Sooo….my youngest and I had some mother/son time tonight. One on one. Since I grew up in the 80’s, I loved that there was a Pee-Wee Herman special on Netflix.
For all you youngins’ out there who have never heard of Pee Wee Herman listen up: he was a man child that lived in the 80’s. If Michael Jackson had a boyfriend, Pee Wee Herman would be it. Pee Wee Herman came into our homes via tv every Saturday morning. It was stupid, un-thought provoking and pure fluff for our brains.
So when my 7 year old chose Pee Wee Herman I felt nostalogic. When Joe Manganiello came onto the screen with Pee Wee, I felt aroused.
“You know C that man, J, is the same age as me? In fact we were born on the same day!”
“So that makes him your brother? Like twins?” C asked.
He wasn’t going to steal this from me.
“NO! That isn’t my brother. That’s gross. He’s so Hoo——” I suddenly remembered who I was talking to. As much as I wanted to confess my undying love for this hottie, I resisted for my sons.
“I’m just saying we both share our birthdays on December 28th.
So I learned something new, that wordpress.com does not have as many functionalities as wordpress.org. I read that wordpress.com is great for someone who doesn’t feel comfortable with technology and all of the customization you can do with wordpress.org.
I want to add more capabilities to my blog so I am attempting to transfer my blog from wordpress.com to wordpress.org. I’m a little scared and wanted to give you all a heads up that if I get lost in the woods, I will find my way back. Occasionally I have the tendency to blow things up on accident so if I’m suddenly MIA, you’ll know obviously I hit a snag but I can do this!
My goal is to make this change seamlessly on the back end and no one knows I’m doing it. Wish me luck folks and I’ll see you on the other side!
Last year my son went to 5th grade camp. One of the items stressed to be brought was deodorant. As the 28 year old, creepy Camp Director explained,
“Cause there’s nothing like 50 ripe smelling boys in the middle of the day,” he giggled, making all the moms uncomfortable at the thought of sending their sons with this man for 72 hours.
Up until today I really haven’t smelled my son’s BO…too often. Really, I could count it on one hand. Sure, him and his brother fall on the floor in a meltdown when you request they take a shower. Or, they can’t possibly fathom my demand that they will be taking a shower EVERYDAY come summer. I know, I’m such a terrible mother.
So every so often I would attempt to keep the deodorant dream alive with hints like,
“Hey, I packed some deodorant for you for your overnight with grammy.”
“I’ll give you $5 if you wear deodorant.”
Tonight after soccer practice, P got in the car and suddenly a new odor began to envelope my surroundings. It smelled of gym socks and pine and mildew. I pondered how to effectively get the point across about this growing BO problem.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought. ‘He isn’t taking my hints seriously and this is for his own good.’
With the calmness of a pilot explaining to the passengers our flight time, I said, “P, I’m gonna need you to get in the shower when we get home as you really do stink.”
There, I said it and he took offense.
“Geeze mom, talk about being blunt. Uh, maybe I stink cause I just finished practice?”
“And I get that but dude, start using deodorant.” I was breathing through my mouth while talking and doing this was proving to be difficult.
Had I not been blunt there would have been a whine fest and not the good kind of wine fest that I like. He would have taken his smelly little ass and plopped right down on the sofa rattling off 50 reasons why not to shower.
So there, that’s my story on how my child prefers to smell like a bum that pissed himself, living under a bridge. Go hygiene!
I can look back on yesterday and laugh but last night it wasn’t funny AT ALL to me. I was serious and I meant business.
On my way back from getting groceries last night I was flustered, stressed and genuinely a hot mess. I fished around my 8 gallon drum purse to find my phone. I clicked on my Amazon Music app, pressed the microphone and screamed,
You know that song that came out last year Fight Song about not giving up and how you have fight in you and blah, blah, blah. Oh I sang it…and I sang it good. At some points when she sang “Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me!” I was literally talking to the song, “Yes, I do. I still have fight in me!” I wimpe
Who was this cheese ball and what was my problem? I was loosing my shit yesterday and it was going down in the form of a Lifetime Movie. All day I was tearing up about EVERYTHING.
Chi Chi did her daily piss in the hall? Tears.
People at church holding their hand up for the Lord but really look like a hail Hitler motion. Tears.
Deli taking too long. Tears.
WHAT THE FUCK? Something had to be done and I had to be the change…..tears…..
When I got home I sat my ovaries, lady parts and everything in between down at the table for a come to Jesus moment.
