You Never Stop Learning from your Dad

The other morning over breakfast my dad told me about something I never knew existed, and much like throughout my entire life, he has opened my eyes to new possibilities.  This is what he told me:

"Did you hear about the newest tattoo fad?  It's anal tattoos."  

Thanks Dad!  I did NOT hear about the latest tattoo fad, but now I can't stop thinking about it!  Oh, the possibilities... 

Or...

I was opening my mouth to ask my dad how he knew about this new fad when he said, "The worst part of it is asking your tattoo artist to do it for you."    

Um,... what Dad?  You've gotten so far with this that you've had to experience the awkwardness of actually asking someone to tattoo your anus?  So I skipped over the preliminary questions I had and asked, "Dad... Do you have an anal tattoo?"  And I don't know if he is serious or not because I NEVER WANT TO CHECK, but he says that he has one like this:

How sweet!/disgusting!/passive aggressive!  I always hoped my name was tattooed on my dad's heart, but I guess I can live with the thought that at least I'm tattooed somewhere.

So now I am having some ideas.  Nobody would ever see this tattoo except possibly your spouse, doctor or sodomist, so you are pretty much free to get whatever you want without worrying about public rejection.  You could get a simple greeting that would be a nice surprise come exam time and give you and your doctor something to talk about to fill the awkward silences:

Or you could embrace the hemorrhoids that you got while you were pregnant 15 years ago that will never go away:

Or you could get a stupid saying that only you think is funny:

I haven't decided what I'm going to get yet.  Maybe something classy like a topographic map of the Himalayas.  What kind of anal tattoo would you get, if you had to get an anal tattoo?

Spider Island

Are you afraid of spiders?  If you said no, I can predict that you are sitting somewhere in a civilized, not-all-that-natural environment right now and there is virtually no danger of a spider the size of your hand running across your lap.  And you're a liar.  Spiders are scary.  And creepy.  And fast.  Yuck.

(Thank you to someone on Flickr for the photo of the gross spider.)

Amy has the most adorable little cabin on a perfect spot on a perfect lake.  For three months out of the year it is paradise.  Except for all the spiders.  Whenever I go out there I try to convince myself that:
A) they don't want to attack me, and if I leave them alone, they will leave me alone,
B) They are good because they eat bugs that bite me,
C) They are fascinating creatures, what with the spinning of webs and all.

It never works.  For one thing, they are EVERYWHERE.  Sure, they don't want to attack me, but say you are walking to the outhouse a little way into the woods; unless you make a conscious effort to blur your eyes, look only where you are going, and don't look at the buildings that have spider-web thatched roofs, you WILL see a frighteningly fast, DISGUSTING spider scurrying out of your way.

My dad said he saw a spider out back behind the shed that was as big as a small woman's hand and it was moving slowly because it was carrying an egg sac the size of a marble.  Just writing that sentence makes me want to throw up.  When my dad told that to my mom and me we both almost gagged.  I don't know what's worse: a spider that moves faster than lightning, or a spider that is slow because it is carrying a web-backpack full of millions more spiders.  When my dad saw our reaction he said, "They are good!  They eat bugs!" and my mom said what women have been saying for generations, "I'd rather have the other bugs."

Spiders are kind of interesting.  On TV.  Or on the opposite side of a pane of glass.  And only then when you chant, "She's just like Charlotte! She's just like Charlotte! She's just like Charlotte!" to yourself in a frantic cadence while doing Lamaze breathing.

I watched some fat-bodied non-giant spiders outside the sauna spinning webs.  It wasn't the worst thing in the world.  But if they were on the inside of the sauna, instead of the outside, I would have freaked out and smooshed them.  And then I'd be totally grossed out by how much their disgusting fat bodies squished.

