I swear to God, if there is one thing about men that could make me turn lesbian it’s the length of time they spend in the bathroom.

As a result of such non-stop exposure to skid marks, ball-scratching and burping, my brain is somewhat mushy. It’s difficult for me to form coherent much less witty thoughts.

However, I did hear on the radio the other day that consumer inflation has remained steady over the past 25 years, if you exclude food and energy prices.

So for those of us who do not need to eat and live in a cave lit by pine torches and still get from tribe meeting to tribe meeting via a horse, we are doing great!

Don’t you love good news?!

Now for a bit of bad news. Girl Scout cookies are out, if you didn’t know already. Personally I’m bombarded with requests to buy them every where I go but perhaps you have escaped the stalkers. Lucky you.

What I find perplexing is how excited people get when the cookies come out. Have these people tasted the cookies? They aren’t good. I know because I guilted myself into buying a box of Samoas from a friend’s daughter and ate the entire box. I kept eating one after another, waiting for that moment of gastronomic bliss, for the flavor to explode in my mouth, because surely this is what gets people excited about these cookies?

It never happened. Unless you count the taste of cheap chocolate as gastronomic bliss, which I don’t.

I wonder, the next time I’m asked to buy cookies from a Troop sitting outside of Wal-Mart’s doors, can I be completely honest and tell them I don’t want to buy the cookies because they taste like crap?

Next year when I’m asked by friends to buy cookies from their daughters, can I tell them I don’t want to because they taste like crap?

How do you escape the Girl Scout Cookie trap?!?

I think the reason people get excited about Girl Scout cookies is because they can’t escape the trap and in order to preserve their ego, they convince themselves they want the cookies.

I’m determined to escape the trap next year. If only I knew how…

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

ONE.

That’s all. The remaining 1,573 wrinkled pieces belong to the short and loud people in the house who show no appreciation for all the ironing I do every week.

Some of you may think it’s my laziness that causes so much ironing. I must not get the clothes out of the dryer promptly! Well, you’re wrong. The buzzer doesn’t even finish buzzing before I’m in there, desperately pulling clothes out, trying to prevent wrinkles. It never works.

The real culprit of the weekly mountain of wrinkled clothes is the goddamn dryer. I once had a wonderful dryer. WONDERFUL! Then, after a mere 6 years, it broke. Stopped heating, just like that! I guess Kenmore isn’t so wonderful after all.

We considered buying a new dryer, but did you know most new dryers cost more than a house payment? I’m not even making that up. It’s insane. Do people make it a habit of stealing from their kids’ college savings in order to afford these things?

Lucky for us (or so I thought at the time), my dad had an extra dryer since he’d just purchased a new one. Yay! No need to fork out $1200 for a dryer right now.

Now I know why my dad bought a new dryer. Everything comes out of this dryer wrinkled. EVERYTHING, even the wrinkle-free clothes.

So I really should be ironing right now and for the next three hours instead of writing this blog post. But I’m not. I can’t make myself do it. There are so many other things I’d rather do. In fact, I decided to share with you the things I’d rather do than iron.

• Pluck toe hair.

• Pluck my husband’s old-man ear hair.

• Listen to my kids cry and whine when I force them to do their homework.

• Read blogs.

• Like The Bloggess, who, thank god, doesn’t get Twilight either. I’m adding her to my Christmas list, along with all other Twilight haters. I hope she likes handmade scarves. I plan to knit one that says FUCK EDWARD, COUNT DRACULA HAD BALLS!

• And Stacey, whom I love with the strength of a thousand moons. That’s in direct opposition of how much I hate doing push-ups on the 30 Day Shred (with the strength of a thousand suns). That is how much I love Stacey’s writing. I can’t recall her thoughts on Twilight, but I’m hoping I can keep her on my Christmas list too.
• Look up when to use “whom” or “who.”

• Give myself an enema.

• Give an old person a enema, that is how much I hate ironing.

• Discover the cure for male skid marks, which would make me rich enough I could hire someone to do my ironing. Or just buy a new ritzy dryer.

• Have sex with Santa in exchange for a new ritzy dryer.

The extremes in which I would go to avoid ironing knows no bounds. Except for one. I’ll iron for 40 straight days and 40 straight nights before reading the rest of Twilight. I read all the way up to page 285 and had to stop in order to make my last will and testament before killing myself, that was the torture I endured. Never again. Not even ironing is that bad.

