Who Cares About Death?

21 Dec


Even for a fairly verbal person like myself, its hard for me to write down what I want to say today. Life, death, the cycle of life itself, it’s overwhelming and mystifying if you really stop to think about it, I mean, who knows for sure what happens after we die? Does our soul, our energy remain? If so does it eventually dissipate into the universe blending with all the other energy particles, gasses and matter? Is there some magical place called heaven we reside in and live the good life with out pain and suffering and no more lessons to learn? Is there nothing? I don’t know the answer to that, and quite frankly regardless of what any religion tell us, neither do you. Not for certain anyway. Belief and facts are not the same. The truth is, it’s not even important what lies after, because regardless of what happens after our hearts take its final beat, we can’t change it or stop it, or fight it. Death is certain to everyone, and what happens from there no one knows for sure. Religions obsess over it, people live their entire lives in fear of it, people fight and debate over it, but really what’s the point of all that when the outcome will be the same either way and nothing is going to change that? What matters is LIFE and how we spend our time here….the people we love, the kindness we grant others, the lessons we learn, and the wisdom we pass down. That we can change. That matters. That’s the whole point. My mother left this life 4 years ago today. I held her hand and watched the last bit of life flee her once bright eyes as she quietly made her exit. Where she is doesn’t matter. Death is not more important than life. Her time spent with the living mattered, and all that she taught me and gave me and showed me. I hope she is watching over me, and I want to believe I still feel her energy present now and again but truth is, that may be wishful thinking. Ive tried not to dwell or miss her in the last four years because to focus on the void her soul left rather than the life she lived, is in my opinion a sad sin. Her leaving made me realize the life I was living was being wasted on things not worthy and pursuits unimportant. Every second counts. Everything that we do counts. What we share counts. What we learn counts. The love we generate counts. That much is certain. Those things are real, and will carry forth long after we die. The afterlife is uncertain but the impact we have in this life is clear. So in memory of my mother carol, I’d like to encourage anyone still reading this, to go on and live that life of yours. Live with out fear, share what you know, open your heart to a little kindness and learn what you can and teach it to the next soul. That, I am certain, is real and has meaning.

RIP Carol, wherever you are. Thank you for all you’ve given me to give to my daughters and son as well.

Thank you for reading and please share with anyone who needs to remember to be Alive and present.

copyrite livelaughoveliquor 2015

photo is of my daughter Delilah, photo credit Sheila castellano if Red Barn Photography in hills borough NJ


Screw Resolutions – 2015: How are you going to spend your time?

31 Dec

Screw Resolutions – 2015: How are you going to spend your time?.

Screw Resolutions – 2015: How are you going to spend your time?

31 Dec

Screw Resolutions – 2015: How are you going to spend your time?.

Screw Resolutions – 2015: How are you going to spend your time?

30 Dec


I know I haven’t written lately. I couldn’t. And I cant get into that now, but someday I will, I promise.

But for now, my thoughts are directed to New Years, a passing of time, an indelible marker in our lives, a clear segment that delineates one point in our lives from the next.We don’t realize it when we are younger, but its all about time. Recently, a very wise, insightful and imperfect friend and I had a conversation that is haunting me. He spoke of time, and what it means to spend it on someone. Bear with me on this.

When we are younger, time seems infinite. 20 seems like a loooooong way away, 40 seems even further, and 60 is unimaginable. Most of us don’t even give the concept of time any consideration, and if we do, we think we have lots of time left in our lives, plenty of it. We spend our time playing learning, growing, and having fun as a child, carefree and never thinking about it as a commodity or something to be given away or traded. Most of the time, we are killing time in our teens, waiting for bigger things to happen “Cant wait to get my first car” or “Cant wait till I turn 21, go to college, get married, etc.” Time is spent wishing for bigger things.

Moving on to our 20’s, we will spend our time with anyone fun, vibrant, good looking, entertaining, or interesting with out a thought. Like a millionaire throwing around dollar bills at a nudie bar, we have plenty of time to spend on trivial shit, and its fun to do so. It doesn’t really matter how we spend it, as long as we are enjoying ourselves. In our 30’s we spend our time building our “empire”. Chasing the ultimate house, squirreling away our nest egg, our stock portfolio, our designer handbag collection, obtaining big boy toys, etc. Our time is focused on the build  and the acquisition. Maybe its spent planning your dream wedding, building your perfect McMansion, picking out that granite for the big remodel, raising your beautiful family,  shopping for matching outfits for that family Christmas card photo shoot,  and searching out the latest and greatest video games/toy for your kids to have the picturesque childhood you always wanted. Make that money, watch it burn, as the song says. Spend your time generously.

By the time we hit 40, we realize time is short. We get stingier with it. Friends pass away suddenly, with out warning, healthy one day, gone the next. They have no more time.  Marriages fall apart. Jobs come and go, the company down sizes, and you’re in foreclosure. Life starts smacking you in the face. Your husband leaves, or your dealing with addiction, or your kid gets knocked up, and the other one is arrested for something humiliating, your dad tells you he’s gay, whatever the crisis, there is always a crisis.  It makes you realize, all that time you dumped into building these things was great while it lasted, but nothing is safe from life’s cruel jokes and ironies. The rug gets pulled out. Even if your “aha” moment is from watching someone else’s train wreck, and your lucky enough to never experience the heartbreak and agony of your own, you start to realize that your time is finite, and your most sacred commodity. Unlike money, or a home, or your stock portfolio, or  anything material for that matter, you can not get more. Once its spent, its gone forever. The gift of our time can save someones life, or change it, or make them feel loved or unloved, or worthy or unworthy. Time is our dearest possession, and we just don’t know when we are going to cease to have it.  Time with my deceased mother I will never again get to spend. Time spent as a mother is finite too, as children get older and need you less and less. Time spent nurturing a friendship, or fixing a broken relationship, or nursing an elderly parent or making a craft with your kids kindergarten class is a GIFT from you to the people you chose to love and spend your time and energy on, because you can’t make any more of it, and you can’t get it back, and it may be of short supply, you just don’t know when you’re gonna run out of it.

So this coming New Year, choose your time wisely. Make sure the person, energy spent or behavior is worth it.  Choose your actions seriously. Don’t waste time on people who don’t understand that you’re giving them something you’ll never get back. Don’t give away your life by engaging in meaningless situations which cause you damage and drain your most precious commodity. Don’t entertain friendships that rob you of your time and leave you empty. Debit your time to people and actions that honor it and understand its a valuable, endangered  resource. Make your time count, and make sure who you choose to spend it on loves and appreciates you for it, because time is a limited gift and you never know when its time for your heart to take its final beat, and just like that, your time is up.

So how are you going to spend your time in 2015?


This post is dedicated to two people. My friend Coleen Rice Medinger who passed away unexpectedly last week, and whom I will never have time again with. Coleen I enjoyed the gift of your time, and what you shared with me during our mutual struggles with infertility.

And to my imperfect friend, a very flawed man who knows who he is. I appreciate your time, thank you for trusting me to spend it together.


Copyrite 2014 livelaughloveliquor.

Thank you for spending your time reading my words, allowing me to connect with you, and please share if it touches you.


What is the Meaning of Life?

29 Mar


I’m not sure if it was my mother’s death that prompted it, or perhaps being on the wrong side of 45, but I make no secret about that fact that I am experiencing a severe mid-life crisis.  It’s not just the fact that I am wearing powder blue eye shadow like its 1975, or that I bought a snappy little convertible Audi (red, of course) or that I have re-discovered the push up bra.  While those things are obvious (and pathetically cliché) in all seriousness,I have also found myself searching to live a more  thoughtful life.  As the mother of young children who is often tossed back and forth in a sea of banal household routines (lunches, laundry, drop off, pick up), sheer utter chaos (9pm Sunday night someone announces they need 17 egg-shaped, nut free, homemade sandwich cookies to contribute to snack tomorrow) and extreme forms of torture (ever step on a lego during a midnight bath room trip??), it is easy to reel in the years on auto pilot, doing but not seeing, acting but not feeling, living but not aware.  I’ve been making a true effort to absorb more of every thing around me, live vividly (thus the blue eyeshadow, perhaps?????) and really be thoughtful of what is happening instead of just being in robot survival mode.  Not easy, but I’m trying.

This week for spring break, my friend Sheila Castellano and I took a last-minute road trip to New Hampshire for a mini vacation. Five kids in tow, we decided to hit an indoor water park. The kids were thrilled, and we were stoked to see they served booze so we could enjoy an adult cocktail while the darlings splashed about. The day was exhausting.  4 flights of stairs up and down for the water slides, (helloooo, I’m 47 years old!) running here, running there,  swimming, jumping, following the little darlings everywhere with scarcely a time to enjoy a cocktail or the grotto like hot tub provided for adults. I’m not going to talk about how one kid almost broke a nose, or how one dropped a deuce in her swimsuit, or the other that had to be rescued by a life guard, but  I do want to share  a moment of clarity I  had, in an unlikely place.

