Once upon a time in a land far, far, away, lived a beautiful young woman who loved her bathroom time. With books and magazines galore, she would spend many glorious hours, indulging her fantasies in luxurious baths or taking care of *ahem* basic needs. Whatever the event, she spent as much time as possible taking care of herself, without worrying for a second about what anyone thought or who might need to use the bathroom after her. Life was beautiful in that tiny bright room; time seemed to run just a bit slower.

Fast forward twenty years and the beautiful young woman is now a settled in, loving mother and wife. Bathroom time has quickly diminished to quick showers and public displays of peeing, oftentimes shared with an audience of her children. No longer are the baths slow and rejuvenating; they are now lukewarm and communal with the occasional child asking, "Uh Mom, is it not ok if I peed in here?" Private areas of bathroom virtue are now shared and critiqued by her children and she wonders if she'll ever get back at least five minutes of alone time...

So yeah, I'm that gal and no, I'm not naive enough to realize that bathroom alone time will happen again, especially now that I'm trying to potty train Gun-Gun. Every time I try to use the facilities, Gun-Gun chases behind me yelling, "Pawwwttteeee! Pawwwttteeee!" I sit down and he sits down (although he's fully clothed, refusing to shed his diaper) on his little potty chair. I try to ignore his intense staring and amazingly long arms with pokey fingers, and do my duty as quickly as possible. As he sits there, he's telling me that he's "Poofed" and I tell him what a wonderful, fantastic job he's doing. As we do our duty (although he doesn't do anything) he proceeds to demand several high fives and a couple of "knuckle-ups" while we're still both sitting there, looking at one another. I guess in another time, I might have thought that this was weird but unfortunately, it's becoming second nature.

He ends his potty dance but keeps me held hostage while I futilely hurry to finish up whatever I may be doing. After hopping off his potty he rushes to the light switch where he flicks it on and off, all the while I’m demanding he stop. It seriousy looks like some weird disco scene with Gun-Gun doing his signature "wiggle-wiggle" dance. Once done with the light switch, he moves on to my make-up bags where he proceeds to unzip them and steal my lipstick because evidently "Nutmeg" looks better on his luscious lips then they do mine. Again, he's corrected but only moves on to trying to sling one of his chubby little legs into the bathtub with one grubby hand on the faucet. Gun-Gun also loves a good bath, fully clothed or not. By this time, I'm normally done and cleaning up the mess he's left for me in just a period of two to three minutes. He’s long gone, running through the house shrieking like a banshee; looking for his next victim or room to destroy.

So yes, bitter I am. I relish my bathroom time and that's the one thing I look forward to getting back after my rugrats are born and living in places with their own bathrooms. Maybe, 20-30 years if I'm lucky?!

Posted by Mommazilla at 09:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

While picking up Taterbug from school, I immediately noticed the smell of fresh cut onions and stinky cheese.

Mommazilla: You play hard today, kiddo?
Taterbug: Why, can you smell my onion pits? (maniacal laugh ensues)
Mommazilla: Tater, I can't wait until you discover hygiene and embrace it.
Taterbug: I already have hygiene, Mom. I just don't have a lot of it.
Mommazilla: (knowing that I was just schooled by an eight year old) You know Tater, you're right, very right.

I'm amazed at the daily affirmations of pure comedic genius provided by my daughter. The puberty talk should be fascinating. She'll probably explain things to me rather than vice versa.

Posted by Mommazilla at 12:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I never really truly realized how illiterate I was until I started having children and they perfected their ability of verbally amazing me. Some of the words that they come up with on a daily basis give me total shock and awe because neither hubby nor I tend to use such big words. Our relationship is based more on pointing and grunting, maybe with the occasional please and thank you - but we KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid). Here are some recent examples of my chitlins:

C-dub on his Burger King breakfast: I have 10 hash browns, Mom. Impressive, isn't it?
Taterbug on the rooster attack: The rooster only attacked grandma because falling in the pond jacked him up.
Gun-Gun on everything: Oh man!!! (o.k., he doesn't really count yet because we're still working on the whole issue of talking).
C-dub on his monster trucks: My monster trucks have the most amazing and spectacular crashes.
Taterbug on my recent bout of heartburn: You’re taking enough drugs to have to go to rehab mom. Will we be able to visit?
C-dub on the topic of his future: Mom, when I grow up I want to be a butt shaver. (This was later clarified due to pronunciation issues). Mooommmm, I said animal saver!
Taterbug on puberty: You know mom, I am getting boobies. They're even starting to bounce when I run.

Geesh. If they're putting things together this well now, hubby and I will surely be faced with eventually finishing up on our 8th grade edumacation.

Posted by Mommazilla at 08:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If you've ever cruised a social networking site (Myspace, Facebook, etc.) then you're probably very familiar with the dilemma I've posed in this blog: social networking false advertising. I'm talking about the person who posts a wonderfully glamorous picture to entice the reader into their page, only to have the reader left stumped after looking at the rest of the photo album and reading the author's profile. Is this the same person? How old is that picture? Who the heck is sending me these messages and can they trace the ISP to my house?!

Uncle R and I have had numerous conversations about this topic and I've been faced with the uncomfortable situation of having to help him dump too many mendacious (I added a new word to my dictionary) women, since he normally can’t come up with any suitable words of ending type endearment. In order to rectify this situation, he and I have come up with a list of helpful hints to the new (and old) user of such social networking sites:

* Do not use your high school senior portrait unless you are truly still in high school. If you are over 20 years old, I can almost guarantee you that this sort of picture will peg you as a wishful thinker (liar). These photos might also be to your detriment in that the bangs that were cool in the 80's are not making a comeback.

* Do not use post pictures of your last drunken stupor (also probably taken in high school). Remember, only a drunk thinks a drunk looks good. Vomit, drool and urine stained jeans are never a good sign nor do they scream sexy.

* If you have children with a questionable person, make sure that you're significant other has a signed note on file indicating that they approve of you dating, so that a potential restraining order can be averted. A "Baby's Daddy" permission slip, if you will. It can be easily posted in the "Interests" section.

* In order to verify age of photography authenticity, hold up a current paper, with the date clearly showing, next to your cheery, un-Photoshopped face. Any age is fine, as long as your truthful about it.

* On the topic of Photoshop, any pictures altered with this program must show a before and after, with a date.

* When using programs such as Myspace, post urinalysis results indicting negative drug usage at time of profile formation, directly under the "current mood."

* Under the urinalysis results, a DNA swab results section would be extremely helpful in verifying that your family tree does in fact branch appropriately. You can link to this in your "I'd like to meet" section.

* Finally, a complete health work-up (including a battery of STD tests) and a wrinkle count by a licensed dermatologist, to be posted in your "About Me" section.

The above recommendations are only a sampling of requirements we feel are necessary for these sites and should be mandatory for all users, male or female. It's not that we don't support the occasional cougar or milfalicious female, but at least make life fair in the playing field and do not promote the spreading of fictitious information. Uncle R is the epitome of cougar bait, and has several friends that are as well. Please help them by helping yourselves; support truth telling in all online communities.

Posted by Mommazilla at 05:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I don't think I’ve had a full nights sleep in over eight years. In fact, the wrinkles - or love lines (I like to call them) - tell me so. This particular night was no different other than that it wasn't Gun-Gun waking up at the crack of dawn to crow with the roosters; it was Taterbug with an earache. If I recall correctly (it was two in the morning) I was having a wonderful dream about beating Tom Cruise over the head with an L. Ron Hubbard book, while Katie looked on lovingly (although rather vacantly), when I awoke to, "Mom, are you asleep?" Hmmm...I could have been a smartass but the good sleep and exciting dream left me weak. I answered back, "I was," and Taterbug proceeded to complain about her throbbing ear drum. After two Tylenol, she wiggled herself into our bed, directly between hubby and me, and of course, she slept semi-horizontal so that I had to balance precariously on the edge of the bed for the rest of the night.

