A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: Ike (Page 1 of 3)

Quit staring at my shuttlecock, ya perv.

Well, it’s Spring Break in these parts, and we’re staycationing this year…again. Spring Break travel requires much more advanced planning than I am ever able to successfully do, so here we are.

Home sweet…holy shit, is there a wasps’ nest in our new screened porch? Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of having a screened porch? Awesome.  

But we’ve already made it halfway through the week without major incident, which is pretty good for us. Continue reading

…and that’s why I don’t make handmade gifts anymore.

Once upon a time, I was a serial crafter.

I love making things. All kinds of things. Always have.

Earliest crafting memory? When I was about 7-years-old my mom signed me up for a Saturday morning holiday ornament class at the local craft store. I’ve been a craftaholic ever since.

Why, of course I still have those ornaments! Aren’t you adorable to ask! (#hoarder)

This first one was made from a tuna can. Honest to Pete. Nothing says “Welcome Baby Jesus!” like the lingering redolence of Chicken of the Sea…


Continue reading

How to Remove Bad Smells from Carpet and Upholstery

Well apparently it is Bad Smells Month here at The Bearded Iris, because my first two tips of July were all about combating stank on your hands and in your bathrooms.

What’s that you say? It’s August now? And it’s not even Tuesday? Well let’s just pretend I got this done yesterday like I had intended, m’kay?

So anyheee, today’s tip is also about stank. But today, we’re talking about stinky fabrics and carpets. 

Hey, I’ve got three kids and three pets. I know stank. Continue reading

PetSmart and Bret Michaels team up to skankify your pets.

Just when I thought I had seen everything, I walk into PetSmart this week and see this:

Well, shut my sass hole.

Is there anything this man CAN’T do?

I mean, a musician, spokesperson for the American Diabetes Association, animal lover, AND a businessman? I thought reviving his career with the Rock of Love reality show was pretty damn genius. But the Rock of Love (Tour) Bus edition? Brilliant. And THEN…to compete for and actually WIN Donald Trump’s Celebrity Apprentice (one month after suffering from a brain hemorrhage and a stroke!) Come on. Bret Michaels must be hiding the best brain ever under that signature bandana. 

Bret proved his business chops by winning Apprentice, clearly. And PetSmart is just the partner to get on that Love Bus and ride it into the sunset of ProfitTown, USA…now 25% off, while supplies last.

Because there is obviously a market for dressing your lapdog like a skank. 

Yes that’s right, it’s a lace-up corset tank with pink frilly trim, perfect for showing your little bitch who’s boss.

Or how about the black rocker tank with jeans combo? Crotchless of course:

Well, isn’t that special (said in my best Church Lady impersonation)…two matching embroidered white crosses on the back pockets, flanking her little doggie backdoor! Because nothing reminds me of the suffering my Lord and Savior endured on Golgotha like a pair of distressed ass-less chaps on my faithful canine companion. (That concludes the Church Lady inspired portion of our broadcast.)

But I think my favorite outfit is this one:

Oh yeah baby…nothing says COME like a black leather mini-skirt on your fur-baby. Bitches who dress like that can’t keep their paws off the Beggin’ Strip, if you know what I mean.

Maybe you’re thinking, I’m not into dressing my dog like a groupie. Don’t worry, Bret’s got you covered. His Pets Rock line also includes a variety of rock inspired toys, bowls, collars, leashes, and accessories.


Yes, I said accessories. For dogs. Like this.

Because all the cool dogs are wearing doo-rags, don’t you know. Keeps their hair out of their eyes while they ride their motorcycles. Also good for dogs with cornrows.


Hey, it takes all kinds. Dress your dog however you want. I’m just excited that our country’s economy is obviously on the upswing. Someday, when anthropologists look back on this period, I want them to see that the economy wasn’t as bleak as everyone said. I want them to note that there was a segment of the population who placed great emphasis on maintaining the rocker image of their four-legged friends.

And also, I want anthropologists to record the awesome power that rockers like Bret Michaels had over people far and wide.

