Husband: What does “SMH” mean?
Me: I don’t know.
Husband: Well, people keep saying it on Facebook. We should figure out what it means.
Me: I’m sure it means something gross… like “Suck My Hoo-Ha.”
After consulting a friend (and mother of two teenagers) I was relieved to find out “SMH” actually means “Shakin’ My Head.”
Maybe kids these days aren’t as dirty as I thought.
But this one was.
I looked over at my son who was moving the grilled chicken around on the plate, less than enthusiastically.
And then over to my husband, who was choking down a lettuce wrap with even less enthusiasm.
I thought, where did I go wrong?
But that’s when I saw it.
Its bulging, iridescent eyes staring back at me.
Spitting. One of the many few topics, in which my husband and I disagree.
Specifically, the appropriateness of it.
He believes that phlegm needs be expelled. That it will somehow make you sicker to swallow it.
It must leave the body immediately. In the parking lot. On the sidewalk. In the kitchen sink. Out the car window.
Apparently every player of every Major League Baseball team in America is under the same guise.
1. Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Fivebucks.
I mean Starbucks. It’s not my favorite time of year until I’m spending half my paycheck and one-fourth of my daily-calorie-intake on a 12 oz. cup of pie-flavored steamed milk.
Let’s hope the high-waisted-shorts trend dies before the spring flowers bloom again.
When I was in college, the trend was LOW-rise shorts. So low, that girls’
There’s nothing more exciting than an annual visit to the gynecologist.
The day when you get to be extra late to work because you have to go answer a bunch of really uncomfortable questions about intercourse and self-breast-exams and your family’s medical history. And then walk around all day with a gallon of KY Jelly oozing out of you. Asking yourself …why the hell did I decide to wear a skirt today???!!!!
Before you even see the doctor,
My husband Todd is a stay-at-home dad for the next five weeks until school starts again for him in the fall.
In his time off, he’s been coaching Colt.
Fine tuning important life skills like fist-pounding, vacuum-wand-sword fighting and nose-picking “cheese boogies.”
Every night, I come home from work to de-program Colt from everything he’s learned that day.
But a few nights ago, when I was tucking Colt into bed,
It’s 2-o-clock in the morning.
I “went to bed” at 10:30, but I’ve already gotten up twice to pee. And once to check that the oven is off. And once to make sure the front door is locked.
I’ve jussssssst started really sleeping…like rapid eye movement sleeping…like dreaming about Channing Tatum’s nether-regions sleeping…
When I hear it.
The blood-curdling scream of my toddler from the other room.
Every time I get into my husband’s car, I’m confronted with 90’s death metal.
AND IT’S BLARING.
Is he angry?
Is he mad at the world? At me? At the writers of Bob the Builder – whose story lines have taken over our lives?
When Todd leaves the house smiling – is it just a front?
Or is he smiling because he knows he’s about to escape from the madness.
It was “summer cleaning” at work, and everyone was assigned a duty. Mine was to clean the sales office.
I’m pretty sure this space hasn’t been cleaned… maybe ever? So it was a daunting task.
After sweeping up several trash bags of dead roaches, dust rabbits, and… hair (Gag… that’s what you get with four women sharing an office)… I could see the progress.
As I was putting away the last clear plastic container of odds and ends,
When I had Colt, my nose evolved into a super pooper sniffer.
A finely tuned machine capable of distinguishing between BMs of all kinds. Healthy. Solid. Runny. Viral.
Like a German Shepard to a bag of coke.
My mom has the same skill, as did her mother before her, and her mother before her.
We come from a long line of Poop Snoops.