FMH: F*ck My House

One of the good things about Christmas is that you get lots of gifts and new stuff. One of the bad things about Christmas is that you get lots of gifts and new stuff.

I am currently sitting at home, looking at the outright disaster that my home has become. It is going to take me, at a bare minimum, a good day to repair the damage. That's a whole day that I could be spending on other worthwhile and more rewarding activities, like reading fashion magazines and getting that hot-stone massage I so desperately need for my chronic buttock pain.

Last night, when my desire for a hot bath and a Jacqueline Susann novel overtook my urge to clean, I came up with a brilliant idea. So many of my friends enjoy the FML web site--to those not in the know, that would be F*ck My Life. FML features brief blurbs from people like you and I, who have encountered unpleasant situations in their lives. An example would be: "I just met the hottest girl ever at my family reunion, only to find out she is my cousin. FML"

It dawned on me that I could start my own site, called FMH: F*ck My House. It would be the hottest new site for people like me--those who have been told by their ex-husbands that they are "no homemakers!"--to post photos of their own household disasters, while also having the healing experience of seeing that others might just have it worse.

I will kick off FMH with photos of the aftermath of Christmas at my house:
















I'd like to say that I have the ambition to do something about this, but unfortunately, my assortment of Sunday papers is draining what little focus I have today.

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GIMME More!

Despite my best efforts, AC discovered her Christmas Pig well before Christmas morning.

Since my divorce, she has been sleeping in bed with me. Other than the fact that this has triggered some sciatic nerve pain that hasn't been present since I was pregnant with AC and the fact that I am lucky if I get three hours of sleep when she's with me, I don't really mind all that much.

However, last night, she announced that she wanted to sleep in her own bed. Busted: the Christmas Pig was in its cage--IN her bed. I had no choice but to move it, and since the cage is pretty close in size to that JFK aircraft carrier I want, it was impossible to hide it from AC, even though it was covered in a blanket.

The questions started immediately: what is that? Why? Who brought it here? Why? It has toys? Why? That's its food? Why? That's a caterpillar? Why? Why? Why?

I agreed that it was indeed a caterpillar, and told her I didn't know why it was here.

At that moment, the Christmas Pig darted out from its piggy bed, and I was caught in my own lie. AC screamed, "It's a chipmunk!". I did not disagree.

Because I was so busted and poor Christmas Pig was so scared, thanks in part to my 120 pound golden retriever, whose attention had been captured by the fuss, I took Christmas Pig out for a visit.

AC gushed over her new cutesy "chipmunk", and I asked her what she would name her Christmas Pig. No answer.

Since it was so close to bedtime, I hustled AC off to bed, where she threw a toddler tantrum. Naturally, my phone had to ring at this moment. A few days prior, I'd made the juvenile decision to download the Britney Spears' song '3' as my ringtone. It is inappropriate in every sense, and makes me wonder how, when I was a kid, the song 'Me So Horny' caused such a controversy, and now Britney singing about a threesome with "Twister on the floor" is appropriate.

Anyway, AC easily recognizes Brit's voice, and demanded more songs. With the hope of getting her to sleep, I decided I'd let her watch some Britney videos on my phone.

Now, apparently it slipped my mind that there really is no such thing as a family-friendly Britney video. We landed on 'Gimme More', infamous for my favorite quote in recent history: "It's Britney, b!tch!"

'Gimme More' features little more than Brit pole dancing. I cringed, hoping AC would avoid the question of "What that? Why?"

Luckily, Brit calmed her and she was ready to go to sleep--but not before one last goodnight to "Gimme". Yes, AC has named her guinea pig after a Britney Spears song: Gimme.

I am hoping that well-meaning people will think that she is saying "Guinea", not "Gimme", so I don't have to explain the fact that my two-and-half-year old named her new pet after a pole-grinding, semi-naked, infamous for its poorly performed at the VMAs, "It's Britney, b!tch" song. As the song says, its "got me in a crazy position...but if you're on a mission, you've got my permission..."


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The Christmas Pig

Against the advice of nearly all of my friends, I have purchased AC a guinea pig for Christmas. For me, when I saw this face, it was love at first sight:




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It made me remember my own childhood pigs, Piggy and Lucy. Piggy was my first guinea pig, and she was, of course, orange. I am drawn toward orange animals, as evidenced in my selection of pigs and dogs. We were told the Piggy was a young pig, so I was hopeful that Piggy would be in my life for a long, long time. Unfortunately, one night I went to get Piggy, and she was foaming at the mouth. Never a good sign. Piggy died within hours. We should've checked to see if the pet store offered a money-back guarantee.

My second pig, Lucy, was purchased from the same pet store the very next day following Piggy's untimely death. There was only one pig available for sale, and we were told that it was Piggy's mother. Now that her breeding potential had expired, she was out for sale. I took her home the same day.

Lucy was an extraordinarily sweet guinea pig, and let me pet her and pick her up, and gleefully ran around the house, chewing electrical cords and depositing little piles of poo everywhere. Needless to say, I am doubtful that Lucy was my mom's favorite pet.

A couple of years after Lucy had come home, I noticed that she was a bit lethargic in her cage. She wouldn't eat, even when I offered her favorite lettuce. She wasn't drinking. It was obviously that my beloved pig was precariously close to death.

It took less than 24 hours for Lucy to die. I was devastated, and held her in my arms the entire time. I will always remember that she took her last breath on an "in" breath, and over the years, any time I've ever been present at a death, be it an animal or a person, the death always occurs on an in breath and not an out breath. Why is that? Maybe that's why it's called "taking your last breath".

After my pig died, I called my mom at work and begged her to come home. She did not. Some silly story about having no choice but to stay because she was doing employee reviews or something.

So I had no choice but to prep my pig for burial. I got a shoebox, and lined it with a blanket. I put a Cabbage Patch Kids doll dress on my pig, so she wouldn't get chilled. I included some lettuce, and I wrote a gut-wrenching goodbye letter to Lucy. And then I waited for my mother to come home from work, fully anticipating that she would dig the burial hole for my pig.

I will give my mother credit: she did try to dig a burial hole, but lacking a shovel or even a gardening tool, she used a spoon from the kitchen. In Minnesota, in mid-November, this does not get you far. Finally, she gave up, because she simply could not break through the frozen ground.

There was only one option: my mom threw my dead pig in the dumpster.

I have yet to forgive her for this, and when needed as leverage for a loan or babysitting, I will still bring it up in conversation.

I am hoping for a better outcome for AC's new pig, though I am not guaranteed, since when the pig arrived home yesterday, it seemed...lethargic. I hope it is just adjusting to its new home, but it has yet to come out of its piggy bed.

A friend wished me good luck with wrapping the guinea pig. The only thing that could possibly be worse is if AC unwraps the pig on Christmas morning, and it is dead. That is a Christmas morning for the record books, you can be dead sure.