The Story of How I Smeared Lipstick on Another Man’s Collared Shirt or How I Celebrated Valentine’s Day With A Dozen Dudes

I left my kids and husband at home and celebrated the Day of Love with bright cherry lipstick. The guy was taller than me so my lipstick didn’t stain his collar but it did stain his shirt as my pout landed on his shoulder. I went out on Valentine’s Day without my family and I had a great time hanging all over other men.

All dozens of them, all in one night, every Saturday so Valentine’s Day 2015 was no exception since I have been doing this regularly. Thankfully, GH and I don’t really buy in to the Valentine Schmalentime mess so off I went to leave lipstick marks on everyone instead of my husband. He got his night with me the evening before so I’ve met my Shitty Wife duty.

I’ve got my week jam-packed full ‘o strange dudes: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and, of course, Saturday. I have restricted my addiction to a few nights this week but I could do it 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. If I wanted and was up for it, I’d go every night and rotate a few dozen partners to dance with within my local social dance community.

Hope he gets the lipstick mark out.

Read my other post on strange men.

Happy Valemtimes!

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Who or what did you/didn’t do on Valentine’s Day?

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Inappropriate Couple Halloween Costume

The underage group had no idea who we even were. I guess if your birth year has two 9’s in it then you wouldn’t have any clue why we had a bloody bag of a human sex organ. The sex organ was fake and so was the blood. The kids in that group awkwardly laughed it off when we tried to clue ’em in with
1) the names of our costume inspiration (Nope)
2) the infamous headline story (Nope)
3) the actual story of who we were and why we looked like murderous homebodies. (Still NOPE)

The rest of the well-aged party knew and understood the genius behind the costume. Maybe next time I need to make myself more clear-cut in our next couple halloween costume ideas.

Do you know who we are?

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Date Night Idea: Pamper Partying

Being away from family really means that my husband and I can’t get up and go do something on a whim. I would have to run background checks, call references or worse, pay someone to watch my kids. Thankfully, GH’s parents are in town from North Carolina for a Seattle vacation and we got to do a date night. Our last night out was in March and I over stressed, over worried and we overspent. Not this time, no sirree.

The best date night highlight was GH’s thoughtful idea from our kid-free days in college. The original time we did it was when I brought him in to my favorite spot and the gals loved how he came and gave zero fucks. One shotgun wedding and two kids later, GH decided date night would be a throwback for a couple pedicure. Major sex points there, amirite? He was there for the calf massage and I was there to soften my mom hooves. This wasn’t even the best part of the night. We really dug into our former and current selves for the rest of the night because the best date nights are both fun and functional.

Pedicures done, we just stepped outside in our freshly de-scaled heels to see what we would do next. Nothing planned, nothing reserved, just spontaneous togetherness and shit. An important thing that I should mention is the unofficially agreed upon requirement that all date nights will, now and forever and always, involve alcohol. We try, we really do but parenthood and aging has caught up to us. It was so adult of us to be one-and-done after one drink. Each. E A C H! We were practically falling out our bar stools laughing while people watching after a margarita for me and an IPA for him. Who am I and who removed my binge drinking card?

Our current adulting roles then took us to run important domestic errands at Target afterward. You ever been to Target 1) drunk 2) without kids? It’s a world I had never imagined could exist in my lowly life. This magic has inspired me to unofficially hereby decree that all future Target trips require alcohol, period. Kids there or not. The -Noys will clear out the Dollar Spot cuz Mama won’t give a fuuuuuuuuu.

unique date night idea

Date Night: Couple Pedicure

What did you do on your last
date?

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Small Town Girl Probs: You Know Nothing About Breakup Etiquette, Jon Snow

How to not break up in a small town by @LaotianComotion
If I do not count my current husband, I have only had two ex-boyfriends with the official label. Like, boyfriend-girlfriend, Facebook-status official, and only three times have I been somewhat committed in such a relationship. Are exes and daters (I hate the word ‘lover’) mutually exclusive? In addition, these other ones were added to the body count but never a status-changer. No, I will not share my number. No, you do not get to make assumptions about me. No, you are not better than me because your body count is one and your husband is a lousy lay. This is just a little story about a small-town girl living in a prudey world and about the likelihood of running into an ex is more likely than anybody leaving the safe comforts of home.

