The much-requested ‘dead kitty story’.

I was ignoring my kids researching for my blog and ended up on one of my most favorite ‘what the hell?!’ websites, Craftastrophe. If you haven’t been to this site, you soooo must put them in your reader. Seriously, it is like one of those daily calendars that you giggle at every single morning and then when you totally forget to read for a few days, it’s like a little personal vacation.

 

On their site, I came across this, and it not only made me laugh out loud, but it reminded me of my own ‘dead kitty’ story that has been an all-time favorite for many of my friends. I figured I should share it with all of you since I probably won’t be sharing it over a bottle of wine with you any time soon! (Pity, really. I think it’s much funnier then.)

……….

Back in Tennessee, we had a German Shepherd who was absolutely nuts. In cat-like form she would play with small animals such as chipmunks, mice, etc until they literally dropped over dead. She never intentionally killed them, but more like Lennie, she would love them to death.

One afternoon, Bonus came running in the house yelling about a ‘dead kitty’ in the yard. Praying it was actually a squirrel, I ran out the back door to find Kintla snuggling with her latest victim. A small cat who had obviously, been loved to death.

Following the good-parenting protocol that I always do, I screamed bloody murder and chased the dog through the yard with a shovel trying to get the cat away from her got my precious, vulnerable child in the house before attempting to handle the situation.

It took half an hour and an entire roasted chicken to pry the lifeless, matted fur ball from her jaws. Once I did, I stood there holding a shovel full of dead cat and no idea what to do next; when I heard a tiny little voice, “Momma, is that a dead kitty?”

“Yes, son. It’s a dead kitty.”

“Momma, what you gonna do wif dat dead kitty?”

“I don’t know, Bonus. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“I bet dead kitty would wike wiving here.”

This is the point I realized that instead of completely scarring my child for life, I had the opportunity to teach him a valuable lesson about life and death.

Instead, I played along.

“Yeah buddy! Dead kitty would be fine with us! Let’s go find him a home in the woods!”

“O-tay momma! Yay!”

So we walked to the back yard with dead kitty in-tow. We made it to the edge of the property where it was nice and wooded. The ground was much too hard to dig in, so I decided just tossing it over the fence would be much more fitting.

Taking all the strength I could muster with the increasingly-heavy lump in the shovel, I reared back and launched the dead kitty far into the woods.

But dead kitty hit the tree right in front of us and hung on the top branch. Thanks to rigor mortis, dead kitty looked like he was running in the air.

“Momma, is dead kitty flying?”

“Um, yes son. Dead kitties love to fly.” (shitshitshitshit)

“Momma, I don’t tink we can weave him dere.”

“No, son. We can’t.” (what the hell am I going to do?!)

Beating the tree limb with the shovel, I finally got dead kitty to ‘land’. Scooping him up once again, we trekked around the property to find a nice, cushy pile of leaves that was way back in the woods for dead kitty to ‘sleep comfortably’ (and not smell up the entire back yard).

We covered dead kitty with a blanket of leaves and headed back home.

Obviously proud, Bonus piped up, “Momma, dead kitty will WOVE wiving back here!”

“Yes, son. Dead kitties always love living in the woods.”

Everyday is a Saturday; some just suck like it’s Monday.

I’ve gotten so many emails asking where I’ve been this week that I am both humbled and totally shocked that anyone is still reading this crap wonderful writing that I pour my heart and soul into.

 

It rained here for five straight days. Do you know how long that is in kid years?! Like twenty. I think we’ve spent twenty years inside this house in the past week. I don’t do so well with a life sentence like that…

 

And preschoolers can smell exhaustion and it must smell just like that ‘fear smell’ that my dog picks up on when ever someone wants her to “play with their little Foofy”…neither goes well.

 

These two boys have pushed every single button that I have; and some I didn’t even realize were there. If you have been following me on twitter, you may have read some little gems like these:

 

“My 2yo keeps introducing himself to the people on TV but then gets upset when they don't respond. It's gonna be a long day...

And now he's crying b/c the girl scout on the Today Show didn't speak to him.

5yo sitting in a box, eating dry cereal. 2yo crying over nothing. Dog going from window to door whimpering. If the rain doesn't stop, I quit

2yo is now playing with the meat thermometer. Good news, my boobs are 90 degrees! I know you're jealous. On another note: GET ME OUTTA HERE!”

