Married Life Has Forever Ruined Chick Flicks For Me

I used to be that girl who wanted to see every single chick flick known to...well, not man, since men run screaming from chick flicks like they're Prince or something (and really I don't understand why men hate Prince so much, because he's totally incredible, but in truth it is an apt analogy).

But now that I'm married I find I typically don't have the tolerance for the bullshit.

It's not that I don't love movies like How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days, Pretty Woman, Clueless, Bridget Jones's Diary, or any number of Sandra Bullock/Jennifer Aniston/Julia Roberts shoulda-been-a-B-rated-film brain candy on a rainy PMS'y day.  I just don't love them as much as I used to.  I find that watching unattainably attractive young women with dream jobs strutting around in their sexy apartments that only movie stars can afford snivel over asshats and douchewhistles who change for the leading lady in the end simultaneously endlessly appealing and perpetually frustrating.  I think it's cute that guys who would be considered Creepstopher McStalkerpants in real life are just The Nice Guy Who Sees The Odd Girl For Who She Really Is on the silver screen.  At the same time it makes me want write a diatribe about the scary lessons the media is teaching our daughters.  But because I like to pretend to be funny on here, I will stick with that and ignore the whole Letting Your Daughter Watch Twilight Is Telling Her It's Okay To Give Up Everything For a Co-Dependent Relationship With A Controlling Stalker.  (Except for that.  Come on, I had to mention it at least once.)

When watching a chick flick with my husband, it is honestly usually accidental.  We'll rent a movie that I have chosen, pop it in and lo and behold, it turns out to be a chick flick.  Not just any chick flick; ohhhh nooo.  A chick flick of epic chicky flicky proportions.  You know...sappy dialogue...sappy monologue...lots of sad indie rock music by obscure artists, or usually just The Fray...a pretty girl with daddy issues...a bad boy with an inferiority complex...a douchenozzle friend or five...you get it.

I find I cannot enjoy this genre of film with my husband for the following reasons.

1.  I seriously didn't know this was a chick flick, but I think he suspects me of trickery.
2.  OK, so maybe I thought it was a little chicky flicky, but nowhere near this level of such.  Still, I know he thinks I did this to him on purpose.
3.  In an attempt to make up for this heinous transgression, I overcompensate by laughing at every terrible tired recycled "joke" and "gag" made in the film.
4.  I also tend to point out actors and actresses to make it into a game of "Let's Spot Which Actors Will Be Considered Washed Up After This Train Wreck of a Film".
5.  I pause to go to the restroom a lot.
6.  Every time a romantic scene comes up I either hide my face in shame or make porno sounds to lighten the mood and let my husband know that it is OKAY TO HATE ON THIS FILM WITH ME.
7.  At the end of the film we sit there for about five minutes of stunned silence.  At the end of the silence I promise him we'll rent a movie where people get blown up next time, and would he like a blowjob in the meantime?

Now that we're through with that, let's dissect some highly popular chick flicks.

1.  TWILIGHT (deal with it, it's a whole LOAD of chickflickery, and nothing more.)

Of course I had to start with Twilight.  No.  I do not like it.  But what I do like is renting the most recent installment on DVD and watching it with Husby, who pauses it and says really awful things about KStew's twitchiness while I make lewd remarks about all the accidental double entendres.

Basically a totally grungy pale intellectualista who probably had a propensity for wrist-cutting moves in with her dad and she is instantly popular because she is The New Girl.  She of course is better than everyone so she finds them all endlessly boring except for The Vampires.  She is probably hardcore crushing on all of them but is most especially fond of Edward, who is The Hot One.  So begins a relationship rife with regular teenage drama where there is only imagined danger (except for when Bella's dad mockingly loads a shotgun).  Lots of sniveling, whining, groveling, stalking, reckless driving, paraphrasing of Romeo and Juliet and every Jane Austen book ever.  There's even a love triangle.  But it's all really boring so I'll just stop here.  If you like bad acting and crappy scripts to lawlz over, do what Husby and I do...rent them.

