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…

Micro-Mangering

We have a Nativity Scene on our entryway table. It is a beautiful Fontanini set that my husband bought for me as a gift early in our marriage. Over the years my mother and mother-in-law have added to the set with additional key players like wise men and animals. The whole family treasures it. 

The only problem is that nobody agrees on how to set it up each year. Every time I walk past it, the pieces have been moved. For a long time I thought this was the work of toddlers gone wild. But now I know differently. 

My husband is a control freak. 

He has a very specific idea of where each figure should go, the angle at which they should be facing, and the proximity of each figure to the others. He’s obsessed. We call it “micro-mangering.” The man knows his Nativity and likes it just so. 

It kinda pisses me off. I mean really, what a waste of energy. If you want to micro-manage something, how about the laundry? Or if only he had the same high expectations for the kitchen and would painstakingly care for and rearrange the pots and pans so carefully. Maybe if we had pots and pans with Baby Jesus painted on the side… 

So naturally, I find myself rearranging the Nativity pieces in crazy ways just to bait the poor guy. It is so easy and creates so much fun. It’s probably a tad sacrilegious… but I just blame it on the baby. Shhhh. Don’t tell him OK.  Besides, I figure any God who would create ME in his image clearly has a great sense of humor and won’t mind a little sheep-on-camel action in the name of a good joke.

 

"Um, excuse me, but your sheep is buggering my camel, dude."

 

"OH! Oh my goodness! Somebody... HELP! Don't just stand there Joseph! Help me for Chrissakes! This barn cat is trying to steal the breath of the new born King!"

 

The forgotten verse to the beloved classic carol: "Do you smell what I smell?"

©2008 The Bearded Iris

Crush

I can’t sleep tonight. Maybe it is the Mexican food. Maybe it is the booze and the prescription drugs. Maybe it is the general malaise that I can’t seem to shake this week, what with all the vomit scrubbing and all. So I’m channel surfing like a hairy man.  Is this what men feel?  Restless? Or do they work that remote like a lab rat vying for another pellet because their brains are too small to stay focused on one thing for very long? Somnambulant, inquiring minds want to know.    

I have 921 channels and I can’t find a single damn thing to watch. But wait, not so fast. I just found The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, and the clicking stops. That face. That devilish grin. That sexy salt and pepper hair, tousled just so. That suit…wow, this man can work a suit. That Scottish brogue. Oh for the love of GOD…that Scottish brogue. Stop everything. And what’s this? What is this feeling? Butterflies? Well, hello! I do believe I have a new crush. I might just be exhausted and depressed and in desperate need of attention from someone other than a potty training toddler with a turd in his hand, but I do believe Craig Ferguson is speaking directly to ME this evening!  Seriously…check out what he just said (in his ridiculously sexy accent): 

“Listen, I want to clear something up I said before the break…I said that, you know, boobies were the most important thing, and they’re not. The most sexy thing on a woman, seriously, honestly, is a sense of humor… If a woman has a sense of humor, an easy laugh, it denotes an enjoyment of life and a love of deviant sex!  If a woman has an easy laugh, she is good in bed! A woman should have an easy laugh!  Unless she just laughs when she sees your pee-pee and that is just never good.”  

Craig Ferguson, will you marry me? I promise I will not laugh at your pee-pee…unless you put googly eyes on it and make it talk or dance…I can’t make any promises if you do that. But seriously Craig, I really think you would get me.  I think we could make each other laugh and have lots of deviant sex. Craig, I realize we haven’t known each other for very long, but there is something about you that is stirring my heart, my soul, my loins. You look like you know how to treat a woman. Something about you tells me that when you get home from a hard day of work, and I make you dinner and kiss you longingly, and let you know that I’m in the mood for a little wink-wink-nudge-nudge, you won’t make comments in the kitchen like:

• “Wow, you just can’t walk on this floor in your barefeet…it is SO gross. I’m sticking to it.” or
• “Did the kids clean their rooms today?  They need to do a better job of keeping their rooms clean.”  or
• “Did you remember to [insert any mundane, non-sexy task here] today?” or
• “Hon, I have this weird rash on my ass…will you take a look at it?”  

No, Craig Ferguson, I don’t think you would say any of these things if you knew you were a shoe-in for a proper shagging with your funny, hot, deviant wife. Have your people call my people. 

To my loyal readers who may not know who Craig Ferguson is (we tend to pass out early in my family), here is a little clip.  I love this one because you get a good little taste of his delicious personality, and you can learn some new dance moves while you watch. Bon appétit! 

Seriously Craig. We were meant for each other. Let’s do the “Yes Dance” together. I don’t have a garbage disposal, but if I did, I would totally let you stick your fork in it. And by fork, I mean pee-pee. And by garbage disposal, I mean garbage disposal. Kidding. See? Funny. Call me. Seriously. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Clock Punchin’

Workin’ 9 to 5
What a way to make a livin’
Barely gettin’ by 
It’s all takin’ and no givin’. 
They just use your mind
And they never give you credit
It’s enough to drive you
Crazy if you let it…

“9 to 5″  Music and Lyrics by Dolly Parton.

