Tag Archives: shit

She’s a bad motha….shut yo mouth

20 May

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Yesterday, while getting dressed…

“Honey, do I look ok?”
“Yeah, you look good. Like a suburban mom.”

Hmpf. OK? Meh. That was intended as a compliment but it feels like a giant disappointment.

No offense to suburban moms; you look great…really you do. It is likely, that yes, I look like one of you. Well, more like the shabby, hot mess version. Those expensive track suits, ironic messy, yet coifed pony tails and that Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, infinity heart pendant, you’re making that shit look good. I should feel fortunate that my husband sees me in the company of the play date connoisseurs. Now that I think about it, I kind of want to look like this. It reeks of competence and responsibility. I think the reason I can’t get my pony tail to have that perfect bump in the back is because my credit score is iffy. Shit. I don’t belong with you. I’m a fraud! Hubs was trying to make me feel better and I missed the boat. Again. I’m never satisfied.

I do take offense to one thing. Fancy stretchy pants. Remember that recent Lulu Lemon recall? Yeah that line of stupidly expensive yoga wear? They recalled some yoga pants that probably cost $80 dollars. (HOLY SHIT. I just googled that crap, because, really I have no idea how much they cost and 1. It’s Lululemon, one word. Fine. Whatever. 2. The pants? $92 for the base model. Screw you! They better come with AC and heated seats.) How can a pair of pants get a recall, you ask? Because, apparently the keester fabric was too thin and ladies were unwittingly showing off more of their backdoor business than they intended. I call bullshit on that. The reason I know this is total BS, is two things happen the second you put on a pair of stretchy pants. First, you check up front to make sure you’re not sporting, what I like to call, ‘charlie tango’. That’s code for an unfortunate pants meet lady parts wardrobe malfunction. This code allows you to talk about it in front of none the wiser strangers. (“Holy shit, Becky, charlie tango, three o’clock!”) Second, after assessing your charlie tango situation, you immediately check out your ass in a full length mirror. Immediately. You might bend over or give a squat. You may not like what you see, but you still check. Every time. Fact. Lululemon got taken. If I was the CEO I would have released a statement that said, “Bitch, please. You knew your ass was hanging out. You thought those shapely capris might get you a little flirty action at the people aquarium, and it did. But instead of inviting you out for a mochacappalatachino, that dude you’ve been making eyes at during your spin class, yeah, he called you out on your 3D crack exposure. Now you’re embarrassed and want new pants. Eat it. You paid $92, sucker. You can afford another pair with the appropriate thread count. OR…shrink your ass and don’t stretch our Bangladeshi made crap so much…or…put your can in the air in the privacy of your own home. Love, Lelulemon”

I’ve never been edgy but I really feel like I have a city mom inside me. I could wear heels all day. I could…if my arches would allow it and not scream at me with searing pain. I could commute on a train, by choice, not because the shame train is my only option due to a license suspension. I could balance dance recitals and cocktail parties. I could do all of those things. But I won’t. It sounds like too much work.

Suburban mom, city mom…in my book still better than country mom. We all know country mom doesn’t look like Carrie Underwood’s hot ass. She looks frumpy and tired and says things like, ‘well nex time we go ta town, wheal hav ta see bout that.’ I grew up there and I never want to go back. (Don’t confuse this with the sweetness of growing up on a small town. These are totally different things.)

Now that I’ve offended just about every woman with a used uterus, here’s the real deal. If I find myself wearing stretchy pants with one high heel and one shit kicker, BUT, the baby is fed, happy and healthy, I will claim partial motherhood success. Who gives a shit what kind of mom you are? Total success will come if the wee one grows into a thoughtful, generous and kind young woman. Any way we get there is just fine by me. I have no idea if I’m capable of or even should be in charge of such an important job. I try not to think about it too much because I’m kind of an idiot.

Suburban, city or country mom….I’ll take any of the three, as long as I don’t jack up her chances of creating a wonderful life too badly. That being said, if she ever spends $92 on Lycra pants, I will shit purple nickels and hang my head in shame.

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Relax, I’ve got your back (side)

8 May

manure_spreader_largeI’m covered in shit. Not in the ‘nice skid mark on your shirt’ kind of way; more like an ‘I walked through a fog of aerosol poop’. Picture that painted lady at the makeup counter, that one who is a cross between The Joker and Newt Gingrich’s wife (she’s terrifying), ready to hose you down with a bottle of really expensive feces eau de toilette. If you were to hit me with a black light, I’d probably light up like a Jackson Pollock painting or one of Dexter’s fun kill rooms.

