Bladder Busters and Life Lessons

Dang, it's been a minute since I've blogged. Y'all were probably (not) wondering what was going on and why I stopped. I'd rather eat a pinecone wrapped in fire ant-chovies than lie, so here's the scoop:  the $20 I made from my self-published book went to my head. 

Naw, that ain't true! It was only $18.36.

Life just started happening, and other things seemed to be more important. Feeding your rug-rats is no longer optional, and coffee hour with Kelly & Michael no longer qualifies as an internship. What can I say...things are complicated.

The past few months have brought a fair dose of changes, and with change comes knowledge. I graduated from college, not that it made me any smarter or dumber. In life's cookie jar, experiences are what allow you to nab the last Moon Pie when all the other kids are pilfering through the pantry. I may not be able to calculate the rectabular circumference mass of a Chilean aardvark, but I sure as hell know how to stretch a half-pound of Clara Belle into a 24-inch meatloaf. Book knowledge? Nope, that's life knowledge.

Just this past weekend, I figured out something that I'm pretty sure ain't even made it to Wikipedia yet. Ever been nervous and felt like there was a bulimic gopher in your guts?  Well, it turns out that when that ravenous rodent gnashes on your belly buffet, there's a positive correlation between the size of his butt and the pressure exerted on one's bladder.

I always pictured the graduation walk as a regal moment filled with accomplishment, a sense of finality, and a swell of pride. Y'all, it wasn't my pride that was swelling. I started having PTSD flashbacks to when I was pregnant with Emma. This trailer dwelling, baby poppin', human answering machine at the sonographer's office said to drink 40 ounces of water before coming in for the gender reveal.

Do you know how much 40 ounces of water is, when consumed at one time? Enough to plague Egypt with water toxicity.

40 ounces. The 40-day flood in the Bible. Coincidence? I think not. You can put all your eggs in one dream basket, but nothing compares to the urgency of a full bladder when doing the pee-pee dance in front of a thousand people.

The kids have been their usual selves lately:  lovable, funny, and as ornery as three-legged pitbulls at Casa de Vick.

The past few weeks, these parietal lobe puzzlers have had them at each other's throats.

• Do carrots have riboflavin?
• The color of their Poppa's truck (This one will usher in the Apocalypse.)
• "Why won't (insert child) give me hugs and kisses? You butthole, I just want to love on you!"
• "If I'd been born first, would there still be three of us?"
• After watching 'Night at the Museum 3' with Robin Williams, one precious child asks, "Did he die before or after they made this movie?"
• "Is butt wrench a bad word?"
• "Valentine's Day is for loser babies wearing diapers. Mom, what if Darryl (Dixon) was the Valentine's baby and he shot real arrows?" (What if, indeed....)
• "Mom, I thought you said the Super Bowl commercials were funny." (Sorry, honey. Let's go play in traffic together.)

And in honor of Valentine's Day, I'd like to send a shout-out to a special someone....that pissed me off RIGHT QUICK AND IN A HURRY this morning. (No, not my husband or kids!)

So, to you, you knuckle-dragging, Slothra humping, hairball eating, nut shredding, sludge pudging, cognitively anemic, heap of soul vomit, bless your heart...you're an asshole.

To everybody else, have a blessed day. Hug your loved ones tight, and your enemies tighter....around the neck.

Books Now Available!

Dear Bloogers,

Momma's book, 'Bless Y'alls Hearts', is now available on Amazon for Kindle! You'll recognize some of your favorites from Semantic Sister as well as some stories that were just too hair-silvering for a blog. If you've ever enjoyed, smiled, chuckled, or even READ my blog, please support my writing by getting the e-book. Thanks so much for your support through my infant writing career, and God bless y'all!
Here's the link to Amazon page.

It Takes A Village to Raise It's idiot

God bless the USA. Yep, I said it. I'm not ashamed.

What's the best part of being blessed by God?

