Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:
I am really excited to get one of those foam alphabet puzzle mats with the removable letters for the floor in our playroom. I think it will be great for the kids, and all the online reviews are great! Do you know how to keep them clean?
Thanks for your help!
Sincerely,
Excited
Dear Excited,
I will be glad to help! First, I think it's important that you know some of the history behind foam alphabet puzzle mats. For example, did you know that they were invented by Satan? I'm quite sure that he is the only one who could have created such an item. As for all of those glowing reviews, go back and check how old their little darlings were when the parents wrote those. I'll bet you a box of wine that the majority were under a year. Of course it seems like a great purchase then. Those sweet babies just roll around on the colorful mat, and their parents think how great it is that their little prodigy will learn the alphabet so young. They picture their little Sweet Pea graduating from Yale in 20 years or so, and they think, it all starts now, because we're exposing our future little Einstein to the foam alphabet puzzle mats.
Now let's fast forward a year or two. That kid is removing every letter and shape from that floor six times a day, using the letters as frisbees, and playing his own version of ring toss as he attempts to throw the shapes around his brother's head. There won't be money for Yale, because his mother has spent that money on xanax, since she has just about lost her mind from picking up letters and shapes six times a day, and then trying to find which letter or shape goes where. Think you'll teach your kids to put the shapes back? You might. When they're twelve. Until then, it will be you. And I hope you did well in geometry, cause this is more than just circles and squares. Octagons, hexagons, pentagons--they're all there. Designed to make you lose your mind.
You should also keep in mind that when the shapes come out, there is now a hole in that spot. Over the years, alot of stuff gets in those holes, and down under the mat. Not only will you find an amazing amount of dirt under there, along with two dead crickets, some macaroni, and a toothbrush, but the color will come off some of the mats, and will leave an imprint of the letter I on the play room floor. Of course, the letter F would have been more appropriate, for the F in foam alphabet puzzle mat.
Oh, sorry--I didn't answer your question. The way you keep foam alphabet puzzle mats clean is to leave them in the damn store.
Hope this was helpful!
Dear Hot Mess Housekeeper:
I love for my kids to read, but they can't seem to leave books on the bookshelves and I get tired of picking them up all the time. Any ideas?
Sincerely,
Bibliophile
Dear Bibs,
I think it's so great that you want your kids to read. I, however, believe in starting small. So start with one book. When they can not only read that book, but can also put it back on the shelf without being told, they can have another. I know what you're thinking...you probably have way more than one book in your house, so what are you supposed to do with all the others? And I have the perfect solution for you. Use them to make a floor in your playroom. Who knows--it may help your little Sweet Peas get into Yale.
Have a question for the Hot Mess Housekeeper? Feel free to leave it in a comment below. I will do my best to answer it as soon as I'm done with my wine...or maybe a little sooner than that.
Showing posts with label xanax. Show all posts
Showing posts with label xanax. Show all posts
Friday, March 16, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Beware of Simple Questions...
Sometimes a question is so simple, it leads you to believe that the task in question will also be simple.
So when Jimmy asked this morning if I could pick up our taxes from the accountant, I thought, of course I can pick up the taxes. Run in, grab the taxes, leave. I would have B and O with me, but no big deal. Our accountant has a home office, so it's not even like we would need to walk through a busy parking lot or walk far from the car to get there. Much simpler than, say, a trip to K-Mart for a coffee maker, or taking all three to N's dance class, or taking B and O to the play area at McDonald's.
What I hadn't foreseen was that the accountant himself would be with a client, his assistant would be busy, and the office would be filled with other people. So we waited a few minutes for the assistant to get our paperwork together, and as she attempted to explain things to me, B and O discovered the book shelf, and decided that the books would look better on the floor. I also hadn't foreseen that, unlike in past years before Jimmy had started his business, this was not a simple "Here's your tax return. Sign it and mail it". This was business taxes, and personal taxes, and state taxes, and federal taxes, and tax paperwork for the business for 2012, and oh, by the way, write a check for this rather large sum right here and send it off by April 15th, thank you very much.