2.  PRETTY WOMAN

OK, I hate to rip on a classic here but let's be real.  Dude needs a Rent A Date and he is The Millionaire so he gets a Rent A Date, but he can't just call up a classy escort service, nahhhh, he's Too Rebellious for that, so he takes a ride down to Hollywood Blvd. and picks up Hooker With A Wig.  Then ensues oral sex, bath tub sex, a weird pseudo-marriage vibe over breakfast, polo games, shopping sprees, almost-rape, and A Knight in Shining Armor Into The Sunset end scene.  What is wrong with this, do you ask?  Well I'm sorry but not everyone who can't make it in Hollywood becomes a prostitute, but those that do definitely don't end up like Vivian.

3.  GOOD LUCK CHUCK

Totally a stealth chick flick.  Seriously.  You think it's about Dane Cook's character and it kind of is, but basically he's the chick in this film and he's just not that funny in it.  And Jessica Alba is just kind of there.  And there are penguins, which admittedly is a nice distraction.  The use of the term crib midgets is introduced to my vocabulary.  But all the awkward sex scenes and Jessica Alba losing her front teeth are way not necessary.  Also did I mention not a lot of funny?  Or really even a lot of plot.  He is playing a total fruitcake stalker and she ends up playing into it in the end after all her admirable GET LOST BITCH attitude for the whole film.  And her klutziness ain't working for me either. 

Although, I did like their second date when they ate ice cream cones on the hood of his car and watched airplanes take off directly over them.  I told Husby I wanted a date like that.  He just rolled his eyes at me.  Of course.

4.  TITANIC (Sigh.  Had to cover it.)

I was twelve when this movie came out and my dad took my best friend from childhood and me to see it because we weren't old enough to go without an adult.  Well, I was mean and called my dad gay for saying flowers were pretty (sorry Dad) and then I had major embarrassment about that whole sex scene.  And then my dad had to get up and leave at the end because he started crying (sorry for blowing your cover Dad).

But really, can we talk about this?  Please?  Can someone explain to me why everyone thinks this movie is so romantic?  Because in the end...

5.  13 GOING ON 30

What the hell is with this sort-of Freaky Friday nonsense?  OK, I get it, I like Razzles too.  Who the hell doesn't?  I can dance the Thriller.  That's sweet.  You go Jennifer Garner.

BUT MARK RUFFALO?  SERIOUSLY?  NO.

And with that, I'll leave y'all to it.

The Sexual Education of Sass

I will begin by saying that outside of actually having had sex, I don't know anything about sex.  Except that without condoms you will either end up with babies, or AIDS.

I went to a Catholic grade school from kindergarten all the way through eighth grade.  Here is a list of what I learned about sex in that time:

1.  My childhood friend Sarah told me how to spell sex.
2.  She also told me that penises go into vaginas.
3.  She also told me Jesus was black.  (not about sex but you get the idea)
4.  My mother told me angels put babies into a mommy's tummy and then the stork delivered them.
5.  Plants have both male and female reproductive organs.
6.  Dads suck at hiding their pornography collections.
7. Aerosmith sings songs about oral sex, chicks losing their virginity and creepster pedo dads.
8. Periods have nothing to do with sex.  They are smelly and embarrassing.
9. You can get AIDS when you do a blood brothers ritual and Magic Johnson will come and lecture you about how your life will never be normal but he'll always have your back, yo.

Once it was time for high school, I opted to attend the local public school.  At this point I knew nothing of condoms, birth control, herpes, syphilis, the clap, yeast infections, mono, "moon cycles" or even that I have two holes in my hoo-hah.

This is what I learned in high school:

1.  Mono is not a kissing disease.
2.  Your mother will not enjoy discovering that you are sexually active by way of your boyfriend informing her that you have a yeast infection.
3.  If you've never kissed anyone you're a prude.
4.  If you have a public relationship you are a slut.
5.  How to put on a condom, but not on a banana and not in a classroom.

Here are things we will research tonight, in real time:

HERPES
WOMANLY CYCLES
VAGINA HOLES

Get the popcorn.  It's gonna be an interesting night, y'all.  Happy Saturday!

HERPES

OK, so all my teen and adult life I've been told "Use proper protection or you'll get herpes"  *insert spooky music here*...I've been going around for over ten years trying to avoid something that I'm not entirely sure I do or don't have.  I mean, I've heard it makes you itch and you get red bumps.  Sometimes I itch and get red bumps, but I'm pretty sure that's just razor burn.  Let's look this up....

