The Frumpy Zone

Frumpy Fashion Quiz

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 00:30:00 +0000

Frumpy’s Fashion Tips:

Warning:

The tips are most likely not appropriate for anyone who takes fashion seriously.

Take the quiz below to see if this site is for you.

Frumpy's Fashion Quiz:

1. Your favorite place to shop for clothes is

A. Upscale mall

B. Department Store Clearance Racks

2. The tags on your clothes state

A. Dry clean only

B. Wash and wear

3. You wear clothes to

A. Look fabulous

B. Feel comfortable

4. The most you would pay for a pair of jeans is

A. Money isn’t an object if they look great.

B. No more than $50 – and for that price they better look good on me!

If you chose A for most of your answers:

Stay away from this site. It is totally inappropriate for a woman as classy as you. If you already looked ahead then quickly shut down your computer, head to Nordstrom’s and buy a pair of Italian leather shoes…full price. You’ll feel much better.

If you chose B for most of your answers:

Welcome to the Frumpy Zone! This site will let you know where to find all the great fashion bargains and give you great fashion tips like: floral pastel printed blouses are great at hiding spit-up stains. Gauzy peasant skirts are perfect for catching puke.*

*This really happened. I was at the pediatrician's office with my son when he was

four. He had a horrible cough, lots of congestion, and a fever. When they did the finger stick he literally cried so hard that he puked all over me. Luckily, I had on

my gauzy peasant skirt and was able to catch it all, walk over to the sink, rinse it out with pleasant smelling hand soap and be on my way. By the time we got home, my skirt was dry and no one could have known that I had been wearing vomit an hour before.
FZ

F A S H I O N

The Blob Returns

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 05:08:00 +0000

Read part one of The Blob Returns in the October issue of Richmond Parents Monthly.
Note: Please excuse the typo in the above article. It was an editorial error.

You have now entered the Frumpy Zone…a place that sometimes echoes the television sitcoms of the past. Richard Lee spent the previous day in the Frumpy Zone and is only too happy to have left and returned to the reality of work. Unfortunately, his wife, Colleen, wakes up to a world that is colored in varying shades of grey. Her usual t-shirt and yoga pants have been replaced by a knee length light grey cocktail dress. Her red hair, now glossy grey, is clipped in a neat pile on top of her head and she’s wearing a very dark grey lipstick. The Frumpy Zone has now been sucked into an eerie replication of an ‘I Love Lucy’ episode.

Ricky spent the previous day cleaning up the mess from the ‘Blob incident.’ He warned Lucy in his sexy broken English not to wash the towels at one time because they had sopped up an entire bottle of laundry soap.

Lucy, the ever dutiful wife replied, “Yes, Ricky.” Unfortunately, Lucy doesn’t want to spend an entire day washing 10 loads of towels, so she decides to cram just half of the towels into the machine. Forty five minutes later, Lucy opens up the front loading machine only to have a mountain of bubbles froth out onto the floor. “WAAAA, Ricky!!!!!!!” she cries, quickly slamming the door of the machine shut. Luckily, Ricky is at work and can’t hear her cries of distress.

Worried that Ricky will be angry that she didn’t listen, Lucy hurries to clean up this disaster before he gets home. First, Lucy gets a bucket and lets the bubbles drain into it then dumps them in the bathtub. Nex,t she starts lugging heavy, wet towels in the bucket to the bathtub. Each soaking towel weighs about twenty pounds – not an easy task in a cocktail dress and pumps. Lucy is sweating, her hair is escaping its ‘up-do’ and the front of her dress is wet. Thirty minutes later, the towels are draining in the tub, and the laundry closet floor is sparkling.

Emerging from her bedroom in a fresh outfit in varying shades of grey, Lucy calls Ethel and tells her about her latest disaster.

Sometimes, even the worst disasters can provide entertainment. Colleen has spent an unusual day that could have been an old “I Love Lucy” episode…a day that one can only have in the Frumpy Zone.

My First Pink Tool Kit

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 05:07:00 +0000

My First ‘Pink Tool Kit’ Project

My pink tool kit finally came in and I have to say it is sooooo cute! It has everything a novice project creator could want – even a cordless screwdriver. My first project would be to install (such a professional constructive sounding word) 6 plant hangers on the front porch. I only have to measure and screw in two screws apiece. A piece of cake for my adorable pink tool kit. R-I-G-H-T….This is the Frumpy Zone. Nothing is that easy.

It was a dark and stormy night… (Hey, it works for Snoopy.)

Of course it was a little muggy but the sun was hiding behind the clouds and the kids loved watching the storm from the porch. I laid out all of my supplies and got to work. Now I must say one thing before I get started. I am not a meticulous person when it comes to projects. I hate reading directions and I like to do my own thing. When I cook, my recipes never come out the same way twice. I tell you this so you know how dedicated I was when I measured exactly where the first screw would go so each plant hanger would be uniform.

Next, I hammered the screw in place with my pink hammer – too cute. Then I added a Phillips tip to my new pink electric screwdriver. (Of course my daughter had to pry the tips out of my pink tool box because they were stuck and I couldn’t remove them.) Funny thing, my really cute pink handled electric screwdriver wasn’t strong enough to even scratch the wood.

So I tried a Standard tip… no luck….O.K. so maybe pink has sissified my tools… So I dug my old tool kit from the top of the fridge – of course I almost got hit in the head with a grill lighter which clattered to the floor while I was lifting the overflowing tool bag.

