Ah, sweet lips that never tell a lie!

I went to bed early last night.  I'd spent the day running back and forth to the bathroom, either because Domino's sold me a Salmonella Special or because I caught some horrid disease from Dan's relatives on Sunday, one or the other.  (I was holding on to the Bad Pizza theory until I developed a fever.  At that point I switched sides.  Damn hillbillies!)  


Since I can never do anything by myself, Javi and Maisy followed me into the bedroom and made themselves comfortable on the bed.  Dan was in the living room watching tv on low volume and all was peaceful, quiet, and serene in my house.


I was drifting off to sleep when Maisy (who, let's face it, while being sweet and adorable, is also a smooshy faced little gas bag) released a delicate little burst of wind from beneath her curly tail.  


Maisy's ass:  "Thhhppppppptttt!"


Dan, from the living room:  "What?"


Me, in the bedroom:  "HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!"


Dan, appearing in the bedroom holding the remote and looking confused:  "What's so funny?"


Me:  *laughing myself into a coma*


Dan:  *waiting patiently for me to stop*


Me:  *not stopping*


Dan:  *done being patient*  "Didn't you say "Dan"?


Me:  


Me:  "HAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!"


Dan, getting pissed:  "What did you want?"


Between chokes, wheezes, and guffaws, I was finally able to explain to him that it wasn't me that had spoken his name so lovingly, but rather it was Maisy's ass that had sung the siren song.


Me:  "Heeee heeee heeeee!"


Dan:  "You're an asshole."


Whatever.  I proceeded to laugh myself stupid and fall asleep giggling.  The fact that my husband is an endless source of amusement for me is the cherry on the sundae, y'all.


  

When Monday Lives Up To It's Rep

(*Author's note:  The following blog contains TMI and the F word.  Read at your own risk.  If I offend you, it's your own damn fault for reading beyond this point and quite honestly, you can bite me.)


It's 12:19 in the afternoon and thus far I have gone to the store, unplugged the toilet, cleaned the house, vacuumed the dog, and baked cookies. 


Productive day, one might say... but I have one thing left on my agenda:


Kill my husband.


I love it when Dan leaves for work in the morning and the last thing he says to me, before he shoots out the door like there's a firecracker tied to his tail, "Okay, baby, love you, have a good day ohbythewayIpluggedthetoilet  BYE!"  


Me:  "Bye baby!  Have a good d... wait, what?  What?"


*VROOOOOOOOM* roars his truck, as he hauls ass down the road.


I turned towards the bathroom with a feeling of dread.  I'm thinking to myself, "Oh no he dittent..." but I know damn well he did.  


"Mother FUCKER!" I screamed, to the dogs, the walls, the ceiling, and most likely to Mr. Awesome, who hadn't left for work yet.  


When you only have one toilet, this right here?  Is a problem.  Especially when it's 7:30 in the morning and you've been so busy chugging coffee that you can feel nature counting down to an inevitable blast off.  


I put on my faded, holey, bleach stained, University of Pink sweats, a black wife beater, Dan's Mets hat, flip flops, sunglasses, and stomp down the stairs and out to my car.  I'm chanting, "FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK" to myself (and anyone who crosses my path who might happen to be able to read lips) as I drive down the street to the Big M, where I hold the title of Queen of Bad Ring Tones and Overly Friendly Conversation.  I grab one of their stupid little double decker shopping carts (seriously... what the fuck?  They're like two itty bitty little Fisher Price pretend shopping carts stacked on top of eachother.  LAME) and careen viciously through the store, grab my two purchases and hit the check out.  My toilet is plugged, I have to pee, and I'm really, realllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy angry at my husband.  REALLY angry.  Like turning green and ripping my shirt angry.  


Like running him over with my car then backing up to see what I hit angry.


The evil little old lady who works as the cashier and has never, not once, not even by accident said to hello to me, chooses this morning to pull the stick out of her ass and ask me how I am.


Oh, I don't think so, New York.  You've rejected my overtures of small talk and friendly chit chat until now, this morning, when I'm so irate that I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire?  


NO.


Me:  "It's 7:45 in the morning and I'm buying a plunger and Drano.  How do you think I am?"


Checker:  *dead silence*


She finished ringing me up and said, "Have a good day!"


To which I replied, under my breath, "Bite me."


Long story short, I came home, looked at the instructions on the Drano, and discovered the very first sentence says, "Do not use on toilets."


I plunged my little heart out, to no avail.


I flushed and suffered the consequences.


Finally, after about an hour and a half of plunging, mopping, sweating, and swearing, I went back to my grandmother's old remedy for plugged potties:  Dump in boiling water.


It's a thousand degrees outside and humid as hell but I boiled pot after pot of water on my stove, hauled it into the bathroom, and dumped it into the toilet.


Five pots (and a little crying... okay, a lot of crying) later, everything went down.


I've never been so happy in my life.


Dan has four hours to redeem himself if he chooses to live until tomorrow.  


Also?  He's not allowed to use the toilet at home EVER.  AGAIN.


Mark my words, yo.