Pillow Talk Gone Awry

* I should warn all family members, parental units, and others who prefer to think our twins were a result of immaculate conception that you may not want to read this post. It's not graphic or anything. It's just going to ruin your image of this:

  

Don't say I ever pooped on your dream without giving you a warning first.

Last night, I was trying to get my husband, the love of my life, to give me some pillow talk. It kind of went like this:

Me: Do you love me?

B: Yes.

Me: Say you love me. (sometimes I'm 13 years-old)

B: I love you.

Me:  Say it with, you know, like passion. Like a sexy romance novel guy.

B: I love you like a jungle cat. I want to lick your face like a lionness.

Me:  Um... That didn't really work. Say something like a sexy cowboy.

B:  Want to go watch some horses do it?

Me: Never mind.

B: :::Passes Gas:::

The End.

Come to think of it, that picture might not be so "off" after all. Huh.

How does your pillow talk go awry?

Jedi Baby

He's going to be that kid in the VW commercial. It.Will.Happen.

I can make this macaroni move with my mind

And in case you live under a rock and you don't know what commercial I'm talking about, here you go:

 

My Butt Eats People Like You for Breakfast

I know I talk about my ass a lot.

A LOT

I can't help it.  It's like a vice.

My love-hate relationship with the boo-tay.  Love that when I fall down, it lets me land on a cushion of soft lardiness.  Hate that it makes skirts 2 inches shorter in the back than they are in the front.  Love that it's not flat.  Hate that it's not smooth like buttah.

Mah wedgie face

 My recent beef?  That it eats things. Like my clothes.

 I have no choice. I have to wear thongs at all times.               Because  it will nom, nom, nom on any briefs. I spent the first 21 years of life excavating for cotton.  I don't know why it took so long.

But when it's Holy Shit Hot outside and I want have to go for a jog round the hood,  I have no choice but to dig out some old gym shorts to wear.  2 seconds into wearing them and slurrrrp- they've been hoovered by the gluteus.

So, my jog is not only characterized by dry-heaving, ass-clapping, and booty sweating my way through the neighborhood. I now have the ego-boosting benefits of having my crack on display.


Somebody should really remind me why I'm still jogging....

What do you do for Wedgie Prevention?
Bigger shorts?
Bigger undies?
Ass relaxation exercises?

The Great Restraint Debate

I don't know if you've heard, but treating kids like animals is frowned upon.

Even when they act like animals- drinking out of the dog's bowl, eating off the floor, an unnatural interest in poop or whatever I'm trying to have for lunch.  The lesson is WRONG. Just say No to the animal treatment.

If they want to get on the couch, that's okay. Don't worry. They might fall off but they won't shed all over it like some (side-eye to the dog).

But I think I've hit on something for the dog that might just be necessary for terrorist toddler twins.

It's called a leash.

I think this might be controversial or something.  Toddlers are people, they have feelings, treat them with respect, yadda yadda.  I'm all over it. But I'm also all over taking them to the airport without them getting snatched, climbing into strangers' laps, trying to bungee down the escalators, or running onto a random airplane for a fantasy NYC getaway (Dude. I saw Home Alone 2. It was terrible but I really learned a lot about parenting).

And seeing as how they're all "Ah don't need to hold your hand. Ah I am INDEPENDENT! Running away from you is the best.game.EVAH."  (Not to mention, we're dealing with man-on-man coverage plus carry-ons) I think the leash might be a life-saver.

Plus, they make super cute ones these days that look like backpacks.

Where do you come in on this debate? Yay or Nay to the baby-leash-disguised-as-backpack?

A Shiz Time at the Gym

This guest post (First one evah!) is from my girl, Adrienne.  She is hilarious and smart and enjoys herself a good adult beverage.  We've got kiddies right around the same age so we get to go through a lot of the same headaches around the same time. Too bad she lives on the other side of the country...Check her out here.

I'm a rule follower. Especially if I am in a place where I feel uncomfortable, or if I am not sure exactly how to behave. So you can imagine how happily I followed the clearly marked signs at my gym which say "Please bring your sneakers into the gym to minimize dirt and salt on the equipment".

Except for yesterday. Yesterday was beautiful out, so I decided it was silly to wear one pair of sneakers to the gym and then to change. The ground was dry, there is no more salt or snow. So I threw caution to the wind and put on my running sneakers. It was so nice, in fact, that I took a short stroll through my garden before heading out.

On my way to the gym I smelled something. Something baaaaaad. I checked the baby's diaper, nope. I opened the window to air out my car, nope. Then I checked my sneaker. Dog shiz. Great.

So I arrive at the gym, drop the baby off at the daycare room, and hobble to the locker room where I plan on running my sneaker under the faucet and then wiping it clean with paper towels. Only, my gym only has those hand dryer things, and there is a gym lady worker putting on make up in the bathroom area (there is NEVER anyone in the bathroom area). I am mortified. I just stand there, frozen, with a guilty shocked look on my face. She chats me up. How does she not smell this? I mumble something and duck into a stall. Ahh, toilet paper. I used ALOT of toilet paper. I just kept balling up wads of it while this chica leisurely puts on her make up and does her hair. This whole process lasted about 10 minutes.

And it was not easy to clean up with that flimsy toilet paper. This was some tough shiz, really wedged in the treads of my stupid sneakers. So I got as much as I could and then proceeded to my work out. Oh, when I left the stall, the lady was gone (probably because disturbing the poop made the smell 10x worse), so I quickly ran my shoe under the faucet, which only made mud/shiz instead of partially dried shiz.

To my workout. I started with the weight machines, and to my horror left little muddy/shizzy footprints wherever I went. So on to the treadmill. By now I was ether used to the smell, or the smell had considerably subsided, because I was finally not ready to die of embarrassment. I had chosen the treadmill at the farthest end of "treadmill row", so there was nobody next to me for about 4 machines. Until this young guy decides to run on the treadmill right next to me. About 2 minutes into his run, I smelled something. A fart? Could this guy really be farting? Seriously, the nerve! And, let me tell you, its impossible to hold your breath while jogging. And you cannot run away from a fart on a treadmill, like you could when you jog outside. I was about to say something to him, but then I remembered my shoe, and figured he probably chose the treadmill next to me because he had gas, and I already smelled like the shiz. So we kept running, stinky anonymous gym pals.

I Heart Summer

 

So far, so good. The babies have not yet discovered the delicious (?) treat of dog poop while playing outside. 

It's Not You, It's Me

I had me a breakthrough this week.

Pre-pregnancy weight, the holy grail of the scale, a handful of pounds away for the last mumblemumble months, is my bitch.

The secret to my success?

You're going to fall out of your chair on this one.

I followed a program. I tracked my calories.

I even went for a jog with my husband (who- side note- does not know the meaning of SLOW DOWN, I'M DYING!)  I need a moment to address this. When I said, "I know you're a rockstar runner, but I'm not and please go slow for me and encourage me," he nodded and was like, "You got it."  The moment we were out the door, he was like that roadrunner character witih nothing but squiggly lines behind him.  Turns out encouragement sometimes looks like, "Good job not puking until almost a mile in, Honey!"  I'll take what I can get.

Anyway, my success came with a side of humble pie. I can't point my accusing finger at weight-loss programs and spew, "You failed me!" The truth was, I was a big fat liar deniar on those programs. I lied about what I ate, I omitted logging anything that came with a double serving of guilt.  I had gone rogue.

So, WW, I'm back on your wagon. And who knew, you worked when I worked you. It wasn't you. It was me.

And now onto the next stop- Wedding Weight.

More Growing Up

The babies are growing up so fast.

Cassidy insists on walking BY HERSELF thankuverymuch. If you try to hold her hand, she will pull away. If that doesn't work, she will reach over and pinch you. I don't know where she gets it...

Mama needs her paper bag, please.

*Speaking of growing up too damn fast, Cassidy woke with with a COLD SORE this morning. At least, that's what it looks like. We are a cold-sore free family (not based on principal, just pure dumb luck), so I'm totally out of my element. Help?

Jiggly Thigh Redemption

I don't wear skirts.
Or shorts.
Or dresses.

Like. Ever.

Exceptions are made for skirts and dresses that Queen Victoria would proudly sashay around in. If it covers down to my cankles, you can call it good.

I have this chubby leg issue.

It started when this Jackass (who probably works a drive-thru now) told me in 9th grade Health Class that I didn't have calves, I had full on cows.

Yikes.

Since then, I can't help but notice how everything south of the equator spreads like swine flu whenever I sit down. And then I get all pre-occupied with how people are looking at my giant, pale, smooshy calves and thighs. They must be, right? Because they're attacking my eye balls! And the chair I'm sitting in! They must be assaulting everyone within a mile radius!


But when your house is insanely old and AC is non-existent and the temp reaches the Holy Shit range, pants don't seem appealing.

Therefore, this weekend I donned a skirt in preparation for visiting our neighborhood art festival.

Brendan looked at me and said, "You're pretty" and "Your legs look skinny."

So, later as my sweaty art festival thighs rubbed together and I could feel my knees jiggle every time I took a step, I thought to myself, "Eh. Not so bad."

I might start wearing more skirts and shorts. They're super cute. Of course, a little more spray tan and a little less ice cream lunch would probably go a long way for fashion too...

Twoo Wuv

A certain, unrequited love affair continues in our home...

 

Go Get Em Killer

Did I tell you about that time I vanquished a monster?

No? It was yesterday.

It's hot as shit Hades here lately. And our 117 year-old house lacks in the AC Department. Meaning, we've got none and I sweat like a nasty stankoholic up in this mug.

So as I worked from home yesterday, I thought it prudent to open the windows and let the breeze blow through my hair and all that Harlequin business while I answered emails.  Because nothing says Business Professional like Harlequin novel meets sweaty armpits.

All was well (minus the morning crying jag because overwhelmed, woe is me, yadda yadda- cause sometimes you need a good cry) when Mr. HOLY FUCK GIANT WASP MAN came flying through my open Harlequin window to check in on me.

This picture is to scale. Mo Fo was YOUGE!

First Response: Run out of my office, screaming, staring at the Wasp fly around my office through my closed office door.

Second Response: Text Husband about Wasp Hostage Crisis. Turns out, he couldn't rush home to save me on his white horse and assist in my romance novel fantasy. Maybe it was the sweat that killed Harlequin? Who wants to save a hygiene-deficient heroine?

Third Response: Decide Mr. Wasp and I could live and work amicably together.  He would browse my bookshelf looking for some good toilet reading while I hammered out some phone calls. This was cut short when he decided he was more interested in smelling my hair and invading my bubble like a creeper at the singles bar. Not to mention, he was doing some scandalous, lewd things with his legs. Ew.

Fourth Response: Get me a fly swatter, wait for my killing moment as I cowered in a fetal position on the floor waited like a jungle cat. And wham! I vanquished him.

This sweaty heroine needs no white knight. Wasps are my bitches.

Sweaty Ass Problems

I went for a run the other day. It was the first run I've gone on in at least a month. Probably longer. I wanted to die/vomit/lie panting in the neighbor's front yard and had to call uncle after jogging only 9 minutes (three 3-minute intervals).

Another reason I had to call it quits? My ass got all sweaty.

There were a lot of people out and about because the weather was nice. And outside of the "Hey, is that a dead body in that yard over there?" I didn't want them also saying, "Huh. That lady's ass cheeks are leaving a sweat trail on the sidewalk."

These are all good reasons for stopping a run prematurely, yes?

The diet is still in limbo. I haven't figured out what a good program for me will be. But, I will say I ate Fast Food for the first time in months this weekend and it was awful. I was crunched for time, gave in to the lure of the ubiquitous drive-through.  And about 5 bites into my meal I felt like, "Did I just eat that or rub it all over my face?" 2 days later and I still feel the weight of greasy fries in my ankles and sweaty buttocks.

Baby in a Box

Except, you know. He wasn't really in a box.

He was in our wine bar. A bar that used to store wine & wine glasses. Until toddlers came along and those things are all non-baby-proofed and all that grown up, parental nonsense.

So, of course Finn's great at climbing into this sucker.  But not so great at getting out.

 

Turns out, gravity is scary.

Of course, once we get him down, he climbs right back into it. 

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

The wine bar is now turned backwards with the opening towards the wall. 

We grown-ups eventually figure things out.

Maybe there's hope for us, after all.

* I'm starting to have beef with blogger. My pictures are all grainy and crazy looking in blogger. Plus, all the formatting looks funkytown.  Any suggestions for this issue? I'm a hillbilly who doesn't understand things like technology.

Pink Eye Never Looked So Cute

Cassidy had a gnarly case of Pink Eye a couple weeks back. I wondered if her eye was ever going to go back to normal. It wasn't so much pink as....droopy, swollen, and tragic.

She looked a bar fight reject.

But if anybody can rock this look, it's Little Cass.