(I can never get divorced, because nobody will put up with my shit the way Hot Stuff does.)
1. Honey, I'm leaving you... $10 on the counter can you pick up some milk while you're out?
2. I don't love you anymore... I don't love you any less, either.
3. There's no spark left... in the furnace pilot light can you do something about that?
4. I love you, but I'm just not *in love* with you... r disgusting stinky feet.
5. I just need to find myself... a new winter coat.
6. I think we need a break... dance-off in our living room.
7. I love you like my brother... loves your sister*
8. We can still be friends... even when we're old together and your penis doesn't work anymore.
9. I'm just not that into you... Tube.
10. Listen, we really need to talk... about how awesome you are.
11. Right now, I have so much going on and I just don't have room in my life for anyone... but you.
12. I need space... for my new Bow Flex.
*Hot Stuff's sister is married to my brother. It's hardly creepy and/or Maury Povich-like.
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Monday, October 5, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
As Heard on the Radio
Yes, Michael Jackson has passed away. I wasn't a fan, haven't been for many years (like everyone else in the free world, though, I loved Thriller - the album, the song, and the video), and think MJ was super creepy in his later years. Not "eccentric". Creepy. That is just my own opinion; having said that, he was still a father to three (four?) children and they are now without a father. That is the saddest part.
Farrah Fawcett also passed away yesterday. I was a bit young for Charlie's Angels but my sister, who is 4 years older than I, loved that show. I am dismayed to see that because Farrah Fawcett had the bad timing to pass away hours before Michael Jackson, her death and her life have been overshadowed in the media. I don't believe it is any small thing for a famous actress to fight her battle with cancer (anal cancer, even. Who knew there was such a thing? Not me, until Farrah Fawcett had it.) in the public eye.
Ok, but here's the point of this post: I was listening to the radio this morning, and here is the story that caught my attention. "A 75-year old woman from Small Town, Alberta was airlifted in serious but stable condition to Big City, Alberta after being pinned to a fence by a bull." What. The. Hell. At 75 years old, who the hell would go into the bull pen? At 75 years old, who lives through being pinned to a fence by a 2000 lb animal? I am fairly certain that even if the pressure of the bull pinning me to the fence didn't kill me, I would die from fright.
Just sayin'.
Farrah Fawcett also passed away yesterday. I was a bit young for Charlie's Angels but my sister, who is 4 years older than I, loved that show. I am dismayed to see that because Farrah Fawcett had the bad timing to pass away hours before Michael Jackson, her death and her life have been overshadowed in the media. I don't believe it is any small thing for a famous actress to fight her battle with cancer (anal cancer, even. Who knew there was such a thing? Not me, until Farrah Fawcett had it.) in the public eye.
Ok, but here's the point of this post: I was listening to the radio this morning, and here is the story that caught my attention. "A 75-year old woman from Small Town, Alberta was airlifted in serious but stable condition to Big City, Alberta after being pinned to a fence by a bull." What. The. Hell. At 75 years old, who the hell would go into the bull pen? At 75 years old, who lives through being pinned to a fence by a 2000 lb animal? I am fairly certain that even if the pressure of the bull pinning me to the fence didn't kill me, I would die from fright.
Just sayin'.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Post About Birthing #1
Since I like to think of this blog as my journal (only it's read by thousands hundreds tens ones of people), I am going to write stuff here that I don't want to forget. When I am older and the Some-timers (part-time Alzheimer's) sets in, I want be able to look back and read and laugh at what a jackass I was remember. Hopefully. Unless I become so doddering I forget how to use a laptop. Or even what a laptop is. (OAP Me: "Jesus, what kind of a waffle iron is this?!")
So now, I write the story of the Hurricane's birth. Walk with me, as we meander through the extended, make-a-short-story-long, gory journey of the first time my vagina morphed from Fun Tunnel to a scene straight from an Alien movie.
I went into labor in the early afternoon on February 3, 2005. Hot Stuff, my mother, and I went into town and hung out at D's house because my contractions were not too bad. I was not nervous or scared, really (only because I had no f*cking idea what was about to happen), but my mom and hubby were both very antsy. We decided to go to the hospital shortly after 5pm because my contractions were 5 minutes apart and getting stronger (HA!!). After a quick exam, the nurse said that I was only 2cm dilated but because my membranes were bulging through the opening, I was going to be admitted.
