Field of Dreams

I have a neighbor who paid a shit-load of clams to have her yard professionally landscaped a few years back. It looks beee-utiful. That lady definitely got what she paid for, y’all.

Let me paint a picture… there’s a lovely little water feature nestled among a variety of ground covers, a Japanese Maple that cost more than my first car, and a tasteful array of perennials that warmly welcome visitors all year long. But the coup de grace is the handful of subtle yet effective solar powered path lights that safely guide folks to her front door in a most aesthetically and energy efficient way. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, it’s all about lighting, people. Anyhooooo, the whole package is, in the words of my frequently inebriated and ever effusive Mama, TO-DIE-FOR. 

My yard… um, not so much. 

The only water feature I have is the sound of my toddler pissing into the bushes every time we go outside. And as for perennials, do crab grass and clover count?

I do have path lights, but they are a little on the rustic side:

That’s right, baby. Didn’t cost me a dime. They’re volunteers! FAB.U.LOUS. They are also solar powered, organic, energy efficient, very low maintenance, and hopefully, edible. 

Yep. You guessed it. Wild mushrooms. Let’s take a closer look-see, shall we? 

Oooh, how pretty! Do they remind you of anything?

How ’bout now?…

If you answered “boobies,” YOU – ARE – CORRECT! How awesome is that? Lawn boobies, people… in my front yard. Jealous? Hey, they kinda look like mine too… pasty white, asymmetrical, one with a lazy eye. 

Actually, if I’m being honest (said in my best Simon Cowell voice), my sweater puppets look a bit more like this:

Different color, but otherwise, yeah. Probably not a good endorsement for the Japanese Eggplant Growers of America (JEGA)… “Our veggies look like dried up Cougar boobs! Come on down to the Eggplant Emporium’s close out sale! It’s buy one get one free, folks!” Also, just have to say, this picture is in NO WAY affiliated with La Leche League. I repeat. Breast milk is best. And, the money you’ll save on baby formula can grow in an interest bearing account until you are ready for your boob job or some self-image therapy. So worth it. (Still saving up for mine, obviously). 

OK. Back to the lawn boobies. Scratch that part about being edible (the mushrooms, not my boobs). My research tells me that these little babies are highly poisonous (again, mushrooms). I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities in the wild wild world of mushrooms. Best case: violent gastrointestinal upset. Worst case: death. Ewww, who needs that? I know my neighbor paid way less than that for hers. I just wanted some pretty, organic path lights, dammit. And if they happen to look like boobies, even better. But not edible, and in fact, deadly? Mwah. Mwah. 

Seriously, I know better than to try to eat a wild mushroom. I mean, duh. But I didn’t realize just how dangerous toadstools could be. Get this, toadstools from the Amanitas family, “are the reason why there are no old, bold mushroom hunters. Several members of this group contain amanitin, one of the deadliest poisons found in nature. One cap of a Destroying Angel (Amanita virosa) can kill a man.” Specifically, “their poison can destroy your liver and there is no good treatment available.”

Destroy my liver? Ha! Too late! Mushroom omelet, anyone?

Well, it could be worse. Instead of a front yard full of poisonous spore dropping lawn boobies, I could have discovered a field of Phallus drewesii, a 5cm-long stinkhorn mushroom that smells like rotting fish and, as the name suggests, looks a little bit like a penis:

Lovely. At least my lawn boobies are odor-free. Deadly, but not stinky. 

Oh, or this. A penis shaped mushroom that is an aphrodisiac, hallucinogen, and cursed? Who knew? I’ll just stick with the baby bellas from Publix, thanks. 

Oooh, how ’bout finding one of these in your yard? That reminds me of a bad date I had in college. Not pleasant.

And, best for last, there’s always this. Spoiler alert: another smelly penis mushroom… but this time, DOG PENIS. Double gross.

Suddenly, my poisonous white-trash path lights are not so bad. I doubt if my neighbors would agree, but who has time or money for real landscaping these days? I’m saving up to trade in my Japanese Eggplant for a pair of grapefruit first. Or therapy.

Awwwwwkward

I’ve got two sick kids at home today sucking the life out of me, so I’ll keep this brief. 

If you go nowhere else on the Internet today, go see my new favorite thing: Awkward Family Photos.com, Sharing the Awkwardness. Hot damn, this is funny stuff. The concept is so simple… people send in, you guessed it, awkward family photos. The photos are priceless, but the real brilliance is in the captions and the comments. It is a hoot, ya’ll. Check it out and tell ‘em Iris sentcha. 

Specifically, you have to see this one, sent to me by one of my dearest friends who wrote in her email: “This hairy family made me think of you.” I’m sure it was because of the ginormous beave on the mom and not the creepy Electra Complex action. Thanks D! Love you too, Sugar! 

Here’s another gem not to be missed. That’s just not natural. Listen, I should know. One of my BFFs is a professional photographer and she tells me all the time about the crazy shit people want to have captured on film. No, nothing like that. Just stupid stuff like unflattering matching outfits and “silly poses” and crazy moms who shout things at their kids like “SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!”  Just curious, is there a school somewhere that trains budding Mall Photographers to make people pose in ridiculous ways or do you think there are just a lot of photographers out there with really sick senses of humor? Based on the shots I’m seeing at this site, I’ve got to believe that some of these photographers come home sometimes with a picture or two to share while they Pass the Dutchie with their buds saying, “Dude… check out how I made this family all put their fists under their chins. It was fuckin’ hilarious! I could barely take the shot, I was laughing so hard.” 

Something to think about next time you go to The Picture People, eh? Just sayin. 

Work it, you’re worth it!  And SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!  

-Iris

A Night to Remember

So, I know you are on the edge of your seat waiting to hear all about the “Pure Romance” smut fest I hosted for ten of my craziest (and apparently, randiest) girlfriends the other night. Sorry it has taken me so long to post this… I’ve been awfully busy trying out all my fabulous new products, ya’ll! 

Good golly Miss Molly – there was so much laughter, and surprisingly, so many “Aha Moments” of sex education, that I honestly don’t know where to begin. Perhaps the form of a list would be most efficient and readable? Giddy Up!

Iris’s Top Ten Favorite Pure Romance Party Moments 

10. Learning about “The Bowling Ball Hold,” also known as the “Inverted Half Pike Come Here” maneuver. So THAT’S how you get the G-Spot! Who knew? (Apparently several of my sexy girlfriends and their hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’-loves at home. Dang. Lucky bitches.)

