Thursday, August 30
Just Say It.
The best laid plans can always go awry, so it's always a relief when my body announces we have officially dodged the baby bullet for another month. Once the initial dirt-poor, broke-like-the-great-depression sense of relief is over, I'm just pissed. This sucks. I wish I was one of those people raised to call parts and functions what they are, but I fall into the Euphemism trap.
At least I have not used these old standards:
*Visit from my Aunt Flo
*My monthly visitor
No, in my head I take on some weird Boris and Natasha Slavic accent and say "I bleed like stuck pig"
Why am I sharing this with the four people who read me that I've never met? I don't know.
The kids get reminded to wash Pits and Privates. I envision trying to introduce proper names at this point in the game and admit to a chortle over the look on Big O's face if I reminded him to make sure his scrotum gets proper soapy attention.
Nope, I'm a punch line kinda girl. I'll just break out another inappropriate Saturday Night Live, and we'll watch the Alec Baldwin "Schweddy Weiner" routine.
Poor Big O. Crystal over at Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper is my guide for raising boys. He's in for it....