I need more drugs for my Crazy

Last weekend I spent my normally Reserved for Sleeping Saturday in the clutches of three children under the age of five, one of which still shits her pants. The whole diaper changing thing isn’t really a deterrent to care-giving because, hello, this is what I do every Wednesday and Sunday. I wipe poop from dirty bottoms. I wipe poop from dirty legs. I wipe poop from the bathroom floor when little Charlie mistakes the toddler toilet for a flesh-eating monster, taking a giant dump on the linoleum instead. But kids go into a different behavioral mode when they know Mommy Dearest is more than a few stairs away. They transform into needy heathen sticky monkeys who will climb your shoulder because that spot, right there? the clean one? the one not covered in Koolaid? LET’S SMEAR OUR LEFTOVER ICECREAM ON IT.

Of course the exasperation all melts away when the little girl who would not. stop. talking. less than thirty seconds before suddenly feels the need to curl contentedly in your lap. And says she loves you. But then she accidentally knees you in the shin and gets your hair caught in her zipper and you remember, with blinding clarity, that raising a child rates right up there with eating a bowl of urine covered earwax.

Later that afternoon, when all three children had finally (finally!) laid down for their afternoon nap, I took the opportunity to enjoy my friend’s snazzy new television and her plethora of channels. It was a nice respite, because for a solid hour I got to watch a program with actual dialogue and cuss words without the lingering fear that someone would turn their innocent eyes in my direction and ask, “Miss Robin, what’s a dildo?” To which I would reply, “An adult tool that leads to certain blindness.”

While I was laying on the couch, my friend’s husband commented on the fact that I had monkey feet. I’m not sure what this means, the monkey feet comment, but I know it doesn’t bother me that much. I mean, if he had said I had a monkey ass we’d be scrapping directly. Word. Those monkey asses leave something to be desired, especially when you get into the whole huge bulbous red ass on the orangutan thing.

The foot comment reminded me of a reader I had about a year ago out of the UK. Apparently he’d stumbled across my blog, followed by my Flickr website, followed by the picture of me showing off my One True Talent: the ability to flip you off with my left foot. My father can also perform this feat due to a nonexistent joint in the middle toe. Though even he admits he’d never fully realized his deformity’s potential until I came along.

My UK reader had a propensity for long winded emails, most revolving around his burning need for my feet and his outstanding career as a podiatrist. This merely cemented my feeling that foot-doctors need to be on medication. Strong, heavy-on-the-sedatives medication. Lucky for me, my UK friend had a whole network of feet-minded individuals and I saw a drastic upswing on my visitor log with a majority coming from the UK. All of them had a referring url of this , which leads straight to my post on ::retching:: corns. The corns I got on my pinkie toe after wearing shoes conducive to ripping someone a new asshole. Also known as the pointy-toe ones.

To say I began to get a bit panicked was a bit of an understatement. I kept seeing the scene in ‘Kiss the Girls’ when the police stumble upon a freezer full of feet. Feet. In a freezer. Freezer-o-Feet. I go out of my way to not acknowledge feet, especially anything associated with Sexy and Feet all in the same thought. I once sat at a dinner table while my friend compared her husband sucking on her toes to a mini-orgasm. I cannot agree or disagree with this statement because should someone come at my foot with an open mouth, I will probably assume that they’re getting ready to bite them off. Also, feet in mouth? Isn’t there a disease called Hoof and Mouth? Same thing, right?

So I kindly (also known as ‘curtly’) responded to the emails from my UK friend, indicating I did not share his foot fetish nor would I be willing to send him additional pictures of my feet. I haven’t heard from him since last August and I can’t say as I’m sad about that. I sincerely hope he’s gotten that whole foot thing under control and, if not, is harassing someone closer to home.