A Pot to Piss In

As I've mentioned before, we recently decided to start potty training Caitlyn. She just turned 18 months this week, so it admittedly seemed a little soon, but my personal philosophy is to do things on her timetable and not my own, and she was showing signs that she was ready.

The primary sign was when she started taking off her diaper and pissing on my rug. The dog has really been enjoying this phase because Caitlyn leaves her diapers lying around where he can get to them (like how I just blamed my toddler for the fact that I'm a slob and leave her diapers where ever she happens to take them off? Yeah. Solid Gold Parenting, right there) and he has a delicious diaper feast.

I can't say I understand the lure of a piss soaked diaper, but Joey seems to find them exceptionally delicious. The problem is, I think it's going to make his intestines explode one day.

Have you ever seen a diaper that has been ripped open? You know how the guts are all grainy and disgusting and when they get wet, they bloat up and look like flesh-gorged maggots? Yeah. Imagine that, except in the dog's shit.

The first time he shit out diaper maggots, I about had a fucking heart attack. I was convinced he had some sort of wormy parasites, which is, by the way, like my worst fucking fear. Because worms are just... ick. Fucking icky, slimy, nasty motherfuckers. But then I realized it was just from the diaper he had eaten. And then he shit 5 more times in a row, because the whole purpose of diapers is to ABSORB and so they absorbed the FUCK out of his intestinal juices, apparently, and grew to at least triple the volume of what he had actually eaten.

Lets say he eats a diaper that is mostly dry (which is usually the case, as Caitlyn has a rug to destroy). The diaper maggots are small when he eats them, but then they bloat up in his intestines and he's sliming them out of his ass for the next half hour. I'm pretty much asking for a doggie intestinal explosion, you know? It's like the dog equivalent of Pop Rocks and soda.

Wow. This post has devolved really quickly. The intent was to talk about Caitlyn's potty training progress and somehow I've written almost entirely about the dog's anus. Time to get back on track? Unless you want to hear more about diaper maggots...

Anyway. So Caitlyn and potty training. She loves her new potty. And by loves, I do not mean she loves to use it for its intended purpose. She loves to use it as a stool next to the desk, so she can reach all the things I've put up there to keep away from her. She loves to dump it over and push the button on the bottom that plays music (which is intended to be a reward for peeing in it. So much for that). She loves to pull the little bowl out and hide it under the couch. She loves to lounge on it, fully clothed or not.

What Caitlyn doesn't love to do is pee in her new potty. She seems to understand that she's supposed to sit down when I tell her to use her potty, but she usually gets bored after a minute of sitting there and so she will get up and wander around until she's ready to pee on the rug.

I haven't been particularly bothered by any of this. Caitlyn's still young, and I have a dog, so I'm used to cleaning bodily fluids off of my carpet. And I didn't expect it to be easy. I HOPED that it would be, but I knew that was a long shot. And then it happened: a breakthrough!

The other day I was in the kitchen, making dinner. Rodolfo was in the bedroom... I don't know- not watching Caitlyn? He walked back into the living room where she had been playing and I heard him ask her why she was naked. That's when he noticed it. Pee. On her potty. Please note that I did not say IN.

As I said before, Caitlyn has a tendency to take the little bowl out of her potty and hide it. She does this constantly and she hadn't actually used her potty yet, so I didn't always bother to put it back right away. Until that day when, completed unprompted, Caitlyn took off her diaper, sat down on her potty and peed ... through the hole where the bowl should have been. I always put it back right away now. But obviously she has not peed on her potty since then.

We have a few kinks to work out as far as explaining how a potty actually works and what the purpose of the potty is (not pissing on my floor. That is the purpose, kid. Get with the program) but I was so proud of my little girl. I was sobbing like a lunatic at her HUGE milestone, so she probably thinks she did something wrong and won't use the potty again till she's 9, but I still felt so happy. Even as I scrubbed the piss out of my rug.

