Paper Phallus?

Okay. I'm sure that every single person reading this is mature, refined and intelligent (because posts about poop and fatness are, like, totally what the literati read). But I'm asking you today to forget about all that for a hot second and put your immaturity caps on. Because, my friends, Colin drew me a gem of a picture yesterday that I'm about to share with you. What do you think this is?


I KNOW, RIGHT?! It looks a little phallic, hmm? Right down to the - snicker, snicker - blue balls.

It's not the first time he's drawn something questionable. Remember when he presented me with this ... or this? He's always doodling, and his artwork has provided me with great amusement. But I seriously think this most recent one takes the cake.

So are you ready to wager a guess?

It's ..................



.......... scissors. Now do you see it? Yeah, me too. He got some new kiddie-scissors in preparation for Kindergarten and has been practicing with them ALL. THE. TIME lately. Apparently yesterday he traced over them to make me my own pair of scissors - with blue handles, just like his. Awesome.

This is definitely one to paste in the baby book.

   


Mow ... or Less

If you've been reading for a while, you probably know how much I love to mow. No, seriously, I do. There's just something about going out there and zoning out, yet being productive at the same time. But if you checked out my yard right now, you'd never know that mowing makes me happy. Because it looks like the grass is plotting a hostile takeover, y'all. It's not that I don't want to get it taken care of, it's just that a set of circumstances has prevented me from doing my lawnmower-ly duties of late. Here ... I've drawn you a set of pictures so you can see exactly why the yard looks so shaggy.



So see? TOTALLY not really my fault. What?? I can't control the weather or my impulses which led me to take a weekend trip to Chicago.

It's supposed to be sunny tomorrow. We'll see what happens.

PS - Hey, have you entered my suh-weet Le Creuset giveaway yet? Just click here and leave a comment, and you're entered! The lucky winner will be chosen THIS Friday, y'all!

Next Stop: Nuthouse

I was looking out the living room window earlier. It looked like a storm was rolling in so I went to check it out, and then while I was at the window I just sort of glazed over and started staring into space, thinking. (The kids were all napping, so I could hear myself.) And you know how when you stare at something long enough, it blurs, and you just can't avert your eyes? It's like your eyeballs fall asleep or something. Anyway, when I snapped out of that, my eyes focused on the window of the house across the street. Here was my immediate train of thought:

OMG someone's standing at that window. They probably think I'm looking at them. They probably think I'm some paranoid freak, looking out my window. Like a crackhead or something. But wait. They're at the window too. So that means either they're paranoid freaks or they're just looking at the weather like me.  

And then I realized that not only was I not seeing a person in the window across the street, it was like a reflection of their mailbox or some stupid thing that doesn't even look like a person. So then I thought:

Wow, I totally thought that was a person. Wait, does that count as a hallucination? Was I hallucinating? Do crazy people know they're going crazy? Am I going crazy and don't even know it?*

*(After reading this, my answer is most likely yes.)

So ... what if I am, y'all? Going crazy, I mean? I sometimes do feel like I'm going a bit insane when I'm cleaning up the 89,000th kid-or-animal mess of the day. Or when I'm dealing with one minor fiasco and two more sprout up behind my back. Would I know if I started to toe the line between sanity and la-la land? Does anybody?

If you see me wandering around in public, pantsless and muttering to myself, please interrupt me to let me know that my question's been answered.




   

The Nasty Plunge

Yeah, I care about my looks, but seriously? As soon as someone invents a surgery to implant a third or fourth eye and some additional hands, I'm the first in line. Because it would take extra appendages to prevent fiascos like the one I just experienced this morning. I'm still traumatized, y'all.

When you've got three kids - unless you have those aforementioned extra appendages - there's always somebody that manages to do something sneaky while your back is turned. In this case, it was Cameron.

The older boys were playing contentedly in our room, Colin arranging the kids' DVDs into one pile and the grownups' DVDs into another, and Cameron "helping" (hey, it kept them quiet). So I was in the kitchen on dish duty, with the baby on the floor beside me, chewing on a toy. It was - dare I say - peaceful.

Until Cameron ran into the kitchen ... naked ... carrying the plunger.

He held it upright and over his head, like a torch. And like the torch-bearer at the Olympics, he made a quick lap before retreating into the hallway. Don't get me wrong - I was actually tempted to just let him play with it because hello, quiet? But it was a plunger and good mommies don't let their toddlers play with plungers, so I dutifully followed him to retrieve it.

As I approached him, he dropped it. And something fell out of the rubber bell part onto the carpet. A big lump of something that looked like ... oh God please no ... oh nonononono.

Aw, hell. Poop.

The child had pooped in the plunger.

The plunger was poopy. Cameron's hands were poopy. Both the baby and the dog were headed for the clump on the carpet. For a few seconds, I just stood there frozen, like maybe the problem would resolve itself. But despite my silent pleas for divine intervention, it was all on me.

I ordered Cameron to freeze and not touch anything (which is about as effective as, well, telling a two-year-old not to touch anything). I swiftly removed the dog and baby from the vicinity. Then I scoured Cameron's hands. Then I cleaned up the carpet. Then I threw the plunger away. (What? I wasn't gonna clean it off. Yuck!)

As I was doing all this, I kept trying to imagine how on earth he could have positioned himself to take a dump in the plunger. I mean, little kids are undeniably flexible, but poop-in-a-plunger flexible?

I got my answer when I took a closer look at my bed.

At my bed, y'all.

My bed. Where Cameron had apparently pooped and then transferred the pile to the plunger. With his hands. And then ran around the house with it before dropping it onto the hallway carpet. My only consolation was that he had pulled back the comforter first (which doesn't fit into our washing machine) and had done his duty - er, doody - on the sheets.

... If you can call that a consolation.

Somebody saaaaaaave meeeeeeee!!!*



This Post Has Lots of Stuff!

If you've ever said, "Gee, I wish Rita would post a hodgepodge of unorganized crap" - and I'm sure that most of you have* - then today is your lucky day! Because this post is exactly that. Although I like to call it "Bullet Points of Random Awesomeness."

*Okay, so you probably haven't ever said that really, but let's pretend.

- First things first: I've got a new giveaway up! It's a spectacular pair of Le Creuset baking dishes in, like, the most happy color ever. So go click on the giveaways tab at the top of the page (or here) and enter to win - all you gotta do is leave a comment! Yay!

- Secondly: I think I've figured out why I have such a wrinkly forehead, y'all.

It's my posture.

My computer sits right in front of a window, and I just caught a glimpse of myself slumped over at the keyboard, looking like Quasimodo 2.0. My posture is horrible! Absolutely appalling! And if I'm not careful, I'm gonna be starting all my sentences with, "Before I had this hump on my back ..."

When I'm all hunched forward like that, I noticed I have a tendency to keep my eyebrows raised. I guess it has something to do with how I'm looking at the screen, but I'm pretty sure that's the reason for the ever-deepening creases on my too-young-to-be-wrinkled forehead. So until I forget from now on I'm going to try to be more mindful of both my posture and my facial expression!

- i wish i could write like this. like i'm too busy and important to fuss with the capitalization of letters. like my powerful stream of consciousness cannot be interrupted with those intrustive I's and A's. But I'm a writing nerd and everything has to be capitalized, punctuated, and sometimes italicized. It's kind of a pain, really.

- I seriously think Cameron has an abnormally loud voice. Like, when he talks, it's at a fairly normal volume but when he cries? He sounds like a bellowing calf. His voice is so ... big. It's so embarrassing out in public when he has a typical two-year-old meltdown and everybody within a five-mile radius can hear (and, consequently, gawk).

And that's all the Bullet Points of Random Awesomeness I can muster for now - I hope you aren't, like, overloaded on awesomeness because of it. (Although come to think of it, I guess there are much worse things to be overloaded on. Like Long Island iced teas. Don't ask me how I know ...)


Why I Shouldn't Even Have a Blog

Guys, my last blog was written on Thursday. It's Tuesday now. And for someone with the burning desire to blog on the daily, well - that just sucks a whole bunch of ass.

When I went from two kids to three and still managed to blog regularly - even from my hospital bed after delivery, via my iPhone - I naively thought, "This isn't so bad. I can do this. WIN!" and I was all, like, proud of my bloggy dedication and stuff. And for a few precious months, I kept up an admirable posting schedule.
But that was before my littlest man, Coby, did more than eat, sleep, and poop. In eight short months, this ...


... has turned into this:

 I know it's blurry, but it's hard to catch the little stinker standing still.

Now that he's mobile, doing anything for an extended period is twenty times harder. Throw the older two and our 5-month-old Lab puppy into the mix, and attempting to blog makes me want to toss my kids my dog my computer through a window.

Let's use this very post as an example. I sat down, and opened blogger to a nice fresh "new post" page. But my thoughts were interrupted by my two-year-old, Cameron, literally climbing into my chair and onto my back, saying, "Mommy? Can I have Nick Jr. on the computer? Momm-eeeee? Nick Jr. pleeeeeease?" which dissolved into frantic, high-pitched whines when I declined his request. While he was using me as his personal jungle gym and deafening me from the ear-splitting volume of his big little voice, I noticed the baby making a mad dash for the dog food. When I hopped up out of the chair, I toppled Cameron out too, which made the whines turn into full-fledged wails. His foot was tangled in a cord, which made the keyboard clatter to the floor. Since I couldn't get to the baby with the required speed, I tried to yell his name. But I forgot it. I called him by both brothers' names, and the dog's, before finally breaking free of the chaotic tangle at the computer and swooping Coby away from the greasy, stinking kibbles just in the nick of time.

I thought I'd set him up with some toys and he'd be fine. But no. I put him on the floor and he dissolved into indignant tears. So I thought I could maybe blog with him on my lap. It used to work, back before he was so squirmy and screamy, but not any more. He fussed and threw himself around and dropped his pacifier, which the dog promptly ran away with. So I had to get up and retrieve that and wash it. 

The older two whined for more breakfast, so I got them some yogurt. Josie (the dog) pooped on the floor, so I had to stop and clean that up. And wash my hands. Then Cameron's hands, because he had yogurt all over them ... and the living room carpet, prompting a lecture about the importance of eating at the table. Then Josie was chewing up a book. Then Colin (the four-year-old) was yelling, "Mommy! Cameron is disciplining me!" Then Coby decided he was hungry and Josie was chewing on a stuffed frog she's not supposed to have and Cameron was whining because he wanted a tape measure and Colin asked for more yogurt and Coby was hanging off my boob while I tried to type one-handed and then my head exploded!

Okay, my head didn't really explode but seriously, y'all? I thought it might. Or, at the very least, steam might come out of my ears like in the cartoons. 

So now here I am, nearing the end of my rant, which has taken me an impressive hour and a half to finish. And what did I write about? How I can't even write. Isn't it ironic?

... Don'tcha think?*

*Ten bonus points if you've now got Alanis Morissette's "Ironic" stuck in your head. Points are redeemable for ... well, nothing. Ahahaha! I'm an ass.**

**I've now used the word "ass" twice in this post. Which also makes me somewhat profane.

Anyway, allow me to apologize. Not for my overzealous usage of "ass," but for slacking on blog posting. And commenting. And replying. If y'all wanted a poop story, I could post one of those everysingleday - but, like my life, my blog needs more variety. 

I've got a couple of giveaways lined up, as soon as I can post them (re-read the above for clarification as to why I'm soooooo sloooooooow): CSN Stores, EdenFantasys (yes, it's a little on the naughty side!), eShakti.com clothing, and a book by the hilarious Lisa Kogan - so keep checking in and I promise, I'll give y'all the goods.

... As soon as I can catch a two-minute break.


       

Kids + Calories = Conspiracy

Today I'm linking up with Foursons' "Letters of Intent"! But I don't know how to make the button clicky on here so you'll have to click the link instead. Just as easy, right? :) 

Dear Boys,

Why are you making it so difficult for Mommy to be skinny again?

I know what it is. You want to keep me soft and fluffy so you'll have a nice cushiony spot to lay, right? I mean, I can't think of any other valid reason why you've encouraged the piling-on of pounds since day one. "Oh, Mommy," you communicated to me as fetuses, in the form of cravings, "We need calcium to grow. Will you please send down a pint and a half of Ben & Jerry's S'mores ice cream?" Of course, being the good mother that I am, I indulged your needs for calcium. And everything else. And the numbers on the scale rose faster than a bottle rocket crept up.

I might've lost the baby weight easily after that, but no. Because then you got older and started eating "people food" like delicious grilled cheese sandwiches and stuff. But you eat like birds, and there are a lot of picked-at leftovers when you're done. And we can't have that, now, can we? There are starving children in this world. Plus it's a pain to dispose of all the cheese-stripped pizza crusts and hamburgers minus the burger part. So I often wind up cleaning up your plates as I'm cleaning up after meals. It's amazing how many calories a few kibbles of soggy cereal at a time can add up to.

And you know that thing I (try to) do every day where I jump around and sometimes lay on the floor? That's called exercise. But, darlings, it doesn't do me any good if I can't do it properly. Allow me to demonstrate with a couple of illustrations. This is what Mommy is supposed to look like when doing abdominal crunches:

But thanks to you and your evil canine cohort, this is what Mommy really looks like when doing abdominal crunches:

See the difference, boys (and dog)?

I understand why you want me to be pudgy. I mean, right now it's a comfort thing, and later on it's probably because you don't want your teenage friends thinking I'm hot (I know. My friends all thought my mom was hot when I was a teenager. Gross). But whatever the reason, your conspiring against me has to stop. I promise to be just as comfy - and later on, just as non-hot - when I'm back in my size nines. K?

Love,
Mommy

The British Invasion

My kids love 'em some TV. Yeah, I said it. I mean, it's not like they're brainless imbeciles glued slack-jawed to the boob tube all day, but they do watch some shows. Usually their channel of choice is Nick Jr. - it's actually my channel of choice, too, because they actually learn something from most of the stuff they watch instead of just staring at some mindless cartoon.

But thanks to Colin's newfound ability to spell, and hence to look things up on the computer, he's discovered some new shows online. And one of the shows he's discovered is Charlie and Lola.

It's on the Disney channel here in the States, but it's a British show, so Charlie and Lola have these adorable English accents (I'm a sucker for accents). Charlie is Lola's very patient and tolerant older brother, always willing to help his little sister. And Colin loves pretending to be Charlie.

Do you understand what that means? Do you grasp the magnitude of this? Charlie is patient and tolerant and helpful. And obedient! Which means that when Colin is pretending to be Charlie, he is also all of these things (with a bonus adorable English accent - which he's actually really good at imitating!). Where normal Colin will drag his feet when I ask him to do something, "Charlie" will cheerfully - and immediately! - complete the task. So I'm taking advantage. Now, if I need something really urgently, I'll just cut to the chase and ask Charlie.

The only catch? When he's Charlie, I'm no longer his American "Mommy," but his British "Mummy" - which requires an accent on my part, too. It's fun, though. And as long as he's being sweet and cooperative, I have no problem speaking with an English accent for a substantial portion of the day.

It's just a phase, I'm sure, and the magic of Charlie will fade before I can say "tea and crumpets." But until my cheeky little chap decides to return, I'm going to enjoy our own brand of British invasion.






Happy Mother's Day, Daddy

Mother's Day: the one day of the year when Mom gets to sleep as late as she wants, be showered with gifts and sweet sentiments, and have her every need and desire swiftly attended to by her adoring -

Ahahahaha! Sorry, but I was laughing too hard to finish typing that last sentence. Because as you know if you're a mom, Mother's Day doesn't usually go down like that. Not that our husbands and families don't have the best of intentions, but ... come on. Case in point, my own Mother's Day.

Their intended gift to me: A delicious breakfast at IHOP.
What really happened: Curtis worked until 2 am, so he had to have at least a little sleep. The boys woke up at seven, demanding breakfast immediately, as usual. I fielded increasingly whiny urgent requests until eight, during which time I also herded cats and wrangled octopuses got all three of them, plus myself, dressed and ready. I woke Curtis up at eight o'clock; while he got ready, I took the dog to potty and loaded the boys into the car. We drove to IHOP accompanied by a chorus of "I'm huuuuuungry! When are we going to beeeeee there?" and found that approximately 80% of the population had the same idea - there was a half-hour wait for a table. My stress level crept up like the mercury on a thermometer as we tried to keep our ravenously hungry, unable-to-understand-the-concept-of-patient children occupied. Then of course when we finally got a table, there was the wait for food. It was after ten o'clock when we actually ate, at which point my kids had been shrieking pestering asking for breakfast for over three hours. Nerves: jangled.

Their intended gift to me: A nice leisurely drive.
What really happened: When Curtis asked me after breakfast what I'd like to do next, I said, "Let's go for a drive." I like to ride around in the car for several reasons: one, it gives me a chance to chat with my husband. Two, I enjoy looking at houses and landscaping and such. Three - and probably most significantly - my children are strapped in and I don't have to chase after them hollering "No!" every twenty seconds. But Curtis drove by a playground. And it was a sunny day. And, well, you know what happens when you drive kids by a playground on a sunny day. So we ended up stopping to let them play, and there went my drive.

Their intended gift to me: A lovely afternoon nap.
What really happened: When we got home, I was exhausted. "Go in the bedroom and lay down," Curtis grandly suggested, "and I'll stay out here with the kids." So I took the baby, because I knew he'd nap with me, and back to the bedroom we went. I snuggled into my cozy bed and began the process of putting the baby to sleep. It took a few minutes, and once he was out, I began dozing myself ... until Colin's little voice whispered in my ear.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mommy," he said. "When you wake up from your nap, we're going to make you a big cake. And do you know what kind of cake it's going to be? A red one. With pink frosting. And sprinkles! And, Mommy, we're going to take the little tubes of glitter gel and we're going to write HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MOMMY and WE LOVE YOU on the top of it. Won't that be nice? Mommy? Would you like a cake like that?"

"Yes," I said wearily. "I'd love that. Now go wait with Daddy so Mommy can nap."

But as soon as I'd dozed off again, I heard suspicious sounds from beyond the bedroom door. And I got up to find Daddy sacked out on the couch while the boys ran amok - because Daddies everywhere have this widely-held belief that as long as they are physically present in the same room as the children, nothing bad will happen, even if they're sound asleep. And I knew Curtis had to work that night, so I just let him sleep. And so there went my nap.

I spent the next hour or so preparing dinner. Mostly one-handed, because the baby had woken up early from his nap and was cranky and refused to let me put him down.

Then Curtis went to work, and I cleaned up. Whee!

But the best part? The huge card my kids made. They found a big piece of white paperboard and got to work on their masterpiece: drawing colorful butterflies, using crayons and markers. When they were done, they proudly showed me the finished product. The sweet Mother's Day card they had made ... for their dad.


If you can't see it, it says: "Happy Mom's Day and thanks Dad for everything you do" and "I love you Dad so much."

Way to make Mom feel special, dudes.

Anyway, that was my Mother's Day. There may have been a few glitches, and it may not go down in the record books as the Best Mother's Day Ever. But you know what? I got syrupy pancake kisses. I got the laughter of my sons as they chased each other on the playground. I got warm snuggles from my baby for a few precious minutes in our bed. And I got the sweet confirmation that I chose a Daddy for my boys who is so special he deserves his own Mother's Day card.

I think that's a pretty good deal.






The Lockout Luck-Out

Because of my husband's insane work shift and schedule, and the time he spends sleeping as a result, I see him for a total of about 12 to 14 hours a week lately. That might sound like a decent amount, but considering there are actually 168 hours in a week, it's not so good. Plus when I say "see" my husband I mean just that: see him. See does not equal spend quality time with. See means, like, chatting with him briefly from the bathroom counter while he takes a dump (and simultaneously plays with his iPhone, which considerably lessens the quality of the interaction). So a lot of times, I feel like a single mother. With a sugar daddy. Who comes over to poop and sleep.

Seeing as I'm on my own with the kids most of the time, I have to figure out methods of improvising some of the household duties. Like taking the dog outside. It has to be done - there's no alternative - but I hate leaving the kids in the house, especially when Josie is taking her sweet time ... like she did the other day.

The baby was content in his bouncy seat and the older two were playing a computer game, so I thought it would be a good time to slip out with the dog. Josie thought it would be a good time, too ... to leap through dandelions and chase her tail and nip at her leash. And to sniff every. Single. Blade. Of Grass. (Seriously, someone enlighten me: when the world is your toilet, why does it take for-freakin-ever to find a suitable place to pee?) After what seemed like an eternity, she finally went, and we headed back to the house.

Our front door is flanked by windows on both sides, and I could see Cameron standing at one of them, one hand raised toward the doorknob.

Oh no he didn't, I thought.

I heard the doorknob jiggling.

Oh no he didn't! I thought. I reached for the knob.

Oh yes he did. The door? Was locked.

First I was mad, until I realized that Cameron most likely locked it on accident. He doesn't quite understand how it works ... just that there are fun little buttons and latches to turn. But then it dawned on me that he wouldn't know how to deliberately unlock it, either. Okay, so don't panic, I told myself. Colin's in there, and he knows how to unlock the door. So I knocked.

Cameron ran away.

Colin was nowhere to be seen.

So I pounded. With both fists. Then I rang the doorbell.

... And rang it. And rang it. And raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang it.

No Colin. No Cameron. No magic-door-unlocking fairy. Just me, standing on my front porch with the dog, pounding on my own door like some sort of idiot. As I was beating the door with both fists like a crazed gorilla standing there, I could hear my own voice in my head, replaying a conversation I'd had many times with Colin. If the doorbell ever rings and Mommy's not able to answer it - like, if I'm in the shower or something - you never, EVER answer it yourself, I had sternly warned him. Don't even go to the door to see who it is. Just pretend nobody's home.

Great. I should have added an "unless-Mommy-is-outside-with-the-dog-and-your-little-brother-locks-the-door" clause. But too late; Colin wasn't coming to the door (it figures this would be the one damn time when he actually does something I tell him to do). So I gave up on the doorbell-ringing and headed around to the basement door. I already knew the other exterior doors would be locked too, because I always keep them that way - but I had to try anyway.

Yep. Just as I thought, the back door was firmly latched. No use knocking on that one, either. My last resort was the door on our deck, but it was pretty much guaranteed to be locked because Cameron's always trying to open it. As I trudged unhappily up the steps, I wondered what the hell to do. I mean, someone with more common sense, someone whose three small children weren't locked alone inside the house, might have had a good solution - but I was panicking a little bit, y'all. Should I break a window? Go get my neighbor and see if he has some sort of idea? Why can't I be one of those people who just automatically knows what to do, all the time, about everything?

By the time I reached the door, I was really starting to get upset. I pictured the kids inside, doing what they do best: getting into mischief while I'm not looking. There would inevitably be a huge mess, or a huge accident. They would -- holy shit, the door opened!

You can imagine my relief as I turned the knob and the deck door swung open. I'm serious when I say it's almost never unlocked, so I'm counting this as some sort of miracle. And the second miracle of the day? The kids were unfazed, intact, and hadn't made any messes. Win.

I think from now on I'll, like, keep a key attached to the dog's collar or something. You know, just in case.






*The winner of the Perricone MD giveaway was announced yesterday - congratulations to Aleta! I'll be posting a really fun giveaway within the next couple of days, so stay tuned!*

Accidental Fat-Assery

I may not be sick any more, but my voice still sounds like I am. It's half-whispery, warbles at weird times, you know what I mean: that "I'm-losing-my-voice" hoarseness. Sometimes I'll be talking and my unreliable voice will just skip a word or two - I'll say it, but nothing actually comes out. And like, on the phone lately, I've been asked a.) are you crying? and b.) are you trying to be quiet for some reason?

No and no. I've just got a weird voice for the time being. And having a weird voice brings risks: like making you inadvertantly insult someone you love.

See, I accidentally called my husband a fat-ass. Accidentally!

It went down like this. We were both rummaging around in the closet for something to wear when I came across a sling. You know, the baby-wearing type? It's adorable, but I misjudged my size when I ordered it, and when I'd tried it on for the first time I could hardly squeeze my tub-o-lard self into it, let alone leave room for the baby. So into the closet it went.

"Wonder if I could wear my sling now?" I mused. After all, the too-tight incident was over 40 pounds ago.

"Wonder if I could wear it?" Curtis piped up. He was being silly; it's a very feminine print. (Although the Internet did once tell me that Curtis is gay, so you know ...)

"It would never fit you," I said. Meaning, of course, that if it didn't fit me, it most certainly wouldn't fit a six-foot-four dude. You know?

"Are you saying I'm too much of a fat-ass to wear it?" he teased.

"I don't think you are a fat-ass," I said - but my voice, which falters in and out, inaudibly whispered the "don't" part. Damn traitorous vocal cords! So it came out: "I think you are a fat-ass." Worse, I was turned toward the window at the time, so it's not like he saw my lips form the words or anything.

Uh-oh.

I may as well have thrown a bucket of ice water in Curtis's face; he looked as shocked as he could be. "Whaaaat?"

"I said I don't think you're a fat-ass. As in do not!" I insisted. "It's just that my voice didn't say the 'don't' part. I swear!"

He totally didn't believe me. He acted like I was all,

or ...

But seriously. I didn't call him that. Well okay, maybe I did, but not on purpose. I mean, come on: me calling someone fat is like Andy Dick calling someone obnoxious. Larry King calling someone old. Tiger Woods calling someone a cheater. This extra bulk around my midsection is not pockets stuffed with cash, folks.

Eventually I got him to believe me, so our marriage is no longer threatened by (perceived) emotional abuse.

... But that was a close one. 

 

  

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