2010 July »

My pants are white, but my face is red…

Posted by Domestic Diva at 11:54 am Uncategorized

Jul 282010

I love my white linen capri pants. They are light and comfy, shabby and chic. They are probably the next best thing to keep cool in the hot summer months other than wearing shorts. Have I mentioned I hate shorts? My chubby Mom legs are pale, and I find it awkward to constantly walk around picking and pulling the bunched fabric down from where my thighs caused them to ride up into a virtual “front wedgie.” Anyway, my hatred of shorts made me love these white linen pants even more…until the other day.

Hottest summer on record. Fan-flipping-tastic. My kids may actually make me clinically insane soon if I can’t get them outside for more than an hour a day. I almost wish we had rainy weather because they seem to understand the correlation between rain and being stuck inside. When the sun is shining, my kids could give a shit about the heat index. So we do our best to get out each day, no matter the temperature, and find ways to keep from melting or suffering from heat stroke while we’re outside.

We have the Step 2 Naturally Playful Water and Sand Activity table which we fill totally with water. It’s hours of fun, and it comes with an umbrella to help keep the kids out of the sun. When that fails we’ve got a small baby pool, sprinkler, and I’ll even squirt the kids with the hose to keep them from overheating in the 90+ temperatures we’ve seen all summer. Another trick is to take the kids out first thing in the morning or just after dinner when it’s not so unbearable.

This day was particularly hot with a heat index of 104, and I kept the kids inside all morning and afternoon. They had been feasting all day on leftover birthday party food from the day before, and by dinner were climbing the walls. As soon as they finished eating, I practically threw them out the back door. Still on a sugar high, not much was keeping their attention. So as they ran around from one thing to the next, I would chase them or give them a squirt with the hose. I also gave my garden some attention and much needed water. As I was watering the garden, I noticed about a dozen ripe tomatoes that needed picking, so I turned my back for just a moment which was just enough time for them to launch their attack.

In true ninja fashion Joey crept up behind me and then, without any apparent hesitation, opened fire. Bent over in the garden, I was suddenly hit with a torrent of cold water with my ass, stuck up in the air, taking the initial sprays of water from the hose that I so carelessly left lying on the ground, practically begging for one of the boys to assume command of it. I let out a yelp of surprise and fell into one of my tomato plants. Joey, guns blazing, doesn’t let up for a second and continues to soak my backside with the hose.

As I lift myself from the dirt, I am immediately drawn to the brown smudges of soil on my white pants. “Oh, great!” I exclaimed as I turned to face my attacker. Joey at this point is losing his grips on the hose as Jake fights to take his turn at soaking his poor, unsuspecting mother who just wanted to give her children some outside fun time. As I sprint towards the hose, I slip and fall, adding green stains to the front of my white pants.

Jake now controls the hose, and this seemly sweet toddler shows to mercy. I struggle to stand, my flip flops squishing and squashing beneath my feet, are of no help in regaining control. Finally, after what feels like forever under the constant cold cascade of hose water, I bring myself to stand. It’s at this moment, still being assaulted with water, that I can feel my WHITE linen pants sticking to my skin. It’s almost simultaneously then that I realize my underwear, a pair of white Body by Victoria underwear meant to be unnoticeable under your pants, are also soaking wet.

Suddenly, I change direction mid stride, and head for my back door. As I sprint up the yard, white linen fabric clinging to my skin, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of being naked. My husband, who is now holding the baby, manages a “construction worker style” whistle between laughs as I leap towards the stairs to the deck. Joey, also hysterical at this point, yells “I see Mommy’s naked butt!” as I practically run through the sliding glass door.

Perhaps worst of all, the commotion attracted the attention of neighbors who had friends over for a BBQ. No less than a dozen people saw my virtually naked ass running through the yard. So if I become cloistered, and never leave the house again, at least you’ll all know why…

Please Pass the “Off”

Posted by Domestic Diva at 11:00 pm Uncategorized

Jul 212010

There are some days that I worry I won’t have anything “funny” to post about, then I open my eyes, look around, and remember where I live. I’m so glad that you all enjoyed the muddy messy mongrel story from last week, and I’m even happier to report we have not had any more dogs running loose in the house. However, that hell hound will not be soon forgotten; I have continued to find random chunks of dirt and muddy tail streaks on the walls in places I didn’t even know the dog had been.

Things have been relatively normal quiet around here. Aside from the kids being stir crazy and stuck inside most of the day because of the heat, humidity, and thunderstorms, not much mayhem has been happening. Monday began no differently, and by about 4pm I was about to shoot myself in the foot if I had to watch “Up” or “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs” again. Thankfully, as we ate our dinner, clouds began to roll in, providing some relief from the persistent summer sun. After gobbling down our dinner, which really isn’t that different from any other night, we checked the radar and headed outside with the kids. With any luck at all, playing outside would help get the kids tired and ready for bed. Jake and Cecilia played in the sandbox, and Joey followed me around my vegetable garden. The garden, now nearly impassable down the center, is over-flowing with plant (and some animal) life. Joey gently collected beetles, spiders, lady bugs, some sort of buzzy insects, caterpillars and about a dozen fire flies (aka lightning bugs) by the time it was dark and time to head inside.

