Poop on floors, and other anxiety creating scenarios.

This morning, as I was lying in bed, I heard The Children arguing downstairs.

The Girl:  STOP TOUCHING MY GUINEA PIG!!!

The Boy: I'm not. I'm touching MY guinea pig. Last night Mom gave her to me, because Mom loves me more than she loves you.

TG: LIAR! She does NOT, and Pumpkin is MINE! Mimi is YOURS!

TB: Not anymore. Now stupid Mimi is your pet because she pees on me. We traded pets, see?

TG: I'M TELLING MOM!!!!

At that statement, I felt my gut spasmodically tighten and I did A Not Very Adult Thing. I hid under my blankets. Because? When I get called into an argument, that invariably means I'm expected to Do Something about it. And hello? I didn't feel like Doing Something. I felt like lying in my bed and recalling the awesome dream I had last night involving Johnny Depp, living in a French Chateau, and having a Nanny to deal with The Children. Preferably someone super funny and wise, like Fran Drescher, because that would be AWESOME.

TB: Haha, tell her. I don't care. PEANUT BUTTER MONKEY BUTTS! (The Boy often shouts out random phrases). We are used to it, whereas his PE teacher is not used to it. Yet.

I waited for The Girl to run upstairs to tell me that her younger brother was touching things, stealing all the air and talking about butts, but since they were both unmedicated their attention was quickly drawn to the squirrel that has taken to foraging for nuts in our front yard.

TG: Squee!!! Look, a squirrel!!!

TB: Cool! Look at its butt!! Quick, get Mom's camera so I can take a picture of its butt. HURRY!!!

Crisis averted.
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Later-

I took a load of laundry downstairs because I had Big Plans today. Big. Plans. They involved making The Girl finish the dishes while I did ALL THE LAUNDRY. I was then prepared to hang it up instead of throwing it into the "clean pile" on my bedroom floor. Because I'm tired of rooting through 9 laundry baskets of clean clothes to find one pair of underwear and The Boy's Favorite Shirt. It has a dinosaur on it. His shirt, not my underwear. But? I would love dinosaur underwear, fyi.

When I walked into the laundry room, my eye was immediately drawn to the drain. Because it was backed up. And because POOP WATER was all over the floor of the laundry room. And somehow it flooded the family room, so I had stepped in Poop Water without knowing it.

Poop should only be in toilets. When poop is on my floors I become highly anxious. Because of e-coli and various other diseases and germs that my children and I are exposed to. Not to say that poop on my floors is a common occurence. Because it's not.

So, I did what I usually do when faced with situations that cause me stress/anxiety. I froze. On the poopy carpet. Because that way, the germs wouldn't get spread to other areas of my home. As my bare feet soaked up all manner of vile contaminants, I soon realized this was not the course of action I truly wanted to follow. I was forced to retreat upstairs, thereby contaminating my kitchen and livingroom floors with Germs.

I called three places and one guy came over. I took him downstairs and showed him the drain, which was covered with fecal matter. Then HE LIFTED UP THE DRAIN WITH HIS BARE HANDS!!!!

EEEEWWWWWW!!!!!!

I immediately ran upstairs and took a Xanax.

When I got back downstairs, the guy said it would be a two-person job, and he needed to call his work to see if anyone else was available.

I did not offer to let him use my phone.

Long story short, after this person walked all over my home and opened AT LEAST three doors, thereby contaminating them, he left.

I found another company that can be here today and will charge me considerably less than the first company.

But, in the meantime, the first guy came back, with a friend. After they touched a bunch of stuff and told me how much it was going to cost me for them to get the job done, I told them I had someone else that was going to do the job. People who would hopefully be attired in hazmat suits when they arrived.

But, I think I may have infected The Children with my germophobia, because now The Boy is walking around with his feet encased in gallon sized ziplock baggies, and the girl has fashioned a pair of shoes out of two garbage bag boxes.
No poop germs on me!

So the other guys got here and in 5 minutes they'd figured out that they needed to snake the line going through the toilet that's in the laundry room.

Yes, we have a toilet in our laundry room. It's just there, behind a wall, just in case we suddenly need to pee while doing laundry. Here it is:
While I appreciate the creative use of space, um, no.


There's also a sink in the laundry room, and a showerhead attached to the wall. There's no shower curtain, or actual shower. Just a showerhead, sticking out of the wall. In case you're thinking about something like this:
Oooh. Fancy.

Um, yeah. No. I'm talking about this:
I'm pretty sure I would come out even more gross than before the shower.

And that's why the sellers were able to list the house as a two and a half bathroom house.

And yet, surprisingly, most of us survived our childhood.

Our kids are spoiled beyond belief. I know I've blogged about this before but it really annoys me that my kids think I'm abusing them when I declare a "no-tv" night. So, I decided to make a list of things my generation never had as children, along with a list of what we had instead. And we are still alive to blog/talk about it:

1. School lunch "choices."
1a. Listen kid, the school cafeteria is not a restaurant. People who work in restaurants don't wear hair nets, and you aren't made to stand in line and give Jimmy Walters cutsies everyday, because if you don't? He'll punch you in the breadbasket later during recess.

