The Demon Mouse Saga continues!

Today, Dear Readers of Wonderous Magicalness, I bring you...GUEST ART from JRose from Da Cheeseblarg! OMG!

I know I know, you admire me for knowing her personally (for ten years), and now you want to worship me and have my babies and have hot sex with me. But really, you should already want to do all that. What's wrong with you?

Sorry. Moving on.

Today, I also bring you the next installment in the Demon Mouse saga. Sadly, since my last post, I think the mouse either moved out of my walls, deciding they really weren't all that tasty after all, or died a horrible death of suffocation and starvation. Either way, I'm not being woken up anymore by the little bastard having his midnight snack. Why yes, I AM heartless, thanks for noticing. :D

Anyway....

One night, after watching the Green Hornet, I was just about to go to sleep, when suddenly, I heard the loudest, most violent scratching and chewing yet. It sounded like Demon Mouse was trying to claw its way out of my closet. It SOUNDED like he was just on the other side of the closet door, waiting for me to open the door so he could launch himself onto my face and begin devouring my eyeballs.



Upon hearing this disturbing noise, first I peed myself, then after cleaning that up, I went in search of a weapon. This "weapon" turned out to be my broom. Hey, what would you choose when facing a closet-dwelling mouse with evil intentions? The gun was INSIDE the closet with the mouse, and my landlord would have serious problems if I shot holes in the closet. (Stupid bitch)And all the sharp knives that were bigger than a steak knife were ALSO inside the closet with the mouse. Hmmm. Seems The Mouse has more than just claws and fangs for weapons. I've now armed it with a gun and several large, sharp daggers. Way to go, self. Why not just give it a damn flamethrower while you're at it?

So, armed with my broom, I stood in front of the closet door in my granny panties (totally mouse-defeating armor. If it doesn't scare him to death, he'll laugh himself to death instead) and tried to work up the courage to open the door.



This is when I realized that I had shit for courage, and needed back up. Since my three year old was asleep, I decided to go in search of my brave and totally-going-to-eat-the-mouse-and avenge-my-closet dog.

Once I found her, we both stood in front of the closet. Me with my trusty broom, her with her fucked up teeth. She's a shih tzu, you see. But once the mouse started clawing and chewing again, it became apparent very quickly that my dog wasn't going to do shit to back me up or avenge my closet.



Upon uttering this, she took one look at me, eyed a "fuck this shit" look at me, and crawled under the bed.

This is when I realized that I wasn't about to open that closet door. Not in this lifetime anyway, and set aside my broom. Then, for the next 5 minutes I tried convincing my pussy dog to come out from under the bed. But after uttering 80293842 profanities, including things like "You're in the room WITH IT, you stupid fuck!" and "Fine! Stay here with the demon mouse! I'll collect your remains in the morning!' and she STILL wouldn't emerge, I gave up, closed the bedroom door, and camped out on the couch.

Yeah, so I'm not willing to face an evil, face-eating mouse. But if zombies ever attacked or vampires, I'd be SO kicking some ass then. Or hiding under the bed with my dog. Whichever.

Demon Mouse, or A break from our regularly scheduled maternal angst

I know it's been a week since I last posted. I suck. But I was sick with bronchitis, and the copious amounts of albuterol I've been inhaling has killed a few million brain cells, and rendered me retarded.

And today, I don't bring you a woeful tale of motherhood, or a f-word riddled post about another Layla misadventure. In fact, this post has nothing to do with being a mother at all.

See, I have a mouse living in my bedroom walls. At least, that's what we ASSUME it is. For the past week, I have woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of chewing and scratching. In my sleep-deprived stupor, upon hearing this sound, my brain does not make the obvious and logical statement of: "Awww, a cute little mouse living in my walls. Hope it doesn't chew my shit up." It doesn't imagine an innocent little rodent, trying to free itself.




No, it immediately jumps to images of a demon mouse, fangs slathered in blood and the remains of its former victims, furiously trying to claw its way out of my wall so it can come and eat me alive.



I know it's not REALLY the Freddy Kruger of rodents living in my wall. But the fucking thing is so loud, my neurotic brain immediately imagines torture and death and maiming at the claws of a mutant mouse.

I'm perfectly stable, really.

So, my lovely and illustrious readers, I have a question for you. Would you like me to post MORE stories of random shit that goes on in my life/house/vagina (not really), or would you rather I stick to tales of Layla's destruction and other observations of cynical motherhood?