9. Having not one, but TWO of my friends call and say they couldn’t come at the last minute because they were either working on their sons’ Cub Scout Pinewood Derby cars for the next day’s race or that they wanted to get a good night sleep so they could be well rested for this crucial race. I found these excuses particularly enjoyable since my 9 year old son, who is also a Cub Scout, was not even going to this race. That’s right people, we never got around to building Nature Boy’s Pinewood Derby car this year. And yet, I was able to invest quite a bit of time and energy over the last few weeks into planning and preparing for a raunchy, booze filled “girls’ night in” Pure Romance Party… time that I surely could have spent helping my sweet little Bear Cub get ready for the Pinewood Derby. Ah, priorities. Go ahead and submit your “Mother of the Year” nominations for me right now (as if you didn’t already the time I shared my tip for how to carry an uncooperative toddler). 

8. Playing “Pass the Pickle” to disco music a la Musical Chairs style with a vibrating green glow in the dark vibrator, using only our thighs and knees. 

7. Witnessing beyond the shadow of a doubt that women, as a whole, are very practical and resourceful creatures. For instance, when our Pure Romance consultant demoed a product called Between the Sheets, a spray for instantly drying and deodorizing a wet spot on your bed, one of my very witty friends asked if it could be used for kids. I’m totally envisioning her giving each of her kids their own spray can and teaching them that if they wet the bed, just spray it and get back in. No need to wake up Mommy, ok honey? Right on, sister friend! Always using that noodle! (I’ll take a case of that too, please.) Another example: vibrators are great for massaging all kinds of body parts… not just the fun ones. 

6. Having Mr. Dependable, a gigantic, purple, suction cup mounted, jelly dildo stuck to my chest. Ah, good times. 

"Look Ma! No hands!"

5. Experiencing “first hand,” the important benefit of good lubrication during a fun little game I like to call “Finger vs. Fist.”  Sounds more painful than it really is… kinda like, oh I don’t know, unmedicated childbirth. Speaking of which, for those of us who have expelled multiple 10+ pound babies through our vaginal walls, lubrication might not be as important to have in the nightstand drawer as a miraculous little alum based shrinking cream called Like a Virgin. Several of my friends and I ordered this snake oil in bulk… I’ll have to get back to you about its effectiveness. One word of caution ladies, do not use this with the lights out… you definitely do not want to mistake this for Time in a Bottle and accidentally slather shrinking cream on your man, unless he’s John Holmes, and then God help you. Whatever works, honey.

 

4. Experiencing the very realistic feel of a “pocket pussy” with our fingers and then watching a majority of my friends purchase them for their husbands. Nothing says “Not tonight hon, but I still love you,” like handing a BJ Betty and a tube of Whipped to your man as you turn up the volume on Thema and Louise, readjust your Snuggie, and start crocheting a new Granny Square. 

3. Winning a tube of lipstick during an icebreaker game that just so happens to be a gorgeous color on me and, oh joy, it is shaped like a tiny little purple penis. Can’t wait to put this on at church one day! 

2. Practically peeing my pants anytime my friend “Filet o’ Fish” opened her mouth or played with some of the merchandise. Ya’ll, this girl is like an instant party. She puts the “O” in Karaoke. Seriously, if you are not already friends with this vixen (and you might be… she’s very extraverted), call me and I’ll introduce you. She should be at the very top of your guest list for any soiree where you want people to unwind and laugh ’till it hurts. In fact, I received several emails from other guests after the party telling me how much they enjoyed meeting and partying with this hot mamacita. Well, here… see for yourself. 

 

 

Vulva candy, anyone?

 

 

1. And the number one most memorable moment of the evening: (drum roll please)…. mixing up my free samples an hour before the party and mistakenly putting the Bosom Buddy (a tingly lip and nipple balm) on my clitoris instead of the Ex-T-Cee (genital safe) arousal cream. Lord have mercy! Can we say, “fire in the hole,” people? Honest to Pete – I have had episiotomies with tin-can lids that were less painful than this. Here’s what it looked like when I was retelling the story for my party guests:

By the way, the Bosom Buddy and the Ex-T-Cee, when used correctly, are both awesome. Definitely try some… just be sure not to mix ‘em up like I did. Der.

So, all in all, it was a very fun and memorable evening, acid-burned clitoris not withstanding. If you are looking for a fun way to get your girlfriends together and share some laughs and empowering info over a few cocktails, I highly recommend an evening in with a Pure Romance party. Their toll free number is 1.866.Romance. Give it a try – and tell ‘em Iris sent ya. 

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

And so it begins…

You would think that with three kids I would have experienced it long before today, but no. Today was my first time. My first time stressing over getting my kid into the right school. Preschool to be exact. 

Wait. Let me back up. 

You see, I wasn’t stressed about getting him into the right preschool because I want him to go to the right elementary school, which will lead to the most competitive high school, which will put him on the path to the right college. No. Nothing like that. 

For me, it was all about proximity and cost and convenience. Oh, and if it is a good school that builds a solid academic foundation, all the better, but honestly, not my priority. Oooh, can I say? Does that revoke my membership in the Good Mommy Club? As if. 

I have never waited in line before to enroll my kids in school. I picked Nature Boy’s Montessori school out of the phone book. It was close. They had openings. I took one. Klepto was next, so she just went where her big brother went. Not rocket science. And now it is Bucket Head’s turn, but in this economy, I am looking for something a lot less expensive than private Montessori school, and also, I’m just not ready to put little Bucket Head, my baby, my last baby, in a 5 morning a week program. I can’t do it. Not yet. 

 

 

So I want a two or three morning a week preschool that is extremely close to home. Oh, and it would be nice if that school doesn’t have a track record for children choking to death on hotdogs or being sexually abused by the staff.

Now, how to pick a preschool… hmmm. There are a handful of preschools near my house. I’ve heard good things about all of them. I need a sign. 

Wish granted! Last week as I was driving to the liquor store, of all places, I passed a local church with a sign that said their preschool registration was February ___ at 8 AM. I remembered hearing some of the über moms at my subdivision pool talking about how they had to literally sleep out over night to get a spot for their kid at this particular preschool… its reputation is that good. I never considered this school before because frankly, I have no desire to work that hard. But, feeling kinda lucky that I had randomly driven past the registration sign, I decided to call the school and find out what the registration process was like. If you know me, you know that I don’t usually call ahead and find stuff like this out. I usually just wing it. So the fact that I made this call was huge… another sign. The stars were aligning. Fate was driving the bus and I was strapped in and enjoying the ride. 

The school politely informed me that there were only two spots available for the 2 year old Mon./Wed./Fri. class, but that there were about 30 spots for the Tues./Thurs. one. They then told me that they no longer allow overnight camping out for getting a spot in the program. Instead, they have a lottery. All I had to do was be there at 8 AM, not one minute later, and they would let whoever was in line at that time pull a number from a basket. The numbers would determine the order for when we could approach the registration table and apply for a spot in their program. Wow – how civilized! 

