Chores That Can Bite Me

     I know there are some cuckoo freaks of nature out there who actually get off on doing housework, but I am most certainly not one of them.  In fact, there are several household chores that just make me wanna jam a hot poker stick in my eye.  I’m sure I could create a pretty lengthy list if I had the energy, but I don’t, so here are the ones I detest the most:  unloading the dishwasher, folding the laundry, and emptying the trash.

     In our house, the dishwasher fills up pretty quickly.  And it doesn’t help that my kids somehow end up using 50 different cups throughout the course of a day either.  It’s like they completely overlook the fact that they already have 5 cups sitting on the counter RIGHT NEXT TO THE FREAKING FRIDGE when they get out yet another stinkin’ cup for water.  So, in turn, we end up having to run the dishwasher pretty much every single day, and unfortunately, all those clean dishes haven’t learned to put themselves away quite yet.   And this is where my hatred comes in.  For most people, this might not be such a big deal, but for me, I’ve got to try to block the dog from getting in the dishwasher and licking every damn fork, knife and spoon that he can get his tongue on.  What’s the point of cleaning the dishes at all if this little shit-eater’s just gonna end up french-kissing all of them in the long run?  

     And then we have the laundry, that never-ending pile of poison that multiplies by the second.  I often wonder if my kids are bringing home their friends’ clothes for me to wash, because I honestly don’t know where it all comes from.  The separating, the stain treating, the folding — it all just sucks ass.  I end up having to split up the whole process into more do-able stages, just to keep from purposely suffocating myself with dryer sheets.  The final stage of the process, the putting away phase, always ends up to be a lesson in procrastination.  The longer it sits there staring at me to put it away, the more I feel like it’s telling me to kiss its Downy fresh ass.  And by the time I finally do get around to putting it all in its rightful place, there’s a whole new mountain of dirties to tackle once again.  It. Never. Freaking. Ends.  

     Finally, the third chore that absolutely makes my nose hairs stand on end is the trash.  This is mostly because we are one trashy family.  It’s like we’re constantly running out of shit at the EXACT SAME TIME.  How does that even happen?  Do the orange juice, milk, Cocoa Puffs, AND waffles all have a little pow-wow and decide to meet up in the trash at 8 a.m. or something?  And once they do all congregate in that can, there’s not a whole lot of room for anything else to fit in there.  It’s like trying to fit a family of eight into a Smart Car.  I’m thinking a trash compactor would totally make my life a lot easier. But since I don’t actually have a compactor, I have to do a whole lot of smashing.  You see, I’ll do anything to avoid having to take it out to the alley because that is a task I’ve delegated to the Mr.

     Unfortunately, as much as I loathe these three things, I’ve come to realize that I have no choice but to suck it up and do ‘em anyway.  I know for a fact that neither my husband nor my kids would ever even bat an eye if none of these things were ever done again.  They’d eat with their fingers if all the silverware was dirty, they’d turn their underwear inside out if their clothes weren’t clean, and they’d turn the kitchen floor into an oversized dumping ground if the trash was never emptied.  They’d end up on some bizarre E! reality show and be known as the Nucking Futs Pigs.  What a legacy for me to leave behind, huh?

     ** SO WHAT HOUSEHOLD CHORES MAKE YOU WANT TO DRINK A GALLON OF BLEACH JUST TO GET OUT OF THEM??? **

The Pussy Poem

     I’ve had to read a lot of stupid shit to my kids throughout the years, but the other night set an all new record for stupid.  You can probably just imagine my shock when my daughter asked me to read a poem in her Ladybug magazine called, “I Love Little Pussy.”  Yes, you read that correctly.  I said pussy, and I literally about spit my Diet Coke right out of my nose at just the title alone.  I didn’t know whether to be horrified or humored. 

