My “Pay it Forward” story- one square of TP at a time

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Don’t believe that kindness still exists in strangers? I can’t blame you. After having doors slammed in not only my, but my kids’ faces when someone easily could have paused momentarily to continue to hold the door open, having my damn parking spot jacked when I was clearly waiting first, being cut in line with no apology, and the general assholish nature of most people these days, it’s been hard for me to believe it’s still out there, too.

I like to consider myself a pretty optimistic person even though I’ve never actually been on the receiving end of a random act of kindness, but we all have our days where we swear if the earth were to open up and start swallowing people, we’d just start shoving assholes in. My moment has finally come, and I’m not exactly sure how to pay it forward.
No, I’m not the twatwad who had my mocha-pumpkin-crackalatte paid for in the Starbucks drive-thru and decided not to continue the chain that had been going for umpteen weeks. There was no grandeous gesture recorded on cellphones and posted on Youtube that is currently spamming your Facebook newsfeeds screaming “YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!”
No, no no. This was far more…. intimate. But still deserving of a mention, and a continuation; at least, in my opinion.

I’m going to need a moment to set this situation up for you, because I want you to understand the kind of dire straits I was in so you know that the person who came to my rescue was a bonafide angel.

My chronic pain issues aren’t top secret, I’ve made them pretty well known, but as far as the medications I’m on to treat it? I can’t go into too much detail about because I don’t want nor do I need Doogie Howser with the Google doctorate trying to diagnose me, so please don’t take this as the invitation it isn’t.
Let’s just say that my medication was ripping up my stomach and really complicating my life, more than the pain it was supposed to be helping already was…. Alright, FINE, you don’t have to twist my arm- it was giving me the shits. Constantly.

We have ALL had a raging case of sting ring after eating something we maybe shouldn’t have. Those brief affairs with Taco Bell and the diarrquesarito, that delicious, stomach churning bastard, comes to mind. I’m no newbie to having to race to the bathroom in fear of poo-splosion- but imagine worrying about that all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. That has been my life as of late, and trust me when I tell you, it’s not fun.

If you can, imagine that fear, that feeling, and toss in a vacation in a place you’ve never been before. No clue where the bathrooms were, or how quickly you might need one, and the horrible thought of not being able to find it. Yeah… not exactly the relaxing retreat I had hoped for.
Somehow, I’d managed to mostly hold it together (read: in) until the very last day. About 002halfway through the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Odditorium, I felt that oh-so familiar pang shoot through my stomach. Fan-fucking-tastic, I thought. Just as I thought I was going to need to take a seat and admit defeat, like a unicorn bounding on clouds and farting blinking red arrows, I caught sight of the bathroom. OH BLESS YOU, ARROW FARTING UNICORN! YOU HAVE SAVED ME AND MY FAVORITE JEAN SHORTS FROM BOWEL DEMISE!

Okay, so it wasn’t that bad yet, but I figured, if I was feeling any pangs, I might as well go ahead and try while there was a bathroom within dashing distance.  I walk in, and it’s empty. SCORE! There are a few stalls, so I chose one in the middle, closed and latched the door, and went about my business. I hate to have to tell you this, but… it wasn’t pretty, y’all. My ass wasn’t rocketing off the pot from force or anything as heinous as that, but I was pretty sure my insides had died and whatever was coming out was the rotted remains. It was like a squirrel caught in a radiator, or a zombie after eating cow remains that were set on fire. I KNOW, I’M SORRY! THE SHAME!! IT’S NOT MY FAULT! But at least I was alone! I didn’t have to torture anyone else, which I always consider a win. Rejoicing in my bowel eruption victory, I reached for the toilet paper. Then I reached again. Then I frantically reached in thinking I MUST have missed where the end of the roll was, maybe some turdwaffle put it on backwards and I just needed to reach farther back to find it. No. There was nothing.

DEAR GOD ALMIGHTY, THERE IS NO TOILET PAPER!

I assessed the situation quickly. Did I want to try crawling under the stall divider to the one next to me, lock that quickly and use the toilet paper in there? Did I want to try to penguin waddle with my pants around my ankles into another stall? What if someone walked in? What if someone saw? This wasn’t pee; I couldn’t exactly DRIP dry. Even if it had been a solid #2, I could have just pulled my pants up and made a run for it and could have still come out clean, but no. This was not one of those situations, and just as I was about to make a decision, the bathroom door opens and in comes a little girl.
I freeze. What do I do? Is she going to smell? Is she going to faint? AM I GOING TO CAUSE A POO RELATED DEATH?!

