RTT: Do It For The Dung Beetle.

I brought Graham to the store to get the sickies tissues and ice pops. There was a skeezy looking guy eyeballing Graham as we walked in. I gave him a dirty look and nudged Graham to keep on walking.

As we waited in line, the skeezy guy approached us and knelt down.

And started signing to Graham.

His parents were both Deaf, and he signed fluently.

The look on Graham's face when a stranger does this is of shock and delight. He just grinned and nodded and shyly signed back.

Skeezy guy looked just as pleased.

Sorry for thinking you are skeezy dude.

*******

One day last week, while both kids were up my butt, wanting things, not cooperating, not being nice to each other, reminding me why I drink, I threw my hands up and exclaimed:

"I'm going to lose my mind!"

To which Dottie replied;

"Not AGAIN!!!"

*******

When I separate these radom thoughts, I don't use a random number of these;

*

I use seven.

*******

You may have heard this one already, but Dottie is the cutest thing ever.

We were in the car and she was describing how her imaginary day went at imaginary school with her imaginary friend Alex.

The cuteness was causing me physical pain. I told her;

"Oh, you're out of control sweetie."

The sweet story telling was over, replaced by wailing and screaming this at me;

"I. NOT. A. TROLL!!!!!"

*******

Dennis is wicked smaht.

Dottie sported a 103 temp for much of the day yesterday. All attempts to get Tylenol into her failed, anything we got into her mouth she promptly spit all over us.

I went to work ready to scoot home real quick and give her a suppository.

In the meantime, Dennis tried bribing her with all her favorites, Funyons, popcorn, olives. No dice.

He hit on something she couldn't resist. Strawberries. If I let her, she'd eat a pint a day.

He cored out the middles in a few and dropped the Tylenol inside.

She gobbled them all up like the little crack head that she is.

*******

So it looks like I've dodged the H1N1 bullet. Know what?

I'm pissed. When is it my turn to lay around for two days straight while someone waits on me hand and foot?

I am aware that I chose this life of servitude. Wife, mother, nurse, all my choosing.

But as Dennis lay in bed all day, mostly dead with fever, as I brought him drinks, changed the sheets, checked his temp, I found myself jealous of him.

I do all the tending. Nobody tends to me. I'm not complaining.

I'm tired.

I read a question posed on a blog a while back that went something like this;

If the Blue Whale were to become extinct if you did not agree to become paralyzed for an entire year, would you do it?

Without hesitation - YES!

Sign me up!

Now!

I need the rest.

Fuck, I'd do it for the Dung Beetle.

*******

More random at UnMom.

Is That All You Got Little Piggy?

Dennis:

Definitely exposed to H1N1 while working on a friend's house. One of the kids had it.

Friday night: high fever, chills, aches, coughing quivering shadow of his former self on into last night.

Call to local hospital with all these facts;

"Yep, he's got it. Please don't come in unless he's in respiratory distress."

Can. Do.

Graham:

Received H1N1 vaccine a few weeks ago.

Had a cold. No fever, chills, aches. A cold.

Dottie:

Slammed with fever out of nowhere yesterday. Coughing, sweating, whining, stumbling around delirious and still so freaking cute.

She's got it.



Our sick weekend in pictures:

Dennis and Dottie were reduced to this for much of yesterday.


While Graham read aloud to the sickies.
Olive got in on providing comfort to sick child.

Oh yeah. Me? I've got a little headache this morning. I can't imagine why.

I am quite relieved to get this nonsense over with. Dennis is much better this morning. Dottie is still sleeping, but I can hear her coughing.

If you wouldn't mind doing me a favor? Just how does one get medicine into a sick child without a tube? Seriously. I couldn't get a drop into her last night. All kids should have tubes dammit.

FYF: On Sickness and My Boyfriend Making It All Better.

Sickness.

Though I am thankful as fuck that it is not the piggy flu, it has still ruined the past two days. My only two days off before my 5 day work week starts tomorrow.

Graham was a rag doll when he got off the bus on Wednesday. Complaining; "I sick", but unable to give me a specific symptom.