Things That Are Irritating Me

I'm feeling really annoyed today, for no good reason. And, to answer your next question, NO, I do not have PMS. And if you ask me again, I WILL cut you. Here is a list, in no particular order, of things that are pissing me off today:

• The dog. Why does he have to track his shit across the yard? No seriously. He spends 10 minutes finding the perfect spot to shit in, only to scootch along in his dump squat for an additional 5 minutes leaving me a trail of steaming nuggets to follow. WHY DOG?
• The husband. Specifically, the candy he has eaten from my... I mean, CAITLYN's trick-or-treat stash. I should probably mention that he neither tricked nor treated. The one who drags the toddler from house to house begging for free candy has FIRST FUCKING DIBS. I'm just saying.
• The people at the lollipop company. Because you know how Capri Sun is the best juice ever and its clear (what, I'm the only adult who still drinks Capri Sun? Fuck you guys)? In fact, I think the lack of artificial colors is part of what makes it superior. So why, lollipop guys, do you think every lollipop you make needs red or blue dye? Oh, because you love ruining my kid's clothes? FUCK YOU. You are all dead to me. Also, oompa-loompas.
• The people you send a Facebook invite to for an event you are planning and even though you have been ASSURED that they are coming, they just fucking let it sit in their notifications and NEVER respond (yeah, I'm looking at you MIKE). WHY CAN'T YOU JUST CLICK THE LITTLE BUTTON THAT SAYS "I'm attending"? WHY DO YOU HATE ME?
• And speaking of that last one, I might as well throw the year 2012 onto this list. The event I'm planning is a vacation thing for myself and my friend because we are both turning 30 next year and instead of killing ourselves, we are simply going to get drunk for a week straight and try not to drown in the pool.
  
• Chocolate. We have a love-hate relationship. I'd love to be someone's cat for a year and only have access to the food they give me, in the portions they give, so I do not have to answer to my dark master on the daily. Halloween, you are certainly NOT helping with this endeavor.
• People who can't answer a fucking text message. Because I just fucking hate you, okay. Stop being a dick and get back to me.
  

I Bet Mud Huts are REALLY Hard to Clean

I'm a bit notorious for being a slob. In fact, when Nadine and I were roommates, I'm pretty sure she was plotting my death because she's a neat freak and my tendency to leave my hair on the shower walls was slowing whittling away her will to live.

My husband is Hispanic and he grew up in a proper Hispanic household in South America, where his mother did all the cooking and cleaning with the buckets of water she carried on her head back from the river. Okay. Not really. About the buckets I mean. But she did do all the cooking and cleaning. And so, before I married brown, I was not made immediately aware of the fact that this is what my new husband would expect from me.

When we first got together, Rodolfo seemed pretty laid back. It never really occurred to me that marriage would change the dynamic between us so drastically (yes, apparently I AM stupid). So when he liked it enough to put a ring on it (and, coincidentally, I liked it enough to put a green card on it), his expectations of my role became ... more defined? Let's say more defined. Sounds better than "he expected me to be his mom" or "he started acting like a dick".

My point is that Rodolfo expected me to clean and shit and I fucking HATE cleaning. It isn't that my standards for cleanliness are THAT low (shut up, Nadine), it's just that I have better things to be doing with my time. And when I clean, I tend to get all compulsive about it so it takes me an entire day by the time things are organized the way I want them to be. So mostly I wait till it's on the brink of shameful before I bother to clean up. And just to be clear, I don't mean "Hoarders" shameful. I'm talking like once a week cleaning. Unless it's changing cat litter. I put that shit off as long as humanly possible.

This has been a source of strain in my marriage but I can admit that I'm at fault on this one. While Rodolfo thinks I should be cleaning more, he's also come to realize that if he wants to maintain a certain standard of living, he's going to have to do it himself a lot of the time. Because even though that bitch grew up with chickens running through his mud hut, he really has pretty high standards for his living conditions.

Obviously I'm less slovenly now, mostly because I'm sick of picking dog hairs out of my kid's mouth, but Rodolfo still takes it upon himself to do the cleaning a lot of the time.

