I spy

with my little eye, something yellow.

Girl: the sticker on the visor?

Me: nope

Boy: your sunglasses?

Me: try again

Girl: baby's water shoes?

Me: no

Boy: that bead on your necklace?

Me: nuh-uh

Girl: my gum wrapper?

Me: nope, that's green

Boy: the sun coming through the window?

Me: no, but good try

Girl: my swimming goggles!

Me: try again

Boy: the gas gauge thing

Me: that's actually orange

Girl: I KNOW I KNOW!

Me: what?

Girl: Dad's teeth!



amusingly uncomfortable silence

He reconsiders my offer to try my whitening strips.


Dad: I spy with my little eye, three children who don't talk unti we get there.

THANK GOODNESS!

I am just so thankful for the media’s obsessive coverage of Paris Hilton’s current dilemma. If it weren’t for the paparazzi's celebutant-stalking, how would I possibly stay abreast of her every waking movement? Omigaw hold up! According to Fox News, she just farted! Oh……never mind, it was just Gretchen Carlson crossing her legs. I heard Paris only had three blankets in jail! Isn’t that crazy? I’m totally glad they’re keeping me so informed because I’m just way bored of the Darfur thing you know? All that genocide and rape. Gawd, what a total bummer. And can we just move on from all that Iraq war news and stuff? They’re all terrorists anyway. They did break away from Hilton’s coverage to update us on W’s tummy ache. Dude musta ate some bad bbq.

Hear that?

That was the deafening sound of my ego deflating. It was just another casual trip to my local evil empire. Another cart full of items like half ‘n half, bananas, baby wipes, batteries and sandbox sand. You know, the usual. As always, my children slyly coaxed me in the direction of the beguiling land of Beg and Plead - otherwise known as the toy department. Considering the amount of money I surrender weekly to that place, I have no qualms with letting my kids wreck the toy aisles with abandon and unrestrained play. Yep, sometimes I take my kids to wal-mart simply to play with the toys. Ten toppled lego figurines, four upside-down dinosaurs, three thoroughly played-with fire trucks and six strewn hula-hoops later, I halfheartedly began herding my flock away from the merriment. Enter two tanned, muscular guys approximately age 21. As they sauntered past me I felt their four eyeballs traveling down the length of my faux tanned legs and arms. My eyes met all four of theirs and I was greeted with slight nods and animated grins. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, I did a quick scan to make sure nothing on my person was obviously offensive. Fly zipped? Check. Hair still smoothly tied back in a flirty summer ponytail? Check. Dry armpits? Check. I paused for a moment to consider the possibility of two relatively young guys gawking at an average 30-something mother of three. I stood in place, tightly gripping the realization of flirtation as my senses intensified. Then I heard it drifting from somewhere in their direction: a whistle. A clearly discernable reet-reer intended for me. With a slight buzz of humble satisfaction, I watched their toned bodies walk away from the department of children, parents, responsibility and tantrums. I flipped my hair, lifted my shoulders to accentuate the colossal milk pillows and lovingly called to my three adorable children. I positively bounced in my flip-flops as we walked along the aisle. I was too distracted to care that my toddler child was grabbing handfuls of books and hurling them into the cart. I was too inflated with glee at being reunited with my flirt-factor to hear my Boy and Girl arguing over who played a more crucial role in the demise of Obi Wan Kenobi – Boba Fett or Jenga Fett. I was still hot, attractive and whistle-worthy. I was totally a milf. I was almost too bloated with vanity to hear a loud whistle coming directly from the stuffed gorilla display as we walked by. (Insert the sound of tires screeching to an abrupt halt here.) I cautiously backed up and walked past the display again. REET-REER!

Oh. It was the gorillas.

I awkwardly rubbed the nape of my neck and removed a chunk of string cheese from my hair. As I dropped it on the floor, I scraped the dried grape-nut ice cream off my left boob. Funny, I hadn’t noticed it there before.

I looked at my kids.

I looked down at the one-size-too-small skirt I was trying to get away with.

I looked at my shopping cart filled with things I would never have purchased ten years ago.

And then I let out a chuckle of resignation and called my sexy Husband. He could always use a good laugh at my expense.