I love the smell of piss in the morning.

*Disclaimer: I'm cranky. Real cranky. Read at your own risk.

So I've been sick all weekend. Just a little head cold, nothing to get your underwear in a bunch over. But of course due to my refusal inability to follow everyone around, wiping their asses cleaning up after them and generally waiting on them hand and foot, the house is a shit hole in a general state of disarray. The last time I dared to venture into the main living space of my home, there were dirty kid underwear on the kitchen floor, random half eaten waffles left lying on the carpet, and a sink full of dishes overflowing onto the surrounding counter space. And don't even get me started about what my son did to the toilet last night. Let me just say that the hubs almost had to make an emergency trip to Walmart for Drano, after my plunging prowess failed to rectify the situation (the hubs saved the day with his own mad plunging skilz. It's true though, I'm hella good at plunging. Sorry boys, I'm taken. XOXO).

What's more, this morning I was awakened at the butt crack of dawn by the ever-delightful sound of children bickering (ahhh, music to my ears), at which point I discovered that Maggs, who always occasionally sleeps with me, had also wet the bed. Good times. You know me - I love the smell of piss in the morning.

I think we'll have to pass on the Bumpits.

Maggie just approached me, begging with much excitement and enthusiasm, for something she just saw on TV called "Bumpits." She continued to inform me that "they're only $9.99 plus process and handling, and if you buy one, you get one free!"

























C seemed to be concerned by her request for Bumpits, as if he were assuming that naturally I would rush to take advantage of the twofer. However I would never purchase Bumpits for my daughter for these reasons alone:

At best she might look like this





And at worst she might look like this




Yeah, I think we'll have to pass on the Bumpits.

Yeah, that's right. I'm doing a "Not Me" Monday post and it's Tuesday. Ya wanna make somethin' of it?

Yesterday after reading a "Not Me" Monday post over at Good Girl Gone Redneck, I decided to grab the button and write one of these posts myself. And believe me, after the Monday I had yesterday, I could use a little venting. Unfortunately, due to some unforeseen circumstances which I will go into in a moment, I was unable to finish writing said post before Monday was long gone. Anyway, here it is.

Yesterday morning, it wasn't me who hit the snooze button until the very last possible second before I had to roll out of bed and take my son to school in my pajamas and Uggs. I mean, driving around in your pajamas is embarrassing - who would do something like that?

Because I hit the snooze button so many times, it was definitely not I who provided breakfast courtesy of the Starbuck's drive-thru on the way to school. And I did not order a venti quad shot latte with whole milk for myself because that is way too much espresso, and whole milk is full of saturated fat. I adore abhor saturated fat.

It wasn't me that allowed my son to go to school with a few random stray hairs protruding from around his ears after my husband cut his hair at home. Because we believe in nothing but the best for our munchkins and always get our children expensive, professional haircuts. And I would never tell my son "I guess you'll have to figure it out for yourself then" when he threw a temper tantrum because I merely suggested that I quickly trim the aforementioned hairs.

It wasn't me that decided that Throwback Pepsi is an excellent meal replacement plan. Because Throwback Pepsi isn't wholesome or organic or any of that jazz, so I would never drink it to excess.

It wasn't me who discovered that her son has been peeing in the bathroom trash can on purpose. That is disgusting and no child of mine would do something like that.

It wasn't me that almost picked my computer up and threw it through a window yesterday afternoon because it was moving at a snail's pace. Not me, because I am of excellent temperament, and patience is one of strong points.

It wasn't me that waited until I was in excruciating pain and couldn't hear out of one ear due to the pressure of my impacted wisdom teeth to finally make a dentist appointment. Dentists are my friends and they would never do anything that would hurt me. I'm not afraid one bit to be "put under" so that they can rip my impacted wisdom teeth right out of my jaw. In fact, I'm sure they'll use special dental wizardry to perform this procedure, and rainbows and unicorns will abound.

It wasn't me that caught my kids sneaking chicken nuggets (because I absolutely never allow my kids to eat chicken nuggets) into my room where they deposited them directly onto the carpet (as opposed to a plate or a bowl or something) so that they could continue playing while they ate. (Ironically, they were doing a yoga for kids DVD when I discovered the chicken nuggets on the carpet. Can you spell c-o-n-t-r-a-d-i-c-t-i-o-n? That's like when I eat jarred cheese substance with organic corn chips).

It was not me who attempted to embarrass her husband at dinner last night by doing enthusiastic fist pumps to "Round and Round" by Rat and "I Can't Drive Fifty-Five" by Sammy Hagar at the local pizza joint. I would never do something so crude and insensitive because I'm respectful and wifely and shit.

Finally, it was definitely not me who discovered that my car keys were missing right as I was supposed to be leaving to pick my son up from school yesterday afternoon. It was certainly not I that blamed my husband, insisting that it was he who lost the keys. It was also not me who found the keys hours later in the trash can, only after my husband insisted that I look there - not that I would have minded anyway because digging through trash is good times. And I would never secretly suspect that angry spirits threw my keys in the trash (thank you, Paranormal State), because it was definitely not me that absent-mindedly tossed them in the kitchen trash yesterday morning.*

I blame the car keys fiasco for the lateness of this post. It kinda took a long time to find them (mofos. I still believe that angry spirits were involved and that by watching a Paranormal State marathon over the weekend, I opened a portal to the spirit world. I think Ryan and his team of paranormal investigators would concur). Anyway, I hope your Monday was better than mine.

