The Ultimate Turkey Day Clusterf*ck

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In my humble mom-opinion, the Birdzilla holiday is definitely the King pin of all holiday clusterflucks.

It all starts with the grocery store clusterfluck. I’m referring to the mass of non-regular customers leisurely strolling the aisles with the entire maternal side of their family in tow. Shopping is for active participants only. Spectators are not welcome in the arena… they have no purpose other than to create a clusterfluck in aisle three.

On the other end of the spectrum is the daddy-deer-in-headlights; the lost looking male sent to the front lines to retrieve forgotten items. These guys are like a stubborn hair clog in the bathroom sink… they won’t budge. We’ll call them solitary clusterflucks.

*Note – During non-holiday shopping trips I have compassion for these pitiful creatures, but unfortunately, it’s the holiday season and the only rule of shopping during the holidays is get in and get out… like your life depends on it.

You encounter the extra person clusterfluck as soon as you enter the check-out area which is not so surprisingly bustling with extra bodies much like pesky ants at a picnic. How many people does it take to swipe a debit card? The answer is ONE, meaning all inactive shopping companions should kindly buzz off.

Finally having completed your shopping mission, you push the heavy overflowing shopping cart with-the-bad-wheel to the outermost border of the parking lot where you were forced to retreat. This is appropriately termed the parking-in-BFE clusterfluck.

Also, the more traffic flowing through the parking lot, the more likely some inattentive holiday jackass-in-a-box will pop out in front of your car and end up as a hood decoration. Live hood decorations are right up there with Rudolph’s antlers tacked to your mirror and/or Santa’s testicles dangling from your muffler.

This is called the tacky car accessories clusterfluck.

Finally, you slide into home base, but when you attempt to unload your gargantuan grocery order, there’s nowhere to put anything because of the kitchen-counter clusterfluck and the refrigerator clusterfluck.

You saw that one coming, didn’t you?

When food prep commences, the overflowing dirty-dishes clusterfluck is immediately created and will regenerate for another 48-72 hours, making it the biggest clusterfluck of all. I despise washing dishes. I’m a huge fan of serving left-overs on paper plates, which incidentally causes a trash can clusterfluck, but what are you gonna do?

We’re picking our battles here.

Other painful holiday clusterflucks include the obvious dinner table fiasco, where you attempt to squeeze 15 people around an 8 seater table. “No fair… I want to sit near Suzy Lou Hoo!” This is called the intimate-encounter clusterfluck and also the reason I bought the big bottle of vodka.

Then there’s the dreaded people-who-don’t-belong-in-the-kitchen clusterfluck, which is why I leave a bag of unpeeled potatoes on the table. Everyone knows as soon as guests arrive, they immediately invade your sanctuary and try to be helpful.

“Grab a potato peeler. We’ve got a clusterfluck and a half of potatoes to peel,” says me.

To clear up any confusion, the tryptophan found in turkey not only makes you sleepy, it can give you a strong urge to dive off the roof of Macy’s during the Thanksgiving Day parade – right into Underdog’s inflatable ass, which would be affectionately termed the contipated balloon character clusterfluck.

And no, you will not catch me out and about on Black Friday. That’s an entirely separate clusterfluck in itself, worthy of it’s very own holiday book-of-rants.

Stick a hot fork in me.

This pilgrim is doneat least until the Christmas-time clusterfluck begins.

 

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Click on the link below to receive updates on a fabulously fun mom-authored holiday book due out in 2015 – written by myself and my mommy comrades!

http://momfortheholidays.com

 

 

Welcome to the Extreme Mom House of Horrors

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Good Eeeeevening and welcome to the Extreme House of Horrors… otherwise known as Moms Tunnel of Everyday Terror. 

If you suffer from anxiety, OCD, panic attacks or PTSD, this exhibit is not for you.
You’ve been warned.
This Halloween themed attraction is FRIGHTENING in caps simply because it’s the real deal.
None of the featured subjects have been staged.
This is my actual home.
I shit you not.
Fortunately, it took a few years to compile this unique chilling collection.  The following is not a complete depiction of scary activity found in the Extreme House of Horrors, these are simply the highlights.
Ready?
Extreme Cousin It will be your tour guide!
 
