Hi you twisted little monkeys! If you aren't twisted, click "next blog" fast. This is one of those "Plucked from the pit of my ass" posts. It's not going to be nearly as shitty as that one post about infants crapping in sinks, but it's pretty close.
With that warning out of the way, I bring to you twisted thoughts of crabs, by Lois Lane. We've all heard of crotch crickets, and if you've read this blog before, you've also heard of loin lobsters. Why on earth did I spend so much time contemplating crabs? Well, it seems that a certain little someone planted a seed into my head, and this was the result.
Labia Lice Labia louse Anal arachnids Dick Dung-beetles Bush bees
I may have had more fun typing these thoughts than I was supposed to. Hell, they may not even be funny to you. Especially if you have itching in your lower abdominal area currently. Should your twisted thoughts include other panty pests not mentioned, please feel free to share in the comments. May your weekend be filled with critter-free fun and frolic.
I don’t know why no one has made a movie or sitcom based in a nursing home. Sure there are moments where humor is the last thing on anyone’s mind there, but mostly, we are having a good time. Even when we aren’t having fun, we can look back and laugh our heads off at some of the goings-on. This week, was no exception.
Celebrating Houdini's 80th birthday didn't go exactly as planned. He needed to be weighed. One of the CNAs took him to the scale, and he fought her tooth and nail. She called for backup. Since she used the intercom, everyone in the building could hear the call, which was vague but her tone said she needed help quickly.
Several of us headed over there. I walked in just in time to see three balloons tired to his wheelchair, but the birthday boy was not celebrating. He was hollering as his legs and arms were swinging, two CNAs were trying to get him on the chair scale. I looked around for a hidden camera, because, honestly, does this shit really happen?
In the end, there were five of us struggling to get him on the scale, but we weren't successful until... we all sang Happy Birthday. Right there, in the bathroom.
Picture, if you will, six people crammed into a bathroom, with a man who is shouting, "I'll break your arm off!" while he has a hold of my arm, is kicking my boss, who by the way had the idea to sing to him, while balloons are blowing in the breeze of our exhausted singing breath.
Maybe it was a rough week for Houdini. Maybe he just hates that bathroom. Whatever the case, a day or two later, I heard screaming coming from the bathroom. It is in everyone’s job description to investigate any type of noise resembling that of a resident in distress. So I go running down the hall. I knock hard on the door, holler out, “Do you need help?” (I’m not allowed to just go busting into a room where there is a closed door.)
I hear a soft voice, a struggling voice, perhaps it was more of a grunting sound she was making. At any rate, a CNA needed an extra set of hands. Seems that while she was helping Houdini onto the toilet, he shimmied his arms out of the lift, which is used to help get him from his wheelchair and onto the toilet.
She is no bigger than a minute, maybe 5 feet tall at the most. I walked in after she gasped, "Hurry."
I saw her trying to hold Houdini up, while his drawers were around his ankles, and he was screaming like a banshee, "Where's the damn pot? I have to go! Let go of me, damn it!" Houdini is 6 feet tall at least. He weighs somewhere near the 200s. Guess I should have paid more attention at his birthday weigh in.
Her face was flaming red, she had sweat dripping off of the tip of her nose. It literally took everything in her power to not drop that man on the floor.
I grabbed hold of him, and tried to set him on the toilet. He screamed, "I am going to go right here if you don't get me to the toilet." Since I was holding him up with my forearms under his arms, from behind, I wondered if he was going to pee or poo. Yes, it was a very important question for me at that moment in time. Fearing the latter, I moved along side of him... just in time for him to start crapping. Somewhere in mid-plop, we got him onto the toilet.
I apologized profusely to him and the CNA. I helped her get him back into his wheelchair, and the three of us came out of that bathroom sweaty, smelly and plum tuckered out.
As we headed down the hallway, Houdini grabbed for the telephone on the wall. I asked who he was calling. He looked at me very seriously and said, "A dump truck."
Hi! It’s me! Slacker blogger at your service. Man oh man, life is crazy and busy. Here is a recap of this week. My broken gallbladder is still broken. I’m working way too many hours. My boss is brain dead. My insurance is in limbo. My paycheck was way off, not in my favor.
Mr. Lane is working crazy long hours too. It’s harvest season. He also brought home a stray… person… to live with us… without warning. The upside to that is we know him. They work together and he isn’t a random homeless person, like the last one I picked up roadside. Our new stray is a story for another day, I reckon.
Most days I feel a little tired and crabby, unlike my mother who was always sick and tired. Oh, that’s a blog for another day too.
The highlight of the week was getting our garage. The mega bonus, my in-laws paid for the whole thing as thanks for the deck we built for them. It was really weird and kind of cool. As I was leaving for work, the garage guys were pulling into the driveway. When I came home, it was finished. Now Mr. Lane has his little hideout and is happier than a pig in shit.
Now, on with the real reason we are here today. This video is what makes this story ten times funnier.