*The hubs happened to be right next door to my son's school just then and was able to save the day by picking him up for me. Show off.

My version of Wordless Wednesday: Mommy Don't Play That.

Because there really are no words that sufficiently convey how shit full I am of my son's attitude lately.

Dear Son,
When I tell you to do your homework, this does not mean that my request is open for negotiation. When we go to Whole Foods to grab a quick bite before taekwondo, I do not think that it is unreasonable that I too be permitted to select dinner for myself without having to listen to you whine the entire time that you're starving and that I'm taking too long and this is sooooo boooring. I won't even get into last night's temper tantrum during dinner, because while you obviously could care less how this looks to other people, I'm embarrassed for you. I understand that you consider temper tantrums to be a viable approach to getting your own way, but in the immortal words of Homey D. Clown, "Mommy don't play that." I hope you like your bedroom, because I have the feeling you're going to be spending a lot of time there in the coming weeks, maybe even months. Your father and I understand that we have a legal obligation to provide you with food, water, and shelter. We are not however required to provide you with video games, lightsabers, or television. We suggest that you kindly bid these things adieu. That said, you have the opportunity to redeem yourself, and to one day be allowed to rejoin society if you are able to adhere to the rules set forth by the Responsibility Chart. Rule #1? Stop acting like a jack-ass. Love, Your Exasperated Mother.

In Philly even the geese have attitude and why my son has an irrational fear of gerbil-sized dogs and animals in general.

In the past I have for the most part refrained from posting about some of the more embarrassing behaviors of my kids, not so much because I'm fearful of embarrassment - I mean I think we've established at this point that I have absolutely no problem humiliating myself here for the sake of entertainment. No, I've refrained because I would never want to post something on my blog about my kids that might serve as fodder for their humiliation later in life. I mean adolescence is difficult enough without your mother spilling to the Internet all your childhood secrets about thumb sucking and toilet issues. That said, every now and then there comes a moment when I want to talk about my kids' freakish behaviors, if only to be able to commiserate, even briefly. Today's topic: my son's bizarre fear of dogs the size of a hamster. Even when they're on a leash.

A bit of back story: I've always been a dog-lover. I had dogs throughout my childhood. I even had one when C and I were dating. That's a story in and of itself. Let me just say that a decision to adopt a lab/pit bull mix should not be made after a night of drinking Tequila. Actually, that particular night I ended up with a dog and knocked up. Yes, that was a memorable night indeed. That damn dog ate everything from a bottle of prenatal vitamins which, on Christmas Eve had me desperately trying to contact animal poison control in a panic - and the only thing the dog suffered was an extra shiny coat. This dog also ate OUR HOUSE (I kid you not. He chewed all the stucco off the side of the condo we were renting at the time) and our YARD. Eventually, we had to give the dog away due to all the damage he inflicted on our condo, and the fact that as it turns out my kids are allergic to dogs. Don't worry, I assure you we found him a good home (which is far better than the one he came close to getting in Heaven). So anyway, we gave up the dog before my son was old to remember that we ever even had one.

Anyhoo, a couple of summers ago we went back East to visit C's family and decided to take a trip to the Philadelphia Zoo, as the kids had never been to a zoo before. All was fine and good aside from the 100 degree heat with humidity (I'm from the desert people. It's hot here, but it's not generally humid, and we have freakin' air conditioning everywhere). Anyway, when we sat down to eat our lunch, we were accosted by a giant herd or flock or whatever you call it of geese (I guess geese just randomly wander the Philly Zoo - maybe this is normal for zoos, I don't know), and let me tell you they were aggressive. In Philly, geese don't politely request that you toss a few crumbs their way Good Sir. No they get downright ghetto about it and demand that you give up the goods, motherfucker! And these geese were nasty. They had some sort of mucus emanating from their geese nostrils (germ phobe alert!). Anyway, the geese were practically charging us and, well a flock of geese forcibly snatching my son's hot dog from his tiny hand with their evil pestilence-covered beaks was understandably terrifying to my then three year old. My husband and his friend successfully chased the geese away (but then some idiots decided to start feeding them part of their lunch, which brought them right back).

But anyway, that marked the conclusion of "The Geese Incident." It was, however, just the beginning of "The Zoo Incident," as we still refer to it to this very day. You see, the zoo does not allow straws on the premises because the animals can ingest them and die or something (I'm no zoo expert. I don't know.) But if you recall, it was about 100 degrees out and apparently I failed parenting 101 and never taught my kids how to drink out of a cup like normal people do, because Maggie wouldn't drink out of a cup without a straw that would enable her to suck "sippie cup style." Well this prompted the temper tantrum of the century. A temper tantrum to end all temper tantrums. This child wailed the entire way to the car (she had to be carried of course, as her back was arched, her face red from all the screaming. I worried that someone would think that we were abducting her, but then with the way she was carrying on, who would even want this kid I wondered?). She continued to scream non-stop for about 45 long minutes as we drove through downtown Philadelphia, screeching and frothing at the mouth. Recently when recalling "The Zoo Incident," the friend that accompanied us to the zoo told me that he had never in his life heard a kid scream like Maggie did that day. I'm fairly certain that "The Zoo Incident" single-handedly affirmed his decision to remain single and child-free for life.

