Undomestic Diva

I went to Hotlanta and all I got was a broken ass. (I would have been happy with a t-shirt.)

There's a song by Fergie that sings "If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home." Well I ain't got no money and I have a broken ass, so I dutifully left Hotlanta where I had surprised my sister for her engagement party this past weekend for home-sweet-home, only there was nothing G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S about it if you know what I'm sayin'. And I think you do.

I don't know if a broken ass (literally - it was x-ray'd) is the sign of a great bachelorette party or a very bad one, but put me in 4" heels (albeit awesome ones), on a moving bus lined in fur (except the floor, APPARENTLY) with spilled club soda (WHO THE FUCK SPILLED THAT?) on the floor and, well, let's just say that there are now two cracks in my ass. One that's been there since birth and the other just since Friday night.

I've told you all I'm a good time. You probably thought I meant I was the life of the party... No, no. I just provide the entertainment. At my own expense. Says the girl writing this post from the false comfort of a donut pillow under her fanny.

I called my sister RV and told her the official diagnosis today and I'm pretty certain she fell out of her desk chair laughing out loud at work. To the point where she had to explain to her co-workers (Hi Mary!) and boss why she was all shits-and-giggles and unfortunately for me, that included referring to my ass hitting the flo' not in the way Flo' Rida suggests.

Picking up my younger two boys from school, I gave them a G-rated explanation of why "mommy hurts" by explaining that my butt hurt because there are bones in there (SHUT-UP) and one of them broke. My 5 year old smirks, SMIRKS, "So you broke your ass bone?" Kinda like, "just give it to me straight." Then they giggled. My 5 and 3 year old laughed at me.

FMITA. Only, don't. *winces* 

Of course Candy Ass is just having a field day with this. He has an uncanny knack for coming up with ass jokes and quips constantly about my 'broke ass' and being a 'pain in the ass' and so on and so forth. I'm trying desperately to remember his other great qualities right now so his ass can remain intact. I'm not gonna lie; it's hard. He's being kind of an ass. (Heh.)

The truth is, other than The Great Fall which everyone has made a 'crack' about, both the bachelorette (video coming soon!) and engagement parties were great successes and I was sooooo excited to get to go to Atlanta and be there for it all.

A normal conversation. For us.

Candy Ass and I have recently began engaging in what you young hip people call "texting" to keep in touch during the day when either he or I have something brief to say to the other that doesn't necessarily warrant interrupting a meeting or a child's tantrum for a phone call, yet are equally important bits of information that the other needs to hear or in this new-fangled case, read.

Yesterday, I had just left the grocery store (where Candy Ass had asked me to buy more Big Sticks because we were out) when this little text exchange ocurred between the two of us:

Me: Big Sticks acquired.

CA: Had one for the last 20 years... at least that's what I've been telling people.

Me: HAHAHA.........HA.

Me: Making u your dream dinner tomorrow if u behave

CA: sounds dreamy

Me: I didn't even tell u what it is

CA: Doesn't matter. If you are cooking, it's a dream come true! What will you be wearing?

Me: Probably most of the ingredients and a little powder from the fire extinguisher.

CA: HAHAHA

I really think we're getting the hang of this texting stuff. I mean, I even abbreviated using 'u' in place of 'you' when I have personal preference to spell everything out, even in the world of Twitter where abbreviations are key.

I DON'T THINK YOU'RE APPRECIATING MY SACRIFICES PEOPLE. (Or should I say 'ppl?')

Next we're going to have to try that tricky IM-ing stuff everyone has been talking about. Man, technology! WHAT WILL THEY THINK OF NEXT?

Best Money Ever Spent

For the first time ever, I paid someone MONEY! to help me clean my house. Why I feel so completely guilty or precocious over this fact, I don't know, but I broke down and paid MONEY! to have someone deep-clean my kitchen while I handled the bathrooms. (I have three boys and a guilty conscience. I couldn't make her do it.)

BEST MONEY EVER SPENT and could possibly save my marriage on many levels. At least, this is how I planned on explaining it to Candy Ass when he returned from his fishing trip after first asking him if a) he noticed how very clean his house was and, b) wouldn't he LOVE IT if it were always - OK, mostly - this clean? and, c) very good then, we've agreed that we're hiring her! At which point he'll be like, WAIT. WHA? You paid someone to clean the house? And the eyerolling shall begin. BUT THEN, then I will show him the inside of the microwave which apparently is supposed to be white, not yellow-ish. (And did you know that turning glass plate comes out of there? Huh.) And if that didn't impress him I planned on showing him that weird drawer thing below the oven (whatever that's for) and show him that while no, I've never used or even opened or understood what it's for, IT'S CLEAN TOO! Ta-daaa!

