I am That Mom

My bone-digging daughter has returned home. Happy, healthy and only slightly sunburned. All in all the trip was a resounding success. There were a few glitches. Minor whoops, if you may. Apparently, my daughter was the only kid (out of sixty) to not have brought along a foamy or an air mattress. Now, in my defense, she had a beautiful, comfy sleeping bag. Brand new. She is nine year old, for pete's sake. Aren't nine year olds supposed to be able to sleep on the hard ground with out complaint? Doesn't having something soft and cushiony to sleep on take some of the "rough" out of roughing it?

To make matters worse, I forgot to pack her a pillow. Again, the only child whose mother forgot to pack her a pillow. Somewhere to rest her pretty head. I feel kind of bad about this one, but in my defense, it wasn't on the damn list they sent home. I kind of thought they would use rocks or ball up their dirty clothes, like Jack and Ennis did on Brokeback.

But to really paint a dork's bull's eye on my daughter's forehead, I packed her a nightgown. Gasp, the horror. How could I have been so insensitive? Because, as I've just learned, nightgowns are for geeks. Two piece jammies are the way to be hip. As my daughter was safely cocooned in her homemade nightgown, sewn with love by her grandma, she was sweltering from heat in her brand new sleeping bag, (which was on top of a pile of lumpy rocks.)

As she complained about this, I asked her why she just didn't sleep on top of her sleeping bag. Then she wouldn't be so hot, nor so uncomfortable from the rocks. (Apparently someone had beaten me with a stupid stick before I asked that question.)

My daughter looked at me like I grew devil horns out of my forehead and told me (in a patronizing, "What-Are-You-Stupid?" voice) it was impossible to sleep on top of her bag because then her nightgown might ride up and her ass would be hanging out for all the kids boys to see. And what nine year old girl wants the boys to know she wears pink panties with hearts on them?

So, yes, I am that mother. The type of mother to send her kid to sleep on a bed of rocks while sweltering to death inside a big ole sleeping bag, while wearing an ugly, fleece nightgown and having to use a pile of pebbles to cushion her head. Yes, I am that mother.

Too damn bad. It could have been worse.

I could have went along on the trip. Then she'd really have something to complain about.

Monday Morning Massacre

Guess what I did yesterday? No, it wasn't blog, read my favorite blogs or even go near my precious computer. It wasn't bonding with my children, shopping for clothes or even cleaning my house. No, instead, picture me going to open up my deep freeze to pull out a package of grade A Alberta beef for supper later that night, only to realize, hmm, that's a funny smell. And what is that, is that, oh no, it is, a pool of blood at the bottom of my freezer. Oh oh. That's right, dear internet. My deep freeze was in the deep thaw. And I was in deep shit.

After slamming the lid down, like any good wife would do, I started yelling for my hubs. After all, I wasn't going wading in a puddle of melted blood, animal carcasses and bags of unfrozen vegetables and fruit without him. It smelled like the interior of a butcher shop and looked like someone had been massacred inside my freezer. Call me crazy, but this is one of those events that definitely falls into the category "For better of for worse." After dragging his sorry butt from bed, he then proceeded to not only pick the underwear from his ass, but tell me, and I quote: "It's a puzzle." No shit Sherlock, but who the hell is going to clean the fvcking puzzle up, because it certainly wasn't going to be me.

Turns out, it was me. Surprise! After my husband deduced the freezer wasn't broken, merely unplugged, he figured out it must have been the guys who cleaned my furnace and my ducts. Four days ago. While getting my ducts cleaned sounds kinky, (and the guy did have the most beautiful blue eyes) just thinking of the surprise he left for me takes the fun out of the kink. Bastard.

But no one can say he didn't screw me over. And let's face it, for a Monday, it was the most action anyone in this house got.


Update: The furnace dude, with the pretty blue eyes, came back and handed a fairly large check over to me, to cover the costs of replacing the spoilage. My rat bastard husband, however, never lifted a finger to help me clean out the deep freeze. I am currently plotting my revenge. But until I come up with a satisfactorily devious plan, you can bet your sweet bucks that he is not getting any!