How to Protect Your Candy: An after Halloween special edition.

“Protect my candy? Why? My kids collected tons of it!”

My Dear Reader,

Yes, you’ve trained your little Hunter/Gatherers well. You dressed them sweetly, taught them how to say “trick or treat” with an adorable little lisp, and had them memorize your top 5 favorite candy bars in alphabetical order because you’ll be damned if they come home with crappy Dum Dums again. So sure, you might be rolling in the Snickers now, but it won’t always be that way.

Candy gets eaten.

As the household’s candy resources begin to deplete, you’ll notice disturbing behaviors among certain family members, behaviors like: hording, bartering, extortion, and full-out raids carried out under the cover of darkness. And I’m not referring to the kids’ behavior. Look in the mirror, my friend.

In order to avoid all this ugliness, you need to be proactive by creating a secret stash. Don’t worry, I’m here to help!

The first thing you need to do is to separate the candy into two piles, candy you love and candy you hate.

Taffy? ugh. That should come with a coupon for a root canal.

Next, focus on hiding the candy you love. I like to choose my candy hiding spots by taking cues from drug trafficking movies. However, I don’t recommend shoving anything up your hooha- I did that once with Whoppers, the box ripped and I developed an epic yeast infection.

Some hiding locations I have successfully used are:

– Inside metal curtain rods

– Books that I’ve hollowed out (preferably ones that you’d never read. I use cookbooks)

– Tampon boxes (what sicko is looking in there for candy? Well, besides you.)

Damn right, Kit Kats are SUPER!

– under toilet tank covers

*A great hiding spot for almost anything…except kittens. don’t ask.

Now that your favorite candy is safe, you need to create an explanation regarding its disappearance.

The way you go about this is very specific to your family’s situation. Here are a couple options I’ve used over the years:

Does your child have allergies?

Collin is allergic to walnuts. They cause his lips to swell, his throat to itch, and his eyes to water. Needless to say he avoids them at all cost. So I tell him that I was forced to throw out all the candy that said “contains walnuts” or “may have trace amounts of walnuts” or “produced in a factory that uses walnuts”. Then I add “Sorry” (sad face). Consequently, he’s developed a paranoia about the candy industry trying to kill him.

 

Do you own a dog?

Mr. Bojangles is my fall guy. And it’s a role he’s comfortable playing as long as I slip him a Pop Tart for his troubles.

To pull this off, you need to spread your “hate pile” of candy on the floor, scatter some wrappers around, and place your dog in the center. Quickly (before your pet actually eats the candy) snap a picture of your “bad doggie” in a compromising position. Make certain that the picture is blurry- you want your children to believe you were rushing in to save their candy. tip: Remember to save this year’s empty candy wrappers for next year’s staging.

*if you don’t have a dog, you can use a fat cat. But never use a bunny or a goldfish, that’s just insulting your kid’s intelligence. Isn’t it bad enough that you’re lying?

 

It was poisoned!

Tell them, that during a routine candy inspection, you had reason to suspect a majority of the candy was tampered with. For their safety, you were forced to throw it out. Then launch into a 15 minute talk on Stranger Danger while enrolling them in a Safety Awareness course at the local community center, then eat your candy while they’re taking said course. I call that a win-win!

 

That’s all I got, guys. But if you have any other ideas, please share them in the comments section below. You can send your kids to only so many Stranger Danger classes before they either lose all faith in humanity or smell a rat.

 

 

It’s time to start holiday shopping! Check out my sponsor GiftsForYouNow.com. They have like a bazillion personalized gifts to choose from AND they’re having a store wide Anniversary Sale!

An Airport Parade- A guest post

We’re on our way home from Disney today! In fact, I’m probably sitting in Shitter Row (the last row, next to the toilet) at this very moment. But don’t feel sorry for me, I like this crappy seat as it gives me plenty of opportunity to make awkward small talk with those waiting to use the potty, and that could lead to a new (yet questionable) friendship! I guess you could call me a “bladder half full” kinda girl.

Moving on, Today is my last (but just as special) guest post….

I first fell in love with Erin’s blog, Life in the Hood, when she wrote a post about getting a simple haircut…a simply hilarious haircut! You see, Erin has this uncanny ability to find humor in even the most mundane situations…and the not so mundane, like this recent airport experience:

_______________________

An early morning flight, flying alone with my babe, I understandably wished for no hiccups in the itinerary, no loud noises, and no sudden movements.