“Listen up you little ass holes,” I wanted them all to know I meant business. “You need to go knock on your little buddy Uterus’s door and tell her to quit being a little bitch and get her ass out of bed so we can get this period thing going. I am a complete basket case singing sensitive (I said this with a lisp) songs in the car and all of this isn’t going to go away until I have my period.”
All of them looked at me like I was the crazy person.
“So I don’t care if you have to entice her with a big ole’ glass of Summer’s Eve or whatever but it’s time to make this period thing happen. Do you copy?”
There were short yet noticeable nods all around the table.
My pep talk must have worked because Uterus came through for me today. Suddenly seeing the garbage can doesn’t make me cry nor am I feeling the urge anymore to watch Beaches.
I have a present for you guys! Below is one of my most favorite chapters in my book. I wish I could say this didn’t happen….but it did. Enjoy! You guys are awesome!
In my mid-twenties I had a job that I LOVED working for E. Corporate. E. is a clothing store for women in their twenties. At the time there were over 300 stores across the US. I was a New Store Coordinator and part of my job involved traveling the US and offering support to opening or remodeled stores. The other part of the job is fitting into the clothes and ensuring you look the part of an E. associate. Like ancient Amazon tribes, should you become over the age of 40 and/or dress like you were over the age of 40, you were immediately taken out back and buried in an elder ceremony.
Ali diet pill had just come out on the market. For anyone that doesn’t know Ali, it’s a diet pill that allows you to lose 50% more weight IF you stay within the fat guidelines. I had never really had a weight problem yet my daily snack of candy combined with my daily breakfast of an extra cheese and egg wrap were indeed taking the toll.
I began taking Ali on a Friday. Ali directions warned to wear old clothing for the first few days. The directions even suggested staying home during this onboarding session. The reasoning behind this advice was since you had not been following the 12 grams of fat or less policy, the first few days could result in an “accident”. By accident, they meant shitting oil.
‘I’ll be careful’, I thought. What idiot doesn’t immediately go to restroom when they get “that feeling”? Are they lazy?
The following Tuesday, I chose to wear my new silk mini dress that was the shortest I’ve ever worn. It had that very “mod look” of the 60’s with bold, geographic patterns. I had let my boss know the previous week I would be in late Tuesday, due to getting new tires. My tire appointment was scheduled for 8 am.
Getting tires on my car proved to be uneventful. Upon completion, it was only 9 am so I wasn’t going to be that late for work. This was a great day! It was spring, the sun was shining and I had brand new tires. I had just cleaned my car Sunday so between having a clean car and a new dress, I turned the radio up and sang along to Hey Yah! by OutKast. In twenties minutes, I would be at the job I loved!
About 5 minutes into the drive I started to feel gassy. Like any other hot-blooded American woman, I allowed myself to toot, cut the cheese, whatever you wish to call it. In my mind, it’s perfectly acceptable to do this as long as A. no one else is in the car and B. You’re confident you have a solid 30 seconds before drive thru to window #2.
I got to my cubicle in which my co-worker immediately stopped over to discuss an issue with our store in Metairie, Louisiana. Ellen had reaped the benefits of being Asian with regards to finances but not necessarily with her health, she was overweight…by a lot. Her parents owned a restaurant and she had attended a private school just for girls. She made two-thirds of what I made yet drove to work in a brand new, black Mercedes. Often times I would pull into a parking space, look to my left and find her rolling in next to me. She would look over at me with a grin of ‘you may make more than me but I could buy/sell you bitch’.
As Ellen began to talk, I smelled something pungent. ‘Dear God, did she not brush her teeth?’ I thought in disgust. This had never happened before. I’ve never smelled her breath. Maybe she was late getting out and forgot to brush her teeth? I continued to listen intently willing myself not to make a sour face.
This carried on for a few more seconds until it hit me. It wasn’t her breath. With this unspeakable realization, I froze while my blood turned to ice. Ironically, I felt my face get hotter than a three dollar pistol.
In midsentence I interrupted her, “excuse me Ellen, I am so sorry to interrupt you but I really have to go to the bathroom”. I quickly got up from my chair and darted to the bathroom. I began to feel slimy “down there” as I hustled to the first women’s restroom that I came across.
I turned the bathroom corner to find three stalls. By the grace of God the bathroom seemed to be empty. I disappeared into the first stall. They say the first stall has the least amount of bacteria. Given the procedure that was about to take place, I felt it my duty to align this stall with the same amount of bacteria as its other 2 comrades.