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Enter my offsprings bedroom where we discover a once healthy and refreshing glass of apple juice that was taken over by sinister fuzzy green goblins while the family slept. Nobody knows where they came from.

Fortunately, Ghostbuster mom was able to defeat the fuzzy green goblins with bleach. Ghostbuster Mamacita kicks ass.
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Here we have the Blob Monster. He started out as a nutritious glass of vitamin D fortified milk. Nobody knows how he managed to penetrate security and slither into this unsuspecting glass.

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Next up is this lovely plaster of Paris sculpture Wednesday is currently constructing for her 3D art class. We’re not sure whose heart she’s attempting to recreate, but we’ve all decided to be extra nice to her…. just in case.
If you didn’t notice, Wednesday is sculpting on my unprotected cherry finish dining room table with razor sharp tools, because… that’s how she rolls. It seems rather obvious that she accidentally consumed the apple juice from the above photo and fuzzy green goblins immediately ate her brain. It’s the only logical explanation. And, it’s also why I can’t have nice things.

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Below is Wednesday dressed as herself for Halloween. She still has the headless doll, Marie Antoinette which used to be a lovely decorative Amish doll that-I-did-not-need-anyway.
 
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 In addition to sculpting, Wednesday enjoys wood carving on the living room coffee table.

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These harmless fuzzy green visitors are frequent guests in our kitchen.
All I have to say is… What your family doesn’t know can’t hurt them.

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Spaghetti… it’s what’s for dinner. It’s also evidence that I do sometimes use the stove.

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I also hate doing dishes. I left these for Wednesday. Her other name is on the traffic cone because it’s her chore.
 
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The kitchen isn’t always scary.
Sometimes we play games.
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This is Tim, the winner from the Jenga game featured above.

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This is also him.
 
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Let’s get some fresh air and venture out to the back deck.
Nope, this is not a giant rat. This look-alike is actually a decaying banana. I can only assume that Pugsley aka Tim left it for the flying monkey’s who are due to fly overhead any minute now on their annual migratory trip to the Devil’s Triangle.
My children are dedicated ambassadors of wildlife preservation as well as fierce protectors of exotic creatures. They’re givers from way back.

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 Whooooopsy!!
Look out below.
ThatGodamnedCat apparently bagged another flying monkey.  Mum is the word. We don’t want that testy green-faced bitch whose strung-out-on-MaxwellHouse to find out about it. She has an ug-ly temper.
It’s always seems to be something with ThatGoddamnedCat. He’s a murdering machine who obviously needs a new bell collar.
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  Meet our Extreme Pets.

 This scary guy has glowy eyes, but he’s actually pretty harmless. I heart him.

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The brainless one… we’ll call him Spot.

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Dumb with a capital D.

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This asshole feline is the star of many of my posts. Most people know him as ThatGoddamnedCat.

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Has anyone seen spot? It’s Eddies turn to brush him.

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Sometimes, we play with pet fur for fun.

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The following scary bedroom attraction is admittedly lame.
I’ll admit, waking to find a 3.5 pound femur in your bed covers is nothing compared to finding the entire bloody horse head. We’ll give this unwelcome body part an honorable mention.
Credit to Spot, the brainless family canine who can’t resist a delicious midnight snack.
 
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 Wednesday cuddling with her horse head.

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 Speaking of bed covers, It’s time to wash the horsy-femur-sheets.

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The following is random stuff I found under my bed.
When Gomez speaks French I tend to get frisky…
or maybe I’m just a fun mom hoarder of unusual stuff .

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Also tucked away in my extreme jewelry box…
I actually own this and yes I’ve worn it to work.

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Bathrooms can be scary for many reasons.
This one is definitely possessed by twin demons called PMS, which incidentally stands for Pretty Mutherf*cking Scary.
I try to stay out of this room.
 