Joey, who meticulously captures each bug in a small container, and then transports it into a larger one that has the “houses” (grasses, leaves, and sticks), threw a royal fit about releasing his “friends.” Normally, I do not give in to this type of annoying behavior, but this night I was exhausted both mentally and physically. Joey agreed to leave his jar by the back door, and he peacefully went inside for a bath and bed. Seemed liked a win-win to me.

By the time I heard something go “bump’ in the night, I had forgotten about the bugs in the jar by the back door. At first, I didn’t open my eyes, but rather I just laid there, hoping it was just a book or toy falling off one of the kid’s beds. “Bump, Bump, Shuffle..” Shit, one of the kids was awake and my husband was either pretending to be asleep or had fallen into a grizzly like hibernation. Still mostly asleep myself, I rolled over, facing my open (always) bedroom door and half opened my eyes to see if there was a child out in the hallway. The hallway was still pitch black, a pretty good indicator that no one was roaming about, but my eyes caught a strange yellowish flash. I mumbled a few choice curse words, opened my eyes, and sat half up in bed, trying to focus on the funny yellow light. “Buzzzzzz!” and then something clicks hard against the baby’s dimly lit video monitor. WTF? I turn on my bedside lamp, my husband now curses at me, and I see a beetle buzzing around the screen of the monitor. Next I hear Joey starting to cry from inside his room. In retrospect, this may have been a strategic maneuver on his part after hearing his father and I stirring in our room.

As I open Joey’s door, I see him holding a seemingly empty bug sanctuary, and I observe insects buzzing about his room, several flying around his lamp. Joey, now in full blown tears, fearing a midnight beat down, is powerless to recapture his many bugs without his smaller container. His cries become more panicked as he sees my husband stumble into the room muttering a stream of curses under his breath. At this moment, only the fear of waking a sleeping one and three year old, save Joey from physical punishment. Then for the next hour my husband and I gingerly caught bugs, placing them back into the jar, and I wondered who I was more angry at, me or Joey.

Now I know, we did not capture all the bugs. Specifically, I’m concerned that we are missing at least two caterpillars, but at 2am it’s hard to give a shit about much of anything, least of all bugs. At that time I just wonder how long it will be until I start finding moths in the house.

So as we climbed back into bed, it being nearly 3am now, we saw a lightning bug flash his ass (almost mockingly I think) in the hallway, my husband turned to me and asked if I could please pass the “Off.” Secretly, we both know it’s funny, but I grouchily blame his genetics and roll over to get a solid three more hours of sleep.

Today was a day gone to the dogs…

Posted by Domestic Diva at 8:54 pm Uncategorized

Jul 152010

The last two days it rained and rained; I’m talking Noah’s Ark type rain. Aside from having an afro due to the high humidity levels, and having to wake the kids up early Tuesday morning because of a Tornado warning, I’m really not complaining about the weather. My water bill has been absurd this summer as I’ve struggled to keep my 26 new hedge roses and giant vegetable garden alive despite the unseasonably hot and dry weather. We gave up on the grass about three weeks ago, and after the recent monsoon rains, our yard, as well as the rest of the yards in our neighborhood, look like mud pits.

The dog looks like he’s been outside, weathering the storm, for the last two days; his true fur color, white, only showing through in patches. The rest of the dog is now literally caked in mud. He reminds me of the “Mud People” from Woodstock, and for a brief moment, before all hell breaks loose, he is perfectly still and just staring at me.

“What the fuuuu…” I begin to mutter as my eyes first fall on the almost unrecognizable creature standing on my deck. “Joey, nooooooo!” I exclaim, but it is too late. Joey is already opening the back door, Jake is squealing with excitement, and the muddy mangy mutt bolts into the house.

Mayhem ensues. I think for a moment I may be losing consciousness, but as the retriever mix jumps up on me, nearly knocking me into the wall, leaving two muddy streaking paw prints down the front of my shirt, I snap back to reality. The dog, clearly beside himself to be in the house, is literally racing around my downstairs leaving actual chunks of mud and grass on the floors, walls, sofas, and children. The boys are literally falling down with laughter and are making no attempts at catching the hell hound as he stops only for brief moments to rub up against and lick them. My daughter, who is thankfully behind a baby gate, looks on with sheer joy, and jumps up and down, eyes begging to be let free and included in the fun.

Sweating and breathless, home alone with the children and devil dog, I stop, hands on knees, to develop a strategy. I slip and slide on the linoleum, and make my way quickly to the back door, throwing it wide open. The dog, now on the leather sofa in the living room, waits for my next move.

I move slowly, “good boy, good boy…can you sit? Want a treat?” I calmly ask as I slowly move towards the crusty canine. Incorporating this into his “game” he slowly lowers his front paws and head while simultaneously raising his rear into the air. His body is perfectly still except for his mud stained tail that wags back and forth uncontrollably, water still dripping from it onto the leather sofa. I know what the flea bag is planning, and as I attempt to stand perfectly frozen, my eyelid begins to twitch with furry.