The kids and I have watched this a thousand times in the last year, and we still giggle. (Strong language warning)
When I was a kid and crushed on some random boy, I carried out the typical swooning girl torture techniques. I’d offer up daily shin kicks, pencil pokes, and an occasional hallway shoelace stomp. I wasn’t mean or anything, I was simply trying to get the attention I so rightly deserved. And anytime a boy fell, due to my mad shoelace stomping skillz, I always offered a hand to help him back to his feet. See, I’m nice like that.
During those school days, a handful of boys, tried to torment me back. Boys were dumb. Their forms of torture were hardly as tortuous, and they usually got caught by a teacher while trying to pull my hair, take my notes or dump my book bag. Girls were just better at torment, I guess. Maybe we still are.
My son Lane 1 is slowly learning, how rotten girls can be when they are in mid-swoon. Last week, he was trying to get ready for school. Exasperated, he yelled, “Anyone know where my shoes are?”
“They should be in your room.”
“They aren’t.”
Going room to room for a second look, I could see he was getting really annoyed. Time ticked away and I started looking too. I went on the porch first. Checked all around the yard and at the doorway. Not finding them outside, I came back inside and asked if he may have left them at school.
“Dude, I’d remember if I walked home barefoot.”
“Don’t get snotty, son. You do have more than one pair.”
I broke the news to him that he would have to wear his old pair that aren’t nearly as cool or comfortable, because he was going to be late. It’s odd how things just disappear at random. Seems to happen most when you are in a hurry. Annoyed, he left, wearing his old shoes.
Looking out the front door at him walking down the street, Lane 2 started laughing her silly little head off, and confessed. “Yesterday when Allison was here, she took his shoes! Hahaha!”
Slightly annoyed that she let me look around for the missing shoes, when I was supposed to be getting ready to leave, I said, “Why the hell did she take his shoes? And why did you let her? And why didn’t you tell me?”
Still laughing, she said, “Sorry, Mom. It was so funny! Can you imagine the look on his face when he sees her in school wearing his shoes? Hahaha! I wish I was at their school so I could see his reaction!”
At school, he didn’t notice Allison, or his shoes on her feet. She tried to walk extra hard. She jumped up and down in his general direction. She even kicked him in the shin with his own shoe, and he still didn’t notice. At lunch she put her feet up on the bench next to him, clicking the toes together, still nothing.
At the end of the day, Allison asked him to walk with her to our house. She said she was going to hangout with Lane 2, so he walked her to our house while her feet flopped in his shoes. She said she kept watching and waiting for him to notice, but, he never did.
When they arrived at our house, he told her she had to stay outside until I came home. (House rules, no friends over unless me or Mr. Lane are home.) Lane 1 came inside to tell his sister that Allison was waiting on the porch.
Lane 2 went outside with her friend, and the two of them tap danced until he came out to see what all the noise was about. That was about the time I was pulling into the driveway. I saw the three of them on the porch, Lane 1 shaking his finger at them because, “Mom is home and she is going to flip a biscuit if you two keep up that noise.”
Walking onto the porch, not knowing he was still oblivious, I said, “Hey guys! How was everyone’s day? Oh Allison, I love your new shoes!”
He finally looked and inadvertently gasped, “Those shoes are mine!”
Dying with laughter the three of us girls were buckled over. My son looked confused as I mocked, “Those shoes are mine betch.”
Diaper-free dot org is all the rage in going potty, apparently. The site teaches parents how to have diaper free children… from birth. The concept seemed odd at first. But when you take into consideration third world countries, where diapers are not worn, it’s possible… I guess. The website explains how to read body language and learn to recognize signs that a child, as young as a newborn, needs to go potty. Maybe it’s the skeptic in me, but, from what I gather, the parents get trained, more so than the kid.
For decades, experts have claimed, children have no bladder or bowel control until they are a year and a half. Even though my mother, the self-proclaimed-expert, swears on everything holy, that all of us kids were potty trained by the time we were a year. Just between me and you, I think she was handing out that bull to make all of her kids feel inferior about our parenting skills. Clearly, none of us could, would or should attempt to compete with Mom. Ever.
Anyway, we are a modern society hell-bent on making our lives easier, which I guess is why I just don’t get this concept. I just learned about this new fad last week, while reading the news. One of the diaper-free mommies interviewed, said the hardest part about being diaper-free is finding tiny underwear for her 14-week-old baby.
If I were… say… on crack, and living with diaper-free children, I doubt that would be the hardest part. I’d just go buy some doll drawers. How hard is that?
Another problem she said she faced, mentioned as an afterthought, was taking her baby into a public restroom. Not wanting to hold her baby over a nasty public toilet, which I can dig… but what she said next had me shaking my head, thinking.
She added, “I got a little embarrassed when a woman walked into the bathroom, finding me holding my daughter over the bathroom sink.”
Well, I guess that would be a little embarrassing, now wouldn’t it? “That right there, is the hardest part. Squishing baby poo down the sink drain would be a tight running for second,” I thought. Holy hell people! If ever I am in a public bathroom and see a tiny baby crapping in the sink, I’m going to flip a biscuit. Seriously.