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I recently  painted the powder room a lovely shade of Exorcist Pea-Soup Green, because I crack myself up… or possibly I’m cracking up.
Same difference.
This genius color serves to camouflage any unholy venomous regurgitation spewed by the girls as they are primping for school.

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You might be a witch if… you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle.
*Note to self – order more firewood.

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My Extreme family also enjoys painting with toothpaste and making arts and crafts in the bathroom. The toothpaste thing really happened. Quite frankly, I was too baffled to investigate and the perp got away scott free..
You have to choose your battles carefully.

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*For the easy version of this tampon ghost, just draw the eyes with a Sharpie marker, because not everyone can be an admitted hoarder of useless craft supplies like myself.

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No scary mansion is complete without spiders, snakes, bats  and toads.
Here are a few photos of me and my favorite creatures.
No, I’m not afraid of exotic house guests.
 
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Awesome hair clip I scored at the Dollar Store.

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 Other disturbing and intriguing finds…

 

Pugsley’s glasses…

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And another pair…

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I bought this uber cool violet-light-powered beauty mask because nobody over 40 should have both acne and wrinkles, but mostly because it’s a fantastic way to embarrass my kids.

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Thank you for visiting the Extreme House of Horrors!
 

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 Y’all come back now, ya hear?

 

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The Nature of Depression- My Uniquely Honest First-Hand Perspective

Based on the hodgepodge of public reactions to the recent passing of manic comedic-genius Robin Williams, it’s apparent at least to me that somewhere around the ball park of most of the population does not entirely understand the nature of depression.

This makes perfect sense, as it’s unlikely for a person to possess this bundle of wisdom if they’re not an expert in the field of psychology or haven’t been personally effected by it to some degree.

I make the above statement confidently, as I’ve wrestled the dark depressive demon my entire life — early childhood included.  And no, there were no precipitating factors or events that contributed to it’s onset. Sometimes people are just born hard-wired a certain way. Genetics are funny like that. So, yes it’s relatively easy for me to weed through the hoards of comments and cite misconceptions.

Which, by the way is not at all intended to sound boastful – that particular tidbit of innate knowledge comes at a very high price.

This post is predominantly for clarification.

The generous gift that Robin Williams death bestows upon us is an attentive audience with a desperate thirst for answers.

Gracious, sir.

Not only are we talking about depression, we’re opening up to new information and for many of us, it’s become personal… it now has a face.

One thing is evident – Not everyone can or will be sparred, as depression knows no barriers and cannot necessarily be controlled.

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not always the presence of external factors such as access to medication, therapy and/or a strong support system that inadvertently makes or breaks a person.

Meaning, for some people the sheer magnitude of this disabling disease is enough in itself to send it’s victims spiraling into the desolate dark caverns of despair to the point of no return.

If you’ve lost someone to depression it is absolutely not your fault.

Depression can be like a tornado that takes absolutely everything in it’s path, despite our most vigilant efforts to contain it, and can abruptly bubble to the surface without a moments warning.

I’m well aware that I’m thinking outside-the-box in relation to the mainstream train of thought when I speculate that traditional interventions like meds, family support and therapy are not always enough.

Unfortunately, for many people, even the most modern and innovative treatment available today is still not enough to dissolve or even lessen their suffering.

And no, I’m absolutely not discouraging people from reaching out or encouraging others to do the same, I’m simply stating the fact that it’s not always enough.

At this particular moment in time, the severe depressive disease state is far from curable.

Houston, we have a ginormous problem.

The intrinsic problem with depression is that it can pack a punch so crippling that it renders it’s victims completely dysfunctional and unable to perform necessary tasks in their daily lives.

It can shut you down.

Much like a deer caught in headlights.

Meaning, one can become so completely disabled that they are unable to initiate that vital conversation or merely pick up the phone and ask for help.

It’s a vicious unrelenting cycle of absolute dread.

An extremely heavy burden for any person to carry for an extended length of time.

People who suffer from depression are survivors. Every single day can feel like the equivalent of scaling Mt. Everest, because to them… it is.

