Things that Suck OR Why Mommy Drinks “A Hundreds” of Wine

These are all the things that sucked this week:

Suckage item #1:

 

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Right here is what I call a pile of bullshit.

This is Homeslice’s homework which is actually designed to torture ME.  Not only did I have to cut this shit out into tiny squares that are impossible to control, but I had to sort it because it was arranged randomly. I had to go over them one by one with her. She got most, but I think she got a lucky guess on the others. I put those fuckers in the “done” pile realfuckingquick.

Guess or not, it’s still a correct answer, amiright?

Suckage item #2:

 

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My weekly allotment of wine was nearly done by Wednesday!  In my defense this was purchased last Friday night and was shared amongst friends, so really, wine consumption has been quite tame.  But still, this photo makes me sad because: rationing.

Suckage item #3:

 

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I did not get Veteran’s Day off, but everyone else did and so in an effort keep kids off screen time (mandated by me), Mister let them go wild streame-ring the  house. It’s a multicolored Halloween prank at my house right now.  It’s lovely, but who is going to have to take them down?

Anyone?

Anyone?

ME!

At least it wasn’t toilet paper, I guess. Girlfriend is known for her excessive use of tape, so I am particularly pissed about this because everything is taped down solid, which makes for extra pain in the ass, but most irritating of all is: there is NO tape left in this house.

You don’t realize you need tape until there is no tape.

Protip: Hide the fucking tape.

Suckage #4:

 

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This is my container drawer. Somebody should complain.

Suckage #5:

 

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Wall-e, the butane powered space heater, is now a permanent resident in my living room.  Mister thinks it’s the fucking balls.

It terrifies me every bit as much as the gas dryer, washing machine and garbage disposal.

Mister wanted me to post a picture of it when it’s lit, but I didn’t want the Internet to catch on fire cuz this thing says “DANGER” all over it.

Suckage #6:

 

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Who knew these fuckers take on water? I found myself standing over the kitchen sink shaking drips out of them until I noticed this:

 

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They have assholes.

So to get the water out, we had to drill them BIGGER ASSHOLES.

Lovely.

Now we have rose bud gang-bang “amules.”

Suckage #7:

 

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I dont live in a place where people keep chickens. So imagine my surprise to find these three ladies just chillaxin’ out there on an ordinary Monday morning?  I had dicks in my mulch, so why not chickens?

My driveway is a place of many wonders, Queefies.

So, how did your week go?

Mine was kinda crappy and included some heavy stuff, but this is all that I can share because we try to keep it light and fluffy over here.

Feel free to dump your bullshit here.

In fact,  please do.

 

 

 

The Ratio of What I Want to Read and What I Have to Read is Completely Shaquaed

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I just read The Art of Racing in the Rain.  Do not ask me who wrote it because I don’t have time to care. I liked it though, so kudos to some guy or whoever.

The point is that this is the very first book that I have read since Homeslice was nursing, and I had lots of time to just sit and wait for her to drain the life out of my (then) bodacious ta-tas.

Turns out those were the glory days: I had huge knockers and time to sit and read.  Who knew that would be the highlight of my existence as a reader.

I loved my books so much and I missed them tremendously, so reading one for the first time in five years was a momentous occasion.

“I’m READING AGAIN!”  Yay!

It felt like I had a part of myself back again!

Except: nay, nay.

It was not meant to be because once school started, I have been inundated with shit I really don’t want to read, but have to: PTA newsletter, Common Core Eureka! suggestions for how not to kill myself while learning “the new math,” suggestions for how to teach Homeslice to read, and a bevy of other crap that I don’t really care about but because I do not want my kids ending up homeless on the street giving hand jobs for crack, I must read the shit that comes home every day.

Mainly, I just skim it for stupid crap I have to remember like “wear pink on Thursday for Breast Cancer!” and “Wear your class color on Friday!” and “Pajama day on Wednesday!” type of bullshit.

I don’t want my kid to be party asshole and wear all black on breast cancer day.  Next obvious step is prostitution.

Every week, there’s a special day to remember in addition to making sure we are wearing sneakers on gym day and have studied for spelling tests and what kid needs to return library books on which day and who has a dentist appointment.

With all this going on, do I care that there was a great turnout at the Halloween Dance?  Do I need to read a letter about it? Should my tax money be thrown into the recycle bin within seconds of having received these papers?

