BUT DID YOU DIE?!

Now You Get The Horns (A Message To My Ass)

It’s been a rough few weeks.  No, wait.  Hear me out.  I know you’ve had your shit, too. And usually my shit is pretty trivial, like football assholes and the bitch who stands behind me at the gym for way too long because she’s just trying to see how many calories I burned during my hour on the elliptical.  God, I hate her.

Okay, fine.  Now that I see that in writing, my problems seem rather piddly but it really has been a rather sucky last few weeks.  I will explain.

E needed new shoes so we went shoe shopping one Sunday about a month ago.  He ended up with a pair of dress shoes, a pair of casual work shoes, and a pair of casual canvas slip-on loafer things.

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I’ll admit, we debated over the canvas slip-ons because we felt they were flirting with that “I’m a total douchebag” line in the shoe sand.  The Douchebag shoes did look cute with the khaki shorts he was wearing.  I told him to throw caution to the wind, try something new.  Go crazy.  If I can have magenta/red hair, he could have his brand of crazy.  Do you, baby.  Do you.  He got so caught up in the frenzy of the moment, he wore those fuckers out of the store and we even went to lunch at the Cracker Barrel.  Not one person mocked him.  Of course, it was Cracker Barrel on a Sunday but I felt the outing was a good test run.  A Friday night virgin run to the Cracker Barrel could have been met with disaster.  I’ve found the Sunday crowd much more tolerant of personal deviances.

But I digress.

It was about a week later when this crazy footwear lifestyle choice came crashing down around us.  E’s foot/ankle/pretty much entire leg area became incredibly angry with him while he was out of town on business.  E blamed the weekend time spent in the Douchebag shoes.  I mean, it could have been solely the Douchebag shoes’ fault but to be fair, E was gallivanting around the country, riding airplanes in plush coach seats and all the other Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous trappings, you know?  But because I’m a judgmental asshole, I still gave the Douchebag shoes the evil side eye every time I saw them by E’s side of the bed that whole week due to the pain they had inflicted on E, who was hobbling all around Seattle.  Douchebag shoes didn’t seem to have a fuck to give but I carried the torch of hate for them anyway.

Landon turned 18 a few weeks ago so to celebrate, we took him to Six Flags over Georgia.  E was scheduled to be back home on Friday so the plan was that the kids and I would pick him up at the Birmingham airport and drive straight to Atlanta for the Birthday weekend.  Due to the airline completely shitting themselves yet again, E re-routed to Atlanta and that’s where the kids and I had to collect his hobbly ass from.

Now, I’ve heard horror stories about the big bad Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.  E has discouraged me from flying out from there in the past, in fear that just getting into Hartsfield would eat me alive.  E was worried about me driving solo with the kids to pick him up.  My friend Kari recently wrote a hilarious blog post about making her way out of Hartsfield.  All this hullabaloo and the kids and I made it there, for the most part sane and unscathed, through Friday rush hour Atlanta traffic.  I didn’t even have to turn around to get back on track at any time.  I didn’t throw my phone out the window in a fit of rage.   Honestly, I think E and Kari may be pussies.  I’m not sure what other theory I can go with here but I still love you both.

I knew E was sporting a new shoe injury but I truly didn’t anticipate how bad it was.  Mostly because he’s a trooper and rarely complains, rarely goes to the Doctor and all that other potentially life saving nonsense.  If I would have picked him up at the Birmingham airport, we would not have went to Six Flags that weekend.  I wouldn’t have let him.  But there I was in Atlanta, watching my husband hobble to the back of the SUV to stow his luggage, thoroughly shocked he wasn’t being supervised by an airline employee, sitting in a wheelchair with an afghan over his legs.

I suggested that we postpone the Six Flags trip. E declined but it was obvious he could not walk around Six Flags so we decided to rent a scooter.  Shut up, scooters are bad ass.  He even had a little basket in the front.  Baby got front, y’all.

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I can’t believe it but I did not get one picture of E on the scooter probably because I wanted to walk out of the park on my own two legs and not be forced to ride a scooter of my own.  Of course, my scooter would have been all black due to the slimming properties of that color.  No basket, either.  Baskets make me look fatter.