But it’s close.

When Wally got home, I cried and demonstrated the extent of my suffering to him by serving cold leftovers for dinner. And to this he replied, “Honey, I’ll do the ironing for you.”

That’s just like a man, getting in the way of a woman’s success as a martyr.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

Then, in a bout of paranoia, I took down the post. I recently reread it in draft and found myself laughing out loud, why did I take this down? And so, I share again…

(with a few edits)

_____________________________________________________

August 2007

Last week, I found out the school is keeping a secret daily behavioral log on Payton. It’s secret because I, THE MOTHER, wasn’t told.

The only reason I obtained a copy of this log is because I’m taking Payton to a neurologist’s office and the school assumed I would share such a log with the psychometrician there.

If you’re keeping your own secret log of wisdom gleaned from my blog (and you really should), write this down: never assume what I will or won’t do.

I read through this log and then questioned the teacher its purpose. She explained to me that “They” asked her to keep it and it’s standard for any child exhibiting unusual behavior.

Okay. And it’s also standard not to tell the parents. Who knew?

But after thinking on it, this idea of secretly noting the unusual behavior of others sounds kind of fun. So I organized a committee of fools authorities to do that very thing. Let me introduce them….

Dr. Professor Shake-Shake.

Dr. Shake-Shake holds a honors degree in psychology and is infamously known for her authority in the field of skid mark research, postnatal hemorrhoids, and is a prominent activist in the Freedom for Flatulence movement. She has also published a line of self-help blogs on becoming a fresh mait authori-tay.

Welcome Dr. Professor Shake-Shake

The second authority is:

Dr. Professor Monkey Britches

Dr. Monkey Britches is a renowned authority in primate social behavior and will lend his expertise to help us better understand the unusual behaviors we may encounter during this illegitimate gathering of information.

Please welcome Dr. Professor Monkey Britches

Let us begin.

Case #1 Ms. Carpool Director

This late middle-age female exhibits agitated behavior on a daily basis. She shows unusual verbal behavior by shouting at children during drop off to “Hurry Up! Hurry Up!” and as the students begin to obey and hurry, then shouts out, “Don’t Run!!!!” Subject perseverates on this odd gait that can only be described as a “hurry up but don’t run!!!” style of walking. Her insistence that everyone around her walk this odd gait implies rigidity in her thinking and impaired social function.

Dr. Professor Shake Shake suggest we refer her to the school counselor for social stories on the proper way to greet others in the morning.

Dr. Professor Monkey Britches believes group therapy is needed in order to teach this patient to groom the hair of others and eat the bugs found on their body. This specialized primate form of therapy is proven to reduce agitation.

Case #2 Principal

Subject does not understand the appropriate social rules of initiating a conversation. He stood several feet away in a door way (possibly does not understand the concept of appropriate conversational space) and gestured with finger to gain attention while others were in conversation. When this action failed to get the attention of the other adult who is appropriately conversing with someone else, subjects increases the gesticulation and acts as if the other adult is being rude to him.

Dr. Professor Shake-Shake states this is a clear social impairment with adult conversational interaction. The subject could have trouble transferring the knowledge that how people approach him is the same way he should approach other adults. She suggests that repeating kindergarten (where the fundamental rule of Do Unto Others is taught) could be beneficial and in the subject’s best interest.

However, Dr. Professor Monkey disagrees. He believes for the subject to learn appropriate conversational behavior, he should participate in the specialized form of primate therapy where patients learn the correct way to initiate conversation is to scratch someone’s butt and then sniff your finger.

Case #3 School Counselor

This particular subject displays dysfunctional thinking patterns by making inappropriate assumptions of those she does not know and/or has short interactions with. For example, she makes immediate, inappropriate leaps from behavior to label without considering environmental influences or other possibilities. This is indicative of linear thinking and an impairment in processing abstract thought.

Dr. Professor Shake-Shake can only refer this subject to Dr. James T. Webb.

Dr. Professor Monkey Britches believes he is equipped to deal with this subject by utilizing occupational therapy so she can learn to play the only appropriate game there is: flinging poop at spectators.

This concludes our notes on unusual behavior for last week alone, and only those behaviors that can be observed during drop off, pick up, and 5 minute phone calls. There are possibly even more unusual behaviors if subjects could be observed all day.