Knowing that He will bless us when we're at our worst, our most stupidest, our 'I-forgot-to-take-off-the-falsies-last-night' morning after's.

In case you live in a missile silo in Uzbekistan and didn't hear, yesterday was the anniversary of 9/11. Hubs and I watched a special on the History Channel about it last night with a surprising amount of film footage from Ground Zero.

"Sir, how does this make you feel?"

Yes, while people were taking their last breaths and praying for a merciful homecoming, this leach with a microphone asks an onlooker how he feels.

His response? "Wonderful. The World Trade Center just fell. Really? How do you think I feel? Get lost." 

This morning, I made the mistake of turning on the news.

The story du jour is a rerun of the domestic abuse case involving NFL scumbag Ray Rice.

Not the death of a good, Christian man that donated more than $100 million to family preservation through marriage enrichment, camps, and foster care. Not a word about the same man that gave away $24 million of his money through college scholarships. Not as much as a second of silence for the man that put his money where his mouth was and refused to open his restaurants on Sunday to allow his employees to spend time with their families.

The reporter on HLN were seeking the public opinion from women on the street.

  ...D...
  ...I...D...
 ...P...I...D...
...U...P...I...D....
...T...U...P...I...D....
...S...T...U...P...I...D...

(That's the stupid creeping in.)

Several comments grabbed my attention...Solange Knowles style.

"The public doesn't know what happened before that video was shot."
 
And exactly what could she have done that earned her a TKO from Rocky?

"She married him anyway!"

She's stupid. Stupid is not a justifiable excuse or consequence for domestic violence.

"The real tragedy is that we all assume he's guilty."

Well, call me crazy, but a live recording of the incident goes to show that the real tragedy is being an idiot.

What is wrong with our country?!

Go in any daycare in the country and see what happens when little Johnny slugs Ludmilla in the cheek with a Fisher Price concrete mixer.

There are consequences! Not serious ones at that age, but their soy-nut Fluffer Nutter is not going to be de-crusted today.

Since when is it alright for a grown man to pitch a temper tantrum on another human being's face?

Apparently, Rice's father was killed in a drive-by shooting when Rice was a young child. His mother is a special needs teacher. This doesn't exactly set the scene for grooming a violent thug, does it? He was a kid with goals and, from what I've read, a respectable work ethic.

So, what went wrong?

This country is what happened to this guy. This country convinced him that he is on a higher plane than the little people because he's good at playin' the foosball. This country turns young men into their own personal Jesus's by lavishing attention and TV love on them while completing ignoring what kind of person they are. This country convinces young people that who they are isn't as important as their first contract. This country has promised them that everything acceptable if you make enough money. This country has taught young women that they need to check their self-respect
at the door in the quest for getting their pre-surgery faces on TV...which will allow them to 'get their faces did'.

How about we knock some of these disgraceful He-wolves off of their Super Bowl podiums? Why not challenge the media to glorify athletes who are stepping up to the plate as role models, instead of celebrating those who have to be buzzed into their next phase of life?

If you put any human on a pedestal that high, they're gonna fall off. Nobody's perfect, and if you think anybody is...well, do us all a favor and hold your breath till they show up. That said, look at the whole picture.

Let's replace the Ray Rice's with Doug Flutie's. As far as I know, Li'l Dougie hasn't knocked his soul-mate unconscious and he's raised over $13 million to help families of autistic children.

Let's replace the Rae Carruth's with Derek Jeter's. Derek Jeter may have involved in the big steroid craze of yesteryear, but his foundation has also distributed over $12 million to encourage children to excel in academics, leadership, and character.

Let's replace the OJ's with Jeff Gordon's. He may not be the King of racing, but I'm pretty sure he's never killed anyone and, after a crew member's child was diagnosed with leukemia, he created a foundation that grants over $1.4 million per year for children's oncological care, partnered to create the Jeff Gordon Children's Hospital, and has repeatedly worked with the Make-A-Wish foundation.

Today, I challenge you to reallocate the 5-10 minutes normally spent listening or reading about the latest tabloid disaster. Take those few minutes, and read about the positive things people are doing! You'll have to dig for them as being respectable doesn't make the headlines much these days.

Athletes for Hope:  http://www.athletesforhope.org/

The NFL Foundation:  http://www.nflfoundation.org/

The Tony Gonzalez Foundation:  http://procause.com/tony-gonzalez-foundation/

Tim Tebow Foundation:  http://www.timtebowfoundation.org/

Look to the Stars:  https://www.looktothestars.org/

Make-A-Wish Foundation:  http://wish.org/

These aren't sports specific, but we won't hold that against them!

http://philanthropistlist.com/2014/05/famous-philanthropists/

School Expulsion and Bearded Lunchroom Ladies

Last year, Bubby was almost kicked out of school. No, he didn't go timpani diving through the ceiling tiles of the band room. (Not that I know anyone that's done that...*wink wink*.)  He didn't smuggle peanut butter over to the 'allergy table' like a Mexican drug lord. He didn't even crash the morning announcements in an effort to save the North Dakotan Howling Salamanders from certain annihilation.

Would you like to guess what he did?

His immunization records weren't on the right form.

That's right. The state form from the doctor's office, while up to date, was not on the form they wanted. Now, I've done my fair share of secretarial work, and I know that the ladies answering the phones are only doing what they're told, so my beef is not with them. But my child could've divvied out Cocaine Krispie Treats at the homecoming dance and stayed under the radar longer than he did from this contraband medical form.

But, not wanting to cause a raucous, we take him in and get his bicep plugged full of that mystery juice that prevents birthday-induced, spontaneous combustion. And we're good....right?

ERRRRRRNNNNTTTT!!! No. Of course not.

The doctor's office didn't change the date from his last immunization, so the form is still not right. The Earth's rotation is shifting by the moment, and we're three bottles of beer on the wall away from the Apocalypse.

I'm pretty sure it was Joe Biden that called the next time. "This is a big (*@&#^* DEAL!"

Back to the pediatrician's office to slip a few bucks under the table and get his new identity in witness protection...I mean, his piece of paper.

Hop in an armored truck, turn off all of our GPS tracking devices and haul butt to the middle school. Squeal in the parking lot on two wheels, and I'm smuggled in the back door like a Cuban cigar on the SS Cracker Jack.

PHEW! Looks like the kid will make it to his next birthday.

******TIME WARP******

Last night, at curriculum night at the middle school, Bubby says "Oh yeah, Mom, I have to get my shots, or I'm gonna get kicked out of school."

Oh, hells bells, you've got to be kidding me.

But it's about to get real...you see, they sent home a piece of paper with his name filled in the blank and everything this time...IN AN ENVELOPE.

I break out in a cold sweat. My son's life hangs in the valance.

Do I still have the after hours number for Black Market Betty at the ped's office? For $7 and a six pack, she'll make this pesky little problem go away.

I open up the Inspector Gadget envelope to see my child's bleak future in a mundane form letter.

"As of July 1 2014, all students born on or after January 1, 2012 who are entering the 7th grade must have a valid Form 3231 which meets the following requirements:
(Blah blah blah)

"To avoid asphyxiation, mutilation of his meningococcals, and eternal banishment from his happy place, please get him shot and send us indisputable video evidence of the procedure. Place $38 in non-consecutive, unmarked bills in a paper sack and deliver it to the lunch lady with the longest beard between 2nd and 3rd periods. This message will self-destruct in 14 seconds."

Needless to say, I've spent the morning on the phone with the school secretary and the pediatrician's office. I dial up Funtastical Family Farts & Fixer Uppers, MD and tell them I need to make the dreaded appointment.

"Ma'am, he's up to date on his vaccinations."

The hell you say! Would you mind leaning in for the mike and smiling for the camera while you say that?

Ok...fine...I'll call the school back.

Google....google....find the office number, call the 7th grade office.

I explain the letter and the situation to the sweet lady on the phone. (Really, she is.)

"Is your son a student here?"

Why, heavens no! He's doing his graduate work at Yale.

"And, you say you got this letter from us? Is he in 7th grade?"

No ma'am. He's retiring from Lockheed in April. I was just testing your underground networking abilities.

I explain the situation AGAIN, and I'm to the point of fasting and praying. If this don't work, there may be a laying on of hands.

"Well, it may be that it's just not on the right form. He probably has the 'ok for 6th grade' form, but we have to have the 'ok for 7th grade' form. If you'll hold on, I'll pull up his records." I'm starting to hear the voices of angels! I feel a warm, tingling sensation covering my body, and I know I'm getting somewhere!

"Ma'am, we have a record for him, but the system we use to pull up the records isn't working, so I can't see it. Can you have the doctor's office fax over an updated form?"

Sweet baby Jesus....

Long story short...Funtastical Family Farts will be faxing over another form today.

And do you want to know the kicker? Bubby won't be eligible for another well child/ immunization visit until October because he was in there last September, and they only get one per year.

Do you know what that means? We'll be Groundhog Dayin' this in about a month...when his current shot record expires.

Lord love a duck, can we get some common sense up in here?!

A Kindergarten Cleopatra in a Kaleidoscope World

I think it's pretty common knowledge that boys and girls are different. Not just innies vs. outies, but we're wired differently. If you ask a little boy what he wants to be when he grows up, he'll probably say one of three things:  a professional athlete, a fireman, or....just like daddy. If you ask my daughter what she wants to be when she grows up, she'll say one of these:

• A mermaid gymnast
• A teacher
• An upside down dancer
• A baker so she can "do the fondant and make delicious treats" all day
• A ballerina
• The lost princess

I'm good with most of those options. As long as she works hard, is happy, and is doing something to make the world a better place, I'm fine with it.

Despite her tiny packaging, she has a strong foundation in leadership and is developing her authoritarian voice exponentially with each passing day. (Did I pull that off?)

We're one week into school, and she has already made her mark on her school. The other morning, I dropped her and Rae-Rae off in the morning, and the famous Mr. T. (the coolest teacher in the universe according to my kids) helps her out of the car. Now I don't know what kind of happy juice this guy has in the mornings, but somehow, he makes the kids feel like they're stepping out of a limo at the Academy Awards instead of out of Bessie behind the school. He helps Emma out and walks her to the sidewalk, where she latches onto his finger and won't let go. So what does he do? This tall-as-a-Redwood P.E. coach lets himself be drug down the sidewalk behind a 3-foot nothing ball of assertiveness donning a twinkly Frozen backpack and seizure-inducing strobe shoes.

On the first day of school, apparently not all the children in her class were as confident and prepared to learn as she.  I expected as much as during the Assemblage of Supplies Pertaining to the Health, Artistry and Literacy of Tomorrow (ASPHALT) (a.k.a. school orientation), one child was doing the baby monkey grasp of terror, one was doing a headstand in his cubby, and a small cooperative of young girls may or may not have been reenacting 'Frozen'  in the book nook.

(Let me preface this by saying that we are still working on our 'r' pronunciation. I'm not making fun of my daughter by any means, but to grasp how difficult it is to keep a straight face sometimes, I will be writing the following recollections in Emma-nese).

My daughter comes home the first day, and says, "Mom, we have a wunnah in our class. Every time my teachah walked away from the dah, this little boy would twy to wun away and find his mommy. Do you know what my teachah said? She said 'No sah! No sah! You cannot wun away!' And she had to put the twash can in fwont of the dah so that he couldn't wun away. And do you know what I said? I told hah that he's childish."

Since then, I've learned quite a bit about her classmates.

• Some little girl's poor father has staples in his belly. The reasoning behind the staples is still under investigation... as is whether or not the poor man lived... as is the name of this newfound best friend.
• 99% of children in the class are juvenile delinquents and will surely be on "Beyond Scared Straight" by Labor Day. 
• Another interesting fact....apparently, if there are two children in the lower 48 with the same name, they will be placed in the same class. Yes, Sasquatchetta Smith of Kansas City and Sasquatchetta Goldbloom of the Bronx will have to be bussed in to make things as confusing as possible for their teachers. Seriously...in a class of about 20 kids, there are 3 sets of name twins! C'mon, random class generating app, give the teachers a break!

It's been a great start to a colorful year, and though I'd rather wash down some kimchi with Tabasco than second guess authority, I do have a minor complaint. I pack my children's lunches each day, and have found these nifty little divided containers with fitted lids. As the lids are fitted, they are a little tough to remove. My daughter asked the lunch monitor at their table to help get the lid off, and was told that she needed to bring something she could open herself...that it's not the monitor's job to open her lunch.

Wait a minute, back that Twinkie up! YOU WORK FOR A SCHOOL. YOUR JOB IS TO HELP CHILDREN. But that's not the part that bothers me the most.

What kind of people do you think these children will grow up to be, when during the first week of school, they're told to stop asking for help and do it themselves? I understand that Ms. Lunch Lady Monitor Gone Rogue doesn't want to open 20+ lunch containers, but are you kidding me? Would it kill you to be nice? Not for the whole year, as that would probably cause cancer, but at least for a week or two? How about you help show her that she can do it if she tries, instead of condemning her choice of lunch containers and making her cry?

Well, guess what, Corn Dog Commandant? I hope you have a blessed day anyway, though I may or may not have wished for your keys to get locked in your car. Just call the police or a locksmith, right? Oh, wait, I also wished that they would tell you "It's your problem. Fix it yourself."

I hope your applesauce gets ALL UP IN your cracker compartment.

Momma's Fantasy Football

It's getting to be that time of year. Carefully prepared meals are exchanged for cheese fries at the ballpark concession stand. Saturday hikes are traded in for 6:45 a.m. report times for a 10:30 game, which is conveniently an away game in Reykjavik. Your daughters trade in their princess gowns for  cheerleading uniforms and jersey dresses. That's right....it's almost football season.

I miss our days of spending 16 hours at the NYSA park, believe it or not. Our Saturdays are now spent either watching foosball on TV or with at least part of the family in A-town for the game.

But pro ball? Not so much. I haven't been excited about pro-ball since the XFL rose like Dean
Winchester from Perdition, christened with the testicular fortitude of such heroes as 'Hehateme'. Seriously...football and wrestling combined? Yes, please! They gave us empty promises of skull crushing and microdermal annihilation, but they didn't deliver...and now we're stuck with the wussies of the NFL again.

We sat watching a pro-football game a while back, and I swear, there were 57 personal fouls in the third quarter. (No, I don't know who was playing. One team had orange, and the other had dark pants.) 

"Personal foul...#46 on the defense...15 yards of emotional consolation, chest to chest bro-ffection, and post-game cuddles. 1st down. Wait--the play is being reviewed." Great, another long commercial break while Peyton orders his Broncha-mocha-soy-boy, post-game Starbucks. 

It didn't use to be that way. Back in the glory days, those men went out there and knocked the stank off of each other. 

 "Momma, didn't that left hash mark's name used to be Reginald?!"

"Why, yes it did, son, but he got Herscheled."

They were allowed to hit like men back then, and it was awesome. 

I know this probably ain't a good Christian attitude, but when I watch a football game, I want to see some noggin' knockin'.

(**Let me clarify...ONLY in college and professional games. My son was concussed a couple of seasons back, and it was really scary. His verbal abilities digressed by about 5 years, and it was like the lights were on but nobody was home. It was like watching Obama without a teleprompter...completely helpless.)

I want to see guys getting hit so hard they go airborne and the only question on the play is how many points the other team gets if he clears the uprights.

I want to see kickers line up, give the 'ol pigskin a whack, and take off running like his hair's on fire because he's got two metric tons of testosterone coming to shove his kneecaps through his voice box. 

Don't get me wrong, I don't want anybody to get hurt. But dang it, if this bunch of meat heads is gonna get paid bazillions of dollars to play a game, they best be puttin' on a show. And for the college guys playing, if they act like a meat head, they get treated like a meat head. Think Sugar Bowl meets Gladiator...with a splash of Braveheart. 

Picture it...the opening kick-off. Well, not exactly.

There's not enough action in that. In my fantasy football league, the opening play is combined with the coin toss. The refs stand on the 50, and toss the ball up in the air. The teams run in from the goal lines, and whoever gets to it first, well, gets the ball. Full body contact, serial assault football. 

If it goes to overtime, we can fix that, too. A tie at the end of regulation means coaches suit up. No pads, just helmets to protect their plugs and make-up. If your coach goes whining to a ref, you lose. (Sorry, Bama, you'd probably lose every OT.)
 

When Quantaviation Jones gets caught with a weave full of weed the week of the big game? He gets to clean up the stands after the game. 

When Kruex de Champipple assaults an officer? He gets to hold the ball on the 50 to begin the game. Oh, and did I mention the fans in the high dollar seats are provided semi-automatic, paint ball guns for a more inclusive game day experience?

What's that? Spam Pootin got caught stealing....again? No problem...and no helmet next week! Headgear is a privilege, not a right.

Say again? The coach tried to cover up what? How many kids?! Death penalty...and I ain't talking about for the athletic program. 

Both of our boys have played football, and I think it's great for kids...other than the concussions and broken bones. They get banged up, they recover, they have war stories to tell their first girlfriends. 

"Yeah, I was carrying the other team's offensive line to the end zone when a rabid Great Dane ran onto the field with a baby in it's mouth. I rescued the baby, but the dog and the line were too much. In a cloud of sweat and slobber and farts, my leg was ripped off, flung into the press box...and ran up the flag pole by the opposing team. I climbed the flag pole with one leg, punched the other coach in the face, and walked three miles in a hurricane to the nearest soup kitchen, where I served 200 meals before making my way to the emergency room where they reattached my leg after they refused my offer to donate it to some poor, unfortunate uniped. I got to keep the leg, and I did three open heart surgeries and 17 circumcisions while I waited, so all in all, I'm just lucky, I guess."

If you really want to add some fuel to the fire, sneak some women with PMS onto the field....as referees...

Which came first, the head or the headache?

I've recently come to a troubling conclusion:  my brain makes my head hurt. Not in an 'overworked-woman-changing-the-world-one-organic-goats-milk-cream-filled-pastry-at-a-time-while-weaving-hemp-into-dolphin-thongs-and-raffling-them-off-with-all-proceeds-benefiting-orphans-in-Africa' kind of way. Don't get me wrong. That's fine and dandy if you're a soy nut munching momma that recycles toilet paper to pay homage to Mother Earth. It's just not me.

Do you have frequent headaches?  I do, and while Doogie can't seem to figure out why, I've turned to depsychologicizing myself in an effort to reveal the true source of my pain. I'm narrowed it down to a few contributing factors that I'll be disclosing in no particular order.

Being Straight as an Arrow

I'd better clarify that one lest I get myself a reputation as a round-heeled Roxanne. My neck don't curve. I've got the x-rays to prove it, but due to the commanding presence of other mitigating circumstances, I'm not asking the FBI Barbies to close out my list with a soul-stirring quote from Angela Lansbury just yet.

The last time I went to a chiropractor, he really helped me. I was without pain for the first time in weeks, and there was nothing illegal involved! He told me some exercises to practice (laughable, I know) and told me that I needed to practice "wearing my princess tiara" in an effort to restore order to the universe. You see, with him being a highly paid medical professional and all, his wife apparently lives in a world where being slouchy is near the top of the doo-doo list, sitting just below eating cheesecake in your underwear as the young'uns run through the sprinklers naked...during your neighbor's outdoor wedding. But I digress...

This dude has no idea who he's talking to. Do you know the last time I wore a tiara? Probably at a Phi Mu Alpha party...in college...in northern Alabama. That's all I have to say about that. Nowadays, my tiara more closely resembles this little gem right here.    As much good as Dr. Snap-Crackle-Pop-Guy's-Fixed-Me! did, I still have headaches all the time.

Lingering Effects of Fast Food Addictions

As hard as it is to believe, I didn't get this smokin'
hot bod by eating tofurkey wraps. As a teenager, I
ate copious amount of poverty level tacos. I'm not
talking about fish tacos with garden fresh salsa and
organic lettuce sprigs. I'm talking Taco Bell in all it's goopy cheese, imperishable mush meated, same-in-same-out goodness. (Don't act like you don't know what that means.)

Or perhaps it's a backlog of pink slime in my spleen. I don't know, but thinking about the things I used to consume makes me marvel at the fact I'm still walking upright. I'm surely a Darwinian nightmare.

There are a couple of food facts that make me feel like a unicyclist with vertigo stuck on a merry-go-round. (Insert best quote from our vacation this year:  "Whoa! A black dude on a unicycle! That's straight up gangsta!") Take a look at a McDonald's french fry...from 1982. It still looks exactly the same now as it did then. Why doesn't it do the same for people?

Second of all, if they can add all of these disgusting fillers and additives to the pink slime to make their chicken nuggets taste so damned good, why can't they make vegetables taste good? My God, have you ever eaten a beet? I tried sneaking some into some baked goods once upon a time, and I swear on the First Baptist's cookbook that someone snuck into my kitchen, consumed the aforementioned cornucopia of tacos, and proceeded to take the Browns to the Super Bowl in my best cake pan. So the additives aren't good for you...but asparagus infused with yummy toxic goo is better than pink slime with yummy toxic goo, no?

Children

God knows I love my children more than Disney World, but children do, in fact, make your head hurt. My three children have never misbehaved, so that's not what I mean. For pete's sake, I have to beat them off of each other or the hugging never stops, and if I have to tell them one more time to stop cleaning or reading in their rooms for countless hours, my head will surely explode. (Yes, the penultimate head pain goes full circle.)

It's the nonstop noise that puts me on the one way bus to Shady Pines.

"Momma, he called me a butthole! I tolded him I don't like him, and he said he's gonna put me in the toilet and AAUGH! There's a spider in the bathroom! Don't put me in the toilet with a spider! Mommy, can spider's swim? Can they jump? Can they bite you on the booty? If you get a spider in your butt, will you die? Will it die? If you poop on a spider, will it drown?"

"I did NOT say I was gonna put her in the toilet! I said she's being a terd! Hey...wait a minute...maybe I would put her in the toilet. Hey, Emma, you know who else lives in the toilet? Ana and Elsa. They sing about it all the time!  LET IT GO! GOT TO GO! CAN'T HOLD IT IN ANYMORE!"

"MOMMY!!!! HE SAID ANA AND ELSA LIVE IN THE TOILET, AND HE THINKS MY FAVORITE SONG IS STUPID! BUBBY! FROZEN IS NOT ABOUT POOPING IN THE POTTY. YOU'RE A POOPY HEAD AND I'M A PRINCESS."

(She suddenly switches personalities.)

"I'm the lost princess, aren't I?" (Said child proceeds to lift their leg and annihilate an army of barking spiders in one fail swoop.)

But anyway...if you can think of any reason my head still hurts, please let me know. As my gangsta child used to say, "pea soup, A-town."