HOLY CATS.  Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew.

I think it's safe to say I HAVE NEVER HAD HERPES.

I mean wow.  And, holy burning herpes Batman, check out these stats:

Results of a nationally representative study show that genital herpes infection is common in the United States. Nationwide, 16.2%, or about one out of six, people 14 to 49 years of age have genital HSV-2 infection. Over the past decade, the percentage of Americans with genital herpes infection in the U.S. has remained stable.

Genital HSV-2 infection is more common in women (approximately one out of five women 14 to 49 years of age) than in men (about one out of nine men 14 to 49 years of age). Transmission from an infected male to his female partner is more likely than from an infected female to her male partner.

Hold up, I'm confused.  MORE women have it, but it's more likely for a man to give it to someone else than it is for a woman to give it to another man?  This is why I hate math. 

WOMANLY CYCLES

There is a good reason why I freak out every month about my period not showing up.  It usually happens when I realize I forgot the last time I bled all over a wad of pressed paper and it's coming up on the end of a month.  The reason I do this is because

1.  I can't count

2.  I never learned the logistics of my cycle.  In fact I can't even remember what they call it when I'm not menstruating.  Estrogen something?  I don't fucking know.  HALP

OH that's right!  OVULATION!

Not to be confused with OVATION...although sometimes a good horizontal tango with Husby makes me want give one:

Ovulation:  the expulsion of an ovum from the ovary (usually midway in the menstrual cycle).

Oh, wait.  There's also a menstrual cycle...

Menstruation:  The process in a woman of menstruating monthly from puberty until menopause, except during pregnancy

OK, that's much more helpful.  Now I know the difference.  I think?  See, I couldn't even figure out my kids' due dates without the help of my doctor.  In fact there were lots of clearly stupid things I said to her that earned me a "CHILE YOU IGNANT" look from her on a semi-regular basis.  She probably wondered how I managed to get pregnant at all, since I don't even know which hole I pee out of.

Then again, my lack of knowledge is how I got pregnant both times anyway.  Go me, I fail!  I'm so good at failing!

VAGINA HOLES

(my husband is going to have a field day when he sees my search history tonight)

OK, so I have a urethra (HAH, Hank has a narrow urethra, who gets my awesome trivia reference?) and a vaginal canal. 

Fack, I have a CANAL?  Like Panama?  As in it's like sailing a rowboat down the Panama Canal?  Way to make me feel all woman, thou art loosed.  Fucking Internet.

Now where are they located?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

NEVER look up VAGINA HOLES in Google Images.  I need to puke.  Vaginas are SO ugly, y'all.  So ugly.  I need brain bleach.

But at least I know what is where now...I guess that's a good thing.

This particular blog post was brought to you by this instant Skype chat:

