Best April Fool’s Joke EVER…

Unfortunately, this next part is not the joke.

My poor, sweet Henry.  How could I have ever considered giving him to the gypsies???

Tuesday, I think it was, this week has become a blur, we had an accident.  An accident that I wish was a joke…  An accident that no mother ever wishes to endure, or even thought in her wildest dreams could even happen.  EVER.

So, the big man has some very stringent potty habits.  Which have been discussed.  As he’s sitting on the potty Tuesday afternoon, just like any other afternoon doing his business in the office, he yells for me, “I POOOOOO-POOOOOOOOOOED!”  Which is code for, ‘come wipe me.’  Hell to the no way am I ready to let that child start trying to wipe his own ass.  The last time he did, it ended very badly for me.  Let’s just say it involved sopping wet poo paper stuck everywhere and water slung all over the place.  Poo-poo water.  Gag.  I don’t care who you are, toilet paper, shit and a 3-year-old in a bathroom with the door shut never goes any way but wrong.  Back to the story…  He yells for me to come wipe him… 

Well, the little man likes to sit on the potty and lean waaaaay forwards for me to wipe him.  And he thinks it’s hilariously funny to wag his little tail from side to side or hop up and down, making it difficult for me to wipe.  I do not think this is as funny as he does.  He also likes to push his butt up off the potty seat, sort of doing a push-up so to speak, with his hands.  I had just said, “Okay, enough with the funny business!  You’re going to fall,” after he had been doing a butt-push-up/fanny wag combination.  And guess what he does…  Falls forwards off the potty.

I asked if he was okay, before working in an “I told you so…,” and helped him back up onto the seat to finish the cleaning process.  Upon approved cleanliness, I exited the office so that he could put his pants and underwear back on in private.  Because getting dressed, after he’s been wagging his dirty butt in your face, is apparently a task that requires privacy.  Forget seeing him take them off, or seeing him naked from the waist down, or wiping his ass for him, those things are quite okay for any old person, even strangers, to witness…  But, covering up the parts you’ve just seen more of than you cared to, the putting the clothes back on part, well, that’s serious business that has to be done in solitude.  Anyway, he never came out.

After a few minutes, I walked back over to that side of the house and called, “Henry, are you okay?  Why are you still in there?” Because I’ve just described how Henry in the bathroom unsupervised can mean bad things…  Bad things that I don’t want to have to clean up, or mop up or use fifteen of my newly folded towels to sop up…  And I heard whimpering…   I opened the door and he’s standing there with this horrified look on his face.  He’s still naked from the waist down and he’s holding his pee-pee, looking down at it.  I ask what’s wrong and he starts SCREAMING.  “IT HURTS, IT HURTS!!!!  SOMEFING’S WONG WIF ME!!!  IT’S BLEEDING!  IT’S BLEEDING!”  He’s trembling all over is seriously faaareaking out.  I had to pry his little shaking hands away from his tee-tee and saw a little strip of blood across the top of it.  Like at the base of it, where it attaches to his body.  It was just a thin little line of blood, almost like a papercut.  Or so it seemed.

I carried him into the den where I could look at it in the light and was asking him what happened…  He just kept screaming it hurt.  So I got a band-aid (Princess Tiana, poor kid.  Probably the last thing a boy wants on his boy-parts…,) some neosporin and a paper towel to blot the blood away.  It took some doing for me to actually get a look at it…  When I did, I nearly fainted.

His little baby tee-tee had literally ripped away from his body. 

I’m still in shock over this.

It had literally just torn away from one side, all the way across the top to the other side.  I hated to do it, but I had to pull the cut open a little to properly assess the damage.  I was hoping for just a tiny little paper cut type deal, since that’s really what it resembled, as it wasn’t bleeding much at all and looked like just a thin little cut…  However, when you examine a paper cut, you do not pull open a gaping rip, and see exposed meat.  It was a lot deeper than you want to see any cut or tear in your child’s skin.  And this was no ordinary cut or tear…  This was his little PENIS.  And it was ripped away from his body.

Oh.My.God.  Oh.My.God.  Oh.My.God.

I somehow calmly and quietly put the Tiana band-aid on across it to calm him down.  I very carefully put on his pants and undies for him and told him to sit down and be very still while I got Sissy and Bubby, that we had to go to the doctor to let them look at his pee-pee.  He was so freaked out that he didn’t even bat an eye.  Normally the announcement of a doctor’s visit invokes panic and tears.  Not today.  He knew he needed to go.  And fast.

The other kids were playing in Avery’s room, I told her to get dressed that we had to run Henry to the doctor, snagged the phone, went out into the front yard, called the Mister and FREAKED THE FUCK OUT.

He said he was on his way home, to just wait on him and we’d take Henry to the hospital.  Although, I had no intention of being the one to handle this once taken inside the examination room, where it might involve sharp objects…  Penis territory is alllllll yours, Mister.  Unless of course, my sweet baby needed his Mommy…  Anyway, I called the pediatrician’s office to see if we needed to come there or go to the E.R.  The lady that answered asked me where the “laceration” was…  “Well, um, it’s on his penis…”  She seriously was silent for like three seconds (the same thing the Mister did…) before finding her voice and saying, “Um…  Okaaaaay…  Could you just hold on for a moment, dear?”  She came back on the line and told me to bring him there.

I met the Mister there, handed over my precious boy and his injury and the Mister ran in the door.  He said he didn’t even have to give them any information…  He simply said, “My wife called…  My son needs stitches…” and before he could get anything further out, the lady said, “Yes, Henry…  We’re waiting on you.” And they whisked him away into an exam room.

After much deliberation and the scratching of heads by doctors, PAs, nurses and the Mister, they decided that stitches right there were not the way to go…  And if they had been, they weren’t even willing to do them.  It would require the hospital.  They had no experience in reattaching penises and didn’t really want to start that day.  A doctor finally suggested glue and that’s the way they went.  They glued his little pee-pee back to his body.

