Let me tell you...the man of the hour here is Mike Rowe.
You know, Mike Rowe, of Dirty Jobs?
Who doesn't love a guy with a sense of humor and shit-covered hands?
My daughter does, for sure.
Dirty Jobs is the Big Favorite show around here.
What, isn’t that your kid's favorite TV show? Oh it is for mine. She loves watching Mike Rowe do whale autopsies, shuck oysters, clean rancid flora and plant matter off disintegrating floats, make cheese, hoof cattle, generate fertilizer, clean septic tanks, run through sewers, and more.
Mmmmmm. Yummmmm. And the rewind button...the letters are wearing off. We can't watch enough times that roach drop onto Mike's ass from the sewer ceiling! Oh no we can't! And the worm dung farmer and guano collector...I'm happy to say that the kid who taught your kid that guano is bat shit was my kid! And I'm so, so sorry that your kid now knows what whale testicles look like, and what things fish eat and get stuck in their intestines.
(If you weren't already a fan, you're sold now, aren't you?)
At the end of each show, Mike puts on his "cute charmer" face and begs for anyone who knows of a Dirty Job to WRITE IN! Let him KNOW! He'll come do it with you!
Hey MIKE! I got your DIRTY JOB right HERE!
Seriously, let's get a mom on the show.
It really amazes me that amidst the geoduck farmers, pig wranglers, sewer inspectors, and coal miners is not one, that's right, not one Mother of Young Children.
It’s a dirty job, is parenting, but somebody’s got to do it. Before taking on parenting, you’ve got to set your Skeeve Meter on wicked low.
I was all set to post on this coming Tuesday (I'm a week behind...see my Chapped Hide Olympics to see me rail on AT&T having my Internet down for seven days) about my disgusting Thanksgiving vacation.
It was a Dirty Job to be sure.
However, on behalf of Her Bad Mother, her recent really shitty experience, and her plea:
Somebody better find this shit funny. If you do, could you please remind me again that it is funny and that I will, someday, laugh at this myself? Because that shitball seems to have knocked that newly discovered appreciation for potty humour right out of me.
I am moving my schedule forward, and here is my Dirty Job post early, along with the absolute best way to handle all the cheese and whine. Because really, you break down and cry, but then you have Really Funny Shit for your blog, so it's all good. Not to mention, when you sit on the playground with other parents, it's true, you are an ace in the hole during the competition for Grossest Story Ever, just like in junior high (if you were ever a 12 year old boy or hung out with them) only better because it's REAL!
Parenting is always a dirty job but this Thanksgiving took the cake, just by sheer volume, not any particular Culminating Event, although there were several.
When it is Thanksgiving vacation, and you are all home together (that is to say, Dad is home, and considering himself Off Duty), you expect more mess than usual.
You don't expect the entire week to start off with a lice scare, due to a parent not notifying the school about her daughter's lice until AFTER she had cleared them up.
What you also don't expect is for the kids' normal colds to morph into green snot fests complete with amber goo oozing from the baby's ear tubes.
You also don't expect that while you are dealing with this, your husband---who has been working 100 hour weeks and who comes home, on vacation for a full week (which means only going in to work two days), to collapse in a useless heap---will develop the stomach flu (on both ends mind you). You do, however, expect that same stomach flu to make the roudns through the family and you are not disappointed---except to see that all that not eating merely netted you minus two pounds (versus your husband's five pound drop) (not that it's a competition, or that I advocate extreme illness as a weight loss---just making lemonade out of the lemons here).
Those of you who have been there know just how disgusting all of this is. The underwear of your daughter, for a start, which, eventually, you just started throwing away in plastic grocery bags with the baby's diapers.
And, of course, the dog, who needed bathing at least three times that week due to rolling in, you guessed it, poop. Not people poop, or even dog poop. Cat poop. Which he loves, although not as much as horse poop. This also necessitated the cleaning of the carpet, floor and dog bedding.
Don't forget the cleaning of the toilet, the bath mat, and the shower and tub, where you eventually dumped your husband and kids because at least then it is all contained and easily washed away.
You estimate about 32 loads of laundry because you went through a brand new 26 load bottle and part of another new one, too.
And that's not counting the preventive de-lousing treatment that requires everyone---except you since you are allergic to all de-lousing medicines, which doesn't exempt you from being the Administrator nor from developing rashes on your hands---to sit with really stinky shampoo on their heads for ten minutes.
And, not least, the 3 cans of Pronto! you used to rid your home of every parasite possible, and the fourth can that you used to appease your skeeves, which caused your skin to itch all over every time you thought of one more thing to clean just in case.
Once the OCD is activated, not even a stomach bug can slow it down.
And that's how I found the banana.
Let me back up.
Persistence must have tape worm. Seriously, the kid is a rail and eats all the time. This is not an exagerration. She acts like a starved animal and will even walk up to total strangers who have food and beg. She steals food, and secrets away food from meals, which she then hides and stashes for later, which often never comes.
I find the food--days? weeks?---later by the smell. Initially the smell is sort of vague. "Hon, did you forget to take out the baby diaper trash?" I ask. "No," he replies, "Went out this morning." Huh, I think. "Were any dirty diapers missing?" I ask, because Persistence has an attachment to her poopy diapers, and has been known to retrieve them from the trash bag, and hide them...for ???? Investigation, I think, if the evidence is correct.
I've taken to Major Lockdown of the kitchen but Patience is wily, and will aid and abet her younger, and slightly less able, sister in stealing food. I don't know why. If they ask me, I'll get them pretty much any food any time. But they do like their independence.
During the Majorly Disgusting Barf-Poop-Snot-Lice Fest that was Thanksgiving 2006, my OCD kicked in and I began majorly cleaning the entire house. I just didn't feel like I could get it clean enough. In the playroom, specifically, I washed stuffed animals, scrubbed toys, cleaned all surfaces.
And then, I picked up their toy microwave.
It's so cute. It has buttons to set times, and turn it on and off. The turntable really spins! It dings and says cute things like, "Popcorn's ready!" The kids love it.
I picked it up to clean it and was surprised to notice...a...for lack of a better term...hairy green mass inside.
Yes, a hairy scary green gross mass.
Inside the cute little toy microwave.
I've mentioned my kids are scientists, right?
Well, this little science experiment, Patience explained, was Persistence's. What an intrepid and intelligent little not-even-two-yet year old.
"It's a, well it was a banana, Mom," Patience told me.
"Naner," Persistence confirmed.
"Persistence wanted to see if the microwave would really cook a banana," Patience told me.
"Naner ipsum locem," Persistence agreed.
"It didn't but then I, I mean she, thought it would be interesting to see what happened if a banana sat there for a while. We were curious," Persistence explained, playing the Get Out Of Jail Free card of curiosity.
"Gwald swee shosh naner minowave green," Persistence confirmed.
I nominate my job.
Excavating disgusting green gross hairy masses from toy microwaves beats the pants off a catfish noodler any day.
Call me, Mike. (Make phone with hands, put up to ear, nod.)
So what do I do to make it all better?
Well, when life is in the crapper, there is nothing, nothing better than a little glass of wine.
In this case, the best possible wine is Hiney Wine.
The Hiney Winery was established in 1979 by Uncle Harry Hiney. He had the idea of putting his Hiney in a flip top disposable can. Family friends convinced him that his Hiney was too good to keep to himself so they bought the warehouse behind the library and the rest is history. Since that time people all over the area have been enjoying Hiney Wine.
The tradition is being kept alive by Harry’s two nephews, Big Red and Thor, who refuse to put their name on their Hiney until its perfect. That way you know that anytime you wrap your hands around an ice cold Hiney, it’s going to be the best Hiney you’ve ever had.
The entire family is proud of their Hiney. Big Red, Thor, Ophelia, Humphrey, Selma, Ima, Rosey, Anita, Seymore, Lucie and Thor’s wife, Oma Aiken-Hiney are just a few of the Hineys that are part of the crack inspection team that checks every can for quality. Quality assurance and customer care ensures you that you are getting the best Hiney money can buy.
Next time you go shopping, ask your grocer where he keeps his Hiney. The motto of the HINEY WINERY says it all, “You only go around once in life, so grab for all the Hiney you can get”.
So, after the shit clears, curl up with a little Hiney.
I promise, Hiney makes it all look better.
And if you need to earn a little extra money---you know, maybe for a housekeeper or nanny to share the shitload of work---call Seymour Hiney. You too can sell some Hiney on any street corner, cyber or real:
For information on how you can obtain a Hiney Wine franchise, contact Seymour Hiney at the winery. For the small fee of $2,500 you can own a Hiney Wine franchise. For that fee you will get a case of Red Hiney, a case of Dry Hiney, a case of White Hiney and a slightly used bicycle so you can peddle your Hiney all over town.
By Julie Pippert
© 2006. All images and text exclusive property of Julie Pippert. Not to be used or reproduced. R.E.S.P.E.C.T that. Please. If you want to use something, write me.
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