Whatever the school gave you, you ate. Or not. What's that? You say you can't eat the school's beef and noodles ever since Kathy Durst threw up right next to you the last time the school served them? What do you mean "everytime I think of beef and noodles I feel nauseous and think of the janitor's pink sawdust"? Tough shit.

2. Car seats.
2a. A special seat? For the kid? Strapped securely in the car? Ha! You're joking, right? I regularly laid in the back window area, or hid in the wheel-well. And whenever the car came to a stop, I'd roll out of the back window onto the seats.

In fact, we never even used our seat belts, since my dad stuffed them in between the seats every time we got a new car. Because they got in the way, and anyway, who wants to sit on those things? Not us. Too uncomfortable.

3. "Safe" or "age appropriate" toys.
3a. Every Christmas, I was the gleeful recipient of toys made out of glass, tin and things with sharp parts, along with candy or gum cigarettes. Those things were awesome, because when you blew through them, a puff of powdered sugar "smoke" would appear.

When I was 8, I got a "Nurse's kit" for Christmas. It came complete with 3 glass bottles of  tiny candy pills. I can clearly recall carrying it around the trailer and saying things like, Looks like it's time for me to take my medicine!, before downing half the bottle.

4. Go-gurt, fruit snacks, probiotics, or almond butter.
4a.  Ho-Ho's, Twinkies, Zingers and Ding-Dongs. Those were our snacks. In fact, I clearly recall a time in my young life when my breakfast consisted of nothing but Ding-Dong's and Tang.
.
5. Finally seeing the Trix Rabbit getting to eat Trix.
5a. Ha! No way could the Trix Rabbit be allowed to taste the fruity goodness that was in every bowl of Trix cereal. Oh, sure, he tried. But he was smacked down Every. Single. Time. And kids LOVED that crazy rabbit. We rooted for him during each commercial, even though we knew how it would turn out.

In fact, the Trix Rabbit represented everything that defined childhood in the 1960's/70's. You don't get something just because you want it, kid. If the Trix Rabbit had ever been allowed to eat Trix, I imagine that would have pitted child against parent in a rebellion not unlike the French Revolution. Viva le Lapin de Trix!

6. Child-specific clothing stores such as: Justice, Aeropostale, Abercrombie & Fitch, American Eagle, Gap Kids or The Children's Place.
6a. Special stores that catered just to kids? HA! We had JC Penney's, Sears and Bergner's (for the rich kids). Didn't like what they had to offer? Tough shit. Now put on your Toughskins and shut the fuck up.

7. Computers, passwords, cellphones, the internet, cable tv, daytime cartoons or video games.
7a. Uh, wtf? We had books, Barbies, GI Joe, Magic 8 Balls, marbles, jacks, crayons and phones with curly cords that got tangled when we played with them as we made crank phone calls.

8. Caller ID.
8a. We could make crank phone calls because nobody had caller id. Conversly, when someone called us, we just....answered it. Without knowing who it was. Every. Single. Time.

9. Build-A-Fucking-Bear.
9a. If we had ever told our parents we wanted anything resembling this item, they would have said, You want me to pay an exorbitant price for a teddy bear that isn't even STUFFED? And I should pay extra so it sounds like a dinosaur whenever you pinch it's left paw? Then you want me to buy it a fucking cheerleader outfit? Fuck that, get your mom to take you to the fabric store and she'll make one for you.

Know what little kids and drunk college boys have in common? THEY ARE LYING LIARS. Also, they sometimes pee their pants when they drink too much.

Today, I thought I'd dedicate this post to an issue that has bothered me, and others like me, for some time now.

Our kids lie about us.* Usually in public. And often quite loudly.

Do you know those people who say, "Oh, children are just so refreshingly honest!" or, "Young children don't know how to lie at this age. That's how you know they aren't lying when they say their parents are beating them!"

Bullshit. I bet they don't even have kids.**

Or how about this one?

"Children and drunks. They always tell the truth."

No. NO THEY DO NOT.

Do you know how many drunken college boys have slung an arm around my shoulder and slurred wetly into my ear, "buh ah love you bayhbeeee!", only to never be heard from again?
Eleven. The answer is always eleven.

Equally duplicitous, if only slightly less obnoxious, is the species known as Toddlerus Americanus, or, in layman's terms, any American child who still has not fully committed to the concept of dry underwear, drinking from an open cup or remaining fully clothed when in the public arena. I expect that toddlers of other nationalities are little liars as well, but as my experience has only been with the children of my country, I will leave the foreign toddler-liar issue to my bloggy-peers in Asia, Australia, South America and Africa.

Case in point. When my son was 2, I took him to the local Walmart Supercenter for some groceries and various sundries. As I lovingly stroked his cap of angelic blond curls and kissed his cherubic cheeks, he looked up at me adoringly with big blue eyes framed by long curly lashes.  Then he widened those baby blues and loudly asked:

"MAMA? WHY YOU SAY YOU NO LOVE ME??"***

This is him, at age 2, in "Lord of the Flies" mode:
I take no prisoners

So you can see why the Walmart ladies were so aghast, right?
Everybody in that aisle turned toward us in shock. That's right. Every white-trash (I call trailer trash! I grew up in a trailer court, so I can say that!), toothless, wrinkled and scraggly-haired woman turned a judgemental eye towards me.

