And so here it is...Compare the 2...wow, again, try to hold off on the peeing...but maybe you can't. TURN UP THE VOLUME
Um, this man is scantily clad, but I can't help but die with how serious he is about his video
In this one, the women are rather scantily clad...It looks like they're wearing one piece leotards
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friday, December 19, 2008
In the Laundry Pile of "Good and Evil"
In a mass of dirty laundry there will be 3 seperate categories. Clothes that fit, that need to be washed, clothes that are too small, and need to be washed, and clothes that are of the wrong season, and need to be washed. When sorting this load, after all is made clean, more often then not, unreliable helpers end up sending all items back to an unwanted destination. Their closet. This gives them the option of wearing such things in the most inappropriate times possible...and usually looks something like this...
I bought a package of size 8 underwear for Hannah when she was about 6-7 years old. Some factory worker thought it would be entertaining to add a size 14 to the mix and ship it on it's way. Mother opens package, and shows her daughter all of the cute patterns that will never be seen, to her child, but her child only has eyes for the size 14.
"You can't wear those yet," I say, cramming them, in a wad, into the thin plastic envelope.
"But they are my favorite ones," she whines, dancing from side to side to try and catch a glimpse of the pair, hidden behind my back.
"They aren't your size," I hurry to find a suitable hiding spot for them in my sock drawer in my room. She follows.
"Don't touch them," I warn. "I need to make dinner."
All seemed to be forgotten until a week later, while we were at a dinner party, the oversized pair made their apperance from under a summer dress, into a sad little heap on the floor. Trying to explain why my daughter had found it necessary to remove her underwear in public appeared to be futile...We left shortly after.
And yet another example...
It's 40 degrees outside, in the middle of the day, and I am asissting with the girls' clothing choices for the evening ahead.
"Put on something warm, it's very cold outside," I tell them, as I search for a coat for the baby.
"I'm hot," Emelia announces, flinging unwanted sweaters and fleece pants from her drawer.
"Well, you'll be cold when you go out tonight, so pick something for COLD weather," I put much emphasis on the word COLD.
10 minutes pass and I call everybody to the playroom to judge their sucess in finding winter appropriate attire.
Hannah, is wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, uh, not too bad...She'll pass.
Adelynne comes out in a skirt, a shirt with a hole in it and no socks.
"Can we at least put some tights on?" I ask, while nudging her back to her room.
Emelia tops them all, she comes out in a pair of floral short shorts and a tank top, and while they were obviously not suitable for the current weather conditions, they were also not her size either.
"Emelia, what did I say when I told you to get dressed," I sighed, knowing she would probably be answering me.
"COLD clothes," she huffed, pulling the shorts out of her rear end.
"Cold clothes?" My mind sought desperately to remember the conversation.
"Yes," she answered, "And these are COLD clothes."
I was about to argue that I said "COLD weather" when I suddenly envisioned her teachers at church wondering at my parenting skills, and I smiled, ever so subtly, "Wear them then," I said, "But, so you know, people at church might worry that mama and daddy can't take care of you and want to take you away."
And in the way, that only a 4 year old named Emelia can do, she cocked her head slightly to one side and asked, "Can I live with Miss Glori then?"
I bought a package of size 8 underwear for Hannah when she was about 6-7 years old. Some factory worker thought it would be entertaining to add a size 14 to the mix and ship it on it's way. Mother opens package, and shows her daughter all of the cute patterns that will never be seen, to her child, but her child only has eyes for the size 14.
"You can't wear those yet," I say, cramming them, in a wad, into the thin plastic envelope.
"But they are my favorite ones," she whines, dancing from side to side to try and catch a glimpse of the pair, hidden behind my back.
"They aren't your size," I hurry to find a suitable hiding spot for them in my sock drawer in my room. She follows.
"Don't touch them," I warn. "I need to make dinner."
All seemed to be forgotten until a week later, while we were at a dinner party, the oversized pair made their apperance from under a summer dress, into a sad little heap on the floor. Trying to explain why my daughter had found it necessary to remove her underwear in public appeared to be futile...We left shortly after.
And yet another example...
It's 40 degrees outside, in the middle of the day, and I am asissting with the girls' clothing choices for the evening ahead.
"Put on something warm, it's very cold outside," I tell them, as I search for a coat for the baby.
"I'm hot," Emelia announces, flinging unwanted sweaters and fleece pants from her drawer.
"Well, you'll be cold when you go out tonight, so pick something for COLD weather," I put much emphasis on the word COLD.
