Why is “vagina” not in my Italian phrase book?

So ya, today was a pretty damn good day. My son and I did a horseback tour of Rome. Cool, huh? We climbed to the top of the Castel Sant’Angelo and repelled through the dome of the Pantheon. Ya, it’s totally like that… I’m badass—like the Indiana Jones kind of badass. And, as if the day couldn’t be awesomer, ya I totally said awesomer, we won the lottery. I swear to god, people. It doesn’t get better than this.

Ok… well, so, I feel compelled to point out that we were actually only on the Xbox, playing Assassin’s Creed. But that totally counts as being in Italy, in my book. I’m not in a big hurry to go back to Rome. The last time I was there, I experienced the welcome-to-Rome ass grab. Which was less like having my butt fondled, and more like the old guy trying to pull a fucking rabbit out of my vagina through my pants. He was charming like that. And if you’re wondering, I totally kidney-punched the geezer, which alarmed his wife—who was walking with him, holding his non-vagina-groping hand. Rome is super quaint like that. So limiting it to a virtual visit for today was just fine by me.

I also learned the last time I was there, that the street children, with their big, beautiful eyes are darling, until they try to steal your shit from under your nose. I would assume the lady on the bus with the fake arm, and the baby in the infant sling taught the street kids all they know. Fortunately I felt the zipper on my purse open, and caught that one in the act. I made the biggest fucking scene that a Rome bus had ever witnessed. Which is totally saying something… because ya, we’re talking about Rome here. After screaming at fake arm lady, and yelling out of the bus window at the police at the curb, the ho dropped my wallet. I’d gone such total ape shit on her ass, she wasn’t even able to pull the cash out of it. Uh huh. Take that, bitch.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Rome. In fact, it’s been so long since I’ve been, that the fake arm lady’s baby is probably old enough to have bred some little pickpocketing douche nuggets of his own by now. But it still hasn’t been long enough, that riding through virtual-Rome, shoving street people into piles of hay, and shooting the overly aggressive ones with my crossbow wasn’t massively therapeutic. Come to think of it, that crossbow would have really come in handy in our real-life travels. Although I’m thinking that would set off a TSA red flag. And I prefer to limit being felt up by a stranger in public, to once in a lifetime.

I guess aside from being able to shoot people who annoy you with a crossbow, the coolest part about Assassin’s Creed is that my son is picking up some Italian here and there. He can totally say, “Rest in peace,” in Italian. Which if I’m able to get my crossbow through customs, could be useful some day. Although I’d probably need to learn the Italian for, “I’d like to call Amanda Knox’s attorney, please.” And while I’m at it, I’ll also see about learning the phrase, Excuse me, y’old geezer, but you won’t find a rabbit in there today.”

I could imagine a day like that being just as satisfying as today was—with all the Indiana Jones badassness and lottery winning and stuff.

I’m not sure what we’re going to do with all of our lottery profits. Don’t worry, it wasn’t enough that I can retire and move to a reclusive house in Big Sur. We only matched four out of six numbers. Which in my opinion should be worth way more than 96 bucks. But it’s not. *sigh* And ya, IRS, if you’re listening, we’ll totally declare every cent of it on our tax return. Unless I start proselytizing to the kids down the block, and have myself declared a church. In which case… fuck you IRS. The lottery totally donated to my church—the church of self-serving bullshit. Is it just me, or is anyone else shocked that name isn’t already taken?

So it wasn’t a $7 million payout. But it still was a nice end to a nice day. I don’t think it was as satisfying as skewering virtual street thieves with a crossbow. But I think the $96 would cover the extra luggage fee to get a crossbow into checked luggage for my next actual visit to Rome. That’s me… always thinking ahead.

Now, does anyone know how to say “rabbit” and “vagina” in Italian?

• • •

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Luuuucyyy, you have some splainin’ to doooo

lucyI was just looking at traffic stats for my site for the week and noticed something in today’s search engine terms that jumped out at me. It’s always interesting to see what someone was looking for when they came here. But WHAT exactly was someone hoping to find when searching, “dildo goes in ass and comes out of mouth”? And I guess the question that concerns me more is, did this person find what he/she was looking for here? *violent heebie jeebie*SEO-terms

I’m usually a pleaser. But in this case, I’m pretty sure this searcher’s visit here was a short and unsatisfying one. And I think I’m ok with that.