My poor, poor baby.

They said that the glue may not hold properly, they had no idea how it would work…  With handling it during urination, baths, little boy “hardening”, etc….  Just to watch it and we’d play it by ear.  I don’t want to play it by ear.  This is my son’s penis we’re talking about.  I want it attached to his body.  Securely and permanently.  Not sketchily…  They did the best they could and they were super fantastic, I’m not faulting them at all….

While they were in there, we waited patiently by the phone, riding around in the car, not wanting to leave the vicinity of the doctor’s office should he needs his Mommy.  Or if we had to rush to the hospital.

Then the Mister took him to Toys R Us and let him buy whatever he wanted.

I think it’s worth a daily toy trip for at least a month.  Don’t you? 

So, how did Henry nearly detach his wee willy winky, you ask?  Well, it was definitely a freak accident.  Remember when he fell off the potty while wiggling his little (smart) ass?  Yeah, well, I bet he won’t be doing that anymore.  Apparently, it’s a lot easier to rip your wee-wee off than one might think.  When he fell forwards, his little peter was kind of hanging down inside the bowl and didn’t make it over the top of the seat.  He went forwards and it stayed put.  So, the force of the fall and his momentum literally just ripped his body up away from his little penis. 

I know.

He is totally fine now.  The Mister and I are not, but he is and that’s what’s important.  It wasn’t a bad enough tear to cause any permanent damage…  His “stem” and urethra are intact and he will need no further medical attention.  Unless the glue doesn’t hold.  Or if he decides to PICK ALL THE GLUE OFF.  Which, of course, he did. 

That requires another rush to the doctor’s office.  Luckily it was just the surface that came unglued.  It was still adhered down deeper and they actually said it was coming together better than they had anticipated.  Which is scary.  What did they expect?  I’m not sure I even want to know…

So…………..  Now that I’ve set up the Best April Fool’s Joke ever………  At the expense of my poor boy’s dignity and pride…  (Maybe he’ll never, ever read this…)

My cell phone rings today and it’s Henry’s teacher.  The one made of pure gold that I truly need to send on a fab tropical vacation for all that she’s done for my children….  Normally, a phone call from her during school hours does not bode well.  The school knows what happened with Henry since I kept him out of school all week in fear of it being ripped off again…  I had to explain…  And of course I got a few phone calls, first of which was from his teacher and was almost immediately after I had explained the situation to the office.  She even said she’d gladly hold his wee-wee for him while he pees when he got back to school.  She’s a saint.

Anyway, my cell phone rings and it’s her…  I pick up the phone, somewhat reluctantly…  It’s normally to inform me that he’s done something, but there was also the dread that there was a problem involving his boy-parts.  I answer, cringing…  Crossing my fingers that is had absolutely nothing to do with his wee-wee and completely and totally forgetting that it’s April Fool’s Day…

Her, frantically:  “Shannon!  SHANNON!  Oh my GOD!  I don’t know what to do…  I don’t know what to say…  *panic stricken mumbling*  IT FELL OFF!  It just fell off!  Oh my GOD!  OH MY GOD!” 

Me:  *silence*

Her, after a good three seconds of silence:  *snicker*  “Sorry.  I couldn’t refuse.  That set up was just too perfect to not cash in on.”

Me:  “Ha.Ha.Fucking.Ha.”

Her:  *hysterical laughter*

Me:  “You’re right, though, there’s no way you could pass that up.  That was the absolute perfect set up EVER.”

Then we both laughed hysterically together. 

Because you’ve got to find the funny.  Or go crazy.

And that my friends, is the best April Fool’s Joke EVER.  And it’s one of the many reasons I love Henry’s teacher so much.  That she’s cool enough to drink with, cuss with and pull an April Fool’s joke on me about my son’s penis falling off.  When it almost.just.fell.off.for.real.  And that she’s willing to hold it for him while he pees.  Even before he almost ripped it off. 

There is a place in heaven for that woman.  There really is.

Now, hopefully, you will never join me in the experience of your son almost ripping his wee willy winky off, nor will anyone you know or love.  And hopefully, it will not lead to a new phobia that involves me never letting my child shit sitting down and/or slide down a slide on his stomach again.  Because as crazy as this story is, I’ve talked to two other people who know somebody who something similar happened to.  So, it’s not as uncommon as you might think. 

Let’s pray the glue holds.  (And that The Vodka doesn’t run out.)

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Random Crap with Crazy Mom…

Thought this would be appropriate and probably the very best way to catch up with what’s been going on in the House of Crazy.  If anyone still gives a shit.  And I’m not sure why you would….  I suck.  Or not.  Depending on who you ask….  *cough*the*mister*cough*

Here we go….

There’s a baby pterodactyl living in my house.  His name is Tucker.

Tucker is super cute and cuddly and sweet.  But, he’s a mama’s boy.  I’ve never had a mama’s baby.  As a result, I’m ready for baby phase and constantly needing to be held or hanging on my leg to be over.

This ice cold beer is quite tasty.  Mmmmm…….

Avery was diagnosed with ADHD, inattentive type.  They are not recommending meds at this point.  Perhaps I should get them to prescribe and take them myself?  Yes?

There are two new playas in Shannieland…  Two new besties…  KK and Jenn.  KK lives next door and her husband got shipped off to Afghanistan and left her home with two wee ones, so much drinking has ensued after the kids go to bed.  (Much drinking ensued before her husband left after the kids went to bed…  But, we now have adopted some “t.v. nights” along with our normal drinking routines.)  The ‘Hood has gotten even livlier!  Our monitor nights with the Gs are now big gatherings in the street, dubbed “The Neighborhood Watch.”  Which we have a big spray painted sign for stating such…  Making fun of the new nazi regime for-real neighborhood watch…  A story for another night…  Let’s just say someone’s security camera got mooned…   The other neighbors love us even more than ever.  I met Jenn through Avery’s school last year and we hit it off.  She’s a fucking riot.  Seriously, friends.soul.mates.  She probably thinks we are insane.  But, keeps coming around anyway. 

