Baby, Cause I’m a Thug…

I just found out that 2 Live Crew is reuniting and going out on tour. (Mom–whatever you do, do NOT Google 2 Live Crew).

This both amuses and devastates me seeing as how I can’t believe 2 Live Crew is old enough to have a “reunion tour”. Strike that…I can’t believe that I am old enough for them to be on a “reunion tour”.

How many white 35 year old suburban moms with diapers in the bottom of their Kate Spade purses will be at these concerts? Probably more than one might imagine.

Before anyone has a full on heart attack, I won’t be going to see them (although sometimes a little Hoochie Mama can cheer a sister right up). But hearing about this reunion tour got me thinking.

My friends will tell you I have horrible taste in music (well, not entirely horrible…I do like more socially acceptable music also). I mean to tell you, if any of AK’s classmates’ moms saw my iPod playlist for running, I’d be horrified.

Behind the stay-at-home-mom-of-small-children mask of exhaustion and exasperation, hides a closeted hood rat. Which is hilarious to some, considering I am the whitest, squarest, most straight laced Kindergarten mom on the block.

Wait…cussing doesn’t count as straight laced does it? Well, anyway.

I’m not your typical Busta Rhymes concert attendee is what I mean. That being said, I am not above blaring a little Wiz Khalifa while I cruise my hood and hit my usual spots on the East Side–Target, Safeway and Costco. (That’s pretty much the Bermuda Triangle of San Ramon moms). I do realize I must look ridiculous jamming out to Uncle Luke with a Britax in the back of my mom-ish SUV.

What I am wondering is this: will I ever flip that switch that makes me find that type of music abhorrent? My musical ears are still 16 years old and it’s 1993 when 2 Live Crew’s Pop That Coochie has a COMPLETELY different meaning. (I mean, two 8 pound babies…talk about Pop That Coochie–sorry Mom).

When being a “big booty ho” doesn’t mean being 38 weeks pregnant, waddling around wearing elastic waisted pants.

I’m just curious what happens to make moms veer off the freeway of booty music to the rest stop of easy listening? Well, those of us that ever took that road anyway–some moms took the higher road from the get-go. I can’t remember my mom ever listening to Top 40 music, never mind anything remotely offensive. I guess my girls don’t know my secret either. I don’t intend for them to think I listen to anything other than church hymns in the car when they’re not around.

I guess that kind of music makes me think of my younger days, which is weird because I DEFINITELY
wasn’t allowed to listen to explicit music. And it’s not like I revel in offensive language and subject matter; sometimes the lyrics of some of the songs on my iPod even make me cringe. I just plain find it fun to listen to. Maybe it’s just a distraction from the everyday chaos of being a mom.

Really, if you think about it, being a mom to little people is sort of a Thug Life.

You sometimes gotta do whatever it takes to survive. “Ice cream for breakfast? Fine…just no more screeching until Daddy gets home.”

You gotta be a hustler. “Oh, you want Scooby Doo gummies? Well then, pick up those toys, Homey, or I’ll pop a cap in your ass.” (Just kidding. But don’t say you don’t sometimes secretly want to).

You gotta be hard. “No veggies, no treat, no negotiating.”

So in that case, thug music is appropriate. Maybe I should get Thug Life tattooed on my knuckles like Rihanna (yes, I read TMZ). I should probably sleep on that and not do anything drastic until my husband returns from his latest hunting trip and some rationality returns to my mind.

Anyhow, I won’t be camping out in front of any Ticketmaster outlets for my 2 Live Crew reunion tour tickets.

Not only because we have computers now and camp outs are totally unnecessary, but also because I’ve got my own Live Crew of 2 right here. And they’re “as nasty as they wanna be”…just a different kind of nasty.

Hiatus

It’s been a while, folks. I’m back. Here’s a little run down of my hiatus:

First, there was Christmas.

Actually, it started with the Christmas prep. I think I am quite possibly the only person in the entire world who HATES to decorate for Christmas. And by “decorate” I really just mean put up the tree and throw a few knick knacks around on random surfaces. It’s such a pain in the ass. I saw one friend’s status that said she spent 9 hours–9 HOURS!!!!–taking her Christmas decorations down. The idea of that made me want to make a noose out of some twinkly lights and hang myself from my non-garland decorated stair rail. Every year I am so mad at my previous year self for not untangling stuff and putting the crap away neatly. It just seems like when I’m putting it away, I’m thinking that next Christmas is so far away and then BOOM, it’s next Christmas and I’m cussing up a blue streak over the Christmas music while untangling ribbon.

