Damp

"It's your turn to play, Bob. Here are the dice."

"Mom? You just spit on me when you said that."

"Sorry."

"No, I mean really, super spit on me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"You spit on me the way babies spit when they think they're talking but they're really just spitting spit at things. You spit at me like that."

I'm A Loser, Baby

Some of my favorite devastatingly talented blog pals and I recently entered the 2010 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition, Humor Category - Global. I’ll kill the suspense right here for you: None of us won. Not even one Honorable Mention among us.

The thing is, we rocked the Erma hard, running our usual deals through an Erma-fied filter. Today we present our Festival of Failure. (Cue applause)

Read the glorious losing entries of:
Wendi Aarons of Wendi Aarons
Ann Imig of Ann's Rants
Anna Lefler of Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder
and
She didn't enter this particular writer race, but Jennifer Sutton of These Are Days had some lovely things to say about Ms. Bombeck, the original mommy blogger.

Here is my loser entry. Enjoy.


The Trade
by Lisa Page Rosenberg

I was a tidy single person. By “tidy,” I mean that my obsessive orderliness bordered on pathological. By “bordered,” I mean I combed the fringe out on my area rugs three times a day. The shirts in my closet were arranged by color and sleeve length. I used a lint roller every morning on the cat. When friends were coming over I would purposely mess something up in my apartment so that I would not seem crazy, of course proving the exact opposite.

Then, I got married. To a man. Something changed. By “something," I mean everything. While I was thrilled when I realized that my sweet husband could fit all of his worldly possessions into the trunk of a Honda Civic, I had not anticipated how time consuming it would be to find just the right place in our décor for a Smithsonian-worthy collection of Star Wars action figures and 28 pit-stained rock band t-shirts. Luckily, he found my compulsive habits (mostly) amusing. I eased up a little. I replaced the rugs with new, fringe-less ones. He started hanging his damp towels back on the rod. We were in love. We worked it out.

Then, we had a baby boy. These baby types require a good amount of gear. By “good amount,” I mean our living room suddenly took on the appearance of a cyclone ravaged Toys R Us. Over time, I adapted to living in a baby blue landfill. I developed new coping systems involving daily schedules and baby wipes that we purchased by the palette. I eased up some more. I stopped re-caulking the bathtub every month. My spice cabinet fell out of alphabetical order. I was mostly all right with that. The baby had dimples and a throaty laugh. My label maker sat unused in the drawer.

Then, our little guy started potty training. By “potty training,” I mean he did a free fall with his business whenever the need arose. We played games called “Please Tell Me That’s Just Chocolate In Your Hair,” and “No, I Mean It, Where Is That Smell Coming From?” My china bowls filled with potpourri were replaced by economy-sized bottles of industrial disinfectant. Our little man was growing up and we got to help. I stopped moving the heavy furniture every time I vacuumed.

I have traded in the loneliness of pristine linoleum for a home with signs of life and a bottomless sink of dirty dishes. I am happy about it. By “happy,” I mean really, really happy.

I am SO the boss of you

Contemplating how I can help the world, one know-it-all post at a time.
Photo Credit - Bob Rosenberg

Acknowledging my certainty that everyone would be so much better off if they would simply do as I say, I am doling out advice today over at Mouthy Housewives. These wise and deeply funny advice-giving women were kind enough to ask me over for the day and I was delighted to say yes.

My qualifications to answer the world’s big questions?
Mouthy - Check.
Housewife - Also check.
So there you go.

I give a lot of advice everyday: unsolicited, often ignored, and always to the same three year-old, Bob Rosenberg.

“Take your hand out of your underpants, please.”

“Do you have to tinkle? No? Then let go of it, please.”

“Take your waffle out of your underpants.”

“Tuck your package back into your p.j.’s”

“No, it will not fly away if you don’t hold it.”

“I just know, that’s how I know.”

“Please take R2-D2 out of your underpants.”


Obviously, I have a lot of experience to share. To get a little more smacksy in your Friday, please go here.

Subscribe to the Mouthy Housewives. It's like having a life coach, if your life coach had a wicked sense of humor, soft golden highlights and cute shoes.

Thank You Lee Strasberg

When I was in elementary school, every December 24th there was a children’s Christmas pageant at our church. As a cast member, I did my time for a year or two as a shepherd. Then, without warning, I skipped the angel years and at the tender age of ten, I was tapped for the coveted role of a lifetime, The Virgin Mary Holy Mother of the Baby Jesus. Score.

For my part, I wore a white robe costume, sewn by my mom, a blue towel head scarf and a snazzy fringed belt that had been previously employed as a drapery tie back. We had one rehearsal before the big night. We were given our blocking by the director/someone’s mom. The shepherds were instructed to bring sheep stuffed animals if they had any left from Easter.

On the big night, a nine-year-old angel heralded the glad tidings to the wandering (ADD) shepherds. Three fifth grade wise men traversed afar. After the long and weary trip around the altar to Bethlehem, there was no room at the inn. Then I, The Virgin Mary Holy Mother of the Baby Jesus, wrapped the babe in swaddling clothes and laid him gently in the manger. Moments later, I picked him up and cradled him in my arms. And then, I held Jesus up to my shoulder and burped him. I wasn’t going for the laugh, but I got plenty. I was in the moment.

It’s called method acting, people.