The thing of it is, he THINKS he is doing a super great job. He is not. That's the funny part. Let me break down a few of the problems for you:

Mops: Rodolfo does not believe in mops. I can't understand this. I'm all for making cleaning as easy as humanly possible, so I don't understand why he will not just let me buy a mop. You are probably wondering what he cleans the floor with (and subsequently expects that I clean the floor with). Does he get on his hands and knees and scrub? ABSOLUTELY NOT. He will take an old t-shirt, wrap it around the end of the broom, douse the floor in water and cleaner and push the dirt around with his not-absorbent-or-able-to-pick-up-dirt-pretty-much-at-all t-shirt. And then he will stand around proudly and admire the shit job he just did. I tried buying a Swiffer once, but he refused to let me buy the pads and simply wrapped his t-shirts around the Swiffer for a while.

Bathrooms: Rodolfo is a little weird about germs. Except he is weird about germs in a way that makes it clear that he doesn't understand anything about how germs work. A good example of this is how he is convinced that Caitlyn will get "diseases" (yes, plural) from petting the cat. Because cats have a multitude of cross-species diseases that we should worry about Caitlyn contracting through hand-to-fur contact. Same goes for the dog. So what I don't understand is how he insists on cleaning the bathroom with a sponge. Yes, the germiest thing on the planet. And he will use it to wipe down the sink and toilet then stow it all wet and disgusting under the sink for the next time. Are you wondering if he wipes down the bathtub with it too? Of course not... bathtubs don't get dirty and therefore never require cleaning. Obviously. It isn't like his WIFE is cleaning the bathtub!

Organization: When Rodolfo organizes, he puts things into two categories: "My Shit" and "Shit that Probably Needs to Go into the Garbage Already but My Wife is a Fucking Pack Rat for Keeping the Baby's Swing so Let Me Throw it in the Closet". This happens with everything. All the time. It's "I'm going to throw this away" and then "FINE. I'm putting it in the closet then". And by "putting it in the closet" he absolutely always means throwing it onto the floor of the closet never to be seen again. And then he gets mad when it takes me a day to clean out the closets. Because it only takes him 20 minutes to clean the whole house!

Rodolfo has so many weird habits when it comes to cleaning, but these are the most annoying because it means when I clean I have to do twice as much as he does because he doesn't know he sucks at it then he wonders why it takes me twice as long. But since we are talking about his weird habits ... let's get in to one more:

Rodolfo's mother once told him his head smells bad. This is not true. I know this not just because I sleep next to him every night, but also because she once said the same thing about Caitlyn when she was a baby. That's BABYSMELL lady. And it could be the best smell in the fucking WORLD. Weirdo. Anyway. So he has this paranoia about his head smelling bad, so he obsessively washes his entire head. Like multiple times a day. He will not leave the house, EVER, unless he has washed his entire head with soap, even if he took a shower an hour before. Note that I did not say shampoo. And he wonders why he has dry skin.

Anyway. That is all. Just making fun of my husband today.

Potty Training? Already?

Today I came to the undeniable conclusion that it's time to start potty training Caitlyn. It didn't come to me all at once, the signs have been accumulating for the past few weeks. Here's how it went:

1. About a month ago Caitlyn started taking off her diaper. All. The. Time. I seriously consider duct-taping her diapers shut.
2. After a week or so of indiscriminate diaper removal, I notice a shift in purpose. Every time Caitlyn takes her diaper off, it's because it's wet. She's starting to make the connection!
3. Eventually, she realizes that she simply hates having a diaper on. She spends about 80% of her time bare-assed, while I chase behind her and lure in child molesters by posting diaperless pics on Facebook.
4. She starts pointing to her diaper and says "poo-poo" when she's wet. This applies whether she is actually wearing the diaper or simply holding it up for my inspection.
5. She starts peeing on my floor. By this point, I'd given up on putting her diaper back on 7 times in a row after she takes it off and usually let her run around naked for a few minutes before I try to strap her back in. Until the day she takes off her diaper, immediately walks over to my kitchen and squats down and pees on the floor. REALLY CAITLYN?
   

