Boudin and Me

Friday night, I, finally, got to watch Marley and Me.  You know that lovable story about a rotten dog and the family who loved him.  Frankly, I didn’t see much wrong with Marley.  Seemed like a typical Lab to me.  We had a part Lab and that dog ate an entire outdoor swing and doghouse.  It is what Labs do, CHEW!  However, I do understand the aggravation of having a pain in the ass dog and loving him just the same.

Boudin came to us through a weak moment at the mall pet store.  There he was in his little cage with one of his siblings just looking as cute as a Beagle puppy could.  I just had to show him to SoHubby, then my to-be, with no intentions of getting a dog.  I mean who is crazy enough to get a puppy 2 weeks before they are scheduled to get marry and go off on a week long honeymoon.  Us, apparently.  This was my first lesson in SoHubby’s impulse buy of the expensive nature.  We sat in the little store going back and forth.  I wanted to just wait and get a pound puppy.  All my dogs before had been from the pound.  SoHubby was in a bind and needed a wedding gift for me, pronto and this looked like his way out.  I guess Boudin’s cuteness got to me and the constant nagging of SoHubby and we walked up to the cashier and paid for our first dog together.  I will never forget ,there was a woman and her daughter in line in front of us and she went on how the dumbest dog she ever had was a Beagle.  I guffawed at such a notion, because surely if you have a little patience and train your dog everything will be bliss.  AW, the young and foolish.

Those nights with an 8 week old pup would prepare me for the up all nights one has with a newborn.  There was much crying and yelping.  And not all would be from the dog.  For some reason, SoHubby thought this would be my job to take care of this dog.  Nice wedding gift, huh, one that poops on the carpet and keeps you up all night.  Frankly, I was use to getting my 10 hours and was none to happy getting up with a dog.  I had never had this experience with a dog, but that might have been because I never had a puppy this young before.  Although, unhappy with this situation, I pushed on and spent my days with Boudin.  Mostly trying to get him not to chew on electrical wires and chairs.  Walking him and begging him not to eat his own poop while trying not to throw up in front of the neighbors.  Slowly we grew to an understanding that I was the head Bitch around here and he was to do what he was told.  However, there was one thing that I could never control and it annoys me to this day.  His barking.

Beagles are hunting dogs.  They basically sniff out small prey for their masters and their loud, obnoxious barks are to point out what they have found.  Boudin would never have a chance to hunt like he was intended, but the instinct is there.  He hunted the cat barking the whole time.  Cleo was pretty much disgusted by this whole ordeal and found refuge on top of a bookshelf.  Then Boudin had to find another way to get his barking out of his system.  That would mean barking at any and everything.  Sure dogs bark when a person knocks, especially a person they don’t know, but eventually they stop.  Not Boudin.  He can hear you coming from a mile away and he just knows you are coming to our house and that is when the barking starts and it doesn’t stop until I either threaten bodily harm or the person is a mile away.  The barking is not reserved just for people that Boudin doesn’t know, oh he will go apeshit when it is someone he knows.  He not only barks, but runs himself into the floorboards.  That is when he is excited.  The worst is when he barks, I get up to see who is here and there is nothing and no one outside. My only explanation for why he jumped from his bed and ran barking to the window is that he heard a fly fart and thought I should know about it, IMMEDIATELY.  So I totally understand the scene in Marley and Me when the mom is so tired, finally has gotten her 2 babies down for a nap  ready to take a nap herself and then hears the rumblings of the garbage truck.  She jumps into action and begs the dog to just be quiet.  The dog goes crazy, because, hey, there is a garbage truck out there and that only happens every week.  Next we see the dad come home and the mom sits there out of her mind screaming for him to take the dog away.  She doesn’t care where, just away.  Oh that scene has been played out in this house many times and many times I have thought about what to do with the body when SoHubby refuses to remove the noise machine.  Lucky for Boudin, I was too tired to put my plans of permanent eviction in motion.  I have just come to realized that there is nothing, short of removing his voice box (and I have heard it done for Beagles, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that), to be done about the barking.  It is in his make-up just like it is in my make-up to scream, “SHUT THE HELL UP!”  We all have our faults.