I like to call my hometown Podunk-Bourg(eoisie), where it’s not small enough to have that old-timey flair nor is it large enough to be metro or cool at all. It’s a place where people think they are hotter shit than they really are is what I’m trying to say. A particular ex loved to always remind me for my sake, “Can’t turn a ho into a housewife.” A hometown full of exes, daters, flings, or whatever they’re called and I avoid visiting it like the STD pool the tri-town area that it is. Seriously, what do we call these people? Whatever you call them, I could not get away from them anytime I visited my folks. You especially don’t want to run into them after an awkward split-up: Shitty Wife was a Shitty Girlfriend too. No more awkward than Jon Snow’s reaction in Season 4, Episode 9 with Ygritte. You know you fucked up, right, Jon Snuh.

You know nothing about break-up etiquette, Jon Snow @LaotianComotion

My last official breakup with an Official Boyfriend was so unfriendly because GH became the man he is to me now. I left OB while we were trying to patch things up yet Gym Hottie did get his moniker for no reason at all. Get this: they have the same name and that just blew OB’s gasket and it was an unfriendly departure. Breakup meaning it was a lot of drunk calls to apologize and those apologies were never heard. One drunk run-in at a hometown bar and two years later, he somehow found out I was married and sent me a congratulatory text message and I was shocked. Why reach out now, you bastard? Why bring your petty small mind back into my life as I was 8 months pregnant? It took a good three years later to forget how awful a person that was. How a small baby  was the answer to change all of it. A now mundane, quiet life finally let me forget all about how shitty a partner I “was” when I look at my family, my husband, and my two kids. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a crazy ass ex-girlfriend and will stalk your ass on social media. Can’t turn a stalker into a housewife maybe.

What is proper break-up etiquette anyway?

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Working With A Photographubby

photographubby

GH’s masterpiece: unfiltered, unaltered withe exception of watermark

There is an unspoken rule of thumb when girlfriends take each others’ pictures: make sure the other one looks good. Us girls know how important it is to look good in the photos because it will go through the Delete-or-Keep Process regardless. I also will not post any unflattering photos of my friends either. Never have, never will. So, now that I do not have the access to like-minded girlfriends anymore, my default photog is my husband.

I thought the model was supposed to be the diva. Why is it that you’d think that asking GH to take some shots of me is like asking him to give up Starbucks for eternity and forever. Complete with an eye roll and an under-the-breath huff, he’s all “one and done.” Don’t he know I gotta get at least 20 snaps before even getting the Female Stamp of Approval? This request is obviously 19 times too demanding. GH has finally warmed up to the fact that I am insisting to be in front of the camera from now on. He just really has no choice but to hop along on the happy wife, happy life train of thought. I’m grateful I have someone who’s passed kindergarten to take these photos I want but I just can’t help but be a little annoyed. It’s an iPhone, sure, but he did such a nice job at the home birth. Come the fuck on.

My photography rules are simple:

1) Make sure I look good.

2) Nobody likes a blurry pic.

3) Make sure I look really good.

4) Don’t make me feel bad for wanting pics taken of me.

5) Make sure I look really damn good.

Is it the photographer or the equipment that’s at fault?

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Perks Of Being An Annoying Sick Person

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I knew I caught the kids’ cold virus when a stream of ninja mucus would show up on my lip with no warning. My nose was running so much that I could not blow my nose fast enough so it would just keep coming out. So, enter Phase: Tissue Plugger-Uppers just to go ’bout my domestic duties. My day including two young kids under the age of three and a husband, who loves my “sick” attire of days-stretched yoga pants with little else due to my high body temp. Parenting while sick can buzz all the way off.

Both GH and I got sick right when Humnoy was feeling better. Seriously though, the kid was sick like 1.25 days and I swear his energy level got a massive reboot since then. How in the f— anyway, Lanoy is the saddest little sickie: marbled snot bubbles, red, hound dog eyes, and little to no solids appetite. Week-long illness does not mean there isn’t a positive spin on things. I had to make the best of one of the shittiest situations experienced in parenting so here are a few benefits of being sick while caring for sick others:

In Sickness and In Health “No, babe, I really have a headache this time” just is more believable when your congestion has moved to your head and apparently to my crotch. “Til death so us part” isn’t the same as “through dry, red nostrils from abrasive wiping”.

Maybe She’s Born With It I don’t know about you but I could never quite cover up my look of death with makeup so I don’t even bother. I mean, if I’m going to do this illness act justice, go big or ho home, right? I let it all hang out so to make it a bit easier for others to deduce I’m sick and why I look like shit.

Sick Person of Walmart Before you judge my Christmas fleece, please see up at my Look of Death. I’m sick so you can fuck all the way off, Judgey McJudgerson. I’m gonna wear these same pair of pajamas for the rest of the week too.

Ill Introvert Since parenting, I have not been much of a people person like my dress-over-the-head party girl days. Sickness is yet another introverted way out of social engagements. The sick hermit inside you smiles when your contagious presence part crowds upon crowds. Sickness gives introverts everywhere a huge congested sigh of relief.