Kira has always liked to tell me I'm a sissy when it comes to the spiders.  She acts all tough and even goes so far as to hold and play with Daddy Long Legs.  Gross.  Well, not this past week.  Amy and I were at the fire pit, and Kira came down from changing out of her swimming suit and she was frantically trying not to be frantic.  She was laughing a forced laugh that would have been screaming if she wasn't so stubborn and determined.  She had the curled up body of a spider on her towel and she said, "I caught this spider crawling ACROSS MY FACE!"  The spider was huge.  She said she noticed it and then did the international bug dance which flung him off of her, and then saw the spider trying to crawl away across my bed so she smashed it with my book.  I am so happy she had the wherewithal to smash it after she brushed it off her face.  It saved me from a sleepless night of wondering when the spider was going to crawl up my body and lay eggs in my mouth.  When all spread out with the legs and huge body, that spider was probably the size of the top of a coffee cup.  Kira was freaked out.  Amy and I (who are both terrified of spiders so our reassurance doesn't count for much) tried to tell her to forget about it.  Amy said, "Kira, in a ten foot square space anywhere on this island there are probably a thousand spiders.  They won't hurt you."  to which Kira replied with, "Yes, but they are not ON MY FACE!"  to which Amy and I said, "Touche," and we all sat there and shuddered for about an hour.   

Farrier

Last night Mitch and I were lying in bed, listening to the thunder and talking about this and that, and I mentioned that I wish there was a foot lotion that really put its money where its mouth is and included some kind of acid in its ingredients to stop the disgusting build-up of callouses on my heels.  Mitch feigned being grossed-out and suggested a farrier.  I couldn't recall right away what a farrier is, but then it slowly dawned on me. He could see it dawning on me and clenched up tight in preparation for my wrath, and probably questioned the wisdom of suggesting his wife is horse-like while in the vulnerable position of being flat on his back with hardly any protective clothing on.

When I finally figured out what he was insinuating, I said, "WWWWHAT?!"  and he quickly petted my nose and whispered, "Easy girl.  You might be nervous at first, but he's a pro, he could calm you down."  I thrashed and tried not to laugh and he said, "Is the thunder making you jumpy, girl? ...shhhhhhh" and continued to pet my muzzle, - I mean nose, and said, "Mmmmm ... velvety."   I tried to attack him with everything I had but he is stronger than me and held me down and put a very flat hand up to my mouth as if he was feeding me carrots, and then petted my nose and continued to whisper, "Shhhhhh..... shhhhhhhhh...."

I hate to admit it, but it was quite calming.  I will ride this out, I guess, but if he introduces a bridle or a riding crop, I'm gonna bolt, and no amount of sugar cubes will lure me back, MITCH.

UPDATE:  When Mitch read this post he said, "Do you really think if you were a horse, you would look like the horse you put on this post?  Because you wouldn't."

WTF, Mitch...

I'm Clean

You know what?  Upon review of my last two posts I realize I may have inadvertently led you to believe that I am disgusting.  I want to assure you that I am not.  Just because I don't wash my arms as some kind of sick habitual practice doesn't mean my arms have never been washed.  I distinctly remember last summer after a day of gardening my arms were quite dirty.  Let me assure you that they got a solid scrubbing after that!  I don't walk around with obviously dirty arms.  In fact, my arms don't even see the light of day for all the months between October and April.  How could they get dirty?  They don't.

As for my dusty wood stove:  I have no excuse for that other than I hate dusting so I never do it.  Well actually, I do when it gets noticeable, but what's the point?  It's all going to get dusty again anyway.  I wiped off the woodstove after I noticed Sam had written on it.  That was yesterday.  I bet it's dusty again already.  It just never stays dusted.  I guess I have a problem with menial daily chores because much like the dusting, they're never done.  As soon as I get the last piece of laundry folded and put away, someone strips something off and throws it in the laundry room.  Even as I'm unpacking the two hundred dollars worth of groceries that I just bought and hauled, someone is in the refrigerator getting a snack.  As soon as I get the bathroom spotlessly clean, someone literally shits on my hard work.  LITERALLY.  So I suppose not washing my limbs (or dusting, or cleaning the oven) is my quiet way of protesting against all the stupid chores that we all have to do everyday just so we have clean things to wear, good things to eat and nice places to poop.