The only loophole in my fail-proof plan is the part where Candy Ass then says all logically and shit (I hate when he gets all logical on me), "OK, well let's sit down and make a new budget and see if hiring her will work." And that right there? Could be the end of our marriage - having to sit down and talk finances just so HE can have the clean house HE always wanted ME to provide. (And to my credit, I'd be providing it, technically, via a little outsourcing.) But at the cost of creating a BUDGET? Oh hail no.

So maybe I don't tell him I, er, delegated that particular duty. Maybe I just take credit for suddenly discovering and dusting the ovenhood thing?  

I know. I'm doomed. Break out the bank statements, an excel spreadsheet and a bottle of Xanax.

You are HERE

I don't care about blog stats; I don't check how many people come to my site regularly nor do I try to boost my page views using any particular clever strategies... as evidenced by my lack of posting consistently or even coherently lately. But every once in a while it's sort of fun, if not completely disturbing, to take a look at what people googled to get to my blog.

Some of the latest and greatest (and very troubling):

• moms with anxiety

• athletic cup

• "only shares certain information" friend

• starbucks saved my life vomit

• still take my meds ppd

• big breast horror movies

• combustible chocolate

• design my own mossy oak swimsuits

• explore uranus

• do tanning beds do anything bad to your ovaries

• fat people tanning beds

• get ready your candy ass is next

• good beaver

• fuck you anxiety

• hotel fagina

• imaginary things you see

• jeep booth fancy water fountains

• mommy's fucking the football team [WHA?]

• regional pronunciation of scallop

• wife hasn't slept with me for 5 weeks

• onion bootays

• where to buy hypercolor t-shirts

A psychologist would have a field day with this list. And my dermatologist.

Everyone Pees

My oldest son has taken a recent interest in writing books. I can't help but be a little proud of this; perhaps feeling like maybe the fact that he's watched me write all his life might have something to do with his interest and that maybe that kid, who is the spitting image both in looks and personality of his father in every other aspect, might just be a small piece of me too.

E-man has already penned some comic books and recently a few scary "cweepy" books in light of Halloween. But tonight he told his Grandma that he was going to write yet another book.

"What's this book going to be about?" she asked, interested.

"It's going to be called 'Everyone Pees,'" he replied matter-of-factly. 

"What?" she said, a bit caught off-guard.

"Well," he explained, "There's already 'Everyone Poops' and 'Everyone Eats' so I thought I should write one called 'Everyone Pees.'"

He always has logical explanations behind his ideas.

"Oh," she replied, trying not to laugh. "Sounds great!"

"Yeah. And I think I'm going to make it a pop-up."

This is when Grandma had to leave the room.

So now I'm not just proud that E-man is potentially following in my footsteps by taking an interest in writing - but that he also has the same sick sense of humor I do. That's my boy.

My laptop caught the clap

(Should the clap be capitalized like as in The Clap? Should I worry about this, really, when my laptop is so overwhelmed with viruses and worms and other disgusting unwelcomed parasites that I attempt to log-in and it screams at me: ACCESS DENIED!? Probably not. But I still worry, debate and go back-and-forth as to whether The Clap should be capitalized or not. Priorities.)

So really, I don't know that I even have to write this post now that I just went all DOTM (Diarrhea of the Mouth) on you in that first paragraph pretty much explaining my whole dilemma and why I'm now blogging from the strange confines of my boys' laptop where, yes, the keys are in all the same places EXCEPT THEY'RE NOT and god, there's a whole lotta backspacing going on - more than I'm comfortable with - and if all laptops could just put the gotdamn 'delete' button in the same spot and make it the same size I'm almost certain the world would be a more peaceful place.

(And yes, I had to disclose that I was blogging from another laptop because I was pretty sure you could tell something was different about this post than all the others and I really didn't want to hold anything back from you.)

The real bummer is I was, like, halfway done, probably thisclose - at least - with my Maui video that I was planning on forcing you to watch and then BLAM! I get all these warnings and errors and then my computer starts squealing at me like a dying hamster and it all got blurry and cold and dark after that. (That might have been the weather I'm describing - it's been foggy lately and we're expecting rain, but it also might have been the experience of laptop flatlining right before my eyes. I can't remember which.)  That's pretty much the extent of my technical expertise - where I look at the black screen BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEPing and shrug and yell to Candy Ass, "MY COMPUTER IS BROKEN... FIX IT!" And he immediately says, "What did you download? I told you not to download shit." And I say, "But I didn't download ANYTHING. I swear!" And so on and so forth.

