How Your Vagina Sometimes Fails You

Here's what I don't understand. 

Why is it that just because I have a vagina, I am responsible for keeping my family's underwear clean?

We have this fancy shmancy clothes hamper that has 2 separate compartments, one for lights and one for darks.  It's supposed to make the whole laundry thing easy peasy one two threesy.  Well take a look:

Yes, my husband's dirty clothes are on the floor right next to the hamper.  This is a very small pile of dirty clothes.  It gets much, much bigger.  I gave up on asking him to put the clothes in the hamper a long time ago.  I'm not quite sure why it's such a difficult concept, but apparently it's similar to trying to get me to give a blow job.*

And yeah I know that I could just stop doing his laundry, but believe me I've tried this little reverse psychology gem before and you know what it got me?  A big old charge to my debit card when my husband went out to buy all new socks and underwear when his were all dirty.  Not to mention the guilty conscience of smugly separating my laundry from his.  Although with that method, his clothes actually ended up in the hamper instead of next to it.

And then there's my son.  He's six and although he's been potty trained for a few years now, he still doesn't quite see the importance of wiping his ass thoroughly (or at all.)  I started making him take a bath every time he took a dump and didn't wipe, but that didn't work and it just created a bigger mess for me to clean up.  So then I bought those grown-up baby wipes that you can leave in the bathroom for him to try so wiping would be more convenient for him.  That seems to work about half the time but I still have the lovely chore of washing his underoos in hot water with bleach every time.

Well, PMS is going great for me this month.  As you can plainly see. 


* Maybe I should try a surprise BJ to get new carpet?

I'm a City Girl

My husband grew up on a horse and cattle ranch. There are lots and lots of acres, lots and lots of animals, and lots and lots of SHIT.

When I first met Hubs it was super exciting. I had ridden horses a few times as a little girl, but had never even dreamed I would actually own my own horse. While we were dating, Hubs gave me my very own horse for my birthday. Who gets a horse for their birthday I mean honestly??? And from the guy they are dating??

Fast forward a few years when Hubs decides he's had enough of city life and we NEED a house with horse property. He is passionate about horses and really wants his kids to be around them and learn the responsibility of "farm life." Let me first say that I respect that and totally understand where he's coming from. I want my kids to be passionate about some of the things I am, so I can't blame him for wanting the same. AND my son gets all excited to go help dad with the horses. It's really cute.

But my gawd, there is a lot of SHIT in my backyard. And it never fails that horses get out when Hubs is out of town and then I'm back there in my city girl flip-flops fixing fence, plugging my nose, and swearing at how Hubs doesn't clean up shit and placenta (yes placenta! a horse just had a baby.) SICK! I called him and was disgusted and pissed off and wish we could just send the horses to live with the grandparents at the ranch.

My point - have you ever noticed that there are a lot of parents like that?

All they ever do is complain about their children and how their lives are basically ruined because of them. Some people are like that about their marriages too. It's exasperating! Why did they have kids if all they ever want to do is send them to the grandparents house?

Of course I have more than my fair share of complaints, but one thing I never, EVER want to do is make my child feel like he wasn't wanted or that he's somehow made my life WORSE! It makes me tear up just thinking about him feeling like that. So in continuous effort, I try very hard not to complain about my marriage or my children because they are, after all, the greatest most important part of my life.

TMI

So I have this little tracker at the bottom of my blog. I swear I don't use it to keep tabs on anyone, I am just curious as to whether anyone gives a shit about what I have to say or if I should just resume talking to myself and not bother to put it out in cyber space.

So one of the features I like about the ticker thing is that if someone finds my blog by way of a google search, it tells me what they were searching for. I've been pleased to see that most searchers find me because they too are struggling with infertility. But not yesterday. Yesterday someone found me by searching for

"horses fucking womens"

Now my memory is not that great, but I'm pretty sure I've never written about THAT! Maybe I should be a little more choosy about how much I use the F word!

Shit Happens

This post is really gross and is about poop. If you don't want to read it, stop now and I will not be offended. I promise.

Seriously, stop reading now if you have a weak stomach.

Last chance. It's pretty disgusting.


So last night I went to my girlfriend's house and she and her husband made bbq'ed pizza (OMG it was delicious!) I held, fed, and played with their sweet baby girl. It was much needed friend/baby time and I loved it.

Between us and another couple that was there, we went through 2 bottles of wine, which was also pretty great. There's nothing like sitting outside in nice weather with your bestie, yummy food, a glass of wine, and a baby on your lap. Afterwords all the girls decided to go see Sex and the City 2, which was super cheesy but I still loved it.

The climax of the evening was when I headed home and halfway there got an unsettling gurgle in my gut. You know the kind where you're pretty sure you are going to have some type of explosion happening at any moment. I continued driving and called hubs to keep me company on the drive and also to distract me from the flurry of activity in my digestive tract. In doing this, I went ahead and missed my exit, adding about 10 more minutes to the drive.

I got the urgent need to GO right as I pulled into my driveway. I wriggled around in my seat and frantically pushed my garage door button. I started breaking a sweat just as I pulled into the garage. I ran into the house and towards my bathroom, and then...

I shit my pants.

We have an exchange student living with us and he was sitting at the kitchen table as I ran by trying to get to the toilet. Hopefully he didn't realize what was happening at that moment.

Why am I telling you this? I'm not sure. It just seems relevant to the shit storm that my life seems to be right now! Also, it's kinda funny that I am 31 and I shit my pants. So hopefully you are laughing right now and not throwing up in your mouth a little.