Then followed a very, very long night of my mom, Hot Stuff, and D taking turns sitting with me as I progressed very slowly. I cried some. And I said, "I'm sorry, I can't help it," a lot during my crying jags. I don't really know why I kept apologizing for crying, except that I was in labor and there is no rationale for labor behaviour.
I had a shot of Demerol at about 2:30am, and then again at around 7am the following morning, February 4th. (I am still, after 3 kids, more scared of a needle in my back than giving birth.) I remember the nurses getting me out of bed and one of them saying to my darling husband, "Take your wife into the shower, it's very relaxing. We're going to tidy up in here and then we'll check her." I would like to meet the person who first thought of this brilliant idea of "showering as relaxation during labor." Then I would like to give that individual a 30-second head start. It was, by far, the most un-relaxing thing, ever. Because I am not already the size of a whale, I should get in a coffin-sized shower. Because I am not uncomfortable enough, I should be soaking wet so that the exact spot where the shower is hitting my skin is warm, but the rest of my wet self is f*cking hypothermic. Of course, my loving husband is the one holding the shower nozzle, and is hosing me off like he is pressure-washing his truck. Top to bottom. Side to side. Top to bottom. Diagonally. "No, please, honey, get in close with that nozzle to really get those dried-on stubborn bugs off my headlights." That shower was over, el pronto. I was freezing cold, shaking, and cursing: all of which make labor so much more enjoyable.
After I dried off, a nurse (not the one who suggested the "relaxing" shower, I believe that girl hit the bricks while I was still in the bathroom. She obviously has excellent survival instincts), checked me out and pronounced me 9.5cm dilated. So the doctor was called and I was given a birthing ball to bounce on. Now THAT was heaven. Oh, the bouncing, glorious bouncing. That movement produces a bit of anti-gravity in the Ut'R'Us so that the baby and fluid are shifted up for nanoseconds at a time, relieving pressure on the pelvic floor. I didn't want to stop. But they made me. My doctor arrived, checked me out, and pronounced me ready to go sometime before noon. I was up on the birthing bed and he said to me, "This is going to feel so f*cking good to have this pressure relieved that you will think I shot you up with heroin." I might have misunderstood, as he could have easily said, "I am going to break your water now."
I will not go into the play-by-play for hard labor as most of it is a haze. What I do remember: being sweaty. Being in pain. A nitrous tank was wheeled in, because by that point it was too late for me to have another shot in the ass. I took one inhale and almost threw up. "No nitrous for me," I said. So my husband grabbed the mask from my hand and hauled back on that sucker like it was oxygen and he was a drowning man. At some point, I pooped on the table and then said, "Oh my God, did I just poop on the table?" It took until 3:36pm for the Hurricane to be born. I pushed and pushed and pushed, but his forehead was stuck up on my pubic bone. There was an intern assisting my doctor, and he let her use the vacuum sucker to try to dislodge my baby, but it slid off baby's head. Three times. Finally, my doctor said, "You really have to jam it on," and boy, did he. I think he pushed the baby right back up. Into my esophagus. Whatever, it worked. The doctor was able to pull my stubborn child out of my exhausted body. (I later found out that as baby was coming out, a pediatrician/surgeon was coming into my room to take me to OR for an emergency C-section.)
When my son was finally born, he was not breathing and the cord was wrapped around his neck. The doctor grabbed the baby and brought him over to the warming table. I stared, in a daze, not processing that my baby wasn't crying. I was just.. staring. I can still see my doctor grab the baby, hold him upside down, and start rubbing the sides of baby's chest to get him to breathe. Then the doctor put my baby down and stuck the oxygen on him while rubbing baby's chest. Then back up in the air, upside down. Then back to oxygen. And me, still staring, not comprehending that my baby isn't fucking breathing. Know what I was thinking while watching this? 'Huh, just like you do for puppies. Like 101 Dalmations.' It seemed like I watched this for half an hour; it was less than 1 minute. My husband is standing next to my bed, holding my hand, completely engrossed. All of a sudden, I hear my husband say, "I can't do this," and he starts walking out of the room. Just exactly as he got to the door, our little baby finally cried. A big, huge, I am really, really fucking pissed off at you people and I am gonna give you hell for this cry. And then, I cried. And magically, Hot Stuff was back at my side. Crying tears of relief. I have never, ever before or since seen my husband scared like that. Once my Hurricane was cleaned up, I got to hold him. Then my waterworks really started.