I rummaged around until I found a red and black screwdriver with removable tips. After adding a Standard tip, I screwed in my first screw. Not bad, until I got to the end and only had about ¼ inch to go and the screw wouldn’t budge. So I decided to start on the last screw. After much struggling, I finally got both screws in. I was sweaty and tired but filled with a sense of accomplishment. This is so much more rewarding than doing dishes. I know that when this job is done, it will stay done. Unlike dishes, no matter how many times I wash them, there will always be more.

On to the second plant hanger...

The storm slowed down to a drizzle and I was ready for hanger number two. For some reason, the wood on this hanger seemed harder. I couldn’t get the screws to turn. I kept alternately hammering them and then trying to screw them in. My screwdriver kept slipping, leaving little slash marks in the paint. My sore arms were quivering like a bowl of Jell-O. I was hot, sweaty and starting to curse. The bleepin’ screws wouldn’t go in no matter how hard I tried. If I hadn’t already completed one, I would suspect that I was dealing with cement. After quite a bit more sweating and upper arm quivering, I finally finished hanger #2. Total time to screw in four screws: one hour and ten minutes.

Of course after that, I figured I would do the rest later.

When my husband came home from work, I proudly showed him my two installed plant hangers. He wasted no time telling me that it should only take about 10 minutes to screw four screws – with the proper MAN tools of course!

He’s lucky I didn’t hit him over the head with my pink hammer!

The next day, my husband showed me how to use his ‘heavy duty MAN electrical drill/screwdriver combo thingy.’ He even let me try it on one of the screws. It seemed that my husband was running into the same issue: cement-wood. So I gratefully played “Vanna” and handed him all the supplies while he installed the remaining four plant hangers. Total time: one hour

Labels

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 04:53:00 +0000

Labels

I find it annoying that society, the media, the all elusive 'THEY' have to label mothers. You have the Stay@Home Mom, the Working Mom, Super Mom, Soccer Mom, and now the Blogger Moms. Can you see them lined up like Barbie dolls with all their little matching outfits?

Check out Super Mom Barbie. She has the 'Farrah Fawcett cut' and even comes with a little red cape that can turn into an apron or a silk nightie depending on the situation.(Frying pan and bacon not included.)

Working Mom Barbie is all dressed up with her leather pumps, and matching briefcase, her hair cut in a slick bob. (She has a spit-up stain on her suit jacket.)

Blogger Mom Barbie comes with a laptop and her own Starbucks travel mug.

Soccer Mom Barbie has a designer sweat suit and a cooler filled with snacks, a first aid kit, and Gatorade. (Soccer ball decal included.)

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Stay@Home Mom Barbie has her hair pulled back in a pony tail, is sporting Ken's t-shirt, and a pair of faded jeans. None of the other Barbie Moms will talk to her.

Then I went to work full time and WOW, there's the guilt again, except this time it's guilt because I'm not home for everything and guilt because it actually felt good to be away from the chaos for a little while. Despite our circumstances, we are all mothers and have made choices that work for our own independent situations. We need to stick together but for some reason, the media, (made up mostly of men) wants to keep us divided. Why?

Because together and united we have power! God forbid a bunch of mothers actually realize how powerful they truly are. The term Mommy Wars is the most idiotic word I have ever heard. Come on! We all have something in common....we love our kids! We need to stand together and refuse to be labeled. We are more complex than that! (Can you hear the Battle Hymn of the Republic playing softly in the background?) So don't let THEM label us. We are so much more than that.

FRUMP REBORN

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 04:50:00 +0000

WELCOME TO THE FRUMPY ZONE!

Is this a mommy blog? God, I hope not. For some reason, the term mommy blog makes me shudder, just like the term soccer mom. Sure, I drive a beat up old mini-van and my son just joined soccer last year but in my mind, I AM NOT A SOCCER MOM. (At least I don't have one of those cute soccer ball decals stuck to the back of my van.) So Ok, maybe this is a mommy blog, just don't call it one. I'm still in denial. About what you might ask?

Well, I am denying the fact that even though I am a frumpy housewife with three kids and live in the Frumpy Zone, somewhere deep inside is still the vibrant independent woman that I used to be. She's the one who refuses to be labeled. She's the one who is struggling to keep her identity alive. She's the one who reminds me constantly that even though I am a mother, my life isn't all about serving my family - and – GASP – that’s OK! In fact, when I give her the time she needs, I am actually a better wife and mother. So once again, yea, I'm the Frumpy Housewife with a bloggish domain, but I am not, and never will be a soccer mom with a mommy blog!

So what exactly is the Frumpy Zone? Have you every seen the movie Parenthood with Steve Martin? You know the part where he is watching his son ruin the school play and all of a sudden he’s on this roller coaster and his wife is on it with him laughing and enjoying the ride while Steve is just gritting his teeth and holding on to the bar for dear life…. That’s the Frumpy Zone… a crazy, exhilarating roller coaster ride. A place where mothers can let down their hair and laugh at someone else whose life is just as chaotic as theirs. A place where the bathrooms always need cleaned and your feet stick to the kitchen floor. A place where ALL moms are welcome...even if they are fashionably dressed and a size zero... (are there really any of those out there?)