I kept looking at that sum, thinking, wow, that is a lot of money. And, no, this does not mean we made a lot of money. Trust me on this. You might think that's the case, but I am certain that is not the case, so as I stared at the rather large sum, I started to feel somewhat overwhelmed. And as I stared at that sum, the assistant started telling me about another sum-fortunately much smaller--that needed to be mailed to the state, and about checks that needed to be written later in the year, and forms that needed to be signed and returned to them, versus the forms that needed to be returned with the checks. I started thinking there was no way I was going to keep all of this straight.
At that moment, of course, B and O pulled more books off the shelf. O brought one to me that was titled something to the effect of "Holistic Remedies Your Doctor Won't Tell You". I briefly wondered if this was required reading for CPAs, and then decided it was probably useful for when their clients pass out in shock after seeing the numbers on their tax forms.
The assistant is talking about this check, and that check, and in a few months this other check, and this one goes in this envelope, and this other one goes in that envelope, all while B and O are pulling books off the shelf, and running around the office, and starting to scream. Oh no, not the screaming. And I think, wait, I have three children...aren't they supposed to be good tax deductions? It also occurs to me that it's really unfair that everyone gets the same deduction per child. I mean, has the IRS met my children? Then I think, well, actually Uncle Pete (finally! someone in this family with a normal name!) works for the IRS, and he knows my children very well. Maybe he could explain to the powers that be that they are each worth at least a double deduction. I mean, what about all the necessary expenses directly relating to their care? Like wine. And tequila. And, eventually, xanax.
I see the rather large sum again and I think I am going to pass out. Good thing the accountant has that holistic remedy book. I think maybe I should talk to Jimmy about having anotherdeduction child. I quickly realize that what we save from an additional deduction we would end up spending on Jimmy's mental health care and/or beer. Probably not worth it. I think of joining the Tea Party. Or the Libertarian party. Or maybe I'll start my own tent city with a sign that says "We are the 99% who pay too much in taxes while the 1% sits around and whines". I decide this is probably the best option, since we might need a tent to live in once we pay this rather large sum to the IRS.
The assistant is still talking. I am putting books back, and chasing O, and telling B to stop screaming, and I am totally confused about who is supposed to get which check when and which form goes to the state, and which goes to the feds, and which comes back to the accountant. O is now also screaming, happily, but very loudly. I am starting to sweat as I realize that I am going to mess this up and they are going to take Jimmy to jail, all because my children were out of control in the accountants office and I, brain dead and with no attention span even in the best of circumstances, got it confused. I think of the prison show I saw recently that gave me nightmares, and then I realize, wait--this would be federal prison. Don't people say that's like a country club? It occurs to me that part of our taxes are going to fund country club prisons for other people who don't pay their taxes. Then it occurs to me that maybe they intended to pay their taxes, but just got it all confused, because their children were screaming and throwing books in the accountant's office.
B and O have disappeared into a back office, with the accountant's books. I am trying to round them up, while putting back books, attempting to make them be quiet, and listening to the assistant, who clearly just wants me to leave. Now. The accountant comes out of his office and appears to be, well, scared. New people come into the office and take all of this in with looks of fear and/or apprehension. The accountant asks if I have everything, and tells me to make sure I take the children with me. I think of Jimmy going to the country club prison, and I think no, it doesn't have to be this way. I will write a letter to the IRS. I will tell them to talk to Uncle Pete--surely he will tell them that my children are worth a double deduction. And then I will beg, plead if I have to, No! Don't take Jimmy to the country club prison!
Take me instead.
Please.
So when Jimmy asked this morning if I could pick up our taxes from the accountant, I thought, of course I can pick up the taxes. Run in, grab the taxes, leave. I would have B and O with me, but no big deal. Our accountant has a home office, so it's not even like we would need to walk through a busy parking lot or walk far from the car to get there. Much simpler than, say, a trip to K-Mart for a coffee maker, or taking all three to N's dance class, or taking B and O to the play area at McDonald's.
