Friday, June 29, 2007

Five Weeks Away From Sesame Place

In exactly five weeks and three days, we will be only hours from having dinner with Big Bird. I know you're totally wishing you were me right now.

And the crazy part? Is that I'm really, really excited.

Vacations used to mean going to the South of France and lounging on the beach, enjoying rose wine in a cafe in the evenings before strolling romantically through French streets. It was nice, it was lovely, it was the kind of vacations that people dream of taking their entire lives.

And now? Now that we have a toddler, vacations mean standing next to a poor college kid trapped in a six-foot tall Elmo costume to take a picture of a terrified toddler. Because I'm being realistic. As much as Little Man loves Ernie and Elmo, seeing them as real-live ginormous people? More than likely, will scare the doo doo out of him, maybe enough to actually make him regular and off the milk of magnesia.

And yet I can't wait. I can't wait to see his little face as he finds out that there's an amusement park dedicated to nothing but his favorite TV show. And I can't wait to take him to the Sesame water park, where they have toddler water slides. Can you imagine that? It's a slide! And it has water! ON IT! It's like combining a bath and a slide together! I anticipate that little man's brain will explode on multiple occasions. Luckily, his Jeep umbrella stroller is washable.

Here's where the world of blogging amazes me. Sesame Park? I didn't know it existed. Would never even have occured to me as a vacation spot. Because, that'd be the equivalent to me thinking "I wonder if there's a place to vacation that has nothing but hot men who want to give me foot massages?" I mean, even if I dreamed that up, I don't know if I'd google it.

But then, I posted here, a few months ago, about Little Man's love of Sesame Street and his deepening love for Ernie.

And a complete stranger to me, someone who just happened to start reading my blog for reasons that I will never understand. Someone who I've since gotten to know through her own blog, and whose quirks I'm starting to know, whose kids' names, interests, talents, etc. I know almost as well as I know my real-life friends' kids.

Someone who has emailed me a few times, and who've I emailed on occasions. Someone who has become a blogger friend, something I didn't know existed two years ago. And yet, this person, out of the blue, commented about Sesame Place and influenced my vacation plans this year. Julie, on behalf of Little Man and myself (not so much Sweetie Pie, because I still think he's not too thrilled about this trip), thanks for being such a great blogger friend and thanks for letting us know that the wonderfulness of Sesame Place exists.

I can't wait!



Thursday, June 28, 2007

Another Example of Great Money Management

So Sweetie Pie calls me at work yesterday afternoon, right when I'm about to leave. And he tells me that he can't buy us dinner for date night, because he just checked our account balance on his phone, and we're down to two dollars. Two freaking measly dollars. Which means that Little Man currently has way more money than us.

What will two dollars buy you? Not much, I'm afraid. It will buy you a fancy dinner if you happen to go back in time to 1896. I'm sure a prime rib dinner then was like 25 cents.

But now? In 2007? Except for a couple of boxes of Mac and Cheese, there's not much you can get.

So how did this happen, yet again, you ask?

Well, my friends, I'll once again blame it on everything but myself. I'll blame it on, for example the fact that my day care spending flex plan at work had an issue this month, so I couldn't my $400 back from them that I always get after the 15th. Since I'm not Paris Hilton, a $400 lack of money is a really, really big deal on my tight budget.

And then, I'm going to blame the fact that there are some really, really great kids' sales going on right now. Like Gymboree? They had up to 60 percent off on stuff. And Little Man's 2T wardrobe for next summer, it is sadly, sadly lacking! And I always buy end of season stuff on clearance for the following year. This is how Little Man was voted best dressed baby of our neighborhood.

Also? Janie & Jack, an expensive store that I never shop from, had stuff for 60 percent off! Which means that I got Little Man three kid designer shirts for the prices of Old Navy shirts! Which really? I had to do it!

And then Old Navy had some awesome sales too, even if their change room chick is still on my Need-to-Claw-Eyes-Out list. But I even got Little Man a camo raincoat for this fall that was oh-too-cute.

But It's not like I spent thousands of dollars, the way Britney does in half an hour. I got all of this for under $100. Three stores, $100. I mean really? Can you do better than that?

And yet, still, here I sit, one day before pay day with only two dollars in our accounts.

And a penny. There's a penny on my desk. Which just made me 0.5 percent richer than I was when I started this post.

So see, there is a bright side!

So our fancy meal for date night last night? We had boxed Macaroni and cheese, with half a can of Wolf Brand chili mixed in.

Little Man and Sweetie Pie were thrilled, because they love poor people food way more than any fancy thing I can cook up.

Who needs lobster when there's canned chili in this world?



Tuesday, June 26, 2007


I'm in the car this morning, driving to daycare and work, and the Plain White Tee's song "Hey Delilah" comes on. I'm singing along, and when we get to the chorus, Little Man joins in and sings "OOOOOOOH what you do to me, oooooh what you do to me."

I'm grinning ear to ear and we sing the rest of the song together, as loudly as we can, bopping our heads, like if the love song was some 80's metal song.

The song ends and Little Man applauds.

I turn to him and say "I love you!"

He smiles back and says "I uv you, Daddy!"

I laugh. "No, not daddy! You say 'I love you, MAMA!"

He laughs maniacally. "No! DAH-DEE! I uv you!"

As I shake my head at him, I can picture the trail of broken hearts crushed my future teenager.



Monday, June 25, 2007

Murder at Old Navy

I've been in customer service. I've talked before on here about being a flight attendant. And having a pregnant woman almost punch me because we were stuck on a tarmac with no A/C and she was hot and I told her I was sorry, and that I was hot too. Apparently, that makes pregnant women want to punch you when you sympathize with them. There were also many grabbings of my ass, because our very unattractive grandma navy blue pants? Apparently it made my butt look like a porn star's.

Another time, a man leaned down while I was putting his dirty meal tray into my cart and said to me "don't you wished you'd stayed in school?" This offended me to no end, because one, this was the job that was putting me through school, I was working on my B.A. at the time. Also? The guy working the aisle across from me was doing his PhD and our flight director was working on her MBA. So we were probably one smart crew. Second of all? You can't even be a flight attendant without some kind of degree, because it's the second most wanted job after actress, and they've got their pic of people. Third of all, even if we were all high school drop outs, who the hell are you to judge me???? And so I just smiled at him, told him that I was actually in my third year of university, told him about the PhD and MBA students also working the flight and then sweetly asked "and what grade did you drop out of sir?"

My point is, that working with the public sucks. But even at my worst point as a flight attendant, the point where I hated humanity and thought that all human beings were evil and that I wanted to save up to buy myself a deserted island where I would never have to be called bitch or way worse words just because the flight was delayed, even then, I'd give people the benefit of the doubt, where I wouldn't be rude to them until they were rude to me.

This weekend, I stopped by Old Navy with Little Man and saw a bunch of jeans on clearance, so threw a few different ones into the cart. Now, I should stop here and say that I was being realistic here. I think every woman does this, but I have two sizes: thinner catwoman size, and not-so-thin catwoman size. All of the jeans I had in the cart were not-so-thin size, because right now? My love of my morning bagel with bacon (BACON!!!!) cream cheese? It's kind of making my ass take over another county.

I walk into the change area and I've got Little Man in one of the Old Navy carts, strapped in, and really, because I'm alone with him, I'd like to keep him in there. Since I had way more than six items with me, because I'd grabbed a bunch of baby clothes for Little Man, I took the baby stuff aside and said to the girl, with a smile on my face, "let me leave these here so I don't go over the quota, but please make sure one of your coworkers doesn't put these back on the shelf." This was said in a pleasant voice. The mousy ugly girl in the rest room barks at me "I'll put it on the bench there."

Uhm... OK. Did I run your dog over on my way into the change room?

So then, she unlocks a tiny little stall for me. Looking down at the big ass cart with Little Man in it, I said to her, "uhm, I don't think I can fit in there, can I just use the handicapped one?" Because honestly, every store I've ever been in, that's what they do for women with strollers or carts.

So mousy ugly hater of life girl rolls her eyes at me and says "Other people have fit in there, so I'm sure you can to."


Did I steal a boyfriend from you bitch? Do you not see I have an absolutely adorable tot with me? Shouldn't the glow that emulates from the cart soften you up at all?

I'm so shell shocked at this point that I push the cart in, squeeze myself into the three inches left and proceed to try to change into the jeans by hanging myself upside down from the hooks.

And just to add to my misery, I cannot button any of the jeans. It's like Old Navy has shrunk all of their pants or something. So now I'm really, really unhappy.

As I try to get out of the change room, I have to try to open the door just enough to get myself out, and of course, this door is one that opens into the stall, rather than out, so that it really is an impossible situation.

Right as I've got the door opened enough to get myself out, Little Man lets out this horrible scream, the kind that curdles your blood and breaks windows at high rises 40 miles away. The kind of scream that you know means "holy shit, he is injured."

I look and Little Man had placed his hand on the side of the cart, so that when I opened the door, the sharp corner pinched his finger between the cart and the door.

I start closing the door back up, and my now purple screaming child isn't moving his little hand. I look at his finger and there's a dent in it. I begin to kiss it, near tears myself at this point and my first reaction is to want to eat this bitch's entrails for dinner, because she did this. If bitch had let me use the bathroom, this never would have happened.

Little Man is in so much pain, that my kissing of his little finger, instead of soothing him like it normally does, only causes him to be more angry and he hits me repeatedly, still screaming at octaves that make my brain throb, I exit the stall with Little Man in my arms, leaving the cart and all the pants (off the hangers! Take that bitch!!!!!) and the bitch smirks at me and says "is he okay?"

To which I began to tear her a new one and tell her that she is the worst person that Old Navy has ever hired.

I was way too upset to get her name, but at the cash register, on my receipt I had one of those "take our survey!" things and you can bet that I'll be taking that survey. Oh yes I will. And someone, someone who can't even be nice to people who are being nice to them will get the online lashing of her life.

Little Man's finger is fine, and he was calmed down by the time we got to the car. But here's your warning, mousy ugly bitch. If you fuck with any of our babies and your actions somehow cause them pain, the Mama Mafia will get you. We'll serve you your knee caps for dinner, with a delightfully creamy marinara sauce.



Friday, June 22, 2007

I Wann! I Wann!

Little Man totally has only child syndrome these days. He's still absolutely munchably adorable, what with his white man dancing, his adulation of Gwen Stefani music and his prowess at counting to three. But he can also be extremely irritating, claiming everything as his own, like some kind of toddler or something.

I can't be seen with anything around the house, because if I'm spotted by my just under three-foot tall tyrant, a chant of "MIIIIIIINE! MIIIIIIIINE! I wann! I wann!" begins.

The CIA has contacted me yesterday asking me to ship Little Man to Guantanamo Bay as their new torture device, and by torture, I mean fun and games, because of course we don't actually torture people, it's just a manner of speaking like the way gouging someone's eyes out is a loving term of endearment.

Because really? If I were a terrorist, and I had to listen to the incessant whining of a particularly stubborn 21-month old, I'd tell you anything you'd want, man. I'd even tell you things you don't want to know, like the size of my last bowel movement (although, I know that secretly? You really want to know that, since you keep coming here to read this crap. Oh, and to the person who came to this site by googling "calories burnt farting?", let me tell you this much: it's not that many, because I'm still not a size zero).



Thursday, June 21, 2007

Heart Attacks

So shower time is my time. While I'm in the shower, I like to plan my day, I like to day dream, I like to pretend that I'm accepting an Oscar for the third year in a row, and really, I'm kind of bored with the whole thing, because my last role, I played a stripper who becomes President of the United States and has a the horrible disability of not being able to grow her nails long. And yet, still they continue to give me the Oscar.

But I've lost my train of thought. Oh, yeah, so my point is, that in the shower, I am no longer part of this universe. I'm in Catwoman land, a place where sheep nuzzle you all day long and little tiger cubs sleep in your arms. Also? gas only costs 25 cents a gallon there and it doesn't cause global warming at all, in fact, in Catwoman land, gas fumes create rainbows and cause world peace.

And so I lose my train of thought again. So in the shower, I'm unaware of what's going on around me. And so this morning, as I was picturing myself on our family vacation running through Sesame Place holding Elmo's hand, and then picture Sweetie Pie and I during our romantic three days away, just the two of us, and I was blissfully happy, far, far away, when all of a sudden what sounded like a bomb hit the shower door and exclaimed at a decibel that I can only equal to supersonic "MAMA!"

When my skeleton came off the ceiling, picked up my flabby skin off the shower floor, climbed back into it and managed to slow my heart rate down to about 300 beats per minute, I realized, of course, that Little Man had left the comfort of our bed where he was watching Jojo's circus and had entered the bathroom to see where I was hiding and was thrilled to have found me.

Me? I was just relieved that I always remember to pee before I get in the shower.



Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Pink Eye, Ear Fluid and Winnie-the-Pooh Assaults

I'll be honest with you. This weekend? It sucked some serious pond water through a bendy straw.

Because my Little Man? That sweet little blonde tussle headed, blue eyed cherub who smiles rainbows and Krispy Kreme frosting sweetness has turned into a demon the likes Hollywood has not dared portray.

I imagine being in an emotionally difficult relationship would be a lot like what Sweetie Pie and I endured this weekend. Where the tiniest breath, the smallest error in judgement could set off his highness and create a tirade of screams that loosened shingles from houses two counties away.

Some of the idiotic things we did this weekend included removing the lid off his highness' yogurt, since he's not able to do it himself. Apparently, this is wrong. Way wrong and helping out someone is not a welcomed behavior like we were raised to believe.

Sweetie Pie also once served Little Man a yogurt. WITH THE SPOON ALREADY IN IT. How could anyone have made it to 33 years when they pull stupid crap like that?

Also? I wouldn't let Little Man ride in the front seat of my Jeep. Which means I totally deserved my tongue lashing and having my body thrashed about and beaten to a pulp with two little fists rougly the size of a kitten's head, since after all the number of times Little Man has ridden in the front seat in his 21 months is roughly zero times and Britney Spears kids, well, they were practically born in the driver's seat, thank you very much.

On Sunday, during another screaming fit of Little Man's where he rolled around on the carpet in the living room so much that it now has bald spots, I told Sweetie Pie that I was sorry that the best part of his Father's Day was when his son was out of the house at his sister's.

We greeted Monday with open arms, the way drunk David Hasselhoff greets a burger that's been left on the ground. The five-second rule is so yesterday, after all.

When I picked up Little Man on Monday afternoon, I thought maybe being back in school would bring the real Little Man out again, maybe he's just like this at home now. How I thought this would make me feel better, I'm not sure.

But when I looked down at Little Man's daily report, his teacher had written "This is the unhappiest Little Man has ever been."

On Tuesday morning, I decided that a visit to the pediatrician's was in order, because surely they had some kind of exorcist antibiotic that would make the devil leave my son's body.

So today, I'm at home with Little Man. And ends up? It wasn't the devil, I don't care what those Southern Baptists say. Ends up, Little Man has pressure in his ears and some kind of fluid (I'm guessing maybe the little left over tequila Sweetie Pie and I didn't drink to make it through the weekend) in there. Also? He felt that the pink eye really brings out the blue of his eyes, and so he's developed one raging case of that.

When the pediatrician mentioned the pink eye, I asked her to give us anything but the eye drops. Because giving Little Man eye drops? Much more difficult than flossing a shark's teeth for him. And also much more likely to cause loss of limbs, because sharks, unlike Little Man, are really anal about oral hygiene.

But apparently, the pink eye, it can only be cured by eye drops with the acidity of vinegar. And so off we go for 21 doses of hell.

But after one round of eye drops and ear drops for the fluid, Little Man has already eased off the Mr. Hyde routine to the point that Dr. Jekyll is mostly there. Which is such a relief, because the ruptures in my ear drums may actually have a chance to heal.

And just because Little Man has been such a poop head these last few days, here is my revenge. I have this giant Winnie-The-Pooh that I kept all these years and pulled out again before Little Man was born to place in his room. Little Man has recently begun dragging Winnie and wrestling with him. Last week, it resulted in these pictures.

See the look of terror on the poor bear's face? We're expecting rape charges to be filed against Little Man at any minute.

When I showed the pictures of Little Man seducing Winnie-the-Pooh to Sweetie Pie, all he could say is "that's my boy, his form is perfect."



Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Not Quite Paris Hilton's Ego, But Getting Closer By the Day

Here are five reasons why I rock:

- Reason #1: I am one hell of a cook. On Saturday night, I made Sweetie Pie the following menu:

Cocktail Shrimp

Which I served with the shrimp hanging off a martini glass, I filled the glass with ice and stuck a little shot glass full of cocktail sauce in the middle. Yeah, it looked freaking awesome.

followed by:

Rib Eye Steak in a Merlot Sauce
with Scalloped potatoes

and to finish off the meal:
Heart-shaped molten chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream

- Reason #2: No matter how cool I think I am, I always manage to sell myself out and let my true nerdiness show. Like the fact that until yesterday, I thought that Yung Joc was a Vietnamese rapper.

But in my defense, if you're going to go and purposely spell English words incorrectly because a) you can't spell or b) you think it's cool, make sure that they don't end up being identical to very common Vietnamese names.

- Reason #3: I'm really, really good at my job. I'm not perfect by any means. I mean, I'm not detail oriented, and so stuff will get f'ed up. But the meat of it? The core of what I do? I'm so good at it, it comes out of my pores. I just need a place that's not too detailed oriented for me to shine. And luckily, I've found that in my current job.

- Reason #4: I can't wear mascara on my bottom lashes, because I always end up rubbing my eyes and looking like a raccoon. Since I don't look at myself in a mirror, ever, I can go 6 hours without realizing that I look ridiculous. I think this makes me charming and quirky, not one step closer to a straight jacket.

- Reason #5: I have the bladder of a camel. I drink more than 48 ounces of water while I'm at work. And yet, I only pee about two-three times while I'm here. Of course, should I get pregnant again, I will lose my bladderial super powers and become one of you humans who pees every 15 minutes when they drink this much water.

Yeah, it's good to be me.



Monday, June 18, 2007

Yayoo! YAYOO!!!!

My son is on a food strike. He will not eat anything.

Now, most toddlers, when they go on a food strike, usually will continue to eat chicken nuggets and French Fries. Which I'm pretty sure my son would be willing to eat those too.

But me? I'm not willing to make him that stuff for breakfast.

And so every single hour of this past weekend, my son has stood in front of his booster seat screaming "EATS! EATS!" as if I was the one who was preventing him from eating.

And once I'd place him in the seat, he'd yell at me if I tried to bring him offensive foods like Cheerios, Cocoa Puffs, goldfish crackers or gasp! cheese.

What kind of person would offer such disgusting foods to someone?

And each time he's whine "NOOOOOOO!" and scrunch up his face in horror, because I'm obviously a moron.

And then the chant would begin. "Yayoo! YAYOO!"

This is my son's version of the French word for yogurt. Yogurt is what my son has lived on for now three days.

Offer him something else, and you will walk away from the battle with a toddler spoon sticking out of the side of your skull. Don't fuck with the angry toddler, my friend.

And I guess you could say that there are worst things to live on than yogurt. And I agree. My son's bones are now unbreakable to the point that the next time his incessant whining brings me to throw him out the window, his super-human calcium coated bones will break his impact, cause him bounce back into the house and bitch slap me until summer television stops sucking.

But do you have any idea what a diet of nothing but yogurt does to one's bowels? Oh you don't, do you? Well, let me explain. Because yogurt really has nothing solid, we are offered diapers filled with a puree of mustard-colored goo with fumes that burn the skin off your hands even when you use five wipes at once. My tear ducts have been burnt dry and I'm pretty sure my eyebrows will never grow back.

This morning, I brought Little Man to the fridge, where he promptly chose yet another yogurt. While he ate it, I got out a pint of blueberries, washed some and threw them on his tray and then promptly ducked behind the kitchen island to avoid the missiles he was probably going to launch at me to punish me for breaking orders.

But instead, I got silence, and when I finally peeked over, he was eating the last one, his mouth rimmed with blueberry juice and he smiled at me and asked for more. He then proceeded to eat his weight in blueberries.

When I picked him up last Thursday, his daily report had "BM" marked at 10:30. The letters "BM" were circled about 100 times with the pen, to the point that the paper was almost ripped through. Next to the dark circle, his teacher had written in all caps "NO MORE PRUNE JUICE!!!"

I giggled when I read that, because I'm evil like that. Plus, she'd thought I was giving him coke, so this was my little passive aggressive revenge.

Phase two of my revenge will probably be later today, when I expect Little Man to blow out his first solid food in three days in messes that will probably get the school shut down because of the hazardous waste coming out of my Little Man's ass.

Payback's a bitch!



Friday, June 15, 2007

How to Impress a Toddler

We're having dinner last night, when Little Man suddenly starts twirling his hands in front of his chest and sings "round and round." I don't believe I've ever sung Wheels on the Bus to Little Man, since most of the songs I sing to him have titles like "U and Your Hand" or "Party Like a Rock Star" or even "Umbrella." Because you can never be too young to learn lyrics like "Umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh. Under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh."

But my brain does remember the lyrics of Wheels on the Bus and so I begin a rousing (and off-key) version of the song. As I got to the end of the first line, Little Man's eyes widened like he was thinking "HOLY SHIT! Woman can sing the song!"

The shock dissipated long enough to join me through the different verses. And so the wipers went swish, swish, swish, the people went up and down, the babies went wah, wah, wah (which is ironic, because my baby's all about going wah, wah, wah whenever the universe offends him). And then I ended the song, only to have Little Man remind me that the horn goes beep, beep, beep. Which I admit, I'd forgotten.

This morning I dropped off Little Man at daycare and as I walked away, I knew that he gathered all of his buddies and told them "Dudes, you totally won't believe this, but I fucking taught the adults our song in under five seconds. I'm totally not shitting you! I think they might be brilliant!"

I can't wait to tell him that I also know Itsy Bitsy Spider. I think he might totally poop himself.

Which in his case, would really not be a bad thing, if you know what I mean...



Thursday, June 14, 2007

Butt Cracks and Baby Crack

I like to think of myself as a pretty good mother. I'm not going to claim here, or anywhere else for that matter, that I'm a great mother. But like Sinatra, I do it my way.

I buy organic milk for little man, because I can afford the extra eight bucks a month to do so. I'll force feed myself grapes and slices of apple in front of him to inspire him to do the same. Which, honestly, these lips have met many, many more candy bars than fruit for many years now.

I always strap Little Man in his car seat and make sure that when he runs through the house with a carving knife that he points the blade down.

So really, I think I do more than Britney, who in many ways is everything I strive to be as a mother, what with her ability to take her kids to night clubs and do tequila shots our of their belly buttons.

But today, I actually had my parenting questioned by one of Little Man's teachers. I know she meant well, and I realize the only reason she'd questioned me was because the day before my son thought he was Spider Man in his drugged out state and hung off the ceiling flinging his dirty diaper at Hannibal Lechter. At least I think that's what she said.

You see, three days ago, my son had his last poop. Since then, he's decided that poop is a hot commodity and that he must hang on to it, storing it in his ever-expanding belly. Maybe he's decided not to poop until Paris is released, in a weird solidarity movement. Because the last time he pooped, she was free. This is my son's idea of an analogy. Free Paris and his poop will be freed!

I believe he should be moving out to California within the year, where he will only leave to go to D.C. and protest the cruel treatment of silk worms and bees. Because the bees? They are forced to pollinate! And then we steal their honey! And damn the cruelty of humankind to insects that are willing to sting us if we try to hug them.

But back to the poop. After giving Little Man more fruit and veggies than any human should eat, there was still no movement.

So I turned to prune juice yesterday morning, in order to try to shake things up. And so Little Man showed up to school with a sippy cup full of a dark brown liquid.

Which his teacher assumed was coke. Because we all know that coke? It is the breakfast of champions for toddlers. What with all of its zero percent daily value of every vitamin and its 200 gazillion grams of sugar per serving. Which is why I myself have two to three a day and can clearly run a marathon. I just choose not to.

Within half an hour of being at the school, my son got a burst of energy that apparently caused the roof of the school to be torn off. My Little Man was running around the classroom pushing chairs! The horror!

And so his teacher, when I showed up this morning said to me "Did you give him coke yesterday?"

I was confused by the question. And asked her what she was talking about. She explained that my son had gone nuts, like he'd been pumped with sugar and when they cleaned out his sippy cup, they realized that it was filled with coke.

I was confused, since for the past seven months, my son shows up with a sippy cup of Organic whole milk. I thought about it for a second and laughed, realizing that it was prune juice. Which I guess looks a little like coke.

But apparently, his teacher? She must have done a different kind of coke in her younger days, because the prune juice? It really does not smell anything like the soda.



Wednesday, June 13, 2007

You Want a Piece of Meme?

So because I'm swamped at work and haven't slept in three days, I can't think of anything funny to tell you about. So I'm copying these two meme's that were posted on a couple of the fantastic folks on my blogroll. If you don't read all of these great peeps to figure out who it came from, well, shame on you. You're missing on some great reading.

So the rules are for the first one that I can only answer each question with three words. So here goes. Apparently I'll be bitch slapped with my two chin hairs that I've been too busy to tweeze this week if I don't follow the rules.

1. Where is your cell phone? In my purse

2. Boyfriend/girlfriend? Hot one, please

3. Hair? Gone, down there

4. Your mother? Quite the freak

5. Your father? A little chubby

6. Your favorite item(s)? Chocolate, iPod, shoes

7. Your dream last night? Couldn't tell ya

8. Your favorite drink? Definitely a mojito

9. Your dream guy/girl? I married him

10. The room you are in? Padded blue walls

11. Your fear? creepy crawly snakes

12. What do you want to be in 10 years? in killer shape

13. Who did you hang out with last night? My work friends

14. What are you not? Driven, evil, backstabber

15. Are you in love? I better be!

16. Item/s on your wishlist? Kick ass shoes

17. What time is it? One Twenty Four

18. The last thing you did? Drank my water

19. What are you wearing? Unfun work clothes

20. Your favorite book? Anything without pictures

21. The last thing you ate? Avocado with Tuna

22. Your life? Incredible and unbelievably blessed

23. Your mood? Exhausted and anxious

24. Your friends? They freaking rock!

25. What are you thinking about right now? Three-word answers

26. Your car? On last leg

27. What are you doing at this moment? back at you.

28. Your summer? In full progress

29. Your relationship status? Married with child

30. What is on your TV screen? It's not here

31. When is the last time you laughed? I guess today

32. Last time you cried? I can't remember

33. School? Long done, thanks!

34. Why did this end so abruptly? I'm quite confused.

On to the next one...

Two Names You Go By:


Two Things You are Wearing Right Now:

White coffee-stained long sleeve shirt
Kick ass Steve Madden shoes

Two Things You Would Want (or Have) in a Relationship:

A best friend
Great make up sex

Two of Your Favorite Things to do:

Eat chocolate
Make Little Man laugh until he gets the hiccups

Two Things You Want Very Badly At The Moment:

A good nap

Two pets you have/had:

The most loving black lab puppy
The sweetest 7-year old Brittany

Two People Who will Fill This out (please?):

Whoever wants to
And somebody else

Two Things You Did Last Night:

Dranks some mojitos
Hung out with girlfriends with no kiddos! Whoo-hoo!

Two Things You Ate Today:

A bagel with bacon cream cheese
An avocado with tuna salad

Two People You Last Talked To:

My girl friend at work
My guy friend at work

Two Things You’re Doing Tomorrow:

Coming to work
Actually writing a real post for my blog

Two Longest Car Rides:

Any drive with Little Man when he's in a crappy mood and screams the entire time.
When my mother would pick me up from a friend's house to take me home because I was in trouble and lectured me the whole way about being a rotten apple

Two Favorite Holidays:

Little Man's birthday

Two favorite beverages:

Chai Latte made with skim milk

There, wasn't that Earth-shattering?



Tuesday, June 12, 2007

California... Here I (Don't) Come

So yesterday, I had to pass on a trip to California. And I'm really, really sad about it. Because I would have gotten to see the headquarters of a company that I've wanted to visit for years.

But instead, I had to let one of my coworkers go, because I simply had too much on my plate.

I am very, very sad about this.

Because mama needs some frequent flyer miles. And some really cool shoes too. But that's a whole different subject.

Although, if you don't know what to get me for my birthday? A pair of Manolo Blahnik's or Jimmy Choo's or any other designer shoes would be a very good gift for me, because the idea of owning a 600 dollar pair of shoes? It makes me giggle mightily.

And what would go better with my Old Navy blue jeans than some Jimmy Choos? I mean really?

Also? When I'm checking out the dollar section at Target, I could really use some shoes that make people think that because I shop at the dollar section, I can afford $600 shoes.

So there's my wish list, Internet. Start saving.

See how I called you "Internet?" Doesn't that drive you nuts? Like how those reality show hosts refer to us as America. Like all of America is sitting there, on the edge of its seat trying to decide if film maker A or film maker B should be given a shot at directing the Rocky VIII: The Shady Oaks Retirement Home Brawl.

And what the hell is in Excedrin? I've taken one when I started typing this post to get rid of this minor headache in the right side of my head and now, I'm spinning around and feel like I'm falling down. Who needs crack cocaine when you've got Excedrin.

And apparently, this shit also makes you want to poop, because all of a sudden, I've got the urge.



Monday, June 11, 2007

Serenity Now, Serenity Now

It's been a really, really crappy morning at the office. The kind of day that goes down the tubes before 8:30 a.m. and you think to yourself that you'd be better off going home, hiding under the blankets, and smoking much Marlboro Ultra Lights while consuming vodka straight from a bottle.

But lookie here kids! I only have 4 and a half more days to screw up before it's the weekend again! Hurray!


So guess what? We finished painting our room. Here's my Mastercard commercial for it:

Special expensive Ralph Lauren Paint that you need two gallons of because your bedroom's big: $93
Brushes, rollers, painter's tape and the myriad of other painting supplies you need: $30
Realizing when the entire room is dry that the candlelight paint looks like shit: Priceless.

So our room? It looks like one giant sneaker. Not an actual sneaker, just the reflective tape part. As we were laying in bed last night, I saw, without my glasses or contacts, a fuzzy glow in the corner and had to ask Sweetie Pie if that was the paint or the smoke detector.

Good news is, we woke up this morning with a killer tan.

On another note? Little Man used his first sentence this weekend. He handed a crayon to his dad and when Sweetie Pie said "You want to draw?" Little Man said "Yeah, I'm so excited." Notice there's no explanation point there. Little Man said it with the same enthusiasm I would if you told me I could have a margarita, but you're out of tequila. But he then said it three more times, as if saying it enough would convince him that he was, in fact excited.

You know what has me excited? The fact that I only have one pair of work pants that fit me. All the rest of them are way too tight. So that should I become pregnant, I will have to wear maternity pants about four weeks into my pregnancy. I'm also saying that I'm excited with no exclamation point. Just in case sarcasm doesn't carry over by blog.



Friday, June 08, 2007

It's Time for Caffeine Friday!

Hello children! It is moi! Caffeine Catwoman! Wheeeeeee! See how my pupils are dilated? See how I can do summersaults down the hallway past 50 cubicles?

Isn't caffeine fun?

So I'm worried, ya'll. By the way, I'm talking in a Britney Spears voice here. OK. So, like, it's summer, right? Because it's like steaming outside and my boobies are sweating and if I don't shave my legs, people look at me funny at the grocery store. Because apparently, people don't like hairy cellulite. Sigh. Judgemental bastards, they are.

Anyway, with it being summer, there's like nothing on TV. I mean, you can't expect me to watch David Hasselhoff, right? Because if I had to do that, I would totally shave my head and go to rehab so that I can smoke lots of cigarettes and hook up with nasty boys. Because that's definitely got to be better than watching "the hoff."

Ugh. The hoff. How can anyone even respect that guy after that horrible home video of him wasted eating a sandwich off the floor. So gross. You know what I like to eat when I'm drunk? Street vendor veggie dog. With lots of mustard, sauerkraut and olives. Mmmmm... Only problem is, those are in Toronto and I tend to get drunk in Texas these days. And those street vendors are all like "no we won't deliver a veggie dog to Texas."

And since I've learned from Paris Hilton's mistakes, I'm not willing to drive drunk all the way to Toronto. Because like I'd have to go to jail for three whole days, y'all. And that would cause me to have anxiety and maybe have a heart attack and be released. But then I'd totally throw a slamming party and bedazzle my ankle monitoring bracelet, which would totally ROCK!

But back to TV. There is nothing on TV most nights. It's quite depressing. And of the summer pickings right now, so very very slim. There's Hell's Kitchen, which I totally love, because Gordon Ramsay? I totally have the hots for him. He could totally yell at me in bed any time. Although I'm sure that there would be lots of tears involved on my end. But still, he's hot and a total bad boy. Meow!

And then there's American Inventor, which I was so addicted to last summer. Oh to see these people create fantastic inventions like a potty paper that changes colors when a toddler pees on it! Wheeeeee! How fantastic is that? Somebody actually spent $11,000 developing this, but when the judges ask her what happens if the child poops, she says she's never thought of that. Wh-what? And the fact that my toddler would want to grab the urine-soaked paper didn't occur to her either. Way to think it through lady!

Otherwise, the pickings are slim. Have you tried to watch that train wreck called On the Lot? Oh, it's so bad, that I'm totally addicted to it. Because the brilliant folks at FOX change the format every single episode, in order to try to raise the ratings. This week, they actually didn't bother putting money into the show, so they just played the wannabe movie directors submission tapes. How brilliant is that! And they have this host who can't read a single cue card without stumbling on some words. And who gets inappropriate with the male contestants because she thinks she's hot stuff. The embarrassed looks on the faces of the contestants hoping to win the one million dollar movie deal with Steven Spielberg is better than just about any drama on television.

Oh, and there's also the Real World Las Vegas reunion. How fantastic is that? Five years ago, they were seven drunken idiots who had threesomes, wanted to be go-go dancers and drank more than the entire bible belt does in an entire lifetime.

Now? One of them is married! With two freaking babies! Holy freaking crap people! And another one? Goes to bed early, all the time. But best of all, the only normal guy out of the seven on the original show has now decided at 27 or 28 that he needs to LIVE! Really live! And so he's hooking up with random chicks and drinking way too much. To which I say, it's one thing to do that when you're 18 or 21. But at 27? It's kind of starting to look pathetic dude.

So that's my post for the day. It has no purpose. It has no meaning. It also is not a good source of calcium or folic acid.

As Paula Abdul would say, it is, what it is. Although she'd say it slurring her words. Which me, being high on caffeine would say it jumping up and down in the air while doing jazz hands.

And so I leave you with a couple of pictures of Little Man being traumatized by the sprinkler last weekend.

See how Nemo looks a lot like a great white shark? And see Little Man's look of terror? We sure know how to live it up in our household, whoop whoop!

Notice the perfect belly button definition that the soaking wet swim shirt created? This is Little Man's please-take-all-my-money-just-don't-hurt-me look.

Have a great weekend! I'll be adding more reflective paint to our bedroom. We did the first wall last week, and instead of candlelight, it looks more like the back of the jackets of those guys who direct the planes at the airport. American Airlines keeps landing propeller jets in our bedroom, but whatever, we're going to do the other three walls this weekend. Maybe the glow from our bedroom will serve as a missile shield for Texas. 'Cause we're patriotic like that.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Putting the Psycho in Motherhood Since 2005

So I think I've been particularly hormonal this week. And when I'm hormonal, it seems that my mothering instincts get stronger, kind of like a superpower that unfortunately only makes a 32 inch-tall part of the world better. That part of the world is also only 25 pounds. Which apparently, all of my blogger friends have these mutant large 5 year-olds who pretend their my son's age and then accidentally squash him with their little toes. But please remember that he's half French, and we make things smaller over there. Except for penises. We make those so large, that the Eiffel tower was erected in honor of French men's big penises. Please pass that secret on for Little man, will ya?

This week, two incidents have woken up the Mother Hulk in me.

First, let's revisit Tuesday, Little Man's first Swim Day at school. A day where I'm not sure who was more excited. Me, who was beside herself in the knowledge that Little Man would get to be traumatized by sprinklers again. Or Little Man who thought he had the freaking coolest mom ever for letting him swim trunks to class.

Since I didn't find it necessary to put Little Man's swim hat on him first thing in the morning, as the only way he'd keep it on for two hours would be if I krazy glued it to his head, which apparently Child Protective Services frowns upon, so I stuck it in his bag instead.

And then since I have the attention span of a gnat, I promptly forgot to tell his teachers when I got to the class and put his bag away.

I got to work, and when I went to check Little Man on the daycare Webcam, I saw that they were getting the kids ready to go swimming. And that's when I realized that Little Man wasn't wearing his hat.

I know, I can hear you gasping from here. It's obviously horrible, and the core of the Earth was likely to implode, causing us all to fall off the axis. Little Man, spend half an hour outside without a hat? I mean the horror! How could any of us go on. But I became crazed, I was like Shirley McClain in that movie where her daughter's dying and she's screaming "She needs her MEDICINE!!!!"

Except I was in my cubicle screaming "He needs his HAT!!!!!" I began to spin around, panicked! Because it's that serious! Because my son? He's about to go outside! Where there is sun! And his head? It is not covered by a hat! It's only covered by his hair! And the sun? It will shine on his head! And if the sun decides to be a bitch ho bastard, it might burn his head!

And I finally calmed down enough to call the daycare where I frantically told the receptionist that my son's head is not covered! And his hat, it's in the bottom of the bag! And she must immediately drop everything and save my son from an imminent danger!

And I watched, nervously wringing my hands in front of that Web cam for an eternity, a.k.a. three minutes. And all of a sudden, the teachers left with the kids to go outside and my Little Man was not wearing his hat! The receptionist? She must have gotten another call. Or she must have gone to get coffee thinking that the hat? My son could do without it.

I ran around the office. Panicking! Screaming "He needs his hat! There is sun out there people!" And my coworkers? They tranquilized me. With a fax machine over the head.

I asked them "Should I drive over to the daycare to get his hat and put it on him?" One said that yes, indeed, if it meant that much to me, maybe I should.

Because my coworkers? They're too damn supportive, even when I go into Crazy Catwoman mode.

Another coworker talked me off the ledge. She assured me that half an hour outside first thing in the morning would not permanently damage my child.

I calmed down, looked on the Webcam and saw that the sprinkler area? It did not have Little Man's class playing on it. I was confused. Clicked on every room. And that's when I saw Little Man in the gym. The indoor gym. My son? He wasn't wearing his hat in the indoor gym. Which even Crazy Catwoman can handle.

Apparently, half an hour later, they finally did go outside. And my son? He was wearing his hat, preventing the end of the world from occuring once again.

I've spoken before of the cannibal in Little Man's class. This kid, oh-so-sweet to me, hugging me whenever I drop off Little Man is actually a monster that loves to feast on soft young skin. The teachers keep Hannibal Lechter muzzled all the time with his pacifier, which the child is not allowed to remove except for eating. And even then, I'm sure they make him put it back in between bites.

I've always found Hannibal to be amusing. What with the biting of other people's children.

But then yesterday, I got a phone call from the daycare. I've discussed the regularity that I receive them, because my son's toe nails? Sometimes they cause him to trip and split his head open. Even though I cut them very very short. And also? Sometimes a leaf will fall three blocks away and the air motion it causes will push my Little Man across the room.

The receptionist, who I speak more often with than most members of my family, said that Little Man was ok but that he was bitten by one of his friends. I immediately said "Let me guess, it was Hannibal Lechter." She laughed and said that no, she didn't think it was. Which I found surprising. I then asked where he was bitten and was told that it was on his arm, but that the skin wasn't broken.

When I went to pick up Little Man yesterday, Hannibal's mom was also in the classroom. I went up to my baby, kissed him and then saw the distinct patter on top and bottom teeth on his right arm. I gasped, not expecting it to look that bad. Upset, I asked his teacher who had done it. She looked around awkwardly and said "It was Hannibal Lechter." Although, she didn't call him that, she used his real name. Even though that would have made the situation much better for me.

The mom said "yup, that's my little vampire."


Now I realize that it must suck to have your son show clear signs of being a future serial killer. And that it must be awkward to come face to face with the parent of one of your child's victims. But that's your response? No "I'm sorry he bit your son, we're really working hard on fixing the biting thing." or "I'm glad he didn't gauge his eyes out like he probably wanted to." Something that makes me think that you feel bad, bitch.

I beat her to a pulp with the classroom xylophone and then bit her arm off to show her what it felt like.

OK, that was all in my head. But does it make me a psycho mom to have even had the thought to do so?



Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Happy Birthday, Satan's Dog!

A year ago today, a little black lab was born. If someone had told me on that day "today, a little black fur ball will be born," I would have thought "what do I care!"

At the time, we had two dogs and two cats and there was no way we would ever have a third one. But then, in July, our yellow lab got very sick, very fast and on August 8th, we made the horrible choice to ease his pain and let him go.

I still remember sitting on that cold floor at the vet's, holding his big yellow head on my lap, telling him it was ok to go, and asking the vet why was it still so hard to do this, when it felt like I'd put so many pets to sleep.

On the way home, I couldn't bear to go home to a house that would feel empty without an 80-pound panting dog.

I stopped by the SPCA. I just needed to see some live pets. I approached cages, talked to many animals, cried, my heart heavy with grief. And then I headed to the back to look at puppies.

And there it was. This perfect litter of little black balls, all of them bundled together, snoring softly, the distinct smell of puppy breath softening the stench in the air.

I talked to them, trying to coax one awake. I picked one up, but he gave me a dirty look, wiggled out of my hands and went back to sleep with his siblings. I was so disappointed.

And then Satan's Dog opened his eyes, sighed softly and took one for the team. He approached the front of the cage and sat there, accepting the fact that some human would touch him. And so I held him. And he nudged my neck, licked my cheek, as if he were telling me it was ok to open my heart to another dog.

I took him into the meet and greet room, where he clumsily ran and nipped my ankles. And right then and there, I decided that he was what we needed to heal our heart. I had watched Sweetie Pie cry for three days, devastated by the loss of the dog he'd wished for his entire life, the loyal companion who'd been by his side all through his 20's. I had to make it better. And this puppy would help me achieve this goal.

I left the SPCA with the puppy in my arms, his warmth tucked against my chest, his soft brown eyes unsure as to what would come next. I put him down in the grass, hoping that he would tinkle before the drive to go pick up Little Man at his home day care.

After watching him run around in the grass, I decided the dog must have an empty bladder. I put him in my Jeep where he promptly tinkled on my floor mats.

That night, I tied a red bow around his neck and when Sweetie Pie came home, I presented him with his very alive early anniversary present.

The past year wasn't all smooth sailing and slobbery kisses. There was the difficult process of potty training a puppy while taking care of an active baby. But that process also brought memories of working from home, with a seven-pound puppy sleeping behind my keyboard so that I could keep an eye on him.

There was much nipping of Little Man's ankles as he learned to walk and screams of terror as Satan's Dog would try to wrestle him to the ground. But during the past year, a friendship that will last, hopefully, a long, long time blossomed.

No matter how much outdoor furniture, gutters, stuffed animals, panties, and much more that dog has destroyed, the one thing he has brought is a lot of love and a lot of patience as far as Little Man is involved.

From sharing his bowl of dog food with a toddling baby, to being bitch slapped with an Ernie doll, that dog has never even had the thought cross his mind to get irritated with the baby. After all, that child has fed the dog more contraband food.

Sometime over the past year, I went from being constantly irritated with Satan's Dog to realizing that he'd slowly squirmed his way into my heart. He may not always sit on command. And he sheds more than any other creature on Earth. But one thing he can do is make me feel loved and violate my personal space, the way no one ever has before.

So Satan's Dog, happy first birthday! There won't be presents, there won't be cake. But there will be the promise of much ball tossing in the backyard today and for all the days of your life.

We're glad you chose to join our dysfunctional family.


Mama, Daddy and Little Man.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Attack of the Sprinkler

I talked about Memorial Day being so crappy weather-wise and how we got so stir crazy that we ended up painting out master bedroom.

This past weekend was a different story, we had a mini-hurricane both mornings, but by the time Little Man was awake from his nap, it was sunny and blistering heat. So we celebrated the first sunny Saturday of the summer by breaking out Little Man's Nemo sprinkler head.

Anyone with a child knows what an ordeal it is to get them ready to go outside in the summer or to go swimming. But just to refresh your memory, here are the steps involved:

1. Undress child.
2. Remove diaper.
3. Chase child around the kitchen island with swim diaper.
4. Tell child that you're about to count to three and that they better be in the swim diaper at three.
5. Count to three.
6. Chase squealing child around the kitchen island five more times before finally catching him.
7. Wrestle giggling and squirming child into swim diaper.
8. Take a five minute break to down four shots of tequila to reward yourself for getting swim diaper on.
9. Slather sunscreen all over child.
10. Remove bottle of sunscreen that child is sucking on from child's mouth.
11. Google "sunscreen poisoning" to see if child's imminent death will occur from sucking on sunscreen bottle.
12. Decide that since child is now chasing the dog and trying to hit it with toy microphone, child will live.
13. Realize that child's ears are not covered in sunscreen.
14. Reapply sunscreen all over child's body because you're so terrified of sunburns and skin cancer.
15. Put on child's swim trunks.
16. Put on child's swim shirt.
17. Put on child's swim shoes.
18. Realize child is pooping.
19. Take child upstairs to change diaper.
20. Put on child's hat.
21. Pick up child's hat that child just threw across the room.
22. Tell child that he can't go outside without his hat or else he will surely die.
23. Reassure sobbing child that he won't, in fact, die. That Mama is just a mean cold bitch.
24. Put hat back on child.
25. Drink more tequila.
26. Take child outside to play.

So three hours later, we were ready to go to the backyard. And I was so excited to see Little Man's face when he saw that the Nemo sprinkler, as fun as it was in the box, was even more fun attached to the hose, because it would squirt water, whee!!!!!!

So we turn on the water, right as Little Man yells "NEEEE-MOOOOOO!" And as water goes spinning around, Little Man approaches the sprinkler and is rewarded for his trust in the clown fish by getting slapped in the belly and in the face by a jet of water.

He freezes, hands in the air, like a hostage in one of those bank heist movies. And the water spins around and hits him in the face and belly again. Little Man, once agin, stands there, horrified, but too petrified to say or do anything.

And as this continues, over and over again, Sweetie Pie and I cruelly laughing, because really, it was hysterical, Little Man's swim shirt is soaked and sticks to his tummy, perfectly outlining his cute little belly button, so that he now looks like some weird version of an underaged wet T-shirt contest.

Finally, I stopped laughing enough to yell at him "Run, Little Man! Run!" He looked over at me, pitiful and wet and begging me with his eyes to make the torture stop.

When we bought the sprinkler, it said on the box that it was appropriate for ages three and up. I figured that since we wouldn't let Little Man play with it by himself, surely he couldn't choke on small parts or whatever their concern was with the toy.

Apparently the issue is not a child trying to eat the sprinkler head, it's the fact that a 21-month old doesn't know to run in the sprinkler so that it's not slappped over and over in the face by its powerful stream.

We finally retired Nemo for a year and let Little Man play with the hose. He laughed and giggled the whole time and violated at least three counties' water restriction rules. And the Al Gore in me didn't even care. Because I shot over 100 pictures that afternoon.



Monday, June 04, 2007

Twenty-One Months: My Letter to Little Man

On Saturday, you turned 21 months, so we celebrated by taking you to Little Gym, where a little boy your size shoved you and hurt your feelings really, really bad to the point that I had to take you out of the class because your sobs were becoming quite disruptive. And as I held you in the lobby, your head nestled in my neck, your warm tears soaking my T-shirt, I realized that even though you're 25 pounds and can do so many things by yourself now, you're still my Little Man. And I want you to know that never, ever will I tell you that you shouldn't cry, that you shouldn't be sensitive, because the fact that you have such a big heart is one of the many things that makes people fall under your spell.

This month has been a little like living with an alien being, one who has all these secret skills that we are just starting to uncover. Like we had no idea that if we ask you what sound a bird makes, you flap your arms like wings. Or that you know your ABC's. Or that you've discovered how to stop the spread of the bird flu, saving potentially millions of lives.

Well, we don't know that last one for sure, because you refuse to admit it, but I'll tell you this much, your father and I are on to you.

Sometimes we worry that you're so much smarter than us that you'll look down on us by the time you're three. Like learning you ABC's? Seriously? Dude, you're not even two years-old! Who does that? And where did you learn that anyway? School? Sesame Street? Either way, it'd be even better if you'd perform on command, because people don't believe us when we tell them.

And I think you might be learning Russian with a flashlight in your crib at night, because A, B, C sound very clear, but then you switch to some foreign alphabet we don't know, just to mess with us, only to go back to English, where you finish strong from Q to Z.

Or you might not give a crap about any of those middle letters. Which I can't blame you, I've told you since the start that the ending of anything is the best part beside the beginning. Like ice cream, for example. The first bite? Incredible. The last bite? So satisfying. The middle? OK, I guess.

I'm guessing school is where you're learning all these things, which led your uncle to recently state that maybe if we hadn't wasted the first year of your life by making you stare at me make funny faces at you, you'd be solving quantum physics equations by now.

So I must apologize for standing in your way. I promise from now on to stand on the sidelines with a banana and some M&M's and let you do your thing. And I'll cheer you on, no matter what. Because my mission in life is to always be your biggest fan.

This month has also been one of extremes. I guess this is what they call the terrible two's. Where you'll laugh and entertain us one minute, and all of a sudden the sky will turn dark and you'll tear a new hole in the ozone layer with a fit that could puncture the ear drum of someone ten miles away.

The smallest things can set you off. Like if I try to feed you the first bite of yogurt? Well, that's an offense punishable by death. Or this one time, I told you that you couldn't play with the steak knives and it angered you so much, you set the house on fire just with the power of your mind.

But the good times, oh how good they are my Little Man. You talk so much and have so much to say now. And you'll repeat anything we say so that you now tell the dog to "MOOOO-VEEE!" exactly like we say it and you say "Oh Man!" when you drop something or trip.

If we ask you if you've pooped, you sigh, and say "Yeah." Which has me highly excited, because it means we're one step closer to the end of the nuclear waste that we call your diapers. I'll be honest with you, dude, the diaper changing is probably my least favorite thing about having a toddler. Because I swear, when we're not watching, you must be eating plutonium. There is no way something that stinky can come out of a human being.

Riding in the car with you now is such a blast, because you notice everything. As we go on our way, you'll point out planes, cars, cows and so many other things that I'd never notice without you.

I wish I could freeze you in time, because I'm afraid that the years will just slip through our fingers and I'm just not ready to let go of this stage. I remember reading in a newspaper before you came along that human beings need to laugh every day in order to live to an old age. I remember reading that article and worrying that I wasn't laughing every day. And that made me sad. But now that you're in my life, I can say that I'll probably live forever, because every single day, you make me laugh so hard that tears will run down my face. To which you always look at me, wag your finger in my face and say "no crying."

Did I mention your sensitive side?



Friday, June 01, 2007

Since I Have Nothing Else, Let's Talk About Poop

So I didn't blog yesterday. This was kind of an accident, because work was crazy and by the time I realized mid-afternoon that I hadn't had time to inhale, let alone blog, I'd written six press releases and the idea of writing anything else but a suicide note seemed like way too much effort.

And today, I'm trying to get back into it, but the thing is? I don't have anything to say. Well, I have lots to say, but none of it funny.

Like I wonder what the hell is up with that lawyer with tuberculosis who flew to Europe when he was told he shouldn't go. And what kind of woman thinks to herself that she's made the downpayment on the flowers and the cake, and she'll be damned if she has to postpone her wedding just because the groom has some highly contagious disease. Hope she made him wear a mask during the wedding.

And the fact that he not only flew to France, but then he flies back through Canada to try to evade the government? Now that's a great way to seriously piss me off. You don't just infect one country I have citizenship in, but three???? Dude, I can't help but take that personally, you scummy lawyer who just happens to have a father-in-law who's like one in 20 people who researches tuberculosis.

But since that's not funny at all, let's talk about poop! Because I'm assuming my entire readership consists of 12 year old boys and moms who are like me and think like 12 year old boys.

Little Man continues to have pooping issues. He went through two days last week when he didn't poop, so we spent most of the long weekend on prune juice, with my hoping that I wouldn't have to do the suppository laxative again, because really? I'd like to minimize the number of times I have to squirt stuff up my son's ass, because I figure it'll also minimize my chances of telling his future girlfriends about it.

On Sunday night, we were having dinner, with Little Man sitting in his chair, when he casually lifted a leg and butt cheek and let the world's biggest man fart rip. Which of course caused Sweetie Pie and I to giggle, until I realized when I let him down that the fart that shook the world and broke windows in high rises in Tokyo had also caused Little Man's Huggie diaper to wave the white flag.

So we laid off the prune juice for a few days. But it seems to me that Little Man can only have one of two situations: no poop or enough to fill the lakes of Minnesota.

A couple of nights ago, Sweetie Pie was giving Little Man a bath. Little Man was happily playing in his tub, trying to make sure that he relocated every drop of water to somewhere other than the tub, when he bent down and let out a fart that caused ripples in the neighbor's pool.

He just looked at Sweetie Pie and burst out laughing, and proceeded to imitate himself farting for the next ten minutes.

Some day, he'll be some lucky girl's dream man.