The highs and lows of parenting and real estate.

Spider Egg Soap and Diaper Breath

I bet you thought I was never blogging again, didn’t you? Nah, I was on vacation. Yes, for three weeks.

OK, maybe not three weeks, but totally for 9 days and then there were a whole bunch of days before and after I had to devote completely to getting both my physical and mental shit together (I almost said ‘literal and metaphorical shit together’ but I’m pretty sure that would imply that I was handling feces and no one needs that mental picture).

I’m leaving to take all of the kids to the dentist, so this is going to all be very stream of consciousness/guerrilla-style blogging. Beggars can’t be choosers, yo. And I know you’ve been sitting there begging the internet for the seedy and mundane details of my existence. So here you go:

I forgot to put a new bar of soap in the shower this morning before I stepped in, so I had to use Jason’s ‘Axe Shock Shower Gel’. It felt like I was chewing wintergreen gum with my whole body. In a bad way. And Jason has this big weird sponge thing with a long handle, because he feels it’s important to lather and scrub his entire body specifically (I’m more of a fan of lazily soaping my face and armpits and letting the soap clean the rest of my body as it runs down when I rinse it off) and I noticed that the tiny little cleansing beads from the shower gel that are supposed to exfoliate and burst as you’re washing, were trapped in the crevices of the sponge and they looked like spider eggs. So now I’ll never touch the sponge or the shower gel again.

*Mental note: replace bar of soap in the shower.*

We went to this awesome dinner at one of our favorite restaurants last night. It was a whole fantastic ‘tasting menu and wine pairing with a local wine-maker’ thing that’s probably actually too high class for us, but whatever. Food. Yum.

It was lovely, but at least three of the courses involved large quantities of garlic. As in, huge cloves of roasted elephant garlic meant to be spread like butter on thin slices of bread. And gourmet garlic flavored sausages in a bed of chilled white beans with fried chips of garlic.

The food was amazing yesterday, but this morning it tastes like I spent the night licking the inside of our trashcan after I left raw chicken in it for too long. On my (humid, miserable, soul-killing) run this morning I leaked garlic from every pore. I’ve brushed, flossed and mouth-washed every millimeter of my oral cavity and I can still murder flowers if I lean too close while exhaling. I feel very confident this dentist visit is going to go just like my last wax appointment, where I took a deep breath to steel myself against the pain and humiliation of the process, stripped, laid down on the table, and the waxer took one look at me and gasped, What happened to you! (I’d forgotten to warn her about my summer runner inner-thigh chaffing. Once I’d explained it she said, Oh, geez, I thought you’d had some terrible bike accident or something!)

So what I’m saying is I’m just gearing up for a super fun awkward conversation where I explain to a dentist I’ve never met that my breath is horrible because I’ve been eating gourmet food, not because I have a disease that makes the inside of my mouth smell like a used diaper, while he wonders if it’s true or I’m a crazy who doesn’t really know how to brush my teeth.

(Side story: one time when Jason and I were dating in college he came over after he’d been hanging out with friends smoking cigars, and he went to kiss me and for several minutes I really truly thought he had silently released the most repugnant, foul fart that ever existed on the planet, but it turned out it was just his breath. Because cigars smell ok sometimes, but post-cigar breath is worse than farts that smell like your insides are decaying.)

I just felt like the internet should know (and breath a sigh of relief) that I’m taking my kids to the dentist. So we’re not quite feral here in the Newlin house. Close, but not quite.

2 Responses to Spider Egg Soap and Diaper Breath

  1. Oh, my God. You have boys. We do not speak that “F” word in our house. EVER.

    • Which ‘f’ word??? I’m so intrigued! I’m pretty sure I didn’t even use my favorite F word in this post… feral? farts?

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