Tag Archive | humor

Don’t be a douchey parent (or adult), Part deux

frugalistablog don't be a douche parent

Anyone that knows me in real life, knows I’m a pretty level-headed person. I’m rational, calm and quite friendly. I don’t react impulsively and I’m usually pretty good at de-escalating conflict. Okay, McSweetie would say differently. He thinks I troll for arguments with him like it’s a sport. That’s another topic entirely.

So when I feel like going all honey badger on someone’s ass, it isn’t often. And I get the pleasure of doing it virtually via my blog. Voila. Wanna vent? Get a blog, it’s cheaper than therapy. I’ve griped before – read here.

There are two categories to this rant- parents of children in sports and adults who are in charge of children, i.e. coaches or teachers.

1) Parents of Children in Sports:

Let me address you bluntly. Your kid is not the next David Beckham or the next Buster Posey. And if they are, well, they are just going to have to learn to play with the ‘little’ players. Hearing from you that you feel the team’s downfall is due to the fact that there’s new kids on the team and it’s better to have the ‘core’ team get to focus on playing time, is absolute utter bull shit and pretty much a false reality.

Do you believe in unicorns too?

So when a new kid comes into your kid’s classroom, do you ask the principal for that new kid to be moved to a different class? Wouldn’t want that ‘core’ group to be disrupted huh? All that important synergy could go down the tubes.

Or when your hot shot kid player does go pro, will he never be traded? Never be cut from a roster and forced to play on a – heavens no- NEW team?? Oh gads, the shock! Teaching our children to adapt and learn to play with others is so… uhm…. hard. Yeah.

If you haven’t figured out already- I’m being totally sarcastic here and you need to get your head out of your ass. The real world goes like this- people come and go in groups, whether it be teams, classrooms, neighborhoods… get used to it. And there’s no “I” in TEAM or GROUP. There’s ‘I’ in DICKHEAD though. And ISLAND. Perhaps you should go to one and leave the rest of us to play nicely with each other.

2) Adults who teach and coach little kids:

Let’s see, how can I put this mildly? Don’t be an asshole. Oh wait, that wasn’t so mild was it?

Don’t yell at my kid and their teammates and tell them they lost because they are a group of losers that don’t deserve to win. They are little kids. This isn’t the Marines. I’m not paying the club $100 for my child to be degraded by a parent who thinks he’s all that because he can tell a bunch of children what to do, or he’s frustrated because they aren’t executing what you’ve been coaching to them. I know- so frustrating, kind of like, uhm, PARENTING IN GENERAL. They are kids. They are still learning. They probably won’t get it the 10th time or the 100th time. But count to ten and start again. I know- sometimes PBS can be helpful.

Not sure where you got your Coaching 101 skills but even though you aren’t getting a paycheck for this gig, you need to keep your cool. If we hold our teachers to a standard in a classroom, we should hold our coaches to a standard on the field.

Is it hard volunteering and corraling herds of cats, er little shits? Yes. Trust me- I’ve organized and run 5 talent shows at my daughter’s school. Five. Wrangling 50 plus kids who are singing the latest Miley Cyrus song or banging out chopsticks on the piano for the millionth time is damn nerve wracking. But I didn’t lose my shit. I saved that for home. If I lose my shit, it will be in front of my own kids. Not the kids I’m put to be in charge of. And most of the time I just made a gin and tonic and got in the bathtub afterwards. It does wonders. You should try it.

We teach our children to use their words. To be kind. To treat others as they want to be treated. Well parents,  it’s time to go back to preschool. You haven’t been using your words kindly or treating others how you would want to be treated.

Everyone gets a chance to play, and everyone deserves a chance to be respected. So there- off to the time out chair, parents AND coaches- you’ve been naughty.

Wife Confession: I enjoy the hubs away on business trips. Short ones, of course.

I think the further into marriage and kids you delve, the more you realize how much you like to be alone. Or is that just me?

I love my kids, I love my husband. Blah blah blah. You know this to be true. But come on. I love being alone. I’m the Greta Garbo of my peers. Leave me alone to bask in the glow of the reality TV show from my flat screen. Let me nap with the dog on the couch. Let me go poop by myself and change my maxi pad without interruption.

So when McSweetie had a business trip this week, I felt more sense of me time than just when he’s at work. Why? Maybe because after the kids go to bed, I rule the family room and the remote. Okay, I rule the remote most nights anyway. BUT. I got to sit around, pass gas, drink wine and watch all the Lifetime movies a girl could want. And they were holiday Lifetime movies. Even better.