The messy mongrel sees the slight uncontrolled movement of my eyelid and pounces. I, too, make my move and leap in the direction of the dog. Then the collision of Mom and Muddy Mutt occurs. My eyes instinctively close tightly and my muscles tense as I am suddenly catching 60+ pounds of disgusting dog. My ears ring, my arms lock around the dog, my children scream with delight, as I fall, seemingly in slow motion, into my white dining room table cloth.

My ears are ringing. I hear no sound. Everything is going super slow. The boys are jumping up and down, the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen adorn their faces, and I and the dog are practically sitting on the dinning room table. My hearing returns in a snap and I can hear my daughter’s cries from the family room, desperate to be included. Both boys are hysterical with laughter, holding each other while jumping up and down. The dog may have lost the battle, but in his mongrel mind, hasn’t quite lost the war.

There’s nothing on this planet that could make me drop this damn dog. He’s wriggling back and forth, licking at my face, but I just tighten my grip. He then continues to grind God knows what all over my shirt and pants as I carry him with his back against me, under his two front legs, through my house. I think I begin speaking in tongues, new curse words that I never even heard before, begin escaping my lips as I practically throw the dog out the back door.

He makes a lap around the yard, new mud flying up around (and on) him. As I shut the back door and run down the steps of the deck, the crazed canine runs out of the open gate, the same way he came in. Have I mentioned yet that we do not own a dog?

Slower now, covered in mud, yet somehow still victorious, I make my way over to close the gate, just in time to catch a glimpse of the dog, who I have never seen before (and for his sake better never see again), run around the corner of the block.

It is times like these, with half my house and most of myself covered in mystery mud, that I consider for a fleeting moment just giving up. Instead, with my children still laughing and begging for a dog of their own, happier than they’ve been in days (since stuck inside due to the weather), I instead grab my bucket, brush, and Clorox wipes and get to work… laughing myself half silly while cleaning up the mess.

The things they think, and I wish they would not say…

Posted by Domestic Diva at 11:30 pm Uncategorized

Jul 122010

Many of you reached out to me after my last post, with a variety of comments and emails, after reading how Joey basically asked a stranger in the grocery store whether or not he was heavy due to over consumption of pizza. You all tried to wrap me with words of comfort, some assuring me I was not alone in the embarrassment that is afflicted upon us by our offspring, and others trying to be beacons of hope promising that things would get better. As a writer, I appreciate that you, the readers, connected to the post; as Joey’s mother, however, it doesn’t help a me a lick.

You have to understand a few things about how I want to raise my children. My husband and I have tried very hard to teach our children to not judge people on how they look. For example, when he and I discuss other people around our children, and I’m not (just) talking about gossip, we are very cautious not to make any sort of judgments based on the person’s appearance. We were both raised this way, and for a long time, and I mean really long time, I never knew anything about certain biases people carry like those based on a person’s race, ethnic background, religious beliefs, or sexual orientation. I was probably much older than most when these types of judgments were brought to my attention (and it was outside the home). I know that played a pivotal role in making me the person I am today, and in some small way, at least contributed to the notion I carry about “people” in general which is, if I am to dislike a person, they’ll give me plenty good reason to do so that usually has no connection to their skin color, country of origin, religious beliefs, or who they want to marry. You can be an asshole regardless. So good or bad, I am choosing to raise my children the same way that I was raised, and to let them develop opinions based on how people act and not solely on how they look. The biggest problem to date with this particular method of parenting, is that my children have NO idea what kinds of things may or may not offend people.

Case in point, we had a beautiful warm summer morning a month ago that actually allowed me to turn off the A/C and open the doors and windows. Although my neighborhood prohibits “solicitations” of any kind, we often have people knock on the door, just as we did this morning. Three men came to the door with information on their church that they wanted to share with me. Holding the baby, I opened the door to take a pamphlet from them, but then talked through the screen so the boys wouldn’t be on the loose in the front yard. As one young man went into his spiel, I politely nodded and tried to listen as Jake kept asking me questions; “Who are these people Mommy? What are you holding? Is that a ticket? Can I have the ticket?” Completely ignoring Jake, Joey starts chiming in, pushing his brother aside. “Mom, Mom, Mom…what are you holding? Can I see?” Still attempting to at least appear as though I was listening to the man talk, I handed Joey the pamphlet which had a picture of Jesus on the cross on the front. Jake and Joey begin talking, loudly, while the man is going on about the types of services and outreach his church does in the community. “What is THAT Joey?” Jake demands. “Oh,” replies Joey confidently, “That’s Jesus when he died. He REALLY died. He was killed by Romans and sea urchins (wtf?). They put a birds nest (crown of thorns) on his head, poked him and made him get killed on that cross.” Jake stares at Joey puzzled and disturbed, as Joey continues “Yeah, then God opened the gates of heaven, took off his birds nest and let him come in and live in the clouds.” The two silent men are now laughing, and the young man who has been doing the talking is continuing to do so while smiling widely. I try to use my old basketball skillz, and simultaneously continue to hold the baby, nod at the young man, and box out the boys from view. Jake, now behind me but still tremendously bothered by Joey’s explanation, exclaims “Well who are those guys?!” Joey just nonchalantly replies, “Oh, they’re just a couple of brown guys from church.”

