TEEKEE TOWN! TEEKEE TOWN! I LIVE IN A FREAKING *TEEKEE TOWN!! ...
Okay; I feel better. Sometimes I just need to, spaz out in a lunatic-type fashion, about how much testosterone I am daily surrounded by. I'M NOT MORBIDLY OBESE OR PREGNANT! I'M NOT MORBIDLY OBESE OR PREGNANT! ...
Whoops, sorry...I guess Crazy Mama isn't quite ready to be put down to bed tonight...It's just that also, I've been asked more in the last ten days than in my LIFEtime, if I'm pregnant and why am I still fat.
"Seriously, Crazy Mama?!"
"Seriously, Slightly Saner Self."
Duuuuude. I can't be angry, really. I have managed to become filled with, and pop out four rather large baby boys in a short amount of time that I swear, fancied doing infant-womb-olympics when they were in there, and kinda killed my ab muscles. You know, because I looked like JLo before the kids. I had a six-pack. (Yesssss...I LOVE the internet. I can totally LIE that I used to look like JLo because it's the internet and you just might believe me. No you won't. If you read my blog you'll know my life enough to guess that's a lie. Damn. I HATE the internet.) I am making a firm resolve to start intensive working out next week. Yup. I mean it. But, please don't like, start taking bets with your other blogging friends about it, okay? And NO, I'm not pregnant.
Today, I decided, I'm too exhausted of this day to finish writing about that week I promised to finish writing about. But hopefully, it made you laugh, or commiserate, or just be glad about your own life, and we're squared. So let's catch up. Monday, I awoke to hearing my oldest son, Michael, complaining while on the toilet that his poop wouldn't come out.
"Daaaad--it hurrrts. It won't come out!" He proceeded to grunt in vain.
"Buddy--don't hurt yourself. Just calm down until it comes out."
Clearly, Handsome Husband has never been constipated. Calm down? Like the giant one-foot-turd was simply stuck because it was having a little stage fright? Michael thought about this (and I'm listening to all of this half-dead in my I-hate-mornings-stupor), and tried a different approach.
"Poop in my butt, ACTIVATE! Poop in my butt, ACTIVATE! Poop in my butt, ACTIV--"
[one minute later]
"--YESSS!!! WOOHOO!"
Do I NEED to tell you all, that it helps to have a therapist for a husband who apparently taught our oldest son about biofeedback? Do I NEED to tell you all, that I just can't understand why he hasn't managed to teach them (or himself) how to clean the flipping toilet after they pee all over it??? I go to us the toilet and ARG! Next thing I know, I've had myself a little butt bath. EW. That was it. Oh right--and I skipped over the background history about how the night before, Matty had night terrors all night, and kept everyone awake.
I am not a morning person. Never have been, never wanna be. Who invented mornings anyway? Can't we just skip to the good parts where we're all showered, and made up, and drinking coffee and eating omlettes?? Anyway, so there I was, just trying to have the one and ONLY time in the day when I pee without being bothered or followed and I sat in BOY GOO. I mean, I'd rather sit in an Unidentified Wet Puddle. At least that leaves mystery. So, I calmly measured our toilet. I mean it--I walked straight out there half-dressed with my measuring tape and was like, "Boys: there are at LEAST ten inches of peeing space in our potties [insert hand gesture to demonstrate how big ten inches of space is]. Is that a lot, or a little space? [helpful nods that yes, this was a lot of space]. Then WHY, oh WHY is all the boy juice on the FLOOR, surrounding the potty, like an island?!"
Then as usual, they all had hysteria, laughing at me like the lunatic that I was. "Mommy said 'boy juice'! BAHAHAHA!" I suppose I should have stuck to "pee."
Alright, enough about kids. Let's talk abouuut...your temperpedic ultimately being the cause of one intense rug burn. Lemme just say this: friends, if you're considering buying a temperpedic, they're great for sleep. Baaaad for love-making. Bubbabubbabubbaaaad. Imagine making love in quick sand. Not fun, not attractive and in fact, kind of absurd and comical. This causes one (well TWO actually--nothing funny) to wander away from said quick-sand bed. Which, is nice. Until, you awake and can't figure out why your ass is on fire. Oh right; rug burn. Moral of this story: should you carpet-diem, make the wise choice--be on top. Don't be dooped...or had...now I'm crackin' myself up with my inappropriate brain. Caffeine withdrawal can be ugly. Friends don't let friend forget their morning coffee!!
Next topic: a question really. Do any of you ever make your own music videos/dance routines to songs that you hear on the radio? I realized I kind of judge how much I like a song sometimes, by the quality of pretend dance routine I can muster in my head. Yeah, that's quirky but fair. For example, that awful Call Me Maybe, gets NO dance-routine love from me. That makes my teeth hurt. However, it just doesn't matter how much I hear Outcast's Hey Ya, and I can't help but shake it like a polaroid picture. So, next time you see a mom in a minivan dazed at the stoplight, instead of yelling, "It's GREEN, be-yatch!!", smile and think, she just might be whipping up a kick-ass dance party in her head.
*Teekee: in case you are new to the blog, a teekee is the name my boys have decided to call their penis. Yeah. It's really...interesting and...creative in my home.
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