From the monthly archives:

March 2009

Hello there,

The shoes here. The Man has agreed to be kind enough to let us air a few grievances while The Stiletto Mom is away.

First of all, let us say that our lives are not all that bad. We are not overworked. We don’t have to go through many grimy city streets and we are overall, pretty well taken care of.

But, we are experiencing a little overcrowding in our living facilities.

As you can see, thanks to The Man, most of us have our own room. Lately though, some of us have been asked to share in order to accommodate the new arrivals. This has caused some consternation to those of us that feel that we deserve a little better treatment than say some of the lesser shoes in the closet. How does a Croc rate the same treatment as a Manolo or a Jimmy Choo? And to be left next to a pair of running shoes, you must be kidding! There has to be some kind of hierarchy based on sales price or country of origin (Italians and French being on top of course). We are being forced to live in some kind of Slumdog Millionaire shack city with no regard for our stations in life.

We ask you, her loyal readers, to petition her to stop the madness and either find us a bigger closet or stop buying shoes.

Thank you for your attention to this serious issue,
The Shoes

PS: Stiletto Mom here, with huge thanks to The Man for taking over my blog for a day while I’m in Atlanta. I love you honey….and I’m totally going to pay you back for this one!!!!

PSS: This post is the brain child of Tatooed Mini Van Mom who told me it would be a good idea to let The Man take over again for a day….and I always do what she says!

{ 38 comments }

Saturday was an ugly day here in Texas. It’s the end of March and by this point, I’m usually encouraging melanoma as I mindlessly float in the pool and then suddenly realize I’ve turned an astonishing shade of red having forgotten my sunscreen….again. It’s total relaxation as I float in the pool in the cool temperatures doing amazing amounts of damage to my skin. However, in the face of possibly snow flurries…well, I just don’t know what to do with myself this time of year.

The bigger problem is the kids. I travel a lot so on the weekends, I like to do things with them so they don’t, you know, forget I exist and start to refer to me as, “That nice lady who used to live here but is now lawfully wed to someone called The Airport.” The thing is, by the time spring arrives, they have had just enough of finding fun things to do indoors. We live in Texas for a reason. Well two really. No state income tax being the front runner, the weather being a close second. (Be sure to remind me of this statement in a few months when I’m crying rivers of tears over the heat. Y’all don’t know how much I enjoy the whining about summer yet…but you will…)

Faced with another day of listening to them trying to murder each other while systematically dismantling the furniture upstairs to use as weapons of mass destruction against each other, The Man and I chose what we thought would be the most logical route. Take them to the movies.

So off we went to see Monsters vs. Aliens. We were smart, bought our tickets in advance and showed up early only to find the theater totally packed. We were lucky to find half a row unoccupied at the top which thrilled the kids to no end. Why? I do not know. I only wish I could get so happy crawling up flights of stairs to find seats in a packed theater. Youth is seriously under-rated.

We sat down and The Man went for snacks. Right about then a woman with three kids who appeared to be on her own showed up and asked us to move down a few seats to accomodate her and her girlfriend who was due to show up with two kids of her own. Happy to do it, we moved down a few seats. Then her cell phone rang and it was her friend who despite having been warned that the movie would sell out, had lolly gagged and not shown up early only to find the show sold out. Needless to say, this poor woman was less than amused. If there is one thing mothers know, it’s that showing up at a sold out movie with three kids under the age of six means one thing….repeated trips to the bathroom with no back up.

She proceeded to give her girlfriend a little bit of hell for not listening to her to show up early because…IT. WOULD. SELL. OUT! (I totally would have done the same thing), sighed and hung up the phone. Which of course was the moment one of her precious charges yelled, “Mom-eeeeeee I has to pee!!!!” Of course she did. So this poor woman had to look at me, a total stranger, and ask me to hold her seats (and I’m going to mention again that they were the top row) while she dragged all three of them to the bathroom. I could almost feel her pain.

The pain I didn’t know was on it’s way was defending those seats as ravenous movie goers looked for seats where the entire family could sit together. She had left all the coats behind to show that the seats were taken but of course from the bottom of a darkened theatre, these packs of parents couldn’t see that.

So on and on they came, only to be turned away. Which prompted this tweet.

“Total stranger has left me to defend her seats in sold out movie. People r growling @ me. Sigh.”

Think I was kidding about the growling? Oh no. Parents would make their way up the flights of stairs, kids and popcorn in tow, only to be shot down by me. I was told repeatedly, “You can’t hold seats.” Really? Oh yes, I can. It’s the Sisterhood of the Movie Going Mommies at this point, and I was determined not to be the weak link.

