Category Archives: Piece of Crap

Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. Something poo.

I am officially the last of da Goils to remain steadfastly and blissfully single. This past weekend, the six of us reunited once again, this time for the wedding of one of the BFFs and her lovely Chilean manfriend. (You may remember the group from our 2008 Hawaii trip.)

The night before the blessed event, everyone (minus the bride) piled into what I would like to say was a private jet, but was in reality a minivan (rock on, Mamas), and headed to a condo at the ski resort where the wedding was to take place.

Hours later, after a few marginally stiff margaritas, a ton of laughs and a dip in the hot tub under a star-filled sky (giant shooting stars and all!), the five of us called it a night. I shared a room with Hamster.

A pairing best described as Kiss Any Chance of Sleep Goodbye and Let The Ridiculousness Ensue.

Back in the day, if I wasn’t sleeping at her house, she was sleeping at mine. And now, decades later, it might as well have been 1984. Or 85. Or 86. After hours of fitful laughter, some time around 4 a.m., we decided THIS was a good idea.

{Hellooo, 11-Year-Old Boy. It’s been awhile …}

Yes, despite actually being a bit hungry, it was clear the organic energy bar languishing at the bottom of my purse had a higher calling.

After carefully molding it into shape, tiptoeing downstairs, strategically placing it for maximum impact, and of course, documenting the deed with the phone camera, we returned to our room, guffawing and nearly peeing our pants at our own comedic genius. High Art, People. (San Diego Momma, aren’t you sad I’m not going to BlogHer?)

Four hours later, the house was awake. We waited for the screams. Nothing. We failed to take into consideration that the rooms downstairs had their own bathrooms, and chances were slim anyone would use the guest bathroom with offending turd.

Fast forward to after the wedding, prior to lunch. Hamster and I are upstairs, packing our bags, when the second blessed event of the day takes place. The turd. It’s been discovered. And someone is screaming MY name.

Apparently when my friends see poo on a toilet seat, the first person they think of is me. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I must say, however, both Hamster and I gave Oscar-worthy performances. We were so good at denying the deed, by the time we left for lunch, everyone was almost convinced that a T*rd Burglar had broken into the condo while we were at the wedding.

Until a photo of Yours Truly eating an energy bar with Ham’s caption “Turd Eater” was sent to everyone’s phones.

And THAT, my friends, is what we call the Piece de Resistance.

Or at least a piece of SOMETHING.

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Dirty Rat Bastards are goin’ DOWN.

My car is infested with field mice. Stinking, filthy, disease-riddled rodents.

How do I know?

BECAUSE THERE ARE FREAKIN’ MOUSE TURDS ALL OVER THE FREAKIN’ CAR.

On the floormats. On the driver’s seat. On the passenger’s seat. In MP’s CAR SEAT. In the freakin’ cup holders for freak’s sake.

The same thing happened two years ago. As soon as the temperature began to head south, the mice began taking up residence in the car. Building condos behind the glovebox. I spent 100 bucks having it detailed after someone mentioned that, sure, I could easily vacuum the turds, but what I WASN’T seeing was all the URINE.

Nevermind that that person was a detailer. Yes, the very one I paid 100 bucks. Whatever. The point is … I’m sure it was true.

It was around that time, in a stunning demonstration of perfect timing, a stray cat arrived on my doorstep. I fed her each day and she stuck around, finding a hole in the foundation’s skirting and making herself at home under the house. The car mice ceased to be a problem.

Until Grammy captured her a few months ago and took her to the No-Kill Shelter. That’s a story for another post. Which leaves me without my convenient four-legged critter killer policing the grounds.

It also leaves me with a problem bigger than just the urine-soaked car. Now the dirty bastards are in the HOUSE.

When I opened the top drawer in the bathroom this past weekend, it took me a minute to process what I was seeing, but the four or five tampons that had spontaneously exploded into a cloud of white cotton overnight were peppered with a familiar calling card. Opening the drawer below, I found a full box of Q-Tips that had been ransacked and defiled. Little Q-Tip Baton Wielding Bastards.

They even ate the damn Neosporin tube. NEOSPORIN. Which I dug out of the trash just for you, dear Doogs.

**On a related note, what brainiac decided to change the Tampax wrappers from a nice discreet white — which blends seamlessly with tissue and toilet paper — to NEON GREEN, which screams from the trash can, “Pick me up! I’m a fun toy!” to toddlers and preschoolers? I digress.**

Upon further inspection, I began seeing the signs everywhere. And by signs I mean TURDS. In the closet. On the floor by my bed. In a pile of towels sitting in a basket on the kitchen COUNTER. So, my mice can scale walls. Jealous much?

I’ve been leaving traps in the car every night for a week or two, with a fair amount of success, but the troops keep marching in. Last night I left a trap in the Q-Tip drawer and had an unfortunate mess to clean up before work. All this pee and poo and bloody gore has me totally freaked about Hanta Virus.

And now MP’s told her class she has rats in her car. And her house. I’ve tried to explain the difference between a RAT and a MOUSE, with little success. Like when I tell Bobo (my dad, for the newcomers) there’s actually a difference between saying he lives in a trailer, and saying he lives in an RV. He insists on “trailer.” (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I rent a double-wide, myself. Which I like to call a “Manufactured Home.” Marketing, Baby.)

Which means if you’re listening to MP, we live in our car. Or at the Dump, depending on the outcome of the Telephone Game. And if you’re a woman in a bar, the grocery store, the gas station, listening to Bobo try and pick you up …

Yeah, clearly, Bobo’s never getting laid again.

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And Sea Monkeys REALLY ARE monkeys.

Hi Tales from the Crypt Wrinkle Cream People.

I am SO buying your product. Because if you can resurrect that overcooked, dried up corpse from the dead and turn back the clock 40 years in 60 minutes, I’m in.

I’ll go into work Monday and everyone will be all, “who are you, and why are you blogging from Mommypie’s office? Wait. What’s a blog?” And then, after a few hours, I’ll be fired. Child labor laws, Kathi Lee Gifford, yadda yadda whatever. I’ll be so depressed I’ll stop at the liquor store for a bottle of wine. Or maybe Patron. Or both. But I’ll be carded and no one will believe my driver’s license is real. So I’ll drive myself home to wallow in a glass of juice. Only, on my way there, I’ll get pulled over. And busted for underage driving.

It’d totally be worth it.

Hello Dancing Mortgage People!

Helluu refinance, I’m SOLD! Because I can totally relate to your ads. I like rooftops! And carnivals and fireworks shows! Just thinking about my mortgage makes ME want to shake my groove thing, too!

However, you should know, I don’t condone exploitation of white people who can’t dance. Or Carnies.

But I can get over it. Because I TOTALLY trust you!

And it’d totally be worth it!

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Did I mention Delta sucks?

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I’d like to say I got one of the CHEAP seats, but …

Noon, California time and I’m sitting at LAX, recovering from two flights and gearing up for the biggie, over the ocean, in just about an hour. I stayed up ALL night with the hope that I’d pass out on the flights. No luck so far, but my fingers are crossed.

Actually, I haven’t been able to fall asleep for a reason.

Remember last weekend when I asked what YOUR pet peeves were? I now have a new one of my own.

People who go to the bathroom on planes. Are we FIVE, people? Can you not wait an hour and a half to pee?

I’ve been seated DIRECTLY ADJACENT to the john on BOTH FLIGHTS, squished into the very last seat in the rear. And puns aside, the stench has been UNREAL. I paid $1,300 to hang out in a Porta Potty? And all I get is a crappy bag of peanuts? (Again, excuse the pun.) I could have done that at the county fair. And what’s with the smell? Don’t they just open a chute in the bottom of the plane and let it fly? Or have I been worried about getting hit with flying poo my whole life for no reason?

The steady stream of pee-ers was killin’ me. (Again with the puns.)

Cross your fingers I’m in the FRONT of the plane on this last leg. And that I don’t have to use my flotation device. They’re calling my number …

P.S. Make sure to check back — some of my favorite bloggers will be guest posting while I’m gone!

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Piece of Crap: Kandoo ‘Flushable’ Wipes

And this week’s craptastic award goes to … (drum role please)

KandooFlushable” Wipes (or any baby/toddler wipe that claims to be flushable, for that matter).

Seriously. Can it get more accurate than that?

Ankle deep into the potty training years, I thought these lovely little inventions were a Godsend. I’ve been happily flushing away for nearly two years now. (As MaggiePie is fond of saying … oh, silly woman.)

A few months ago, a sudden overwhelming stench and rapidly growing pool of filth — seeping, seemingly from the depths of Hell (located conveniently just outside my back door, btw) — propelled me to the yellow pages. Later that afternoon, I watched as my new sulphur spring exploded. Five hundred dollars and mounds of dirt later, I was told this was, in fact, not the handiwork of the Devil, but of … Kandoo.

“Do you have a young child in the house?”

Yeeesss …”

“Wipes.”

“Wipes??”

“Wipes.”

I watched in horror as my plumber surfaced with huge wads of what looked like dirty rags.

“But the package says they’re flushable!” (Silly, silly woman.)

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen this. I dig up at least one system per week that’s plugged with these things. It’s unbelievable.”

(Note to reader: Keep in mind, I live in a relatively small town, and one a week for one plumber is A LOT.)

“But the package says they’re FLUSHABLE.”

Anything’s technically flushable. Gravel is flushable. I can’t believe these things are still on the market.”

I’m sorry … WTF??!?


The long and short of it (according to my plumber) is, “flushable” does not necessarily mean biodegradable, although marketing efforts clearly lead the consumer to believe otherwise. Lesson learned.

After a little research, it seems this is happening all over the place – and not just in the U.S. Here’s some info I wish I would’ve had two years ago (these are just a few of the top Google links):

Motive Grounds
Mommysavers Forums
Amazon Reviews
Dooyoo
That Hideous Man

There’s almost nothing I hate more than to be made a fool of. All things considered, I pride myself on being a reasonably intelligent person, and I was duped. Yes, MommyPie’s more than a little pissed off. So, in appreciation, Kandoo, let me be the first to congratulate you on becoming the first product to earn my very personal Piece of Crap Award.

Stay tuned for more turds in the punchbowl, Gentle Reader …

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