Jump around, jump up, jump up and get down

My kids have a three day weekend. So, we went to an indoor trampoline park on Friday afternoon. There is a 50/50 chance you will get a one way ticket to the emergency room at this place. We managed to leave in one piece. I was worried my younger two would be afraid. We have a trampoline at home, but this is a little intimidating to me. It is a giant warehouse of trampolines. There are basketball hoops on trampolines and an entire area for trampoline dodgeball. The latter may not be such a good idea for a 5-year-old. (Hindsight is a bitch) To the kid who threw a ball at my kindergartener’s face: watch your back sucker. I don’t care if you are still in diapers. Nobody throws a ball at my baby in the corner.

It turns out my children weren’t afraid at all. My 3-year-old was bouncing her face off in the toddler area. The only one pissing her pants was me. Your bladder is never the same after having three kids.

There is one area where you jump into a pit of foam blocks. My son’s friend did a flip into the pit. A bunch of girls did splits in the air before landing in the pit. I assume they were cheerleaders because they were wearing shorts with the word “cheer” on their ass. My daughter will never wear words of any kind on her derrière. It is like saying, “Hey, you, creepy guy wearing tube socks, look at my under aged daughter’s body.” Anyway, I figured if these chicks can do it, so can I. My 5-year-old, fresh from his facial injury, went first.

As if to taunt me he yelled “Cannonball” while falling. I got this in the bag. I am 37-years-old for f***’s – sake.

Smooth move Ex-lax!
My 3-year-old daughter, upset that I let her down (or pissed that I jumped without her) threw her drink and snack on the trampoline. It was not at all embarrassing to trip and fall on my face and be covered in juice. Next time I am wearing Depends and, as Tanya Harding as my witness, I will land on my feet.


I met a crazy woman this weekend. I am probably 50 mg of Zoloft away from being just like her. She was sitting in the hair salon waiting to have her roots colored. She greeted each and every person who walked through the door. She talked non-stop. Sometimes she spoke to other patrons. She would also announce her observations to the room. “The prices sure have gone up.” She appeared to be in her late 50’s. A button on her grey cardigan was dangling by a thread. A brightly
colored knit hat rested on top of her head. A few people seemed alarmed by her behavior. A guy in his 20’s giggled. I gave her what she desperately needed, someone to talk to. She asked me about my children and told me about her family. The red headed doll nestled under my daughter’s arm caught her eye, “What’s her name?” My daughter looked up at me before speaking. I have repeatedly given the “Stranger Danger” speech. I prefer the scare the hell out of your children method of parenting. I am not going to sugar coat it. If you talk to a stranger he will kidnap you. After working in the news business for a decade I am slightly paranoid and overly cautious. My gut told me this woman was harmless. I gave her the nod of approval. “Her name is Jesse,” my daughter said, proudly lifting her favorite doll into the air. “She is from Toy Story.” The characters from Toy Story are adorable. Well, that is, unless you wake up in the middle of the night to find this in your bed:


In a dark room Jesse looks a lot like Chuckie. I woke up last night to find her staring back at me. I screamed and jumped out of bed so fast I think I pulled a muscle in my back.

My 5-year-old joined the conversation. “Actually,” He uses this word often. It is his way of saying, You’re idiot, but I will correct your mistake. “It is from Toy Story 2.” As we got up to leave the woman yelled “Have a nice day!” Our hairdresser apologized, “I am so sorry about that.” There was nothing to apologize for. Maybe the world would be a nicer place if more people were like her. She was happy and didn’t care what anyone thought. A man with a thick mustache held the door for us. “Aren’t you cute,” he said to my daughter. Back off Chester! We left without saying a word to him.

READ MORE: CynicalMother.com

Poor Bieber

Justin Bieber (i before e, except after c) celebrated his 19th birthday this past weekend. It seems like just yesterday he was singing about me plus you. I’ma tell you one time, kids grow up fast. Now, Bieber is wearing his pants below his derrière, smoking weed (allegedly) and wooing the ladies.


I don’t care how much that kid is making. His Mom needs to whoop his a**. Pull your trousers up son! I dare my children to make this fashion statement. They wouldn’t leave the house.

The Biebs may be one step closer to the legal drinking age, but he is still a whiner. Bieber complained on Twitter how he had the worst birthday ever. (Wiping away a tear) The gossip sites pointed out how the pop star spent his birthday in London, eating expensive food and buying designer clothing. The best part of this story on Gawker.com were the reader comments. As an F-you to Bieber, people shared their own worst birthday stories. They range from a guy spending his birthday at the hospital with his baby’s Mama who overdosed on morphine to a girl who got her a** kicked by her own brother on her big day. (Cue: Debbie Downer music) My favorite was this (and if you get the joke you are officially cool in my book) :




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