A few weeks ago I had hardwood flooring installed in my basement. One of the rooms was a half bath. In order to lay the floor properly, the toilet bowl had to be removed. Being a silly, first world kind of gal, I thought not having a toilet in the half bath pretty much negated the function of the bathroom for the duration of the floor install. Apparently I was wrong.

You see, there was a mix up having to do with the installation of the sink plumbing – I will spare you the boring details. The reason that pertains to this story, is the man that sold me the flooring had to come back over to check out the plumbing in question. When he arrived, I escorted him down to the bathroom and found the door to be locked.

I was confused.

There was nothing in the bathroom at this point. No vanity, no plumbing fixtures, no toilet. Just a hole in the floor where the toilet should be. I thought maybe the door was jammed, so I rattled the knob and pushed harder. I heard a faint call from within. I couldn’t make out what was said.

“Maybe he’s installing some pieces behind the door, and doesn’t want to get smacked with the door.” I said.

We proceeded to wait several more minutes. There was much foot shuffling and uncomfortable eye evasion.

When the occupant finally emerged, he was adjusting his belt buckle. He didn’t spare us a glance as he slipped past and continued the job. I just pretended not to know what he had been doing, and showed the salesman the plumbing issue. What I wanted to do was say,

Whoa, dude. Did you just shit down my toilet hole? Really? There are THREE other toilets in this house, and you felt it made more sense to shit down the gaping toilet hole, than to walk up a flight of stairs and use a fully functioning toilet? And can we just take a minute to discuss hand sanitation? You just shat down a hole in my bathroom floor, wiped your ass, and stuffed the used toilet paper down the hole too, then sauntered out of there and preceded to TOUCH things. Ew.

I like to think that my mama would be proud of my show of restraint. She raised a real classy gal.

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The Ugly

This visually offensive mish-mash of puff balls and yarn has become a symbol of sisterly affection.

When my sister Emily got her license, I surprised her with a car. No, not a sweet new VW, or whatever car is rated highest in safety standards, or anything like that – Mama’s not made of money! I don’t even know what kind of car it was. What I remember about it was that it sported a hand painted racing stripe right down its middle.

Its previous owner had clearly been some punk kid that fantasized about hot rods and aspired to get promoted to shift manager at McDonald’s so he could afford to put some kind of ridiculous muffler on his”baby”, which he would then use to cruise The Strip on Saturday nights, trolling for loose women.

I didn’t care. It ran, and it was cheap affordable.

I decided to embrace my Mexican heritage and really go all out with detailing the car before presenting it to my sister. I bought an Our Lady of Guadalupe air freshener and hot glued strings of pom poms along the top of the front and back windshields. I also attempted to install a horn that sang La Cucaracha – but that didn’t work out. There may have been a bobble head chihuahua involved at one point – who can remember such details?

I can’t remember where I found The Ugly pictured above. Was it in a box in the storage shed behind my barn? Was it at a thrift store? Hmm, the origins of this beastie will forever be cloaked in mystery. What I do remember about The Ugly, is the second I laid eyes on it, I knew exactly what to do with it. It was given a place of honor across the top of my sister’s backseat.

Here we are, ten years later. The car – La Bamba is what she named it – has long since passed from my sister on to the next young punk kid hell bent on supin’ it up and drag racing down the highway at two in the morning. But The Ugly, The Ugly has stayed with the family. We gift it to each other for holidays and birthdays, sometimes just random I’m-thinking-of-you gifts, (or more accurately titled I-want-this-hideous-thing-out-of-my-house-IT’S-YOUR-TURN! gifts).

The key is to package it in a way that the receiver doesn’t suspect it’s about to be her turn to house The Ugly again. You see, one of the rules of housing The Ugly, is that you have to keep it displayed somewhere in your decor – you can’t hide it away in a closet or anything like that.

It has been a while since I have had the pleasure of housing The Ugly. Imagine my horror delight at finding it had been used as padding in a package of books and hand made jewelry Emily sent me today. Say what you will about having a hideous pile of atomic autumn colored puffed yarn lounging nonchalantly in your living-room, every time I see it, I think of my amazing sister and snicker at our bizarre bond.

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I have serious issues with what I like to call enviro-guilt. One of the biggest dilemmas I faced as a mother was diapering. With my first child I tried g diapers. While I recommend them, and will feature them in an upcoming spotlight, they could be a bit labor intensive at times.

Now, with my second child, I use Bum Genius all-in-ones. They work great, and combined with the diaper liners, clean up is simple. Alas, one can not use cloth diapers exclusively. Well, you can, but sometimes I just prefer the convenience of a disposable. Imagine my delight at finding a compostable disposable diaper!

Now whenever I ‘m going to be running errands, or going on vacation, I don’t have to cringe at every diaper I change, imagining it sitting in a landfill for generations to come. Nature Babycare diapers are a great alternative to traditional disposable diapers. They perform excellently, and cost the same as traditional disposables.

• 100% chlorine free
• slim and shaped to fit the contours of your baby
• natural, ‘breathable’ materials
• no unnecessary chemicals
• hypoallergenic and skin-friendly

You can find out more about Nature Babycare products here. You can see them on facebook here.

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We have named the hedgehog “Jane”. She has settled in to her new home, and now that my dense self realizes she doesn’t know how to drink from a water bottle, she is drinking from a bowl, and no longer dehydrated.

Many of you have expressed a desire to adopt a hedgehog of your own. They are a relatively low maintenance pet. I must caution you though – they are not a cuddly animal. You would think this is obvious, what with their SPINE COVERED BODIES and all, but you would be amazed at how many hedgehogs are re-homed because the original owners were surprised at how prickly they are.

Also, they eat creepy-crawlies. If you are uncomfortable getting up close and personal with night crawlers and insects, then a hedgehog is not for you.

mmm, lunch!

tastes like chicken.

We are most definitely in love with little Jane. She is very sweet natured, and even laughs at our fart jokes. Win!

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My Garmin Nuvi navigator and I have a hostile relationship. Each of us knows we would be lost without the other, so we at least try to put on a nice front.

For the most part, Nuvi does a pretty good job of navigating. Every now and then she will tell me to turn the wrong direction onto a one way road, or tell me to drive straight even though there is a locked gate in front of me. I can forgive these mistakes. It’s the attitude she gives me when I don’t follow her directions exactly that pisses me off.

Just yesterday she told me to drive straight, as if my car could magically levitate over a school playground. When I turned down a road to go around the playground, she said, “Recalculating.”

That may seem like an innocent enough word, but you should have heard the way she said it.  It was more like, “Recalculating, because SOMEONE is too stupid to follow simple directions the FIRST time they are given, GAH.” If Nuvi had eyes, that statement would have been followed by much eye rolling.

Give me a break. It’s not like Nuvi is perfect. She was the one that gave me the wrong directions in the first place! Oh – and you should hear the way she says “Colesville”. She says “Call-us-vill”. LOL It’s Colesville Nuvi, Colesville. Who’s the dummy now, Nuvi? WHO’S THE DUMMY NOW?!

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Green Genius garbage bags are biodegradable! Before these babies came on the scene, I used Glad trash bags. Green Genius is just as strong – if not stronger – and I sleep easier at night knowing I’m responsible for that much less plastic in the world.

If you want to know more about the green geniuses behind Green Genius garbage bags, check out their website here. They’ll give you a free sample and a $2.00 coupon!

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I shudder to think of how many penises this guy had to sift through before getting enough content for this video. Very well done!

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My stepmother used to have pet alligators. You read that right, alligators. Two of them. One of them was very small. I think around 6 inches. The other one was not so small. I never met them, so I’m guessing based on stories, that the larger alligator was around 2 feet. She called him Mr. Al.

My stepbrother, Justin, was in preschool around that time. Apparently he had a little friend over one day, and he showed that friend Mr. Al. (I know, I know, not only was there a freakin’ ALLIGATOR in the house, but preschoolers were playing unsupervised in the vicinity. Good God! Forget about asking parents if they have a gun in the house – be sure to ask if they are harboring any exotic “pets” capable of maiming or eating your child.) Justin was an industrious little fellow, and told his friend to bring him x number of toys, or he would feed him to Mr. Al. This little friend proceeded to have nightmares, and told his mother about the scary dinosaur at Justin’s house. The mother, being a sane human being, thought he had an overactive imagination. She asked my stepmom if there were any scary dinosaur toys the boys had played with. Knowing exactly what must have happened, my stepmom gave a shrug as if to say “boys will be boys”, but she never mentioned the lethal reptile.

I don’t know what ever happened to Mr. Al or his smaller friend. They were not the last of my stepmom’s exotic pets. She had an 8 foot Burmese python named Clyde. Clyde used to escape his giant terrarium that took up a majority of our living room, and wrap himself around the rafters in our garage.

Aside from Clyde, we had pet chickens, rabbits, dogs, geckos, hermit crabs and more rodents than I can name. Did I mention we lived in Sacramento? IN THE SUBURBS – not out in the middle of farm country.

I’ll never understand what it is that makes people crave the company of exotic, wild animals that would as soon eat you as look at you. Luckily, my stepmom’s tastes run a bit less savage these days. She now has a cat… and a pig named Baby. Hey, at least the pig is a domesticated animal! That’s a step in the right direction.

I’ve rescued tigers, bottle fed squirrels, nursed owls and hawks back to health, and have even been known to foster a crippled tree frog or two. (ALL of which were released back into the wild when deemed appropriate by a veterinarian – with the exception of the tigers, that now reside in a wildlife reserve in California.) I think I can speak with authority when I say that exotic pet “ownership” is not for everyone. Frankly, I’ll go so far as to say that exotic pets should not be left in the care of any layman.

When I hear the tragic stories of people whose faces have been ripped off by their pet chimpanzee, or whose arms were severed by their pet lion, my sympathies lay with the animals; Wild animals that should never have been held in captivity in the first place, and certainly not by average citizens that lack the proper training and facilities.

I guess this makes me a big, fat hypocrite. Yesterday I adopted a hedgehog. Hedgehogs have only begun being domesticated in the last 15 years, and are still considered “exotic”. They are not native to North America or South America. My new hedgehog, like a majority of “pet” hedgehogs in America, is a descendant of African pygmy hedgehogs.

I didn’t decide to get a hedgehog on a whim because I thought they were cute. I did research, weighed the pros and cons, and spoke with hedgehog enthusiasts before deciding a hedgehog would be a nice fit for my family. I encourage anyone considering adopting any pet to do your homework first.

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We are now a family of five. Introducing…. Uh, well, we haven’t named her yet. She is an 8 week old salt and pepper hoglet.

Karis has started calling her Cola. As I am anti-soda, this will not do! I would love suggestions!! I’ll leave comments open until the perfect name has been chosen.

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I have one more Mugga/Andrew story from this last weekend. I find Mugga’s interactions with Andrew to be thoroughly entertaining. They are such opposites. Mugga is very excitable and flighty, whereas Andrew is laid back and analytical.

Mugga was telling us about how she is convinced she was drugged at a bar once. She says she only drank two glasses of wine, but felt very “off”. She ended up needing to be practically carried to her car by her girlfriend. When they reached the car, Mugga fell into a snow bank and got stuck there for almost an hour. This adventure was followed by much vomiting and other bodily functions that I have mentioned way too many times on this site.

Mugga ended her story with, “In summation, (I’m paraphrasing – Mugga would never actually say “summation”.) I know I was drugged that night. Somebody slipped me one of those… what do you call ‘em? Roobies?”

We all kind of stared hard at each other in confusion.

Me: That doesn’t make any sense. Generally when people drug a woman’s drink it’s to take advantage of her – not to watch her fall into a snow bank.

Andrew: Yeah, it’s not like they say, “Excuse me waiter, a roofie for that nice lady at table three”. (Andrew waves and winks at the imaginary lady across the room.)

This strikes me as a very funny Saturday Night Live sketch. I would love to see what Andy Samberg would do with it.

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