momsaidwhat

I know that this may come as a BIG surprise, like a Kardashian –sized-blindside- of-a -surprise, but Kim Kardashian is not paying my bills.

Between you and me, I think her lack of personal attention to my finances is totally because of her hectic Hollywood schedule.  I mean between planning the wedding, and the fall out from her unexpected divorce.

Poor Kimmie–that’s what I call her, Kimmie.   Kim and Kris just seemed like the perfect, fairytale couple.

I guess I don’t feel so bad about the whole wedding invite snub thing, Kimmie;  I mean I totally understand that you needed to keep it small and cut costs and everything.

You don’t have to explain that to me, Kimmie.  You know, these are just tough economic times for all of us.   It just so hard being part of the 99%, isn’t it?

You know, it’s not like Kim—oops, I mean Kimmie– and I fell out over anything in particular.  She’s just super busy, and we’ve just kind of grown apart.  Just two girls with a lot on our plates, me and Kimmie.

I mean I’m not filming a T.V. show, or launching a fashion empire at Sears; or staging photo ops of my butt; or getting my hair and makeup done for a trip to the laser hair removal spa.

I’m just doing my thing, you know.  Changing shitty diapers.

I don’t know, Kimmie, we just seemed like sisters.  I mean I felt like I should change my name from Molly to Kollie.

It’s not just Kim, I mean we are all just a little overextended these days.  Look at Brad and Angie.  That’s what I call her—Angie.  They are all over the freaking globe
accumulating kids and saving impoverished nations, it’s so hard to get a free moment to chat and catch up.  I can totally relate.

And Sandy Bullock and I, that’s what I call her—Sandy.  Well, we’re both new moms and it’s just a HUGE adjustment for each of us.  We just haven’t been able to connect.  I’m sure she’ll be giving me a jingle as soon as she and Little Louis get back from vacay with Ryan.

So glad to see those two making a go at it; I mean, are there any two people more deserving than Sandy and Ryan?  I know I can’t think of anyone.

I can’t wait to tell them how truly happy I am for them.

Truly happy.

And Lindz, that’s what I call Lindsay Lohan– Lindz.  Well, Lindz is just really out of control right now.  I mean, I’m not sure I really want my child around her and the negative influences her so called “friends” are shoving down her throat.

If you knew Lindz like I do, you’d totally understand that none of this is her fault.  She’s really the victim. 

Really, Lindz, you know I’m just a phone call away.

I just pray that her little stint in jail and her “full frontal” Playboy shoot are just what she needs to turn her life around.  I mean, she is such a ta-len-ted actress.

Did you see her work in The Parent Trap?  Timeless.

Anyway, I think its just time I break up with my celebrity friends for a while.  This just feels so one-sided lately.

I just really feel like I need to just focus on myself right now, just like Kimmie.

Kimmie, Sandy, Angie, Lindz—I really am sorry.  It’s just that little Jeffrey is a bit needy right now; like he needs health insurance, that spoiled brat.  I mean, can you even believe how much the price of health care these days?

But don’t worry about me, girlz.

That’s “girls” with a “z.”

🙂  Molly

Check out my new article for A Hopeful Sign:

I HATE You, Women’s Lib

I come from a long, proud line of adjusters, men who know unequivocably where their manhood lies at all time.  The men of my life are not afraid to scratch, to shift, or to gently shake their family jewels; nor are they above a stain on the crotch of a new pair of pants, a testament to a good, greasy breakfast and an insatiable, if untimely, itch.

These men will grab, grope, and gesture as the spirit moves them,  proudly parading their love affair with their packages for all to see. It is in this spirit of family heritage and masculine tradition that I am pleased to announce my son, Jeffrey, has found his junk.

The tale begins innocently enough, a wee baby splashing in tub of water trying to beat the humid heat of a fledgling Pittsburgh summer.  He laughs as he slaps his hands atop the pool of water, sending drops of water into his cherubic face.  He kicks his feet, his formerly favorite body parts, and is overcome with a fit of joy.  As he reaches down to pull on his little piggy toes …

Whoa!  What is this!  It’s so much closer than my toes!