His not wanting to eat wasn't a surprise or a concern as I threw some formula down his g-tube. The concern started a half hour later when he started retching. As I grabbed a syringe and emptied out his belly, basically throwing up for him as he lacks the ability, I had a preemptive panic attack;

What the fuck am I going to do when the g-tube is gone? He can't puke. Ever. That's it. We're keeping the tube forever.

Once the retching passed, I informed him that he'd be staying home the next day. His face lit up, he grabbed the phone, pretended to dial, and had a pretend conversation with his teacher, letting her know he'd be absent. Then he did his homework.

He woke up yesterday with all the snorkle, snuffle, and sneeze of a garden variety head cold. Jammies were left on all day, sleeves became streaked and crusty. The Benadryl flowed freely, some may have landed on Dottie, thus ensuring a long midday nap for us all.

Afternoon found him ever so slightly better, better enough to torture his poor sister, causing all manner of screaming, shreiking, crying, whining, pissing and moaning. Those last two performed mostly by me.

By evening, the wine flowed freely, thus ensuring the survival of the children until their father got home.

I would have loved to send him to school today, to send this nasty bug back from whence it came, but no. Coughing is no longer allowed in schools. Thanks again piggy flu.

Of course Dottie is showing signs of coming down with it. Dennis called from work and he thinks he's got it. Oh goody, another kid to tend to.

Me? Not yet. Not likely. Since I have spent the last 11 years of my life swimming in germs, I am impenetrable. I rarely get sick. But I might fake it and call in sick on Monday. Just for kicks.

Oh look! It's wine thirty!

Excuse me while I have a moment with my boyfriend.



He's so good to me.

*******

ETA: Looks like that piggy shit has landed. Spent the night with hubs moaning and groaning and shaking the bed, not in the fun way. High fever, cough, aches oh my!

Me? Still ok. Little cough, little headache, big bad attitude. Part of me wishes I could get so sick as to be incapacitated, but then, who the fuck will take care of me? And the kids? Nobody. That's why I don't get sick.

Oh, I did call work though, and they don't want me anywhere near the place. Score!

Secrets and Surprises.

There was a juicy bit of gossip that a coworker wanted to share with me last night. Before handing me the tidbit she asked the dreaded question;

"Can you keep a secret?"

"No. No I can't. I'll take your little nugget of catty goodness and whisper it to the first person I see."

I truly don't like gossip, but it is tough to avoid. My honest approach has proven successful in keeping me away from the scuttlebut, and blissfully out of the loop.

I've always been this way. The not liking secrets or surprises.

If I had the chance, I'd peek at birthday presents. Mom kept a list in her bedside drawer of what each of us were getting for Christmas, helpful to keep track of what us six kids were getting as well as keeping the gift score even. I consulted that list daily from Thanksgiving til Christmas.

When we got pregnant with Graham, Dennis insisted that the baby's gender be a surprise at birth. He felt very strongly about it. My argument that it would be just as much of a surprise at 5 months as it would at birth got me nowhere. It was his first baby too, so I respected his wish.

The day before my pregnancy ultrasound, I had an ultrasound to check me for kidney stones. I'd had an active history of the buggers and my doctor just wanted to be sure nothing was brewing.

The tech was very chatty and friendly and asked when my pregnancy ultrasound would be. She then informed me that she herself would be performing it the next day. She asked it we wanted to learn the sex and I told her the whole story.

I was cleared of any kidney stone danger and before she ungooped me she treated me to a quick peek at Graham. He waved.

The next morning, I confirmed plans with Dennis as to the time and place the ultrasound would be happening; 10am, 15 minutes away from where he'd be working on a friend's house. He'd have no trouble getting away for the hour or so it would take.

I arrived at the hospital 20 minutes early, I'm early for everything. I waited patiently with a magazine and full bladder, expecting Dennis to arrive any second; he wouldn't dare be late for his first glimpse at his unborn child.

When I was called in, exactly at 10am, Dennis hadn't arrived. The tech asked if I wanted to wait to start. I told her to go ahead, the receptionist would direct him to where we were.