Remembering we are in Ripley’s, she is in high spirits, but not even 3 seconds through the door and she pauses. I can’t see her, but I know the worst has happened.  She has caught the whiff of the death of my insides. That poor child. Just when I think it can’t possibly get worse than being stuck on a toilet with no butt-wipe in the only occupied stall in a museum full of tourists with no hope of ever getting out, in walks her mom.
SONOVA SHITDICK ASSHOLE!

Just as frantically as I reached for the TP, I start trying to find the button on this stupid newfangled toilet so I can safety flush. Get rid of the perpetrator, so to speak. THERE ISN’T ONE! I AM STUCK! WE ARE ALL STUCK WITH THIS SMELL AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!

I can hear the mom, quietly trying to shush the child who wants to ask why the paint is peeling off of the fucking walls, and then I realize I must admit defeat. If I don’t, I will either be sitting in that stall all day while my family wondered if I’d flushed myself down the toilet, or I will have to chance the pants-down penguin poo waddle. I couldn’t do the penguin poo-waddle.

“I’m so sorry” I called out “but the stall I’m in has no toilet paper.”
There was a short pause
“Oh no!” the voice says, there is some clicking of heels along the floor, and then a hand appears under the stall gripping a big wad of butt-wipe. “Is this enough?”
“Yes!” I breathed, though I wasn’t really sure it would be enough, I couldn’t imagine torturing this woman any further, “thank you!”
“I’m so glad you asked. That is an impossible situation to be in.”

I was saved. The poo fairy saved me!! She didn’t have to respond, and she certainly didn’t have to be so kind about it, but she was, just because it was the right thing to do. And by the smell permeating the air, she knew I was already pained enough without having to resort to waddling, crawling, or flushing myself.

I left that stall victoriously, only to be accosted as I washed my hands. Not by the poo-fairy or her daughter, mind you (the fairy was now in her own stall, and the daughter eyeballing me), but by an apparition of a janitor that appeared in the mirror right after a loud, long, farting sound.
“Hey! What’d you do in there? A #1 or #2? What’re you gonna make me clean up??”
It was the Ripley’s ODDitorium, after all. Couldn’t possibly end my brown note on a low note, now could I?
Everyone left that bathroom laughing; even me.

The outcome likely wouldn’t have been the same if it weren’t for that kind soul walking in at the right time, but how does one pay that kind of thing forward? I can’t exactly steal the last square from a stall and stand around in a public restroom waiting for someone to desperately need to wipe. That would lead to jail time, not happy times!
Maybe this blog in itself is paying it forward. Telling people everywhere- pass the TP! You could make someone’s day a whole lot less shitty!
Or… maybe I’ll just buy someone’s mocha-pumpkin-crackalatte, because any random act of kindness, no matter how small, is pretty fantastic.

Look at all these lovely things you can blame your kids for!

The days are beginning to get shorter, and nights longer, and that can only mean one thing: The kids have almost successfully driven us COMPLETELY insane before we send their asses back to school! Okay, FINE, it means the changing of seasons, but seriously- summers are long. Hell, winters are long, too. ALL seasons are long when you have kids, and they find special ways to annoy the piss out of us during every single one, every break from school, every long weekend, every “sick” day. It’s a wonder we all survive it in one piece.

Whenever I hit a peak of annoyed-ness (now being one of them) I find that I need to seek pointout a way to decompress before I spontaneously combust. Go digging through the files of the odd cases where that has happened before; I bet you’ll find that it all comes back to one main factor: CHILDREN. It’s all their fault! Everything! Once you admit that to yourself, the pressure inflating your skull and threatning to burst starts hissing through your ears, and suddenly, you feel human once again. We don’t necessarily have to tell the KIDS these things are their fault (wouldn’t want to give them a complex, now would we?) but we can admit it to each other and relish the fact that once day, they will know it, too. The Ciiiiiiiiiircle of Liiiiiiiiiiiife! Isn’t it wonderful how it all comes full circle?