Candy Ass hasn't given me the official diagnosis yet but if I had to apply all my technical training and knowledge I'm pretty sure my laptop has caught (been infected with?) the clap/The Clap and GAWD it could not have come at a worse time. But then again, if it weren't for bad luck? I'd have no luck at all.

God I miss Maui.

A letter to the Wearers of Clothes in this house

Dear Wearers of Clothes in this house,

Perhaps it’s time I clarified the apparently unobvious rules of laundry in this house you live in so that you and I can remain on good terms and well-laundered without any confusion or pesky static cling:

1.       I will not collect laundry from every single room of the house. Yet? I find dirty laundry in every single room of the house. When your soccer jersey isn’t clean in time for this week’s game, maybe you should consider this. PUT YOUR DIRTY LAUNDRY IN THE DIRTY LAUNDRY PILE.

2.       The way I receive your socks is the way I will wash, dry and return them to you. In other words, deliver me your wadded up, halfway inside out sock, and that’s exactly how I will put it through the washer and then the dryer and then back into your drawer. IT IS NOT MY JOB TO UN-WAD YOUR NASTY DIRTY SOCKS BEFORE WASHING.

3.       Speaking of socks, I also will not collect them from the insides of shoes or cleats or cowboy boots, from under or behind the couch nor constantly buy you new ones when you can’t find any because they’re scattered like stanky shrapnel in every square inch of our home. SOCKS DO NOT GROW ON TREES. TECHNICALLY THE COTTON GROWS ON BUSHES. BUT NEVER MIND THAT. I’M NOT MADE OF MONEY AND WILL NOT BUY YOU ANYMORE SOCKS THIS YEAR AND MY LAUNDERING SKILLS + BLEACH ONLY GOES SO FAR.

4.       Also, socks are not for fun. Because laundry is not fun. So no, you may not get out another pair of socks to go “ice skating” down the hallway because it’s “swippewy.” YOU ARE LIMITED TO ONE PAIR OF SOCKS PER DAY AND GOD HELP YOU IF I SEE YOU WEARING THEM OUTSIDE.

5.       It is not my job to extract your underwear from within your pants/shorts/bottom halves. I especially do not need to see your underwear/pants combo arrive in the laundry area inside out, crotch side out thankyouverymuch. KINDLY REMOVE YOUR UNDERWEAR FROM YOUR PANTS/SHORTS/BOTTOM HALVES BEFORE PLACING IN THE LAUNDRY PILE. (What’s a laundry pile, you ask? See #1)

6.       Just like your socks, I wash the rest of your clothes As Is. Meaning, As they come, Is how I wash them. You left your wallet with your social security card in your pants pocket? Not my fault. Your chapstick survived the wash but ruined the entire load of laundry by leaving greasy spots all over everyone’s clothes when it melted in the dryer? Not my fault. You left a paper towel or tissue in your pocket? TOTALLY YOUR FAULT NOW COME CLEAN IT UP. You left your felt tip pen in your pocket and it decorated all the clothes AND the dryer? TOTALLY YOUR FAULT NOW COME CLEAN IT UP. Forgot to empty the change from your pockets? Nice. BUT WOULD IT KILL YOU TO ACCIDENTALLY LEAVE A $20 EVERY NOW AND THEN? CHRIST.

7.       Because I’m kind enough to do your laundry for free (Yes, you heard me correctly. There’s a reason you have to pay a Cleaner’s to touch your stanky ass clothes – clean laundry is a service not a right), know that in return you must be willing to deal with the floset. [definition: floor + closet; a closet on the floor] It’s a small miracle that you have clean underwear, socks and clothes (most days) so asking me to actually fold and put them all away is just being a little greedy, don’t you think? THE DRYER WORKS BETTER THAN IRONING – DON’T LISTEN TO THE CONSERVATIONISTS.

Now I am certain if everyone in the house follows these 7 tips for laundry success! (felt we needed an exclamation point there!) then I just KNOW we will all be a much happier and better smelling family in no time at all.

Love,

Mom

 

P.S. Sorry you don't have any clean socks today. But I had to get a new blog post up. It's been a few days. xoxo - Mom

Clearly, I need to get lei'd

You know what I’m doing? This right here? It’s called PROCRASTINATION. I seem to be brilliant about getting a wicked case of inertia when it comes to needing to get a lot of shit done in a small amount of time. I just stall, sputter and then run out of gas completely and my mind… wanders. Not in the way Einstein’s mind probably wandered either. His probably wondered where mind just wanders and really? I think I just proved my own point.

