Motherhood Uncensored

Five killers in my neighborhood

A few months ago we learned that the new Ashton Kutcher, Katherine Hiegl, and Tom Selleck movie "Five Killers" would be shooting in our neighborhood. Our subdivision is actually split into two parts, with the majority of the shooting being done in the other one, but some being shot right here on our idyllic suburban streets.

Since we don't frequently have movie stars filming around our homes, it's been a pretty big deal around these parts, with neighbors buzzing about an extras casting call and many folks attempting to interact Ashton and the director on twitter.

I hadn't really thought too much about it all (you know, Wedding of the Century approaching peoples!) until a guy, who turned out to be the stunt location coordinator, knocked on my door a couple of weeks back and asked if I'd be willing to let them crash a car through our back fence.

Certainly not something you get asked every day.

After he added that they'd replace and repair everything, I asked what our next door neighbor, a sensible engineering type had said, and he gave me an odd look and asked "Why do you want to know?"

Seemed like a fair question to me, since if they ran it through our fence, it would have to go through their fence, and if he said "yes," then perhaps we'd be interested in doing it.

Even so, I had to wait to discuss it all with the huz and get back to him.

As more details were revealed, we were told that it would shoot two to three nights and would involve five houses on our streets. We researched compensation for these types of things, and calculated (as a group) what it would take for us to participate - two nights where we'd probably get no sleep, a good couple of weeks without our yards and fences, and a lot of movie types (some very cute movie types) traipsing around our yard and perhaps taking gratuitous photos with our children that we can send to the grandmas and say "LOOK IT'S ME AND MAGNUM PI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Our completely reasonable requests (which did not include me licking Tom Selleck's mustache I SWEARTOGOD) were met with a $350 offer, to which most of us sort of rolled our eyes at.

Don't get me wrong. We didn't expect to make any money off this whole thing, nor are we trying to take advantage of a poor HUGE GIGANTIC MOVIE STUDIO who's building a pool for one of the model homes for one stunt scene and that apparently just wants to offer a few naive Southern families a few bucks to basically take over their yards and homes for a few days.

OHMAHGAW Ashtin Kucher jest used mah pisspot y'all - maybe Ah'll be on TMZ er somethang!

But most of us are bunch of cynical Northerners who'd much rather walk up the hill, plant our asses on a bunch of lawn chairs, and ogle the movie stars while they trash our neighbors' backyards and keep their kids up at night.

Let Tom Selleck Watch begin!

Damn South

"Mommy, why did Mary and Jophus have to go to BethleHAM?"

Now I Understand the Whole "Baby on Board" Thing

Apparently it only takes one trip to the airport with three children stuffed like sardines in the back of my Trailblazer to make me realize that people can be total and complete assholes.

Of course, it doesn't help that I decided to try on real, human non-pregnant person pants last night after plucking a ridiculous number of short wiry white hairs from the top of my greasy unshowered head.

Yes. I ignored Post-Partum Sanity Rules #1 and 2 (Don't try on real clothes and don't look in the mirror).

But seriously, take the people in their gihugic SUV who park me in at the ticketing drop off and then continue to leave their car and go chit chat with the sky cap for a solid five minutes. Do people not realize that there are, in fact, other people in the world that might not want to sit at the airport watching you check your Louis Vuitton suitcase?

Or, how about the woman in front of me at the Starbucks drive thru who pulls up just far enough past the speaker so that the person behind her (lucky me!) can't pull up to the said speaker and has to sit there screaming an order for a $4 smoothie for my cold-ridden toddler from five feet back. Even better, she decides to put on a full face of make up and complete her morning personal hygiene routine before moving up.

Clearly the "Baby on Board" signs are not reminding people to drive safely due to the presence of a sweet new life in the back seat. They're begging people not to be a bunch of assholes and move the fuck along because there's a screaming kid in the back who cannot be appeased without a milky nipple.

So, I'm thinking that "Post partum mother of three" signs might be in order.

Shouldn't that be a good enough excuse for my road rage?

Tales from the Consignment Sale

Consignment sales are like some underground cult around here. I'm certainly not averse to buying other people's used things, but not enough to buy a ticket just so I can peruse through a shitload of used sleepers and plastic toys before all the lowly people do, or worse standing in line to rush through the doors like crazed animals just to get last year's well worn Gymboree outfit for $5.