    So, here is the poem in its entirety:

     Ok, sure, there’s a picture of a cat on the page, leading us to assume that “pussy” does, in fact, refer to this little girl’s pet feline.  However, I don’t know a single flipping soul who refers to a damn cat as a “pussy.”  Do you?!  And then it goes on to talk about her coat being so warm?!  Now, maybe I just have a mind that hangs out in the gutter, but I couldn’t help but think of pubes when I first read this line.  Come on — you know you did, too!  And to top it all off, it ends with talk of gently playing with the pussy?  Now how do you NOT bust into hysterics at that particular analogy?  The va-jay-jay  is a delicate flower, you know.    

     So, after scanning this lovely little gem of a rhyme in my head, I somehow had to pull it together and read it to my daughter with not only sincerity, but also with both enthusiasm and interest.  I honestly had no clue how I was gonna get through it without laughing my ass off in the process.  I mean, seriously, how do you talk about loving pussy without giggling at least just a little bit?  Through nothing short of a miracle on earth, I was somehow able to recite the whole twisted tale without rolling on the floor in hysterics.  It turns out that I have amazing self-control when push comes to shove.  I just have to cross my fingers that she doesn’t go to school and ask to check out a book about pussies from the library.  That might just prompt a very awkward parent-teacher sit-down.

Sweatin’ To The Yogies

     

     Last week a friend of mine asked me if I wanted to join her at a hot yoga class.  I’ve been doing yoga for a couple of years now and have always been curious to try the hot classes, so I said sure, what the hay.  (If you’re not familiar with the concept of hot yoga, it’s done in a room that’s heated to 95+ degrees.)  I had no idea what the hell (pardon the pun) I was getting myself into, but three classes later, I am totally and completely hooked.

     When I attended my first class, I felt like I’d stepped into a sauna as soon as I walked into the studio.  The windows were literally dripping wet with humidity, and I immediately began to sweat.  As we moved through all the different poses in the class, I quickly realized that this was no freaking joke — I was absolutely drenched from head to toe, as was everyone else in the room.  I’ve never wanted to get naked so badly in my whole entire life.  (Sorry, honey.)  That Nelly song kept running through my head — you know the one, “It’s gettin’ hot in here, so take off all your clothes.”  I restrained myself, though, and kept my clothes on.  I didn’t want to make a bad first impression.  Nevertheless, when I left there, I felt strong, I felt powerful, and I wanted more.

     So, two days later, I went back for my second class.  This time, the tiny room was even more crammed-pack with yogies, and everyone’s mats were right on top of each other.  We’re talking not much more than a measly inch in between each one.  Lucky for me (or not so lucky, depending on how you look at it), some nice woman scooched over just a tiny smidge so I could squeeze in next to her.  Little did I know, however, that this good samaritan decided to go au naturale and forego deodorant.  Do you have any idea how awful it is to do a wide-angle forward fold into an ass that reeks to high heaven of B.O.?  It’s not pleasant, let me be the first to tell ya.  I was choking on my own vomit throughout most of that hour and a half, and I’m pretty sure my nose had just shut down altogether by the time class was over.  But even despite the stank that was embedded in my nostrils for the remainder of that day, I still had a deep-rooted craving to do it all again.  

     People say you either love the hot yoga or you hate it.  I just so happen to love it.  In fact, I even ended up buying a pass to sweat my ass off even more regularly there. And my husband seems to be particularly pleased to hear that I’m ready and willing to try new things.  I’m sure that’s what prompted him to email me a coupon for an introductory pole dancing class yesterday.  I’m thinking he might just have some ulterior motives though….

The Big Talk At Bloomie’s

     Throughout the past year, my kids have really started to notice the tampon machines in public restrooms.  Luckily, I’ve been able to dodge the inevitable questions that have arisen from the sight of such machines, since I’ve never really wanted to get into such an in-depth conversation amongst complete strangers who are taking a dump. However, it all came to a head this past Friday when I could no longer successfully change the subject, and I found myself discussing ovaries in the china department of Bloomingdale’s. 

     The whole concept of menstruation itself is a completely foreign concept to my twins because I do not have periods anymore.  (I had to have an emergency hysterectomy shortly after my kids were born, due to post-delivery complications.)  They’ve never seen Tampax boxes in my bathroom cabinet, so they have no earthly clue what they even are.  In fact, my son has often thought that the feminine hygiene machines in public bathrooms were vending machines and has even asked me for a quarter on more than one occasion to get some candy.  So, you can see then how easy it’s been for me to just wave these machines off as “things that ladies need”.

