Living with a drunk is fun (NOT)

I'm not drunk...

I\’m not drunk…

There are so many ways to list how living with a drunk is not fun. Notice I didn’t use the term alcoholic. There’s a definite difference between the two (I’ll save that for a different post). I don’t live with an alcoholic. I live with a drunk. And there are so many ways to list how it’s NOT fun.

Of course no two drunks are the same so your list may be quite different than mine. I will also be adding to this list on a regular basis, I’m sure. But as of this minute, here are my top reasons why living with a drunk is not fun.

  • You may have your headphones on so I can’t hear your depressing and sappy music, but I can hear YOU. Listening to you singing the depressing and sappy songs at the top of your lungs really sucks. You’re not that good of a singer under the best of circumstances. Now add the headphones and the crappy song selection and I’m ready to rip those headphones off your head and stuff them up your arse.This just in: You are NOT a rock and you are NOT an island, no matter how many times you sing the song; no matter how loud you sing the song. Some smart guy once said that no man is a fucking island.
  • I can hear you (not just the singing). You might think you are mumbling incoherently under your breath, but you are really talking in your “out loud” voice. Actually, you are  talking in your “at top volume” voice, and I can hear the snide remarks, the sarcasm, the stupid comments–all the bitchy things you think only the voices in your head can hear, well, I can hear them too. They are not endearing you to me.
  • Only dental patients, stroke victims, and people without tongues should slur their words as much as you do. Of course we wouldn’t notice if you’d just keep your mouth shut and be drunk in silence. But no, you have the wordy squirts, which is, just so you know, another giveaway that you’re DRUNK.
  • You’re turning me into an alcoholic too. Do you want to know how I try to cope with your bullshit? I drink. Gee, I wonder where I learned that from. Of course I would classify myself as an alcoholic, but we can get into that later. It really pisses me off that what used to be a nice glass of wine at the end of the day to relax has become a nice bottle of wine at the end of the day to cope.
  • I have two kids. They don’t have the same name. You profess to love each of them so is it really that difficult to call them by the correct name? It must be difficult when you’re drunk. Yes, the Young One does notice that you always call him by the Big One’s name when you’re drunk. I’m sure it won’t affect him in the long run.

There’s more, but right now I have to go stuff your headphones up your arse and find a way to keep you from slur-talk-singing to the boys. Who have different names.

10 signs you are a shopping addict

Shopping Diva

Shopping Diva


Hello. My name is __________ and I’m an addict. A shopping addict.

There are 10 telltale signs that your wife, girlfriend, mother and/or lover is a shopping addict. Want to know the signs? Here are 10 of them:

  1. You buy a $500 Dyson vacuum (only $400 after your 20% off coupon) and hide it in a back closet so your husband doesn’t see it. (And you can only vacuum when he’s not home.)
  2. You can justify buying the $500 Dyson vacuum, because it was only $400 after your 20% off coupon. (The Dyson, BTW, is worth EVERY penny!)
  3. You have $20 in your pocket, and can leave the dollar store with 25 things.
  4. You have a third bank account that only you know about.
  5. Only you are allowed to collect the mail.
  6. You’ve signed up for paperless statements for all of your credit cards. (And only you have the login information.)
  7. When confronted about how much something costs, you undercut the price by at least 15%, and then say “…and that’s before the sale price!”
  8. You go back to the store to exchange one item, and come home with three more things.
  9. You can’t go shopping with your kids anymore, because now they can talk. (And tell daddy what mommy REALLY bought.)
  10. The first three bookmarks in your browser are eBay, Overstock, and Amazon.

Anyone else out there guilty?

A letter from God

Dear Christianity,

Here’s the story:

A Jewish zombie can make you live forever if you symbolically eat his flesh and telepathically tell him you accept him as your master, so he can remove an evil force from your soul, which will allow you to live forever in a heaven where everything is as it should be. This is a force that is present in humanity because a woman, created from a rib, was convinced by a talking snake to eat from a magical tree.

Yeah, that’s the story we’re going with.

GOD

Because I’m a W-O-M-A-N

I find myself being very self-deprecating lately, when something in our household goes wrong. I can often be caught saying “Oh well. Guess I’m not getting that ‘Mother of the Year’ award.” or “Sorry honey. There goes my ‘Best Wife’ award.”  Seriously, though. Why do I do that? I was thinking it again earlier when The Goose talked about not having his lunch today. The school calendar has today and tomorrow as half days for parent/teacher conferences. Understood. The school calendar says NO LUNCH for these days. Understood. Oops, maybe not. The Goose informed me that a fellow kindergartener shared his lunch, and his teacher gave him a juice and some chips since he didn’t have a lunch. HUH?? The damn calendar said NO LUNCH. Which I took to mean that the students were released for a half day and lunch was my problem. That was obviously not the case. I guess NO LUNCH really means BRING ONE FROM HOME. Couldn’t they have just said that??

It’s times like this that I feel like an idiot and wonder why I’m so ineffective. today, I stopped myself, and thought of all the crap I did this weekend. Here’s a recrap:

  • 7 loads of laundry
  • cleaned the living room
  • cleaned the dining room
  • cleaned the kitchen
  • cleaned out the turtle tank
  • went grocery shopping for 3 boys, a dog, a cat, 2 birds and myself
  • sent my mom her birthday present
  • bought Halloween costumes for the boys
  • kept the family fed
  • did some online work

And that’s just two days.

This all has reminded me of those cheesy Enjoli ads from the 70s and 80s. Check it out:

Good stuff. I’m still not going to win any “Mother of the Year” awards, but I’m probably not going straight to hell, either. :)

Now that’s ironic!

Congrats, it's twins!

Congrats, it's twins!


I was chatting with the cool parents at The Bear’s daycare this morning, and Plant Dad commented to Mommy Curly Hair that she needed at least one more tot. Both her and I looked at him with the why-don’t-you-grow-a-uterus glare, and laughed. Hysterically.

Enter Saint Mommy. See, she had 2 tots, then showed up at daycare last year pregnant. “Wow!”, we all exclaimed. (Which translated to “You are brave, saintly, motherly, stupid, deranged, and a glutton for punishment!” Wow was right–she was having twins!

Segue back to this morning. Saint Mommy revealed her secret. It appears that last year she had gone in to have a hysterectomy.

And was told she was pregnant.

Now that’s ironic!

Living will

Last night my friend and I were sitting in the den and I said to her, “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle to keep me alive. That would be no quality of life at all, If that ever happens, just pull the plug.”

So she got up, unplugged the computer, and threw out my wine.

She’s such a bitch.