Right now I’m waiting for the Red Bull to kick in. You know, because THAT’S productive. Waiting for the artificial energy made of synthetic bull bile to motivate me to do something useful. (By the way, why ‘synthetic’ bull bile? Why not organic? Should I be asking this?) I don’t know what I expect from the Red Bull exactly. Maybe I’ll sprout those wings the commercials always promise? That’d be nice. ‘Cause when you don’t have enough energy to make a To Do list of all the things you need to do, you’re fucked.

Candy Ass and I leave for Maui in… I don’t know? A week? (Too lazy to even check the calendar at this point.) And I haven’t figured out how we’re getting to the airport, haven’t cleaned my house so my parents can stay here with the kids and not be completely disappointed in me as a housekeeper (like they don’t already know, I know, but still) or figured out who is going to feed the dog, never mind Steve, Jumping Steve and now the Salsa Making Beaver. (Maybe he eats the salsa he makes? If that’s true, then that’s the most self-sufficient pet EVER!)

And oh god, I haven’t even started making all those lists… school and soccer schedules, medicines and doses (thank you to the asshole that is strep throat and double ear infections times three) (P.S. I HATE YOU CVS, you inept pharmacy!), unpacking from my last trip so I have a suitcase to – oh yeah – pack for this trip and what about my blog? Whoops. And making and sending out invitations for L-Dub’s Optimus ‘Crime’ birthday party? Then there’s that little thing called work, paying bills, laundry (so we have some clothes to take with us, heh) and blah, blah, blah I CAN’T EVEN THINK OF ALL THE THINGS I NEED TO DO! And don’t tell me when we get back we will already be a full week into OCTOBER. Who let that happen?

I think time is lapping me. I think scientists need to take a serious gotdamn look into this. I no longer believe minutes are a full 60 seconds and hours a full 60 minutes and so on. Seriously. I’ve set the clock on my car many times and yet it always seems to be off by like 15 minutes from “actual” time. THINK ABOUT IT. This, and where single socks disappear to when going from the washer to the dryer, should be carefully re-examined. And documented. And then *I* want credit for pointing these things out. (After all, Einstein would have gotten credit for that.)

So I procrastinate. (And clearly, digress.) And live in Denial. Which is a lovely place, I might add. Everything is beautiful here in Denial – no deadlines, no worries, no problems, no lists, nothing! Which, now that I think about it, sounds a lot like how the brochure described Maui… hmm. As long as we don’t die in some fiery plane crash in the middle of the Pacific Ocean where NO ONE WILL EVER RECOVER OUR BODIES (note to self: write letter designating legal guardians in the event of our deaths before leaving the ground), Maui sounds like exactly what I need right now.

Candy Ass, The Blogger

Candy Ass thinks he's better at EVERYTHING than I am. I'll attest to his mad skillz as a fly fisherman (don't we all wish we could be like him!) and his handiness around the house (he can fix and make anything - except kitchen cabinets apparently!) but when it comes to blogging... that's my territory, bitch.

Oh, but Candy Ass believes that if he had a blog, not only would it be better than mine, it would also be more successful and more popular than mine. 

"What would you write about?"

"Oh, you know, my day."

"Like?"

"Woke up, took a shower, went to work, did some shit, came home, went to bed. The end." 

"Fucking brilliant! Why haven't you started your blog already??"

--- Two days later ---

"I know what my blog would be about."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"It'd be 'The Untold Stories of the Undomestic Diva.' Like that time you punched a palm tree and ended up with stitches in your hand and --"

"Oh HA HA... HA. It'd be a blog that mocked my blog?"

"I guess."

"You might just be onto something there. I think you should do it." (Knowing Candy Ass will never do it.)

"Nah, I don't want to steal all your readers."

"Is that a challenge?"

"No, I'm just saying..."

"I know what you're saying. Start that blog motherfucker and let the best man win."

---

Candy Ass says he doesn't have time to start a blog. He's too busy. I think he knows he's going to get virtually bitch-slapped via posts if he dares to step into the octagon of blogging with me. Because if he's going to throw low blows and tell my "untold stories" well then, buddy, I can go there too.

I think he should man up and make good on his threats. What do you think?

The Salsa Making Beaver

Really, I'm at a loss for words. So... cue the video, James.

(And yes, I fully admit that making you watch this video of my kids at their weirdest just being them is the equivalent of inviting you over to my house for dinner and then making you watch old slides in the living room of my childhood. And if you feel like complaining about that, to you I'd just like to say, don't be an ungrateful houseguest, asshole.)

At some point, I realize my kids talking about their imaginary animals goes from harmless to a little weird to downright embarrassing like, yo, Megan, you might want ixnay how much you alktay about your idskay. But it hasn't reached that point yet, right?

RIGHT?