 

But the sun was out yesterday and so were we! Don’t worry, I’ll be posting some pictures this week that will most certainly have Bonus in therapy some day.

 

Let’s just hope he tells them I was pretty.

And yet these people keep talking to me...

Last night was my first-ever neighborhood bunco party. None of the girls I've hung out with lately were going, so it was me, flying solo, meeting a bunch of neighbors that I have either just waved at or my dog has tried to eat theirs.

Really looking forward to it, I'm sure you can imagine.

I stood inside the house for fifteen minutes trying to decide the appropriate amount of lateness that would make me look cool but not give away that I'm ALWAYS the late one.

I made it, I had fun, I heard "She's so funny" too many times which always ends the same way...I drink too much and say things I probably shouldn't.

I may have told them that my husband is in charge of 'safety' at the 'Harris Teeter' -which is a grocery store. (He actually is in charge of Emergency Preparedness at a Nuclear Power Plant with 'Harris' in the name.) Seriously, it's a mistake anyone could make.

I also may have mentioned he can stick his tongue in his nose. (He may kill me when he reads this on my blog but I'm taking my chances cause it will just prove the point that he should read this more often.)

But the best part of the night was not all that... Although, it was pretty funny when I made both of my sons sound gay by announcing that Deuce wants to be a 'Police Lady' which he did say, and that Bonus dropped out of ballet on the first day because they wouldn't let him wear the tutu. But hey, they were true stories!

The best part of the evening was when I got home and started sending drunk emails. Emails that I didn't know I had sent until this morning.

I woke to one from a wonderful bloggy friend warning me that I was going to feel pretty shitty this morning. Not understanding how in the hell she would know about my night out, I scroll down to find this:

okay, so i go to the neighborr hood bunco tonite (and the drunk-typing here is just something you're gonna have to overlook cause i may have had one too many glasses of vino to compensate for being the new chick).

Holy hell, ican't type dbrunk. Righ.

Bak at ya tomorrowssss.

nitynite.
A

To which I was both mortified but giggling and then scrolled down to find that I had carried on an entire conversation with a best friend from TN... (Oh, and apparently, I like to type the f-word a lot when I've been drinking. Well, at least I attempt to type it a lot. Go me. Hi Dad! Bet you're soooo proud! Let's never speak of this post, mkay?)

i tried goin to bed at 9:45 when i got home, but hte fucking bed was all shaky shaky and steve wans't awake so i think it mkght be the wine, vut i'm not so sure...

don' tremind me of this tomorrow, k? thanks.

Apparently, Carrie wasn't responding fast enough for my drunken state, so I responded with this:

alright, ti's been 7 minutes and you no writie writie. I'm goin to bed. Gotta find the motrin first cause if i get a hangover from hangingo ut wtiht the bunco nbors, i'm soooo never gonna livet hat down.
fuck.
life that donw.
fcuk.
LIVE THAT DOWN.
there.
good.

To which Carrie informs me that she is in fact AT WORK and can't be responding much faster. Don't worry; I'm quite understanding and forgive her:

i hear ya. no apologz nexixary.
fucj, nicisary.
fuck.
NECISSARY.
DAMMIT.


i'm goin to bed.
nigthty nite.
vudck.
FUCK.
htere, fammit
alrigh.t.
GOOD NITE.

THEERE.
AMO

Just a little insight to why you may not want to answer emails from me with typos as poor Carrie has learned...Sorry Carrie. I love you for not mentioning this today.

I told you he was good...

Today, my oldest son impressed me more than he has since he found the gas leak at our neighbors house and the time he helped the little old lady out of the ocean without being asked.

A regular Lassie that kid is I tell ya.

A mom showed up at the park with her twin boys at about the same time Bonus decided he was thirsty. He ran home to get some water for himself and his brother (which him doing ANYTHING other than beating the hell out of his brother is a stretch so I was totally going to sniff the water first to make sure it wasn't toilet water or something. Although, how would you know if it was toilet water? Does it truly stink like one would just assume? Note to self: Buy blue thingies to stain toilet water.) I digress...

