August is basically the Sunday of Summer.

Procrastination at it’s finest. August marks the time of year I suddenly remember everything I wanted to do over the summer. Weeks and weeks of plans going awry, and no one to blame but myself. Damn, I was supposed to be tan and gorgeous right now; instead, here I am all pasty and chubby with a huge zit on my chin for good measure.

I can’t be the only one with this issue? Next weekend we’re going to Camp where we can let the kids run a muck with plenty of sugary treats to fuel their obnoxiousness. But, instead of planning for solutions to the horrors that lie ahead, I sit back and breathe deep.

Because. They. Are. Just. Kids.

I will never, ever get them again at this age, and I refuse to ruin their fun so I can have it ‘easier’. Soon starts the dreaded “Back to School Shopping“, and when we ALL have to listen to our children try to beg and plead their way out of an education – bargaining with their lives, and expecting us to comply..

/evil cackle.

Muahahaha! Oh, you will go to school, my pretties… And you will make excellent grades or I will hide your precious remotes, and batteries… I will change the WiFi password (GASPS) and take that secret with me to my grave…

It’s time to set the shit‘lins up with school sports, time for activities to begin, and time for your forearm to get a good ol’ workout from swiping that credit card a million fricken’ times.

“Do the kids really need mouth guards? Really, wait – see, these are their baby teeth, they’re supposed to come out.”

….. FINE. $18 mouth-guards it is. Each fucking one. /rolls eyes

worriedI’ve been trying to figure out different ways to start being more ‘on my game’ when it comes to remembering everything I have to do for EVERYONE, since there’s no ‘honey-do’ list here. There’s just a shit, i have to do it all’ list. So, instead of sucking at life like I’ve done before – I’ve actually started PLANNING.

I kept forgetting small things – like, meeting with my counselor at 5 because I had to run to the grocery store 32 times due to not being able to grab everything I need in one trip. Well, you know, that would just make too much sense.

The Number 1 Lie We All Tell Ourselves:

– “Ill remember that, I don’t need to write it down.”

BULLSHIT, brain! You liar! LIES! I have not thought that once, without completely forgetting what the Hell I was falsely telling myself I’d remember. Seriously. Not once. So now, I am writing in this cute little journal the things I need to remember. Even things I like, or just little doodles because I get bored out of nowhere and need to entertain my toddler-like mind.

So far, so good. Things are going smoother, and I don’t feel like such a shit mother for not remembering things like my son prefers strawberry oatmeal over peach.

You know, because that’s important.

Wait, I need to write that down. But I could’ve sworn I did..


#adultingishard lesson no.043 – The Sock Pile Of Death.

FEDUPThe never ending pile of socks. The ones that mock you from across the room, the ones that have no pair in sight, but deep down you know it’s match is in there… Waiting. Hiding. Lurking amongst the array of sizes, colors, and brands… Evil foot cover. I loathe you.

But, being someone who is attempting to Adult, shit has gotta be done. No matter how bad I want to pawn it off on little booger man with promises of ice cream. I mean… That wouldn’t be too bad, right? Socks matched, put away, and the kid’s happy eating ice cream. Win-win situation, people. But, alas, I’ll do it myself and wake up feeling like a better Mommy/Housewife for it. Right? No? I didn’t fricking thing so.




…belong in here.

Notice how the top picture has a sock in it that says Rebel? Yes, that one is taunting me. Mmhmm, you’re a rebel, I see that. No fucking sock to match you with unless it’s hidden between a sheet, or stuck between a couch cushion, or even perhaps turned into lint from the Washing Machine Monster – which is a story for another time.

I remember when I was younger, Diva would hand me a basket and tell me it was my chore for the day, and me being the little asshole I was, I’d just grab whatever sock was somewhat the same size and call it a day. I was 12, who the hell cares about looking good at 12? You were lucky if my hair was brushed, and didn’t have sap in it from the trees, or sand falling out of my clothes from the sand dunes behind my house. Socks were not on my top priority list. Hide-and-seek was, and this was cutting into my play-time, and I was JUST NOT HAVING THAT SHIT. Get outta here, socks. I’ve got awesome child-hood things to do. Memories to make, and crap.

So, of course I grew up throwing socks into a pile, and therefore having to do this stupid, stupid chore myself. Because JHubbs is for, (and I quote) “I do manly stuff, like take the garbage out, kill spiders, and scratch my nuts inappropriately. I don’t “match socks” or “do dishes”. That would be too helpful.”

Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but it could happen.

Anyways – the moral of the story is, do not wait until the last minute to match your socks because then you’ll bitch at your husband for taking out the garbage and scratching his balls.

Or, something along those lines.