• • •

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And later, Sandra Bullock and I will be trying to find our keys

I knew that keeping up with my writing was going to be an impossible feat this summer. But, people, I’m happy to report I’ve exceeded my expectations. My ability to suck is far greater than I’d ever dreamed.

Yay me.

This week has been a particular challenge, with two kids in surf camp for five days. It’s impossible not to just relax on the beach, and sleep (translation snore until I startle myself awake, and wipe the drool stream from my cheek). Or to just sit under my umbrella and watch my gremmies surf. So my lack of posts should not surprise anyone. Including myself.

oldguy-flippingthebird

Can someone please tell me where this came from, so I can credit this most hilarious photo?

My inability to write is also a result of me mind-fucking myself over turning 49. Which if you’re keeping track, is actually the new 39. So, ya, there is that. And if you have the nads to scoff at this, and are one of those who isn’t old enough to have watched the Brady Bunch and Partridge Family as a first run, Friday night line up, then bite. my. ass. Some day, and sooner than you think, your tits will look like they’re pondering the pattern in the floor tile, and you’ll wonder why you’ve walked into the garage. And more often than not, you’ll wish you knew where the fuck your keys were. That totally happens to the new 39.

Yes, today is my birthday—me and Sandra Bullock. We were born on the same day in 1964. And I still think that girlfriend looks pretty damn good. For years I’ve kept an eye on her, and as long as Sandra is still looking good, I’m feeling ok about my age. So let me make a plea to you, Sandra Bullock. Please keep up the good work. And I’m going to need to request that you’re diligent with the sunscreen from now on. Because I’m counting on you, Ms. Bullock, to ensure the well-being of my aging self-image here. Ooookaaaaaay?  Thanks, girlfriend. I appreciate your fine efforts.

This is a short post today. Because I’ve got birthday fun to partake in. I haven’t damaged my children so badly yet, that they don’t want to hang out with me. So I’m going to go play some Minecraft. Yup. Life is pretty damn good.

So here I am, the new 39. I’m going to embrace this like a pissed-off cat, and make it my bitch.

Happiest of happy weekends to you all. And happy birthday, Sandra Bullock.  Give me a shout if you need help finding your keys. I totally feel your pain.

• • •

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I’m giving myself a prize for working dildo into the post today

I swore I’d write from the first one I pulled. I don’t usually write from a prompt, but I thought I’d try something new today. “Why do I blog?” Really? I don’t feel like it’s a very original one. And I’m already off to a yawnderful start. Hmm.

Off the top of my head, I don’t have a fucking clue why I blog. I honestly think I write for no good reason. I feel like I need to be prophetic and deep. *sigh* *pops a Mike’s Hard Lemonade* And the pressure, being called a “mommy blogger.”  Oy. The responsibility. *eye roll*

gremmies

This has nothing to do with anything. Except this is my view as I’m writing today. I’m the surf camp taxi for two today. The gig doesn’t suck.

Seriously people, my breeding skills are frankly nothing for the books. I never really saw the point in continuing to produce, once we had the car washing and yard work covered. I mean, why? With two kids, I’ve already got a damn fine excuse to drink. So why continue to play the odds? With further minion production, I could end up with a vagina that keeps my thighs from rubbing together when I walk. But I’ll quit while my lady business doesn’t whistle like the moaning caverns when I ride a bike. Not that I’d ever ride a bike without first covering those parts. I’m not Britney, for fuck’s sake. Have you seen those bike seats? Seriously, people. I’m pretty sure some girls who’ve birthed themselves an entire little league team could make one of those little tiny seats disappear. Yeh, gross… I know I’m insensitive. Don’t get all judgy. I’m just sayin.

So really, I ask myself, with my lack of flocks of children, how am I qualified to write a mommy blog? You don’t even have the benefit of knowing whether or not I’ve irreparably fucked up my kids, since they’re only 15 and 12. I could be raising serial killers. What do you know? Yet I’m a mommy blogger? *snort*

I’m sure at some point, most women who are labeled as mommy bloggers have rebelled against the tag. I’m not here to rebel. I’ve been called worse. But I am here to say I’m in no way an authority on this mommying thing. So perhaps, at most we’re able to have a laugh at my awesomeness at my ability to trip through life and not damage anything/one yet. Or have I? We just don’t know, do we?