***********************************************************************

I republished this piece for a couple of reasons, not just because it made me laugh, though let’s not discount the importance of humor in the face of adversity.

As I reread it after so long, I was impressed by the way Dr. Professor Shake-Shake was able to make the case problems sound real. Case #3 really shines as an example, I think. I made it sound so official and serious.

I highlight this aspect because, as a parent who read and read and read the information on Aspergers, ADHD, PDD-NOD, it all sounds so real and it is so very hard to not get caught up in it. These are “experts” with degrees and acronyms galore behind their names, surely they know of what they speak!

My only advice to parents regarding that is to proceed consciously (or maybe even unconsciously). Keep not only your head (because intellect will only take you so far) but your heart about you. Don’t let fear guide your decision because it sounds real.

“Reality is an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” -Albert Einstein

In my original draft, the following paragraph was at the end:

In the anti-spirit of noting odd behaviors, I began my own daily log of my son. While I’m being honest and writing down “unusual” things, I’m also purposely taking note of the completely typical kid stuff he does, something the school is not doing. They are solely noting odd things. I admit I started the log in the spirit of tit-for-tat, but now that I’ve done it, I realize how often Payton behaves quite normally and I let it pass by my eyes unnoticed.

I needed to be reminded that the difference between the seen and unseen, the real and unreal, is a gray, misty world of knowledge that has yet taken form.

“The moment a person forms a theory, his imagination sees, in every object, only the traits that favor that theory.”  -Thomas Jefferson

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

I spit on you and then curse you with my two fingers, doing that crooked finger thing you do to curse people.

Honestly, this is a situation where I could say ‘ZOMG’ if I didn’t find the Z so annoying. Instead I’ll just say…

FSMN! (FUCKING SHOOT ME NOW)

It wouldn’t be so bad, really. Unless you ask my 3 older cats who have sentenced themselves outdoors the entire day (with 100+ temps) rather than degrade themselves by sharing the cool, air-conditioned inside with these kittens.

These kittens are temporary. In fact, I was to only have them two weeks because they’re older than I was told. We can totally do it because we did it with the other two for 8 weeks and it was so easy.  EASY. Plus, look at their faces…

Grayson

Cookie

Callie

Blueberry

So cute, aren’t they? I mean, how could you NOT help adorable little faces like that?

So we said, yes, yes, we’ll foster them!

Only two days after we committed to fostering, guess what showed up on my doorstep…

Harry Potter and Ginny

Near identical twins, I swear; Luna and Hermoine

Tiny, STARVING 3-4 week old kittens, plus their mama.

I’m not even kidding.  Another stray in our neighborhood brought her kittens to me.  There must be a sign at the public litter box in the neighborhood that says “For free food and pre-/postnatal care, see this house!”

That’s nine kittens, people. NINE! (I still have the baby girl left from the 1st litter since she can’t be adopted until 12 wks per shelter rules.)

Do you know how many times a day I have to clean litter boxes? I won’t even tell you because you’ll probably go into septic shock.

What’s worse is the little baby kitties are sick, so I have to keep everyone separated, which means the little ones and mama stay in my garage until it gets too hot, and how great we’re having the worst heat wave in June EVER. By 11 am, these cats have to come into my bathroom where they scatter litter every where and the mama cat thinks, hey a bathroom, let me leave skid marks all over the floor because I have a funked up ass!

Every night when we put them back in the garage, Wally or I have to mop our bathroom floor. EVERY. NIGHT.

Have I mentioned how many times a day I have to scoop litter boxes?

When the tiny babies first showed up, I asked the rescue shelter if they could help me place them in homes.  They said sure, as long as I covered the vet bills for them, including the spay/neutering for all five (mama and babies), plus the girl I already have. Then they said they had the adoption dates wrong and I’d have the 4 other kittens another week.

*thud*

There was more I planned to tell you, like how I keep reminding myself this is a wonderful teaching moment for my boys – all the compassion and kindness I’m ingraining in them. Since I’m raising a conservationist anyway, WHAT A LESSON.

I would tell you all of that and more, but I have to go scoop litter boxes again. And then make a trip to the liquor store.

You people don’t have to worry AT ALL that I’ll end up with a house full of cats.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

1 part mother
2 parts male children
1 part husband working all day Sunday
1 mini van plus 30 minute ride
2 spilled adult drinks
1 broken recliner
1 den of carpet ruined

Place mother in minivan alone with 2 screaming, fighting male children for 30 minutes and let stew until boiling.

Boil mother until thoroughly pissed and she yells, “That is IT! I am done with this crap!”

Remove from minivan and place in messy house with 2 fighting male children.

Mix one pomegranate martini. Allow Mother one sip. Watch RED martini spill on carpet as mother breaks up the 657th fight of the day.

Place 1 part child in his room and set timer for 60 minutes.

Scrub carpet for 30 minutes.

Mix one whiskey sour for stronger effect. Do not allow Mother to take one sip. Watch as 2 part child spills entire whiskey sour on the carpet.

Add a dash of “SHIT!” to taste and call upon God to damn it. Place 2 part child in his room.

(Puff of cigarette optional, but not used in test kitchen)

Mix irrational, crazed phone call to husband with more Divine damnation.

Simmer for an hour.

Fold laundry in bedroom while mother continues to stew and ignores roughhousing in the den.

Hear crash in den.

Combine 1 recliner laying on the floor with broken ball bearings and 2 parts children standing RIGHT BESIDE RECLINER.

See large quantities of black graphite-like powder on the beige carpet underneath broken recliner.

See black, which represents the Black Plague, which means DEATH TO ALL!

Eat 2 parts children.

I wish I could say I made this story up for the joy of your entertainment, but dear reader, that would be a lie.

To say I was pissed is the understatement of the decade. I was so pissed I didn’t trust myself to march the boys to their rooms. If I touched them, I would cross a line. And I think they knew it because I told them to go to their rooms and those little assholes scrammed without a single peep of protest.

Once I calmed down enough to put together words, I went to their rooms and chewed them out. I let them know they’d probably ruined the carpet (because I didn’t think it would come out at the time) and now we had to spend money on furniture too.

“WHAT YOU HAVE DONE WILL PROBABLY COST US $1000!”

I went to bed still seething.

I woke up the next morning still full of resentment.

My carpet, while looking better after 2 hours of scrubbing, still looks like a gray elephant left a giant gray skid mark on my floor. Plus, we’re out of a recliner, leaving only our couch for seating.

But I suppose that’s ok for a while BECAUSE THE BOYS WILL BE 25 BEFORE THEY ARE ALLOWED TO SIT THEIR ASSES ON MY FURNITURE AGAIN!

Parker came into my room to tell me good morning and he could tell all is not forgiven. No happy smiles or big hugs from mom. He apologized for what he did and said he felt really bad.

I don’t tell him it’s ok because it’s not ok.

A few minutes later, he comes back with the saddest Robert Redford blue eyes ever and his piggy bank in his arms.

“Mommy, here’s my money. You can have it to help pay for the furniture.”

That right there? Is the only reason I haven’t eaten them yet.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

Two days before Halloween, my 3-year-old Canon PowerShot A95 digital camera died.

Just how dead is it?

This dead…

That’s pretty much a flat liner, wouldn’t you say?

This is a photographic emergency, people! TWO days before Halloween! Actually, just one day! A mother can’t not have a camera on Halloween. It’s in the by-laws or something.

I especially can’t not have a camera on Halloween. Hello? Don’t forget Payton’s costume choice last year. I’m a Naked Sole! My costume masterpiece so far in life.

You ought to know my Payton hasn’t undergone any vast personality changes and suddenly decided to go mainstream in his costume attire. Oh no.

Payton is dressing up as an Australian Spotted Jellyfish.

Parker, for the 3rd year in a row, is dressing up as a Star Wars character. So far we’ve had Obi Wan, Anakin Skywalker, and now Darth Vadar. I don’t know who he will pick next year. Princess Leia maybe.

It’s very clear I MUST BUY A NEW CAMERA RIGHT NOW!

But which one? The choices are overwhelming! And cameras have gone from 5 megapixels to 10 in affordability in just 3 years! And I have to narrow it down to ONE in 24 hours!

This is my stress for the day, if all of the exclamation points don’t convey that. What can I say? I lead a charmed life.

