courtesy of Mrs. 4444
frag rant frag rant frag rant frag fant rag fant rant frag hag bag sag
it's been that kind of week
How is it that I can spend a whole chunk of a Sunday folding a zillion jumbo loads of laundry that have been clean for a week and still have more laundry to fold at the end of the day? And how is it that I never feel like I've got a grip on anything in the Suzy Homemaker Arena? And how is it that I keep complaining about the same things over and over again. And how is it that you all are not SICK TO DEATH of hearing it? You probably are. I'm sick to death of hearing myself. As are my kids. Aargh
While tripping through blogland I stumbled upon a "rate your blog" thingy. I put my URL in and came up rated R. Ha. Not a surprise. I used the F word a few times, the Sh word a bunch, the butt word starting with "a", and the word "dead". Rated R. For Rampantly potty mouthed. Which I definitely am. Especially in the privacy of my own home. Wanna hear the dirty words I use most frequently?
sensitive souls may want to scroll down because there are A LOT of dirty words in my house
not to be confused with moldy
both of which I have plenty
either around doorways and windows
or in the vegetable bin of my refrigerator
I could go on. I'm a dirty mouthed mama. I'm very creative with dirty words at home. I could spew a litany of dirty words that would make Sarcastic Bastard blush. We giggle over the new ways I come up with to keep things dirty. It's a gift, you know.
I'm supposedly pretty smart. Whatever. But I frequently have cause to stay humble and question my own intelligence. Sometimes it takes SO LONG for me to get it. Like when I had breast feeding babies. Breast feeding babies are super duper poopy babies. Up the back down the legs poopy babies. For almost 7 years straight one or the other of my kids was a super duper poopy breast feeding baby. Back then, we used to all gather at my folks house on Saturdays and hang out and laugh and eat. It was lots of fun. But inevitably one of my babies would go home wrapped up in a t shirt either belonging to my dad or my teen aged nephew. Cause I NEVER packed a change of clothes. Ever. You'd think after one poop covered baby going home wrapped in Gramps' old Hanes tee, next time I'd be prepared. Nope. No change of clothes. Ever. 7 years later my mom and my sisters would just look at me blankly as I mumbled to myself I didn't bring a change of clothes. When it got to the point there were no more old t shirts, I'd wrap them in one of my mom's dishtowels.
The other day I realized the same process was going on in my mad cow brain riddled head concerning the dog. The dog used to chew things. A lot. Mostly cookbooks. Now he's very good at controlling himself and will only chew a tiny edge of something when he's alone and really stressed out. His favorite thing to chew is the corner of the couch pillow. So he's been giving this pillow a nibble now and then for a while. Now the hole is big enough that down poofs out all over the floor anytime you sit on the couch. Whenever I come home and see down and fluff around I say poor Dusty... he must have been upset... he's so good at controlling himself... he didn't rip the couch to shreds. It finally occurred to me that if I sewed up the hole, he wouldn't be tempted to keep chewing it. For a year I've looked at that hole getting bigger and bigger and more and more feathers on the living room floor and yesterday I realized all I have to do is sew up the damn hole.
I'm an idiot. An optimistic idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.
You ever feel like you're wasting time? Wasting your life? Like you should be doing something more important? I get that feeling a lot. It used to devastate me and cloud my vision. I still think I should be doing more. Especially when I come upon a blog like this. At least now I can just ponder it and dream of possible alternatives without plunging into darkness. Maybe someday. Maybe it never feels like enough...
So glad to know I'm not the only one in NO WAY interested in the Christmas Spirit. Yet. Maybe never. But still, it's not even Thanksgiving. Some very funny anti-Christmas Spirit out there. Of course the angelic Ms. Moon. And Kristi. Funny stuff.
OK. Sewed up the holes. My couch looks like the Bride of Frankenstein. But at least there are no couch guts on the floor. What a life...