[7/22/2011 2:17:11 PM] Sass: I am pretty sure I do not have herpes lol
[7/22/2011 2:17:24 PM] K: but type 1 (oral) can be passed and become type 2 i believe
[7/22/2011 2:17:33 PM] Sass: Oh I see now
[7/22/2011 2:17:34 PM] K: so he couldve had cold sores ...
[7/22/2011 2:17:36 PM] K: and pass
[7/22/2011 2:17:37 PM] Sass: Right
[7/22/2011 2:17:38 PM] Sass: Yep
[7/22/2011 2:17:57 PM] K: which theres no shame aboutcold sores just because theyre not on your personal business
[7/22/2011 2:18:05 PM]Sass: Nope
[7/22/2011 2:18:07 PM]K: its funny really
[7/22/2011 2:18:10 PM] Sass: I just Googled herpes ROFL
[7/22/2011 2:18:12 PM] K: weird funny not LOL
[7/22/2011 2:18:23 PM] Sass: Do you know, I'm pretty embarrassed by how very little I know about my sexual organs
[7/22/2011 2:18:26 PM] K: when i got that first yeat infection i was TERRIFIED i got herpes
[7/22/2011 2:18:27 PM] Sass: Did not take sex ed
[7/22/2011 2:18:34 PM] K: oh i will educate you
[7/22/2011 2:18:38 PM] Sass: Hooray?
[7/22/2011 2:18:40 PM] Sass: ;)
[7/22/2011 2:18:40 PM] K: ha
[7/22/2011 2:18:53 PM] Sass: ROFL!
[7/22/2011 2:18:59 PM] Sass: HERPES IS A GREEK WORD
[7/22/2011 2:19:00 PM] Sass: IT MEANS
[7/22/2011 2:19:05 PM] K: ive had it all figured out since like 4th grade
[7/22/2011 2:19:06 PM] Sass: CREEPING
[7/22/2011 2:19:10 PM] K: oooooh
[7/22/2011 2:19:12 PM] Sass: (rofl)
[7/22/2011 2:19:19 PM] K: it gets into your nerves and stays there forever
[7/22/2011 2:19:26 PM] K: like mono
[7/22/2011 2:19:29 PM] Sass: TLC's "Creep" has a totally new meaning for me now
[7/22/2011 2:19:40 PM] Sass: Fuck, I had mono when I was 14
[7/22/2011 2:19:45 PM] Sass: I hated that shit
[7/22/2011 2:19:49 PM] Sass: Worst two weeks of my life
[7/22/2011 2:19:51 PM] K: yeah mess
[7/22/2011 2:19:57 PM] Sass: I was mortified too
[7/22/2011 2:20:06 PM] K: tracy says you cant donate blood if you ever had mono
[7/22/2011 2:20:07 PM] Sass: Because it's known as the kissing disease
[7/22/2011 2:20:14 PM] Sass: That's like the gateway illness to slut status
[7/22/2011 2:20:19 PM] K: idk how true this is though
[7/22/2011 2:20:26 PM] K: :D
[7/22/2011 2:20:28 PM] Sass: I don't know either
[7/22/2011 2:20:36 PM] Sass: I thought you'd like that lol
[7/22/2011 2:20:42 PM] K: so yeah
[7/22/2011 2:20:51 PM] Sass: But when I got mono I had only ever kissed one guy and it was two months since he'd kissed me

[7/22/2011 2:22:24 PM] Sass: I totally do not have herpes
[7/22/2011 2:22:28 PM] Sass: It's just razor burn

There you have it, peeps.

IT'S JUST RAZOR BURN.

Mompetition (or, Sass gets stabby and ranty)

Don't be that asshole who thinks their parenting situation is unique.  Mmkay, babycakes?

Look, we're all guilty of judging one another when it comes to parenting styles.  However, we don't like it when people judge us or belittle our opinion on a matter because "we haven't been there."  How's about a fucking truce, you douchebags?  You try stepping in my shoes for one day and then we'll talk about whether or not I have the capacity to understand what's the deal in Grown Up Land.

Someone recently made the very grave mistake of telling me that since I never experienced the feeling of impending doom, I could not understand a particular situation.  This is coming from a person who knows pretty much NOTHING about my pregnancies and birth stories, except for that I had two kids in under a year.

If this person had bothered to ask me a question instead of assuming that because I act all Mary Fucking Pollyanna McSunshineButt that my life is a motherfucking looping hybrid episode of The Donna Reed Show and Leave it to Beaver, then this WHOLE thing could have been avoided.  This person would not have dared to say that to me.  (Personally I think it's rude to use "You don't know what it's like so you have no right to an opinion" concerning ANYTHING, but it's especially idiotic if one chooses to say this when they have no basis for saying it.  Hey, you out there, yeah you know who you are - YOU WERE WRONG.  How does it feel to accuse someone of oblivion due to inexperience only to be informed that this person has an opinion of said matter based on - COULD IT BE - experience?!)

The reason I don't talk about my painful high risk pregnancies, my sleepless tearful nights, my post partum depression, my anxiety disorder and my major depressive disorder is because I HAVE A THERAPIST AND I HAVE LEARNED TO PUT ON MY FUCKING BIG GIRL PANTIES AND DEAL WITH IT.  Okay, so maybe wine and Xanax (mutually exclusive of course) help me put those big girl panties on, but the point is, I keep the hard shit under wraps because it's nobody else's fucking business and dwelling on it is just going to piss me off.