What I hadn't foreseen was that the accountant himself would be with a client, his assistant would be busy, and the office would be filled with other people. So we waited a few minutes for the assistant to get our paperwork together, and as she attempted to explain things to me, B and O discovered the book shelf, and decided that the books would look better on the floor. I also hadn't foreseen that, unlike in past years before Jimmy had started his business, this was not a simple "Here's your tax return. Sign it and mail it". This was business taxes, and personal taxes, and state taxes, and federal taxes, and tax paperwork for the business for 2012, and oh, by the way, write a check for this rather large sum right here and send it off by April 15th, thank you very much.
I kept looking at that sum, thinking, wow, that is a lot of money. And, no, this does not mean we made a lot of money. Trust me on this. You might think that's the case, but I am certain that is not the case, so as I stared at the rather large sum, I started to feel somewhat overwhelmed. And as I stared at that sum, the assistant started telling me about another sum-fortunately much smaller--that needed to be mailed to the state, and about checks that needed to be written later in the year, and forms that needed to be signed and returned to them, versus the forms that needed to be returned with the checks. I started thinking there was no way I was going to keep all of this straight.
At that moment, of course, B and O pulled more books off the shelf. O brought one to me that was titled something to the effect of "Holistic Remedies Your Doctor Won't Tell You". I briefly wondered if this was required reading for CPAs, and then decided it was probably useful for when their clients pass out in shock after seeing the numbers on their tax forms.
The assistant is talking about this check, and that check, and in a few months this other check, and this one goes in this envelope, and this other one goes in that envelope, all while B and O are pulling books off the shelf, and running around the office, and starting to scream. Oh no, not the screaming. And I think, wait, I have three children...aren't they supposed to be good tax deductions? It also occurs to me that it's really unfair that everyone gets the same deduction per child. I mean, has the IRS met my children? Then I think, well, actually Uncle Pete (finally! someone in this family with a normal name!) works for the IRS, and he knows my children very well. Maybe he could explain to the powers that be that they are each worth at least a double deduction. I mean, what about all the necessary expenses directly relating to their care? Like wine. And tequila. And, eventually, xanax.
I see the rather large sum again and I think I am going to pass out. Good thing the accountant has that holistic remedy book. I think maybe I should talk to Jimmy about having another
The assistant is still talking. I am putting books back, and chasing O, and telling B to stop screaming, and I am totally confused about who is supposed to get which check when and which form goes to the state, and which goes to the feds, and which comes back to the accountant. O is now also screaming, happily, but very loudly. I am starting to sweat as I realize that I am going to mess this up and they are going to take Jimmy to jail, all because my children were out of control in the accountants office and I, brain dead and with no attention span even in the best of circumstances, got it confused. I think of the prison show I saw recently that gave me nightmares, and then I realize, wait--this would be federal prison. Don't people say that's like a country club? It occurs to me that part of our taxes are going to fund country club prisons for other people who don't pay their taxes. Then it occurs to me that maybe they intended to pay their taxes, but just got it all confused, because their children were screaming and throwing books in the accountant's office.
B and O have disappeared into a back office, with the accountant's books. I am trying to round them up, while putting back books, attempting to make them be quiet, and listening to the assistant, who clearly just wants me to leave. Now. The accountant comes out of his office and appears to be, well, scared. New people come into the office and take all of this in with looks of fear and/or apprehension. The accountant asks if I have everything, and tells me to make sure I take the children with me. I think of Jimmy going to the country club prison, and I think no, it doesn't have to be this way. I will write a letter to the IRS. I will tell them to talk to Uncle Pete--surely he will tell them that my children are worth a double deduction. And then I will beg, plead if I have to, No! Don't take Jimmy to the country club prison!
Take me instead.
Please.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Sticky Situation
There's not much I miss about my life before kids. Yesterday, though, I was reminded of something that I do miss. I really miss being allowed to be sick.
There is no good time to be sick, but at least before kids, I was allowed to be sick once in a while. Call in sick, and back to bed with tea and Jerry Springer. Oh wait, this is one of those tricky grammatical situations where one or two words changes the whole meaning. Let me clarify: I actually have an extremely low tolerance for Jerry Springer. It depresses me and makes me sad for the future of our country. But before kids, I at least had the option of watching Jerry Springer. Not anymore. So when I woke up yesterday with every part of my body aching, I knew it probably wasn't going to be a great day. (For the record: I admire those of you whose motto is "Make it a Great Day!". However, I am a realist. Some days are just not going to be all that great. On these days, my personal mottos include: "Make it a Survivable Day", "Make it a Day Where No One Gets Hurt", and "Make it a Day Where I Don't Want to Drown Myself in a Vat of Whiskey.")
