Click here to view the embedded video.

Now, one thing you absolutely must know about me is I love to sing. It’s the greatest joy I’ve ever found and I suck at it. Really. I can’t carry a tune. I am completely tone deaf. I tied for last place in the only karaoke contest I’ve ever entered and my fellow loser was so drunk that she couldn’t read the words and then ran off the stage to vomit. I’m not kidding. I feel like it’s the most perfect punishment ever to create someone who only feels truly alive while singing and then make them sound like a cat in heat while achieving that bliss. Fuckin’ universe.

The other thing you need to know about me is that I’m the Weird Al of Pottytown. I can’t sing a song, no matter how somber, no matter how serious, without substituting bathroom words. It just ain’t in me. Take, for instance, Sinéad O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 Poo”. Or Huey Lewis’ “The Fart of Rock and Roll”. Or perhaps Jefferson Starship’s “We Built This City (On a Toilet Bowl) is more your speed. Regardless, if I can slip “poop”, “pee”, “fart” (sometimes “shart”, just to mix it up), “diarrhea”, or “butt” into a song (and I usually can), then I will.

So, back to the living room, from where I have just excused myself to use the restroom, and Kris Allen is singing about making the most of every day, just in case you kick the bucket. Upper, right? I fixed that.

I finished my business, washed up, and decided to give myself a laugh. I ran down the hallway and slid back into the living room, a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, singing at the top of my lungs “GOTTA FAAAART LIKE WE’RE POOOOPING!” and, as I was singing and sliding, caught sight of my son’s face, which was wearing an expression of pure horror. He turned his head toward me, and I saw that he had his cell phone to his ear.

“Uh-huh. Okay. I’ll be in one day this week. Thank you. Bye,” he said in his “For Grownups Only” voice.

I instantly burst out laughing. Tears came so suddenly that they sprayed the inside of my glasses.

“Oh. My. God.,” I choked, a snort escaping. “Who was that?”

“My principal, saying the honor roll awards came in and I could pick up mine any time over the summer,” he growled.

He gritted his teeth while he spoke, which only made me laugh harder. Can’t put them biscuits back in the can (a homey-sounding expression that I just made up), so you might as well laugh, right?

“I’m so sorry,” I said, now nearing hysteria. My breathing was ragged, my face was red, and I was doing a screamlaugh that caused our upstairs neighbor to stomp around, angrily.

“No you aren’t,” he said.

I wish I could have argued, but the kid knows me.

Sitting in the drive-thru of a fine fast food establishment, I was feeling well enough to put on pants and leave the house for the first time in four days. All I wanted was an iced tea.

I had just picked up the kids from school. I told them that dinner was cooking at home and asked if they wanted something to drink. Neither did. Pulling up to the menu, the boy yelled out.

“Wait! I DO want a drink! What do they have?”

A female voice came through the speaker and asked to take my order.

“Oh, hi. Can you hold on a sec?”

I turned to the back seat.

“They have Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Dr. Pepper…”

“Gimme the P.”

“What?”

“Gimme the P.”

From the passenger seat, the girl piped up.

“He wants a hot piss of pee.”

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the virus, maybe it was cabin fever, maybe I was just tired. We quote Family Guy constantly in our house. It SHOULD NOT have been this funny.

I giggled. Then I laughed. Then I belly laughed. Then I snorted. Then I couldn’t breathe and big tears rolled down my face. I made a squealing noise.

Cars were lining up behind us. I knew I had to order.

“Okay…we’re..ready.” I choked.

There wasn’t a trace of amusement in the employee’s voice as I gasped, trying to communicate. Finally, she understood.

On the short drive between speaker and window, the girl chimed in again.

“Oh noo! Now you’re covered in my hot pee!”

It started all over. It was so bad that I could barely hand the cashier my money.

Moral Of The Story: Pretty sure I drank spit tonight. And maybe some hot pee.

Him: What’s up?

Me: Nothin’. Just ballin’. LIKE A BALLA!

Him: Talking to you is like trying to communicate with someone from another planet.

Me: A cool planet?

Him: No.

It’s hard to be a peerent.

Click here to view the embedded video.

My friend Lauren has a tumblr. I stole this pic from there. But, it’s okay, because she stole it from someone else, who stole it from someone else, who stole it from bluntcard.com.

2:36

You all know it. In our house it’s called the roperopeshootshoot and we are all experts at it. At any moment one of us can yell those words and we drop everything and do it.

Last night, after stuffing ourselves with All You Can Eat Pancakes at the local IHOP, we got in the car and KC and the Sunshine Band was playing on the radio. The girl made the call as he hollered “Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight”. “ROPEROPESHOOTSHOOT!” she yelled, and the whole car shook.

Yep, they’re still fun.

I’ll admit it, I am a total baby when it comes to certain things. For instance, any movie/book/song about a pet being hurt or dying ends with me in a heap, experiencing a quivering sobgasm. Poorly behaved and destructive yellow lab in Marley and Me, sob. The Burt Reynolds dog in All Dogs Go To Heaven, sob. The song Wildfire, sob. Old Yeller, Homeward Bound, The Fox and The Hound, sob sob sob.

And don’t get me STARTED on anything about children/moms dying. The baby and the twins in Angela’s Ashes, sob. The baby in Trainspotting, sob. Sally Field in Forrest Gump, sob. Sally Field in Steele Magnolias, sob. (While we are on the subject, fuck you, Sally Field. I’ve got dignity, okay?)

Then there’s the song. The damn damn hell damn christmas song. I can’t tell you the first time I heard it, seems like it’s always been around. Taunting me. Rubbing my face in the fact that it can take me down in the four minutes and thirty seconds it pollutes pop radio for each time it plays. But it’s right to gloat. It’s got me right where it wants me.

If you haven’t heard the song, or really listened, I’ve included the video. Though it says “New Song” on the graphic, I can assure you that it’s the original version by Bob Carlisle. You know the guy who brought you the song that has, since its release, ruined nearly every father/daughter wedding dance the world over, Butterfly Kisses (go google that one yourself, I limit myself to one shitty song per post, thanks). Here, for your viewing pleasure, are the lyrics:

It was almost Christmas time
There I stood in another line
Trying to buy that last gift or two
Not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me
Was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing around like little boys do
And in his hands he held
A pair of shoes

And his clothes were worn and old
He was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay
I couldn’t believe what I heard him say

Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus, tonight.

He counted pennies for what seem like years
And cashier says son there’s not enough here
He searched his pockets franticly
And he turned and he looked at me
He said Momma made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir
What am I gonna do?
Some how Ive got to buy her these Christmas shoes

So I layed the money down
I just had to help him out
And I’ll never forget
The look on his face
When he said Momma’s gonna look so great.

Sir I wanna buy these shoes, for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful,
If Momma meets Jesus tonight.

I knew I caught a glimpse of heavens love as he thanked me and ran out.
I know that God had sent that little boy to remind me
What Christmas is all about

Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight

I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight.

Please tell me you read that and said, “Who the fuck are you, Bob Carlisle, to write such emotional drivel, designed to not only tug at the heartstrings but fucking floss its teeth with them?” No? Well, how refined of you.

Anyway, it’s a big joke in our house that someone can sing just one line of that song or play the opening notes and I will be succumb to fat, wet tears. Being 15 and 17, the kids are over the moon about making me look like an idiot. In the car this past christmas season, the song came on.

Him: Turn it up! It’s Mom’s song!

Me: No, please, I’m trying to drive. *sniff*

Her: Oh, yes, we MUST turn it up. Mom HATES to miss her song.

I cried, the song ended, I got mad. “WHO WRITES SUCH A THING?” I shouted. Then said, “We should write a song. A manipulative, sad song. I could use a million bucks. What should it be about?”

Him: A dead puppy! And it was a boy’s only friend!

Her: No! A baby! A dead baby! And IT was a boy’s only friend!

Me: Yes! Yes! Beautiful!

Her: And the dead baby was retarded! A retarded dead baby! The saddest of all! We’ll make a BILLION dollars!

My tears were gone and there was no more sadness. I was secure in the fact that I was raising my kids right.