If it isn't bad enough I'm subjected to farting play-wrestling with the knowledge that my neighbors can hear my sons' primordial screeches of flatulence domination, just 45 minutes later I was forced to watch testosterone-overdose shows, like Myth Busters.
What the hell, people? We have two T.V.s in this house. I don't know how I always end up having to watch this male stuff on the bigger T.V. Except there's some ideal called "democracy" that's deeply rooted in our culture and these primordial farting heathens take advantage of it. Damn all that homeschooling and learning shit. I refuse to watch TV from the bunk beds in the children's room. It's only 720 dpi, for god's sake!
I've had some physical problems lately. I hate to mention it since I don't like to give attention to such things, but it's been odd pains, like in my breasts and shoulder and back. I researched it a bit, and if you're one of those kooky types that believe pains and illness have a psychological root (and I totally am one of those kooks), the pains are related to me not expressing my femininity.
Well, no duh. How am I to express femininity when I can only watch half of a chick flick once every six weeks when they all go for a hair cut?
I decided I had to take a stand. For my health. Enough is enough, and it's my boobs we're talking about.
Wally and I spent an afternoon landscaping our backyard. Since it required digging up 740 cubic feet of grass and dirt, it was obviously labor-intensive and not the kind of labor-intensive that sounds very feminine, if you ask me. So when Wally turned to me, wondering aloud when I was going to have a turn with the shovel, I told him I was embracing my femininity at the moment. Since this decision also allowed Wally to embrace his masculinity, it killed two birds with one stone, so I don't know why he rolled his eyes at me and muttered unintelligible things under his breath.
And then a fire ant got into my bra and bit me on the boob during this landscape work.
What is the Universe trying to tell me now?
Showing posts with label life with nerds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life with nerds. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Elderly Farting Torture
I have an old cat, very old. We adopted her back in our pre-parenting years when pets were cute and adorable and you found yourself thinking in that naive and childless way, why, no I don't mind cleaning up the piss and poo of another living thing, bring it on!
I now have two young and loud male beings that some people call "sons". Do I need to tell you the implications of having these sons and an old cat confined in a 1500 sf space almost 24/7? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. The implication is something you might call TORTURE OF THE ELDERLY IS MY FAVORITE PASTIME!
Good lord, who is responsible for raising these heathens?
This elderly torture pastime has gotten out of hand lately, with all of the LET'S SIT ON THE OLD CAT and LET'S CHASE THE OLD CAT AROUND THE HOUSE and LET'S TRAP THE CAT UNDER THE LAUNDRY BASKET AND MAKE HER CRY and then back to LET'S SIT ON THE OLD CAT again. It was time for those boys to come to The Jesus.
Look, boys, this cat here? Do you know how old she is? She's over 14 years old. That means she's 98 years old in human years. So when you think you're "playing around" when you sit on her or chase her around the house, that would be like you sitting on and chasing a 98-year-old woman. If that's how you plan to treat me when I'm elderly, I'll just leave all of my riches to a cat shelter instead of you!* Keep that in mind next time you feel the heathen-istic need to sit on this poor cat.
That gave the boys a new perspective, relating this poor cat to a 98-year-old elderly person, and their treatment of the cat improved. But change is slow. Or my children are learning impaired, because the lesson didn't stick.
Not a week later I caught one of my sons not just trying to sit on this elderly cat but trying to sit on her so he could fart on her. I immediately yelled, "STOP TRYING TO FART ON THE ELDERLY, MY GOD, WHY ARE YOU SUCH A HEATHEN?"
For some reason this sent the farting offender into a fit of giggles. And then I heard my other son yell from the den...
"IS PAYTON TRYING TO FART ON YOU, MOM?"
What the hell?
My nine-year-old thinks I'm elderly.
That's it. No inheritance for him.
*Riches to inherit? Ha! Good things we haven't shared our Great Recession 401(k) statement with the boys or else lies like that might not fool them.
I now have two young and loud male beings that some people call "sons". Do I need to tell you the implications of having these sons and an old cat confined in a 1500 sf space almost 24/7? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. The implication is something you might call TORTURE OF THE ELDERLY IS MY FAVORITE PASTIME!
Good lord, who is responsible for raising these heathens?
This elderly torture pastime has gotten out of hand lately, with all of the LET'S SIT ON THE OLD CAT and LET'S CHASE THE OLD CAT AROUND THE HOUSE and LET'S TRAP THE CAT UNDER THE LAUNDRY BASKET AND MAKE HER CRY and then back to LET'S SIT ON THE OLD CAT again. It was time for those boys to come to The Jesus.
Look, boys, this cat here? Do you know how old she is? She's over 14 years old. That means she's 98 years old in human years. So when you think you're "playing around" when you sit on her or chase her around the house, that would be like you sitting on and chasing a 98-year-old woman. If that's how you plan to treat me when I'm elderly, I'll just leave all of my riches to a cat shelter instead of you!* Keep that in mind next time you feel the heathen-istic need to sit on this poor cat.
That gave the boys a new perspective, relating this poor cat to a 98-year-old elderly person, and their treatment of the cat improved. But change is slow. Or my children are learning impaired, because the lesson didn't stick.
