A Nomination

So I was futzing around over at ELEE’s blog, as I am wont to do, when I found that she had participated in the She’s Funny That Way Day.  Nominations are due by the end of the day today, and goddamn it, I have someone to nominate.

The person who has been turning my humor crank on a regular basis is Laura from The Way Things Are.  Observe these gems:

I hope when I go to prison, that it’s like that movie with Ashley Judd – what was it? – where you fight those bitches off your first night, using your mad defensive skillz and a club cleverly devised from your bed frame, and from then on, because you have proven yourself to be worthy, it’s all camaraderie and working in the beauty shop, didding each other’s hair. And cooking in my Compact Kitchen for all my bitches. Look at that tiny little sink!

I can’t wait.

 

Also, I smell like Fritos when I wake up. If you’re DW, you find that wildly attractive, but the rest of the world does not want to experience my Morning Frito essence, so a morning shower, even at the risk of draining the water lines, is essential. When I ask him “Do I smell like Fritos to you?”, he always answers “No,” but I think he’s just being polite.

 

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? This morning for breakfast, it was the egg. But really, why do we limit this question to chickens? Didn’t everything in the Animal Kingdom (there’s the Animal Kingdom, the Plant Kingdom, and then there are the wily slime molds, which demonstrate characteristics of both at certain times in their life cycles – HEY, I GUESS I DID LEARN SOMETHING IN COLLEGE) at some point come from a fertilized egg? What came first, the baby or the egg? The egg, obviously. Then came the sperm, then came the baby. There, I’ve solved the riddle. YOU’RE WELCOME.

So go read Laura on a regular basis, and ELEE and all the other funny women.

And for chrissake, if you think I’m sometimes amusing would you nominate me for this thing?  I never get nominated for crap like this.  PUBLICITY, BITCHES! 

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The Story of Why I Stood In the Middle of My Bedroom in Underpants and Socks for Fifteen Minutes Tonight

Peeps, my mortal enemy is stink.  Stink.  Stank.  Pong. Whiff. Whuff. UGH.  I hate it.

I can heroically endure bad diapers, an evening of curry, or what in my family were referred to as “hot jafafas”*; but long-term smell is RIGHT OUT.

I’m obsessive about emptying the garbage can, I try to be meticulous about the cats, and my mother came up with the brilliant idea of taking each poopy diaper, wrapping it lovingly in it’s own plastic and throwing it outside immediately, for which I owe her some kind of kidney or something.

I haven’t written about Joey Jojo too often lately.  Firstly, he hasn’t had any heart attacks, so it’s been kind of boring in that department.  Secondly, well, it’s hard to live with Joey right now.  It’s easy to love him, but he’s like any other old person.  He gets unexpectedly stroppy and starts at loud noises.  He’s fairly incontinent and gets het up about nothing and will yell and yell for no reason at all.    He will eat a treat and then forget I’ve given him one.  I love Joe dearly, but I do get sick of cleaning up dog pee.

The last time Joey had any excitement in his life was the time he went to the vet’s office and tried to EAT EVERY DOG HE SAW BECAUSE THEY WERE LOOKING AT HIM FUNNY.  It was an awesome day complete with two long car rides, which is just bliss, and then 24 hours later he had a heart attack.

Since then, the most excitement Joey is allowed to have is a walk to the bank and back.  If he’s lucky he’ll see a Peke that he can try to grab and chew, but usually it’s just walk, sniff, pee. Checking his peemail.  Tonight was different.

Joey has been a whiffy dog for about, oh, three months.  Almost every night for three months I’ve been saying, “Man, he stinks.  You need a bath, Joe!” and then neglecting to give him one.  Ostensibly because it was too cold, or I didn’t have time, but really because I suspected Joey couldn’t take it.  Tonight is the first warm night we’ve had this season and I decided he would have a bath or die trying.

Joey is wary of baths.  He has very thick fur so when the water gets under his protective coat it kind of trickles down and drives him crazy.  While in the bath he’ll shake, either with fear or tension, and I have to talk to him quietly to calm him down.  But the second he’s rinsed and I’ve begun to dry him off it’s as if he’s been given a new lease on life.

