Warning: The following post contains material not suitable for readers under the age of 17. This is also not suitable for my father, so Dad, stop reading right now.

At 8pm last night I was sitting on the couch playing on the laptop when Cleatus came in to the living room.

Cleatus: Did you shave today?

Me: No. Why?…OH. Heh. No. You want me to shave tomorrow?

Cleatus: I want you to shave everyday. You know…just in case.

(Poor guy. I know we’ve been married for 6 years, but I still won’t let him touch my hairy legs. Ew. Unfortunately, I hate shaving and tend to do so only on the weekends. So, that limits our…fun.)

And, so Cleatus went to bed alone. At 11pm I went to bed, naked as always, because I CAN NOT STAND having clothes on when I sleep. You wear clothes all day long. They bunch up around your legs and arms. They dig into your waist. It feels like they are choking me. Ugh. Who can sleep with clothes? Anyway, I snuggled up next to him and tried to go to sleep.

Cleatus: snoring

Me: snuggling

Cleatus: hand wandering down my stomach…

Me: rolling to the side to prevent him from going further south

Cleatus: snoring again

Me: rolling back to where I was comfortable

Cleatus: hand wandering again

Me: "We are not having sex so stop it!"

Cleatus: "mnmshupreeeb"…SNORE

Ah, the romance.

In the future, when you are trying to quickly tidy the living room before sitting down to enjoy the best TV show ever (Duh! Jericho!) be very careful of how many things you pick up at once. For example, holding a small stuffed doll, book of sudoku that you stole from your dad and plan to never return because his is for blind old people and TOTALLY easier to see than yours, one plastic toy wagon being pulled by 4 plastic toy horses, a stray cell phone, and six or seven scraps of misc. paper in one hand and in the other hand holding, say, your $1000 laptop…well, this is just not a good idea. Because, you see…the way this world works is that all the junk in the one hand will stay there. The laptop, your most precious thing in the world, more important even than your children, it will be the thing to crash to the floor, flip over on its back, roll a bit, flip back to its front and then grunt at you like WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR? And you will stand there with your mouth gaping thinking shit shit shit all the while clinging desperately to the handful of SHIT that managed to escape death by plummeting 3 feet to the hard, hard floor. But, then you will realize that the SHIT is just shit and you will fling it mercilessly to the couch and slowly, ever so slowly, so as not to frighten your poor injured laptop, bend down and pat him. Having watched the show ER you will know enough that it is never a good idea to move someone after such a fall, but you will feel such guilt and sorrow that you will have to pick the laptop up to show it how sorry you are and that it was truly an ACCIDENT. And, if you kiss the laptop before opening it up, he will be just fine. JUST FINE. Whew.

Cindy-Lu loves suckers. No, you don’t understand. Cindy-Lu loves suckers. Today, being a nice mommy who could care less about her dental health, I allowed her to have a sucker. She was sucking away happily while playing with Bubba’s new cars. And, all of a sudden, for some inexplicable reason, she tossed the sucker to the floor and ran to the kitchen, opened the candy drawer, and asked for a "suckew." I said no. Duh. She already had a perfectly good sucker laying on the floor and I would be more than happy to rinse it off for her if she was concerned about germs clinging to it from its trip to the floor. No. She wasn’t having that. She wanted a new sucker, and right now damn it. (Ok, side note…there is totally something/someone in my garage. I keep hearing it/him/her banging away and moving stuff. Should I go inspect? Or just quietly pretend I am not home? Seeing as how I’m not wearing any pants at the moment, I’ll pretend to be away.) So, I told her to close the drawer. She stood there, with her little angelic eyes glaring up at me in that stubborn way she does. I knew I was losing. I knew it right when I saw the look on her face. She would not close the drawer. I asked nicely, I yelled, I screamed, I shrieked, I spun my head 360 degrees just to show her I meant business. No way was she closing that drawer. And, because she really is getting out of hand and acting like a spoiled little brat, I decided that I was not going to close that fucking drawer. She opened it, she would close it. Oh, such confidence I had. I told her it was time out if she didn’t close the drawer. She just stood there and stared me down. I picked her up and carried her to the living room and plopped her in her seat. She started screaming hysterically. She hates time out. After about 30 seconds, I took her back to the kitchen and told her to close the drawer. After much whining, begging, pleading, and threatening I took her back to time out. This continued for a good 10 minutes. Her time outs lasted no more than one-two minutes and the time in the kitchen was no more than one-two minutes. She still refused to close the drawer. By this point I knew I had better get shit done or child protective services would soon be knocking down my door to save the poor sweet baby that was screaming so pitifully. I walked her to the drawer, held both her hands up, and said CLOSE THE DRAWER! as I pushed her hands onto it and broke all her fucking fingers helped her close it. She then stood right next to the door sobbing her heart out, with a couple of high pitched shrieks of fury thrown in right as I was starting to feel sorry for her. What am I going to do with this child? (Ok, the garage thing is still going on. I have a theory though. It is probably a cop searching the garage for whatever torture device I must have been using on my poor, innocent daughter. Either that, or its a racoon or something.)

Eeyore’s Christmas tree ornaments included two rather large wooden soldiers…like the nutcracker guy. Cindy-Lu, being a girl, thinks they are babies and can not bear to see them hanging by their poor little necks from a tree. Really, it is quite violent looking. She prefers to take them down and love on them. Unfortunately, they were safer on the tree. One of the soldiers legs fell off. After multiple hours of her thrusting the "baby" and his "foot" at me, screaming BABY FOOT UH OH, I’d had enough. I took the baby and hid him on the back of the tree while she wasn’t looking. I must not have done a very good job though, because when Eeyore got home from school he inspected his tree and found the evidence. He marched into the living room with the crippled ornament and demanded to know what happened. I explained that Cindy-Lu Hoo broke it, but it would still look just fine, nobody would even notice. He shook his head in disgust and said "Now thats what I call an injured soldier."

I just have to ask…how does garbage work in your house? Here, it is Cleatus’s job. I hate taking the garbage out. Absolutely hate it. I do the dishes, the laundry, the sweeping and mopping, the toilet cleaning…he can take out the fucking garbage. Right?

So, its his job and sometimes he does really good. Other times he slacks. I’m not shy about asking him to take it out, though. If I’m in the kitchen and notice it, I will ask him to take it out. But, sometimes, he’s at work and there is so much garbage piled up that my kitchen looks like a mini landfill and I’ll take the garbage out. I cuss at Cleatus the whole time, but I do it.

And, this is how I do it: I remove the bag from the can. Tie it up. Sit it against the wall next to the garbage. Grab a new bag. Shake new bag out. Put new bag in. Take old bag to the front door. Leave it sitting by front door for Cleatus to take to garage.

And, this is how Cleatus does it: Remove bag from can. Tie up bag. Take bag to garbage can in garage. Forget that he took it out and therefore leave the garbage can with no bag in it.

So, because of this slight problem, I write this letter to you, my dear husband.

Husband,

I hate to break it to you, Cleatus, but that garbage bag you just took out…Yea, that one right there. It does not contain the last bits of garbage that this household will ever create. I know you thought it did, you must have, otherwise you would have put a new bag in the can. But, now I’m telling that it doesn’t. And, while I’m at it, I’ll just tell you right now that we will ALWAYS need a new bag. There will never be a day that we do not use the garbage can. NEVER. If something should happen and garbage ceases to exist, I promise to let you know so that you do not continue putting garbage bags into the garbage can. Promise.

Oh, and one more thing. I know you get seriously pissed off at me when I throw Cindy-Lu’s diapers in her garbage without a bag in the can. Because I know that you do not change very many diapers, allow me to refresh your memory on how this works. 1. You put wiggly child on changing table. 2. You remove wiggly child’s clothes. 3. You remove diaper. 4. You clean up any messes you may have found in said diaper. 5. You throw diaper into the nearby garbage can. And that is how you change a diaper. You do not, for any reason, leave the wiggly child on the changing table while you run to the kitchen to grab a garbage bag because SOMEONE forgot to put one in the can. You do not set the dirty diaper to the side, finish up with the wiggly child, and then transfer the dirty diaper to the kitchen garbage. YOU PUT THE DIAPER IN THE CAN THAT IS CONVENIENTLY LOCATED RIGHT NEXT TO THE CHANGING TABLE.

So, I apologize that it is no fun to empty a garbage can full of poop with no bag in sight. However, I take no responsibility for this. If, in the future, you would like me to put the diapers in a bag, please put a bag in the can.

Thank you and have a LOVELY day!

Wifey