Guys! I’m baaaaack! You missed me right? I totally missed you! Although, I have to admit, I had a BLAST reading all the guest posts! Guest posts are the most fun this blog has ever had.

A great big THANK YOU to all my posters! (Except for Leslie. She used to be my BBF, but not anymore because she totally got more comments on MY blog than I’VE ever gotten. She took guest posting too far. She is dead to me. DEAD.) (Everyone else? I still love you.)

And, now that I’m back, I don’t really know what to say. But, everyone loves a good "men are idiots" story, so lets start there shall we?

This morning Cleatus came home from work with a big hole in the back of his pants. His back pocket was torn off somehow and his boxers were clearly visible. Mighty sexy.

The following conversation took place:

Cleatus: Don’t wash these pants. They’re garbage.

Me: Ok. Put ‘em in the garbage.

Cleatus: Ok. Just don’t wash them.

Me: I won’t if you PUT THEM IN THE GARBAGE.

Cleatus: Ok. I just want to be sure you won’t wash them, because THEY. ARE. GARBAGE.

Me: I don’t normally dig through the garbage to find clothes to wash. (Insert eye roll and shake of head because I KNOW that those jeans will end up with the rest of the dirty clothes.)

Cleatus: OK! I WILL PUT THEM IN THE GARBAGE! (Insert thought about how unreasonable his wife is.)

Keep in mind that this conversation happened just minutes before he removed his pants to go to bed. Now, lets all take a moment to guess where those jeans are right now.

Fuckin’ men.

That concludes the "men are idiots" portion of this post. Now, on to more important business. First off, tomorrow I will have a burning question about bobby pins that must be answered. Be prepared. Second, I have to guest post on Wednesday at Shoo Fly, WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT? Heeeeeelp me! And third, do I use to many commas? Discuss.

I thought I was going to have a grand old time when Karly said I could guest post today. Then I saw the femullet. And the hysterical post from that mother who has probably been killed in her sleep from telling the story about her daughter’s first period. And now slacker mom has taken over my territory — being slack. So what am I going to write about? Even if I do get to use the "F-word"?

Does it matter? It’s Sunday on Labor Day weekend. Who’s on the Internet anyway?

Well, I am. So I’m going to tell a story I can’t tell over at my blogs, LifePundit.net and smellshorsey.com. Thanks, Karly!

‘Long about the time my daughter, whom I’ll call "Lily" because that’s not her name, got interested in, as she said, "The differences between boys and girls," (age five), both our church (PCUSA) and our pediatrician said it was time to tell her about human reproduction.

"But she’s only five!" Still, they insisted. And they must have known what they were talking about, because sure enough, the teachable moments rolled in. Of course, my husband, whom I’ll call "Paul" because that’s not his name, was always out of state when these teachable moments arrived, so he got to miss out on these very interesting and nerve-wracking conversations. But I did it.

When she was six we were at Myrtle Beach during biker week (not recommended) when we happened upon some rather lusty horseshoe crabs at the Ripley’s Aquarium. Yes, these horseshoe crabs in the "petting tank" (well named, huh?) were doing it. Lily was doing what six-year-olds do at a petting tank when this big tattooed Biker Guy came up with his friends. He watched the amorous pair of horseshoe crabs for a minute, then said to his friends, "Heh! That are they doing?"

Lily looked up at him and said, "Why, they’re mating." The big Biker Guy looked shocked but didn’t say anything else. I suspect he still hasn’t opened his mouth. How studly can you be when you don’t even know "it" when you see it, yet a six-year-old girl does?

I must say that it was easier to explain things to a five-year-old than it would be to a pre-teen, but there have been moments when I wish that she thought a stork brought her. For example, there was that phase where she wanted a younger sister. Rather than give some other excuse, I just said I was too old.

Now, Lily arrived right before my biological clock ticked its last tock, at least for reproduction, and it was a miracle that she got here. I felt like I had crossed the finish line and won the race when she was delivered healthy, perfect and perfectly beautiful. Though I have often regretted not starting our family sooner and having more children, that’s just not the way it was. I got my Lily, and I am greatly blessed and happy.

So, when Lily wanted a younger sister, I told her the truth. "Mom is too old. So sorry. We’ll get you another kitten."