Man, Joey loves post-bath time.  He runs and frolics and plays with every toy he has and circles figure eights around me.  I brush him and he kicks and rolls and plays like a puppy.  He runs up the stairs and down the stairs and up the stairs.  It’s like all his Christmasses at once.  He’s nine months old again.  Totally puppy.

Of course, then he started breathing heavily and I got worried so I froze in the middle of my bedroom floor in the hopes that he might slow down a little and let his poor heart try and keep up.  He did stop and lay down and now he’s sacked out at my feet snoring with old-man excitement farts, so so much for making him smell better.

Joe, nobody knows how long you’ll be around.  I wish you would stop chasing the cats and I wish you’d stop digging at the carpet.  I REALLY wish you’d stop peeing on the floor and barking for hours. And FYI you look STUPID perched on the back of the armchair looking out the window; your ass is too big for that cushion.

But mostly I love you, puppydog.

*Those farts that burn on the way out and fill the house with Death Smell

P.S. -Another reason he doesn’t get bathed as often as he should is because the cleanup is obnoxious.  I soaked the bathtub in the hottest water we have and a ton of bleach.  Bleach: For when “Meh, looks clean”, just isn’t enough.

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Time to get your laptops and your clickers

How many cookies?  TWO COOKIES!

 Check the TEEF!

Celebrating Daddy’s Birthday

My First Oreo

Lollies are also good.

Hangin’ on the table

Wallace and The Troublemaker.

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Also: Please Note Howdy, Peeps!  First, in an updatery sort of note, I’ve created a list of Shit I Have to Do for school and while it’s intimidating, it’s not undoable. I’ll take it, at this point.  In fact, as I have this browser open an Observation paper is sitting half-written in a Word file.  Half written!  That means by tonight it could be ALL written.  Imagine. 

There was also a major neurology test today that had everybody pooping their pants in terror, and luckily, thanks to my forward-thinking avoidance, I did not have to take it.  I will Someday but Someday isn’t nearly as nauseating as Now, as all halfway decent procrastinators know. In ass news I added some carbs back to my diet and have been able to make longer and longer forays out from the dark and comforting cave of our bathroom.  As such, Trevor has taken his ball and gone home.  Thank God.  That guy was ugly as sin. 

In kickass peep news, Spartus, that helper of all internet helpers, has set me up an RSS feed over there -> in the right-hand sidebar that will update automatically when the Weightloss Junction updates.  As such, he’s greatly assisted me in keeping Speckblog your one stop shopping place for all your favorite Poopyhands items.  Thanks, Spartus! And now to discuss plugging.  No, not the fun kind, the mental kind. 

It is said that every person has a book tucked up in their brain just waiting to burst forth.  Mine is so ready to come out my forehead is bleeding.  I have had every intention over the years to write a blockbuster hit about the Troublemaker and I and how we met and, most specifically, how we got the Troublemaker to the US.  The story, Peeps, is unbelievable.  It’s worth investing the time and effort into making a novel and it is half-written in my head already.  I know what I’d need to do to research and interview; man, it’s just SITTING RIGHT THERE. Not only is it ready to burst forth and driving me apeshit, but I feel confident that, should it become widely read, it would make us a decent amount of set-aside cash.  

So; have idea, know how to organize, know where to go for supporting information, fairly confident in marketability; it’s a perfect storm of a formula for literary success, and here I am with a cork up my hole going by the name of Time.  I haven’t got any, and writing novels requires a fair amount of the stuff. DAMN AND BLAST. 

I’m going to start work on it this summer, you know, between teaching myself neurology and changing crappy diapers.  But it’s got to be written.   I’m dreaming about it on a regular basis.  And all this seeping blood from the unsightly mental bulge keeps getting in my eyes. 