So, Bonus returns with four glasses of water; one of which had a sippy cup lid on it for his brother. The mommy of the twins was obviously impressed that my little gentleman had thought of her boys when getting himself water.

(I too was impressed and chose to praise him rather than sniffing everyone's water.)

See?! Just think, that little kid was the one who was compared to Dennis the Menace in less than a week in our last neighborhood.

Although, it's only fair to mention he did beat the hell out of a kid at said playground a few hours prior.

I'm sure he had it coming though.

...and leave the key under the mat too.

Do you ever have one of those days when you honestly could not look any worse, your house could not be any more trashed, your dog could not smell any more like dead ass and your kids could not act any more like the spawn of satan?

Let me elaborate.

The kind of day where everyone is still in their pajamas at 2 p.m. Never mind the fact that they have been that way for the second day in a row; mostly because the weather sucks and you may have given up the will to live after having them inside for FOUR DAYS STRAIGHT. The living room is full of toys, empty food bowls, shredded pieces of a stuffed dog toy, and milk-laden sippy cups rolled under the chairs. The couch is blocking the entire entrance to the living room which isn't a big deal since the dining room chairs are lined up in a train fashion blocking the rest of the room and the couch cushions are supporting the fort under the table. The dining room table is full of torn shreds of paper because your sons decided playing with scissors would be a great past time and you just don't have the energy to empty the vacuum bag so you can get it up. There isn't an open spot on the counter top in the kitchen due to the lovely mix of dirty and clean dishes. Which subsequently, you are terrified of attempting to make the differentiation for fear of putting a dirty one away and the one guest you are wanting to empress getting that dirty glass. But at the same time, the thought of cleaning every single dish again makes the risk seem worthwhile? So you take these three rooms and you put them all into one big room...that, is my house. As soon as you walk in the front door you are overwhelmed by this one, big, obnoxious, incredibly open space that is obviously inhabited by the kind of people you avoid in every realm of society. And that front door; it's glass. There are no curtains. There is no hiding the mess or the pajama-clad inhabitants.

That, my dear friends, is the setting for my afternoon visit from the Welcome Wagon.

I wish I was kidding.

Apparently, new residents get a lovely visit from a flowery-basket carrying well-dressed, makeup-clad member of society. (A society in which I will never be welcomed now.) She shows up riding a cupcake sprinkled with fairy dust and a cheery smile that makes you loose the power to say no when she invites herself in. Even though you are mortified and stumbling over all sorts of excuses about 'pretending to build a fort' or 'learning to hold scissors properly' or 'celebrating pajama day in some foreign country', the fairyland greeter can see right through you. Straight through to the dust bunnies under the chairs suckling the last drops from the long-lost sippy cups. She knows that you are hiding much more than a 'lazy day' and recognizes that you need more help than her 'little basket of joy' (read: business cards) can bestow.

She doles out her little prizes and spends much too long explaining the benefits of said cleaning service or free facials. She knows you are that one new neighbor who needed much more help than her one little basket could provide. But never says a word as she fakes an understanding smile, while you are comforting a screaming toddler who's has just been abused by his brother, and she makes her hasty exit.

Just as you are thanking God that it is over and still cursing yourself for not saying everyone had the flu, she mentions this...

"So, I just realized when you said your son's name (read: yelled at Bonus to get the dirty underwear off Deuce's head) that my daughter is the one that baby sat for you last month!"

And with that, I am crawling in my hole of despair and never returning.

Shut the lights off when you leave, please.

We may be loosing touch...

Or he can't speak without using acronyms.

I got this email from my husband this morning, "NRC is already here and going over my documents. Trying to get ready for my Safety meeting, the POD, then the NCR meeting then NRC meeting. I’ll catch you up laters."

I cannot make this stuff up.

The nuclear industry can B.I.T.E. M.E. cause seriously, only the WWJD people can get away with that crap.

TTYL.

My Most Proud 'Mommy FAIL' Moments

Thursday afternoon was one of my typical 'holy crap, this place is a wreck and I just don't have the energy to do anything about it' kind of days.

So I didn't.

I spent too much time on twitter where it's become a personal goal to make someone laugh in 140 characters. Ex: "10yo hounddog just chased a dust bunny across the room. Either she's getting senile or I have another smartass in the house. Off to clean!" Totally addicting, I'm telling you. By the time four o'clock rolled around, I realized that I was not only still in my pajamas, as were my sons, but the house was still a wreck and my fancy-pants dinner that I should have put on the stove three hours ago certainly wasn't making itself.