The Mister’s company was sold.  Ugh.  Yeah.  Not exactly turning out like we had planned.  We now may (probably) have to move.  Shhh…….  Not much for him to do in this happening town.  But they’re global.  Ireland and Australia and somewhere tropical sound cool!  However, United Arab Emirates and/or the Czech Republic notsomuch….  Neither does Atlanta…..

Avery just called Henry “big dog.”

We finally did our kitchen remodel.  Just finished up like last week.  Well, the contractors finished up, there’s still a few things left to do…  Loving it!  Why, yes!  I will be happy to provide pics!  I painted the cabinet greens with black granite, slate backsplash and all stainless.  FAB-U-LOUS!

I can wear my skinny jeans.  The anorexia finally paid off.

I have found a new affection for white wine.  Who knew?  I’ve always thought I preferred almost anything else.  Well, okay, not anything else, but you know what I meant…  Definitely never preferred white zinfandel, Hot Damn or Jager.  Or IPA.  ACK.  Or Boone’s Farm.  Now, in middle school I may have told you differently on that one… 

Henry will not stand and pee.  He has to sit.  His teacher, whom we LOVE, called me the other day and asked if we were working with him at home on the whole peeing standing up issue…  I said no, that peeing sitting down was fine with me.  Until we get into public places…  Then the fact that he has to take his shoes off and strip naked, then scoot to the back of the toilet seat, scattering the half a roll of toilet paper that I had meticulously layered the seat with and trailed down the sides so that no bare skin would touch stranger pee germs nearly gives me a heart attack.  Do you know what a germaphobe I am???  Seriously?  There was silence for a few seconds after I went on for a good three minutes describing in full detail how traumatizing the whole ordeal is for me.  Then she said, “Well…  He doesn’t strip naked here.  He sits on the front of the potty with his shoes and pants intact.”  So, I reply, “OH.  Well, that would save me some sanity…”  To which she responded, “Yeah.  Well, then you have to hold his peepee for him.”  Me, “Um, what?”  Her, “You know, to aim it down into the potty…  Or else he shoots pee all over the bathroom.  And me….  Yeah.  That’s why I’m calling.  Not because he sits.  I don’t care if he sits.  I just don’t want to have to hold his little pecker for him.  And I’m the only teacher that will.”  God I love that teacher.  She’s put up with so much from my kids over the years.  She’s moving to Canada after the school year.  I should really do something nice for her.  Like send her on a tropical vacation.  She’s been shat on, peed on, puked on all by my sweet kids and now she has to hold a child’s, other than her own’s, wee tiny kid pecker for him every.time.he.pees.  Bless her soul.

Tucker bites.  Henry.

Tucker channels Henry as a toddler, too…  He likes to hit you in the head with shit.  Hard shit that hurts.

Tucker climbs everything.  Remember those days?  We’ve had many a goose egg at this point.

I’ve also already had to call poison control a couple of times on him.  They love us.  “What’d they do now?”  “I caught him munching down on my deodorant…  I figured I’d give him some juice and crackers.”  Poison Control, *chuckle* “You know the drill!” 

Damn, this beer is good.

I’m addicted to Starbucks’ non-fat white chocolate peppermint mocha.  Heaven.In.A.Cup.  Even at $5.14 a cup…

Henry calls chapstick “Daddy’s lisptick.” 

The Mister and I had a really tough adjustment time with Kindergarten.  Wow.  That’s a lot of damned work for a five-year-old.  And parents of a five year old.

In our defense, she goes to a very rigid, high expectation school.  I guess she’ll be well-prepared for the first grade.  Not sure if we will, though.

I’ve started dressing up more.  Like good jeans, cute tops, cute shoes and jewelry.  I like it. 

However, there is no in between…  Either I’m looking cute, or I haven’t brushed my teeth.  One or the other.

Tivo in my bedroom has dramatically improved my quality of life.  Maybe not so much the Mister’s…  But, hey. 

I just heard Avery ask Henry, “Is that a good choice?”  And I’m not going to see what choice he made…

I joined the gym.  And I go. 

Let that sink in a minute…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I know, right!??!

As a result, I can now kick you in the jugular.

My friend Jenn made me start going and I thought I was going to have to kick her in the jugular about 20 minutes into my first kick boxing class.   However, I hung in there and now am addicted to various classes.

Did you know that you can pretty much drink every day if you exercise?  Those calories just become null and void. 

However, working out hung over sucks.  And you reek.  I think.  At least that’s what I’m assuming from all the other moms in the class…  Either they are sweating out the previous night’s alcohol or they get drunk so they can make it through the class…

Laura has head lice.  My head itches like a mother fucker every time I talk to her.

I had to go over there last week and go through her head like a fucking monkey.  Twice.  It was fun.  NOT.  But, I do feel sorry for her.  Her kids keep bringing it home from some obviously nasty street urchin at school.  Even though they say lice do not like dirty hair.  Yeah, right.  Whatever.  That shit is nasty.

I hope none of us ever have head lice.

My dad is dying.  Like now.  It’s very sad and maybe part of the reason I feel the need to drink heavily this week.

I wish pot was legal…  Thank god there are no policemen next door.

I have to pee.

Okay, better.  

Beer time!  

Okay, better.

Crazy is still crazy.  Maybe even crazier.  One’s level of craziness has a way of not improving with time…  Unfortunately.

Mema is still hanging in there.  Sweet Mema.  Bless her heart.  She’s been bed ridden and requires two people at all times to be with her.  But, she actually knew who I was last weekend.  It was awesome.  I love that sweet woman.