     However, last week, my son would not let the issue go when we had to make a pit stop while browsing through Bloomie’s.  He continued to pry, even prompting my daughter to jump on the inquisition train.  Their little brain wheels were just spinning way too fast for me to keep up with, so I decided to bite the bullet and tell them about periods.  I tried to keep my language as very basic as possible, explaining that this is something that only happens to women once a month and not men.  My daughter asked a bazillion follow-up questions, while my son put on his typical “I’m gonna space out and pretend like I’m listening” face that he learned so well from his father. My daughter wanted to know why I never used those “tampon thingies“, so I then had to go into a whole dumbed-down explanation of hysterectomies as we strolled through the fine china department toward the “DOWN” escalator.  Never in a million years did I think I’d be defining the purposes of the female reproductive system in the most breakable section of a damn department store.  Talk about a metaphor for a delicate situation!

     When it was all said and done, I asked if they had any other questions.  And you wanna know the only thing my typical little male got out of that whole flipping conversation?   He said to me, “So, none of that stuff’s gonna happen to me cause I’m a boy, right?”  I wanted to spit fire right then and there.  Men, they always get off so freaking easy.

Let’s Get It On!

It’s been a long time coming, but @whyisdaddycryin and I finally teamed up again and wrote another crazy tale together.  This time, he plays the part of the hubby, and I play the part of the wifey.  We are both describing the different perspectives of a couple finally overcoming all their daily obstacles to have a date between the old sheets.  The lovely and talented @toywithme was kind enough to allow us to post our ramblings on her site.  And so, in an effort to remind you of the awesomeness in which this venture is made, here’s a little background on my cohorts:

  @whyisdaddycryin:  This guy is one of few who is ready to deal a laugh like a drug lord deals crack — he knows just how to keep ya coming back for more and more.  He is an amazingly talented writer and father of two whose blog www.whyisdaddycrying.com details everything     from his goal to never allow his daughter to have sex to his desire to rid the world of Snuggies once and for all.  

  Be sure you also take some time to browse around @toywithme’s blog at www.toywithme.com.  While most of the fascinating topics tend to center around sex-related issues, she also isn’t afraid to tackle such subjects as the upcoming controversial Tebow Superbowl commercial.  I highly recommend that you give her a whirl.

And, now, without further ado, here’s the story you’ve all been waiting for:  ”Let’s Get It On!”  http://toywithme.com/stories/having-sex/

 

Stress Reliever

     This week has not necessarily been my favorite.  Between the hubby being out of town, the dog shitting his brains out, and the kids fighting like they’re on “Jersey Shore”, I am a little on edge.  My mood has teetered between wanting to cry at one moment and wanting to scream at the next.  When I see happy people on the street, I can’t help but want to spit at them.  And that is why I found the video below to be so relatable.  I wish I would’ve thought to relieve my stress like this genius of a guy.  Check it out:

Yin And Yang

     

     As the mama of twins, I often wonder how two little beings who shared the same tiny space in my tummy for nearly nine whole months can be so completely opposite.  They are THE very definition of being night and day different.  If one of them wants to go left, the other one wants to go right.  If one of them is freezing cold, the other one is sweating bullets.  They seem to NEVER EVER be on the same page, making every day a challenge to keep my head from exploding all over my mom taxi.

     One case in point of this yin and yang struggle?  The daily commute to school.  I swear, if anything is gonna drive me to the nearest bar stool, it is the every day battle of how we’re getting from our home to the kids’ school.  I’ve probably mentioned that we live a measly three to four blocks from school, so it only makes sense that we’d buck up and walk our asses on over there, right?  If only it were that easy.  On the days when I put my foot down and insist that we’re walking, my son does everything but chain himself to the tree in our front yard to protest the very idea of this.  As my daughter speed walks way up ahead of us, her brother moans and groans about leg cramps before we even get a block away from our damn house.  It’s so excruciatingly frustrating, that I often find it easier to just give in to him and throw his ass in the car.  A mama’s gotta pick her battles sometimes.

