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Friday, May 15, 2009

Too Much Ado...

I've had a few of inquiries about the "Penis Wrinkle" comment in my Mother's Day post. This is a repost of my entry for November 4, 2005. Seems an eternity ago. As happy as I am that the kids now get along so well, sometimes I miss the banter around the house. I don't, however, miss the housework!

I can't do it. I can't keep up. There is no such thing as a Superwoman. Not that I ever tried to be one. And any woman that tries to should be, as my friend Jeffrey says, flayed. If I hear one more female tell me that she manages to keep a job, a home, a family with three teenagers and a shedding dog, and all that that entails together, I will seriously implode.

As of this morning, my garage is PREGNANT with laundry that seems to replicate on its own. I strongly feel that if I throw a pair of panties and some boxers out there, they will soon reproduce into an entire load of dirty little offspring. Same goes with dishes in the sink. Somewhere, in some far-off land, the dish may have run away with the spoon...but they ran right into my kitchen. And they brought all of their food-laden friends who sit around in the sink like it's a community hot tub and shoot the breeze. The dishwasher? Oh that's just the Black Hole. The dishes sometimes are granted entry, but somehow, none of them ever leaves.

In most homes, the bathroom is the place where people go to refresh and relieve themselves. It could, in a perfect world, be a sanctuary. An escape from the cold, harsh world where a nice, hot, bubbly bath waits to cleanse you of all your cares, if only for a half hour or so. In my house, the bathroom is apparantly a hamper. You just go in and leave your clothes and wet towels on the floor. Drawers, cabinets, and medicine chests? Oh no. Who needs such complications? Simply use every hair product and toiletry known to man and leave them on the counter. And you never need to unplug or turn off any hair appliance either. Our bathroom is magically equipped with a miraculous automatic turn-off switch.

Pets need to be fed? You're kidding? Good Gravy! I thought you just bring them home and cuddle with them. You mean they actually require sustenance and the occassional walk? Children; believe it or not, our carpet is actually beige, not tan with black polka-dots. Perhaps if you take that brush and run it through Ellie's coat every now and then, we might not have a multitude of little black dust bunnies everywhere.

I often wonder how children grow into healthy, happy, well-adjusted, polite, consciencous, young adults when they throw words at each other like:

C to B: Are you missing brain cells?

B to C: Were you born this ugly?

A to C: Are those my earrings you hag?

C to A: You just wish they looked this good on you, jealous wench.

B to A: You call THAT a Halloween costume? You look like a female Donald Trump.

A to B: When did you become such a bitter little penis wrinkle?

I'm going to go to work now. It's safe and clean there. And tikis don't talk. Much.


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