Every fiber of my being want to just shut the door and go crawl under a bed (with or without a bottle of wine), but instead I quickly explained my “parenting methods,” on not defining anyone by physical characteristics and that Joey has an unfortunately limited number of adjectives in his four year old vocabulary. The oldest of the three men, sensing my complete humiliation, said that there was no reason to apologize and given my son’s tone, no insult was obviously intended. God bless the children, right? Ugh! As soon as the men left I had to sit the boys down and discuss why it was not polite to comment on someone’s skin color, their size, hair color, age, body parts, etc. The boys both smiled and nodded at me, but I knew then, as I know now, they still don’t get ‘it.’

That very week we ordered out for dinner, and like two retrievers, Joey and Jake waited at the window to greet the delivery man. “He’s here! He’s here!” Joey shouted directed at me, but actually out the window. “Dad! Dad! He’s here!” Joey continued to yell. My husband opens the door to pay for the food. The delivery man, not our “usual” high school kid, is still removing the bags from the car. Unbeknownst to me, he is a rather large man, clinically obese by medical standards, and is now struggling up the driveway. Joey is now beside himself with excitement at the fact that the pizza is just about here and says, “Mom! Mom! The pizza man is a big fat pizza man and he brought me my food!” I cannot be sure if the man, who with any hope suffered from hearing loss, actually heard him, but I’m certain given the decibels at which Joey was yelling and the proximity of the pizza man, he had to have heard my son. Although his tone, yet again, gave no indication of malice, I was still mortified. We sat joey down and told him that he probably hurt the pizza man’s feelings. We said that the pizza man might cry because of what Joey said. Joey himself then began to cry. He truly didn’t understand why we were so upset. He was just trying to tell me about the guy bringing the pizza (who he deems an automatic “friend”). We then tried to explain what kinds of things you can say to someone instead such as “that’s a nice shirt you have on.” Or perhaps let’s stay away from appearance altogether and say “thank you for bringing me pizza; it’s my favorite!” Joey then suggested his own comment, “I could tell him he’s handsome.” Uh, no. That’s not politically incorrect, that’s just awkward. Joey ate his pizza as I made a mental note to order from another restaurant next time.

A day for the record books…

Posted by Domestic Diva at 9:33 pm Uncategorized

Jul 072010

Yesterday was one of those days where you knew you should have just stayed in bed…of course my job as a Domestic Engineer comes with exactly 0 vacation days and 0 sick days, so I suppose getting up was really my only option. My morning started around 5:38am when the summer sun began bursting through my blinds. I tossed and turned, in and out of sleep, waking to check the clock. Today was Joey’s 5th Birthday, but I had to get up and take Cecilia for her 12 month appointment at the doctor’s. Having just bought my new cell phone, and not yet having had to use the alarm feature, I was afraid it wouldn’t go off and we’d be late. Tossing and turning, turning and tossing and then a familiar sound. A truck. A trash truck. Shit! Today was Tuesday, our normal trash day, but it was also the day after a holiday which usually meant our pick up was delayed a day. Although my can was not full, it also did not get put out the week before because we were away on vacation. The week prior to that we had maggots *gag* in the can from a ripped trash bag and some flies which must have gotten in when the lid blew off. I had to clean that can myself; armed with a large quantity of bleach and the garden hose I did my domestic duty and scoured the can as I held back tears (and my lunch). So with the recent trauma of the maggots, the half full week old + trash, and the 100 degree weather we’ve had this week, I literally sprang out of bed. Running down the stairs, I called to my still sleeping husband to yell to the trash men I was coming right out as I heard the truck coming down the street. Panicked, I quickly hit the alarm code and threw open the back door, only to hear the truck passing my house! I skipped about four steps off the deck and grabbed the trash can. I swung the gate in the wrong direction and began to shout “Wait! Stop!” as the trucked pulled around the corner. I pulled the can through my side yard and across my neighbors driveway. “Wait! Please, stop!” I shouted as I ran barefoot and bra-less down the street. Finally, one of the men heard my cries of desperation and motioned for the truck to back up. I thanked him profusely as I became suddenly aware about my appearance. Dressed in an old MBNA tee shirt, fancy striped capri pj pants, no bra, hair sticking straight up, and breath probably worse than the trash, the sanitation worker very kindly dumped my trash can and told me to have a nice day. I was just thankful that I was wearing pants. Flustered and frazzled as usual, I then took the empty can back around the house and could already hear my husband laughing from the bedroom. He apparently was too asleep to tell the truck to stop, but awake enough to watch me run down the street dragging our can behind me. It was probably right then that I should have called it quits for the day, but instead I got dressed and prepared to leave for the pediatrician’s office.