So welcome to the Frumpy Zone… ease up a bit on the safety bar, laugh and enjoy the ride.

The Battle of the Smoke Detector Gang

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Sun, 06 Jan 2008 17:56:00 +0000

Did you know that October is Fire Prevention Month? I'm sorry to say that the last thing I think of in the Frumpy Zone is fire prevention. Fortunately, my house is filled with high tech Smoke Detectors that are hardwired into my wall, making them eerily intelligent. When the back up battery starts to lose power, the detector automatically lets out a warning beep every 1.5 minutes until someone replaces it. Unfortunately, this always occurs in the middle of the night.

BEEEEP! My dog is the first to notice, thanks to her superhuman hearing ability. BEEEEEP! She jumps on my stomach - and starts shaking - all 38 pounds of her. Then I hear it - BEEP. I wait, there it is again, BEEP. I roll over, nudge my husband and he gets up and handles it.
(That's one of the perks of being married. He kills the bugs, takes care of all vehicle maintenance and gets up when something goes BEEP in the night.)

But last week, my husband was out of town. BEEP, THUMP, OOF, SHAKE! I rolled over and
nudged. 1.5 minutes later...BEEP, SHAKE, SHAKE, WHINE! I rolled over again and OH CRAP! my husband's not there. Well… OK, now what?

I stumbled downstairs to put the dog outside so she wouldn't have a heart attack. While fumbling around in the dark for her leash, she ran away in a fear induced frenzy. After muttering some choice words, I headed back upstairs to deal with the BEEP. I soon discovered that there's no way to tell which detector was beeping. They seemed to be taking turns.

Internal Communication Data from the Smoke Detector Gang:
BEEP! Hey Joe, here she comes, your turn.
BEEP! Pass it on, Buzz, let Joyce take over.
BEEP! I got it from here boys, my battery's feeling a little low.

For a good thirty minutes I'm stumbling around, climbing the kids stool, ripping detectors off the wall, prying out 9 volts, tripping back downstairs, looking for the dog, and digging through the battery box.

Three detectors later and I finally found the culprit! I waited the requisite 1.5 minutes...no beep. I held my breath for another 1.5 minutes... still no beep! Stealthily, I climbed off my stool. Silence reigned, until I heard the scratching. My dog returned, her nervous breakdown complete. I climbed back into bed and snuggled down under the covers.

Hey boys, she's back in bed. Anyone else need a new battery?
BEEEEEEEP!

Back-teria to School September 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 21:37:00 +0000

Warning: The following topic is very disgusting, particularly if you don’t have kids.

In the Frumpy Zone, September means more than back to school. It means the end of those ‘schedule free’ days. No more late nights and lazy mornings. And most importantly, with the re-entrance into school and daycare, September means the start of ‘The Pathogen Parade.’ From mid-September to mid-June, my family will be attacked by every germ, parasite, and microbe known to man.

Schedule of last year’s Pathogen Parade:

Mid-September: Back to School Bacteria
Three children - three weeks of strep throat.

November: Seasonal Sinus Invasion:
The start of the ‘Great Phlegm War.’

December: Virus Vacation
Our family felled in a single blow by the ‘Virulent Vomiting Virus.’

January: Recurring Ear Infections
Every month until June

March, April, May: Phlegm Fighters
Dripping noses, oozing eyes, clogged ears.

June: Vomit Coughing

My two youngest were the first casualties of the ‘Great Phlegm War.’
Their systems were weak. Feverish, with severe chest congestion and pink eye, they got the worst symptom of all - vomit coughing : uncontrollable coughing which caused involuntary vomiting.

After 48 hours of changing sheets, and washing towels, my husband and I became professional vomit catchers. I became so adept at cleaning up projectile vomiting, that after my 4 year old threw up all over me at the Dr.’s office, the nurse didn’t even notice.

Last but not least, don’t forget the parasites that can bug you throughout the year.

Weekly Paranoia Lice Check –All it took was for one child to get it and my entire house was filled with chaos. Laundry increased ten-fold, and we all had to sit with nasty goo on our heads covered with shower caps. Not to mention the endless hours of combing and washing, combing and washing. So now I have developed OCD of the Scalp. When my children scratch, I immediately get out my ‘special’ comb and flashlight. I don’t care that they were just scratching their big toe, you can never be too careful.

As I say good-bye to the germ-free, healthy days of summer, I shudder at the thought of another school year in ‘The Pathogen Parade.’ I’m working on new legislation requiring a public school uniform: little surgical masks, shower caps and latex gloves so that no child will be left behind…sick at home.

The Dogdays of Summer

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 00:27:00 +0000

August is the time of year where the days are long and steamy and the kids are restless and whiny. To help you get through the rest of your summer, I have consulted with a highly specialized team of “Summer Fun Experts,” AKA…my kids. They are experts at wreaking havoc… I mean…creating fun activities using simple household items. I’ve compiled a list of their most recent escapades… I mean… Summer Fun Activities.

1. Hide the Dog Food Bowl.
Summer Fun Expert #3 is obsessed with dog food. Every day, Experts #1 and #2 are dispatched on a quest to find the newest location of the dog’s bowl.

2. 52,000 Pick-Up
In this dog food game, Expert #3 dumps the bite sized food onto the floor and runs around while Expert’s 1 and 2 throw the dog food back in the bowl.