I think not.

I was there at that dance on an exhausted Friday night, and from my perspective, it was an awkward  high school dance situation that I did not want to relive.

The cops escorted one dad out for being drunk.

I was jealous because this was a sober event for children, and so I dutifully donned my ghost costume and showed up sipping water (having pre-gamed only with Xanax because omg the people and the flashing lights, loud music and the children running around like little assholes for two hours. Fuck that I had to do something!).

Had I known the cops would be escorting drunks home, I would have shown up having had winethirty in an incredibly obvious way.

As far as I’m concerned, since there was no wine served for parents, the Halloween dance sucked ass. I would have even put up with a two drink maximum. Something, anything, but throw us a freakin’ bone here!  Nobody was happy to be sober. Possibly not even the kids.

But, I digress.

When it finally comes to be reading time at my house, I’m reading to Homeslice. Such tantalizing tomes as Fox Wears Socks and Cub in a Tub really aren’t getting me there.

And after working all day at my fancy lady job reading more stuff that is not of my choosing because I also do not want to wind up homeless on the streets giving hand jobs for crack, I have to come home and read school nonsense from not one but TWO teachers. Thank god I don’t have more than two kids because I just can’t even.  I cannot.

Perhaps I should read this:

how to even

But I do not literally even have the time.

NOT EVEN!

Wine Accountability

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Monica the ninjaerapist thinks I drink too much.

Most people I know drink at least one bottle of wine per night or more.

This is my culture, these are my people.

And we all get our freelancing done and kid’s homework/permission slips/various school bullshit/healthy breakfasts/lunches and dinner/baths/ridiculous curly long hair brushing requiring multiple products and various types of hairbrushes and techniques/tooth brushing/reading log assignments done accurately and on time.

The floors are cleaned, toys picked up, pets fed and dishes are done.

I suppose I am what you would call a “functional alcoholic” since everything I do past the hour of winethirty pm gets done in A+ to B+ fashion.

Nobody is neglected and nobody suffers. I end up in bed with full teeth brushing and all anti-aging ointments and tinctures applied by approximately 8pm.  Children go to bed at 8 with all necessary routines completed.

We hum along pretty well, but Monica theninjareapist thinks that one bottle of wine per night is too many.

I just had a full liver panel done recently and all is well there so I haven’t done any harm yet (possibly due to the daily kale/lemon/raspberry/raw almond/coconut water/flax seed/banana/spinach smoothies for breakfast).

Wait till she find out by “bottle of wine” I really mean one of the  BIG bottles and not a regular sized.

She will shit, and so I will not tell her.

Because, is this an issue, really?

I wake up at 5am and get up to exercise and get the fam ready for the day.

Sometimes Girlfriend jumps on her bike and we go for a four mile bike/run a couple of times per week. I average 8:15 minutes per mile when I’m not stopping to make sure she’s keeping up and not getting hung up at intersections and whatnot.

Am I the face of alcoholism?  I say nay. nay and here’s why:

Things happen as they should at all times.

Because of this,  I’m making a case to change the term  “functional alcoholism” to “functional because of alcoholism.”

Please, DSM-5, keep up with the times because we need your support.

Stressed out, self-medicating moms need a new category.  It works. It’s not broken.

Livers may disagree (at which point we may re-assess) but everything else seems to be in order.

It’s the new way to get through parenting without freaking the fuck out because omfg there is so much work to do once you get home from work ie: your children and managing a family.

So fess up: how much do you drink per night? Are you able to function at A+ to B+ level? Maybe I’m normal or maybe I should stick to Monica the Ninjarapist’s recommendation of only one glass of wine per night ( in which case I will get much larger wine glasses and call it success!)

You Better Not Pout, You Better Not Cry

You better watch out, I’m tellin’ you why…

DADDY IS TRYING TO TAKE A MOTHERFUCKINGPICTURE AND IF YOU DON’T CUT THE SHIT THERE’S GOING TO BE NO CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR I MEAN IT!

It’s Christmas portrait time, Queefies.

It’s one of the most stressful days of the year for Crissy and Mister because omg kids.  If you’ve ever tried to take a portrait of your kids with their shiny happy little faces you know it’s a total fucking shitshow.

We decorate the tree, light the fireplace, set up the camera and the lights, get them into their matching Christmas dresses (purchased weeks in advance in preparation), comb their hair and get them in front of the camera to pretend that we are a functional family.

