Undomestic Diva

His, Mine and Ours

Candy Ass and I, we're not speaking. It's World War III around here as we're about two seconds from strangling each other over the classic His, Mine & Ours argument. To which, apparently, there is no end.

I won't go into too much detail, it would complicate the divorce even further. But basically, HE makes all the money and I don't work so I have no money. HE has "nothing to show for HIS money" and everything that costs more than HE likes in OUR house is somehow MINE. As in, MY fault. The house? MINE. The dishwasher? MINE. The crappy portable air conditioner we thought might cool our house at least a little (but didn't)? MINE.

It's crazy insane, but I thought we bought this house together, putting both our names on the title. I could swear WE picked out and bought the kitchen appliances together. Unless I'm mistaken, WE also decided on the portable air conditioner together. But these things? They're all MINE, bought with HIS money. I'm just a regular gold digger. That's ME.

And while I'm at it, I'll be the first to admit that all this time, I've been mistaken by thinking that since WE got married, everything - the house, the appliances, hell even the money - it was all OURS, not his or mine. I know. WHAT AN IDIOT I AM.

The frustrating part, is that I want to work, I want to make money, I don't like staying at home. But HE doesn't want me to work, saying a mom should stay-at-home at home with her kids, "otherwise, why have them?"

[I won't even go there right now. I can't fight two different battle fronts at the same time.]

Anyone else hearing that "Love is a Battlefield" song?

I'm not sure exactly what to do next; how we'll resolve this little issue. But I'm thinking it just might involve having to turn tricks to earn my own keep. A girl's gotta do... what a girl's gotta do, right?

Seriously.

Did it have to be a brand new thing of powder?? The obnoxiously sweet smelling lavender and Chamomile powder, no less? My nose is now permanently scrunched, and I would pay good money to be able to sneeze now that I've practically snorted PILES of lavender dust. I mean, come on child! You know your mama doesn't like to clean. Period. Now look what you've done. You're forcing me to use that what's-it-called? vacuum? Ugh.

Please add this to the list of things I did not sign up for. Right under "cleaning up poop from cheap white carpet." Thankyouverymuch.

What Wii Have Learned Over The Years

Candy Ass and I have been together for like a bazillion years now and after all this time, we've learned a few things. For instance, he knows not to mess with me while I'm making my much-needed first cup of coffee in the morning. And I know not to even ask how it's going when he's taking on some household project that clearly isn't going well. These are just a few of the things that took a mere twelve years to get straight.

Don't get me wrong. We still fight. Like Sunday, for example. We don't have an air conditioner in our house and it was literally over 100 degrees outside and NASTY HOT in our house. INSIDE. Candy Ass, conveniently, (and rather hastily, I might add) decided in the heat of the afternoon no less, to go to his office to work rather than do it from home like he normally does on the weekends. Gee. Why would that be? BECAUSE IT HAS AIR CONDITIONING??? Bastard.

Call me crazy, but I have this far-fetched theory that a girl shouldn't have to sweat in her own home. With three sweaty little boys. And did I mention, NO AIR CONDITIONING?! Naturally, I was a little teensy bit pissed off when he took his business elsewhere instead of suffering in our house with us, as a family, where the thermostat read a sweltering 88 degrees INSIDE.

Now Candy Dumb Ass knew - especially after all these years - that when he finally did decide to show his fickle little face back here at the homestead that things would not be pretty. And I mean, I did not look pretty sitting here in my lesbian shorts (long story), pj tee, hot pink flip flops and chipped nail polish, my bangs stuck to my forehead like I might have exerted some sort athletic energy, but alas, I had not. Even uglier was my attitude because, frankly, if this girl has to sweat it out, then by all means, so should he. All is fair in true love and war, right?

Not that I have any clue what that actually means.