1. STRETCH MARKS- don’t even play. These aren’t gifts; they aren’t “earning our tiger stripes”, they aren’t the beauty of growing life inside you. They are STRETCH MARKS, and they’re all our kids’ fault! YEAH I SAID IT!

2. Caveman feet- Pfffff, and people told us just our noses would grow. My feet have expanded half a size or more with each kid. GOODBYE PRETTY SHOE COLLECTION, IT WAS NICE KNOWING YOU! Thanks a lot, little shits.

3. A bladder like the Thunderdome- you might walk in thinking you have a fighting chance, but pee is gonna be the one leaving!

4. SLEEP- Oh, how I long for a full 8 hours! I haven’t had that much sleep since before I got myself knocked up the first time. AND, since filling my stomach with baby, my once restful slumbers on my stomach are no longer. It’s just not the same!

5. Long leisurely drives- Remember the days when you would hop in the car and just drive? It didn’t matter if you had nowhere to go, you just wanted to hit the road and drive until you found something that made you want to stop. Nowhere you have to go, no reason you to stop, nothing to hold you back. Car rides now are more like a form of fucking torture than a relaxing way to get away. Instead of “go where the road takes us” it’s “Could this fucking traffic get out of my way before I RAM SOMEONE? STOP HITTING YOUR BROTHER! NO WE AREN’T THERE YET! STOP FUCKING FIGHTING! ARE WE THERE YET???”
Someone needs to hurry up with that teleportation shit. Like now.

6. My CAR! My wonderful beautiful almost new car… that didn’t have a big enough trunk for a stroller or two car seats. MOTHER FFFFFFFFFFartstick. Bye bye, my pretty; hello mom-mobile.

7. The death of your social life- Honestly, even the thought of getting ready and leaving the house when kids are involved is so exhausting that all I want to do is never leave. It’s finally happened. I have become a homebody. Thanks, kids!

You know what else I can blame them for?

Crapping all over my staunch belief that there is no such thing as love at first sight, the undeniable refuting of the opinion of every asshole who has ever believed that I’m nothing more than a selfish bitch, and they downright DESTROYED anyone’s belief that other people’s kids aren’t more annoying than your own. Kids are like farts, man; you can tolerate your own, but everyone else’s are unbearable! Go ahead and blame them for that, too.

Damnit! See! I’m blaming them for making this blog sappy, too. Assholes.

The Sexy Bathtub Fail to End ALL Fails!

Recently, I was talking to friends about how nice hot baths are and it reminded me of a time in my mid 20′s- when I was dating a guy who I thought was the hottest thing on the planet. Sadly I was constantly trying to look cool, sexy and you know- not like myself.

I had done a pretty good job when one fateful night I realized I had never gotten frisky in a tub. I lived in a home that had one of those big garden tubs with Jacuzzi knobbys and everything. I have never been a bath person…one I don’t like sitting in my own stew…two tubI always get too cold.

Sooo I get ready for our date and decide to light candles, put chocolate covered strawberries on the edge, scented oil stuff – you know a dreamy classy soft porn moment. 
He comes in, sees the bathroom and gets very ummmmm happy in his pants? So I think “Man look at me, dorks worldwide would be proud of me!”

I undress and I am trying to do this sexy walk and step into the tub (well every woman reading this, knows I am also trying to keep my gut sucked in as well) so I have no doubt it looked like I was trying to do the robot.) So I put one foot in all dainty…give him the “come hither” look…(later I find out from him, it actually looked like I was trying to hold in a fart with a touch of a lazy eye). 

My foot goes in, I lift my other leg to get in….and commence to do this motion that can only be described as windmill roller-skating. Nothing but elbows and bootyhole, arms and legs everywhere. Who knew that sexy time shower oil would make the bottom of the tub slicker than a muskrat slide?! I am flailing about screaming “SON OF A COOTERKICKER UNCLEHUMPER!!” and I hit one of the candles that flings hot wax onto my right nipple. Now… I know some dirty girls like that. This girl did not. So I go boobs first into the water, and just picture my nipple falling off looking like one of those Fourth of July snakes that turn to ash.
I roll over to save some dignity, just in time for my hair to get caught in the little jet thingys. I start screaming “ITS EATING ME! ITS EATING ME!”. The boy toy has to cut my hair out of the jets… I am still holding on to the idea that the scene wasn’t THAT bad. I mean shit happens.