Every mother thinks her child is the most beautiful, perfect, breathless piece of beauty to ever exist on Earth. Until a few years later you look back at pictures and see that your l'il slice o' heaven looks more like Mr. Magoo than anything else. Or, in our case, Mr. Magoo after he got attacked by a vacuum cleaner that also punched him in the forehead, thus giving him an open wound on his head and facial swelling.
Now, he is a healthy, happy, exuberant 4 year old Hurricane. I would do it all over again.
So now, I write the story of the Hurricane's birth. Walk with me, as we meander through the extended, make-a-short-story-long, gory journey of the first time my vagina morphed from Fun Tunnel to a scene straight from an Alien movie.
I went into labor in the early afternoon on February 3, 2005. Hot Stuff, my mother, and I went into town and hung out at D's house because my contractions were not too bad. I was not nervous or scared, really (only because I had no f*cking idea what was about to happen), but my mom and hubby were both very antsy. We decided to go to the hospital shortly after 5pm because my contractions were 5 minutes apart and getting stronger (HA!!). After a quick exam, the nurse said that I was only 2cm dilated but because my membranes were bulging through the opening, I was going to be admitted.
Then followed a very, very long night of my mom, Hot Stuff, and D taking turns sitting with me as I progressed very slowly. I cried some. And I said, "I'm sorry, I can't help it," a lot during my crying jags. I don't really know why I kept apologizing for crying, except that I was in labor and there is no rationale for labor behaviour.
I had a shot of Demerol at about 2:30am, and then again at around 7am the following morning, February 4th. (I am still, after 3 kids, more scared of a needle in my back than giving birth.) I remember the nurses getting me out of bed and one of them saying to my darling husband, "Take your wife into the shower, it's very relaxing. We're going to tidy up in here and then we'll check her." I would like to meet the person who first thought of this brilliant idea of "showering as relaxation during labor." Then I would like to give that individual a 30-second head start. It was, by far, the most un-relaxing thing, ever. Because I am not already the size of a whale, I should get in a coffin-sized shower. Because I am not uncomfortable enough, I should be soaking wet so that the exact spot where the shower is hitting my skin is warm, but the rest of my wet self is f*cking hypothermic. Of course, my loving husband is the one holding the shower nozzle, and is hosing me off like he is pressure-washing his truck. Top to bottom. Side to side. Top to bottom. Diagonally. "No, please, honey, get in close with that nozzle to really get those dried-on stubborn bugs off my headlights." That shower was over, el pronto. I was freezing cold, shaking, and cursing: all of which make labor so much more enjoyable.
After I dried off, a nurse (not the one who suggested the "relaxing" shower, I believe that girl hit the bricks while I was still in the bathroom. She obviously has excellent survival instincts), checked me out and pronounced me 9.5cm dilated. So the doctor was called and I was given a birthing ball to bounce on. Now THAT was heaven. Oh, the bouncing, glorious bouncing. That movement produces a bit of anti-gravity in the Ut'R'Us so that the baby and fluid are shifted up for nanoseconds at a time, relieving pressure on the pelvic floor. I didn't want to stop. But they made me. My doctor arrived, checked me out, and pronounced me ready to go sometime before noon. I was up on the birthing bed and he said to me, "This is going to feel so f*cking good to have this pressure relieved that you will think I shot you up with heroin." I might have misunderstood, as he could have easily said, "I am going to break your water now."
I will not go into the play-by-play for hard labor as most of it is a haze. What I do remember: being sweaty. Being in pain. A nitrous tank was wheeled in, because by that point it was too late for me to have another shot in the ass. I took one inhale and almost threw up. "No nitrous for me," I said. So my husband grabbed the mask from my hand and hauled back on that sucker like it was oxygen and he was a drowning man. At some point, I pooped on the table and then said, "Oh my God, did I just poop on the table?" It took until 3:36pm for the Hurricane to be born. I pushed and pushed and pushed, but his forehead was stuck up on my pubic bone. There was an intern assisting my doctor, and he let her use the vacuum sucker to try to dislodge my baby, but it slid off baby's head. Three times. Finally, my doctor said, "You really have to jam it on," and boy, did he. I think he pushed the baby right back up. Into my esophagus. Whatever, it worked. The doctor was able to pull my stubborn child out of my exhausted body. (I later found out that as baby was coming out, a pediatrician/surgeon was coming into my room to take me to OR for an emergency C-section.)