I always feel bad taking my kids to well visits, especially when they are in a good moods, knowing they’ll be screaming and crying later. Due to my germaphobia, I tend to make my well appointments for the morning before all the sick kids get in the office. I learned early on with my oldest child that even a well visit can result in a repeat visit later in the week with a now sick child. So armed with my own bag of toys, I played with Cecilia as she sat in her stroller. Another family of three was also in the office, their mother busy on her cell phone. Her three kids crawled over seats, tables and all over the floor all while screaming and yelling at each other. I tried to ignore the mayhem as she did, which is probably why I didn’t notice the two year old come over and immediately grab Cecilia’s pacifier out of her mouth. “What the hell! Watch your kid, lady!” I proclaimed inside my head. I took the pacifier from the toddler and told her gently, “No, no touch please.” The nurse then popped her head around the corner, calling us back and saved me from smacking children that are not mine us from any further waiting room nonsense. The rest of the visit was pretty routine; Cecilia grew an inch, gained two pounds, and screamed at any doctors and nurses within ten feet of her. The doctor, in an effort to calm her, set his tools on the table for her to play with. She immediately picked up the tongue depressor and thrust it up his nostril.

After a tiring morning, I put the baby down for a nap and took the two boys, who had been stuck in the house due to 100+ degree temperatures the last few days, out to the grocery store to get Joey’s specialty birthday cake. The girl at the bakery asked Joey how old he was and he replied, “I’m eighteen. I’m an adult.” Jake immediately says, “Yeah and now Mommy says he’s a S-O-B.” I quickly explained that Joey is constantly trying to get permission to do things by reasoning that he is old enough and an ‘adult.’ I further explained that my response to him is that if he is in fact an adult, he needs to go out and get a J-O-B, and that I do not call him an s-o-b (which would be more insulting to me anyway). The girl continued to laugh at (me) Jacob as we walked down the next aisle. Realizing the boys were in a “performing” mood, especially after the girl at the bakery laughed and laughed, we quickly picked up a few other items before heading to the checkout lanes. My heart sank as I saw only one lane other than the express line open, and instead of standing behind three full carts, I made the choice to do the self checkout. All that stood between us and the privacy of our own home, free from the judgments of the outside world, was a very large older gentleman with just a few items. He smiled kindly and the boys took that as a cue to started telling him about today being Joey’s birthday. As I began to scan our items, the man, who had to be 6ft 4inches tall and 275+lbs, still listened as the kids rambled on. A sense of strange foreshadowing fell over me, and I rapidly scanned the items now, practically throwing them into the cart. Then the moment I knew (call it mother’s instinct) was coming, was upon us. Sweat rolled down my face as I punched in the debit card pin number and forcefully pushed “enter,” as the man asked Joey, “so is your Mommy making you your favorite dinner tonight? Or are you getting something really, really good like pizza?” My eyes locked with Joey’s, silently pleading for him to answer politely, he then turned to the man and plainly replied, “Mommy said we could have a BBQ tonight. She says we order pizza too much, and too much pizza and junk will make me fat. Did you eat too much pizza??” My mouth fell open, and for a moment that felt like a lifetime, no words came out. Grabbing both of the boys and the cart, I, in my usual fashion, quickly apologized and made a mad dash for the door.

The day’s close couldn’t have come soon enough. After a healthy birthday dinner of hot dogs and corn on the cob, Joey enjoyed his “Batman” cake, and was excited about opening gifts. I was happy that he was happy with all that he got, even though it did not include the TV, Robot, or paddle boat he had been asking for…

After the kids went to bed, my husband and I finished working on this new website, which I hope you all enjoy! We’re still a work in progress, but the new site should allow for a lot more functionality (and fun). A special thanks to my husband for all his help (and support so far), and for all the old and new readers who have been helping me along the way! I’m glad you all have enjoyed the posts. After days like yesterday, I find it to be more like free therapy than anything else.

Your Granny Ain’t Got Nothing on these Panties…

Posted by Domestic Diva at 8:01 pm Uncategorized

Jul 062010

I remember the days when all my underwear were cute, small, and composed mostly of strings. Even my workout underwear had “style” and were generally cute little bikini briefs. Those were the old days; and even though those underwear still reside in the top drawer of my dresser, they’ve had to make room in recent years for some larger, and even expandable, panties. Yes, I do mean “Granny” panties, but more specifically my big mama-jama maternity underwear. Incredibly comfortable yet totally lacking in style, these gigantic maternity panties have so much fabric that I’m sure they could function as a parachute if I ever needed to jump off a tall structure. Guaranteed never to ride up your rear these preggo panties grow with you through pregnancy and have a waistline just below your bra strap. I have quite a collection of these magical balloon-like panties since I had three babies in four years. In fact, these mega-undies are all that remain of my maternity clothing. In an effort to speed up my weight loss after having my third and final child, I gave away all my other maternity wear. For obvious reasons these underwear were not included in this wardrobe purge. Long story short, I have more than a few pairs of these over-sized and under-stylish panties.

