Still Here.

Geez la-weez! I have writer’s block something awful. Just wanted to let you know I’m still here. Still breathing. Mini-Me is still in her cast. The Weez is still pubescening (that might not be a word but you get it). I’m still drinking wine.

Hey, did you know that Pinterest will consider you a spammer and block you if you send over 100 pins to someone? Yeah, Mini-Me can’t drive so she’s on Pinterest and stumbled upon that rule. She’s making sure I join her in the abyss. I’m the beneficiary of all those Pinterest shares.

I think my dog, Bert, is losing his hearing. He won’t come when I call him. It takes a lot to get him to come to me. Or maybe he’s turning into one of my teenagers. He is 13 years old after all.

I have no vitamin D left in my system. I live in the south, on the coast, for a reason. I’m heliotropic and MUST. HAVE. SUN. We’ve had so much rain and cold and blah that I’m sure my body thinks I live in Chicago. If I don’t have a commitment (like work), I stay in my pjs and watch Netflix. The sun’s not out, so what’s the point.

Okay y’all. Just wanted to let you know I’m alive. Maybe I’ll write something later.


I Pooped on You The Day You Were Born.

The Weez is “so not tired, Mom” and quickly whisks a book off my bedside table to read since she has no other modes of entertainment at this late hour. She takes I Just Want to Pee Alone which is a collection of stories from other AWESOME mommy bloggers. She decides to read a story from The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva which is towards the end of the book and one I have yet to read.

Several moments pass. I continue to work on other things. Dogs amble throughout the room and finally settle down. My wine slowly dwindles in its glass. The house is quieting down. Finally.

From a distance I hear, “Mom!” Of course I ignore. That’s what you do when children yell for you. They’re younger and should get their lazy a@@es up and respectfully request your attention, not demand it.

The Weez has learned this rule and does not yell for me again. No, instead, she barges into my room and scares the BEE-GEEBUS out of me. “What’s an a-piss-a-tom-a-tee?” Oh, Lord. She means episiotomy. What is this story about, I think. You’ll have to buy the book if you wish to know. I assure you, it’s well worth it. You can buy the book on Amazon.

Now I have a choice: a) snatch (no pun intended) the book from her and fuss for her to go to bed, b) lovingly coax her to read her bible, or 3) take this moment to scare the sh*t out of her. Yes, #3 is naturally my choice.

Despite it being 11:30pm, I describe the HORRORS of childbirth. Listen up Weezy, guess what else happens?! You take a poo when you push the baby out. And yes, I pooped on you the very day you were born. Nighty-night. Sweet dreams. I love you. Yes, I do. Just to prove it, I will refrain from showing you pictures of an apissatomatee.

The Weez.

When Teenagers are Left Unsupervised. Part II

I asked for it, I know. The Weez wanted to play on my iPad again. Why do I think she won’t prank me? Every time I fall for it. No, my snots aren’t researching quantum physics. They’re researching memes and gifs of quantum idiots. That’s what they do.

So here is the evidence of my monkey monkeying-around on MY iPad despite her having her own laptop. Enjoy.