Want to know another perk of the gym?  If you are being a bum and don’t feel like fixing your hair or putting on makeup, all you have to do is put on your exercise get up and nobody looks at you like you’re a lazy sack of shit.  They look at you like, “WOW!  She’s been to the gym…  Wish I could get my lazy ass to the gym…”  So, all those moms you see running errands and meeting with teachers in their ‘work out clothes’ are just fakers.  They are most likely lazy asses just like the rest of us. 

I traded in all my holey granny panties for cute ones.  I’d forgotten what sexy panties do for a person…  Give you wedgies…  But, you really do feel all sexy.

Except when your baby waddle hangs over the fronts of them.  That cute little bow is completely hidden by a flap of dangling elephant skin.  So.Not.Attractive.  So I have to be careful about the styles I buy.  And I got a consult for a tummy tuck…  And a boob job.  You’re welcome Mister.  Now we just have to replenish the bank account from our kitchen remodel…

Tummy tuck…  Ha.  I tuck that shit every day.  Into my pants. 

Then we’re going to Mexico. 

The Mister is very, very, very, VERY excited about getting to look at some real-life boobs.

I’m more excited of getting rid of the turkey waddle that is my belly.  It’s seriously pleated.  Three 80+ lb pregnancies, c-sections and gluttony did a number on that bad-boy.  I could weigh 73 pounds and that shit will still be hanging there. 

I just fussed at my kids for squirting capris suns on the carpet.  Who’s supposed to be watching these hoodlums??? 

So I let them go outside to eat popsicles so I could blog in peace.  Oh wait, it’s dinner time…  Woops.

Now I remember one of the main reasons I quit you.  It took up too much of my time.  I’m a much better mom now that I’m not on the computer for hours every day. 

Shit.  They also just destroyed Avery’s very clean room. 

Maybe I should start blogging at night.

And on that note, I think I’ll go “cook” dinner…  And drink some more beer.

P.S.  Upon finishing this blog entry, I found the bathroom floor completely flooded.  Guess Henry didn’t make the right choice afterall…

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The Queen of Mardi Gras Has Spoken…

And that would be Queen Avery.

My uncle sent us a King Cake straight from a bakery in Louisiana!  And he sent Mardi Gras crowns, masks and beads.  My kids are going nuts with it all.  Thank god they don’t realize that you can show skin to get more beads…  That’d be all I need.  Henry already has no problem walking into the front yard with his junk jangling.  Plus, i have no more beads to hand out…  He’d just be streaking for nothing.  We already have enough needless nudity around here, thank you.

Anyway, according to Proclamation 4,762 set into place by Queen Avery, we will have a party and parade today.  She’s also determined that nobody can have the baby in the King Cake but her, since she’s Queen.  She’s not getting the whole tradition of the King Cake trinket…  Whoever gets the piece of cake with the baby in it gets to be king or queen.  But, since she’s already made that Royal Declaration, I guess it’s a moot point.

She also decorated a Mardi Gras house, whatever the hell that is.  She made it out of a cardboard box…  It’s pretty cute, actually.  So not sure if she’ll sit in her Royal House and watch and wave and hoard beads or if she will actually be participating in the parade…  She may just be expecting us to parade around her all afternoon while she directs us from her throne.

Whatever we do and however it goes down, Mama is going out after our parade for my own Mardi Gras partay.  It’s GNO in Shannieland tonight.  I’m in need.  Too much going on.  Overload.  Overload.  Overload.  I’ll fill you in later…  But, for now, I’ll just say Happy Mardi Gras and load you up with some pics of the kids parading Her Highness, Avery the Mardi Gras Queen of Everything.

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*cough*cough* Excuse Me… Can I butt in???

So much to tell, so much time to tell it in…  I’ve started a new blog.  Twice.  But, it just never feels right.  It actually sucks.  Big ones.  Big sweaty nasty ones.  And who likes big sweaty nasty ones?  Nobody, that’s who.  Well, maybe somebody…  But, they’re freaks.  And we’re not…  So….  No big sweaty nasty ones for us.  Right?  (Unless you are a weirdo, and then we will still love you.  As long as you don’t talk about it…)

However, just for good measure, I make no promises.  I will do no woo-ing.  I will make no apologies.  Fucking apologies.  I think that’s one thing that made me quit you the last time…  The apologies.  Who likes to have to constantly apologize?  Not I.  So, let’s see what happens.  If you tune in, great.  Let’s see where it goes…  Maybe I’ll make good,  maybe I won’t. 

Probably not.  You all know me.  Better than most, actually.  And that, in itself, is sort of fucked up.  But, sort of cool at the same time… 

Hope you all are well.  I haven’t forgotten you.  Here’s to never having to lick any big nasty sweaties, my old friends!  CHEERS!

MWAH!

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I Promise I Really Do Love You… Can We Do It One More Time? Please? Well, Can I At Least Touch Your Tits?

Okay, I need to be whipped.  WHIPPED, I tell you.  I think of you so often.  Yet, I don’t do anything to let you know…  I get drunk, and then I think, ‘Hey, I need to blog!’  But, then I feel guilty that it’s only when I’m drunk…  Or sometimes when something funny happens, I think, ‘Oh my god, it’d be so much fun to hang out with the blog right now!’  Like you guys are that friend…  The one that I call when I’m drunk and horny or when I’m ready to have a good time…  I promise I don’t think that little of you.  I promise I still love you.  I promise I still think of you.  I know I don’t show it.  Can we start over?  Can I beg for forgiveness? 

I don’t want you to just be my booty call.

Let’s just take baby steps towards forgiveness, okay?  Let’s just move in a positive direction.  I promise not to take advantage of you.  I promise not to use you.  I promise to be good to you.   We’ll take it slowly.