And while we've learned many things over all. this. freaking. time., the one thing we have yet to work out is our, um, stubborn desire to go into "stand-off" mode. This is when we each have our opinions - each of us right, of course - and each refusing to give in. On Sunday, clearly, Candy Ass blatantly chose the cool air conditioned comfort of his office over the scorching, but loving, home - a decision which was obviously wrong. Unfortunately, Candy Ass didn't think he had done anything wrong, using work as his "legitimate" excuse to flee us refugees. Something about him being very important, blah, blah, blah. Yeah. I get it. You work. You're therefore "important." I "get" to stay home all day. Oprah and Bon-Bons. That's me, bitch. BITCH!

Needless to say, it was stand-off time.

Day two, and there was no letting up. Candy Ass went to work and we melted here at casa. Woo-effing-hoo. The future looked bleak and divorce was imminent all because... because... why were we fighting again? Anyway. I'm sure it was important. And normally, when we're in stand-off mode, I play to win and I win to... WIN. But honestly, all this heat must be clouding my judgment because I let down my guard a little and I had to do, what I had to do to defend my honor. As a person. As a woman.

So we did what any other normal husband and wife would do in a functional marriage and duked it out via the Wii. Specifically, over a few heated games of tennis and baseball.

Let me just say that Candy Ass only beat me in baseball because he somehow figured out that throwing like a three year old girl makes the pitches really slllooowww and IMPOSSIBLE to hit. It was really healthy the way we kept yelling insults back and forth at each other. "You throw like a GIRL!" I yelled at him, in an honest observation. "You're the one who can't hit it, bitch!" he replied as he barely tossed the remote with what I swear was one pinky sticking straight out.

Tennis was more my game. Because it required skill. Skill Candy Ass clearly doesn't have. The insults grew a little more abrasive with each swing and replay and suddenly I realized my parents are standing in my living room, (I guess one of the kids let them in?) and my mom's yelling over our "IN YOUR FACE!s" that she wished she had a camera with her.

Yes, because two sweaty adults screaming at each other over a video game would have been the picture of a healthy relationship.

So what was I saying about all the things Candy Ass and I have learned over the years? Oh yeah. Well... not sure what the lesson is here. Except that sometimes a little competition helps take the tension away. It's healthy to get the aggression out via simulated sports.

But only if I win, of course.

Oh, it's on!

When Candy Ass and I get into it over something (usually a whole lotta nothing), we do it big. We each take our particular side and no one gives. Healthy, I know.

But, if you were to pick a part our, uh, fights stand-offs in search of something positive, you could, I guess, conclude that at least we're both stubborn determined people, with a lot of selfishness drive, always doing our best to fight for what we want achieve our goals. Even if it's not what the other wants.

Take last night for example. I cooked a gourmet dinner of Kraft Mac & Cheese (hey, it's the cheesiest!) and then it was Candy Ass's job to do the dishes. That's the unspoken rule around here. Being a bit defiant and resisting the job at hand, Candy Ass said, "Well, it looks like the dishwasher is clean. I'm going to need you to empty it first."

Yes, Dad. I'll get right on that, Dad.

So I emptied it, because, quite frankly, not only am I the bigger, better person, [I know, I had to snort too] but I also wanted the dishes done and I was not about to leave any room for excuses.

Flash forward to this morning and, what-do-you-know? the dirty dishes - or dish, I should say - is still sitting there on the stove, with Mac & Cheese stiffer than cement adhered to the bottom of the pan.

"Hey," I say to my husband who is rushing out the door to work like it's a matter of survival or something, "Aren't you going to do the dish before you leave?"

"Nope. I don't have time to do everything around here. You're going to have to handle it."

Uh.

Hmpfh.

What the hell? He thinks he does EVERYTHING around here? How can that be when he doesn't know the HALF of what goes on here? Interesting.

So instead of getting upset by his rude comment that, hmm, I don't know, almost seemed like an insult directed at my lacking desire to be Miss Susie Homemaker, I thought: OK. Then today, I'm going to take it upon myself to take care of all the stuff he has to do around here.

Oh yes.