When my son was finally born, he was not breathing and the cord was wrapped around his neck. The doctor grabbed the baby and brought him over to the warming table. I stared, in a daze, not processing that my baby wasn't crying. I was just.. staring. I can still see my doctor grab the baby, hold him upside down, and start rubbing the sides of baby's chest to get him to breathe. Then the doctor put my baby down and stuck the oxygen on him while rubbing baby's chest. Then back up in the air, upside down. Then back to oxygen. And me, still staring, not comprehending that my baby isn't fucking breathing. Know what I was thinking while watching this? 'Huh, just like you do for puppies. Like 101 Dalmations.' It seemed like I watched this for half an hour; it was less than 1 minute. My husband is standing next to my bed, holding my hand, completely engrossed. All of a sudden, I hear my husband say, "I can't do this," and he starts walking out of the room. Just exactly as he got to the door, our little baby finally cried. A big, huge, I am really, really fucking pissed off at you people and I am gonna give you hell for this cry. And then, I cried. And magically, Hot Stuff was back at my side. Crying tears of relief. I have never, ever before or since seen my husband scared like that. Once my Hurricane was cleaned up, I got to hold him. Then my waterworks really started.
Every mother thinks her child is the most beautiful, perfect, breathless piece of beauty to ever exist on Earth. Until a few years later you look back at pictures and see that your l'il slice o' heaven looks more like Mr. Magoo than anything else. Or, in our case, Mr. Magoo after he got attacked by a vacuum cleaner that also punched him in the forehead, thus giving him an open wound on his head and facial swelling.
Now, he is a healthy, happy, exuberant 4 year old Hurricane. I would do it all over again.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Creepy Crawlies
Ever have a conversation with someone about lice and your head starts to itch? Lice. Lice. Licelicelice. I bet your head is itchy now, isn't it?
I have a ridiculous and rampant phobia of spiders, bugs, fliers, and creepers of allsorts. To make a short story long: it all goes back to when I was a youngster of about 8 years old. My brother and I were playing tag and I ran into a spider web of newly hatched baby spiders. The last thing I remember was running through the web and feeling them crawl on my face and arms. I don't remember running in the house screaming hysterically or my mom throwing me in the tub. (Ugh. Barf. Hope my kids never do this because I am not carrying a spider-covered child through the house to the bathtub. I will turn the hose on them first.)
Slowly I am trying to get over this fear by not immediately throwing on a pair of my husband's biggest work boots and stomping the bug to sh*t while singing at the top of my lungs. Tends to frighten small children.
So tonight, I am getting ready to bathe my dirty rugrats and there is a spider in the tub. No sweat. I grab a my cleaning bucket, scoop out the spider, and fling it (just the spider, not the bucket and the spider) out the patio door. Well I am just feeling pretty darn good about myself. I didn't hardly want to throw up at all! Back to the bathroom: there is a monster bee flying around the bathroom. It might be the biggest bee in the world. When I saw it, I thought to myself, "Self, that looks like an African Killer Bee. Not that I've ever seen one, but that is exactly how I imagine they would look." Ok, it's cool, I'm cool. I can do this! Head over to the window, take out the screen, and crank it open all the way. The stupid bee won't fly out!! It keeps climbing up and down the curtain. Then it flies behind the dryer. Oh F*ck. Seriously. I need to get these kids bathed. So, I slap a smile on my face and pretend there is not a bee lurking behind the dryer waiting for me to fall asleep tonight so it can sting me to death. (Not melodramatic or crazy at all!!)
I have never bathed three small children so fast in my life. Ever. I am not even sure how clean they got. I am fairly certain that at least 70% of 2 out of 3 children got clean. Close enough is good enough.
The bee, as of thisminute, has not been seen again. DUM DUM DUM...
I, however, cannot stop scratching and slapping at imaginary bugs on myself. I am probably not crazy. Although if I am, I would like to be referred to as "mentally hilarious" and not "mentally insane."
