The Curious Incident of the Stinky Dog, Vomiting Kids and Hemorrhoids in the Night Time

It all started Friday afternoon.

~ Call from Thing Two’s school: “Jeni, I don’t think Thing Two is feeling well. He took himself to the quiet area and is lying under the weighted blanket. He feels warm.”

“I’ll be there right away!”

~ Bring Thing Two home, get a dose of medicine in him, he falls asleep.

SuperMom on the job! Check!

~Midnight, same night. I hear moaning from Thing One’s room. (You know, the kid that WASN’T previously sick.)

Wait for it, wait for it…

Three seconds later, he bolts upright from sleep and projectile vomits all over the carpet, his bed, himself, the wall, and for his grand finale, me. If you’ve never seen projectile vomit, let me tell you, it’s a thing of wonderment. It sprays from its origin with the force of a fireman’s hose taking down a three alarm fire.

I was disgusted and in awe at the same time.

~1a.m.- I stripped down, made Thing One strip down, and began cleaning the carpet. The kid had three brats for dinner with red Gatorade to drink so his room looked like a gory crime scene, complete with chunks of what looked like brain matter IN THE CARPET!

~ Next day: Two sick kids intermittently puking up medicine just as I administered it. (Which is a Catch-22 situation, as any Mom knows. You need to figure out how much they’ve puked up. Do you risk giving them another dose so they don’t wake up with a fever, or do you wait it out? I always opt for not overdosing my kids, but that’s just me. A trip to the ER with a comatose kid doesn’t make my top ten list of things to do on a holiday weekend.)

We all scraped by during the day. Puke basins were placed around the house at targeted locations. I washed three loads of sheets and towels in between scrubbing my hands 5,348 times, always topped off by a generous slathering of antibacterial hand sanitizer.

SuperMom Status: Withering with every hour that passes.

Seventeen Thing Two baths later, after a few hits to my teetering sanity, it was bedtime again. (Thing Two still wears a Pull-up® at nine-years-old. Because of this, the autistic kid who’s not-interested-in-shitting-on-the-toilet must take a bath after every bowel movement in place of wiping his ass. At least hygiene is a priority for him.)

~ 9 p.m. - Sweet, silent bliss. Husband conveniently spent the day outside, then hightailed it to a friend’s house to drink beer and hang out anywhere else, presumably where vomit wasn’t flying around in all directions. (He did take the pukey sheets out on the front lawn and hosed them off before I put them in the washer.)

With two resting kids, I had an episode of House cued up and ready to go when I heard the dog scratching at the door. I got up to let her in and, as soon as she crossed the threshold, I noticed she smelled like she’d just spent a few unseemly hours inside the vagina of a skanky ho who’d recently finished working a double shift.

SuperMom Status: Debilitating depression has set in.

Let me back up and mention that earlier (between puking kids and a particularly nasty Thing Two diarrhea incident ) I spent 30 minutes brushing the dog because she’s in the process of shedding her winter coat. Also, I’d vacuumed the entire house three times because golf-ball-size hunks of fur had taken up residence around the house.

“Out!” I screamed and pointed to the door. My sweet dog hung her head - knowing she’d been a naughty, naughty girl - and went back outside. The stench! It took half a bottle of Lysol to surmount the insurmountable smell of whatever she’d rolled in - and the dog never made it past the mud room.

I grabbed my phone and called The Bread Winner, fully aware he wasn’t going to be amenable to the message I was about to leave. Unfortunately he answered. I hadn’t counted on that. (Leaving testy messages is easier than an actual phone confrontation.)

“Hey hon. Just to let you know, Sugar rolled in something that is abhorrent to my general sense of well-being, so before you can enter the house tonight, I’m gonna need you to give her a bath. I left a towel and some shampoo outside. Also, I taped a note to the front door in case you forget.” (Remember, he’s out having a beer… or twelve.)

MY SILENT BUT DEADLY INNER MONOLOGUE: I’ve also engaged the dead bolt so neither of you will be getting in until the job is done.

Yeah, I’m hardcore. Call me a bitch; whatever. Listen, I’d done multiple loads of laundry, vacuumed more than twice, washed every sheet on every bed in the house and disinfected every flat surface. After all that, I’d taken a bath and was smelling all girly and nice, so there was no way I was going to take my fragrant ass out there and get that stinky crotch smell on me.

I heard a sigh on the end of the line. “Okay, I’ll be home later.” Good answer!

“Okay hon, see you later.”

Click.

~ 11 p.m. - The Breadwinner comes inside, fresh from bathing the dog. She ran past him and proceeded to shake, shimmy and roll her way to getting the carpet nice and wet-dog smelling. Although there was a faint scent of rose emanating from her drenched coat, wet dog is wet dog.