But for the sake of this rant, I am going to give you ALL a little lesson on manners.  And a little insight to my second pregnancy with B2.

B2 is my son.  He will be two on October 5.  He was classified as a moderately high risk pregnancy right off the bat because his sister, B1, was a cesarean and B2 was due to arrive by B1's first birthday.  In case you didn't know, the reason this was considered high risk is because my cesarean scar was still relatively fresh from B1's surgical procedure, putting me in a precarious position of possible uterine rupture or splitting of my cesarean scar due to contractions.

Despite this diagnosis, my pregnancy with B2 was relatively smooth.  He was far easier to deal with than it had been to deal with B1 in utero.  He punched and kicked a lot, but he didn't start up with Braxton-Hicks bullshittery until my third trimester.  Then I got slapped with bedrest and a special diet and terbutaline.  I fucking HATE terbutaline.  I imagine that, if I ever tried speed while having a coronary, terbutaline's side effects is exactly how it would feel.

Then October 5, 2009 came and I was in hardcore nesting mode.  I had been off bedrest for about ten days and I was scrubbing the bathtub WHILE SHOWERING and I felt a contraction tear through me.  This was in the morning.  Well, B2 was not scheduled for his cesarean until the following week, October 12, 2009.  So I convinced myself that it was Braxton-Hicks and went about my day - cleaning, running errands, playing with B1 and caring for her.  I waited until the end of the workday before I finally called my doctor because at that point I was in so much fucking pain I couldn't even move.  They told me to come in to the hospital just to be on the safe side.

My dumb ass had the car for the day and Husby was at work, so I made the brilliant decision of loading up B1 and driving there to get him.  He got in the car and I said "We're going to the hospital."  He asked why I didn't call earlier and my reasoning?  He'd just started this job the week before and we needed the money.  (What's that you say?  OH.  You mean aside from kids who play with poop you have BIG PROBLEMS?  Like OMG, Sass is POOR?!  Wow.  Money problems?  But Sass, usually you are so happy!  Shut the fuck up, asshat, I TOLD YOU SO.  You aren't the only person with problems!)

So we get to the hospital and they begin to monitor B2 and me and it is determined after FIVE HOURS of deliberation that the best solution would be to perform an emergency cesarean THAT NIGHT.  And so my son, my crazy, loud, adorable, cuddly little B2 was born nineteen minutes to midnight, Monday, October 5, 2009.  He had fluid on his lungs because they weren't fully developed.  He was technically two weeks early, after all - his official due date was October 16, 2009.

Now after all those scares, let's rack up B2's health issues.  Colic.  RSV.  Eczema.  Milk protein allergy.  Possibility of autism spectrum (turned out to be false).  Possibility of epilepsy spectrum (turned out to be false).  Possibility of leukemia (turned out to be false).  Possibility of lactose intolerance (waiting on test results).  Oh, and did I mention...

HE LIKES TO FUCKING PLAY WITH SHIT.

My point?  Yes, I DO UNDERSTAND ABOUT THE FUCKING POSSIBILITY OF DOOM.  And when I CALL YOU OUT ON ACCUSING ME OF NOT KNOWING WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT, don't get all whiny lovey with me and say "Oh I am not diminishing your situation, but you didn't have to live with the possibility that you might die."

1.  Saying what you said just diminished what I just told you
2.  MY DOCTOR FUCKING TOLD ME I COULD DIE!  ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN IN SURGERY!  I WROTE MY KIDS, MY HUSBAND, AND MY BEST FRIEND LETTERS IN CASE I DID NOT LIVE THROUGH MY SECOND CESAREAN PROCEDURE IN LESS THAN 365 DAYS!  SHUT THE FUCK UP PLEEEEEEEEEEASE.

Look honey.  I get that you are hugely pregnant and scared and overemotional.  Doesn't give you license to make everyone else feel like shit.  This is not a game about who has the most drama.  It's about respecting people WHO HAVE BEEN EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE.  Oh and not to mention - when you contradict yourself so many damn times, you start to look REALLY stupid.

Anyway.  That's my stabby rant.  Please believe I will come back with funny shit later this evening.  I think I will write about our dog.