Even women who looked like this:
Ah judge you, an' ah have found you wantin'


My most immediate thought was, Oh HELL no! You did NOT just say that, you lying little shit! You are SO LUCKY we're in public where I can't give you the beating you so richly deserve!  DON'T YOU KNOW I F*CKING LOVE YOU!??

But of course if I'd said any of those things, I would have been chased out of Walmart by an angry group of scraggly-haired women carrying pitchforks, Yoo-hoo Chocolate Drink® and porkrinds.

So, ever opting for the truth, I sweetly said (in a voice sure to carry to the farthest corners of the liquor aisle that we just happened to be in), "What are you talking about? I love you! I've never said I don't love you!" (This is true. Shut up.)

My young son, oblivious to the drama, but somehow convinced that he was right, decided to argue this fine point.

"Yes you do! You say it ALL THE TIME! You say, 'Zachie, I NO LOVE YOU!" (collective gasp, myself included).

Let me point out a minor problem in my son's claim. How many adults do you think tell their children, "(insert name here), I no love you!" No matter how stupid the parent, or how poor their grasp of the basic rules of English grammar, not once have I ever heard a parent utter that particular phrase. And I have come across my fair share of stupid parents, let's just make that crystal clear.

I don't recall how this story ends, but suffice it to say that I was traumatized that day. This is why I advocate the use of ball gags alternative childcare arrangements when you need to do your weekly shopping.****

And just so you know, I'm not the only parent whose child lies about them. I have a friend who taught her three-year-old daughter to scream, "This is not my real mommy!", just in case she was kidnapped and people were around.

Her child decided to test out her newfound powers. At Walmart. As my friend was in, you guessed it, the liquor aisle*****, her child loudly proclaimed, "THIS IS NOT MY REAL MOMMY!!!"
_______________________________________________________

*Of course, kids don't lie all the time.

** Do I really have to say this? *sigh* My attorney says I do. Fine. If a child evidences any abuse done to them, by all means call the police and/or DCFS. For serious. In fact, if this is news to you, you are to stupid to be allowed to read my blog. Go away now. You make me feel stabby.

***That? Oh, that was a big, fat lie.

****This blog in no way is meant to be indicative of the way you should actually deal with other human beings in real life.

***** HAHAHAHA!!!!! Ok, she was in the card aisle. But that's not nearly as funny.

Who says love and trauma are mutually exclusive?; or "Santa's Little Narc."

Tonight, I got a text from my friend Shirley, telling me about some dumbass craze that's sweeping the country. Elf on the Shelf.

Have you heard of it? If so, you probably have one in your home. If not, it's basically like subjecting your children to McCarthyism for a month. Only Joe is wearing an elf hat. And ladies underwear (but only if you believe that rumor, of course.)
What's Victoria's Secret? ME. And I'm STILL watching you.

Anyway, I googled this elf/shelf thing and that's when I realized something.

Elves are assholes.

I decided to put my deductive reasoning skills to the test, and I came up with the following:

1. If some parents buy these elves.
2. And the elves are assholes.
3. Then some parents just might be assholes.

Not sure if you're an obsessive a loving parent, an asshole parent or somewhere in between? Then take my quiz!

1. If I owned an Elf-on-the-shelf I would:

A. Read the Elf story to my child every night before bestowing Eskimo/butterfly kisses on his/her face, and quietly tiptoeing out of the bedroom.
B. Thoughtfully position the Elf on an easily accessible piece of furniture, take a photo of it for my child's scrapbook, and then make sure I'm in bed by 10pm sharp.
C. Have a few lot of glasses of wine before deciding to make snow angels on the kitchen counter with the elf and a handful of flour. Then post the pix on twitter before passing out in a drunken stupor on my bathroom floor:
What do you mean, I have to "hold it" until morning???

2. My personal mantra is:
A. My child is a precious gift, and my duty as a parent is to protect his/her sacred innocence. At any cost. Also? My child has a Spirit Animal.
B. Yeah, I love my kid. But who says love and emotional trauma are mutually exclusive? Besides, if I mess with my kid, it toughens them up for the real world.
C. Back off! My parents locked me in a box every night for 8 years and I turned out JUST FINE!!!

3. Something I think about often is:
A. Knowing I would DIE for my child. Several times in a row, if I could.
B. Sure, I love my kids. But I need some me time too, you know?
C. If you mix up the letters in "Santa's Elf", it spells "Satan Self."

You know the drill, mostly A's? You're a living saint. A martyr. And your child will probably have Mommy Issues. Let's just hope he doesn't turn out like Norman Bates.
"A boys best friend is his mother"

Mostly B's? You're somewhat sadistic, but in a grounded sort of way.

Mostly C's? Hahahaha!!!
Santa's Little Narcs

Dear Kmart: So why did you put this display up if you didn't want customers "causing a disturbance"?

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