3. Tattoo Parlor – Sidewalk Chalk Version
Expert #1 likes to paint her co-expert’s eyelids, cheeks and fingernails with sidewalk chalk and pretend it’s make-up.

4. Tattoo Parlor – Stamp Pad Version
Expert #2 likes to use a stamp pad - without the stampers - to decorate Expert #3. This results in #3’s body being covered with bright blue rectangles. (Blue bathwater is an added bonus.)

5. Tattoo Parlor – Magic Marker Version
Expert #3 enhances her natural beauty by drawing all over her face, arms and legs with markers.

6. Naked Tag
Expert #3 strips down and runs away while #1 and #2 chase her.

7. Potty Mouth
Experts 1, 2, and 3 love using bathroom words in various combinations. For example, #3’s favorite is “Poo-poo potty head.” This game is now played in the bathroom since we instituted their pre-school rule, “Potty words can only be said in the bathroom.”

8. Steal the Snacks (Insert Mission Impossible theme song.)
Expert #2 likes to sneak down the stairs, slip into the kitchen and seize forbidden snacks back upstairs to Experts #1 and #3.

9. Kill the Spider Web
Expert #2 uses the garden hose to vanquish the evil spider web that hangs over the kitchen windows. When my windows are open, my kitchen floor gets a much needed bath.

10. Stick ‘Em Up
Expert #3 covers her entire body with stickers or band-aids.

Colleen R. Lee lives in the Frumpy Zone with her husband and Summer Fun Experts #1 (age 8), #2(age 4), and #3 (age 3). She believes that one day her children are going to open up a Tattoo Parlor.

Welcome to the Frumpy Zone

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 19:19:00 +0000

Welcome to the Frumpy Zone blog. If you are married and have children then you will be right at home and able to relate. If you’re single, then you probably want to go to my brother’s blog at www.minddung.blogspot.com . Or, if you want to know the truth about being ‘Married With Children’ then read on. My blog might just save you from making one of the biggest mistakes of your life…not that my life is a mistake… it’s just that I have entered a totally different reality… I live in the FRUMPY ZONE (Now would be the time to play my blog theme song.) Welcome and enjoy your peek into my world.

Fighting Forty July 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:37:00 +0000

WARNING: This article was written in the throes of a mid-life crisis.

I do my best thinking in the shower. Water drowns out the sound of my inner mom so I can hear my soul speak. (Inner mom is that nagging voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like your own mother, “Don’t forget to take the meat out of the freezer… trim kids’ toenails before they turn into claws… need milk...”)

During my last few trips to the shower, I’ve had a terrifying realization: I’m turning 40! O.K. actually, I’ll be forty in 1 year and eight days but for some reason the big FOUR OH is looming over me like Fezzik from the Princess Bride.

I’ve noticed strange symptoms during the last six months: “I think they’re signs of aging,” she said in a strangled stage whisper.

Let’s start with the fact that I’m not able to lose weight. B.F. (Before Forty) to drop a few pounds, I’d eat healthy for a week, work out and – BAM - five pounds gone!

I’ve been dieting and working out like Denise Austen on speed. After one week of this torture, I have lost a total of… DRUM ROLL PLEASE … ½ of a pound! (Don’t you dare say that I’m building muscle and it weighs more than fat - I don’t care - I still have the ‘3 month pregnant belly’ look goin’ on!)

As if turning almost 40 isn’t bad enough, strange developments are taking place on my face. Do I really need to suffer through acne once more - this time with the added joy of wrinkles? My bathroom vanity has more creams, cleansers, and moisturizers than the Clinique counter at the mall.

For the first time in my entire 39 years, I don’t want to acknowledge my birthday. I’m skipping the ‘almost forty’ birthday celebration. I’ll save the party for next year. (Hint to family and friends: I’ve always wanted a surprise party.)

I’ve allowed myself one year and 8 days to contemplate and accept this next milestone in my life. I will turn 40 with grace, style and acceptance of the woman I’ve become – wrinkled acne and all.

You Know You’re Almost Forty When:

The radio only plays your favorite music on ‘Flashback Friday.’
There’s a secret stash of clothes in your closet under the heading: Someday…
Some of those clothes are in style again.
Your eyebrows are no longer the only feature on your face that needs plucked.
Friday night only means it’s the end of the work week.

Frumpy Father's Day June 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:35:00 +0000

Last month I shared with you my discovery of the mysterious book I found called the “Official Mother’s Day Handbook.” What I neglected to mention was the book had an epilogue, called “Father’s Day Wisdom.”

According to this controversial book, since fathers are usually away from their family most of the time, they prefer to spend Father’s Day at home with the kids. The anonymous author states, “Mothers must leave the house for the day, allowing fathers to spend uninterrupted quality time with their children. This demonstrates the wife’s implicit trust in her husband’s ‘mothering’ skills.”

At first glance I was delighted with this intriguing concept. I admit that I am the first one in the household to demand my ‘alone time.’ If I don’t have some time away from the family on a regular basis, I get downright mean! My husband has known for years that I implicitly trust him with my children. But since I started working full time, I realize that he has actually been home with the kids more than I have.

My husband also has become surprisingly organized. He makes sure the lunches are packed, clothes laid out, and all shoes, backpacks and coats are lined up by the front door most nights. (It only took him one morning of playing ‘Find the Shoe’ to show him that NOTHING should be left to chance in the mornings.) Of course, this is the exact opposite of my procrastinating personality. My husband and I are polar opposites – he’s King of the Night Owls and I’m Princess Perky in the morning.