So hubs comes home in the evening from the airport, kids are happy to see him, yada yada, and I’m moaning on the couch  before it’s time to tuck in the boy. I’ve heated up the hot pad twice and stuffed it in my pajama pants. This my friends, is a clear signal that Aunt Flo has come to town and she’s brought her suitcase. Did McSweetie notice this? Not so much. He asks what’s wrong. I mouth ‘cramps’ and give that all knowing look like, ‘poor me, I has armageddon uterus.’ What does he do? He gives me the exasperated look like, ‘didn’t you just have your period’, and says to me “that’s not what I was expecting.”

I stayed quiet, popped some Aleve and reheated my heat pad. I waited for him to fall asleep on the couch while I concocted this entire speech in my head.

Here goes:

“THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING? REALLY? Yeah, well, newsflash bucko, it’s been 25 days since the last one. I’m sorry I wasn’t greeting you at the door wearing nothing but a trench coat and had the kiddos already tucked in bed sleeping soundly so we could have wild monkey sex on the dining room table. Which if you hadn’t noticed already was cleared off of its crap from the last several months.

Yeah, and another thing. You probably thought, ‘oh bummer, looks like the wifey isn’t up for some lovin’ tonight. Whoa is me, I won’t get some.’ But did you ever think- ‘Awww, poor thing. Look at her. She’s done all the chores and even scrubbed the base boards (I did actually, can you believe it?!) and she has an achy uterus and feels poorly.’

But did you think that? Hmm, did you?? NO. Of course you didn’t.

You don’t care that the pain I feel in my baby box slightly resembles that of the first few hours of labor. Where my endometrial lining is screaming at me and I have pain spasms all the way down my butt. Yeah. So there.

Don’t mind me. I just dropped off your dry cleaning, kept the children alive, washed the sheets, scrubbed the base boards (Did I mention I scrubbed the baseboards?) and cleaned up some crap from forever ago, and am sitting here being miserable in my female-ness that I have NO CONTROL over!

So yeah. Go fall asleep on the couch. No nookie for you.

Men.

I’m thankful for vaginas. My kids are too.

So last year when we gathered around the table for Thanksgiving at my parent’s house, Owen did a tear-filled thankful sharing that made my heart burst with gladness. I wrote about it here. It’s pretty damn special.

Well, this year, I got choked up at the dinner table again, but it was my mom talking about my dad and how very grateful we are that all went well last week with his procedure. You can read about THAT here.

I was really hoping for another zinger from my Boy. You know one that REALLY pulled on the heart strings. I mean, I had already had 2 glasses of wine, so I was pretty well greased for some sappy stuff to bring me to tears.

His turn comes. He’s sitting next to me. I’m waiting in anticipation. This is going to be good, I’m thinking in my head, I’m putting this in my journal.
He says, “I’m thankful for my mom.” He touches me on the shoulder…. wait for it….. here it comes….”I’m thankful that she pooped me out.”

Hmmm. That’s not what I was expecting. What? I pooped you out? That’s the best you got?  Well?

So then Emma chimes in, “It wasn’t her butt, it was her VAGINA.”

To this, I think I groan. Loudly. And lay my head in my plate of mashed potatoes. Thank goodness, my father, who is sitting right next to Emma, is pretty much deaf. So he doesn’t hear any of this. And he’s chewing his food, so that probably drowns out some of what we are saying.

My mother let’s out a howl of laughter. James rolls his eyes, like, “who are these people?”

My father chimes in, “what’s so funny?”

To which my mother responds, “Oh nothing, we’re just having some gyno conversation.”
We continue on.

There were no more references to either bodily functions or gyno occurrences. So I had some more wine.

I’m so grateful for pooping you out Owen, and you too Emma! And more grateful you came out of my vagina like you were supposed to.

Self love. Yes, THAT kind.

Please be advised this is no pervy, whack-off post. Any of you who found this by Google or other key words, just go elsewhere. This is about parenting. If you’re looking for anything otherwise, move along.

Masturbation.

Yep. That word. It’s a doozy. What comes to mind when I hear that? That character on Family Guy, was it Master Bates from the Morning Wood Academy?  Ha ha. Insert frat humor here.

Okay. Have you had THAT talk with your kids? I’ve had that talk with my kids. But I’m talking about this talk. The other talk. You know, where you tell them that if they touch themselves they will go blind. Or their hand will shrivel up and fall off. I’m kidding! I just said that small puppies will die. Okay, seriously.