Finally I enlisted the children to assist until The Man got back. We spread out across the eight seats we were trying to control in an attempt to keep these savage seat seekers from making the trip up the stairs which was apparently pissing them off. (They were like zombies at this point, I kid you not, arms filled with popcorn, climbing blindly with a death stare in their eyes.) Mr. C deployed to the right, fanning himself out across two seats while Miss G stayed in her seat admiring how she looked in her 3D glasses in my compact mirror.

(Shocking, right?)

One last family of four made their way up the stairs despite our arm waving of, “No no noooooo…there are no seats to be had here!!!” (Important to note, zombie parents do not understand frantic arm flailing. Who knew?)

I should have known what would come next. The Dad did not look at all amused to have been there in the first place. After having crawled so many stairs with family in tow, leaving a wee trail of popcorn along the way, he gets all the way up, sees the coats strewn everywhere and looks at me and says shouts, “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME???”

Which no, I was not, Zombie Dad. But A+ to you for your behavior in a G rated movie sir.

Finally The Man returned and shortly thereafter, the woman with three kids on her own at a movie. At which point, I had to tweet again…

“All is well now. No one had to get shanked at this g rated movie..but it was close!”

Which, to be clear, I did not go to the movie armed with a shank. But after that incident, I went all McGyver and spent the remainder of the film fashioning a shank out of my straw from my Diet Coke while finding ways to utilize my pickle as a launch pad from the top row should anyone choose to challenge me again. Sort of like a post traumatic stress disorder reflex of sorts…whatever. I was armed.

Good news is, I’ve now created my own weapon of mass movie destruction and you’d better watch it if you ever find me seated at the top row.

I’ll take your ass down McGyver style for sure.

PS: Come back tomorrow, soon, at some point in the future when I get my butt in gear and post again and I’ll tell you about our TOTAL. PARKING. FAIL. at the movies also known as, “Why I’m going to start preaching to my 10 year old why it’s important to respect adults not be a total shit head to adults who have paid for your service.”

PSS: Thanks to Captain Dumbass for being the first to comment and remind me that I had gone totally wheels off and not told y’all how the movie was. It was GREAT. But…try to see it in 3D if you can. There are some great effects and the kids love them. Plus? When you get tired like I did during the “Monster Fight Scene”? You can totally take a nap behind the 3D glasses…and no one will be the wiser. I pinky swear I won’t tell on you. Really.

{ 30 comments }

You Don’t Know Jack…

by Mary Anne on March 26, 2009

…but I do.

Meet the newest member of our family, our nephew Jack.

I have to tell you, this angel has a good shot at taking over the family already. Look at that tiny little middle finger. This kid? Knows how to hang with us.

(Hey, wait just a minute there….before you go thinking we are one of those rowdy families with a habit of expressing ourselves REALLY LOUDLY…oh wait, WE ARE. Nevermind.)

The good news is, he has two cousins who will look over him and teach him all sorts of stuff his parents might, will perhaps, will definitely get mad at us for.

Jack…welcome to the family. You are perfect in every way and we love you!

PS: One of you very sweet people left an award for me and you got caught in my 50 spam comments (not kidding) tonight. I was a little trigger happy hitting delete and and managed to erase your comment. Can you either comment again or shoot me an email? I am so sorry!!!!!

{ 31 comments }

So a while ago (okay let’s be honest about 10 posts ago because I have been sucky about posting at best…) when I was going on and on…

and on and on…

and maybe a little bit on and on…about Jen Lancaster, I mentioned I had a run in with Tom Cruise. Thousands, Hundreds, Dozens, ONE OF YOU threatened to scour my archives to find the story. But I’ve never told you. So Bex? This one’s for you girlfriend.

The year was 1987 or 1988…all I know is Tom Cruise was in Dallas filming “Born On The Fourth Of July” and I was at a wine tasting. (Okay do the math real quick. Me? Old? Why yes, I am…)

Let’s start with the wine tasting, shall we? Now a normal person, of a certain age, would know that wine tasting is just that. A tasting. But in 1987 or so I was 22, and a wine tasting mean one thing. Wine gulping. Hell, if I was going to pay to be there and they were going to give me those tiny glasses…I was going to get my money’s worth. Period.

Yeah, okay, not smart. Go back in time and talk some smack to 22 year old me and see how far you get. Go on. I’ll wait.

Ok, back? You didn’t win because 22 year old me slurred some horrible response to you that made you go cry in the bathroom?

Yeah. I thought so.

So anyway, I was there with my boyfriends sister. It’s important to note my boyfriend at that time was named Leslie Nutt. He went by Les. Les Nutt. Nope, not kidding. Dated him for four years, thought I’d marry him, at which point I would have been Mary Anne Nutt…which in retrospect is apropos. Still, unfortunate name for him. Les? If you are reading this? Sorry I was kind of a shit back in the day, but you were too, friends? No? Well, whatever.

