Day 56 of eating straight eggs for breakfast. Literally, 56 straight days of eating eggs. And only eggs. No toast. No bacon. Sometimes an avocado. One day I made coconut flour pancakes and pretended they were amazing. And one day I made chia coconut milk pudding, and decided that eggs were actually a gift from Jesus himself. "Oh but Foxy, chia pudding is amazing! So much health in one little cup." Yeah, well. did your pudding have delicious things? Like berries and chocolate wisps? And some honey or maple syrup? And some fairy wing sparkles and unicorn dandruff? Well, mine had some unsweetened coconut milk, chia seeds and a few twigs and 14 pebbles. I gagged most of it down, focusing on the health benefits. But it literally tasted like cow snot. So it's eggs over here. Tomorrow it will be day 57. Thank you Jesus for chickens.
I continue to poop. I continue to assume/makeup/wish really hard, that the white things I see embedded in the poos are the cursed wildebeest worms.
Yesterday my mood was significantly low and testy. I also didn't poop. There is a large and significant probability that holding onto all those toxins for an extra day did NOT help. I wish I had realized this before I went to bed. Next time, enema for sure. Guys, for real. Toxins don't just affect physically, but also emotionally. I also was dealing with a lot of anxiety. Because basically I'm going to die any second. The anxiety could be coming from thyroid, candida, wormlies, adrenal, just pick one.
Talking about adrenals. Do you guys even know you have something called your adrenals? They sit on top of your kidneys. They're a pretty big deal slash, important. I'm going to add this article. Because I think Dr. Axe makes it's pretty simple to understand. And then this article mainly because I liked the picture.
My poor poor adrenals. I think they're about as dead as doornail. I even read that it's really important to not watch tv shows that are exciting. That's like everything I watch. So I'm not watching anymore. I guess it's going to be me and Doc Martin for awhile. That and medicinal, unsweetened tea. And a granny bedtime of 9:00. And a silky soft pastel pink nightgown that goes down to the floor. With puffed sleeves and 17 pearl buttons that go up the front, clear to my adams apple.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Guys, my beautiful Queenie got married this weekend. Big D and I went sans babies. First of all, it was 401 degrees. And I was pleasered than a punch bowl that I wore a shorter dress. But it did make it awkward when beads of sweat starting running down my legs. That happened. Also, with my ridiculously ridiculous diet, I had to leave the reception to go eat a boring piece of meat at the local pub on the corner. . . ... .... . . So much fanciness I had to pass up. "Ma'am, would like a whole bunch of fancy drenched in something you can't eat, topped with the devil himself?" Oh the Self. Re. Straint. I had to maintain.
Also, one of the best parts happened all too quickly. Big D and I were trying to dance. I say "trying" because we're old. And this new music they have out there is stuff that makes dancing hard. For old people. But let me tell you, there were some not old people who were dancing just fine. Anyway, so we're out there. Clapping off beat. Clucking our tongues. Trying not to step on the 47th wine glass that got dropped. Attempting to shake our skeletal money makers. . . . .. And this magical thing happened. This drunked girl grabbed Big D and threw him into this mini dance circle. 2 guys and 1 girl and Big D crammed into the middle. There was so much grabbing and twisting and humping and grinding and touching. I thought it was the most spectacular event. And over all too soon. And Big D almost started crying.
I need to wrap this up because I'm starving.
Dinnner
A plain burger on a bed of greens topped with sauteed onions
Asparagus
Boiled potatoes and carrots drowned in butter - not for me, of course.
And on an ending note, a question for all of you from Ed. Who is 5.
"What's worse than fake rocks at San Diego?" His answer is bad angels.
The end.
Showing posts with label pleased as punch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pleased as punch. Show all posts
Monday, September 12, 2016
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Homskul iz Grat
These are the days that I love, love homeschooling. These. This. It happens once every 5 million years - but in these very rare instances, when all the stars align in the most glorious way. When I can breath for two seconds. And love, grateful for most. I love homeschooling.
First it starts with the weather. And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather. But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall. Dark. Miserably dark. Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark. Misty and sometimes rainy. Leaves still on the trees. But half on the ground. And cold. It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.
I have one lamp on in the house. I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.
The kids: One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.
Me?: Yes, yes. Still looking like Miss Hannigan
This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery. Take a break from the brow beating. We've worked for 11 weeks without a break. So, well deserved for all. But mostly me.