I work at a colonoscopy clinic and I’m a klutz. One of these factors alone wouldn’t be a big deal but the combination means I’m a disgusting person two days a week (thank you baby gee-zus for the wee little infant that finally gives me the perfect reason to work part-time). I’m not actually complaining…I accepted my fate eight years ago. OK, maybe sometimes I find myself a teensy bit salty when I picture the doctors getting home from a long day, peeling off their crap misted dry clean only attire and escaping to their money room to enjoy a relaxing dip in a waste deep pool of hundos. Folks in my pay grade would consider eating a shit sandwich for a pathetically low amount of cash. (But we’re not bitter. Not at all.)

Let me be clear. Their usually isn’t a whole lot of crap left by the time you’re all saddled up and ready to get your scope on. It just so happens, that if there is shit present, I am lucky enough to find it. Don’t let this make you shy away from a colonoscopy. I’ve had one and many more are in my future. It’s not at the top of my list, but to be honest, I’d rather spend an eternity with a gastroenterologist than 15 minutes with a dentist. Aside from the perks of good drugs, avoiding cancer seems to be a legit benefit? Oh, fancy dentist, you shaved some plaque today? Um, we just kicked ass at the polyp rodeo, how about that?

I’m pretty sure that as I sit here typing one handed, with the wee one asleep on my lap, she just loaded her pants. Either that or she just farted like a trucker. Yep. It’s official, that’s a solid. Sweet Jesus she’s gross. Swell. Well here’s the rub….there is no way I’m waking her up to change her shorts. I’ll just sit here and marinate in her disgusting funk. I like to bring a little of my work home with me. This is my life.

The Art of War (on dog shit)

4 May

ImageThe sun is shining, the house smells of fresh coffee, the baby is cooing and examining her hands like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline trip….so, needless to say, life is good. Our only problem today, the only thing that can change our focus from the smells of fresh cut grass and BBQ, distract us from the promise of a treasure hunt at a nearby garage sale or the kiss of sun on our pasty Oregonian shoulders….the only thing….are the two barking shit ninjas posted up on the couch, waiting, plotting, scheming to launch another sneak attack of baby carrot sized turds in our home.

My beloved dogs, who at one point not that long ago, I would have thrown myself in front of a train for, are now formidable opponents in a game of Dog Shit Battleship. I didn’t like that game when it just involved plastic destroyers and now it’s being played with canine feces and I’m losing. I don’t know how to get the upper hand? Our first mistake was thinking that rescuing a couple of Chihuahua mutts (to be clear, my husband’s idea) was going to end in anything other than a house full of yapping shit machines.  Don’t even get me started on the pi$$. (I hate the word pi$$…but it’s the only word that fits.  I also hate other words that start with ‘p’, like ‘peck#r and pu$$y’. Awful. I love a swear word or a tasty superlative, but if it starts with a ‘p’ I’m likely to cringe).

I don’t understand these little assholes. Rita and Diego have a giant backyard to drop a deuce in; a wide expanse of green to take care of their nasty business. Is the backyard too big?  Does it feel like that part in Dances with Wolves, where John Dunbar Costner crawls up over the ridge to see a million buffalo? Is it just too much land to consider? Do they ponder their minuteness as they venture past the patio? Are they expecting tatonka to charge up and catch them with their pants down? Maybe that’s why they prefer such locations as sticking it to, (literally) sticking a turd to the front door. Diego pushes his tiny b-hole up against the door, craps, and walks away. One or two stick to the door and the rest roll down like those sticky balls you used to get in a box of cereal. When you open the front door, you’re greeted right off the bat by 2/3 of his last crap being scraped across the floor. If that doesn’t work for you, how about right where you will put your feet when you swing your legs out of bed? Too obvious? OK, perhaps on the only portion of brown design on the throw rug, to ensure it’s perfectly camouflaged, like a dog crap duck blind. But my personal favorite, in the baby’s bath chair.  In her chair? The entire yard. The entire house.  But nope, in her chair. Sonsofbitches.

The bath chair was the final straw. Only the baby is allowed to shit in that chair. This means goddamned war. With Sun Tzu as my guide, I will learn my enemy and beat them at their own game. I will stop just short of pooping in their kennel.  Or will I? Only the barking shit ninjas will know.

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