And while I’m single-handedly flushing my own credibility, who’s to say who’s an authority? There’s no test to become a mommy. Hell, a lot of people fall into this gig because, let’s face it, latex is imperfect. Or they didn’t think about using birth control to begin with, because they just didn’t think they’d get pregnant this time. Well, I guess by comparison I’m either a veritable brain trust, or really super fucking stupid. I haven’t decided which yet. I’ll let you know when I see how my kids turn out. Either way, laughing for sure helps. And so does not taking myself seriously. Like ever. Which is fodder for my shrink and I. So, ya, there is that… moving on.

I’m the first to admit that I’ve fucked up. A lot. In all honesty, that’s why I’m here. I didn’t have the greatest start in this life game. It left me a little lot damaged. Actually pretty fucking broken. So I started writing some shit a while ago—no seriously, it’s all shit. It was a string of complaining, mostly about people who have totally sucked in my life. But I realized that what I was doing was just trying to explain why I’m such a fucked up mess. It was my pile of I’m-being-a-dickweed-in-life hall passes. I felt the need to explain myself to the people around me. It’s depressing shit, in which it’s really quite impossible to find any humor. At all. My mind is a dark and scary place, people.

This isn’t a blame game. This is me admitting that I’m really really bad at coping. I’m constantly telling myself, “Suck it up, cupcake. Be present for everyone who loves you. They’re the ones who count.” Sometimes it works, other times I just finish the bottle.

So why do I blog even though I’m an unqualified, incapable mess? I was encouraged to do this as a way to bust my ass into writing every day. A way to prime the pump in order to start the daily mind barf. A way to get the words flowing for the real writing. I’ve got a handful of unfinished fiction pieces waiting in the wings. Blogging was supposed to help me get on the road to finishing them up. But blogging has become more than pump priming. It’s become my reason to look for humor in my life. Every. single. day.  Because that’s how I have to deal with the darkness in my brain. I have to make it funny. And the stuff I can’t make funny… I refuse to think about. My blog seems to have shouldered its way through to become my real writing for now. Probably because that’s what my brain needs. So I feed the beast.

My mom would tell me not to dwell on the negative. That seemed like a fanfuckingtastic theory. But I somehow lacked the ability for implementation. I couldn’t find a way to always see the sunny side. Until I started blogging. This exercise has been a physical manifestation of what my mom has always told me to do. A tool, if you will. Except I say fuck more than she would like. But it has become my tool. My tool to find daily happiness and satisfaction. Kind of like a dildo. But for my brain. Writing is a brain dildo. Kids… tell that one to your teacher.

I’m going to pause for a moment and admire my ability to work dildo into a conversation about blogging. And I think I’ve salvaged a decent blog title from a shitty, boring prompt. *deep sigh* My work here is done.

I don’t know what’s supposed to motivate a mommy blogger. Or even what one is supposed to say. I can’t seem to find the rule book. The moniker cracks me up though. It’s like I’m supposed to be throwing out some awesome and useful info. Or reviewing some can’t-live-without baby shit. Er, eh, I mean stuff. Because reviewing baby shit would be pretty gross. You don’t review it. You just throw it out. Holy dang… maybe I do know something. Just throw that shit out. There. I’m helping… I’m a mommy blogger. You’re welcome.

gremmie2

This has nothing to do with anything either. Just thought you’d like another view for the road. It’s not all fabulous. It was really fucking cold this morning.

Ach… always off topic. I don’t have a freakin clue where I was going with this. Whatthefuckever. I don’t have a clue why I blog, or what I’m trying to accomplish. I started on whim and continue because it feels good, and it makes me happy. Kind of like my marriage… which has been working for 21 years. So holy shit, we could be here a while. Cuz apparently I’ve got some stick-to-itedness. My marriage has produced two amazing little people. Let’s hope at some point my dumbass rambling can result in something equally awesome. *pfffbaahahaha* Probably not. But for sure, let’s just laugh and not take ourselves too seriously. Mmmmmmkay?

