Would You Rather? The Mother Version

The “Would You Rather” game is HUGE in our house, especially at holiday meal time.  Typical questions are usually spewed out by my sons…

“Would you rather wrestle an alligator with one hand tied behind your back, or have someone stick you in the eye with a burning hot piece of metal?”  Boys – so uninventive.

So today, I thought I’d make up a few of my own “would you rather” scenarios in honour of all the mothers, wives, and women around the world.  Here goes…

Would you rather make dinner every day for the rest of your life, or never have to make dinner again but have someone hand-stitch one – just one – of your eyelids shut?

Would you rather clean up your kid’s barf after they ate all-you-can-eat sushi, or barf yourself after cleaning up your kid’s barf after they ate all-you-can-eat sushi?  Yeah, you’re right.  This one’s obvious.

Would you rather have someone call you a bitch, or have someone tell you that your skirt has been hiked up all afternoon and that everyone and their brother now knows that you wear a leopard-print thong.  Strange that you didn’t feel the draft, but this is hypothetical.  Just answer the damn question already.

Would you rather pay for your daughter to have braces (and her teeth are REALLY screwed up, like her whole jaw needs realigning), or coach your son’s soccer team when you know absolutely nothing – and I do mean NOTHING, like you think a goal is worth four points – about soccer, and it’s a competitive league, and the kids are fifteen and sixteen years old, and all the other parents will be watching your every pathetic attempt to show them what to do.  And you’re knocked-kneed, and you look really stupid running. LOL, I can’t even comprehend the horror of the second part. I think I’d rather be dead. 

Would you rather have sex on a night that you don’t really want to, or have your husband tell you that he’s “just not interested” and that there’s (suspiciously) “no particular reason why, he just isn’t”?

Would you rather do a full grocery shop – alone – at Walmart on a busy Saturday afternoon with three kids under the age of three, or take your seventeen-year-old daughter and her two girlfriends shopping at the mall to spend an undetermined amount of YOUR money?  I guess this one’s pretty obvious as well. An “undetermined amount of money”?  Are you kidding?  I’ll take the temper tantrums and evil looks from onlookers over how I can’t handle three young children any day.

Would you rather get a box of Bran Buds for your birthday, or Call Of Duty: Black Ops for PlayStation 3? Married? It happens.

Would you rather vacuum up that expensive earring you just lost, or vacuum up wet-ish cat poop?

Would you rather get squirted in the face with a juice box, or punched in the crotch by a one-year-old?

Would you rather your husband had a secret crush on Penelope Cruz, or on the neighbour lady who looks a lot like Roseanne Barr? The way I see it, the Roseanne lookalike is much more attainable, and therefore way more of a threat.

Would you rather clean up after the washing machine leaked – you have a second floor laundry room and there is water and soap everywhere – or clean up the juice jug that someone spilled and it went all under the fridge?

Would you rather have your husband’s parents come to live with you, or have flies in your house all the time because your kids never shut the screen door and your compost bucket sits on the back deck.  And no, you can’t move the compost bucket – it is nailed down.

Would you rather have someone tell you that you looked pregnant when you’re not, or have someone tell you that you just look fat?

Would you rather get naked with Colin Farrell and a baby goat, or Anderson Cooper and nothing?

Would You Rather? The Mother Version | TheFurFiles

Would you rather get your finger caught in the blender, or your toe caught in the lawnmower?

Would you rather go to the hairdresser and have them turn your hair green before your daughter’s dance recital, or before your son’s graduation?  Someone will be taking pictures at both, but the dance recital images are more likely to end up in the newspaper.  Both will end up on the internet.  There’s nothing you can do about that.

Would you rather have your child swear at a teacher in grade four, or in grade ten?

And finally…

Would you rather walk in on your daughter having sex with her boyfriend, or your son diddling himself?  Oh God, either one of these would make me want to fling bleach into my eyes.

Now, if all of this craziness isn’t enough for you, then there’s “Would You Rather” the official website.  Their ideas are not as good as mine, but it’s better than nothing.

Happy Monday everybody.  I don’t have cramps or a headache – not yet anyway.

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Things I Say In My Head Vs. Things I Say In Real Life – A Conversation With My Daughter

Mornings at my house are crazy.

