If it wasn’t enough that I was sitting her admiring my blog this afternoon because I so enjoy my new design, I also felt compelled to nominate someone for the Blogger’s Choice Awards. Yup. I nominated a little known blog, with a couple readers; a girl that tries her hardest even though she may not always be funny or witty. Some posts are long winded, others are almost as interesting as watching paint dry… then there are a couple that (I think) are good enough to make one pee their pants.

Yeah, loser here. I nominated myself. *shakes head* I didn’t read all the rules nor did pay full attention to what I was doing and started filling everything in… for myself. To my defense… it does say at the top that you’re allowed to nominate your own blog.

I’m a fucktard. I know. Seriously though. I admit it. I am a dirty dirty attention whore.

But if you’d be so obliged, you can vote for me too. I ain’t postin’ a link, I think I’ve whored myself out enough.

On the bright side.

Costco fucking rocks my socks.

We bought one of those FoodSaver vacuum thingies for all the bulk meat that we buy; because we’re a couple of savages and stock up like it’s going out of style. Well, the damn thing broke. It wouldn’t suck anymore (Mike says it’s like me, apparently I’m broken too - cuz I don’t suck anymore).
We didn’t have the box, let alone a receipt, so we were hesitant about taking it back. I figured they’d say: “No such luck. Idiots.”

But then I remembered THIS. It’s pretty much the funniest damn thing I’ve ever read. Go on, read it.

And low and behold they took it back. Costco gave us a brand new vacuum sucking thingy. So, all’s right with the world now. Mike is so utterly gitty he’s vacuum sealing just about anything he can find at the moment.

Maybe he can vaccum suck the fat outta mah ass fer me.

Carter’s eating habits are the absolute shits lately. My anxiety levels have reached an all time high over the fact that he will not eat anything that’s remotely healthy for him. He scoffs at anything that smells like a vegetable, gives The Royal Shove-off to meat - unless it is a breaded chunk of chicken-like-meat substance or pigs assholes. French fries - yes; baked potatoes - no. The kid will eat a plate of fuckin’ ketchup with a side of margarine if I let him.

For the past three days he’s consumed two chicken fingers (more ketchup then fingers since he likes to use the chicken as a dip stick to eat his ketchup), one 1″ x 1″ square of toast, a pancake dosed in margarine and syrup, and half a grape.
Considering all the crap he’s been eating lately, I’m surprised he hasn’t been shitting chucks of plastic or deformed chickens.

His father is partially to blame. Mike is a connoisseur of preservative laden “foods”. He will eat just about anything that has been prepackaged and riddled with chemicals. Most nights he makes dinner, it consists of something that is premade, precooked and frozen. I’m definitely not knocking it (too much); I too enjoy a good TV dinner once and a while. But every night makes for smelly asses that just won’t quit and a boulder-like blob in my stomach. *gag*

At the rate they’re going, Carter’s going to end up a mouth breathing, 100lbs three year old with the imprint of his ass developed into my couch cushions while him and his father take turns sharing the oxygen tank.

:::

I plan to answer more questions but I was a busy bee trying to get WordPress set up (Yes, I decided to make the change, though it’s a bit down the road yet) and workin’ on these new awesome digs; I’ll get to more questions. Promise.

number of sickies: one toddler
days without shower: 2
puddles of vile disgusting vomit to clean: 5+
number of horrid overflowing diarrhea diapers: 3
nights without sleep: 3

the opportunity to lie and cuddle my toddler while watching him sleep blissfully : PRICELESS

We’ve made it over the hump (I think). Carter was at daycare today and wasn’t sent home, so that was a bonus. He’s been more or less himself, with exception for a HUGE absolutely vile diarrhea shit that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I was debating skipping bath time tonight, since Mike was coming home late; frankly, I don’t enjoy bath time. It’s something that Mike does really well and I tend to pass on it when he’s not here, unless it’s necessary.

But Carter had other plans. No need to share (more) of the gore-ish details, I’m sure many have been there before.

But. it. was. not. pleasant. I think I need to bleach the entire bathroom.

Bad news. I’ve started to feel a little queasy since dinner. I hope it was my cooking and nothing else.

Off to wallow in my self pity for the night in front of the tube.

Oh, before I go.

Excuse Me Mister,
I can understand the desire to be clean and freshly shaved (trust me, I crave that as well). I can even understand being in a hurry and not wanting to waste another precious moment; but please, while you’re shaving the back of your hairy neck on the highway during hush hour, please don’t dump your electric razor holding cartridge as I drive behind you. Once, okay maybe. But three times? If I see you again, I will ram the back of your car while you’re shaving your jugular.

Sincerely,
Yours Truly

(Gosh, everything I’ve been writing lately makes my stomach turn)

Dear Jay-seus, someone help me through this day.

I am not disgusted by too many things, but wookies and vomit are my vices. I’d rather lick the side of my toilet bowl then deal with either of them. That might be an over exaggeration, but it’s not far from the truth. I didn’t think there was truly anything worse then seeing someone throw up. But there is. Oh, is there ever. A toddler that just doesn’t know what to do when they barf.

Carter has his first real stomach bug. Bastard stomach bug has finally reached our house. Thanks for nothing! Last night while visiting my parents Carter was running and playing, chasing their dog then stopped dead in his tracks. and. puked. Projectile vomit everywhere. I froze. I couldn’t react (or didn’t want to), I just turned and walked away; Mike ended up having to clean him while my dad cleaned the floor.
Poor kid was scared shitless since he had no idea what was happening to him, and all I could picture was that scene from Big Daddy when “Frankenstein” was doing the Kangaroo Dance and pukes everywhere. My initial reaction was the same as “Sonny’s” - cover the puke with newspaper and walk away. I so could have done that.

After three expulsions of fluids and dinner, I figured that we may have overstayed our welcome and headed home.

This morning has been more of the same. Except I have to take care of it all by myself. *gag* Thinking that he may be a little better I gave him a bottle when he woke. That lasted all of 45 minutes before it was all over me and the blanket we had to protect the couch as we cuddled. Fucking sick. Oh so fuckin’ gross. I started to gag as I rushed him to the kitchen ceramic floor. All I could think about was myself, how horrible of a mother am I? Just don’t get more on me, please, don’t. get. more. on. me.
Breakfast consisted of the norm - crackers and water because that’s all I ever give my child. But those came back up too. Then another time… after a bath he’s in bed. Hopefully for a LONG time; just sleep it off.

I can’t stomach anything now from the lurking aroma of vomit. I’ve laid down the newspaper to soak up it up until Mike comes home, and have candles going in ever corner of the house but they have yet to de-funk the odour. I wanna curl up in the fetal position and hide. I don’t want to do this anymore!

And to top it all off, I smell like something the neighbours cat (because mine’s a chicken shit) puked up since I can’t have a shower yet as they’re working on my crack(ed) pipe. FUCK! Make. this. day. end!