…like this unsuspecting middle aged suburban housewife:

…who was clearly swept away by the sheer magnitude of Bret Michaels’ sex appeal.

What can I say? I’m just grateful I was wearing shorts and not a skirt or I might have whipped off my Hanes Her Way hipsters and flung them at his bandana wrapped head.

Even kids can’t resist the force that is Bret Michaels:


I know. Unfortunate height combo. I promise you, Ms. Child Welfare case worker, my son was not purposefully rubbing Bret’s tube sock holder.

Unless he was, and then I’ve got bigger problems.

Oh my God. Is my son a groupie?

Alright, people. Move along. There’s nothing to see here.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to figure out how to attach this new doo-rag to my dog. It’s a much better look for him than the Hanna Andersson pa-jay-jays Grandma sent everyone the Christmas of 2008.

Don’t say it. Just don’t.

I know.


The best laid plans often turn to biohazards. No? Just me?

Damn. It. To. Hell.

I had big plans today! BIG plans to write something serious and heart wrenching and important.

And then my friend dropped her 5 year old son off at my house for an early morning play date and preschool carpool so she could go volunteer at her older child’s school.

Now normally, this would be a pretty uneventful morning. Bucket Head and his “Little Buddy” are really cute together. They play well, they take turns, they keep their clothes on (for the most part); they’re very low maintenance as a dynamic duo.

Well, there was that one time that I walked in on them taking turns touching our dog’s butthole and saying “It’s okay to touch it on the outside, but don’t put your finger INSIDE it. He doesn’t like that.”


I like having Little Buddy around. He keeps Bucket Head busy so I can write. Which is exactly what I was doing when I heard him come out of the powder room and say to Bucket Head “You know what took me so long? I was pooping. And it was a little messy. But don’t worry, I cleaned it up.”

I rounded the corner faster than a pageant mom chasing her long lost youth.

There, in my hallway, stood Bucket Head and Little Buddy, holding hands and walking toward the play room.


Suddenly everywhere I looked was tainted with a brown cloud of micro-bacterial filth.

“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, BOYS!” I blurted, probably a little too loudly. “Buddy, did I just hear you say you had a messy poop?”


“What exactly do you mean by ‘messy poop’?”

“Well, when I was wiping? I got a big blob of poop on the toilet paper. And also on my hand.”

(Oh my God.) “And then what did you do?…uh, Sweetie.”

“I wiped the poop off my hand with toilet paper. And then I used more toilet paper to wipe the toilet seat. And the handle. And the wall.”


“The wall?”

“Well…I was reaching for more toilet paper and I accidentally touched the wall.”

“Oh…I see. Okay. It happens. Then what did you do?”

“I washed my hands.”

“With soap?”


“Are you sure?”

“Yes ma’am.” (We live in the South. That’s considered good manners, especially when you’re scared and want a grown up to like you and not think you intentionally smeared feces on their wall like a rabid howler monkey. Uh, just guessing.) 

“Did you use LOTS of soap?”


“Are you sure, Honey? Because we need to make sure you don’t have any poop on your hands.”

“Yes ma’am. I’m sure.”

“And did you dry your hands with that towel over there?” (As I pick up the hand towel by the very corner and carry it toward my washing machine like it might detonate any second.)


“Okay. Just to be on the safe side, I think we should ALL wash our hands again, m’kay?”


And so we did…in another bathroom, because I couldn’t even fathom the thought of touching those sink handles until after I had time to don a Hazmat suit and break the seal on a new bottle of Clorox.

So yeah. And that’s why I’m once again writing about poop instead of something more important like mental health, or civil rights, or The Bachelor hometown visits.

Poor Buddy. I hope his mom doesn’t mind that I gave him a Silkwood shower.

Or that the kids were late to school.

Or that we’ll only be doing play dates at public parks from now on.

Suddenly dog proctology seems so normal and sanitary.

Yours truly, and now with extra germ-killing action,


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