With that being said…

WHAT’S UP, my bloggy sistas and bruthas?  What’s up with all of you???  I have no time to read and catch up and all that bullshit.  (No, I don’t mean it that way…  I don’t think what’s been going on with you is bullshit.  I should have worded that differently.  I’ll try to be more sensitive.)  Anything I need to know?  Anyone want to give me the condensed version?

I’ll give you the condensed version of what’s been going on in Shannieland, okay? 

Let’s see…………………………….

Avery turned five.  Five.  FIVE.  Holy shit. 

Henry can now talk.  He no longer needs a mommy translator at all times.  Although, he still does some. 

Tucker is sitting and eating solids and blowing raspberries and sucking his toes.  He’s too cute.  He has brown hair.  I promise he’s not the mailman’s kid.  Our mail carrier is a lady.  But, if she was a man, I promise he wouldn’t be his kid.  I guess if he was some delivery person’s kid, I’d pick the Wine Man…  But seeing as how he always shows up when I’m totally caught unawares and scary looking, I doubt he’d have me.  Especially when he sees how excited I am, with three kids hanging off my legs, to receive my wine shipment… 

Anyway………………….  Moving on………………..

The Mister is great.  Nothing too new.  Still his adorable, sweet self.  Still working hard (*ahem* and late.)  Still cheek-pinchable in every possible way.  ERD is now a bit Earlier, as he is now, starting tomorrow, getting off at NOON on Fridays.  But, that means he doesn’t close the office til 6:00 daily.  I was a bit worried that meant he’d now come home at 8, but he says no.  We’ll see.  Then I’ll tell you how pinchable his cheeks still are.

Me….  I’m great, too!  Nothing too new with me, either.  Same old, same old.  Just drinking a little less and sleeping a little more…  Only drinking less to help the diet along.  Which is kind of at a stand still.  Too many holidays and birthdays and whatnot.  And did I mention the Mister has been working late? 

Avery has been in soccer camp this week.  And hating loving it.  I think she likes the cute soccer get up, and her hair in pigtails, but the hot and sweaty and them making her work parts notosmuch.  The Mister is coaching her soccer team in the fall, though, so she’s excited about that.  I think she totally envisions her ‘daddy the boss’ scenario…  Her sitting on the sidelines in her camp chair drinking Gatorade (or Alligade as Henry calls it…  Get it?  GATORade…  AlliGATOR…  Alligade…) while her teammates bring her oreos and Capri Suns. 

Henry has gotten so big.  But he’s still shitting in his pants.  I keep telling him he has big boy poops that don’t fit in little boy pullups.  Dammit.  And I mean it.  He has also regressed in the potty training arena.  Any ideas?  He was doing so good.  Nope.  Not anymore.  Oh well.  He can talk now.  I guess it balances out.  He can now clearly say, “Mom, I pooped BIG and it STINKS!”  as he lays down on the floor with wipes and a pullup in hand. 

Tucker is just too freaking cute.  Seriously.  He’s now six months old.  He loves his daddy, his sister and his brother, and of course his mommy most of all.  He is happy most always and is so cuddly and kissy.  He has started giving those big baby hugs and open mouth kisses.  He’s the cutest baby in the entire world.  Until he blows raspberries when you’re feeding him peas.  Then I have flashbacks of trying to give Henry to the gypsies.

Anyway, too much has happened to fill you in on it all.  And yet, nothing important…  Just random blog-worthy shit…  Like the Mister and Laura drinking 25 bottles of champagne and him deciding that our jetted bathtub could, with hot water and bubbles, serve as a sufficient hot tub…  Or when the Mister got his dad’s tractor stuck in the yard and it took three weeks and Mr. G and the new neighbor Tom, among many others, countless hours of beer drinking and head scratching to dig us a new swimming hole…  Or when Laura and S and I got followed around at our last GNO by this freaky, scary stalker dude and ran and all scattered in separate directions so he couldn’t follow any one of us to the same place…  Or like last weekend when Henry stayed with Crazy Mom, and she broke both her kneecap and her wrist in two separate falls…  Or about Avery’s dance recital…  Oh my god.  THAT’S seriously blog-worthy right there…  Dr. G, help me out…  And let’s not forget Avery’s special Aunt and Uncle surprising us and showing up for her birthday party from 10,000 miles away with Avery’s baby cousin Charlotte!  One day, I’ll fill ya in.

Good times.  Anyway, I miss you.  I promise to do better.  I promise to not just blog when I’m drunk or just when I’m feeling really great and have something specific to share…  I’ll blog anytime.  Just like old times…  I’ll be here all the time.  Not just when I want something or need something…  And I know I’ve made this promise before.  I hope you can forgive and forget.  Let’s start anew.  Wipe the slate clean.  Okay?  Please, baby?

Have I told you how nice you look today?  How pretty your eyes are when the light catches them?  You’re so smart.  I really admire you.

Now, I’m outtie so that I can go get another beer.

Oh, no wait….  Beer?  No beer.  Haha.  I didn’t mean to say beer.  Oh no!  I’m perfectly sober.  I promise!  I meant to say lemonade.  Yeah, lemonade!  Yummy, yummy lemonade.  Totally sober here, people.  I promise.  Did I mention you have nice tits?  TITS?  Did I just say tits?  I meant to say brains.  Yeah….  Brains.  You have totally hot brains….

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I Will Not Be Dressed As A Parrot…

Nor am I wearing a grass skirt and “coconut boobs” (as the Mister suggested…)  But, I will be imbibing with people appropriately wearing both of those outfits.  And where can one appropriately go dressed as a parrot or a hula girl, you ask?  Why, only one place I can think of:

And while I have drunkenly belted out the lyrics to a many a rendition of Margaritaville, I’ve never cared enough to go buy actual concert tickets.  Even though practically everyone I know has been and told tales of great fun…  Concert going has been a big part of my life, too, (*ahhhh….  remembering the hippie days of my youth..*)  and I love live music so very much.  So, I don’t know why I’ve never been.  Espeically somewhere that embraces public drunkeness so fully and completely…  I mean, it’s downright un-American to go to a Buffett concert and not get drunk, isn’t it? 