I am quite finicky about some things.  My refrigerator is always clean and there is never any old food in it.  I clean that regularly because of the obscene amount of hair that ends up at the bottom, under the crisper.  (Where does that come from?!?  It's so gross it haunts me sometimes when I am lying in bed trying to go to sleep.)  In fact, my whole kitchen is pretty clean (except the oven), and my house is usually picked up so at a glance you would see it and think I'm tidy and clean.  I am tidy, and if you don't count dust or oven grime or limb dirt, I'm clean too.

Look What I Touched Today!

Kira and I went to the zoo and one of the zookeepers saw me look in a tank FULL of hissing cockroaches and say, "Oh Gross!" so she went back and got one out to educate me on how wonderful they are.  They're not all that great.  I touched its shell just to get the lady to leave me alone.

These are the people in your neighborhood

There is a little grocery store down the road from our house, right next to Kira's school.  It's owned by a couple, and the wife half of the couple is so nice and so pretty and smart etc. etc. that I've always liked her/admired her/ been intimidated by her.  But I mostly like her and for some reason it's important to me that she doesn't think of me as an idiot.  I've always tried to be on my best behavior in all my dealings with her because I think of her as such a quality person, but today I ruined 12 years of the "I'm not a freak" foundation I've been building with her.

I stopped by after work to get some bread.  No, let's go back a step:  This afternoon I worked teaching a fifth grade class, and if you have been reading the blog long enough, you know that I have shy bowels and the more I work, the less I poop, and when that happens, let's just say that nobody wins.  So I've been working all this week, and it's Thursday afternoon.  See where I'm going with this?  I have a lot of gas, which I didn't expel around people at school on purpose because I'm classy like that, even though I've gotten step by step instructions on how to get away with public farting with nobody being the wiser.  As soon as I got in the car I let it all go in an impressive (if I do say so myself!) show of flatulence.  Oh my god, did I feel better!  Then as I was driving along the road I saw the little store and I thought, "Hey!  I need bread!" so I stopped.

I went in the store, got the bread, and then noticed that they had 12 packs of diet coke on sale so I picked up four.  I went to pay and the pretty owner-lady was running the cash register and she insisted that I be helped outside with my hoard of coke and bread, which is fine because I thought she'd just call one of her teenage stock people, but no, she insisted on helping me herself, which I thought was nice because hey, maybe she likes me!  Tee hee!  I thought that all my diligent efforts towards normalcy around her has finally paid off and maybe we could someday be friends!  But then when I opened my car door for us to put my coke in, we were enveloped by my stench which had somehow concentrated and smelled like a dead ferret in a vat of sun-warmed, week-old, boiled eggs.  I was immediately totally humiliated and thought to myself, "She can't smell it!  We're outside!  The wind is blowing!" but then I saw her stop breathing out of her nose and start breathing out of her mouth and I wanted to die.  DIE, I tell you!  What do you say in that situation:  "I didn't know pop was on sale or else I would have held it in a little longer?" or  "I really have to poop?"  or "WHAT!?"  None of those seemed appropriate so I just didn't say anything at all.

Why did it have to be the grocery woman that I for some reason have a lady-crush on?  Why couldn't it have been that awful woman who works at the pharmacy who punches the touch screen with her fingernails?  Or anyone at Sam's Club?  Why do I constantly have to humiliate myself in front of people I want to impress?  This is why I don't have friends.

What I know today

January is not my best blogging month.  But hey, it's already February, so I guess February isn't all that great either.  I'm going to try to be more consistent but I feel like I don't have a lot to say these days, and I don't know why that would stop me from blogging every day NOW because I've never really had anything earth-shattering to say and I've never had a problem being consistent before.  I started to the blog to write about the funny stuff my kids did that I would tell people about and they would say, "OMG, that's so funny!  You should write that down!" but why write stuff down if nobody is going to read it, right?  So I started a blog like 3 billion other people.