The girls favorite part of the water park was the wave pool. Graded like a beach, every 10 minutes or so a horn would blast warning its occupants that the pool would simulate the breakers of the ocean. Pulling you in, spitting you out, back and forth, being tossed around, the girls would squeal with delight the minute the horn sounded, and run for the “shoreline”. I had just sat down after 8 or 9 consecutive trips up the stairs with an inner tube on my balanced on my head, my thighs were throbbing like jello.  I was about to order a glass of wine, when they scampered up to me, each grabbing a hand, begging me and dragging me towards the man-made shore.  I begrudgingly hauled myself up on my still shaky hamstrings, and hobbled in. The waves started and they each held on to my hand, jumping and howling with glee. As the intensity of the waves grew, we got drawn in deeper, and they clambered closer  to me, eventually climbing me like a water-logged tree trunk. One little strawberry blonde, slippery, meatball in each arm, they held on to me for dear life as we were tossed about  in water up to our shoulders.  My legs ached with the burn of 1000 stairmasters, while one of them grabbed my ponytail like the reigns of a horse, and the other dug her toes into my hipbone, as if it were a rung on the ladder of her own fleshy tree-house.  I was standing there praying for it to be over, when I remembered my promise to be more mindful. Instead of waiting out the torture, I stopped, took a deep breath and FELT what was happening. In my right arm, the little one moved in and grabbed my cheek, planting a wet kiss on me while laughing and squirming with delight.  At my left, the big one was yelling “More! More!” and was beaming the most genuine, delightful grin. They giggled and chuckled in my ear, and it was a moment of pure joy and childhood elation.  As I watched the girls in their delighted state of euphoria, a warmth spread inside of me. Like a  slow-moving wave, I felt my affection for them grow inside of me, and just for a moment life shifted into slow motion, and time stood still.  I saw them in all their innocent splendor, the joy they felt just “being”, and my love for them exploded. Something clicked and for the first time in my life I was AWARE of what unconditional love felt like. Just pure 100 percent love. Not love because you expect love back. Not love fuel by sex. Or money, or power, need, or reciprocation. Not a desire to fill a void left by my own childhood, or to make up for what I never had.  Just unfiltered love.  Not loved tinged by fear: fear of the unknown, fear of uncertainty, or mistrust, or of being alone or what is going to happen when it ends.  Genuine, unadulterated, 100 percent pure love. Don’t get me wrong, I have always loved them, but that love was over shadowed by other emotions too – at their birth there was also wonder, fear of the unknown, worry about health etc.   Even though it runs in the background,   love get swallowed up by daily activities, and  is overshadowed by responsibility.  But at that  moment  love came shining thru in the foreground, and everything else stopped.  The ache in my hip. the pull of my hair, my weariness took a back seat. Warmth, and gratitude came rushing at me as the clock stopped ticking, stars smiled at me, and something spiritual tapped in. At that moment I was grateful for every choice I had made that led me to these children. And in the middle of the White Mountain Valley of New Hampshire, in a 2nd rate water park  at 47 years old, I felt blessed and God spoke to me and said, “This my dear, is the meaning of your life”.


Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to give up my Sephora addiction any time soon, but I can promise you this: I’m going to take more deep breaths, live a vivid life and just FEEL things more often. I hope you do too.

Thanks for reading and thank you to all that repost this on facebook or share the link with friends. xoxoxox

Copyright 2013 livelaughloveliquor

Today: Not the Kind of Anniversary You Celebrate

20 Dec

A year ago today I watched a heart so dear to me take its final beat.  There was nothing I could do for her, I was powerless to stop the disease that took over her frail and suffering little frame. I feel fortunate that I was there to see her through her passing, holding her hand and softly encouraging her to let go, just as she was there for me so many times through out my childhood, in illness or fear. I wasn’t her favorite child, I knew that. We fought many a fight, failed each other many times over, and we certainly had our differences but I loved her none the less.  And I miss her. I feel like the last year was spent down a rabbit hole of uncharted territory, a shift in the path of my life  that only another motherless adult could understand. A series of feeling  (and trying to fill) empty little holes her departure left me with,plagued with questions I’ll never get to the chance to ask and haunted by inside jokes that will no longer be understood. We had a history, unique to us, good and bad, and its mine alone now as she is not there to  share it with me any longer. I  grew up Catholic, but I’m really not even sure what I believe any longer – whether she is some ball of energy, a light at one distant end of the universe shining brightly like a star…..or perhaps sitting with a divine  being in a better place enjoying the rewards of a life lived by virtue……or perhaps she is here with me now, on some unseen plane in some  unknown dimension parallel to us, watching me as I type, looking out for me as some sort of guardian angel and spiritual protector. Or maybe she is just gone……which is what it feels like. My life will never be the same with out her, my emotional “safety net”  is gone. I can never again ask her who was a lefty in my family, as my daughter is, or how to make those Ukrainian sauerkraut rolls she made, or to ask her to come over and watch my kids for me when I am sick or tell her I love her or even accuse her of never loving me back.  All those chances are gone and everything that has been said, has been spoken, like it not. I still haven’t written thank you notes from her funeral and I have 7 boxes of her belongings in my basement that I get the shakes from just looking at. Her passing has made me hold me own children so dear, and value the unique relationship I have with each of them. I am far more conscious of the course of our time together and how I want them to remember me, and embark upon their own journey as mothers.  I know whats important in the mother/daughter dynamics because I no longer have that chance to change it on the flip end with my own mother.

Her passing also taught me that life is short. She died at 66, my father at 67. I am working hard to make the most of it, and have cut out a lot of dead weight that dragged me down. I don’t tolerate bullshit. I’ve realized that people don’t have to be related to you to be your family, and have some dear friends who have been my life boat. I’ve been surprised by who has been there for me, and by some who have never even acknowledged her death with a simple “I’m sorry for your loss.”  Its been one of my biggest emotional growth years since childhood, and not because I was striving for that, but simply because I had no choice but to suck it all up and cope, although I will admit that this summer I came as close to a nervous breakdown as I’ll ever come.  I’ve learned so much about myself and what I want my life to be about.  I’ve stopped waiting “for the right time” and just go for it now. Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, and I know that now. I’m more honest with myself, and with others about how I feel, and I don’t care who it scares and who’s boat gets rocked by it. I’m truer to myself than I’ve ever been. It’s been hard for me to write, writing requires me to tap into a place that is deep and I just cant seem to get there with out thinking of all that I’ve lost when she died, and all that will never be again. Most of all, I just ache and miss having a mother.  As raw as that is, it’s the truth.

So Rest in Peace Carol, where ever you are. I cant listen to Pearl Jam with out thinking of you (and feeling a slight tug of humiliation thinking about you rocking out at concerts) nor can I walk into  church, eat a bag of “wise” potato chips, or smell gardenias with out recalling my childhood and the memories you gave me. I see bits and pieces of you in each of my children, and in myself as well. Sometimes when I listen to myself speak I hear your voice and when my ankles crack as I go down the stairs I see your form. So many little echos of you surround me, which I suppose makes it hurt all the more. Rest well, Mother and know that despite our tears and fights and short comings, I really did love you. And I know you loved me too.


T’was the GNO Before Thanksgiving…….

21 Nov

Girls Night Out! GNO!!! GNO!!!!!

T’ was the night before Thanksgiving
And all thru the house,
Jose Cuervo was waiting, that unfaithful louse,
Our make up was applied over wrinkle cream with care,
In hope that Captain Morgan soon would be there,

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With ne’er a clue of their mom’s plans ahead……
With momma is her high heels, she is taking no crap,
she s looking like a hottie and knows just where its at….

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I rose from the sofa….is my ass getting fatter?.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore my gel manicured pinkie nail and almost fell on my ass

The moon on the breast of my push up bra, ya know?
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, (insert perverted Bevis and Butthead laugh here)
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a Honda Odyssey, and the friends I hold dear,
With our designated driver so lively and quick,
We all talked a good game about getting some dick (not)

More fun than a tupperware party , the moms they became
And whistled, and shouted, and when the bouncer knew them by name;

“Hey, Justina! Hey, Betsy! Hey, Sheila and Nancy!
Hey Carolyn, Hey Dolly, and Charlene, dont you girls look fancy?”

To the top of the bar, grab a stool so you dont fall
tequilla + heels = disaster y’all


A Year of Blogging: By the Numbers.

19 Jan

As I approached my one year “Blogiversary”  I thought back to the beginning, and all the unknowns I had when starting my blog.

Will people read it?

Will I make myself look like an idiot/mental patient/unfit mother when I put myself out there?

Will I get paid?

How often do I do it?

Will I get writers block?

Will I suck?

So many doubts and fears, I put off blogging for years. I admit I get so caught up in WHAT I am writing I overlook small details like spelling, typos and grammar (In my defense, I am either writing with someone singing  Katy Perry songs directly into my eardrum, or I am writing at 10pm when my brain power is on E-M-P-T-Y.)  It wasn’t until after I got comfortable “putting myself out there” on Facebook, and having many people suggest I “write this stuff down” that I actually grew a pair and tossed my hat into the blogosphere. Once I started blogging, I had so many people say to me ‘I always wanted to do that’ followed by several questions. So in the spirit of arm-chair bloggers everywhere, I decided to answer the most common questions I get regarding blogging, for my one year blogiversary.


WordPress makes it super simple. A basic blog is free, and there are a ton of choices as far as your design, color scheme, etc goes. You can track your stats, where your hits come from, search engine terms, how many hits, comments etc you get and from where. I pay roughly 12 bucks a year for my own domain name, but you don’t even have to do that.


Two main reasons:

1. I am an older mom (45 soon to be 46) I wanted to document my daughter’s childhood should something happen to me.  My biggest fear in life is leaving them motherless.

2.  I love to write and needed to have a reason to feel like I am accomplishing something. I am a stay at home mom, so there is not much tangible I accomplish. Laundry? There is a new pile every day. Dinner? Once cooked, is eaten. Cleaning? Once the house is tidied up, it takes 60 seconds to trash it again. Blogging makes me feel like I have a tangible purpose.


According to WordPress I’ve had 813 comments as of today. Of 813 comments I had two that were negative, both on THIS post. One was from a girl named Shannon, whom I knew from an online infertility support group I had belonged to for 5 years. I had no idea she did not like me, but her comment was really funny. I’ll share it with you, just for sh_ts and giggles:

This is the worst blog entry I have ever read, the first words out of my mouth were “what the hell is wrong with this woman?!?” You and your terrible parenting is the reason that we have shows like Teen Mom and awful girls like Snookie ruling the airwaves.