I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle. He won't stop talking. And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP". But I don't. I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come. And what if I squashed it, and then it never came? So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence. And 99 out of 100 times it's something like: "mom, do you think this piece goes here?" But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it. "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"
Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother. So much imagination in the corner.
And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great. Always together. Naked or not. Imagination growing and working. We can move slow, or we can move fast. I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.
Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom. It will still be there tomorrow. I will drink another cup of tea. I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over. And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch. I will strive to make dinner. And if not, we'll have toast. With lucky butter. And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing. Fall is for sewing. And re-vamping. And freshing-up and re-decorating.
Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic. The middle of the blade snapped. My birthday knife is no more.
Take Aways
1) Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2) Eat chips only more than not
3) Be naked more than not
4) Stay away from garlic more than not
5) Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever
First it starts with the weather. And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather. But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall. Dark. Miserably dark. Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark. Misty and sometimes rainy. Leaves still on the trees. But half on the ground. And cold. It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.
I have one lamp on in the house. I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.
The kids: One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.
Me?: Yes, yes. Still looking like Miss Hannigan
This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery. Take a break from the brow beating. We've worked for 11 weeks without a break. So, well deserved for all. But mostly me.
I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle. He won't stop talking. And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP". But I don't. I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come. And what if I squashed it, and then it never came? So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence. And 99 out of 100 times it's something like: "mom, do you think this piece goes here?" But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it. "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"
Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother. So much imagination in the corner.
And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great. Always together. Naked or not. Imagination growing and working. We can move slow, or we can move fast. I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.
Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom. It will still be there tomorrow. I will drink another cup of tea. I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over. And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch. I will strive to make dinner. And if not, we'll have toast. With lucky butter. And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing. Fall is for sewing. And re-vamping. And freshing-up and re-decorating.
Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic. The middle of the blade snapped. My birthday knife is no more.
Take Aways
1) Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2) Eat chips only more than not
3) Be naked more than not
4) Stay away from garlic more than not
5) Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
I Will Not Swallow
I named her Mother Green Toes, because that's what she is. She's a mother to a large car load of kids. And she does things that would put a green-thumber to shame.
I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.
These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1) Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2) Doesn't own a chemical
3) Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the best there is
4) Homebirths
5) Grinds her own flour
6) Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7) Her make-up is from the holy earth
8) Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9) For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into
But she does like her fancy cheese. And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method. (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)
The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner. And it's good stuff. But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.
Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time. And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion. Eggs and muffins. Naturally I agreed.
Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs. So perfect.
But the next thing that happened was not perfect. It was quite confusing.
I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex. I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.
And then I didn't know what to do. I was a guest. And I had a hostess. And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more. And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".
No, that's not appropriate at all.
But that's exactly what I did. I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too. There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid. And you can't think. And you don't care. But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.
Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?
Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?
I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.
These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1) Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2) Doesn't own a chemical
3) Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the best there is
4) Homebirths
5) Grinds her own flour
6) Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7) Her make-up is from the holy earth
8) Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9) For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into
But she does like her fancy cheese. And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method. (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)
The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner. And it's good stuff. But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.
Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time. And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion. Eggs and muffins. Naturally I agreed.
Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs. So perfect.
But the next thing that happened was not perfect. It was quite confusing.
I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex. I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.
And then I didn't know what to do. I was a guest. And I had a hostess. And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more. And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".
No, that's not appropriate at all.
But that's exactly what I did. I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too. There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid. And you can't think. And you don't care. But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.
Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?
Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Fifteen Ways? Double-Time With an Extra "Ew"
As if trying their hand at one list wasn't enough. They had to write another list. A lady list. And I thought the man list was as stupid as pie.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
- Hug and kiss her every morning before leaving the house.
- Go to bed at the same time she does.
- Brush her hair while complimenting her eyes and appearance.
- When she's studying herself in the mirror, tell her, "You are so beautiful."
- Evict late-night television from your bedroom.
- During mid-afternoon, call or send her an email to ask how her day's going.
- Try your hand at making breakfast on Saturday morning.
- Put gas in her car, vacuum the floor mats, and clean the windows.
- Write her a short love letter. List several ways she has blessed you this year.
- Resurrect common courtesies: Hold the car door open. Offer her your arm.
- Put the toilet seat down.
- If you hear her engaged in a tough situation, compliment the way she handled it.
- When you're together in a crowd, find a way to brag on her.
- Help her put the kids to bed.
- Pray with her every day. Every day!
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
A Typical Day With Ed
My day with naughty Ed as gone like this:
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Worst Aunt
I'm assuming that when normal people get the opportunity to have nieces or nephews, there is this push to be grander than all the rest. I'm assuming that normal people want to be the coolest, or the nicest. They want to be thought of, fondly. And with smiles.
