Tag Archives: messy

Sewing, like life, is hard.

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Was I ever whole?

I always feel like there are just frayed stitches barely holding me together, and one day the entire thing will completely fall apart.

I feel like I’ve wasted a lifetime in fruitless attempts to put myself in some kind of order, but my edges are still ragged and I’m covered in rips and tears and bits of glue.

Forever trying to gather the broken pieces of myself and reattach them in some semblance of a person, I sometimes think the messy repairs and faulty seams are all anyone can see.

I see a broken puppet, controlled by a broken puppeteer, trying to pretend that one day I will find the perfect pattern and, with clean, straight stitches, will sew myself up securely, and never be undone again.


Boys, Otherwise Known As Destroyers of Bathrooms

This little guy is 12 now. *sigh*

This little guy is 12 now. *sigh*

I have three boys—two children, one husband—and I can say with some authority that there is no other creature who can be at once so adorable and so utterly disgusting.

I’m not saying that girls can’t be super gross. I have one of those too and she peed in my bed last night and once blew her nose into her own hair. So girls have their moments, but for the most part I don’t think they come equipped for maximum bathroom carnage.

I rarely use the boys’ bathroom because I don’t like sitting in other people’s urine. Or my own, for that matter. Also, even if I was in a desert with no food or water, I would never drink my own pee.

I’m getting a little off track.

Anyway. Men supposedly lift the toilet seat up and leave it up and that is a big problem in other households. In THIS household the only problem is a huge lack of aim and probably laziness. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just lift the fucking seat and point the urinator at the toilet bowl? I just made up a word. But seriously, who just pees everywhere, willy-nilly, and doesn’t even care? Boys, that’s who.

Our house has two bathrooms. Two of my boys currently have some sort of facial hair. At no time is either bathroom free of small, wiry hairs decorating the back of the sink, the cabinets, the walls, the floor, and even the mirror. Neither of my boys can shave or even trim an area the size of half a head without the sink looking like they tried to shove Chewbacca down the drain.

As bad as I hate to, let’s talk about shower etiquette. Now, there are some things boys may or may not do in the shower that I don’t want to know about AT ALL, let alone talk about.

But there are some things going on in there that can be heard from two rooms away with the water running full blast, and I ain’t talking about singing.

I shudder to even speak of this, but here we go. Blowing of the nose IN THE SHOWER FOR FUCK’S SAKE! WHO DOES THAT? BOYS! BOYS DO THAT!

The sound alone is enough to send me gagging, but what really grosses me out is the left-behind-evidence of this shower boogerfest. It is so awesome when I am taking a relaxing bath and someone else’s snotwad floats by.

*Sigh*

But. Even though they are often filthy, sweaty, hairy, and stinky, they are my boys and I couldn’t live without them, no matter what that rotten odor is coming from their bedrooms or their butts.


Don’t Eat That Off The Floor!

Once upon a time in a land far away, my house was always clean and I was always bathed.

Every little thing was in its special place; sometimes I got frisky and even washed the drapes!

Then I had three children and got a full-time job; I’m not sure how it happened, but suddenly I’m a slob.

Clothes are piled everywhere, the dirty and the clean; Christ, half the time this place looks like a crime scene.

The kids are running wild and the cat just puked on the carpet; I’ve lost all my patience and am reduced to screaming “PARK IT!”

The trash is everywhere and always overflowing and this damned winter weather just won’t stop with all the snowing!

The dishwasher stopped washing and now it’s only leaking; I’m thinking this might be a good time to take up drinking.

I thought I told you not to eat that off the floor!  The five second rule DOES NOT apply here anymore.

 


It’s a disinfectant kind of day.

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.


Limit four.

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.


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