Monday, June 30, 2014


A few weeks ago my favorite 'hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-woman-scorned-housewife' Brandi Glanville called her youngest son an "asshole" on her podcast. I have to admit I love me some Brandi, she is one of my guilty pleasure.  She is gorgeous, smart, funny, and is the epitome of making lemonade (vodka flavored) out of lemons. Now, I can't speak to the incident on her podcast. I didn't hear it myself but, I'm not sure calling your child an asshole in ANY context is ok. I would never do it, especially on a public podcast. These boys of Brandi's have enough crap to deal with without being called names on top of it. In my opinion there are assholes in this whole dysfunctional family, and it isn't the kids. I'm looking at you Ms. Wrecker Service.  If it were me, I'd be using that word...and many others....all over the place. Which, to be fair, Brandi has done her share of. Hell hath no fury and all that.

While I may never call my kids assholes, last week I began to wonder why we let them get away with things that if a college roommate, not to mention a husband, did would unleash a Kraken that would leave them quivering on their beer keg or barcalounger.

Case in point. Last week was dance camp. Which means getting my grumpy, so not a morning person, Tiny Dancer,  up, looking presentable, fed and to the studio by 9:30 in the morning. Never mind that she signed up for this, and in fact BEGGED to do this. Not to mention I'm scheduled for two 12 hour shifts this week and I'm trying to fit in workouts so that I can fit into my bathing suit for a Vegas trip in three weeks. Oh, and NOW she tells me that she wants to get there early so that she and the other assistant can work on the dance they are making up. Sure, cause Mama ain't got nothing but time.

The mad rush ensues and we are out the door loaded with dance shoes and my gym bag, EARLY per Tiny Dancer's request.

Several hours later I return home and what do I see on the breakfast bar? Why, Tiny Dancer's half eaten breakfast, of course. On the kitchen counter is the greasy plate the boy child nuked his bacon on with the paper towels glued to the plate. Nice. They can't even clear their plates and rinse them off??? I wanted to go on strike right then and there and began to wonder if my not working full time had actually done a disservice to my kids.  Being at home most of time meant I was there to pick up the slack, but did it mean that my kids never learned to pick up their own slack known as the freaking dishes? Apparently.

Just as I was going to head to job websites to find a full time job and thereby teach my kids a lesson: Let's see how they like it when Mama isn't around to clean up after them! This happened:


Give you one guess.

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