Posts Tagged ‘bathroom’

I have three kids, twins who are boy and girl 13 year olds, and a 4 year old. As soon as I had my kids there was apparently a big neon sign stamped on my head that says it’s ok to ask me personal/stupid/annoying questions and give me completely unsolicited advice on everything my kids do.

For example, when I say that I have twins the first question out of most people’s mouths is did you have them naturally or by C-section? The answer is yes, they came out of my vagina. And thank you for concerning yourself with my holiest of holy you person whom I’ve just met. My vag also thanks you for the unwanted attention and sympathy. That question is always second only to “how did/how long did you breast feed?” Wonderful you’ve asked me about my most private areas and I don’t even know your name.

When I was pregnant with my youngest people asked me what we planned to name her. Then they would tell me exactly why that was a horrible name. One fat old trailer dweller told me that I shouldn’t give her that name because it’s too long. What? Just because you named your son Tom because it’s the only one you could spell doesn’t mean that I have to shorten my kids name so that your head won’t explode when you think of it.

So I have both teens and toddler, the most advice riddled ages there are. I get advice everywhere I go. Especially the grocery store. You shouldn’t let your child eat that. You shouldn’t let her stand in the cart. You let your daughter dress like that? You let your kids say that?

First off, it’s fruit, ok. Fruit! And yes my kids eat a lot of it. And yes, sometimes I buy it in those little containers with the high fructose corn syrup in them. When your giant sloth sheds about half a person because you’re letting them gorge on a huge bag of fat free chips in one sitting then you can talk to me about my kids’ diet. Until then you may want to tell junior to take the wrapper off before he starts shoveling in the fat free ho-ho’s. I would really like to know why someone taking up more than half the snack food isle feels the need to tell me and my no-so-big kids how to eat.

Stand in the cart? Lady maybe you didn’t notice but she has her arms around my neck because I’m taking her out/putting her in the cart. As for her standing in the cart in the cereal isle, notice that I’m also holding said cart and that she has two teen spotters on each side of her while she politely picks out her own cereal box. Notice also that she’s not raking the boxes off the shelves like your little monster is doing, nor is she throwing a tantrum because I won’t let her have a super-size box of chocolate coated sugar.

And yes, I not only allow but I personally buy every pair of neon green and orange argyle knee socks in my daughter’s wardrobe. Notice how she’s chosen to pair them with the knee length denim shorts and basic tee-shirt that says “sanity is over-rated”. Not only did I let her marker her white tennis shoes in varying colors, but I helped her chose the pattern.

Oh, and when you say this to me and she replies “At least I don’t look like your little skank.” as she points to your teen who’s wearing the latest in Paris Hilton tramp wear, you know: heels, tiny shorts, push-up bra and and low cut tank top. Or better, the little cotton ass showing shorts that say something classy like “jail-bait” on the back. Yes, yes I do let her say things like that, because when she says it it’s not illegal.

And people wonder why most of my tee-shirts say mean things on them.


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In my previous post I mentioned my guilty pleasure…and if you look closely you’ll see more than one in that post. I did not, however, mention the more common following:


Red Wine





Hot Wings



Chocolate Cheesecake

Why did I not mention those things? Because I am not the least bit guilty about these things.

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My Hero

10 pm in the Hackney household. Usually this means I’m winding down by repeatedly checking my empty inbox while praying that my instructor will post my latest grade while Husband takes a quick shower. Tonight however, we had a real adventure.

Firstly, let me explain that I live in Florida. Florida, home of large lizards, that can kill you, large fish, that can kill you, snakes both large and small, that can kill you, mosquitoes that carry diseases that can kill you, and even a few toads, that, yes, can kill you. I think we even have several plants here that can kill you. I was raised here so I’m very familiar with all the things here that can kill you. It’s not uncommon to find four foot gators lurking in your backyard as they wander between puddles. This stuff is so common that it doesn’t even bother me anymore. You just herd the kids inside and count the pets.

But what scares me pee-less?

Palmetto bugs.


Not scary? Well then you’ve never had one dive bomb you at 3 am when you really, really have to pee. Nor have you ever had one crawl out of one of those old single speaker 80’s era detective movie style tape recorders while said tape recorder is whispering your favorite Bangles cassette into your ear right as you’re waking up. These things are foul. And they’re huge! Like fifteen feet long! They have pointy legs and wobbly feelers and they’re just icky!

Last night one trapped me in the bathroom. He was at least ten feet long and wearing those dual crisscrossing bullet things that you see in old western movies and smoking a chewed up cigar while he laughed and taunted me.