I struggled through breakfast, wondering if I could somehow make waffles and lay on the couch at the same time. When everyone had eaten, I retired to the couch with the new comforter that my sister gave me for Christmas. I love this comforter. It is my new best friend. And yes, she gave it to me. I do not have to share it with anyone. And I don't. Not even Jimmy. And yesterday, I really loved it. If I didn't have the option of watching mindless grown-up TV, at least I had my new, warm, incredibly fluffy comforter.
I was vaguely aware that there was chaos going on around me, but I felt powerless to stop it. So, I encouraged lots of mindless kid TV and fortunately, N was off school and could alert me when her brothers' antics were turning dangerous by screaming "MMMMOOOOOOOOMMMMM" loud enough to burst my eardrums, which were already aching like every other part of my body.
I struggled through lunch. I can't tell you what they had for lunch, but it was something edible, and I know that preparing it required me to leave my couch and comforter for some period of time. I struggled through diaper changes--struggled really being the key word here--and I think one of my three children may have gotten dressed at some point yesterday.
I finally decided that a shower was in order, though I wasn't really sure I could make myself leave my couch and comforter again. Eventually, I made my way upstairs and discovered that the hot water made things stop aching. This caused me to take a longer shower than usual. Well, that, and the fact that I think I may have briefly fallen asleep in there. When I heard N say in a very controlled, yet very angry voice "You...Had...Better..Put...That...Down...Now.", I thought I should probably get out. Wow. She does a really good angry voice. This is not good. I make a mental note to watch my tone and/or start taking xanax. When I heard her add a not so controlled "NOW!", I was afraid of what I was going to find. And I should have been.
I threw on clothes--well, as much as you can "throw" on clothes when everything is starting to ache again--and was looking forward to returning to my couch and comforter. As I came downstairs, I immediately noticed a strong smell of....something sweet. I couldn't place it immediately. But as I stepped in something sticky, I realized that it was syrup. N and B love syrup. N and B love it so much in fact, that they lick it off of their plates. (No, I don't LET them do this. I let them do very little. That doesn't mean they don't do it). Until yesterday, O hadn't had syrup. I'm pretty sure he loves it now, too.
Although I was now standing in a puddle of syrup, I still couldn't figure out why the smell was so strong. Until I looked around. And realized that there was syrup everywhere. Living Room floor: syrup. Kitchen Floor: Syrup. Kitchen walls: syrup. kitchen door: cap from bottle of syrup. Stuck to door with...syrup. O: syrup (I had remembered to put him in his pack and play. But if you can't go to the syrup, apparently the syrup comes to you). B's hair: syrup...and something else. I smell his head and realize that peanut butter had also been involved. There has been a peanut butter and syrup party while I was in the shower. N is trying to fill me in on B's escapades while I am walking around, finding more puddles of syrup. I want to cry. And then I remember my comforter, and pray that the syrup hasn't made it that far. To my shock, there isn't a drop. Thank you God.
So, while I really wanted--needed-- to be on the couch with my new syrup-free comforter, I was scrubbing syrup and peanut butter off the floors, the walls, the doors, and my children, while I was also sweating, wondering if I was going to pass out, and thinking that syrup and peanut butter really smell pretty gross together. As I found a puddle next to the trash can, I thought of N and B's love for syrup, and hoped no one had licked any off the floor. And then, when I thought I was done and found yet another puddle, I thought, why would that have been a bad thing, exactly?
Come to find out, yesterday was National Peanut Butter Day. They were just celebrating! And National Maple Syrup Day was December 17th, but we didn't know that then. Thus the joint celebration yesterday. I briefly thought of banning all future celebrations, but that just wouldn't be right. In fact, we should celebrate more.
National Margarita Day is February 22nd, but I'm just going to start a little early. If you're looking for me, I'll be licking the tequila off the floor.