In the woods of Vermont 7 years ago, cell phones were useless. There was one little stretch of road where one could get a signal, and we weren't near that stretch of road.

Arms, legs, fingers, toes, belly, alien head, no Dennis. As the minutes ticked by I skipped worried and went directly to seething anger.

Even though cell phones didn't allow conversations, they did have this fancy feature on them called a clock; only useful is one actually looks at it.

Forty minutes went by. I think the tech was taking her sweet time, hoping the child's father would appear.

Forty five minutes, she asks me;

"So. You said your husband didn't want to know the sex of the baby right."

"Ya."

"Well, he's not here. Do you want to know?"

"Fucking tell me."

I really wanted him to be a boy.

Fifty minutes; Dennis comes flying through the door.

"You missed it ass hole. I know what it is and I'm not telling you. Ass. Hole."

And I didn't. I never told him. I never told anyone. I tortured my friends and family, all knowing that I knew. Of course I heard dozens of pleas;

"Just tell me, I won't tell anyone. Promise!"

Yeah right, if you're anything like me, you'll announce it to the world. Sorry but no.

I'd purposefully slip and say "he" or "she" equally, keeping everyone in the dark. I bought only gender neutral things, lots of yellow and green.

I was so incredibly pleased with myself, I never knew I had such powerful secret keeping powers. Who knew all I needed was a heavy dose spite to uncover my hidden talent?

Dennis got his surprise when Graham was born.

And we both got the surprise of our lives with the little secret Graham had been keeping.

RTT: Pay It Forward Anyone?

I went to college in the silly little town of Antigonish Nova Scotia. I had a group of very silly friends and we had ourselves a silly, cactus licking good time, some of which I actually remember.

After college, I had a silly plan to keep the party going by marrying a silly friend in British Columbia, in order to become a Canadian citizen. The silly wedding plans included grumpets, nudity and other such silliness.

My trip to British Columbia was derailed in favor of far sillier endeavors. No silly fake marriage to silly friend.

I saw this posted on Facebook and thought I'd share.

The drummer is my silly almost fake husband Allan.



Hey Al! How's yer pickle?

*******

Letting the kids bathe together saves time and hot water. It is amusing as hell and unbloggably wrong.

Dottie has recently become aware of certain differences between herself and Graham.

She announced this newfound knowlege with a giggle and a *flick*.

*******

Graham has had his gtube for over 6 years now. In 6 years, it has fallen out exactly three times.

Last week it fell out three times in one day. That thing wants out. If we were past flu season I would have left it out.

I have cool plans for its final removal in the Spring.

*******

Read this post.

*******

I've said before that I don't mind housework. Cleaning is therapeutic, the sound of dirt being sucked up into a vacuum is musical, a bright sparkling bathroom magical. Don't even get me started on Swiffer Dusters or Magic Erasers.

I am perpetually hunched over picking toys up and putting them in their rightful places. As I clean and organize (yes, organize) the playroom, I am fully aware that it is an exercise in futility, that the kids will destroy all my hard work in a matter of minutes. But I enjoy my job of giving them a clean canvas on which to be children.

I could do without the constant stream of laundry, the washing, drying and folding don't bother me as much as the putting away. I wish Dennis would heed the call of the full basket of folded laundry and put it away himself. I don't get pissy when he doesn't.

I do get pissy about his clothes on the floor. I don't pick them up. EVER.

Fine, I get pissy about picking up after him in general. You know, him being a grown up and all.

Dennis had gone on a weekend camping trip a couple months ago. He left a pair of boxer briefs on the floor next to our bed. Graham picked them up and put them in the hamper.

I snatched them out of the hamper and dropped them right back where they were on the floor.

I have issues.

Dennis made beef stew a few days ago. I don't eat beef stew. I had nothing to do with the preparation or clean up.

The crock pot is sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.

I'm not putting it away.

Any guesses on how long it sits there??