Have I mentioned yet that I’m currently having a late and heavy period? No. Well that’s pertinent. Husband gave me a chance to “go” before he took his shower so I scrambled into the 5×5 closet we call a bathroom. Slammed the door and started crying hysterically.

Yes, they scare me that bad!

El Jefe cucaracha was sitting on the edging to the door laughing at me. I tried to get to the door and run away but it moved and I found myself clinging to the window ledge on the narrow side of the tub, still crying and trying to tap hard enough on the wall to get Husband’s attention, but not wake my dad or disturb the monster blocking the door into darting into the drain at my feet.

I give up and after several taps I resorted to maniacally framming on the wall as hard as I can. That finally got his attention.

Now I have to give you my husband’s picture of the scene.

Wife, who gave birth to a set of twins, and later a third who she popped out in a mere three pushes without even a grunt, who he met at a school full of burly biker types while she was getting a degree in Harley Davidson repair, who spent two years living on the streets in New Orleans, who he is absolutely sure would commit murder without a second thought to anyone who bothers her family and probably enjoy doing it, who he knows for a fact has had a gun in her face TWICE while working in gas stations without blinking, who he is completely convinced that if needs be could take him out without breaking a sweat if he gets too far out of line, is now standing on a strip of bathtub that’s more narrow than her own feet and clinging to the ledge of a foot wide window crying because of a inch long bug that won’t let her out of the bathroom.

My crying turns to hysterical laughter as I see the scene from his eyes.

Six and a half foot, blond, boxer clad, Husband crouches like a viking readying himself for a horn driven charge into battle. All he’s missing is furs, horned helm and a battle-axe. Which makes me laugh even harder, though fear tears are pouring down my face at this point.

Again I have to mention that the bathroom is about 5×5 and I think I’m being generous. The tub takes up one wall, the toilet is about ten inches from the tub and the sink sits right in front of the toilet giving about one foot of space between sink and toilet. The only other space in the room is the space left to allow for door opening. This is where Husband is standing ready to engage the terror that’s cornered Wife.

He readies himself for the attack. Then I realize that the plastic tote sitting in the corner behind the door (the tote where we pile everything we can’t fit on a shelf or under the sink, which also contains my annoyingly optimistic feminine necessities) will soon be the final resting place of El Jefe. I manage to squeak incoherently about said tote until Husband eventually tries to wrangle out what I need. He gets it wrong at first, grabbing the very small thin pads that Oldest Daughter uses instead of mine. Those things are about as effective as putting a band-aid on an amputated limb. After a few more tries he finally gives up and drags the whole thing into the middle of the floor. Which also shrinks his maneuverable space by half. My hero.

Hoping to end the battle as quickly as possible he grabs for the bottle of cheap citrus meadow aerosol spray. Blowing his horn of valor he charges in and lays waste to the beast.  El Jefe thanks him for the freshen up and laughs like a Mexican villain in a spaghetti western. From here the real battle ensues. What I’m seeing is something akin to the naked battle between Beowulf and Grendel in that Zemekcis film. However, what’s actually happening is that Husband is chasing El Jefe up and down the wall with a big blue plastic cup.

I’ve now relocated to the small window ledge to cringe in terror behind the shampoo bottles. Yes, I’m still cry-laughing hysterically. Husband corners the beast who sneers menacingly. Holding his four-for-a-dollar bathtub sized plastic weapon high he smites the monster. A crunching pop reverberates through the room and the beast falls.

Husband looks at me and laughs. The girls had just gotten out of the bath so there were a few puddles in the tub. The dirt from my feet has turned said puddles a slightly darker color which is reflecting through the odd yellowish tub making it look like I just peed all over myself. I almost did, but since I was already clenched as tight as humanly possible so that I wouldn’t bleed all over the place, I didn’t.

Husband grabs some of our cheap one-ply and sends the beast to his final rest. He also realizes that I have suddenly gained the ability to scale walls like Spiderman as the monster in the one-ply shroud plops into the toilet.

Unfortunately I’m still cornered in the bathtub because now Husband has decided to take a victory pee and I can’t get past him. Again, My Hero.

On a side note, I’ve realized that heavy exertions…like say, balancing yourself on top of one of those spring loaded shower curtain rods without it falling… can cause extreme blood flow. Which can lead to a half naked sprint into the bedroom because last month you forgot to replace the emergency undies you keep under the sink.

All in all, it was a rather exciting five minutes.

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