’, if you know what I mean. 

Unlike their bitter mama, my lovey-dovey kids really dig this Hallmark holiday. So, for them, I did my darndest to hide my “cupid-is-stupid” ire and rise to the occasion. Awwww. I helped them make their Valentine’s Boxes and cards and we even whipped up a fabulous and funky Valentine  Tree, which took near heroic measures since I absolutely abhor crafting with children. Don’t get me wrong, I love crafting. I’m crafty. I can make pretty much anything. Anything. Seriously. But bring a kid into the equation, and I’d rather donate a cornea or two. 

Isn’t that just fabulous? Klepto and I decoupaged tissue paper onto an old plastic flower pot we found in the garage. I cut the branches off a big old fallen tree limb that was cluttering up my yard. And Klepto made a majority of those ornaments herself with crap we had lying around the house. My friend Jennifer says I have no right to be making fun of “Über Moms” when I have a homemade Valentine Tree like this in my house. But Jennifer, I gotta tell you, not only was I probably drunk as a skunk when we made it, but I am pretty sure I made Klepto cry five minutes into the decoupage process when she got bored and started to decoupage her hands to the table with the glue. So no, drunk screaming lunatics and Über Moms are mutually exclusive groups, in my humble opinion. 

Speaking of being crafty… I am learning how to crochet. My BFF/neighbor Tammy (you remember her… the one who always one-ups me and tries to improve my recipes and then take credit for them?) gave me the most amazing birthday present last year. She cleaned out her overflowing craft closet and put together a lovingly recycled “Teach Yourself to Crochet” basket containing an instruction book, a bunch of crochet needles, some yarn, and a few handfuls of stale Easter candy that was calling her name a little too close to swimsuit season. Bitch. Anyhooo, the thought behind this gift was extraordinary. She knew that I had always wanted to learn to crochet and she gave me a gift to help me achieve that goal. That’s a good friend, ya’ll, stale candy or not. 

The only problem with trying to teach yourself to crochet from a book is that it is really hard. I tried and I tried, but I just wasn’t getting it. Oh, I’m left-handed too, which makes everything harder, except making obscene gestures out my window while I drive. I do that with excellent dexterity and enthusiasm. 

But you know what they say… when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. About a month ago, a lovely muse named Lara appeared on my doorstep. She and her groovy husband are my kids’ music teachers. They come to my house once a week and fill my home with song and love and a variety of talents. Lara can crochet like nobody’s beeswax. She sat down with me and showed me how to do some stitches and instilled me with confidence that crochet is really not that hard. Reading crochet patterns is not for pussies though. I still can’t really do that. 

But Lara also taught me something phenomenal. She taught me that you can learn pretty much anything you ever wanted to know on YouTube. And the coolest thing about it is that you can start/stop/repeat lessons until you get it and not have to worry about annoying your teacher to death. 

Want to learn how to use a Neti Pot? How about Body Party Math?  Would you like to rewire a lamp? Learn to do the splits? Be prepared to deliver a baby in the backseat of a taxicab? (Check out the giant rubber teaching vajayjay!!!)  Learn Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” dance moves step by step? (OMG, “The Spank It” and “The Pump Walk”… these are must-have-moves for any dance repertoire!!!)  Or hey, aren’t you the least bit curious about what happens when a goat licks an electric fence?  You can learn all this and more on YouTube. 

Me? Well, after I mastered all that stuff, I taught myself how to crochet a heart for my sweet little girl. I even found a crochet heart tutorial for left-handed mamacitas like me! YouTube rocks, ya’ll. See? I did it!

Bet you didn’t know I was such a crafty beaver, did you?! Well I am. Get over it. Don’t worry, I can combine all my favorite things and still be the same slutty booze whore you’ve come to know and love.  Next, I want to learn how to make one of these:

No, it’s not a papoose in a canoe. It’s a hand-knitted vulva I found on the Internet. God bless you, Al Gore! Wouldn’t that be the most darling change purse?! Imagine the looks you’d get at church if you pulled that out when they pass the basket!  Or how about a set of vulva coasters or beer can coozies? See, with all this crafting to do, I won’t have time to feel sorry for myself that I didn’t get any Valentines. And for those of you who missed the boat this year, you have a whole year to shop. Buy me some yarn, would ya? I’ve got some vulvas to knit.