Saturday, October 23, 2010

...All By My...Oh Fuck It.



There is nothing quite like sleeping for seven solid hours and waking up of your own accord. No alarm clock. No dogs barking. Just your body letting you know that you are rested and the sun is up and you are ready to start your day.


It is a beautiful thing.


Or so I fucking hear.


I remember Saturday mornings, as a kid, as the time when my parents were absolute about a few things:


1. It was their day off-do not wake them up. At all. Ever. Unless someone had lost a fucking limb; and then, only after you'd tied a tourniquet, called 911 and the rescue responders were requesting the signatures of a parent or guardian.


2. You feed your fucking self. Cereal. Toast. Poptarts. It didn't matter, but don't make a mess and don't you dare even breath the words "I'm hungry" at them while they still have their eyes closed and are laying prone in their beds.


3. Do not ever get into a fight with a sibling where the decibel range of said spat causes parents to be risen from much needed "It's fucking Saturday and I'm sleeping in!" slumber. Because you will pay...dearly...with chunks of your ass.


My dear reader, it is not so in my house. My precious little manipulative mouth breathers know that they can snuggle their way right into my bed and say things like "You're the best Mom. Now get your fat ass out of bed and turn on the Xbox."


This morning was much like any other (except that Saint Jason wasn't here...bullshit y'all); Elena was laying at the foot of my bed, trying to wake me up without me knowing it by rubbing my feet with hers and then as soon as I open my eyes, she's all "Good morning Mommy. Did you sleep well?"


Uh, almost. Except that both you and your brother woke me, separately (yet somehow working together in a coup) on multiple occasions that made the xanax I took a waste of a perfectly good pill. But...what I said was,


"Yes, baby. Did you? Are you hungry? Where's your brother?" (Just like that because if I wait for her to give me the answers I'll be there until Tuesday, and also because the only thing I really care about is what mischief Ian is into.)


She's all: "He's in my room, watching cartoons."


Rock on!


That is, until I find him, undies around his ankles, yankin' on his junk, sitting on the dog because he went potty all by himself but he thinks it's funny to wait for me to yell at him to put his freakin' underwear back on! These are the future leaders of the psych wards of America, ladies and gentlemen. You knew them first.


To make the day even more fucking awesome, I get called in to work. HOO-FUCKING-RAY!

55 hours down so far this week and we're just going to keep adding to that tally of exhaustion. I'm pretty sure at this point, I will snap and need to fall into my Mary Poppin's carpet bag of nanny gear for the duct tape and chloroform if I'm to survive the day; but it's my job, so here we go.


By noon, my kids are with their father (for the weekend) and I've already been at work, dodged a punch from the toddler of terror (my 3 year old charge) and cleaned up explosive shit off the ass of her little sister. Duct tape in hand, I scream "NAPTIME!"


And thank God...they listened. We all napped.


The rest of the afternoon, was actually very uneventful. I got my "extra girls" off with the other nanny for a visit with their dad and headed out for a mani/pedi.

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These are happy little piggies...am now realizing I should've vacuumed my floor before taking this pic. Shit.)


I was also able to talk to Saint Jason without kids in the background for about 10 minutes, but soon after got really pissy because he's actually having fun out there and decided to be a real bitch and give him a hard time (not fair, I know and very fucking immature, but I miss him and it's what women do.)


In order to cheer myself up, I put on my favorite new t-shirt and took a picture of my boobs:

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(Thank you CafePress for making clothes that understand me.)

Now, I'm all by myself (actually a little tired of this theme, so may be posting complete fabrications next week--just a warning) and watching horror flicks (am very disappointed that The Howling was not as cool as I remembered it being) and finishing the last of the 3 bottles of wine I bought Monday.

Thank God for my totally fucking cool boss, who supplied me with bottle number 4, because that one's going down too.

Still wondering if I shouldn't drag myself down to that Halloween party I was invited to by my swinger friends; then again, I'm afraid of heights. Oh well.

Until next time...

Your totally dysfunctional cussing blog friend. XoXo

5 comments:

Jen said...

For the record...wine coming out of one's nose SUCKS BIG DONKEY BALLS! But was totally worth it! "That is, until I find him, undies around his ankles, yankin' on his junk, sitting on the dog because he went potty all by himself ... These are the future leaders of the psych wards of America, ladies and gentlemen. You knew them first."
I nearly pissed myself!

Atypical Scott said...

I have been writing/editing/free writing/clustering/writing more structuring chapters on my book all fucking day long, and I am pleased to see you have posted something to take my mind off the insanity of creating an entire fucking world, filled with people, places, and things that go drunk in the night out of thin air.

Your son is on track to becoming a man, because there is nothing more I enjoy doing than sitting on the dog yanking my junk right after pissing on the floor and blaming this on the very dog in which I sit upon.

The real trick, however, is pissing after yanking on your junk, because there is a real olympic skill in trying to piss through a hard on. I know this because I had tried it a few times. For some reason it's easier when you are totally smashed. Although, when this happens I tend to figure why bother with formality and just piss myself.

Anyway, nice feet. I am not much of a foot person, but find them helpful when walking. Oh, and if you're interested, a halloween type story was chosen by a group I joined...I think by accident...still working that part out, but have a link to them on my blog deal...Real Bloggers United. Do read if you have a moment.

OK. Back to being novel.

chelizin? I've always wondered by the word to verify happens to be far from a word at all...it's like verifying that I am completely incompetent of grammatizing...is that a word? Let's verify shall we?

Brandi C. said...

Holy shit...I'm way too drunk now to be witty. And just wrote my last post of the week for skirt! (and why is there a fucking exclamation point in that all the time--necessary? i think not). You both just made me laugh out loud & way too loud, which makes me happy the spawn are not here to hear it. The word verification is a bitch, but it seems to keep the real psychos at bay. No, really.

We are actually the sane ones. Scary thought, isn't it?.

Emptyhead51 said...

Sure glad I have my DEPENDS on..KOTEX..im not that old! I don't know which are funnier, your post or your comments (of course its YOUR POST BRANDI...geez) You yung whippersnappers need to realize there's a senior citizen readin, so give me a heads up so I can take a piss first, its not easy having a week bladder!

Brandi, I love reading your post, they bring back such "FUZZY" memories of when MY kids where young. You remind me sooo much of my daughter, who just turned 34.

Our household rules were the same as your parents, we must have all read the same book on parenting!!

Have a good one sweetie..and lay off the damn wine before I have to come over there and take it away from you.

Jason H. said...

Hey babe, no problem on busting my cashews over having a good time. As you found out when I texted you last night about that cocksucker telling me "No one cares about your fucking family except you, so shut up" after I gave him a sincere congratulations for living in fucking Denver and not having to be away from his family for two weeks, it wasn't all that much fun. (For those keeping score, I promptly told him to fuck himself, walked off and avoided him the rest of the night, as I a) was on 6 beers b) have 8 years of actual martial arts training under my belt (no, MMA is not martial arts, it's roid bags playing ground & pound in between bouts of grab ass with each other) and c) wasn't feeling particularly fucking forgiving last night for dickbag comments leaving the cockhole he called a mouth. (Who's got the foul language now?) That being said, the rest of the evening went all right and I found the kids a couple of unique gifts in downtown Denver today, so I'm a pretty happy guy today. Now, on to the Gorillaz concert in a few hours!