Stupidity Nearly Fries My Keester

Ever have one of those days where you find yourself standing barefoot on a metal stepstool about to unscrew a lit light bulb from a fixture that’s dripping water?

I hope not.

In the vein of Stupidity Reigns Supreme I found myself doing exactly that.

It started innocently enough. I was home alone rounding up dirty towels. (Exciting life, I know.) I went upstairs to retrieve said towels from my daughter’s bathroom. While I was in there I noticed her tub was growing pink fungus. I decided to help her out by spraying it down. I removed the showerhead spray thingie and sprayed down the shower.

So far so good. Then instead of placing the shower spray thingie back IN the tub, I dangled it outside of the tub. At that moment my adult ADD kicked in and I decided if I was washing her towels I might as well wash her sheets too. I left the bathroom and went into her room and stripped the bed.

All of this took about three minutes, but as it turns out three minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to flood the bathroom. Important point here – the water was OFF! Apparently because the showerhead thingie was lower than something (I’m not sure what) it siphoned the water out of Lake Erie.

What the hell?

I cleaned up the bathroom flood and headed downstairs to the laundry room. Here’s where it got scary. I rounded the corner into the kitchen only to be dripped on by water coming from the ceiling, the kitchen light to be exact.

What the hell?

My first thought was how am I going to explain this to Techno Spouse??? In a split second, I decided to do what I always do - hide the evidence. I grabbed the metal stepstool, climbed to the top step, stood on my tiptoes and reached for the lit fixture.

Wait a minute.

Suddenly in the back of my head I remembered something about electricity and water and metal and bare feet not being such a great combo. Oops. I nearly fried my keester.

I jumped off the stepstool, turned off the light and proceeded to clean up the kitchen floor. For the next hour I watched helplessly as the kitchen light continued to drip. By the time Techno Spouse got home there were three additional water spots on the kitchen ceiling – all dripping.

What the hell?

Techno Spouse does not believe the water was off. It was. I swear.

Ever find yourself forced to fess up to something of exceptional stupidity? Please share. It'll make me feel so much better.

Keesters Bring Butt Sisters Together

It seems I have an annoying habit – butt watching. I don’t mean sizing up a tight tush of the opposite sex, although I’ll admit to an occasional glance. I mean literally sizing up the butts I encounter in the course of my day.

The point of this exercise is to determine whose butt is bigger – theirs or mine? The obvious goal is to discover as many butts as possible that are bigger than mine. It’s a good day if the butt ratio is 3 to 1 in my favor, excluding pregnant women and anyone walking around with a wedgie. I figure if a person walks around with a wedgie, how their keester looks to the rest of the world is obviously not a big concern.

I haven’t always been so interested in butts. My interest in keesters has grown in direct proportion to my own keester. It seems the broader my beam has gotten, the more interested I am in the width of neighboring beams. It’s a misery loves company kind of thing.

In the misery loves company category I lucked out. I have 3 sisters, each of which are obsessed with the size of their keester. Believe it or not, we’ve not discussed butt watching – but I’m guessing they enjoy spotting a derriere larger than their own as much as I do. What woman doesn’t?

Recently the Butt Sisters, er rather, my sisters and I went on a sisters-only trip. One sister (the one with the smallest butt) is obsessed with getting our keesters trimmed down to size. She knows none of us are willing to commit time to keester reduction. Her solution, Greer Childers’ Shapely Secrets. Greer is an old broad with the face any plastic surgeon would gloat over. But more importantly, her keester looks good. Greer has a 7-minute program – that’s right, a mere 7 minutes -- guaranteed to produce the tight tush of your dreams.

The catch is --it only works if you actually DO it. There’s always a catch.

My sisters balked at a keester shot, so the trolls will have to do. Do you have any keester-shrinking tips you'd like to share? I won't be happy until my butt (and cleavage) look like the Girl's Gone Wild mistress of Govenor Spitzer. Check her out at Prefers Her Fantasy Life.

Flashback Friday: Should mom teach crap?

I’m a mom, and generally speaking that means I abide by the shoulds of motherhood. But I have to wonder, are all shoulds created equal, or are the shoulds of social graces the biggies? This is the story of how my daughter pushed the shoulds of polite little girls. She was about 7 when this happened.

“Mom, I need a bad word,” she announced with hands on her hips.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“For the same reason you need bad words.”

Oops, she got me there.

“And what bad word did you have in mind?”

“Crap,” she said. “I want to say crap without getting into trouble.”

“And when do you plan on saying crap?” I asked, maintaining my mandatory motherly resistance.

“Duh – when I need a bad word, of course,” she answered.

Reluctantly, I agreed. “You can say crap – occasionally – providing you never use it to describe another person, no crapheads or full of crap allowed.”

“Deal,” she said and skipped off feeling a little more grown-up. I felt a little less grown-up. What kind of a mom tells her little girl she can say crap? This kind, I guess.

For the next few weeks I endured the disapproving glances of moms with a better grip on the shoulds of parenting. One afternoon I counted the number of “craps” coming from the backyard. Well into double-digits, I realized it was time to renegotiate this crap. I put out a cease-and-desist order and once more tried to explain the how-and-when of bad words, with heavy emphasis on the when.

We arrived at a “crap” agreement: no crap from either of us, unless it’s absolutely the only word that captures the moment. With crap agreement in tow we tried again. To this day, the majority of crap violations are mine. I should know better.

Parents out there, are you helping your kids use bad words properly? If not, should you be? Got a minute, visit my blogging buddy Meg. I have faith she's instilling all the proper shoulds in her kids.

Fact or Fiction: Vegetable Day Shrinks Keester

I’m hungry -- so is Techno Spouse. I don’t feel bad for him though, since it’s his fault I’m in desperate need of a Vito’s chicken ranch pizza, pan crust with garlic butter. In our household there is a long-standing tradition. Saturday is Vito’s day -- but not this Saturday. This Saturday we are dining on vegetables. That’s it. Not vegetables and (fill in the blank), just vegetables.

The reason for this drastic change in our culinary routine is because Techno Spouse visited the Doc, the very same Doc that diagnosed my injured dumbass, er rather dermas. (see Naked Keester Causes Treadmill Incident below).

Techno Spouse has a tendency to clog up his arteries. He swears this happens because of heredity. The Doc thinks it happens because he eats too much of the wrong kind of junk food. Doc strongly advised he drop a few pounds and recommended Marie Osmond’s miracle diet.

One thing you should know about Techno Spouse, he is all about spending the big bucks on technology, gadgets and golf crap. But when it comes to spending several hundred dollars on shriveled up entrees, he’s not buying.

Which brings us to vegetable day. Techno Spouse, being Techno Spouse found the ultimate diet plan on the Internet. He assures me if I eat my vegetables, with minimal whining, I will lose 30 pounds by Monday. Just kidding – but if I’m not a petite size 2 by morning, I’m calling Vito’s.

Help! My willpower is fading. Any tips on shrinking my keester? I really want to be a petite size 2 at least once in my life and soon.