We were being troopers, scooting around the park as fast as we could, trying not to run over anyone, E ignoring my nursing home jokes, when a park attendant approached us and suggested we go to Guest Services to be issued an ADA pass for the day.  We didn’t have a Doctor’s note or anything, I guess we just looked pretty dismal all on our own.  We told the sweet chick at Guest Services what the ride attendant told us, she issued us an ADA pass for the day, and we walked (well, E scooted) away very thankful but confused.  Turns out, the pass would keep E from walking and standing in line so much and was pretty much like an express pass.  It saved our day and we got to ride every big roller coaster in the park.

And that’s how I got all fucked up.

I’ve been on lots of mammoth coasters, mostly over the last several years as I began to lose weight.  I beat back my panic attacks every single time.  Sometimes you can actually see outward signs that I’m fighting an internal battle with my head.  E and the kids let me know where the exit is when we get stuck at a standstill in a tiny ride que.  If I know the way out, I’m usually okay.  I hate being restrained to the point I can hardly move but most of the big rides these days have to have a restraint system like that.  Because safety.  I ride as a challenge to myself but to also teach my kids that fear can be defeated. Okay, maybe because I want them to know that I’m cool and totally not a pussy.  But mainly for the noble “You are bigger than your fears” stuff.

That day at Six Flags, I was totally not a pussy.  There were some really unique rides, types of coasters we had not experienced before.  I made it through the Scorcher, where you ride standing up.  Standing up!

I rode Superman (insert your own joke here), which puts you into a horizontal position so you can feel like, well, Superman.

That is some crazy ass shit, y’all.  And I loved both of them.  I walked away uninjured.  Then this one got me.  The Mind Bender is like a watered down Shock Wave, for you Texas readers.  In sexual terms, it’s pretty much vanilla, missionary style sex in the coaster world.

Mind Bender could sense I was going to diss it because somewhere along the ride, I felt my back tweak.  You know what that means.  Your back says “Oh, hell no, stop this shit right the fuck now” and because I was on a roller coaster, as vanilla and missionary as it was, I couldn’t exactly do anything to stop it.

I got off the ride and mentioned to E that my back wasn’t happy but I made it without any problems the rest of the day.  A few days later the back pain set in, on the center right hand side.  I took it easy, didn’t work out, babied the injury.  E bought me a heating pad (shut up) and it’s been priceless.  Pretty much, I’d take the kids to school, then come home and do as little as possible, attached to my heating pad.  The pain then seemed to move down to my lower back but it was getting better.  I resumed workouts but took it pretty easy, only burning about 300 calories each time.  I thought I was getting back in the saddle.

And then my ass started hurting.  Like my right butt cheek, right where your waist stops and your ass starts.  I whined to E.  I whined via writing to my friend Lulu, who’s states away and can’t do crap about it, but she’s been supportive and helpful.  We even contemplated producing heating pad covers for decrepit rockers like myself.  Cool covers with skulls and other bad ass symbols on them so we don’t come off so… pussy.  E pops my back every night and although that feels awesome, he really can’t pop my ass (I heard that, btw, and do you kiss your Mama with that mouth?).

After doing some research, I’m pretty sure I have Piriformis Sydrome.  Before you get all riled up and start a charitable foundation for me and apply for grant funding to produce a cure for this horrible syndrome, let me tell you what it is.  Basically, one usually gets Piriformis Syndrome by sitting on their ass too much.  That’s right.  I’ve sat on my ass so much the last couple weeks, I’ve pissed my Piriformus muscle, a muscle I didn’t even know existed, right the hell off.  It’s so, so angry.

So I’m going back in, my friends.  That’s right.  My ass is going to get the horns now.  No more fiddle dicking around.  Besides certain targeted stretching, which I’ve been doing, there doesn’t seem much else can be done except give it time but I want my ass back, damn it!  I have scheduled a deep tissue massage for myself this Thursday morning.  You’ll recall my last deep tissue massage did not go as planned.  As I told E about my scheduled massage, I could hear him laughing all the way from Los Angeles.

Totally unrelated, I’ve thrown away all of E’s shoes except for the Douchebag shoes.  It’s a surprise for when he gets back home.  He’s walked normally for a couple weeks now so he has no right to bitch.

