Only She Didn’t Say Fudge

About a week ago, whilst perusing a magazine (I don’t have the time or patience to read a magazine, just to looky-look, and yeah, I totally said whilst and perusing- so what?), I was approached by a ghost.  How did I know it was a ghost, you ask? Because it said  “Mom! I’m a ghostie.  GRRRRRRR! You are scared of me!”  Then the white and pink flowered ghost went about it’s business, scaring everyone else in the house.  Ghostie growled at baby Stella, which lead to lots of giggling and rolling around on the floor; Ghostie growled out the window at the neighbors, etc. Only Buddy the dog wasn’t falling for it, so Ghostie stepped it up a notch. 

“I’m scary, Buddy! Be scared!” Nope. Buddy wasn’t scared. So the ghost ripped off it’s blanket (it was Bananie– surprise!) and started to chase Buddy around, growling and laughing as she went. Finally she caught up to Buddy, threw the blanket over his back, and, still laughing, said  “There you go, ya fudger.”

“Ummm. What did you say?” asked I.

“I said he’s a fudger. HAHAHAHAAAA!” said my 2 year old.

“Don’t say that. That’s a naughty word. Don’t use that word again.”  I pulled it together quickly, using my very best ‘I’m very disappointed in your using that language, young lady’  face and voice. Satisfied with my performance, I went back to my magazine.

 ‘Good job, self,’ I thought. ‘Way to be the mom!’

“Ok, mom. You fudger.”

Published in: on January 2, 2011 at 6:38 pm  Comments (3)  

How I Wrecked Christmas (or Setting the Stage for a Lifetime of Dysfunctional Relationships)

by Mary Jeanne

“Mom. Know who is on my jammies? He name is Snowman, and he brings us a tree on Christmas time.”

I should have just let her keep thinking that. My cute little Bananie  was too young last year to really get the idea of Santa. But this year, in her too-small Santa jammies, she understood that someone (whose name she still didn’t really have down) would bring something to our house on Christmas.

“Yes. His name is Santa. And he watches you all year to make sure you’re a good girl. He sees you all the time. And on Christmas Eve he flies around the world giving out toys. When he gets to our house, he’ll land on the roof and come down the chimney, and leave presents under the tree. Cool, right?”

“Yay Santa!” she squealed.

But, in the few weeks that followed, her excitement turned from happy to almost fearful. Every time she acted like a brat, all I had to do was pull a “Santa’s watching you!” out of my pocket, and, like magic, she’d calm right down. One time, when I was in the kitchen and she was in the livingroom with her baby sister, she yelled to me, “Mom! Can Santa see me?”

“YES! Yes he can!”  I yelled back. I heard a somewhat disappointed reply of  “Oh. Ok,”.  I don’t know what her plan was, but I do know that her new eagerness to please/paranoia seems to be working in favor of the whole family.

About a week ago we were out at a mall, and Santa was there, too. He smiled and waved, and I waved back. Bananie, on the other hand, was expressionless and kept her eyes fixed on him, as if to say “I’m watching you, too, bub”.  When I suggested she wave or at least smile at him, she whispered to me, “Mom, I’m afraid of Santa.” What girl isn’t afraid of a guy that spies on her and then sneaks into her house?  Those guys are called ‘stalkers’.

I have a few weeks to fix it, but as it stands, that’s how I wrecked Christmas.

**I thought I’d throw this out there for anyone still listening:

Last night, after writing the above, we took the little girls downtown to see the Hollidazzle Parade. Bananie was pretty into it; she sang songs from Peter Pan when the Captain hook float came by, waved at the Police Marching Band, etc. The last float in the parade is Santa and his fake, light up reindeer.

Me: “Bananie, look at Rudolph! Santa’s on the back. Do you see him yet?”

Bananie: “No… Hi Rudolph…” (Half-hearted wave to Rudolph)

Then, as the back of the float came slowly into view, there he was: a living, breathing Ye Olde Timey Father Christmas waving to the crowd and ho ho ho-ing. Bananie’s huge eyes grew to the size of serving platters and her jaw hit the sidewalk, her breathing became that of a kid about to hyperventilate and/or barf.

Bananie: ” It’s Santa! Santa! SANTAAAAA! BRING ME A PILLOW PET!”

Published in: on November 28, 2010 at 10:46 pm  Comments (5)  

Who pays for the Fancy Feast?

by Muzz

Sittin’ at home with my d– no, wait; I was sitting at home, but I was watching House Hunters International. I don’t remember where they were- Sweden I think- anyway this young couple picked out the house they wanted and made an offer, but then some other fella out bid them and took the house right out from under their feet… or did he?  Turns out, Out Bidder (whom I shall refer to as “OB” henceforth) is allergic to the cats that live in the house (yep), so the young house hunting couple were able to move into their dream home after all. A number of twists in a show that usually includes none.

Huh?  Why didn’t OB notice the cats when he was checkin’ the place out? Were they hiding in the laundry? Shouldn’t the cats -who, evidently, are the actual owners of the house- be party to any negotiations? Or at least be a negotiable item, like window treatments?  Will they pay rent?   And to the previous owners: Why didn’t you bring your cats with you? In my head, this is what went down:
Previous Owners: We’re moving.
Cats: What? Why? (sniffle sniffle)
PO: I got a new job.
Cats, now sobbing: This is our home! We have friends here! You ruin everything! rrraaaawrrr…. We’re staying!
PO: I’ll wrap you in this towel and you can ride on my lap in the car.
Cats: NO! hissssssss! raaaaar!
PO: Fine. Bye.


Published in: on September 7, 2010 at 5:34 am  Comments (2)  

A New and Fabulous Feature to DAK!

Dear esteemed readers, or in the interest of journalistic integrity and truthfulness, reader, as in singular, as in mom…OK, let’s just make it easier. Dear Mom, and possibly Dad if the weather is bad and you’re not golfing,

One of our contributors came to me the other day and pitched an idea for an advice column here at the DAK. I thought about it for a moment and came to the conclusion that this was a brilliant idea. Actually, my exact words, sprayed through a mouthful of crackers,  were “F*** do I care?”

So, here, without further ado, is it.  Here. Below. We’ll run this whenever. -ed

Muzz’s Answer Emporium

By Muzz

If you are like most people, then you have a tough time taking a step back to look objectively at your own problems. Fear not, I’m full of wisdom when it comes to your stupid crap! Some of it anyway.

Family troubles? Bring it!  Money woes? Uh…I’m probably not the right person to ask, honestly.  Relationship issues? I loooove those. “Career” stuff? Mmm…barking up the wrong tree. Wait…uless you’re buggin’ over a co- worker; then for sure let me help. 

In-laws driving you nutter butters? Boyfriend a control freak? Methinks I’m somewhat of a specialist. I’m not saying everyone will agree with all of my advice, but if you’ve got a problem maybe my point of view can at the very least help you see things a little clearer.

Whether my advice is right on the money or way far off, I’m just trying to help. One way to help me help you is to provide all the details you can regarding your situation. All of them, especially the embarrassing and/or salacious ones. But stay anonymous- it’ll make things easier for everybody. Think of me as a priest, or a doctor. Everything you tell me is private, except that it’ll be all over the internet. Again, no boring problems about work or money. If I wanted to listen to those, I’d marry you.

Published in: on October 21, 2009 at 1:16 am  Comments (12)  

Is This Stockholm Syndrome?

by Muzz

The other day I was remembering a song that one of my older brothers wrote about me. I smiled to myself, thinking about how fun it was being the youngest in the family. “How sweet,” thought I.  “I bet not a lot of kids have brothers who would put so much time or effort into making  up a song for their young sibling,  kids who surely look up to their brothers as much as I did mine!”

“Oh  Muzzy, you’re so fat.

Because you ate all the food that you ate”

Takes me back… I honestly can’t remember if it was Billy or Joe.  It does seem more likely- from the level of meanness– that it was Joe,  but I’m really leaning more towards Billy.  Doesn’t matter.  Time flies and memories get fuzzy.

