The Day of Dooooooood

Obviously, when someone like Lotus asks you to guest post, you have one of two options: say hell yah and then sit around for a week while trying to think of something to post, or ask her if she’s on ‘ludes (and if you can have some) because obviously any guest post you’d write might be the downfall of Sarcastic Mom dot Com.

I’m a little wacky, so I did a little of both – sat around for a week and then wrote this post, possibly under the influence of Quaaludes. Which will likely be the reason the hackers show up again.

With all of the emoticon-aided flirting, rack shots and virtual I’d-tap-thats around in the momosphere, it seems like I need to tarnish her reputation with a nice chick date story. One heavily influenced by elements such as my city of residence (Vancouver, BC), dick, farting (these New Years Diets make flatulence the new black, or pink, or whatever the new whatever was last new was), and some large sunglasses.

Because Lotus and I are entering my fantasy land* right now, and I’m taking you with us.

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So, I get this phone call. It’s the middle of the afternoon and I know there was something I was supposed to do… but what? Picking up the phone, it hits me, dood, I have to pee so bad.

“I’m at the airport, Bitch. Where are you?”

“Who the hell is this? How did you get this number? I’m recording this, you know.”

“It’s Lotus, dood. Why the hay aren’t you here, carrying my bags and getting me drunk?”

“Shit. That was today? K, lemme just get dressed. With all of the buses I have to take, I’ll be there super fast, like three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“Four words, Lotus. Tim effing Hortons and Wifi. Bye.”

I was supposed to meet her at the gate, but I was so busy being aloof about my excitement (Lotus is coming to Vancouver! OMG, my dream date is coming to Vancouver just to see meeeeeee! What should I Wear? Do my thighs look fat?) that I forgot all about it. BC Bud will do that to you. Four hours too late, I pull on some damn Cons and yoga pants, forgoing a bra (as usual) and march out the door to meet the special lady.

She saved me a cruller. How sweet. I can’t eat that (my thighs might look fat and this is Vancouver where all things brown-rice infused and organic are embraced by yoga-pants-wearing peeps). Already, we’re off to a good start, right?

I’ve got something to remedy that, don’t worry.

Three hours later, four buses, two cups of Starbucks’ overpriced white mochas and five cigarettes (for me), we’ve dumped her luggage in my tiny walk-up apartment and walked through the back alleys of my neighbourhood to the beach a few blocks away.

We’ve smoked something that looks like a cigarette, but doesn’t smell like it, and it made Lotus choke, which made me snort and call her a lightweight. Unfortunately, snorting made me choke and I lost all of my rep, right there.

This is where the big sunglasses come in. As do Doritos, two-bite brownies, a bench in prime people-watching territory and slurpees.

Because this chick date is all about being high while making fun of people on the Stanley Park Seawall.

Trust me when I say, there are no douches more douchie than those that hang at my local beach. And nothing more fun than to have existential conversations about the role of a Dorito-shaped tortilla vs the Scoop, in Generation Y’s existence.

“Here comes Speedo Man! Able to dangle bits over short curbs with a single anti-coagulant!” I cried, victoriously as my (least) favourite geriatric swimmer strutted by.

“I get needing a Quinny stroller for your dog. Really I do. But why would you carry a rat around, while pushing it?” Lotus asked.

Giggles, abound. Tans, improved. We spent three hours shoving food in our bitch-holes, farting and snarking about every single Vancouver resident that’s walked past. Like the bodybuilder with the Pamela Anderson-esque arm bands and his girlfriend with matching Pamela Anderson bewbs – you know from the size of his muscles that he’s got raisins in his drawers. And the granny with more loose skin concealing her bits than fabric, I thought I caught a nip slip from that one and I wondered aloud if it was accidental.

Then we go to the hot dog stand, before we go back to my place to sleep off our buzz. Because jalapeno cheese smokies are a must when you’ve been toking.

What? You didn’t know that you can eat that kind of crap when you’re high, even if you are a Vancouverite yoga-pants-wearing hipster?

* Obviously, this is a complete fabrication of reality, since I haven’t blazed the green in years and if Lotus showed up at my airport, I’d be there waiting with an embarrassing sign. And we’re both way too nice to sit on a bench for three hours and make fun of beach-goers. Moms don’t do that stuff, right?
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This is the part where I’m supposed to write a little piece about Zoeyjane… you know, about how she’s this perfect little package of intelligence, wit, and hot babe, yet dark and soulful dreamer. And how you should really head over to Mommy is Moody to see what she’s pontificating on today. But after reading that, all I can do is laugh, fart, and…. and… what were we talking about again? Oh yeah. Did you bring the Funyuns?

Kid doesn’t know how lucky he is.

I mean, if >I< got to take a freakin’ nap every day, I’d be shooting SUNSHINE AND ROSES out of my butthole when I woke up.

And don’t even get me started on the pretty princesses, the unicorns, or the rainbows.

Or the tiny, sprightly, little elves with PINK TUTUS.

There would be a veritable  fantasy fairytale world around my general anus area.

But this kid?  OH HELL NO.

After-Nap time is also known as The Hour of Satan.

There is screaming, crying, flopping around… an all over protest at the very idea of existing takes place.  Then, suddenly, it vanishes and Cute Boy arrives.  Ready for his snack.   But with a little Satanic Grump Angst tucked in on the side.

“I Got Your Photo Shoot Right Here, Lady”

Unfortunately for him, even his Satanic Grump Angst is so damn cute, I just laugh.

(And the effort sometimes forces a cute, glittery fairy wand out of my butt.  Don’t tell.)

Just for the record…

…going into my child’s room at night in response to Mega-Screaming, to change a diaper full of diarrhea and clean the shit off of his face and hands is NOT the definition of My Ultimate Fantasy. (I swear, he got some in his mouth. *gag*)

I mean, there was no Kiefer Sutherland, anti-gravity underwear, perfect boobs for life, endless supply of calorie-free chocolate, or no-cost, worry-free daily babysitting offer in there ANYWHERE.

And wait… wait… let me check… no. I did not have the world’s largest, multiple orgasm at any time before, during, or after the event. (by the way, if I had? I’d be seeking therapy RIGHT NOW.)

And nobody has come to my door to offer doing my dishes, laundry, and to vacuum my carpets for the rest of my natural life.

Additionally, in case you were wondering, I have not found the deed to my private island lying around anywhere.

Also, there is still cellulite on my ass cheeks.

So, confirmation: it had NOTHING to do with any ultimate fantasy of mine.

It was just runny excrement. YAY!

(Why, oh why, do they have to get curious and stick their hands in there?)

PS: Don’t worry, I’m no Poop Newbie. This is the home of Scatastrophe.