But, uh-oh. First of all, I’m never on time. Secondly, I never win lotteries or prizes of any kind. I learned to accept this fact long ago and comfort myself in the idea that perhaps God already feels that I am plenty blessed in my life and that it wouldn’t be fair to others to also win random drawings and lotteries. Whatever. It’s less painful than believing I’m just an unlucky bastard. 

So the cards were already stacked against me, in my opinion. However, still feeling the power of “the sign,” and the need to think positively, I decided to go. What did I have to lose?

Naturally I was running late. Being anywhere at 8 AM is a big stretch for me. But I hustled the best I could, cut some corners in the personal hygiene department, got Bucket Head dressed, grabbed a sippy cup of milk and a cereal bar for him to eat while we were in line, and set off to be a part of the preschool lottery.  

Now, have I mentioned that I live in the ‘burbs of Atlanta and that most of the stay-at-home-moms here are crazier than shit house rats? These bitches play to win at everything they do, and preschool registration is no exception. 

My first hurdle would be to make it there on time, and miracle of all miracles, we did. I found a rock star parking spot with no problems, found the correct entrance to this enormous church/preschool right away, and walked in the door holding Bucket Head in one arm, my giant purse slung over my other shoulder, and in my two hands: the sippy cup of milk, a 12″ stuffed Big Bird toy, and my keys. We walked into the multipurpose room where the registration lottery would take place and immediately every eye in the place turned and focused right on us as if so judge and say, “We’ve been here for hours! Who do you think you are walking in just under the wire?” It was 7:59 AM. There were about 40 parents in line. You could tell immediately where the front of the line was because there were about 8 chairs lined up and the women sitting in them were the most smug and obnoxious passel of professional pissy-faces I had ever seen. At that moment I was SO glad I had called ahead and learned that it didn’t matter how early I got there as long as I wasn’t there later than 8 AM! Ha! So there, early birds! Take that worm and suck it! 

A couple of minutes later, the administrators were ready to begin the lottery. The head of the school got out her microphone, I kid you not, and said: “If you are here with another adult… a spouse or a friend, you may only draw one number for your team.”

Oh. My. God. People cheat at this! I never even thought of that! These people are sick, sick fucks. What a shitty thing to do… bring a partner, pull two numbers, and then use the lower number to go up and register so you improve your chances of getting a spot in the program. Holy shit. This is the major leagues. I hope President Obama doesn’t ask any of them to be in his cabinet. Hear me now kiddies…. cheaters never win. 

The Head Cheese started down the line with the basket. A majority of the people ahead of me were actively peering into the basket and looking at the folded slips of paper as they drew their numbers. MORE CHEATING! Jesus! When it got to me, I just closed my eyes and reached in and grabbed the first thing that grazed my fingers. I was going to let fate be in charge. It was fate that drove me past that registration sign on my way to buy booze, it is fate that is going to determine if I get my child into this program. There is no cheating fate.

8:05 AM. A harried mother comes running into the room. “I’m sorry Ma’am. We’ve already conducted the lottery. You are too late. You are welcome to stay and be the last one to register, if there are any spaces left (which there definitely won’t be), but you can’t draw a number.” GULP! Oh, praise Jesus that that wasn’t me. Yowza. 

With that little spectacle out of the way, it was time to see what number I drew. Deep breath. I slowly unfolded my slip of paper, feeling like Charlie carefully peeling the wrapper off his Wonka Bar. Would I find the last Golden Ticket?! I took another deep breath and looked at my number. 

4

Holy Shit! That is my lucky number! And, it is low enough that I might actually get a spot in the highly coveted MWF 2 year old class!!! Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful if Bucket Head could go to preschool three mornings a week instead of just two? It would be perfect! Three mornings a week for him to learn and grow and play with kids, and three mornings a week of freedom for me! Oh, it’s too good! Wait, don’t get ahead of yourself girl. Just be grateful you’ll probably get into the school at all. 

“One and Two – please come to the registration table.” The process was quick. The first two women enrolled their kids within minutes and then they called my number.  I gathered up my child, his sippy cup, the remains of his cereal bar, his Big Bird, my purse, and my Golden Ticket, and approached the table. 

“How old is your child?” the registrar asked. 

“He’ll be two next month.” I replied.

“There is one spot left in the MWF class. Would you like it?”

Oh. 

My. 

God. 

I got it. I got the spot. The one of two spots that people have slept out on the sidewalk in previous years to get. And I got it. 

“YES!” I blurted, feeling like she had just asked me if I would like to continue breathing… as in, der. 

That was it. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. I filled out the enrollment form, wrote my registration check, and left… walking on air and totally in shock that I, the most unlucky, most unprepared, least punctual person I know would walk in and out of that room in fifteen minutes holding a Golden Ticket for next Fall. All is right with the world today.

Hopefully it is a good school. Oh who cares?! I’m in! It’s close. It’s way cheaper than Montessori school. And I have one more item on my To-Do List done. And all because I drove to the liquor store and saw a sign. Shoot… like I need any more motivation to shop there.  

Until we meet again!

-Iris

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

Verbal Diarrhea

No, I haven’t been trapped under something heavy, unfortunately, thanks for asking. My husband does need to lose a few pounds, it’s true, but he’s been steering clear of my sniffling-sneezing-coughing-aching-stuffy head-fever-I need to rest-ass lately. Long story short: I’m sick. (ach-OOOOOOO!)

YesireeBob. One of my spawn brought home a wicked case of some hideous viral infection that feels an awful lot like the flu…ten days ago! Only I know it isn’t the flu because I actually got a flu shot this year and so did the kid who gave me this bug. So, it’s just a cold. A very bad cold. And now it has turned into what I suspect is a double ear infection. I’m heading to the doctor today to confirm this, if I don’t stab myself in the ear with a knitting needle first… the pain is that bad. Geez Louise, now I know why babies with ear infections cry so much. This is bad. And you know what is the worst? Being this sick and having to also take care of a gaggle of kids. I’m starting to think those kooky bigamists in Utah are totally on to something. Communal living sounds like a really smart survival technique at this point. 

But before I go and get all loopy on pain pills and antibiotics, I just had to share what may have been one of the single most embarrassing moments of my life, compliments of my incredibly articulate six year old daughter, Klepto. ”Out of the mouths of babes…” This is an expression that I know all too well. Lordhavemercy, that girl just has a natural born knack for embarrassing her Mama in public. 

So here’s the dealio. I had to take the dog/cuisinart to the vet a couple weeks ago for a nasty rash on his belly. I was worried it might be ringworm since Klepto’s pediatrician said that kids can get this lovely fungus from pets, and as you may recall, darling Klepto had a nasty bout of it last fall.

It was a rainy winter holiday vacation day and I wanted to get Little Miss Ringworm out of the house and share the parenting load with The Gatekeeper, so I brought her with me and the rashy dog. 