Have you ever had a day where you just didn’t feel like trading comfort for fashion? Well recently I had one of those days…sort of anyway. I already new the exact pair of white capri pants and black shirt I wanted to wear, and as I reached into my drawer for some underwear, I pulled out two pairs of panties- both white but one pair was three times the size of the other. In an instant I thought of two things: 1) The smaller of the two pairs would surely ride up my ass all day while I was shopping and 2) If I was to wear these maternity panties no one would be the wiser. So without a moment’s more thought, I got dressed and headed out for a few items on a quick shopping trip.

Still feeling defeated from my recent attempts at finding a bathing suit, I was determined to find all that was on my list today. I moved with deliberate determination quickly through the stores, and found myself checking off one item after another from my list. Since I was making such good time (and since my birthday is next month), I ducked into a shoe store with my multiple bags to see what was on sale. I tried on a couple pars of sandals for myself, but as usual ended up grabbing some foot wear for the kids instead…but wait, just as I was heading to the counter to checkout, my eyes fixed upon a pair of Steve Madden pumps on the bottom shelf with a “Sale” sticker on them. Do I really need another pair of pumps? I don’t even leave the house…and as much as I enjoy “retro” and “vintage” style clothing, I can never imagine cooking or cleaning in pumps as my Grandmothers had done back in the 1950′s…these and a dozen other thoughts raced through my mind as I held the three boxes of children’s shoes, the half dozen bags from my day’s shopping so far, and my stylish yet awkwardly large purse as I bent over to examine just how on “sale” these shoes were. Barely staying balanced I remained close to the floor, almost squatting, reading the sticker’s original price, sale price and tallying the percentage I’d be saving by purchasing these fantastic shoes. I was so engulfed in my math that I almost did not hear the snickering behind me. There were three young men, no more than fourteen, who were not so subtly staring in my direction. Perhaps a more confident me would have thought them checking me out, but if my recent run in with the law (see my previous posting) had taught me anything, it was that people were probably laughing at me, not with me. I heard some snickering and inaudible conversation, but managed to grab one word. “Underwear.” My attention immediately shifted to myself, and I felt the source of their laughter. In my attempts to carry too many bags, boxes, and justify a unneeded pair of shoes all while squatting, my shirt had ridden up in the back exposing my giant underpants. Generally, with my shirt so far up my back I might have noticed the feeling of “air” on my bare skin, but because my giant underwear were reaching nearly to my bra strap, I felt nothing but fabric. Shit! I manged to pull my shirt down without dropping any bags or boxes, gave them a dirty look, and walked past them (without my the Steve Maddens) to the counter, nose in the air.

So much for fabulosity again today…here’s to hoping for a bit of grace tomorrow.

*These maternity underwear, available at Motherhood Maternity, come up pretty high on a pregnant belly, and up to your collar bone on a none pregnant person.

Hello, Officer! Tom Selleck and I were just out delivering pickles…

Posted by Domestic Diva at 7:44 pm Uncategorized

Jul 062010

This is my second summer with a vegetable garden, and since I’m not 727lbs of grumpy, tired pregnant this year, I decided to double the size of the garden. In an effort to be super-domestic, I expanded it to 8ft wide by 20ft long. I have several kinds of tomatoes, green and red peppers, summer squash, zucchini, broccoli, lettuce, spinach, green beans, onions, sweet peas, dill, rosemary, basil, lemon thyme and of course cucumbers. Whew. Thanks to a shitty (literally) soil mix, warm weather, and my mad gardening skillz, I have already had a bountiful harvest. I posted a few pictures on the Facebook page (click “like” in the Facebook Box above this post to follow me there too) as well as on my personal Facebook page. One of my cousins, after seeing the pictures, suggested I make the Homemade Pickles my Italian Grandfather used to make. So my Mom shared the recipe, and I’ve made around 8 jars of pickles so far. Hopefully they will be half as tasty as what my Pop-Pop used to make each summer (no reviews available yet).

So today I ventured out into the 98 degree heat, and I drove a cooler full of jarred pickles 35 miles north to my Aunt’s house and then to my Mom’s house to be distributed amongst my relatives. Each time I left my car or an air conditioned house, it felt like I was sticking my head an oven. Concerned with possibly becoming dehydrated or stricken with heat stroke (not really), I went to Wendy’s and ordered a Frosty for the way home. Tick, tock, tick, tock…my kids nap would soon be over and I was still 40 minutes from my house. My husband was working from home and I needed to be back before the kids woke up; so as I pulled away from the drive thru window and realized I had no straw (of course) I knew I would have to improvise as I sped home. I am not an advocate for doing other things while driving, including eating, so I eagerly ate my straw-less Frosty at red lights or when grossly slowed in traffic. Once I hit the freeway things cleared up a bit, and I set my cruise control on a speed which would get me home before Sunday. Unfortunately, this speed may have been slightly higher than the posted signs, and I soon found myself pulling onto the shoulder of the road with a State Trooper behind me.