Why in the world would you encourage your four year old daughter to “strut her stuff” and “put her moves on”? She is not the trouble here, you are.

Here’s a tip your daughter is not going to be the next big star. I am sure you dream at night of her growing up in the footsteps of Lindsey Lohan, partying and being famous. -She won’t, more than likely at this rate with your lack of parenting and strong values she will wind up on a pole, probably addicted to something and trying to make ends meet with all the kids she has to take care of at home. Sorry for the harsh dose of reality but you need to seriously rethink your parenting and turn this around before it is too late.”

I sent Shannon a nice reply to the email address she left me, offering to pay for the surgery to extract the bug out of her rear end, but the email bounced back. Shannon, if you are reading this, the offer still stands.

The other negative comment I got was a similar “I would never raise my daughter that way”.  I suspect from the IP address it was a fang toothed girl I knew in my hometown, but I may be wrong about that.  The other 811 comments I have gotten were great, and I really feel like I have made friends with many other bloggers and readers.


I do not, but I have had offers. I have had several people contact me asking to pay me (via paypal) if I would plug their product, or insert their link in my blog post. It’s a personal decision, but  I want my blog to be fun, a place you can commiserate with me,  laugh at my expense, or even just relive the days when your kids were young. I appreciate my readers and don’t want to inundate them with information on liposuction, online gambling, and the likes. Maybe one day I will write a book and make money but for now, I’m free and easy.


Nope. I post the link on Facebook. I’m so blessed and lucky to have the best readers in the world who repost and share with their friends. The most popular post was THIS ONE with a surprising 160 people sharing on Facebook. That really blew me away! On average, I get about 120 shares per post. I can not see WHO shared, just how many.


FP is WordPress’es high honor.Tthey share the link to your blog on their homepage, which is totally awesome and allows you to get upwards of 10,000 hits in one day. I have never made FP. I don’t think I am short or sweet enough for them. 🙂 I have, however made the list of “WordPress’es Fastest Growing Blogs”  TWICE in 2011. Once in February, and once in April.

and the big question……..


I have had close to 25,000 page views on my blog in one year. I post maybe 2 times a month. My most popular post was THIS ONE which has 3,234 views alone.  My busiest day was July 28, where I got 638 page views in one day.


About 160 via WordPress and another 297 follow me on Facebook.


People have found me through other blogger’s, by forwarding my links via email and Facebook, and of course….search engines. The number one search engine term that caused people to find me (266 times) was “Moms gone wild”. Googling my blog name came in second with 162 views, and “mom jeans” earned me 67 page views. Having a blog has made me realize how many freakish perverts there are googling odd things out in cyberspace.  “Little girls ruffled panties” earned four hits (sickos) and the bizarre “the cockadoodle doo liked pink bananas and chunky boogers” earned 2 views. W….T…..F?  The number one photo that was viewed (163 times) on my blog was THIS one. I’m not sure why, other than perhaps folks wanted to take a good hard gander of my poor Hubs, who faithfully puts up with me.


“Two Teens Two Tots……” because I relive it and laugh every time I read it. But I am curious, tell me readers, what was yours? 


I’ve made great friends and connections. I’ve been asked to participate in an ebook. And believe it or not, I have actually been “recognized’ by someone I did not know in Shoprite because of it. (Actually, I think she heard me screaming the girl’s names, and recognized them).

And now for the giveaway! I have this FAB “”Live Laugh Love Liquor” t-shirt up for grabs. It’s a ladies size large, so it is perfect for knocking around braless at walmart, sleeping in (ooo lala, sexy) or lining your birdcage with! How to win it?

1. LIKE me on FACEBOOK. and then…..

2. SHARE MY LINK ON FACEBOOK  See button below or copy the link to your favorite post and share it. Every friend of yours who also “LIKES” me will count as an extra entry. (make sure they write on my wall and tell me that you sent them)

Leave me a comment here letting me know you did so! I will pick the winner by feb. 1, 2011 via random.org

Lastly, I would like to thank you for reading. I know I say this every post, but I really really mean it. I appreciate every one of you (well, maybe not Shannon or snaggle tooth) and feel so grateful for the chance to connect,  share my stories, and hear yours every time you comment or Facebook me. I love you guys and THANK YOU for making me feel like something more than a snot encrusted glorified butt wiper!. xoxoxoxo

A Barbie Birthday Party (Photos)

15 Jan

I know, I know, I’ve been MIA.  I have lots to blog about but time runs short, so for now I thought I would share some pics of the girls latest birthday party.

The girls started out using their gift certificate from Aunt Diana to “The Sweet and Sassy Salon”  specializing in little girls and their curls. They got a glittery up-do, nails polished and make up.

Darla getting her nails done

Delilah getting her hair done

Then we came home and decorated. Our theme was vintage Barbie:

We used alot of pink, black and white. I desperately tried to hide the ugly billiard light over the table with pink paper plates.

The tables. This room is actually my hub’s basement “man cave” home theater. Sadly, it has seen more action used as a kid’s party room!

I used decorative packing tape found in a craft store and a hand made label to make pretty hand sanitizer.

Duct Tape (also found in a craft store) around water bottles. (peel off label first)

The favors were “cupcakes in a jar”.  Cut a cup cake in 1/2. Put bottom in jar, pipe icing over, put top in jar, pipe icing. Tie with pink and white bakers twine and a wooden spoon. Simple, cheap and pretty.

A closer shot of the cup cakes. The black and white french scroll table runner is actually wrapping paper.

Instead of a birthday cake, I made cupcakes. Less mess and no utensils required, thus assuring no one stabs each other with a fork or something.  I bought the Barbie head cut outs HERE and then glued them to punched out card stock (punches avail. in craft store) I inverted champagne glasses to make a fancy stand.

Barbie head cut outs placed on dollar store plates. Looks like a million bucks, but was cheap!

Balloons found at local party store.

I used a cupcake paper to top a balloon and hang from ceiling.

The sign, using stick on letters, decorative packing tape  and cut outs.

Our guest finally came! Let the good times roll!

And so did the FUNBUS!

On the bus with their BFFs.

Sister love. (for a change)

After an hour of jumping around and going nuts in the bus, it was time to eat!

And twirl

And mug for the camera

Delilah loves Justina but for some reason she kept putting her hand out.

Nom nom nom…..pizza!

Singing happy Birthday!

Myself and Delilah. I look like a fat albino chipmunk, but what the hell do you want from me, I pulled this party off in under 2 weeks.

Afterwards, they went upstairs into their fun-room to play and burn off the sugar. I’m happy to report I waited until then to have my 1st glass of wine….I’m such a good mom:-)

more fun-room fun.

The Party is over! I survived and they had fun. Now for the mess……

Thanks for looking!

COMING SOON: My 1 year blogaversary is coming up and I will write all about it later this week and have a little giveaway. I also am working on a ‘real’ blog entry about our trip to FLA. and hub’s experience on the plane with the 2 girls in tow.

I’m Dreaming of a White (trash) Christmas……

12 Dec

Are you dreaming of a white Christmas? How about a white trash Christmas? How about a lite Christmas?

Driving through a neighboring town, we happened to stumble upon this lil’ beauty, and figured it was just too good not to share.  Luckily we were on the way home from a Christmas party, so I had my camera with me…..a Christmas miracle, perhaps?

HO! HO! HO! Cheers my friends!

Thanks for stopping by!

Copyright Livelaughloveliquor

A Picture = 1,000 Words

7 Dec

I figured I’d jump on the “Wordless Wednesday” band wagon.  And honestly, this says it all……

Now if only they could read.

Happy Wednesday everyone!

Thanks for stopping by!

*A special THANK YOU to my friend Heidi Burgener for the usage of the sign.

5 Easy Steps for a Happier Holiday: A Mother’s Survival Guide.

29 Nov

Does the monotony of life have you down this holiday season? Does all that black Friday shopping make you feel as if you lost your merry mojo? Are you fighting off urges to beat the crap out of the woman who took the last Leapfrog Leappad at ToysRus or flip the bird to the Salvation Army Santa outside of Target? Does it feel like your inner child a nothing but a wretched brat with a lump of coal stuck in her diaper? Holidays shmolidays, Bah humbug.  Life sucks. Fear not, my friends, happiness is but a stone’s throw away.  I too, suffered from a joy deficiency in my life this holiday season, until I discovered a few simple back-to basics principles to ramp up my fun factor and overall happiness. Now I know what you are thinking, and no, I’m not talking about re discovering  my g-spot or a super sized jug of spiced rum, (well, maybe the rum) but with the help of some everyday items and the right attitude, you too, can find sunshine,  glee, and holiday cheer.  You don’t need Dale Carnegie,  screw him.  EST sucks, and is for losers. Why pay all that money for some a-hole to tell you to find your center, blah blah blah.  I got ya covered, ladies.  Follow these 5 proven methods, and you’ll be whistling ‘Jingle Bells’ out of your sphincter in no time!