In the morning, the earache became worse and an appointment for the doctor was made. Hubby, ironically enough, suddenly had too many projects going on to take her to the doctor so I was left with the task of taking three munchkins. I knew it was going to be fun. I had drama queen that made up ailments as soon as she got there; paranoid Pete who had panic attacks in the waiting room; and the "licker" who liked to taste every different instrument in the examining room. Oh yeah, I could hardly wait.

When we arrived at the doctor's office, the waiting room was packed with newborns, sick toddlers and several uncomfortable looking preteens who needed physicals. I took my place in the corner and tried to filter out any germs by breathing through my shirt. Did I ever mention that I hate doctor's offices? The kids were doing great and were playing ever so nicely with the other children. This was at least until a brave little girl decided that she would befriend the anti-social Gun-Gun and drive the imaginary bus that he had so nicely commandeered. I saw him eyeball the little girl and his chubby knuckles turned white as he was gripped the steering wheel, waiting for the attack. Surprising enough, he let her have the steering wheel only after a few shoves (between the two) back and forth. I held my breath and waited for the flurry of chubby fists to erupt between the two of them, but instead, Gun-Gun quietly got up and rolled his eyes as if to say, I've moved on to Hotwheels, babe. He freakin' rolled his eyes and the entire waiting room saw him do it! The parents of the infants didn't know how to react since their silent little angels only knew how to burp and pass explosive gas, and the other, more seasoned parents, only smiled in quiet sympathy. I honestly thought the eye rolling began in puberty.

We miraculously only had to wait about 15 minutes (long enough for Gun-Gun to try and give an infant whiplash via shaking the baby carrier and for C-dub to repeatedly ask me if he was going to get an "ear injection"). Taterbug was in all her glory and collapsed on the examining table, proclaiming her ailments. The ear infection was quickly confirmed by Dr. Doogie and we then left with a prescription for the pink bubblegum goo, but only after making follow-up appointments for *gasp* shots! What fun! Each of them needs shots at their next visits! I can’t wait – must…find…earplugs!

Once we got to the car and the animals were contained, I told Taterbug that we had better go down and get her "drugs" before my Mountain Dew induced caffeine high wore off. Her reply to me was, "Drugs? What am I going to be next week, an alcoholic? C-dub, you'd better tell Sissy goodbye 'cuz she's probably goin' to rehab!" With the reference to rehab, he began to sing, "No, no, no!" Ah, the joys of children who love Amy Winehouse songs. Like the dysfunctional family we are, we all sang the chorus to “Rehab” on our way to pick up Taterbug’s “stash.”

At the pharmacy, I finagled all three children past the toy aisle and the Valentine's Day chocolate (much to their dismay), to the awaiting high tech pharmacy with excellent video surveillance. C-dub quickly saw that we could be seen on the video screen, so he proceeded to give Sissy rabbit ears for the remainder of the drop off. Thankfully, Taterbug didn't notice and this prevented a violent slap-boxing attack between the two of them. After dropping the prescription off with a demanding phone call to hubby ordering him to pick it up – after all, he missed all the fun – we ended the day on a high note, a shopping trip to Safeway.

I never really understood how exciting one person's life could be doing rather uneventful things. In relative hindsight, I totally agree with Sam Levinson when he says, "Insanity is hereditary: You can get it from your children." I'm so glad that my own kids are very giving of this disease.

Posted by Mommazilla at 04:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm so fortunate to have great parents and in-laws that will watch my three little monsters at the drop of a hat. They make it possible for hubby and me to work full-time so that we can keep fresh mac and cheese, Doritos, and plenty of Pepsi on the table. Yes, I am a gourmet chef and my kids' chunky little cheeks and flabby little thighs scream nutrition at it's finest.

On occasion, I have the rare event that pops up and I need a babysitter beyond the hours that grandma or grandpa can cover. When this occurs, I have an extremely trustworthy young lady that happily watches the kids and plays Barbie’s, monster trucks, and dress-up until I get home and they're once again neglected (KIDDING!). Unfortunately, my back-up sitter wasn't available for a date and I was forced to tackle the issue of finding another live body. This is where Uncle R comes in.

Ring, ring!
Uncle R: Hello?
Mommazilla: Hey there buddy! How's it going? (syrupy sweet voice, oozing love)
Uncle R: Fine...? (instant distrust ensues)
Mommazilla: Great, great. So listen, what are you doing tomorrow?
Uncle R: Uh (catching on that I'm going to ask for a favor), going to Eureka.
Mommazilla: Cool! What time?
Uncle R: I'm not sure, why?
Mommazilla: Oh, I'm just looking for a little favor....(mumbles) watching the kids for a coupla hours.
Uncle R: I just remembered that I'm also working out tomorrow and then I have to go to Eureka. (panicking)
Mommazilla: So, what time? You tell me first. You're not getting out of this one.
Uncle R: Maybe 1ish to 5ish, but probably later. I'm a busy guy you know.
Mommazilla: Yeah right, busy. I'll see you here at 3PM. I only need you for two hours. As long as your breathing and you have a pulse, you're qualified to watch the kiddos. Throw them some frozen bacon and an unopened Pepsi two liter; it will keep them busy for hours.
I can hear him breathing on the phone. Quick, raspy sounds are emanating from his throat and I hear him gulp.
Uncle R: I can't do it. Your kids scare me. Gun-Gun is the devil incarnate and I know that he'll hurt me.
Mommazilla: Your just exaggerating things! He's just a sweet, active little boy.

Gun-Gun is shrieking by this point, as I quickly try to muffle his war cries with my hands. He then proceeds to scream into the phone about cars and "Bob Bob!" (Sponge Bob) as I remove him from the entertainment center he is attempting to high dive from. Mild profanities ensue and I'm informed that I owe the quarter jar big bucks, by a concerned C-Dub who is proclaiming that there is a big unknown wet spot on the kitchen floor (don't worry Mom, it don't smell like pee!). The dogs, hearing the ruckus, begin to bark and Chico the goat starts tapping at the door with his one horn. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the rooster peeking in the window, intrigued at our strange family. I forget that Uncle R is still on the phone listening to the organized chaos.

Mommazilla: So it's a "no" then?
Uncle R: You have to ask?

Needless to say, I had to cancel my meeting.

Posted by Mommazilla at 06:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My name is (insert random name here) and I'm married to a piler. The word, "piler" refers to the man or woman who piles his or her own crap continuously, in any open area of desktop, countertop or otherwise open space, without care or concern for their bitching significant other. They appear to be deathly afraid of trash cans and recycle bins as it is very common to find their trash adjacent to its intended resting place. I'm sure many of you are faced with the dilemma of having a special piler in your life and you may even be a piler yourself. Anyway you look at it, the problem of piling is one that is more than likely worldwide, but I'm going to do my part in eradicating my hubby of this wicked disease. I strongly believe that a person who is a piler is only a step away from being a hoarder and I don't relish the thought of living with hubby and his 50 year old collection of vitamin wrappers and used snot rags (which by the way, will still be lying by the trashcan). I'm thinking about starting a support group for survivors of pilers and I'm going to call it S.H.I.T. (Supporting pre-Hoarders In Trouble). Please let me know if you're interested and I'll send you an application...hubby has a whole stack on his desk ;o).

