Anne Nahm

If CPS* had a ‘Thought Police’ division that could arrest you just for the things that go through your head? I would have surely been booked for ‘using one child to beat the other’ this afternoon whilst in the grocery store check-out as both children screamed, threw check-out line candy at each other, and generally threatened to go ass-over-tea-kettle out of the cart. All while a bored bag-girl looked at her fingernails, sighed, and then gave her butt crack a discreet scratching.

And if those sly CPS interrogators had offered me five years off my sentence if I were willing to repent my wicked thoughts? I would have had to do the full bit, because even if it was just a fantasy? It was the only saving grace for allowing my progeny to survive unscathed.

On a much sadder note (as if that were possible) I lost all acquired MILF points when I purchased and then started to wear these:

Hominy-hominy-hominy grits. I will go verily and get my high heels and sin no more with Crocs 2.0.

Tomorrow.

* Child Protection Services

Holy Cow, I just got pimped out on Technorati’s WTF list for Curse of the Diaper Genie* . You know. Just sayin’ if ya’ll want to help a mutha out. ‘Cause it looks kinda sad there with its five votes.

* Thanks Peety!

Dear Little Swimmers swim diapers,

Oh, you certainly have a scam running, don’t you? Every adult oriented pool area I go to insists my child wear your non-soggy so-called ‘swim diaper’.

I am one more card in your House of Lies because I dutifully purchase your $12 pack each summer and then placate my non-parent friends with the facade of ‘there is really no diaper in the pool, because look! Swim diaper! My child is like a little adult, perfectly appropriate to paddle around the shallow end for an hour or so after lunch! In a tiny pink bathing suit because squee! So cute.’ And all the non-parent adults make little cooing sounds of approval.

As if we have all conveniently forgotten our understanding of high school physics.

A diaper will absorb until it has reached maximum capacity.

Once it has reached its capacity, it will not absorb more.

Therefore, a child, in a diaper, in your pool, means either:

a) the entire contents of the pool in that diaper because, whoa! Super absorbency

or

b) the diaper gets full of pool water and some time later, there is pee in the pool.

The ‘swim’ prefix, while comforting, and svelte in appearance, means jack squat.

Q.E.D.

See you at the pool! I’ll make sure my kids swim right next to your C.E.O.

Anne

After that last post, and the subsequent awkward silence in the comments section, I was quite determined to fashion a much more coherent post for today. Because meta? My embarrassing confession is being embarrassed by last post’s embarrassing confession. And not quite being able to escape that bloggy tar baby, I am embarrassed by confessing the embarrassment of the embarrassment. Oh the shame of causing an awkward internet silence. Hear that? That there is more awkward silence. Enjoy! I made it just for you.

Anyway, with cheeks aflame, I tell you that I picked out my future post title (which I never usually do) two days ahead of time: “Anne! Now With 20% More Sanity!” and was kind of praying for events to follow in line with that mentality.

But subsequent days have been filled with things like my children’s version of Mad Max Thunderdome. Only theirs occurred in the bathtub: Two kids enter, 1 kid poops!

4 year old: Mommmmmmmmm! The baby pooped in the bathtub!!
Baby: Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!! Poooooooooooop! Whaaaaaaaaaa!
Me: What? When?
4 year old: I dunno. A few minutes ago? The poop is everywhere! And it got on all the toys!”

It was so. gross. And what to do? Take them out? They are covered in poop! Shower them off? Where? The tub is covered in poop! And also? The delicate balance of not traumatizing the baby (e.g. “don’t touch that! Ewwwww! Pooop!”) because I want her to both poop and bathe without fear, but also not allowing her to use the poop like play-doh, which seems to be what she wants to do.

I ended up draining the tub because I did not particularly want to go fishing for wiley fecal matter as it bobbed in the water between rubber duckies and mermaid hair. Then I wiped a lot of the poop off the tub floor, using the baby’s worn-but-not-used diaper. But then I was overwhelmed by one solid chunk of poop that went down the drain and decided to rest on the drain grid. Unwilling to try to pinch it out (because I draw the line at pinching out turds that are not my own) I finally pushed it through the grade with a hell of a lot of paper towels wrapped around my finger. I hope that does not come back to haunt me.