I laid toilet paper down as fast as I could. I pulled my dress up and my thong down, collapsed on the toilet and against my better judgement looked down to survey the damage. I hadn’t just shit, I had shit oil. A ridiculous amount of oil. It looked like a cross between Indian food and liquid bronzer. The smell was overpowering. They say when your child has rotavirus, you know its rotavirus because the smell is indescribable. I would say an Ali accident is #2 on the Richter scale. There was NO saving this thong nor wearing it past the stall. I sat horrified, contemplating and praying.
I weighed my options. I could wait till someone I knew came to the bathroom but that could take forever. What if the next 2 people in is the Vice President or a newbie? What would I say to them? ‘Uhhh, Vice President, I shit my pants. I know you have this rule about not making eye contact with anyone below a director level, and while I respect that, I need you to go buy me underwear’.
In ten minutes my Ali shit would smell even more like death. My second option would be to somehow wash my underwear, let it dry THEN put them back on. All of which would surely be discovered by a person surely coming in soon to relieve themselves. The last option was the only option but I didn’t want to believe it.
I came to the realization that I was going to have to go commando, through the office in a skirt that barely grazed my thighs. I began the hazmat like process of cleaning up the crime scene. I went through ½ a roll of toilet paper trying to remove the awful oil. The oil clung to me. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I felt like it wasn’t coming off. Next, I used toilet paper to wrap my desecrated thong. When I finished, it looked like a mummified squirrel. I took a deep breath, unlocked the stall and with a prayer, threw the mummy into trash. I washed my hands like a surgeon scrubbing in, using a huge amount of soap and making the water uncomfortably hot. I had to get this smell off me. I dried my hands off and left the O.R.
In what I thought to be a discreet mall walk, I made my way back to my department. Unlike a typical mall walk, I avoided swinging my arms. This had the potential to raise my skirt and be the reason for my termination and/or possible arrest. I glided first into my boss’s cubicle. She had just finished a phone call when she looked up and noticed my flustered state.
“Everything ok?” She asked while giving me the ‘you’re an odd one’ look.
“I’m sick. I have to go home”, I managed to string together.
“Oh?” She said with surprise. “What happened?” She asked.
“I got sick in the bathroom. I need to go home”, I repeated. With that I took 2 steps back so she wouldn’t see the back of my dress (which had a few drops of oil but praise God blended in with the geometric patterns) and jetted to my cubicle.
Upon my return, I was thankful that Ellen was no longer there. Praying to be invisible, I quietly grabbed my laptop bag and purse and began walking the long way out of our department since that meant passing less cubicles.
I didn’t touch Ali again for almost a decade. About a year ago, I reconsidered taking Ali. I journeyed to Kroger only to find Ali had been recalled. Later that night I researched why it was recalled. I found out it wasn’t because it was considered dangerous but because thousands of bottles had been tampered with. I can only theorize that this tampering was from another poor Ali soul inserting Depend coupons into each box.
A few years later, I told my boss what had happened. She didn’t seem surprised since she knew the craziness that is my life. It doesn’t bother me to tell this story now. In fact, I like to consider it an ice breaker.
If you want a game that tears families apart, play Monopoly. It will make siblings not talk to each other for days and children angry at their parents. Go on, I dare you.
Let me first say, I LOVE Monopoly. I have been playing it since I was probably 12. In addition to my Father owning a restaurant, he was also Real Estate Agent. This made him an automatic lover of Monopoly. Because he worked 70 hours a week, we would really only play it once a year- during our mini vacation to Port Clinton, Ohio. On the 1 night we were guaranteed it would rain, my dad would spread the board out as I fought with my sisters on which piece we would be. I always wanted to be the car. Who wanted to be the stupid candlestick? The candlestick is so stupid. This isn’t CLUE here peoples.
2.5 hours after the game began, I was cashing in every property and white, 1 dollar bill I had to pay my Father the Boardwalk rent I owed. I had clearly copped an attitude and was a little bitch for the remainder of the night.
Fast forward 25 years and I began to play with my oldest. A few years later I taught my youngest. Both caught on easily yet every single time we played ended in a meltdown. I even have the oldest on video crying and screaming.
“But I never LOST! You don’t know what it feels like!” It’s the funniest thing.
Today I had a plan that was fail proof and resulted in more time with my sons and bonding between brothers.
“Boys, I have a proposition for you.” I announced as they slayed another pirate in Assassin’s Creed.
“At 3 I want to play you both as a team. If you guys win, I will buy you Shamrock Shakes. If you loose, you have to clean the junk drawer.”
Both of them were on board in minutes and I thought I had finally found a plan where it wouldn’t result in sending one or both to their rooms.
At first both of them were on fire. They both rolled one dice each and always seemed to get doubles. They were buying up properties left and right. They were making bogus deals with me that I was gun ho about, just so I could loose and they could win.