Anyway,  I was thinking of that lovely ditty written for my 10 year old self because in a few months sweet, angelic little Annie will be a big sister. I wonder, will she ever write whimsical songs or play Chinese water torture, or turn off the lights and lock the door of whatever room the new sister is in? Or will she ever stuff a giant wad of steak fat into the water glass of her little brother, and laugh hysterically  while she watches him unknowingly  take a big refreshing gulp?  Maybe she’ll try to teach the newbie how to fist fight when he turns  four, or wake the child from a nap by sticking her smelly butt right up close to it’s  face and letting rip.  Maybe she’ll pull the old  “C’mere! It’ll  tickle your eyeball if  I squeeze this orange peel into it!”   Will she ever lie on the living room floor- patiently waiting for some younger, weaker kid to walk by-  just so that she can grab on tightly around their ankle, rendering their whole body as useless as if their  foot had been sucked into the house’s very foundation?

I seriously hope so.   When the young child inevitably runs to me for help, I’ll smile, put down my gin and offer the same words of comfort my mother gave to me:  “Oh sweetie, nobody like a tattle”.

Published in: on August 11, 2009 at 6:36 pm  Comments (4)  


by Muzz

I got an iPhone.

It’s really cool, I think…  I mean, it’s flashy… and I can check my email from it. And Youtube, I can dink around on there, too. I had to call some chick at Apple though, because I couldn’t figure out how to download facebook on to it. That was interesting.

Those Apple dorks think they’re sooo coool: “I’m so smart! I can work a computer! Being smart is awesome! Meep meep!”   But they’re right, kind of;  Everyone finally has to talk to the nerds. We don’t have a choice- they’re the cool kids now. Yesterday when I bought my iPhone I had all kinds of questions, and the sales kid tried his best not to make me feel like the idiot I am,  but I’ll be perfectly honest- he immediately lost my interest. He was using words that I didn’t understand, like ‘dock’ and ‘port’,  and my brain was all  “Is he still talking about phones?  Am I allowed to bring all my cds here so they can just magic them into my new phone for me? I’m hungry. I wonder what Zac Efron is doing right now? Why won’t he stop talking? This place is neat looking. They should offer juice or M&M’s here. Buh buh buh buh buh…”

 Anywhuh, in order to keep my phone number I had to get my account number from T-mobile.  As I walked on over to the T-mobile kiosk  I got totally nervous, like I was about to break up with someone. I slowed waaaay down, practicing what I was gonna say in my head.

“Stay cool,” I thought. “All business. I don’t need an excuse. What are they gonna do, beg me not to go?

While I waited for the T-worker to finish up with other T-customers I couldn’t help but look back over the six years I’d been with T-mobile. Friendly service; decent phones; ne’er a dropped call.

“Hi, please. I need my account number, please,”  I said, not looking him in the eye.

“OK, Mary Jeanne,”  T-worker said,  “(blah blah blah, some other boring stuff),  are you switching carriers?”

What? None of your business! Why are you making this harder than it already is?  Awkward Avenue!

“Uh, yes. Yes I am.”  Here come the tears…

“Ok,” he said back. “Switch all your (blablahblahbleeeblahblah boop boop nerd talk) and that way you can keep your number. Have a nice day!”

I sprinted back to the Apple store. And now I have an iPhone.

But I do feel some tension.  This new phone knows I’m not using it to its full potential; I sense a screaming match between the two of us soon. Oh well, it’ll clear the air. And I’ll win in the end.  Because I am human, and I can drive a car. I can drive a car right over this smarty pants iPhone if that’s what it comes to.  Wait, iPhones don’t have knives that slide out of the sides like those Red Cross thingies do they?

It has all the signs of a great relationship: I’m in love, but I’m also afraid I might get stabbed.

Published in: on May 4, 2009 at 10:40 pm  Comments (3)  

Don’t Cry, Nerds

By Muzz

Battlestar Galactica is over, the series finale was tonight.  It’s been on every Friday night in my house, but I admit I only occasionally paid attention. So tonight, I read the new Maxim while my beloved said goodbye to some friends- Human and Cylon.  As the end credits rolled, he stared at the tv and uttered what has become an all to common (I’m talking to you, Sopranos!)  lament at the end of a television series: “I’m confused.”

Me: “What happened?”

He: “Its over.”

Me: “I know. What happened?”

He: “Well, this kid was kidnapped, so they decide to go get her. Then some shit happens, so then they fight the Cylons…”

Me: “The bad guy robots?”

He: “Yep, and there’s some code-song, and then they shoot into hyperspace and find a planet to live on that looks like Earth. And some of the robots- nice ones- stay with them on new Earth.”

Me: “Huh.”

It sounds to me like a couple of 9-year-olds wrote the show, but that’s cool I guess. So how are all the nerds gonna shake off the work week now that it’s over? (If you watch the show and are offended that I refer to you as a nerd then I say, C’mon, 9pm  Friday night? On the Sci-fi network? Let’s call a spade a spade.) Well, the Sarah Connor Chronicles are on at 7, (not my cup, but whatevs) and at 8 is Dollhouse, the new show from uberdork extraordinaire Joss Whedon, the genius behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer and one of my all-time favies, Firefly.

Dollhouse, starring Eliza Dushku, is about these goofs who live in a totally sweet underground lair and wander around  like retarded toddlers who swim and do tai chi all day, until they are rented by somebody and their brains are programmed for a day to be the perfect date or housewife or sex slave or camping buddy or what-have-you. Eliza Dushku doll (I forget her name; Echo maybe? Yeah, that sounds right) is always getting rented by baddies, like child molesters, and a crazy dude who boinks her in a tent and then tells her she’s got 5 minutes to start runnin’  before he starts  shootin’. Anyway, by the end of an episode she’s back at the lair having her brain cleared of all the nasties of the day, and ‘wakes up’ all “was I asleep? doyoyoy!”  It’s a fun show… I mean, I like it. So at least that’s one show that the geeks can latch onto if they’re having difficulty weening from Battlestar.

I just have to mention this one other thing: There were an inordinate amount of ads for Fantsy Gifts-type stores during Battlestar Galactica’s run. I just think that’s weird, thats all.

Published in: on March 21, 2009 at 7:43 pm  Comments (4)  

But What If I Have To Poop?

By Muzz

The new InStyle just showed up, and I was soo excited to see it. It comes every month, but all my other mags are weeklies, so it feels like a lifetime between issues.

Since awards season is in full swing, this issue was turning out to be better than usual… until the ‘your look’ section– right after the pages with those fun, cutie-pie outfits they put together for different types of regular, everyday occurances;  how to look really cute for an interview, or really sassy for happy hour,  or other things that don’t occur in my life.  The headline on the page is:  “You Can Do Jumpsuits”.  I read the words and immediately raised my hands in the air and smiled, then started repeating the sentence “Am I slurring my words?” 

 To my great relief,  I was not having a stroke. Indeed, InStyle is promoting the wearing of jumpsuits.  Um… hey, InStyle?  I’m not a mechanic or an infant, so no, I can’t wear a jumpsuit. The article says that jumpsuits are flattering and comfortable. I’m gonna disagree. I have yet to see a camel-toe flatter anyone and although yeast infections are a lot of things, comfortable aint one of them.   I don’t like the idea of taking off my top to use the bathroom, especially since I’m one of those people who always waits until the last second.

The very first jumpsuit they suggest is a dark blue number covered in big white paisleys, but then they say to avoid loudprints, as my jumpsuit is statement enough. I don’t think that they realize that the statement (no matter the print) is:  “Look at me, I’m an adult wearing a onesie! Aren’t I silly? If I move my arms I’ll get a snuggy!” Um, no, you look a grown-up wearing baby clothes. Nope, no thanks.  No rompers for me.

Published in: on February 8, 2009 at 4:04 am  Comments (1)  

can i come in?

By Muzz

How can a show with descriptions like   ‘A couple searches for a home close to work’  and   ‘A young man moves out of his parents’ basement’  be such a hit? 

Why would anyone want to go house-hunting with a stranger,  when it’s not even a fun thing to do for yourself?  I’ll tell you why: People are creepy.  I am,  anyway.  Thats why I love House Hunters.  I hate the episodes when buyers go to an empty house.  I still watch,  though,  because if they buy that house I get to see how they decorate and judge their poor taste. 

My favorite is when the buyers walk into a house that is still occupied,  and then they walk around dissin’ everything in sight,  like,  “Look at this dreadful wallpaper! BLLLLEEEEEH! This would have to go”  and  “That is is the ugliest china pattern I’ve ever seen! I pray to God that doesn’t come with the house!” or  “Ick! look at that family photo!”   When I don’t like the buyers (for whatever reason– most of the time they seem like OK  people,  but sometimes they just seem like total a-holes) I want them to pick the house that I find to be the ugliest, dumbest house of the three choices, and I’m elated when that’s what happens.

You know whats even better than watching HGTV though?  Driving around the lake at night. I like to see in the windows of the big, fancy houses while I drive by slowly.  None of those people have curtains!  Or none of them use them, anyway.  Fine by me;  I’m just admiring (or poking fun) from afar, its not like I’m getting close enough to see who’s in there. I don’t even care who lives there. It’s just nice to know that the old saying “you can’t buy taste” is true. Oh, is that too creepy for your comfort? Heh, heh… just kiddin’  then.   Where do you live?  Just kidding again! I already know! I’m outside. Nice china.

Published in: on January 18, 2009 at 11:46 pm  Comments (3)  

Must Love Dogs….?

So a guy is coming to my house next week for private dog training sessions;  the company he’s from boasts that they can train any dog, any age, any problem. We shall see.

A month ago, I was ready to open the gate in the backyard and set Holly the retarded, spastic dog, and consequently myself, free.

My husband loooooves the dog. She’s a very pretty dog, a yellow lab/ husky mix, and she weighs 70 lbs. We picked her out at the humane society about two years ago- she was the only dog there that seemed not to notice the crowds of people picking out new pets. She just laid in her kennel very relaxed, with a look on her face that said, “If you want to be dragged around the neighborhood every day and live in a house with wall-to-wall fur and an ever-present poop stink, I’m not the dog for you. I like to nap.”

The next day I picked her up and brought her home. The entire car ride, she shook and slobbered and tried to climb on my lap. When I opened the front door to the house, she shot inside like a torpedo and within seconds, had taken a steamy dump on the bedroom floor. Now the look on her face said, “I am a monster. You are a dope.”

So for a year and a half now, I’ve been living with my bad choice,  spending the time I’m not pulling dishtowels out of her throat either trying to find some other sucker to take her off my hands, or day-dreaming about her getting hit by a school bus (an empty one, jeez).

Then last month, my husband found some contest- a naughty dog contest- where the prize was free dog training. He asked me to write a letter about Holly, why she is the worst dog ever. I said no. He asked would I please ask one of my talented relatives to please write the letter for us, please?

So I asked, and they all laughed at me, shouting “NO”,  then invariably they’d launch into a spittle-spewing soliloquy expressing their hatred for my dog, how she jumped on them, chewed on them, buried her nose in their crotches and basically acted in an unsavory manner at every opportunity.

I bit the bullet and wrote the essay myself.

“Fine,” I thought. “There is no way I’m gonna win this contest, but now at least no one can say I didn’t try.”

I won.

That’s cool I mean I guess if you think about it, I can now call myself an “award winning writer”, but I also have to keep the dog. Deal with the devil. Not only that, in order to claim the prize, the husband and I had to go to a premier screening of Marley and Me, a movie I wouldn’t normally see at gunpoint.

Oh, and people were encouraged to bring their dogs to the movie.

So we picked up our prize basket, which also included a free haircut and a mani & pedi from some salon downtown (Nice! a prize I want…), a bunch of dog toys and, inexplicably, a ziplock baggie of Tootsie rolls. Oh, and a gaurantee that after this so-called training, Holly will be a nice dog, one that doesn’t jump on everyone and dig trenches in the backyard and try to eat my new baby.

Maybe the movie wasn’t as I remember; maybe all the barking and whining and peeing and really high pitched “cuuuuu-it!”s from the ‘tweens behind me ruined it for me. Maybe it was the lady who kept asking if her dog could say “hello”.

Or maybe Marley& Me just sucked.


Published in: on January 15, 2009 at 1:18 am  Comments (3)