The Television Cure I would feel a little guilty that the tv has been on a lot more than usual but if it means I get to rest a bit then Disney Junior show marathon is just what the doctor ordered. Illness and near-death brings down the parent shame down to penance levels though.

Up The Fluids Any excuse to hop in a hot shower multiple times a day is just the biggest perk around, amirite? Steam helps relieve congestion by breaking up the mucus so this was the only time we will justify a high water bill.

Comfort Food Measures OMG, GH brought home Panda Express for dinner one night and made me almost reconsider my sinus headache. There is a lot of comfort in eating artery-clogging food. When you’re mouth-breathing to save your life, the last thing you want to inhale is a house salad.

Vitamin V for Vodka Did I already mention food? Wash it down with a beverage. Illness and stress along with it can be the perfect excuse to have a screwdriver in the AM for the vitamin C and the slew of vita-mins and minerals Smirnoff has, which is like a ton. Cheers. You deserve it.

How do you survive being sick?

When Your Husband Wants You To Go To The Arms Of Other Men

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Eyes studying and a stranger’s hand touching mine, I was pulled to him just like the many men before him. Only thing holding my body up was the stiff of my arms and hand walled by a set of arms and hand but never are they my husband’s. My husband knows this makes me satisfied in my life, therefore marriage, and actually drove me to be with these other men.

There are rules, however: respect space (boundaries), be courteous (always ask), and have fun (of course). My space grows void as other couples pair off and courtesy is always, “May I?” I have never turned down an offer in five years and we begin the connection go-round once more: eyes, hands, wall. We are coupled for just a song’s play and we go our separate ways after dancing a little dance. Rounding out dance etiquette, he returns me to my place when we first locked eyes and our time is done until we meet again. Social partner dancing is a funny thing: you either hate it, love it, or kinda love it just enough for some nightclub confidence. Partner dancing without your husband is even funnier because you hate the fact you are alone or realize this dance partner wants to “partner.” (More on this later) My actual real-life partner has my back while another man’s touching mine and it works for us.

GH has found that my sole solace has nothing to do with him. He forces me to go out even after I elaborate on the dirty dishes or feign another yawning excuse. He tells me to not even ask but to just do this one thing for just me. With this full support finally in place after co-parent resentment of three years, I now find it a bit exhilarating to sneak away from domestication and responsibility for this time away from my man, my kids, my work, my home and be me. The me before I was buried in routine, unfolded laundry, and kids and this me is a lot more enjoyable to be around after these dance floor rendezvous. I get to be free and me and all these other men are just there for the ride and dance.

Co-Sleeping With The Enemy: 6 Reasons Why I Don’t Sleep With My Husband

No one ever tells you the saddest memory about an apartment home birth. Just nine months after Lanoy was born in our first apartment home as a family of four, we left lots of memories behind when we moved out of our first home into another apartment with more space and cool perks. This new place is ground floor beneath what seems to be a family of elephants but we get a little back yard that Humnoy loves to explore after breakfast and more space that we thought we desperately needed but have not filled yet.

The most impressive perk was the extra bedroom, where Gym Hottie inhabits. Co-sleeping has been a constant struggle for our family. It affected my marriage but (calm down) not in the sex department. We have enough sex to where I’m constantly paranoid about a baby #3 but that’s not why sharing a bed has been a problem. I am finally glad to not have to share a room with my husband anymore.

Gas Hottie I tell everyone the story about how I was this close to breaking up with GH because I couldn’t stomach his farts. A kinda escape-while-I-could rationale. As you can then imagine, my divorce-happy fires up during pregnancy as my Spidey senses amplifies it and rage.

Play Bed Maybe their sense of smell hasn’t kicked in but they get very hyper when he’s in the room. They adore their daddy so you can imagine the horrific ordeal it is when I’m trying to nurse a mobile Lanoy and trick a ready-to-wrestle Humnoy bedtime is fun. Mama’s no fun because when it comes to her, er, everyone’s sleep.

The Dorm We have dubbed GH’s room the “Dorm Room” because it’s got enough boy stink to be eligible for financial aid. Unlike his farts, this space and time apart makes my shitty wife heart grow fonder. I must say it has been exciting to accept an invitation to “watch movies” and then sneak back across the hall.

Sleepover Humnoy has some history with scary co-sleeping issues like when he wakes up screaming and runs to GH’s room. It is nice to have the option to give him a choice of Mom or Dad. Per good taste, Hum chooses me out of habit, out of favoritism. Whichever.

