What else?

$500 (or more) plumbing bill. We won’t exactly know until they’re done cutting through the bathroom wall and retouching a couple feet of pipe. I’m seriously considering completely nixing Princess Punk’s trip. I don’t know what else to do.
God? Can we just catch a break? PLEASE?
ETA… Excuse me. At least $800. I apparently want counting the labor yesterday AND today. Fuck. Me.

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Itsy-Bitsy? I don’t think so.

I dislocated my shoulder trying to kill a spider.

With a flip-flop.

Seriously.

It was only very briefly, and not like, a full-blown, screaming pain, movie-style, have-a-shot-of-alcohol-and-1-2-3-clunk dislocation. I was fortunate to have an appointment already scheduled with my physical therapist the following day, so I figured I’d just talk to her about it. She confirmed my suspicions and advised me that this was what is called a subluxation, where the shoulder is not completely out of the socket, just sort of, half-way.

Here’s what happened…

First of all, let me say, both Princess Punk and I are afraid of spiders. This is actually a well-deserved fear since at one point in Florida, the house we were living in was infested for about 3 months. INFESTED.

Did you know that exterminators can do nothing about spider infestations short of tenting the house? Apparently, since so little of their icky little bodies are close to and surface they may be skittering across, any type of poison application is pretty much useless. So we had to endure it for a few months until they “moved on” or whatever it is that spiders do.

I got bit. Princess Punk got bit. TWICE. I woke up more than once with 1 or more spiders crawling on me. Like my face. EWWWWWWW… I doubt The Princess remembers consciously, she was only 2 years-old at the time, but there’s definitely a rooted subconscious phobia in there. When I say phobia, I mean a true phobia. Not a squealing “Ohmigod a spider! Heeheehee…” but a full-blown, hysterical, banging on my door at midnight, panic-attack kind of phobia.

Which is what happened.

~knockknock~

~BANGBANGBANG~

“Moooooooommmm!!!”

“hunh?”

(weeping and sobbing dramatically) “Mom, there’s a spider in my room by my bed, I’m really scared, Mom PLEASE!”

“hunh?”

(true hysteria sets in) “MOM! I’m not going in there I can’t it’s a huge spider PLEASE MOM PLEASE!!!!”

The Zen Master is PTFO (passed the fuck out)

~sigh~ “Okokok… Chill out, I’ll get it.”

So I go into her room. Navigate my way over to her bed in the direction she is pointing with a shaky hand.

There is a spider next to her bed. It is… Large. Not huge. There have been bigger spiders found in this home. Just big.

It skittered.

Fast.

So I grab the nearest slapping-type thing (a flip-flop), and attempt to smush the offending creature. In doing so, I put my knee on Princess Punk’s desk chair which (I forgot) swivels. Since her room is a mess, I find myself swatting at this thing around clothes, books, a shin guard… I dunno, it was midnight.

And then I reached too far. And the chair swiveled and I slipped. And slammed my shoulder into the arm of the chair.

I heard it. Kind of a gross clickcrunch. Then, because I hadn’t actually realized what I had done, I put both hands on the chair to push myself back up to a standing position.

~cruchclick~

I screamed. It hurt SO bad, but was over in an instant. But then I couldn’t lift my arm without this tearing burn and I went to bed with a bag of frozen peas.

The Zen Master killed the stupid spider. With a beer bottle. Swear to God.

So…

Sling for a few weeks then some strengthening exercises and then avoiding situations that could cause reinjury. Which is damn near impossible with The Peach within a hundred yards of me.

Still…

Great story for a party right?

 

 

Feels like Florida…

The Zen Master just sent me this text…

Stepped on this motherfucker 3-4 times to kill it

Accompanied by this illustration-

image

In the basement. In my house.

I’m never doing laundry again.

Ever.

Mommy crack again


This one actually works!

Posted from my phone because I’m too lazy to get my laptop.

Couldn’t help myself

Both of my children are fucking crazy.
Had to share.

Posted from my phone because I’m too lazy to get my laptop.

Video

On the lighter side…

The Peach has quickly become acostomed to living in a house with stairs. She is learning not to play on the stairs and it has been impressed upon her that she is not to go up or down without a grown-up (or Princess Punk). Of course, we’re still working on the rules, as evidenced by an incident on Saturday when I was distracted in the kitchen. As I turned around and frantically searched for my toddler who was less than 2 feet from me 15 seconds earlier, I hear The Peach saying, “Come ON Mommy. Huwwy UP! I wantto watch Peppa Piwg!” From her perch at the top of the stairs.

Last night on the way to bed as she’s scrabbling up the stairs on all fours with me patiently plodding up behind her we had this delightful heart-to-heart;

“I go-win up de taire!”

“Yes, you’re going up the stairs.”

“Wookit Mommy! I go up de taire!”

“Yeah babe, you’re going up th… Did you just lick the floor?”

“Nooo. I not wick it.”

“That’s good, don’t lick the floor, that’s yucky.”

“I not wick de foor. I wick DE TAIRE!!!”

~sigh~

 

Please Don’t Eat the Daisies

Have you ever read “Please don’t eat the Daisies,” by Jean Kerr? Or seen the movie starring Doris Day? The title kinda says it all. It’s referencing all those things that you say as a parent that really should never have to be said. Here are a few of phrases recently heard in the NewLife household…

  • “Ohhh… Don’t lick the table.” (this phrase is frequently used with various substitutions of the last word… window, floor, dog, your sister’s foot…)
  • “Be careful the poop doesn’t roll onto the floor.”
  • “Um… Why are there biscuits in my purse?”
  • “No, you sit on the potty THEN pee.”
  • “Don’t play with your vagina in the kitchen please.”
  • “I said, Don’t diddle yourself in the kitchen!” (This was, at least, directed at the toddler and not anyone else in the household)
  • “Please get off of Fairy Dog, he is not a trampoline.”
  • “Could you wait till we’re inside to take your shoes off?”
  • “Ew! Don’t put the butt thermometer in your mouth!”
  • “Please don’t grab Mommy’s butt while she’s making bacon.” (Seriously)
  • “NO! If it’s in the garbage, it is not a toy.”
  • “No, it’s not a balloon, it’s bacon. Eat it.”
  • “Please don’t put syrup in your hair.”
  • “No you can’t take a nap on the bathroom floor.”
  • “No toes on the dinner table.”

Those are the ones I can remember off the top of my head. It just seem that, a minimum of 5 times within a day, I find myself saying something that will completely halt my chatter (an amazement in itself) and cause me to think,

“Did I Seriously just say that out loud?”

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