As a soon-to-be high school graduate, I had a rather nebulous vision of what my future held and it went a little something like this…
Find a calling, one that would pay the bucks for minimal work in a faraway land (preferably tropical but without those pesky vector-borne illnesses) where the hip folk eschewed all things involving razors and soap and water.
It was peaceful, purpose-filled (whatever the hell that means nowadays) and lovely, if you didn’t stop to consider the gorilla armpits and two-day old corpse smell wafting from all the hot bods.
I wonder whatever happened to that freak?
Ah, yes, I beat her to death with my mom jeans.
Whomever said motherhood was a cop-out, a bending to traditional old white man standards of keeping ’em barefoot and pregnant, has never experienced the fun and games that is parenthood.
Tell me your life is richer for having missed those experiences and I’ll call you a liar. Sure, I’ll say it under my breath and just smile but it’ll be the one I reserve for those asshats who don’t know how to comport themselves in the school pickup line. But that’s another post.
How could life be complete without these little gems…
* Rolling out of bed at the call of a child with a tummyache only to step in the still-warm inadvertent personal protein spill on the way down the hall
* Sniffing that suspicious stain on the arm of the recliner only to discover that, yes indeedy, it’s poop
* Discovering inexplicable drip marks down the side of the dresser with accompanying bleached-out spots on the hunter green carpet… it’s pee, yippee! As a side note, did you know ancient cultures used urine to keep their whites white? Consider yourself educated. Moving on…
* Crunchy underpants, underpants teaming with more stool than a sewage treatment plant, and socks that have bred like minks between the sofa cushions
I’m practically giddy with excitement just typing this!
Now, I’m no Polly Homemaker, but I’ve learned a thing or two about getting our humble abode spic-and-span.
* Cleaning up any sort of icky bodily expulsion is far easier when you think of something else. Like baseball. When the dog leaves a cold, gelatinous lump complete with dry kibble bits as physical evidence of her gastrointestinal displeasure, I can almost convince myself not to launch my own lunch by saying ‘It’s filet mignon’ as I scoop that stuff up with a spatula. Never mind the fact that I can no longer eat this cut of meat. And don’t ask which spatula ’cause it could be the one I mixed up the brownies with last night.
* Boogers, especially the ginormous caked on, been-on-the-wall-so-long-it’s-practically-an-artifact-from-an-ancient-culture, will, when eventually discovered and cleaned off the wall, strip paint faster than a pole-dancer can shuck her skivvies.
*You’ll never get that oatmeal puke stain out of the carpet. Invest in a potted plant for that spot and call it a day.
This list doesn’t even begin to cover the topics of conversation involving such things as where tampons go, why it’s socially unacceptable to whip it out on the playground to pee and why some people look like men but sound like women. There’s funny stuff, like explaining it’s the ‘Gorton’s fisherman’ and not the ‘Gorgeous fisherman’ and the stuff where I get to try and explain why our faith means we’re generally thought of as a bunch of raging homophobes, islamophobes, get-our-jollies-from kicking puppies douchebags and that, yes, we will have and adhere to higher personal standards than those of the asshats in the federal government. Yes, I did just discuss God and managed to curse all at the same time. It’s a gift.
Go ahead and tell me what I’ve missed out on by buying into the whole wife/mother/worker bee role and try to shame me for my choices with your war-stories of nightlife, drinking ( I do that from the safety of my sofa with my flannel-clad hunk of burnin’ love right next to me and there’s no cover charge, thank you very much) and your hookups. Whatevs, amateur.
What an exciting Saturday night? Come by my house.
I’ll be Monistat-ing the dog for the next week.
Good times, y’all. Good times.