Then shit hit the fan. For once, things went my way by every stupid roll of the dice. Actually irony kicked in and I guess things didn’t go my way, which was to loose. Every f’ing turn I would skip their 3 properties laden with houses. I would always land on free parking and collect the dough.
In turn, the boys had the opposite luck. They landed on the “income tax” 3 times in a row where you have to pay 10% of their money or $200. They went to jail twice. They landed on my railroads twice in a row then landed on my property where they were to pay me $200 but I lied and said only $100. When I said “don’t worry about paying me,” P became the martyr and wouldn’t hear of it. C began to cry at every roll. They took turns earlier reading the chance and community chest cards. Now they were fighting over who’s turn it was.
I tried to explain to them that what they thought was a bad situation wasn’t bad at all. Despite me having $700, they had 4 houses per property which equated to a combined total of $600. Did I do the math right?
“Can we just quit now and clean the junk drawer?” C asked.
“No! I want you to keep playing!” I was determined to loose more than ever.
“What? You want us to keep playing so you can watch us loose more?” P asked in a snotty tone.
“Oh my God, no. I’m just saying things aren’t as bad as you think they are.”
Then of course they land on one of my properties that has a house and I miss their houses again.
“I’M DONE!” P announces in anger.
C walks over and begins to clean out the junk drawer.
“Don’t you dare clean out that junk drawer!” I said firmly. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to work! I was gonna’ get you guys shamrock shakes regardless!”
Meanwhile my husband is muttering under his breath, “I don’t even know why you try this game with them. It’s always a disaster.”
Thanks for your words of encouragement. I was so frustrated. I just went up to our bathroom and cried.
After I composed myself, I came back downstairs, got my jacket on and announced I was getting shamrock shakes. I think my boys felt bad by now because P said,
“You don’t have to get them if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’ll get them. Just know, I think we are going to wait a few more years till we play Monopoly again. It’s not worth the meltdowns.”
Surprisingly, neither protested. Ok, so lay it on me…..tell me how much you HATE Monopoly and how long it takes. I can take it, I’m a big girl….but if you ever want to play……
So as some of you may or may not have seen, I put a challenge on my blog yesterday to guess what this was:
I learned yesterday that this is a semen tank. Yes, semen tank. Try to push the vomit back down your throat, I’ll wait. These tanks were all over the place and ranged in size.
So last year I took a job at a globally recognized Western company. You can find an excerpt of this here at The Shameful Sheep. Me working there makes about as much sense as the Noble Peace Prize ceremony being moved to North Korea.
So yesterday my boss wanted me to see what the Beef Expo is like since our company sponsored it. I kinda’ knew what I was in for but I was clearly ignorant.
The first thing I noticed was the delicious smell of burgers when I opened up my door at Beef Expo. Despite having eaten already, I inhaled this delicious smell then stopped when I thought, ‘Aren’t the cows gagging, smelling their brothers and sisters on the grill? Couldn’t we have opted for chicken, just this once?
“Oh my God, they took Elsa!” I could see a cow exclaiming as her BFF is seen going into a food truck back door.
We walked into the building hosting the event and walked past a “queen.” Unfortunately it wasn’t a drag queen but a slopy, overweight teenager with a crown. Was this the Beef Queen?
Apparently we were there to shop too because my boss decide to weave in and out of the little shops set up. The shops offered clothing and home decorative goods that said things like I LOVE MY COW and THERES NOTHING LIKE SHOWING. I found these shops about as interesting as the lumber aisle of Lowes.
There is just 1 other co-worker that is just like me in knowing 0 about horses, cows, farms, etc. She innocently asked,
“What are these tanks I see everyone walking around with?” She pointed her finger at a few attendees dragging what looked to be gas tanks on wheels behind them.
“Semen tanks,” my boss answered like she was telling her the date.
‘Come again?’ I thought.
I could feel nausea growing in my stomach. These people were rolling the semen tanks around as if they were rolling their carry on through the terminal. Could we have found a more viable option, like keeping that shit to yourself and not bringing it out in public?
Still in shock, I had to know the logistics here without completely alienating myself. I had to choose my words carefully. I leaned over quietly to my co-worker.
“So these semen tanks, they just walk around and plug them into a hef….girl cow?” I had officially shown not only my ignorance but forgot if a heifer was just a girl cow or if there are boy heifers too. Or maybe there are cows out there confused with their identity and were born a boy cow but became a heifer? I don’t know.
As we entered another cow-centric pop up shop there was a man wheeling the average size tank. I whipped out my phone and took the picture you see above.
