When Search and Destroy (The ungrateful children I ruined my perfectly perky ass giving birth to) were tiny smalls they played a really fun game wherein one would say to the other “You smell like pee”, then the other would cry and cry and cry, while one laughed and laughed and laughed. It was the funnest game ever!
If Destroy were telling you this story she would insist that I, the meanest mother in the world, who was constantly on the phone, or smoking pot in the bathroom, did not allow fun. Ever, no matter what, so help her God.
According to Destroy the worst day of her life was when she was five years old during a particularly rousing game of you Smell Like Pee and I (The Meanest Mother on the planet) without warning, hurled my leather bound Anniversary Edition of House Beautiful Magazine directly at her head, (because Search was my favorite) hitting my target with the skill of William Tell, concussing Destroy and knocking her left eyeball out, thereby making it impossible for her to pick up her toys ever again.
In fact, if Destroy is to be believed, her inability to do homework, clean her bedroom, or be home on time, can all be traced directly back to The Pee Game. That is not exactly the way I remember it, except for the pot part. But anyway, you would think that an episode so traumatic as to knock your eyeball out would have put a swift end to the game of pee.
The memory makes me long for the time when parents could spank the hell out of their children in public without fear of incarceration. If I had it to do over again, the first time one of the little jerks threw themselves on the floor at the grocery store and screamed “Make her stop! Pleeeease! Someone help! I don’t know this woman!” I would just give them a kick and go back to squeezing grapefruit.
Seriously, what did all the patience, the time-outs, the negotiating get me? I’ll tell you what it got me. It got me three full grown people with tattoos, who still do not listen to a word I say.
Destroy paid me a visit at my office today. The first words out of her mouth ( After “You better stop ignoring me” which is her standard greeting, because Destroy insists that I have ignored her since birth, never mind that I speak to her no less than five times a day) were “You smell like pee.”
I couldn’t help myself. I kicked her.
Then I laughed and laughed. She cried and cried and cried.
Who says I don't like to have fun?
This game is totally fun! Or at least it was, until Destroy pointed to a suspicious stain on the collar of my spiffy spring blouse. You see, Vivian the Obstinate Poodle is playing for the other team. She is in cahoots with my rotten children to make me insane.
It seems that this morning Vivian found opportunity to pee in my purse. Not just in my purse, but strategically on my cell phone, which I pulled out of my purse and rubbed all over the side of my face when my lovely daughter called to tell me she was paying me a visit. Yea Teamwork!
Did you catch that?
THERE IS POODLE PEE ON MY FACE!
I REALLY DO SMELL LIKE PEE!
I want to cry and cry and cry.
After I shower and change, I think I will kick the dog, or at the very least we will have a serious talk before I put her in time-out. After that I will be in the bathroom. Call me.
image:http://images.dvdempire.com/gen/movies/983h.jpg-the image that I can't post because blogger hates me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
For the record, the “G” on the adorable flowerpot housing the soon to be dead begonia (or whatthehelleveritis) does not stand for “Granny” or any variation thereof.
Just because I have potted begonias and poodle statuary, on my front porch does not mean that I have thrown out the thong panties and dry martinis in favor of Depends and Metamucil, but I do understand your concern.
Spring lasts about fifteen minutes in Texas. One day you are freezing your ass, and the next, you’re neked in the backyard with sweet tea and a paper fan from the Baptist church trying to keep your boobs cool.
Saturday it was spring, so of course, I decided to smear sour cream all over the cement poodle on the front porch, because Martha told me to. Or, maybe it was the lady at the thrift store with the missing eye teeth, I don’t remember, but someone (who seemed like they should know), told me that if you put sour cream on cement and bake it in the sun, then you end up with lovely aged patina that is all green and shit.
Thank God, spring is almost over.