Also, for those of you who guessed 2015, you can go ahead and cash in on your winnings for nailing the year that I eagerly and without hesitation paid good money to have my ass roughed up by a stranger.

Final words of wisdom, don’t sit on that ass of yours for too long lest you piss off your Piriformis.  Icy Hot isn’t an aphrodisiac and it isn’t cute.  It smells like that paste glue I stealthily consumed in grade school.  Learn from my mistakes.  And for God’s sake, put those white shoes and pants away.  It’s after Labor Day!  Have some pride in yourselves.  If yours weren’t packed away by the end of yesterday, you shame me and Jesus is crying right this very minute.

Have a good week, y’all!

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That’s When Everything Went Dark

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I started my diet again (yes, AGAIN and shut up, you naturally skinny bastards) today.  I don’t even deserve to whine to you good people about the weight I’ve put back on this year.  So I won’t.  Well, I kind of will.  Here’s how my day went in private thoughts, conversations and texts.  Upon review, I may have a love/hate relationship with Delta Burke and I may be willing to go to prison if I’ll lose weight.  Being fungry makes you do stupid stuff, y’all.

7:00 a.m. – Weigh in was good, I lost 2.2 pounds.  I got this shit on lock.

9:45 a.m. – (thinking to myself as I was getting dressed to take E to the airport):  When your Delta Burke panties don’t fit anymore, you are in some seriously deep shit.

10:30 a.m. – (still thinking to myself because E went all Sigmund Freud on me and told me to be ready at 10:00 a.m. when he really needed me to be ready by 11:00 a.m. and hadn’t even started packing yet.  This reverse psychology fuckery will not be forgotten, damn it):  Don’t judge me until you’ve waddled a mile in my Delta Burke panties.

11:00 a.m. (Headed out the door when E asked me why I had packed a small cooler):  “I have 4 bottles of water, an Atkins chocolate shake, and a cheese stick – in case of a fat girl emergency while I’m running errands today.”

12:30 p.m. (bargaining with myself by using everything I’ve learned from movies about talking someone off a ledge, literally):  Man, that Atkins chocolate shake was way too much.  I can’t believe that was only one serving.  I’m stuffed.

1:00 p.m. – That cheese stick is for an emergency.  Stop it.  Stop thinking about it.  Right now.

2:00 p.m. – Drink another bottle of water.  You’re not hungry.  You’re dehydrated.

2:30 p.m. – Oh dear God, thank you.  Sonic Happy Hour.

2:32 p.m. –  You will order the fried mozarella sticks over my dead, cushy, artery clogged body, you son of a bitch!

2:37 p.m. – Demons vanquished, I head to school pickup victorious sans greasy fried fat sticks but sucking on a Route 44 Diet Coke like it is literally the last dick on Earth.

5:00 p.m. – Eating every last crumb in my Chick Fil A nugget meal (small fries) because if I have to count this shit on my calorie log, I’m not going to miss a damned thing.  Also, I feel old as dirt and consider asking for the Senior Citizen Early Bird speical due to the fact that I’m eating before 6:00 p.m. because that’s what Bob Harper says to do.  Fuck you, Bob Harper.

6:00 p.m. – Returning three pairs of yoga pants to Ross and feeling stabby because 1)  They were too tight.  2)  How in the hell are YOGA PANTS too tight?!  3)  Does that bitch Delta Burke make yoga pants?  4)  Do they have to put every mother fucking package of cookies they have right in the God forsaken register line?  Son of a whore!

6:47 p.m. – How many Skinny Cows will make me a Fat Cow?

7:00 p.m. – I turn to my friend Lulu for help via Facebook Messenger.  I’m the blue text.

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And that’s when everything went dark.  I did wake up with both of my tits, though.  Glass is half full, y’all.  You know that’s my motto.

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I’m sorry for yelling at you when I was sleepy and fungry/hangry, E.  Lulu, thank you for listening to me and encouraging me to start doing meth.  I feel good about it and think it may work.  Fingers crossed.  And because once is never enough:  Fuck you, Bob Harper.  Also, make your panties stretchier, Delta Burke.  I don’t buy that shit for looks.

God, I’m fungry.