After about 30 minutes of browsing, well let’s be real here, me standing outside each shop with my jaw on the ground, taking in this completely different culture, we walked back outside. I thought we were going to the car.
Nope, this was just the beginning. Across from the building we came out of, there was a gigantic barn. From the sounds, there was a cow party happening. I looked over to see a couple holding a cow by a harness thingy. The cow was chewing slowly, drooling and seemed to be staring right at me like, “welcome to my world bitch.”
In lieu of making a hard left for the parking lot, our path veered towards the barn.
“You guys wanna’ go visit Sarah?” A co-worker asked.
‘No, not really.’ I thought.
Unfortunately, I was voted down and we would be heading into the barn.
Fortunately I was not given a heads up about this field trip we took so I chose to wore little fringed, untreated suede booties that I bought for $100. The $100 was at cost if that tells you anything about the shoes I would be ruining momentarily.
As we crossed over the threshold, the walkway was not concrete or grass or paved in gold. No. The walkway, was covered in what looked to be mulch and feces. An old cowboy crossed my path holding a heavy pitchfork of what I could only assume was shit. I found about a 3”, semi clear path on each side of the shit trail and opted to walk there like I was on a balance beam.
‘If a cow lifts up it’s hind leg and pisses on my Louis Vuitton, I am going to lose my shit,’ was my first thought. If cows were capable of producing enough semen to fill a gas tank, who knows how projectile their piss could be.
We went up a cow aisle and found Sarah in front of a black cow. Her friend had some sort of comb and was combing the cow’s ass.
Across from Sarah’s steak were 3 other HUGE black cows. I mean, they had to either be pregnant or fat in cow world.
“How old are those cows?” I asked jetting my chin out, attempting to fit in.
“Bout 10 months,” Sarah’s friend answered.
“Their date of birth is above,” my co-worker said as she pointed to a white sign, 7’ above in a “duh” kind of tone. Oh I’m sorry, my childhood wasn’t spent milking cows, sorry for my ignorance I share with the other 97% of Americans.
Just then I hear a hose begin to gush water. I turn my head back to Sarah’s cow and notice it’s not a hose but the cow next door has taken the liberty to piss a cow made lake. ‘Your gonna’ have to sleep in that,’ is what I wanted to tell the cow. I’ve never seen a cow dick before but this must have been it because there was a long, hairy hose hanging from the cow, with a pink rim; like those disgusting monkey asses.
By now my co-workers were petting Sarahs cow’s behind. I wondered if cows were like donkeys or horses and kick people behind them? I had visions of taking my co-workers to the ER with hoof marks on their foreheads.
Surprisingly, I too had the sudden urge to pet the cow. The black fur looked so fuzzy. I deduced that this was the onset of insanity due to the situation. To be a fly on a cow’s ass and see the look that must have been on my face this entire time was probably priceless.
‘Must not pet cow…must not…..resist……ok petting cow now….hey cow soft. Ok, I’m done.’
So how was your Friday? Did you see any semen tanks? Did you walk through shit? Did you pet a cow?
I am putting the finishing touches on a post for tomorrow. You really won’t want to miss it. Until then, can you guess what this is? I’ll reveal it in the post tomorrow. I about fell off my chair when I found out what it was.
I have no idea why I am obsessed with tiny houses. I flippin’ love tiny houses. I don’t know if it’s the ingenuity of the dwellings or the concept to live smaller so you won’t be house poor. Regardless, I’ve browsed hundreds of online tiny homes thinking, ‘could we do it?’
To have the best of both worlds I sent an e-mail to my sister with a Tumbleweed PDF that she should should consider a tiny home. Tumbleweed has an amazing collection of floor plans and there are a few homes that aren’t so tiny.
This was a win win situation for me. She could build a tiny home and I would live vicariously through her. Should the cramped quarters become too much, not my problem.
Surprisingly she responded back that her boyfriend’s parents told them the same thing and they could put their house in their backyard. I’ve never been to their house but I’m guessing it’s huge and I know it sits on a large piece of land.
Not to be outdone, I said she needed to build her tiny house in my backyard. My land is about the same size as a Tim Horton’s, minus the employee parking lot. I said this in jest, knowing that our HOA is anal and you must submit a bunch of paperwork just to put up a stupid shed.
Below is a screen shot of my sister’s response to suggesting she move to my backyard. When she talks about An, An is her boyfriend’s sister who lives at home because she has cerebral palsy. She has a tricked out wheel chair they lovingly call her command center:
“I am laughing my ass off right now but yes, that is a fair assessment.”