Things I’ve Learned This Week

** A splinter in your bra does not make for happy boobs.

** The inventor of summer camp deserves the Nobel Peace Prize.

** There’s a reason for that whole “dog chewing the slippers” stereotype.  Just ask my Uggs.

** Single parents are the hardest working people on the planet.

** “The Today Show” REALLY needs to stop showing that woman who was mauled by a chimpanzee, especially at breakfast time.  Ick.

** My children plot their shits to occur at precisely the time I begin to eat a meal.

** Tortilla chips and yogurt do not make for a very satisfying dinner.

** Boxing is a rockin’ good time of a workout.

** Digging through a bin of thongs that are on sale gives me the willies.

** If there is a spider web, I will be sure to walk straight into it.

** I need a massaging chair in my family room.

** If it smells like poop, it probably IS poop.

** A full roll of Scotch tape does not stand a chance in this house.

** I can’t help it — I’m still intrigued by the weirdness that was Michael Jackson.

** My kids wanna party like rock stars at approximately 8:55 p.m. every frickin’ night.

** Our pet fish is trying to commit suicide.

** I would NEVER wait in line for hours for ANYTHING, much less a damn cellphone.

** My husband knows what’s good for him — he chose ME over technology!

** Withholding sex works like a charm.

** “Toy Story 3” is one of the best movies I’ve seen in a really long time.

** Mornings?  Can suck it.

** Despite what I might think, God does not give me more than I can handle.



A Shitty Day At The Beach

Yesterday was a day when I needed much more than just an IV of caffeine.  Hell, what I needed was more like a damn IV of margaritas!  Cause yesterday?  Well, yesterday was pretty freaking sucky.  Any time that sandy poo is part of a trip to the beach is a day that I’d rather just forget altogether.

When you see your child running toward you through the sand with brown water running down her leg, you can pretty much bet your ass that you’re about to have yourself a wreck of a mess on your hands.  Do you know how well sand and poo go together?  Yeah, they don’t.  Like, at all.  I won’t go into all the nitty gritty details, since I care deeply about the welfare of my readers, but trust me, it was nothing short of a gag-inducing experience, without a doubt.  By the time I finished cleaning up the crime scene, I wanted to either go home and call it a day or hit the nearest bar stool and go to mother effin’ town.  I played the “Good Mama” card, though, put aside my feelings of nausea and bitterness, and let my daughter enjoy some more fun in the sun with her friends.  Cause that’s how I roll, people.  That did not, however, stop my eyes from shooting extra pointy daggers toward those few lucky bitches who were peacefully reading their magazines in their beach chairs as their offspring played off in the distance.  I mean really, bitches, take your perfect little parenting techniques and shove ’em up straight up your tranquil little asses, ok?

So, given the state of my afternoon, you can probably imagine, then, how well a tweeted picture of my husband’s view of the Eiffel Tower went over at the end of the day.  He’s in one of the most awesome cities on earth (for business, but STILL!), while I’m stuck here scraping shit out from underneath my fingernails.  A little off-balance, wouldn’t ya say?  I forewarned him that further awesome photography shots would most likely result in the loss of someone’s balls.  I think he got the picture.  So, here’s hopin’ that today is a little less “shitty” than yesterday….

Things I’ve Learned This Week

** It’s all fun & games till someone eats your exercise bra.

** Cleaning pee off the wall that belongs to somebody else’s kid is not my cup of tea.

** I really need to do a better job of memorizing my hiding places since I JUST found two forgotten stocking stuffers.

** Stupid people are trying to take over the world.

** I really suck at jumping rope.

** Sitting down to eat is just NOT an option for me.

** Payback’s a total bitchhole.

** Women who make it all look soooo easy are either poppin’ happy pills or secretly chuggin’ go-go juice.

** Proper handwashing is a foreign concept to my children.

** Bribery is the key to successful parenting.

** There are currently 8,000 unsharpened pencils in my house.

** Playdates ROCK…if they’re at someone else’s house.

** The grass isn’t always greener on the other side cause it’s probably covered with dog poop.

** Getting a text from a friend who’s headed to Cannes when your own day’s gone to hell in a handbasket is a real kick in the arse.

** Cleaning is a complete waste of my time.

** I wanna rock n’ roll all night and party every day. But I live in the real world. So I don’t.

** Missing water bottles may or may not be found inside red rain boots.

** Men with long fingernails? Eww. Just eww.

** Kids go apeshit when they know one parental unit is down for the count.

** Despite what I might think, God does not give me more than I can handle.

The Shitstorm

     Do you have any idea what it’s like for your nose to be used and abused by the overwhelming smell of shit when you walk in the door of your house? Well, I sure do! Last night the kids and I arrived home from their ice skating lessons to find that our entire house had the stank of a massive pile of steaming dung.  This was just awesome timing, too, since we still needed to do homework and eat dinner.  A thousand obscenities danced on the end of my tongue as I approached the disaster area.  My observant daughter must’ve sensed my irritation because she immediately said, “Mommy, you can’t get mad at Wrigley if he pooped in his crate cause you know he’d only do that if it was a real accident.”  Little did I know that it was WAY more than just a LITTLE accident.