So, the absence of a Jimmy Buffett notch in my concert belt will be rectified this evening…  And I’m spending the night.  And missing Avery’s field day in the morning to do so.  Does that make me a bad mommy?  I think not.  It will make me a very tired and hung over mommy by the time I get to Henry’s field day, but…  Bad, no.

I can’t wait.

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Happy ERD and an “Oh, Snap! I Know You Just Didn’t!”

Cheers!

I’m ready for a few, my friends.  It’s been a fab, but looooooong, week!  And an extra fab day!  Especially since I didn’t get that speeding ticket this morning…  

Get this…  The schmuck pulled me over for passing him…  Seriously…  And not for like blowing past him on the interstate and leaving him eating my dust…  We were in a 35mph zone and he was going like two miles under the speed limit and I was going like two miles over.  I’m not kidding. 

He had slowed down and was directly in front of me checking out a dump truck , running the tags or something, and I thought he was about to pull him over…  So, I hopped over into the other lane and went around them.  He promptly dumped the dump truck, hopped behind me and flipped his lights on.  I wasn’t even doing 40, people.  Needless to say, I was not the happiest of campers.  Forget that I was speeding by freaking two miles per hour, while thinking I was being helpful and getting out of his way, most importantly I was trying my damndest, sans makeup or brushed hair and teeth and sporting my pajamas, to make drop-off at school.  Fucker. 

Ponch strolled up to my window, leaned on my car all bad-ass like and said with this majorly smart-assy, condescending tone of voice (all he needed was a toothpick hanging out of his mouth…  you get the picture,) “Could you tell me just what you were thinking back there when you passed me?”  And my oh-so-irritated, crazy-haired, fuzzy-teethed, under-caffeinated self said in response, “That you were going awfully slow.” 

I don’t think he liked that too much.  He read me the riot act about “speeding,”  and how he had to make an example of me, because I was obviously speeding if I was passing him…  That he couldn’t just let me “breeze” past him without stopping me…  That everyone around us would see…  What would they think?  That you could just speed without any kind of repercussions??? 

I don’t know, dickwad…   They were probably just all thinking that I was getting out from behind your slow-poke motorcycle ass that was holding up the normal a.m. traffic, that normally goes 45, because I was in a fucking hurry to get my kids to school.  I mean, what would you think?  That I’m trafficking drugs down the fucking road with my three kids strapped in carseats and thought I’d better get away from you?  (There was a time when that might have been the case, minus the kids, but not today, asshole…)  Or that I had taken the time to properly install caresats for my three small children in a stolen vehicle and was making a not-so-speedy getaway?  Or maybe just that I was a mom running late for school, with a carload of kids, trying to get around your slow ass that I thought was about to pull someone over???  SCHMUCK. 

I did not say that.

He let me go, miraculously.  I guess it was my charm, beauty and minty fresh breath that did the trick. 

Anyway, I saw him later, after dropping the kids off, perusing the same area, no doubt looking for “speeders” to shake down…  I was so tempted to pull up beside and him just cruise along at the exact same speed, making sure I didn’t go any faster than he was, and give him a big ass grin and a thumbs up.  Or pulling up next to him at the red light and revving my engine like I wanted to race.  I had lots of fun scenarios playing in my head…

So…………..

Here’s to you all!  Hope that everyone else had a lovely day, and got out of any speeding tickets.

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A Frouse in the House…

Do you remember this story?  And then the follow up?  Yeah, good times… 

Well………  We had a little visitor last week.  A not-so-well-loved visitor. 

The Mister’s job has been taking him out of town.  A lot.  And you guys know how I feel about that…  That’s another story for another day…  Anyway, on one of his recent overnights, for two nights mind you, he leaves me early in the a.m. with this statement:

“Love you.  *kiss*  Have a good day.  I’ll see you day after tomorrow, k?  OH, and by the way, I think we have a mouse in the house.”  And then he runs.

NO WAY, NO YOU DIDN’T. 

Me, shouting after him:  “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY???????????????”

The Mister, running towards the door, yelling over his shoulder:  “Yeah, I think we do.  I think I saw one this morning.  It could have been a frog.  It was dark.” 

He almost made it to the door before I tackled his ass and put him in a headlock.

“What do you mean you think you saw one?!?!?  And that it could be a frog.  Was it a frog or a mouse????  Because they most definitely are not the same thing.  What did you see?!?!?  WHAT DID YOU SEE?!?!?!”

He went on to tell me that it was dark and he was walking through the living room and thought he saw something hopping like a frog.  It hopped around the corner towards Tucker’s room, so he rushed around the corner to inspect, and found the hallway completely empty.  He said it was weird, that he expected to see a frog sitting there, but since nothing was there, he was thinking maybe it was a mouse.  That a frog wouldn’t have just vanished into thin air like that.  But, he swore, it really looked like a frog.

What.The.Hell?

So, I let him out of the house unharmed and he went on his merry way, leaving me with a frog or a mouse or a combination thereof…  A frog is one thing.  A mouse, now that’s something completely different.

I opted for frog.  All morning long I was jumping around corners and snatching up bedskirts expecting to find a cute little frog sitting there staring at me.  I told the kids we had a frog.  I called the Mister at least fifteen times to confirm that he really and truly thought it was a frog…  I was feeling much better about the whole thing.  We were even joking about the “frouse” (frog-mouse combo…) in the house.