Can you believe it was 28 years ago that the movie Nine to Five was released?  Gawd, I love that movie. Here’s how Netflix.com summarizes it:

A troika of female employees (Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin and Dolly Parton) fed up with their “sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot” of a boss (Dabney Coleman) entertains fantasies about evening the score. But fantasy turns into reality when the women think they’ve inadvertently poisoned his coffee. To cover their tracks, they concoct an intricate scheme that will turn the tables on the chief and shred the patriarchal old boys’ network. 

I was only ten years old when this film was released, and I bet I haven’t seen it in 15 years or so, but I’ll be damned it I couldn’t do the entire screen play off the top of my head right this very minute.  As a young girl growing up in the 80s, this film heavily shaped my pre-teen understanding of working women, female friendship, gender inequality in the workplace, comedy, vengeance, and S&M (“M&Ms).  It was an instant classic in my home and to this day I can’t look at Snow White, an electric garage door opener, or a woman wielding a firearm, without thinking about this benchmark film.  And I am fairly certain that listening to Dolly Parton’s deliciously funny and sexy southern drawl in her Nine to Five movie debut is the very reason why, to this day, I write like a potty mouthed southern belle even though I am originally from Pittsburgh, PA.  (“Ya’ll” is sexier than “Yinz” any day of the week, in my humble opinion.)  

And even though it is almost 30 years old, the story is timeless.  Everyone can relate to an oppressive asshole boss like Mr. Hart or the need to break out and do things your own way.  Who hasn’t fantasized about getting revenge on an enemy or two?  And that song…the catchy Grammy winning one Dolly Parton took all the way to number one back in 1980!  Just listen to it.  I’ve got three bucks and a Huggies coupon that says your feet will be tappin’, honey.  And Lord have mercy – the “I’m gonna change you from a rooster to a hen, in one shot” monologue…it just doesn’t get any better than that.        

So imagine my excitement to hear this morning on NPR that this classic, beloved film about female empowerment and friendship has been turned into a full fledged MUSICAL!  And get this, the one and only Dolly Parton wrote the score her own damn self.  And Allison “West Wing” Janney is starring as Violet Newstead (Lily Tomlin in the movie). How freakin’ perfect is THAT?!  Can you feel it, ya’ll?

But oh, whoa is me.  This musical opens tonight in Los Angeles and then next March, just a few days after my birthday, it will open on Broadway!  And here I am, a suburban POW, sitting here with my unbrushed teeth on my third cup of black coffee, nursing my little one’s DOUBLE GOD DAMNED EAR INFECTION.  Oh that poor little baby.  But enough about him.  Back to pathetic little ol’ ME, stuck here, with not even a snowball’s chance in hell of ever seeing that musical.  Shoot, I bet I couldn’t even get to that show if it came to the local high school and there were special half price tickets for auto club members on sale at the Piggly Wiggly.  Just the other day I asked my gatekeeper husband if I could go to a Moveon.org “calling party” tomorrow to recruit swing state Obama supporters and you know what that punk ass bitch said?  ”Geez Hon.  Sunday is like my only day to relax.”  To which I replied, in my most loving tone of voice, “Well that is true, sweetie pie, and I sure appreciate the need to relax after a long week.  But you know what, sugar?  I think it will be a whole lot easier for everyone in the free world to relax over the course of the next four years if we can get Obama elected and end this crazy Bush legacy of terror.  And if you would please just watch the babies for a few hours on Sunday afternoon so I could go and make some phone calls with my free nights and weekends cell phone plan, you could probably rest a whole lot easier knowing that you did your part for the greater good.  Just think about that, OK honey buns?”  ACK!  Yeah, those single working gals on Nine to Five were totally on to something.  Where is that rat poisoning when I need it?

Or maybe I’ll just head on over to the Ace Hardware and pick up some chains.  I do have an electric garage door opener, and I’m not afraid to use it.  Moveon.org Calling Party Members, I’ll see you all tomorrow.  

Oh, and my email address is imbearded@gmail.com, just on the off chance that you want to send me, oh I don’t know, two free tickets to the Broadway opening for my birthday? And not to be all Mrs. Fussy Britches or nothin’, but I’m kinda nearsighted, so if those tickets could be up close and personal, that would probably be best.  Thanks sugar.

9 to 5: The Musical (LA Opening info)

9 to 5: The Musical (Official Site)

68

Is it me, or are the libidos of men and women totally incompatible?  I really think Ellen and Portia are on to something here.  Not the least of which being that their bathroom is probably so easy to clean.  

