Wednesday, January 2, 2008


There I was, feeling full of myself after debuting Merlot Mom. Patting myself on the back for being a "published writer". (So what if anyone with a computer and some time to kill can do it, let’s not burst my bubble, okay?) I strutted around, puff-chested, contemplating how to celebrate when I realized I had to pee because I’d been sitting ALL DAY at the damn computer. I reached the bathroom, ready for a pleasurable squat when a thick, stale odor hit me. Shit! That’s what I said and that’s what it was. SHIT. Left for me by my 7 year old son like the previous smelly gift of a decayed salami sandwich which lived under my bed for - let’s just say - way too long. Normally, I would let my husband handle toilet territory (he’s still making up for using rubber gloves to change the babies’ diapers) but he was out with the kids leaving me to my ambition. So I came down from my self-satisfied horse and plunged deep into a pile of crap.

At 5’1” and 105 pounds, I pushed, pulled, heaved, and pressed the plunger into my chest for added muscle. Waves of streptococci-laden water splashed onto my bare hands, legs and feet. I pranced and screamed but only my Labrador could hear me.

So rather than toast my day’s achievement with a glass of New Year’s bubbly or an apropos Merlot, I disinfected the bathroom and myself with Lysol wipes and called it a day.

Chalk up another one for motherhood…


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