But to return to the issue of the dog phobia, it became obvious to the hubs and me shortly after our return home from Pennsylvania that our son seemed to have developed an irrational fear of all animals, including even the very smallest of dogs, ON LEASHES, as well as cats which he believes to be dogs I think. We know this because when people innocently bring their pooch to the little park by our house my son has been known to loudly shout things like, "This is MY park! Tell that dog to GO HOME!" or better yet, "I HATE dogs!" Yes, we're so very proud of our anti-social animal-hater. My husband and I have tried on numerous occasions to explain to the boy that a) that's rude, b) it's not his park, and c) an animal the size of a gerbil on a leash is incapable of spontaneously mauling him. It just is. But this has been to no avail. There have been times when my six year old has literally jumped into my arms while shrieking uncontrollably to escape the immanent danger that he believes a Chihuahua poses him. Yes, my son is "that kid."

I think when it's all said and done, this pretty much says it all: This is a page from my son's school journal. It reads "A good pet would be a red fish." This makes sense to me seeing as how he hasn't had any unfortunate incidents with fish. Yet. I think his teacher's response of "That is a good idea!" is kind of funny. Perhaps she too has had a dog that ate her house. Either that, or she's witnessed my son's behavior around dogs and is saying "A fish IS the ideal pet for a freak like you. Your parents must be crack-dealing pedophiles."

A fish is the pet my son prefers.

*Update: Just yesterday some poor lady brought a dog to school when she came to pick up her kid - the dog was in in her purse by the way, so it was not a large threatening animal by any stretch of the imagination. When my son saw the dog he pointed to the sign posted on the side of the school that says "No Dogs Permitted On School Property" and said (loudly mind you), "That sign says no dogs here! Why does that lady have a dog? I HATE dogs!" Okay, now I'm embarrassed.

Maggs goes vintage.

Maggs is rocking a vintage Nintendo t-shirt (circa 1987) , courtesy of a keepsake box rediscovered in my garage last weekend. She's accessorized her latest find with a wooden bead necklace and matching bracelet (not shown), which she made herself. Eat your hearts out.

Wherein I entreat you to point at me and laugh.

Inspired by Aunt Becky over at Mommy Wants Vodka, who proposed an Internet DUEL of embarrassing photographs, I am going to accept this challenge and treat you to some truly embarrassing photographs of me as a kid. Why? Because I enjoy humiliation. And just in case you were wondering, I also like to be spanked (just kidding, this isn't that kind of post). Truthfully, I am certain that my mother possesses pictures far worse than the ones that I've posted here - you know, the typical 1982 flashbacks of perms gone bad, sparkle headbands and Olivia Newton John inspired "Let's Get Physical" leg warmers. I promise to attempt to procure these photographs and share them in the not to distant future. But anyway, here's what I've got for today:

The year is 1983. I had just received some sort of award in swimming and my mom wanted to get a couple of snapshots of me in all my swimsuit glory to send to out-of-state relatives. It was winter in Wyoming (which means it was really cold) and my mom made me put on my swimsuit and pose for pictures before school, which I'm sure you can tell did not make me happy. Even at the tender age of 9, I was most definitely not a morning person. Truthfully I think my mom has another picture where I'm crying, and this one was taken after she threatened to beat me if I didn't stop. (Just kidding, mom! Love you! But there is one where I look even more unhappy, I'm certain of that).

Circa 1985. Here I am with my little brother, and I don't think I need to tell you that I thought I was the hotness with this haircut and my rockin' dangle earrings. Also, check out the pastel blouse/sweater vest combo. Oh yes, I believed this outfit to be the shit. Scroll down for a close-up.

"Come and get me, boys."

And now for the creme de la creme of today's embarrassing photos, me circa 1988. Oh yes, we have the quintessential ratted bangs, which no doubt required an entire bottle of Aqua Net to sculpt to perfection, and a badass attitude to boot. When this photograph was taken, a childhood friend from Wyoming was visiting for the summer and I remember rocking out to "Talk Dirty To Me" by Poison and watching The Lost Boys and Like Father Like Son marathons. Embarrassing confession: I used to have a crush on Kirk Cameron. I can't even believe that I'm admitting to that right now because that is just so nauseatingly GROSS! It kind of makes my stomach queasy. And oh how I wish now that I had never succumbed to the ratted bang trend. Remind me not to complain from now on when Maggs does that weird thing with her headband.

Well that does it for today. I hope that you've enjoyed this little trip down memory lane. I promise to look for more embarrassing childhood photographs for the express purpose of your amusement, because I'm more than willing to subject myself to humiliation for your pleasure. Aren't I nice like that?