Wally and I have salivated over the Canon Digital Rebel for, oh, forever and ever, Amen. When they came out with the new and improved Rebel, we almost wet our pants in excitement. However, due to the sticker price, all we ever did is fog up the display glass and dirty it up with our saliva.

We have good intentions, Wally and I. We used to be fucking awesome at photography. Wally was a former photo journalist back in the day when there were actual negatives to develop in darkrooms with chemicals and shit. You know, back during the STONE AGE.

We were a perfect team. I was the awesome photo stylist and Wally knew all about f-stops and shutter speed and light and all that technical stuff that makes my eyes glaze over and brain switch to technical ADD.

As we drooled over the Rebel, we envisioned all of the wonderful photographic bonding moments we would have as parents. It would be great for our marriage, to have this hobby where we excel as partners!

Then reality hit and instead, we’ve bonded over cleaning skid marks out of the boys’ toilet and eight years of wiping butts that has now progressed to a certain 5-year-old running out of the bathroom, naked from the waist down, bending over right in front of us and asking us if he wiped good enough.

Nothing bonds you together like a doo-doo smeared butt right in your face. That’s a Kodak moment even Kodak can’t touch, which is a good thing because Wally doesn’t like Kodak anyway.

Wally is looking only at Canon and Nikon point and shoot cameras. My technology ADD is kicking in and I find myself yawning and not really caring.

I just want to take pictures of my kids tomorrow night, and as nice as the Rebel is, I still require a smaller, easy to carry in my pocket or purse point & shoot camera. And I’m not forking out $1000 for a camera within the next 24 hours.

So please, tell me what you like or don’t like about your point and shoot digital camera. Know of a really good one? Share the knowledge! Know one that’s a piece of crap? Let me know! I’m working on a time crunch and it’s driving my anal-retentive self crazy that I can’t spend days and days researching the best one.

(Hold me)

Imagine if I couldn’t share with you pictures of the Australian spotted jellyfish costume and yet another Stars Wars costume.

That would be a travesty of blogospheric proportion.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

And I’m still not losing weight. I broke down and stepped on the scales yesterday even though I swore I wouldn’t. I know this lack of weight loss has nothing to do with all of the different cookie recipes I’m experimenting with. None whatsoever. It’s all water weight. That’s what I’m telling myself.

Anyhoo.

Yesterday was like any other day as I went about my exercising business, bouncing my ponytail as I walk like a speed demon and hope the iPod doesn’t fall down my pants. I don’t have a belt clip so I have to tuck the iPod into the waistband of my exercise pants, and sometimes I have to stick my hand down my pants in front of the entire neighborhood when the iPod falls.

My neighbors think I’m so classy.

But after yesterday’s walk, I may have to step up my level of sophistication because I apparently have competition in the Classiest Neighbor department.

I’m walking on my final lap, all hot and sweaty with a face so red I look like I’m having a heat stroke because it is already over 95 degrees down here, when the competition shows its ass.

Literally.

At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me because there on the sidewalk is one of my neighbors of advanced retirement age taking out his trash WITH NO PANTS ON!

On the other hand, I did have on pants and I almost crapped in them.

Is this really happening? This can’t be real! Holy crap, he’s NOT WEARING PANTS!

I immediately slowed down the pace of my walk because I needed time to think.

What do I do?

Do I continue on my walk, which is on the same side of the street, pretending I don’t see him standing on the sidewalk by his trashcan WITH NO PANTS ON?!

Do I stop and asking if he is ok because, ohmygod, he is on the sidewalk taking out his trash WITH NO PANTS ON?!

I tell myself to calm down. The shirt he has on is long and all you can see are his legs. They are just old man legs. Be sophisticated about this. Pretend he has on short-shorts or something. You can’t see anything *private*, so keep walking and act as if you see this every day.

Then the old bugger had to go and BEND OVER to pick up some fallen trash from the can.

Oh, my bleeding eyes!

I briefly caught a rear view sight of old man TIGHTIE WHITIES. Given the nature of men and skid marks….dear god, don’t make me relive the moment.

The moment he bent over is when I did a 180 and headed back to my house. He wins the title of Classiest Neighbor, hands down.

But I can’t help but wonder…

Why did he take his trash out WITH NO PANTS ON?

Is he becoming senile and didn’t realize he took the trash out WITH NO PANTS ON? Did he simply forget to put them on? Didn’t he feel an odd sense of exposure around the buttocks/crotch region?