But not me. I try to be as miserable as I can. I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.
I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels. All of which I am pleased as punch about.
But two of my favorite, go like this:
1) I was home alone with all 6 kids. (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes ) And Chuck has this wooden toy house. And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells. It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door. Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.
And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around. I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.
Brilliant idea! All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock! (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around. Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)
First I grabbed Murnice's pinky. But her knuckle was too large. And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred. Her pinky slipped in like salted butter. And she felt the lock. But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.
But then, Mildred started screaming. And hollering. "MY PINKY!!!! HELP!! OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"
Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house. And it was just me. And 6 kids.
And I kinda got a little excited. Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor. Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky. But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . . I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where. And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up. And the swollen factor. And the screams and yelps of pain.
And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode. And I had a semi-normal thought. Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out.
Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself. And then I smiled nicely at her. And patted her head 7 times. And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.
2) Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal. Versus praying. It's lovely. It allows participation from everyone. And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.
I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family. And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was. Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows. Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.
Yes, and I did all of that. While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.
And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby. So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor. Just like she was planning. Before I showcased my true, great talent.
The end.
But not me. I try to be as miserable as I can. I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.
I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels. All of which I am pleased as punch about.
But two of my favorite, go like this:
1) I was home alone with all 6 kids. (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes ) And Chuck has this wooden toy house. And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells. It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door. Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.
And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around. I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.
Brilliant idea! All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock! (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around. Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)
First I grabbed Murnice's pinky. But her knuckle was too large. And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred. Her pinky slipped in like salted butter. And she felt the lock. But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.
But then, Mildred started screaming. And hollering. "MY PINKY!!!! HELP!! OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"
Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house. And it was just me. And 6 kids.
And I kinda got a little excited. Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor. Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky. But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . . I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where. And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up. And the swollen factor. And the screams and yelps of pain.
And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode. And I had a semi-normal thought. Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out.
Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself. And then I smiled nicely at her. And patted her head 7 times. And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.
2) Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal. Versus praying. It's lovely. It allows participation from everyone. And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.
I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family. And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was. Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows. Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.
Yes, and I did all of that. While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.
And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby. So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor. Just like she was planning. Before I showcased my true, great talent.
The end.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Allow Me to Take Care of That for You
I am a bit of an extremist. A bit of an all-or-nothing type of lady. It's like, give me whole beard or nothing. Go big - or don't show your face. And don't try to grow a beard if you have awful facial hair. . . . .. Moving on . . . .. . Or, I'd rather have the fullest bowl of soup or no soup at all. Or, bring me to orgasm or don't even think about it. Or, sing as loud as you can with as much vigor allowed, or don't sing at all.
Also I like to make "points". Even if it ruins my life. One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around. And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.
Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve) And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile. The pile that sits right next to our front door. The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there. Waiting to see how long it would sit there.
Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts. And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart. But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective. How unobservant is he? How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes? I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.
One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch. Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?
I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay. I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure. But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.
One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard. But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1 Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2 Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3 Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4 Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk. (ie 3-7 minutes)
And then I throw. And I throw with great pleasure. I wing things as far as I can. And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow. Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk. And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard. Or half buried in a snow bank.
When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . . that added an extra level of pleasure. Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying. And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness. I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . . I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony. And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.
Also, another thing that I'm really good at. Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with. Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage. And I become very full of energy and strength. Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.
Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax. Big D loved me a million for doing that.
And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.
Take Aways
1) I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2) Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3) He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4) He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5) I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6) I love to throw. Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".
The End.
Also I like to make "points". Even if it ruins my life. One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around. And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.
Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve) And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile. The pile that sits right next to our front door. The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there. Waiting to see how long it would sit there.
Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts. And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart. But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective. How unobservant is he? How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes? I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.
One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch. Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?
I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay. I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure. But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.
One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard. But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1 Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2 Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3 Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4 Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk. (ie 3-7 minutes)
And then I throw. And I throw with great pleasure. I wing things as far as I can. And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow. Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk. And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard. Or half buried in a snow bank.
When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . . that added an extra level of pleasure. Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying. And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness. I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . . I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony. And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.
Also, another thing that I'm really good at. Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with. Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage. And I become very full of energy and strength. Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.
Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax. Big D loved me a million for doing that.
And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.
Take Aways
1) I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2) Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3) He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4) He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5) I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6) I love to throw. Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".
The End.
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