I guess I’m a slow learner… and as if I needed further proof of it, I’m a slow learner that I’m a slow learner.  I keep taking this child out into the world with me thinking it will be nice mother-daughter time together and that we will strengthen our bond and resemble a Kodak commercial as we walk hand-in-hand, smiling with glee everywhere we go. But that never happens. Never. When she and I are out and about, I usually spend our entire time together doing one or more of the following things:

a.) whispering “stop it.” 

b.) hissing “Stop It.”

c.) shouting “STOP IT!”

d.) apologizing to others for her behavior and/or my shouting.

Well, this little errand was no different. 

I knew it would be difficult for me to control our very strong and disobedient black lab AND also actively supervise my very curious and impulsive child, so I laid the groundwork before we even got out of the car. I told her I needed her to be on her best behavior and help mommy with the dog. “No running. No shouting. No hiding. No touching things. Just stick with Mommy and we’ll go get a treat when we’re done if you do a good job, ok?” “OK Mommy!” she enthusiastically agreed. 

Yeah. Right.

The nano-second we got through the front door of the vet’s office, Klepto made eye-lock with and promptly raced over to a box of dog toys that were for sale near the pet food and bath products. It was like her spider-senses told her “Ooooh, contraband – 8 o’clock. Abort mission! Abort mission! MUST. RUN. AND. TOUCH.” I’m not exaggerating when I say I hadn’t yet crossed the threshold of the entry door when every person and animal in the building was assaulted by an indescribable cacophony: a deafening chorus of squeaking rubber chickens, conducted by none other than my darling daughter, who was grabbing two and three at a time in each hand and squeezing them repeatedly in various rhythms.   

Naturally, since the rubber chickens were designed to be dog toys, every canine in the waiting room (and beyond) started to go berserk. My dog took off running toward the noise, practically dismembering my right arm and flying me behind him like a 5′7″ kite. I slammed on the breaks, growled “NO” in my best Cesar Milan pack leader voice, and yanked his choke chain with all the strength I could muster while simultaneously commanding Klepto to “Drop the chickens and have a seat, please.” Honestly, with kids and dogs like this, it is no wonder I bark things like “DROP IT!” to the kids and engage in baby talk with the dog. Frankly, it is a miracle I can form sentences at all anymore, let alone in multiple languages like dog and baby. 

I guess the receptionist is trained to recognize which kinds of dogs (and kids) can handle waiting in the reception area and which ones need to be separated from the pack, because we were immediately ushered into one of the exam rooms. I’d like to call it “Rock Star Treatment,” but in reality, it was more like solitary confinement… a punishment, not a reward. Either way, I was happy to be able to sit down and rub my shoulder while Klepto and Devil Dog went about exploring every nook and cranny of the 8×8 cell exam room. 

Naturally I was forced to discuss the rules with Klepto (again), but this time I had to specify about not touching the vet tools and exploring the contents of the trash bin. Ewwww.  ”Honey, there could be very dirty things in there… dangerous things that could make you sick. We never never never reach into trash cans. Especially in a doctor’s office. Gross. Double gross. Got it?” “Got it!” I’m guessing that this is where a more competent mother would pull something fabulous out of her purse like some sugarless gum or finger puppets or a stack of origami paper and a book about how to fold origami doll house furniture, but alas, I couldn’t even find my ringing cell phone in the feedsack I call a handbag (and note to self… change ring tone from “Superfreak” to a more innocuous ring.) Perhaps this would have been a good time to do something like tell a story or sing a song together or play a game of I-Spy… but I was too stressed out from the rubber chicken melee to regroup. So I sat there. Just waiting and hoping I could think of something positive to praise Klepto for rather than have to tell her “no” or correct her one more fucking time that hour. 

Fortunately, less than a minute later, a very handsome vet-tech walked in the door. I’m going to guess he was in his mid-twenties. He was tall, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. He smiled and said hello… and I noticed that he had dimples in both cheeks… ugh, my weakness. Then he knelt down in front of me to pet the dog and we were face to face. He smiled again and we locked eyes. Wow. He was adorable. I’m a typical frumpy housewife and mother of three, so I don’t get this kind of attention very often. In fact, I’ve recently been called “Sir” on more than one occasion by various store employees… so hear me when I tell you that having a gorgeous young dimple-cheeked thing flash me a courtesy smile was enough to make me want to do a little jig… or perhaps a full-fledged lap dance. 

A minute or so passed as the vet tech hypnotized my devil dog (and me) with his attention. I was a little jealous, actually, of the fervent belly rubbing the dog was getting. Lucky dog. Klepto broke the spell though when she loudly announced “LOOK! The dog’s PENIS is red!!!  It looks like a cherry popsicle!” Gulp. The vet tech and I both laughed nervously and looked away from each other, and I had to quietly explain to Klepto in front of this cute man that “that’s just what happens to boy dogs when they are happy. Just ignore it. And NO… don’t touch it, please. That is the dog’s ‘privates.’ No touching.” Nice. But that is not even the worst part. 

The vet tech started examining the rash on the dog’s belly and asked, “Any vomiting or diarrhea?” 

To which Klepto enthusiastically replied: “YES, both my Mom and my baby brother have diarrhea today.” 

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God. 

I honestly don’t remember what happened after that. I think I may have passed out. The last thing I remember was the look on the guy’s face. It was something along the lines of what a face might look like after suddenly smelling a rotten egg or some week-old road kill on a hot day. Not a good face. The magic was gone. 

The vet tech audibly cleared his throat and left the room with the dog to update his shots and I was handed a bottle of antibacterial spray that I have to put on the dog’s belly a few times a day. Turns out, it isn’t ringworm… just a rash, possibly allergies. 

So that was our little errand. Just another banner motherhood moment! Good life lesson there though… I guess I should probably not be discussing my bowels with my children anymore. Hey, it could have been so much worse. At least she didn’t say: “My Mommy had a #6 on the Bristol Stool Scale. It was double gross,” and then break into the Diarrhea-Boom-Boom Song. That would have taken the cake. Kids. Dogs. Diarrhea. Like the Molotov Cocktail of parenting… probably best not to combine those ingredients… especially in public.  