I remember hearing once that men reach their sexual prime in their late teens but that women don’t reach theirs until like their 40s.  What the fuck kind of intelligent design is that?  It seems slightly misogynistic. Like God said, “Well, I don’t want women to want sex all the time when they should be busy taking care of their families. I know, I’ll just delay their sexual prime so they can propagate first, play later.”  Clearly God was not taking into account the fact that by the time we are done with all that breeding all our fun parts are too stretched out and ugly to feel good about sharing them with anyone else (at least with the lights on).  

I’m only 38, so I keep telling my husband to wait for it….his time is coming.  Of course by then, he’ll be so old that he’ll need to take Viagra and have his doctor on speed-dial in case he gets a perma-bone. But while we are both patiently waiting for my prime to get here, why oh why does he always seem to want sex at the precise moment when it is the last thing on earth I’d rather do.  OK, true, that is like 99% of the time. But come on.  Gimme a break, dude.  When I begged you to get that vasectomy and promised you spontaneous wild sex wherever and whenever you wanted, I had my fingers crossed behind my back.  

Here, I’ll give you an example.  Husband gets home from work the other day all sexed up and raring to go (must be that sexy voice of Terri Gross on NPR).  His timing could not have been worse.  Unbeknownst to him, I had received my monthly visitor earlier that day. You know, Aunt Flo.  Mr. Menstrual.  The Curse. Paul Revere Riding the Cotton Pony.  I’m bloated, crampy, pimply, gassy, and slightly inebriated.  But Mr. Twenty-Five-Years-Past-His-Prime doesn’t seem to notice all the warning signs and nuzzles up to me hoping for a little slap and tickle.  I say, “Sorry hon. Can’t. Got my period today.”  Oh the look.  You would think I had said that I just spent his retirement fund on another batch of Fat Burning Soap from QVC.  To say he was disappointed would be an understatement. All I wanted was my box of wine, a heating pad, and whichever Meredith Baxter Burney movie was playing on Lifetime TV.  I was also hoping he wouldn’t then ask for a 68: “You do me and I’ll owe you one.”  Luckily for me, he got on the Internet instead.  Hallelujah for free porn.  

If he was my gorgeous lesbian life partner instead, we’d be on the same cycle, sharing an institutional-sized box of Tampons from Costco, watching Lifetime together, guilt free.  But then, who would mow the lawn and grill the steaks?  I guess I’ll keep him.  And here’s hoping for that sexual prime to get here sooner than later.

Peace and Quiet of Olympic Proportions

I love my husband.  I do.  He is a keeper.  And I am so lucky to have him in my life.  That being said, we’ve been married for eleven years and the man is driving me absolutely nuts.  Luckily for me, he doesn’t have a blog or any interest in airing our dirty laundry, or else he could be writing post after post about my myriad quirks and annoying habits.  But unfortunately for him, I do have a blog, I have no shame, and writing about this stuff keeps me from earning a 28 day stay at Promises with Britney.  Sorry, hon.  

So here’s my gripe du jour.  It occurred to me last night that The Olympics will be coming to an end soon, and this makes me blue.  My reasons are two fold.  

1.) Yes, for all the same reasons as the rest of you Americans, and sports fans, and humanitarians in general. Of course. It is truly captivating to watch people who are the best at what they do.  Particularly, I love to hear my husband and children discussing the awe inspiring feats of Michael Phelps every day. My husband, who did not shed a single tear when any of his children were born, gets all choked up retelling the story of how Michael Phelps set a goal of 8 gold medals, achieved this goal, and now has more gold medals (between his two Olympics) than any other person, ever.  Hey butt-munch, I birthed all three of your children, two of whom were over 9 pounds each, and twice without drugs, but yeah, go ahead and cry over Michael Phelps’ accomplishment.  That IS something!  Perhaps I am just a tad bitter, no? Maybe I am also envious of Michael Phelps…not only did he accomplish what he set out to do, but his goal was huge! He set multiple World Records.  My loftiest goals right now are to clear off the dining room table sometime this week and make sure the kids have clean underwear everyday. Pathetic.

2.) But really, the thing I will miss the most about the Olympics is the peace and quiet around here at night. These last two weeks have been heaven.  Since my husband knows that I’m not much of a sports fan and don’t really care about watching the Olympics, he has been voluntarily retiring to the basement (a.k.a. “The Man-Cave”) every night after the kids go to bed to watch the Olympics by himself, leaving me blissfully alone in the family room.  It has been delightful.  No fighting for the remote.  No “discussions” about what to watch.  No eye strain from his manic channel surfing.  No frustration from not being able to hear the TV over his excessively loud grape chomping and popsicle slurping.  Just me and the dog, cuddled up on the couch, with complete control over everything in my world for the first time all day. I could definitely get used to this. 

So I will miss you Beijing, but there is light at the end of the tunnel….football season is just around the corner.  And until then…oops!…I forgot to buy popsicles at the store again.