To my credit, I did not yell. Breadwinner HAD bathed the dog and it was my fault I wasn’t specific enough. Next time I will elaborate on the importance of drying the dog thoroughly BEFORE entering the house.

So, now along with the rosy-wet-funk and slightly wet carpet, I had a dog dragging her body over every carpeted surface in the house in order to rid the water from her ears and fur. It sounded like someone was having an epileptic seizure in my living room as she pounded her way to a state of dry-ness that would please her. I noticed, however, that everywhere she dragged and rolled was left matted with fur. No longer were they weightless tumbleweeds, but globs of wet hair; furry landmines all over my living room carpet.

~11:15 - Vacuuming again because my OCD would not allow me to watch TV in peace without my eyes wandering down to the hairy mess on the floor. (Shit, will I ever get to find out what that sexy Gregory House is up to this week?!)

SuperMom Status: Goddamn it!

An hour or so later, everyone had fallen asleep, nestled comfortably between clean sheets. I finally got to watch that episode of House before dragging my weary bones to bed. I was out before I knew -

BLOODY FUCKING HELL! I woke up somewhere around 2 am. I believe my hemorrhoids wanted to have a chat; at least this was the impression I got as my anus throbbed and my stomach, legs, and back dealt with evil tendrils of fire wrapping their way around me from the inside. (Because of my distaste for Karl Rove, I’ve decided to hereinafter refer to them as Rovian tendrils.)

This time, unlike the first time this happened, I knew what I needed and exactly how many steps away it was. I slowly hobbled to the bathroom, found the tube, and took care of business. Still, after five minutes, the evil Rovian tendrils of enmity only minimized to a dull, throbbing animosity.

Step two was in the freezer.

This was not the first time I'd foraged behind the frozen peas and popsicles to grab the lime green screw-on lid attached to a protruding six-inch plastic dowel. Meant to keep a sports cup cool for hours, the frozen phallus jutting from a convenient handle had once spent a memorable night talking the little perpetrators in my poop-chute down from the proverbial ledge.

SuperMom Status: Alive, barely; possibly experiencing SMPTST (SuperMom Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)

I shuffled back to my bedroom, dropped my panties, laid down on my side and let the icy phallus get reacquainted with my anus.

For the second time in my life I feel it necessary to note that there was no insertion. Again, I want that on record. Anus-adjacent should paint the picture for you, so we’ll leave it at that.

So… how was your weekend?

Waiting for Karl Rove - NOW AVAILABLE ON KINDLE

Waiting for Karl Rove is irreverent, politically incorrect satire masquerading as road trip memoir.

Think Thelma and Louise—only Thelma’s menopausal, Louise is an erratic big-mouth with a penchant for discussing her hemorrhoids, and they’re on a road trip to wrestle an apology from Karl Rove by any means necessary.

And now it’s available on Kindle! (*also available in paperback on Amazon.com)

Early praise:

~ Although both authors profess to be left wing liberals (and truly their opinions reflect that) the writing style - snarky, sassy and satirical - is such that even a right wing conservative like myself found humor on every....single....page.

~ "Waiting for Karl Rove" is filth, pure and simple. These two ladies (I use that word loosely, as they are probably loose women judging by this Left-Wing D-Crat LIEberal CRAP) need their mouths washed out with soap and hot sauce.

~ Oh. My. God. This book is NUTS! I've never read anything like it and was laughing out loud by page two… a great way for the authors to self-promote …they do it through the entire book, plugging themselves with all the aplomb of a leaky bathtub drain.

~ ...a psychotic poke at some of the most powerful people in the country. Not to mention poking fun at the publishing and movie industries. Laugh out loud funny. Brilliant, and a must read for all. I'm still laughing.

~ Wow, this book will make Preparation-H sales go up overnight, I'm off to my broker to buy more stock!

Menopause Rhapsody: Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

In my house, when you want to pay tribute to your family matriarch, nothin’ says lovin’ like an off-key song parody of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody - particularly if said matriarch is the butt of the joke.

Okay, so I look like an idiot, I can’t sing, and Freddy Mercury is rolling in his grave. But I had fun making it.

Mom, this one’s for you. Love ya dearly, you madwoman! (You have only your DNA and Dad’s sperm to blame.)

The Exquisite Corpse

I'd like to think that my President would be the bigger man - or woman. I'd like to think that the person holding the highest office in the land wouldn’t think it necessary to release gory death photos, even if said photos are of someone who has proven himself a monster.

So far Barack Obama hasn’t let me down. Sarah Palin, however, is another matter. (And I’m not sure if that matter is made of animal, vegetable or mineral. Probably potato.)

Always ready to fan the flames of reason into a full blown bonfire of insanity, Palin said this on Twitter:

SarahPalinUSA
Show photo as warning to others seeking America's destruction. No pussy-footing around, no politicking, no drama; it's part of the mission

~ Here’s what a few responded:

TruthOrBetter
@SarahPalinUSA it wasn't a hunting trophy. it was a man with powerful allies that already want to destroy the US - it’s not a bragging tool.

