No amount of margarita will make this right...

I think I've lost my will to live.

It started out a shithole week and hasn't gotten better.

Thanks to a nasty running injury, I now walk with a limp and wear orthopedic shoe inserts. Which does wonders for my self esteem age issues.

I tore open the heel of my good foot being strong willed (not stubborn) and thinking I could carry a child, excersaucer and a beer out the back door. I couldn't.

And yet, this is not the worst of what has occurred this week.

I've made some bad decisions in my day. Oddly, I don't think choosing to wear a red polka dotted dress to my grandmother's anniversary party was one of them. Shoulder pad inserts. Now, that was a bad choice. Putting shoulder pads on a gangly pre-teen only makes one look like an anorexic football player with braces and a perm.

Two years ago, I got us a kitten.

Two days ago, he shit on our living room floor.

I thought it was LB's diaper....careful inspection told me otherwise. It's nice knowing I could have a back up career in private investigation...it only took me twenty minutes and almost stepping in it to figure it out.

Later that night, I smelled a sour pee smell.

Once again, I thought it was LB.

Even my mom mentioned it.

Eh, a hot bath and a change of clothes will fix that right up.

Inspector Clouseau right here.

Four hours later, after sitting on the couch for an hour, I smelled it again.

I think it's me...so I smell my feet, ears (don't ask, it ain't easy), pits. For the love of GOD, I was going crazy.

So I complained about it to Kevin.

We start smelling the cushions on the couch.

Low and behold...three of our cushions are covered in cat piss. C.O.V.E.R.E.D. Soaked. I got a sock wet in the process. (Again, don't ask...why I put my foot there I'll never know)

I did not take this opportunity to remind Kevin of my infinite wisdom in purchasing a front loading washer with a sanitize setting. I was carefully considering my options in milking this for a new couch.

That. Very. Night. While I'm laying in bed. I hear a cat vomiting downstairs and wonder what the jail term is for cat strangulation. Could he "accidentally" get out and never be seen again? (After I drive him across town and into a junk yard guarded by two hungry rottweilers and a doberman or maybe just a few neighborhoods over where I know a great dane who likes to play 'rough' with cats.)

The problem is, Kevin loves this cat. And I love Kevin. But, I kind of love my sanity too.

The NEXT night. I'm sitting on the one remaining cushion of our piss couch. And I smell it. The sour smell.

So, I did what you'd think I'd do.

I complained to Kevin.

He starts smelling, I start smelling...(not myself this time, I learned that lesson) and we can't find it. I'm convinced we are getting a new couch. I get up and move to the chair and that is when Kevin tells me I was sitting in cat vomit. SITTING IN CAT VOMIT.

There are no remaining cushions on our piss couch.

Did you know you can buy replacement cushions for your couch online?

According to Kevin it's cheaper than buying a new couch.

But is it cheaper than hiring a lawyer for my cat murder trial?

It's probably best NOT to get this kind of advice from your mom...that's why God made sisters

Once a week I have lunch with my little sister.

She is full of great advice.

Take for instance our last lunch. My and Kevin's anniversary was coming up and she recommended I get a __________. *

She said I needed this magical tool of pleasure to keep my marriage enriched. Spicy.

To be honest, I had no idea what the hell it was or how you use it. I see that going over real well...

Me: Hey honey, I got this thing, but I don't know how to use it. It's supposed to heat up our bedroom only not in a space heater kind of way. (Elbow and eyebrow raise in a very awkward but hot kind of way...I don't know how that man resists me.)

After little sister explained how you use it, she then had to explain a term she used to describe a body part and then....I finally understood. Sweet. Lord.

Of course I had to ask if she and her husband ever used one.

Little Sister: Aww yeah. ---pause--- He really has to be kind of drunk to agree to it.

I'm married to "one beer Kevin". I might get a couple of beers and a margarita in this guy, but I ain't gettin' nowhere close to the inebriation he's going to need to be at to agree to this. Not to mention, I had NO idea where you get one.

I would have preferred to order it online with anonymity.

I also would have preferred NOT to take a nine month old to a sex shop so I could have it in time for our anniversary celebration.

But little sister insisted.

According to her, we would not get creepy looks from the other shoppers for our laid back-free spirited style.

I couldn't tell you if that was true or not.

I ran in and out so fast, the whole thing was a blur. I might have picked up a few other things in my haste.

Unintentional of course.

I didn't want to sit and browse the __________* section just so I could find the right one. Even if I knew what that was.

I may have left little sister there.

Naturally, she opened the package in the car to get a better look.

LB was singing songs in the back seat.

I'm pretty sure this is an automatic entry for the "Mother of the Year" awards.

I've got "Wife of the Year" WON. Hands. Down.

(*You know those eighty year old women who have no filter and say the first thing that comes to their mind with no thought as to the inappropriateness of it? Sort of like when your grandmother tells you to start trying for that second kid before your ovaries shrivel up and fall out. Well, if I was one of those women, I would straight up tell you the name of the magical tool of pleasure little sister told me to get...You've got 42 more years to wait.)

The First Leg of a Triathlon is the Wettest

Me: Hello?

Race Director: Hi, Ashley?

Me: Yes.

Race Director: Hi, I'm calling from Tri For Sight.

Me: (Excited) OMG are you calling EVERYONE?

(I must be awesome if she is calling me PERSONALLY..maybe they want me to tour...or sing the national anthem...)

Race Director: No, (laughs) I'm calling because the swim time you entered is a little funny.

Me: Oh, what did I put? (trying furiously to remember how long the swim is...and sound cool)

Race Director: You put that you would do it in eight hours. (laughs again)

Me: (laughing) Yes, I know I can do it faster than 8 hours. I think I meant 8 minutes.

Race Director: Well, the top two guys who are registered Elite put sub-10. (FYI-Elite triathletes get PAID to compete and will go in the pool FIRST)

Me: Oh. (Shit, I can't remember how long the swim is...I've only been swimming once in the last month) Well, on my swim the other day (like I swim all the time and actually time myself when I do) I did a half mile in roughly ten minutes. (It was really more like 20)

Race Director: Oh, okay so I can put you in around 10-12 minutes and that will work?

Me: Um, (NO THAT WILL NOT WORK) sure.

Race Director: Great, well...

Me: You know, probably closer to 12.

Race Director: Okay, well...

Me: You know, I'm just getting over this stomach thing and (I'm not sure I will survive the pre-race dinner) my workouts have been a little rough these past couple of weeks...I forget, how long is the swim?

Race Director: It's an 800 meter swim. I don't want to put you in too fast and you get mowed over or jammed up. Do you work out with anyone?

Me: (Just my IPOD nano, and sometimes my little sister) I know Beth (the race organizer) I worked out with her a couple of years ago...(for like a month, before I got pregnant).

Race Director: Oh, yeah...

Me: You know, I may have thought it was a 400 meter swim, that's why I put in 8 minutes.

Race Director: So I should double that and put you in at 16?

Me: (Uggg, I hate waiting around to get in the pool...even if it means getting jammed up and fighting for the swim lane in a nasty mating ritual with guys bigger and hairier than me) yes, 15-16 minutes sounds about right.

Race Director: Great, well we'll see you on Sunday. Good luck!


UPDATE: I was in the first wave of swimmers to go in the pool, 84th out of 300 plus. I did it in 20 minutes and was passed by almost 216 swimmers.

I want to be buried in a red polka-dotted dress.

I think Kevin is trying to kill me.

That's okay because the same may or may not be true about me. I can't confirm or deny it and if an attorney asks I blacked out and don't remember anything.

I don't know why other women can work, raise kids AND put a decent meal on the table 7 nights a week.

I've managed to establish a sandwich night, Chick-fil-a night, a night (or two, or three...stop judging me) out, which leaves just a couple of nights where I have to cook.

I have a couple of staple meals I always make, so in reality I'm covered.

But I get it in my head that I want to be that wife/mom who can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. DAMN YOU ROSE OF SHARON.

Last week, the two meals we actually cooked included burgers and a staple, chicken parm.

I let Kevin grill the burgers.

And just after I broke a tooth on one, the National Hockey League called and asked why we took all their pucks. They were pissed.

Fast forward a night.

I make chicken parm. all. the. time. It's fun now, cause LB can gum the pasta and Kevin can engorge himself on garlic bread and breaded chicken.

In my haste, which may have been efficiency, I'm not sure. But what I am sure of...this is not my fault officer. I think the chicken came out...not done. Who can tell when it's covered in that red sauce!

So I microwaved the shit out of it just to be sure.

And, in reality we had rubber chicken that was tainted by the thought we had already ingested bites of raw chicken.

Which ruined the whole meal!

It's here I started to get suspicious.

Later that week Kevin served little sister a ham sandwich on moldy bread.

I'm actually the one who made the sandwich and Kevin wasn't even home. But I'm certain he knew the bread was moldy and left it there for me to eat. Even though he never makes sandwiches, I'm sure this will hold up in court.

This week, I decided to try again. It's called strong-willed, Kevin...NOT stubborn.

It was a crock-pot meal.

Brown sugar chicken.

I got the recipe from here.

Okay, after you stop judging me on the amount of sugar in this recipe, would YOU have turned away from this kind of praise for a meal.

This meal was going to make me a hero, and all of LB's friends were going to want to come to our house cause I'm the cool mom that serves awesome dinners and doesn't make faces when they belch.

I burned it.

OMFG you should have smelled our house coming home on Tuesday night.

I didn't know you could burn candy chicken in a crock pot. But I'm here to tell you...You. Can.

We had Chick-fil-a last night.

We're having pizza tonight.

I may never cook again.

Except.

I have a triathlon on Sunday with the sisters and I offered to cook the pre-race meal.

I hope we all live.

I am making no guarantees and have low expectations for my performance on Sunday.