Happy Endings Apparently ARE Extra

I gave E a couple’s massage package for Valentine’s Day.  We finally managed to make the appointment this past weekend, due to E’s travel schedule and limited weekend appointments at this particular salon.

Now, our self pampering experience is limited to a hot stone massage and facial (oh, shut up) combo we enjoyed during a Spring Break cruise a few months ago.  Although the experience was absolutely divine, it was hella expensive – around $360 with tip.  I’m a cheap bitch so I’ll just massage whatever I can reach on myself for free.  Sometimes it’s even enjoyable.  I also have about six different facial masks under my vanity.  I can slather that shit on my face every night if I so wish and it’s pretty inexpensive, depending on which mask I choose.  I may be popping my nerve pills like Tic Tacs due to stress and tension and my skin may be a bit oily but I have $360 more in the bank, baby.

The package I purchased at this local salon was for a deep tissue massage, which instantly had E second guessing my decision every time we’d talk about the appointment.  He was really hung up on the words “deep” and “tissue”.  I’d tell him to man up and quit being a pussy.  How rough could a massage be?  Geesh.  Then he’d tell me about an “unexpected business trip” once again that would derail our appointment.

Deep Tissue Massage Day finally arrived.  As we were getting ready, E asked me if a “happy ending” was included or if we had to pay extra.  I told him that at our age, just getting home safely after the massage so we could take a nap was a happy ending.

We arrived at the salon and met the owners, a lovely couple.  We were told to get undressed and get under the sheets on the table.  Mrs. Masseuse pointed out her table and I scrambled up onto it.  My deep tissue was not going to be massaged by foreign man hands.  E reluctantly and with many sighs climbed onto Mr. Masseuse’s table, yammering unhappily about not looking forward to his virgin deep tissue being handled by a man.  Mr. and Mrs. Masseuse apparently stood outside and limbered up their fingers, mainlined steroids and shotgunned Red Bull because when they entered the room, it was fucking ON.

The stereo was turned on and the room filled with music about being one with the Earth.  I shit you not.  Before I could acclimate my resistant brain to the hippie music, hands were laid on me and not in the Pentecostal way.  There was no warm-up, no foreplay, and certainly not any comforting, hot, smooth stones in sight, much less being laid gently on my back.  My deep tissue was being violated in ways it had never known until then.  It was intense but I did my best to relax and just enjoy it as much as possible, telling myself that my deep tissue probably deserved it and needed to be roughed up a bit.

The first clue I had that E was not himself was when he didn’t talk.  I had to answer all the questions about our kids, our vacations, our summer plans, etc.  Most of you probably know that I’m the mouth in this marriage but E can carry a conversation without me and he loves to talk to new people.  I pretty much replied to everything asked and talked about for the entire hour.

The next clue I had that E was resisting the deep tissue tough love was when he asked Mr. Masseuse with a pained wince, “What is that?”  Mr. Masseuse said, “That’s your Mouse Knot.”  We learned that a Mouse Knot is found in almost everyone who works at a desk and on a computer on a daily basis.  Apparently, E has the largest Mouse Knot in the world because Mr. Masseuse spent a lot of time working that little fucker out.  E replied that he’d never felt it before and didn’t even know it was there.  That was a mistake.  Mr. Masseuse pressed E’s Mouse Knot even harder to make his point and said “Feel it now”?  E whimpered replied that he indeed did feel it then.

The final clue that E and his deep tissue had reached critical mass was his uncontrollable, audible gasps and I don’t mean gasping in an “I’m really enjoying this shit” kind of way.  I kept my eyes tightly closed because I didn’t want to see the death ray glare I was sure E was aiming at me.  Later, I realized there would have been no death ray glare because E’s deep tissue had said “Fuck it, I quit this bitch” so he couldn’t move his neck anyway.

Our hour was up and Mr. and Mrs. Masseuse left the room so we could get dressed.  I stayed on the table, feeling like a wet noodle.  I turned my head (I, unlike E, still had that function) to see if E was basking in the relaxation as I was.  He had managed to turn over onto his side to give me a delayed death ray glare plus the middle finger.  All I got for the next couple minutes as he coerced his body into getting vertical all at the same time was the middle finger.