F_r_e_d_o
@SarahPalinUSA You gave George W. Bush all the credit in the world for Bin Laden's death...have him release the pictures.. #goodluckwiththat

Jeeta Gurjeet
@SarahPalinUSA I thought the mission was to capture or kill Osama. Didn't know we were going to make greeting cards.

Sarah - if you’re OK with simply rising to the level of a terrorist, that’s fine. But I'm not. I’d like to think I’d be the better person. Not the person showing the gory photos of my sworn enemy. Clearly that’s not you. You think it’s “part of the mission” to release a photo that will then be Photoshopped with wild abandon; Dead Osama with a thought bubble saying one of a myriad of catchy phrases. Dead Osama holding a dildo, Dead Osama next to the President holding a thumbs up and standing under a MISSION ACCOMPLISHED SIGN, Dead Osama Coffee Cups and t-shirts...

And this WILL happen. Why? Because this is what we have become. (Lest we forget the picture of Obama’s face on a baby monkey recently e-mailed widely by Marilyn Davenport, Tea Party activist and elected member of the Orange County Republican Central Committee.)

This is the face of America. Do you actually think the crazies out there screaming for photos want them because they somehow think Osama is still alive? I don’t. At its core, it's about something much more base. It's rubbernecking as you slowly drive by a bloody seven car pile up, gawking at the gal with the severed head who’s being wrenched out with the jaws of life.

I like how Obama has handled this, but if he bows to the pressure of rabid extremists on either side who, for some reason, simply must see graphic photos of a man shot in the head, I will be disappointed in my President. He knows it isn’t right - I assume that’s why he made the decision. Okay, so the “official” reason is that they are inflammatory and could create retaliatory situations. But I’d bet, in his heart of hearts, he knows it’s wrong. He knows that we're better than that.

I can’t say the same for Sarah Palin. That there are many who would have preferred it if we strapped Osama’s corpse to the grille of a NYC fire truck and took him on a whistle-stop tour around the country… well I think that disturbs me most of all.

I asked someone at the store today how they felt about the Osama pics, and they were apathetic. “I didn’t like the guy. I don’t care if they release them or not.” That, I can live with. But someone who revels in seeing bloody pictures of a monster - doesn’t that kind of make you a monster, yourself?

I think it does.

So that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Don’t agree with me, that’s fine. But save the nasty e-mails for someone who gives a ripe, squirty one. On this, you won’t change my opinion, and I’m certain if you’re that other type, the one I’ve illustrated above, I’m not going to change yours.

But, I'll leave you with this: How about we make a deal NOT to let the terrorists' past bad actions dictate what our future actions will be.

Peace.

(…and sorry for the “downer” blog post, folks. I know you usually expect humor from me, but sometimes, you just have to get shit off your chest, or you’ll find yourself pondering the inhumanity of humanity while dipping into a hopeless state of malaise, with a empty bottle of wine in one hand, and a dull Lady Bic to your carotid.)

You Can’t Have it Both Ways

HEARD IN THE CAR ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL A FEW MORNINGS AGO:

JAKE: (14 year old autistic boy) "Mom, if Jaxson doesn't learn to poop on the toilet, he'll NEVER be able to be President of the United States."

After I cleaned the mocha frappe spray from the windshield, I took a moment to ponder just how much damage a 9-year-old, autistic, barely verbal, non-toilet-trained kid could do in the White House. Remembering Dubya Bush, I realized Jax could probably hold his own.

Which brings me to today's topic:

It seems Republicans are happy to take credit for the dead terrorist, but Allah forbid you remind them that our country is circling the drain today mostly due to their last leader’s tenure - or what I like to call “the eight years of breaking wind heard ‘round the world.”

According to them, Osama Bin Laden is dead because someone in the Bush Administration provided a bit of shock and awe in the form of water-boarding. But the ass-raping of America’s economy? Not them, that’s all on Barack.

You can’t have it both ways, people.

Then there’s The Donald. The Trumpster. The Don - otherwise known as the guy who has taken American media-fed politics to the level of theatre of the absurd. With his merkin-topped head and his blathering mouth, Donald Trump, having been given Obama’s long form birth certificate, has decided that’s not enough.

He needs more. Obama’s education records. What’s next. Dental records? Amazom.com account information and his recent purchases? Perhaps the length and girth of the Presidential wee-wee?

Donald, sir - you’re a dick. Well and truly, an ass-hat for the masses. This vid’s for you. Enjoy!



And don’t forget to run (not walk!) over to get your copy of WAITING FOR KARL ROVE at Amazon.com. I promise, it’ll be worth it! (just scroll up to the top of the blog and click on the Waiting for Karl Rove BOOK COVER)

Look who else has a copy: