Facebook Status of the WEEK 3

"Mom, you're not putting this on Facebook, are you?" (Sean, pits deep in corn.)

Never fear, Sean... of course she did. It's her job.

My friend Cassidy has two of the most unintentionally hilarious and unique boys in the world. Her Facebook status updates on their daily conversations kill me... they never fail to make me laugh and honestly, they remind me of my own unintentionally hilarious and unique boys when they were little. (Ohhhh how I miss them!!!)

To give you an idea of a typical conversation in her house:

"I've already decided lots of things for when I grow up, like what kind of car I'll buy, And I think I'll get that Baby Bullet to make baby food for my kids. But I'm still undecided about car insurance. I'm thinking Nationwide or Progressive. But Progressive gives you discounts the longer you stay with them. So that's something." - Ethan, 10 years old, who clearly watches too many commercials.

Since the invention of the internet and most importantly, Facebook, the parental duty of embarrassing your children has become even easier. In this case, however, I am helping Cassidy's sons, Sean and Ethan, embarrass their mother by sharing her following post:

Proof of political correctness at work in younger generations: Ethan - "Why is it getting hotter instead of colder?" Matt - "I don't know. It's Indian Summer." Ethan - "Man, if it's hot here I'd hate to see what they are getting over there in India." It never occurred to him that it was a reference to Native Americans. I almost undid it all by saying "feathers, not dots." Clearly there is still work to be done in the older generations.

"Feathers, not dots." Really, Cass? Reallyyyy?

It's so politically incorrect that I'm ashamed of how hard it made me laugh.

Love you long time, mama!!

Things Dan Wishes He Hadn't Done, Part Infinity

I wish I could say this is the first time he's made this mistake, but I would be lying. He's actually done it before.

It's been one of those weeks. I'm bitchy, bloated, crampy, achy, miserable, hormonal, whiny, unpredictable, and craving Peanut Butter Snickers (which they don't carry anywhere in this Godforsaken place. ANYWHERE).

Pretty much, between the Pity Parties and the Pissing All Over Everyone Else's Parade, I've been a busy girl this week.

Then this happened:

Unfortunately, when it happened? I wasn't prepared. So I sent Dan to the store with a very explicit list AND A PHOTOGRAPH of what I wanted him to get. Because, like I said: He has made some serious errors in this area before.

He not only had the instructions of what to purchase on a list, he also had in his possession a cell phone with an equally explicit text message.

I literally left no room for error.

To recap:

1. He had a list. An explicit list.

2. He had a photograph on his phone of what to purchase.

3. He had an equally explicit text message on his phone, which he had on his person and could use to call if he had any questions.

Kotex.

No freaking wings.

I hate wings.

No brand except Kotex.

In this case, I have serious brand loyalty. There will be no deviation.

Maxi pads.

Long.

No more, no less.

And yet? He came home with this:

In case you're wondering, yes... those are, indeed, bladder control pads. Potty pads for pissy old ladies. It says so right on the bag. The bag also does not have the word "Kotex" anywhere on it.

Even sadder, he has done this exact same thing before. Exact. Same. Thing.

AND he did it at the Big M, where my reputation is already questionable. Now I'm a crazy lady with horrible taste in ring tones who can't tell the difference between chicken and fish and who also pees her pants.

Worst of all, I think I accidentally married a dumbass.

Because really? There is no other explanation.

Sorry, honey. I still love you. But I'm going to keep sending you to the store to buy me Kotex UNTIL YOU GET IT RIGHT.

It's the only way you're going to learn.

Pour some sugar on meeee....

Remember that episode of Friends when Monica loses a fake fingernail in the mini-quiches she made for her mother's dinner party?

That would totally suck, right?

Especially if you happened to be the person who bit into the piece with the fingernail?

She was faced with a moral dilemma: Serve the quiches and hope no one found the nail or... make lasagna.

I am currently facing a similar dilemma, only without the option of serving lasagna instead.

Here's what happened:

I made a big pan of bread pudding to send to work with Dan tomorrow. I put my heart and soul into that bread pudding. I cubed the bread, pealed and grated apples, sugared raisins, mixed up the egg and cream and vanilla and spices, mixed it all together, placed it lovingly into the oven and patted my Betty Crocker self on the back for a job well done.

Take that, Martha Freaking Stewart, I thought. I don't need my own magazine and a prison cell to kick some serious baking ASS.

Smug, I was. And ripe for a Karmic comeuppance.

As I was putting away my fixin's and wiping down the counter, I happened to notice...

this:

Oh. Shit.

(Yes, my middle finger is extremely crooked. That's the one I broke when I went to swat my son's dog off the kitchen table in the middle of the night many years ago and smashed my finger on the edge of the table, instead. Stupid dog.)

I know I started out this project with 10 fingernails. I know this. I KNOW THIS. So where the HELL is my 10th fingernail??

I checked the floor.

I checked the counter.

I checked behind the coffee maker, the spices, and underneath the pot holders.

I checked the sink.

I even went so far as to dig through the trash.

No fingernail.

That leaves one place.

I'm thinking that by sprinkling cinnamon and sugar all over the top, it'll distract whoever bites into the fingernail. They'll be all, "Oooh! Cinnamony! Sugary! Crunchy... ? Cinnamony!"

Right?