There is no good time to be sick, but at least before kids, I was allowed to be sick once in a while. Call in sick, and back to bed with tea and Jerry Springer. Oh wait, this is one of those tricky grammatical situations where one or two words changes the whole meaning. Let me clarify: I actually have an extremely low tolerance for Jerry Springer. It depresses me and makes me sad for the future of our country. But before kids, I at least had the option of watching Jerry Springer. Not anymore. So when I woke up yesterday with every part of my body aching, I knew it probably wasn't going to be a great day. (For the record: I admire those of you whose motto is "Make it a Great Day!". However, I am a realist. Some days are just not going to be all that great. On these days, my personal mottos include: "Make it a Survivable Day", "Make it a Day Where No One Gets Hurt", and "Make it a Day Where I Don't Want to Drown Myself in a Vat of Whiskey.")
I struggled through breakfast, wondering if I could somehow make waffles and lay on the couch at the same time. When everyone had eaten, I retired to the couch with the new comforter that my sister gave me for Christmas. I love this comforter. It is my new best friend. And yes, she gave it to me. I do not have to share it with anyone. And I don't. Not even Jimmy. And yesterday, I really loved it. If I didn't have the option of watching mindless grown-up TV, at least I had my new, warm, incredibly fluffy comforter.
I was vaguely aware that there was chaos going on around me, but I felt powerless to stop it. So, I encouraged lots of mindless kid TV and fortunately, N was off school and could alert me when her brothers' antics were turning dangerous by screaming "MMMMOOOOOOOOMMMMM" loud enough to burst my eardrums, which were already aching like every other part of my body.
I struggled through lunch. I can't tell you what they had for lunch, but it was something edible, and I know that preparing it required me to leave my couch and comforter for some period of time. I struggled through diaper changes--struggled really being the key word here--and I think one of my three children may have gotten dressed at some point yesterday.
I finally decided that a shower was in order, though I wasn't really sure I could make myself leave my couch and comforter again. Eventually, I made my way upstairs and discovered that the hot water made things stop aching. This caused me to take a longer shower than usual. Well, that, and the fact that I think I may have briefly fallen asleep in there. When I heard N say in a very controlled, yet very angry voice "You...Had...Better..Put...That...Down...Now.", I thought I should probably get out. Wow. She does a really good angry voice. This is not good. I make a mental note to watch my tone and/or start taking xanax. When I heard her add a not so controlled "NOW!", I was afraid of what I was going to find. And I should have been.
I threw on clothes--well, as much as you can "throw" on clothes when everything is starting to ache again--and was looking forward to returning to my couch and comforter. As I came downstairs, I immediately noticed a strong smell of....something sweet. I couldn't place it immediately. But as I stepped in something sticky, I realized that it was syrup. N and B love syrup. N and B love it so much in fact, that they lick it off of their plates. (No, I don't LET them do this. I let them do very little. That doesn't mean they don't do it). Until yesterday, O hadn't had syrup. I'm pretty sure he loves it now, too.
Although I was now standing in a puddle of syrup, I still couldn't figure out why the smell was so strong. Until I looked around. And realized that there was syrup everywhere. Living Room floor: syrup. Kitchen Floor: Syrup. Kitchen walls: syrup. kitchen door: cap from bottle of syrup. Stuck to door with...syrup. O: syrup (I had remembered to put him in his pack and play. But if you can't go to the syrup, apparently the syrup comes to you). B's hair: syrup...and something else. I smell his head and realize that peanut butter had also been involved. There has been a peanut butter and syrup party while I was in the shower. N is trying to fill me in on B's escapades while I am walking around, finding more puddles of syrup. I want to cry. And then I remember my comforter, and pray that the syrup hasn't made it that far. To my shock, there isn't a drop. Thank you God.
So, while I really wanted--needed-- to be on the couch with my new syrup-free comforter, I was scrubbing syrup and peanut butter off the floors, the walls, the doors, and my children, while I was also sweating, wondering if I was going to pass out, and thinking that syrup and peanut butter really smell pretty gross together. As I found a puddle next to the trash can, I thought of N and B's love for syrup, and hoped no one had licked any off the floor. And then, when I thought I was done and found yet another puddle, I thought, why would that have been a bad thing, exactly?