I have a ridiculous and rampant phobia of spiders, bugs, fliers, and creepers of allsorts. To make a short story long: it all goes back to when I was a youngster of about 8 years old. My brother and I were playing tag and I ran into a spider web of newly hatched baby spiders. The last thing I remember was running through the web and feeling them crawl on my face and arms. I don't remember running in the house screaming hysterically or my mom throwing me in the tub. (Ugh. Barf. Hope my kids never do this because I am not carrying a spider-covered child through the house to the bathtub. I will turn the hose on them first.)
Slowly I am trying to get over this fear by not immediately throwing on a pair of my husband's biggest work boots and stomping the bug to sh*t while singing at the top of my lungs. Tends to frighten small children.
So tonight, I am getting ready to bathe my dirty rugrats and there is a spider in the tub. No sweat. I grab a my cleaning bucket, scoop out the spider, and fling it (just the spider, not the bucket and the spider) out the patio door. Well I am just feeling pretty darn good about myself. I didn't hardly want to throw up at all! Back to the bathroom: there is a monster bee flying around the bathroom. It might be the biggest bee in the world. When I saw it, I thought to myself, "Self, that looks like an African Killer Bee. Not that I've ever seen one, but that is exactly how I imagine they would look." Ok, it's cool, I'm cool. I can do this! Head over to the window, take out the screen, and crank it open all the way. The stupid bee won't fly out!! It keeps climbing up and down the curtain. Then it flies behind the dryer. Oh F*ck. Seriously. I need to get these kids bathed. So, I slap a smile on my face and pretend there is not a bee lurking behind the dryer waiting for me to fall asleep tonight so it can sting me to death. (Not melodramatic or crazy at all!!)
I have never bathed three small children so fast in my life. Ever. I am not even sure how clean they got. I am fairly certain that at least 70% of 2 out of 3 children got clean. Close enough is good enough.
The bee, as of thisminute, has not been seen again. DUM DUM DUM...
I, however, cannot stop scratching and slapping at imaginary bugs on myself. I am probably not crazy. Although if I am, I would like to be referred to as "mentally hilarious" and not "mentally insane."
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Day of Disgusting Things
Disgusting thing #1: You always know the day is off to a great start when the first bottle of the day gets thrown up all over you. No (unfortunately) not my first bottle (of vodka) of the day. The 6 month old baby's first bottle of the day. I love to scrub baby barf out of pillows and couches and such, and also enjoy smelling of barfed up formula.
Disgusting thing #2: Whilst changing two baby bums on the couch (Oooh.. bad mommy!! You're supposed to change babies on the floor so they don't roll off the couch.. again), I happened to notice a "strange" smell. "Eau du crotch of homeless crazy lady" comes close to describing it. Of course, I have a mini internal freak-out, thinking that my poor Princess has some terrible, raging, flesh-eating vag infection, but no, because when I picked her up to smell her (yes, I really did that), the smell wasn't coming from her. It was coming from the couch. And also from the dog, our 7 year old female bullmastiff. It was so strong when I bent down to smell the dog (yes, I really did that), all of my nose hairs fell out. Why do I feel the need to get that close to her ass end? Turns out that when female dogs get old, their secretions change. Change from "no smell" to "disgusting rotten gnarly smell" apparently. I guess she slept on the couch last night and decided to give herself a crotch bath before settling in. UGH!! Maybe next time I'll give her a bath. With a fire hose and some Febreze. I did mention how much I love scrubbing couches, right? I *heart* Mr. Clean Disinfecting Wipes.
Disgusting thing #3: Today is clean the bathrooms day around here, one of my favorite jobs (heavy sarcasm). I noticed that the sink was draining verrryy slowly. Sure enough, my darling, precious angels have been spending quality time shoving diaper wipes down the sink drain. What about the plug for the sink, you say? Doesn't the plug stop things from going down the drain, you say? BROKEN. Yanked clean out of the drain and left on the floor. By my darling, precious angels.
Disgusting thing #3A: I am now certain that there are a few drunk hobos (with really bad aim) out there who are missing their asses, as it appears a few of them have exploded on my toilet. UGH!!
Who says the life of a stay at home mama ain't glamorous?