Five  Secrets to a Happier You this Holiday Season

 1.  Positive Affirmations and Gratitude:  Nothing is more powerful than a ‘can do’ attitude. Positive affirmations are the key to being in a desired situation/mindset, and which are repeated in order to impress the subconscious mind and trigger it into positive thoughts. This requires the affirmations to be repeated with passion, conviction, interest and desire. They usually start with I AM or I WILL.  We all have things we are good at right? Or maybe we WANT to a possess a particular personality trait. Affirmations are the key to true happiness with one’s self. Find value in what you do. Find something positive that defines you, and you will find happiness.  For example, I am a stay at home mom with a few pounds to lose, who rarely has time for make up and festive primping. I rarely get compliments, and my contributions to the family are never tangible. My value comes from within, and from the things I do for my children.  So, for example, after my daughter came down with a particularly vicious stomach bug just in time to ruin our Thanksgiving celebration, I needed to find the bright side of it all.  During one of about 6659 visits to the commode, she told me in the purest sincerity “Mommy, you’re a really good butt wiper”.  Wow! Now THOSE my friends, are some powerful words.  And to think I’ve sometimes doubted my butt wiping abilities!! Doubt no more.  Desperate times, call for desperate measures, and I will take what little flattery I can get and run with it. Now imagine me, upon waking, rising to the mirror, and like a phoenix from the ashes (asses?) repeating in the mirror loudly, with passion, conviction, interest, and desire that “I AM A GOOD BUTT WIPER!!!”  State it! Say it! Own it! How could you not feel happy after that? If that doesn’t warm the cockles of every mother’s heart, I sure don’t know what will. You can bet your last case of Charmin that this Thanksgiving I was thankful for being a great butt wiper.

2. Primp Before you Shop:  Crowds, crowds, everywhere. Pushing, shoving, grabbing for the last 2 dollar iPhone cover, fighting over parking spaces, it’s all too much.  You’re run down, and feeling like a holiday hag.  To make matters worse, you’re starting to realize you don’t turn heads any longer and are feeling invisible to the opposite sex. Youve gone from MILF to ZILCH. Here is a little secret from one has-been to the next, a little magic formula for some public attention: Sequins and fake eyelashes are my kryptonite against the holiday doll drums. In fact, truth be told, I can’t afford the liposuction or Botox it would take to restore me back to my glory days, so a 5 dollar pair of drug store lashes and a beat up sequin tank top from my disco nights will have to do, in order to amp up my joy factor. Nuttin’ says ‘she got her sexy back’ like showing up at Walmart with synthetic hair glued on the lids of your eyes, a push up bra, and some sequins! I promise you, you will feel like a million bucks on rollback prices when all eyes are upon you. And if all eyes are upon you the other shoppers are distracted  so you have a better chance of scoring that limited quantity obscenely large HDTV Flat screen LCD on blue light special. Joy to the world!! And if you are still not sold on eyelashes and sequins, consider this: Have you ever seen an unhappy trannie?   I didn’t think so, case closed!

3. KISSmas Carols Verses Christmas Carols: Have you ever been stuck in traffic with a car full of kids after a 6 hour stint at the mall which included waiting in line to see an inebriated fat man in a germ speckled santa suit? Cranky and jacked up on candy canes, the kids are whining for your attention in the back seat. French fries are flying, someone just nailed you in the head with a milk shake, and you KNOW there is nothing happy about a G-Damned happy meal.  Every station is playing the same lame Christmas carols over and over and the kids decide to have a contest to see who can sing along the loudest. You love them but at this point, hog tying them with mistletoe and using a Xmas ornament as a ball gag seems like a terrific idea. It’s enough to make even Mother Teresa want to spike her eggnog, and you find yourself wishing that the bar at Applebees had a drive thru. Want the answer to get the merry-making peanut gallery to STFU thus making yourself incredibly joyful? You do? GREAT! Now go get yourself a KISS album on CD. Any one will do, but my personal recommendation is “Destroyer”.  When the back seat b.s. starts up, turn off the lite fm Xmas b.s.,  insert the KISS CD and CRANK. IT. UP.  Blast out the backseat buggers and all their needless singing! Your children will be scared shitless at the surprise guitar rifts and the rockin’ tunes, and as an added bonus, you will look like a badass to passing motorist! Tap into the power of Gene Simmons this holiday season, and you are guaranteed a silent night!

4. A Touch of Elfin’ Magic :  Never, ever, underestimate the power of Elfin’ Magic (also known as Unbridled Holiday F*ckery) in your quest for a happier holiday.  Elfin’ Magic comes in many forms, and depending on your level of creativity, does not take a tremendous amount of time, money or energy to execute.  Let’s say, for example, your obnoxious, neighbor conveniently looks the other way when  his dog craps on your yard, instead of his. You’ve spoken to him about it to no avail.  An example of Elfin’ f*ckery, hypothetically speaking, of course, would be to collect a week or two’s worth of turds and let them ripen in your shed in a plastic bag. After they have had a chance to properly ferment, deposit them in a Macy’s box (NOTE: rubber gloves recommended),  careful gift wrap said turds, and leave them on his doorstep! Happy Crappy Holidays, Mr. Jones!  Or say you have a holy rolling, hypocritical, bloated, red-faced, good ole boy, perverted boss who secretly glances at your breasts, makes vomit inducing innuendos, and makes you feel like you never want to have sex ever again. Ever. He leers at you while showcasing pictures of his fat angry wife and their six sweaty children on his desk like a shrine to fidelity, meanwhile, he checks out your ass every chance he gets. A man like this is a prime candidate for Elfin Magic. A fine example would be to would be to go online and sign him up for a gift subscription for a hardcore fetish magazine and sign  it, ‘Love, Santa’.  Now sit back, and watch the holiday magic in the mailroom, once his first copy of ‘Anal Fun Magazine’ arrives just in time for Christmas! Or perhaps you are wondering what to get your sadistic old uncle that used purposely pinch your cheeks until you bruised and gave you a pair of diabetic socks for your 8th birthday? Summon up your inner elf and buy him that hot pink neon “GYM, TAN, LAUNDRY” sweatshirt and some leopard print stretchie pants! He will be the belle of the nursing home! Elfin Magic – doesn’t it just make you  smile?   (Warning, use Elfin Magic sparingly and deservingly, or you may find a lump of coal in your stocking)

5. Booze: Dont be afraid to dive into the holiday punch bowl at the office Xmas party.  Spike the eggnog and slip santa a mickey! Seriously, when life hands you a bowl of lemons, grab the tequila and some salt. Drink up, santa’s helpers! Nothing wrong with a little tidings of Southern Comfort and joy! Happiness is just a shot glass away……..or at least until the next family photo card shoot.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Festivus, and thanks for reading! And a special big fat thank you to all who repost this on facebook, forward via email and tweet! Cheers!

Yes, those really are my kids, and no, I didn’t stage it that way.

It’s Nice to Share…..

13 Oct

Which is why I want to share this link to my dear friend Allison’s blog. Click HERE, you wont regret it. She is one of my favorite sources of inspiration. She turned 45 today and has a great perspective on the trials and tribulations of life, purpose, and happiness.  Plus, she is a kick ass writer who published a kick ass book. And she is gorgeous, (like Christy Turlington’s younger sister), lives a fabulous life in NYC (with a hairless cat named piggy in a tree house) and is engaged to a man who adores the shit out of her (who she knew back when we were in high school and recently rekindled the flame).  I know, I know, sounds like someone you’d like to  ‘accidentally’ trip and see fall flat on her perfect little cellulite-free butt,  right? Nope. It’s really really hard not to love her.  I do, and I am betting you will find meaning in her words, and fall in love with her beautiful spirit too. Enjoy!

I’ll be posting a new entry about my “day off” soon.



The Lipstick Larcenist Revealed! (an answer to the poll question!)

29 Sep

Thanks to all who voted in my poll regarding the “Lipstick Larcenist'”.  (If you missed it, click HERE. ) Sadly, she struck again while seated in a dark movie theater today, fetching my tube of “Mad for Mauve” out of my purse while I was consoling the other one, who was crying over the untimely death of Simba’s father Mustafa, during the Lion King. (Thanks, Disney. I am sure there will be a sleepless night filled with night terrors staring hyenas, wildebeest stampedes, and jungle fires in my immediate future.)

Anyway, this time I was crafty enough to snap a picture of the culprit, who in addition to her lips, adorned her neck, fingers and my trousers with said grease paint.  So, without further ado, The Maybelline Marauder is none other than………….

The Little One! Delilah!

Thanks for voting!

Copyright 2011 Livelaughloveliquor. All Rights Reserved.  No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

27 Sep

Can you spot what’s wrong with this picture? This is my favorite reading nook, in our foyer.

How about now? A little closer……..

See it now???? (Hint: It is not the fact that I have decorated for Halloween ridiculously early)

There is no denying it…….

BINGO! Someone got a hold of my lipstick while I was upstairs drying my hair thinking Hubs was watching them. In reality, Hubs was in his basement ‘man cave’ playing guitar thinking I was reigning over the little darlings.  The culprit decided to tickle her taste buds by gnawing on a grotesquely shaded tube of hot pink lipstick I used as a prop for an 80’s theme party we went to.  After artfully applying Avon’s ‘Fuchsia Fun’ lipstick to her tiny visage, she then titillated her palate with it, turning her teeth and gums a lovely shade of magenta.  As if that weren’t fun enough, she then decided to show her love and appreciation for various pieces of furniture by kissing them, leaving tiny pink lip prints in her wake.

I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t I get a picture of little Miss ‘Pinky Tuskadental’?  Well, I might have thought to do so if temporary insanity had not kicked me in the head, full throttle. At the time, however, I was busy avoiding cardiac arrest and screeching at top volume for Hubs to “Get the hell up here!!!”  Hubs got the dirty job of playing dental hygenist (a 15 minute ordeal of holding a 42 pound kicker down while shoving a toothbrush back and forth in her gaping crying pie hole). While I was busy silently cursing, crying and dancing on the edge  of a nervous breakdown.  Hubs tells me I was walking in circles muttering nonsense in regards to  promising my immortal soul to a pack of heathens if only I could get the lipstick off our (pre-children) cream color down filled sofa, but I have no memory of that.  So sorry folks, no pics of the pink encrusted cavity trap.