Sass's Tips for Successful Parenting

Hello everyone.  I know it's been a little while since I've posted but to be honest I've been stumped as to what to write.  I could write about Mega the Hut, but I think it's too soon for that as it pertains to my pseudo-family and I don't want to piss anyone off that knows where I live.  I could write about B2, but he was the center of my last blog entry.  Redundancy would be bad I believe.

So today, inspired by my friend Angie, I will give tips on successful parenting.

Tip #1:

ENCOURAGE CREATIVITY.

Children are like tiny tornadoes, but that's okay!  Apparently according to a study that I made up of which I forgot the origins, children thrive in messy environments.  So when your kid has taken every toy she owns and scatters them across your clean living room, making it look like the Toy Monster ripped through your home, breathe easy!  Not picking up their toys fosters their imaginations.  Plus now you don't feel guilty about not keeping your house in tip top shape.  Reward yourself with a glass of wine.

Tip #2:

DON'T SAY NO.

Kids become numb to it over a very brief period of time.  Instead, try more creative phrases.  Like "Stop it or I'll sell you to the Gypsies," "If you break the $500 vase the Vase Monster will break you," or "Don't hit your sister or the police will throw you in baby jail."  Scare tactics work every time.  Plus, it ties in with Tip #1.  You're being creative with your empty threats, thereby encouraging imagination!  Reward yourself with another drink.

Tip #3:

KEEP YOUR OFFSPRING ON LOCKDOWN SAFE.

In today's world, people see the dangerous side of a soft and cuddly teddy bear.  (The eyes, oh GOD, THE EYES!!!!)  It is important that we as parents become vigilant in safeguarding our ankle biters against these atrocities.  In our home, it has become necessary to outfit all doorknobs with doorknob guards and there is a baby gate at every entry. 

In the nursery, there are actually baby gates on the windows because the windows are so huge, and a doorknob guard on the inside of the room.  We have chosen the latter method to get us a couple extra hours of sleep in the morning to prevent our children from falling down the stairs.

If you, too, own a baby gate or doorknob guards, reward yourself with a drink for each individual item of question in your home.  (I have nine!)

Tip #4:

SAY EEJFJTGHUD ERRTHDHDNg EVERDJYING EVERYTHING IN A POSITIVE TONE OF VOICE.

Most of the time children under the age of two have no idea what in hell you're even talking about, so you can say many many things to, about, and around them without hurting their feelings or worrying about them parroting you (because I don't know about you, but my son is only just now picking up on larger words and still has yet to drop an F-bomb).  You can easily say "Honey, I'm so damn tired of all your whining" in the sweetest tone of voice and they will never be the wiser.  You can say "Shut up before Mommy starts swimming in liquor, you awful little gremlin" and they will giggle and go about their business.

You get your stress out and they are back to being happy and non-clingy.  Two missions accodromplisheedsf.  I

If you, too, are a master multitasker, have as many drinks at once as you can handle.

TIP #%:

HIDE THE GOOD STUFF.

I keep mine in the medicine cabinet.  Dammit, now I have to move it...shhhhhhhhhh

Just drink!

Fun With Feces

(Please note that the French thing is too confusing for Amurrikuns to keep up with and also tend to be less funny than alliteral titles such as seen above.  Therefore the French titles are hereby discontinued.)

I have two kids and they have friends.  With friends come the following things:

1.  Weird parents
2.  Infectious diseases
3.  An overabundance of birthday parties

Today we will be discussing #3, with a little bit of #2 thrown in for good measure.

It seems everyone gets busy around Labor Day and decides to pop out a kid or four between the months of May and June.  This means my Octobabies are often the only kids in their age brackets that don't have summer birthdays.  Which is cool, but it also means we have about eleventy billion cake and ice cream cookouts to attend every weekend during the summer.  (A tip and a confession in one:  Kids' gifts are expensive and I find the best place to go is the Dollar Tree for gifts for kids ages 2 and up.  Go ahead and thank me for the idea.  Don't be mad if you suspect you have been Dollar Tree'd by me; I give excellent presentation with gifts and you have my permission to shop at the Dollar Tree for my kids too.)