10 minutes pass and I call everybody to the playroom to judge their sucess in finding winter appropriate attire.
Hannah, is wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, uh, not too bad...She'll pass.
Adelynne comes out in a skirt, a shirt with a hole in it and no socks.
"Can we at least put some tights on?" I ask, while nudging her back to her room.
Emelia tops them all, she comes out in a pair of floral short shorts and a tank top, and while they were obviously not suitable for the current weather conditions, they were also not her size either.
"Emelia, what did I say when I told you to get dressed," I sighed, knowing she would probably be answering me.
"COLD clothes," she huffed, pulling the shorts out of her rear end.
"Cold clothes?" My mind sought desperately to remember the conversation.
"Yes," she answered, "And these are COLD clothes."
I was about to argue that I said "COLD weather" when I suddenly envisioned her teachers at church wondering at my parenting skills, and I smiled, ever so subtly, "Wear them then," I said, "But, so you know, people at church might worry that mama and daddy can't take care of you and want to take you away."
And in the way, that only a 4 year old named Emelia can do, she cocked her head slightly to one side and asked, "Can I live with Miss Glori then?"
Saturday, October 18, 2008
What a Mess
I live in a disaster...In my van that is. Cleanliness has drawn the line at my front door. Anything that goes beyond is considered fair game to be crapped on, and many neighborhood dogs do just that! Yesterday, in fact, my shoe found it's way into a nice fresh pile of steamy dog poop. Somebody should be shot...I digress...
My van has been known to swallow children alive. We've lost Layelle more times than I can count. Amidst piles of long forgotten clothing (mainly coats and the like) is fast food wrappers, old baby cups (milk is STRICTLY not allowed) and, my favorite, junk mail. Once items have made their way to the floor of this abhorrent wreck, we never see them again...At least not in their original form.
It was time to leave my house. I knew what I was up against. We had a rough week and fast food had been on the menu quite a few times. Not only did I feel like an unqualified mother for filling my children with garbage, but I got a double dose of inadequacy as they tripped their way through the vomit which was my van floor. We had important errands, I had no choice but to quickly maneuver them into their seats and hurridly head out on our way. Emelia met her first obstacle head on...A cup full of water, courtesy of Wendy's.
"It spilled!" she screamed from the very back of the van.
Ugh, another mess I would most likely not be cleaning up.
"Okay," I flipped my mirror so I could get a clear picture of the damage this catastrophe was doing to my 4 year old.
She was in hysterics.
"Hey, calm down, and just pick up the cup," my idea seemed reasonable enough to me.
"I can't reach it!" she wailed.
I sighed, but my greatest idea was yet to come, "Just unbuckle for a second, while we are at this stop sign."
The look that passed over that child's face went from desperation to complete indignance.
"You want me to get a ticket, don't you?" She asked, her face contorted into a blatant scowl.
"No, I don't want you to get a ticket. We are stopped so just go ahead and pick up the cup," I invisioned the contents spewing across a pile of library books that had yet to be returned.
"You DO want me to get a ticket," her eyes were wild now, and by the looks of it she was sure the police were on their way at just the mention of breaking the law, and unbuckling her seatbelt.
"You won't get a ticket, I will," my reasoning skills were being primed here.
"Yeah, and then we will have no money," she looked at me like I had completely taken leave of my senses.
"Just pick up the dang cup!!!" I cried, feeling helpless as I realized I was arguing with my someone who could barely write her own name.
"You want us to have no food, and to have no money, and Daddy will have to work all of the time, and we won't even be able to buy clothes."
And there it was, the final demise of the water cup. How could I argue with the complete breakdown of life as we know it? I couldn't, so I pulled out onto the road, feeling utterly demoralized. I began to get lost in a sea of my own thoughts when a defiant voice from behind uttered, "These things wouldn't happen if you'd just clean up the van ya' know."
My van has been known to swallow children alive. We've lost Layelle more times than I can count. Amidst piles of long forgotten clothing (mainly coats and the like) is fast food wrappers, old baby cups (milk is STRICTLY not allowed) and, my favorite, junk mail. Once items have made their way to the floor of this abhorrent wreck, we never see them again...At least not in their original form.
It was time to leave my house. I knew what I was up against. We had a rough week and fast food had been on the menu quite a few times. Not only did I feel like an unqualified mother for filling my children with garbage, but I got a double dose of inadequacy as they tripped their way through the vomit which was my van floor. We had important errands, I had no choice but to quickly maneuver them into their seats and hurridly head out on our way. Emelia met her first obstacle head on...A cup full of water, courtesy of Wendy's.