This certainly does not mean there will be no more posts making fun of my child. But having a random post everyone once in a while about something completely off-topic would be amusing, and my brain might cooperate more if I have a wider range of possible subjects. (That crack I smoked in the 90s is coming back to haunt me)

I'll most likely do whatever the fuck I want, no matter what you answer. But I may stop being an asshole long enough to consider your opinions. :D

**ETA: There shall be a part 2 to this story, because I totally forgot about what happened the other night. Ooooh! Suspenseful!

Special Superhero edition

Look! Standing over there! It's a zombie! It's a hobo! No! It's...WONDER MOM!!

Faster than projectile vomit! More powerful than a screaming offspring! Able to leap piles of shit and toys in a single bound!

The powers of Wonder Mom never cease!

Able to detect wrongdoing from 100 yards!

See out the back of her head!

Identify what the fuck that smell is!

She can clean the house, answer the phone, save her child from drowning in the toilet! All at the same time!

Can hear the slightest indication that her spawn is about to fuck some shit up!

With her tool belt of paper towels and Hammer of Reality, Wonder Mom can do ANYTHING!

Woooonnndddeeerrr Mooooommmm!!

"So, you're gonna suffer, but you'll be happy about it."

So, this August, Layla will be starting preschool through the Head Start program. I enrolled her today. Her starting school will mean that I'll have to get up EVERY DAY around 5:30am. But, of course, I am willing to do this, because Layla needs to go to school, and I can come back home and sleep my ass off.

But this also means, that this is the first phase of Letting Go. Every parent faces this dreaded time when little Jr. starts school. Part of you wants to rejoice and praise Jesus. You make ridiculous promises, and almost get high on your new-found freedom.



But the other part of you wants to break down and sob and wonder why God hates you so much as to let your child grow up.



But then you come to your senses again, and realize you'll have 5 and a half hours of completely child-free time. You could...sleep, or shave your legs, or clean the house (yeah fucking right) or run around the house naked. Or shave your legs while cleaning naked. The possibilities are endless!

I'll probably just sleep and fuck around on the intranets. Because my fat ass needs a break.

**ETA: If Blogger is being a douchebag and not letting you comment, email me your comment at the email address on the very bottom of the page, or head on over to the SASMA Facebook page and comment there.

If mom and kid commercials told the truth

We've all seen them. Those hideous, deceptive, sugary-sweet commercials where mothers are portrayed. Little Timmy makes a godawful mess? Smile and hand him a roll of ultra-obsorbent paper towels. The paper towels's absorbency should totally make up for the ant infestation that will result from Timmy doing a shitty job of cleaning up the mess. Sweet little Susie coughs and hacks all over her sister? Hand her a tissue and some disinfectant. Who knows? Maybe having the ebola virus is fun!

The reactions of these "mothers" is complete fucking bullshit. Unless those bitches are high, there is no way they would react the way they do. Any sane mother would throw a roll of paper towels at motor skill deficient Timmy and tell him to clean up the mess until he can see his face in the linoleum. Or until he starts college. Whichever. And if Layla hacked all over some other kid, first I'd make sure the kid wasn't a little asshole, and then if he wasn't, I'd tell her to stop being a disgusting pig, and pour cough syrup down her throat. Because that's what loving mothers do.

So, here is my version of how a REAL mother would react in these situations:

Made a godawful mess



Mom's reaction



Being a disgusting pig and coughing all over your sister



Mom's reaction



Now I have to go spill something all over the kitchen floor and make Layla clean it up, and then cough in her face. Have a good afternoon, folks.

And no, I wouldn't actually hit my kid in the face with a hammer. Unless she really deserved it, and then I might consider it. :p


**ETA:  If you have a commercial that just irritates the holy fuck out of you, and you'd like an illustration of the REAL version of that commercial, send me an email at sugarandspicemyass @ gmail . com (without the spaces, of course), with a link to a video of that commercial, and a description of what you'd like portrayed in the illustration. Or you can just leave it up to my creative genius.  Whichever you prefer.

Oooh! Shiny! AGAIN (damn it)

So, blogger did maintenance last night. And now the last post I made about the new, sparkly banner was deleted. Thanks Blogger! (fucking assholes) So here's a brand new version of that post.

As you may have noticed, the blog has a new, sparkly banner! Yay! You should totally comment and tell me how awesome it is. Or how you're astounded by my creative abilities. Or how you want to have, like, 10,000,000 of my babies. Whatever. I'd like to customize other things on the blog, but my patience has run out for the day. To customize anything on blogger you have to give a pint of blood, sacrifice a virgin, chant for 20 minutes, and stand naked in a field covered in peanut butter under a full moon. Jesus.

Hopefully I'll have a new post to go under the new banner in a few days. My brain is currently not cooperating with me, and my artistic abilities have gone retarded. So, please be patient and don't start leaving me in droves. I promise there shall be a new post very soon.

And tell your motherfucking friends about my blog. I need more followers to feed my ego. :D

Ah, memories

Did I ever tell you about that one time, at band camp...

Wait, start over.

As Layla's fourth birthday approaches, I'm starting to catch myself being a little nostalgic. Remember the days when she couldn't walk? Everything stayed where I put it, more or less. Remember when she couldn't talk? When she didn't tell me to shut up, or that she didn't care? Ahhh, bliss. Remember the days when the only things you had to deal with were dirty diapers, mixing formula, and waking up in the middle of the night? It was like a vacation!

One thing I definitely remember, maybe not so fondly, was the first time Layla and I were home alone together. My hetero-lifemate was off doing something. Wrestling trolls, ripping trees up by their roots, slaying dragons, whatever. I was sitting on the couch, rocking Layla, when I felt a distinctly warm sensation somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. "Hmmmm" says I, "something seems amiss." Damn fucking right something was amiss. She had shit all over me. I don't know how a baby that only weighed a little over 7 pounds could hold that much shit. Or how the force of that much shit didn't manage to blow her diaper completely off. Sort of like this:



This was my face when I discovered that I had been shat upon:



I leaped off the couch, in a single bound noless, and rushed my almost newborn infant to the nearest bathroom. All the while screaming, and flailing (in a completely safe way, of course), and uttering profanities. I turned the water on at the sink, testing the temperature on my wrist of course (what do you take me for, a bad mother?...Don't answer that.), ripped the shitty diaper off my baby's ass (in a completely gentle...you get the idea) and began bathing her in the sink. She did not like this. Not even a little. She screamed her tiny head off. We both stood there (ok, so SHE didn't stand) crying and wailing and wondering why God hated us so much. Ok, so maybe only I was wondering that. After this fun adventure, I took her back to the couch, dried her and diapered her again.

When hetero-lifemate came home, he had had a perfectly wonderful, magical day. And I hated him with every fiber of my stumpy (I'm 5'2") being for it.

Hetero-lifemate: "How was your day, baby?"

Me: "Fuck off and die."

Him: "Alright then. What's for dinner?"

This is when I jumped off the couch, laid Layla down, and beat him to death. Ok, not really.

And that, my faithful readers, is the Tale of the First Time I was Home Alone with Layla. (TM)

some parts of this story may have been embellished a tiny bit, or a complete lie.

This is why I have anger management issues

There is an aggravating, rage-inducing trend beginning in my house. Granted, this trend started as soon as she could talk, but it's steadily gotten worse. It's so bad now, that I have actually contemplated hitting her repeatedly with a blunt object. What is this trend?

The "I want that, no I don't want that" trend. This is how it goes: Layla says she wants something, say...cereal. Then when I make it for her, she suddenly, and very firmly does not want it anymore.

Layla: "I want to eat!"

Me: " Awesome. What do you want to eat?"

Layla: "I don't want to eat!"

Me: "Ok then."

Layla: "I'm huunnngggrrryyy!"

Me: "Alright! What would you like?"

Layla: "I want chocolate cereal!"

Me: *takes chocolate cereal out of cabinet*

Layla: "Noooooooooo, I don't waaaannntttt thhaaaattttt!"

Me: "You said you did! OMG! So, what DO you want?"

Layla: "I want chocolate ceeerreeaaallll"

Me: *bangs head against cabinet repeatedly* *pours cereal*

Layla: "Noooooooooooo!" *whines and screams like I'm setting her on fire. Which isn't a BAD idea*

Me: "You're going to eat it, or I'm going to take all your teddy bears and build a bonfire with them!"

Layla: *wwwhiinnnneeesssss some more*

Me: *violently pours milk into cereal, slams it down on table and throws Layla in chair* Eat! For the love of jlksjdf*&%#( JESUS, eat!"

Layla: *pushes cereal away* "I don't WANNA EAT!"

Me: "You'll eat that cereal, or I'll dump it over your head and throw the bowl at you repeatedly! EAATTTT! NOOWWWWW!!!!"

Layla: *grumbles, throws me murderous glares, eats the fucking cereal*

Me: *overdoses on nerve pills*

So. Yeah. I think she finds some sadistic pleasure in doing this to me. And everyone else in the house. There have been times when she's actually had a horrible, violent temper tantrum because I MADE HER WHAT SHE FUCKING WANTED. Why?! She is the only child I know (so far) that actually has a tantrum when she gets what she wants.

It sort of happens likes this:





This trend will, inevitably, lead to me drooling and throwing myself against a wall repeatedly. All while screaming "But she WANTED it! Why wouldn't she eat it? WHY??!?!?! *screams hysterically*

Kind of like the "post trip madness" drawing, but with more drool and screaming.

At any rate, the teddy bear bonfire threat was an empty one, because she already started the teddy bear torture without me:



Well, on to plan B, I guess.

My child is a kleptomaniac

In our house, if anything goes missing, you can be pretty sure Layla took it. Now, there are times when she's completely innocent, and the alleged item has just fell in between the couch cushions, or been carried off by a pack of hungry antelope. But for the most part, it's all Layla's fault.

Her most favorite things to do in all the world is to play with random household shit. She has TONS of toys. She has a lifesize Rapunzel doll. She has big legos, she has barbies, hot wheels, elmo, coloring books, and the list goes on. But instead of playing with her plethora of wonderous toys, she instead plays with old TV remotes, or bread ties, or empty pill bottles. It astounds me, but I never expected her to be normal.

For example, here is what she packed into her bag:





I can only assume that these items hold SOME importance for her. I mean, who wouldn't want to carry around a bunch of shredded cigarettes, and a straw? (Yes, I smoke. Bite me.)

So, when a crucial item goes missing, say...a Netflix DVD, or a tube of medicine, or a very important paper, or half the fucking house, my first thought is "Check Layla's room."

This is how the scenario plays out:





Awwww. Look at that innocent face. She couldn't POSSIBLY have stolen my shit! Yeah right. She'll steal your shit, spit on you, slap you, and tell you to fuck off. That's my girl!

After this Academy Award winning performance, I commence a search of her room.



After standing on my head, and baring my ass, I usually find the stolen item in the most unlikely place ever. Like in an oven mitt, filled with bread ties, being kept fresh in her toy refrigerator. Or in her underwear drawer along with a ball of string and a clothes pin.

We even had a block of CHEESE go missing once. I assumed that my fiance ate it. He assumed I ate it. But when it became clear that neither of us had consumed a cheese product, our gaze turned to Layla. Instead of denying that she took the alleged cheese, like usual, she led us into her room, pulled open the freezer part of her fake refrigerator, and presented us with the missing block of cheese. Ah. Well, at least she was keeping it fresh. Hell, it may even still be in there, reproducing little cheese minions that will eventually try to eat my daughter in her sleep. Good luck, cheese minions. She's a tricky one.

Expected vs Reality 3

Well, I know it's been a few days, but here I am! Today's milestone is potty training:

That last few days I've felt like ripping my hair out by the handfuls. She has spilled medicated powder all over the dining room and living room. She's constantly whined, so I feel like bludgeoning her into unconsciousness. And she will NOT take a fucking nap! I need a vacation. And a hysterectomy.

Expected vs Reality 2

Today's milestone is...

Learning to Talk

Expected vs Reality

In the course of parenthood, our child reaches many milestones. We rejoice that our child is capable of doing the same things every child has done since the beginning of mankind. Minus the humped backs and fur.

But, with every milestone comes consequences. We THINK we want our child to learn to walk. We THINK we want them to learn how to use the potty and wear underwear. But what we never anticipate in our blind optimism, is that when little Jr. learns to walk, that means he can use his legs, and that means he's going to use his legs to destroy, and pillage, and plunder. And while learning to pee on the potty is definitely a yay moment, the huge turd you found in Jr's closet after he ripped off his pullup is NOT a yay moment at all.

So, I will be posting a series of crappy, half-assed paint drawings to illustrate the expected reaction to certain milestones, and other happenings, vs the ACTUAL reaction to certain milestones, and other happenings, etc. etc.

I may post one at a time, or seven. I'm unpredictable like that. Here are the first two:
(click to make big)
(I made them too big. I will rectify this in the next post so you don't have to indulge my retardation by clicking.)

New baby




Learning to walk




Goodnight all. Remember to spay and neuter your pets, and use condoms.