November 26, 2008

I'm Bitching Again

Ya know what would be nice? It'd be nice if the freakin' Cheetos bag wasn't so blasted loud and crinkly. I mean, how's a girl supposed to binge on Cheetos in the middle of the night? I don't know about you but my kids have some sort of "Mama's Eatin' Somethin'" sonar. You might think it would be off while they sleep but I venture to say it's set to super sensitive. I long to enjoy a meal - or even a quick snack - without ripping off a small piece for a small person.

Another thing I'd like to bitch about today is my (lack 0f) free time. Why didn't I know that after I had kids I no longer had the luxury of even going to the bathroom alone? I wish I knew the last time I was alone in the loo that it was, in fact, the last time I would be alone in the loo. I would have paid special attention. Took a mental picture. Made it count!

Next on my poor pitiful me list... dirty clothes. Both the 6 outfits Aidan goes through each day and the no less than 3 shirts I change each day. This poses a problem in our house because I procrastinate like a mo fo on laundry. I'm not even kidding when I tell you a load of clothes will be washed at least twice because I've left them in the washer long enough after the first wash to stink that "been wet too long" stink. When they do finally make it to the dryer you can be almost certain they'll be in there an average of 2 days. Which means everything is wrinkled. And I don't iron. And by don't, I really mean can't. I would iron and iron and the clothes would still look like shit. This conversation helped me figure out what I was doing wrong.

He asked me if I used the steam.

Yes, I pushed the button.

He asked if steam came out.

I guess.

He asked me when was the last time I put water in the iron.

What? Why would I put water in the iron?

He asked me how I thought it makes steam?

The button on the iron, duh!
Turns out, not. Now I put water in the iron and use the steam. The clothes still look like shit. It's clear he didn't marry his mother.

And speaking of changing clothes, is there really a Mom Rule that bars me from leaving the house in a clean shirt? I've been accessorized with vomit, poop, pee, boogers, smashed bananas, and even ear wax. I don't think I've had a clean shirt on for more than 15 damn minutes since the summer of 2004. I look like a vagabond.
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