Category Archives: Disturbing Piece

Mother and Child Reunion

It dawns on me that I haven’t posted about last week’s trip to Connecticut to see The Boy. Despite the fact we were both sick at one point or another during our seven short days together, I can still truthfully say it was wonderful. Nothing like projectile puke at 4 a.m. and a day long bout of diarrhea to test the staying power of romance. 

Happily, we passed. (Get it? Heh.)

So, I come home and MP is 25. Suddenly she’s all Sheldon-y. All Big Bang Theory. All “Mother, did you know that an isotope is a nucleus whose chemical properties are almost identical to the original one having the same number of protons but different number of neutrons?”


Grammy’s the same. Perhaps a little tired is all.

The dog’s the same. Happier than ever to rub her filthy self all over the carpet. Happy to lick my feet with her poo mouth. Perhaps shaggier and with more knots. But still, the same.

I, on the other hand, am clearly dumber. Evidently, a few brain cells went missing when I contracted the Dengue Fever because I swear my daughter has aged dramatically overnight. Suddenly she’s READING. Complete BOOKS. Go, Dog Go!


The Preschool equivalent to War and Peace.


I leave for a week and my Baby, she’s all grown up. Next time, we’re packin’ up those footie PJs and she’s coming with me.


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I apologize in advance.

There are a few words I absolutely cannot stand.

1. Moist. There’s no sugarcoating an adjective that simultaneously brings to mind the words “anal” and “brownies.”
2. Probe. That Ford ACTUALLY named a car this boggles the mind.
3. Lube. Just typing that was painful.

Even worse, I drive by this place every day.


So, I’m all for the poop humor, but I’m thinkin’ this clever tagline just reinforces a really, really poor name choice. (Apparently, Hershey Highway was taken.)

I know I’m not alone with the word thing. San Diego Momma doesn’t like CREAMY. I totally agree with this one. Creamy’s pretty rank. Every time my mom calls lotion “cream” I cringe. Come to think of it, my friend Hamster calls it “cream” too. Yech.

And I had a roommate in college who couldn’t handle the word DUMP. Naturally, every time I had to go, I announced I was going to take one. Loudly. And with glee.


Is it just me or has this post taken a decidedly “Prison Bitch” turn for the worse?

Let’s keep it going … tell me YOUR worst and brighten my day.


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Troop 3447 gets crafty. Or an old lady loses her mind. Both involve diapers.

Suzette is an older woman that works in the office upstairs. She’s a bit … off. The two offices share a kitchen. At any given moment, chances are usually good Suzette can be found talking to herself, rumaging around in the fridge or cleaning out drawers. Who knows. She likes the kitchen. We also have a large meeting space that’s available for rent, so people come and go quite frequently.

Yesterday morning, ACW (Another Co-Worker) came into my office.

ACW: Dude, there’s a DIAPER on top of the fridge.

ME: What? Is it dirty?

ACW: No …

MP: Uhhh…

ACW: An ADULT diaper.


ACW: I know.

ME: Are you SURE it’s not dirty?

ACW: It’s not dirty.

ME: Is Suzette losin’ it?

ACW: She’s GOTTA be.

ME: ‘Cause she’s the only one I can think of …


ME: Wait, who was here yesterday? Didn’t QB come back at six? Was there a meeting?

ACW: Yeah, she had a Girl Scout thing. [QB is a Troop Leader]

ME: Maybe it was from the meeting?

ACW: Why would Girl Scouts involve adult diapers?


ME: Maybe it was a … craft?

Hey, wanna play church?


Or Hobag Rock Chicks?


I would so rock the Girl Scout diaper crafts. Maybe QB will let me loose on her girls.

I totally want a badge.

Image borrowed from these guys and these guys.


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Medical procedures, bodily functions and other topics for mixed company.

My life is shit.

Not the woe as me, I have it so tough, blah buh bladdi blah blah kind of shit. I mean literal SHIT. And while not as bad as say, a steaming pig farm upwind on a summer day, Pie Town is a bodily function free-for-all, none the less. At least, lately.

So, rather than wallow in the shit alone, I figured I’d share it with ma Doogs. I’m thoughtful like that.

Case in point. Yesterday morning I drove Bobo to get a colonoscopy. As we pulled away from the surgical center, MP asked why Bobo had to go to the doctor. I explained that he had to have something called a colonoscopy.

What’s a colon-scopy?

It’s when the doctor puts a tube up Bobo’s tush.


So he can look around and make sure everything is working okay.



I do NOT like poopholes. Dis.GUS.ting. YOU don’t have to have a doctor look up YOUR tush, do you?

Oh, NO.

No, cause you’re not old, right?

I love this child.

When I picked him up on my lunch hour, Bobo, still drugged and giddy, waved to the RN as he weaved out the door, smiled and said, “Thanks Sweetheart – you were a lot of fun!”

I dunna wanna know. Do NOT want to know.

Then there’s the new dog. Who won’t stop eating her poo. And peeing on the carpet. How long before housebreaking is complete? Cause right now it’s more like Breakinghouse.

**Right here is where the turd smoker squats and literally pees on the carpet right in front of me. Not even kidding.**

So with all this going on, I read Beej’s guest post over at Immoral Matriarch. The one where she admits to peeing in the shower ONCE.

Once?!? I’m willing to wager she’s in the minority. Help me out here, people — I know *I* do it every single morning. Sorry. I also brush my teeth in the shower. (I like to think of it as multi-tasking.) Never at the same time, however. Because that would be wrong. Like eating on the toilet. Wrong.

I remember when some article came out years ago that reported Madonna herself admitted to peeing in the shower. She claimed it warded off Athlete’s Foot. Which, at the time, I clearly recall thinking, “Come ON, Madge. Let’s at least be HONEST.” Or think of a better reason. Like ‘too tired to make it to the toilet,’ saving water,’ ‘my legs get cold,’ whatever.

And speaking of peeing, here’s some FANTASTIC news. MP has gone THREE WHOLE NIGHTS without having an accident! This is HUGE cause for celebration. We’ve never even come close to making it through the night! I swear, she’s finally able to hold her water because I took her out of the Pull-Ups and put highly absorbent, cotton Gerber Training Underpants on her at night. (Wow. Did that sound like a total plug or WHAT? Hello, Gerber? MP wears size 3T. If you’re so inclined. I will love you forever. Kthxbai.) I’m betting that subconsciously, she knows she doesn’t have a fallback. She knew it was okay to pee in the Pull-Ups. That’s what they’re MADE for, right?

So there you have it. My most disgusting post to date. I’m so proud.

Told you it was shit.


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Saving the world one worm at a time.

I finally unpacked my suitcase from the Hawaii trip. It’s been sitting in my living room since I walked through the door August 6. Contrary to popular opinion, I DO have a good explanation.


THIS is what we found one morning in Hawaii, curled up dead (THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU) on the dining room tile. I did not perform my bloggerly duty very well, however, failing to get an actual photo, but I Googled the muther, and this farked-up prehistoric-looking creature IS IT. According to the almighty Internet, some of these things are highly poisonous, even deadly.


So, although I washed everything in my suitcase just BEFORE coming home, I haven’t been able to to unpack. I can’t shake the fear that some deadly rain forest centipede stowed away in my luggage and burrowed into the lining of my sweatpants. Or shorts. Or PJs.

To compound the situation, a few days after coming home, I found a weird black and white striped worm on the couch. My first instinct was to scoop it up in a tissue, open the door and throw it outside. And then it dawned on me that I’d never seen anything like it. It looked like something that belonged in a warmer climate.


And THEN I imagined throwing it in the garden, inadvertently introducing a rogue species into the region, resulting in me being solely responsible for totally farking up the ecosystem. So I flushed it down the toilet and patted myself on the back for singlehandedly saving the future of mankind. [Thank yew, thankyewverymuch.]

Two days later, I found another. Worm spawn. More than likely hatched from eggs laid in my suitcase. Or the lining of my sweats.

THIS is why I haven’t unpacked until now. THIS is my good explanation. I thought maybe without food, whatever was hatching in my clothes would starve to death. Which, although completely sound logic in my opinion, doesn’t really matter because in the end I wound up washing everything again anyway.

And hanging it on my “clothes line” outside.

Where some native insect undoubtedly burrowed into my pockets and laid eggs.


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Grammy’s got a secret.

This is Grammy.

Grammy is having an affair with the riding lawnmower.

Every few nights, around 7:00 or 8:00, as soon as Poppy goes to bed, she sneaks out to rendezvous with Mr. Deere. I know because I hear them from my house next door.

Ridin’ the green pony.

It’s not like I’m eavesdropping or anything. I can’t help it. They’re LOUD.

And they go for HOURS. She says she likes it. CHAH.

She claims it’s RELAXING.

So the other night, as the sun was fading, I confronted them with my camera. Grammy, overcome with guilt and shame, tried to hide behind a tree.

Poor, poor Poppy.


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Stepping Outside My Box For A Minute …

Yesterday it snowed. I’m willing to bet it will be beautiful tomorrow. Because that’s been the pattern around here as of late.

It’s exasperating and makes no sense.

Mama Earth is telling us to suck it, folks.

This week’s tragic headlines have left me deeply disturbed. Because while some of these phenomena are purely unavoidable consequences of time, others are anything but.

It’s in these cases that, as far as I can tell, we have no one to blame but ourselves.

And it’s infuriating.

I grew up in a conservation-conscious family. Before my dad (Bobo) gave up corporate life and became a full-time artist, he was a landscape architect. He’s remained a steadfast voice for environmental issues his entire life. My mother ran a successful greenhouse business and is now a garden designer. Their combined love of nature and the importance they place on protecting it were were values instilled in us at an early age. Whether it was watering the lawn with “grey water” from the washing machine, putting bricks in the toilet, or collecting cans and recycling them for a few extra bucks (when I wasn’t pedaling porn), my brother and I knew it was important to take care of our planet.

Even so, front pages like the one above have a much more profound effect on me now that I’m a mother. Like all parents, I want to leave the world a better place for my child. And front pages like the one above freak me out. (Helluuu, Demi Moore? Seventh Seal?) Despite the sheer magnitude of this week’s events, I can’t shake the feeling they’re mere hiccups.

And that Mother Nature is getting ready to vomit.

Big hairy chunks. It would appear she’s had enough. I can’t say I blame her.

We’ve treated her like sh*t. And any lady with an ounce of self-respect wouldn’t take it lying down.


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Enough of the Freak Show Already

Okay, ever since I innocently posted about the Granny Panties, every freak show on the web has come to this site. It’s the ones that stay longer than three seconds that disturb and worry me.

Here’s just a sampling (from yesterday) of the search terms the Personality Disordered have used to find me:

pie in mommy pants
granny panties with poop
grandma nasty stories

And the most sickening of all …

I let my mum shit in my mouth

Uhhh … must be a British thing.


Seriously. This is really bugging me.

Eccchhh – I’m off to the loo to vomit.

And, yes, I know this post is now going to be a search term dream for the mentally unbalanced, but I had to get it off my chest.


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So THAT’s Why They Have Great Sales


I honestly don’t know how I happened to stumble across this, buried in the blogosphere, but I just read the most disturbing thing on the My Single Mom Life blog. Nevermind that I’m a self-confessed germiphobe, if you ever shop at Old Navy, you’ll want to read this.

I’m speechless.

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