As much as I claim to hate Boudinand threaten him on a regular basis, there is some love between us.  I am the one to take him to his vet appointments.  I make sure he has a place to stay when we go on vacation.  And I am the one to scream, “SHUT THE DAMN DOOR”, so he won’t escape, another charming attribute of the Beagle, which would then lead me to go searching for him all over the neighborhood.  The kids feed him every morning and SoHubby does most of the potty duty.  Boudin is part of this family and like most family members there are things about him that we could do without, but like most loving families we choose to overlook them and make sure he is taken care of, even if he was the reason there is one hotel in Destin, FL that we can never darken their door, again.  Heck, we might be forbidden to enter the city limits of Destin ever again.  I guess it is a small price to pay for love.

For your listening pleasure:

Sam took on the part of reenacting my response.

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A Dingo ate my Baby!!

 

R.I.P. Cleo
We loved you a lot and will forever miss you.

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Dog Days of Summer

Amber has had a few imaginary friends throughout her short life, usually it is whatever character she is into on the glowing boob tube in the living room. This can cause some annoyance when you are out and about doing your daily routine of living life. Your ankle-biter will suddenly stop you in your tracks and demand attention for the air next to them.  There was the time she had the whole cast of Baby Looney Toons keeping her company, especially in the bathroom.  She is such the polite child that she would stand by and allow all of them to use the facilities before her, while she danced around, and you prayed, she didn’t wet herself before they were done.  Then there was Rabbit, you know from Pooh, who followed her around and would convince her to do and say some unsavory things.  Small annoyances, right?  Nothing big, just grown people walking around waiting for imaginary baby animals to use a toilet and explaining to air that it was not a good decision to throw toys all over the place. 

Then there is Bella.  Bella is a teacup poodle with purple ears and tail that lives in a small purse.  The big difference is that Bella is real, in the sense that she is stuffed.  This just adds a little more aggravation to my regular routine of corralling little humans and wiping butts.  Amber is very proud of her new pet and is not afraid to tell anyone and everyone.  There have been many tense moments where Amber was describing her new puppy to a total stranger only to finish with, “…and she is sleeping in the car, RIGHT NOW!”  Oh how, I wanted to yell, “IT IS A STUFF DOG, NOT A REAL DOG!  I would never leave a real dog, in this heat, locked in the car with the windows rolled up.  Please don’t call PETA” as I hurry the kids along to get out of the glare of the stranger, who thinks I normally fry little dogs in my cat for fun.   Of course, I can’t say any of this, because if you even hint that Bella is not real then let Amber’s rage and tears rain down on you.  So, I have to decide to either wait for PETA to drag me off to their prison, where the wardens are the cute and furry bunnies that were rescued from beauty product testing, or listen to my little girl melt into the drama puddle that only she can conjure up. 

Recently, at swimming lessons Amber realized that she forgot Bella in the car and demanded that I go and get her.  When I tried to explain that no harm would come to dear Bella, I was met with the tears and monologue that puts Amber in the front for best dramatic performance by a 6 year old.  I went and got the damn dog out of the car.  Then there were the constant reminders that Bella is napping and we should all be quiet.  Did you know that stuffed teacup poodles with purple ears and tail must nap in a large pop up Strawberry tent in the middle of my living room propped up on my sofa pillows and my best blanket?  Also, it has become my duty to not only remember the myriad of items that Sam might need on an outing, but to not forget Bella in the car.  But what took the cake was last Friday. 

We have informally designated Friday our out to eat day for the summer.  After running to the grocery store, gymnastics, cleaning and the rest of my daily duties, I am too tired to consider cooking so we call up George and meet up where ever he might be at the moment.  Well, as luck would have it, he was on the Westbank that night and picked Roadhouse for our dining pleasure.  And that was the kind of pleasure that kept on giving long through the night.  We had a very nice young server, who was delighted to hear all about Bella and, as many sane adult types do, thought that she was a real live dog.  Finally, I was summoned to go get her royal puppiness from the car, so that we could all eat as one happy family.  Amber promptly showed her to our new bestest friend, our server.  Taken aback a bit, she graciously kept up the ruse and we continued on with our dinner. 