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Hi Peeps.  I just updated the Poopyhands Weightloss Junction sister site (see to your left).  I haven’t figured out the best non-invasive way to let you know when it’s been updated.  I’d like to make it blink occasionally, or maybe change color.  Or maybe I’ll put a date on the link itself.

I’m going to leave it as it is on its own for the next few hours, then I’ll make my other beloved Specklinks visible again.

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Or Holy Hemorrhoids, Batman!

First of all, when you exit the toilet to find your child in a dangerous location, do you whisk him quickly down and hug him tight in fear or do you laugh your pants off and take a photo of it and chat with him for a while?

Proof that mommy is hellbound.

Meanwhile, in the interest of shutting the fuck up already and putting one foot in front of the other, I actually went to class yesterday.  It wasn’t a lot, but it’s better than laying in bed and sucking on Oreo after Oreo.  Better in the “more productive” sense, if not in the “enjoyable use of time” sense. My plans today are to make a list of School Shit that Needs Doing and get on it.

Secondly, HOLY CRAP.

Apparently, a billion of you have been leaving me sweet, sweet comments and my computer has been tight-lipped like a scorned lover and not letting me know.  So here you are, being all froody and chatting with me, and I’m over on the other side of the room bemoaning how I’m all alone and sucking on Oreos wringing my hands.

I am shamed.

I’ve approved all your comments and once you have a comment approved you don’t have to get one approved again so regardless how completely idiotic I am you’ll appear here from now on like a normal person.

I’m now going to shout-out to all of you Peeps, because I am all with the peep love.  

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Fuck it.  Fuck it all to fucking hell. I’m going to fucking bed.  If I have one more goddamned weekend like this one I swear to god I will get in that car and drive as far as I can until I run out of gass and then set up a new life under the name of Madge.

This is going to be far too much information, Peeps, but today I awoke with the worst goddamned hemorrhoid I’ve ever had in my fucking life.  It has its own zip code and it hurts like a bulbous, bleeding minion of Satan.

I’ve made the switch to healthy food, ie, vegetables, and I am SHITTING LIKE A BISON.  So all day I’ve been doing the IBS dance to the bathroom, desperate and painful, and tonight I came out of said bathroom to find my child sitting in the middle of the very tall dining room table gnawing on the end of an unpeeled banana.  NOTE TO SELF: DO NOT LEAVE SIMIAN OFFSPRING TO FEND FOR SELF. ALSO PUSH IN DINING ROOM CHAIRS YOU FUCKING IDIOT TWAT.

Then, after the boy was safely removed from the table and such choking hazards as almonds, successfully bathed and put to bed, I tried to get on my computer and the entire internet is fucking packed up.  Will not connect. 

FUCK.

That’s it.  Seriously.  I’ve had it.  Really and truly.  I now officially do not give a flying ass for work or school.  Both of them can cram it with fucking walnuts.  So we get evicted, it’s better than me bashing my brains in with a hammer, which is likely the only activity that is going to yield any kind of noticeable result.  Although I’ll probably fuck that up as well and break the wall and have to pay someone rediculous amounts of money to fix it.

Let’s face it; the only thing I’m ever really good at is being a cool wife, a good mom, and a loyal friend.  Everything else in my world has relegated me to passable wife, a halfway decent mom when I’m paying attention, and the kind of friend who is there in case of emergency, but is otherwise unreachable.

I have papers to write and shit to do and there is laundry to be done and garbage to take out because tomorrow is garbage day.  The boy and I have to wake up at 6 am tomorrow for SHITTY ASS SCHOOL and I never ever want to go again.

Dog bite with hospital stay.  Throwing out my back.  Husband overseas for a week.  Workload out of control. IC acting up.  Schoolwork undoable.  Packed in computer. Bleeding hemorrhoid from hell who I will name Trevor because it’s PISSING ME THE FUCK OFF.  Bad guts. Fat thighs. No money.

Dear life,

Thank you for the unbelievably wonderful husband, son, family and friends.  As for the rest of it, may you get the GODAMNED POX AND YOU CAN TAKE YOUR FUCKING USELESS COMPUTER WITH YOU.