One of the very best jewels of wisdom my good friend Robyn Abramo once told me was this:  “Eventually everything is funny in retrospect.” It’s something I carry dear with me whenever I feel like I am getting ready for take off for flying over the cuckoo’s nest. It’s something I remembered when I came down stairs to make breakfast this morning, and found the one lip print left over from this weekend’s Lipstick Lollapalooza. And I have to admit, I laughed. Hope you did too.

As always, thank you for reading!And thank you doubly for those who share my link on facebook, twitter, etc. xoxoxoxo

You can find the answer to the poll HERE

Copyright 2011 Livelaughloveliquor. All Rights Reserved.  No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.

How Do You Say Goodbye?

6 Sep

“Chrissie, it’s Carol….should I answer it?” Hubs asked, somewhat bewildered, as he held out his cell phone towards me.

Carol…..my mother. Why would she be calling Hubs cell while we were on vacation?  We were relaxing on the  beach in Ocean City Md, enjoy the sun and sand for our last day of vacation. What was so important that couldn’t wait until we got home?

“Hello.”  I said impatiently.

“Hi.”  She sounded reluctant. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. I had a CAT scan of the abdomen and it looks like I have  malignant tumors on my liver. I am waiting to hear from the MAYO clinic but things are not looking good. ”

I was standing on the beach, wind in my hair and sun in my eyes, but in an instant all that eclipsed and everything went dark.  Our relationship has been distant for the last several years and I had no idea she was not feeling well, never the less,  going for testing. I sat down, feeling sick.  My mind immediately flashed back to a recurring dream I’ve had in the past 6 months in which my deceased father comes to me and tells me to bury the hatchet, let her live her life and don’t take her abandonment personally. Our once close relationship shifted after my father passed away in 2005. After a year or so of mourning,  she lost interest in the family and morphed into someone I did not recognize. With no apologies or regrets, she sold the house, discarded boxes of  treasured family mementos, and announced she was moving to FLA with her new boyfriend.  She never looked back, and at no time seemed to miss any of us. Her telephone calls were distracted, her visits to us are brief and obligatory. All of that cut deep into my heart over the years, I’ve missed her terribly, walking around like a jilted daughter. And now I was hearing that her time was growing short. My head started spinning. I ask her about 3,000 questions, all of what you would expect: Are they certain its malignant? Do you have any symptoms? What stage? Etc. She is vague. She makes it extremely clear that her boyfriend  is her medical proxy and she has no intention of traveling back up to the NY/NJ area for treatment or a 2nd opinion. Basically, the 4 of her children have no say in her medical care, should she be unable to make decisions herself. That feels like yet another rejection added to the devastating news like some sort of decrepid cherry on top of a macabre sundae.

My mind is reeling. My mother and I were so different in so many ways, I remember as a child often questioning her if I was in fact adopted. I was never ‘my mother’s daughter’ so to speak, and I know she failed to understand me as much as I failed to grasp the things that were important to her. Yet we shared a sense of humor, and a history rich in experience and emotion.  Some good years,  some bad.  She stayed with me after the birth of all three of my natural-born children, She held my hand when I needed it, and stood by me regardless of what I did. Many times through the years we clung to each other for support.  As I matured, our roles would reverse, and sometimes it was I who comforted her. She was my mother, and she used to be my best friend. I’ve missed her so much over the past several years, and I’d let that hurt form into a nerve so raw that I found it easier to avoid her rather than to relate to her on her limited terms. And now she was telling me those chances will never come again.

As the call ended we exchanged affections, despite the traffic jam erupting inside my mind.  I managed to bind it at the seams of my heart with a shallow thread, so I could choke out the words assuring her I will pray for her healing, and that I love her.  I hang up the phone just as my youngest child runs up the sand dune, tugging at me. She wants to play with me near the water’s edge. Robotically I walk with her as she tugs me towards the surf.  I pass people along the way and smile sheepishly. I know I look normal but inside my head is flooded with static like that of a white noise machine running like non stop background clatter. My little girl and I sit and dig. The day is breezy, and a soft ocean wind is blowing my daughter’s  strawberry blonde curls back far enough for me to see her cheekbones. The same Eastern European high cheekbones passed down to four generations that I know of.  From my grandmother to my mother, from my mother to myself, and now from me to her, the youngest member of our family. At 2 1/2 I know she will never remember my mother, and that thought provokes yet another emotional spasm I struggle to stifle in front of my sweet girl.   It feels as if my heart is leaking and pouring out into the sand, mixing with the salt water of the tides.  I think to ask my mother to write each of her grandchildren a note to remember her by, but I choke as I imagine myself saying those words out loud.  What hurts equally is that I am not sure she would do it, even if I asked.

Snapping me back to the moment, My little one  suddenly giggles and squirms with delight as the crisp ocean water hits her feet. She reaches over and hugs me, a wet, sandy hug so raw and visceral that if she wasnt grinning, I’d think she was reading my mind.  I contemplate the complex relationship of mothers and daughters as I watch the surf  rise and recede. Like the years I’ve spent being my mother’s child, some waves are jarring and choppy,  knocking me to my feet, disorienting me as I struggled to regain my footing.  Other waves (and years) are calm and serene offering a cool comfort while I tried to navigate the hot sand of the world around me. The breakers crash and rise, reminding me of the forty-five years of being her daughter. Some years we struggled and some were effortless.  Anger and heartache, elation and celebration, she saw me through it all.  Her rejection stung like no other, but her tender maternal care made me the kind and loving person that I am. At that moment I realized that everything I know about love was taught to me by my mother. And the love that I feel for her, despite the last few years, is as fierce and abysmal as the ocean.

I’ll miss her for the rest of my life.

Photo credit: Justina Anastasi August 2011  Ocean City, Maryland.

As always my friends, thank you for reading, and if you can spare a good thought and a prayer for Carol, I’d appreciate it.

Copyright 2011 Livelaughloveliquor. All Rights Reserved.  No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.

Moms Gone Wild: The Tale of the D-list Cougars

29 Jul
I know better than to try to keep up with appearances.

Which is why I knew it was time to get away. And by ‘away’ I mean, from the kids, the Hubs, the laundry, the crazy neighbor always mowing the lawn in his satin banana sling, the other crazy neighbor who threatens to kick your a$$ if your dog craps on her lawn, etc. You get the picture, I needed a @#$ing break.

And with that, ‘Girls Weekend Away’ was born.  Myself, and two dear and trusted friends, my ‘sistas from other mistas’,  Justina and Dolly,  left it all behind and headed off as far south as you can go in NJ without leaving the state, to beautiful Cape May.  ‘Guns-N-Roses‘ played at full blast as we jumped in Justina’s other car, the one with out juice stains and ground up goldfish on the rug, which just happened to be a gorgeous convertible Porche.  We promised each other no one would yell ‘wipe my butt’ while sitting on the toilet.  No one would try to cut up anyone’s meat.  No one would steal a tube of lipstick from a mislaid purse, and smear it all over the furniture while the other two weren’t looking.  We agreed that if we had a disagreement, we would not pour a bottle of perfume over the other ones head, or throw their cell phone in the toilet, or any of the other infractions that occur in the life of a SAHM on a daily basis.  We set out to relax, have a little fun, and to feel like we were the lively, vibrant and playful girls we were before the invasion of the body snatchers childbirth occurred and our children/responsibilities sucked the life out of us.  It was our ‘Cougars Gone Wild’ weekend.  Ok, really not cougars, more like those hot sweaty caged orangutans at the zoo who pull their own fur out, but you get the point.

I’d be lying if I said the change in us didn’t happen immediately.  During our two-hour ride down the Parkway, we giggled like school girls telling secrets as we spoke of our lives before our children came along.   Nothing was off-limits: Old flames, far away travels, sexual escapades, the tales of the footloose and fancy free girls we once were flowed freely and with out judgements.  I felt myself relax, and for once, I was able to close those eyes in the back of my head and turn off my supersonic hearing.  No one kicked the back of my seat, and there was no smell of a lingering milk ridden sippy cup left baking in the sun.  Like Columbus, seeing the faint outline of land for the first time on the horizon, it was a whole new world for me.

We arrived in Cape May and naturally, hit the hotel bar for happy hour first.  After a few cocktails and some shopping (we were measured for bras, tried to find bad-ass, air brushed tattoos, and felt up a life-sized statue of a pirate located in a jewelry store) we had a light dinner (which we all ate while it was HOT I might add).  After some discussion, we agreed to go out bar hopping that night, which considering our age and the fact that none of us has been awake past 10pm since 2006 or so, was a sheer act of bravery or stupidity, your call to decide.  Forgoing our ponytails and sweatpants, we went back to the room to primp – a rare luxury these days.   We sat for a good hour, curling our hair, applying our false eyelashes (a must have for the over 40 crew) and trading more secrets of lives past lived.  My sisters in the sorority of motherhood and I laughed harder than we had in years, as we all said prayers that our eyelashes wouldn’t fall into our drinks and/or that no one would mistake us for aging transvestite with bad make up.  By this time, a few cocktails turned into a half a dozen mojitos, and we were feeling no pain.  We paused for a few “sexy vixen” type photos, as the combination of the booze, the skinny mirror in our hotel and the fact that we used actual tubes of lipstick that weren’t previously used as crayons, had us feeling really good about ourselves.

