The Hormone King's on a mission

The Hormone King wants a cell phone. In fact, he wants a cell phone so bad that he gave all his friends (and a few little 5th grade floozies) my cell phone number so that none of them would know he's the poor trashy boy at the expensive private school with (gasp!) no cell phone.

This means that I get 46 texts a day that look a little something like this:

"do u know who likes u lol? dont tell ne1 i told you, k? g2g lol"

What the hell kind of freaking language is that, anyway? Sorry kiddos, I don't speak textese, and shouldn't you be out playing Barbies or braiding each others' hair? For the love of God, you're in 5th grade, stop trying to whore yourself out to my son.

So anyway...

Despite the fact that he's 10 1/2 years old, and that we've never dropped him off and not come back for him, and that he has never in his life walked anywhere by himself, much less the 3 miles to school...The Hormone King is on a mission to earn his much-needed cell phone by proving himself responsible.

When I got home from a baseball meeting tonight, everyone was in bed and this was the note I found on his dresser:

Can't read it? Here's what it says, verbatim:

"Mom I packed my homework so don't get scared if you can't find my homework. I'm taking responsibility so I can get that phone I really want. P.S. It's only $10!!! Got my assingment book signed, and put my close away and got new close out, and after practice I will pick up poop even if it goes to dark. If I don't pick it up, then ground me. And I picked up my room. Sorry for argueing with you about the phone. P.S.J.R. You are the best mom. Thanks for looking after me!!!" (and a picture of a stick figure with snot coming out of his nose, and a note that says 'snot.')

To clarify, the poop he's speaking of is canine, not human. Although human would make for a much more interesting evening.

Sometimes, all it takes is a misspelled word on wide-ruled paper from The Hormone King to make my day. And if said note just happens to also contain an illustration of snot...well, shit, that just about makes my whole week.

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions

Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,

The Dictator obviously knows much more about how amazing tractor clocks can be than I do.

I stand corrected.

Sincerely,

The proud owner of 2 boys, 4,328,032 outdated toys and one truly magnificent John Deer tractor clock

Naked football

So I'm sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with my family and bonding right now.

Not really.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table stalking people on Facebook.

Same thing, right?

Anyway, this is what I just heard from the playroom:

HK: Let's play naked football.

D: How do you play?

HK: You have to touch me in my end zone.

*cut to me laughing hysterically*

I really should not be allowed to raise children.

Larry

Last night, I was watching The Hormone King as he was getting dressed for bed. I don't do this because I'm a pedo, but rather because if I don't sit on the bed and stare at him threateningly, he'll spend approximately 12 minutes singing, 10 minutes dancing with the towel, 23 minutes watching TV out of the crack in his bedroom and 8 minutes checking himself out in the mirror, all before he even picks up his clothing.

Approximately.

So I was on his bed giving him the "Boy-you'd-better-get-dressed-right-now-or-I-will-beat-you-to-death-and-text-all-those-little-floozies-you-like-and-tell-them-you-still-watch-The Wiggles-on-a-regular-basis" look, when he turned to me and said:

HK: Stop looking at Larry.

M: Larry? Who's Larry?

HK: *giggle, giggle*

HK: *giggle some more*

It took me a minute and then I realized what he was talking about.

Oh, for the love of God.

My son has named his wiener Larry.

Thank you

Despite what you all may think, I haven't offed myself, or my husband, or anyone else close to me. And my children are still alive and kicking, and even Bad Dog and Good Dog are fed and healthy, and continue on their happy little path of sleeping, shitting and barfing on my rug.

You can take me off friendship suicide watch, because I was just really, really bummed.

But thank you.

Thank you for caring. And questioning. And calling. And understanding. Or not understanding, but at least not calling 911 and having me admitted to a mental institution.

I appreciate it, and I love you all.

And I have more to blog about, I do...but right now, I need to eat my body weight in Smores and pass out in a pool of my own vomit.

You're the best.