I started with a whole list of things I was going to do today. I started by mowing the lawn. Once I got the thing running (confusing MF-er, I swear), it was not-so-much smooth sailing as it was choppy, uneven grass cutting. But whatever, I was getting it done. Then, I had to edge the lawn. It would have been a lot nicer if the weed whackin' manufacturers made the damn thing a foot shorter so that I could physically keep it off the ground. But oh well, I ran that bad boy almost half-way around the yard before I ran out of string?? and, I think, gas too.

Whatever. I was totally gettin' stuff done.

Then I continued on with doing the things my husband normally does, like by leaving my grass-stained jeans on the floor in our bedroom next to the hamper and my shoes and socks out on the living room floor. I didn't bother doing laundry or cooking or cleaning up the living room or feeding the kids (kidding) or anything like that, because, well, that's my job and I can't be doing his job and mine.

Up next? I'm going to hang some pictures on the wall he just painted because he HATES when I do that instead of letting him... but if I'm him today, then it should be OK, right??? Man! I can't wait until he gets home tonight to see how much I've helped out.

Could be a long night ahead of me. I'm just sayin'.

Lockdown

When my 5 year old son came home for HCLJPLP today and I asked him what happened at school, he shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "Ate snack. Had a drill. Did mail."

In an attempt to engage in conversation with him, while he was trying to see through me to get a glimpse of the TV, I pressed him for more details. "So, you had a fire drill, huh? That's good..."

Not even looking at me, still hard pressed to see what cartoon might be on, he replied distractedly, "No. It wasn't a fire drill."

I kinda gave up. He didn't want to talk to me and I had to get lunch going anyway. I let him watch his show while I got lunch together, but when it was time to eat and we were together at the table, I tried again.

"So... fire drill? Is that why you didn't have singing time today?"

"No mom, it wasn't a fire drill, I told you," he retorts like I had been the one who wasn't listening. Then he continued, mouth full - of course - saying, "They locked the door to the classrooms and covered the window in case a madman who shouldn't be there was trying to get in and get us. They said police would be all around the building and would tell us on the radio when it was safe to open our doors. Then my teacher would go check. THAT'S the drill we had. Not a fire drill!"

WTF.

I had to ask, "What's a madman?" thinking hoping perhaps he mistook "friendly clown" for "madman." Instead, he quickly explains, "You know, a  m-a-d-m-a-n. A really bad guy. Somebody who steals cable."

Oh no he didn't. Steals cable? WHAT?

My mouth just sorta fell open and stayed open as I had no idea what to say. The stealing cable thing? Funny. The fact that the pre-school just freaked out my 5 year old? Frustrating.

Then I got pissed. At no point did the PRE-SCHOOL, mind you, inform me that they would be practicing for such a drill. And um, while I'm certainly glad there is a plan in place, I can't believe the school was leaving it to 5 year olds to inform their parents of such an event. I mean, it's a lot to process for someone who can't tie his shoes. Perhaps even a bit scary for most of the kids. And all I can imagine are all these young, impressionable kids with vivid imaginations and slightly slurred speech running home to explain to mom and dad some skewed version of what happened at school today.

So you know what I did? I was THAT parent. Oh yeah, don't mess with me, I called the director, pronto.

ME: "Director Lady, hi, um, did you happen to send home a notice about the drill you guys had today? 'Cause I didn't get one."

DIRECTOR: "No. We're not doing the drill until tomorrow."

ME: "So there was no drill today?"

DIRECTOR: "No. But there will be one tomorrow."

ME: "That's weird, because (E-man) came home and told me about the drill you had, about locking the doors and covering the window and the madman and the police..."

DIRECTOR: "Oh, well... We had a mock drill today, I guess you could say. So that kids would understand what was happening tomorrow. In case there is ever an intruder. Not a madman."

[I'm confused. A "mock drill?" Isn't that a little redundant? And does a 5 year old understand what an "intruder" is? And how did he then come up with "madman?" Insert silent middle finger angled toward telephone here.]

ME: "Did you send anything home about it?"

DIRECTOR: "To be honest, I didn't think about it. I guess I could send something home tomorrow after we do the drill."

