Saturday, October 6, 2012

Why We Can't Have Nice Things (Just Dog Toys and Dildos)



The other day we went looking for Halloween costumes. Last year there were tons of brand-new adorable toddler costumes at Goodwill, so we went to check for this year. We go thrift/consignment shopping fairly often, and I’ve let the kids fall into the habit of assuming they get to pick out a new toy whenever we hit Goodwill. Tuesday selected a model horse toy (of course…what else IS there for a little girl?), and Dirt picked a rocket. I really tried convincing him that the cute green gorilla was a far superior choice, but to no avail. This is not the rocket I wanted him screaming through the store with (which he did, loudly and relentlessly), because this is not just any rocket. It is a heavy solid rubber/plastic blue and orange camo rocket, quite embarrassingly phallic in size and shape. So yeah, my kid is zooming around shrieking and blowing stuff up with a blue camouflage dildo. Aaawwwwesome.


I also recently bought them dog toys: rubber piggies that snort, quite realistically, when squeezed. When we were getting dog food, we played with the squeaky toys for fun, and I let them hold the pigs while we shopped. By the time we were about to check out, both kids were snuggling their pigs and saying “I love my piggy” so cutely that I had to buy them. The kids like to wrap their “babies” up in blankets and lie down on top of them, causing the toy pigs to emit long, distressed, howling, squealing snorts. Dirt’s pig is green and Tuesday’s pig is purple (“purpur”). We call them Bart and Penelope. 
Yeah, I let my kids play with dog toys and things that resemble sex toys. We are the epitome of class. Somehow we ended up with large grained sea salt instead of teeny tiny regular salt, and we keep it in a big green jar next to the bigger green jars of flour and sugar, because, duh, it won’t come out of a regular salt shaker. Dooley says it makes him feel like a fancy pants top chef to sprinkle pinches of salt onto food by hand. See? Class.


We also felt like real bigwigs when we could finally afford new kitchen appliances last year. A whole. New. Set. Yeah baby. You know how people say, “This is why we can’t have nice things”, usually pertaining to their pets or children? Well it’s also true for us. Yes, our pets and children ruin everything constantly, but we are no better. We, the responsible adults, each ruined a new appliance the moment they were installed. Thinking he was handyman of the year, Dooley messed with the door on the new dishwasher and masterfully broke it, and I used Goof Off on the new microwave to get the sticker residue off, masterfully (and permanently) damaging the shiny plastic. This was THE FIRST DAY we had them. The repair guy took care of the dishwasher, but our microwave will always have a rough patch on it. But that’s not all. I also managed to MELT aluminum foil in the bottom of the oven, and crack one of the plastic crisper drawers in the refrigerator when I closed the outside door on it. Recently the icemaker on the fridge quit working. Still within the one year manufacturer’s warranty, we called the repair guy aaaalllll the way out to our house, only to have him tell us the water hose was kinked and we needed to pull the fridge out from the wall. Embarrassing idiocy. 

When we first moved in, I went about repainting some walls and trim, and poured half a can of white paint on the carpet, which is a lovely dark shade of plum. The best part was that I didn’t realize it until it was too late. Way too late. Luckily it’s in a corner hidden behind a giant plant and a dog kennel, but it’s still there, hardened white paint, almost four years later. I would love to get rid of our purple floors, but I know the moment we installed beautiful new carpet, it would get trashed…kids mashing food into it, dogs and cats defecating and shedding everywhere, ma and pa spilling things…! Oh and Dirt is the ultimate destroyer of all toys, and Dooley has a fun new habit of accidentally kicking holes in the walls. At one time our coffee table and toy box were quite nice, and now they’re stippled with countless tiny pits, thanks to many many many toy horses and dinosaurs stampeding around on them every day. It’s hopeless. And then outside there’s the real horses stomping down fences to come eat the one square foot of lawn I have painstakingly nurtured to its relatively healthy state, and dogs jumping over fences just to pee and dig all over that very same square foot, despite having two acres of good peepee/digging space. Not to mention the trillion hoses doofus mutt has eaten through in an ongoing effort to prevent me from watering said lawn. This is why we can’t have nice things.

MUH. That’s my sound of the day. I first wanted to call it onomatopoeia, but seeing as I had to look up the spelling, I fear I’d misuse the meaning somehow. But if OINK is onomatopoeia, then MUH is my OINK. Why, you ask? I am in a perpetual state of feeling rudely and prematurely woken up, always stumbling around in my sweatpants seeking more coffee. MUH is kind of like UGH (is ugh onomatopoeia?), but the “M” sound is a lazier, more languid sound. Did you know that Tuesday has the most uncanny ability to wake up the very moment I fall into a deep, delicious sleep? Not even kidding a little bit. If I finally decide to go to bed at midnight, guess who wakes up crying the very freaking second I fall asleep? If I think I’ll try to take a nap once the boy is finally asleep for his nap…guess who’s done with her nap at that moment? Mean little girl.

On another note, winter weather is here at last (good-bye house flies! Hello cozy sweaters and cute boots!). Now I can just let the damn lawn die. But that also means I go even more stir crazy because I can’t just take the kids outside to play. Want to watch another movie? Sure thing! Want me to get off the couch? Out from all these cuddly blankets that I have wrestled into perfect position? No can do. You’d think being a full-time stay-at-home mom would mean I was more available to my kids and that we would have plentiful quality time, but I think it makes me more checked out than ever. And way more prone to random freak-outs, because patience and sanity are in short supply here, despite squishy loveable adorableness of children. I’ve realized you really need to get away from something to appreciate it. Like Dooley being gone all the time. I am a firm believer in “absence makes the heart grow fonder”, from both ends of the spectrum: overexposure to children and underexposure to husband. 

The fact that his work schedule is so random and crappy certainly doesn’t help me feel connected either. It doesn’t matter what day of the week it is, or even what time of day. It’s 11pm Saturday night and it may as well be 11am on a Tuesday. Can anyone relate? It’s so alienating. From reality and society, that is. We exist outside of space and time. And humanity. Stagnating. MMMMUUUH. I read the headline for an article that said working moms are healthier and happier than stay-at-home moms. I don’t know how they arrived at that conclusion, because I only read the headline, because it pissed me off. The end.

It’s not like we never ever leave the house. Even though we’re 30 minutes from anything, I’ve decided to motivate and just GO, even for silly errands. An hour of drive time to return some shoes? Why not? With gas prices so low and all…! An aside: just went for a jog and cracked open a beer. Feeling much better. Further aside: when I say “jog”, I mean I ran back to the house after feeding the horses cuz it’s “FEEZING TOAD”, as Tuesday says. Yes, yes, I know, I need to exercise. Be active! Be productive! Have purpose and motion! (MUH.) But seriously, I know that I feel better when I get a little exercise, or when I accomplish something beyond the day to day, but finding time, or more importantly, motivation, is challenging. Commas, commas, commas.

I am attempting productivity and purpose in my paintings. (Super alliteration, eh?) That’s something I haven’t discussed much in my little blog, but I am an artiste. (Oh yes, I’m ¼ French, so I can say artiste, and I can have my nose in the air when I say it. So there.) I may have mentioned that fine art is what I went to college for, but my artistic endeavors have been furloughed by children. Only recently have I been able to start painting again, having completed two paintings in the last few months—both commissions for friends, but still. Perhaps once I get bored with bitching about being bored in this blog, I can refocus a bit in that direction. (More alliteration? Daaay-um, girl.)  I have several paintings on the horizon, so I’ll try to keep my dear readers better informed in that regard. Unless we’re satisfied with being one of a bazillion random ranting mommy bloggers…? That's fine too. Here's the paintings anyway:


Mommy blogging is fun though. There’s a continuous supply of excellent stories to tell about the wee ones, although as the epic and profound series What Not to Wear has taught me, you need an identity outside of being a mommy. (Lol jk rofl…what other texting acronyms are there…?) ((Parentheses RULE!)) So here’s an icky mommy story, as IF there’s any other kind: my little boy still wears a diaper at night—cuz how the frick do you teach sleeping bladder control?!—and it is always super full of pee when he gets up. One morning recently it was more than super full. You know how some diapers are filled with those magic pee-absorbing tiny gel balls? You’d only know that if you’ve had a full pee diaper ripped open before. That’s what happened. Giant pile of tiny urine-filled gel balls exploded into my lap and all over the couch and floor. I’ll leave you contemplating that predicament, just as I sat there, stunned, wondering what my next move was. 
Inside a pee diaper. Yup.