When E finally spoke to me and put down his middle finger, he asked “Can you pull up the navigation on your phone?”  When I asked why, he said, “To find a spleen store because I no longer fucking have one!”  I started laughing so hard, I had to sit down on the bench where our clothes were folded and waiting for our newly beaten-into-shape deep tissue.  As E shuffled slowly by me in his underwear to go into the bathroom he said “I’ll be in there pissing blood.”

As soon as we were safely in our SUV, I handed E some Motrin.  He shuddered and said “Do you know how it feels to have two hairy man arms running up and down your back?  I do now.”  I suggested that we console E’s deep tissue and homophobia with some gourmet cookies from a place I’d heard was awesome.  We then headed home and slept for two hours.  I only got the middle finger maybe another dozen times for the rest of the day.

I woke up late the next morning with sore upper shoulders but that was it.  E had to leave the house at around 4 a.m. to travel to Seattle on a business trip with extremely angry deep tissue that was no longer speaking to him.  Although I can’t see him giving me the middle finger over the phone, I know it’s there.  I can sense it.  I think the few days apart will do me and his middle finger good.

In the meantime, our anniversary is next month.  I think the suggested gift for 24th wedding anniversaries is a deep tissue massage.  I mean, surely he’ll be pissing normal urine again by August.  And besides, who needs a spleen anyway?

There Will Be Consequences!

My Birthday was on Saturday and if you recall, I was quite looking forward to my cake.

E did a great job of ordering my cake.  It was exactly what I like:  white with buttercream icing.  Buttercream, the way God intended, not that shitty whipped icing fuckery.  Whipped icing is the work of the devil and/or Richard Simmons, who may be one and the same now that I think about it.

My cake was red and white, which I believe E chose for therapeutic purposes.  I’m still in denial over Alabama not making it to the National Championship so instead of getting me a straight up Alabama cake with a big “A” on it, I think he started cautiously, slowly drawing me out of my football depression much like you would carefully draw a wounded animal out of its hidey hole.

Or maybe he just said “Hell, you pick the colors, bakery lady.”  I’ll go with the wounded animal theory.

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I was supposed to start my diet yesterday and I did.  I honestly did.  I ate a healthy breakfast, curtailed the full on sugar in my coffee and increased my water intake.  I was easing back into the swing of things.  But there was one piece of cake left.  A corner piece, with roses.  Buttercream roses.

The well known rule in our house (or so I thought) was that the Birthday Person gets the last piece of cake.  It’s not debated, it’s accepted as fact and the socially acceptable thing to do.  I planned on eating that last piece of cake as a reward for my first day of eating sanely since October.  I was looking so forward to eating that last piece of cake in utter silence after everyone was in bed for the night.  I fleetingly thought about wrapping that last piece up carefully and putting it away in the cabinet but I chided myself with “C’mon, your family wouldn’t do that to you, there’s the Birthday Person Gets The Last Piece Of Birthday Cake Rule.”

Apparently, rules don’t mean shit in my house.  Here’s how it went down.

E:  Thanks for eating the last piece of cake.

Me:  My Birthday, my last piece of cake.  I plan on enjoying it later tonight after y’all are in bed.

E:  No, you don’t.  It’s gone.

Me (thinking he’s fucking with me):  Yeah, right.

E:  No, I’m serious.

(I don’t say anything right away, my brain is attempting to process this new information because the last time I checked, my piece was intact, in the cake box when I arrived back home from picking the kids up from school…  picking up the kids…  from school… my little darlings have been home for almost 3 hours now…  oh dear God and for the love of all that’s holy…  MOTHER FUCKER!)

Me (yelling):  WHO ATE MY LAST PIECE OF CAKE?!

*Crickets*

Me (yelling again but shriller than last time and there may have been a little sob involved):  WHO ATE MY LAST PIECE OF CAKE?!

Landon:  I didn’t!

Gracie says nothing but her facial expression says “Oops, my bad.”

Me:  What happened to the Birthday Person Gets The Last Piece of Birthday Cake Rule?

Gracie:  What rule?

Me:  The rule we’ve always had!

Gracie:  I didn’t know there was a rule.

Me:  You sure knew the rule on your Birthday!  Landon knew there was a rule.

Landon:  Yep.  I know the rule.

Gracie shrugs, puts her headphones on and goes about her business like she didn’t just give me a lifetime of hella cake trust issues.

I can’t wait until her Birthday in November.  I have a hard-on for that last piece of cake like you’ve never seen before.  I’m thinking about making up shit just to have an excuse to buy cake for her so I can eat her last damned piece.  This Was Your Original Due Date cake, You Started Pooping On The Big Girl Potty 11.25 Years Ago Today cake, You’ve Been Wearing A Training Bra For 683 Days cake, Yay!  Your Forehead Pimple Is Finally Gone cake, Congrats On Trimming Your Toenails cake.

She has no clue about the shit storm she’s brought down upon herself.  Godspeed, Gracie.  Godspeed.

As for me, I’ve learned that nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is sacred.  Next year, I will wrap my last piece of cake up like it’s gold and hide that fucker in the washing machine.  In my house, that’s safer than Fort Knox.

*Update:  My “most wonderful husband” pointed out in the comments that I neglected to give him credit for going to Wal Mart last night after the horrific event described above to buy me more cake.  Well done, E.  Well done.  He’s taken, ladies.  Go get your own enabler.

You’re A Sneaky Bastard, Summer!

It may not technically be summer according to the calendar but it’s summer in my book when my vanity succumbs to my survival instincts and I actually don short shorts and a tank top to go out in public.  Throw your outdoor thermometers away.  The Weather Channel should just stand outside my house and post weather forecasts completely based on the amount of my flesh I am exposing to Southern air.  They could call it the “Flesh Tracker”.  No costly satellites needed.  Jim Cantore can retire to Florida and call his shit done.

Let me count the ways I have always hated summer.

I hate the temps.  If you’re in the South, you also know what humidity that takes your breath away feels like.  It doesn’t get much better when I go back home to Texas in late July.  A couple years ago, my friend “Fantasia” threatened to take my native Texan card away if I complained about the temps one more time.  In my defense, a whole bottle of hand sanitizer exploded in my car.  EXPLODED.  If I would have been in the vehicle when the bottle exploded, I could have been killed or even worse.  It was considered a “cool front” that year if temps got below 114 degrees.  I have located the mouth of hell and it is in or around North Texas.

I hate the fashions, especially when I have “more to love” than usual and I’m really lovable this summer.  I hate trying on swimsuits so much that I skipped it altogether, played swimsuit routlette and ordered online this year.  This is one of the suits I bought:

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The ad claims this suit will make you “suddenly slim” so I completely ignored the Law of Horizontal Stripes, figuring it wouldn’t apply to my suddenly slim ass.  I ended up just looking like the damned Hamburglar.

Robble fucking robble.

Now on a personal vendetta against the Law of Horizontal Stripes, this is the second suit I ordered:

No fucks to give. Not one.

It’s like Barney and the Hamburglar had a one night stand and this came out nine months later.  Before anyone asks, and I know they will, Barney was definitely the power bottom in that arrangement.  Hamburglar has done hard time and is through taking that shit.

I hate summer because no matter how much time I spend on my makeup, an hour later I look like a contestant from RuPaul’s Drag Race who got his/her ass kicked by that coffee can full of bacon grease my Granny used to keep on the back of her stove.  Not a cute look, y’all.

I hate summer because I have a problem with swimming pools, aside from the obvious swimsuit debacle.  I can’t enter a public pool without desperately wanting to test the water for urine or even worse things.  I hate the toddlers at the local pool who smirk at me because they can swim better than I can.  One day, I’ll catch them when they’re not wearing their Disney arm floaties and it will be ON.

Before I send summer to therapy, I’ll attempt to find something positive about it.

I love the time off with the kids and the lazy schedule we strictly adhere to.  I’m usually at my fittest in the summer because we grill a lot and I’m more disciplined with my diet and exercise because I’m going home to see family and friends.  That’s another perk of summer, going back to Texas with the kids and seeing those same family and friends.  I love a really ice cold beer and summer was made for that.  I love Sonic Route 44 diet green iced teas.  I love summer action movies.  I love my summer playlist on Spotify, which I created last year and titled “Summer:  Let’s Do This, Fucker”.  I love knowing that on the other side of summer is the reward of fall, football, Halloween, cozy sweaters, knee high boots and mossy green eyeshadow.

