I'm cannibalizing most of this post from an email I just wrote to my sister. I know, shamelessly lazy, right?
Blame the cleaning fumes - Toby overdid it with a bagel this morning and threw up all over the living room. Which, of course, made Jack throw up in sympathetic reflex.
Which didn't make me throw up, exactly, but I do believe I might have died just a little on the inside. That's a little like throwing up, except the yucky stuff stays on the inside - where it hunkers down and contentedly gnaws away at the soul.
Thank goodness for the Hoover Steamvac. Otherwise? I'd be typing this on my "personal time" from a mental institution... with a white-coated guy named Bubba watching to make sure I wasn't attempting to send threatening letters to celebrities or something.
Not that I would do that. I prefer to take comfortably benign pot-shots at my celebrities by cursing at them on the telly. Then I rewind it for my hubs so he can agree with me that, yes, Paris Hilton is totally shameless and no, it's not just that I'm insanely jealous of her obscene wealth and thoroughly wasted youth. It's not that at all. I mean, I would never use the equivalent gross national product of a third world nation to dress my dog in one-of-a-kind designer clothing. I might buy myself a very small country, declare myself Empress, and require that all of my royal subjects refer to me as "Domina", after the Roman fashion. Oh, and also? They would be required to constantly tell me that I have great hair, that my jeans totally make my butt look spectacular, and that motherhood is the ultimate expression of glamor.
I'm sorry, what were we talking about again?
Oh, yeah. Puking kids, and the necessity to clean up said emetic explosions before any of the pets tried to make a snack of it. Now just try and tell me that motherhood ain't glamorous, baby.
While you're contemplating your response to that, I'll be over *there* - digging up another bottle of Febreze and attempting to convince my living room to smell more "Mountain Mist" and less "Post-Kegger-Frat-House".
Blame the cleaning fumes - Toby overdid it with a bagel this morning and threw up all over the living room. Which, of course, made Jack throw up in sympathetic reflex.
Which didn't make me throw up, exactly, but I do believe I might have died just a little on the inside. That's a little like throwing up, except the yucky stuff stays on the inside - where it hunkers down and contentedly gnaws away at the soul.
Thank goodness for the Hoover Steamvac. Otherwise? I'd be typing this on my "personal time" from a mental institution... with a white-coated guy named Bubba watching to make sure I wasn't attempting to send threatening letters to celebrities or something.
Not that I would do that. I prefer to take comfortably benign pot-shots at my celebrities by cursing at them on the telly. Then I rewind it for my hubs so he can agree with me that, yes, Paris Hilton is totally shameless and no, it's not just that I'm insanely jealous of her obscene wealth and thoroughly wasted youth. It's not that at all. I mean, I would never use the equivalent gross national product of a third world nation to dress my dog in one-of-a-kind designer clothing. I might buy myself a very small country, declare myself Empress, and require that all of my royal subjects refer to me as "Domina", after the Roman fashion. Oh, and also? They would be required to constantly tell me that I have great hair, that my jeans totally make my butt look spectacular, and that motherhood is the ultimate expression of glamor.
I'm sorry, what were we talking about again?
Oh, yeah. Puking kids, and the necessity to clean up said emetic explosions before any of the pets tried to make a snack of it. Now just try and tell me that motherhood ain't glamorous, baby.
While you're contemplating your response to that, I'll be over *there* - digging up another bottle of Febreze and attempting to convince my living room to smell more "Mountain Mist" and less "Post-Kegger-Frat-House".
No comments:
Post a Comment