Until…………………………… 

I was opening Avery’s bedroom door to attempt a clean up.  The Gs were over the night before and the kids d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d Avery’s room…  Like you couldn’t see a square inch of the floor kind of destroyed.  We were too drunk tired to care that night, so we left it for the morning.  So, in I went to try and do something with the sea of pink and purple and green tulle and sparkles and crowns and dolls and plastic food and ten thousand mother fucking Polly Pocket shoes, when I saw it.   It was no frog. 

Upon opening the door, I spy it…  A giant ass, monster, prehistoric sized wharf rat with glistening fangs baring its teeth and hissing at me…  (Not really, it was a tiny little mouse, running to hide, but that’s what I saw upon first glance…)  It was a rodent scampering out of the pouffy pile of shit on the floor and making its way behind Avery’s kitchen.  I immediately slammed the door shut, fell on the floor and started hyperventilating.

Well, not really…  It wasn’t that bad.  I shut the door quickly and ran into the kitchen snatching up the phone to call the Mister…  I didn’t care that he was in an important meeting and couldn’t be interrupted.  I didn’t care that he was out of town…  He was going to do something, damn it.  Of course, he didn’t answer.  Seeing as how he was in a super important meeting, in another town, and couldn’t be interrupted.  And I’m sure it also had to with the fact that he had run out of the house that morning leaving me with a rodent infestation…  And he was scared…  And I don’t blame him.

I was on my own.  I called my trusty exterminator, who probably already thinks I’m insane (read the linkies provided at the top.)   He didn’t answer, either.  What the hell was wrong with these people?!?!?  Didn’t they know I had a crisis on my hands?!?!  The two men in my life that should be there for a rodent infestation…  The two men I trust the most in the world with my rodent and/or bug problems…  I left him a rambling, crazy message and when he hadn’t returned my call in thirty minutes, I left three more.  Then called the home office and had them call him, because I was calling his personal cell phone.  Hey, he’d given it to me…  I bet he changes it now, though.

Now, you know what a germaphobe I am, and if you read the linkies I provided up top, then you’ve been refreshed on the seriousness of my germaphobia.  Especially when it concerns rodents.  And rodents in my house, well……  You can only imagine.  My stress level was through the roof.  I ran back to Avery’s room, and as much as it pained me to do it, I stuffed a towel under the door.  I mean, it was bad enough that it was in her room and all of her toys would have to be burned, but I didn’t want to have to decontaminate the whole entire house…  So, I trapped it.  In my little Princess’ bedroom.  *Vomit*  

All morning I was racking my brain on how it could have gotten in…  Were there more?  Where all had it been to spread its little rodent germs???  Do I need to call Stanley Steamer to come clean all the carpets???  Was it carrying diseases???  Is there a vaccination against the bubonic plague??!?!?

(I’d been leaving the back door open a lot while we played outside…  NO more.  Absolutely no open doors for even a second.  It will get you yelled at.  Needless to say, the Mister is putting up a screen door this weekend.  He’s tired of getting yelled at.)

Finally, after three excruciatingly long hours, the exterminator shows up.  He comes in, trying to guilt me just a little about all the phone calls and the tattling to the office…  All of that, I completely did not hear…  I did not care.  I’d of called his mama if I thought it would’ve gotten his ass here faster.   He’s nice, and he humors me, and he didn’t give me too much grief… 

He came on in and put those sticky traps all around Avery’s sweet room.  (Which was hard with a sea of toys on the floor…)  Gives me the run down on mice, tells me not to panic, there was no need to call Stanley Steamer, we’re talking about one little harmless mouse, not a pack of dirty city rats, I didn’t need to worry about germs or diseases or vaccinations of any kind, etc, etc, etc…  He tells me not to let her back in the room and to keep the door shut until it’s caught…  Okay………………  It’s her room.  How long can this take???  Apparently up to two days.  WHAAAA? 

I was just so relieved that he had come to my rescue and talked me off the ledge about the germs that it didn’t really occur to me at the moment that he was leaving me with this problem.  I mean, I was expecting him to come in and crawl around on the floor, with, I don’t know, a rat catching net and some cheese and get the mother fucking thing out of my house…  Not leave me with a pile of sticky traps and tell me to have a good day.  I was just assuming he was going to wait around, like it wasn’t a Friday afternoon and he didn’t have anything better to do, until the little thing was caught.

So, I’m walking outside with him, thanking him, practically prostrate and kissing his bug spray covered black Reeboks, when it occurs to me that he’s actually leaving…  More panic ensues…  What am I supposed to do with it when it’s caught?!?!?  But, I didn’t want to seem like a total freak and that I was seriously expecting him to wait, after he just told me it could take up to two days, so I, as nonchalantly as I could, asked, “So what do I do when he’s caught?”  I did not want to hear that answer. 

He says, with a chuckle, “Well, nine times out of ten, they’re still alive, just wiggling and squirming and squealing like you wouldn’t believe.” 

Okay.  Great.  SO WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT IT?!?!?! 

I shit you not, he said, “Well, you just fold up the sticky trap and you *makes the motion of whacking it on the concrete* dispatch of it.”

WHAAAAAAAAAA?  I’m sure my mouth was agape.  So, wait, I’m thinking, let me get this shit straight…  Not only are you, the FUCKING EXTERMINATOR, whose job it is to get rid of rodents, leaving me with one in my house, but you are also expecting ME to kill it, too??????  It took me a minute as my mind reeled…  I’m sure I staggered a bit.

After I had recovered my senses, I said, “Well, my father-in-law (who had been called and put on stand-by) is coming later.  Hopefully, it will be on the trap and he can handle it.” 

And get this…  This is the best (worst) part…  As if it wasn’t already bad enough, he says, “Well…….  Be sure not to leave it on the trap too long….  They’ve been known to gnaw their own legs off to get off…  And that’s a mess.”

Ya think? 

That’s all I needed…  The Mister out of town and I hear all this squeaking and squealing and burst in the door to Avery’s room to see a rat pulling itself around the room by its little bloody stumps. 