Then Lily met some of her friends’ younger siblings, and decided that being an only child is a much better deal. She began to worry that perhaps I wasn’t too old (even as she was aging me every day). I reassured her that I was too old and not to worry about it.

Now, Paul didn’t know about these conversations. All he knew was that we had told Lily that in order to conceive, parents "cuddled in a special way."

So, he was driving along minding his own business with Lily in the back seat when she suddenly announced, "Dad, I’m so glad that you and Mom are too old to cuddle in a special way any more."

His first reaction was fear. Where did Lily get this piece of information? Was she correct? Was he about to become celibate? "Who told you that?"

"Mom."

He thought about it. And I’d like to tell you that the man has been bringing me roses every week ever since, but instead I’ve been buying them myself at the grocery store.

I’m not too old to cuddle in a special way. But if Lily has learned what she needs to know, so have I. You can have a great husband. You can be a great cuddler-in-a-special-way. You can be a biker and not know sex when you see it. And you can be a wife, mother and person who needs flowers, and the only way you’re going to get them is to buy them yourself.

Now, I know this is a random ending to this story and I know I missed my chance to use the "F" word, even while talking about it, but that’s just the way it is. I bought gorgeous pink roses with white undersides last week, and classic red roses this week. And maybe there’s some cuddling in a special way in my future. Who knows. I know there’s no baby sister on the horizon, but I do hope you’ll come visit me at my own web sites, LifePundit.net and smellshorsey.com.

Happy Labor Day weekend! Get off the computer and go outside and have fun!

Anne

So when I told Hubby that I was going to post on a blog way
cooler than mine, his first question was, “What are you going to write about?”

He’s never asked me what I’m going to write about on my own
blog. *Pout*

But then I realized he had a point.

I  knew, of course, that I would use the word “fuck” as much
as possible. (I do so love a fuck-friendly zone, hehehe. . .get it?)

I’ve hoped all week that the demons who wear the cute
clothes I buy at The Children’s Place (aka Ironflower and Lovebug, my toddlers)
would do something blog-worthy. And even though I never said anything, they
managed not to cooperate anyway. Much like when I ask them to do those cute
things again for their grandparents and they look at me like I’ve asked them to
perform fucking Shakespearean monologues.

But I finally had a flash of inspiration as I opened the
cabinet under the sink. Under the sink is where we keep all the dangerous
chemicals like dishwasher detergent and glass cleaner (not that I was getting
those, I was getting trash bags because I do not clean on Friday night. Or
Saturday. Or. ..well, I’m getting off topic). The rubber band that holds the
cabinet doors shut broke and I had to search for a new one. Finally I took the
one off of Lovebug’s favorite cabinet, the one with fancy, breakable dishes
that we never use.

Right now, many of you are thinking, “She keeps her kids out
of the cabinets with rubberbands?”

Yeah, I do. When Ironflower was first crawling, we tried the
whole childproofing thing. Breakables went up high. The cabinets got weird
plastic things. Wall sockets were covered. Sticky foam things went around the
coffee table corners. The toilet got a lock.

The fucking toilet lock was the first to go. It never worked
right and had a tendency to fall in. So instead we started shutting the
bathroom door, despite the warnings from our childbirth teacher about kids opening bathroom doors and
drowning in toilets. Even now that they can open doors, we keep them shut
because “out of sight, out of mind” is a great description of how the toddler brain
works.

We got rid of the cabinet thingies because I kept breaking
nails (not that I’m manicured anymore, but I HATE it when they break off down
to the quick) and because Hubby would remove them to get something out and just
leave them on the counter. The rubber bands are cheaper and a lot easier to
use.

The foam corner things would not stay on. But we kept
diligently reapplying them until Ironflower fell and smacked her head on the
side of the coffee table, after which we realized that we could not cover all
the hard things in the world with foam.

After moving twice, most breakables are gone anyway, so we
don’t have that worry anymore.  And we
still use the wall socket covers. Because they’re so NOT a pain-in-the-ass.

So I’m a child-proofing slacker, which didn’t bother me
until I realized that someday I might have to host a playdate. Still being a
bit new to the area, we haven’t yet. But it will happen. And I just know it
will be with some mom who actually hired a child-proofing service or something.