Life can be an ongoing battle.

It’s also no surprise then to comprehend that many depressed and/or mentally ill people are noncompliant. They habitually skip medical appointments, therapy sessions and allow their medications run out, because they’ve reached their saturation point; the point of complete debilitation.

Oftentimes, they’re in turn released by their mental health providers – their only lifeline – for the same infractions.

It’s the ironic nature of the beast.

Again, a vicious unrelenting cycle repeats itself

My opinion-

We as a society need to do so much more in terms of funding, research and rallying public support to get this ball-of-discovery rolling.

In the big scheme of things, our society has yet to make mental health a priority.

We’ve only begun to examine the tip this colossal iceberg.

Together, people can make a difference.

Increased media attention and public awareness can be potential game changers.

Rewind a decade or two when we knew very little about conditions like AIDS, Breast Cancer, Autism and ADHD in relation to what we know today.

It is high time the public put depression in the spotlight.

Robin Williams was an extremely intelligent man. He knew the nature of the beast and undoubtedly carefully weighed his every option. To speculate that he could have been saved by simply reaching out is an absolute insult to his genius.

Depression is just not that simple.

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FAST FACTS and common MISCONCEPTIONS-

Depression is not a transient mood, reaction or a simple state of mind.

Sadness is the reaction to an event, depression is an entirely different animal.

**Depression has a chemical-neurological basis and is therefore a true medical illness or disease. **

A positive attitude will not necessarily cure depression. It’s an integral component to therapy, but certainly not a sure-fire fix for everyone.

**A person with diabetes does not have the mental resources to control or change their blood sugar levels any more than a depressed person can alter their gut-wrenching mindset through positive thinking. That particular mentality is ignorant.

Depression is a spectrum disorder, meaning it effects people to varying degrees. It is not necessarily the same or even similar for any two people. Some may only be slightly effected thus helped by simple treatment modalities, (therapy or meds alone) while others may require diligent daily medication management and inpatient therapy… and may still not be capable of lifting their head above water.

Depression is not mental weakness or a flaw in character.

Historically speaking, many or most of the worlds most well known creative geniuses – artists, authors, musicians etc suffered from depression or mental illness. These outstanding people did not march to the beat of societies common drummer simply because they were different.

The extra creative spark of genius may come at a very high price.

Depression is fifty-bazillion shade of grey… maybe more.

Please respect that.

***Disclaimer- the above was written in an honest attempt to promote inquisitive thinking and raise awareness — to foster understanding and bring light to a serious illness. To lift the weight of blame for those who’ve lost a loved one to this horrid disease. It’s my personal open, honest account… dotted with a few indisputable facts in my personal hue of cloudy grey. ***

Thank you for reading.

Leave your thoughts here-

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Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat – Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx

I’m posting this for those of you who are following and are-not-horrified by the Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat. This particular episode was tucked away in Junes draft folder somewhere around Father’s Day.

However, this is not exactly a Father’s Day post, because I very wisely had ThatGoddamnedCats testicles decommissioned as a kitten.

God knows one of him is enough.

The world is most welcome!

Anyway,

The serial killing feline asshole… has strucketh again.

In my defense, several weeks ago I swear that I absolutely wrote, “Buy collar with bell for asshole cat” on my TO DO list.

I just hadn’t gotten around to crossing it off yet, and for that I’m very sorry Mr. Rabbit.

May you RIP.

I didn’t actually find him all festively decked out in a party hat waving a magic wand. I took the liberty of adding a few photoshop extras, so he’d appear less gruesome and… dead in a somewhat happier light.

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He probably would’ve wanted it that way.

Bunnies are promiscuous party animals from way back.

The quarter however, is the real deal though. The shiny disc, is in fact, 25 cents that I deliberately placed on his shoulder so you could better comprehend just how freaking ginormous bunnyzilla is.

Relatively speaking I mean – in relation to TGC’s body weight.

I’m not exactly sure how many ounces my Jack-the-ripper feline has on this guy, but I’m guessing not too many – making Mr. Rabbit by far his largest kill to date.

