The post where I admit that I may have branded myself stupidly. But not really. I’m just being sarcastic. Get it? Ahahahaha. Ha.

Because there have been, and will continue to be, plenty of times when my posts and thoughts do not reflect the name of this website at all. And me?  I couldn’t care less.  But every now and again someone mentions to me that I’m not being sarcastic or whatever, and then I think about it.  And I’m all anxious and nervous for a little bit, thinking OMG IT IS FINALLY OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE THAT I AM A FAILURE IN ALL THAT I DO.  And then it kicks in: the not giving a shitness, but rather being annoyed at having it pointed out to me. (Because I am nothing if not a sensitive jerkface douche who can’t handle a little bit of criticism without blowing things all out of proportion. I rule.)

My real name is Lotus and I can assure you I do not smell flowery all the time.   I am also not an expensive, fast sports car.  I am more of a rusted pinto with a rotten fish in the back seat.  Mmmm, rotten fish.  Sexy.

So yeah, when I started this blog, I was in a hurry to get the show on the road, and I was sitting here going, “What should I call this thing?”

Ideas I Had:

1. Call it the secret name that you have for your vagina.
2. Use a couple of words that best describe who you are right now.
3. Steal the name of a popular blog and then pretend you didn’t know it existed.
4. Pay a hilarious and witty celebrity to name it for you.
5. Call it Tit Fingers.

Outcomes:

1. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. Especially to myself. Since my vagina hasn’t even told me its secret name yet. We have trust issues. That’s an entirely different story.  Anyway, a no-go.
2. Seemed good.  I asked myself, “Who am I right now?”
   SAHM who interacts with son & husband more than anyone else.
   Interaction with son: Mom
   Interaction with husband: Sarcastic Bitch (Loving Wife would be nice, but I suck.)

   Example Situation: I am standing at the stove with a spatula hovering over a pancake. John comes walking into the room, says, “Oooh, are you making pancakes?” I look at him in bewildered disgust and reply, “Hell no, I’m not making pancakes. I was just minding my own business when this flapjack jumped through the window, and then tried to escape through the back door. I am aware that this flapjack is harboring secrets against our government, however, and am currently administering heat torture to force him to speak. The spatula is just to keep him at bay. Damn communist flapjack. I tell you, I won’t have it. And you? You think this is just a pancake I’m making. You are a prime example of why this country is going to hell in a hand basket. Pancakes indeed.  I may have to kill you tonight.”

   I find myself incapable of giving him a straight answer. “Ooh, are you making pancakes?” “Yes, dear, I am.” WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

   So, it appeared I was: a) A Mom and b) An incurable sarcastic bitch in my daily life.

   Sarcastic Mom

3. The story I came up with to cover why I would call my blog Dooce was all about how I am obsessed with poop (Who does number two work for!?), but don’t spell well in French. Both of those things are actually true, so it’s this really awesome lie of a story made up of totally true elements. Which meant I might really even be able to pass a lie detector test and everything. Except for the part when they’d ask me if I knew that there already was a Dooce website. That and the thing about how Heather Armstrong would totally kick my ass stopped this plan dead in its tracks.
4. I was really keen on this but Conan O’Brien not only started refusing my phone calls, but informed me that used tin foil, dryer lint, and desperate sexual acts are not acceptable payment and that furthermore, he’s married, wasn’t interested, and I’m stupid and ugly. Then he requested a restraining order against me. It’s okay, I know it’s all a front to keep his wife in the dark about our secret love. Which is so secret that even he is not aware of it. But it kind of made me have to go with one of the other plans again.
5. This is totally still my backup blog name. I just checked; it’s available. Can you believe no one has snatched up TitFingers.com??? If this website ever disappears, and you want to find me, look that name up.

I have to warn. I might not always talk about tits. Or fingers. Or touching breasts with phalanges. You know, just FYI.

Oh, by the way, on the occasions where I say or write something that’s not sarcastic, please forget to inform me of this grave error.  I know it is highly unacceptable for a person to ever say or write anything that does not perfectly reflect their moniker or website name.  And yet?  Look how much I care.

I really should have my ass kicked for that.

Just pretend that my not being sarcastic is just me being really sarcastic about being sarcastic.

Yeah.  Stuff that in your pipe.

Do they make dentures for toddlers?

Today’s Photohunt Theme is “Chipped”

The thing that came to mind immediately when I saw this week’s theme, “Chipped,” was Braden’s two front teeth.

I am horribly obsessed with the Chip Status of his front teeth. And it’s not because I’m some freaked out, obsessing mother who picks over every little detail of her son’s appearance.

I mean, it’s true that I’m freaked out and obsessed, but it’s generally over things like how many visitors my website has had on any given day (where the hell were you people YESTERDAY???) and whether or not Conan O’brien will ever admit that we were meant to be together forever, leave his wife, and marry me.

What? He totally sent me a secret message the other night. You think it was a coincidence that he was driving a Lotus on the show? And that the side said, “Team Lotus?” Please. My destiny is finally being realized. That’s all.

The Eagle Flies West at Midnight. I am coming, Conan. Secret message received.

Ahem.


So, my son’s teeth? HE WON’T STOP CHIPPING THEM.

Hi, my teeth are beautiful, aren’t they?

Oh, hello! I decided to chew on some nuts and bolts!

Hey, I chewed on a file the other day! It was YUMMY.

And the only time he ever had a ‘noticeable mouth-related-accident-causing-parental-distress-complet-with-excessive-hyperventilating-and-hand-wringing’ was this:

And after that, one tooth was moved back for awhile, but it repositioned itself. And there was no chipping associated with the incident, at all.

And it only took me 2 whole months to stop gasping for air and clutching my chest.

Anyhow, apparently his teeth have decided that they are made out of that chalky crap that they used to make those “candy cigarettes”** out of, and every now and then, small pieces of them just crumble off into his mouth.

Mmmm, Candy Teeeths.

Every time I notice that there is just a little bit less tooth there in the front of my little boy’s facehole, I get a little more frantic. I am developing a special facial twitch just for the occasion.

I think the Tooth Fairy is even receiving certain frequencies that my brain waves are emitting when I go into this frantic state. They translate something like, “OMFG, ARE HIS TEETH GOING TO JUST ENTIRELY CRUMBLE IN AT SOME POINT, WHAT THE HOLY HELLLLL?!? *twitch, twitch, spazz*”

And yes. I KNOW that it is really not that noticeable. And that he is FREAKING GORGEOUS anyway. Seriously, I live with this kid:

I KNOW he’s freaking beautiful.

I’m not concerned with his looks.  But I might just start injecting him with calcium while he’s sleeping out of the fear that this is an indicator of Bone Related Things To Come.

*dies immediately at the thought*

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**And by the way, WHAT THE HELL WERE PEOPLE THINKING TO GIVE KIDS CANDY CIGARETTES TO EAT JOYFULLY???

I guess the “candy gun” and the “candy meth lab” did not make the cut during final product testing.

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