Category: Knockin’ Da Boots

Suzy Homemaker up in dis house, bitches! My house is very close to Company Clean, with the huge exception of the Sashlettes’ room. That place is the seventh circle of hell.

I mean, I even have candles burning. There’s a goddamned quiche in my oven, minions. The laundry! The laundry is done, folded, and put the fuck away!

It’s insanity, I’m telling you.

I sat down to blog because I can’t think of anything else I have to do. Besides, you know, the Sahslette’s room. And fuck that noise.

I was in a pretty bad place last weekend and part of the problem, I realized, was that the house was getting overwhelming. So, I spent the early part of this week fixing that problem.

That’s me, you know? I fix all the problems. When MPP was crying because it hurt when she peed, I’m the one who drove her to two different urgent care places, and finding them both closed, I’m the one who harassed the CVS pharmacist to get her some pain relief.

I’m the one who cleaned up the mess after The Pupster ripped into a garbage bag and ate an entire chicken carcass.

Fear not, minions, I had used it to make bone broth so all the bones were super soft and mushy. The Pupster is a certified idiot, but he’s not going to die just yet.

I’m the one who drives back and forth to DQ’s guitar lessons, the one who makes lunches every day, and makes sure there’s dinner every night. We’d all be naked if I didn’t do laundry.

It’s frustrating to be a single parent when you’re very married. But I’m working on coming to grips with it, because this is just where we are right now.

Mr. Sasha is working 12 hour days, Monday through Friday, with an hour commute each way. But, on the weekends! On the weekends he only works TEN hour days, with an hour commute each way!

Do I have to tell you that was sarcasm? I hope not; if you didn’t know that, you might want to go find another blog. This one is a little too much for you.

In addition to all that working, Mr. Sasha is also in the process of completing his core course requirements for college, because at 39 years old, he thought it’d be a good idea to get a degree.

To be clear, I don’t disagree with him, I just wish he wasn’t doing it while working seven days a week.

School is entirely online thus far, but as he gets into his major, he’ll have onsite labs and such. That might be easier to deal with, actually.

It basically rolls like this: He gets home from work around 6:30, and we have dinner. Then he opens his computer. I try to keep the kids from bothering him, either by talking to him, or fighting with each other, or otherwise making too much noise.

I make lunches, make sure homework is done and clean up the kitchen from dinner. Then I nag the kids to brush their teeth. I say it at least thirteen times. Some nights? It’s a lot fucking more. A lot. Then I get them to bed. While I get them to bed, Mr. Sasha goes to bed.

By the time I’m done with them and they’re asleep, he is snoring away.

I kind of miss being married.

But, like I said, I’m learning to work with it for now. Someday school will be over and the in-fucking-sane overtime won’t last forever. I think if I can work on some more ways to blow off steam, I’ll be okay.

Like, for example, I’ve finished off about a half a bottle of wine so far, and it’s only 5pm. So, that should help.

Happy weekend, minions!


You know, Friday is actually not my favorite day of the week. When you work at home, and have two ankle biters, and your husband works 7 day shifts, pretty much all your days are about the same, thus rendering one not much better than any of the others.


Of course, Friday does have #wineparty, so…woohoo!


So, let’s see, what happened this week that’s worth reporting on?


1. Miss Poopie Pants (who is THREE, people) is fascinated with zombies. I originally blamed my brother who is also fairly fascinated with zombies, and who, as a somewhat grown man, should know better than to talk about them with my baby. That was totally shot down when my Mommy-dearest reminded me of the Spongebob episode where eating bad Crabby Patties turns everyone into zombies and Spongebob holes himself up inside the Crabby Patty, afraid that the zombies will eat his brains.


Now, the question is, do I encourage this zombie love and have the coolest toddler on the block, or do I try to squash it, like my Mommy-dearest did with my love of singing?


Yeah, I totally agree. I think we need a Fulci Film Festival this weekend. (Google him, nub.)


2. In other MPP news, the child sat on my lap, squeezed the air out of my slim frame and said “I love you, SASHA” the other night. I said, “What did you call me?” and she replied, with an eyeroll, “Your NAME.”  (She’s THREE, people. I’m pretty sure I mentioned that.)  I laughed a little and said, “Yeah, but you call me Mommy, right?’


May lightening strike my Mommy-dearest if I’m lying (No, not me. Just in case. Don’t mind calling the wrath of God on her, but not me, minions), MPP looked up at me, narrowed her eyes like she was considering something carefully, shook her head, smiled and informed me, “I think I’m about done with calling you Mommy.”


I’ve been Sasha ever since. Just making sure this doesn’t go unnoticed… SHE IS THREE, MINIONS!


3. The government might shut down today, but in so much bigger, HUGER news… PIA got voted off American Idol last night!  I don’t watch that show, and I don’t know who Pia is, but EVERYONE is talking about it. So it must be SUPER important, right?


4. In an effort to encourage spring, I cleaned off my usual dark, dark, DARK (it matches my lipstick, folks) nailpolish and painted my nails a blinding pink, chosen by Drama Queen.  While she’s at school today, I’m totally painting black tips on these bad boys.


5. I read about a job at a newspaper a few towns over from me that piqued my interest.  It’s a job proofreading and editing obituaries.  It’s full time and it pays $700 a week.  That can’t be right, right? I mean, REALLY?  HOW MANY PEOPLE DIE IN THAT TOWN?!  I’m almost willing to be that the newspaper in question needs someone to proofread their craigslist postings as well.


6. I’m having a liquid lunch today.  That’s because I’m shoe shopping with my minion, Pebbles, from Boldly Mocking, and I think that it’s illegal to NOT have a martini when you hang with her. Of course, she’s three hours behind me, so does that means she’s going to be having a liquid breakfast? Oh my, she is way too hardcore for me.


7. In addition to my normal deadlines that I have over the weekend, I will also be doing all the work necessary to review THIS at some point this weekend. If I stop being mad at Mr. S for working all weekend, and FISHING when he’s not working. *insert petulant pout here*


The review will not be posted here, minions, but will be posted over at Kit’s site, Blogging Dangerously, so if you aren’t already subscribed to her over there (and why are you not? She is amazingly awesomely amazing. Almost as world-rocking as I am.), head over right now and subscribe so you don’t miss it.  Although, I doubt you could miss it, since I am so excited to guest blog over there, I’ll probably take an ad out in the NYTimes post it all over Twitter. And here, too. Just in case.


I’m fairly certain that’s all I have for you today. I reserve the right to post again when I think of other stuff, though. 😉

It’s been a good week over here in the Sasha house. Here are the reasons why, in no particular order.
  • The laundry is (almost) done. Like, the only dirty clothes in the house are those that are currently on our asses.
  • I got paid by TWO clients this week, one of whom I usually have to chase down and beat with a stick to get my money.
  • Rebecca Black is not my daughter. This makes me really, really happy, because her whiney voice would seriously make me stab myself in the ears with knitting needles. Unfortunately, Drama Queen thinks Miss Black is the greatest thing since Justin Beaver, and so…. someone hide my knitting needles.
  • My sister in anonymous blogging over at Blogging Dangerously held a little contest a couple of weeks ago that I WON!  That means I’m gonna get one of THESE!  Holy SHIT! I never win anything! But when I do win something, it’s a fucking doozy, ain’t it? Stay tuned for my review of my prize on Kit’s blog. I am the winningest winner since Charlie Sheen.
  • Miss Poopie Pants pooped in the potty yesterday. I wanted to throw a party, but Mr. Sasha thought it was a little preemptive. Turns out he was right, as she’s had three poosplosions right out the sides of her pull ups, since then.
  • I treated myself to Bordeaux cookies today. I’ve eaten almost the entire package. Yay me!
  • I scored the AWESOMEST pair of Fuck Me Shoes EVER at Kohl’s!  I’m thinking I need to find a mini skirt to pair them with. My legs are gonna look like they go up to my neck.

    The F-Me Shoes in question. Hawt, no?
    Happy Friday, ladies and gents. Catch me at #wineparty tonight (I hope. If I don’t put the new shoes to good use, that is 😉 )


    Mr. Sasha and I had a problem. The problem was The Wet Spot. I solved the problem of The Wet Spot with Liberator Fascinator Throes. Okay, no, not really. The Liberator Fascinator INSPIRED me to use something more like this Fleece Blanket w/Waterproof Back (Tan ). Someday, maybe, I’ll get a very expensive blanket that’s made specifically for love juice. But for now, yay for love blankies we can bring on picnics!  (I wash it, minions. Of course I do.  And if eating off my picnic blanket grosses you out, you should probably never sit on my couch. Or eat at my dining room table. Or, just, like stand anywhere in my house.)


    We call it the “fuzzy blankie”.


    Last night, Drama Queen and Miss Poopie Pants were playing rodeo with Daddy on my bed. He was the bull. At one point, he had enough and rolled over sticking all four appendages up in the air, declaring himself the “dead bull”.


    I said “I hope the bull’s not too dead.”


    “Why, mommy?”


    “Because I need him to put the fuzzy blankie on the bed.”


    Mr. Sasha picked his head up and said “The bull will be fine if the cow is feeling energetic.”


    Did my husband just call me a cow?  Shit. I’ll let it go. It’s a metaphor.


    “Well, the cow’s feeling great. Get the calves to bed.”


    “Let’s go, calves, hit the hay!”


    Yeah, we know about beating dead horses in this house. And dragging them behind the car for a few miles.


    Moo, y’all.

    I’m going to go on a diet this week. I’m not fat. I’m fluffy. And I have bought into the notion that moms are supposed to be a little fluffy.


    Fuck that shit.


    THIS mom is not going to be fluffy. ‘Cause you know what? I still get to have sex. And if someone has to see me naked, the least I can do is make sure I don’t look like Jabba the Hut.


    Also? I can’t zip up my favorite fuck me boots. How on earth do I expect to get the sex without fuck me boots?


    Who’s with me?


    Are those crickets chirping?

    How’s everyone doing? We had a good evening here at the Sasha Casa yesterday. And then, a pretty pissy night.


    Everything was going wonderfully, and then it was bedtime. I was angry at Drama Queen for snagging one of my packs of gum from the kitchen and hiding it among the mess of her bed.  I made her cut her normal bedtime routine short and just get her narrow ass up onto her top bunk. Then I lied down with Miss Poopie Pants on the bottom bunk.
    I’m really good at foreshadowing. Pay attention.


    So, of course, I fell asleep with Miss Poopie Pants. I do it all the time. I usually wake up around 1am or so, and then debate the merits of rolling over and going back to sleep, versus hauling my ass out of the bottom bunk and bouncing off furniture till I land in my own bed.


    It was an hour before my normal middle of the night waking time, and I was dreaming about a beach. And Robert Pattinson. (In my dreams, he doesn’t sparkle. Stupid fucking movies.) We were enjoying a lovely time having sex sunbathing, when the sea spray suddenly hit me in the face. Just a little trickle. I looked at Rob and he laughed at me.


    Asshole. I shan’t be dreaming about banging sunbathing with him again. I brushed away the spray on my face and then got splashed again. And then some more.


    And then I sat up in Miss Poopie Pants’ bed, and smacked my head on the bottom of Drama Queen’s bed. And I realized that the trickle of liquid in my dream hadn’t been salt spray at all. It had been urine.  Urine from Drama Queen, who hadn’t gone potty in her rush to obey my screaming command to “GO TO BED NOW!”


    Serves me right, I suppose.


    The good news is, I get to tell people I had a golden shower involving RPatz.  Bite THAT, Kristen.