Posted by Mommazilla at 04:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

While providing a cooking lesson to Taterbug on how to make mac and cheese fresh from the box, I had a flashback to my childhood. No, this flashback was not caused by any drug nor was it due to a traumatic event - sorry to burst your bubble. It was simply based on something that still cracks me up to this day. The triggering of this little memory was caused by me spilling the entire package of powdered cheese on the counter but primarily on hubby's laptop. Don't ask me why he feels the need to store his laptop on the kitchen counter, right next to the stove where I re-heat the best pre-frozen home-cooked meals. Hubby is a junk stacker, but that will be explained another day...

As a child, a special person in my life had - what I like to refer to as - a fascination with powder. Baby powder, deodorant powder, as long as it was white and legal he was in for it. Each morning before work, he would hit the bathroom only to leave the next occupant with about an inch deep of the velvetly fresh-packed stuff. I have no idea where he would eventually place the powder and what particular parts of his body benefitted from the white mess, but he ending up smelling like a fresh baby's butt everyday which is not necessarily a bad thing. The powder usage also appeared to be very seasonal in that you noticed heavier "drifts" during the warm summer months than you did during the cold winter months. You seriously could not walk through the bathroom in any sort of dark clothing unless you wanted to look like a cocaine packager and/or dealer.

My brother and I still give this person crap over his powder usage even though he's heavily curtailed his abuse and has actually rang in the 21st century with the usage of liquid deodorant. You can now safely wear dark colors in the bathroom without the fear of looking like you partied with Bobby Brown or Amy Winehouse. It is a bummer though, because I can no longer send the kiddos into the bathroom to make beautiful snow angels and limp snow men. It was one more thing to keep them busy, so I could be lazy just a little bit longer.

It's nice to have memories like this because to this day, it still brings a smile to my face and a sneeze in my heart.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I hate being sick. I hate the fact that I'm bonding with the porcelain goddess of all that is disgusting. But most importantly, I hate being sick with kids. They still want to be fed and changed even though I feel like a pile of what they more than likely have created in their diaper. Today is no exception in that I'm experiencing the joys of a mild case of what I believe to be food poisoning brought on by a love affair that I had with three schatty pieces of pizza. For some odd reason, Gun-Gun has also decided it would be a great day to start his own colon cleansing and has produced two of the nastiest, stinky diapers I've changed in awhile. I know this for a fact because I have been a diaper changing expert for over eight years. I have records in five states, three countries and one province, but I don't want to brag.

My day of pity all began last night when I started having the sulfphur-eggy smelling burps that are normally indicative that your stomach is pissed off over something you ate. I went to bed, crossing my fingers that I would wake up minus the toxic waste emanating from my gut. But alas, the bell tolled at 3AM and I awoke to the beautiful sounds of a rumbling tummy, who was actively working to vacate my lower region of all that was previously good. I'll save you the gory details, but I think you get the idea.

I gimped myself out of bed when hubby left for work, and parked my worn out body on the couch. Hubby had already let Kimber the mutt in, and she was passed out on her back in front of the fireplace. It could have been scene from a Thomas Kincade portrait but then I saw that Gun-Gun had snotsicles and runny eyes, and I realized that he had also decided to get sick. I guess he doesn't know the rule that there is only to be one miserable person at a time in our house. I turned the babysitter on (TV, duh) and proceeded to encourage Gun-Gun to rot his brain with an episode of Sponge Bob while I tried to close my eyes and imagine that I could once again trust my farts.

As I drifted in and out of miserableness (yeah, I know that’s not a word), I detected an odor that I falsely accused Gun-Gun of creating. After a quick diaper check revealed a semi-clean butt, I chalked it up to something that must have slipped out of me - getting old sucks. I again closed my eyes and tried to relax only to have that same smell creep back up into my nostrils. By this time, C-dub and Taterbug had joined me in the living room and I promptly placed the blame on them. Both kiddos denied it and passed the blame onto Gun-Gun and I informed them that he was just an innocent victim in this game of stench.

It was at that time did I notice Kimber stretching, her fluffy head pushed into the carpet, while her four paws were outward as if reaching for opposite ends of the room. Taterbug was first to associate the relaxation with the smell, “Oh my gosh, it's dog farts! That's what smells! She's super relaxed, Momma!" Now I understand why we have never had inside animals (not counting the kids)...The raunchy smell coming from that dog was a million times worse what my body could have ever created. From my couch throne, I instructed my servants (a.k.a. children) to toss the heathen outside so that she could pollute the barnyard rather than our living room. But Kimber wasn't moving and she knew that I was too weak (and lazy) to get off my duff and drag her outside. Plus, I knew that I would lose my organic vacuum cleaner if she was gone. It's all about the sacrifices...

So here I lie, surrounded by half-dressed children and a dog with a rectum from Hell. It’s going to be a long day but I have plenty of Febreze and toilet paper. Life is good.

Posted by Mommazilla at 10:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Just a few everyday photos of life on the ranch:

moar funny pictures

moar funny pictures

moar funny pictures

moar funny pictures

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

I feel bad for any delivery person that has to breech the threshold of my driveway. Between the gang of chickens, wild one-horned goat, and neighbor's over excited peeing machine (a.k.a. male dog), their vehicle is surely to be defiled by some critter...two if they're lucky. Besides the animals, they're usually faced with at least one or two half-naked kids and a mean Mommazilla yelling at them to cover up their goodies. Last week proved to be no different when the gentleman from Schwan's brought our family my "home cooked" meals.

I saw Chico's floppy goat ears perk up at the sound of the loud diesel motor purring down our driveway. When he did his little prance and a kick, I knew that it was the Schwan's truck as Chico loves visitors, especially ones that deliver food and delectable head scratches. We have a wonderful patient Schwan's guy (SG) that not only puts up with the unruly goat, but also helps to give my children ideas of what sweet treats his magical "ice cream truck" (according to C-dub) contains. A couple of visits ago he was so nice to even supply C-dub and Taterbug with a catalog, for easier shopping. Five pounds and an extra $20 later, we were set with four different types of ice cream confections that I happily quality controlled for the sake of my children.

On this particular visit, Chico did his best to follow SG all around his truck, nosing him around as SG quickly gathered our order together. Chico would casually nibble on SG's date book and chew on the ice whenever the freezer compartment was open. SG was careful to make sure that Chico did not abscond with any of his frozen concoctions and even more careful to protect his own family jewels as Chico was feeling especially amorous today, sharing the head butting love of his one horn.

As I was waiting, I struggled to keep Gun-Gun out of the lake size mud puddle that had grown at the edge of our driveway. Gun-Gun had proclaimed his wish to "STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!" in the water, with or without my final approval. I finally picked him up in my arms while SG brought over our frozen goodies. SG proceeded to explain the monthly specials while Gun-Gun continued to wiggle and squirm. He did his best mommy torture by constantly beeping my nose with his tiny little dirty and stinky fingers, and then arching his back in an attempt to perform a five foot high dive trick. He finally stopped wiggling and I heard him start chanting. At first it was silent and then the melodic sounds got louder as I attempted to figure out what he was saying over and over again. "Booobeees! Booobeees! Booobeees, mama!" I then felt a sudden burst of cold air and looked down to see that Gun-Gun had hooked his little finger in the top of my shirt, pulling it out and peering down it as if in attempt to start an echo of his chanting. Boobies! It was finally clear as day. Gun-Gun was using his developing category and precocious baby skills to show SG my boobies. SG cleared his throat, chuckling, and put away his sales flyer. I smiled back and told him, "I guess that will be it for today. I think we've both seen enough."