On our first birthday of the summer season, we attended B1's first friend's third birthday party.  It was held at the little girl's house and it was great.  Lots of kids, good food on the grill, cake so sugary I almost had an aneurysm.  If that's even possible, and let's face it, I don't know if it is because I am not a neurosurgeon.

Anyway.  All the parents were hanging out, all the kids were screaming happy terrors through the hallways, and I was enjoying myself knowing that although Husby wasn't there to help keep up with our ankle biters that there were plenty of kids to distract them from trouble.

(Yes, those smiley faces are meant to be partygoers.  Don't hate, I'm tired and it's late.)

Then I realized something.

Something terrifying.

Something paralyzing.

Something gut wrenching.

B2 - my son - was silent.

This meant trouble, as B2 neverneverneverneverneverneverNEVER shuts up.  This kid is a walking megaphone with an uncanny predilection for absolute destruction.  When he bangs on our sliding glass patio door with his wooden hammer, screaming in utter joy and simultaneously eating a piece of cardboard from Christ-knows-where, he is truly in his element.

My mommy migraine tingling, I went on high alert.  I looked high.  I looked low.  I looked outside.  I asked other adults.  Nobody knew where he was.

And then, I knew.

There was only one place he could be.

I rushed to the guest bathroom.

And there was my son.  Dripping wet.  Elbow deep in our gracious hosts' toilet.  Holding a Barbie doll, equally wet, and he grinned proudly at me.

I don't remember much after this.  Just that the water in the bowl was yellow and ohgodyellowwateritsyellowohgodwhynowhywhywhymustdisinfectsmallversionofmyhusbandimmediately!

So let's just recap:

1.  I lost my kid
2.  I found my kid playing in a toilet
3.  THE TOILET WAS FULL OF URINE
4.  This means some guest at the party used the bathroom, didn't flush, left the seat up, and left the door open...IN A HOUSE CRAWLING WITH TODDLERS.

B2 was cleaned up in no time, but being the naively optimistic individual I am I failed to pack an extra outfit, so he left that party in an old Kennedy Space Center tee shirt and a pair of toddler girls' shorts.

This has resulted in my chasing after B2 at every party, guarding the bathroom doors like a Doberman to make sure everyone closes the door behind them.  I have even had to confess my son's sick addiction to rooms full of people to nicely request that they remember to "flush, shut, and close" after using the restroom at another friend's party.  It is not a good time for me these days.

But oh, it doesn't end there.

My son's fascination with hazardous waste is not strictly confined to toilets.

He plays in his diapers.

And he likes it.

Apparently my youngest is a tactile individual - meaning he likes the way certain things feel in his hands.  He likes to squeeze noses, pull hair, slap his sister and squish his own feces between his fingers like mudpies.

I just can't even continue.  You get the picture now.

I am literally in a world of shit.

Monsieur Turtlortoise

(OR:  I either saved a turtle or killed a tortoise today)

Today began like any other.  I woke up late.  One of the kids puked on me.  I fed the dog.  We went to run errands.

We usually take this little neighborhood back road that connects to a larger highway which takes us to the mall, where our Target is located.  This is the way we went today.  We were barely 30 seconds away from our house when I saw a man walking his puppy in the center of the road and wouldn't move, so I had to slow down and drive around him.  Doing so, I saw the puppy was lunging at a big frickin' shelled thingamabob on the curb.

I naturally assumed it was a turtle, because running parallel to the street is a forested area which conceals a tidal creek (are you still following me?  I'll draw a map).

Tortoises are not indigenous (BIG WORD ALERT) to our area, so this is why I was hoping it was a turtle.  If it was a turtle, it could just waddle its big ol' self back to the tidal creek.  He was so close to home he could probably actually taste it.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I'd never seen such a giant frickin' turtle before.  I mean, except sea turtles, which have flippers and wouldn't be flopping around on the side of the road, twenty miles from the nearest beach.  So I figured someone had lost their pet tortoise.  I began to feel bad.

I had a large turquoise bucket in the back of my Jeep, so I put my hazards on and parked the car on the side of the road.  I took out the bucket and got out.  I was on the phone with my husband.