ME: "I'm sorry, but this concerns me. I mean, I am all for you guys having a plan in place, but when you leave it to a 5 year old to explain the drill to their parents, you're asking for a lot of unhappy moms and dads. This is quite a bit to process for someone so young and I think that the parents deserve to know about such an event BEFORE it happens."

DIRECTOR: "Yeah, you're probably right. I'll get something ready to send home tomorrow after we do the drill. By the way, don't be late tomorrow because anyone who shows up late will not be allowed in the school as all the doors will be locked."

BY THE WAY, laaaady, MY SON WILL NOT BE RETURNING NEXT YEAR. Put that in your bible and smoke it.

OK, here's the deal. I realize this is a "sign of the times" and unfortunately, having a "lockdown" plan is not just inevitable, but smart. I get that. What I don't get is how the parents are somehow not a part of this plan. God forbid my son is at school and there is some need for a lockdown, then I want to know HOW THE EFF DO I GET MY KID? What communication plan is in place?

More importantly, I want to know how the hell I'm supposed to explain this scenario to a very anxious little boy who is (easily) prone to nightmares.

And to be honest, I'm quite pissed (if you couldn't tell) by the director's nonchalant attitude with me. Does she have kids? No. So... Perhaps this is why she doesn't understand a parent's need-to-know. But this, THIS, A PARENT NEEDS TO KNOW.

So what do I do? Do I keep him home from school to avoid the trauma that, while being "pretend," is still very scary in his mind? Or do I send him, because what if? what if? I would want him to know what to do, right?

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Whoever let me have kids, did not disclose that shit like this is part of being a parent. And frankly, "I DON'T WANNA" is all that comes to mind when having to face decisions like these. I'm not qualified to handle this kind of crap. I tend to over-think it all (who me? no!) and not because I want to worry about it, but because I just want to do the right thing for my kid. And goddamnit, WHAT IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO FOR MY KID?

At the same time, I'm also feeling like... SHIT. This is what life has come to? Lockdown plans for gunmen on a pre-school campus? EFFING FANTASTIC. It almost makes me feel somewhat irresponsible for bringing kids into a world that's... just so goddamn cruel, ya know?

I mean, why can't we go back to a time when stealing cable was the worst thing a person could do?

If it ain't broken, then it ain't mine

In a nutshell, this was my weekend.

Son of a biatch. You could actually hear the air whistling out of the tire. I don't like tires. Because they pop. I don't like balloons because they pop. I don't like corn because it pops. I don't like when people call soda "pop." I don't like when Dr. Seuss tells you to "Hop on Pop."

Yes, I am prejudice against anything pop.

[Except maybe pop culture.]

Really, it's an effing phenomenon how quickly my kids can break something. I should pimp them out to toy companies as toy testers to see just how durable any one toy can be. If it's breakable, my boys will break it. If it's not breakable, my kids will still break it. Especially if it's not theirs.

[Insert pity for Big T here.]

And this my friends is my 'puter. And it's not on. And my 'puter is always on. EXCEPT WHEN IT WON'T TURN ON. Seems my friend here heard about the Writer's Strike in Hollywood and thought Hey, what a great idea! I think I'll go on strike until Angry Typing Lady buys me some more memory. I mean, how many times do I have to tell her "Low Disk Space" before she gets the clue?

What 'puter here doesn't realize is that if it doesn't get it's schizophrenic ass together, I'm going to get a new 'puter. A more reliable one that doesn't restart itself spontaneous in the middle of the night. I'm gonna make like a man in a mid-life crisis and opt for a newer, younger model. HA!

[But 'puter - Please work until then though, OK? In particular, please do not let the hard drive crap out until I've actually backed a few things up, OK? Please?]

So. How was your weekend?

The magic is gone

I don't claim to know the "secret" to a happy, healthy marriage. I'm not even convinced there is one secret or theory or philosophy or strategy. But I do have a pretty simple rule that I like for my husband and I to follow and I swear, it may not make your marriage perfect, but it sure helps keep things... fresh.

No farting.