Apparently my kids are an utter disappointment lately because they aren't providing much blog fodder, and if kids aren't good for blog material and getting you the remote and a diet coke when you're comfortable and don't want to get up, then what good are they?  Just kidding.  My kids are really good at getting me the remote and diet cokes, but I gotta say, I'm getting a little sick of their "concern" about my diet coke habit.  (say the following in a naggy, annoying voice:) "You should stop drinking this stuff, it rots your teeth.  My class saw a movie about dental hygiene and they put a tooth in a glass of diet coke for 24 hours and it had a cavity when they took it out!"  Okay, for one thing, I don't think putting a tooth in a glass of diet coke is a scientifically credible experiment on what happens to teeth when you drink diet coke because who is swishing their mouth with diet coke for 24 hours at a time, and where did they get the experiment tooth?  Did it fall out?  Why?  Was it one of the baby teeth that elementary schools are disgustingly full of?  YUCK. Who volunteers a healthy tooth for a stupid elementary school experiment? And what about the spit? WHAT ABOUT THE SPIT!  And for another thing, SHUT IT.  I could be downing six packs of Old Milwaukee or eight-balls of crack (Is that the right nomenclature?  Is it crack that comes in eight-balls? I'm not sure and you know why? BECAUSE I'M A GOOD MOTHER!)

Anyhoo, what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, lack of good blog material.  Well, you know what they say, "write what you know" so I'm sorry, Following, here's what I know this weekend.  I went up to my parent's house for the weekend and visited with family and played with my niece who is adorable and hilarious and ROTTEN, and who is soon to be old-news because Beth's new baby is going to be born in 26 days.  My favorite thing that my niece did this weekend was put a white eraser on my hair brush and brush her teeth with it.  I looked at Beth like, "what the heck is she doing?" and Beth said, "She has a really big tooth brush," which I'm still laughing about.  I also took advantage of my parent's awesome wi-fi connection by watching Netflix on demand movies.  I watched The Crucible which should be alternately titled Mean Girls, 1692! Puritan Bitches GONE WILD!  

I also took advantage of my dad's super-duper five blade razor that I spotted in the shower this morning.  That sucker really cuts through the brush!  (sorry, Dad) Actually, I'm not sorry.  I'm genetically hairy, and it's all my parent's fault.  They should have known something ominous would happen when they read their wedding invitations which said: "Mr. and Mrs. Bigfoot Sasquatch want you to join in the celebration of the marriage of their daughter to the son of Mr. and Mrs. Abominable Snowman-Yeti," So anyway, Mom and Dad, just be glad I'm not a boy, and the number of the local RotoRooter man is 729-7686.  I'm not saying you'll need it, but just in case.  It was worth it though because I'm smoooooooooooooooooth.

Oh, and I notice that I have a new follower!  Yay for me!  I love when that happens! And if you read this blog with any regularity, you know that the next several new followers are entitled to one of my Grandma's head staples, so guess what Rachel McGrath?  Welcome! and you are the lucky winner!  And because you're the first new follower I've gotten in a pathetically long time, I will send you a staple with skin still on it!  LUCKY! Email me you're address and I'll slap it in the mail!*  That's what I know for today.  Have a great week everyone!





*Rachel, I already threw the staples away because they were grossing my family out sitting on the kitchen counter.  I could send you something else gross though.  You know, if you really want it.  Let me know!

Sometimes the truth hurts

Kira wanted to take a long hot bath this evening and she asked me why the tub was so full of hair.  What could I possibly have said to make her make this face? 

Is it:

A.  "Dad must have shaved in the shower."

B.  "My legs were really hairy so I took care of business." 

C.  "Dad notice my neck was hairy so he shaved it when we were taking a shower together this morning." 


She's having a hard time looking me in the eye.