SG left and I took Gun-Gun and my home-cooked meals into the house. Gun-Gun continued to play peek-a-boo in my shirt and throughout the day would check in on his new "friends." SG has yet to return back to my house but I feel as though our relationship has progressed to a much higher level. I most certainly will buy an extra set of chicken enchiladas next week, and perhaps some extra brownie cups. He earned it through our painful *confidential* understanding and willingness not to laugh too hard at my "goodies."

Posted by Mommazilla at 04:06 PM | Permalink

I've always been a "collector" of animals. I call myself a collector rather than a rancher or farmer because I have never truly made a dime at any of my profit adventures involving four hooves or feathers. It's OK though, because I love animals and so do my kids. Hubby, on the other hand, has a mild disdain for most creatures, including the one-horned goat who feels the need to exert his dominance whenever hubby is in the picture. And this is where my story begins...

It was a freezing cold February morning when Chico was born into the world. He was a small white bundle of fur with floppy brown ears and little knobby horns. Shortly after his birth, a higher power had other plans for his mother, leaving him an orphaned "kid." As circumstances go, Chico was later found roaming the streets when he was about a month old, and $20 later (to pay for the huge bag of formula - first indicator that this was going to be a problem), he began his life as my fourth "kid." I have been told numerous times in the past that nothing is ever entirely free in life - there is always a catch whether it is further financial costs or other burdens. Chico came with the burden of being a baby, a baby that liked to nurse from a bottle four times a day, engorging himself more like a piglet than a kid.

Hubby and I had previously spoken about getting a goat to tackle our briar problems but I don't necessarily think we were on the same page as to the type of goat we were looking for. Ultimately, Chico found his way tucked into a warm blanket on our front porch when hubby was at work. When hubby got home that night, I secretly watched him through the window and saw the immediate scowl. As he walked through the front door, muttering some expletives that cost him several dollars in the "cussing jar," I introduced him;

"Honey, this is Chico. He's going to be living with us for the next 10 years or so."

Initially, I received a million promises from my oldest two that they would be doing all the nursing sessions and any clean-up associated with little "Cheekies" (a name he earned due to the plump rump he quickly grew). Seriously, how much of a mess can a 12 lb. goat create? As Chico's 16 ounce Pepsi bottle quickly turned into a huge 32 oz. calf bottle, we learned that the messes were endless; nursing sessions meant that the front porch and caregiver would be covered in a slime of formula and spit, combined with whatever else wanted to come from the other end or middle (my kids, by the way, were amazed that Chico peed from his belly).

And then there was the issue of castration. Chico had received the "little green rubber band" treatment prior to entering our home, so I knew that "It" was going to fall off sooner or later. I was just hoping that my older two wouldn't ask too many questions on why Chico chose to wear rubber band jewelry at such a young age. Approximately two weeks into our relationship with Chico, Tater-bug ran screaming into the house, clutching a little white bundle of fur, or should I say "sack" of fur. Through the hysteria and sobbing, I was able to determine that she believed that her baby goat was falling apart and that she had the evidence to prove it. I inspected the item in her hand, verifying it was Chico's last sense of manhood, and quietly told her that Chico was going to be fine. She looked at my strangely, angry that I wasn't concerned of his impending doom. It was then I reminded her of the little green rubber band and what it had been latched onto. In one move and scream, she yelled, "You mean I'm holding his balls?!" and threw Chico's pride off the front porch. I corrected her word usage with a mild scolding and then thoroughly washed her hands, all the while laughing to myself and trying to remember details for hubby. It was then that we had a very mild and subdued talk about why baby boy goats do not need that part of their anatomy in order to live happily (and much less stinky) ever after.

We nursed Chico for six months (way longer than we needed to but he was insistent with that cute little face) and learned a ton through the process. For example, goats can projectile vomit - particularly when they know that you just washed your car. Too much alfalfa is not a good thing no matter how happy he looks, because it certainly does not smell nice nor look pretty when it's flying out of his cute little mouth at 3AM. Also, no matter how much he professes to love dog food and chicken scratch, it is not good for him. Two trips to the vet for kidney stones and bloat say so.

You may be surprised to learn that Chico continues to live a happy life with us, although he is now a year old and weighs about 75 lbs. He is headstrong (literally) and enjoys a good playful headbutt whenever he sees hubby, the kids, dogs, pretty much anything that moves and he perceives as needing to be dominated. What used to be playful little nudges are now painful stabs with that damn horn that grew back after his late dehorning session. He can be quite the turd, especially since I haven't had roses for over a year due to his trimming sessions, but I love the little guy. He wanders our valley when he's not on his lead, and will follow you around like a loyal dog. He also loves when our realtor visits as the realtor brings Chico's best friend - a shiny black paint job that reflects Chico's handsome face (a.k.a. his best friend). No, I'm not at all saying that Chico is the most intelligent animal, but he is very entertaining and extremely loyal. He's the stinky guardian of our front porch and best friend to the chickens. Hubby still isn't sold on Chico and frankly, can't stand the poor little guy (something about Chico nibbling on the four-wheeler, eating the pull string on the lawnmower, and schatting in the garage on hit tools - I think), but he's at least accepted the fact that he's not going anywhere. Chico will be with us for the rest of his little goaty life and I'm sure that there will be many more adventures and frustrations that can be attributed to this little guy.

Then

Now

Posted by Mommazilla at 09:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Were you one of the lucky buggers to get a Wii for Christmas? If so, you know how stinkin' expensive their games are. Amazon.com has several popular Wii games on sale right now, with free shipping to top it all off. Here's the games on sale:

* Thrillville: Off the rails $33
* Victorious Boxers: Revolution $30
* Dragon Blade: Wrath Of Fire $30
* Manhunt 2: $27

The Thrillville: Off the rails is supposed to be a really fun game and has great reviews. I'm not sure about the other three due to the subject matter not necessarily being too cohesive for my brood. Happy shopping!

Posted by Mommazilla at 09:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Are you familiar with the Grave Digger? How about Bigfoot or Gunslinger? Or the infamous Wild Hair? Well, I suspect that you are probably not unless you have a monster truck lovin' five year old in your home. C-dub has been bitten by the Redneck bug; It's a frightening little creature that causes my otherwise loving child to sing AC/DC songs, wear only camo, and refer to his mother as "Woman." My sweet little boy is now a man-child and I'm left to vaccum up the remaining pieces (and Hotwheels) with my hot pink Dyson.

His redneck affliction began about three years ago when he quietly discovered hubby's Hotwheels, long forgotten in an old shoebox. He first admired the cars and then one by one, took them out to the vast abyss of his bedroom. We'd find Hotwheels everywhere; the toilet, our bed, and at one time, in our broiler, firmly melted to the grill. Over the years, as his love of redneck grew, so did the size of his cars and trucks. Little Gun-Gun was provided with the remnants of Hotwheels while C-dub grew into remote control trucks and fast race cars that crashed themselves.

As he became more computer literate, he discovered (with the help of Taterbug and hubby) the magic of Youtube and the endless monster truck crash videos it contained. My son was the only preschoolian who could chant the web address for his favorite videos, as well as how to spell out his redneck love with: MONSTER TRUCK CRASHES. Over and over, he would replay the videos, laughing and singing along to the narrating songs (hence the previous reference to AC/DC). During share time, he would re-enact his favorite crash scenes complete with the AC/DC song, "DND, I'm Dynamite!" (a.k.a. TNT-yes, he's hearing it wrong but no, he won't change his mind or his pronounciation), which he would belt out until embarassment got the best of him. Other parents would look on and smile, secretly thanking God that their child was still into Disney and not the hunting or racing channel.