Throughout our time there, there were announcements made of other guests’ birthdays and a proclamation to give them our best YEEHAW!  *sigh*  We all joined in and then Amber remembered…That it was Bella’s birthday, too.  {To her credit she had informed us of this info the night before, which lead to my head about to explode because I don’t possess the ability to do mathematics on a child level.  You see Bella was 8 months old when Amber introduced us a few days earlier, but only 2 days later she was celebrating her first birthday.  I let it go without a word, because I know when I could choose to step in it or just walk around and hold my nose.}  Amber told our lovely server, who obviously saw me squirm and wanted to see me do it some more.  As I sawed into my over grilled chicken breasts and George tried to hold done his rancid sirloin, we heard a birthday wish for Bella.  That is right folks, the entire Roadhouse restaurant wished a stuffed dog a Happy Birthday.  Amber is no fool, because she scored a free sundae for all her creative imaginings.  I did what any self-respecting mother would do, I wished Bella a Happy Birthday and told Amber to share her sundae with her, not reached his full imaginary potential, brother.  I hope Bella remembers the good ole days, because it won’t be long before she is tucked under the mounds of other stuffed animals that have come before her.

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An Ounce of Joy for a Pound of Pain

I would just like to ask WTF is up with this week?   I swear it has felt like one big, long, crappy day.  It wasn’t one big thing or even a few big things, but a bunch of little things that have caused me to go fucking off the knob crazy. 

Let’s take these things one at a time:

The road construction.  I understand that the lovely Parish of Jefferson is trying to make the roads much nicer for all of us, including our neighborhood, but in the mean time they are really screwing up my ability to get around this God forsaken town.  I had to get Sam to the doctor, yesterday, for 9am.  You would think that an hour would be enough time to get across the river to Metairie, a.k.a Traffic Hell.  Traffic was so backed up that I thought I would age right there in my car watching the time tick away along with my soul.  No matter where I went the traffic was backed up for miles.  Everyone needed to get to the same place I needed to be and NO. ONE. WAS. MOVING.  At one point, I thought I would just jump out my car and run Sam to the doctor’s office.  We, finally, make it to our appointment only 15 minutes late.  I am proud to say that Sam is learning many new words while sitting in the car alone with me while stuck in traffic.  His doctor, not so impressed.

It is official my computer hates me.  Actually, I think it is the router in George’s office, but that has been poo-pooed because how could my pretty little head have an opinion about tech stuff.  I know for a fact that all that router is good for is being kicked around my yard as I yell creative expletives at it.  It is a well known fact that I need my Internet fix for the day and when I don’t get it, Mommy is one cranky bitch. 

I spent the better part of my afternoon crawling around on my husband’s dirty ass office floor trying to figure out why the huge, extra special surge protector (what do I know, it is a huge box that is suppose to protect all our important equipment from blowing up) decided not to turn back on after our power decided to blink.  I guess a fly farted outside.  Yeah, that nice piece of pricey equipment blew up, but all the other crap that was connected to it was fine.  I would like to take this opportunity to thank my husband for his perfect configuration of his office.  The placement of heavy desks in front of all important outlets and wires; that one would need to be the thickness of paper to get back there, in order, to fix a problem.  Also, the position of the modem and router teetering ontop of the large heavy desk in the right position to knock me in the head, is pure genius.  Just remember, my million dollar life insurance policy is not activate, yet.  Needless to say I have a concussion, but am happy that I am connected to the outside world.

Next let’s tackle the weather or, more importantly, the weatherman.  What the hell, dude?  You said it was going to be dried, today.  It has been the nastiest day since Tuesday.  Can I please wash my car without the possibility of it getting pissed on by the powers that be?   

Carpool: I don’t know how hard it is to get a kid, throw them in a car and move the line along, but when it is raining people LOSE their shit loving minds.  Tuesday, I was waiting in the carpool line when the sky turns dark and the winds start howling.  The rain is coming in sideways and people freak the fuck out.  They couldn’t have the old teacher calling the names of the children for each car, so it all had to be done at the end of the line.  I lost my shit when the 2nd person cut  in front of me.  I had been waiting for 30 minutes and was ready to kill.  I parked and walked, in the typhoon, to get my kid.  There were some creative words said then, too, but luckily Sam was with his MawMaw that afternoon.  I am sure he was sorry he missed it.

I would like to thank the dog for making everyday a crapper’s delight.  Your perfomance of vomitting up the “treat” (I gave him the rest of Sammy’s dinner, which I never do, but I was trying to be nice.), last night.  Happy Mother F’ing Valentine to you, too.

I would like to thank my kids for constantly annoying me with your petty fights and constant screams.  And you wonder why, I am crazy axe weilding mommy by the end of the day.  Amber gets a special thanks for turning me grey way before my time by being the most boy crazy 5 year old I have ever come in contact with.  I truly fear for the next few years, because I seriously don’t think I will make it.