Or is he so old he simply no longer cares who sees him WITH NO PANTS? Like how my grandma didn’t put on a bra for the last 10 years of her life because she didn’t care who knew her titties hung down to her crotch.

And why am I the one in the neighborhood to have to witness skid-marked tightie whities?

Karma, are you watching me again?

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

“Why yes, Doctor, I think the blogosphere is making me depressed! Along with the magic bathroom scales that Karma had the evil scale fairies leave me, of course.”

I love to read about a mother’s love for her baby. How their smile warms their heart, the joy in watching them grow from newborn blob to curious baby. It really is sweet.

But also depressing. Because those days are gone for me. Buh-bye! Those sweet moments are only a memory made fuzzy by the enormous strength of willpower I need to not sell my 5- and 7-year-old and then use the proceeds to buy weed and vodka.

It’s not that I don’t love my children. Of course I do! But the in love part of it, oh, that’s gone. It’s like being married for a while. Every now and then you’ll get that jolt of infatuation, but for the most part you’re sorta just there, farting in front of each other and picking your nose.

Thank god we do have the in love period with our babies or else we would sell them when they got older. Still, when I read about it I get a quick stab of jealousy, then a flash of nostalgia for days gone by, and then a dose of depression because I spend more time frustrated from all of the fights I break up between the two than I do with sweet loving feelings.

And those of you going off on girls only weekends in new mini-vans?

Once I can move past the jealousy stage which causes the quick immature act of pulling down my shorts and telling you to kiss it, I will be so depressed.

How about those of you with nearby grandparents who take your children for weekend sleepovers, or, dream of all dreams, an entire week during the summer? (I don’t know who you are but I know you are out there.)

De. Pressed. Thank you.

And how about those of you asking about the language I speak.

Umm…

Umm…

The hell if I know! I’ve been racking my brain. What am I fluent at? Where am I an expert?

Do skid marks count? The Diva Cup? God, I hope not.

For a 34-year-old mother who has stayed home for 8 years to contemplate that question when her last child at home will be starting full-time school in 3 short months is to invite depression.

Do you find any particular type of blog posts depressing in a I’m-so-jealous way? Or is this another chapter from my special Book of Crazy?

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

This is the exact conversation Wally and I had as we were getting ready for bed last night. NO creative license has been taken. This is reality blogging and how foreplay goes down around these parts…

“Ugh. I must be scheduled to start the rag this weekend. Look how bloated I am!” I declared as I pulled up my black spaghetti strap with lacy cups nightgown and forced my husband to look at my pale, distended, bloated stomach.

So. Hot. I’m sure he was turned on.

“And if the bloating wasn’t sign enough, my god, the gas today! Aunt Flo is definitely on her way,” I continued.

If he wasn’t turned on before, he definitely is now.

“I was talking on the phone with Jennifer today and the gas was so bad I had to hold it in. And not that I’d hold it in just for her, but I wasn’t sure of the moisture quality and needed to sit on the john to let these loose. As much as I love Jennifer, I won’t subject her to the noise of my flatulence reverberating off of the bathroom walls. So I held it in until I got off the phone and could go to the john. AS ALL GROWN PEOPLE SHOULD WHEN IN DOUBT OF THE FART MOISTURE QUALITY!” I said, emphasizing that last bit and giving the all-knowing eye look to my husband. Who is a man. And I see his underwear when I do laundry.

By this time, boy scouts could have camped under the sheet of our bed he was SO turned on.

“Why don’t guys do the same?” I ask. “I know y’all have to feel the same feeling in your gut when it comes to questionable wet farts. Why not be safe rather than sorry and just go to the john?”

Female inquiring minds want to know.

Wally said, “Ah hell, we think, fuck it. It’s how we live life on the edge. We like to wing it and consequences be damned. Worrying over the consequences is for pussies.”

This would be an example of the XYZ I spoke of last week that keeps us together.

Forget prayer.

The couple that laughs together, stays together.

And yes, the timing of this flatulence post is deliberate.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.

“Son! Do NOT stick your finger in your butt to check for skid marks!”

These are the parenting moments that shape the future.

They must because they happen so frequently.

God. I love this job.

Love live the Queen’s skid mark authori-tay.

©2010 Queen of Shake Shake. All Rights Reserved.