Breakfast of Champions

Oscar and I are sitting here sipping our coffee (DON'T CALL CPS, IT'S DECAF) and I just ate a piece of cake. Hey, there are lemons in the cake, so vitamin C, right?

I have to admit, it is funny to see other people react when Oscar asks for coffee, or coffee ice cream. The looks! The clucking! "Isn't caffeine BAD for children?" they ask, with a pointed look at me. I usually shrug and say. "Well, they don't have rum raisin, his other favorite."

Oscar is mad because there are no cheese doodles in the house. I've raised him right.

What to Expect when You're Expanding

Ok, so you know all those glowing pregnant women you see in commercials and in ads, with blemishless skin and a rounded tummy that is all tanned and smooth, drinking water and eating salad and walking briskly in the park, seemingly without effort of any kind?

Yeah, right. Fuck those bitches.

They don't seem to puke, or develop weird skin tags in inconvenient places, or get stretch marks.

I am not one of these women.

When I was pregnant with Oscar, my stomach was a giant planet with its own satellites, atmosphere and tides. Seriously, it practically affected gravity around me. The surface of this planet was riddled with rivers and streams of purple which contrasted nicely against the planet's white, white soil. It was humongous, so huge that it burst the restraining walls of my abdomen, leaving an unsightly bulge behind even when the pregnancy was complete.

And skin tags blossomed like so many fleshy mushrooms.

And I developed a huge chin-pimple that stayed around for most of the twenty thousand months I was pregnant.

And I couldn't eat meat or eggs or even look at them without throwing up.

I ate mostly peanut butter sandwiches, grilled cheese, Frostys, and pizza.

This time around? The same. More and more of the same. Except now it's pizza, Pringles and chocolate covered dried cherries.

At least it's not Cheetos. Stay tuned for skin tag counts and stretch mark updates. My stomach already resembles an atlas.

St. Drunky's Day

We went to a St. Patty's day parade yesterday. It was cloudy and coolish and I sat on a filthy curb all day. A soda exploded on me, my kid and inside my purse. I saw bagpipe brigades aplenty, Irish dance schools replete with bobbing curly wiglets, ten bajillion fire engines, a dozen local politicians in convertibles, and several Catholic schools on scooters. All in all, your typical small-town parade.

However, the town is a drinky one, so lots of people were marauding about with beers in anticipation of the Blarney Bus/ Emerald Express/ Stereotypical Irish Binge Barge / whatever they call it, where the people pile in to a bus to make getting drunk as quick and efficient as possible, so they can be delivered from bar to bar with ease and drive home piss-drunk later. Consequently, there were scads of middle-aged men in green t-shirts belching their way around the festivities, getting a head start on the night's debauchery. It's not a college town, so the drunks skew a bit older.

Which isn't a big deal, except that I have a toddler. Who needs to use the potty. And the potty is a porta-potty. The only potty for blocks.

Let me remind you, I am knocked up. So all disgusting smells are exponentially increased in intensity and reaction. So even dirty dishes in the sink make me hurl.

Oscar beseeches me to find a potty for him as he has to poop. I resignedly trudge to the porta-potty. There is a line of belchy middle-aged men. "I waited too long!" the one behind me crows. It's a race against the clock for Drunky McIrish.

We finally get into the porta-potty. Oscar sits down and starts to complain about the weird potty. Meanwhile, I am gagging and gagging. Oh, my god, the stench! The chemical tang combined with the excrement of countless drunken dumbasses! In fact, I am gagging just writing this. Oh, man, it was BAD. Meanwhile, Drunky McIrish is outside yelling "Hey lady, you done in there? I'm seein' yellow out here!"

RAGE takes over which helps considerably with the nausea. I tell Oscar to take his time. He does. It takes everything I have to stay in there, but dammit, one more word out of Drunky and I'll puke on his "KISS ME, I'M IRISH" t-shirt. With glee.

When we finally leave the porta-potty, I smile sweetly at Drunky and, Oscar in tow, walk away.

I doused us both in hand sanitizer.

in other news.....

we had Cheetos for an after school snack, my child is running around my house yelling POOPY STINK BUTT and I am pretending I have a beer. Can't drink, a little trashlet is on the way.

I need to buy me a housecoat to lounge around in, to complete the picture.

Holy absence, Batman!

Yep, I am back after a lengthy sabbatical. Up to no good as usual. Nothing as fun as you would imagine, but hey, them's the breaks, and those Cheetos aren't gonna open their own bags, know'm say'n?

Here is an example of the high-class goings-on at Chez Trashy:

Me (to Oscar): Hey! Don't sit on the cat!

Oscar: I'm not sitting on him, Mom, I'm trying to fart at him.

Me: Oh, that's ok.

(beat)

Me: Um, that's not nice? Stop?


That's me, klass all the way.