And then I just gave up with the toys. And by ‘gave up’ I pretty much mean retched a little and decided I would either throw them away or buy an econo-vat of bleach at the store. And then fill the entire tub, contents and all, with that bleach. Until then, the tub is off limits like our own personal crime scene.

So in summary, the world is not yet sanity-friendly for Anne-kind yet. Maybe next week. Till then, my friends? Blarg-larlll-alaoooool!

And there in the title, I’m stealing my husband’s own brand of ‘que sera sera’. For when he is recounting some annoyance at work or among his friends, he always recaps with, ‘and that’s why they call it a job, Anne, and not blowjob.’ And he says it so earnestly, with the big, regretful puppy eyes, like he is truly mourning the fact that his life is full of all jobs and no blow.

And that kind of sums up my ability to think up a coherent blog entry right now – totally sucking. So in retrospect, I guess I should be rather glad they call it ‘blogging’ and not the other. Shall we follow that completely skewed, sleep-deprived, incoherent logic to it’s very end? Well then, I guess it would be me as some kind of fugly blog fluffer right about now – sucking so badly I am unfit for the general masses, and yet sucking so often that I finally get hired for some behind the scenes work.

Ooooo…. Kayyyyyy, Anne. Get back to me when the dosage levels off, will you? Thanks.

My bloggy groove has been totally screwed by The Move. How can I be witty when I have to comprehend the effing logistics of this new house and all the nutballs living in it with me? Chaos! That’s how. I can’t.

Example, Anne? (And maybe with a few less gratuitous exclamation points, please?) Why surely! (And no!!) Here you go:

The baby has been watching everyone unpack. Whee! Unpacking, unpacking, unpacking. Feel free to hum your favorite tune, using only that word for the lyrics. Because that’s the kind of unpacking we are doing: Endless and with a showtunes theme!

The baby, too, has been taking things out of boxes, drawers, and baskets. And then? She has been moving them to where she thinks they should go. I opened a kitchen drawer yesterday to find the following items rolling around inside: My MILF panties, a Tupperware lid, and a children’s video. Baby, I need to know where those things are! Tupperware must burp, kids must watch Aladdin, and thongs must be stowed carefully in the overhead compartment before take-off. These things cannot be accomplished if I don’t know where the eff anything is.

Another thing jamming up my mental stability? The bathrooms in this house. One toilet has a lid that falls down when you sit on it. It is like every time you use it, the toilet is trying to bite you in the ass. Like a giant, white Pac-Man and your ass is one of those blinky blue ghosts. My husband hasn’t admitted to being nipped by Pac-Crapper, but I haven’t seen him use that toilet since the second day here. I suspect man-bits would be more susceptible to fearing the smack. Must have strongly worded talk with toilet. No one smacks man-bits around here but Anne.

The bathroom in the master bedroom is also a pain in the ass. I should take pictures. But for now shall report this: If I bend over in the shower to say, get some slippery soap? My ass presses (significantly – not just brushing, but full ass press) against one shower wall whilst I have the tendency to bang my forehead on the opposite wall – you know, since the back and front wall are two and half feet apart. You’d think with all the ass pressing and banging going on, it’s be sexy, but hell to the no it isn’t. When I get in that shower? It’s like I am a bank note in a pneumatic tube. Seriously. One day I’ll get in there and be sucked into oblivion. When the husband opens the door? There will be a soggy receipt and some dum-dums for the kids.

Also? To get out of the shower, I must open the shower door, close the shower door, take two steps so that I am straddling the toilet, and then open exit door. Thus, escape from the bathroom is finally, gloriously possible and I can be reunited with my beloved towel.

Because there is no room in the bathroom for a towel.

Because the architect for this house is a genius.

Geez, enough with the follow up questions. The bathroom sucks. Take my word for it.

Anyway, that is what has been cluttering up my head the past few mornings. I’m dumping it out on you because the husband doesn’t live in Anne-Constant-Bitching Land anymore. He claims his student Visa to that magical place expired and sadly? He had to go back to Man-Land where they don’t whine incessantly about unfixable problems.

Ok, he didn’t say that. But he did start to babble in his native language and foam a bit at the mouth after three days straight of me speaking every word that went through my brain. So I gave him a beer and set him down in front of the television. I know of only one thing that will bring me back into his good graces.

And that, my friends, is why they call it blow job.