The Trooper approached my car and I rolled my window down, hoping my clean driving record would be enough of an incentive not to get a ticket. He asked if I knew why I was being pulled over, and I replied that I was out delivering pickles to my hungry Italian relatives and I needed to get home prior to my angels awaking from their peaceful slumbers. He smiled at my remarks, and I suddenly had hope that perhaps my good looks, quick wit, and charm could help me wiggle out of a ticket. I smiled back as I handed him my license and registration. He then lifted his glasses, as if to get a better look at me, and kept smiling as he walked back to his police cruiser. I immediately thought “Damn! You go girl, you still got ‘it.’ Married with three kids isn’t keeping you from lookin’ goood!” At this point I would have given myself a high five if I could have, but I opted instead for a confident wink at myself in the mirror. Then my heart stopped. I mean I literally felt it stop beating and fall into the pit of my stomach. He wasn’t “checking me out,” I had a damn Frosty mustache. WTF!! As if my upper lip hair (aka Tom Selleck) wasn’t troubling enough, now I’m getting food stuck in it. I felt my face flush, and I literally wanted to cry. Moments later, as I pondered opening my car door and wandering into traffic, the Trooper returned to my window. He smiled again as he handed me my license and registration, and I wiped my face off with a napkin. “Slow down, Miss, and have a safe drive home.”

As I pulled away, my confidence shattered, I pondered whether or not one could actually die of embarrassment. If so, it hasn’t happened yet, but given my life, it is most certainly my destiny.

Sponge Mommy Circle Pants

Posted by Domestic Diva at 7:41 pm Uncategorized

Jul 062010

I admit it. I need to start exercising. It’s been nearly a year since I had my third child, and although I’ve lost 40lbs, I still have 7lbs keeping me from wearing half of what’s in my closet. Having only 7lbs left to lose might not seem like much to some people, but it’s a whole dress size for me. I’d actually love to lose more (because I’m not thin by any means), but 7lbs more and I’m in a “healthy” BMI (Body Mass Index) for my height. All the weight I have lost thus far I can attribute to the nursing I did early on, and then some dieting until now. My current exercise regimen consists of running up and down the stairs dozens of times a day. If I want to add some resistance, I add a small child or laundry basket. I also consider mopping and vacuuming a sport, especially as fast as I try to complete those tasks.

Yesterday during nap time for my younger two children, I decided to walk the walk and start working out again. My older son was even more upset about this than I was, presumably because I had to turn off Sponge Bob. After searching in the far reaches of the DVD cabinet, I found an old and dusty Pilate’s DVD. As I sweat profusely though the routine, I was battered with inane questions from Joey. “Mom, do you think Sponge Bob is funny? I think he’s funny and that Patrick is crrrrazy! Do you think so, Mom? Mom??” Between breathes I muttered back, “Sure..Joey…he’s, hilarious.” Again with the questions, “Mom how much longer? I hate your shows. Mom, what are you even doing??” Nearly out of breath I replied, “Joey, you can take a break from the TV…Mommy is trying to get into shape.” After thinking about it a moment he answered, “Getting into shape? Sponge Bob is a Square…your shape is a circle. Are you going to be a bigger circle??” My thought at this point was that I would say I’m more of an ‘hour glass’ shape, but as tired, sweaty, and defeated as I felt, I just collapsed back onto the floor and turned on Nickelodeon.

A DSDD Ongoing Feature, “Why the F#@k Would They Do That?!”

Posted by Domestic Diva at 7:40 pm Uncategorized

Jul 062010

The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva brings you an ongoing feature posting which will appear as often as my kids do something so ridiculous that it makes me say, “Why the F$@k would they do that?!” Considering my previous career experience in Training and Facilitation as well as Technical Writing, I am thinking of soliciting local high schools to incorporate these feature posts as part of a workshop for teens on abstinence. My other thought is to use my work experience in conjunction with my studies in Psychology during college, and develop a support group for stressed out parents. Once they hear about some of the stunts my young gremlins children have pulled, they will surely feel better about their own offspring. So without further adieu, a DSDD Feature posting, “Why the F$@k would they do that?!” from The Joey Chronicles:
Friday came to a close and my husband and I went through our normal nightmare nighttime routine of dinner,clean up, baths, stories, and finally bedtime. The baby and Jake both get put to bed and with any luck, we don’t see or hear from them until morning. Joey, four years old, frequently goes in and out of the bathroom, roams the halls, and usually comes downstairs a few times before we threaten punishment and he finally ‘retires’ for the night to his bed. Last night I heard him go into the bathroom, and I thought I heard him potentially dispensing a large amount of toilet paper off the roll. I called to him and he said he was “just going to the bathroom.” After being this gremlin’s child’s mother for nearly five years, I’ve learned he is most likely lying through his teeth if he’s doing something bad and I’m not able to get a visual lock on his location. After another moment passed, I called out and asked him what he was doing (#1 or #2). No answer. As I began my ascent into madness up the stairs, I knew whatever I was about to see was going to be bad. I tried to prepare myself as I rounded the hallway into the bathroom. At first, it appeared to be a false alarm, and I breathed about a half a sigh of relief before seeing what my little darling had been doing. In the trashcan was a entire roll of toilet paper which he had removed from the holder. The roll was completely soaked and the white paper was now colored yellow. WTF? Even grosser still was the imprints from his hands left on the pee soaked roll when he removed it from the toilet and placed it in the trash. Yes, that’s right. For reasons unknown Joey had removed the roll of toilet paper from the wall, placed it in the toilet and peed on it. Upon either realizing it wasn’t going to flush, or that I was on to him, he put his hands into the pee ridden toilet and picked it up and transferred it into the trashcan. So instead of sitting down and relaxing at the end of yet another long week, my husband re-bathed him as I scrubbed the bathroom with Clorox. When we asked Joey why he would do that he just said “It was a mistake. I won’t do it again.” You bet your ass you won’t, son. So this begs the question, yet again “Why the F$@k would they do that?!”