     When we walked into the family room, we could see that the dog was going bat crazy in his crate and was absolutely covered from head to toe in his own crap.  The stench was so bad that I actually had to talk myself into not throwing up.  Nonetheless, I knew that I somehow needed to get this forty pound shit-beast upstairs and into our shower to hose him down.  (Did I mention that I have a bad back?)  So, I hoisted the wriggling furball into my arms and carried his nasty ass all the way up to the second floor, all the while holding my breath to avoid the smell.  I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed the bazillion clumps of shit out of his hair and washed him no less than five hundred times with handful after handful of doggy shampoo.  My eager to please daughter stood right by my side trying to calm the dog down, when in fact, all she was doing was getting him even more riled up.  (Have you ever noticed that your kids become even MORE annoying during stressful situations?)

     When we tried to dry him off, he became extremely agitated and starting freaking the eff out trying to get out of the bathroom.  Then, all of a sudden out of nowhere, he started shitting all over the tile floor and all over my cream-colored rugs.  My daughter tried with all her might to hold the dog so he didn’t step in the mess as I scooped up the rugs and attempted to clean the floor.  (Seriously, why do these things ALWAYS happen to me?!)  I somehow managed to drag him by the collar back down the stairs and out onto the back deck so I could tackle the shitstorm that had hit my house.  Not only did I have the bathroom to clean up, but I also had to fumigate the damn crate.  

     I’ll spare you the dirty details of just how bad of shape the crate was in, but trust me when I tell you that it was everything I could do to keep my stomach from turning itself inside out.  Thank God my hubby came home in time to help clean it out, so I finally could deal with the kids.  (Cause cooking food was EXACTLY what I wanted to be doing at that point.)  I swear I think my son was completely unaware of the tornado of activity that was going on around him the whole time as he stood there lost in his own world, happily playing the Wii. (Thanks for all the help, kiddo.)  I have no earthly idea what led to the dog’s explosive ass bombs either, but the only thing we could figure is that he ate something that wasn’t meant to be eaten in the backyard.  After all, he is part goat.  As I laid in bed last night, I had a little talk with God, and he assured me that the rest of the week is gonna be much better.  He also told me to get a butt plug for the dog.

The Three Hour Ban


     Last night I came milliseconds away from driving down and checking my own damn self into the cuckoo’s nest.  It was one of THOSE nights, where I wanted to throw open the front door of my house and run away screaming and yelling and pulling every single strand of my hair out one by one.  I blame it all on the hours of 5-8 p.m., because truly, nothing good EVER happens during those hours.  So, here’s what went down:

5:15 p.m. —  Arrive home from daughter’s gymnastics to one whining dog who’s about to piss himself and two whining kids who are on the brink of death from starvation.

5:30 p.m. — Vultures start circling and begging for something to eat while dinner is being slopped together.

5:35 p.m. — Give daughter piece of cheese to tie her over and to shut her up.

5:36 p.m. — Dog jumps up on kitchen table and gobbles up half a piece of said cheese; daughter cries.

5:45 p.m. — Dinner finally served to poor, pitiful children who never get any food.

5:50 p.m. —  Table manners completely disappear; threats begin to ban Wii/DS/daughter’s new sewing machine.

5:55 p.m. — Dog needs to go out; snow covered turds fall out of poop bag while trying to scoop; wet poo on hands.

6:00 p.m. — Return inside to a full-max volume of noise coming from dinner table; final threat is made.

6:10 p.m. — Daughter finishes dinner; son not even half-way through, due to copious amounts of goofing around; timer is set.

6:25 p.m. — Son told that only two minutes remain until food is gone.

6:27 p.m. — Son tries to steal one last carrot as plate is removed from table.

6:30 p.m. — Check fridge to see if wine’s cold yet; pop open Diet Coke cause Mama needs go-go juice.

6:35 p.m. — Begin to decipher homework assignments.

6:40 p.m. — Bounce back and forth between kids and ridiculously confusing homework packet.

6:41 p.m. — Desperately check front door for sign of hubby.

6:45 p.m. — Daughter frustrated and crying as son moves on to next page in homework packet without her.

6:46 p.m. — Daughter throws herself onto ground to throw massive fit.

6:47 p.m. — Silently curse hubby for not being there to share all the family-filled fun.

