WW: Nostalgia Gone Too Far

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MIL Monday: The Sandwich Nazi

I have to say that my FIL is a saint. He cooks, cleans, does more than his fair of the chores. When he visits, once he gets in the swing of things he can always be counted on to pitch in.

When he and MIL visited shortly after LittleBird was born, he made the afternoon snack for himself and MIL every afternoon. Kind of like having afternoon tea, FIL would make coffee for MIL and fix sandwiches for the two of them.

One unforgettable afternoon, I was sitting on the sofa with LittleBird after having nursed her. FIL made sandwiches in the kitchen for the two of them. We were running low on sandwich meat, we had a little bit of ham and a little bit of either turkey or salami, I can't remember which.

MIL was sitting on the couch and FIL brough her the prerequisite cup of coffee. He went back to the kitchen, brought her sandwich on a plate, and laid it on the table in front of her.

She looked at it. She looked at him. And sneered I said I wanted the ham.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I couldn't believe my ears.

I couldn't look at her. Thank god I had LittleBird snuggled on my chest because I needed something else to focus on.

FIL? He picked up her plate. He went back to the kitchen. He brought her the sandwich he had made for himself, and ate the one that he had made for her.

The upshot of this whole scenario? I couldn't wait for Hubbie to get home to tell him. When I relayed the story, I told him how happy I was. Because if this is how his mom treats his dad, then this was how Hubbie was raised to expect a wife to treat him. And that I could now expect him to fix me snacks and I could yell critiques at him from the sofa.

He told me to go fuck myself.

This was nearly four years ago. He and I still re-enact "THE SANDWICH" scenario. Sometimes he pulls it, sometimes I do. Either way we get a great laugh out of it.

Pardon Me While My Legs Fall Off

In our attempt to do family activities on the weekends, Hubbie and I bought child seats for the backs of our bikes. We have had a bit of a hard time getting our shit together and actually going on an excursion, but the intention has been there.

Today, however, we finally did it. We got both seats bolted onto the bikes, got the kids strapped in, their helmets on, and off we went. It was only a short ride. The kids shrieking wheeeee! The breeze in our faces.

I thought I was going to die.

I have not ridden a bike in years. Years.

Those who say It's just like riding a bike are full of shit.

It is perfectly possible to forget how to ride a bike. Or how to ride one gracefully. It's one thing to be all wobbly and fugly on your own. It is quite another thing to have your two year old strapped to a steel frame trusting you not to do a header into the nearest tree.

We survived. The kids had a blast. I thought my legs were going to fall off.

I can't wait to do it again.

Happy Insurrection Day!

Wishing you and yours good food, good company, and little spark of the spirit that moved our country's forefathers so many years ago. Here's to the American Insurrection!

Shitty Music, Great Videos, and a Blogger Promise

In an attempt to purge my brain cells of the fungal spores of yesterday, I have been adding music to my mp3 player. I am at the point where my favs have already been added. Now, I am adding the random shit I hear on the radio, a commercial, or a memory jostled from the nether regions of my cerebellum.

Enter the song 1985 by Bowling For Soup.

I love stupid songs. Especially ones that require some past knowledge of an event be it vegetable, animal or mineral. I like being in the know, part of that secret society. Where we pass each other, give a sideways glance, a slight tilt of the head and go our separate ways with an internal smirk knowing that we've shared something to which others around us are oblivious.

I feel that way about this song. You really had to be a part of the 1980's generation to get it. I mean really get it.

Take the video. If you haven't seen it, it is stellar. Anyone who can take the piss like that deserves bling on their mantle. Yes, it is crap. But if you were an 80s kid, you get it.

Watch the video on YouTube here.

I made Hubbie watch it with me tonight. Sadly Hysterically, he sang along even though he hasn't heard the song in ages. And he pointed out a very, very important fact that I missed.

The car she writhes on in the video? The Jag? My dad has one.

The exact one.

I am SO dancing on that car the next time I am in ATL. If Hubbie isn't with me, I will be getting CoalMiner Heather down to my folks place (just to let you know, babe) and I am going to dance on that car. My dad will shit himself, but that is why he works graveyard and sleeps all day.

I knew there was a reason I found a denim mini-skirt in my old bureau last month. Now, if I can just find one in snake skin.

WW: When Diapering Goes Horribly Wrong

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When Diapering Goes Horribly Wrong

As most of you know, I took the kids to their grandparents for three weeks. There are usually several things a family does in order to prepare for a vacation. For us, that includes taking care of the diapers before we leave.

By taking care of the diapers, that means washing, drying and folding them. Love my cloth diapers! WooHoo!

Until today.

We got back last week. After a week of adding to my diaper pail, I realized that Hubbie (in a very uncharacteristic move) did not wash the dipes in the pail while I was gone. This afternoon, I went to do a load and found out I have MUSHROOMS growing out of my diapers. Not mold. Not mildew. But honest-to-god gigantic mushrooms growing out of the ones on the bottom.

How the fuck could this happen? I mean really? We have one bathroom. We are in and out fifty times a day. There was no smell. None.

I didn't even notice anything was awry until as I was shaking the diapers into the pail something black fell into the washer.

Then another.

What the hell was on my diapers?

I set the pail on the ground and looked inside. And I just could not fathom what I saw. I just stared.

I saw this really long...thing. Next to more black...stuff. The first thing that came to my mind was could it possibly be a baby snake that got in, died and was now decomposing?

Then I noticed the fuzz. Over everything.

I dumped the remainder into the tub to try and rinse it off.

And that is when the smell kicked it.

For the love of all that is good and pure in this world, I may never be able to eat mushrooms on a pizza again. Ever.

I have a strong stomach and a pretty damned good gag reflex, but I just could not handle this. I bagged it up like a half-eaten squirrel (you know--have the plastic bag inside out, grab the offending object and pull the bag around it) and threw it on the front stoop to steam and fester until Hubbie got home.

Then I called him on the phone and shredded him a new one.

If I could have reached through the phone with my fist and my foot he'd have a black eye and a bloody ass.

The result?

1. I have entertained a whole slew of woman on a popular diapering board in an effort to learn whether or not my dipes could be salvaged (um, no). It seems I may have made diapering history today. A dubious honor, to be sure.

2. I lost a good bit of my diaper stash, and I am at a loss as to what I should do.

3. The remainder of the diapers are currently in an OxyCle*n power wash. We will see how many survivors I have tomorrow.

4. Hubbie did his duty and sorted through the offending material to help take stock of the situation.

Suiting up


Drum roll, please



Counting our losses

Hell yeah I made him pose with the Penis Shroom


And last but not least, it just goes to show that nothing normal ever happens to my family. Ever. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.