Finally, my husband gets a big thank you for constantly blaming me when the Internet goes out, among other things.  Yeah, I have that kind of power.  And for giving me bullshit excuses for why he can’t hang up his jacket or not stomp around on freshly cleaned floors.  You can rest assure it is my bleeding head wound that is talking.  Don’t ever say I don’t help you with your work.  I have the battle scars to prove it. 

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Even More Sibling Rivalry

That is the dog’s pillow, except when the cat says otherwise.
Whose your bitch, now?

Is there any wonder I am insane?

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I know you are shocked, but I am not after your balls.

We have had our dear, loud, extremely obnoxious Beagle, Boudin, for 7 years, now.  Throughout those 7 years I have tried to get him neutered.  Why?  Why the hell not?  He is not going to be bred, even if he has papers.  I ain’t running no doggie stud service.  There aren’t many bitches for him to smooth talk into making sweet monkey love under the moonlight.  Even if there were, he would be too much of a pansy ass to go for it.  Sadly, our dog doesn’t have much play.  Besides all that, most of the other dogs in the neighborhood are on the large size and would just bitch slap him around for fun.  Everytime the subject was brought up, mainly after a vet visit, the husband would knock it down.  “He ain’t broke, hahaha!”  Yeah, that joke got old real fast.  It appears that the husband feared that if the dog’s junk went, his was soon to follow.  I am not sure where he got that idea, because at the time his jewels were useful for the continuation of our gene pools.  At the moment, I can take ‘em or leave ‘em with regards to continuing our gene pool.  The current products are driving me crazy.  I am not sure I can handle more of them. 

Recently, Boudin had a small seizure, so I stop neglecting my doggie parenting responsiblites and took him to the vet.  I guess all it took was him shaking uncontrollably on my living room floor to get my butt in gear.  After some discussion of recent events, mostly involving peeing all over my bedroom carpet, the Vet came up with a good reason to walk Boudin down that long, brightly lit hall to have his family jewels scarficed for a greater good.  A carpet that doesn’t smell like piss.  As much as I like the smell of dog urine in the morning, it has got to stop.  It is a strange occurence, because Boudin has not lifted his leg in the house since he was 5 months old and I threatened to grind him into a fine paste if he didn’t start using the great outdoors like God intended.  I have worked long and hard to get this dog to use our yard as his toilet and I am not willing to go back. 

When I told the husband what the Vet’s recommendations were, I got the standard excuses: “Maybe he is just old and can’t control his bladder.”  The problem with that theory is that the Vet had his finger up the dog’s butt just that morning and announced:  “His prostate is perfect!”  What else you got?  “It will be expensive.”  No more expensive then when I rip up the carpet and fine the most expensive imported wood to cover my floor and then kill the dog when he pees on it.  I am sure Michael Vick’s lawyers’ fees are out of this world.  Then there was the tirade of “that Vet is just after our money”.  Seeing that we go to one of the most popular and largest animal hospitals in the area and they have survived 7 years without us getting the procedure, I don’t think they are doing a little dance, now, that we MIGHT be getting the dog neutered. 

Now defeated, the husband had to concede to my wishes and have the dog’s balls loped off, while I cackled evily (totally a word) wringing my hands together, because I am out for the dog and husband, as you should know.  This is just one small step to carrying my husband’s balls in my pocketbook and showing who really is in charge of this circus, because it has always been my wish to cause great pain and humiliation to my husband through the dog.  *major eyerolling*  I think I am more clever than that.

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Sunday at the Old Homestead

Life was pretty usual at the Homestead this Sunday.  We went to church, had breakfast with friends, did some shopping, and then we came home.  I was determined to make the smothered pork chops that my husband requested and I had on the menu from this past week.  I failed to realize how long it was going to cook said dish and started too late for it to be ready by our regular dinner time.  No worries, the kids could have leftover pizza with strawberries and the hubs and I could eat a later dinner (which means around 7 pm, instead of our normal 6pm).

After George puttered around the house, changing lightbulbs and other little things that have to be done when you enter into home ownership, he took the kids off my hands.  I watched from the kitchen window as I tried to recreate Emeril’s recipe.   It was great watching Amber push Sam in his swing as he laughed big hearty laughs.  And since I know the joy of Amber driving in her little motorized Jeep,  I just had to capture it to embarrass her later in life.  I was asked to come outside many times, but I had to stay inside and man the stove.  You can’t just walk away from pork chops covered in Essence and waiting to be slid into a gravy of epic portions.  I was able to tear myself away for only a moment to film the spectacle that is our family.

In the following video you will hear:

George trying to convince me that we should buy some sod for the area that he decided to cover in mud.  It seems that the grass seed he planted hasn’t worked as well as he had hoped.  Although, covering 5,000 sq feet of mud in sod is not my idea of money spent wisely.  I say we wait and see what happens, if no grass grows in a year then we consider the sod idea.

You will hear me cackle which does proves that I am a witch and should be boiled until I vainsh.  You will, also, learn that I dont know my left from my right and I dont know yours either.  You will hear that my husband takes great delight in me getting that on film.

You will catch a glimpse of Amber’s future as her father tries to teach her to drive.  I am sure there will be a lot of yelling and crying in her future.  Or maybe there will just be high insurance premiums and sleepless nights as our daughter is unleashed onto the roads of New Orleans.

You will hear the annoying bark of Boudin.  You may get a notion of why I scream for his death everytime he opens his mouth in my house just as my children fall asleep. 

Amber speaking her own language.  I dont know what she says and neither does she. 

Sam…well, being Sam.  That boy is going to make some girl proud to call her own and then bitch when he doesn’t do a damn thing to help around the house.  Ahhhhh….every mother’s dream.

Enjoy:

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The One Where I Bring on the Nasty.

We were having a lovely Mother’s Day lunch when our friends received a call. It seems their renter was having some plumbing problems. Our friends decided they would take care of it later and we went on to munch on the best ribs in town.

We found out what really happened the next day while the hubs and I were on date night. Don’t ask me how it came up, but you know? You start to talking and the conversation leads to topics that you didn’t know you wanted to discuss but find very interesting. Kinda like the Internet. Apparently, our friends’ renter was having some problems with their toilet. Now, this can happen to young and old houses in New Orleans. Since Katrina decided to flood the sewer system and then flooding our streets with shit water, things are a little worse, but really just the same as before. New Orleans doesn’t have the best environment for underground sewerage.

Hubby friend tells us that he enters the rental home and discovers a toilet filled to the brim with shitty water. Making it even more clear with the description of chunks floating in the water. Now, Hubby friend brings his own plunger. I am not really sure why, but I guess you don’t want to go into a situation like that with a plunger you are not familiar with. So, knowing full well that once he stuck his plunger into the toilet that the shitty water would overflow, he plows ahead. His breaking point was when said shitty water splashed onto his leg. That is when he decided to give it up and called his wife.

“Call the plumber!”
“But it is Sunday plus Mother’s Day. That is going to cost a small fortune.”
“I.DONT.CARE. CALL THE DAMN PLUMBER.”

Come to find out that the toilet was blocked with tampons and other material that one may or maynot flush down a toilet. This is where my interest is peaked.

“What do you mean tampons?”
“You are NOT suppose to flush tampons.”
“I didn’t know that. I have been flushing tampons for years and never had a problem.”

At this point, my husband is having visions of his money being flushed down the toilet and our friends (yes, even my female friend) are in shock that I have never heard this. Well, we move on with our conversation, thankfully, but it continues into Tuesday night.

Another friend is over rather later, for us anyway, to try and fix a problem at our house. He installed the offending item, so don’t go thinking that we regularly harass our friends to fix stuff around our house. The problem can not be fixed, so we decide to have some friendly conversation. I retell the story of the plumbing problems of our other friends. We get the same reaction from Fixer friend that or other friends had:

“YOU DON’T EVER, EVER FLUSH TAMPONS.”

I am then scolded for flushing tampons down our system, because we have a septic tank. I know nothing of septic tanks, except if you clog then you have shit backed up into your home and a major bill left to pay.

As I sit and listen to Fixer friend and my husband talk of visions of the tampons ganging up with each other to suck all the water out of our septic tank or a giant tampon taking on the world, I wonder how did I miss this memo? Was I not on the list to receive such important information?

The whole reason, at least what I thought, of tampons was to be able to flush the nastiness down the toilet never to see it again, until the next month. I even explain to them that I use to flush the cardboard applicators, but not the plastic ones. Well, this just throws them into man fits and hubby gets those visions of money clogging up the toilet again.

I have been informed that I must wrap the offending cotton in toilet paper and throw it in the trash can. What is the point of that? It just gives Boudin something to snack on and Sammy treasure to dig for. (My son has a fascination with the trash can at the moment.) I am boggled by this information and wonder how did I miss such plumbing disaster for all these years. So, for the sake of my husband’s sanity and not having to call a big septic tanker to come suck out our septic tank, which will be bone dry because of all the tampons I flushed, I will refrain from flushing such material down the toilet.

First Kandoos and now tampons. I can’t take it. Are you sure I can flush the toilet paper, because God knows I don’t want to find that out the hard way.

A little more fun with tampons:

Look what I found. I think I know a better place for these.

I think this is the perfect spot for all my little yellow torpedoes. A man must build up his arsenal.

A mother can be proud when her children inherits her OCD. I will leave these here and then ambush sissy when she gets home.

My own little pile of Weapons of Mass Destruction. I hope George Bush doesn’t find them. I need them for my attack on Sissy Land.

Yeah, yeah. Stop your moaning. I’m picking them up. Jeesh, that woman never shuts up. What a killjoy!

My Mom says that Tampax is the best for those times of the month when you are bleeding like a stuck pig.

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A Day in the Life of Me.

Okay, I was over at J and C and Me reading about her day. All I can say is, damn that girl does a lot in her day. Dont tell my hubsand, he might expect more from me. So I decided to give you a slightly more lazy view of a Stay at Home Mom’s day. I dont do much, but I do it well.

530am: Alarm goes off and I hit snooze until 6am. Those 9 minute intervals really let you catch up on some sleep. Besides, I am perfecting my arm swing.

6am: Finally, wake up. Stumble into the bathroom and, ur, take care of some business. Hear Sam crying while I am brushing my teeth and wonder if I should go in and see what is the matter or just let him work it out on his own. I am a softie. Although, this morning George got up before me and got to him. He aint going back to sleep. George does something with Sam while I take a shower. I dont know what he is planning on doing, but I know it will involve George trying to get some more sleep.

623am: I exit the shower and meet Sam at the bathroom door. Wandering baby means more sleep for Daddy. Enter bedroom to see a little tuff of blonde hair peaking out from my side of the bed. Oh good, the morning routine of yelling at everyone to “just get up already” has begun.

I wont bored you with my dressing details, because really there is nothing spectualar that happens, except the end product. Amid the process of purty myself up for the day, I “remind” Amber and George to get up. Finally, Amber gets up and goes to her room to get dress. George is still squeezing in some sleep time while catching up on local news and weather.

Amber must have someone in the room while she gets dressed. So, I make her bed while she makes a pile of pink clothes on the floor. I was informed that she will be donning all pink, today. She is buck nekkid, now, and has to run into our bedroom to show Daddy her selection of everything pink. He yells, “PUT SOME CLOTHES ON” and gets up. Oh, that is how you get him up.

Hair is brushed, teeth are brushed and this train of fools move their butts downstairs for some breakfast. I really dont know what goes on down there and dont much care. As long as I dont hear complaints about anyone being hungry or massive blow ups, everything is kosher.

I finish up the prettying process while making our bed and putting some clothes away from last week. I work in small amounts when dealing with laundry.

Sometime after 7am, because hell if I ever look at a clock. I mosey on downstairs to find Amber on the sofa watching Tom and Jerry and Sam bathing in bananas. George is working at my computer in the playroom, because he has important business to take care of at the bank. I clean up the kitchen and hose off Sam. I call to Amber about a million times to get her shoes on so I can bring her to school. I pack the diaper bag. Why? It must be packed at all times, no matter if I have Sam with me or not. I know I am a nut, but you never know when I might need a baby wipe or cracker to stop my tantrum.

725am: Amber and I head out the door for our adventure to school. Basically, it is filled with me torturing Amber with music from Avril to the Beatles at volumes that are sure to bust a small child’s eardrums. With me repeatly being aggravated, because Amber insists on talking to me which results in me having to turn down the music. Whatever happened to children being seen and not heard? I am still waiting for that to come true.

810am: We make it to school for carpool drop off. Not much to tell except I always have to moon someone just to get Amber out of her carseat.

Now, I am off to make my dentist appointment. It is not until 9am, so what to do, what to do. I park in the parking lot and wait. I file my nails, because there is no other time to do it. Try the dentist door at 830am. Nope, lock. I know I can get the car washed.

Go through the carwash and then vaccuum. Wipe down the inside of the car with baby wipes. Voila!! Beuatiful, pristine Suburban.

845am: Go back to the dentist office. Reach for the door to hear the lock switch over. Sign in and use the bathroom. Man, that diet coke and chocolate pretzels I had for breakfast have kicked in.

Come out to be informed my appointment is not until tomorrow. DOH!

930am: Make it back home. Come home to many contractor vehicles in my yard and the neighbor’s yard. Feel a little guilty about our contractors in our neighbor’s yard, but it falls away quickly. Those contractors know very well not to park on my side of the driveway. You expect me to walk from the end of the driveway into my house. Hell, no. This girl is spoiled and must pull into her garage at all times.

Go into the house to meet a very happy to see me Sam. He hasnt really taken to the idea of MawMaw, yet. MawMaw came over to watch Sam, so George could get out of the house for his very important meeting.

Smell popcorn and just know that my mother has eaten popcorn on my sofa. Hold the anger inside and remind myself that the woman gave birth and raised me.

Go outside to see the process on the office bathroom and give the contractors hell. If I didnt tell them off, how would they know I love them? You know they are now family, right? They have been here long enough.

Give George a little hell, too. Then tell him that he is on Sam duty, tomorrow, because I messed up my appointment. Score for me! I get another morning of being all alone in my car.

945am: MawMaw leaves. I vaccuum my sofa with a few choice words thrown in. Decide to clean the floors all the while complaining that people JUST HAVE TO WALK ON MY FLOORS.

Go into the playroom and go over some insurance questions with George.

“Why do we pay so much?”
“We are building a cash value.”
“HUH?” “Can we just pay the premium?”
“I am sure we have paid enough not to pay a premium for a year. You will have to call, Earl or the insurance company.”
“Okay, fine.”

Informed that the water will be shut off, so they can install the sink in the office bathroom. Remember I have to go the bathroom, but forget to go.

10am: Put Sam done for his nap. It is up to him if he sleeps or not.

Come downstairs and decide to call the insurance company, because I can never get a word in when talking to Earl. Insurance company informs me they can tell me nothing about the policy, because I am not the policy holder. Fine, but I will be the policy reciever “if anything unforutante should happen to my dear, lovely husband.” I have a little glee, because George will have to take care of this, because I just cant. (bat eyelashes)

1015am: Settle in to read my lists of blogs and hopefully come up with an idea for my blog.

Doorbell rings and dog from hell barks threatening to wake up my child. Damn, I forgot to put the dog in his kennel for Sammy’s nap. Open the door and try not to kill the FedEx man who cant read that all packages must go to the back. Sign for the package, put dog in kennel and then resume my very important blog reading.

1115am: Start this post. Wonder if the water is back on, so I can use the bathroom. Still dont go.

Even though, I havent done it, yet, I can tell you how my day will end.

1230pm: Sam will wake up and I will get him dressed for the day. We will go downstairs to have lunch. I might start the laundry, which would be a good idea since we are on to using the emergency stash of bath towels. Put some dishes away or leave them until I start dinner. Maybe let the dog out. We shall see how I feel at the time.

1pm: Let Sam play. I might be on the computer checking on my thread at Babycenter or just stare off into space. I have lost my interest for daytime TV, although it is constantly running because complete silence scares me.

215pm: Start getting ready to leave the house to pick up Amber. Put shoes on Sam, since he didnt wear any at all yesterday. Oh yeah, I let my baby boy walk around the Target with no shoes, yesterday. Dont want the boy thinking he is some kind of Southerner or something. Put dog back in kennel, if he was so lucky to be let out.

230pm: Make the trip to pick up Amber. Listen to her exciting day and find out what terrible things her best friend has done to her, even though her best friend is not in school at the moment. Get the lowdown on how rotten all her teachers are to her and reassure her that they will all meet a firey death, soon.

330-4pm: Make it home, depending on traffic. Fend off whines for food and cartoons.

430pm: Start dinner. White beans with rice and sausage. Depending on my ambitions, I might even whip up a tomato and cucumber salad. Oh the possibilites. End up kicking little people, because that is the exact time they need to be under my feet. Throw crackers and water at a crying Sam on the floor. I dont know why he is crying whenever I start dinner. I guess it is out of tradition.

5pm: Remember to put the dog outside to go pee.

515pm: Call everyone to the counter to eat and watch Seinfeld. Yeah, yeah, we are heathens. Constantly run back and forth for requests of more milk, bread, my head on a platter whatever is needed. Now, you know why we eat at the counter. It is too far to run from dining room to kitchen and I like my food warm.

6pm: Wipe down every surface in my kitchen, because you just dont know you are done until food is splatter onto the wall or floor. Now, you know why I keep the dog around.

Finally, get the Halloween bowl down for Amber to pick her treat of the night. Nothing like a little sugar rush to get you through to bedtime. The bowl is never empty. It just keeps filling up from all these damn candy holidays. Why even given them names anymore? Just call them “Candy that will keep kids quiet for 30 seconds and make Moms’ butt bigger” holidays.

620pm: Chase everyone upstairs to get baths and pjs. I havent decided if I will wash Sam or not. If not, he will be allowed to play while his sister is in the tub. This will involve me being on the ready to smack anything from the tub that he might want to throw in. My hand-eye coordination has really improved since he started walking.

645pm: Put Sam to bed. Make sure Amber has brushed her teeth and didnt just eat toothpaste. Settle in to read ONE story to Amber. Refuse a few of her choices, because they are either too long or I just cant stand them. Her daddy can read those to her. Turn on her little lamp and music. Kiss and I love you’s goodnight.

7pm: Run downstairs and either get back onto the computer or watch TV. Wait for the husband to get home, which is usually as soon as I have done everything.

Another busy, fun filled day has ended for this SAHM. It wasnt the most productive day, but there was some fun mixed in. Mostly, finding new ways to torment the kids.

How was your day?

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An open letter to all wild life.

Dear lizards, mice, and other creatures of nature,

How do I put this nicely…? Uh, stay the hell out of my house.

I understand the hot weather is upon us and you are looking for a cool retreat. Or maybe you have heard the tall tales of other tormentors, from past springs and summers, that I put on a good comedy show when one of you decide to pop out from behind a bar stool, curtain or while I sit on the toilet. Yeah, I am sure you think it is funny to hear me scream like a little bitch, especially if I am running from the bathroom with my pants around my ankles. I do a nice little dance, as well. I am here to forewarn you that I mean business this year.

I know I will scream and run, but I have a new weapon in my arsenal: My Dyson. That thing has the suction of a $10 hooker looking for sailors. As you might recall, past years I have sucked you all up with my little Dustbuster. Well, it died a sad death this year, so I have moved onto heavier guns. If you are seen hiding in one of the many corners of my living room or if you make it to the top of the foyer ceiling, I will suck you up. Yes, my trusty Dyson can reach that high. I will leave you in there to die, then dispose of your dead carcass to be ravaged by the ants outside. Being a symbol of the carnage that can and will happen if you cross my threshold.

Wait, there is more. Some of you maybe let go, like your little friend this afternoon, who decided to jump out at me while I vacuumed the living room. He was lucky that I had a house full of children and didn’t want them to spread the word to the neighborhood that I am a killer or a little scaredy cat. However, the purpose of this is to warn your friends. Tell them that the woman of the house has a piercing scream that can blow the eardrums of any small creature. And if you push her she will kill.

I understand it is a hard life out there in nature. I do my best to respect you when you are in your element. Mainly, because I hate the creepy crawlers and don’t much care for the outside. This means you must respect my element. I don’t bother you while you are scaling my brick columns or pop out at me while laying mulch. The comedy show does run outside, as well. Many a time I have run screaming into my house because one of you has run passed me. Leaving confused neighbors scratching their heads, because they cant see what I could be causing my terror. It is like freaking mini-Jurassic Park out there some days. All I ask is that you don’t turn my house into a House of Horrors where the creepy crawlers check in, but they don’t check out.

Yours Sincerely,

Southern Mom (You know the one screaming.)

P.S. If that little fucker who challenged me, last year in the garage, shows up again, tell him I am ready for action. I especially want his little ass to mount over my fireplace. He will be the one with the skin graft from me throwing a cup of hot water on him. You don’t hiss at me in my own house and walk away unscathed.

P.S.S I would, also, like to inform you that I do have a cat. A cat that has been bored to death being chased by the dog and is angry from having the dog lick her ass multiple times a day. She is ready for action, if you slip by me. She is my second line of defense. She has killed many and she is always on the prowl.

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