 

 

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Stuff that cracked me up this week

moon-over-5thgradeWhere did this week go!? I have some seriously funny shit that I’ve been squirreling away for y’all this week. So let’s get to it.

I don’t care if this was staged. When I saw this, I was all like, Holy shit I just shot iced tea through my nose. Which, if you’re wondering doesn’t hurt as much as soda, and not as gross as milk, but still is not a positive experience. And yes, I must have some sort of issue with my mouth-to-nasal-cavity reverse valve. Because this tends to happen to me on occasion. Yeh… TMI.

But anywooooo… is this “moon over 5th grade” not the greatest class photo in, like, ever? Check out the little girl’s face to the left of mooncheeks. It seems that her proximity to the raw biscuits isn’t really floating her boat. Thanks to these guys for sharing this. I will never be able to look at another class photo in the same way again. I don’t dare show this to my kids, for fear that they may try to crack this off themselves. That’s not a phone call from school that I need to get.

•••

Emma, I tip my tiara to you….knock

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

•••

motherfuckaaaaas-pilot

 

If this is the second most awesome thing he’s heard on an airplane, I really really really want to know what the first most awesome thing was. The next time I’m flying, I hope this guy’s my pilot.

Thanks to The Oatmeal for this bit of pure awesome.

•••

And now I give you, the difference in color perception between men and women.
I can offer you nothing more accurate this week than this… Thank you to these guys.

how-women-and-men-see-colors

•••

baby_walker

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I knew when it totally made me snort, I had to share this one with you.

 

•••

lava

 

Yes. I’m so glad to know that hot lava is still alive and well in college dorms across the country. Hopping from sofa to chair to desk is a valuable skill in the workforce.

It’s also worth remembering that if you leave your arm hanging over the edge, the alligators under the bed will bite it off.

Keep up the good work, kids.

 

 

 

 

 

 

bar-sign

 

 

Do yourself a favor and go to this link. These bar signs just remind me that people who hang out with alcohol are hilarious. And I either need to hang around these people more. Or drink alone more often.

Which reminds me.
I need a refill.
Now.
Right now.

 

 

I hope your weekend is full of giggles and fun. And you don’t fall in the hot lava. And the gators under your bed don’t eat your arms.

Cheers!

 

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All cultured up. For now.

bowers-smMy kids have brazenly set off museum no-touchy alarms from Salzburg to San Francisco. I imagine their mug shots are on some international watch-list database, for museum docents who need to keep track of the touchy ones. Probably finger prints too—obviously they’ve put down plenty of those for database collection.

But now as more seasoned museum-goers, I worry less about fast fingers. They actually seem to enjoy the visits more, and are more observant of the rules. Ok. Somewhat. Even if it’s only because they know there’s usually food in it for them afterward, I’m down with the bribe. Whatever it takes, people. I’m writing the book on realistic parenting as I go. I’m going to get these kids cultured up, even if it kills us all.

I’m pretty sure my son still recalls the Picasso exhibit at the Albertina in Vienna. Or not. I most certainly do. I still suffer from PTSD. I’m a liberal mom. I don’t hide the fact that the human body, in its naked, and in some cases… ehum… very impressive form… *coughstatueofDavidcough* is front and center museum fodder. The kids have progressed beyond the giggle fits, to the point that an overly prolonged and intensive examination prompts me to throw my phone at their heads as a distraction technique. (I lie. I would never throw my phone. I’d totally throw my husband’s phone however.) Anyway, I digress. They appreciate the beauty of the art, if not just the fact that it’s adult-sanctioned leering at the boobies. And the franks and beans.

picasso

One of Picasso’s more tame works.

Despite my liberal lean in regard to art and the human form, the Picasso exhibit in Vienna tested even my limits. This was several years ago, and we were dragging a then 10- and a 7-year old through Vienna. My daughter preferred looking at sparkly things. So the Habsburg crown jewels overshadowed everything for that entire day. However, a 10-year old boy takes particular note of things. And Picasso’s things in this particular exhibit happened to be porn with a capital-P-icasso. Fortunately Picasso’s style being more abstract, my son caught on to just a sliver of the subject matter. Though I did know it was time to hit the cobble stones when I heard him giggling with his sister and pointing,

“Look at that painting. He’s peeing on her.”