I have NOT had this talk with my kids. We’ve talked about sex and how a baby is made. Emma is pretty clear on most things between a man and a woman. I mean, you know, the basics. She’s had family life in school, she knows about STDs and drugs and alcohol. She’s got it covered.

Okay, well maybe I did have THIS talk about Master Bates with Emma. But it was not on purpose.

My children have always been, uhm, you know, precocious. They are big farters and announcers about their farts. They talk about their privates. ALL. THE. TIME. We’re pretty comfortable talking about pretty much anything.

And then, the other day, Owen asks me if it’s true that when you rub your nuts your penis gets hard. Well, I said, I don’t have that equipment so I can’t say from experience. (Yeah, I know, easy way out.) But that if at any time you want to touch your privates, it’s totally fine to do as long as you are by yourself and privately at home. And then I asked him where he heard this bit of information. And he said a kid at school said that rubbing your junk makes it hard. Lovely.
AWKWARD. So I just casually said that if he had any questions he should probably ask his father. And that if he ever feels like touching himself, it’s totally not a big deal and again, reiterate that it is to be done in seclusion. And to please not talk about it with anyone outside our family, like at school or the playground.  It’s best to just come to me or dad with questions.

I think I handled that pretty well.

Moving on to a different day and Emma makes a joke about rubbing the cats balls while she was petting his belly. Technically he doesn’t have any balls, since he is neutered, which is also more fodder for discussion and jokes in this house. We like to talk in funny cat voices and talk about his missing balls. It’s a whole ‘nother story.  I said to please not molest the cat, it invades his privacy. One should only rub their own privates not anyone else’s or any animal’s for that matter. (Seriously, I need to have these conversations? WTF?) So she says, “Why on earth would anyone ever want to rub their privates?!”

Uhm. Well. Uhm. No reason.

Is what I should have said.

But instead, I start to pontificate on the benefits of self pleasure. Well, not exactly. But I said that masturbation is totally normal and nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. It is perfectly common for when you start to reach adulthood and sexual maturity to want to touch yourself only with the means of making it ‘feel good’.

Insert big shocked face from Emma here.

“Oh my gosh!! There is NO WAY that I’m just going to stick my hand down to my vagina because I WANT to! Do I just start flapping around my labias and clitoris for fun? NO!” (okay, this girl knows her parts and it kinda freaks me out every time she uses them in context!)

Me- “Well, your brother was discussing that boys at school talked about rubbing their privates and it felt good, so I was just making sure you were clear on the whole parameters on that kind of thing.”

Her- “DISGUSTING! So dad rubbed his junk when he was a teenager? Like I want to think about that!! EWWW!!! No thank you!”

Me- (Totally not trying to crack up and make her think I think this is a joke. She makes Taylor Lautner pectoral jokes all the time, now she goes all prude on me?) “Hey, that’s fine sweetie, whatever you are comfortable with. And if you have any questions, feel free to ask.” (please, please, please, don’t have any questions.)

Her- “Okay, well thank you for that mom. I’ll just go to bed now and try not to have nightmares about this sort of thing.”

Drama queen much?

So there you go. If you ever need any advice on how to talk to your kids about anything sexual, feel free to ask me. No, actually, I’m kidding. You’re on your own.

But I have said this- as much as we parents squirm and dance around this stuff- if your kids can come to YOU about it, Elle Woods finger snaps to you.

Because parenting is about being there. And then blogging about it after they walk away.

Hey Daniel Craig, call me, maybe?

This is a little ridiculous. A grown, married woman ogling over a grown married man. Ever since I first saw Mr. Craig (don’t you love a man with two first names?) in Casino Royale, he just had that certain panache. He was rugged, handsome, got dirty, wounded, tortured even. He fell in love, was scorned. He seemed cool and collected, but pained and vulnerable all at the same time. I could go on.

His other movies I find him the same. Not the same as in, always plays the same character type-casty stuff. But the same layers of intrigue and humanity. He just seems real to me. Not a caricature.

And maybe because he’s English, I have a soft spot for him. Okay, every spot on me is soft, but still, a British accent, with THAT body AND cleverness? Hummina hummina.

My mom doesn’t approve. She thinks he looks like Putin. My friend Christin thinks he’s always trying to do Blue Steel ala Zoolander style. My other friend Jen, says he does nothing for her. This, my friends, is not a problem. I don’t care what you think of him, I enjoy him. So I will gladly drool over him by myself.

So in my 40s I’m allowed a lust card. You know, a ‘Go Directly to GO and collect $200’ card. He’s on the CARD. He is THE CARD.

If Daniel Craig walks up to me and starts unbuttoning my blouse, McSweetie is just going to have to step aside. Just step aside McSweetie and look the other way, this might be hard to watch. Maybe I could be a Bond girl. Not the kind that dies in the last two movies, but a kickass agent who wears couture, then gets it unzipped by 007. Then shoots a few bad guys. But nothing with heights please. I’m scared of heights. Or maybe a Bond girl that dances in Spanx and swings off rope swings over pools?

After Daniel and I have our little rendezvous, he and McSweetie can share a pint of Guinness and discuss Liverpool football. The soccer kind.

Okay, so I’m not going to sleep with Daniel Craig! Sheesh! Easy there folks and your extra-marital judgeyness.

BUT let’s just say Ellen Degeneres arranges for me to have tea with Daniel somewhere in a quiet cafe outside of  London. He can talk about soccer, acting, his beautiful and talented wife Rachel Weisz (hate her) and then he can give me an Omega watch and sign my boobs. I mean, he can give me a signed Bond script or something!

So I made this video of me doting on Daniel. I’m hoping it will go viral and find him in his cozy abode outside London. He’ll call me, or email me, and we can be friends. Friends that snog each other in alley ways. Okay, I’m KIDDING!

Still, do me a favor. Spread the word. Send smoke signals, tweet those tweets. Let Daniel know that I love him and will carry his children! Actually, I won’t, I don’t want to be pregnant again. But if he has a dog, or some other smallish pet, I can carry that for him. And his groceries.

If you need to find me, I’ll be in a dark theater watching Skyfall.

Check out my video and share people!

Frugalistablog for President?

It’s time we had a woman in office.

But I don’t think that gal is me.

The fancy state dinners and meeting the Olympic champions and winners of the Superbowl would be fun. I’d love being in the balcony at the Kennedy Center Honors. But holy shit. The scrutiny of public office would put me in a state of the runs. There’s not enough pepto and chamomile tea to comfort that twisted feeling deep down in that lower intestine of mine.

This is what being President would be like for me: I would come up with great ideas and policies. And then they would always have a flip side of how they wouldn’t work.

Every 3rd Friday of the month is free lip gloss day at Sephora.

This just in- the Council of Shoe Addicts is concerned that you didn’t give their platform a voice. (see what I did there? Platform?? Nevermind.)

Oh crap. You just can’t please everyone.

How about this one-

Whenever you file your taxes early you get a kitten.

This just in- Dog lovers aren’t pleased.

Christ on a bike!!

This just in- Roller bladers that like Jesus feel left out.

Oh for the love of cheese, I can’t win!

 

How about let’s have International High Tea day! All the countries of the world will join in tea and scones for everyone!

This is a good id… WHAT NOW???

Forget it.

Don’t even get me started on the criticism. The comments on my hair and clothes would be relentless.

But here’s the thing. I want rainbows, puppies and cupcakes for everyone. I want children to not go hungry. Animals to have warm, safe homes. I want veterans to have employment. I want world peace. I want fabulous schools and education for all.

Call me an optimist, call me an idiot. I always want the best for people. What I want, isn’t what everyone wants. So the means to an end doesn’t always match everyone’s ideals.

This is why I would suck at politics. I would spend nights crying in my pillow wondering why people didn’t like my ideas. My feelings would be hurt by the jokes the late night television hosts would use to slay my personality quirks and make fun of my Drew Barrymore-ish lisp. The pundits would have a field day with my policies.

I have to believe that Jon Stewart would have something nice to say about me.

So, luckily, you don’t have to vote for me.  But do vote, please. Someone fought for that.

Mom on Strike

Dear Family,

This is not the NFL. No replacement refs here. No SCABS.

When you wake up in the morning, get your own damn waffle. You can reach the toaster.

Pack your lunch.

When you can’t find your socks, look in the drawer. Or the dryer, or the hamper. Have you ran the washing machine? It’s not magic, it doesn’t run on its own. Oh and don’t just load the blasted thing, put that shit in the dryer, then FOLD. IT. Yep. Guess what? Folding and putting the laundry away is THE BORING part. Uh huh. You may think ‘you’re all that’, putting them dirty clothes in the machine. But that don’t make you a hero.
The battle is in the taking those socks, making them into sock balls. Taking t-shirts that are inside out and putting them right side in.  Or out. Whatever. Oh dear GOD how does every motha fuckin’ shirt get inside out in the wash??? I don’t take off my shirts and put them over my head like that. Is that necessary?

Okay, moving on.

Garbage on the floor. Throw away your own furkin’ wrappers, kleenexes, band-aids, used ones especially, popsicle sticks, gogurt tubes…. oh my gads, is this a frat house??? Throw away all toe nail clippings. I shouldn’t have to ask you twice.

After dinner, if I’m at a PTA meeting, you know one of the many things I do for free, don’t just pile up the dishes on the counter over the dishwasher. Put them IN it. Put the pans in the sink. Put away any leftover food in the refrigerator. Oh, and this is big, WIPE. OFF. THE. COUNTERS. I know it’s hard. It can be yucky. What, all those crumbs and spills. Yeah, disgusting.

If I make the danged dinner, least you can do is clean up after it.

All your clothes and random belongings need to go up to your room. That means all of you. I’m tired of looking at your thermals, hoodies and soccer shoes. Why are there always socks in the family room? Hair accessories are the same. Do they multiply like bunnies? Why are there always bobby pins and hair elastics in every room of the house?

If you have a dish in a room of the house, other than the kitchen, put it away. I don’t want to find your milk glass in your bedroom two weeks later.

Toilet paper needs to be replaced on the roll. How many times do I have to say this? If you are using the last roll, go get several more from the bathroom cupboard.

If you use the last milk, go into the garage fridge, and get the next carton.

All tools need to be returned to their proper place. That means a roll of tape goes back in the office. A hammer goes back in the garage.

Please don’t leave Nerf weapons randomly on the stairs. Someone will trip over them. Okay, I will trip over them.

Now that we have that established, I think I’ll go to the spa, and then eat bonbons watching an entire season of Boardwalk Empire on DVD from the library.

Someone call for pizza.

Sky rocket’s in flight….afternoon delight.

Wait a minute. This isn’t going to be a post about…..about…. sex is it? Actually, it’s a post on the fact that it’s time to clean my shower and marital relations under running water can be dangerous.

It was a Saturday just after lunch. Both kids were out of the house and me and the hubby were just home alone. <eyebrow raises> Yeah. Alone. Now I don’t know about you, but after the kids are in bed, one of us, is usually snoring on the couch. There’s drool involved and the dog curled up next to that person. We are just SO tired by the evening. If we don’t figure out a way for any interludes during daylight, there’s usually a long spell of no relations.

So I go upstairs to take a shower. I casually mentioned, “oh, what do you know- we’re alone and the kids aren’t home. Excuse me while I go take a shower.” Hint hint.  Eventually, I’m in the midst of deep conditioning my hair when the bathroom door opens.

Dialogue exchanged:

Me- “What took you so long stud? (in my best Mae West voice) Are you serious about this? (changing immediately to my own worried voice) One of the kids could be home any minute.” (Emma is far too aware of things that go on behind closed doors.)

Him- “It’s okay, I’ll lock the door. We’ll be quick.”

(yeah, that’s true actually.)

Me- “You sure? We kind of suck at shower sex. One of us could get hurt. Like me.”

Him- “Hey, might as well try, I’ve got to shower anyway.”

He walks into the shower and wraps his arms around my waist.

Me- “OH MY GOD YOUR HANDS ARE LIKE ICE!!! WARM THEM UP FIRST!!!”

Him- “Sorry, I’ll put them under the hot water.”

Me-“AAAAAH….THERE’S WATER IN MY EAR….. YOUR DRIBBLING WATER IN MY EAR WITH YOUR HANDS UP AGAINST THE SHOWER HEAD LIKE THAT!” (I hate water in my ears, just so you know.)

Him-“Sorry, I was just trying to warm them up.”

Me- “Here, let me suds you up ala Christian Grey style.”

Him- “Who’s Christian Grey?”

Me- “nevermind, I’ll just wash you down like all sexy, ‘kay?”

Me- “OH SOAP! THERE’S SOAP IN MY EYE! I THINK IT’S FROM MY CONDITIONER! Wait a minute….Okay…. that’s better.”

Him-“Let me get your back.”

Me-“Yeah, here’s a loofah, I’ve got some black heads I can’t reach back there. It’d be so great if you could scrub them for me.”

Me-“Oooh, your hands are warmer…. so is the rest of you… AAAAAHHH WATER IN MY EAR AGAIN! COULD YOU MOVE SO THIS DOESN’T KEEP HAPPENING?”

Him- “Sorry, it’s kind of cold out here not under the shower. We need a two person shower one of these days.”

Me- “We need a whole new bathroom one of these days. These gold fixtures are the worst in tackiness and the grout is coming apart.”

Him-“Yeah, tell me about it.”

Some kissing and smoochy stuff ensues. Trying to be uber sexy while my hair is piled on my head in a deep conditioning mask and not slipping on the shave foam residue, is a little tricky.

Eventually I try to take things to the next level.

Me- “Uhm, maybe you should like, squat. You’re too tall. Our privates don’t match up when we stand.”

Him- “You could bend over.”

Me- “You could fly off a bridge. What’s that smell? Ew. Do you smell that? Oh yuck! It’s this mildewey shampoo bottle. Look at the bottom of it. It’s all black and it stinks.”

Him- “Could we focus on the reason we’re in here.”

Me- “What’s that sound?”

<From the hall> – “MOM, I’m home!”

And scene.

Shower sex just isn’t what it’s cracked up to be in the movies or romance novels.

My attempt at household inspiration

I see all kinds of sweet plaques of inspiration, quotes, and passages for people’s homes that folks post on Facebook or Pinterest.

Gone are the needlepoint cross stitched framed hangings of “Home Sweet Home.” Not that people don’t have those, it’s just different now.

So I thought I would hop on the band wagon and get something endearing for our home.

Here’s the plaque:

So nice, right?

I showed it to Emma.

This is what she told me when she looked at it:

A urinal. Would you have one in your house?

You know, I really have my children to thank for many things. My loose and flacid bladder. My jiggly tummy riddled with stretch marks. My boobs that hang down to my belly button like deflated water balloons complete with their own set of stretch marks. But also, I have them to thank for so much blogging fodder, it’s ridiculous.

The Boy genius, Owen, said to me today, that what we really need in our house is a urinal. Now I always know to put ‘an’ in front of a vowel, so is it ‘an urinal’? That’s just weird and I can’t do that. So, I will say just- urinal.

Okay, he said this of course, while peeing in the toilet. Let me describe to you the situation. I’m in the kitchen getting my 12th morning cup of tea. (I jest.) I can hear him in our powder room down the hall with the door open, peeing. Like a race horse. Then I hear a no pee sound. You know, when the stream isn’t hitting the water anymore. Yeah, that’s the sound of the stream hitting the seat or the side of the bowl. You would think by now at 9 years old, he has pretty good aim. Think again.

That sound is like nails on a chalk board to me. That sound is why I have a container or Clorox wipes under the sink in the cabinet. Sure he takes a square of toilet paper and ‘wipes’ up his dribbles. Barely. I mean, it’s not like he’s thorough or anything. There’s a reason 9 year old boys aren’t in charge of cleaning homes. When he was little he would sit on the toilet. Yes, sitting. How I miss those days. He was a lot more accurate then. Now he revels in the power of standing to pee.

And then he says, “You know what we need? A urinal. Why are houses not made with them?”

After bursting out laughing, I thought for a moment. He’s right. A household urinal would be really great. I mean, I wouldn’t be sitting on it. I think it would catch all the wee and there wouldn’t be any stray spray on the wall or floor. It would be handy for other male guests that come to visit. I could create a whole line of scented urinal cakes. We could have pumpkin spice, creme brulee, caramel apple.

Sure, it wouldn’t be pretty. But it’s not like a toilet is that pretty either. We are just used to it. We can get used to the urinal too.

I, personally, would love a bidet. I’ve always wanted a little sit and sprinkle on my lady bits to save time. My grandparents in Germany always had one. I would ask as a little kid when I visited, what the extra toilet is for.

So we’ll just get our home replumbed with a urinal in the downstairs bathroom, and a bidet for me upstairs.

Now I just need to find on Pinterest any powder room decorating ideas for urinals.

Speaking of urinals, don’t forget to enter my prize giveaway.

Nope, no fancy bathroom plumbing or deodorizers for prizes. But real cash! And cook books, and aprons and all kinds of things. Perfect for the holidays. You just click on the Rafflecopter link to the side. For reals. Don’t worry, your info isn’t used for anything. But I appreciate you spreading the love and sharing my blog so your friends can enter too. November 12th we’ll announce the winner.