Well I’m off to overmedicate. Wish me luck. Until we meet again,

-Iris

 

But on the bright side…

One of the best things about having a blog, I’ve recently discovered, is that when awful/disgusting/frustrating/annoying things happen to me (almost daily), I have an appropriate outlet in which to express myself. Writing about these events is fantabulous therapy and so much less damaging than kicking the dog (or husband) or screaming at the babies. Blogs are good things. I don’t care what Sarah Palin says. If she spent less time fretting about blogs and more time reading things like newspapers and books, maybe she wouldn’t be such a laughingstock. But I digress. Back to me me me and why I blog…

Take yesterday for instance. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

This is the barely audible sound I heard as I was crouched on my office floor sorting through six months of medical records and bills that I had been avoiding. I had just gotten Bucket Head down for his nap and hoped I would have (kinehora) about two hours of uninterrupted time to knock off this dreaded task. I was halfway through writing out a check for a delinquent bill when my spider senses started to tingle. Thank God I didn’t have any music going or I never would have heard it. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

“What the fuck?” I mumbled to myself. Jesus. Is it any wonder I never get anything done? Isn’t the universe supposed to conspire to help people that are on the right path? Here I was, FINALLY hunkering down to do something important that I had been procrastinating about for months… and what do I get? A major interruption. Dripping water can’t be ignored. It’s not like a baby fussing, or a blaring smoke detector when I’m cooking, or a husband pawing. So I struggled to my feet and went off in search of the sound. It didn’t take me long.    

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I turned the corner into the kitchen and immediately noticed a small pool of water on the floor under the windows. But it was a sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky, and it hadn’t rained here for days. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I look up. The water was slowly trickling down from the top of the window casements. Huh. That’s odd, I thought. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Then it hit me. Those windows are right under the master bathroom. Right under our toilet, to be exact.

Noooooooooooooooooo! I took off running up the stairs, rounded the corner, burst into the bathroom, and set my eyes on the water pooling on the floor around the toilet. The lid was up. The seat was down. The water was all the way to the tippy-top, slowly streaming over the side, almost silently, and gently running downhill on our slightly warped linoleum floors toward the corner of the water closet’s exterior wall, where it was then leaking down through the floor to the window casements below it. 

My first thought was: “MOTHER FUCKER!” That damn husband. He pulled a “dump and run” this morning, the bastard! 

But once I got past the initial shock and anger, what else is there to do in a situation like this but jump into action. That, and start thinking about how I would blog about it later that night! 

I grabbed the bath towels and sopped up the water on the floor. The water in the loo was too high for me to start plunging, so I grabbed the hideous halloween bucket in which we store the plunger (which was conveniently located right next to the toilet for such an emergency) and started bailing out the dirty water and dumping it into the shower. Ewww. Great… more to clean. 

Don’t worry, I took all these photos after the fact. I did not stop to photograph this situation while I was ankle deep in poo-water. Speaking of which, I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that it was only two months ago that we replaced one of our other toilets due to similar issues while we had a house full of guests over Thanksgiving. We now have not one, but two TOTO toilets in our home. My husband and I have discussed this many times as it is not an uncommon occurrence for him to dump and run and unknowingly leave me to plunge his shit while he is at work. Now, in his defense, he always says that he watches it flush and that it always appears to go down just fine. Whatever. My point is that I have asked him, a number of times, to NOT poop in the one non-TOTO toilet as a preventative measure. Does he listen? No. No he does not. And so here I am, wiping poo-water off the kitchen windows and floor when I should be paying the backlogged bills that he is always harping on me about. Ironic? I think not. 

Which brings me to the next thing. My husband is the only human being I know who actually eats 5-7 full servings of fresh fruits and vegetables every day of his life. Needless to say, he is incredibly regular and lays pipe which resembles regulation size NFL footballs. I would like to now refer you to the Bristol Stool Chart, a very useful tool that we should all know and love: 

This fabulous visual aid was first introduced to me last summer by my very fun and clearly uninhibited friend JB who is a huge fan of adding bulk fiber to his diet in his quest for the ultimate pooping experience. According to the Wikipedia’s explanation of the Bristol Scale, “types 1 and 2 indicate constipation, with 3 and 4 being the “ideal stools,” especially the latter, as they are the easiest to pass, and 5–7 being further tending towards diarrhea or urgency.” Isn’t that fabulous?! Aren’t you so glad to know this? Listen, I’m telling you, print one of these per bathroom and post it on the bathroom wall so that people can rate their poop everyday. Then you can discuss it objectively with your family and friends. Next time someone asks, “How was your poop today?” You can intelligently say, “Thank you for asking! It was in between a 3 and 4 on the Bristol Stool Chart!” or “Well unfortunately, it was a little low on the Bristol Scale… I need to drink more water and add some fiber to my diet!” or “Holy guacamole! I just had a 7 on the Bristol Scale!” which sounds so much more refined than: “I just peed out of my ass! No more licking the subway hand rails for me!” 

I bring this up because my fresh fruit and veggie loving husband routinely deposits the most perfect 3s and 4s I’ve ever witnessed. I’m telling you – his shit is perfect. He practically doesn’t even need toilet paper because his poop is usually in one big curved piece and a “clean break” to boot. And the girth! Lordhavemercy. It makes my hindquarters quiver just thinking about it. His poop would make Dr. Oz sing an aria. The angels weep when he shits. I totally envy his poop. Not enough to replace my daily wine serving with real grapes like he does, but still. Yet, the one drawback with having such perfect poop is that it tends to clog all but the most powerful toilets. Which is why two thirds of the toilets in our house are TOTOs and why my husband and I have agreed (or so I thought) that until we can afford to redo our bathroom, it needs to be a poop-free zone. 

So anyhooooo… the bad news is that I never did get those medical bills sorted through and paid yesterday. I had a bunch of unexpected cleaning to do and tons of towels and rags to wash. But the good news is that I sat down and wrote all about it rather than call my husband at work and cuss him out for all the trouble he caused us with his “dump and run” in the wrong toilet. It was a very messy, disgusting, frustrating event that totally derailed my day, but on the bright side, it gave me an opportunity to share The Bristol Stool Chart in a (hopefully) entertaining way and publicly embarrass my husband enough that he’ll never repeat this mistake again.  Ah yes… the power of the blog. Therapy. Entertainment. Educational tool. Husband tamer.

Now, back to those bills…

Noted

I am a sucker for a good Thank You Note. I hardly ever get them though. What is wrong with kids today? Honest to Pete! Does nobody else’s mothers and grandmothers shame them into expressing gratitude appropriately the way mine did? Surely this is a sign that the world is going to hell in a hand-basket… as if the rise in vaginoplasty surgeries wasn’t evidence enough. Sheesh. 

Fortunately for me, I have a couple of friends who have restored my faith in humanity this week. Not only did this couple send me a thank you note, but they wrote what is certainly the best one I have ever received, hands down. First off, it came within 48 hours of receiving my gift in the mail. Who does that? So considerate! But secondly, it fucking RHYMES. No kidding. It is a POEM, and a damn funny one at that. Nothing says “I really enjoyed your gift” like someone taking the time to create a personalized, multi-versed poem about it! Of course, don’t try this at home if you didn’t sincerely like the gift, or you are just asking for trouble. Writing a poem about a Christmas tie that lights up and plays a song will only get you more of the same next year… if you don’t want that, don’t overdo it on the thank you. Naturally, the converse is true as well… if you don’t show enough gratitude you might not make the cut next year. So dole out the enthusiasm appropriately in proportion to your gift preferences. It’s all about communication, really.