Yes, children, that’s called a golden shower. Thank yooooou, Mr. Picasso. And, yup, I’m the mother of the year. My kids now know about the odd subculture that is golden showers. Yay me. Though seriously, that’s nothing. The year after that, we visited Amsterdam. Now if you want a place to really screw a kid up, Amsterdam can be there for you….

“I’m sorry kids, though they look delicious, you may not eat the brownies.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know why they’re blowing bubbles in the water in that vase.”

“Yes, I know. It’s sad that those ladies in the window can’t afford more than just underwear.”

“Come back here! Those people on the grass aren’t wrestling. And, they do not want you to play with them.”

But Amsterdam is another story for another time. We’re working on screwing up our kids, one vacation at a time. At any rate, yesterday’s trip to the Bowers Museum was fairly innocuous. Though if they were younger, I probably would have had more of an issue explaining the art of the Pacific Island headhunters’ exhibit, than Picasso’s erotic paintings. It’s all about heads, people. Some give ’em, some take ’em. *snort* But seriously, I’m bothered more by the violence than the sex. Call me crazy. Trust me, it wouldn’t be the first time.

So whether it was for the food, or for the promise of some parent-sponsored lewd sightings, the kids willingly left behind the Xbox for a morning of culture. I think they liked it mostly because it’s a smallish museum—translation, we’re in and out in a couple of hours. I don’t think my son would have rated it as highly on the titty scale as most European museums. With very few bare breasts, the juvenile giggles were mostly found with the impressive tools on the New Guinea totems. Based upon all that, The Bowers Museum rated seven happy-faces on the teen-rating scale.

Culture for the month, check. Feel free to go back to the Xbox, kids. For now.

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Booger eaters will rule the world

They say there’s a time and a place for everything. I suppose at some point in my life, I would have agreed. But that ended abruptly the moment I was told I should consider eating my own boogers for my health. Yes. You heard me right.

Eat. my own. fucking. boogers.

Ordinarily, in a situation like that, I would have ventured somewhere between a choked-back puke and an, “ARE YOU INSANE!?” But at that second I was unable to verbalize even a single syllable. It took me a moment, after snorting with nervous laughter to determine that he was serious. The deadpan look on his face confirmed it.

“No, seriously. Studies show that eating one’s own boogers can boost the immune system and help with allergy problems.”

*gagcoughgag*

Lord knows I’ve had it with the seasonal plague of allergies. But the mere thought of …*gag*… I can’t even go there. I get the theory, people. The gut is the key to our immune system. And if we introduce seasonal environmental allergens through our gut/digestive tract, the body is less likely to go on the attack when they come through our respiratory system. BUT, and this is a big fucking BUT… WHO decided on the booger-eater study, and WHO participated… willingly?

I know college students will do a lot of things for beer money cash for food. That’s why they call them starving college students. But, holy shit… that’s a whole new level of starving. (Note to my children: if you’re ever desperate enough while away at college, that taking money to eat boogers sounds ok, please call home. I will send money. And xanax.)

I’ve done some searching for more natural allergy relief. Ok, ya, I know. Boogers are natural. But NO. No way. No how. Someone actually mentioned trying locally-sourced honey. It’s the same theory as the boogers… local environmental allergens, collected by our bee friends, introduced through the digestive tract. But honey rather than… eeeeeeew.

I can wrap my brain around the honey idea. I’ve already spent a small fortune on medications. So spending $24 on $6 worth of honey seemed like a worthwhile experiment. Plus I’m supporting the local economy… ‘cuz you know those poor Newport Beach people need the cash. And let me say the honey is delish. I’m only half way through my supply. One tablespoon a day in my pitcher of green tea isn’t a tough way to go. However I do expect it to take a while, if it helps at all. But it’s not boogers. So I’m not complaining.

Studies show it tastes better than boogers.