"It spilled!" she screamed from the very back of the van.
Ugh, another mess I would most likely not be cleaning up.
"Okay," I flipped my mirror so I could get a clear picture of the damage this catastrophe was doing to my 4 year old.
She was in hysterics.
"Hey, calm down, and just pick up the cup," my idea seemed reasonable enough to me.
"I can't reach it!" she wailed.
I sighed, but my greatest idea was yet to come, "Just unbuckle for a second, while we are at this stop sign."
The look that passed over that child's face went from desperation to complete indignance.
"You want me to get a ticket, don't you?" She asked, her face contorted into a blatant scowl.
"No, I don't want you to get a ticket. We are stopped so just go ahead and pick up the cup," I invisioned the contents spewing across a pile of library books that had yet to be returned.
"You DO want me to get a ticket," her eyes were wild now, and by the looks of it she was sure the police were on their way at just the mention of breaking the law, and unbuckling her seatbelt.
"You won't get a ticket, I will," my reasoning skills were being primed here.
"Yeah, and then we will have no money," she looked at me like I had completely taken leave of my senses.
"Just pick up the dang cup!!!" I cried, feeling helpless as I realized I was arguing with my someone who could barely write her own name.
"You want us to have no food, and to have no money, and Daddy will have to work all of the time, and we won't even be able to buy clothes."
And there it was, the final demise of the water cup. How could I argue with the complete breakdown of life as we know it? I couldn't, so I pulled out onto the road, feeling utterly demoralized. I began to get lost in a sea of my own thoughts when a defiant voice from behind uttered, "These things wouldn't happen if you'd just clean up the van ya' know."
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Toilet Strikes Back
Waking up to a 9 year old, screaming at the top of their lungs, in not my most favorite way to greet the day. If it were not for the fact that, said 9 year old, could fit in with any Broadway show with the amount of drama we deal with on a daily basis, we probably would have moved a bit more swiftly from the comfort of our bed at such an un-godly hour.
"It's flooded!" she screams, in a state of panic.
I knew exactly what she was referring to, as only the day before she had told us the toilet was flooded, only to find out that the water had simply drained from the toilet after being a bit too full (you don't even want to go there).
"Are you sure," I was a bit irritated to say the least.
"There's BLUE water all over the floor."
That sentence pulled me into a complete standing position, as I rushed to asses the damage.
There was, in fact, blue water all over the floor. It had pooled, ever so neatly, around piles of forgotten clothing, then managed to wander beyond what I would consider acceptable boundaries for blue toilet water. Not only did we have water on the floor, but we most certainly had numerous amounts of whatever had clogged the toilet in the first place. As I looked down, I noticed my feet had reached the bacteria haven that was my floor, and I was standing on a used piece of toilet paper. There are no words.
Mornings, first of all, are not my favorite part of the day. Having been pregnant several times, I believe my body has decided to take on all of the previous symptoms I once experienced with each and every one of my pregnancies. My gag reflex had turned against me. The whole situation was an attack on more than one of the senses. There was only one person who could handle a job like this...The husband. The man was clad in LONG pajama pants. LONG pajama pants that fell beyond the stretch of his feet. He went in, unaware. I was the captain of towels. I sent him in prepared, as best as I was able. He and his pajamas met their match in a puddle of water that belonged anywhere but my bathroom floor. He also managed to relocate the toilet paper I had found only moments before, which clung to him like a leech on steroids.
My ability to contain my disdain with what had unfolded before me had been lost.
"Who the heck flushed this toilet?" My voice was raspy, I knew any previous good mommy moments were about to be erased from the minds of my children forever.
A whole round of "Not me's" echoed throughout the entrance to this hell I'd come to find myself in.
In my house, we have a invisible being that lives here, and loves to get out all every toy that we has ever been purchased for the people that reside here, puts 500 sheets of t.p. into the toilet, spills water on the most valuable objects that we own, cuts the hair of my precious children's dolls, and well, the list goes on. It's more than a nuisance, I just can never seem to catch him in the act. I assumed it was he, that flushed the defective commode.
"Okay fine," I handed them each a towel. "Until you tell me who did this, then you ALL have to help!"
Suddenly my 4 year old recovered from her what appeared to be an abrupt onset of memory loss, "I think I might have wiped a lot or something." OR SOMETHING? Last time I checked this child had a strong, irrational feel of all things liquid. Blue water, chasing her out of the bathroom seemed a bit out of her realm, without a bout of intense screaming that would last until every member of the house were awake. Since I had not be awakened by such an incident and it was the 9 year old who had originally found it, there was only one final option.
