I GOT MY CHIROPRACTIC ADJUSTMENT.
And like James Brown, I feel good! I felt good. Now I feel tired. But hey... I really needed that adjustment. My chiropractor can tell when I've had a bad day at work from the knots in my back. It was just crazy today.
After going to the chiropractor, I went by the grocery store to get good dinner stuffs. Came home, cleaned a mess, cooked a good dinner, and in the process, made another mess. Cleaned another mess, discovered I MISSED American Idol which I had been feverishly looking forward to all day as if I were a 13 year old girl. I freakin missed it. I did catch the last 10 minutes. Woohoo.
But, we had rots-o-raffs at the dinner table, when in actuality, we should have beaten the children and taken their dinner from them.
The 2 year old farted at the dinner table. OK - we coulda handled that. But then she started announcing it. She likes to repeat stuff. A lot.
She started out demurely enough with "I tooted. I tooted. Hey, I tooted." This degenerated rather quickly into her turning red in the face, grunting, and croaking out these words "I tooooooooted", cause she was trying to do it again, see?
This tickled the 8 year old nearly into delirium. As both Myra and I worked to divert Gassy McStink on to other topics, it degenerated further into "I farted. I farted. I farted." And then in an unforseen turn for the ugly, she announced "I need TP for my butthole."
Um, she has heard Cornholio of "Beavis and Butthead" fame say "I need TP for my bunghole." She doesn't get "bunghole" and so she just says "butthole". Why mince words? That's her motto.
The 8 year old was chortling like nobody's business. Utterly delighted was he.
We were not succeeding in trying to redirect the baby to a new topic, despite some hokey shit on our part. Clapping over things that were not really very special at all. Like cows. And buttons. and things. All the while, the 2 year old is screaming Toot! Fart! Pee-pee, and then, UP OUT OF NOWHERE, she screams "NIPPLES!!"
OK - We have NO IDEA why or where from, this came. But the 8 year old was absolutely breathless with giddy laughter. Which of course only egged the little fart-meister on further.
I think the baby has Tourette's Syndrome.
We failed in a big way. That train ran clean off the tracks. At some point, the 8 year old started actively trying to get the baby to say more inappropriate stuff and Myra threatened to ground him forever "until you have to be dragged out of here in the bag" (meaning a body bag) and this struck me as very funny, since it sounded like she was threatening to drag him out BY the bag, which would be quite painful if you just think about it for a minute.
So we just threw in the towel and laughed like the hyenas we are. That was a sorry bit of parenting we did. But I can feel my abs from all the laughing, and we all relieved some stress with that fiasco.
Talk about your inappropriate dinner conversations...