So listen, if any of you are having trouble getting motivated to send out those holiday thank you notes, maybe this will inspire you. It sure rocked my world! Without further ado, here is The Greatest Thank You Note I’ve Ever Received:

 

Twas the day before Christmas

And all through Forsyth

Lots of last minute errands

At Publix…much strife.

 

I with my Champagne

The Mink Wrangler had wine

No going out for us

We were feeling just fine

 

When out in the cul-de-sac

There arose such a clatter

I sprang from my Laz-Y-Boy

To see what was the matter

 

Staggered over the feline

And tripped on my glass

Never reached the window

I was flat on my ass

 

“It’s not the Yard Nazis?”

I asked full of dread

Visions of never being “Yard of the Month”

Danced in my head

 

We’re not for a big showy Christmas, you see

Empty nesters are we

With just one tiny tree

 

I got to the mailbox 

(It complies with our covenants)

And there among the cards and the bills and the government  

(Note: I’m not just rhyming.  We actually got an IRS notice on Christmas
Eve.  Fucking bastards.)

 

It was a small shiny tin, all red, green and festive

I knew in a flash that Iris had been restive! 

 

Our own box of Vulva Candies  

Made just for us! 

We knew, because one

Looked like me with white bush

 

As they have all this decade

Our subdivision chatters,

“Those Yankees are weird.

They don’t know what matters.”

 

Ah but we do, and it’s sweet salty goodness

With soft inviting centers

…Oh and the candies were good, too

 

But mostly it’s dear Iris, bestowing special favors

Her friendship means everything

Take that, tight-ass neighbors

 

We’ll survive the Deep South, being bad and being cunning

Because vulva candies are too perfect

For a Christmas in Cumming

 

With love from the Bearded Mink and the Mink Wrangler

 

©2008 The Bearded Iris

ASSuaging the Guilt

Hold it right there, bub. This is a two parter all about my bodily-fluid-filled Live Nativity experience at church last week. If you haven’t read the first part, click here.

Back so soon? So I can assume that you are up to speed then? You get a gold star, sugar. Let’s continue then, shall we? And now, the riveting conclusion to Urine Angel: 

So, as you can see, I was feeling purdy dang guilty about my poor, sweet, six year old daughter “Klepto” shivering in a pool of her own pee pee and tears for possibly 15 minutes or more, alone, uncomfortable, and scared in a church powder room while I was outside learning my part as the Behind The Scenes (BTS) Mom for the Wisemen/King Herod scene. Well, my Mama didn’t raise no quitter, and I’m fixin’ to do the same with my brood. So I took my baby home, peeled her wet costume and multiple layers of clothes off, stuck her in a steamy bubble bath with a mug of hot cocoa, promised her it would all be better in the morning, and smothered her with love until she drifted off to sleep. The next morning I called the director of our Live Nativity, told her why Klepto missed the dress rehearsal the night before, and requested that I be reassigned to scene # 8, the big finale to the Live Nativity in which Klepto was cast as an angel.  

The director was more than happy to recast me so that I could be with my Tinkling Angel in the stable. But apparently that clever crusader for Christ had a hidden agenda, which I learned the hard way a few hours later. 

You see, once she got wind of my ability to clean up a messy situation, she knew I’d be the perfect person to supervise the stable scene.

Cue the baby donkey. 

That’s right, people. We had a real live baby donkey in my scene. 

I didn’t know much about donkeys before that night, but I do now. 

For starters, I now know that donkeys like to kick. Pair that character trait with a stable full of animal loving children and you have yourselves a perfect storm in the making. I pretty much spent half the night keeping the kids from getting their teeth knocked out. I swear, if I had a nickel for every time I said, “Girls… please don’t hug the donkey from behind. She’s gonna kick you in the head,” I’d have at least enough for a Venti Latte.

The other main thing I learned about donkeys that night is that they poop A LOT. Good Lord Almighty… they surely are the most regular mammals I’ve ever encountered up close and personal. 

So, in addition to running defense for ass-kicking in the literal sense, I also found myself on perpetual-pooper-scooper duty. You see, donkey poop is very stinky. I’m talkin’ STANK, ya’ll. And that cute little donkey would just lift her tail ever so slightly and let about a dozen or so sugarplum-sized balls of poop fall right out of her ass-ass and then she would stand right there as if nothing ever happened, stepping in it and thereby wafting the fumes everywhere. I was thinking that the donkey might end up kicking one of us at some point, and I didn’t want one of us to get kicked with a donkey-poop-covered-hoof, so I felt like it was the clear course of action. I’d much rather be kicked in the teeth with a clean hoof, than a poopy one, wouldn’t you? I mean really. But also, it was stench management. I just couldn’t have my audience focusing on the donkey stank and not on the message of our joyous scene! 

DOH! Watch your step, Little Angel!

Now, the two teens playing Mary and Joseph were just as cute as can be. Mary especially just captured my heart. She was so sweet and wholesome and good with the little angels.  She would get up between scenes and high five the little ones and give them sugar cookies that she had baked at home and brought with her to share. But as cute and sweet and good as she was, there was no way on God’s green earth that she was gonna stop her texting and get anywhere near that beast of burden or his donkey-doody. And Joseph? Fahgetaboutit. He was all, “Uh, excuse me, Miss Iris? The donkey, like, pooped…” and “Uh, like, Miss Iris? The donkey totally, like, pooped again…. ” So clearly, it was me or nobody. And honestly, once you have a few babies, a little donkey poop is nothing. In fact, I’d venture to say that picking up after a donkey was perhaps the least repulsive thing I’d done all day. Yeah, motherhood… those with weak stomachs need not apply. 

But here’s the thing, like most parenting tasks, picking up donkey dung is tricky. I did not want to have MY pearly whites knocked down my throat by this ass while I was doing the dirty work, no-siree-Bob. So, I had to hold the donkey by the head, turn her around, and scoop with one hand while I held her head with the other. That takes skill, I tell ya. Who knew I was such an ass-whisperer? And all of this had to be done quickly, in between scenes, while keeping the little angles from wandering off or spilling hot chocolate all over their white sheets. Oh, did I mention that I did all of this with a kitchen towel on my head and a bathrobe over my coat so I would blend in with the cast and look like a shepherd? Shoot… if my life were any more glamorous, I’d be signing autographs at the Piggly Wiggly.  

