Can I Borrow Your Kevlar, Please?

A couple years ago I witnessed a bank robbery.  Well, I didn't see the actual stick up, but I did stumble upon the craziness that took place outside of the bank.....as a matter of fact....I think I might have been one of the reasons the bad guys got away.

I had just gotten a mani/pedi and I was parked down the way in front of the bank.  I left the nail salon in a scattered rush because I realized I was late for carpool pick-up.  Running as fast as I could,  I competed with my wet nails and paper flip flops--trying to keep your toes spread apart while running is not easy, but somehow I managed to get to my car--nails unscathed.  Perfect.

I jumped in, went to back up, and realized I was blocked in by a huge armored police van.  I rolled down my window and noticed a policeman creeping up the side of my car--he was in full SWAT gear.  "Yoo hoo, Officer.  Can you move your van please? I'm late for carpool," I said with a big friendly grin. 

You should have seen the look this man gave me.  It was somewhere between shock, disgust, and complete irritation.  His extreme expression, coupled with his emphatic "SHHHHH!!!" led me to believe some serious monkey business was happening.  Man oh man, am I quick or what?  (NOT!)   My Nancy Drew instincts led me to connect the dots and I realized he was edging towards the bank..."Oh my God!  Is somebody robbing the bank? Do something!" I screamed.  "SSSSHHHHHH!!!!" the policeman again shushed me and frantically tried to wave me to be quiet.  I was stuck.  Stuck in my car.  And stuck with no protection whatsoever---if the robbers came flying out of the bank, firing aimlessly, I had no way to escape.  I thought about asking for a Kevlar from my new police friend, but he looked busy so I didn't want to bug him anymore......I already felt like the biggest pest.

All of a sudden, 3 tellers came running out of the bank--the robbers let everyone go then apparently snuck out the back.  Fortunately everyone was safe but the crime was not foiled.  For some reason I feel like I might have been part of the problem as opposed to the solution......not sure why....

Oompa Loompas and iPhones

My daughter is going into the 6th grade and she doesn't have a phone.  To her, and most of her friends, this is a travesty and my "mommy ratings" have plummeted because I won't cave and buy her one.  We made a rule long ago that our little people would get  phones for 8th grade graduation, just prior to high school, and I'm sticking to my guns.  What happened to earning something, paying for it yourself, or God forbid being asked to wait with patience.....everything is so fast and furious these days...so snappy speedy....gimme gimme gimme...it's enough to drive a person mental.  Mix that with a relentless 11-yr-old female and you've got yourself a battling bonanza.  I've been calling her Veruka Salt..........

You all remember that little spoiled witch from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. "Daddy!  I want an Oompa Loompa and I want one NOW!"  Switch the words Oompa Loompa and iPhone and it's the same scene except that I'm saying no.  I've got to hand it to my mini me though, she does negotiate well and her art of persuasive selling is pretty decent.  She has learned many things under my tutelage, and someday she will be a Master Sensei of Sass too, but not in this house.  There's only room for one sheriff in town.....and her name is Kelly Von Sassypants......so back it up, sister!

Man Panel

Dear Sassies:

I'll be adding some contributing male writers to my blog and would love to hear from you with regards to questions you'd like answered or topics discussed......let's talk turkey with our mens and find out what they are really thinking, hating, loving, whatever.......send your goods, bads and everything in between to  kelly@kellyvonsassypants.com     Oooooooh what fun this is going to be!  Sassylicious!

And don't forget to be awesome.

Did I Just Say That?

Thursday night I attended a fundraiser that was held outside...that's right--I said outside.  Fundraising events in Dallas are always swanky...super tres chic... and at this time of year, usually inside, due to the blistering Texas heat.  In a word, the summers here are oppressive.

I carefully picked my outfit, not an easy task for 103 degrees, knowing full well I'd be a hot mess within minutes.  I aced that category but made a humomgo mistake when it came to my hair: I blew it out straight and wore it down...I have no idea what I was thinking.  My locks are not silky smooth or easy to manage, but curly and frizzy.....not good curly like Nicole Kidman...more like Gene Wilder or Carrot Top. Pity. 

When I climbed out of my car at the valet, I could feel my coiff going ballistic in the humid heat....I felt like I was in an Easy Bake Oven....shit......this was not working out. I was cranky and fussy and hadn't even entered the event. First stop....a much-needed cocktail.