ANYWAY.

So his sister and I went to this wine tasting, slung back…oh…I’d say a dozen small wine glasses…and realized after embarassing ourselves that perhaps it would be a good idea to stumble across the street to Terelli’s and get some food.

You know what a bad idea after drinking too much wine at a wine tasting is? Martini’s. That’s what.

So we got to Terrellis, ordered some Italchos (crispy pizza crust covered in whatever you want…in my case, cheese, shrimp, artichoke hearts and capers…yummmm) and proceeded to drink our bowls of loud mouth soup. It was all going swimmingly until Alison looked at me and said, “Phsssssssssthhhh….don’t look now but, Tom Cruishh is is shitting right behind you…” (Authors note: he was not shitting, he was in fact SITTING but man, we were in a bad state.)

At which point, I did what any drunk 22 year old would do and I whipped around to look. By whipped, I mean I turned my head so fast I simultaneously gave myself whip lash and threw myself halfway off my chair, legs akimbo, glazed look on my face. IMPRESSIVE.

The conversation, as best I can recollect, and based on corroboration the next day from other friends who were there laughing their asses off
paying attention, went something like this:

Me: Shyou are Tom Cruishe? SHOMG…am totally freaking out jusht a shlittle bit.
Tom: Yes, I am.
Me: Whose that with you? She looks oooolllllddddd….
Tom: That would be my WIFE, Mimi. (You young ‘uns? That’s his first wife Mimi Rogers which made her about 32 or 33 at the time…which makes me an ass. Also? She had gone to the bathroom and I am eternally thankful she did not hear this exchange…)
Me: Really? Becauzzzzz she really looks oooollllldddd…
Tom: *Blank Stare*
Me: Alsho, why are you so skinnnnny?
(Authors note: He was, and? He is incredibly short. I’d take him in a cage match twice on Sunday.)
Tom: Because I’m filming a movie about a disabled war veteran and I had to lose weight for the role.
Me: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH…Wait. WHAT??? (Sort of missed the point here, in case you didn’t catch that…thought I was being charming laughing at his imagined witty commentary when in fact, I wasn’t listening and managed to disrespect the armed forces everywhere. THE SHAME.)


Me? = ASS.

Tom: Perhaps you should call a cab?
Me: Perhapsh.

So there you have it. My run in with Tom Cruise before he was all weird and stuff. The good news is, he was a nice guy, put up with me and even cared enough to remind me to call a cab.

Which I did.

Thanks, Tom.

{ 52 comments }

I’m back!!!

Well, I’m back but man…am I bitchy.

First of all, I have the single worst case of the Sunday Blues I’ve had in a while. My kids have been with me all week and while I’ve enjoyed them…it’s time for us all to have our own lives again. They are trying to kill each other at this point which, in turn, gives me the sensational idea to lock them in a room to duke it out and see who is left standing. A cage match for short people if you will. However, tomorrow means more corporate cage match…I’m better at fighting with 10 year olds than I am dealing with the nuances of advertising. Well, maybe not. Advertising? Bring. It. On. You are a cakewalk compared to my two warring hellions.

Also, twitter has shut me down. Twitter? WHY???? You told me I am at my follow limit but the annoying Australian person I made the mistake of following last week who sent me no less than a dozen direct messages to download her book on how to make a million in real estate (Thanks honey, perhaps you heard real estate right now is a bit scary? NO? Okay, how about I ignore you anyway?) has over 10,000 followers. (Note to her followers…I’m pretty sure she if full of shit but maybe I’m just cynical.) I’m following about 450 people now which makes me a newbie…so what the hell Twitter? You and I are gonna have a go-round tomorrow, I promise you that. (Also, in a moment of shameless self promotion, if you’d like to follow me on Twitter, please do! Click here: http://twitter.com/thestilettomom and if Twitter ever let’s me out of the time out box, I’ll follow you back…unless you try to sell me real estate. Then? Not so much.)

Lastly, I’d like to let Microsoft know that they are also on notice. Your movie maker looks so simple YET IT IS NOT. For an hour now, I’ve been trying to insert a song, just one stupid song…and I feel as if you are laughing at me. (Are you laughing at me? Are you???) The good news is, when I fly to Redmond to straighten this out on my lunch hour, I plan to stop in to see my buddy Ann and Ann Again and Again so that should lift my mood.

I think it best if I just slink off into the night now before I scare someone…you know I love you though, right?

Oh, I do.

PS: If you haven’t had enough of my rant for tonight, check out my thoughts on the “new and improved” Dora The Explorer on Deep South Moms by clicking HERE.

PSS: Because can you ever really get enough of me?

PSSS: Please don’t answer that given my surly mood.

{ 24 comments }