I totally planned on having this written yesterday and posted early this morning, but guess what– that was crazy talk. I got lured in by a warm fireplace and an idea for another Ambrosia Wood book (the gal from Fifty Shades of Puddin’ for y’all who don’t know). Anyway, this just didn’t get done last night but I knew all three kids would be at school today and I could crank this out in a New York minute (make that a Texas minute–I don’t do any thing New York-fast except run away from scorpions or towards a Nordstrom shoe sale). But the Universe laughed at that little plan and made sure one of the kids was sick and needing extra attention.
But it’s 6 minutes until noon and I’m finally in front of the computer ready to hit you with some Mommy Helping fa-shizzle. Let’s not waste our precious time, the day is slipping away and my blood alcohol level is dangerously low.
All you need to make a pitcher of Sarasotas.
I saw a drink posted a couple of times on Pinterest called a Sarasota. This immediately caught my attention because I used to live there. In fact, this is the city where I met my husband and gave birth to my oldest son. It’s a magical city that I fell in love with the first time I went to visit my BFF. When I got fired from my job in Little Rock and broke up with Mr. I-tried-to-make-him-right-but-he-so-wasn’t #36, I packed what I could fit into my little mustang convertible, gave the rest to my family, and moved to the city of white sand and blue water. I decided that a drink named after that city must be a liquid angel straight from heaven.
The recipes on Pinterest called for Moscato or reisling, raspberry lemonade concentrate, Sprite, and fresh raspberries; but I can’t leave well enough alone. I decided that the Sprite was just for bubbles and would water-down my child-saving-sanity-juice, so I revised the recipe. I figured a bottle of cheap sparkling moscato could work double-time and it cut one thing off the shopping list. Dump the raspberry lemonade concentrate in a pitcher, pour the bottle of sparkly goodness in, stir it up, thrown in some raspberries and bottoms up!
Now on to the Duh–I Already Knew That Helpful Tip:
I am not a perfect parent. Never have been and never will be. I often forget meetings or to check homework. I never volunteer for serious roles in the PTA (insurance just can’t cover that type of catastrophe) and I’m certainly not good at giving the kids an example of living a tidy, organized life. But– I am a creative parent. I am and artist, writer, and god help them, an actress. I am the mom who will commit to the role of Popeye just to get a spoonful of spinach down their throats. I will cook and serve our spaghetti as a neurotic Italian man with a fear of utensils. I start wars with pool noodles (best lightsabers EVER) just to break up a real fight. I am the mom who realizes at 7am that her child is supposed to be in a costume for school, and will somehow make an exact replica of freakin’ Gandolf using only some fishing line, a pillowcase, cotton balls, and pipe cleaners. I am McGyver in that department. Don’t even try me or you’ll find a car bomb in your minivan made out of toilet paper rolls and some hair gel.
So within the hurricane of creativity I live in, here is my little trick I’ve created to help manage the butt-loads of toys and belongings my children like to drag downstairs and forget about after a few minutes. After many times of stepping on Legos, finding Batman in my bathtub and a T-rex in my panty drawer, this is what I came up with…
The Bucket of Despair–Mercy on the lost souls left to perish in this dark and dastardly place.
The Bucket of Despair. It lives on the landing of our stairwell. All toys and belongings left downstairs by the kids are sent here. If they are not put back where they belong by the end of the week they find new homes. I came up with the idea back when we were up to our arm pits in Harry Potter and started it out as a simple basket. Once I discovered this bucket at Target during Halloween, I knew where it’s forever-home would be. And it works pretty well. So far only a few stray toys have found themselves in the donation box. I’m just waiting for the day to be tested on a large, expensive item. I’m hoping I can keep up my strength when I’m tested. God have mercy on me when I am 🙂
And now that I’ve dazzled you with cocktails and my parenting knowledge, it’s time to laugh (which I’m sure you’re still doing over the fact that I offered parenting advice). Anywho…I was recently shocked to discover some x-rated activity taking place in the alley behind our home. I was innocently out and about
spying on neighbors taking a walk when I discovered the seedy underbelly of our little suburb. It appeared that R rated fungi were growing amongst the St. Augustine and Zoysia. The yard gnomes were there like little pimps, charging other perverted lawn dwellers for the show. And here’s the proof…
Shake those shittakes, baby!!
Hey, if you haven’t figured out that I have the sense of humor of a 15-year-old boy by now, you’re slow. Happy Monday!!!!