I battled my way through the crowd.....and let me tell you, trying to make small talk while moving is very difficult, but I couldn't stop......the breeze created by my brisk walk was the only thing sustaining me...and knowing a cold glass of chardonnay was just inches away...."please let this be a bartender with a long pour," I silently prayed......

I ponied up to the bar and began mingling with a group of new friends....we chatted about this and that while I tried to remain cool and dry....not possible...the sweat was running down my back and into my jeans......butt sweat.  I had to stand up or die.  "Where are you going?" one of my new buddies inquired.
"Oh nowhere, just had to stand, I'm getting major butt sweat," I said with ease.  My three new amigos just stared at me.....so I walked away.....I needed to air out anyway. 

My next stop was an encounter with a breathtaking model who was wearing a couture dress that was one of the raffle prizes. She cut me off  just before I escaped inside the restaurant for a much needed AC break and started yapping about the dress and designer.  I wasn't listening at all because I was too busy giving her the once over....staring at her bony frame and wondering about her diet.  "Do you ever eat burgers?" I asked.  "Huh?" said Miss Perfect.  "Burgers.  Do you eat them?  You should."    She responded with a gratuitous chuckle and then said, "Thanks for the compliment."  Was that a compliment? It wasn't meant to be. I really did want to know if she ever killed  Quarter Pounders or not.

These are the things that keep me up at night: what do models eat and how do I prevent butt sweat?  Are they proper conversation topics for highfalutin affairs?  Probably not.  But I'm sure other people wonder about this stuff too, they just don't ask.  I, on the other hand, have no filter and will ask.  I should wear a warning label that reads:  Do not talk to me if you embarrass easily.  Jeez.....you really can't take me anywhere.......

No Really.......Hit On Me.....PLEASE!!!!!!

So I'm checking out in the grocery store this weekend and get to talking with the mommy in front of me.  We are yapping about this and that, when all of a sudden I feel a "WHACK" on my rump.  I quickly turn and find this woman's 5-yr-old son standing there with a DVD case and smiling an impish grin. 

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry!  I don't know what to say--this is so embarrassing," she shrieked as she looked at her son with shame. "Are you kidding? That's the best thing that's happened to me all day...I LOVE it!" I exclaimed.  And I wasn't joking. 

As I continue to climb towards my mid-forties, I've decided that any and all external affirmations (even lewd gestures) are not only welcome but earned. That's right, baby...I said it...I should be worshiped!!!  For nothing else, I want recognition for all the sweat equity I've put in. In fact, I want to be known as a MILF and my future goal is to become a cougar....and if any of you young boys make googley eyes at me and then follow it up with a "ma'am" I'm going to cream your face.

I've spent the last 30 years dieting, exercising, bleaching, waxing, hi-lighting, perming, straightening, plucking, make-upping, and now botoxing...I want to see the ROI and I'll take it in the form of a compliment please: appropriate, inappropriate, male, female, transgendered, disfigured troll.......it doesn't matter. The messenger is insignificant...it's the message that matters.

It is YOUR job to make ME feel good....stop being so selfish.

Trick or Treating with The Fuhrer

Over the past year or so my 7-year-old son has become very interested in World War II.  He has watched a couple specials on the History Channel and enjoys books detailing artillery, equipment, and world leaders during that time.  It's blown my husband and I away because his level of interest is pretty involved; he looks at maps, studies and inquires about alliances, and is irritated that France didn't do more. He has very strong opinions, can articulate his thoughts and support his points.  Of course those points are simple and direct, but well-stated nonetheless.

I was loving his historical interest, his big ol' brain, his desire to learn.....up until the point he hit me with this zinger:  "Can I be Hitler for Halloween?"
"Sure sweetie whatever you want...wait....what did you just say?"
"I said, can I be Hitler for Halloween?"

This question came out of nowhere while we dined upon Leggo waffles.  I watched him as syrup dripped from his chin and he wiped his mouth with his shirt collar, trying to lick it back off again.

"Ummmmm.......no," I responded in a perplexed voice. For a moment we just stared at each other with tilted heads while we simultaneously chewed.

"Why not, Mom?  He's really famous, he has a costume and I can wear a wittle moustache and everything."  (he still sounds like Elmer Fudd when he says his L's, R's and W's)  "AND,"  he added, Abbi could be Mrs Hitler!"  Again, excellent points from a 7-yr-old mind when considering Halloween theme and attire.  I was in a real jam. It took a few days but I finally was able to explain the reasoning behind my emphatic no.