Knowing full well of his current affliction, I recently took C-dub to a local video store to pick up some movies for the family. While there, I told C-dub that he could pick out his own movie. Of course, he quickly scanned the cover pictures until he found the "Best of NASCAR" video and swooped it up. I was deeply engrossed in the description of "Knocked Up" and faintly heard him calling for me, asking about the movie. I mumbled a response back which he evidently did not hear or did not care for. He asked again a little louder, but this time pre-empted his question with a loud, "Woman! Are you ready to go yet?" I looked over at him, thinking that my hubby had been suddenly re-incarnated in a five year old frame. I could hear snickering from the older man standing next to me, and I quietly nodded to my man-child. My man-child, a.k.a. C-dub, clutched his NASCAR movie to his chest like a prized-trophy, and led me out of the store. I followed behind like a submissive Stepford wife.

And the saga continues... At least a gazillion times a day, I'm presented with "spectacular" monster truck wrecks and the most "amazing" car crashes a person has ever seen. He does not allow you the choice to watch; it's a demand and then he wants critical feedback on the techniques demonstrated. When he's not demolishing Hotwheels or playing on Youtube, he's stealing our couch pillows and photo albums to prop up livingroom carpet ramps and jumps. You cannot walk across our livingroom floor without hearing (and feeling) the crunch of assorted vehicles under your feet. Airborne hazards are also common - just ask hubby about the tiny chip in the NEW flat screen TV.

While I love the creativity, I do admit that I'm looking forward to the day when I can dress my little man in cute corduroy pants and then take him to the museum for a day of art history (blah, I wouldn't even like that, who am I kidding?!). And, I also look forward to when he wants to actually give me smooches rather than forehead smacks or a command to "knuckle up." I admit, I do love seeing C-dub play with his cars and trucks, especially when he's doing it nicely with his little brother. Whenever he catches me staring, I'm usually greeted with a big toothy grin and then a raised fist with an exposed thumbs-up. I love my little man-child, but the emphasis certainly is on the "child" rather than the "man."

Posted by Mommazilla at 06:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

This is a poem I wrote several years ago, just after having my middle son. I think many of you will find that you can relate :o).

To the Child

Spit-up, diapers, and runny noses,
Stumbling steps and awkward poses.
Swollen gums and teething rings,
A purple dinosaur that sings.
Picking noses, eating paste,
Changing classes without haste.
Dating, hormones, and driving cars,
Thinking your parents are from Mars.
The joy of a child is apparent,
But only to those who are a parent.

Posted by Mommazilla at 05:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

In today's day and age, dating can be quite interesting and entirely too entertaining for those of us who get to watch (it's the voyeur in me coming out I'm sure). A very special person in my life is currently living and hating the single life (Uncle R). He's handsome, rich, super single, and just an all around nice guy. The perfect catch, right? He seems to be but unfortunately, he's just not attracting the right sort of girl. The women who seem to be expressing interest just have "issues." Children, rebound love, boyfriends, everyone has something considered to be excess baggage.

I've encouraged my little buddy to have an active online social networking account (very popular - won't name it to protect the innocent) and I help him frequently edit to add pics, comments, etc. He's had a lot of interest with it and I've enjoyed seeing his little ego peak with every MILF and cougar comment he's gotten. A few nights back, we decided that it was time for him to venture into the exciting Humboldt County dating scene and I invited him to (insert dramatic drum roll here...); Girl's Night. This special night occurs only once in a blue moon to our small group of girlfriends. It's a night of wild debauchery, hard liquor, and pure adrenaline producing excitement, set in the backdrop of a poorly lit, smoky casino filled full of immoral heathens. To translate, it's a night out without the kids and hubbies, at the casino playing penny slots and downing watery pina coladas while living vicariously through the youngsters in the crowd.

I chose to be the responsible and oh so maternal designated driver, and promptly began my tour of duty by chauffeuring Uncle R to his awaiting piece of heaven. Uncle R and my girlfriends began their course of adult beverages while I became a silent groupie around the soda machines, drinking until my bladder felt as thought it would burst. I needed that caffeine high, no matter the cost. Honestly, I had only been at the casino a couple of times, and each time had been for some sort of celebration where adult beverages (in moderation of course) had been involved. Being high on caffeine and stone cold sober, I was actually frightened to a point as I suddenly realized how scary some of our fellow gamblers were. I'm not about to brag about that I have long luxurious locks of gold hair and endless sky blue glowing eyes (and I won't even mention my bodacious almost pre-child body), but holy smokes, is it asking too much to have your guests at least take a shower prior to going out? Or how about combing your hair and brushing your teeth? Cigarettes and alcohol do not entirely cover the smell of "funk."

As I sat there babysitting Uncle R, who quickly realized that when they said "double" they didn't just mean it in the price, I slowly looked around to take it all in. For those of you not familiar with the sort of female (I hesitate to say "lady") characters you might see on a night like this, let me introduce you. Please keep in mind that this was also the selection my girlfriends and I were trying to choose from for Uncle R:

Type 1 Female (no longer a MILF): Under 40, with or without dentures. Likes to pop dentures in and out of mouth during heavy gambling or deep conversation. Always has ciggy up to her leathery lips. Has deep, phlegmy smokers laugh, and likes shiny things. She sticks to the hard liquor and Steel Reserve. Usually single or a grandmother of at least 10.

Type 2 Female (almost a MILF): Under 40, has all teeth. Wears comfortable clothing (i.e.: sweatsuit or velour) and promptly hoists a leg up on her seat as she plays her penny, nickel and quarter slots (helps the carpal tunnel that is aggravated by the gambling problem). May or may not smoke and tends to drink fruity drinks or soda. Usually married with at least two kids.

Type 3 Female (former MILF now a cougar): Over 40, probably with dentures. She's a silver fox wearing her polyester finest jumpsuit. She's rockin' the bling-bling in the form of QVC diamonique and sticks to her frugal penny and nickel slots. She may or may not smoke, but darn it, she makes whatever she does look (sing it like Fergie) GLAMOROUS. May be married but probably divorced or a widow.

Type 4 Female (wannabe MILF): Under 30, has most teeth. Very fond of spandex type cotton, snug fitting clothes and muffin tops. They tend to cluster in a group like a pack of hyenas and also make similar type noises as they are easily excitable. They share ciggies and drinks, and only gamble if it brings them closer to a good looking - or at least reasonably good looking guy with exposed greenbacks. They usually profess to either having or to have had a career as an exotic dancer. ** I know this from a previous casino experience where my girlfriends and I met a 300 lb "stripper" in the bathroom. We all raced to pee so that we could get out of the stalls and see her shake her stuff, as she was gyrating her goodies for her strange looking four foot friend who had accompanied her into the bathroom. It was a strange, surreal experience, and I practically needed bleach for my eyeballs when she was done. ** They are usually single.

Type 5 Female (lady): Under 30, has teeth and nice shape and face. Also likes snug clothing but looks good in it as well. She's confident with or without a group and only smokes on occasion. She's usually linked to a man (more than likely a hubby) and is the rarest group of the female casino crowd. She's taken and has no children. Heck, she probably even works and goes to college - maybe even to be a doctor! Woohoo!!

As you can tell, we looked long and hard for a Type 5, would have settled for a Type 3, but there was no such women to be had. Uncle R was forced to hang with the ladies and drink profusely in order to make the Type 1, 2 and 4 look more appealing. We continued to gamble our night away on the penny slots, and I had to remind Uncle R several times of decimal placement when it came to winning actual money on the penny slots (no Uncle R, 500 pennies does not make you rich - no matter what country you're in).

At the end of the night, and after observing Uncle R perform several drunk dials to numerous friends, we parted ways with our group. I drove Uncle R to his home and quietly watched him stumble up his steps, where he promptly waived his arms like one of those floppy kite figures, indicating that he was OK and in his apartment. I hesitated to leave until I saw him get inside and turn the lights on. I know that he's a grown man (almost 30 to be exact) but I didn't want him to have any unexplained black eyes or bruises caused by an unsteady floor. I don't necessarily think it was physical injury I was too worried about, but more of the potential emotional devastation we could have caused him; The dating scene he was exposed to at the casino wasn't exactly prime but I think he survived it and more than likely learned something from it. He will definitely be invited to the next Girl's Night, and hopefully, we'll actually find an available Type 5 lady for him.

Posted by Mommazilla at 06:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

I've never been one to enjoy commuting to work but the drive to Eureka is something I can usually tolerate with a little caffeine and some good tunes. It's normally not an unpleasant drive as long as the wildlife population hasn't decided to commit a mass suicide with the highway clean-up crews celebrating an extended vacation. However, some person or persons, more than likely a lot more heavily college edumakated than muah, has discovered the perfect way to ruin my daily drive and make me dread commuting. It's what I like to call the "14 Miles of Angst."

I'm talking about the lovely highway median project between Fortuna and Eureka. It's supposed to keep our roads safer by placing a solid median between the north and south running highways. In theory, it's a brilliant idea and should keep people safe; however in reality, it's a pain in my ass and I'm so sick of the slow progression it's taken. Seriously, did Cal Trans really need to block off 14 miles of roadway, ALL AT ONCE?!!! I'd like to think that an engineer actually wrote "4 miles" and then, due to an errant piece of his lunch landing on the plans, a "1" was accidently added. That surely sounds more reasonable than a person actually thinking this was a good idea.

After doing a quick, rather unofficial tally vote over a couple of Hot Toddies, the resounding vote (from my professional friends) was NO! We want our highway back and we want it back now. My normal 15 minute commute now takes at least 25 minutes. It's always my luck that I get stuck behind the person that wants to drive 45 mph to be "extra special safe" and in front of the jerk that wants to get to his destination 15 minutes ago. Every morning, I feel like I'm in an evil traffic sandwich and I can feel my blood pressure pulsating in my temples. I think I have peeled most of my steering wheel cover off and what's left has been severely picked at.

Now don't get me wrong, we do need this sort of median. I know that I don't want my family to be hit by the wayward driver and I certainly don't want anyone else to be subjected to the pain and loss of a nasty highway traffic accident. But again I ask, 14 miles? Why not 2 miles at a time? OK, how about 3 miles? Maybe I'd even consider 4 miles, but I think you see where I'm going here.

It's been more months than I can count, but I did notice the other day that they were painting the new median so that the cement rocks appeared to have more depth and texture (I guess, unless it was some sort of sealant and I totally missed it). I'm hoping that once Van Gogh or Michelangelo has had their fun, they'll pitch those steroid loving orange rubbermaid cones into the trash and once again set our highway free.

Posted by Mommazilla at 04:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I think that any person who has been around children, for practically any period of time, understands that the more quiet a child is, the more trouble they are looking for or even worse, getting into. Add muffled giggles and shushing sounds, and you've got a complete menu for trouble. Having been a self-proclaimed professional mother for over eight years, I know this secret all too well and have oftentimes foiled potentially dastardly deeds, thought up by my oldest two.

This brings me to my most recent escapade with Taterbug and C-dub. It was a normal Sunday afternoon and little Gun-Gun was sawing logs in his bedroom, taking a well-deserved two hour siesta. The older two, proclaiming how "boredddddd" they were, decided to play a game of hide-and-go seek, completely ignoring hubby's orders of staying out of our room. It's not that we have anything to hide, but after finding smashed crackers and sippy cups of juice inside our bedcovers, and pudding fingerprint drawings on the vanity's mirror, proclaiming "Taterbug was here," I had to draw the line somewhere.

The game was getting heated and C-dub was getting rather pissy since he couldn't find Taterbug. I saw him wandering around the hallway, mumbling about how he hated being "it" and that "Sissy" was always "cheatin." Having seen Taterbug run into my room just prior to C-dub walking through the hallway, I gave him a sideways look, cocking my head towards the general direction of my room. With a knowing glance, he yelled, "Thanks Mom!" and ran off towards the sound of a now pissy Taterbug who was obviously torked that I had helped the enemy.

The game continued on for a few more minutes and I could hear shrieks of laughter - all was well and their frustration and boredom had subsided. I continued relaxing on the couch, allowing myself to slowly shut my eyes and enjoy the peaceful solitude that my house was now becoming. This quiet realization suddenly jerked me back into reality...who was I freakin' kidding...my house is never this calm!!

I slowly crept into my bedroom where I could hear muffled giggling and plenty of "Ewww...look at that C-dub!" While listening to their obvious dismay, I began to guess as to what they were doing in my domain and what they had found. A sick feeling began in the pitt of my stomach. I knew what they had found and I knew that I had some 'splaining to do. It was time for the partial "talk." Not yet the birds and the bees, but close - too close. They had found hubby's Playboy and it wasn't pretty.

Mommazilla: What the heck are you doing in here? In my most big girl voice of course, holding back the laughter that promised to leak out of my smiling lips. Taterbug dropped the magazine like a hot potato .
C-dub: We weren't looking at the naked ladies mom. Honest!
Taterbug, who couldn't contain her obvious amusement, continues whooping and hollering.
Taterbug: Dad's a total perv!!! He likes lookin' at disgustin' nakid chicks!
C-dub: Dad's not a perv Sissy! Right mommy? Hey mom, what's a perv anyways?
Mommazilla: Dad's not a perv and that's not really a nice word for you to be using as an eight year old lady. He just likes reading the stories but he thinks those pictures are totally gross. I bet he was just about ready to throw this one in the trash.
Hubby suddenly walks in to check out all the excited voices until to be greeted by:
C-dub: Daaaadddd! Sissy says your a perv! And I says you're not! Right dad?
Hubby: Hey guys...oh, you found Uncle R's magazine. Good! We'll give that back to him.

Yeah, the blame was passed onto a family member but it helped us to save hubby's fall from grace and took the label "perv" from his name. I don't know who the hell taught Taterbug the word, "perv," but I'm guessing that this same little friend will more than likely explain the full set of facts of life to her at the next recess or bathroom break. Heck, I learned where babies came from during the spring of my 3rd grade year. My good friend Maria promptly informed me of how they got there and they were sprung from your body through a full belly zipper. Yes, it was a little misconstrued, but for years after that I knew that making out and hugging boys could easily get a girl pregnant and I certainly didn't want the doctor unzipping my belly to deliver a kid.

Well here we are, a day later and a dollar wiser. Thinking that the drama from the day before was over and forgotten, C-dub casually approached me tonight,and the following brief conversation ensued:

C-dub: Momma, I love you.
Mommazilla: I love you too, honey.
C-dub: Momma, where do you think daddy put that naked girl magazine?
Mommazilla: He probably gave it back to Uncle R. Remember? That was his book, not daddy's.
C-dub: Oh, OK momma. We don't want to look at it again, right momma?
Mommazilla: No C-dub, we don't.
C-dub: Not even a little, huh?
Mommazilla: No C-dub.
C-dub: And I can't kiss you anymore cause that would mean we're on a date and I don't ever want to date a girl.
Mommazilla: C-dub, go play. And quit talking to your sister.
C-dub: OK momma.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

For her 8th birthday, Taterbug received a Wii game called, "My Sims Pets." It's a really neat game where you can create your own town; all the way down to the people and their pets. While playing the game, I heard Taterbug and her brother (C-Dub) have a very interesting conversation about creating a female character and how to dress her...