Disgusting thing #2: Whilst changing two baby bums on the couch (Oooh.. bad mommy!! You're supposed to change babies on the floor so they don't roll off the couch.. again), I happened to notice a "strange" smell. "Eau du crotch of homeless crazy lady" comes close to describing it. Of course, I have a mini internal freak-out, thinking that my poor Princess has some terrible, raging, flesh-eating vag infection, but no, because when I picked her up to smell her (yes, I really did that), the smell wasn't coming from her. It was coming from the couch. And also from the dog, our 7 year old female bullmastiff. It was so strong when I bent down to smell the dog (yes, I really did that), all of my nose hairs fell out. Why do I feel the need to get that close to her ass end? Turns out that when female dogs get old, their secretions change. Change from "no smell" to "disgusting rotten gnarly smell" apparently. I guess she slept on the couch last night and decided to give herself a crotch bath before settling in. UGH!! Maybe next time I'll give her a bath. With a fire hose and some Febreze. I did mention how much I love scrubbing couches, right? I *heart* Mr. Clean Disinfecting Wipes.
Disgusting thing #3: Today is clean the bathrooms day around here, one of my favorite jobs (heavy sarcasm). I noticed that the sink was draining verrryy slowly. Sure enough, my darling, precious angels have been spending quality time shoving diaper wipes down the sink drain. What about the plug for the sink, you say? Doesn't the plug stop things from going down the drain, you say? BROKEN. Yanked clean out of the drain and left on the floor. By my darling, precious angels.
Disgusting thing #3A: I am now certain that there are a few drunk hobos (with really bad aim) out there who are missing their asses, as it appears a few of them have exploded on my toilet. UGH!!
Who says the life of a stay at home mama ain't glamorous?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Really, there is nothing I won't talk about..
I had a baby six months ago and yes, I know, it takes a while for a person's body to get back to normal after pushing a Watermelon out the ol' Garden Hose. Still, (here is the part where I piss and moan) is it really necessary to have a THREE WEEK LONG period? No, not necessary. Someone please tell my uterus that. I tried. Didn't work.
Me: "Hello, uterus?"
Uterus: "Yo."
Me: "Hi, yes, um, I was just wondering when you were going to knock off the sh*t?"
Uterus: "Je suis tres desole, mais je ne parle pas englais. Bon soir!"
I detected a note of falseness and a touch of sarcasm.
I am very sore today as I did work out yesterday, being back on BFL. I do feel much better being on a solid eating plan instead of eating willy-nilly whatever and whenever I want. I need routine. I flaked out today, because I was so sore from yesterday that I kept putting off my cardio until it was too late. In my defence, I was busy cleaning up sh*t. After the Princess got out of the tub, she took a poo on the dining room floor, walked back to the bathroom, had another poo there, which she then walked through, back to the first pile of poo in the dining room. Then she tried to wipe it off her feet. Fantastic. Back in the tub for another wash, and then jammies and a clean bum (aka diaper). While I was getting her diaper on, Hot Stuff was getting Mr. Mellow ready for his bath, and I happened to see that he sh*t up the back of his undershirt. Yes, all the way to his armpits. Fantastic. Managed to get him wiped down and into the tub, then it was time to get the Hurricane into the tub. The Hurricane has been sick with some kind of throat ailment yesterday and today, so he has been so well behaved, calm, and cuddly. Until bathtime. You'd think I asked him to chop an arm off. Finally got him tubbed and into jammies, and all kids went to bed. Then Mr. Mellow woke up half an hour later and needed the rest of his bedtime bottle to go back to sleep. Then the Hurricane was crying and needing mommy to give him medicine and lay with him to sleep. So that is what kept me away from the bike from 6:00 to 9:00. The other 10 hrs of today? I'm just plum f*cking lazy. I will make it up tomorrow.
Me: "Hello, uterus?"
Uterus: "Yo."
Me: "Hi, yes, um, I was just wondering when you were going to knock off the sh*t?"
Uterus: "Je suis tres desole, mais je ne parle pas englais. Bon soir!"
I detected a note of falseness and a touch of sarcasm.