Welcome to the world of Dirty Little Secret. And many thank
yous to Karly, for allowing me to guest post.

FUCK!

I came here to blogsit today. My big time to shine; to fill Karly’s blog with filth and torture her with my awful and vulgar ways.

I had a huge Awesome! post about my farts, her farts, mullets, butts and everything completely inappropriate, but lost it all. I had a Brilliant! post, with tons of linky love, that took me the better part of the last hour constructing and I LOST IT ALL.

I was going to talk about all the cursing that’s gone on here this week, and how I swear like a sailor and a trucker, and I do it far too often. How ‘fuck’ is my favourite word and how I say it too much in front of my 2 year old.

But.

Fuckin’ Mother Fucker Fuckity FUCK! Fuckin’ fuckers fucked my fuckin’ post.

I am so sad.

I was so worried about what I was going to post here today, then it came to me. It was flowing and I was workin’ it and now it’s gone.

All because I had to search for a picture of a femullet (female mullet) and it froze my FireFox and I lost my post. *sobbing*

It’s her fault. She froze my computer and Lost My Post!

Her and her damn femullet make me laugh even though I am totally crying on the inside.

THEN! I said save so I didn’t lose my post, Again!, and Typepad politely PUBLISHED it instead.

Typepad rocks! Kinda like a case of the scoots after drinking too much after eating spicy food.

I’m sorry this sucks, and now that I’ve abused the linky love, wallowed in self pity and dive bombed Karly’s stats into the shitter, I’ll leave. Never to be allowed to guest post here again.

*pouts*

Is it Friday yet?

Hi, I’m Andi from Poot and Cubby.  When Karly mentioned that guest-posters would be able to use the word "fuck" in their posts, I signed up.  How could I give up the opportunity to swear, especially when I’m all about the clean language on my blog (ha!)?  Anyway, it appears Leslie covered a lot of ground obscenity-wise in her guest post.  I figure there is always more room for swearing stories, so I’m going to tell you about my daughter, Elliot’s relationship with the word fuck and her ability to accidentally swear. 

First off, let me say, I loves me some curse words.  I’m usually careful not to swear around my kids.  I’m probably safe swearing around the two-month-old, but the toddler, she
is an oratory sponge. There was that one time I may have said fuck, but
I covered my tracks quite nicely. Lately, instead of saying fuck, my husband has started saying, "Oh, Eff!"  And, me? I
like "fricken".  Of course, my two-year old has noticed
my love of this particular word. The only problem is that, as with
many things, she uses it completely out of context. The other day when she couldn’t
get her shoes on, instead of "fricken shoes" she said, "My shoes is
just fricken me!" Then the belt on her car seat was just fricken her.
Oh, my.

The main problem with my daughter and the word fuck,
is that she says it unintentionally. Shortly after her second birthday,
for some reason many words that had the "oke" sound were pronounced as
"fuck".  We discovered this little quirk on Christmas Eve.  My sister and my dad had sneaked out for a cigarette.  My mom told Elliot, "When they come back inside, you tell them, ‘No smoking.’"  So when her aunt and grandfather came back inside, they were confronted with a smug-looking two-year-old shouting, "NO FUCKING!"  A few weeks
later, she was poking me in the butt and laughed out "I fuck you in the
bum!" I have no idea how much of this made it to the daycare workers’
ears at the time, but I’m thankful every day that Children’s Services
was not called in due to Elliot’s misinterpretation of
household events.

Since Elliot has never been one to let down her audience, once she mastered the proper pronunciation of the "oke" sound, she has found new words to mispronounce.  Lately she is mildly obsessed with The Big
Comfy Couch - a show she calls " The Big CUNTY Couch". Now
she loves the word "comfy". Last night, when we were snuggling while reading books, she turns to me sweetly
and says, "I’m cunty. Are you cunty, mommy?" It took every ounce of
strength I had to control my laugher and answer, "Yes."  That’s right.  I’m cunty.  How about you?

Oh, how I hope that she loses her fascination for this word before she starts preschool next month or I am going to have some serious explaining to do.  Does anyone else have a kid whose super-power is accidentally swearing?  Or am I the only one whose child has inherited the little-known Potty Mouth Gene?