He looks at me.  He looks at his junk.  He looks at me.  He looks at his junk.  He grabs ahold with a gusto, a confidence, an innate affinity that his mother will never, could never know.

And with that, my sweet Jeffrey had become a bonafide man.

Dear Readers,

I just wanted to take a moment to introduce my readers to a wonderful new online magazine that I am so grateful to be writing for.  A Hopeful Sign seeks to spread hope through living-learning-leading in thoughtful, supportive, encouraging ways.  It is with great pride and honor that I will be serving as a contributing blogger in a column titled “Mom Spelled Backwards.”  Please take the time to visit this incredible initiative and to spread the word to others.

http://ahopefulsign.com/

In hope and gratitude,

Molly

photo courtesy of freestockphotos.biz

Who among us doesn’t like a good present?  Typically I function under the belief that no gift is a bad gift. In my experience, even awfully tacky and tasteless gifts are good for a laugh; but I think that after today’s little, private circus, I most certainly need to qualify this statement.

Any gift from my cat is a bad gift.

As I said in an earlier post, I’ve just had ankle surgery.  I’m at the point where no one is really all that excited to see me coming.  In spite of them putting their best face and rosiest demeanors forward,  ain’t NO-body happy about my current state.  Here’s the shiny, fabulous, two-for-one deal Molly brings:

Take care of me.  Take care of my 5-and-a-half month old baby.

Folks are lined up around the block.

I consciously try to handle as much as I can, but this gesture is greatly limited by my inability to drive.  The cast is on my right ankle, of course.  I am 34-years-old, and I am bumming rides like I’m 15.

So, today I asked my dad, Mr. Wonderful, to drop me off at my house after taking Jeffrey to Ms. Patty’s house.  I’ve been staying with my parents quite a bit post-surgery.  They’re real happy about that.  (Count them among those who will be anxious for me to graduate from a cast to “the boot.”)

I was going to spend the day on my own like a big girl. Everyone could use a break.

I left the front door open to let the warm air in as I sat at my dining room table to write.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh…

I stared at the hole in my screen door, hoping to find inspiration.  My dog, Snoopy Jones, is responsible for the hole; apparently he and the cats felt they should be more connected to the outdoors.  Ray Charles appreciates Snoop’s gesture more than any of the pets, using the hole in the screen as her personal cat door.

(Note:  Ray Charles is neither blind, nor male.  I had it all wrong when I named her.)

 Ray jumped through the hole today with a gift for me.

A FREAKIN’ SNAKE!!!!

I knew I didn’t have much time to react, but knowing just wouldn’t cut it.  I’m on crutches, friends.  I’m going nowhere fast.

I’m sure I scared the holy hell out of Ray. I would imagine a giant, crazed woman flying at her on large metal sticks was enough to scare her little cat brain into a real tizzy.  She took off.

As I watched Ray bound up the steps I could only think about one thing:  Is that snake dead or alive? Oh goodie, it’s alive.

This brought me quickly to full-fledged panic as I wondered where Ray would hide the snake should I not be able to wrangle it from her on the steps.  Visions of a snake crawling across my sweet angel, Jeffrey’s face, while he slept peacefully in his bed, made me throw up in my mouth a little bit.

I eased my pace and with the grace of a drunken, baby elephant crawled up the stairs after her.  In my most pathetic cat lady voice, I cooed. “Hi, Ray.  Hi, Baby.  Come here pretty Ray.  What did you bring Mommy?  Come here, Baby.” My flirtation was disgusting.

Apparently Ray Charles was feeling in a kind way, or she found herself suddenly attracted to me and my velvet –throated voice.  Either way, she dropped the snake.

It wasn’t a big snake, just a few inches long; and though I’m no Jack Hanna, I think it was your garden variety,  common Garder snake.

(So you know, I will be telling everyone from this point on that I caught a 5-foot rattler with my bare hands.  Just being upfront.)