Taterbug: C-Dub, you need to start with a good bra. She has to have one.
C-Dub: Sissy! Stop telling me what to do! She's doesn't need no bra, they're ugly!
Taterbug: C-Dub, do you want her boobs to sag? Do you really want her to look like mom?!
C-Dub: Oh, sissy, you're right. Mommy's boobies are super saggy and yucky.
Mommazilla: Um, yeah, thanks kids. Let's just pick a bra and move on.
Taterbug: You mean the granny bra, Mommy?
Mommazilla: Yes Tater. The granny bra.

I guess that my topless excursions around the house will now be limited to several layers of clothing and a Wonderbra. Gotta love the innocence and *ahem* knowledge of children.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This is an open letter to my dear hubby, written with only compassion and understanding:

Dearest Love,

Me

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

While cruising down the street the other night, I had a sudden revelation thanks to some of my trashy neighbors. I know, I know...it's really like the pot calling the kettle black since I do have chickens and a goat sleeping on my front porch - but at least I clean the crap off once a week. I don't know that they can say the same.

Anyhoo, while driving past the chubby woman in the black stretchy pants with sassy hawaiian shorts pulled up over her double bubble stomach, complete with a cigarette hanging out of her droopy, wrinkly mouth, I watched as she lugged her pre-decorated christmas tree into her duplex. I could smell the odor of tobacco, bacon grease, bread dough and dank 'ole weed eminating from her open doorway as she grunted and groaned to get in the door. Since this was pretty entertaining, I paused for a moment at the stop sign to see if she could get it into her house. I guess if I was truly feeling the Christmas spirit, I would have at least offered some help but I chose to pause and snicker instead.

I think the most entertaining thing was that she already has a couch and set of chairs set up in her front yard, so why not just set it up in the front yard? It would be much easier for Santa to access and she wouldn't have to worry about her bong accidently incinerating her stockings. It seems like an easy solution to me...

While still struggling with the green beast, her old man shows up and offers his support, while at the same time juggling a Steel Reserve and puffing on a ciggy. Their cute little girl (maybe five or six), with a full bag of Doritos and a bottle of Pepsi in her chubby little fists, promptly plops down in a lawnchair to partake amongst the festivities. The argument ensues between the parents with the little girl giggling, chugging soda, and getting cheesy Dorito powder all over her clothes and face.

As I quickly find myself bored with the situation, I finally drive past the happy family, giving a friendly wave. This family has often provided me with a source of entertainment as they always choose to have their family meetings, arguments, love fests, etc., in their front yard within the view of the entire neighborhood.

It's nice that everyone celebrates Christmas in their own way. My kids won't be decorating the Christmas tree with empty Marlboro packs and free AOL CD's nor will they be making "special brownies" for Santa, a.k.a. Dad, but, to each their own. I just hope that Santa is current on his Hep series and tetnus.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Awww....the amazing smell of pine drifts through my household this time of year. With the beautiful christmas tree twinkling, smelling faintly of the woods/farm it came from, the strongest smell of pine is emanating from my kitchen sink in the form of a Pine Sol soup. The dreaded stomach flu has hit our house, leaving no one innocent (except for Taterbug) from it's dreaded hold. Little Gun-Gun brought the happiness home to our household in the form of stinky midnight vomit sessions and runny poop that made him walk like a sumo. C-Dub next took his joy and proceeded to "get the barfs" at preschool. The little guy is such a trooper that he asked his teacher if he could just come home and change his soiled clothes and then come back to play!

For me, it all began early this morning with that all too familiar strange gut gurgle - you know the ones where when they hit, you truly can't trust your farts any longer . After arising to the music of my own stomach, I quickly hit the bathroom and proceeded to visit the porcelain goddess about 15 times over the duration of the day. As I laid in bed, moaning and groaning, poor hubby tended to the kiddoes and played homemaker.

However, now that evening is hear, and I've finally ended my bathroom worship sessions, I hear heavy footsteps rushing towards my room. Yes, hubby decided to partake amongst the festivities and began his own worshipping session. I hear poor C-Dub in the other bathroom "not trusting his farts" (how we told him!) and sweet little Taterbug is sitting on my bed scarfing tangerines and oatmeal cookies (she had to make her own dinner). It's going to be an interesting Christmas - especially if we run out of toilet paper!

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I've come to the realization that holidays just "happen" for men. They show up for pre-planned, elaborate weddings...the Christmas tree is loaded with presents on Christmas morning...the kids all have Halloween costumes...the mother-in-law loves her birthday present... You can almost guarantee that a good woman made these events happen for that special man in their life. So babe, don't complain to me when you get the credit card bill or when I tell you no Starbucks coffee today because the checking account is nearing starvation. I've been busy helping whatever holiday is around the corner, occur in our household. You're very freakin' welcome. Another Christmas, birthday, etc., is about to happen and you won't even have to raise a hand to help.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Yo Gabba Gabba. For you moms out there with little ones, you probably know exactly what and whom I'm talking about. I finally sat down and watched this freakish show with Gun-Gun, just this morning. As I'm watching some funky guy dressed in orange spandex and a hat that looks like he stole it from the Grand Ole Moose Lodge, my son is mesmorized.

The story revolves around the funky orange guy who keeps these little monsters in a box. He's quite the voyeur, looking in on them and taking care of their basic needs (I guess - the show didn't really explain and I had to use my imagination). In this episode, they proceed to entertain us with a song about "a party in our tummy." I think I heard a dirty joke about that once, but that's a different story . Anyhoo, disturbingly enough, the eggs, bacon, toast and fruit all have faces and personalities. The stuff that doesn't get eaten then cries because they can't join the party in the "tummy." Yikes! My son is scared to eat now, afraid that his fruit loops might cry too.

The rest of the episode was dedicated to the love of music and getting the "sillies" out. We even got a quasi-Ska band singing about the joy of bananas...I won't even go there . When they got to the part about how you can use your body to make music, I had to snicker. My kids already have that down between the farting, blowing snot rockets, armpit farts and raspberries, we're quite the musical family.

Ultimately, this show if freakin' bizarre but hey, it entertained Gun-Gun enough that I was able to write this Blog. Keep on truckin' funky orange dude. You're cooler than Barney and not nearly as annoying as Blue and her clues.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I've probably never mentioned how accident prone my hubby is. From the swimming dirt clod fight that led to a badly broken arm; to the sheep fencing building stint that led to three fingernails being painfully removed - he's done it all. He's the type of guy that should buy stock in Neosporin and Tetnus and then maybe some additional in Bandaids and Ace wrap. I'm proud to say that for better or for worse, I've been there for him through each of his "incidents." I'm known for being supportive and not making too much fun of him for the stupid thing(s) he did to wreck whatever body part.

This little history brings us to yesterday's terrifying event... I had just gotten home for work and walked into my house when I noticed that everyone seemed to be gathered around one point in the house - our master bedroom. As I walk into the room, I see a rather pastey looking hubby, lying on our bed with only his undies and a tattered t-shirt on. His mom is standing to his side and I at first think to myself, "Yeah. This is a little weird. Why the hell is he sitting there talking to him mom in his nasty drawers?"