Obviously, the signs were there for potty training, but there were a few things holding me back too:

1. Me: "Caitlyn do you need to go potty?" Caitlyn: "NO". She pretty much says "no" to whatever I ask her.
2. She still has no mastery of poop. She recognizes her pee game and informs me regularly when she's wet. But aside from a time or two when she took off a poopy diaper, she mostly just waits for me to Toucan Sam her ass on those changes.

So there were signs that I should give it a try, but also ones that made me think I should wait. I certainly don't want to push Caitlyn into something she isn't ready for. It didn't work with solids, or sippy cups or anything else that I tried to start before she was ready.

Today I recognized that it's time to give it a shot. I can only list 2 reasons to not try it, and Caitlyn was able to scratch one of those off the list this afternoon:

Caitlyn was playing and I was dicking around on Facebook when I recognized the familiar smell of a shitty diaper. I turned around to see she'd taken off her diaper and was holding it. That's when I noticed that there wasn't any poop IN the diaper. Nope. She had taken it off before she pooped. But wait. That meant... but... where is the damn poop? OH GROSS, WHY IS THE DOG SMACKING HIS LIPS??? Yup. The dog ate her shit. SO. DISGUSTING. Oh, but wait, he missed a spot! She must have stepped in it first, because it's all over her foot. Awesome.

So it's officially time. She can recognize the need to poop and pee and it might be a little tricky getting her to actually tell me when she needs to go, but I'm hoping she will take the initiative to sit down on the potty and go on her own. We will see. It isn't like I'm not constantly cleaning up after her grossness anyway. Wish us luck!

Doggie Style

So I know what you are thinking. You saw the title of this blog post and you thought "Ok, I'm in for a cute anecdote about her kid and her playful little pooch again". Because what else could it be? This is a FAMILY blog (please disregard how often I say the word fuck, as it is not relevant to this all being very family-oriented). Well, you would be very wrong.

Let me set the scene for you:

Nadine invited us over for dinner last night. Spaghetti and meatballs. Which means Caitlyn was eating shirtless so as to not ruin another outfit. This was not unusual in any way. Until Caitlyn started tickling herself. On her nipples. With her meatball. Yeah, meatball tickles. In any case, we laughed at her oddness and finished up dinner, then went over to the couch to watch some TV.

Now let me explain something about TV watching at my house. If you come to my house on any given day, at any given time, you will find my TV is set to one of two things. The first, naturally, is Nick Jr. Because I have a fucking one year old. The second is NFL Network. Because I have a fucking husband. Mommy never has any say over what we are watching is what I'm getting at here.

Watching TV at Nadine's house was a nice change. We were watching comedies made for grown-ups on basic cable. We were not watching HBO or anything like that. So imagine my surprise when they aired a commercial for a fancy new dildo Trojan has come out with. Trojan Twister I believe was the name (not that I was making a note of it or anything. Because you know what they don't tell you about parenthood? That you don't even have the time or energy to masturbate anymore. That is just SAD).

The commercial for the Trojan Twister was, not surprisingly, ridiculous. It was on a basic cable network which means they can't just show you the dildo so you can decide whether or not you want to put it in your vagina. So a lot is implied.

There were two housewives, standing in the street next to a mailbox, marveling at the box for the new Trojan Twister. Yup. That's right. One woman ordered a new vibrator and was discussing it in animated excitement with her neighbor. "It'll blow your hair back!", she exclaims, obviously aroused by the thought. Just then, we see a couple from the neighborhood pass by the two women, neither of whom are shamefully hiding the dildo from them. As the woman in the couple passes the camera, we are able to see that her hair is "blown back". Because presumably, she was the one to recommend this dildo to her entire block. And look at that! She is walking with a MAN. Because you don't need to be a desperate spinster to buy an awesome new dildo!