Not a week later I caught one of my sons not just trying to sit on this elderly cat but trying to sit on her so he could fart on her. I immediately yelled, "STOP TRYING TO FART ON THE ELDERLY, MY GOD, WHY ARE YOU SUCH A HEATHEN?"
For some reason this sent the farting offender into a fit of giggles. And then I heard my other son yell from the den...
"IS PAYTON TRYING TO FART ON YOU, MOM?"
What the hell?
My nine-year-old thinks I'm elderly.
That's it. No inheritance for him.
*Riches to inherit? Ha! Good things we haven't shared our Great Recession 401(k) statement with the boys or else lies like that might not fool them.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Nerds and Birds (ad infinitum)
6:30 am. The questions start. Birds.
8:00 am. More questions. Birds.
9:30 am. Math time. More questions. About birds.
9:32 am. Birds!
9: 37 am. Still math time. Still more questions. About birds.
11:00 am. It's history, but can we talk about birds? Yes, of course we can. Because I can't get enough of birds. 100 million questions a week about birds is not enough. Homing pigeons were used in WWI? Awesome. Let's research and study that for two years!
12:00-1:00 pm. No questions about birds because we're watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.
This one hour that could be my down time, my time to decompress and de-mom, is spent sitting and monitoring television content, ready to turn it off if Stephen starts talking about porn yet AGAIN. When they mention kinky sex monikers in passing and I get asked what they are talking about, I play dumb. "Anal pounding? Wha? I have NO IDEA what they are talking about. Sometimes they combine words which have no meaning just to sound funny." I'm getting so good at playing dumb about sex that I'll be nominated for an Oscar soon.
I probably shouldn't let him watch these shows at all. But I do. I do because I have this child that is not like a child. A child that I sometimes have to explain (and reexplain again and again) the simplest social formality to, yet also completely understands the political satire of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, who laughs in all the right places - without explanation. Unless they talk about porn. Then I play dumb and turn it off until the segment is over.
1:00 pm Birds! Love to ask a zillion question about birds! And our weird Mexican neighbor who doesn't speak English but has pigeons and chickens and turkeys - let's go visit him! Never mind the viscous German shepherd - he has a DOVE COTE, OMG WET MY PANTS!
1:07 pm. Can I have a pet bird?
1:15 pm. Pet birds are great. Don't you want one? Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
2:00 pm. Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:00 pm. Time to go pick up your brother! Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:15 pm After school snack. Sibling warfare commences.
3:30 pm birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
4:00 pm. (Do I even need to write it?)
5:00 pm. Wally calls. "Honey, I'm working late tonight!" Motherfucker. My 6-8 pm bird deflector shield has abandoned me.
5:05 pm. Birds, birds.......I'm sick of typing it.
6:00 pm Birds ad infinitum
6: 30 pm. And again.
7:00 pm. OOOH! NOVA night on PBS! Sweet baby Jesus, there is a God after all!
7:00 - 9:00 pm. No birds.
9:00 pm. Bed time. I DON'T dream about birds.
6:30 am the next day. Repeat previous day.
8:00 am. More questions. Birds.
9:30 am. Math time. More questions. About birds.
9:32 am. Birds!
9: 37 am. Still math time. Still more questions. About birds.
11:00 am. It's history, but can we talk about birds? Yes, of course we can. Because I can't get enough of birds. 100 million questions a week about birds is not enough. Homing pigeons were used in WWI? Awesome. Let's research and study that for two years!
12:00-1:00 pm. No questions about birds because we're watching The Daily Show and The Colbert Report.
This one hour that could be my down time, my time to decompress and de-mom, is spent sitting and monitoring television content, ready to turn it off if Stephen starts talking about porn yet AGAIN. When they mention kinky sex monikers in passing and I get asked what they are talking about, I play dumb. "Anal pounding? Wha? I have NO IDEA what they are talking about. Sometimes they combine words which have no meaning just to sound funny." I'm getting so good at playing dumb about sex that I'll be nominated for an Oscar soon.
I probably shouldn't let him watch these shows at all. But I do. I do because I have this child that is not like a child. A child that I sometimes have to explain (and reexplain again and again) the simplest social formality to, yet also completely understands the political satire of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, who laughs in all the right places - without explanation. Unless they talk about porn. Then I play dumb and turn it off until the segment is over.
1:00 pm Birds! Love to ask a zillion question about birds! And our weird Mexican neighbor who doesn't speak English but has pigeons and chickens and turkeys - let's go visit him! Never mind the viscous German shepherd - he has a DOVE COTE, OMG WET MY PANTS!
1:07 pm. Can I have a pet bird?
1:15 pm. Pet birds are great. Don't you want one? Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
2:00 pm. Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:00 pm. Time to go pick up your brother! Birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
3:15 pm After school snack. Sibling warfare commences.
3:30 pm birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds, birds.
4:00 pm. (Do I even need to write it?)
5:00 pm. Wally calls. "Honey, I'm working late tonight!" Motherfucker. My 6-8 pm bird deflector shield has abandoned me.
5:05 pm. Birds, birds.......I'm sick of typing it.
6:00 pm Birds ad infinitum
6: 30 pm. And again.
7:00 pm. OOOH! NOVA night on PBS! Sweet baby Jesus, there is a God after all!
7:00 - 9:00 pm. No birds.
9:00 pm. Bed time. I DON'T dream about birds.
6:30 am the next day. Repeat previous day.
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