Oh.My.God. 

I think he knew he’d better leave at that point.  Or either I was just in too much shock at that image in my head to hear him say goodbye…  Either way, he left me standing in my driveway with a pile of extra sticky traps in my hand, should I need more. 

Can you guess how many times I called the Mister that afternoon?  Can you guess how many times he actually answered his phone?  Yeah.  None.  He finally responded to an email much later in the afternoon…  Chicken shit.

My in-laws came for dinner and I made my father-in-law check the trap ten zillion times before he left.  My mother-in-law actually spent the night with me, with my father-in-law saying, bravely for her, that she would take care of it for me should the mouse get caught while she was here.  When he left, she said, “I don’t what the hell he thinks I’ll do about it…” 

Anyway, we weren’t woken up to the sounds of squeaking and squealing and there were no bloody stumps stuck to the trap and a missing mouse, nor did we have to “dispatch” of him ourselves….  We woke up to a pretty cute little, already dead mouse stuck to one of the traps.  No drama.  As if we hadn’t already had enough…  I put on two layers of latex gloves and disposed of it and shut the door on the mound of toys and dress up clothes and Polly Pocket outfits, waiting for the Mister to get home to decide what to do with it all…  I was thinking bonfire…

If any of you want to clean out your kids’ rooms, feigning a mouse trapped inside is a good way to do it.  Avery never once protested or questioned us when we said we might have to get rid of some stuff because of the mouse germs…  She was very okay with it…  And we got to weed out all the broken crap and Happy Meal toys without a fuss…  My already behind laundry pile has grown by a good bit, though, since anything that could be washed was shoved into garbage bags and thrown in there to wait its turn.

I have washed her dress up clothes (her fifty princess dresses and whatnot…) But, ten thousand stuffed animals may make it to the dump undetected.  And if she ever remembers and asks me where Puffy the Pink Pony is, I’ll just blame it on rat germs.  She hasn’t asked, though, where anything is, and it’s been over a week now.  Her room has never been so clean.  Especially since the Mister steam cleaned the carpets and rug and we scrubbed, cloroxed and lysoled everything else…  Each and every single solitary mother fucking Polly Pocket shoe was cleaned…  It was a chore.  That mostly the Mister performed.

And he better get his ass home with a quickness today and get busy on that screen door.

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I’m Still Here…

ETA:  Ooops!  Guess someone didn’t want Youtube to have that one…  Here’s a link.

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Éirinn Go Brách!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day from this Irish lass! 

I’ve been watching that clock all afternoon… 

I take my Irish heritage seriously, people.  My mom’s family is Irish, my dad’s family is Irish…  The Mister’s family is Scottish, so close enough…  My kids are in trouble…  But, seriously, I’m proud of my heritage.  (And it gives me a great excuse for my alcoholism…  “Eh, she’s just Irish…”)  The Mister and I even had Irish elements incorporated into our wedding…  And the ceremony was ended on the bestowing of an Irish blessing upon all the guests.  So, we love this holiday!  And it’s a serious kitchen pass to drink beer and eat my ass off.  (No anorexia for me today!)  

We always have shepherd’s pie, corned beef and cabbage, Irish cheeses and breads and, of course, tons of beer.  The corned beef is cooking now and my mouth is freaking watering.  I love corned beef, but with this damned anorexia and all keeping me from eating shit, I’m seriously salivating…  And am looking even more forward to my Irish meal than I normally am.  I fully intend to be sick from gluttony by the end of this night…

Look at my cutie patootie little Leprechauns this morning:

And just because he’s so stinkin’ cute:

Can I start drinking heavily now?  Yes, yes I can.  I waited til 4:00.  It’s St. Patrick’s Day…  And I’m IRISH.  It’d almost be blasphemy not to…  No, it would be blasphemy not to.  No vodka water for me today! 

So……  Sláinte! 

(That would be “cheers!” in Irish Gaelic…  Pronounced slaan-cheh…  Although, this picture of me is in Germany at Epcot last month…  So, if you happen to be German, Prost!) 

And I’ll end it with a couple of great Irish sayings and expressions…  Now you can go wow your friends and family with some St. Paddy’s Day jargon!  Be sure to put a good slurrrrrrrr on it, though, k? 

May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you’re dead!

May the cat eat you and the devil eat the cat!

Lá Fhéile Pádraig (That’s “St. Patrick’s Day”…  Pronounced law ae-leh paw-rig.  Wouldn’t want you mispronouncing…  Doesn’t that just roll right off the tongue???)

Pionta Guinness, le do thoil.  (“A pint of Guiness, please.”  pyunta Guinness leh duh hull)

Tabhair póg dom, táim Éireannach.  (“Kiss me, I’m Irish!”  Which on this night around the world should probably just be “kiss me because I’m drunk as hell and horny..”  Pronounced TOO-irr pogue dum, toyme AY-ron-ock)

An bhfuil tú ar meisce fós?  (“Are you drunk yet?”  Very important on St. Paddy’s Day.  on will too air mesh-ka fowss?)

Póg mo thóin!  (That would be “kiss my ass”…  Always handy to know…  Pronounced pogue muh ho-in, because that’s one important to know how to pronounce.)

And last but not least…

Tá mo bhríste trí thine!  (“My trousers are on fire!”  Because who doesn’t need to know that one?!?!  I mean, seriously.  thaw muh vreesh-tah tree hin-ah)

I’ll leave you with the Irish blessing said at our wedding:

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine

Warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And, until we meet again,

May god hold you in the palm of his hand.

And just one that I love:

Wishing you a rainbow

For sunlight after showers—

Miles and miles of Irish smiles

For golden happy hours—

Shamrocks at your doorway

Luck and laughter too,

And a host of friends that never ends 

Each day your whole life through!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, my friends.  Now go get drunk!

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