Cut to a shot of the dildo box again. Now it's time for the hard sell (pun intended, motherfuckers). What kind of features does this magic stick have? Well, I'm glad you asked! With the Trojan Twister, you can expect all KINDS of features! Not interested in blowing your husband? No worries! The Trojan Twister will do it for you! Additionally, you can expect:

• 3 Speeds! (Regular: for all those single ladies leisurely masturbating in the tub because they don't have children to attend to. Quickie: Because at least the Twister won't ask if it can come in your mouth, and Premature Ejaculator: AKA The Dead Battery. Because wouldn't you rather just go to sleep anyway?)


• 4 Unique Positions! I was on board, Trojan Twister. Really I was. Until this. Unique positions? Is it a transformer? Does it turn into a saddle? What kind of positions could this dildo possibly offer?

Which is why I said it. "Unique positions? What is the dildo going to fuck you doggie style?". At which point, my lovely daughter parroted back at me "doggie style". Oh. My. God. They are going to take away my mommy license.

Well, Now That THAT'S Settled...

One of the major sticking points in my marriage has been the question of more children. I've been on the side of having one more, while Rodolfo is clearly happy with just Caitlyn.

He has a point. It isn't like we can just fuck a few times and have another baby. Babies are expensive for us. And the pregnancy itself turns me into a puking, terrified mess. I wasn't looking forward to the process of IVF and the daily shots of blood thinners during a pregnancy, but every time I would look at my daughter, I would find myself thinking "how could I NOT have another?". You know, because she is fucking awesome.

You know what the thing is about having one awesome kid though? You can fucking leave the house occasionally and do things with that one kid. And it came to my attention this weekend that the degree of difficulty of just walking out the door without anyone falling down a flight of stairs is dramatically increased when you are caring for more than one young child.

This past weekend placed me indisputably on Rodolfo's side of the fence. It started with a simple request from my little sister: she needed a babysitter for her daughter this weekend. My sister Samantha is like me in the way she raises her daughter. Much more laid back than our other sister and also much more attached to the idea that if you wanted your weekends free you shouldn't have had a kid. A., our other sister, has been sending her son away about half the time on weekends with either set of grandparents since he was 2 months old.

I guess it isn't the worst thing. It's not like she's sending him to the Home Depot with the day laborers to make a quick $100 or anything. But it's not my personal style, and it isn't Sammi's either. In fact, my niece Adrianna had never spent a night away from her mother until last weekend.

In Caitlyn's case, she has only actually spent 3 nights away from me since she was born, but she is also used to being at someone else's house. I went back to work when she was 8 weeks old and she's been eating, sleeping and playing in someone else's house for several hours a day, 3-4 days a week since then. She is adaptive. She doesn't cry when I drop her off. Sometimes when I arrive to pick her up from the babysitter's house, she barely acknowledges me. She's having too much fun playing with her new best buddy.

This was not the case with Adrianna. My youngest sister, her boyfriend and their daughter are living with my mother. When they go to work, my mom or stepdad will watch Adrianna for them. She has never had a reason to be anywhere without her mom, dad, grandma or grandpa. Ever. Until last weekend.

It isn't that she doesn't like me or that she doesn't know who I am. When I picked her up Saturday, she was all smiles. We stopped at Ihop for smiley face pancakes (where, with 2 toddlers in tow, I was asked if I wanted the regular smiley face with strawberries and bananas or the Halloween "scary" face with Oreos and candy corn. Are you kidding me dude? These kids don't need fucking Oreos) then headed back to my house where I planned to put Adrianna down for her nap.

Enter: Chaos.

You know how it is when a toddler is tired? How everything is the hardest fucking thing in the world to do? How they collapse into a fit of tears and tantrum at even the slightest provocation (and by provocation, obviously I mean anything you do)? How they kind of hate you for exisiting? That is what it was like from the time I walked into my door until the time Adrianna's dad picked her up Sunday afternoon. Times 2.

It started with the dog (damn dog AGAIN!). I had to take him out when we got home, so I put the babies in Caitlyn's crib thinking (wrongly, obviously) that they would quietly suffer the indignity for the 90 seconds I needed to let the dog go outside to pee. Bloodcurdling screams ensued, so I hustled the dog upstairs as quick as I could and took the kids out of the crib. At which point the bloodcurdling screams were quickly accompanied by a toddler leg magnet.