Since being back to work, I know how tired my husband really is when he walks through the door at 8:00 pm. Yet he always has a bear hug and a wrestling move ready for everyone. While I’m very ‘snarly’ at night, he’s all smiles and hugs.

Despite all the times that I have complained about my husband, I realize that our family couldn’t survive without him. He is the one who keeps us lighthearted and gives us strength even on our most frustrating days. He is the one who plays, really plays with the children. He is the one who teaches them how to do chores - where I find it easier to do it myself.

Even my 2 year old knows how to empty the dishwasher. Of course, I mutter about never finding my potato peeler in the same place twice, but hey, my dishes are always done - slightly chipped in places - but clean.

So I guess on Father’s Day, I need to prop up the pillows on the couch, hand my husband the remote, along with an ice cold beverage, and take the kids out for the day so he can relax, and enjoy his favorite sport from his single days – Channel Surfing. And I think I’ll just rip out the epilogue at the end of the book and mail it to a mother who truly needs it.

Disclaimer:
The author wishes the reader to understand that while her husband is awesome, she is still the only one who cleans the bathrooms.

Found! The Gospel of Mother's Day May 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:32:00 +0000

My Mother’s Day usually goes something like this:

“Honey, the kids and I are going to take you out for breakfast.” I get ready, get the kids ready, find my husband’s shoes, fill the sippy cups, refill the diaper bag, change the baby’s diaper one last time, and chase everyone into the van. The day hasn’t even started and I’m exhausted.

This used to be my Mother’s Day until I found “The Official Mother’s Day Handbook” under my pillow one Mother’s Day morning. Thanks to the discovery of this long lost treasure, my Mother’s Day is quite different. I understand that many mothers have never heard of this mysterious handbook. Can you say, ‘Conspiracy?’ This book is more controversial than the DaVinci Code, which is why I keep my copy hidden away all year in a super secret location.

Excerpts from “The Mother’s Day Handbook”

Rule #1 All Mother’s are officially required to be the last person out of bed.

When the children come running into the bedroom at 6:35 am with cries of “Poopy diapy!” you are within your rights to tell your kids to “Go get Daddy,” before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Rule #2 Mother’s are not allowed to do any grunt work or cleaning of any kind for the entire 24 hours of their special day.

Don’t worry, everything will still be there tomorrow – it always is.

Rule #3 All Mother’s may spend their entire 24 hours doing anything that pleases them. It is highly encouraged that the mother leaves the house, alone. This allows the rest of the family to have time to create a special surprise for you.

The first time I did this, I felt a little guilty. I went to see a movie – ALONE! Why this never held any appeal to me when I was single, I’ll never know. To sit in the dark, uninterrupted, for 2 hours, eating my favorite snacks - pure bliss! I returned home to a surprise strawberry shortcake picnic.

(Page 10 of the book goes into great scientific detail explaining why consuming loads of calories doesn’t matter on this day – something about calories being unable to turn to fat when your body is relaxed.)

So this year, make Mother’s Day your day and celebrate it the way you want – guilt free! And if you come across an “Official Mother’s Day Handbook”, hide it in a safe place so it doesn’t get mysteriously misplaced.

A Poem from the “Official Mother’s Day Handbook”
M - marvelous memorable moment-maker
O - official optimistic organizer
T - turns tantruming tyrants timid
H - heavenly humorous housekeeper
T - terrific tenacious troubleshooter
E - exuberant even when exhausted
R - routinely running ragged. RELAX!

Green Thumb Wrestling April 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:28:00 +0000

The fragrant air is filled with bird song, bulbs are coaxed from their winter hideout, and I get bit by the gardening bug. As I head out to my local nursery, visions of flowering landscapes and tidy vegetable gardens flit through my mind. Unfortunately, the picture in my head doesn’t quite match the reality of gardening in the Frumpy Zone.

First of all, my house is built on a bog of red clay with about an inch of topsoil sprinkled over it for appearances sake. But last spring, despite the red, hard truth, I carried on, refusing to believe my precious plants wouldn’t thrive with my calloused green thumbs tending them. I dug up tree roots, hoed rows and planted my seedlings in the red clay. In the age old battle of woman against nature I emerged victorious – a true gardener – despite the aching back and blistered hands.

When my husband came home from work, I proudly gave him a tour of the freshly formed garden - only to be told by the former farmer that I forgot the fertilizer. But I didn’t let my husband’s dire predictions of malnourished plants get me down. (Did I mention our soil was really red clay?) I slogged through the red mud to water my poor nutrient deprived ‘runtlings.’ I gave them extra doses of plant food. I watched them struggle against all odds to reach their tiny leaves toward the sun.

I planted rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, yellow squash, zucchini, wildflower seeds and a couple of chili pepper plants. I even started a pumpkin patch from the seeds of last year’s pumpkin. At the end of the summer we harvested: 2 pickling cucumbers, 1 cherry tomato, and 6 chili peppers.

And our entire patch of pumpkins disappeared! One day they were there, green vines with beautiful orange blossoms, and a week after our summer vacation, they were gone! Not a seed or vine left to mark their existence. They were either abducted by aliens (for being able to thrive in Mars like conditions) or they were disintegrated by the sun and the wind blew their fried ashes away. Only in the Frumpy Zone can a garden of such promise turn ugly and desolate.