For just a moment, however, I did imagine my 2 precious darlings gallivanting around town as Hitler and Ava Braun, scoring all the Butterfingers and Sour Patch Kids they could. I also thought about the annual picture of the neighborhood children and what it would look like: John is a great hobo, Jennifer's Raggedy Ann costume is too precious....and Patrick is a dead-ringer for Adolf.  Things that make ya' go hmmm....

Livin' Large

One of my very fave questions to ask kids is: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  The answers are usually standard....a teacher, a doctor, a policeman, etc.....but sometimes the responses are so outlandish and lofty it can be difficult to contain an outward laugh.

For a while my son and daughter repeated the same career choices when asked about their future endeavors, but recently they have come up with a few new gems that absolutely kill me....

Per my son, his future bio will include the following: $1,000,001.  A jetpack.  The ability to make himself invisible.  With these three items one could rule the world; and my shorty has the determination to do it.

My daughter is much more blase' about her career path. She doesn't like to waste time thinking about minute life stuff like work, school, homework, etc.  Over the last year or so she has thrown out professional soccer as a career but has changed her mind in recent weeks due to the 1.5 mile run she has to complete during her club practice. It's just too much work for the little princess. If something isn't easy to attain, she ain't interested....

"So if soccer's not going to be your gig," I ask, "what do you want to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," she'll sigh, "I'll probably just be a famous actress." This bold statement is made with absolutely no commitment whatsoever.....she's not in drama, hates to read, and gets embarrassed in front of crowds. So good luck with that one, toots--you're right on track!  When I remind her of her soccer talents and how great she is and could be with continued training, she looks around and gingerly says, "Nah.....I think I'll stick with the acting..."  Stick with it?!?!?  There's nothing to stick with, crazy!

Recently the two of us went to the bookstore and while I browsed for a new read she skimmed the teen fan club section in order to find the best autographs.  After all, she needs to be ready for all the paparazzi and mobs when she makes her debut in Hollywood........apparently it's as easy as that.

Sugar Britches

When my son was born, he came out the size of a toddler (WOWCH!)  My very own Baby Huey...we actually referred to him as the "baby who ate Dallas".  He's always dominated the height/weight charts at the pediatrician's office, but lately he has been growing at the speed of light....I know, I know....kids have their growth spurts and all but I'm in a constant race against the size chart with my little Oedipus.......

My kids go to Catholic school so they have a  uniform code--which I freaking love!  However, the uniforms ain't cheap and I cross my fingers at the beginning of the year in hopes that the size I purchased will last through the whole year. No dice.

With an entire month left of school, I knew I was going to get completely screwed when my son had to suck in his stomach in order to get his navy shorts both buttoned and zipped.  He was the fashion equivalent of the Incredible Hulk.  Shame.  "Mom," he pleaded, "these do not fit!"  I gave him a knowing smile and said, "Well, just wear your fleece--nobody will see."  A statement I made knowing full well the temp would be in the nineties that day.  What kind of a mother am I? 

Had we lived in East Germany his look would have been fine; but tight, short navy pants with white socks and black shoes weren't going to cut it in Dallas.  My girlfriend, who saw him wearing this, called him "Sugar Britches" and kept singing the Sir Mix-Alot song "Baby Got Back".  I had no choice but to replenish his shrinking academic wardrobe. I took one for the team and bought him all new clothes 3 weeks before school got out.  I'm such a sucker, but what was my choice?  "Sugar Britches" is just not a name you want people screaming at your son during football games.....

Worry Wart

I hate the fact that fear and worry have become so Vogue.  Between my Irish Catholic upbringing and propensity for panic attacks, I really don't need any outside influences, especially media hype, to give me more fuel for my already burning-out-of-control OCD fire.  As women, we have an innate desire to care for others, don't we?  This feeling was reinforced at an early age via playing house and Barbies.  We took care of our pretend families and made sure everything was hunky dory from A to Z.  If only our experiences could be that scripted and easily negotiated in real life--what a breeze!

It seems like everything out there these days: media, talk shows, warning labels, etc. shoot people into a catastrophic frenzy.  It's time we stop riding the "Terror Train".  What does that do for you, anyway?  Bupkis, I tell ya!

