I make Jeff and Zoe breakfast every morning before work and school. Today Zoe’s school was closed due to the ungodly amount of snow that is falling (rude), so Jeff and I have an understanding that I get these mornings off and he is left to his own devices. This means that he gets to stop at the gas station and have beef jerky and donuts and an energy drink and I won’t yell at him about his cholesterol or whatever it is eating beef jerky and donuts will do to you.

This is an actual conversation that happened this morning in my house.

Me: Dude, I’m not getting up. I packed your lunch last night, can you just grab your own breakfast?

Jeff: Yeah, are there bagels?

Me: I’m not sure, but I didn’t hide them and we if we do, they are located downstairs in the area we refer to as the kitchen. (Harsh, yes, but I need coffee in the morning to invoke my pleasantness).

Jeff: What about those sausage biscuit things?

Me: I might get up and stab you if you keep talking. Just go eat a bowl of cereal.

Jeff: Have you ever seen me eat a bowl of cereal? You know I don’t eat cereal.

Me: You don’t like cereal? Really?

Jeff: I haven’t eaten a bowl of cereal in 20 years.

Me: That’s un-American.

Jeff: You microwave your candy bars.

Me: Well played.

I decided yesterday while sitting in my front room that the beat up light oak trim and dijon mustard walls were depleting my life force and I MUST PAINT AT ONCE. This is how I operate, no planning or discussing or mulling things over, and not just with painting.

Which is why I have the rose from the cover of American Beauty permanently on my right shoulder blade.

I loaded Troy up and we headed off to the Ho Depot (typo, I’m leaving it) to gather our supplies.  I say “our” supplies like Troy was going to help.  (All he did once I started painting later was run into the wall TWICE and ruin two separate shirts).  I decided to buy one of those five gallon things of paint because there is nothing I hate more than running out of paint before the walls are complete.  I only bought a quart of semi-gloss for the trim because I have never painted trim before and I had no idea what it would look like.  I figured I could start behind the sofa and if I hated it, well, we would never be able to move the sofa away from that wall.

While at the mixing counter, I showed the girl what color I needed and silently crossed my finger she wouldn’t jack it all up.  She was maybe 18, she had a fucking Jonas Brothers pin on her orange apron for god’s sake.  I noticed Troy slip down the next aisle and I asked her to excuse me and stepped back from the counter and called his name.

She was tapping into her computer and snapped her gum and was all, “Ma’am, your son is right behind you”.

I turned and there was a boy about five? six? (omg, there really are kids everywhere these days) and when I saw him I said (kind of in a teasing way), “That’s not my son…” which totally made the kid laugh.

I saw Troy heading back to the paint counter and I turned back to the girl child that was helping me.

And then, THEN, she was all, “Oh, is that your grandson?”

I waited until she was done mixing up my five gallon bucket of Eggshell paint in Powdered Snow, said thank you, refrained from performing the Five Finger Death Punch on that little bitch faced Jonas Brothers groupie, went home, painted and then applied anti-aging cream liberally.

Nothing good ever happens to me at the Ho Depot, man. Nothing.

You know what’s better than a squirrel magnet?

A squirrel magnet that comes with its very own wardrobe.

Top Gun squirrel, it’s classified.

Now he’s headed up to Brokeback, says this is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation.

Hippie squirrel doesn’t want any trouble, man. He’s a total Easy Rider.

This one’s my favorite, he says You Only Live Twice.

Of course, All Squirrels Go To Heaven.

[Many thanks to my friend Sarah for the gift that keeps on giving.]

I have a weak stomach, true story. My freshman year of college, while in the cafeteria, I touched applesauce that someone had smeared on a table and I threw up in my own lap. Jim AKA Busy Dad posted a video that he and Shannon AKA Mr. Lady shot in China of Jim sampling some off the wall cuisine. And by off the wall, I mean people that live in China won’t even eat it.  He wanted to see my reaction, I refused to watch, and well, the rest is this vlog.

No worries, (SPOILER ALERT) I only throw up the tiniest bit of coffee in my mouth.

Enjoy.

I work about 25 hours a week at my “real job”. By real job, I mean the one that requires me to wear pants and not use the computer and/or send people to their rooms. I keep this job because it has beer and snacks and I enjoy cash money. Those 25 hours are spread out over Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and during this time, the kids go buck wild up in this b.

Because Jeff is in charge.

By the time I walk in the door Sunday afternoon, the house is destroyed, something has overflowed, and every damn dish we own is dirty.

Seriously, Jeff can mess up five kitchen items just by making a sandwich.

I have few rules for them while I am gone, mostly don’t stab each other and only call me at work if it is directly related to someone’s blood sugar and any questions you might have. Or if anyone has been stabbed. Even then, fingers crossed they have the common sense to dial 911 first (they don’t).

One of the few rules is Don’t Touch Mom’s Stuff. And stay out of the office.

When I walked in the door Sunday, Troy and Jeff are napping on the couch and Zoe was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by my 24 pack of SHARPIES and drawing on various items she had gathered FROM THE OFFICE.

If you have children, you know Sharpies are the equivalent of handing them a flamethrower and saying, “Here you go, fuck it alllll up real good“. Shit will go down in a nanosecond with a kid/Sharpie combo, trust.

Zoe swore to me that she only got the Sharpies out after Troy (and Jeff) went to sleep and stayed at the table with them the whole time.

And when I saw what she was working on? I couldn’t get mad.

Because Zoe brought jokes.

And probably has a successful future in marketing.