     Another big difference between the two kids is in their athletic prowess.  Of the two of them, my daughter just seems to be more of the jock.  They had their first basketball games over the weekend, and while my daughter was not at all afraid to go after the ball, my son had many other things on his mind like dancing and sticking his hands down his pants.  He must’ve flashed his underwear at least five hundred times over the course of forty minutes time. I’m not even sure if he was aware that there was a game going on.  God love him, though, cause the kid still continues to want to try out different sports. 

     Yet another area where my twins seem to be at different ends of the spectrum is with their friendships.  My daughter is the little social butterfly, constantly wanting a playdate with this kid or that kid.  If her favorite friend is absent from school, she has no problem finding another kid to hang out with at recess.  My son, though, is more of a one-friend kind of a kid, though.  And if said friend is missing from school, he chills by himself.  And while it breaks my heart to hear him say that he played all by his lonesome at recess, he doesn’t seem to mind it a bit.  He is perfectly happy doing his own thing.  

     I suppose life would be pretty boring if both twins always did the same thing all the time.  They are certainly full of surprises, some of them good, and some of them bad enough to make me want to stick my head in the oven at the end of the day.  I’m still holding out hope for the day that they decide to be on the same wavelength just for once, and I can feel like I haven’t completed an Ironman by the time my body collapses into bed at night.

Kids Say The Darndest Things

   

      There’s a reason why Bill Cosby had such a successful show — kids really do say the darndest things.  You just never know what’s gonna come out of their mouths at any given moment.  While I haven’t always been the best at keeping baby books or recording special moments on paper, I have tried to make mental notes of some of the crazy things my own kids have said along the way.  Here are just a few of some of my favorites:

** Daughter:  “When am I gonna get big boobs like Daddy?”

** Son:  “Why is my peeper so big in the morning?”

** Daughter:  “God gave me my highlights, but Mommy has to pay for hers.”

 ** Son:  “A kiss is water, but a hug is love.”

 ** Daughter:  “Why do you like to have a wedgie all the time, Mommy?”

** Son:  “I can run faster than anybody in the whole entire universe.”

** Daughter:  “When are you & Daddy gonna live in different houses?”

** Son:  “God must be super duper old.”

** Daughter:  “There wasn’t any sound on t.v. in the olden days when Mommy grew up.”

** Son:  “Will I have fur like Daddy some day?” 

** Daughter:  “I don’t think they’re gonna have wine at the school picnic, Mommy.”

** Son:  “Mommy, I love you even more than Wii.”

** Daugher:  “We keep Pappaw’s bones on our mantel.”

** Son:  “My peeper looks like a bobble head.”

** Daughter:  “Do boogers have Vitamin C?”

** Son:  “I pooped out a letter J!”

** Daughter:  “When is my skin gonna grow old like yours?”

 ** Son:  “My boyfriend and I are gonna adopt a baby together some day.”

** Daughter:  “Maybe you’ve had too much caffeine today, Mommy.”

** Son:  “My tummy’s telling me it wants M&M’s.”

** Daughter:  “Don’t tell me anything exciting at bedtime or else I won’t go to sleep.” 

WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR FAVORITES FROM YOUR OWN KIDS?

My Big Fat Russian Wedding Experience

     

     Have you ever driven by a particular building in your town fifty bazillion times and wondered what on earth goes on in there?  Well, there’s a Russian restaurant/banquet hall not more than two or three miles from my house that has baffled me for years.  I’ve never seen a single soul going in or out of there, yet the parking lot is always jam-packed with cars.  So about a month ago, some friends of ours decided that we should get a big group together and plan a January outing to go and check it out.  And holy vodka shots, was it ever an experience!

