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Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Random X

Conversation that may or may not have been had at my house while I was watching a video of a dog dancing the salsa with its owner:

Me:  Lookit, honey!  A salsa dancing dog!  Can I do this with Maximus?

Charles: Uh, I want to see you be able to pick him up and flip him like that guy did...

Me:  That's not a no...

Charles:  Well, he's not allowed to jump up on people.  And he has to do that for this.  So that might be a problem.

Me: (because I am a PROBLEM SOLVER, bitchez...) Well, just don't play salsa music then.  PROBLEM SOLVED.

Charles:  Nope.  It's all I listen to all day long at work.


As a documented dance mom, I feel that I have some leeway when it comes to watching my child dance and getting all emotional and shit.  Mostly because its so fucking nice to see that all that money I am paying for dance is not getting wasted.  I will say, though, that I also feel that I then have the leeway to go home and drink a margarita because Mama earned that, mothafuckers.


So my husband is totally gimped out right now from a torn bicep muscle.  He had to have surgery to repair it (technically it was a ligament, but torn bicep ligament for some reason does not sound as bad ass) and now he is off work for four months and has this brace on his arm that probably cost more than my van.  It's totally not a bad ass story, though.   There was a dead baby skunk in the back yard.  He scooped it up with a shovel to fling into the field behind our house.  That's it.  He's lucky, though, because my sister and I have a rule that you don't go to the ER if you are doing something stupid.  My personal belief, though, is that he did it to avoid having to set up for Elizabeth's graduation party.  Because you know, it would TOTALLY make sense to go to those lengths to avoid having to set up for a party.  TOTALLY realistic and very similar to the set up in the movie Anger Management (one of the few movies I have actually seen, for the record.  I'm lucky I can sit through a 50 minute therapy session...and even then I'm totally fidgeting the whole time.)

Because of the above, he had his arm in a cast for two weeks. This meant I literally had to tie his shoes.  I was teasing him about this one day and told him he was going to forget all of his big boy skills.  As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could take them back because I totally knew where he was going to take that.  And he did.  I'm not going into details, because honestly if you can't figure it out on your own why the fuck are you reading this blog, of all the blogs to read?



I get very annoyed by salads you buy from a restaurant.  They have them all prettily arranged in the bowl, all the veggies nicely separated and the meat all artfully splayed across the bed of crisp greens.  Look here, mothafuckers...I'm already cranky by having to buy a salad from you because all of your other food has gluten in it which my body has decided is the devil.  I sure as fuck don't want to have to mix that shit up myself.  I came to this restaurant for you to prepare my food for me.  I expect it to be ready to eat.  Having to mix my own salad is too much like work.  What's next, having me do my own dishes at this place?

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