I’m now going to bed, and if things don’t look any brighter by tomorrow I’m packing up the child and myself and taking a two week vacation somewhere undisclosed and I am not returning until I am well-rested, fit and tan. MADGE I TELL YOU.

FUCK.  IT.

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I would be willing to have your babies

Today Aunt Lisa and mommy took Wallace to Toys R Us because we have a birthday party to go to tomorrow.  Guess who got the most stuff?  Was it the birthday girl? What do YOU think?

All the clothes were 30% off and the toys are just so damned cool we couldn’t help it and did some stocking up.

Wallace is now the very pleased owner of these two items:

The Leapfrog Phonics Fridge Magnet

Yet another thing that sings the ABCs at him and

The Leapfrog Fridge Farm

I purchased both of these because within two minutes of letting him play with the farm in the cart I said, “Wallace, what does a cow say?” he said, “MOOO!”

Damn.  That is some speedy work there, my sweet Leapfrog Lovers.  Do you know what an “M” is?  It’s a bilabial.  Something that has been missing in Wallace’s babbling and has had me worried.  I got him the phonics as well just because the farm was such a hit and he’s been walking around with it for a half an hour listening it tell him what an “S” says.

I’ll let you know when Leapfrog and I register for our ceremoneal wedding.  Andy is going to have to settle for an open marriage.  These folks are just too good.

In related news: On our way out Aunt Lisa and I were exclaiming over how much we like Toys R Us and the cashier just about turned inside out in gratitude.  I know those people take a lot of crap, but dude their toys are just so damn reasonably priced.  If you have a good experience there, please let them know.  Apparently, they need some good, good lovin.

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But according to my stats nobody comes here anymore anyhow.

I’ve actually been remiss in my updating because I’m going through another dark period.  I’ve done everything I can to alleviate the requirements of life and I’m still left with more than I can handle.  When I say I’m wiped by 8:00pm, I’m telling you that I’m wiped.  I have nothing left.  Everything I have (and it ain’t much) goes out between 7:00 am and Wallace’s bedtime at 8:00 pm.

So I haven’t been writing because I feel that the two people (hi mom!) who still read this crap will show up and go, “Good lord, life is painful enough. I’m out of here.” and then I’ll be back to blathering away at myself on the internet; merely adding more sad to an already pathos-ridden life.

On the one hand I repeatedly tell myself that I have the right to feel unappreciated if I feel that way, whether or not it’s based in reality.  I have the right to declaire that it’s all just too intense and take some time off, whether that’s rediculous or not.  It’s my life, I’ve got the right to set the boundaries and run it.

However there are these folks who depend on me to hold it together.  So not only am I not holding it together so well, I feel guilty for not holding it together.  So the guilt spurs some action which adds to the exhaustion.

People never believe you when you tell them you really think you may have had enough of all this crap.

Meanwhile, fatty pity parties do not papers do.  Or some shit like that.  So I should go write a paper.  But maybe I’ll stare blackly at you through the computer.  How about that?

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Back on the wagon again and an introduction to a sister site

Let’s make this fairly short for those who really don’t need to hear a recap of the endless whinging.

I’m fat.

I would very much enjoy not being fat and need to not be fat for a variety of good reasons.  It’s going to take more than I’m doing to get not fat.  I’m going to need to post photos and thoughts and endlessly naval-gaze until I get something other than fat.

If you are fat and don’t want to go through it alone, or if you’d just like to come along to point and laugh at my fat pictures click on The Krissy Poopyhands Weightloss Junction.  As an endless whinger, I’ll be happy to listen to you drone on and on about the state of your butt, thighs, gut, hips, boobs, chins, ankles, what-have-you without judgment.

I’ll update Speckblog when there’s a new post there, but I’m going to centralize everything having to do with fat there, because I’d imagine it’s going to be an awful lot of, “I’m fat.  I hate being fat. I hate getting thin.  I wish I was thin.  I’m gross. I’m fat. I’m hungry.”

I’ll spare the regular readers that kind of scintillating content.

It is time.

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