Of cat vacuuming and karma

Dear Karma,

We need to talk. Lately, you’ve been kicking my ass left, right, and sideways, and I’m getting really fricking sick of it. I’m not into that whole past life regression bit that Herr Doktor Freud and his contemporaries were so fond of, but judging on the amount of shit you’ve been sending my way, I must have spent a significant chunk of time as a dung beetle at some point. I’m not sure if that means I’ve worked my way up in the world, or if I’m taking steps backward, but that’s beside the point.

First, let’s talk about the shit. No, really. It’s ridiculous. I knew going into this Mommy gig that I was going to have to deal with various smelly fluids coming out of my son’s orifices. But seriously? What lesson am I going to learn from him nonchalantly handing me one of his turds like it was a goddamn peanut butter and jelly sandwich?


It’s not like he wallowed around in his own feces all day–no. From the point I sat him in his high chair for lunch to the time where he told me (very proudly) “Alldun!” he managed to very surreptitiously take a massive shit, spelunk around in his diaper, and unearth a marble sized nugget of poop. Then he presented it to me like it was a six carat diamond. And he was PROUD about it.

And then I talked to my mom today. Usually our conversations range from her saying “Oh, hi, we vacuumed your cat today, is it raining there yet?” to me going, “let me innumerate the six different reasons your grandson will be the next Einstein.” But today, we talked about a girl who was murdered. THREE BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE.

Paranoid chic is has never been a good look for me. Something about me glancing over my shoulder every three seconds makes it look like I’ve developed a tick, GTS style. And that’s decidedly not hot. The only kind of Tourette’s I ever want to be accused of having is the kind that allows me to swear in public. Not because I want to yell “BALLS!” at the priest when he walks by me during mass, but because that would be a supremely useful tool to have tucked away in my familial embarrassment arsenal for when Boo enters adolescence.

I digress. A MURDER. Three blocks from my house. Is that some kind of sign? Does this mean we need to move? Sure, we’re thinking about buying a house soon, but the houses we’ve looked at so far are in a subdivision just down the road. Um, three blocks from the murder scene. If this is a sign, screw you. I really liked that location.

I get it. It’s because I don’t recycle, right? Am I supposed to embrace the earthy-crunchy suburban hippie movement and start a compost heap in my postage stamp sized backyard? Yeah, right. Good luck keeping the evil redheaded neighborhood children raccoons and possums out of that mess, because I’m sure not gonna spend my nights sitting on the back porch with a flashlight and a broom waiting for those plaguey little bastards to start digging through our old banana peels.

And for the record, we do have a 40 gallon recycling bin, and we did separate out our cardboard this week, but we didn’t set it out. Because mother nature decided to recreate the biblical flood for the second time in as many weeks.

Thanks for that, too. I absolutely love driving down the interstate and wondering when I’m going to hydroplane off the road and into the shoulder. Not if. WHEN. Because my white knuckled grip on the steering wheel is no match for the half a foot of rain that has been dumped on the greater Bumblephuck, Arkansas region in the last ten days.

So in order to atone for my many (manymanymany) sins, I promise to spend less time bitching about my problems to anonymous strangers. I’ll even start saving my Diet Dr. Pepper cans for recycling and donate the $1.26 I get per annum to starving orphans in Ethiopa.¬† And if you lay off with the poop, I’ll even go as far as to not vacuum the cat again, even when he starts shedding balls of fur the size of my fist in the spring.



P.S. You know I’m just kidding about the church thing. I haven’t been to mass in years. But if it counts for anything, we really want to send Boo to a cushy parochial preschool instead of letting him cut his teeth with the future juvenile delinquents who populate the public preschool crowd. Even if it costs more every semester than my college education.


About Chelsie

Mommy. Beauty product whore. Plastic lawn flamingo enthusiast. Nosy neighbor. One day novelist.
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2 Responses to Of cat vacuuming and karma

  1. Brooke Perceful says:

    You know, I went to private Catholic pre-school in Ft. Smith. St. Scholastica is what it was called, I believe.. And look how I turned out. Just sayin….

  2. Chelsie says:

    But at least you’re not knifing people in parking garages at night. That’s my goal for Boo’s future. Ya know, little victories.

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