I'm pretty sure I let Q watch too many Donald Duck cartoons. The kid haaaaaaaates pants (and wearing diapers, for that matter. Apparently, I'm raising a freeballer. Be free, my son. Be free. But only after you learn how to use the toilet, okay? Thanks.) and since DD doesn't wear them, I can only assume that this is the connection. That, and the kid can throw a Donald-esque tantrum like no other. Hmm. This could be another reason Walt Disney (well, his descendants) should be paying for my meds.
Lately, my dreams have been quite vivid, and how should I put this... um, strange to the point where I'm questioning my sanity. For example, a few nights ago, I was dreaming that I was running late to a doctor's appointment. The reason I was running late was due to dear daughter taking her sweet ass time in the bathroom. (Not unusual. Hold on. The weird is coming.) After hollering loud enough that people in Kentucky could have heard me, she opens the bathroom door. She's still in a fricking towel! And on the phone! And drinking a glass of wine! This is where I need to remind you that she's ten. (Are you ready for my amazing parenting skills? Because here they come.) Did I yell at her for drinking wine? Like any good parent should when they discover their TEN year old is imbibing mommy's stash? Nope. I yelled at her to hurry her sloth ass up and why the hell was she on the phone without permission!? Evidently, in this dream, we lived in Italy, where baby bottles are filled with merlot. Dream number dos: I had just taken an at home pregnancy test, in which there was a very faint positive! Hooray for babies! Except the daddy was Gary Busey. Good thing I have a laptop, because I'm still under the kitchen table, curled in the fetal position.
Dear daughter is in the fifth grade, where her science teacher thinks that assigning a research project is acceptable. Seriously, like the parents aren't doing this assignment? FML. Anyhoo, we turned in (do you like how I said we? This is so MY grade.) the rough draft a few days ago and just got it back. We got a 98! Wait. We got a NINETY-EIGHT on a FIFTH grade project? That I virtually wrote? Wait a GD minute! Turns out, as I go through the paper, that dear science teacher learned grammar at the same school that teaches "ask" is pronounced "axe". Now I wish I would have told her that her D&G glasses and high heeled Mary Janes only make her look like she's about to star in a librarian porn, not look smart. I swear, each year that goes by makes me want to homeschool my kids more, but then I'd probably end up killing them, and I'm too delicate for prison.
In other news, I punched my husband in the armpit. It was rather effective. I thought it was my quick-like-a-ninja skills, but it turns out that he had just never been punched in the armpit before. That'll be the last time he sits in MY recliner. I guess in the event I ever to get sent to the Graybar Hotel, I can use my armpit-punching skills. Thank goodness for that.