There’s bribery of the M&M persuasion and when that doesn’t work there’s threats of taking away television and when that doesn’t work Christmas gets cancelled like fifteen times.

Then comes the begging: “Please just smile.  This is not for US, this is for your family!  Auntie Cya and Marcy and Dips and Pop-Pop and Popa and Grammie and Uncle Billy and the people who love you want to have nice pictures of you!  DON’T YOU LOVE AUNTIE CYA? Smile for Auntie Cya! Come on, come on, sit here and smile…good!  good!  YAY!  Happy Kids! AW FUCK! THE DOG’S ASS IS IN THE FUCKING FRAME! GET THE FUCKING DOG OUT OF HERE!”

And then we try again and again and it goes similarly and it’s exactly like herding 147 profoundly retarded cats.

I start sounding like Bill Cosby:  “Come here. Come here. Come Here. Here! Here! Here! Here! Heeeeeerrrreeeeeeeee!!!!”

“Sit down. Sit down. Sit down. Sitsitsitsitsitsitsit.”

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Brain. Damage.

And I look like Jeffrey’s mother:

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This is because Girlfriend knows she’s in a position of power over both of us, so she fucks with us.  She splays her legs out, she crosses her eyes, she sticks out her tongue, she does whatever she can think of to ruin the shot.

She finds it tremendously rewarding to see Mister and me go to Crazytown.

Now, one might question why we do this year after year if it’s such a disaster.

Because if we didn’t, we wouldn’t get pictures like this:

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Have yourself a crappy little Christmas.

The Litter Critters

Well.

Remember my last post about Big Pussy crapping in the fireplace?  How could you forget?  It was very memorable.  Especially for me because it’s still happening.

I thought he was sick because when a cat starts doing Things That Are Inappropriate, they’re usually sick.  Big Pussy is about 14 years old now, so you know.  I figured he’s going senile or whatever.  I check his box frequently and have found either nothing at all  in there or a large amount of wet.  And I thought to myself:  “Jesus this is a lot! Maybe the kids peed in here!  NAH!”

And then I got this text from Ehpa:

Yes.

It seems as though her lovely daughter, Xanax, and her son, HulkSmash! have confessed that along with Homeslice and Girlfriend they have created for themselves an Alternate Facility in which to do their business because children today are lazy jackwagons and would rather piss in a cat box than climb a flight of stairs to relieve themselves!

I KNOW!!!! What the fuckingfuck?

I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that this was Girlfriend’s brainchild.

Here’s how I imagine  it went down:

While the grown ups were drinking wine and making penis jokes having adult conversation , the children were in the Porn Basement (which we totally gentrified, btw) watching Netflix and playing the Whee (emphasis on the WH), when Girlfriend decided she had to go potties.

Not wanting to  give up her spot on the couch for too long, she decided to pee in the cat box–just for funzies.  Xanax, HulkSmash!, and Homeslice immediately saw the genius in this idea and decided that this was pretty much the Best! Idea! Ever! and did it too.

Now, some of you may be surprised that I would be so certain that my own child would do such a thing, but you know me.  I’m a realist.  I am perfectly aware that Girlfriend has some, ahem, eccentricities that do not preclude her from doing a thing like this.

The next suspected little genius is HulkSmash!.  This is also the sort of thing he would dream up.  I believe that Xanax and Homeslice are mere followers.

Of course, Girlfriend and HulkSmash! would each throw the other under the bus in a heartbeat, so questioning them will be a lesson in futility.

Here’s my plan:

Say nothing, set up a camera and watch.  Eventually they’ll do it again and when they do, I don’t know what.

Except this is not what I did at all.

I questioned Homeslice and Girlfriend instead.

Girlfriend denies any and all involvement and totally blamed HulkSmash!, just as I suspected.  Homeslice had no idea what I was talking about, and when I said “who pee-peed in the kitty box?” she replied “Benny did!”

So, I believe she is innocent.  Xanax confessed to doing it only half way but continuing upstairs in the proper potty.

Girlfriend is NOT a fan of me blogging about this and says, and I quote:  “you will NOT write about this on your blog, mom!  I WILL NOT BE A LAUGHING STOCK!” Leading me to believe that she is indeed involved in the shenanigans.

The point is, Benny is perhaps not the asshole cat we thought he was.  Instead I have asshole children.

The End.