Deep Sleep Once the last pair of little eyeballs are shut, I get to have my (uninterrupted) “me” time. I’m obsessed with twitter and Instagram so I get to dim my phone to stalk browse those apps for the next 19 hours without GH whining about my snort-laughing in bed. He can get ready for work in the morning without interrupting my children’s gift of sleeping in when they choose to.

Space-Saver Even with the side car crib, space on our bed was limited. Humnoy wants to sleep here, there, between, on top of somebody usually so we were constantly dodging drop kicks and round-house sweeps. Now that the largest person out of the bunch has since been removed, I mean we appreciate all this room.

Dass me.

How is your partner involved in co-sleeping arrangements?

You can find me tweeting my hatred for pants on twitter, filtering the shit outta mom lyfe on Instagram, pinning food I’ll never make on Pinterest, and being a SEO creep on Google+. Check out our family Youtube channel.

Now This Is My Kinda Parent Foreplay, I Mean, Date Night

After one date night gone wrong, I put far too much thought into arranging a night for myself just for the sake of a night to myself. Just me and my ballroom dance shoes. Too much thought usually means overhype and letdown. The time wasn’t right and we (I mean, Stage Five Clinger) all weren’t ready to be in 100% GH’s care so I blew my plans for the dance studio. A little butthurt pissed that I can’t do much of anything on a whim like GH, I sulk a bit but go on the rest of our night like I hadn’t planned otherwise to even be there for it.

My other high point of this night was that my favorite Wednesday drama, Nashville, was on. You don’t know me. 10 – 11 pm is do-whatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-the-house time for the kids as long as they let me watch it in peace. GH then had this genius idea to go on a store run and asked for requests. It felt like Christmas when your cranky old relative asks what you want and just hands it to you. I said chips and dip (duh) and off he went. I finished my show and it was the kids’ bedtime. If I hadn’t gotten giddy enough about the chips soon to be en route to my mouf, I wouldn’t have cared that the kids fell asleep. DID YOU HEAR ME? The kids had no trouble falling asleep. Seriously, is it really Christmas?

GH was racking up all the cool points for making a food run but really spiced things up with this:
A tired mom's idea of foreplay | TheLaotianCommotion.com

I got my date night. In my house pants, with my boo, and no babysitter fee, I got the best date night I (haven’t) had in a very long time.

P.S. Yeah, we had da #parentsex.

What is your favorite date night idea?

You can find me tweeting my hatred for pants on twitter, filtering the shit outta mom lyfe on Instagram, pinning food I’ll never make on Pinterest, and being a SEO creep on Google+. Check out my YouTube channel.

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Date Night Mama Trauma

Unlike toiling away in the rice fields in Laos, I was away from my infant for fun. Lao mothers are a part of the manual labor force in the family. Me? I left my baby and went to go drink and grind on my husband at a kid-free wedding. My original RSVP was “No” for exclusively breastfeeding and a “Hell No” as I’d have to find actual hygienic clothes to wear. Alas, GH convinced me of this golden opportunity for a date night and I still hesitantly checked “Yes.” Peaceful Parenting Prep went into action: I pumped breastmilk for three different types of bottles, a sippy cup, and an Ergo baby carrier lesson plan geared to my modern-struck parents. Nothing still prepared for a date night gone to shit.

date night from hell

Planning on being on the road for only four hours, four turned into six. Lanoy only stopped crying when the car was stopped and she was out of the car seat. No boob, no pacifier, just out of the car seat and in my lap. A million hours later, we arrived at my parents’ as the kids would be staying with my family, including my siblings. I couldn’t pee, eat, walk, get up, or get ready without Lanoy wailing like I’m walking to the snack cupboard and forever out of her little life.

Finally, with a fighting nap baby strapped on my back, I prepare my face with makeup and quickly heat damage my hair before she decides to rip it out. I hold her all day as much as I capably can and nurse her right before we are about to drive off. She wails as I remove her death grip on my dress and just turn and walk away. GH and I “enjoyed” our time out but I wanted to go. I wanted to be with my baby because she needed me. We arrived home and finally her crying bout ended after four hours. She cried the entire time we were at the wedding. She also cried the entire car trip, there and back. Let’s also add in the in-between crying when I needed to go to the bathroom so I estimate it was 14 hours of crying the entire weekend. 14 hours of traumatic absence. 14 hours of an angry soft spot. 14 hours mommy guilt. “Never. Again,” I vow.

How did your first baby-free outing go?

You can find me tweeting my hatred for pants on twitter, filtering the shit outta mom lyfe on Instagram, pinning food I’ll never make on Pinterest, and being a SEO creep on Google+

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