I'm used to Caitlyn, who has always had pets and is completely unimpressed by their presence. Still, as a mom myself and an understanding person in general, I realized that I might need to ease Adrianna in with my overexcited jumpy animals. The dog went into his cage and I went about the task of putting Adrianna down for her nap. Surely she would be more receptive to the dog when she wasn't tired anymore.

Adrianna, from what I was told, was pretty easy to put down for a nap. Bottle, 15 minutes of cartoons and out like a light. Except it didn't really go down like that. Because apparently Caitlyn's crib is lined with baby-eating monsters or something.

And OK people. I HAVE a toddler. A loud one. With a high-pitched scream. Who thinks it's utterly hilarious to see how many glasses she can crack with her best screech. What I'm saying is I have heard that high-pitched, deafening baby scream before. You know the one I'm talking about. The one you feel in your spine. The one that makes you reflexively put your hands over your ears. The one that she always seems to pull out in the middle of the grocery store. You know. But Adrianna. My god. Her scream was the loudest, gratingest (yeah I made it up. And what?) thing I have ever heard in my life. I thought my brain was going to start leaking out of my ears. And she did it absolutely every time I tried to put her down for her nap.

I know. She's a baby. Away from her mommy for the first time. I felt bad for her too. Maybe I could let her play a little longer till she was extra tired and had no choice but to go to sleep! For those of you who aren't moms let me tell you, that NEVER works. It just makes it 1000% worse. Overtired toddler is a natural phenomenon on par with tornadoes and tsunamis and shit, an unstoppable force which will leave you ruined in it's wake.

The entire afternoon went pretty much like that, with me trying to get Adrianna to take a nap and her refusing in the loudest way possible. Which, of course, caused Caitlyn to decide that naptime was fucking bullshit and she wasn't having it either. So I had 2 overtired toddlers on my hands till around 8:00pm, when both decided a 20 minute nap (Adrianna fell asleep while sobbing into my shoulder, Caitlyn passed out on top of one of her toys) would rejuvenate them for the night hours.

By 11:15 or so, Rodolfo got Caitlyn down to sleep by taking her out of the scream-center and driving her around in the car for 15 minutes till she passed out. Adrianna was a whole other story. She was blatantly exhausted but fighting it with all her effort. Between 11-12:30, she dozed off in my arms at least a dozen times. Each time, I stupidly rocked her for a few minutes before deciding she was FINALLY in a good enough sleep to put her down. And then she would wake up screaming bloody damn murder. Then I gave up. I held her in my arms and we fell asleep on the couch together around 1:00.

The next day we planned a day of pumpkin picking at a farm with my sister A., her husband and son and their friend and her 3 year old daughter. Let me break that down for you one more time: That would be a 3 year old, an almost 2 year old, and 2- 1-and-a-half year olds. And 4 adults. Sounds like it would work out perfect right? 4 kids and 4 adults means a set of hands for every kid!

Let's start by saying that when you think of pumpkin picking, you think of cool breezes. Which is probably why Adrianna's mom only sent her a couple of pairs of sweatpants and sweatshirts and not a single t-shirt or short-sleeved shirt of any kind. Which would have been fine, except we were in bizarro pumpkin picking land, where it was fucking 85 degrees outside. Adrianna is significantly chubbier than Caitlyn, so I didn't have anything to fit her and she had to wear her sweats. We picked up A., who quickly realized that she was going to "sweat her balls off" and offered up one of her son's T-shirts for Adrianna.

Fast-forward almost 2 hours of sitting in traffic and we arrived at the farm sweaty and irritated. Fast-forward ANOTHER half hour of waiting in line to get food for the 4 antsy, hungry, pissed-off toddlers we were carting around and every single one of us was on the verge of a meltdown. The kids were whiny. None of them would eat a thing. They wanted to play in the mud. Adrianna had to be stripped down to her diaper. Did I mention that it cost us $75 (yeah SEVENTY-FUCKING-FIVE DOLLARS) to feed our little group, where half the food went uneaten?