Dante’s Third Circle of Hell Looks a lot like a Swimsuit Shop…

Posted by Domestic Diva at 7:36 pm Uncategorized

Jul 062010

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.” I repeatedly whispered these words to myself as I walked through the blazing noon-day sun across the parking lot. “Are you really doing this to yourself, Susan? Think about it,” another part of my brain cautioned. “This is a mistake,” the voice inside my head resounded. Ignoring it, I firmly and consciously placed one foot in front of the other. After what felt like an eternity, I finally reached my destination. Only half willingly, I reached out for the door handle, but it swung open abruptly, nearly hitting me. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there!” a skinny, bronze woman who may or may not have been wearing a Bump It exclaimed. “I can do this,” I awkwardly and rather loudly said to her. I meant to say that in my head and not out loud. “I mean, no problem,” I quickly replied as I slipped around her into the store as she stared bewildered after me.

I found myself standing inside California Sunshine, a bathing suit shop. Scanning the store, I realized if I were to go to hell, this shop would surely be there. If this were my own version of Dante’s Inferno, I’d be in the third circle of hell. Just as in Dante’s third circle, mine too would be reserved for gluttons. Only I would not be forced to eat slime and muck while guarded by three headed dogs, but forced rather to try on bathing suits while being handed smaller and smaller items from a skinny sales person for all eternity.

I’m not sure exactly what happened next, or how much time actually elapsed. I wandered, almost aimlessly, around the store, gathering bathing suit after bathing suit. Tankini’s and one piece suits, some patterned, some solid colors, grabbing most in two sizes not knowing what would fit and what would not. After that I cannot really say what transpired. Have you ever heard of Dissociative Amnesia? It is a lapse in memory that results from stress or trauma, not resulting from say a blow to the head like other forms of amnesia. Well, that’s what happened to me…Dissociative Amnesia. I have been having brief flashes of memories in that dressing room, my skin looking green under the horrible lighting, the sales person repeatedly asking me if I needed another bathing suit or different size. Then there’s the true trauma of the images of me in those dozens of bathing suits looking back at me from the mirror. I even recall reaching out and touching the mirror because the image looked to foreign. I have no idea how long I was in that dressing room…Minutes? Hours? Days? All I know is that I left the store empty-handed, nearly in tears, sweating, and feeling sort of hungover.

I know many people will say that I should “love my body” no matter what, but I say give me some damn time to adjust. I had three children in just under four years. I gained a combined 147lbs from my three pregnancies, and I have lost a total of 140lbs to date. I’m seven pound from my goal weight, but no matter how much weight I lose, my stretched and abused body will never ever, ever look like it did six years ago. So do I think all women should love themselves? Sure I do. Girl power! High five! Sounds good on paper, but I’d also like to take a minute please to get used to the deflated, weird reflection in the mirror. Until that time I do not plan on spending hundreds of dollars on new bathing suits that I don’t like or that will only end up beneath a cover-up anyway.

I’m not giving up, and although I’m not excited about this venture of finding some new bathing suits after having my third child 11 months ago, I’m also not with out hope. I’ve found a few bathing suits online that I’ll be reviewing, and if I can somehow trick my husband, I may even try one of the “Miracle” suits from Victoria’s Secret (even though they can cost as much as $160.00). Additionally, I plan on having a few glasses of wine and bringing a few friends shopping with me the next time I go out to dull the pain and for moral support. Wish me luck; I’ll keep you posted.

Older Entries

My pants are white, but my face is red…

Please Pass the “Off”

Today was a day gone to the dogs…

The things they think, and I wish they would not say…

A day for the record books…

Your Granny Ain’t Got Nothing on these Panties…

Hello, Officer! Tom Selleck and I were just out delivering pickles…

Sponge Mommy Circle Pants

A DSDD Ongoing Feature, “Why the F#@k Would They Do That?!”

Dante’s Third Circle of Hell Looks a lot like a Swimsuit Shop…

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