I got up, put on some cartoons for the boys to keep them out of the cleaning tornado that I was about to become. (Yeah, you know as well as I do THAT wasn't happening.) I did get dinner started though and from the smell of it, this might be the most delicious dinner I had prepared to date. For those of you who are trying to eat healthier, I have been spending a lot of time on the Cooking Light website. They have some awesome, easy to prepare dinners that are ready in minutes! For those of you who cook all the time and are damn good at it....pffft....is all I have to say.

This post was SO about something totally different. *ahem*

Anyway, my new neighbor Jessica called, so we went to the park while dinner simmered and the house cleaned itself. Heh...

When we got there, it was much colder than it had looked from my warm, cushy living room chair. Jessica immediately mentioned the freezing wind and that they wouldn't be able to stay much longer. (Lightweight.) Granted, she had been waiting about 30 minutes while I dressed the boys and tried to blow some of the 'been-sitting-in-the-same-spot-in-my-jammies-all-day' stink off me. My response? "Why don't you guys just come over to my house?!"

The second it left my lips I remembered the all-too-honest tweet about the hound dog and the dust bunny as well as the rest of the 'holy shit, did a bomb go off in here' mess that awaited us. It was too late...she came...she saw...and I think she either felt good about herself and her own domestic skills or vowed to never return. I know she didn't decide to never talk to me again, because my phone rang as soon as she got home.

"Hey, I know you cooked that 'fancy-pants' meal and all, but we are going out to grab some dinner and a beer if you guys want to join us." (Yeah, I totally made her smell my dinner and went on and on about how much work it was to assemble. It made me feel a little better about the house. A little.)

So dinner went in the fridge and we went out.

We hadn't been there 30 minutes and some stranger came carrying Deuce (the two year old) to us from the game room. The kid was screaming like I've never heard before. The man said something about him falling off a highchair and hitting his head. I didn't catch it all since I was too busy trying to climb under the table from embarrassment. The full story was that he was standing on TOP of a high chair, holding the toy rifle from the video game when he fell, backwards, and hit his head on the game console.

Never in my five years of parenting have I ever experienced a knot like that one. You've heard of a goose egg? Yeah, this was a perfectly shaped and appropriately sized golf ball sticking out of the back of his head. I'm not exaggerating here, it was the exact size of a golf ball. I had to keep touching it because I couldn't believe it was that big, and round, and dude, it was a golf ball. Deuce, didn't appreciate my amazement. Nor did he seem to enjoy having everyone else touch it. "Man, you have to feel his head! It's like a perfect golf ball! Feel that!"

Yeah, I know. Mommy FAIL, right?

On the way out, I started doing the mommy guilt thing. I should have been in there with him, I should have been watching him, yadda yadda yadda. I was starting to get pretty down on myself when I remembered the many other mommy FAIL moments in their short little lives.

There was the time I let my mom hold Deuce and she dropped him; like we all knew she would.

The time I put Bonus in a swing and left him while I went to check my email. Oh, and didn't bother to strap him in. Yeah, you got it. He fell, face first, onto the hardwood floor.

The numerous calls to those blessed saints at poison control who never said, "Where the hell were you when he was eating goo-be-gone?!" Oh, and by the way, apparently it is okay to drink it in small amounts as long as you don't get it in your lungs. (I know, what the hell?!)

Oh, and I can't forget the time I was nursing Bonus and decided I couldn't wait one more minute to go to the bathroom. I walked across the house, with him still latched, and made it there only to slam the back of his head on the door jam when I failed to realize the bathroom door was much narrower than the other doors. That one, was actually pretty funny. He looked up at me with this, "I have been given to a total dumbass" look before screaming bloody murder.

I almost forgot the time we drove all the way to DorkFish's work to show off our new son, Bonus, to the firefighters and when we got there realized we had never strapped him in.

In fact, most of my mommy FAIL moments had involved Bonus. I guess that's the way it rolls when you're the first-born. I suppose, in the grand scheme of life, Deuce really had it coming.

After all, we weren't saving for Harvard or anything.