First of all, we all know that women do not fart. It's physically impossible. I've told my husband this many-a-times although he refuses to believe it. However, we know that men do fart. And by fart, I mean, violently burst with gas and laughter simultaneously, spontaneously and on-command. I know this because I've witnessed it on TV and have had a couple dads, etc. But I refuse to believe that my husband is capable of such... such... EEEWWWWWW.

[Ugh. I have trouble even typing the word "fart." I consider it far worse than any other four-letter word, including Jane Fonda's beloved "C" word, which is appalling enough.]

[Farting didn't used to be as awful in my mind until I saw some show on the Discovery Channel (or was it a Jack Black movie? Hmm...) that explained that every time a person farts, they emit tiny little sh*t particles and our noses act as filters to our bodies and basically, whoever farted, well, their sh*t particles make their way into our nose hairs. So we have that person's sh*t in our nose. EEEWWWWW!!Totally ruined it for me, knowing that. See if you can stand the idea of gas now. HA!]

The no-farting rule is well known within our circle of family and friends. I've yet to see one of those rustically painted signs that hangs in your house with a saying on it with such a rule, but if there were one, I'd hang it. On my front door. Every time we see Candy Ass' grandfather, he asks, "Hey [Candy Ass], did you fart in front of her yet?"

I have to interject and reply on my husband's behalf, "Uh, Grandpa, you know girls don't fart." (Then I have to walk out of the room immediately before Grandpa finds enjoyment in talking about all his encounters with women who allegedly fart. It's all lies, I tell you. LIES.)

Tonight, as I pondered what to blog about as I got ready for bed, I decided to ask Candy Ass if he had any ideas. (Unless you all want to hear a whole lot of nothing about Mac and Cheese, we'll just never ask him for suggestions again.) It was worth a try.

I continued brushing my hair in the bathroom adjacent from our bedroom when IT happened.

First I hit the floor. I thought there had been a drive-by. I mean, this is Southern California after all. It's not impossible. But there were no screeching of tires following the gunshot so I peeled myself off the god-awful white linoleum and it occurred to me what had happened.

God damnit. Candy Ass had FARTED.

[I had to throw up in my mouth a little bit after typing that. Ick.]

I swung open the door to our room (after covering my nose with my shirt, of course) and yelled (in a really high-pitched Megan Mullally voice), "WHAT THE EFF WAS THAT????"

You know, there are times when I'd actually like to be lied to. SOMETIMES, I'd rather not know the truth. This was one of those times. But instead, Candy Ass started cracking up and confessed (like a proud son-of-a-biatch), "I farted."

"That is IT!" I said dejectedly. "It's OVER. O-V-E-R."

"What's over?" Candy Ass asked all innocently like he hadn't just broken the cardinal rule. ON VALENTINE'S DAY no doubt.

"Our marriage. Obviously the magic is gone. I can't even pretend you didn't just do that. Thanks a lot for giving me something to blog about you bastard."

[Door slams]

I turn on the water in the bathroom sink to wash my face and I can barely hear Candy Ass trying to talk to me, saying god-knows-what, but I can't hear him clearly. Irritated that he's basically broken our vows and made a mockery of our marriage with his ginormous PPPPPPHHHHFFFFFFFFFFFTT, I can only bring myself to yell, "SORRY. CAN'T HEAR YOU. I BETTER NOT BE ABLE TO SMELL YOU EITHER, JACKASS."

Frankly, I don't know where to go from here. I mean, eeewww. I don't enjoy spontaneous combustion. And I've got three little boys. And one big kid. And they all think farting is FANTASTIC. I think this is just god's lame attempt to eff with me. Thou don't covet farts? Thou shall live with fart worshipers.

[Sigh.]

It's getting late and I should really call it a day. I should get some sleep. Only problem is, where am I going to sleep now? And how can I sleep? My brain is trying to find the answers to the many questions now swimming in my head: How can I forget the infamous blast of hot air? How will our marriage survive this? How could Candy Ass have broken our rule? OUR RULE!!?? On Valentine's Day, no less!! What will I tell his grandfather the next time I see him? The truth would only produce high-fives and "atta boy's."

It's funny how life can change in a single second. Of hot air emissions.