Passing one of those airport shops that sells a useless variety of items with whatever location stamped all over them, I noticed a sign with two college-age kids, a boy and girl, modeling sweatshirts.

For some reason, the way the boy looked, with his asinine sweatshirt and mediocre good looks and middle of the road smile, made me want to park my stroller for a second and jump kick that sign right there, right in that kid’s face.

It was that kind of morning.

So the tween cheerleaders blocking the flight information screens, squealing and practicing stunts more for their own benefit than the throngs of confused travelers passing by, did not impress me.

But I couldn’t help but watch as one girl, all legs, seemed to have discovered she could do the splits right then and there on the cold tile of Regan airport.

She just stayed forever like that, her torso bowed and balancing like she grew up out of the ground that way, her eyes wild with excitement and fear. It didn’t appear she knew what to do with this new skill or how to stand back up.

I needed her to stand back up, though, because I couldn’t peel my eyes off her until she did, and I hadn’t even made it through security yet.

But she seriously would not stand up.

With strength I didn’t know I had, I ripped myself away, somewhat irritated at the inexplicable presence of cheerleaders at 8 am.

It made me glad to go through security where people like cheerleaders and cheerleader parents who weren’t reserving their energy for a day of travel would be sifted out.

Imagine my surprise after getting through security when, instead of tired people waiting in their seats at the gate, there was a brass band. And instead of suits and ties with rolling suitcases exiting the jet way, there was a procession of WWII veterans in wheelchairs moving at the same speed as grass growth, and about fifty people lined up on either side, cheering and waving like these old wrinkles were floats in a parade.

How did all these people get through security?!

I thought of requesting a refund for the 9/11 security fee I had been required to pay, as my $10 obviously had not worked in keeping me safe from the terrorism of zealots.

But again, despite my extreme state of irritation, I couldn’t help but watch.

I wondered how on earth all these people had so much zest at such an ungodly hour, and then I spotted the reason.

And the reason was fear.

Their cheerleader, possibly Hitler’s sister, weighing in at eight pounds and wearing an American flag scarf, marched up and down the procession, waving an American flag like a orchestra conductor and attaching her beady eyes to anyone who dared for one second not cheer for her beloved veterans.

I almost felt I should cheer too lest she gouge my eye out with her flag, but I resisted on grounds that it was only the first leg of my trip, I had to save my energy.

Besides, it wasn’t my grandpa getting off that honor flight.

Yeah, they did a great thing risking their lives serving our country, but let’s not act like war is such a glorious thing that we let non-travelers clog airport terminals and assault the ears of citizens who may not have had any coffee yet in order to celebrate it.

Despite their obtrusive presence, the honor flight parade did make an attempt at being considerate.

Whenever an announcement came over the intercom, all cheering and tuba tooting came to a halt, replaced by, “Deborah Langston to gate E9, last call for Deborah Langston. E9.”

Until it came time to make an announcement regarding my flight.

“Flight 2974 with service to Charlotte-“ the woman started.

Before she had a chance to finish, someone with a louder speaker announced there was,
“Another honor flight ladies and gentlemen!”

Why were they having the parade right there in the airport anyway? There had to be a less annoying place to do this.

What was the rush? Were they worried some might not make it the twenty minutes it takes to exit the airport?

I finally did make it past the cheery people and news crew to board my flight. My jet way, it appeared, had been used for an honor flight earlier as banners still hung from the ceiling. I guess since everyone was in a wheelchair, it was no problem to hang them with three feet of clearance.

As I ducked under the banners and the music from the brass band faded, I thought of all the generations out there cheering on their grandpas, and felt grateful for my grandpas making it out of the war alive, because without them, there would never have been me, and without me there never would have been the precious little life I now pushed in his stroller.

It made me think of how many families were never started with the potential grandpas lost in war. And if there never were war, what would all those annoying people have to do so early in the morning?

And the question we really need to ask is, without war and all this hoopla, would that girl have ever realized she could do the splits?

Erin is Personal Offspring Life Manage and a stay-at-home-mom, though her offspring and she do not stay home much. Also, she is a world traveler, a mountain biker on a breastfeeding hiatus, and an English major. To use her degree wisely, she writes the blog “Life in the Hood“, which is written in English.

The Most Embarrassing Thing I’ve Ever Done – A Guest Post

Day 5 of our Disney vacation, and for those keeping track of my inner thigh chaffing condition, I wore pants today. Sweet, barrier between my funky-chunky thighs, pants.

Although today was spent at Animal Kingdom and Epcot, the real highlight was being pulled over by the police on our way home. As soon as the sirens started, we played a rousing game of “Let’s Guess Which Law We Broke”. There were no winners, only first & second place losers. More on that when I return.

Today’s guest post is by one of my favorites, the hilariously relatable, Dani from Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine. I swear she’s been through it all! You think you’ve had bad hotel accommodations? Ha! She was booked in the Philippine Red Light district. Attend a crappy wedding? Umm, she actually got the craps from a wedding. Ever make an ass of yourself at the gym? I bet not like this…
________________________________

20131022-205631.jpg

One of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever done is fall off of a treadmill.

Twice.

It happened when I was 18. It was my first year away from home, and my first time dealing with winter since I was a kid, and I was sooooo homesick.

So I ate.

A lot.

In the span of about 7 months, I put on 30 lbs.

When spring rolled around that year, on one of my many visits to my Grandparents’ house, my Grandmother came down to greet me and said, “Oh, Dani! You’ve gotten fat!” I’d never been called that in my life. So I joined a gym.

My intention was to stick with things I was familiar with, like Step Reebok classes (remember those?!), but I was given a one-month complimentary pass to use the weight and exercise machines. I figured I had to at least TRY some of the equipment out, and decided I’d go for a run.

Now, I’ve never really had the stamina to run long distances, but everyone made it look so easy. So I started out with a brisk walk, gradually increased the speed until I was jogging, and as I looked around, I actually felt like I fit in.

It was glorious.

But within 2 minutes, that feeling came to a screeching halt.

I was having a hard time breathing, and my attempts to reduce the speed of that damn machine weren’t working, so I eventually just gave up. Yes, that’s right. I just stopped running. And, drama queen that I am, I threw my arms up over my head at the exact moment that my whole body was pushed backwards and smacked into the wall behind me.

Everyone went silent and turned to stare at me.

Now, a normal person would’ve laughed it off, grabbed her things, and headed for the shower. But not me. Nope, I decided to get back on that treadmill and show everyone a little fall wasn’t going to bring me down.

It took a few minutes to psych myself up to do it, but eventually I took a deep breath, put one foot on the treadmill, and then the other foot, and (literally) attempted to hit the ground running.

But the darn thing flung me off.

Imagine my embarrassment when the woman next to me reached over and pressed the red STOP button.

How had I missed that button?

And where was she the FIRST time I fell off?!

Dani Ryan is the mom of one beautiful girl who has already developed a love for iPhones and Coach purses. About 3 years ago, she traded in her business suits and nylons for yoga pants and stained tee-shirts. She now spends her days reading Sandra Boynton books and wiping food off the kitchen floor, and has a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In her free time, she writes about parenting and general nothingness on her humor blog, Cloudy, With a Chance of Wine.
She can also be found on Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

The 10 Most Awesome Things About Having a Physical Disability – A Guest Post

Day 4 of our Disney vacation and it seems like I might have overestimated the effectiveness of Gold Bond Medicated Powder…dear god, it feels like my nether regions were the scene of a porcupine turf war, and both sides lost. 

Moving on.  Today’s fabulous guest post is by the wonderful Meredith from Pile of Babies.  I loooove me some Meredith! Everytime her post is delivered to my inbox, I read it immediately because she’s so freaking funny! When you’re done reading this, you have to check out her recent post about bad holiday gift ideas– I was peeing my pants!

 _______________________________________

I have a physical disability: I was born without fingers on my right hand. Don’t worry, it’s cool. Bitches love nubbins.

…Actually, no they don’t. I’m not even sure why I said that. I think it’s because I was trying really hard to make this a post that had no swearing or inappropriate humor, and I cracked after two sentences.

Sorry.

Anyway, one thing I’ve noticed from living a life with a handicap is that a lot of people assume that your disability is something to be sorry about. Like your life would be somehow better if you didn’t have it. Well, the joke’s on you, fools! The truth is that there is all kinds of awesome going on when you are missing a body part or two or three or…what’s the maximum number of parts you can lose before you’re a head? I’m going to use broad strokes and say five.

Here are my top nine most awesome things about having a physical disability:

20131016-193030.jpg
Join us. (image via markramseymedia.com)

1. If you love attention, boy do I have a gig for you!

Ever wonder what it’s like to be famous? To go to the grocery store and have people give you a double take? Do you enjoy being gazed at in adoration and/or horror by people you don’t know? Get yourself a physical disability. Every day of your life you’ll feel like Angelina Jolie, if Angelina Jolie had survived a horrible house fire.

2. “So sorry, my hand isn’t thinking straight.”

You can use your disability as an excuse for the most random things, and even the most enlightened people will think it over for a second before calling you on your bullshit.

“Dear Professor Dumbledore, I am so sorry that I missed my exam this morning. See, my finger-less hand was acting up, which made walking impossible.”

“Dear supervisor, I apologize for calling my co-worker Brad an ‘insufferable miserable cock-wielding nightmare.’ I’m afraid my lack of limb got the better of me today. It won’t happen again.”

3. You get to stand with the oppressed. It’s where the cool kids are.

You know all those people who are gay and/or not white and/or of a religion that doesn’t start with “C”? These are your people when you are disabled. And it has been my experience that the most kick-ass people are the ones who have had to deal with a whole lot of adversity. Nothing gives you perspective like being told you can’t have a job because of the person you’re married to. Or that the apartment you came to look at just got leased the moment they saw your skin color. And honestly, nothing is funnier than the saddest experiences you’ve ever had; so come sit by me, and we shall tell tales and laugh about whitey/straight people/assholes who can walk. It’s gonna be a good time.

4. We have the Paralympics: they’re like the regular Olympics, only harder.

20131016-193155.jpg
Please, bitches. (image via wikipedia)

“Hey, did you see the winter Olympics? Man, those skiers were amazing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking about the skiers with two legs? Yeah, really inspiring. ‘Hey, look at me! I’ve got one leg per ski and an arm for each pole!’ I bet that takes a lot of skill and all kinds of inventive assistive devices. What’s that? It just takes practice? Oh, I see. Well, that sounds hard, too.”

5. It’s easy to id the bad guys.

Basically, if someone screams or can’t stop staring when they see my disability, they go into a certain box. And in that box, I am liable to stroke their faces gently with my nubs, or perhaps see if I can stick just the tip of one into their mouths.

6. You get to check that box on forms.

As a white woman, I don’t get to check a whole lot of special boxes on forms.

“Are you a veteran?” No. My fear reflex involves a whole lot of urination.

“What is your race/ethnicity?” Just white bread whitey white white.

“Are you disabled?” Why…yes. Yes I am.

Guess who’s getting to the interview before they learn I’m not qualified? This gal, right here.

7. “Thanks, I’ll just supervise.”

Worried about carrying heavy things? Don’t feel like helping when your best friend moves? Excellent. I’ll save you a spot on the couch.

20131016-193352.jpg
“You’re doing great, Grandpa! Just hold still! Also, good call wearing the socks on the hardwood floor! Small steps, please.” (image via prioritymoving.com)

8.Thanks to Oscar Pistorious, you can now be the “good kind” of disabled person.

Before, they pitied us. Now, they fear us. Oscar Pistorious, the Olympic runner who is also a double amputee, murdered his girlfriend last year like an asshole. Now, let’s just say some generalizations are being made.

“You should meet my friend Bill! He’s really cool. You should know, though, that he doesn’t have any legs.”

“Excellent. I shall bring my gun in case I need to use it for self-defense.”

“…What are talking about?”

“You know…Pistorious? What if he’s one of those crazy cripples who likes to murder people?”

“Oh no no no — he’s a nice guy. Really articulate, doesn’t shove his lifestyle down your throat, you know. All those things that make difference comfortable for us.”

“Nice! Do you think he’ll let me touch a leg?”

9. People assume that you’re brave

I am a coward. I am afraid of heights and people and driving on steep hills. So if people want to think that I am brave because I walk around with my hand out and my freak flag flying, that is cool with me. I’ll take it. Sure, you can call me courageous. “Hero” is also a word that doesn’t get thrown my way quite enough, but I think we can both agree that it applies.

***

So the next time you run into someone who is missing a leg, or has both arms cut off at the elbow, pick them up and apologize (the dude’s missing a leg, for chrissakes), and then tell them how lucky they are. And when they ask why, tell them because of Oscar Pistorious and heavy boxes. And then walk away proudly, knowing they will have a great story to tell their friends.

 

Meredith Bland is a freelance writer and award-winning humor blogger.  You can read her nonsense at Pile of Babies.

 

My sponsor GiftsForYouNow.com has like a BAZILLION gifts that you can personalize for Christmas (or any occasion). I bet they have a tree skirt for my wine glass.

Follow

Get every new post on this blog delivered to your Inbox.

Join other followers: