I was cleaning up my phone the other day—sorting through and deleting unneeded notes and photos—when I came across a picture of a dog that I had never seen before. In fact, there were five pictures of said dog. So I showed my husband the photos:
Me: “Do you know this dog?”
Dan: “No clue.”
Me: “So you didn’t take these pictures?”
Dan: ‘Nooooo. Didn’t you? Or did someone else take them?”
Me: “No clue. I can’t figure out who this dog is.”
Dan: “When was the photo taken?”
Me: “Looks like it was after you came home from Arizona, but before my sister’s birthday.”
Dan: “That’s a pretty narrow window. Oh, you had that wine night with your friends.”
Me: “… Nevermind. I remember the dog.”
Dan: “Who’s the dog?”
Me: “Nicole’s dog. Huh. I guess now we know how much wine I had to drink that night.”
Apparently some of that haiku got lost on my phone. Some of them were so bad, they actually deserved to stay hidden. But I thought I’d share them with you anyhow. Because I needed something to write about love you.
I hate you, Monday. You are the worst day of all. You too, hangover.
Tasty sangria: Get in my mouth this minute, and pack your punch please.
Tequila tastings are not advised on weeknights. I need coffee now.
If you don’t respect the Easter Bunny right now, you do not get shit.
A few of them, I meant to send to Peyton Price, Ms. Suburban Haiku herself, during the actual contest.
Can’t wait for Monday. My haiku is exploding on my computer
I am not sure you appreciate my restraint in not swearing here.
#suburbanhaiku restored my once shaky faith in that twitter thing.
One was an ode to my trip to Las Vegas with my girlfriends.
Are my lips drawn straight? I should have cleavage glitter. Hope my Spanx stay put.
A few more of them summed up REAL PROBLEMS in suburbia. REAL PROBLEMS, people.
This morning’s crisis: The maid is cleaning bathrooms, and I need to poop.
Neighborhood outrage: Someone dropped a dog poop bag in my green waste bin.
My pants seam just ripped. Jillian shredded my ass, or I need less wine.
Just wiped my armpits with a baby wipe, so yeah, I showered today.
One, of course, was a love letter to
my a random mother-in-law:
MIL, you birthed Jesus. He is so perfect. But doesn’t that make me a whore?
One was kind of random. I’m really not sure where it came from. Maybe I just wanted to use the word, “oxymoron.”
I almost wrote a sexy haiku, but is that an oxymoron?
Of course, I challenged myself to answer that question. (The answer is no.)
Dancing in the waves. Bodies intertwined, crashing. Lips kiss salty lips.
(And you thought I could only be funny.)
As I was sorting through the hidden haiku,
screaming at working with my kids to get their damn homework done, finishing up all of the year-end volunteer projects, and rearranging my schedule to attend all the “special” end-of-the-school-year days that require me to be at the school itself, I was losing my mind conversing with my friend Ashley at Big Top Family. We both agreed that May and June suck balls. So I wrote her this haiku:
I can’t keep up with the end-of-year craziness. I’ll just say, “Fuck it.”
And, with that, I wish you a happy Summer. (Even though Summer sucks.) Ours begins on Thursday. I’ll be the one wearing black.