Mothers Day. 5 days post Pasta Salad Apocalypse 2010.
Gift: Salmon colored roses and a booklet of homemade mom coupons to make me feel like I live in a 24 hour spa that kinda smells like vomit and italian dressing, and is staffed by cheery midgets that give out hugs and foot rubs in exchange for paper tickets. Until they forget they even helped their dad color said coupons, thus rendering them useless and commence suicidal meltdowns until I either give them cupcakes or drink enough wine to dull the screams.
Status: Crappy. Missing solid foods.
I’m going into bathroom. Please don’t follow me.
Why would I follow you to the bathroom?
Turn the TV up.
Take everyone outside.
What are you talking about?
It’s Mother’s Day, you have to do whatever I say.
That’s not what happens on Mother’s Day.
Now you’re in charge of Mother’s Day, Andy? Why do you hate women?
Are you going to poop or something, you know I know you do that, right?
Um. No. That’s disgusting.
I don’t have to poop. I just want to be alone in a sound proof environment.
Just go poop.
CHRIST ANDY, I DON’T HAVE TO POOP, JUST GO.
*rumbly death sounds*
That was obviously your stomach, just go to the bathroom, I won’t listen, I’m watching 24.
It’s not my stomach. It’s my ovaries, they are making eggs. It can be noisy.
Did you take health in school?
You’re hunched over and visibly sweating.
Do you have a walkman you could listen to?
No MC Hammer, I don’t have a walkman. I’ll just go upstairs with the kids for a bit.
JESUS THANK YOU.
Hey, if I can get them all down for a nap, wanna cash in one of your mommy coupons when you are done, maybe a massage and some one on one time?
Are you seriously asking me for sex right now? ‘Cause I really don’t want to take a shower.
Why would you have to shower?
*gurgle, gurgle DOOM! DOOM!*
*squinty pain face*
Andy, I really don’t have time to explain science to you right now.