There are lots of things I wouldn't mind waking up to. Like Ryan Reynolds the smell of bacon. Or the beautiful sunlight sparkling through the window. Or the blissful chirping of frolicking birds.

But a toddler saying, "There's poop on the floor and I stepped in it," isn't on the list.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what jolted me into (harsh) reality first thing this morning. We have two dogs, and it couldn't be the small delicate turds of our pug - oh, no. The dumping culprit was our lab, who weighs more than my kids and poops like a triceratops. I was pretty pissed off as I scrubbed the carpet. I had a morning to-do list as long as my arm, and children to get ready and schlep off to school, and dealing with a crappy surprise wasn't exactly on my agenda.

By the time I finished, I was running behind schedule. I dashed downstairs to grab the kids' clothes from the dryer - not to mention two pairs of shoes which had gotten muddy in the creek. Here's the thing about boys' wardrobes: they're small. My kids go through jeans so fast that they literally only have one decent pair, maybe two, at any given time - which is why every night, I do laundry and throw it in the dryer before I go to bed. And those two pairs of shoes are my first-grader Coby's ONLY footwear.

So you can imagine my dismay when I realized that our dryer had quit working after I had gone to bed, and was heaped with a load of wet clothing and shoes that my kids were supposed to wear to school in like twenty minutes.

I scrambled around and found two decent pairs of school jeans, and put my second-grader in the least holey-and-grass-stained pair of play jeans I could find. As for the shoes, Coby had to wear them to school damp, and I was sure to throw in a motherly lecture about how "if you wouldn't have worn them in the creek like you weren't supposed to, you wouldn't be in this situation."

While the kids were getting dressed, I was rushing like a madwoman to get my own clothes on because a.) I had to drop them off at school, and I like to be dressed lest something like this happen again, and b.) I had a morning Zumba class to teach. I grabbed my favorite pair of workout pants - the ones I always wear - and pulled them on. That's when I realized the waistband was damp.

Startled, I snatched them off and hesitantly lifted them to my nose.

Freaking cat pee. Vanessa the Terrible had struck again. (Guess who never did make her an appointment to get spayed?) I washed them, but here I was, dryer-less. I wore paint-stained yoga pants to school drop-off in hopes that my Zumba pants would be dry by the time I got home - but no. They were still wet when I put them on.

Getting ready to walk out the door for Zumba, I decided to fix my three-year-old's hair before leaving. But when I sprinkled a little water in it to make it lay down? It foamed. This is what happens when you combine an independent toddler who wants to do everything by himself and a dad who happens to be supervising bathtime and is more than happy to let him. So I had to wash Corbin's hair in the sink. And as if that didn't make me late enough, my "low tire" light came on while I was driving to the gym so I had to stop and air it up. Only it didn't specify which one was low and they all looked fine to me, so I put air in all of them.

Today might be Wednesday, but it was like Monday. On steroids.

It wasn't the kind of morning I'd wish to have. But then I got on Facebook - and I read an article about a woman who was burying her three children and her father, all of whom were killed by a drunk driver. Then I scrolled down and watched a video of a Haitian community literally eating patties made of dirt just to fill their stomachs.

It gave me a very humbling and much-needed dose of perspective. And it helped me to know that - broken dryer and pain-in-the-ass pets and toddlers and low tires and all - I have it made. So very, very made.

... Even on a Monday-ish Wednesday.

Dear Weather ...

Dear Weather,

I think I can safely speak for people in fickle climates everywhere when I say this: make up your damn mind.

It's mid-October right now, and you apparently can't decide whether to be balmy and summer-like or breezy and crisp. Because one day it's like eighty degrees, and the next day I'm in boots and a sweater with a hankering for chili. And on the occasions when I've been browsing Pinterest and have found a fun new way to tie a scarf so maybe I'll finally look fashionable? You throw a kink in my plans like, "Nope! It's tank top weather, bitch."

Don't even get me started on the indoor temperature, Weather. In the morning I need the heat on. In the afternoon I need the air conditioner. When I think, "I'll cool the house off by sleeping with the windows cracked," it's practically Arctic in here by 6 a.m. and I wake up with a sore throat. WTF.

And how can I (appear to) be a good mom when I have no idea how to dress my kids in a weather-appropriate manner? Between the summer shorts and the long sleeves and jeans, my laundry basket overfloweth. I JUST WANT TO PUT AWAY THE SUMMER CLOTHES, OKAY?! I'm tired of dipping into storage totes to retrieve clothing I thought my kids would no longer need.

If we were in a relationship, Weather, we'd be one of those couples who fights publicly on Facebook and then unfriends each other and changes their profile to "Single" and makes their status something like "Good riddance to that dead weight!" and then a few hours later it's updated to "Engaged" with a picture of us kissing, #blessed and #soinlove.

I'm tired of the ups and downs.

Bottom line, Weather, I'm gonna need you to stop being a capricious asshole and commit already. You're really getting in the way of my wardrobe of comfortable, fat-roll-disguising hoodies.



My husband has a problem. And it's this.

Or maybe I should say I have the problem, since I have to live with him. AND HIS HORRIBLE FAKE TEETH THAT HE WEARS FOR THE MOST RANDOM OCCASIONS.

It's been just about a year since I wrote this post about how the teeth came into our lives. Let me say that again: a year. And yet ... the above photo? Was taken last week.

Let's ignore for a moment that they're probably crawling with, like, flesh-eating bacteria by now. We'll focus on the fact that it has been a full year, and what I thought (hoped?) would be a phase is clearly more of a ... psychological issue quirk. I figure he'd wear them for a week or two and then lose them in various places the way he does with, you know, his wedding ring.

But no. The man may misplace the very symbol of our marriage, but he damn well knows where his rotten-ass plastic dentures are at all times.

Here's a photo of him wearing them in the Dairy Queen drive-through over the summer:

The cashier did a serious double-take.

Fun fact: he tried to order with them in, but they couldn't understand him so he had to take them out and repeat himself.

Or how about this picture from when we went - wait for it - Christmas shopping?

Because nothing says "holiday magic" like obnoxious fake teeth.

He recently flew to the east coast for work and as he was leaving I joked, "Do you want your teeth?" and the man actually hesitated as though he were seriously considering packing the teeth for a damn business trip.

I'd surreptitiously pitch them in the trash while he's gone one day, but I'm afraid that would be grounds for divorce. He would definitely notice their absence. Besides, he usually keeps them at the ready in the console of the car, because you never know when you're going to need disgusting false teeth at a moment's notice. *eye roll*

I'm thinking I need to stage a denture-vention here.

... Or at least buy him a clean set.


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