I stand up and go to get out of the tub and he says “What the hell is in your ass?!” I turn to look in the mirror and there is my lovely sudsy back…with a melted chocolate covered strawberry sticking out of the crack of my ass.

Yep ladies…if you need any pointers on how to turn your man on- I’m your gal. Ok not really…the boyfriend actually got dress and left…while I rubbed aloe on my broken nipple, with hair missing from the side of my head…and debated about at least eating the other strawberries. I got a cat the next day.

 

This piece was written by Charisma of Former Welfare Mom’s Guide to Worldliness
Check her out on Facebook and on her blog. No, seriously. Do it. DO IT RIGHT NOW!

Lose the hair and get ON with your life. I did!

This may shock you, but I have had some time to sit and reflect lately. GASP! SPARE TIME?! WHAT IS THAT?? WITCHCRAFT! SORCERY!
No, just time! As much as we parents love to say we get absolutely NONE of it, we manage to find a minute or two each day where our minds wander. Whenever these moments grace my usually loud, busy, and chaotic days, I can’t help but think about my life. Where I am now, who I am now, who I used to be, and where I’m headed in the future. The path is bright, and the destination is clear, but it wasn’t that long ago that I had been reduced to nothing but hair.

Yes, hair- I was obsessed with it. Back then it was about 13 inches longer, and it had hair3become a huge part of who I was; how I identified myself. So much so, that an entire group of people would laugh about it and only refer to me by “Hair”.
It’s okay; I was kind of a nut, and while some of those people were being hurtful, I’ve made my amends with others and we’ve move past it.

How does one become obsessed with their own hair? Honestly, I’m not sure I can answer that. I think that, at the time, I didn’t feel like I had anything else going for me. Sure, I was an active stay at home mom, so I was constantly tending to the kids, that’s SOMETHING, but it wasn’t something. Motherhood gave me a new lease on life, and a new purpose, but after years of being a mom, I began to feel like I was JUST a mom. I had this blog, but I felt like no one was really reading it; I had my first book, but I felt like it wasn’t going anywhere, and I felt this overwhelming sense of un-accomplishment with my life.

Nothing seemed like it was in my control, it was all just swirling around me and I couldn’t get a good handle on anything (including my crotchfruit)… and then there was my hair. It was mine. I could curl it, straighten it, color it, cut it, watch it grow. It was completely IN my control. I could do whatever the hell I wanted to it. The swirling stopped, and I hung on to my hair for dear life.

Because my hair was the only thing I felt I fully had a handle on in my life, it became something to focus on; the ultimate distraction. I had no idea that avoiding life was what I was doing by becoming “hair” girl, but it didn’t take me long to realize that my life had taken a dark turn. Instead of laughing and writing and enjoying, I was obsessing and bitching and complaining. Nothing good was coming in to my life because I wasn’t putting anything good out; I wasn’t even trying. It took a lot of soul searching and self-admissions, but I knew things needed to change. I needed to change. I knew in my gut that if I didn’t, if I continued along down this darkened path, I was going to waste my life and any potential I had to make my dreams, my goals, and my happiness come true.

The hair had to go.

13 inches later, I was in a porn film I was a new person (I couldn’t help myself- who starts a sentence with “13 inches later”? snort!). It wasn’t just a weight off of my head, but off of my shoulders, off of my frickin’ SOUL. I’d rid myself of my distraction, and almost instantly, my life turned completely around. I’m not kidding!

In the end, it wasn’t my hair holding me back, it was me. I was looking for any excuse not to do what I knew needed to be done. Maybe I was worried that if I tried and failed again, it would be the last time I’d try- but I heard a quote recently, in a commercial of all things, that I think needs to be applied to all situations:
“We didn’t fail. We just discovered another wrong way to do it!”

Keep discovering wrong ways until you find the right one, what ever that may be for you. Cut that damn hair off and do it. Get rid of the stupid curtains you love but everyone else hates because you match everything around them. Junk the hideous dresser. Lose the weight on your shoulders that is holding you back from moving forward. I know you might not want to, I didn’t either, but it will be worth it.

NEVER let your kids get along. IT’S A TRAP!

trapEvery morning when I wake up, I cringe. It doesn’t take long for my worst fears to be confirmed: yet again the kids are fighting before 8am. It’s no fucking wonder I’m still not a morning person!