*******

Sherri posted a cool thing, which she saw on this blog. Since I've finked out on at least a couple of Sherri's swaps, I went and commented, and being one of the first three commenters, I am now obligated to play the game and Pay it Forward.

Here are the rules as described by the eloquent Miz G. With my own additions in italics.

THE GAME:

The first three people to leave a comment on this post will be receiving a small gift. Here are the restrictions:

ETA: So it looks like nobody wants to play eh?? Ok fine. The first three people who WANT to play leave a comment telling me so. How's
that. Make that two people, Jane says she'll play. She's nice like that.

1. I make no guarantees that you will like what I make. I pretty much suck at making things.

2. What I create will be just for you, with love. And likely while drinking wine.

3. It’ll be done this year (2009). It says DONE, not wrapped up and put in the mail ok?

4. I will not give you any clue what it’s going to be. Because I will have no clue what I am doing.

5. I reserve the right to do something strange. Like going to the store and buying a trinket instead of making something.

6. In return, all you need to do is post this text on your blog and make 3 things for the first 3 to respond to your blog post. If you don't play nice, you may find a Fuck You Friday post dedicated to you.

7. Send your mailing address to me at tenaciousg at verizon dot net if you are one of the first three commenters.

FINE PRINT: (Sherri's fine print, it works for me so I'm keeping it.)

It may be the very end of 2009 before anybody sees a damn thing in their mailbox from me, and again, I'd like to stress that whatever I make may not be something you want to keep.

If this works for you and you'd like to play along, understanding that if you comment you agree to receiving some sort of creation and creating three things for others to receive, then just be one of the first three peeps to leave a comment.

*******

More random at UnMom!

Halloweekend in Pictures.

Friday night the kids and I had a sleepover at our friend Lily's house.

We decorated Halloween cookies.

Our lovely hostess Lily.

I think there may actually be a cookie under that green icing.

What kind of mother lets her kid suck frosting right out of the tube?



Too bad we didn't get enough sprinkles.


They loved story time.


When the jumping was out of their systems, the kids and I tossed and turned and fought over blankets and awoke demanding to go home 12 times, and someone shit their pants at one point slept soundly.

Halloween!

The curl on his forehead is the best.


"I a Wild Thing!!"


Dennis and I decided not to dress up. We're no fun.


Thank you Sherri for the inspiration for my costume.

Those are not my boobs.

This picture does not do my sister Muffy's really big and fabulous boobs justice.

Trick or Treating was a hoot. The kids lasted about an hour. They were very polite and thanked everyone.

Dottie got a little green bag of Skittles at the first house. She wouldn't put it in her bag, she held on to it like a little prize.

At every house, instead of saying Trick or Treat, she'd hold up her bag and say;

"I got candy already! See! A green candy one!"

We laughed our asses off.

I definitely didn't walk around the neighborhood with a cane in one hand and a sippy cup full of wine in the other.

I also didn't deny Graham his request to eat candy for breakfast while I snuck peanut butter cups out of his bag all morning.

Fuck You Friday: The One I Hope I Don't Turn Into.

Last week I treated you all to the lovely and delightfully foul mouthed Sophia. I would consider myself lucky to spend my last couple of years on earth as sweetly out to lunch as my beloved Sophia.

I have to assume I will lose my mind and need tending to. I will piss my pants. I will shit them too. I had better continue cursing. I hope I will remember how to tell people off in Sign Language.

What concerns me about my impending dementia, is the possibility of ending up like Lucy.

*******

Lucy was a teensy little thing. I doubt she weighed 80 pounds. With her great steely halo of wiry hair going every which way, her enormous glasses with the thickest lenses possible magnifying her eyes so they were impossibly huge, a pointy beak of a nose and an even pointier chin; she looked more like a Jim Henson creation than an actual human being. Her almost non existent lips were stretched over toothless gums.

Not only was she mostly blind, she was mostly deaf . Because of the mostly blindness and mostly deafness, one had to get dangerously close to her face for her to comprehend anything said to her. Once one got that close, one couldn't help but wonder how a toothless mouth could house such a foul odor.

One might find oneself thinking; Isn't that what asses smell like?

