BM

When I was a kid, we didn't poop, or crap, or potty, we had a 'bm'. Mom was quite clinical about a lot of things. And, if we tooted (I like that so much better than 'farted') mom would say, 'oh, my god, it sounds like you need to have a bm'. And, off we would go. To have the bm.

Well, when oh when will I have a day where I am not in close contact with someone else's bm? Today, for example, I woke up to find a pile in my room, both weiner dogs snoring away. This means that Sam let them out of their kennel last night when he got home, and they made their way into the den that is my room. And, the mood was set from that point forward.

Several mounds of laundry and trash and bm's later, I am here, with bills paid, carpets shampooed and kids not speaking to me. Ah yes, the snarl that comes from close contact with Formula 409. I went on a rant, even shutting the windows just in case others might hear. The kids stood side by side, expressionless while I was ranting and raving about bm's and this and that.... no, I actually didn't use 'bm' but did say 'shit'.

Miraculously, action followed the rant. Chores were completed. Things got done. I know why mom had to do her Joan Crawford routine to activate us kids. We'd sleep until noon and wander around the house like sloths, ever slowly on a weekend. When, she was bombarded by stinks of this and that and everything dirty. Everything. And, off we'd go, on a cleaning spree before we could dare think of a rendezvous at the local mall. I swore I'd never act that way. Never, ever. No, uh uh. Not gonna talk to MY kids like that. No way, Jose.

And, out it comes, the rants I heard as a kid. And, my kids move like sloths, too. I think that happens when you are a teenager. And, Sam just called to say that he had a 'fender bender'. Oh, lord. One day with this car. One day. Good lord.

The bm is gonna hit the fan when he comes home.