7:00 p.m. — Son completes homework and hops on DS; daughter bitching/moaning cause still working.

7:05 p.m. — Hubby finally strolls in; wine’s popped open.

7:25 p.m. — Daughter’s homework complete; time for pj’s.

7:26 p.m. — Another mammoth meltdown from daughter who wants to use new sewing machine.

7:27 p.m. — Hubby allows kids 3 minutes of DS/sewing time. An agreement is made.

7:30 p.m. — Son erupts when told time’s up; throws DS down stairs. DS banned for a week.

7:35 p.m. — Hubby fends off flailing arms and legs in attempt to shove wailing son into pj’s.

7:50 p.m. — Daughter finally in bed. Puffy-eyed son brushes teeth.

8:10 p.m. — “Mommy, I’m done” heard from kids’ bathroom.

8:11 p.m. — Wipe last ass of the day.

8:15 p.m. — Vow to disappear during the following day’s 5-8 p.m. time slot.

Shit Happens


     You may recall that I’m not the greatest at relaxing.  And sadly, it takes a little old thing like surgery to allow me the chance to even try to take it easy.  You would think that would be the one time that the stars would align in my favor.  However, even after going under the knife, my time to take care of myself was sure enough cut short by the chaos that consumes my every waking moment.  Enter the demon dog, a bowl full of poo, and the very reason why I preach to my kids about flushing their butt bombs.

     One night last week when I was laid up in bed trying to shake off the pain from my surgery, I kept thinking that I heard the clinking of dog tags outside my bedroom door.  My husband was downstairs watching t.v., so I felt fairly confident that he surely had the gate in place on the stairs to keep the dog from running amuck throughout the house.  He knew that I needed to rest, and he surely would have done everything in his power to keep the commotion to a minimum, right?  Therefore, I dismissed the noise as just a delusional side effect from my pain pills.  After all, the meds had been causing me all kinds of nightmares and crazy dreams every single night, so it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea then that I might simply just be hearing things.  

     The clinking noise, however, did not stop.  In fact, it grew even louder.  Now I may have been in a drugged out haze, but I most certainly heard something clanking around outside my door.  I yelled for my husband several times but got absolutely no response whatsoever.  So, I carefully hoisted myself out of bed and hobbled into the hall.  I painfully followed the noise, step by agonizing step, into the kids’ bathroom where I was greeted by a most unpleasant sight. There in the dim glow of the bumblebee nightlight stood the very bain of my existence all hunched over the toilet.  As he lifted his furry head, water dripping from his beard, lips smacking together happily, I felt the three saltine crackers that I’d managed to keep down at dinner slowly start to rise up in my throat.  You see, it seemed that once again, my kids had taken a ridiculously large dump and had failed to flush it down.  And apparently, our goat-like dog saw this as his golden brown opportunity to help himself to a little late-night snack.

     I grabbed the little shit-eating beast by the collar and attempted to lead him back out into the hall, all while trying to avoid the puddles of dung water that had splashed onto the floor.  I repeatedly yelled for my husband but got no response, so I had to just suck up the pain and drag the dog’s nasty ass all the way down the flippin’ stairs. When I finally reached the bottom, I was made very aware of just why my husband was completely oblivious to the whole wreck of a mess that was taking place on the second floor.  He was all sprawled out on the couch, peacefully snoring the night away, while I, the recovering surgical patient, was busy trying to wrangle one fecal-loving fiend. All my shouting eventually stirred him from his tranquil slumber, and he jumped up and took over the out of control situation.  I didn’t stick around to watch the clean-up efforts because my queasy stomach had already had enough.

     The next day, we had our ten billionth talk with the kids about the importance of hitting that flush button on the toilet whenever a transaction is conducted.  But, as with most of our lectures talks, I’m sure it went in one ear and quickly exited the other.  I’m sure it’s only a matter of time till I come across yet another unflushed bowl.  And as for the poop nibbler, I’m having a REALLY hard time allowing him to kiss me with that tongue of his now that I know just where it’s been. He gave a whole new meaning to the term potty mouth that night.

Poop Pride

ee004-cartoon-poop-clipart1I guess when you’re five, the bigger the poop, the better.  My twins are often so proud of their toilet art, that they scream and scream my name until I come to witness the latest masterpiece.  They often come up with very detailed descriptions of the size, shape, and color of their work.  My daughter could hardly contain herself around Christmas when she had what she considered to be red and green poop.  And my son often likes to tell me what letter his by-products resemble.  Just yesterday he was so excited that he produced a very over-sized “s”.  Of course, many of these art exhibitions tend to be at mealtime, which is such an appetizing experience for me.  I’ve somehow learned to make myself immune to what I used to find disgusting and gag-inducing, yet another one of the many skills that motherhood has taught me through the years.  Poop schmoop!