One would be correct.

Lucy never had children. Her niece Ginny, a grade school teacher, was responsible for her. She would yell for Ginny frequently during the day, demanding that we call her. With Ginny's permission, one of us would go hide in an office and call the nurse's station pretending to be Ginny. We usually got away with it. She bagged me once during a rare lucid moment, asking me what my kid's names were. I hadn't a clue. "You. ARE. NOT GINNY!!!", slamming the phone down.

She also shouted requests for food, though she hardly ever ate what was given to her. She did however, dine on a Christmas cactus one year. She ate the whole thing. With no teeth. Poison Control assured us we had nothing to worry about. She spit little green bits at us for hours.

Squawking for food or Ginny were welcome diversions compared to what she preferred to holler about.

Sex.

Apparently she liked it. A lot.

If you happened to walk past her room, you'd likely be treated to something like;

"In and out, in and out, in and out..."

Or you could find her at the end of the hall loudly demanding;

"Somebody Fuck me! Please! I need to get fucked!!"

The horror.

To make matters worse, as she cackled about getting laid, her hands were down her pants. All. The. Time.

The horror.

Every morning I had basically the same conversation with Lucy;

"Good morning Lucy."

"Oh!! You're pretty!" (I told you she was mostly blind.)

"Thank you Lucy, I have your medicine."

"Are you married?"

"No Lucy, here's your medicine."

"Do you have a man??"

"Yes Lucy, take your pills."

"Does he have a big dick?" or "Does he fuck you good?" or my favorite; "Can I fuck him?"

All I could do was make like she wasn't saying lewd things and carry on about my business.

All of us on the unit were on alert when visitors were around. Someone would whisk Lucy away and attempt to engage her in some activity that would deter the dirty talk. We weren't always successful.

My coworker Sue's son Nate came by to visit and was accosted by Lucy near the nurse's station. He was lucky that we were there to tackle him as he almost grasped the hand that Lucy was offering him to shake.

"Hi!"

"Well, hello there."

"Come here! Let me get a look at you! You're handsome!" (He totally was.)

"Why, thank you." Clueless.

"Are you married?"

"Ummm, noooo." So clueless.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Ummmmmmmm, nooooooo" Getting a tad uncomfortable. Rightfully so.

"Do you want to fuck me!!??"

Poor unsuspecting thing turned a shade of purple I'd never seen. An aide scooted Lucy away before Nate had a stroke.

*******

Like I said, I do expect to enjoy some degree of dementia in the winter of my life. I accept the ugliness and incontinence.

All dirty talk and bad smells aside, I loved Lucy and remember her fondly. The children she never had are so lucky.

And though Dennis may be deserving of such high praise, I hope I check out before I start fondling myself while detailing our sex life to Graham and Dottie.

RTT: In Which The Children Behave Horribly and The Meeces are Smashed To Pieces

*******

A couple weeks ago, we took the kids on their very first train ride to the big city and spent the day at the Children's Museum.

I haven't done a post about our adventure because I was so throughouly disgusted with my children's behavior.

They were perfect.

We left the house on time, scored a sweet parking spot at the train station, arrived on the platform to find a train just sitting there waiting for us. I expected Graham to be his normal anxious freakish self, but no, he rode that train like he'd been doing it his whole life.

So boring.

A quick walk from the station to the museum, we arrived minutes after it opened and the kids played for 4.5 hours.

No screaming, no crying, no fighting, no shitting of pants.

Here's some video.

Even when they're only being sort of cute, they are seriously fucking cute.



*******

Speaking of shitting pants. Dottie has discovered that she loves black olives, which led to me making this discovery:

One can of black olives = Worst. Diaper. Ever.

*******

In other, non poop related Dottie news, she finally got a big girl bed. I was encouraged when I tried to put her down for a nap in the new bed and she kept getting out until I had to throw her in her crib.

She may be ready to give up the nap but I am nowhere near ready for that shit. I'm not ready for the big girl bed. I'm not ready for Dottie to not be a baby.