But I tuck these melancholy memories away as I wheel my red wagon through the lush aisles of the nursery. Hope springs eternal…even in the Frumpy Zone.

Frump’s Best Mother’s Day Surprise (For Dad’s eyes only!)Hand Painted Flower Filled Clay Pots
Supplies: plain clay flower pots - any size acrylic paints, paint brushes or sponges, various flowering plants

Let each child hand paint their own clay flower pot for mom. While the pots are drying, take the kids to the local nursery and let each one pick a variety of flowering plants to
put in their pots. Let the kids help plant them.

Crayola Crop Circles March 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:15:00 +0000

Mashed play dough in the carpet, unidentifiable sticky patches on the kitchen floor, dust bunnies covered with dog fur… these are a few of the messes I face in the Frumpy Zone. But the most prevalent are the various abstract art pieces decorating my Flat Egg Shell White walls. Before I go any further, let me give you Frumpy Tip # 72: Never move into a house with flat paint on the walls! My children just have to sneeze near a wall and it leaves a mark.

My son has been a Pablo Picasso Impersonator, since the age of 20 months, when he realized he could grab a big fat crayon in his tiny fists and make a line longer than he was. After lines, he graduated to his Crop Circle Phase. Gigantic circles would suddenly appear out of nowhere on various walls in the house.

Of course, I was a little preoccupied with our newborn daughter, so I couldn’t keep track of my budding artist who had discovered the power of the pen, the pencil, the marker, and the crayon. Two months after moving into our new house and already it looked like an advertisement for a Sherwin Williams makeover.

After outgrowing crop circles, my mini-Michelangelo took a brief hiatus to focus his artistic ability on actual paper. Twenty boxes of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers later, I breathed a sigh of relief that his wall expressionism was over. Currently, my son seems to be leaving his Abstract Paper Phase and entering another wall phase - Cubism, I think. He started subtly… last week I found an X in the bathroom above the toilet paper roll. A few days later, I found a group of X’s carved on the wall above the bathtub - done with the tip of a toy jet. (This information was voluntarily given by his older sister who is quite supportive of her little brother’s artistic endeavors.)

Yesterday I found the pièce de résistance… a giant trail of life-size X’s down the entire length of the upstairs hallway. I have decided to leave the X’s until my son’s apprentice - my 2 year old daughter who copies everything big brother does - is about five. By then, we can just repaint everything with some of that super shiny glossy stuff.

Wall Saving Ideas from the Frumpy Zone

Paint a 6’x 6’ space with chalk board paint.

Buy butcher paper or bulletin board paper and put on one wall.
It can be easily replaced for hours of artistic fun.

Keep all writing instruments under lock and key and only bring out when you are able to
supervise. (This sounds like a good idea, but I would invariably get distracted by the baby, so I never noticed when my son would wander off to hide his crayons in a secret location.)

Invest in plenty of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers.

Oops, I Did it Again! February 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:07:00 +0000

I got my hair cut – SHORT! Why? Well, I’ve done some self analysis and I realize that getting a haircut is very much like falling in love. First I get that restless feeling. If something doesn’t change, I’m going to go crazy. Then I see it, THE ONE.

It’s new, different, and exciting. So I start to toy with the idea. I visualize long walks on the beach; the wind caressing my newly shorn locks. Then, full of excitement, I go to my hairdresser and explain what I want. Bitten by the “Hair Cupid”, he gets swept right along with me. Three inches of dry, damaged hair fly through the air in a frenzy. When the hair clears, I look in the mirror and WOW! I absolutely love it. The next week I spend in bliss. I style it in new and exciting ways – sometimes even twice a day!

And then it happens. About a month later, the honeymoon is over. What was once cute and exciting has become mundane and annoying. I don’t have time for all the maintenance this new cut needs. So I slip back to my comfort zone and start to ‘let it grow out’. (This phrase is used by women everywhere to acknowledge that yes, they know their hair looks like crap and yes, they are indeed doing something about it, but it will just take some time.) I am now off the hook. It’s not my fault it looks bad, because it’s growing out.

There it is in a nutshell. The reason I continually feel the need to spend a year, painstakingly growing my hair long and then getting it chopped off. I am addicted to romance! I also think I’ve just discovered a whole new career: Hair Therapist. Come to me with your hair problems and we’ll discover the emotional root to bad hair.

Valentine’s Day in the Frumpy Zone
For those of you wanting a little romance in your life that doesn’t involve a trip to the hairdresser, try one of these great books for Valentine’s Day.

1. Stardust by Neil Gaiman
If you dream of a time where fairies and other magical creatures were part of this
world, then this is the book for you.

2. Scarlett by Alexander Ripley
The perfect sequel to “Gone With the Wind;” apparently Rhett does give a damn!

3. Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
For those of you that prefer something a little more cerebral.

4. The Cinderella Pact by Sarah Strohmeyer
If you liked “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” you’ll love this!