Come to find out, yesterday was National Peanut Butter Day. They were just celebrating! And National Maple Syrup Day was December 17th, but we didn't know that then. Thus the joint celebration yesterday. I briefly thought of banning all future celebrations, but that just wouldn't be right. In fact, we should celebrate more.
National Margarita Day is February 22nd, but I'm just going to start a little early. If you're looking for me, I'll be licking the tequila off the floor.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Smug Like You
For all the perfect moms I know
Though I don't know any personally
I seem to see you everywhere
Or maybe it's just me.
You always speak to your child softly
Your tone is perfectly measured
You would never raise your voice at them
Every single moment should be treasured.
I'm pretty sure we scare you
When we come into your space
Oh don't look so alarmed
That's just chocolate on his face.
Wow! Your diaper bag is perfect
Everything exactly where it goes
Do you think I could borrow one of your wipes?
Mine has something on his nose.
Sorry that we have disturbed you
With all of our crazy noise
I wish I could make them be quieter,
But two of them are boys.
Oh, I should tell you--just so you know.
I was once smug like you, too.
I thought I had it all figured out.
Almost always knew what to do.
My little girl was dressed all in pink
From her head down to her toes
She listened to me perfectly
with never anything on her nose.
But then something happened
That changed things just a bit for me
I went from having one perfect child,
To having two, and then three.
And my world that before was full of things pink
Suddenly had a whole lot of blue
And the things that before were easy for me
Were suddenly much harder to do.
So I'm sorry that we have disturbed you
We don't mean to cause such a fuss
But if you think this is disturbing
You should try coming home with us.
There are crayon marks on the cabinets
though most of them are on the walls
And our house has been taken over
by tractors, trains, and balls.
There's fingerpaint in our carpet
And toothpaste all over the sink
I'm pretty sure when you leave our house
You'll be ready for a really stiff drink.
But I am really not complaining
That I sometimes have a lot on my plate
That my house is never perfect
And that I'm pretty much always late.
We can't all be perfect, I guess.
Life just isn't that way.
And no, I don't love every moment
But I really do love every day.
I do wonder, though, how you manage
To follow every rule in the mommy book
You never say anything out of line
Or even give a mean mommy look
I'm assuming, of course, that it's all real
It can't possibly be fake
But I really do have to ask you
How much xanax do you take?
Though I don't know any personally
I seem to see you everywhere
Or maybe it's just me.
You always speak to your child softly
Your tone is perfectly measured
You would never raise your voice at them
Every single moment should be treasured.
I'm pretty sure we scare you
When we come into your space
Oh don't look so alarmed
That's just chocolate on his face.
Wow! Your diaper bag is perfect
Everything exactly where it goes
Do you think I could borrow one of your wipes?
Mine has something on his nose.
Sorry that we have disturbed you
With all of our crazy noise
I wish I could make them be quieter,
But two of them are boys.
Oh, I should tell you--just so you know.
I was once smug like you, too.
I thought I had it all figured out.
Almost always knew what to do.
My little girl was dressed all in pink
From her head down to her toes
She listened to me perfectly
with never anything on her nose.
But then something happened
That changed things just a bit for me
I went from having one perfect child,
To having two, and then three.
And my world that before was full of things pink
Suddenly had a whole lot of blue
And the things that before were easy for me
Were suddenly much harder to do.
So I'm sorry that we have disturbed you
We don't mean to cause such a fuss
But if you think this is disturbing
You should try coming home with us.
There are crayon marks on the cabinets
though most of them are on the walls
And our house has been taken over
by tractors, trains, and balls.
There's fingerpaint in our carpet
And toothpaste all over the sink
I'm pretty sure when you leave our house
You'll be ready for a really stiff drink.
But I am really not complaining
That I sometimes have a lot on my plate
That my house is never perfect
And that I'm pretty much always late.
We can't all be perfect, I guess.
Life just isn't that way.
And no, I don't love every moment
But I really do love every day.
I do wonder, though, how you manage
To follow every rule in the mommy book
You never say anything out of line
Or even give a mean mommy look
I'm assuming, of course, that it's all real
It can't possibly be fake
But I really do have to ask you
How much xanax do you take?
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