I gave Dennis strict instructions for bedtime (as I would be at work): She gets out of that bed ONE TIME and in the crib she goes.

Dennis sent these pictures to my phone:

Dennis tucked her in, gave her some books, which she loves so much she had to sleep on them, and never heard from her again.

Have you ever heard of a more horrid child?

What an ass hole.

*******

Graham loves his superheroes. He has a guide to all things superhero, an encyclopedia if you will, listing all superheroes, their origins and powers. There are corresponding magnets.

He was sorting his magnets yesterday, putting the Avengers together, X-Men, Fantastic 4, and so on.

He knows most of them, but needed help pronouncing some of the names like Juggernaut, Silver Surfer, and Phoenix. That was the hardest one. He can't really hear the 'F' sound, but he knows what sound the letter 'P' makes. You see where this is headed? Yup, we have a new superhero and his name is;

Penis.

Yes Graham, some men do think what they have down there makes them a superhero.

And I've seen yours.

Sorry sweetie.

*******

Dennis played superhero in the shed the other day (get your mind out of the gutter, that's not where I'm going with this).

He donned his cape sweatshirt, and wielding his sword hammer, faced down the ferocious beasts infesting the shed.

Mice.

He wasn't quite satisfied with the job the mousetraps were doing, so he went medieval on their little asses.

I don't love mice, but I don't think I could look one in the beady little eye and smash it with a hammer.

Nor could I stomp the life out of its babies with my Dansko's.

I was not aware that my husband was capable of such cold blooded carnage.

I'm sleeping with one eye open from now on.

Those mice have families, and they're gonna be pissed.

*******

More randomness at Unmom!

Fuck You Friday: Did You Kiss Your Grandkids With That Mouth?

I had the pleasure of spending a shift with some delightful little old ladies last night.

When I'm walking around the mall, I'm more likely to point out an adorable little old lady than I am an adorable little baby.

I just love me a white haired, polyester elastic waist pants wearing, hunched over little cutie.

Which brings me to two of my all time favorite gals.

Sophia and Lucy.

*******

I took care of Sophia for a year or so. I clearly remember when she came to us, I let out a gasp when I saw her name on the chart. I so wish I could tell you her last name because it is hands down the best last name in the history of last names. I couldn't wait to meet someone with such a kick ass last name (that was really mean, I know, but I'm not about to mess with fucking HIPAA).

Sophia did not disappoint. Sweetest face I ever saw, pale and wrinkled, her hair pure white and perfectly straight, worn in a fierce pixie cut. Her big brown puppy dog eyes had that familiar lost look of an Alzheimer's patient.

She was always well dressed, her daughter bringing her new things frequently. Her body was all softness and roundness, chock full of granny goodness she was.

At first she didn't say much to anyone. She'd shuffle contentedly around the unit, sometimes muttering to herself. She'd answer simple questions on good days. On bad days she'd babble gibberish at us.

It didn't take long to figure out how to engage her. Any mention of her daughters or grandchildren would cause her whole face to light up, the lost look in her eyes gone for a moment.

If I happened upon her in the hall looking especially misplaced, I'd put my arms out, ever so slightly, and she'd eagerly scoop me up in a big squishy grandma hug. She'd walk away smiling.

I discovered that she loved laundry. She'd get anxious some afternoons and I'd grab the basket of towels we kept to keep fretful hands busy. I'd plunk it down next to her and complain about all the towels I had to fold. She'd take it from me, shoo me away and happily fold the towels. When she was done I'd thank her profusely, take the basket away only to return minutes later to repeat the ritual. It always settled her.

Her daughter Ann, who was fully devoted, called and visited often. We easily became friends and would spend time together outside the nursing home on occasion. I was thankful for our close relationship when I heard Sophia mumble something that didn't sound like English. I had to know what she was saying, so I called Ann.

"She said what!?"

"It sounded like 'funcool'?"

"No! I'm so embarrassed!"

"You have to tell me."

"She said 'vaffunculo'?. I'm so embarrassed. The mother of all swears. It means "Go fuck yourself".