I am very sore today as I did work out yesterday, being back on BFL. I do feel much better being on a solid eating plan instead of eating willy-nilly whatever and whenever I want. I need routine. I flaked out today, because I was so sore from yesterday that I kept putting off my cardio until it was too late. In my defence, I was busy cleaning up sh*t. After the Princess got out of the tub, she took a poo on the dining room floor, walked back to the bathroom, had another poo there, which she then walked through, back to the first pile of poo in the dining room. Then she tried to wipe it off her feet. Fantastic. Back in the tub for another wash, and then jammies and a clean bum (aka diaper). While I was getting her diaper on, Hot Stuff was getting Mr. Mellow ready for his bath, and I happened to see that he sh*t up the back of his undershirt. Yes, all the way to his armpits. Fantastic. Managed to get him wiped down and into the tub, then it was time to get the Hurricane into the tub. The Hurricane has been sick with some kind of throat ailment yesterday and today, so he has been so well behaved, calm, and cuddly. Until bathtime. You'd think I asked him to chop an arm off. Finally got him tubbed and into jammies, and all kids went to bed. Then Mr. Mellow woke up half an hour later and needed the rest of his bedtime bottle to go back to sleep. Then the Hurricane was crying and needing mommy to give him medicine and lay with him to sleep. So that is what kept me away from the bike from 6:00 to 9:00. The other 10 hrs of today? I'm just plum f*cking lazy. I will make it up tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Stupid and Painful
So last night before I went to bed, I decided to wax my mustache. No problem, I have the ready to use wax strips that you just rub between your hands to warm up, peel apart, place them over your top lip, rip off, and bingo bango, no more facial hair. All went well until I decided to see what it would be like to wax my legs. Box says, 'Can be used even on short hair!' so I said to myself, "Self, this is a good idea. It's a pretty small wax strip, so give it a shot."
Well, I warmed up the strip between my hands, peeled it apart, and placed it on my leg, pressing it into my skin in the direction of the hair growth. JUST like the box said to do. Pulled my skin taut and quickly removed the wax strip in opposite direction of hair. JUST like the box said to do. Except when I did it, and pulled off the wax strip, only the paper backing came off. I had a lovely square of hair wax on my leg. Quick thinker that I am, I grabbed the other wax strip and pressed it over the one on my leg, rubbed it vigorously to warm it up, and pulled. And was left with a paper backing in my hand and two layers of wax on my leg. Again with the brilliant ideas, I dug through my cupboard o' bathroom stuff and and found some muslin strips (used for leg waxing). Again with the pressing and rubbing, I applied the muslin strip over the wax layer and pulled. It didn't take off the wax, but now my double layer of wax had a nice furry muslin coating on it. After several attempts at chipping off the wax, pulling in every direction with the paper backings and muslin strips, rolling the wax, I managed to get some of it off. Mostly the wax just stuck on my leg. I went to bed like this: furry pink square of wax on the front of my calf, surrounded by throbbing angry red skin from all the pulling and such.
In case you're wondering, my leg is no longer red or throbbing. Still have most of the fuzzy pink square of wax, though. It's not so bad, only the parts that the muslin fell off of are sticking to my pants.
Well, I warmed up the strip between my hands, peeled it apart, and placed it on my leg, pressing it into my skin in the direction of the hair growth. JUST like the box said to do. Pulled my skin taut and quickly removed the wax strip in opposite direction of hair. JUST like the box said to do. Except when I did it, and pulled off the wax strip, only the paper backing came off. I had a lovely square of hair wax on my leg. Quick thinker that I am, I grabbed the other wax strip and pressed it over the one on my leg, rubbed it vigorously to warm it up, and pulled. And was left with a paper backing in my hand and two layers of wax on my leg. Again with the brilliant ideas, I dug through my cupboard o' bathroom stuff and and found some muslin strips (used for leg waxing). Again with the pressing and rubbing, I applied the muslin strip over the wax layer and pulled. It didn't take off the wax, but now my double layer of wax had a nice furry muslin coating on it. After several attempts at chipping off the wax, pulling in every direction with the paper backings and muslin strips, rolling the wax, I managed to get some of it off. Mostly the wax just stuck on my leg. I went to bed like this: furry pink square of wax on the front of my calf, surrounded by throbbing angry red skin from all the pulling and such.
In case you're wondering, my leg is no longer red or throbbing. Still have most of the fuzzy pink square of wax, though. It's not so bad, only the parts that the muslin fell off of are sticking to my pants.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Conversations with a 4 Year Old
Hurricane: "Mom, do dogs dig for bones?"
Me: "Yes, they do."
Hurricane: "Are they paleontologists?"
Me: "Yes, they do."
Hurricane: "Are they paleontologists?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