I grabbed the monster with a dishtowel, shimmied down my steps and out the front door.  Snake in one hand, crutches in the other.  I crutched/hopped myself and my gift from Ray to the empty lot a few doors down.  Releasing him, the snake slithered away with a flick of the tongue and a grateful smile on his face.

I’ll sure miss him.

Thank you, Ray for the wonderful gift.  It means so much to me that you are thinking of me during this time that I am infirmed.  I hope next time you bring me a mouse–or a nice pair of shoes.

I just never thought they’d go out like this.  After spending the past week gimped up and back in the fold with “The Captain” and my dad, Mr. Wonderful, I know with unwavering certainty that technology will be the demise of my parents.  Like a slow train-a-comin’, the writing is on the wall.

Chuga…chuga…chuga…chuga. Woooo…woooooooooooo

In my May 17^th post, The Golden Child Returns, I gave you just the tiniest window into the daily antics of my family, the McClelland’s.  Collectively and individually, we are not well.

My mom and dad are, at current, in the throes of battle with most of the electronic devices in their household.  For the sake of time we’ll just lump them all under the broad umbrella of “technology,” as their villains are far too many to name.   Let it be said, this will not end pretty; they are outmanned and outgunned.  I will give them due credit.  They are not going down without fight, and I just can’t look away.

Apparently The Golden Child has failed the very parents who brought him into this world.  The four boys ages six and under who call my brother “Dad” are hardly a viable excuse for not answering the call to serve.  As “The Captain” is quick to remind each of us, she carried him for nine loooooooooong months.

Essentially we are indentured servants.  There are no excuses, “for all she does for us.”  I mean really, Matty Boy, she asks so little.

Guilty anyone?

With his lag in appropriate response time (i.e. immediately), Matthew is no longer their favorite.  I’d like to say that his number one slot on the totem pole will be filled by either my sister or yours truly, but it’s just not in the cards for us.  My parents have adopted a new child.  His name is Mittal.

When the Golden Child was forced to cancel his trip to Pittsburgh (the one “The Captain” was willing to pay out of the nose for), our folks made the executive decision to look outside their gene pool for salvation; their growing shame was far too great to go back to that well.  They wanted to call The Geek squad, but they didn’t know where they lived.

“The Captain” made my dad shut off the T.V. to discuss strategy.  It was time for battle. (Mr. Wonderful had use three remotes to complete this once simple task; the universal remote has for months been their arch nemesis.)

“David, I need you to look into my eyes,” “The Captain” pleaded.  “I am so (expletive, expletive) frustrated that I’m going to jump out of that window.  Please fix this.”

Like a proud soldier, Mr. Wonderful jumped into action.  Out of love for “The Captain” and his universal remote (a.k.a. his mistress), he pulled a big time rabbit out of his hat.  With no fear of perpetuating stereotypes, my dad asked the young man from India, who sells him his scratch off lottery tickets at the mini mart, to help them.

Oh yes he did.

According to Mr. Wonderful, his good buddy and future son, Mittal, had been unfairly passed up on numerous occasions for a management position at the big box electronics store.  Those bastards wouldn’t promote him due to his ethnicity.  They messed with “his boy.”

Dad swelled with pride when he spoke of Mittal’s recent move into management at Hhgregg Appliances and Electronics.  Clearly, in my dad’s expert opinion, Mittal knew his stuff.

He could save the world.  He could fix the remote.  He could be their new son.

Mittal astutely diagnosed their remote problem as a broken screen, and he sold Mr. Wonderful a winning Red Hot Tripler scratch off lottery ticket.  He is so golden.  Mittal is the Golden Child.

As for Mr. Wonderful and “The Captain,” they are back to square one, waiting for my brother to mail a pre-programmed universal remote and a used laptop.  Just what they need–more technology.

I’m beginning to think my brother might have taken out a large insurance policy on our parents.  It is the only explanation for throwing more gas on this raging inferno.

My new brother, Mittal, will be over for Thanksgiving dinner, sitting right between  Mummy and Daddy…in my brother’s seat.