I do feel bad about Mr. Rabbit I really do, but nonetheless I’m pretty impressed.

When I carefully instructed my son to bury Mr. Rabbits remains with the 25 cent piece, he wittingly replied, “Good, he’ll need it to pay his toll to the river Styx.”

Me – you don’t say.

This apparently, is a toll paid upon ones demise – in order to travel to the underworld of the afterlife… or something like that.

I shit you not.

My bright offspring are full of obscure trivia.

Who knew?

That guy is damned lucky I found him and thought to provide him with underworld fare.

The moral of the story – never leave home without a quarter in your pocket or it’s possible you’ll be up Shits creek or possibly the river Styx… without a paddle.

Chapter Two – The Unexpected

I bet you weren’t expecting a sequel to “The Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat- Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx, because… neither was I.

I had hoped it was the last we’d seen of Mr. Rabbit after I’d carefully instructed my son to bury him WITH his shiny quarter that-was-actually-toll-for-the-river-Styx.

But nope.

His saga lives on, although you won’t see him again, because he’s vanished.

By vanished I mean Mr. Rabbit has vacated the garden… did like a baby and headed out, blew that Popsicle stand, did like a tree and leaved(?)…

Since I KNOW-for-an-absolute-fact that my diligent children did not let our German Shepherd indulge in a bunny snack that was not a tidy approved canine snack shaped like a bone from a colorful box, I’m going to speculate what happened to him.

You call it denial. I call it creative writing therapy so-I-don’t-wig-the-fuck-out.

*He hitched a ride to Pet Semetary for a proper burial. (Can’t blame him)

*He was actually the Jesus Easter Bunny and he rose from the dead.

*He turned into Zombie Rabbit and will be coming for TGC soon. (In which case, this story is about to get good!)

*The Jehovah’s witnesses saw him as they headed down my walkway and decided he needed to be saved.

*The postal carrier decided to mail him back to Max and Ruby, so they could have closure.

*A bald eagle swooped down and carried him to Bunny Heaven, but kept his party hat to conceal his middle-age male pattern baldness.

*Elmer Fudd finally bagged him, in which case he’s on display over at Acme Caskets.

Anyway,

He’s gone and I’ve convinced myself beyond the shadow of a doubt that he. will. not. resurface. in. doggy. vomit.

No.

The end.

 

The Grass is Always Greener… When it’s Undead

Let’s pretend… you’ve lived at your current place of residence for like 7-ish years and someone you live with who-may-or-may-not-be-your-wife-or-me drives over the same pesky patch of grass at the end of the driveway consistently, like every. single. damned. time.

Would you bother planting more green stuff?

Let me answer that.

Hell no.

Anxiety over grass causes nothing but marital angst, bad juju and hot air wasted over dumb grass.

What’s meant to be… is meant to be.

The universe has spoken.

Let that particular patch of earth be grassless.

Not only does your bride of two decades have ADHD, she’s also got crappy middle-age vision and not a shred of give-a-shit left.

Just leave well enough alone, already.

It’s grass for fucks sake.

Correction- it WAS grass, and now it’s mud casserole decorated with Goodyear tracks.

Technically, the lawn is half mine… to do with what I please.

That said, fun lawn-use ideas came shooting out of my colorful brain for consideration.

What to do with my half?

*Plant a cocoa bean tree so I can gnaw on the bark when I get one of those really bad chocolate cravings or dry the leaves and smoke cocoa out of a bong.

*Construct a moped speedway for senior citizens.

*Host midget mud wrestling for people only 4 feet and under

*Open a pig washing business or a restaurant for goats and other hungry grass eating creatures.

*Install a bullseye sign on the naked earth where grass used to grow, and every time the car hits it confetti or grass seed pops out.

*Bury a bottle of emergency vodka for the zombie apocalypse.

*Use it as a burial ground for ThatGoddamnedCats unfortunate victims.

*Open an upscale spa specializing in mud baths for beautiful intelligent women and pigs.

