It’s not even noon and I’ve been covered in a small human’s urine twice already.
This is motherhood, people. Think on it.
I’ve got to go clean up after my cat, who has apparently decided that her litter box may only be used one time before she has to go in the floor to teach me a lesson.
If Cleanliness is next to Godliness, then I am currently living in the Devil’s asshole.
Oh Chronic Pain, you evil, sneaking, rotten bitch, how I loathe you. My dinner sits uneaten because I can’t use my right hand. What fresh hell is this?
It’s not enough that my bones hate me and plague me with random deep agonies Every. Single. Day?
It’s not enough that my skin burns for unknown reasons and requires me to put ice packs on my feet to fall asleep on those nights that I don’t have to immerse the bitches in boiling water to make my skin stop crawling?
It’s not enough that I lose at least a week out of every month lying in a darkened room, hoping someone will just shoot me or that my head will finally spontaneously combust?
Chronic Pain, you miserable slut, is it too much to ask for you to just pick one part of my body to torment?
*Please note that I realize there are worse things I could be saddled with, I am sincerely grateful for all that I have, and none of this shit I’ve got is going to kill me. So everybody just calm the fuck down.
So my daughter is 4. She occasionally does stuff and I’m like, What The Fuck? Where did that come from?
Because, although you couldn’t tell it by my blog, we’re actually pretty strict parents. Anyway.
She’s started doing this thing where she wiggles her butt and sings “shake it, baby.” It’s a little disconcerting. I could not think where she might have seen this.
Then I turned on my cleaning music today, and started shaking it. Yep.
I think knowing all the words to California Love at just four years old shows great memorization and lyrical skills. Not to mention all the exercise she gets “shakin it.”
For anyone unfortunate enough to not be hip to the 90s rap, here you are, and you’re welcome.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDZ961xhNEo
It turns out that the number of humans I am capable of keeping in some semblance of order is four. That’s unfortunate, because after my three children and my husband, I make five.
This means that while my daughter went to school freshly bathed and brushed and wearing matching clothes, I worked in my pjs until about 15 minutes before I had to leave the house.
That was when I realized that although I had showered within the last week, I could not remember the last time I had attempted to brush my hair. Which is long. And thick. And now partially in dreads. Actually, that should be singular. A dread. I have one nappy snarled twisted mess right smack-ass in the middle of my hair.
My husband is now referring to me as Marley. I’m not sure what the next step should be here, other than maybe hiding all his socks. (Oh, wait, I already did that. Ha.)
But seriously, I was under the impression that people cultivated dreadlocks, not that they just appeared if you maybe slacked off on personal hygiene for a few minutes months.
Clearly it is time for a new goal. Actually, goals, while I’m at it.
1. Stop eating so much damn pity pie. Pity pie is NOT your friend.
2. Brush your goddamn hair, you dirty hippie.
3. Fuck it, that’s enough. Those are pretty lofty goals; I’m worn out and a little hungry already.
I am starting a movement, and I expect my readers to get behind me on this (all 12 of you).
We are living in the 21st century (I think. 21st? Does that sound right? Whatever.) Voicemails are old fucking news. Effective immediately, we should all start completely ignoring them. I’m a little ahead of the rest of you on this, but that’s because I got a pretty good head start (about 5 years).
Seriously. No one ever leaves a chipper voicemail. It’s all cranky bullshit, like “Call me back. Click.” or “Please return my call.” Fuck that. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. Occasionally my husband will just leave fart noises, but that’s really as good as it gets.
If you call me and I don’t answer, I can pretty much guarantee that there is a reason. Maybe I don’t feel like talking. Maybe I don’t have cell service. Maybe a purse monster ate my phone. Maybe I’m in the bathroom. Maybe I don’t like you, or I’m having one of those days where I hate everyone, including myself. The possibilities are endless, really.
Anyway, leaving me 15 voicemails, each pissier (how can that not be a word?) than the last is NOT going to make me return your call.
I have caller ID. We all do.
For fuck’s sake, if it’s that important send me a text. Or a pigeon. I would totally reply by messenger bird.
Okay, enough ranting. Now planning.
So, I hope you will all join me in my crusade to rid the world of this great evil, this guilt-inducing, joy-sucking government plot, this heinous OUTRAGE, The Voicemail. (It even sounds bad. Like blackmail. Voicemail. Blackmail. See? I’m doing this for all of us.)
We Don't Chew Glass 