It's almost like that whole fork-in-the-road scenario where a person should choose a path to take. The only problem is, in my life, there is a fork in my road, but it's got beans on it.

Obedience School: Week 1... and only?

No. It wasn't obedience school for me - it was for my dog Morty, an 11 month old Saint Bernard. Great dog. Sweet dog. But an ill-behaved dog. And at 150+ pounds, this puppy needs some manners. Being that I'm only 5'2 AND A HALF, I need the dog to be somewhat of a listener. Obedient. Submissive.

[Come to think of it, I need a husband who is somewhat submissive. I must be going about life all wrong.]

There's like two hundred games we could play here, like "Guess What Went Wrong" or "How Long Did It Take Before Morty Was Kicked Out" or... But instead, I'm going to spare you the BS and just give you the lessons learned. (Frankly, I'd love to play "Guess What Went Wrong" but my body aches in every joint and the calluses on my hands make for very painful typing. So this is all you get.)

LESSONS LEARNED AT OBEDIENCE SCHOOL WITH THE MORTIMER:

1. Getting two Saint Bernards (my mom owns Morty's sister, Hildegaard) into the back of an SUV is like the reverse of giving birth. But still as much work.

2. The correct way to put on Morty's choke chain. Did you know they could be put on backwards? Me neither. Does it really matter? UGH.

3. What the word "heel" means. Well, that's what we were supposed to learn. I now understand it, but Morty, well, he's not picking up what I'm puttin' down.

4. NEVER GET TOO CLOSE TO MY DOG'S FACE WHEN HE DOESN'T KNOW YOU AND YOU'RE CHOKING HIM, CRAZY DOG TEACHER LADY.

5. Obviously, there wasn't a #5. After #4, CRAZY DOG TEACHER LADY left us well enough alone.

I guess I should explain. Within mere minutes of us getting to the park, CRAZY DOG TEACHER LADY and her oh-so-helpful husband decide to get up in Morty's face, and he, um, got a little nasty with her. She didn't just get in his face, she cinched up his choke chain to show me how to gain control and, well, I wouldn't like it either. I kept thinking, YOU'RE CRAZY, laaaady.

Now Morty is not a biter - he would not be our family dog if he were. But man, he sure got protective and serious and I have to say there was a bit of foaming and growling and for a second there, I was a bit scared that if CRAZY DOG TEACHER LADY didn't back the eff up, I'd be in a heap of trouble. With the law. And Fish and Game.

The rest of the evening was relatively smooth sailing. Mostly because CRAZY DOG TEACHER LADY stayed far from us, as did every other pet owner and their dog. Which probably worked to my benefit seeing as how some of those people's little Shitz Poops were about the size of one of Morty's bones. Not that Morty is the attack-dog type. But I was sure hungry. (Hey, I'm not hatin', I'm just sayin.')

Honestly, I can't believe we have to go back again next week. I don't know if I can summon the physical strength to endure it. Is it wrong if we don't go back? Am I a bad pet owner if we drop out before the second lesson? Does Morty even really need obedience school??? I mean, I never went to obedience school and look at me.

FINE. We'll go back.

The Chicken Song

Sometimes, I swear-to-god, I think my husband is purposely un-doing the little parenting I've done - ya know, just to eff with me. It's like he thinks to himself, "How do I get a rise out of her?" or maybe he ponders, "What would really piss her off?" No matter what he's thinking, I like to think he's just not thinking. It's less scary that way.

Tonight at dinner, E-man proudly told Candy Ass and I that he had taught his classmates at HCLJPLP his favorite song today. We were a little taken back because a) E-man hates to sing in front of people and b) we didn't know he had a favorite song.

CANDY ASS: "Cool. What song did you teach them?"

E-MAN: "The Chicken Song."