Once I take it all in, I finally notice that he has a cut on his knee and he informs me that he had a fight with the chainsaw while attempting to cut firewood. In a quiet plea for more sympathy (with lip trembles, I might add), he tells me, "I was just trying to provide for the family" He later tells me that there was a tear in his eye during his explanation, but yeah, whatever. I then proceed to bandage up the wound the best that I can and I drive him to the ER. I can't help but have visions of the Three Stooges dancing through my head, especially the episode where one of them has the long piece of wood and whacks the other two in the head. But I digress...what a cold-hearted witch I sound like to be smiling at my hubby's fiasco.

We finally get to the ER where we're greeted by a full waiting room of patients. Due to a past life I lived, I knew several of the players, errr...I mean patients. There was Thomas the tweeker with a meth abscess on his wrist that was totally infected; Brooke the single mom with a sick baby, and a whiny fat old lady in a wheel chair that shrieked whenever someone hit or touched her foot. Her old fat hubby was so sick of her that he just parked her chair and then sat across the room to quietly read the latest addition of Good Housekeeping.

We sat there for over an hour and a half, when Taterbug (who wanted to go as a support person - but in reality the idea of stitches was sooo fascinating, especially since they weren't going in her) noticed that hubby's leg was again oozing. After a plea for more four by fours (gauze), they finally put us in a room and came in to have a look. The nurses and doctor all seemed so excited to hear that hubby had been attacked by a chainsaw. The look of disappointment was clearly visibile on their faces when they saw the actual injury. What a sick bunch of weirdos!

After another hour, the doctor came in and began the process of fixing hubby up. She matter of factly told hubby, "Ok, this is really going hurt," as she began to inject the numbing solution into the wound. And it did. He winced but held in the tears that were quickly forming in his eyes (ok, that's a little stretch but I had to add that comment in for my brother). She then deftly put in six stitches while my goofy hubby informed her that he watches "alot of ER" and that "Dr. Kovatch don't got nothin' on you." The doctor, apparently also familiar with ER, began to laugh and promptly dropped her scissors on the floor. We had to wait for a nurse to bring her a new set and hubby kept his mouth shut for the rest of the stitching.

When she was finally done, I took poor hubby home and then dragged him out to dinner with Gun-Gun. We went to a local brewery that was having a "Peanuts on the Floor" night, so the normal projectiles of chewed food that Gun-Gun likes to disperse, went unnoticed on the dirty floor. After a delicious dinner of greasy goodness, I took him home and put him to bed. It was a good day to have over.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

All week long, I had promised my kids that we would do something fun on Friday night. The movies are too expensive and neither hubby nor I enjoy chasing Gun-Gun up and down the hallway so that Taterbug and C-dub can kick back and relax. Our other choice was skating but I knew that with hubby's track record, a broken bone was inevitable. The overwhelmingly popular choice was to go swimming at a local indoor pool.

Now, as a mom , I could care less if I had to tackle the issue of a swimsuit. I could go in cut-offs and a sexy t-shirt, as long as the kids were safe and happy. However, as a woman, the idea of a swimsuit terrified me. I know what I look like naked and I didn't think I needed to share that vision with strangers or friends I might see at the pool. Mother nature is a witch and she has taken great care in making sure that gravity has done it's duty on my poor body. It ain't pretty but it gets the job done, especially since the creation of Shapewear.

Knowing full well that little elephants do not forget, I knew that there was no way I was going to get out of going. I swallowed my pride and opened up the drawer, exposing the dreaded swimsuit. I pulled my perky pink suit out and held it up, only to hear a snicker from Taterbug.

Taterbug: Ya really gonna wear that mom?
Mommazilla: Yeah Tater, I am. You don't want me to go naked, do you?
A look of horror crept across her sweet little face.
Taterbug: No mom. That would be terrible. Seriously.
I started to get undressed and looked back to see Taterbug still watching me, amusement clearly present on her face. She wore a big toothy grin.
Taterbug: Hey C-dub! Get a load of mom's suit. It's even got big 'ole cups in it like a bra! And look! Her boobs aren't even gonna fit!!!
C-dub can't comment because he's laughing too hard.
Taterbug: Momma, what do you do if your boobs fall out into your armpits? They're saggy too!!
She's snickering as she asks and her comical momentum slowly starts to speed up with her questioning. C-dub continues laughing and begins to call for hubby, so that he can partake amongst the fun.
Taterbug: Betcha can't run in that thing either. Why dontcha try?
Mommazilla: Taterbug. You'll be a mom one day too. And guess what? I'll give you my swimsuit to wear because you're going to look like me.
The idea of a mommy swimsuit was enough to shut her up and make her ponder the probabilities that she'd eventually inherit my physique. She slowly wandered out with a look of disgust and I smiled in response.

We eventually made it to the pool and had a great time. Gun-Gun, quickly realizing that the water was not as warm as his usual bath, decided that it just wasn't for him and made the great escape with hubby. The other two little sea creatures proceeded to pummel and attempt to drown me by repeated belly flops into the water. I did notice the water was quite warm and thankfully the cholorine took the edge off the urine. Remember the saying, "Thanks for not peeing in my ool. Notice there's no "P" in it." I can't help but think that the other 20 or so people swimming with us probably didn't share in my sentiments. I thanked my lucky stars for the chemical chlorine goodness that provided us with a safe barrier from all the floating nasties.

All in all, it was a fun night and well worth the pain that the pukey pink bathing suit (with not near enough spandex coverage) brought me.

Posted by Mommazilla at 10:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I love naked babies, especially little baby butts. Little Gun-Gun has the cutest round cheekies (not the ones associated with his cherubic smile) and I love when he's fresh out of bath, running from me like I have the plague in an attempt to avoid a diaper. Tonight was no different, other than he was not fresh out of a bath and he was supposed to have the diaper still on, pending our nightly fight with pajamas.

As he streaked through my room yelling, "Moooommmmmmyyyyyy!!!", I immediately noticed that he was naked. Completely naked. Hubby looked at me and I looked back at him in a silent fight over who was going to track down the missing diaper and prevent our little fire hydrant from watering the furniture. Gun-Gun continued his streak through our room and into the bathroom where he promptly announced that he "poofed" and needed to "brush eeth!" Hmmm...poofed? He farted? Normally a "poof" was a "fart" in Gun-Gun language, so I didn't worry too much. Thanks for announcing it Gun-Gun, and thanks for doing it outside of mommy and daddy's room. Hubby and I continued to try and ignore his nakedness so that we could finish our grown-up talk, thinking that time was on our side.

Shortly thereafter, I heard a squeal of disdain and saw C-dub flying down the hallway, pinching his nose in one hand and a dirty diaper hanging precariously in the other. C-dub ran from one end of our room to the other, frantically looking for a place to dispose of his hazardous waste. He was screaming, hubby was yelling and Gun-Gun was hiding. I had just taken a phone call so I shrugged my shoulders at hubby, giving him the go ahead to handle the situation. Gun-Gun took this as a sign of weakness and quickly ran out of our room and into C-dub's room, where he promptly smushed his "raisinettes" further into the carpeting. I knew that hubby needed back-up, so I ended my conversation and caught up with the "poof" offender. I calmed hubby down, all the while holding Gun-Gun back with one hand, preventing him from further smearing or should I say smudging. I then gave him his fourth bath of the day as he had decided to also fingerprint his belly with his homemade paint.

Thinking that we had located all of the offending spots, we left for the evening and later returned, only to put the kiddos to bed. I put on my sweats and took off my shoes and socks, to fully relax and get ready for bed. The kids were asleep and Gun-Gun once again smelled good. As I walked down the hallway, I suddenly felt a sick squish