My daughter and I were out there for 5 hours, freezing our tails off and bringing joy to the world. Between the tinkle trauma the night before and the mountains of mule mess, it kinda sucked for me, actually. But Klepto loved it, and that’s what it’s all about. We totally bonded, we got to experience the thrill of not giving up when things got messy, and we got to learn about the real meaning of Christmas and even more about donkeys. By the way, donkey coats are surprisingly soft. I would have thought that they’d feel kinda wiry or coarse. But no. Soft as a bunny. Just a joy to touch and a nice natural hand warmer too. 

My family members who did the guided tour said that our scene was by far the best, and then they swore that they weren’t just saying that because Klepto and I were in it. I’m so glad I signed my baby up for this and got to be there with her to see her shine in her little halo and make the audience giggle when she upstaged Mary every time with her enthusiastic singing and improvisational dance moves.  We’ll definitely do it again next year and now that we’ve survived it once, we’ll be even more prepared. Of course, with my luck and skills, they’ll probably throw in a couple of spitting camels and some sheep with irritable bowel syndrome, but that’s fine… it will just make me feel more at home. Bring it on, beeotch.  

I hope ya’ll are having holidays filled with joy and love and the kind of messes that make family time so memorable and funny for years to come! Seasons Greetings to you and yours!

with love,

The Bearded Iris

©2008 The Bearded Iris

“Yes, Vagina, there is a Santa Claus.”

Well I’m happy to report that my vulva candies were a HUGE hit at the annual Church’s Babysitting Co-Op Christmas Party! Nobody greeted me at the door with torches and pitchforks and even some of the most conservative members of the group were eager to learn the recipe. There were a few women who were a little hesitant at first to embrace the vulvas, but once they saw the rest of us gobbling them down and raving about how good they were, they relented and joined in on the vulva-nibbling-fun. And I was totally shocked to hear one of them quoting that recent Oprah episode by saying “Hey, if you don’t love your vulva, nobody else will.” WOW! Wonders never cease. 

And what’s more… I had a wonderful time the other night. You know, I think a big old tray of vulvas was just what this group needed to loosen up a little. Of course the never ending supply of wine surely helped. But also, the vulvas. Definitely the vulvas. 

One of the most spiritual members of the group, who always leads us in a prayer before we eat, even included the tray of vulva candies in her blessing as we all held hands and formed a circle around the kitchen island/buffet table: “Let us pray… oh, let’s pray around the food, including the vulvas! Dear Lord, thank you for bringing us all together safely tonight. Bless us O Lord, and these, Thy Gifts, which we are about to receive. And Lord, please bless this food and all the people who prepared it.”  Rock on, sistah friends. I think I underestimated these broads. I’m going to guess that until I showed up with that tray of goodies, a majority of these women had never even uttered the word “vulva” before. In fact two of them confessed that they call their nether regions their “girl parts”… and these are mothers of girls. I do believe I performed a valuable service to my community by bringing those edible vulvas to the Christmas Party. 

So there we were, some of us in our Mom Jeans and holiday themed L.L. Bean turtlenecks, and some of us in our True Religion jeans and heels, but all of us sharing a lovingly created meal of condensed-soup-based-carb-casseroles, venison meatballs (surprisingly good!), and vulva candies.  We drank way too much wine and talked about things like plastic surgery and our kids’ school challenges and weight loss secrets. But for me, the best part was learning that even though most of these other moms seem so together and organized, that they too are really struggling with the insane amount of extra work that goes along with being a Mom in the month of December.

This is a pretty special group of women. I have never heard any of them gossip about another member of the group. Ever. They are smart, talented, and compassionate. Some work at full time jobs ranging from teaching to physical therapy to human resources. Several are stay-at-home moms. One of us is divorced. Several of us would like to be divorced. Many are on some kind of pharmacological support. Some of us are transplanted Yankees… and I just learned that TWO of us are Yinzers (a.k.a. from Pittsburgh…how did I miss that accent on Nina before?) But all of us are loving mothers, struggling to manage all the day-to-day drudgery and still get out of bed every day. We each have different hobbies and passions and it is wonderful to have a built in resource pool to go to for questions about anything from Autism to Zoo trips. And you know what, I think many of them actually enjoy my company as well… apparently I fill the role of comic relief. Of course, none of them take me very seriously, so I never have to worry about being recruited for the role of Co-Op President, thank you Jeeeeezus, but it is nice to feel appreciated for my own unique skill set. And apparently they respect my parenting (or just geographic proximity) as well because several of them use me regularly for babysitting. 

And now that I know they can handle the vulva candies, I’ll feel a little more comfortable just being myself. And that’s a good thing. 

Of course, the bar has been raised for the next Babysitting Co-Op event! Now I’m going to have to whip my pastry bag into submission and figure out how to make these.  Definitely not as easy to make as the pretzel/Rolo/pecan vulvas, but aren’t they pretty?! Or these. Everyone LOVES cupcakes! Or this. Although, on second thought… I don’t like the idea of a vagina cheese cake… reminds me of my last yeast infection. Oh well, I have a whole year to decide. And my next mission will be to teach them the difference between the labia majora and labia minora! Oh what fun!!! I just love a project, don’t you? 

So I guess the moral of the story is this… be yourself. If the people around you can’t handle it, then find new people. But always be yourself. And also, nothing loosens up a party like a tray of delicious vulva candies.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

One word: TOTO®.  

It is THE brand of toilets preferred by industry insiders and general poop experts world-wide. 

I learned this two years ago when we upgraded our powder room toilet. I was wandering the aisles of a local home improvement mega-store, having trouble choosing between the highly publicized American Standard and Kohler brands, when I decided to use my “phone-a-friend lifeline.” Luckily for me, I happen to be very tight with two fabulous people who do PR for one of the industry leaders in plumbing fixtures and they have educated me over the years on some of the ins and outs of the toilet biz. So I speed-dialed “John” from the toilet aisle, knowing he had worked for one of those major brands, and asked which of the two major toilets to buy. And you know what he said? “NEITHER. Get a TOTO.” It was a life changing phone call. Big lesson there ya’ll… surround yourself with good people and ask for help when you need it! It just doesn’t get any easier than that.   

“Technologically advanced and aesthetically pleasing, our industry-leading toilets offer legendary flushing performance.” TOTO®, you had me at “legendary.” That is not a word one typically associates with toileting. I find it absolutely irresistible. And when I learned that TOTO’s 2 – 1/8 inch extra large trapway can pass a 2″ test ball (which is 33% larger than the industry standard) without clogging, I knew it was just the toilet for our passel of professional poopers.  

So that was two years ago. We bought the TOTO® Clayton™ 1.6 GPF with G-MAX commercial grade flushing performance and have never looked back. That single purchase may be the only thing in my life that has never caused me even a hint of buyer’s remorse. I love that thing. LOVE. So naturally, the other day when our four house guests clogged the two non-TOTO toilets on our second floor, a few days before Thanksgiving, I knew there was only one thing to do.  

