Earth to Husband!

Dear Husband,


You are the greatest person I have in my life and I love you so very,very much. But if you don't start doing some dishes, I'm gonna have to kick your ass! I was out of town for 10 days and when I returned I had to do all of your dishes. As a matter of fact, I can't remember the last time I saw you wash a dish. Did you forget how and you're just embarrassed to tell me that? Because if that's the case, I'll be more than pleased to teach you.


According to my estimate, you dirty up about 5 dishes per day. And it has been about 340 days since you washed a dish . (I think it was my last birthday...maybe...I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt on this one) That means I've washed approximately 1,700 of your dishes. So either start buying paper plates, hire a maid, or get busy washing, asshole! I'm getting tired and grouchy, and I just might start taking it out on you!! That's fair warning, in my opinion. In addition, I'm PMSing and so this whole situation is likely going to turn me into a raving lunatic at any minute. (But if you mention the PMS thing, I'm really going to give you an ass-whooping. So watch yourself, boy!)

Love,
Your sweet-hearted, caring, and adorable wife

Food for Thought

So our cable and internet went out for 2 days. Two days!! Good lord almighty, two days! (yes, we paid our bill! You smart ass. I outta whoop your butt for even thinking that.) So after I baked cookies, cleaned out the van, did all of the laundry,vacuumed the floor in the garage (man, I sure can get a lot of work done when I'm not parked in front of a computer all day!), mopped the kitchen floor, and realphabetized the food in the pantry (what?!), the question became "What now?". I missed the news. I missed my only source for a social life...facebook...I know, it's sad. I was feeling so disconnected from the world. We could have been nuked and I'd still be outside fucking around with my Christmas lights, totally clueless. And I'm not too sure the local radio station would have the gall to interrupt the ongoing Christmas music to actually let me know that New York has been wiped off of the map. (shrug) Anyway, my husband came home from work and just sat there, staring at me. He hasn't looked at me that long in over 10 years. It was quite unnverving. We had NO idea what to do next! Well, my husband had ONE idea. But that only used up one hour and five minutes of our long night ahead of us. One hour to shave off my winter fur, and well, you know what the other five minutes was for! Tee-hee-hee. (that's my innocent-little-girl laugh) Uh oh, Mom, are you reading this? Crap.
By the way, I asked my husband if it was ok to blog about our sex life and he replied, "hell no!" I don't know why. What's he ashamed of? Once a month he gets to be the "Master of the bedroom" for five whole minutes. Right on, brother!
But I digress, because when I was soaking in the tub and mowing my leg hairs (hey, it's been really cold out lately!), I had plenty of time to think. And what, you ask, does Catherine think about when she has lots of time on her hands? (You probably don't wanna know - but here it goes) I was thinking about how gross hotel rooms are. You see, I'm a camper. Not only that, but I'm a germaphobe. Despite being a germaphobe, I'll throw my ass on the ground and sleep with the raccoons and bugs anyday! But put me in a hotel room and I will completely freak out on you! I'm seriously grossed out! Women who are snobs about staying in hotels vs. camping are totally dilusional, in my opinion. They've obviously never watched a 20/20 expose' on "funk in hotel rooms". There are 4 things that I will NEVER touch in a hotel room. (1) faucets. Imagine some really nasty guy, wiping his big, shitty ass and then turning on the faucet to wash his hands (unlikely that he's even doing that, but let's just pretend, for argument sake.) Sure, you're also about to wash your hands, right after touching the faucet, but don't you also touch the faucet to turn the water off? Thus, you've just defeated the purpose of even washing your hands to begin with. (I've given this a lot of thought!) Gag.
(2) light switches. Imagine Mr. Shitty flipping on the lights after said trip to the crapper. Enough said, right? Wrong! When did you EVER see the maid clean the light switches. I rarely even do that and I vacuum my garage floor, for chrissake!
(3) the remote control. Yuck! Imagine a "John" romping around the hotel room with his $5.00 whore and then picking up the remote to finish off with a little porn. God lord. I can feel the chunks coming up my throat even now.
(4)The floor. Yes, I said the floor. You will never see my feet touch the floor in a hotel. My feet may smell like hell after wearing my shoes for 4 days straight, but that's preferrable to picking up a toe fungus from the skanky $5.00 whore. Ew.
So this is just food for thought when you all venture off for the holidays to visit family and you're snuggled up in your cozy sheets at the Drury Inn. Happy Holidays!

The Second Coming

I guess because we've been discussing Christmas lately, my son has Jesus on his mind. While enjoying a coffee at the local Barnes and Noble bookstore, my son said to me, "Look, Baby Jesus!" And I asked, "Where?" (No, I wasn't expecting to see him!) I was thinking that he was probably looking at a picture or ornament or something. Then my son replied, "Right there!" He was pointing to an actual baby. Hey, he's two years old. We haven't had the all-too-important A.D. and B.C. talk, ok?!! So anyway, I said, "No, that's not Baby Jesus." But he was obviously bound and determined to spot Jesus in the Starbuck's of Barnes and Noble. It was like playing a Biblical version of Where's Waldo. He started pointing to any child under two feet tall, and asking if that was Him. "Is that him? Is that him? Is that him?" (I really have a LOT of patience when I'm with only one child. You'd be amazed.) I look over at the last child that my son has pointed to and I see a little boy with bed-head and he's sucking on his own shirt. "Nope. That's not him either, William." But then I can't help but wonder, what would the modern version of the second coming look like? Would he walk around in droopy diapers with chocolate on his face and vomit on his shirt? Would he quote Elmo and call his blanket a "woobie"? Would he sass back at his mom, and eat his boogers, like the rest of our kids do? How weird would that be?! Or maybe God will make him the most well-behaved child in modern history. Which would probably disturb most of us, as opposed to impress us. We'd want to know what was wrong with that weird child?!! In lieu of bowing down and praising him, we'd be more prone to poking and prodding him, like an alien autopsy. Then we'd piss him off so much that he'd run back to Heaven and tell God to waste our sorry asses. I'm sure of it!
But I digress, because this is actually supposed to be a sweet story. So, I finally ask my son, "Are you Baby Jesus?" And he said, "No Mama. I'm an angel." (all together now) Awwwwwwwwww! How sweet.

...BLAST OFF!

First of all, you have to understand that I have no breasts. I've said this many times before. But it's a critical piece of information that you must hang onto in this next blog. Otherwise I come across as a bit of a weirdo ( or even worse, a pervert!). Anyway, as a result of my being mammary-challenged, my "mini-bras" are all fully padded. I could take a swift punch in the chest and not feel a damn thing. The padding also gives the wonderful illusion that I'm at least a full A-cup. Woohoo! I'm in the big time now! Jealous? (All of my ex-boyfriends are taking a collect sigh of relief that they dodged that pathetic bullet) So anyway, my two-year-old son was sitting on my lap, playing with my hair and he suddenly looked down and grabbed ahold of my boobs. (or at least the padding of my bra) and he said, "what deez?" I said, "oh, nothin' much" (literally). Then he started the countdown: "10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...blast off!!!!" And my breasts became critical buttons in the control room of his space shuttle. It quickly reminded me of the old "tune in Tokyo" joke. You know the one. So there we are, on the couch, my son making rocket noises and ocassionally pushing on the puffiness of my bra. And I think, "I wonder if this is going to give him a false sense of what a woman really looks like?" "Is this a good thing or bad?" "Is he going to follow in his Dad's footsteps and bring home a flat-chested woman (and love her anyway, damnit!) or will he rebel and bring home one of those freaks with a double M rack?" Anyway, because he was literally grabbing hold of a bra, and nothing else, I didn't really bother to stop him. Unfortunately, this has led him to believe that he can do this at any moment. I was waiting for my kids to get out of school and he sat on my lap, in front of the other mothers, and started counting down. I freaked out because I knew what would follow "3,2,1..." I quickly pushed him off of my lap and yelled, "noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Like a bad movie. That, of course, brought on more attention than if I had just let him grab my boob! I smiled, like a coward and said, "I thought I saw an ant on my pants." Oh lord. Good cover, Catherine. You're such a smart, quick thinker! 'Cause that was a much better response. They won't think you're an over-reacting weiner at all! I'm an idiot. I'm sure I was the hysterical highlight of many dinner conversations that night. (Narcissism is fun, isn't it?!)

You Liars!

I just watched a commercial where a woman is bargaining with her friend, to share the phone number of her babysitter. She offers her a trip to Cancun, or something like that. Anyway, the offer is impressively high. That's when it occurred to me that I'm surrounded by lying bitches! Oh my god, you guys have been holding back on me and I didn't even realize it. When I've been sitting around complaining about not having a babysitter, I've aways wondered why you all stare at me like a deer in headlights and offer up NO advice. I just thought you were in the same boat and were stumped for good ideas. How naive of me! But it suddenly hit me like a stinking sack of shit...you all have a sitter and you're not giving up her number unless I kill you first! I didn't know that Motherhood was such a dog-eat-dog world. I haven't been playing the game, but now that I know that it actually IS a game...it's ON! Look out ladies, cause I'm after your babysitter and I'm gonna steal her away from you. I'm gonna let her watch my kids while talking long distance on my phone, eating my food, inviting over her boyfriend, and getting drunk off of my booze. She'll never sit for you again. So there! Muwaaaaahahahaha!! Who's the winner now, bitches?!! Wait....what?!!

ugh...again

Dear Kids,
Today I sadly had to declare it official: No more taking a bath together. You've been splashing around and making a bubbly mess together for five years now. It's been fun. But it's time for that to come to an end, and frankly, I'm a little sad about it. But it had to be done. Yesterday, you were slapping each others bare asses and laughing at each others private parts. And the piece de resistance was when Ian showed Abby "why boy parts are cooler than girl parts" and he proceeded to stand up in the tub and pee on your head. Yea, I thought I'd step in before Dr. Freud did. I didn't want it to come down to that one REALLY awkward moment when I catch the two of you "playing doctor" and my shocked and disgusted expression fills you with shame and scars you for life. I love you too much for that. So,separate bubble baths from now on...that's how it goes. Sorry.
Love,
Mommy