son “I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, please”
me: “What? You want a peanut-booger and jelly sandwich? Coming right up!”
son, shrieking: “EWWWW! That’s gross! I don’t want a peanut-booger and jelly sandwich—I only eat boogers straight from my nose!”
Silly mom.
Happy New Year, everyone. May your sandwich and your nose remain booger-free.
Okay, this is a warming upfront for any of you menfolk who get squeamish at the slightest mention of, oh, how shall I word this? Let’s try “womanly cycles”. How’s that for vague and non-masculinity threatening?
At any rate, consider yourself forewarned, and on with my story, which happens to be about how I am so disorganized that I managed to use species-inappropriate womanly cycle devices.
You see, recently, I just started having my womanly cycles again (somehow, I’m finding it unbelievably amusing to use that phrase as much as possible in this post–chalk it up to my uber-maturity). Now, one would think with my vast experience in the womanly cycle arena, I would be beyond making mistakes of this variety. In fact, one would think my five-year old son would be beyond making mistakes of this variety. Okay, granted, between pregnancy and nursing, I hadn’t had a womanly cycle (how many times is that now? four? five?) in over two years, but really, when you think about the fact that I have over twenty years previous experience in the womanly cycle department, I should be familiar with the equipment that goes along with it. I mean, how hard can it possibly be?
And yet, there I was, reaching for another, um, piece of womanly cycle paraphernalia (yes, I’m still snickering like a seventh grade boy) when I make a little discovery. Mind you, I’ve been using the items in said box for the last few days and didn’t notice anything unusual. Possibly because my bathroom cabinets are in such a state of a disarray that I don’t know if I’m grabbing my hairbrush or a stray porcupine half the time. But I don’t know–maybe it’s not that big of deal. I mean, I don’t think Fergie or Skye would really care that I accidentally borrowed from their stash:
Um, yeah. So maybe it is a little out of the ordinary to erroneously be sticking your dog’s womanly cycle products in your undies for days without noticing. But in my defense, notice they don’t actually put the word “dog” or “canine” on the box. Granted, it would be a little odd to buy a box of human womanly cycle items with a picture of a Yorkie on the front, but really, that’s just a minor detail. Besides, advertisers are getting crazier every day–who’s to say the next Tampax commercial won’t be sporting a Labradoodle in a white dress, waxing poetic about the joys of riding the white cotton pony while playing tennis and sipping a cosmo? Okay, now I’ve really gone and done it–my apologies to any males who are feeling completely violated right about now–I may as well piss off the feminists while I’m at it and blame it all on hormones.
And actually folks, I’ve got a little secret to share—those dog products really aren’t half bad.
Of course, who knows? That could just be me growing fond of that ‘fresh from the groomers’ scent.
Never, ever tell a man that something just isn’t big enough. Never. Because any comments on size or lack thereof are merely going to send him into a “bigger is better” frenzy. I mean, let’s face it–there’s a reason our inboxes are flooded on an hourly basis with emails entitled “enlarge your penis to 100x it’s actual size!” Um, ouch.
But I’m not talking just private parts, people. I’m talking ANYTHING. Take, for example, a simple Christmas tree, and an innocuous comment about how last year’s six foot tree wasn’t quite tall enough for our vaulted ceilings. In the same conversation, I’m pretty sure the words “eight feet would be nice” were mentioned. But I could be wrong. Because hubby did not come back with an eight footer. Or even a niner.
No, he proudly proclaimed, “I got the BIGGEST ONE on the lot–what do you think?” with a goofy smile on his face.
What I think is that the twelve foot green monstrosity dwarfs our entire living room. And sheds like an SOB. We’re going to have to fork over some serious cash to buy about a billion more lights to deck it out, and that goes double for ornaments. Also, the tree skirt is not remotely large enough to go all the way around that sucker, and I’m afraid if it tips like last year’s tree in the Fergie incident, the resulting quake will be read on the Richter scale up in San Francisco.
On the plus side, it does smell super piney–always a good thing when you’re trying to mask the not so fresh “my dog peed on the carpet while I was in Chicago for Thanksgiving” odor. Especially when you just hosted Bunco at your house. And regrettably, the theme was “holiday pajama party”, not “boarding kennel brouhaha”, so eau de doggy bladder would most likely not have been a big hit.
But the biggest problem I’m having with the giant Christmas tree? Well, I can’t think of anything that rhymes with “ginormous”. See, I tend to make up little ditties all the time in my head, and this one, if you’ll pardon the pun, is stumping me.
So pretty please–if you can come up with a second line for “Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree, why are you so gi-normous?”—my brain would be eternally grateful.