Studies show that locally-sourced honey tastes better than boogers.*

There is plenty I would do to stop the flow of allergy boogs. I’ve run the gamut of medications. And they either don’t work, or make me feel like crack-monkeys have invaded my skull. I’m not good at drugs. So I choose to stumble through allergy season, snotty and coughing. It’s not pretty, people. But I guarantee you, it’s one hellava lot better than eating boogers. *ohmygodgag*

Sure, I suppose there may be a time and a place for everything. But eating boogers will never be one of them. Though I guess the upside is, if their booger theory is solid, and you believe the Darwin thing, booger eaters will eventually take over the world. So, there is that. Yay, booger eaters.

 

 


*Ok, it was my own study. And no one here will eat boogers.
I think that says enough. My conclusions are solid. Trust me, people.

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My name is Lynn, and I’m a Candyland addict.

It’s time for me to stand up and admit this to you all. My name is Lynn, and I’m a Candyland-crack addict. I’ve come down off of a weekend trip… trying to steal away private moments to get my fix. Ignoring things that needed to be done, just to nab some time for my Candyland habit. I knew I had a problem when my husband walked in on me… mid-snort… caught up in giggle convulsions. Yes. It’s true. I’m an addict. And I need help.

I’m not a selfish addict though. I am all about sharing. There’s plenty of Candyland to go around. It’s always more fun for an addict when everyone else is hooked too. I’m setting out to create my own Candyland addiction circle. I’m not talkin’ the board game either, people. I’m talking about the wildly entertaining web series, set in a snobby, Palisades preschool. These aren’t your typical kidlets. Each of the Candyland cuties is a concoction of innocence, conniving and evil, all rolled into a pint-sized package. They’ll draw you in, and have you begging for more. More hilarity. More drama. More fun.

I’m not turning you on to garbage here… I swear to you. I only do the good stuff. The production quality is solid. And the acting is actually pretty impressive for these little darlings. I have no shame. I’m proud of my addiction and happy to pass it on.

Season One is already on the books. Yes, that’s right, people. I’m late to the party. But these are quick little episodes, 5-6 minutes, and you can catch up on the first season in a flash. And then, like me, be begging for more. OOOH, the agony of a cliffhanger. I’m jonesin’ here, people.

I’ll hook you up. Here’s Episode One. The rest of the season is on the site or youtube. And then join me in the anticipation of Season Two. “Like” the Candyland Series on Facebook or follow them on Twitter, and you’ll be the first to know when the new batch of Candyland is ready for the snorts and giggles.

You’re welcome…

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Stuff that cracked me up this week

There were a handful of things that made me giggle this week… and even snort. Sorry this is a little hastily thrown together tonight. The chuckles speak for themselves. There’s some funny shit out there, you guys. So here you go…

You’ll love this. Some people have all the fun. I need to hang out with this guy… too dang funny.

 

Now here’s a thought. Ever wonder how you’d survive a zombie apocalypse? A hamster ball, people.
These people are genius……. pure genius. I find the toilet facilities slightly lacking, however.

zombie-apoc

 

Yikes…

gyno-exam

When your translator has had more of a “street” education, you end up with some pretty entertaining signs.

nokia-poopie

 

Nope, there’s nothing better than a good old botched translation. Check out the rest here. I promise you’ll laugh. You may even snort a few times.

 

 

 

corgi-on-stilts

 

Wooohoooo… it’s Friday. I don’t know about you, but it’s the weekend and that makes me happier than a corgi on stilts. And PS, someone really needs to buy me this for my birthday.

Have a great weekend, everyone. Like a corgi on stilts kind of great. xo

 

 
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PTSD and Minty-fresh Panties

My husband’s favorite old shirt still bears the battle wounds of the Great Crayon Incident of 2003. The scarred-for-life mark of the laundry near-casualty is however, not a deterrent—my man will wear the most cherished Reyn Spooner to the death. The story of the stowaway crayon is one of family lore. And the tale, replayed with fish-story accuracy each time the battle-weary shirt emerges from the closet, is the reason that not a single crayon has made its way into a pocket in many. many. years. Just as the shirt is scarred, so too are the crayon-toting psyches of my kids. Emotional scars, people—it’s the shit we moms LIVE for. *curtsy*….. My work here is done.