Okay, fine.  Let’s hug it out, summer.  You’re not that bad after all, you sneaky SOB.

Let me know in the comments if and why you hate summer as much as I do.  Have a good week, y’all.  I’m down 8.2 pounds!  Woo hoo!

Ancient Chinese Secret My Ass

I’ve very recently had an epiphany.  I am 44 years old and I still don’t know how to do laundry correctly.  I think if I listed E’s complaints about me (I know you’re shocked, who would ever complain about a model wife/Mom such as myself?!) laundry would top the list.

We purposely live in a small home.  When we moved here from Texas, I was determined to find something more manageable than the brand new five bedroom, three bath, three living room beast of burden we had there.  Our realtor here in Alabama told me I drug her to rural parts of Alabama she had never even seen before.  One house we looked at had its own yard chickens.  Another house had a couple of dead birds in it and I was shocked there wasn’t a hexagram drawn on the floor.    We finally settled on a small house in a suburb of Birmingham.  It has exactly what we need and no more.

When it comes to clothes storage, however, our house is definitely on the “less sucks” side.  Our closet space is very limited so I have to store off season clothing in storage tubs in our basement.  When the weather changes, I go through every tub and rewash everything to work it back into our closet rotations.  It may seem excessive but the clothing has been stored in the basement for a good 6 months and I just feel better knowing everything is clean.

Last fall, however, some lids were left off a couple of the tubs and our cat, unbeknownst to me, made the tubs his home.  White cat hair covered everything.  At the time I was using those little concentrated gel packs of detergent which were apparently made for lumberjacks, industrial paint strippers and occasional North Korean nerve gas.  I threw in five of those little packs per load, just to make sure the clothes were “extra clean”.

E and Landon started breaking out and itching all over their bodies.  I didn’t breakout but I was itching like a country hound dog with fleas in the summer – all over.  The only skin in our family that wasn’t saying “Oh, hell no” to my excessive use of concentrated and possibly banned chemicals belonged to Gracie.  She got nothing, no breakouts, no itching.  I have since concluded that she is an alien sent here to integrate amongst us humans and then lay her eggs when the Mother Ship gives the signal but I’m on this shit now.  I’ve watched the Alien movies and Prometheus.  I can totally handle this now that I know what I’m dealing with.

Ultimately, I had to rewash everything twice and with extra long cycles and rinses.  I had to switch to that super sensitive laundry detergent made from baby angel tears and bunny kisses.  E has a panic attack every time I tell him I have to go to the laundry detergent aisle and feels the need to verify that I am truly still using the tears of baby angels/bunny kisses stuff.  Sometimes I want to throw in the North Korean nerve gas shit just to test for the placebo effect but I don’t think I’m quite ready to hear all the wailing and gnashing of teeth again so soon.

Another one of E’s laundry complaints is “unexplained” stains on his clothes.  He insists they weren’t there when he put them in the hamper.  He’s been accusing me of deliberately planting stains on his clothes for years now.  I let him think that because it distracts him from my real psychological terror/general mind fuckery sabotage scheme I’m using against him but that’s a whole other blog post.

Just yesterday, he woke me from my sound sleep to ask how the hell I could possibly get a “no iron” shirt to be as wrinkled as Shirley MacLaine’s 80 year old ass.  Okay, he didn’t throw Shirley’s 80 year old ass under the bus, I did, but that’s what he meant.

You got me, E.  My life’s mission for the last 23 years has been to thwart the shirt manufacturers by reversing their carefully planned “no iron” qualities, thereby making your shirts wrinkled as hell so you have no choice but to iron them.  I’ve also spent the last 16 years as a stay at home Mom  covertly concocting various impenetrable stains, impregnating your clothes with the stains, all while blaming you.  Mission completed.  I’ll be leaving today.

In the meantime, this is my new motto whenever I screw up as a wife/mom.  Anytime it’s my fault for hives, itching, general life threatening situations and minor to major inconveniences, I’m going to show my family the following video.  Chow’s “BUT DID YOU DIE?!” should put it all into perspective for them.

So I have a lot of free time now.  Who needs some laundry done?