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Admittedly, I’m pretty fond of grass mostly because it keeps mud off the dogs paws and hides their poop… so there’s that.

What to do?

Decisions…

I shall conclude this post with a nonfiction story called BestWifeEver.

Once upon a time… in an old country home in the woods of Pennsylvania, someone who lives with me who-I-may-or-may-not-be-married-to actually ** pay attention here ** disassembled my decorative split rail fence in the front yard and drove his big ass truck directly OVER and through my seasoned perennial garden to dump half a freaking ton of coal through the basement window.

And, he lives.

I shit you not.

Payback’s a bitch.

The lovely puddle of mud shall stay indefinitely.

The end.

Lessons in Flushing

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Let’s face it. Some bathroom jobs require more than one flush.

In fact, repeat flushing is probably twice as likely when male waste is involved.

Multiple flushes are often a way of life.

As you already know, and just like replacing the empty roll of toilet paper, “Ain’t nobody (but mom) got time for that!”

So, to make things run more efficiently in bathrooms everywhere and to prevent from grossing out everyone in your household with your shitty presents, I’ve come up with fun activities to engage in while waiting for the tank to refill… so you can flush AGAIN.

And again if necessary.

You know… that long drawn out 90 seconds or so that seems like an eternity.

Ready?

The list-

*Wipe down the faucet. There’s almost always spittle, dribble and/or ick on the faucet… which is most likely yours.

*Sing a verse from… “Another one bites the dust” as you intently watch the turd-subject make it’s final swirly lap.

*If there’s more than one turd, bet on which one will go down first.

*Use dental floss to weed the garden between your teeth.

*Count the brackets on your braces.

*Post a guess-how-long-this-is? photo on Instagram and wait for responses.

*Practice your duck face in the mirror and post it on Facebook to annoy the world.

*Play a game of solitaire. (Everyone brings their phone to the bathroom)

*Change the toilet paper roll. -just kidding.

*Play a game of Frootloop toss where you try to peg the unflushable offender with a fruity ring. This activity will fine tune your aim for when you try to win a goldfish at the fair.

*Take a moment to squeeze the trigger on the air freshener that’s sitting right next to the toilet for your spraying convenience. – this activity is highly recommended.

Just… pleeeeease.

Remember, much like the age-old camping rule… leave no trace.

This concludes today’s lesson in Civilized Bathroom Etiquette.

Have a great day.

Addendum – (a month later) because I have a GIANT mess in my upstairs toilet that’s definitely going to require a plunger and a shit-load of disinfectant. Hopefully, I won’t have to get Mr. Anaconda the snake-unplugger-tool out. Fingers crossed AND nose plugged.

The addendum- never attempt to flush more than six squares of TP at the same time. DUH. I don’t care how GINORMOUS your poop is, the toilet can only swallow so much. New rule- if it’s bigger than a hamster, divide it up.

That is all.

Extreme Driving Adventures- Testosterone Behind the Wheel

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Let’s face it… teenage boys behind the wheel of any vehicle that isn’t

a self propelled red and yellow plastic Fred Flintstone car is frightening shit.

 

Teaching my, now licensed 17 year old to drive last year was an experience that had my already-questionable-sanity hanging by the fiber of a frayed thread… which continues to weaken every. single. time. I hand him the keys.

 

No doubt, those smelly green Christmas tree air fresheners should be available in xanax scent- exclusively for parents and/or mental patients.

 

The air freshener people would make a killing.

 

It seems like a no brainer, yet to this day I’ve been unable to locate a single anti-anxiety scented air freshener for sale on ALL of the inter webs.

 

Go figure.

 

The following driving tales were scribbled in holy water written while I was up to my eyeballs in adventure last year, teaching Big Kahunas to drive.

 

Big Kahunas nickname is explained somewhere in the smoking wreckage.

 

Fasten your seatbelt and read on…

 

Dumb Shit my Son Says…

Big Kahunas

Cruising in the Jesus-mobile

Testosterone Powered Jackass

 

 

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