Suffice it to say, I’m a Christmas slacker (I should probably not limit my slacker label just to Christmas). I keep telling myself that when we move back to Florida, to our new and permanent home, I’ll step up the decorating.

So, anyway, there was that.

Then there was the wrapping (oh God…the WRAPPING!!!) and the putting together junk, making cookies for Santa, creating a special apple and carrot salad for the reindeer, making gingerbread houses (that was a school project which almost prompted a call to the CDC because I was nearly certain that someone would be contracting a communicable disease from all the frosting licking), the writing a fake letter from Santa admonishing my kids for their bad behavior and telling them that even though they are naughty sometimes, he left them presents because he knows they are good inside. (I had to do SOMETHING. I’d been telling them for weeks that he wouldn’t bring them anything if they were bad and by golly, they were terrible).

Then we had a wonderful Christmas complete with Big Daddy’s company all day, which is a rare treat. I really do love Christmas as much as the next guy. It’s just a lot of stinkin’ work.

So then we had the massive gift cleanup and toy purge. That almost put me over the edge. I can’t stand for anything to be out of place. My grandmother used to say, “there’s a place for everything and everything should be in its place”. Right on, Nana. But that becomes a major problem when you are totally OCD and you don’t actually HAVE a place for everything in the house that feels like it’s shrinking a little every day.

Then we cruised for a few days until we got rear ended by a nasty case of strep throat. AK was the unfortunate victim. Poor thing…she was so sick. However, I was the unfortunate caregiver. For the love of beach cookies, it is really hard to keep your pity level up for a child who cries EVERY SINGLE TIME she swallows. Think about how much crying that is!!!!! So I took her to the doctor and he gave her some antibiotics and the strep was gone in a flash.

That was the end of that. Or was it?

We then coasted to E’s birthday on New Year’s Eve (poor kid has a sucky birthday) which we celebrated by taking her to “eat” at a pizza joint, which pretty means that she ran all over the place demanding candy and standing on furniture (this is only a slight exaggeration). There was no party. Mark me down as a birthday party slacker too. She has no friends, she’s two. We have no family in a 2500 mile radius. And she had no idea. We distracted her with a jumpy house and an Elmo cake.

Then that brings us to the last and biggest game of the season which we lost in a devastating fashion. Talk about a buzz kill. No playoffs. The upside is we got Superdad back. And we welcomed him with open arms. And a couple of turns with the baby monitor, trips to the park and takeout.

So we’re on easy street right? Nope. This smashes us into the leprosy like rash AK developed all over her entire body which I was positive was Scarlet Fever.

Two trips to the doctor, another strep test, and a new antibiotic later, we discovered she is allergic to penicillin. So she was absent for the first time from school. (The loss of her perfect attendance record shattered me. This worries me because now I don’t give a crap about her attendance. On those mornings when we accidentally sleep in, I might just say eff it because the perfect attendance is already ruined).

To summarize, first and last time on Amoxicillin was a huge bust.

So now, instead of crying every time she swallowed, the itching turned her into a mean ass rattle snake. Poor thing looks terrible and she’s so embarrassed. I don’t think she’s buying into the “how cool it is to be spotted like a cheetah” pep talk I keep giving her, which is only adding to her foul mood.

So, anyway, she’s miserable and making us miserable and methinks, aha! a little Uncle Benny (Benadryl, my friend and ally) for the rash should do the trick…knock her out like a light. I love when Uncle Benny has permission to come to town (I resist the urge to let him visit when I’m exhausted and no one is sleeping). So, with clearance for his arrival, I dosed her up and waited. Ummm…nothing. Not even a yawn. Of course.

So now that the rash is simmering down, we head out to the mall today (with the self conscious leper dressed head to toe in her best Burqa-ish outfit) and both girls act like recently uncaged animals. AK head butts E for not sharing the Elmo video on my phone and I am standing in line for the elevator desperately trying to keep my cool while simultaneously searching frantically for wipes to clean up the gushing blood from E’s lip that with every passing second she is spreading all over her face and hands.

So here we are. I suspect some of you also had this type of holiday run.

Holla’ if ya’ hear me.

Happy New Year.