The stories have instilled quite a productive terror within our clan. Crayons now remain at home. And only at home. I learned a similar lesson when I was a kid. It’s amazing how poorly crayons fare in the back seat of a car. I swear, people, Southern California summer heat is pure magic. It turns crayons into rainbow unicorn vomit. And as impressive as it is, dads are surprisingly unimpressed by unicorn vomit. And consequently, dads become very screamy at the sight of it. I’ll bet if they had been glitter crayons, he’d have been more impressed. Because everyone knows unicorn vomit has sparkles. That’s probably why he wasn’t impressed—no sparkles.

Over the years, I’ve applied the crayon exemplar to all things laundry. The litmus works with anything I consider putting into my pockets. “Should I forget to take this out of my pocket, what would it do to a load of laundry?” From that question forward, I proceed with ample caution. I found however, after I washed my phone, that my litmus required amendment. “Should I forget to take this out of my pocket, how yelly would my husband get?” That was a scene I don’t care to replay. Although, oddly I still get more grief for the phone that accidentally bumped into the bedroom wall. In my defense, it was totally the phone’s fault for being in my hand when I was really pissed. It should have known better. That phone was really stupid. It deserved to die. You’d think I’d get a little support for ridding the world of stupid phones. Jeez. My husband can be so short-sighted and judgy.

I’ve told him that he too should learn from the crayon incident. Over the years I’ve had to rewash laundry fouled by a wide range of pocket goodies, including Chap Stick, chalk, pens and an impressive array of candy. My husband pockets candy like a squirrel hoards nuts. We’ve even had gum in the laundry, which fortunately stayed within its wrapper. Because unwrapped gum in the wash makes an impressive mess. By mess, I mean shit everywhere… think hard boiling an egg in the microwave. If the microwave was a washer and dryer. And the egg was six sticks of warm gum, tossed like a cluster fuck salad. We had been very lucky not to have a mess like that.

Until last night.

Yup. That’s what I said. The nightmare of laundry-doers everywhere descended upon us. I hadn’t noticed until after the load was ready to come out of the dryer. There, on the edge when I opened the door… four balled up sticks of gum within their wrappers, perched there, as if to tattle on the rest for not having remained sheathed.

Shit shit shit. Please God, let this be all of it. *pffft* As if a deity of any kind would be concerned with the well-being of my load of shorts. My momentary religious experience had no affect. Because as I pulled them out of the warm dryer, I could see the evidence. It was the Great Crayon Incident of 2003, all over again. Except this time, it was gum rather than red crayons. But of course not merciful gum that would blend into khaki shorts. Black gum. My husband left a handful of sticks of black gum in his pocket.

At that moment I grabbed the fireplace poker and whacked him over the head with it. Ok, that was just in my mind. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even hit him. I’m not the murdery type. I really wanted to go all dad-not-amused-by-unicorn-vomit on him. But I just didn’t have the heart. He felt really bad, jumping into action, cleaning out both the washer and dryer… spotless and free of gum. It took him over an hour. He was deadass tired, and it was midnight before he was done. He was like Superman. I married Superman, people. Except ridding the world of nasty, black gum rather than super villains. And not the world. Just our washer and dryer. But he’s still totally Superman in my book. If Superman washed his gum.

There were signs of casualty amongst the load of shorts. Me and my badass skillz with an ice-cube and a knife managed to get most of the gum off of everything. However the black gum did leave permanent reminders scattered all over his shorts. Now he has something perfectly matched to wear with his red, crayon-stained Reyn Spooner. Lucky for him I only had one pair of shorts that suffered permanent damage. The stains will probably fade over time—unlike the memory of the Great Gum Incident of 2013. I’m hoping my family suffers from PTSD from this for years to come. There’s nothing more useful than a painful I-fucking-told-you-so incident to forever rid the laundry of gum. And crayons. Then again, maybe not. But a girl can hope.

I suppose at some point in the future we’ll find some humor in this. We may even rerun the story of the Great Gum Incident of 2013 every time one of the battle-scarred shorts emerge. Probably no laughs for a while though. It’s difficult to recall gum in the laundry with warm fondness. There’s really nothing good about it. Except perhaps that my last load of freshly dried underwear smelled minty fresh.

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If you like what you just read please click to send a quick vote for me on Top Mommy Blogs- The best mommy blog directory featuring top mom bloggers