My philosophy with these sales is that it has to be a pretty damn good deal for me to fork over a few bucks for an outfit that's been washed, worn, and very likely peed or shit in. Call me picky, but when I can hop over to Old Navy and snag a brand new outfit for $7 on their sale rack, I'm not so motivated to buy one that's drenched in Dreft and is thinning in the butt.

And sure, these sales can be a great place to snag toys, but in all honesty, plastic toys are a dime a dozen, so I am not swayed by how nice of a ziploc you packaged your Fisher Price Little People. I'd just as soon hit a garage sale and get them all for 25 cents. Or free from my local Freecycle.

When it comes down to it, when you buy something new or hit the Freecycle list, you don't have to deal with crazed mothers nearly snatching clothes right out from under your nose, piling their strollers high with stuff that they haven't even actually looked to see how much it is and will probably not even buy at the end of the day, but insist on snagging just so someone else doesn't get it.

Since attending a few of these [sporting events; wrestling matches] sales, I've come up with my own set of rules, that until now have remained unpublished, but are implemented without warning - with extra gusto thanks to my "just take the baby out now" status. Granted, I've seen some of the actual rules they post on their websites, like how the clothes have to be in excellent condition, but apparently that doesn't include how they smell, because if the outfit smells like my dead Aunt's smoky apartment or baby puke, I'm going to pass. Yes, "excellent" is indeed quite subjective.

And this whole "price your own" bullshit is ridiculous. If I can buy the outfit cheaper at a regular store (like say that used Ralph Lauren newborn dress you're trying to pawn off for $20 - c'mon), then you can forget it.

But what really kills me is when the moms become so ridiculously territorial about their potential purchases, like it's the freaking Hope Diamond and if any other hands go to touch it then all hell will break loose. Granted, I'm not going to mess with their castle of crap that's now denting their stroller and slowly inching towards their screaming kid's head, but just because I glance over at what they have doesn't mean I'm concocting a plan on how to swipe it. Paranoid, much?

Even better is when these moms tell your kids to keep their hands off because Lord knows a 4-year-old girl is most definitely going to walk right off and purchase that dirty plastic push toy you covet so desperately. Best not let another child taint it or covet it so desperately that she will throw a raging fit over not being able to have a toy that have clearly seen way better days.

"Don't touch that. Someone's already buying that, little girl," she said to Quinlan.

"I'm pretty sure she was just looking at it" I replied, looking over from my position in front of the loads of newborn girl clothes.

"This is the 'reserved' section" she said, like it was literally some freaking limited edition Coach bag that she had snagged and Quinlan had climbed behind some shiny glass counter. 

"Well, I don't think you need to worry about her running off with it," I responded, beckoning Quinlan to come back my direction from the crazed plastic toy obsessed mother, or "anyone else for that matter," I said under my breath.

I mean, I'm all for finding a damn good deal, but if it means scolding an extremely cute four-year-old to get it, I'm just thinking you've got your priorities all wrong.

The Things You Do for a Case of Fat Tire Beer

So my almost Mississippi BFF and his family of 6000 (okay, six total but criminy it seemed like a lot of people) visited our humble abode on Saturday upon our invitation. This was done, mind you, because he had brought back my husband's beloved Fat Tire beer from Little Rock (where they were reaquainted a few months back) and we needed to get it from them.

We're damn classy here, aren't we?

And so, we cleaned, we cooked, and we emptied our beer refrigerator in preparation for their arrival. And aside from a few awkward moments at the beginning, it really was quite enjoyable.

Beer with a side of damn fine homemade spaghetti and chicken meatballs tends to have that effect on people.

And aside from the awkward sort-of-drunken waist grab and tug (you know those, right?) by my almost Mississippi BFF, the strawberry popsicle stains on our carpet, and the fresh scent of preschooler wizz on our new couch courtesy of their kiddo who gets enthralled with the television, doesn't feel like getting up to use the bathroom, and then pees, it was actually quite a successful visit.

Mainly because not only are we stocked with really good beer (which I shall soon be able to consume in large quantities), but my husband is pretty much convinced that a vasectomy is the way to go.