Day-to-day life brings enough challenges and feelings of insecurity without worrying about huge looming what ifs and propaganda.  It's insane! Everything has boiled down to one long list of things that will kill you.  Could I feel this way because 90% of the stuff on this endless list are things I'm doing, eating or exposed to?  You bet your sweet ass it is!  But look at the facts.....yoo-hoo.....I'm still here!

Let's take a moment and stroll down "freak out" memory lane, shall we?   The following scares were reported with such intensity that people felt they should stay locked inside their homes while wearing  hazmat suits:

1) The Killer Bees!!!!!!! (Are they still en route or what?)
2) SARS (so much for all the money I spent on those face masks)
3) West Nile Virus (my kids took baths in Off)
4) The Swine Flu ( I love bacon)
5) Y2K (wasn't the world supposed to implode or something?)

Ridiculous.  I fear "Bieber Fever" more than I do global warming.  FUHGETTABOUTIT!!!!!  And please...whatever you do...don't step on a crack...it will break your mother's back.....

Recession Hits the Tooth Fairy

I don't know what the hell is going on but my kids have been losing teeth left and right.  Are they brushing their teeth with Mountain Dew?  Eating an abundance of Laffy Taffy?  I have no idea, but I do know one thing...I can't afford the high rent expectations of the modern day Tooth Fairy.  When I was little, I got coins under my pillow...not 5 dollar bills! My kids expect to earn enough money to bank roll a Vegas casino on their lost teeth.  It's ludicrous.  Not to mention the fact that I never ever have cash.  The last time my daughter lost a tooth, again my wallet was bare, I did what any smart mommy would do and jacked money from her piggy bank in order to pay up.  I pulled together all I could and left a mound of change worth $2 under her pillow.  The next morning, Little Miss Sunshine stormed out of her room, shaking the bag, and said, "What is THIS?!?!?!"  Apparently nickels and pennies aren't acceptable currency to 10-yr-old kids...they want to see the paper stuff--only THE PAPER STUFF

I gave her the age-old "money is money" statement and all I got was a disgusted look (I can't even imagine if she knew it was her own money to begin with)  As a mommy, I have no shame; it's not about the journey it IS the end result that matters: get the kids fed and to bed, get them to practice on time, make sure they brush their teeth and wash their hair......and always make sure their piggy bank is flush, just in case the Tooth Fairy needs you to spot her a couple bucks........

Bad Driver On Board

I am a terrible driver--no need to sugarcoat it.  I take out curbs on a consistent basis, I have absolutely no depth perception, and my turn radius is piss poor.  I was fine with this shortcoming when it was just me in the car, but now that I'm a Mommy Chauffeur I can't get away with anything and it totally stinks.  The first time one of my kids ratted me out to my husband was several years ago.  My son, Patrick, and I were leaving the mall and I backed into one of those cement pillar doohickey things....oops.  He immediately took his sippy cup from his mouth and said, "Mommy, what was that?"  "Oh nothing, sweetie.  Everything is fine.....don't worry about it." 

I never really thought about it again until dinner when Patrick announced, "Mommy went bump in the car today, Daddy!"  I froze. I could not believe this was happening--he just started babbling a few words for the first time and all of a sudden he's forming sentences that drop me in the grease?  Traitor.

Years have gone by since that fateful day and I'm still an awful driver.  The only thing that's changed is now the jig is up and I can't slip anything past my clan--especially my hubby.  He thought everything would remedy itself when he bought me an SUV that makes that beeping sound when you back up.....not so much.

Mommies you know how it is--you have a car full of kids (usually fighting), the radio is blaring, you're running late, pretzels are flinging about, etc.  It's all you can do to stay between the lines on the road much less not have a minor mishap.  The last "bump" I was involved in took place on a narrow street when another big mommy bus tried to pass me and our side mirrors clashed.  We stopped, rolled down our windows, gave each other a nervous smile and waited for someone to speak..."I'm so sorry about that.  I really thought I could squeeze by you," said the other mommy.  "Me too.  Guess it's tighter than it looks," I replied.  We both looked out our windows to survey the mirror damage and just kind of shrugged at the scrapes and small dents.  "I don't think it really did anything, do you?"  "Huh-uh," said my new friend.  "Actually, I think those marks were already there," I said, "I can't be too sure. I'm good."  "Me too," she said.  And that was the end of it.  Just another day in the life of mommy driving with no time to waste on the small stuff........