So off we set out into the streets of Cape May, hair trailing behind us as we walked, (cue Whitesnake ‘In The Still of the Night) like three low rent, misshapen, slightly drunk versions of Charlie’s Angels.  Dolly, with her gorgeous hair and sultry eyes looking like a Latina Pam Anderson….. Justina, with her beautiful sculpted features and poised grace, looking like a young Sharon Stone….. Me?  Having recently induldged in a red rinse on my hair, in my mind I was a portly version of the rock goddess Tawney Kitaine.  That is if  Tawney Kitaine had about 2 dozen skin tags, several added pounds, a spray tan gone wrong, (see pic of my feet) eyes  set too close, and a nasty keloid C-section scar.  In reality, I am sure the only thing Tawney Kitaine and I had in common was our blood alcohol content, but hey, at the time I felt good.  In other words, not like a mother.

Dreading the younger, hipper crowd, we picked a dive bar with a live band to park our butts at for the night.  The last thing we wanted to be was surrounded by a bunch of 20 somethings making out in the corner with their Abercrombie mini skirts and tight abs.  That kind of torture makes you realize the ‘before’ and ‘after’ of childbirth, which is akin to watching the stock market crash and waking up one day realizing that everything you ever had is gone.  We needed to find a place that was more of  d-list, like us.

We found a grungy little dive in the middle of town.  It wasn’t too crowded and from the street we heard the band playing ‘Gin Blossoms‘,  so we figured they had to be somewhat close to our age, and upon entering we, were right. The band was talented.  Really talented.  The singer rocked it and the music was tight.  They were however, old (like us) bloated (like us) and slight drunk (ding! ding! ding!).  For fear that their wives/mothers /daughters may read this and I will get my ass kicked, we will call the name of the band ‘Creation’ (a nod to ‘Freaks and Geeks‘ my all time favorite TV show, and if you haven’t seen it, go buy the box set RIGHT NOW, you will laugh till you pee, I promise).  As we danced and sang along, Justina and I noticed the keyboard player kept winking at Dolly.  He was cute, bright sparkly eyes, a big smile and a full head of hair (a full head of hair is really all it takes to qualify a guy as ‘hot’ after 40)  Like 3rd graders, we kept nudging and teasing Dolly that he was looking at her.  We were having a ball, and after shaking our middle-aged asses for the entire 40 minute set, we were happy to sit down when the band took a break.

“Whew”,  Justina flopped down in the booth across from Dolly and I.  “That was fun”.  Justina showed that dance floor who is boss.  She claims dancing is not her thing, but I disagree, she totally kicked it.

” I wish I knew how to play music, it must be so amazing to be in a band.”  Dolly sighed wistfully.

“Me too.” I nodded in agreement.  “I wonder if these guys are looking for a back up triangle player??…….I play a mean wicked triangle,”  I joked.

“Do you girls have any talent?  Justina asks us .  A serious question.

Dolly, too humble to ever admit she is great with hair or is a terrific cook, shakes her head ‘no’.  I am thinking that if wiping butts and getting ground up chocolate chips out of upholstery is a talent, then why yes, I am talented.  I don’t know if it was the liquor talking, or wishful thinking, but I had to say it.  In a deadpan voice, straight face, I replied;

“Why yes.  I am very talented at giving Philateo”!

The girls and I bust out screaming laughing.  Apparently overheard by the old geezer who just happened to be passing by, an eldery poor old goat swings his head over to us, stumbles and almost drops his drink.

Face red, I look up at him mortified, smile meekly and say “It was just a joke…..sorry you had to hear that. ”

He composes himself, chuckles, and says something about ‘heart attack’  followed by ‘in my dreams’. He introduces himself and says his name is Mac.  He is 72 years old and is a widow.  He is balding, stumpy and has a too broad smile revealing yellow corn cob teeth.  He’s got NY attitude (love it) and reminds me of a kinder, gentler Frank Costanza, (Seinfeld).  He sits down and starts telling us about his life.  His wife died 7 years ago, he tries to get out and stay active, and sailed down to Jersey Shore from Manhattan on his boat for the weekend.  He has a hearty laugh and was cracking corny old timer type jokes strictly for our benefit, but his eyes shaded a hint of loneliness. From the way he spoke, it was clear he missed his wife.  We adored him.  He sweetly said he hoped our husbands knew how lucky they are, and jokingly asked if a rich old coot from the city was enough of an incentive to leave them. We laughed along with him and gave him fatherly hugs as he bid us a goodnight and moved along to the back of the bar.  The entire time he was sitting with us, I saw the keyboard player eyeballing Dolly like she was the last drink in the desert.  Justina decided a round of drinks were in order, and went to the bar to get them.

As Justina flagged down the bartender and demanded extra mint in our mojitos, I see the keyboard player and the butterball guitarist whispering to each other.  Suddenly they turn and make their move.  Like hawks, they swoop down and sit at the table across from us.

“Hi”,  the keyboardist says, mostly to Dolly.  “I’m Mike. Are you girls enjoying the music?”  Sitting across from him, I notice he is SHORT.  Real short.  Like ‘Lollypop Guild’ short. I’m half expecting him to break out and sing the Oompa Loopma song.

“I’m Van”.  The guitarist says to me. Dark hair, dough faced with horn rimmed glasses, he looks like a grown up Harry Potter…that is if Harry Potter had bourbon on his breath and a huge beer gut.  Put a guitar in most guys hands, and his attractiveness/ coolness factor amps up about 10 points. This guy? Total dork, Les Paul, or no Les Paul.

We introduce ourselves and tell them that we are indeed enjoying the music.  For some reason, I call upon my inner Catholic Nun, and tell them Dolly’s name is Maria and mine is Katherine.  Sister Maria and Sister Katherine.  I’m kidding, of course, and they know it.  They turn out to be really nice guys, and we chat with them for about 15 minutes or so, and notice Justina (aka ‘Sister Jessica’)  is chatting with Mac again.  She is laughing really hard and looks like she is having fun.  I’m jealous – Mac could have totally showed Shorty-McShortpants and Hogswarts Harry what cool actually is.  I notice Shortstuff is getting touchy feely with Dolly, and she looks uncomfortable.  Van just asked me if I play music or have any talents, and this time it was me who choked on my drink because I automatically feel embarrassed and wonder if he heard our previous conversation.  I tell him I like to write and leave it at that.  He asks me what song I want to hear.  I tell him to play anything by ‘Journey’ for me.  I look over and it looks like Shorty is about to lick Dolly’s arm, so I get up, announce that I had to use the lady’s room, and Dolly has her period,(she didn’t) so she has to come with me. ( WTF was I thinking, that didn’t even make sense)?  Dolly is stifling a laugh as we get up and move towards Justina and Mac.  Justina tells us that Mac offered to ‘go kick some ass’ on our behalf, and that even though he may look old, he is actually a yellow belt in karate.  Shiver me timbers, Mac, you gotta love a 72-year-old gangsta.

The band starts playing again, and its ‘Anyway You Want  It ‘ by Journey.  Van scans the crowd, finds me and points.  I smile and wave.  Another creep comes by our table, a weird assed motherf*cker with a profound overbite and a muddy pair of Keds on his feet (err….from burying bodies, perhaps?).  He is socially weird, sleezy and I didn’t want to stare,  but I *think* he may have had a hard on.  He is buzzing around like a fly and wont take a hint.  I finally tell him we have to go now, and when he demands to know why,  I blurt out, ” Because Justina has a headache”, (true),  Dolly has her period(untrue, why do I keep saying that)?, and I am in sex rehab (untrue, sex withdrawal is more like it) and married to an ex professional wrestler who will rearrange your face (snort!) if he sees you talking to me.”  We leave him with his mouth hanging agape and sashay out the door howling with laughter.  A true ‘Depends’ moment. At our age and the rate we were laughing we are lucky no one peed themselves.  Three tipsy, cooped up, moms away for the first time in years, we were not yet ready for bed, despite the fact that it was 2 am. We decided to walk around and see what was open.  We were subsequently called ‘cougars’ by two 26 year olds, who then claimed we must not like men, after we rejected their advances.  We got busted by the po-po (police), who came and kicked us off the beach when we went for a moonlight walk.  We managed to find a pizza parlor open at 3 am and scarfed down as much pizza as our intestinal crushing spanx would allow.  It took all our strength to refrain from chucking the left over pizza crusts at the buff 20 somethings in mini skirts.  We tried to find a t-shirt place that was open so the girls could make me a ‘I (almost) F*cked Harry Potter ‘ T-shirt.  We cackled and laughed, and our when our fake eyelashes started to droop we knew it was time to go retreat back to our room.

As we flopped into bed, we giggled and whispered, reliving the sheer fun and the joy that being unencumbered has on a woman’s soul.  It was like a middle school slumber party, except we all felt a little nausea from the booze and pizza, and at our age, all insisted on flossing our teeth.  All three of us love being a mom, and are more in tune with our children than most mothers I know.  We take motherhood seriously and give ourselves completely to our families. We all have fantastic partners who are great fathers and amazing husbands… but damn….it sure felt good to be young again, to be free, and to be hit on. That night took 5 years off my age, I felt young again, and for the first time in years, I felt FUN.

None of us wanted the night to end, but it did. One by one, we drifted off to sleep with smiles on our faces and garlic on our breaths.  We went home to our Hubs and kids,  feeling refreshed and alive again, receiving big sloppy kisses and about 1,000 hugs as we walked in the door.  Being in my Hubs’es arms again was so comforting, and although I had a great weekend, there is no place else I’d rather be. I know Dolly and Justina felt the same. I couldn’t help thinking of Mac and the look in his eye when he spoke of his beloved who had passed on. I held Hubs extra close that night.

Two days later we were still hung over, but baby, it was worth it.

Click HERE to see the pics from the trip.

Thanks for reading! And as always, thank you for sharing my blog with other d-list cougars!! xoxoxox

Copyright 2011 Livelaughloveliquor. All Rights Reserved.  No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.

What I Did During My Summer Vacation: A Photo Essay

29 Jul

By now you have read my tale of drunken debauchery at the Jersey Shore during our ‘Mom’s Getaway Weekend’.  If not, click HERE.  Three over stressed stay at home moms + a few dozen mojitos = more fun than Cape May could possibly handle.  (Well, that, and a wicked two-day hang over).

If you have yet to treat yourself to a girl’s weekend away, I suggest you do so RIGHT NOW. Trust me, whatever it costs, it’s worth it. In the meantime, enjoy the photos of our little jail break……..

Pulling out from Dolly’s house. Her kids practically ran down the street crying after the car. As did mine at my house, and Justina’s at hers.

Gorgeous sunset at Cape May’s sunset beach.

The sunken ship, off shore.

Dolly and Justina. Notice the cups in hand? It was BYOM (Bring Your Own Mojito) day at the beach. Or at least it was according to us.

Gorgeous dolly, with the surf behind her.

Ok, I totally cop to the 3rd grade humor…..but seriously, she needed a little sumptin-sumptin hanging from the rear view mirror to trick it out. Plus, the underwear doubled as a sling shot to hit those annoying bikers on the side of the road. For the record, we later bought her a crystal thingy and a pewter tiara that said “Queen of the Road’ to take the panties place.

When good tans go bad. The teenager working the spray tan booth was too busy texting to put down a mat so my feet didn’t get stained. Too bad I failed to notice until AFTER I was already sprayed.  And nude.

Our beach chairs, with yours truly.

Our best, drunken, sexy vixen looking,  Pam Anderson, Tawney Kitaine and Sharon stone impressions.

The girls rocking out to the band. I do have pics of the band, but I know I have a bunch of readers in the Philly area, and if someone knows them, I am afraid I’ll get some lunatic wife up in my face.  Not that we would have those guys with a 10 foot pole, or anything.

Go Dolly! Standing on the table like the old days!

How much late night pizza can a pair of spanx hold?

hmmmm…. this hung in our hotel. p.s. Remind me not to book a room on the 3rd floor next time we plan on drinking. Falling 1/2 way down a flight of rickety stairs is no fun at 3 am.

Our view from the cupola of the hotel.

The best fresh squeezed juice ever – squeezed fresh from all those NJ oranges in the NJ orange groves……right next to the oil tanks and pharmaceutical companies…..

Beautiful Justina, that flower has nothing on her.

My kind of shopping…..Rehab is for quitters, baby!

Ok, ok, one last drink…..

Who is the naughty drunk  who signed ‘Jessica, Maria, and Katherine ‘ to the guest list? (cough cough, Justina…)

It’s one thing when the moms club shuns you. This is a whole different story!

Is a Hot Meal Too Much to Ask For?

8 Jul

“I’m sorry Mrs. ______.  She struck another little girl when they were fighting over a toy.  She is banned from Kids camp for 24 hours and if she hits again, she can not come back for the remainder of the cruise.”  The director of the child watch center on our cruise line explained to me very kindly, but firmly.

I looked down at the little one.  Her mop of strawberry blonde curls hung over down cast eyes.  Banned from kids camp, we walked back to our cabin, me scolding her as we did so.  A 2 year old version of the walk of shame. I’m super pissed because tonight is “Elegant Night” in the dining room and they are serving filet mignon with lobster tails, and we had HOPED to let them stay in camp for dinner so we could have a nice romantic meal sans our ponytail posse.  Not going happen.

“Mommy, dat not da truff”!!” (Translation: ‘Mommy, that’s not the truth’) she cries out defiantly.

“Yes, it is the truth. Don’t  lie about it.  I know the girl took your toy, I know you were angry, but we do not hit, Delilah.”

The little one is scrappy.  I know my daughter, and I know she is guilty as charged.  I’ve never seen her hit anyone unprovoked, but if you take her toy  I can promise there is going to be one Mother F–er of a throw down.  That doesn’t make me any less annoyed that our amorous dinner has now turned into a party of four.  Hubs is even more pissed, he had hoped to keep them in camp a little longer so he could get lucky in the cabin after dinner.

Fast forward two hours and all four of us are dressed in our Sunday best (it is ‘Elegant Night’, after all) and are seated at a booth style table in the center of the large dining room.  I look around and notice that all the really nice tables, the ones with a view of the sunset over the water’s horizon, are occupied by couples with out kids in tow.  We decide to each take a child, so we are sitting across from one another, which will (hopefully) prevent fights and attempts at making a mad dash out of the dining room and going AWOL.  The first thing I do as we sit down is collect the silverware, as no good thing comes from a child wielding a butter knife. Our waiter comes over.  He is tall, and strapping from some Eastern European country or maybe France.  I can’t  read fine print under his name tag which states his country of origin.  His name is Gavin and he has an accent.  He is kind of cute, actually.  He starts giving us the ‘Good evening, the menu tonight…blah blah. blah‘ speech, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the little one trying to reach for my wine glass.  She grabs Hubs soda instead and takes several large swigs.  I shoo her away and try to focus on what he is saying, which is not easy, considering his accent and that I am distracted by little miss soda swiller.

“……..order as much as you like, and when you leave, I guarantee I f*ck you like bull.”

SAY WHAAAAT?  I look up at Hubs……did he hear that? I start to blush….f*ck like bull….really? As opposed to ‘be quiet or you will wake the kids’ kind of f*cking , which is all I really know, these days. Did he really just say that? ….is that what they do in Europe?  Why would he say that ?  And is he talking to Hubs or me?  I forget about the little one and the soda momentarily and my head whips around and look at him, stunned.

“What’s wrong, you don’t want your tummy full?” he smiles at me quizzically.

I blink and it takes me a second to realize he said tummy full, not f*ck like bull.  God help me, I put on a smile, mutter, “Oh yes, that’s fine, indeed”, cast my eyes down ward, and realize it’s been so long since Hubs and I have indulged in carnal pleasures, that now everything sounds perverted.  As I sat and pondered our deprived love life, I notice Delilah with my wine glass.  She is holding it by the stem and grinding a pile of salt she dumped out onto the tablecloth.  She starts banging it.  I go to grab it, but am too late.

CRACK! “Uh-oh.”  The stem broke in her chubby little hand.  Glass is everywhere.  How it’s not in her palm, is an act of God. I pick her up, and see it’s on the table the bench of the booth, the entire table has shards of glass scattered about. We need to move, so we do, to the next table over which is unoccupied.  This is what I get for daydreaming about getting my sexy back.

Gavin, the waiter, comes back and gives the girls new placemats, and this time, plastic cups.  He takes our order, and tussles the little one’s hair.

“Are you ok, sweetheart”?  he asks her gently.

“BLECH!  She replies with the loudest burp I have ever heard from a 2 year old, but then again, not many of them slurp down a good 5 oz. of their daddy’s ginger ale in the course of 20 seconds. “I FART FROM MY MOUTH” !!  She announces proudly.  He recoils slightly before faking a smile. I apologize for her and make her say “excuse me”. He scurries away muttering something about our food will be out shortly.  Make it fast, Gavin.

“Mommy, look at this man” Darla, my 4 year old says pointing to a picture on her placemat. “Do you think he has a worm” ?  The placemat has drawings of little fish and scuba divers.

“A worm? Like to bait the fish with? Maybe sweetie,” I reply.

“NO MOMMY”  Not a worm to catch a fish.  A worm between his legs.  Like boys have….remember when Owen (a younger playmate) had his diaper changed?  I saw his worm. ”

Oh God….THAT worm.  I look at Hubs, kick him under the table.  Let him take this one.  Speechless, he opens his mouth, blinks a few times, and shuts it again, like a fish out of water.  I can see he is not going to be much help.

” Your appetizers are here.” Gavin swoops down on us with two dishes balanced in his hands. “Escargot for you sir, and for Mrs, shrimp cocktail.”  I am just about to say thank you when the big one looks at Gavin and says, “Do you have a worm”?

Hubs’s  eyes are in rapid  fire blink mode and his face is ashen.  My jaw drops and seems stuck.  Gavin, unaware of the inner workings of a precocious 4 year olds mind set, doesn’t miss a beat.

‘No, my little dear, they are not worms, they are escargot, like snails ‘ he says smiling, and glides away.  Thank God for language barriers.

As I start to give a brief (but hopefully discreet) lesson on anatomy,  I can tell she is tuning me out.  She has her crayon in her hand, and is drawing.  Fine with me, as long as she is quiet and maybe she will forget about worms.

Hubs looks up at me, and shakes his head in bewilderment.  “We are going to have our hands full”  he mouths across the table to me.  He is smiling but his eyes look frightened.  “GOING TO”?  I think….how about we DO have our hands full?  Between the strawberry blond protegé of George Forman and a 4 year old that channels, Dr.Ruth, I’d say we are skeeee-rewd (Translation: Screwed).  But I smile at hubs anyway, also shaking my head.  He laughs back, and mouths “I love you” and for a moment we forget the girls are there and it feels like we are on our romantic date after all.  We raise our wine glasses and toast.  I can’t wait for my lobster….I’ve been waiting for this all trip.  Succulent and sweet, drowning in butter and piping hot…mmm…..heaven!  Not something we eat at home – what a rare treat.  Tonight is our big night after all, even with the girls here.  Maybe the evening wont be a wash after all.

“ALLLLL DONE!!!!”  the big one announces loudly and proudly as she holds up the placemat she was working on so intently.  As she does, her hand flies up and knocks over Hub’s ice water.  A full icy 10 oz. glass all over his crotch.  Can you say, cocks on the rock? Now, this may be something enjoyed by certain fetish groups, perhaps, but I can assure you, my poor Hubs’s  face contorted in sheer agony and brutal shock.  He leaps up in pain.  You’ve heard of great balls a fire, right?  Well, this the opposite effect….snow balls, so to speak. The poor bastard was soaked in ice water down to his skivvies.  “Jesus Christ!” he yells, a dark spot in the center of his pants.  His poor “worm’ must be an icicle by now.  So much for my chances of getting lucky.