After lunch we assessed the situation. The line for tickets for hayrides, pumpkin picking and all the other assorted fun things for the kids to do had converged into a 70-person-long human barbecue. Fuck that. We left. Without pumpkins or pictures or funtimes, $75 poorer than we arrived, with quite literally nothing to show for it. Awesome.

As A. and I walked our individual toddlers the quarter-mile back to the car, we agreed that no matter how many adults in any given situation, the limit would be 2 toddlers per excursion. Then we mused over how insane our mother must be to have had 3 of her 4 children in a span of 4 years. When I relayed that conversation to my mother later that same day, she insisted that we were amateurs and promised to show us the ropes.

Adrianna's dad picked her up shortly after we got back and I was relieved. Two toddlers is not something I see in my future. IF I have another baby, Caitlyn will have to be at least 5, capable of shitting on the toilet, feeding herself and walking down a flight of stairs without giving me a heart attack. I just don't see it happening any other way.

Uninspired Bullshit. My Apologies

So I didn't have anything in particular in mind for this blog post. I started typing away though, about the first things that came to my mind. What I came up with was the side effects of the flu shot I had last week (diarrhea if you are wondering... about my asshole. Again.) and the fact that I owe money to my cell phone company. My life is super exciting and interesting and totally ripe for awesome anecdotes about how T-mobile will double your bill if you don't pay them on time.

Oh wait. I deleted all that shit. Because no one gives a fuck about my late cell phone bill payments. So what do I have then? Maybe there's something I'm annoyed about that I could go on a little tangent about? I suppose there's always something.

Ok. Work stuff then. I'm a receptionist. Which basically means I sit around all day answering phones and receiving deliveries and blogging and shit. Exciting. Today is some bitch's birthday. And she just got married in June so her husband hasn't turned into an asshole who ignores her all the time. Yet. And he sent her flowers. And they are still at my desk as of now. And every retard who passes asks who they are for. The answer is always "NOT YOU". One guy just asked me and I was like "they are for Emily (translation: NOT YOU)" and he was like "the one who works in the Pennsylvania office?". Hmm... I guess it COULD be, but there are, in fact TWO Emily's who work in OUR office sooo... maybe you are just retarded?

Fuck. Is that all I have? I guess I could talk about my stupid marriage (not that that last paragraph made me sound bitter or anything!). Ummm... don't get married? That's all I've got really. I used to work in retail with a bunch of teenagers and people in their early 20s in college. And they would be all "Jaclyn, I love my boyfriend SO MUCH. I'm going to marry him!". And then I would be all "don't get married". And they would be all "why not?". And I would be all "because it's fucking terrible. Be a whore and fuck a bunch of dudes instead".

I know! Maybe I could talk about MY KID! Since this is (allegedly) a parenting blog and all. Do you guys want to hear more about how she's teething and doesn't want to eat or sleep? Maybe I'm beating a dead horse on that one... or you know, a dead pony? Because it's about my baby? Maybe not.

Oh, I know. Let's talk about my fat ass. Or, more specifically Operation: Make My Ass Less Fat (sounds official, right?). It's going wonderfully. I haven't been to the gym since last Friday because every time I went last week I ended up having to get off the elliptical after 10 minutes because I was about to shit my pants. Fucking flu shot. And then there are the cupcakes. In my opinion, it's important to eat ALL the cupcakes at once so as to not have them lying around the house, tempting me to ruin my diet. Also, my boss gave me a huge bag of Hershey Kisses to "fill the candy dish" at my desk. Don't ask me how many I've had.

In conclusion, this post has been sitting in my drafts for 2 days, as I hoped for some sort of inspiration for a less shitty post and didn't have to make you guys read this as it is complete and utter uninspired bullshit. You're welcome is basically what I'm saying here. YOU. ARE. WELCOME. I'm going to a baptism tomorrow so I'm hoping that will provide me some incredibly offensive blogging material.