     When we checked into the reception desk on Saturday night, we were escorted through the deceptively large restaurant all the way to the back of the building, where we found yet another massively-sized room.  The woman lifted back the red velvet curtain covering the door to unveil one of the most elegantly gaudy dining halls I think I’ve ever seen in my life.  There were chandeliers and disco balls and flaming candles and murals and floral arrangements everywhere.  A whole fleet of waiters shuffled here and there with silver trays and crystal glassware.  A large dance floor stood smack dab in the middle of the large room with a curtained platform as its backdrop.  I found myself wondering if the wizard was hiding behind that curtain because I truly felt like I’d just entered a secret underground society.  Every table was filled with people who were dressed in their very finest duds — we’re talking high heels and sequins and prom dresses galore.  And they all seemed to know each other too!  They were hugging and cheek kissing and laughing up a storm.  It was definitely a party-like atmosphere, and I knew we were in for a good time.    

     We started off our meal with a vodka shot cause when in Rome… (or in this case, Russia).  We had just started to dig into our hors devours when the curtained backdrop behind the dance floor opened up to reveal a live band that spoke nothing but Russian.  Now, granted, not a single one of us speaks a lick of Russian, but from what we could gather, there were numerous birthday celebrations in the house.  Several huge parties of people were called to the dance floor, while multiple bouquets of roses were rushed out to pose with them for a group photo.  Then everyone cheered wildly as a ginormous teddy bear was placed front and center of the group.  (Cue the Twilight Zone music.)

 I honestly had no flipping clue what the hell was going on, but I clapped right along with the rest of them since it seemed to be the thing to do.  Everyone was then invited to cut a rug, and the dance floor was suddenly packed with shaking booties.  Song after song was played by the band, and the only one I even remotely recognized was “Poker Face” by Lady Gaga.  Nevertheless, we danced our Grey Gooses off the rest of the night.  My husband found himself a sixty year old honey who was decked out in turquoise sequins to twirl all over the floor, and I made my way into some kind of alternative-looking conga line.  It was like a Russian version of The Wedding Singer, and we had an absolute ball.  

     By the end of the night, I had red lipstick marks on my cheeks from my new Russian dance partner, my husband was so drenched with sweat that he’d stuffed his undershirt in his coat pocket, and our whole group was three sheets to the wind from one too many tilts of the old bottle.  It was definitely unlike most of my normal Saturday night activities.  Who knew that this whole other world existed just a mere distance from my house?

My Blogiversary

     

     Today is my blogiversary.  I can hardly believe it, but it was exactly one year ago today that I first started publishing all the tales from the Nucking Futs Family, 283 of them in all.  I’ve been pretty much an open book for the past twelve months, laying it all out there for the cyber world to read.  It has been an amazing journey thus far, one that I almost didn’t even take.  

     I’ve always had a passion for writing, but kids and all of life’s craziness have generally gotten in my way of forming a coherent thought to spew from my brain.  I resisted for quite a while, but my husband finally persuaded me to take the plunge and start a blog in January of 2009.  When it first began, I felt like an idiot putting something out there on the internet that surely nobody in their right mind would ever want to read.  I was certain that nobody gave two shits that my son likes to make his peeper dance or that my daughter calls my bras “boob covers” or that my thong flossed my lady bits at the gym.  But little by little, my followers grew over time, and people surprisingly WANTED to hear about all the jack-asinine things that tend to always happen to me. And now that I’m a year into this thing, I can happily say that I have built some really unique and special relationships with many of my readers.  It’s been both fun and incredibly therapeutic to share my life with all of you. 

     The blogosphere is FULL of incredibly talented writers who make me want to step up my game and improve my own site.  So, over the next year, I hope to do even bigger and better things with my blog.  I’m planning to switch over to my own URL, and a Nucking Futs Mama t-shirt is already in the works.  Who knows — maybe you’ll get a wild hair up your ass and decide to show the world that you’re a little nucking futty by wearing one of these bad boys in the carpool line at school or even to pick up a lil sum’n sum’n for yourself at the adult toy store.  Whatever the case, I hope I can continue to keep you laughing, continue to keep you thinking and continue to keep you coming back for more.  I promise to dish it all out if you promise to eat it all up.  :-)