I know, I KNOW- siblings are supposed to fight; it’s what they do. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. They’re fighting over who gets what kind of cereal or who the hell finishes it first and no matter how many times I say through gritted teeth “not everything is a competition” they’re still competing and it never ends! It’s like they get personal satisfaction out of tormenting the other but can’t handle it when they’re tormented in return.

This is one of those moments where I have to suck up my pride and admit that now I know how my mother felt. Me and my brother were some of the worst little shits on the face of the earth. He beat the snot out of me on a regular basis, and in return, I would do sneaky shit like pour water in his bed and tell my parents that he must have peed himself while sleeping. Heh… actually… that’s still pretty funny. Oh, and there was also the time he attempted to break my nose so I snapped his middle finger and he had to walk around flipping the bird for weeks. OH oh! And the time I recorded him snoring. The kids don’t KNOW any of that, though, and I certainly don’t encourage the obnoxious constant bickering. I threaten, I take things away, I tell them I’ll sell them on Craigslist and melt their Legos into a big hunk of worthless shit. Nothing stops them!

Repetitive annoyance and whining can really do a number on one’s mental state. Namely, mine. It may have caused me to overlook some warning signs. YEAH, OKAY- They were frickin’ flashing right in front of my face and I chose to ignore them. You would too! You probably already have! Don’t get all Judgy McJudgerson on me; this is the mistake ALL parents of more than one kids makes. Multiple times. Why the shit on a stick don’t we ever learn???

With all that being said, and me considering investing in a high quality wig company because I’m tearing my fucking hair out, in the rare case that they ACTUALLY get along? No hitting, no biting, no whining, no tattling? You can bet your sweet ass I encourage the shit out of it! That was my first mistake.

Tuesday morning, I was smack dab in the middle of a high intensity Zumba work out. I dogswas single-single-doubling the shit out of it! The kids had previously disappeared upstairs, and come back down with gloves and socks on their hands and feet, winter knit hats, and belts stuck in their pants. Apparently, they were pretending to be morons dogs. I guess some people might think that kind of thing is adorable, but not me. Nope. Sorry!
Crawling around the house on all fours, pissing off the actual animals on all fours, they barked and panted and it may have been enough to bring out Mean Mommy, but it had been so long since they’d done anything other than screech at each other, how could I let annoyance break up this special and very rare moment they were sharing? It was straight out of Hallmark. My precious babies! Fruits of my womb! Blossoms of my crotch! They really DO love each other after all!

Of course, right as my work out peak hit my lovey-dovey mommy peak- the shit hit the fan, and it hit the fan HARD.

Holden walks up to me on my left side. “Mommyyyyyy” he says in his best tattling voice, “Parker ate dog food and drank out of the dog bowl!”
Before I could even get out a “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?” Parker walked into the living room with his gloves and hat still on, and proceeded to barf all over the floor. I was so mad, shocked, disgusting, and out of breath from Zumba-ing that I nearly passed out. Meanwhile, Holden stood to the side looking all fucking smug and shit, like the fact that there was puke all over the place was funny or something. It was then I knew. I’d been PLAYED!

“CLEAN IT UP!” 
“But Parker did it! I didn’t do anything!”
“CLEAN IT UP RIGHT NOW!”
“But it wasn’t me!”
“You KNOW you egged that on! You were there with him! You probably TOLD him to do it!”
Parker , obviously feeling much better after emptying the contents of his stomach onto my carpet, nodded in agreement.
“BOTH OF YOU clean it up RIGHT NOW or you will spend the rest of the day in your rooms!”

My kid literally got down on all fours, ate out of the dog bowl, and then walked over and barfed all over the floor next to me. That seriously happened. I just…. I can’t… It is easily THE dumbest thing I’ve ever seen. And the most disgusting. And dumb.

There’s nothing more satisfying than watching your asshole kids clean up their own stupid mess. And now I have a slightly orange tinted spot on my carpet to remind me that my children NEVER really get along, and if they do, I should be TERRIFIED, because it is nothing more than an elaborate trap!

Parents of more than one child, heed my warning! Let your children bicker and fight and feud their entire childhoods and you just might make it out alive! If not you, at least your carpet will.