Get this. Do that. Where is my black bra? Who stole it? Can you tell him/her to shut the hell up. I just stepped in cat barf. Can you drive me to the train? Or the bus? I’m lazy, and I don’t feel like walking that one extra block. And why do you always have to make oatmeal for breakfast? Eggs would be nice every once in a while.
Getting my daughter straightened away is my biggest challenge. This is how it works:

She stays in bed until about an hour before her bus is scheduled to leave. She then gets up and spends the next fifty-nine and a half minutes beautifying herself in the bathroom – hair, clothes, makeup, hair, different clothes, more makeup, hair – you get the idea. Then she comes downstairs with thirty seconds to spare and announces, “I’m gonna miss my bus. Can I get a ride?” It is not really a question – more of a command – directed straight at me. As if my husband would ever fall for her crap. Besides, he’s usually gone by seven. It is now 8:30 a.m.

To which I reply, “Why didn’t you get up earlier so this wouldn’t happen?”

And she says all “your heart is going to break when I tell you this” – “I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.  It must be my teenage hormones. So I thought I’d sleep as long as possible so I’d be alert in class. You DO want me to be alert in class, don’t you? Or are you a monster?” Even as a little girl, she was a handful.

Things I Say In My Head Vs. Things I Say In Real Life - A Conversation With My Daughter | TheFurFiles

Jesus, I am not a monster, so I say, “Of course, I want you to be alert in…”

She cuts me off. “And I haven’t even had time to make my breakfast. You DO want me to have breakfast, don’t you? Weren’t you saying that people who don’t eat breakfast often end up with eating disorders?”

And I say all “I’m going to wring your neck if you say another word” – “Just hurry up then.  I’ve got stuff to do.”  And then I go upstairs to get ready.

Now, this is where the real duplicity comes in. See, she brings her breakfast with her in the car. And like me, it is always the exact same thing – a piece of toast with peanut butter, an apple, and a cup of herbal tea.

As she juggles her bag, her coat, and all the food, I am thinking – A little time management would’ve prevented this. Instead, I say, “Did you remember to bring a lunch?” Sure, she eats breakfast, but in her quest to stay slim and trim and Victoria’s Secret model-esque (I thought I taught her better than this), she often neglects her other meals, or she simply brings the ever-filling five to six small chunks of watermelon and a few crackers.

“Yeah,” she answers, which really means, I don’t need to hear your rant about health and fitness. One million times over the years has been more than enough.

Driving down the street, I revel in the fact that it is a fairly nice day outside. Other children – seven-year-olds – seem to be walking to their bus stop just fine. After the first block – as I shift from first to second gear at the stop sign – the tea spills all over my daughter’s lap, and I’m thinking – This happens every single morning. For someone as smart as you are – you got the English award back in grade eight, so what if that was four years ago, you couldn’t have gone too far down the shitter since then – you must be able to put two and two together and figure out that drinking a full cup of tea in a standard shift car isn’t the best idea in the world. Instead I say, “Oh dear. Did you get burned?”

“Don’t,” she scowls at me. “Just don’t.” This means, I don’t want to fucking hear I told you so.

Ten minutes later, we arrive at her school. She opens the door to get out, and I’m thinking, Free at last. Instead I say, “Have a great day.” And I mean it. Of course, I want her to have a great day. I still DO feel “free at last”.

Standing up, she brushes off her pants, slings her bag over her shoulder, grabs her coat, and then tosses her tea cup onto the floor of my car – my already filthy car – along with the apple core and some small piece of scrunched up paper. I think it’s a gum wrapper. Yes, it is gum wrapper. The little bit of tea that’s left spills out onto the mat. “Bye,” she grumbles, turning to head to class.

“Bye,” I say, sighing deeply. Morning accomplished.

Serial Killers Don’t Generally Have Whiskers

My cat Jackson is a total creeper.  My husband says he is a pedophile/rapist/serial killer trapped inside a cat’s body.  He hides in my daughter’s closet and gets hair all over her dance clothes, most of which, are black.  When he does come out, he just sits and stares – at people, at the wall, at whatever.  When you touch him, he makes the strangest noise – he sounds like a bird being held under water.  Every single night, after he’s been fed, and patted, and after we’ve all just nestled under the blankets for peaceful sleep, he sits in the hall and howls – for about fifteen minutes straight, until my husband yells “shut up” really loud.  Then he stops.  He is always trying to have sex with our other cats.  It is really quite disturbing.

LESSON: Most people/cats/animals in general have their quirks, but some, SOME are just freaks, and you really should watch your back when you are around them.

Serial Killers Don't Generally Have Whiskers | TheFurFiles

Serial Killers Don't Generally Have Whiskers | TheFurFiles

Serial Killers Don't Generally Have Whiskers | TheFurFiles