"You did this, didn't you?" I pointed an accusing finger at my 7 year old.
Her reaction was just as expected, "Um, when I was asleep I might have accidentally flushed it, but I don't really know because I was asleep and I don't really remember."
And, if that doesn't say it all, I don't know what does.
"It's flooded!" she screams, in a state of panic.
I knew exactly what she was referring to, as only the day before she had told us the toilet was flooded, only to find out that the water had simply drained from the toilet after being a bit too full (you don't even want to go there).
"Are you sure," I was a bit irritated to say the least.
"There's BLUE water all over the floor."
That sentence pulled me into a complete standing position, as I rushed to asses the damage.
There was, in fact, blue water all over the floor. It had pooled, ever so neatly, around piles of forgotten clothing, then managed to wander beyond what I would consider acceptable boundaries for blue toilet water. Not only did we have water on the floor, but we most certainly had numerous amounts of whatever had clogged the toilet in the first place. As I looked down, I noticed my feet had reached the bacteria haven that was my floor, and I was standing on a used piece of toilet paper. There are no words.
Mornings, first of all, are not my favorite part of the day. Having been pregnant several times, I believe my body has decided to take on all of the previous symptoms I once experienced with each and every one of my pregnancies. My gag reflex had turned against me. The whole situation was an attack on more than one of the senses. There was only one person who could handle a job like this...The husband. The man was clad in LONG pajama pants. LONG pajama pants that fell beyond the stretch of his feet. He went in, unaware. I was the captain of towels. I sent him in prepared, as best as I was able. He and his pajamas met their match in a puddle of water that belonged anywhere but my bathroom floor. He also managed to relocate the toilet paper I had found only moments before, which clung to him like a leech on steroids.
My ability to contain my disdain with what had unfolded before me had been lost.
"Who the heck flushed this toilet?" My voice was raspy, I knew any previous good mommy moments were about to be erased from the minds of my children forever.
A whole round of "Not me's" echoed throughout the entrance to this hell I'd come to find myself in.
In my house, we have a invisible being that lives here, and loves to get out all every toy that we has ever been purchased for the people that reside here, puts 500 sheets of t.p. into the toilet, spills water on the most valuable objects that we own, cuts the hair of my precious children's dolls, and well, the list goes on. It's more than a nuisance, I just can never seem to catch him in the act. I assumed it was he, that flushed the defective commode.
"Okay fine," I handed them each a towel. "Until you tell me who did this, then you ALL have to help!"
Suddenly my 4 year old recovered from her what appeared to be an abrupt onset of memory loss, "I think I might have wiped a lot or something." OR SOMETHING? Last time I checked this child had a strong, irrational feel of all things liquid. Blue water, chasing her out of the bathroom seemed a bit out of her realm, without a bout of intense screaming that would last until every member of the house were awake. Since I had not be awakened by such an incident and it was the 9 year old who had originally found it, there was only one final option.
"You did this, didn't you?" I pointed an accusing finger at my 7 year old.
Her reaction was just as expected, "Um, when I was asleep I might have accidentally flushed it, but I don't really know because I was asleep and I don't really remember."
And, if that doesn't say it all, I don't know what does.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Discernment
Following through with my complete lack of people skills, I have made a strict stance against my front door and the people that exist on the "other side". My 4 children, however, have either, not been made aware of this or have refused to recognize my pleas to "not answer the door under any circumstance" as ridiculous and unwarranted motherly advice.
At 1:30, a faithful old man, dedicated to pestering busy stay at home mothers, made his way to my front door after having thrust a bag full of hormone and pesticide ridden treats at me the day before. He'd let me know that he would, in fact, be back the next day to yak at me until, out of exasperation, I found something in his catalog that I would be able to store in my freezer until the expiration date came and I was able to throw it out. Piddling away money on unusable items is not generally how I like to spend my time, so my resolve, let him come back after I was able to recycle my copy of the Schwan's (ice cream and frozen dinner delivery service) latest novel, and I would meet him with my front door in front of me.
Persistence must be part of the job application because that man stood behind that door for a good 10 minutes. Strangling my kids was not an option, so it was all I could do to restrain them from removing the only barrier I had between me and the sinister salesmen. There was only one way the man may have thought that we weren't at home. He was deaf. Between all four of our dear dogs barking at a fever pitch, and my 4 lovely daughters doing all that they could to draw attention to themselves in any available window, the man must have thought we were running some type of institution. If indeed he did, it did not deter him from another lengthy stop only an hour later.
Since the previous visit had made all 4 of my darling daughters acutely aware of my unwillingness to open my door for this man, they proceeded to read, at the top of their lungs (for those who could) the side of his truck that had been parked, haphazardly, almost nailing the big yellow fire hydrant in the front yard.
Them: "Mom, he has ice-cream, it says so on his truck"
Me: "Yes, but we don't buy that kind of ice-cream"
Them: "But Grandpa always gets us ice-cream from those kind of trucks, why don't you?"
Me: "Because."
Them: "It's because mom's are boring, and only grandpas and grandmas do fun things like that."
Now, not only was I viewed as uptight and rude for not answering my front door, but I was also denying my poor deprived children their right to a sugar-high. It felt great. It was my only retaliation to being portrayed as a hermit who locks her children indoors. The baby's face was smashed up against the glass, that I had purposefully covered in a thick plastic film when a neighbor had felt led to peer in while I was dressed, most inappropriately, while I was cleaning my bathrooms one day. Feeling like a prisoner in a nut house, I peeked through the little hole at the top of my door, only to see the crazy man waving to my 1 year old. Obviously the film wasn't doing it's job.
So, after 15 minutes of shooing the children into corners, and trying to soothe a most distraught baby, who was yelling "Guy!" in a most frantic voice, he left. It made me half wonder if I just shouldn't have opened the door and told the guy I wasn't interested in the first place, but then I remembered my resolve, and realized it was just the way it should be.
At 1:30, a faithful old man, dedicated to pestering busy stay at home mothers, made his way to my front door after having thrust a bag full of hormone and pesticide ridden treats at me the day before. He'd let me know that he would, in fact, be back the next day to yak at me until, out of exasperation, I found something in his catalog that I would be able to store in my freezer until the expiration date came and I was able to throw it out. Piddling away money on unusable items is not generally how I like to spend my time, so my resolve, let him come back after I was able to recycle my copy of the Schwan's (ice cream and frozen dinner delivery service) latest novel, and I would meet him with my front door in front of me.
Persistence must be part of the job application because that man stood behind that door for a good 10 minutes. Strangling my kids was not an option, so it was all I could do to restrain them from removing the only barrier I had between me and the sinister salesmen. There was only one way the man may have thought that we weren't at home. He was deaf. Between all four of our dear dogs barking at a fever pitch, and my 4 lovely daughters doing all that they could to draw attention to themselves in any available window, the man must have thought we were running some type of institution. If indeed he did, it did not deter him from another lengthy stop only an hour later.
Since the previous visit had made all 4 of my darling daughters acutely aware of my unwillingness to open my door for this man, they proceeded to read, at the top of their lungs (for those who could) the side of his truck that had been parked, haphazardly, almost nailing the big yellow fire hydrant in the front yard.
Them: "Mom, he has ice-cream, it says so on his truck"
Me: "Yes, but we don't buy that kind of ice-cream"
Them: "But Grandpa always gets us ice-cream from those kind of trucks, why don't you?"
Me: "Because."
Them: "It's because mom's are boring, and only grandpas and grandmas do fun things like that."
Now, not only was I viewed as uptight and rude for not answering my front door, but I was also denying my poor deprived children their right to a sugar-high. It felt great. It was my only retaliation to being portrayed as a hermit who locks her children indoors. The baby's face was smashed up against the glass, that I had purposefully covered in a thick plastic film when a neighbor had felt led to peer in while I was dressed, most inappropriately, while I was cleaning my bathrooms one day. Feeling like a prisoner in a nut house, I peeked through the little hole at the top of my door, only to see the crazy man waving to my 1 year old. Obviously the film wasn't doing it's job.
So, after 15 minutes of shooing the children into corners, and trying to soothe a most distraught baby, who was yelling "Guy!" in a most frantic voice, he left. It made me half wonder if I just shouldn't have opened the door and told the guy I wasn't interested in the first place, but then I remembered my resolve, and realized it was just the way it should be.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
And so it begins
I've written most of my blogs in times past, with the careful editing of select "choice" words, in the hopes that I'm neither offending, nor boring anyone. To be quite honest, that's not how I exist in my daily life. My life offers many quaint opportunities to be quite offensive. I have 4 children, after all, who dictate how I am able to respond and interact with other people. I am usually blunt. I'm not overly sympathetic. I find humor in things that most could find quite serious.
This is a blog about my REAL life, and my adventures in laughing at myself...and usually others as well.
This is a blog about my REAL life, and my adventures in laughing at myself...and usually others as well.
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