[An immediate full-swivel of my head 360 degrees around my neck and ending with a lethal stare at Candy Ass]

Now let me just start by saying that the "Chicken Song" is not some ho-down rendition of "Old McDonald" or some cutesy-fartsy song created to celebrate Easter. It's a song my husband proudly taught my boys, thinking he was oh-so-funny. One of those moments when a father bonds with his sons over poorly chosen words and stereotypes their mother would kill them for acquiring. Sung by Rodney Carrington, a man who (if you like Country music) is an amazing singer who can't put all his good talent to proper use. His songs are crude (to put it nicely) and hilarious (to put it mildly) if you're the type that can summon a sense of humor. (Obviously you're reading my blog so that last part shouldn't be an issue.)

Before either Candy Ass or I could compose ourselves, E-man proudly sang the only part of the song he knows, to which he greatly slaughtered its words but not enough to limit the potential damage to his fellow holier-than-thou classmates.

E-MAN: "I like my women like I like their fanny, with a little bit of fat on the end. Not too much and not too little - just enough to make them SQUEAL!!!"

OK, so the song goes a little differently, but really, I think it's safe to say that damage was done. Sufficiently.

CANDY ASS: "Well, did your friends like the song?"

E-MAN: "No. No one even smiled, Dad."

Hmm. Whatta ya know? None of the gospel-lovin' children or teachers at HCLJPLP even cracked a smile at E-man's favorite song. Self-righteous bastards. I mean, god made people and god made chickens and what's wrong with a little fat on the end? 

I sat through the rest of dinner, quietly eating while basking in the sudden shame of my husband who was now desperately trying to un-do his father-son bonding anthem. I couldn't help but enjoy the fact that, for once, it wasn't me who was having to fix what he had un-done.

Now I know you've probably already googled the lyrics to Rodney Carrington's "Chicken Song." Be patient, already. I've been kind enough to burn your eardrums with the now infamous father-son theme song.

[Warning: NSFW]

Disclaimer: This is not my "cup of tea" as far as music goes. (Candy Ass is a little bit country and I'm a lot a bit Rock and Roll.) As a perfect, super-mom [good god, I had to cringe when typing that] I would never teach my reverent sons such a song. It's that Candy Ass I married. He's to blame. He gets to do all the wrong things and I have to make them all right. I mean, yes, I've taught them some four-letter words and passed on my Starbucks gene to them, but damn it, other than that and a few hundred other little things, I've been the perfect effing parent.

All I want to know is why couldn't I have been a DAD?

Just give 'em something to blog about

My kids, oh boy, those kids.

Those FREAKING kids!

I once heard a Jeff Foxworthy bit on how his mother complained she just couldn't have anything nice (an Elvis decanter) because her boys broke everything.

Damn it, Jim - it's true.

Nobody told me when I was big fat and pregnant that it would be years before I could own anything of value. Or at least anything that held value. Now I'm not talking about precious little ceramic  [chills] figurines - I have boys, I know better. But I do want the things I do own - LIKE MY FRONT FREAKIN' DOOR - to stay, um, just decent looking. Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

Case and point: Marker on the door. Swirly marks and an intricate outlining of the handle.

I swear-to-god we didn't beat him. Although that probably would have been justified in this case. He only looks like we beat him. But no, that's not a face full of bruises, just dirt and tears and snot which (hello, drama) might make you pity him... but come on folks, he knows what he's doing. IT'S ALL PART OF HIS EVIL GENIUS PLAN.

I can't wait until he grows up to be a world-renown artist and we all share a good chuckle about the time he drew on my front door and I put him in Time Out. But until then, I'm just going to blog about it and complain about how I just can't have anything nice.

Speaking of dirt, I'd like to also point out my planters which are FULL of dirt. And only dirt. Because I have boys who like to excavate like their Pappa.

Sure, this may look all innocent and boyish and sweet. But sometimes, even just one time, ONE TIME! I'd like to own a plant long enough to see it bloom. 'Cause the funny thing is, Home Depot guarantees their plants and trees for a year, but when you try and return them after 7 days in the bucket of a plastic CAT loader, they frown upon giving you your money back. Something about it not being their fault and blah, blah, blah they really recommend planting the tulips in soil, not a plastic toy, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

Really, when did I become that crazy lady with a three-boy circus that no one understands?