5. Midnight Bayou by Nora Roberts
Perfect combination of mystery and romance.

You're So Vain January 2007

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 01:02:00 +0000

Recently, the Frumpy Zone was thrown from it’s orbit when I unexpectedly got a full time job. I was hit with an exciting realization: I get to ‘dress up’ every day. After living in t-shirts for the past four years, the idea of dressing up each morning is like telling a kid they can eat cake for breakfast! Yippee! My excitement soon turned to dismay when I realized that all of my previous ‘work clothes’ were too tight from the waist down. Of course I’ve been wearing all the same sweatpants and leggings from four years ago, but things change when zippers are involved. So I was off to do some shopping, all alone, just me and my credit cards. (Yes, I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.)

After a day of trying on clothes in various stores I realized that I could still wear the same size. (For the sake of clarity, I’m going to shatter one of the biggest taboos in female culture and actually talk numbers when discussing clothing. For the men reading this, you have never heard a woman actually use numbers when discussing size and weight. It’s always, “Oh, I gained a few pounds over the holidays. I’ll have to lose a couple of inches by spring.”)

OK, I can do this… I was still the same size, I mean I was still a size 8, even though I was a few pounds, I mean, 8 pounds heavier, and a few inches, I mean, 3 inches wider in the hips. How can that be? How can I still wear the same size when I know I’m bigger? I can sum it up in two fashionable words, ‘VANITY SIZING!’

The first time I discovered ‘Vanity Sizing’ was last year, while shopping at a vintage clothing store. I didn’t check sizes until I was in the dressing room. Imagine my surprise when I was struggling with a zipper and realized that a size 12 was too tight. After the saleslady administered smelling salts, she explained that a size 12 in the 1950’s was actually a size 6 in today’s world. So I would need a size 14. Great news! I hadn’t just gained 4 dress sizes in the past 3 years - phew!

Apparently the fashion industry has been doing this since the beginning of time. Women have always had sizing issues so it’s no wonder the fashion industry has worked with us on this delicate matter. What store would you rather shop in? The one where the clothes say you’re skinnier or the one where they say you’ve gained weight? So in reality, I’m a size 10 by the standards of 4 years ago but hey, if the label says 8, who am I to argue?

Toy Crazy: Fall in Love With Cardboard Dec. 2006

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 00:53:00 +0000

When you have kids, your home becomes invaded each year with toys. (The other day my husband found a magnifying glass under the fitted sheet in our bed!?!)To help you regain control of your home, I’ve come up with the perfect solution. This holiday season, instead of buying slick, packaged toys, try my simple, and inexpensive Toy Replacements. Your kids may be a little disappointed at first but soon they’ll be playing for hours with these fun filled imaginative TOYS.

The Frumpy Housewife’s Official 2007 Christmas Toy Replacement Guide

Extra Large Cardboard Box
Replaces:
Clubhouse, Pirate Ship, Kid Kitchen
This simple toy has many uses.
Turn box on side, hang a blanket over the top and you have a clubhouse.
Turn the box upright, and it becomes a pirate ship. (Spyglass not included.)
Turn the box upside down, draw 4 black circles on the top and you have a stove. Add some paper plates and plastic forks and your kids will be cookin’ for hours.
The best part of this toy is that when the kids are finally bored with it, the box can be recycled thereby eliminating storage problems.

Paper Towel and Toilet Paper Cardboard Tubes
Replaces:
Musical horn-like instruments, Pirate Spyglass
The paper towel tube is the perfect music maker. It only gets as loud as your child’s voice, and is antiseptic. When the end of the tube gets wet, put in the recycling
bin and wait until next week for a new one. Much better than plastic spit filled mouthpieces fermenting until the next time your child puts it in his mouth.
The toilet paper tube makes an excellent pirate spyglass, perfect for use
with the Cardboard Box Pirate Ship.

Dried beans
Replaces:
Moonsand, Marbles
The new art item advertised this year is something strange called “Moonsand.”
(I foresee a big mess!) But with my clever replacement, Dried Beans, clean-up becomes a snap. (Pardon the pun.) Fill a container with a variety of dried beans, put out measuring cups and bowls, and you’ve got your very own indoor sandbox.
All kids love itty bitty ‘chokable’ toys like marbles. At least if they swallow a dried bean, it will provide some nutrition.

Bonus Buy: After reading Jack and the Beanstalk, give your child a handful of “magic beans” (dried lima beans are perfect).

Brown Paper Bag
Replaces:
Indoor/Outdoor Basketball Hoop

For an Indoor Basketball Hoop, roll up a sock, and let your kids practice getting
the sock in the bag. For an Outdoor Basketball Hoop, use a rock.

I hope this list helps you with your holiday shopping. May your home be filled with love,
laughter and warmth during this magical time of year.

The Clothes Make the Woman November 2006

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 00:49:00 +0000

As the holiday season approaches, I know I’ll have at least one festive function to attend that requires me to dress like a W.W.C. (Woman Without Children). That means I will have to swim through the dirty laundry swamp on the floor of my wade-in closet and try to find something suitable to wear that isn’t stained, stretched or outdated. Don’t get me wrong, I do have nice clothes that I used to wear when I was in the workforce…somewhere…maybe I’ll just go shopping!
Shopping in the Frumpy Zone is a very exhilarating and frightening experience.
It’s exhilarating if you can get time to shop – WITHOUT THE KIDS! (PARTY IN THE FRUMPY ZONE!) But then you have the frightening experience of trying on clothes in the bright lights and distorted mirrors without the distraction of your three year old peeking under the fitting room door at the startled lady next to you. You have time to witness firsthand what bearing three children does to a 38 year old female body. YUK! This calls for the Three C’s of Shopping in the Frumpy Zone: Conceal, Contain, and Create.
Conceal those unwanted bulges with a dress that is form fitting in the chest and loose throughout the belly, hips, and thighs.
Contain the ever expanding midsection with one of those body shaping lycra slips. Our grandmothers called them girdles, today they’re called ‘SEXY.’
Create the ‘I just had implants’ look with a super sonic, padded push-up bra.
If you follow the Three C’s of Shopping in the Frumpy Zone, you will look like a W.W.C. and impress your friends, who have seen you one too many times on Saturday morning at the grocery store wearing sweats and your favorite, stained Underdog t-shirt.

