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.

Lots of Filler

Hello. I am currently not at home. This means I don't have Photoshop to draw stupid pictures with. And MS Paint sucks a hairy ass. So, here's a few things to keep you occupied:

First, here is my dog, Gizmo, chasing the cursor:



Next, here are some old posts. You need to read them. Or I'll cut you.

Real Mom Dress Up. And then post them on the SASMA Facebook wall. I'm serious, man, I'll cut you. Or punch you in the taint. Whichever I'm in the mood for.

If Mom and Kid commercials told the truth 2.

Ah, Memories.

Are you reading this shit yet?

And one more:

This is why I have anger management issues. Also, I like ludicrously long titles.

My work here is done. You're welcome.

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!

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.

Evil Filler

This is the face of evil, folks.

I've got a post in the works, but my brain is currently not functioning at normal speed, so here's a little distraction. You're welcome.

Now I'm going to go duct tape my child and throw her in the closet. She has spent this ENTIRE day irritating the holy fuck out of me. On purpose. She has screamed, scratched my arm repeatedly, hit me repeatedly with the shitty computer chair that is right next to me at this very moment. She has squealed, called my name repeatedly, only to ask me the SAME FUCKING QUESTION 209832094820398 TIMES. From the BATHROOM. (Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY! MOMMY! *now screaming* MOMMY!!!!!! Me: WHAT?!?! Her: What you doin? AND repeat. *bangs head repeatedly into wall*) And of course, she's played the game of the previous entry. Getting completely shit-faced is looking pretty inviting right about now.

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.

....and I'm back

Well everyone, I'm back way sooner than was planned. Why, you ask? Was Layla trying to set things on fire? Were YOU trying to set things on fire? Did the car spontaneously start losing parts on the way out of town? OMG, did you kill your child and you're now a fugitive from justice?

No, none of these. Granted, the 14-hour car ride was pretty interesting. And nervous-breakdown-inducing. And being jammed in the back of a two door car with a three year old who thinks poking mommy to wake her up every time she falls asleep just to amuse herself was pretty fucking hilarious. And let's not forget her constant insistence that she needed to pee, upon which we'd try to get her out of her car seat and she'd scream like we were trying to feed her to a pack of ravenous bears: "I already pee peeeeeeeeeeeedddd", and then screaming AGAIN that she had to fucking pee as soon as we got her all buckled in again. *twitch*

But none of that is why we're back early. I got REALLY sick. The third day we were there. I was puking up everything like the damn exorcist. I ran a fever off and on. My whole body felt like it was being beaten with a sockful of marbles. There's a reason for this, but it's way too depressing and not nearly as amusing as making fun of my child, and inundating you all with her various escapades. Just wait until I tell you about our experience of trying to get her to pee outside. Fun times.

I have a few entries planned. And I'm going to respond to all your comments, for which I love you long time. But for now, I'm still trying to get over being struck with the plague. I just wanted to let you all know I was back early, so you can rejoice or run screaming or cry or stab me in the face. Whichever you prefer. But for now, here's a pointless post to distract you. You're welcome.