Jackpot. Cute old lady who swears in Italian? I was in heaven.

And it just so happened that swearing was the key to reaching Sophia like we hadn't been able to do before. The first time I told her "Vaffunculo", she laughed so hard, which made me laugh so hard, that we both peed ourselves.

I'd opened the floodgates. Every day I'd hear a new one and have to call Ann for a translation.

Go fuck your mother,

Go fuck your sister,

Ass hole,

Shit head,

And so much more.

If she ever looked like she needed cheering up, I'd go sit next to her and pick out someone to tell off. There was a manager on the unit, a man whom nobody liked. Sophia really disliked him, so we'd sit in a corner saying filthy things, like how he likes to fuck farm animals, that he takes it up the ass, how he smells like shit, how small his penis is.

Good times.

I was tickled to learn that cursing wasn't just a symptom of her dementia. I was looking through old photos with Sophia and Ann one day and saw a photo of a younger Sophia with the caption; The Big F. I questioned Ann.

That was her nickname. Sophia was known as the "Big F" by her family due to her affinity for the F-bomb. She dropped it freely. She dropped it often. In Italian. In English. No matter the situation or company.

My heart swelled. I was sure, if I were 50 years older, or Sophia 50 years younger, we would have been the bestest of friends.

Maybe next time around Big F. Maybe next time.

*******

Ok, so it looks like we've run out of time folks. You'll have to wait til next week to meet Lucy.

Random Tuesday Thoughts: While I Ignore My Children

On Sunday my dryer shit the bed.

Yesterday I weighed my two options for drying my two loads of wet laundry:

Drag Dottie to a skanky laundromat and hang out for an hour with its skanky patrons while the clothes dry;

OR

Spend the morning at my parents' lovely home, drying my clothes, sipping coffee while they entertain Dottie.

I chose wrong. Way wrong.

I went to my parents' house.

The folks can be hard on the noggin. Mom's grip on reality is slipping fast (her grip always sucked anyway). It was a tense couple of hours that ended in...

drumroll please.......

Their dryer shitting the bed while drying load #2.

Who kills two dryers in two days?

Oh, and if you ask Mom it was totally my fault. My two measly little loads of kid clothes broke their dryer.

I expect a bill for a new dryer in the mail soon.

*******

Dottie made a friend at the playground this morning.

It was a woodchip.

She carried it around, cradled lovingly in her hands, whispering to it. She laid it down on the bottom of the slide and sang it Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She bitched at every kid that went by;

"Quiet! You're gonna wake up my friend!"

*******

After the playground, I spent an hour in the ginormous wholesale club stocking up on a year's worth of diapers, wipes, coffee, juice, wicked fun interesting stuff.

Dottie followed behind me screaming her head off, hanging on my sweater (with one hand of course, the other hand still clutching her dear friend woodchip), pissing off dozens of fellow shoppers.

I finally shut her up with a pair of Dora jammies. She was so happy about the stupid things.

I got to the self checkout and realized I had no money or debit card on me.

I treated Dottie to several variations of my favorite F word, ditched the cart and stormed out with no intention of returning.

We got home and Dottie wanted her damn Dora jammies. I grabbed my friggin debit card and dashed back to the store to find my cart where I left it.

And the damn Dora jammies rang up wrong, $4 instead of $11.

Score.

*******

Right at this very moment, the kids are in Dottie's room playing. This is the conversation I am hearing;

Dottie: "You pull my pants down!"

Graham: "Spank!"

Dottie: "Yeah!!"

Graham: "You like spank?"

Dottie: "Yeah!!"

spankspankspankspank.

Graham: "Good Night Dawd."

Then he walks in and tells me that he pulled her new Dora pants down and spanked her.

I just heard her tell him to do it again.

She just said; "I farted!"

I shouldn't be blogging about this.

*******

I should be working tonight.

My friend and coworker asked if I wanted to dump a shift on her as she's short on money and throwing a birthday party this weekend.

So I'm not at work.

I know it's only Tuesday but;

*clink*

*******

Happy Great Fernal Day.

*******