“Sorry Daddy.”  Darla nonchalantly says to him, as if nothing is wrong.  Hubs is standing there swatting ice cubes off his junk, and trying unsuccessfully to soak up the excess with a cloth napkin.  He contemplates going back to get changed, but that will take 25 minutes and the lobster and steak will be here any moment.  God knows we eat enough cold meals at home, on vacation, we want the real deal, even if it means eating it with your balls on ice.  He settles down and puts his napkin over the iceberg that was once his flamethrower, muttering under his breath.  I catch the words “God dammit” and “should have sent them to kids camp”, but not much else. I look up and notice that Darla is still holding up her placemat proudly for display.

Mommy,” she says impatiently, “Did you SEE my DRAWINGS?”

I look up and discover she drew ‘worm’ penises on all the male characters on the placemats.  W…..T…..F ? My perverted, ponytailed Picasso grins at me proudly.  “Now they all have worms”.  OH my sweet Lord…..”That’s great,” I reply, quickly reaching over and turning the paper face down,  “Now draw me a flower on this side” I nervously glance around and force a smile,  hoping no one else saw her obscene attempt at artistry.

Just then, the Calvary arrives in the form of Gavin, with our meals.  “Here you go. Chicken fingers for you girls,”  he says placing their plates in front of them, unknowingly laying the food on a bed of Crayola cocks..  “And for you both, the Filet and Lobster. Enjoy.”  He sets our plates down, and Hubs and I look up and smile at each other once again, happy and grateful to have such a good meal in front of us.  It’s steaming hot and smells so delicious.  He whispers, “This looks great, Chrissie, enjoy it”.  I smile and say “You too!” and then, just as I am about to sink my fork into my mouth- watering lobster tail, the last words I want to hear come flying out of my 2 year old potty trainers mouth:

“I hafta go poopy”. (No translation required, you’ve all heard that one)

Of course she does.  I drop my fork, and shuffle her back to the 10 minute walk to the nearest bathroom, hoping she doesn’t crap herself along the way.

After a stressful bathroom session which included constant reminders for her not to touch anything, a serious death threat if she went near the used tampon hanging out of the trash, and her whipping open the stall door when it was my turn to tinkle so everyone could see my urination skills are up to par, we return back to the table 23 minutes later.  My lobster is cold and the butter congealed.  The filet mignon looks greasy.  Hubs is shivering, as result of the air conditioner being turned to high, coupled with the ice crystals now forming on his testicles.  The big one got down off the seat and is dancing in the aisle to ‘Mac the Knife’ playing over head.  I’m not hungry anymore. Admitting defeat, and now fully forgoing any thoughts of romance, I ask Gavin to wrap the little ones dinner.  I stuff a piece of bread in my mouth, chug the wine, and we head out.  Poor Hubs is using the take out bag to shield his ‘ballsicles’ from curious stares.  He is walking bowlegged so he literally doesn’t get his cheeks chapped.

The girls on the other hand, are laughing and dancing all the way back to the cabin. Which is exactly what I’d expect of them.

Click HERE to see video from that night in the dining room. Note that Hubs is pissed off looking and that the Little One has attitude. And please don’t forget to “like” my page!

Thank You for reading! And thank you for being so patient for another blog post – I admit to being a victim of the lazy days of summer. I appreciate all the emails and messages sent to me asking me when I was going to post, and I really appreciate all the support and love y’all have shown me! I am extremely lucky to have the most awesome readers who ‘get’ that parenthood isn’t always a bed of roses, and who keep me motivated, forward my blog to friends, tweet it, and repost it on facebook.  THANK YOU! xoxoxox


Edited by Annette Garkowski

Two Teens, Two Tots, Two Tylenol, Two Shots!

15 Jun

“Oh man, I feel sorry for you”

“There goes early retirement….”

“What made you do THAT?”

“Built in babysitters?…..SWEET!”

“You guys are either midlife crisis-ing or just plain nuts”

These are several of the actual responses Hubs and I have gotten from people (often strangers) who find out we have raised two teenagers in addition to the two little ponytailed princesses we currently are shepherding through life.  I understand the surprise reaction, and realize that we are a bit of an oddity.  I also comprehend the natural curiosity that comes after the initial reaction, and time and time again, the very next thing that comes out of someones mouth is “So, whats it like having two different generations of kids under one roof? “

Before I answer that, let me give you the back story.  My son Ryan and Hubs’ daughter Kristin were both sweet little elementary school puppies when we met and married.  They were tender and fun, still young enough to be eager to please, but old enough to get themselves dressed and be responsible for homework, etc.  We did not consider having any more children as we enjoyed the freedom of being newlyweds madly in love with two great, somewhat independent kids to make a blended family just right.  We had no interest in adding to our family, and I was notorious for coming out with a “take my uterous….please”  jokes.  We traveled, had family outings, adventures and road trips together just the four of us, which was perfect.  We worked hard to give them the sense of family they had lacked in our previous marriages.  It was all good, until the kids started getting older, more distracted and less interested in doing things as the four musketeers.  It was sad for us, a period of mourning really, when they ceased to be excited about the trips we had planned, or the parties we were throwing.  We really enjoyed parenting, loved our kids to pieces, and once they hit puberty and became autonomous we turned the tide and decided it *might* be nice to have one more.  Several miscarriages and various forms of infertility treatments later, our lovely Darla (age 4) came along, and her sister Delilah (age 2) soon followed, thus the massive age difference in our children, and the beginning of ‘his, mine and ours.’

So whats it like?  Let me break down a few real life scenarios :

1. Bath Crayons are the Enemy:  In an attempt to promote a happy bath time, I invested in a set of easy-scrub bath crayons so the girls would be distracted coloring while I attend to the fight-inducing process of washing/rinsing hair.  This worked like a charm, until the teens, who were often not on speaking terms, realized they could use them to slander one another.  I realized the crayons weren’t so easy to scrub when I had to remove  “Ryan is a Turd” off the bathroom tile, followed by “Kristin smells like turds.”  Thus began the ban on bath crayons for the little ones.

2. Built in babysitters don’t do diapers:  When coming from a 1 hour 10 minute trip to Shoprite, I noticed there was a used diaper flung sloppily in the front yard.  Upon approach, it became clear this was a full-out ‘code brown’ left to ripen in the afternoon sun.  WTF?  Who left the diaper on the grass, and why?  I walked in the house to find my two-year old running around naked and proud, like the founding member of her own little nudist colony.  Upon inquiry, I discover that neither teen wanted to change the diaper, so they flipped a coin to divvy up the job.  One donned a rubber glove to remove it while the other manned the garden hose to water the poor baby’s butt crack down.  Generation gap, generation crap.  Teenage teamwork at it’s finest.

3. ABC blocks are a bad idea:  Seems like a great aide for teaching, right?  Yeah, we thought so too.  Which is why we bought the big 12-inch foam ones, and used them to build walls, houses, etc. and write words.  It worked GREAT until I was hosting a playdate and our guests walked into the family room with the blocks stacked 7 foot tall in two neat rows spelling ‘F-U-C-K Y-O-U’ and ‘E-A-T S-H-I-T’.  Try explaining that to the neighborhood busybody.

4. Water guns become weapons of mass destruction. The girls were given supersoakers by a well-meaning (clueless) relative who obviously didn’t understand that they were too little to even hold them, none the less pull the trigger.  The girls loss was the teens gain, as they were in the midst of yet another fight where neither was talking to the other.  When one got on the other’s nerves, he/she would shoot roughly 6 gallons of water at the other, as if she/he were a cat they were trying to train from jumping on the counter tops. This occurred indoors, of course.  The girls (and my furniture, knick knacks, artwork, etc) were often caught in the crossfire.  On the bright side, it cured them from the fear of rinsing their hair in the bath tub I spoke of earlier.

5. Kids really do say the darndest thing.  Did you know that Caillou is a ‘bald whiney asshole’ (pronounced, ‘ATH-hole, mind you)’ ??  Neither did my daughter’s preschool class, until she announced it with vigor, after hearing her big brother mutter it to her older sister.

6. Unsolicited advice is never good.  I will never forget the day after the little one was born, when the more naive, but bossy know it all teen called a family meeting.  The purpose of such meeting was to ‘suggest’ (demand) Hubs get a vasectomy, as said teen did not feel any more children was in our best interest because we really were ‘too old’.  When we snickered, she suggested castration, and by the way, I should really stop nursing before my boobs sag.  I wish I was kidding.

These are just a few of the ‘adventures’ that have occurred in our home as a result of our multi- generational family.  The teens both flew the nest earlier this year, each moving on to start their own lives.  One to college, the other to do some healing and live with her biological mom for the first time in 9 years. We miss them both, despite the shenanigans and outright fuckery (pardon my French) that occurred.  Sometimes I am even tempted to write ‘Hubs is a turd’ on the bathroom tile, just for old times sake, but I know it won’t make me miss them less.  All I can do is wait 10 years or so and hope for grandchildren so we can start the cycle over again.  This time it will be Darla and Lilah stealthily spelling out curse words with giant foam blocks, and the teens who will have to explain to their child’s preschool teacher why Barbie called Ken a ‘total dickhead’ during creative playtime.

And that, my friend is the circle of life! Pass the tequila!

Thanks for reading! And for keeping me motivated to write!

Edited by Annette Garkowski

Copyright 2011 Livelaughloveliquor. All Rights Reserved.  No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.