Eau de turd

If you haven't ever stuck your hand in a poop-filled toilet to dislodge a TP sludgeball with a "chocolate center," I highly recommend the experience.

My hand finally stopped reeking like poop a few hours ago, just in time to start working on my jewelry. (Feces is the new black.)

The magical three flushes that turned our bathroom into a murky swamp took place during a phone call with Mike's aunt.

It took me a few months, but I finally realized that the girls view phone calls as "all systems go" for trouble. They know the odds are in their favor that I won't start screaming obscenities when I'm on the phone with a distant relative. The worst I can muster is a fistful of laundry aimed at their feet as they run off with a stolen box of beads.

There are some calls I know will be lengthy, so I mentally prepare myself for the damage.

One of these guaranteed marathon calls comes from my mother-in-law. Fortunately, I don't have to say much over the course of our chat because she does enough bitching for the both of us. She usually complains that she doesn't see her grandkids enough, but she conveniently forgets that she hasn't been sober enough to see them. If she could see through the phone - and her Vodka haze - what the girls do while she's whining, she might change her tune and beg me to keep them home.