Sass:  What's the difference between a tortoise and a turtle?
Husby: ....I don't know.  What's the difference?
Sass:  Husby, this is not a joke.  This is a serious question.  I'm about to rescue a tortoise!...Or a turtle.  I don't really know which one it is.  Don't turtles have flippers?  This thing has feet.  And it's big.
Husby:  How big?
Sass:  As big as a housecat.
Husby:  That is big.
Sass:  I know.  Which one is it?  I can't leave him in the road.
Husby:  I don't know.  How about you put him in the bucket and take him home and look it up.
Sass:  But if it's a box turtle it'll bite my finger off! 
Husby:  Take it from behind -
Sass:  THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Husby:  Anyway.  Pick it up from behind and put your hands around the center of its shell.
Sass:  Okay.

I did as I was told and IT HISSED AT ME.  I shrieked and skittered away.

At this point I'd gathered an audience.  Some lady tossing her trash out in a dumpster in the parking lot across the street came ambling over, chuckling at me.  And two maintenance men from the adjacent apartment complex came driving up in a tan pick up truck.  I was screaming "Sorry, sorry" while still on the phone, and gingerly tiptoeing after the monstrous beast unfortunate creature, trying to pick it up and place it in my giant turquoise bucket.

One of the maintenance men stepped out of the truck and came over, took the bucket from me and laid it down in front of Mr. Turtlortoise.  Mr. Turtlortoise stepped right in and like that, the ordeal was over.  I thanked the men and began carrying Mr. Turtlortoise back to my Jeep.  I was planning to place him in the cargo bay in the bucket and drive the few feet over to the tidal creek, where I would release him.

Mr. Turtlortoise could not be contained.  He began climbing out of the bucket and hissing at me.

I shrieked again, dropped the bucket, and ran to the other side of the road.

Mr. Turtlortoise was so confused he fell backwards and could not right himself.  He was still in the bucket.

Both the maintenance men and the Dumpster lady were now at the side of the road cackling with glee.

However, the same maintenance guy who'd contributed the brilliant idea of turning my bucket on its side chose this very moment to step in again and gallantly volunteered to carry the scary evil bastard unfortunate confused animal back to the tidal creek on foot, while still in the bucket of course.

Less than ten minutes later he returned with an empty bucket and assured me Mr. Turtlortoise was now safe and happy in his natural habitat.

Of course if he's a tortoise...he probably drowned.



Plus Sur Moi

That's right, more about me.  Because it is a blog called SASSTASTICAL, so it stands to reason that it would be about me.

I may continue to write lists only about me until SOMEONE decides to follow me.  This could take some time.  It could even take ten minutes.  That's a long time to wait in Interwebzland.

I have a Facebook account.  And Twitter account.

And approximately six more blogs that I've allowed to die.

I probably have ADHD.  I'm not really sure because I've never been to the doctor to find out if I was.  I'm a little afraid of finding it out.  I'll just keep taking the online course that says I am and allowing myself to fail at everything because I can never finish or continue anything.

I have tattoos and I want more and will probably get more, although I promised my husband that I was done after the last one I got.  Don't tell my husband.

Oh yeah.  I have a husband.  I call him lots of names.  Like Husband, Husby, Hubster, and Buddy.  For the sake of argument in this blog we will refer to him as Husby, since calling him Tom Cruise or Jesus might get confusing when I actually talk about the "real" Tom Cruise or Jesus.  (Do the quotations around real immediately followed by the name Tom Cruise imply that Tom Cruise is in fact fake?  My bad.)

I also have two kids and a dog.  I know, I've been busy for someone my age.

Speaking of my age, I'll be 27 next month.  Send me a birthday present.

I don't like other people's kids very much, which is weird because I was a teacher for a LONG time.  I liked them until I got pregnant and then I simply did not have time for bullshit from other people's crib midgets.

I am not politically correct.

This whole time my brain was alternating with "Pie?" "Cake?" "Pie?" "Cake?" "Pie?" "Cake?"  and it was very hard to concentrate but I can tell you one thing - both the pie and the cake in my mind were chocolate.

Aaaand we're back to where we ended with the last blog post.  ASK ME SOME QUESTIONS.