Screaming in the Wilderness of My Livingroom

August 18, 2007 Me, Unplugged

Hi. It’s Kimberly from Parenting Without a License taking over the guest posting chair today. I’ve been going around and around about what to write here ever since I begged asked Karen if I could whore myself guest post here. First off, I was giddy with all the profanity I could use here–four letter words! In combination even! When that buzz wore off, I realized I still had to actually, you know, write a post. But today is not a good day for writing (although it’s shaping up to be a fine day for profanity).

So far, today has been everything I loathe about motherhood. The whining. The screaming. The utter defiance. The misplaced sense of injury and injustice. The lack of patience and feeling like I would rather stick flaming toothpicks in my eyes than stay in this house for one more second. That powderkeg feeling of tension growing and building to a fever pitch. And did I mention the screaming?

I’m thinking longingly of school. Boarding school. For me, not her.

I got up this morning with every intention of making a good beginnning: I would make breakfast. We would play. There would be work done, and then FUN to be had. This plan was, in fact, agreed upon by the principal parties last night, but Diva Girl continues to have trouble with the concept that our lives won’t stop and reset according to her whims. Or her screaming.

It’s been a morning of butting heads. A morning of “Play With ME!” and “She’s touching MY things!” and “You just don’t LOVE me!” A morning of “Don’t bug your sister.” and “Mama is trying to get some work done.” and “Go. To. Your. Room.”

And then there’s the screaming. Did I mention the screaming? Cuz there’s screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. From both of us. She does something, like express outrage at the fact that she’s expected to pick up the toybox she scattered across the livingroom, and then I speak to her sharply, a wee bit annoyed, since it feels like she just spent the past hour watching me put this room to rights. Then she yells at me. And I, in an infinite show of maturity, yell back. It escalates from there, to the point that I realize that much though I love and adore her, I do not actually like my Diva Girl right now.

And that is the worst part of this whole mess. I want to like her. I often do. Much of the time I enjoy spending time with her. But then there are the other times. The times she seems to suck all of the oxygen right out of the room. The times that she just won’t stop talking. Or worse, screaming. Although sometimes, the incessant gabbling is worse. The constant background chatter that begins the instant she realizes that my concentration is focussed elsewhere, and that grates on and on until beaten, I give her my attention. Only to have her “forget” what she wanted to say, show me, ask, whatever.

These are the times when she’s right, I don’t actually like her. Which makes me not like myself very much, either. After all, what kind of mother doesn’t like her child? I think if we’re honest, almost all of us, at some point. But the problem is, we’re so very often not honest when it comes to motherhood. We’re trained to put the very best face on it all. To deny the hard parts and pretend to embrace the challenges with an enthusiasm that sometimes we frankly don’t feel.

I recognize that I’m being selfish. I could play with the damn Barbies rather than writing, or doing the dishes, or finally excavating under the couch, or the myriad other things that I’m doing that are patently not bowing to her whims. It would appease her. My life would be made easier for it. But also, it would be made less.

Why do I have to be held hostage to the whims and demands of an 8 year-old? Why do I have to put aside what I want to do just to appease her when she’s being an utter pill? Why can’t she just suck it up and realize I’m not fucking 8 yrs old, and I don’t find the interior life of 8 yr olds–what there is of it, because god knows, they don’t seem capable of keeping any of it interior– particularly interesting?

Because I’m the Mama is the party line. And it’s true. But I’m also ME, and I deserve to be allowed the time and space to be me, as well as Diva Girl’s mommy. Why can’t she take the times I do play and dance and pillow fight for what they are, and not ruin it by constantly demanding more?

No wonder I feel like screaming.

uncovering

August 17, 2007 BlogPants

so, technically, Karen didn’t ask me. i kinda sorta maybe invited myself to this party. (it wasn’t the first time, and i’m sure it won’t be the last…) but if people were getting themselves a piece of vodkarella, you know that i wanted in on that action.

but sex. poop. pee. farts. husbands. um…anal beads.?it’s all been covered.

and since it’s all been covered…what do you say we do a little uncovering, shall we??!!

i think my body image - and probably of women in general - changed once i had a baby. once upon a time, there was only one person that?i laid horizontal, naked,?with my legs in the air for. but, there i was, in the delivery room…my girlie bits on display for all to see. doctors. nurses. residents. students. i didn’t care…i was giving out free passes to the ali show. (and it wasn’t pretty, let me tell you)

but once you’ve bared all for an entire hospital, you feel less sensitive about who sees the goods. i mean, granted, i’m not one of those women who prances around the gym - and blows her hair dry - completely nudey, but i’m not weirded out by the change rooms either. if i flash a tit, i flash a tit. no biggie. (seriously…no biggie. they are teeny)

i remember when i was in camp and i had perfected the move. you know the move. the one where you can get completely dressed, including bra and underwear, without taking off your pajamas. no one was seeing any part of me.

several?years ago, as i sat in a sterile, white room at The Village Spa, waiting for Argentina to give me my first Brazilian wax, and she asked me to drop trou, i didn’t even hesitate. i bared my once private body to a compete stranger so she could put hot wax?to my holiest of holies.

when i asked her if it was going to hurt, she answered without missing a beat, “honey, if you can have a baby, you can do this.”

and i laughed. at the double meaning of her words. sure, i’ve been through labor pain before, so, i could handle a ten minute painful experience. but it was also about my body. sure, i once (twice, and oh, a third time too) got naked for many a stranger, i could handle getting naked for one.

(come and see me sometime over at my digs - Cheaper Then Therapy)

A One-Time Appearance

August 15, 2007 Friends

A few weeks ago, Karen emailed me and said “SJ,” (as people rarely call me by my real name, which is totally boring and WASPY, though I can’t say that my heritage is the Germanic/British Anglo-Saxton which is mentioned in WASP, especially since there’s some Spanish blood in there, which explains why everyone in my family tans easily, except for me.) “Would you like to guest blog on my website?”

That got me to thinking…guest blogging, do people really do so? I mean, sure I’ve seen it from time to time but figured it was just one of those fantasy things that people reference or talk about, but don’t really believe in, such as Canada. In my book, Canada and guest-blogging are both on par with the Tooth Fairy.

Then, after I thought about guest blogging, Canada and the Tooth Fairy, I wondered why nobody, in my four years of blogging, has ever asked me to guest blog. Sure it could be that I like to put semicolons in places they don’t belong and I enjoy very long paragraphs within parentheses, but, come on! I’m a nice gal! There’s plenty of boobie touching pictures from BlogHer to prove it.

After jumping up and down for what was at least five minutes, I got to thinking about what I’d actually WRITE on Karen’s site. Do I write about that sex change operation she’s undergoing, or is that one of those things, like Great Aunt Hilde’s Mustache, that we just don’t mention?

I think it is unfair that she won’t go into more details of the operation, as I’m very curious as to what will be done with that teeny little weenie she’s been sporting for awhile. Do they make it an innie? One really big clit? Put it in a jar for the mantle? Karen, we need details.

If the operation is off-limits, how about her need for constant enemas? Her collection of toenail clippings? That thing she does with her finger when she thinks nobody is looking?

She told me to stay away from anything to do with her anal beads. But she didn’t say anything about her habit of stuffing her bra!

Woohoo! Okay! I’ve got something, finally! Karen stuffs her bra! She’s a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee! She puts socks in her over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder! HA! HA! HA!

Now, if I can only figure out why nobody invites me to dinner parties…

This post was brought to you by The Sarcastic Journalist. She invites you to share all of your dirty little secrets with her. ?

Raising A Girl - Keeping My Daughter Safe From Guys Like Me

family

Hi, everyone!? This is DevDad (Mike) from Stay At Home Dad, Geek Style.? I recently started blogging about my life as a work at home dad.? I’m a web design and search engine optimization guy, but I’m really into photography and writing.? Feel free to check out my blog, and enter to win a Canon SD750 digital camera that I am giving away this month.? Ok, enough plugs. Onward to the good stuff!

When every guy has his first daughter, the elation and overall wonder of the new addition to his life tends to be followed by outright fear.? Fear of what, you might ask?? Fear of his own kind.? I like to believe that I am not your typical, hot-blooded 21 year old male.? However, I am willing to face the fact that guys are guys, and to be honest, the fact that my baby girl will have to deal with the animals in my tribe scares the hell out of me.

Inevitably, countless ideas run through our heads on how we’re going to keep the hoodlums at bay.? They range from sick and twisted to blatantly illegal.? Some of these master plans may include any or all of the following:

Send her to an all girl school?? No, that definitely won’t work.

Shotgun?? Too tempting.

Push for lesbianism?? Hmm, now that’s an idea.

These thoughts continue to plague us as we enjoy watching our beautiful babies turn into sweet little girls, and in my case, future angry teenagers, and finally, beautiful babies once again (since we’ll have no choice except to see them this way).? I keep confirming to myself that we get over it.? I remind myself that, at some point, we have to take a step back, and let their lives happen.? And then I start thinking some more.

I was never an asshole, in my opinion.? I was always reasonably mindful of the feelings of the girls, and then women, in my life.? Despite my undeniable aptitude for sensitivity, I’ve done some things that I’m not proud of, would never want to see happen to my daughter, or both.? With that said, if I was obviously the cream of the pubescent crop, what kind of shit is my little Alex going to have to deal with??

Being a father provokes many emotions within every guy.? It really is magical, and I am glad that I will be able to help Alex avoid the mistakes that I’ve made.? However, I can’t help wishing that I could go back in the past, change a few things, and rewrite the precedent for the behavior of the guys that she will grow up with.? That isn’t going to happen, but there must be something that can be done.

For me, if I ever have a boy, I’m going to teach him that respect is cool.? If that means it keeps him or one of his friends from breaking someone’s little girl’s heart, mission accomplished.? I just hope that other dads take my lead, and maybe, just maybe, keep their mini-men from breaking Alex’s.

I Pee Freely

August 13, 2007 BlogPants

I am bursting with giddiness right now. This is my first time people. I am a Virgin Guest Poster. Well, not anymore since Vodkarella has now popped my cheery!

I just couldn’t turn down Karen’s proposition; after all, she was so caring, thoughtful and encouraging… I was blindsided. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Oh, the pressure! (I thought for sure I was going to miss my day. Yo’d think I would have planned a little better. *pffft* Procrastination is the way to go.)

I’m Sam, I blog over at Temporarily Me, and I’m also a regular contributor at Mommy Blogs Toronto.

And now that we have all that out of the way….

I pee.

Anywhere and Everywhere.

I also tend to embellish a little; so sue me.

Though, in high school I developed an inability to do the deed in a public washroom without some background noise, I wasn’t always like that. As a child: six years old, and very impressionable, I was dared to poop in the local park. Not being one to turn down a dare, I did it. Much to my mother’s dismay (when my brother ratted me out as soon as we got home, the little shit. Pun intended.) I think it was then she realized how much of a handful I really was.

[I fear Karma.]

And my ability to squat effectively was born.

Growing up in the country we used to have a lot of field parties. If you had a farm, with a field or a gravel pit, that became our party spot. Usually impromptu parties which were decided discretely at school on a Friday afternoon so that police wouldn’t catch wind and be ready to crash it. There really was no planning. Beer, fire, people.

So if you had to pee, you had to squat.

Squatting is a fine art form, difficult to perfect for some. The balance, the strategic placement of pants and undergarments, the drip dry. Other contributing factors (like how much you’ve had to drink), wind, hiding yourself, it’s not to be taken lightly people!

Tell me, how many of you women are able to squat and not end up wearing any of it?

[Because men? You have the advantage of just whipping it out, shake and put it away. But how you manage to still get it on yourself is beyond me.]

That’s where you’re in luck ladies! I will now share with you, The Perfect Stance.

Don’t say I never gave you anything. Bitches.

Have napkins or Kleenex in hand if you’re so inclined. First, find a spot. Down a hill, behind a tree, whatever, as long as you’re facing the direction people would approach from.

Second, as you’re preparing to squat down, bring your pants down at the same time (because doing it any other way just won’t work). Place one hand at the crotch and pull forward, the other hand can be placed on the ground in front of you for some support and to help your torso lean forward a bit.

Then release.

[Make sure you're not facing downhill though, we don't want pee running towards your support hand. Messy.]

[Keep a watchful eye for people, animals and cars.]

When you’re done, (wipe if you got’em) or give your booty a bit of a shake and pull up your pants as you stand.

Then Purell.

[But don't leave it just lying around: babies get drunk off that shit.]

There, simple enough. Right?

Now you’re able to pee in other places, besides the toilet.

Oh! The! Freeom!

If you’re so inclined. Pee in the pool. No one will notice (as long as they’re not beside you), Snopes told me there’s no dye. C’mon you know you do it.

[I do. Just remember that when you invite me to your pool party.]

Or how about the shower? Provided you go prior to soaping up, it’s all good! (Just don’t tell my husband that since I often tell him not to piss in my shower.)

Oh what shall you do with this new found knowledge? (Probably boycott my sorry little blog cuz I’m now the pissin’ lady.)

“Why aren’t you wearing underwear”, and other typical conversations

August 12, 2007 family

As I lay here in my bed this morning, waiting for the angels of inspiration to fill me with wit and verve and overall brilliance, my daughter walks in and says:

“Why aren’t you wearing underwear?”

to which I - instead of being embarassed - said:

“Why are you looking at my crotch?”

Yep. That sums up life in my house.

I am Dawn.? Some days when I can’t sleep, I am Dawn of the Dead…and the rather crabby Dead at that. Other days, when I am filled with motherly inspiration, I write at this place. Gimlet Eye.

And on other days, I am herding the masses at True Wife Confession,? Last, but CERTAINLY not least, I find nekkid men to mock at this place. Hey SueBob, we got some fine specimens for you to peruse, baby.

And now, for your reading plezzzzure, I present one of the finely aged specimens of my writing - Long before anyone read me at all.? And so began my battle with the school secretaries:

It is official. I am at war with the school secretaries. Here are my declarations of war:

1. They treat my husband like he is some god on earth. I saw them do make their genuflections to his maleness this morning as we showed for our meeting.

2. When I picked up my daughter for her physical today, they descended upon me like mythical harpies. I snuck by the office ( can we imagine why??) and went straight to the classroom. As I stood, silently in the door, the loud speaker came on “MRS X, DO YOU HAVE A PARENT IN YOUR ROOM?” I actually mouthed “I hate those women” to the teacher and she mouthed “I’m sorry” before saying, “Yes, I do.” “SHE NEEDS TO CHECK IN WITH THE OFFICE BEFORE SHE LEAVES”

I gathered my daughter and walked down the hall - with the Asst Prinicipal shadowing me like I was a freaking terrorist. I half expected him to tackle me and wrestle my shoes off to check for contraband. I actually thought of continuing to walk out -without checking into the office to see what they would do, but …No, I have my daughter with me and I have to present some sort of adult role model that doesn’t involve drinking too much sangria and chasing the ice cream truck down the street.

So I make the left and stand in front of the office. The berating starts. “CAW CAW CAW, stop and sign in , CAW CAW CAW, send in a note ( which as a matter of point - I did!) CAW CAW CAW , we’ll call her from her classroom and she will meet you at this door.”

This is when I cracked. This is also when the Asst Principal guy ran in to shield the harpies from my now Medusa like fury.

Excuse me? Did you just tell me that even IF I sign in and make my ceremonial bows to your fucking power hungry ancestors, that I can’t walk down the hall to my child’s classroom and pick her up? She will be sent down from said classroom? And why is this?

“We don’t want parents to disturb the other students or teachers”

“I didn’t disturb the students or the teacher”

“The teacher wasn’t expecting you - that was discourteous to her”

“The teacher absolutely expected me - I gave her a note this morning and she knew I was coming”

“Who made this rule?” Asst Principal sputters and looks around. “Was it the school Board?” I say. “Well, no” he says, getting fairly red in the face.

Well, guess what. I am her mother. I will walk into any building at any time and I will walk to see her. You will not keep me from my daughter and frankly, I’d like to see you try.

Hi - Dawn again. I wanted to edit this story to add that by the end of THAT week, I had a special letter, signed by the principal and superintendent, stating that I could visit the school and classroom any time I wanted. Provding I signed in, of course. Those secretaries HATED me.?

What is it about this place?

August 11, 2007 family

Dang, I almost forgot my guest post. Sorry, Karen!

I am Suebob of Red Stapler and I am also Karen’s best friend in the whole wide world. Not really, but she was careless enough to give someone like me access to her blog, so I can say any dang thing that pops into my head.

What is it about Vodkarella that makes otherwise sedate bloggers go a little crazy? Dana killed me yesterday with her story about getting caught in the dog pound, so to speak, by her little son. I was blushing for her.

Me, I’m not gonna talk about sex because I’m not having sex. I know it is hard to believe, someone as totally hot as me being celibate, but that’s just the way it is right now, and for the foreseeable future, because let me tell you, I have looked into dating and it ain’t pretty.

I am 46 years old, people. I am a woman, but I have the same problem as all those 40-something men that we ladies love to complain about: I don’t want to date someone my own age.

Men my own age have wrinkles and weird hairs and extra poundage (just like me) and divorces and child custody issues (unlike me).

Like all those guys, I want to date someone who is 27. A skinny blonde surfer guy with good values. Or a skinny dark-haired musician who loves to travel. Or a skinny young scientist who runs his own biotech lab in his basement. I’m not picky, just someone skinny and young. Unlike me.

If I had been smarter and become a millionairess by now and had invested much of my riches in plastic surgery and personal trainers, I might be able to snag me one of these cute boys.

But since I didn’t, I am left with a lineup in the yahoo personals ads that just plain frightens me.

Ladies, here’s my advice: stay married. I know you look at that lump over there on the recliner sofa, the one who watches sports 14 hours at a stretch, the one who has never learned where the vacuum is kept, the one who doesn’t remember important dates and who isn’t very romantic - and you think “Hm, I could do better.”

Before you head to the courthouse to pick up divorce papers, do me a favor and look at the yahoo personals. Then remember this: everyone is lying about all the good stuff. We all do. We can’t help it. We want to put our best foot forward and forget that we will eventually revert to our normal behavior. But we will. We always do.

So take a look at the lump on the sofa and consider a few things: he’s your lump. You don’t have to woo him. You don’t have to tell him your whole life story and all your cute anecdotes. You don’t have to prove yourself to him.

Go on over, give him a kiss. And a squeeze. And a rub…and hey! Lock the door if you’re going to do that. The kids might see you.

Embarrassing Sex Moment

August 10, 2007 family

Hi, I’m Dana from The Dana Files.? I’m guest posting on Vodkarella’s blog today and let me tell you I am very excited about this!? Except, I have to confess I was freaking out about what to post here.?

I had all these ideas flowing through the rushing river that is my brain, but none of them really were fascinating.? And then I started to panic, thinking I wouldn’t have anything good to write about.?

But then Wednesday night, the Blog Gods?heard my prayers and gave me some great material.? And it’s hilarious.? And something I could never post at my own blog because my Catholic mother reads me even though she denies it.

Are you ready??

I’m taking a big, bloggy breath.?

Inhale.? Exhale.

Here goes:

My toddler walked in on my husband and?me having sex.

I’m hiding under the desk.? I’ll be out after the shame disappears.

Okay.? I know it’s not a big deal.??Dawson is?not quite three years old.? He probably, I sure as hell hope,?has no idea what sex is.? And even though this episode is flashing in my mind, I know I’m not Charlotte York and I know that sex is not dirty.? Despite what all those “good” Catholics say to discourage their teenagers from pre-marital relations.

I know you’re wondering how this?happened.

It was 9:00 p.m. on Wednesday night.? Dawson was still awake because we regrettably let him take a late nap at 4 o’clock.? I tried my best to get The Doodlebug to bed because The Hubby and I…umm…made a date…to fornicate.? I know bad choice of words, but it rhymes!

Yes, a sex date.? What can I say?? We both work full-time, we have crazy, conflicting schedules and it had been awhile.? If I didn’t put this on the calendar it never would’ve happened.? And considering I’m the one doing all the initiating these days (entirely?different story there), nothing was getting in the way of our rendezvous.? Plus, I was really in the mood.

What? Don’t give me that look.?

I may be Catholic, but I’m not dead from the waist down.? And we’re married.? It’s all good.??Besides, I’ve already revealed what’s in my goody drawer, and I even did a sex-themed radio?show with the Mominatrix.? And it could have been worse.? This could have happened to us.? That is if we lived with my in-laws.? Ewww.? I don’t want to think about that.?

Back to?my sex talk,? shall we?

So, as I was saying, Dawson refused to go to bed.? I gave him a bath, dressed him in his jammies, grabbed his favorite blanket and put Peter Pan into the DVD player.? I waited twenty minutes for Dawson to become mesmerized by the movie and then grabbed The Hubby and headed for the bedroom.

“I think we have to make this quick, you don’t mind do you?” I asked.

“Whatever.? I guess I’m just your sex slave, huh?” he said with a laugh.

Ten minutes later we were in the middle of our business.? I can’t even name the position we were in, because suddenly I’m really embarrassed.? But I was on my hands and knees if you catch my drift.? I’m blushing as I type this.?

I didn’t even hear the door open.? Who knows how long?the Doodlebug had?been standing there.

“Dawson!? Get out!? Get out!” my husband shrieked.

I looked up and saw Dawson’s silhouette in the doorway.? Thank God the lights are off, I thought.

I rolled over so quickly that I fell off the bed and started to laugh and cry at the same time.? My husband tried to shoo?our son out of the room as Dawson spanked his father on the leg.

“Stop spanking my Mumma, Daddy!” Dawson yelled.?

(What!?? A little spanking never hurt anyone.? Okay, wait.? That’s not what I meant.? Shutting up now.)

“Dawson, go back to the living room.” The Hubby said.

“Don’t hurt my Mumma!” Dawson yelled back.

At this point I was laughing so hard I snorted.? I couldn’t take it.??I didn’t know what to do.?? The?Hubby put on his shorts and took Dawson back to the living room.? He gave Dawson?a bowl of ice cream, thinking this would make up for the trauma we caused.? I figured it would keep him occupied in addition to the movie so we could continue.?

When Hubby?returned to the bedroom?he was not as amused as I was.?

“This really isn’t funny, you know.” He started to put his shirt on.? “He’s probably scarred for life.”

“What???Nah!??He doesn’t know what we were doing!”?? I said, still laughing.?? “You’re gonna let this get to you?? Looks like we’ll never have any more kids!”

We finished our business quickly and afterwards, I put on?my nightgown?and went to check on Dawson.??

When he saw me he said, “Daddy’s naughty, Mumma.? He can’t jump?you.”

I started to snicker, trying desperately to gain composure.? I found it funny that he omitted the word “on”, as in “jump ON you”.

“Doodlebug, what do you think Daddy and Mumma were doing?” I asked.

“Daddy, touched Mumma’s butt.” he said.? Apparently he can see very well in the dark.

“Yes, he did, but we were just playing.” I said.

“Daddy spanked Mumma? ?Mumma is naughty?” he asked.

Choking with laughter, ?I said, “Yes, Dawson.? Mumma is naughty.? She forgot to lock the bedroom door.”

Three-year-olds don’t have good memories, right?? I mean, I don’t think I remember anything before age four, anyway.? I can only imagine the therapy this child is going to need if he doesn’t forget this incident quickly!

Domination! Not the sex kind, the world kind

August 9, 2007 family

I volunteered to help Karen out while she s& well, we ll call it resting& and after banging my head on the desk a few dozen times trying to think of something to write about, something occurred to me&

?

Doing that really, really hurts…

?

Then something else popped into my head& how would I go about taking over the world& .

?

Then something else popped in& how can I boondoggle that query into a post for Vodkarella&

?

Now, let s be honest, taking over the world is not an easy thing. Many have tried, more have failed. From Charlamagne to Alexander the Great. From The Brain (and Pinky) to Stewie Griffin.

?

Every few years some group/individual decides that they want to rule the world. At times it seems everyone wants to rule the world& just ask Tears for Fears (I know, it was a lame joke, but it had to be said)

If any of these failed conquests has taught us anything, it’s that movies and television characters just can t get this whole  taking over the world concept correct. There are a myriad of reasons why no other world conquest attempt has worked. Due to that, I am going to carefully describe my plan to take over the world on a Saturday and Sunday. Why the weekend? During the week I have more important things to do (family, work, sleep).

The first step towards reaching my goal will be to get out of bed early Saturday morning, even before my daughters wake up. The second step will be to head to a local butterfly garden to assemble an army of butterflies. Why butterflies, you ask? Bart Simpson said it best,  Because nobody suspects the butterfly.

The third step will be to go to a Little League Baseball game, and assemble a second army of Little League parents. Why little league parents, you ask? Good question. Little League parents are fanatic, crazed groups of adults that have no sense of decorum in the heat of the moment. Who better to have as back-up to the dastardly butterfly army?

So, now that I have a powerful, unassuming army of butterflies, and a weak, crazed army of little league parents, I will focus my attention on actually taking over the world.

First, I will go up to the President of the World’s door, and I will knock on it. If he does not answer, which I suspect will be the case, the next step will be to send in the crazed little league parents. As they occupy the guards, I will send in my covert team of butterflies, who with their butterflyey (is that a word) stealth, will knock out the President of the World (I can t harm anyone, I was born in The A-Team generation where a car with 6 people could flip over a dozen times and everyone walks away without a hair out of place, much less hurt or dead).

Now there will need to be an election to decide who will be the new President of the World. This is where creativity plays a big part in my scheme but I have an ace in the hole.

Kathryn Harris (you remember her, the woman in Florida who helped Bush stea I mean  win his first presdential election in 2000). If she can t fix an election, I could always use the United States Supreme Court to arrange it for me.

Flawless plan, huh?

Have your own idea on world domination? Write it down in the comments section&

Hi, my name is Karly and I poop.

August 8, 2007 BlogPants

You guys missin’ Karen yet? All the guest writers so far have been great, so now I’m even MORE nervous than I was before! I’ve never guest posted before, so be gentle, mkay?

Lets start with an introduction, shall we? As the title states my name is Karly. I can usually be found over at Wiping Up Snot, talking about all sorts of interesting things like my kids! and snot! on their noses! Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t know if I’ve ever written about a snotty nose before. And while that does make the title of my blog a bit misleading, it is also probably a good thing, no?

And now that you know my name I will let you all in on a little secret. I am a girl. And I poop. I know! Its disgusting and horrible and I’m gross. But, I just can’t help it. Sometimes I just have to poop. Nobody knew that I pooped until today day when my husband discovered my dirty little secret. It has been a sad day, indeed.

You see, I don’t like people to know that I poop because of this girl I went to high school with. Her name was Dana and she was my best friend all through high school. She was very insistent that girls don’t poop and while I didn’t believe her (I was in high school after all. I knew that I was a girl and that I pooped and that right there disproved her statement.), she was just so damn adamant about it that I started wondering if she really DIDN’T poop.

Of course, at one point she spent the night at my house and had to go number 2. She told me she had to pee, ran to the bathroom, and emerged a few minutes later reeking of every damn perfume I owned. She told me that she was trying them all on. Turns out she was trying to cover up the smell of her nasty ass. When I found out that she actually pooped I felt a bit betrayed, but continued to agree with her that girls don’t poop.

It was around that time that I started dating my now husband, Cleatus. When I mentioned the fact that girls don’t poop he happily agreed. What boy wants to think of their girlfriend pooping? Only the gross ones, thats who.

And now? We’ve been married for seven years and he still doesn’t think that I poop. If he is home and I have to go poop I will tell him I’m going to take a shower and then go poo while the water is running. It doesn’t matter if I’ve already showered once that day, I’ll do it again if I really gotta go.

This morning I woke up early to go to the gym. Cleatus was home from work and I had to go poop. I needed a shower anyway, so I grabbed my towel and headed to the bathroom. I turned the water on, so he wouldn’t know what was going on, did my business and then hopped in the shower. I usually wait to flush the toilet until after I turn the shower off so that he doesn’t catch on. (Oh, the deception. I know. Its a sickness.)

Well, it was bound to happen. I forgot to to flush the toilet today. I put on my make-up, got dressed and came out to the living room. A few minutes later Cleatus headed to the bathroom to go number one. He called for me to come in. I didn’t realize my mistake even then.

It was only when I saw him standing over the toilet, staring at the contents with a puzzled expression that I realized what I had done. Or, rather, what I had not done.

“What’s up with all this toilet paper in the toilet?” he asked.

Side note: Dear sweet baby Jesus, Thank you for allowing my poop to remain completely hidden under the pile of toilet paper that miraculously landed poop side down in the toilet. God is good. Amen.

I slammed the lid of the toilet down, hit the flusher and shouted “Girls don’t poop!” and then took off running from the room.

He called me back and looked at me like I was weird and said “Yeah, but why is there SO MUCH toilet paper?” There are a lot of things wrong with that question. Number one being that this is my poop and so lets not discuss it. Number two, don’t you use a lot of toilet paper? Number three, its not THAT MUCH toilet paper. Number four, are you saying I have a big ass and thats why I use so much toilet paper?

I replied that girls make sure their butts are wiped good and left the room.

I still haven’t been able to meet his eyes.