TV Land Debates in the Frumpy Zone:
Underdog VS Hong Kong Phooey

For decades a great debate has raged throughout the land. Who is the coolest super-dog
hero – Underdog or Hong Kong Phooey?

THE UNDERDOG THEME

I am here to set the record straight: Underdog is undoubtedly the best. While Hong Kong Phooey had the cool magical car and that hip raspy voice, Underdog never gave up in the face of adversity. Not to mention that his show lasted for 9 years, Hong Kong Phooey’s show only lasted one.

Underdog would pop his Super Vitamin Pill which was hidden in a secret compartment in his ring. (Obviously, the show was created in the 60’s.) He’d fly off to save Polly Purebred unless his Super Vitamin Pill wore off, then Polly Purebred would save him. With the catchy theme song how could you not love Underdog?

“Nor bird, nor plane, nor even frog, it’s just little ‘ole me, Underdog!

Little Red Corvette-I Mean Beetle Oct. 2006

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 00:44:00 +0000

Life in the Frumpy Zone can sometimes get chaotic – babies spewing vile liquids from either end, toddlers screaming uncontrollably for no apparent reason, and school agers putting out more attitude than Tyra Banks with a broken nail.

To release some of the steam that has accumulated in the pressure cooker known as my life, I have developed The Alternate Universe Fantasy Game. My game is simple. When chaos starts to reign, I say to myself, “Somewhere in an alternate universe I am doing this….”

My favorite version of this game is the one I play when I get the opportunity to drive somewhere alone. I put on my favorite CD – of course it’s something retro from the eighties – roll down my windows, and crank up the volume. My boxy mini-van is magically transformed into a cherry red VW convertible Bug. Not a goldfish crumb in sight, I cruise down the road in a cloud of punch-bug happiness.

Now I know I could have picked a much snazzier car for my fantasy, but have you ever noticed that when you see a VW Bug, there is only one person driving it! That is crucial in my Alternate Universe.

“Mom, can you take me and the guys to soccer practice?”
“Sorry son, I don’t have room in the Bug, go ask your dad- he has plenty of room in his brand new extended cab 4x4.” (My husband also plays the game.)

Now some people may think it’s horrible that I dream about being single and without children. But the beauty of the game is that I do remember the lonely, desperate days of single life, when it seemed every other person was happily married. (I now know that was an elaborate hoax perpetrated by my friends to suck me into the Frumpy Zone.)

So while I imagine my own Alternate Universe, I know deep down that I would never
trade my husband and kids for anything in the world, not even a cherry red VW convertible bug.

Frumpy Zone QuizTrue or False:
Ø After nursing all of your children, your breasts could grace the cover of National Geographic.
Ø The crumbs inside your mini-van could feed a household of mice for a year.
Ø You have no idea what day it is.
Ø You tell time by what show is on Nick Jr.
Ø The male lead in your fantasies looks a lot like the host from Blues Clues.

>You are a Frumpy Housewife if you find most of these statements True.
Welcome to the Frumpy Zone!

Tales from the Frumpy Zone September 2006

noreply@blogger.com (The Frumpy Housewife) — Wed, 25 Jul 2007 20:17:00 +0000

You have entered the Frumpy Zone, home of the Frumpy Housewife. (Can you hear the theme from “Twilight Zone” playing?) A place where I awaken each day to find my house is still a mess no matter how much cleaning I did the day before. A place where I have become a giant hamster, running around and around on my own personal exercise wheel – going nowhere… and my thighs are still flabby. A place where I must successfully communicate with slime covered creatures under 3 feet tall. (OK stop the music.)

Sorry about the dramatic beginning, but I couldn’t think of a better way to introduce myself. I am the Frumpy Housewife, mother of three children: ages 7, 3, and 2. The Frumpy Zone is my special place to go where I share all of the foibles of motherhood. How did I become a Frumpy Housewife? Well, I believe it started with the birth of my second child and the decision to leave my career and become a “Stay-At-Home Mom.” I had such high hopes for myself. My bathrooms would sparkle, and my closets would be organized. Unfortunately, my fantasy world just didn’t quite fit with the reality. My toddler sticking to the kitchen floor was my first clue. Once my third child came on the scene, my downward slide into Frumpiness was quick. Four years later, I gave up my dreams of becoming a Domestic Goddess and embraced my limitations. The only major difference between a Frumpy Housewife and Domestic Goddess is a refillable bottle of ‘happy pills.’ How do you think June Cleaver and Mrs. Brady survived all those years of perfection?

I’ve decided to share some of my adventure in frumpiness with you so that maybe
the next time your child’s diaper explodes in the mini-van and you forgot the diaper bag, you’ll realize that you are not alone.