Friday, August 21, 2009

Living In A Porta-Potty

It usually takes someone commenting on a blog entry of mine (or otherwise reminding me of its existence) to stir up some motivation to write. Then, and only then, do I start thinking "Hey... I should write about X and Y!" This also explains why my blog entries tend to be grouped together in clumps rather than spread out over the month... but, whatever, right?

At any rate, I was (obviously) reminded today, and a few things started swirling around in this mushy cavern I like to call my head.

For instance, anyone who is among the elite few I call my 'friends' on Facebook is probably well aware that I am absolutely sick to death of dealing with pee. Pee, wee-wee, tee-tee, urine... whatever you want to call it, I am SO freaking over it!

Pee problem #1:
Someone *cough*P*cough* bought a brand new state-of-the-art litter box that self scoops, self-disposes of the waste, and cleans the (plastic) litter all by itself. Great, huh?! Awesome. Except that our neurotic, mentally disabled cat Jupiter flatly refuses to use it. Instead, he has taken to peeing all over my kitchen floor and wall every single night.

Pee problem #2:
My 5 year-old has recently decided that whatever she is doing (whether it be watching Spongebob or pulling the legs off an unsuspecting bug) is far more important than any pesky urge to go to the potty. This, of course, leads to so-called 'accidents' that necessitate my attention.

Pee problem #3:
I have a recently potty-trained 3 year-old who thinks it is super cool to do whatever her big sister does.

So you see, I am sick of it. My house smells like pee, the laundry basket is always full, and it seems that lately we are keeping the good folks that make Nature's Miracle in business.

I am about to start issuing threats with regards to the pee-situation around here. In fact, truth be known, I already have. My kids LOVE going to school, so I thought that by telling one of them (whose identity shall remain a mystery to protect the innocent) that if she continued to pee-pee in her pants, she wouldn't be able to return to school.

Well, that backfired good and proper. Her answer to my threat?
"Tha's OK. I don't fink I wike Mrs. X (her teacher) anyway - she wooks wike a goat."



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