The Gatekeeper and I loaded up the mini-van and headed back to European Sink Atlanta. As a satisfied repeat customer, I walked in that place like I owned it and announced without shame to the lovely saleslady who greeted us: “We’ve got a house full of company and a clogged toilet situation. We need a TOTO.” 

She was ready and willing to help us find the exact model for our needs. But who knew there were so many features to consider?! When I bought my last TOTO®, I really didn’t do any research beyond asking my friend John about the brand. I chose the TOTO® Clayton™ because of the way it coordinated with my other powder room design choices. It was pricey, but so worth it. It’s gorgeous and performs like a dream. 

But this time, I felt like I was ready for the advanced class on Toilet Talk.  

Other than the fact that I knew it had to be a TOTO®, our new toilet needed to meet three criteria. This one was going into the kids’ bathroom upstairs, so it needed to be very utilitarian and easy to clean; style was not as much of an issue. I also knew that I never wanted to hear another house guest rummaging for a toilet plunger – so flushing performance was critical. And thirdly, I wanted to keep the cost down. 

These three requirements were enough to point us in the right direction of the showroom. But Lordhavemercy! The choices! Did we want the SanaGloss™ protective porcelain glaze to make cleaning even easier? (YES! Der.) And what about flushing technology? Would the G-MAX be enough for our incredibly constipated extended family or should we go whole hog and get the TOTO® Patented Double Cyclone Flushing System? And of course I could accept nothing less than a SoftClose® toilet seat! That’s right people… there is such a thing. A toilet seat that closes slowly and silently on its own. Say goodbye to noisy slamming toilets. Tell me more, TOTO®. Tell me more.  

Did we want a one-piece unit with no pesky seam to trap all the poorly aimed boy pee?  Gosh, those are more expensive and heavier, but easier to clean. Oooh, how about a skirted model? I do have two little boys who apparently subscribe to the Dick Cheney method of “ready, aim, fire, miss.” Hmmm. Tough choice. And what about the water efficiency? I totally want to “be green,” but not at the expense of a poor flush. I am sorry Mother Earth, but I will sacrifice a little extra water for the sake of no skid marks. Shoot, it’s not like my kids ever remember to flush anyway. But with TOTO’s brilliant engineering and a possible rebate in my county for water-wise upgrades, it may be worth it to choose the “eco” model! 

Then there was the whole comfort factor. We are tall people. Should we get the ADA compliant model that is a little higher off the ground? Or, since this new toilet was going to be in the kids’ bathroom, should we get the standard height? Elongated bowl or round?  

And speaking of options, TOTO® offers a full line of Washlet seats with features such as remote controls, aerated warm water cleansing, deodorizing system, heated seats, and much more. Oh boy, this was going to be tougher than I thought. 

Thank GOD I had The Gatekeeper with me. He is SO practical, don’t you know. He was able to filter through all the information and decide without reservation within a matter of minutes on the biggest bang for the smallest buck. He chose The Eco-Drake® Toilet, 1.28 GPF. I am convinced that he partially chose this model so he could annoyingly repeat the Seinfeld quote “Love the Drake!” for the rest of his natural life. But as usual, he was right. This toilet is perfect for the kids’ bathroom. It is simple and attractive, water efficient, powerful, and economical. With tax and the SoftClose seat upgrade it was $301 out the door. 

I personally was much more interested in the TOTO® Gywneth™! And yes, partly because it shares the same name as one of my favorite celebs. The TOTO® Gywneth™ was totally out of our league though. Retailing at $680, it features a one-piece design, has the SanaGloss finish, is ADA compliant, and sports the Double Cyclone flush technology. That means it uses two powerful nozzles to create a forceful centrifugal action that cleans the rim and bowl thoroughly with every flush. Self cleaning, ya’ll! Can you believe it? AND the rim has no holes, which makes it even easier to keep clean and offers a seamless appearance. Pardon me while I wipe my drool. I find it captivating that a toilet marketed for being so clean has the same name as an actress so well known for her immaculately groomed undercarriage. Coincidence? I think not.

The Gatekeeper promised me we could get the TOTO® Gwyneth™ for the Master Bathroom someday… he said it was way too nice for the kids’ bath. I guess he’s right, as usual. Dammit.  

But back to The Drake. Love the Drake. The installation was pretty easy, according to my brother-in-law, Mr. Awesome, and his two crack-a-lacky helpers, my husband and his little brother (pictured below). He’s single, ladies, and he lives in Chicago. Email me for details. First come, first served. 

Just say "no" to crack.

 

Mmmm, look at all that baked-in goodness!

I just want to say, those designers and engineers at TOTO® thought of everything! Look at the picture below of my old toilet. You can see how the toilet seat was attached with metal screws, which had rusted over time and left a big old nasty mess every time the seat was closed. Disgusting.

Plus, look at all the Thomas-English-Muffinesque-nooks-and-crannies on the old seat which collected all the poorly aimed boy pee and proved nearly impossible to clean:

Ewwww! I’ll have you know that this toilet was cleaned by a paid professional less than a week before this picture was taken. Even Mr. Clean himself wouldn’t be able to get that dried-on tinkle out of those cracks and crevices. This is just poor design. Beamis, shame on you. 

But look at how the geniuses at TOTO® address this issue:

Shoot, look at that, I already see a few little sprinkles of dried boy pee on back of the seat. Not cool. But what I really want you to see is the fact that there are no metal parts here to rust and corrode. And the connection between the seat and the toilet is one long seam… so easy to clean. Now look at the other side:

See? More great design. Again, one long seam with plastic covers over the plastic screws. Those covers pop open for easy cleaning. Brilliant! 

The only thing missing here is a “bullseye” painted in the bowl, as suggested by a fellow blogger who knows a thing or two about boys and pee-pee.  TOTO® Gods, you may want to consider adding that as an interim solution while you are developing a self-cleaning lid (and base, and surrounding walls, and ceiling, Lordhavemercy). 

Oh look, here’s a picture of the venison sausage my brother-in-law brought with him and cooked on my stove one morning during his ten day visit. Yeah. With a diet like that, you can see why we need the extra flushing power. I bet I could flush all four of those greasy sausages AND the frying pan in my new TOTO® and still not have to use a toilet plunger. Now THAT’S a good toilet. 

Good Lord Almighty. How I survived those ten days is a mystery. I’m certain retiring my plunger had something to do with it though. Thank you TOTO®! 

So anyhooo, I just had to share the good news. It is hard not to gush about a marvel of engineering and design such as my new TOTO® Eco-Drake. I am seriously in love. LOVE, I tells ya. Get one. At least one. And tell ‘em Iris sentcha, honey. Clean is Happy! Truer words have never been spoken. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris