Saturday, July 27, 2013

Some Funny Pictures

I could not sleep last night.

Michael had to be at work early this morning, and as I was sure my coughing and tossing would keep him up. . . I slept on the couch.

It was not great.

At 2:00 a.m., I walked upstairs and turned off Devin's tv.

. . .he has had two warnings about this. 

We put his tv on a timer, and he is not to turn it back on.  On the occasion of his last warning, he was informed that the next time one of us woke up at 2 a.m. and his tv was on, it would be removed from his bedroom.  (Later, because I KNOW this kid, I reminded him of this, and assured him that we were quite serious.)  Soooooo. . . this evening after Mr. gets home, there will be a brief Personal Television Removal Service.  (Because I am not even going to attempt to carry that thing down the stairs by myself.)

Anyway, after 2 a.m. the only big news was BAD DREAMS.  Awful.  Horrible.  Left a bad taste in my brain.

So here's a barrage of pictures from the internet that I find amusing, because I plan on sitting here and looking at memes and funny cat pictures until the Nightmare Flavor has completely gone away.



Motivations  =)

Elmo speaks with the Pentagon.
Cash Wisdom
What I've Been Through
Also yes.
They had ducks.
. . . due to Kevin.
Dammit, Dave!!
I also kind of like the dog sitter. . .
Too true.


Friday, July 26, 2013

Took Turns Two =) !!!

Today is a big day.



Today. . . Took turns two.

He is napping right now, and I am sitting at the computer and avoiding eye contact with our cat as I try to get down this post-that-isn't-really-a-post-because-have-I-mentioned-Took-turns-two-today-?-and-I've-got-too-much-shit-to-do.

. . . I am avoiding eye contact with the cat because she is on the back porch, and she wants back inside.  (Again.)  And she is looking at me (very sternly) through the window on the back door.  And so far, she hasn't been verbal about wanting back inside, but if we should make eye contact. . . she is going to freak out, and begin throwing herself (bodily) against the glass.  (She is just that big of a bitch.)  She will literally climb the back door (it makes quite a bit of noise), absolutely frantic about her desire to come back inside OH JUST RIGHT NOW.  (She's sweet and all, but if I'm being completely honest. . . her personality kind of sucks.  But she's family. . . what're you gonna do?  Also. . . she always smells like farts.  Ask anybody.  It's true.)

So I'm ignoring her.**

**(Consequently, this is also what you do with family, should they begin tossing themselves bodily against the back door.  . . .I currently have no advice on how to handle relations that constantly smell of flatulence.  But I'll let you know, when I figure it out.)

I have been sick for the last couple of days, and have simply felt wretched.

(I am not good at being sick.  OH NO, NOT AT ALL.)

I always end up shuffling around, moaning, and trying to decide if I am being descriptive enough with my wails.

. . . Am I making the others in the house feel my pain?  Really, TRULY, experience it?

If not, I always try a little harder.  (One must never shirk one's commitment to excellenceDon't be a Half-Ass, be a Whole-Ass.)

And I am usually quite displeased with the amount of concern that my sniffles and wails generate.



Because I can tell just by looking at them that, however badly the members of my family are currently feeling for me. . . it is NOT bad enough.

Not by a long a shot, buddy.

So what usually ends up happening is that, while I am shuffling around in my bathrobe (with tissues in the pockets) and moaning pitifully to myself (and anyone that cares to listen), I am also USUALLY staring hate-daggers out of my eyes at anyone (Michael) who is not bending over backwards in sympathy over my struggle. . .



(Dramatic re-enactment of how 'sick' feels.)
Also, when I am sick, I completely lose my sense of humor.  Particularly when it comes to how hot the house is, as shown below:

Anyhoo, I am feeling much better now, (thanks for asking) and even managed to get the house cleaned up a bit.  Not "a lot", but definitely "enough."
(We do not have a tendency to put on airs concerning this sort of thing.  Besides, I'm pretty sure everyone we know is already aware that we do not exist in a state of spotless perfection.  So we would be fooling no one.)
In a few minutes, I will be waking up my now two year-old, and we'll be loading in the car to go get the water-slide inflatable-thing for his party tomorrow.  =)
(Not big enough for me, sadly. . . I checked.)
It will be a low-key birthday. . . just family and grilled foods, followed by a birthday cookie.
(I say "it will be low-key", and it will be. . . but still, I am PRETTY freaking excited. . . even if I CAN'T get on the slide.)
So HOORAY for big-stuff, sassafrass, two year old boys!!!

Hooray for health and happiness, pistachio cookies and naps.
And remember:

(P.S.  Last night Mr. Michael and I fell asleep watching a Foo Fighters documentary.  So this morning we decided to start off Took's birthday celebration with a kitchen dance session.  This one was his favorite:)

Saturday, July 20, 2013

=( . . . If they are free, if they are fed, if they are stong. . .

Last night, after eating dinner together as a family, Michael and the boys walked out into the back yard to play for a bit as I cleaned up after the meal.

After a moment, I looked up to see him in the doorway, his eyes red and puffy.  And he gave me the sad news he had just read via facebook: that a friend's daughter had passed away after a lifelong illness.


. . . Oh, please no.

Just no. . .

. . . . . . .

Because I didn't feel that it would be right to link to her story without permission, and because I also didn't want to trouble her family for permission at this time, I'm simply going to link to the book her sister wrote about being a donor:

. . . . . . .

In all honesty, I have no idea what I'm doing.  This is a post that I just don't know how to write. . .  And yet it is simply too important to NOT write.

In no way do I wish to make this about anything other than this beautiful girl and her family. 

In no way do I wish to do, or say, or write, anything to cheapen or tarnish what they are going through.

And so I will just say this:

We ache for you.

As parents, as friends, as human beings.

We ache for how strong you are, and how strong you've had to be. 

We ache for things that a mother, and a father, and brothers and sisters should never have to go through.

We ache for your loss, and for the world's loss.

We ache because there is absolutely nothing we can do for you, and oh my God, how I wish that weren't true.

We ache because words are not enough, and we ache because how could this happen and why.

We ache for the strength, love, understanding, kindness, and compassion that we've seen embodied by your family.

We rail at the sorrow and the wrongness of it all.

And we ache deep inside, and wish we could do something, anything, to help.

But it is the same problem we have come against since we first became aware that there was suffering in the world:

We can't fix it.

We can't take it away.

And all we really want to do is help.  And make it . . . better, somehow, for you.

And we simply can't. . .

. . . . .

There are mothers and fathers hurting right now. . .

There are children that are hungry somewhere, and there are people that are scared, and there are others that are fighting about things that don't make a damned bit of difference.

We all know that we are all living on borrowed time.

It is our condition.

But if the ones you love are healthy right now. . . if they are free, and they are fed, and they are strong. . .



Because to do anything less is the worst sort of crime I can imagine.

Time is an illusion.

. . .And it is the most valuable thing we have.

. . . . . .

I woke up today.

And my children did, and my husband did.


But I can be kind.  I can be kind to everyone that I meet, because the truth is that I just don't KNOW what they are going through.

And I can be grateful.

And I can care.

Even when it would be so much easier, and hurt so much less if I didn't. . . I can care.

I can acknowledge that I can't take your pain away.

But I can say that I saw you. 

I saw your story.  I marvelled at your bravery.  I stood in awe of your strength, and your light.

And I think that, just being aware of it, and appreciating it. . . maybe made me a little better.

So instead of cursing this new darkness, I will remember that.

And it will continue to amaze me.

And I will hold you up with every thought I have, and every tear I cry, and every hug I give.

I am so very, very sorry.

We love you, and we care.

<3 <3 <3

Thursday, July 18, 2013

. . . What do you DO all day?? . . .

Before I was a stay-at-home mom --

--which seems fantastical and almost fictional to think about now--

-- I often found myself wondering what stay-at-home moms DID with their days.

How did they spend their time?

Did they take up a hobby?

Were they all just lazing around on sofas, covered in the neon orange-colored dust of untold amounts of cheetos?  (<----probably what I would do.)

. . . were they all Martha Stewart/Rachel Ray disciples, with perfect little Stepford children and flawless homes?

My imagination went wild.***

***The prevailing theory was that the stay-at-homers were THE VERY PEOPLE that kept Maury Povich and his ilk on the air.  Because. . . well, it's just that I didn't know tons of stay-at-home moms, and I also didn't know tons of people that admitted to watching Maury Povich every day.  . . . And yet he was still on the air.

Every.  Day.

Sooooo. . . SOMEONE was obviously keeping him there.

. . . I think it's safe to say that I am only guilty of drawing the most logical conclusion.***


Point is. . . I had no idea what these people DID.

And now. . .

Now I do.


And so, in the interest of science,


(****Please excuse my language.  I got excited.  Science does that to me.

. . . won't happen again.)

. . . I decided to record here (for posterity) what one actually DOES on days like these.

(For the record:  Earth.  Southern United States.  The year 2013.  Summertime.)

Anyway.  Moving right along, here's the rundown. 

It's not thrilling. 

But it's short.  =)


6:20 a.m.:  One wakes up.

Because one's child is now awake, and can be heard chirping over the baby monitor and instantly talking about "tars".  (Cars.)

It is adorable.  =)

("Tars, tars, tars!  Tars?  . . . tars!!")

Even if I happen to wake up in a pissy mood (--almost NEVER happens--), hearing his sweet little voice animatedly talking about tars and dada and Ash. . . it's just magic.  Snaps me right out of my funk.


So I pick him up and bring him downstairs, and we cuddle on the bed while he drinks his strawberry Quik-ed milk (in the blue Cookie Monster cup. . . no other) and we watch 3rd and Bird.

(Great show.  Two thumbs.  Way, way up.)

7:00 - 9:00:  One plays around on the computer while the wee one sits in her lap and eat pop-tarts.  He wiggles and scoots and runs his Hot Wheels over the keyboard while I sip my iced coffee and look at memes on tickld and giggle at funny pictures of cats.

Oh cats. . . you so hilarious.

We wait on his brother to wake up, and when he does. . . we make muffins.


And this wiry little kid, while watching Spongebob Squarepants, would put away an ENTIRE recipe of muffins.  If I'd let him.  (Which I do not.)

9:00 - 10:00:  Drink another cup of coffee and make a fort for the boys under the kitchen table. 

I drape old sheets over an entire (out of the way) section of the kitchen, stuff the inside with pillows and a certain yellow Big Bird chair, and remove all break-ables from the area.

Let Grey Bear drag the ENTIRE TOY BOX through the house so that it can be situated safely WITHIN the confines of the fort.

Tell Devin that breakfast is over, and he is to STOP trying to sneak muffins.

10:15 - 11:15:  Let boys go wild in their new fort.

The older boy is heard to say: "Can we play in here all day?? This is the best day ever!!!"

. . . At first I think he is being sarcastic, and mocking my feeble attempts to entertain them. . . then I realize that he is still only 6, and does not yet have a firm grasp on what sarcasm is. He's genuinely happy, and I am pleased. =)

11:16:  Decide that 'Sneak-Muffins' is probably an awesome name for a band. 

Also decide that I should start charging for this shit.

I'm like a one-woman think-tank.

11:30 - 12:00:  Lunchtime.

One makes a grilled cheese (with chips) for Dev, and a combo tray of yogurt, granola, saltines, and marshmallows for the baby (hoping to hit on something he will actually consume).

Set up tv trays on the living room rug for the boys.

Eat my lunch on the couch while watching Tom & Jerry.  The boys slurp their pink lemonade very loudly, and ask many questions about the nature of Tom and Jerry.

. . . I do not have adequate answers for every question.

And we agree that some things are just mysterious.

12:00 - 1:30:  Naptime.

Since Dev is older (and I am 100% less likely to get the baby to sleep if he is in the room), he gets to watch cartoons in the den while I lay Took down in our bed.

He fights the diaper-change like a champ ("STAHHHHHP!!!"), and is very vocal with his demands of "Juice!". . . but other than that is a complete delight.  =)

I invent the Tickle Spider.

It attacks without warning, either by crawling OR by jumping, and is known to be quite merciless.

. . . there have been several sightings in the area. . .


1:30 - 2:00:  One wakes the baby up from his nap, and takes however much time is needed to sufficiently de-"grump" him.

One gets the children ready to go to the pool.

This involves locating three different swimsuits, dressing three different bodies, lotioning three different bodies, readying snacks and drinks for three different bodies, and locating and putting on three different pairs of shoes.

(It takes a while.)

2:00 - 4:00:  POOL TIME!!!!

We walk to the pool.  (There are stragglers.)  Sign in, corral the boys, locate a "spot."

We start out by the baby pool.  I figured this was a safe bet.  Not too many folks around (which equals not too many folks around to be annoyed with our boisterous antics), and still a good view of the big pool.

. . .We were, by far, the most vocal family there.

With the baby and his random, unexpected, and entirely ear-splitting howler-monkey screeches, and Dev and his COMPLETE inability to CONTROL THE VOLUME OF HIS VOICE. . . I'm sure we are, honestly, a SUPER-irritating bunch to be around.

So one administers several poolside time-outs.

One says completely asinine things like:  "Didn't I tell you to stop yelling?  Go sit down."

Anyway, strangely enough, MOST of the families at the pool today decided to leave about 30 minutes after we got there. . .

Odd. . .

. . . Must've been their lunch time or something?


So one relaxes a little bit, now that there's really only two people left to annoy.

One watches her not-quite-2-year-old take it upon himself to just ease himself, backward, into the Big Pool.

At the 5 foot mark.

Completely nonchalant.

He just got on his knees, backed into the pool, held onto the side, and then turned around and started checking out the only lady in a bikini left sunbathing.

One makes sure to distract and subdue both boys whenever they start to step over the "creeper" line.

("WHAT UP, BEBEH????")

It is absolutely AMAZING to one how much they already love staring at girls. . .  And trying to impress girls.  Girls that are 20 - 30 years older than them.

Simply fascinating to watch.  =)

4:00 - 6:00:  Take kids home and plunk them in the tub.

After threats to the larger one on the walk home:

"Get up here with us, please."  "Get away from that person's car."  "Put the stick down, please."  "It's time to cross the street. . .  Please come cross the street.  . . . I am going to beat you with my shoe if you don't get your ass across the street!!!"

. . . we finally make it to our door.

One runs a big bath, cleans up two boys, then lets them play in the tub.

Inevitably, arguments occur about which side of the tub belongs to which boy, and which bath toy is the most bad-ass.

Also inevitably, the smaller one, at one point or another, decides to stand up and pee in the tub.

The other one then proceeds to FREAK.



It is awesome to watch.


6:00 - 8:00:  Family dinner/family time.

Michael comes home (finally), the kids run around screaming and acting like little banshees, and I try to get out a few coherent sentences to my husband.

. . . Eventually I just hug him and decide to try again later.

He makes chicken nuggets and fries.

He asks me if I am distracted.

. . . while small ones in the living room scream "DIEEE!  DIEEEEEEE!  DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!".

And I would admit to him that I AM a bit distracted. . . but I quickly forget that he has even asked me a question.

One eats with one's family.

One puts away the dishes and cleans up.

One sits on the back porch with one's boyfriend and watches the boys ride around on their bikes as they screech and squeal and just have tons of fun.

One performs a mercy-killing on the bee that Devin is busy torturing on the driveway with a stick.  (Cut off it's head with a rock.)

One has a conversation with Devin about different animals you could potentially cut the heads off of.

One admires the beautiful sunset.

The boys point out the different shades of pinks and purples.

We all agree that it is quite beautiful.

One feels very lucky to be right here.  At this very moment.

8:00 - 8:30:  Bedtime.

Toys are put away and strawberry milk is handed out.

Big boy snuggles down in his bed while the little boy unwinds on the couch with me. 

We snuggle.

We tell secrets.

We find another Tickle Spider hiding underneath the couch cushions.

It is eventually subdued.

One carries the toddler to his bed, kisses his cheek, and says goodnight.

And then one snuggles down into her own bed, with her very favorite person.
8:30 - 9:00:  Adult Conversation.

One speaks in complete sentences, and engages in adult conversation for pretty much the first time all day.

Me:  ". . . I think I could've been a monk.  . . . I mean, if I hadn't met you, and didn't have children.  I think I could've done it.  Just . . . you know. . . planting crops for the local villages, and meditating, and scrubbing the floors of the monastery.  I think I would've been good at it."

Mr.:  "I think you've lost your mind.  There's no way you'd want to be a monk."

Me:  " . . . maybe I'd be one of the cooks or something.  Maybe I'd become known around the monastery for my blueberry muffins. . . or pancakes. . .  I'm pretty sure monks enjoy good food as much as anybody else."

Mr.:  "I don't think you could do it.  It takes a lot of discipline."

Me:  "I could.  I'd be great at it.  . . . exactly what part of it do you think I'd have such a problem with?"

Mr.:  "I don't know. . . it's just not an easy life.  You'd have to be really disciplined. . . you'd have to be celibate. . ."

Me:  ". . . soooo. . . you think I'm too trampy to be a monk."

Mr.:  "That's NOT what I said."

Me:  "You think I'm too big a slut to be a monk!!"

Mr.:  "You know that's not what I said."

Me:  *HUMPH* 

And I roll over.

Later. . .

Mr.:  ". . . We might be getting some bad weather later. . ."

Me:  "%^&* you, I'd be a GREAT monk."

And we go to sleep.

1:00 a.m.:  Be awakened by storms.

It is thunderous.

Devin gets up several times to tell us that the power is out, and that it is dark.

Fortunately, I do not wake up for any of these.

The thunder sounds like someone is beating our house with several large sledgehammers.

The baby does not wake up.

Michael begins coughing loudly.

Sounds like a bad cough.

I reach over in the dark and pat him reassuringly.

I whisper to him sweetly:  "You're being disruptive."

He smiles, and we go back to sleep.

. . . .

And that's how it's done.

Or. . . that's how *I* do it, anyway.

Also, a brief list of things that I also managed to fit into this day, inbetween other tasks:

* several bathroom breaks

* a 7-minute bath

* washed a load of clothes (but they are still sitting in the dryer)

* took Toddler to his new potty several times

* remained upbeat and positive, even when Toddler refused to USE his brand new Urine Frog (pictured here):

(The Urine Frog. . . starving to death.)
Also. . . sometimes I paint, and sometimes I make cookies.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

"Today is going to be a horrible day."

"Today is going to be a horrible day."

I open my eyes, blearily, and wipe the sleep out of them with my fist.  What the hell?  I half-way sit up in bed and look at the clock. 

It is 3 a.m., and Michael is talking to me. 

And he is using his angry voice.

". . .what?" is the only thing I can think of to say.

"I still haven't gone to sleep," he says to the darkened ceiling of our bedroom.

"Uumph," I say cleverly, and proceed to roll back over and snuggle down again.

Though I might sound unfeeling about the particulars of my beloved's situation, it IS 3 a.m.  So I (momentarily) feel VERY saddened and sorry for my husband, who knows that he will have to be at work in roughly two and half hours.  Then I flip and toss some more, trying to find a comfortable spot, and I wonder foggily:  Why is he TALKING TO ME at 3 o'clock in the morning??  Why is he DOING that?  Why does he not remember that THAT IS SIMPLY NOT DONE???

Then I try my best to shake all this "awakeness" out my ear, so that I can get back to sleep.  I make promises to myself to feel lots of genuine pity and concern for him, when and if I choose to wake up and face this day.

Poor baby. . .  *snooooooore*

And I think back to a few hours ago, when we were lying down and getting ready to go to sleep. . .
I was propped up in bed and watching Bob's Burgers, and Mr. was getting ready for a good night's sleep before work. . .  I was sipping my sweet tea, and giggling.  (Because Bob's Burgers is funnySeriously.  It is one of my favorite cartoons. . . and believe me: 
I like a LOT of cartoons.)

So I'm just sitting there, watching and giggling, and feeling generally happy because. . . you know.  Bob's Burgers.

(It was the Art Crawl episode.  One of my favorites.  If you've never seen it, then do yourself a favor and look it up.)

And when I get up to use the restroom, I notice my husband:

He is underneath the covers, rolled onto his side facing away from the tv, with what appeared to be TWO pillows over his head.

This told me several things:

1.)  The light from the tv was bothering him.

2.)  The sound from the tv was bothering him.

3.)  He knows how much I love Bob's Burgers
               ---(it has been discussed)---
      and decided to suffer through in silence so that *I* could
      watch my "stories."

(Author's dramatic recreation of Michael at 9 p.m.)
. . .

So I got back in bed and promptly turned off the tv.

(And yes.  If you are thinking "Wow.  THAT.  THAT is love."  then you are absolutely correct.  Never let it be said that I am unwilling to make sacrifices.)

So all this was going through my head at 3 o'clock this morning when he unceremoniously woke me up.

I felt bad for him (momentarily), then remembered Bob's Burgers.

I had CLEARLY already done all that I could possibly do.

My conscience was clean.


So later, when I woke up at 6:00 a.m. (because that's when Took always wakes me up to start the day), I began thinking about Mr. Michael's lack of sleep again.

Well-rested now, I felt considerably sorrier for him that I had when it was still dark outside. . .

I sent him a text.

And, though it is true that I often send HILARIOUS text messages (Seriously.  First class stuff.) I harbored no illusions that this message was going to be enough to pull him out of his "I-have-been-awake-for-roughly-24-hours-straight-and-bent-on-mayhem-and-destruction" funk.

So I decided that I probably needed to make him dinner.**

**I decided on pineapple chicken and thai noodles.  . . .Because that's what I found when I started rummaging around, and because I like thai noodles. 

I've never made pineapple chicken before. . . so I'm pretty excited.

And also a little nervous.

But if I completely derp it up, we have hot dogs in the fridge, so I'm keeping that in mind as a possible Emergency Dinner.**

And that's pretty much all I have to say.

Except this:

I love my husband.

I think he is JUST the bee's knees.  =)

 (Artist's rendering of bee's knees.)

He went to work on no sleep today, and it was NOT the first time he's done it.

Then he came home about an hour ago, changed from his suit into his OTHER "work" clothes, and was out the door again to go landscape someone's yard.

(A side job that he started this summer.  For extra money.  . . .so that *I* can stay home with the kids.)

And yes --- sometimes he gets grumpy.

(Which, honestly, is better than what *I* do when I've had no sleep: 

I cry.

I get over-tired, and I just cry.  And cry.

And  then, just for good measure, I always make sure to cry some more.

Basically, I just weep uncontrollably until  such a time that I can sleep until I'm normal again.)

But MOST of the time he just grins and bears it and goes on about his day.

 (Grinning, bearing, and keeping real.)

And nowadays, just about ANY time you walk into our house, you can find a curly-haired toddler walking around with a nerf-sword held to his hip, pretending to weed-eat.

Because his Daddy is his hero.

And I have no problem with that.

The man works hard, he takes time for his kids and his wife, he makes a mean pork tenderloin, and he has an amazing sense of humor.

Simply put:  If I could choose a hero for my son. . . I'd be hard-pressed to find a better one. 


. . . but. . . if he wakes me up at 3 a.m. again to tell me he can't sleep. . .


Shit's gonna get REAL.


Monday, July 1, 2013

Troubling Times and Space-Age Technologies.

I haven't written anything in a while.

I guess I should, before I completely lose the ability to do so, and my brain turns to vanilla pudding.  (I fear that watching Sprout with the baby every day is not going to be good for my cognitive functions. . . but on the plus side, I have learned a LOT about sharing.)


Putting that thought aside for the moment, here are several


Item #1:  I have not worn pants, or makeup, for many days now.

Well. . . I guess that's not ENTIRELY true, as I have gone for morning walks with the baby just about every morning, and I tend to take pants VERY seriously when I am out and about, roaming the neighborhood.  The neighborhood association ---and the neighborhood in general --- frowns on many things, (if their facebook page is any indication at all), and I feel fairly certain that Nude Public Exercise would probably be at the top of the list.

The CHILDREN!!!  Think of the CHILDREN!!!!

------> (And I am completely serious here about our neighborhood frowning on things.  It would appear that we are a neighborhood just chocked FULL of frowners.  The entire neighborhood facebook page is almost nothing but people griping and complaining about one thing or another. Interspersed, of course, with advertisements for yard sales, and announcements of which stay-at-home moms are currently selling which bags, beauty products, and jewelries. . . I should probably feel a surge of pride at our collective entrepreneurialism. . . and yet I do not.)

But anyway, power-walks with the baby aside, I can truthfully say that I have not worn pants in many days now.

Or makeup.

And I feel pretty good about it.  =)

NOT about how I actually LOOK in this sans pants/sans makeup state. . . oh, no.  Because I own a mirror, and it can be trusted to inform me that I do, in fact, look rather wretched. . . 

("You look like crap!" it says, much like some freaky, annoying parrot.  "Have some pride!" it screams at me.  And then I put it back in the drawer, and go about my day.  Problem solved.)

So I am not harboring any delusions that I actually look good like this.

I'm sure my naked face and naked legs are not only wrong, but offensive.  On many levels.  

So VERY just plain wrong.

And yet it feels so right. . .

Sooooo. . .


(I am now officially a deviant.  Living on the fringes of society.

I am more punk-rock than you can stand.

What an exciting development!!!!!!!)

Item #2:  My husband might be losing his mind.

Is it a midlife crisis?  Hard to say.

Early onset dementia?  I'm not a doctor, so I really don't know.

All I know is that the signs are everywhere, and I am growing concerned. . .

It started out innocently enough.

We were sitting down to dinner last week (on the couch, the baby in his high chair, cause that's how we dooz it) and we were looking for something entertaining to watch on tv.

----As a sidenote, I'd just like to bitch about tv for a minute.  The Office is over (RIP), GoT and The Walking Dead are finished until next year, as is Parks and Rec.  . . .THERE IS NOTHING GOOD ON T.V.!!!!  At least, not that I'VE been able to find.  It makes me very mad.


And you have FAILED ME!!!!

But whatever.----

So anyway, we started browsing OnDemand, and found Pitch Perfect.

Michael rolled his eyes a few times, but ultimately sat through the whole thing, which is really all that I could ask for.

And then the movie got to THIS part:

So. . . really cute, right?  All happee-no-worries.  No big deal, right?


To begin with, neither Michael nor I had ever heard this song before we saw the movie.  We do not have a teenage girl currently living in our home, and so we had passed right under the Party In The USA radar.

But you can only elude fate for so long.

The next morning I got up and. . . Michael was looking up the song on youtube.

"Ummmm. . . what are you DOING???"  I asked.

"Veering off down a dark and unhealthy path and attempting to bring shame to our family," he said.**

(**I cannot remember what he ACTUALLY said.  But it might as well have been this.)

So I tried not to become too concerned.  (With some degree of difficulty, and not much success.)

He made some weak argument about the guitar riff at the beginning of the song being really good.

Pfffttt.  O. . . . .kay.

Then the NEXT day he. . .


("swinging my hips like yeah")

. . .

I was confused.

And frightened.

All my ideas about right and wrong were suddenly crashing down around my feet.


And I had to get him help.

So I've been watching him closely, searching for signs that the disease is progressing.

It HAS to be a disease. . . right??

A chemical imbalance??

Something we can ADDRESS and then CURE??????

. . . .

And then last night. . .

*deep breath*

. . .last night he started playing Katy Perry songs.

(Something about fireworks, I don't know.)

So obviously he is getting worse.


I love him.

So I will continue to hold on to hope, until science finds a cure. . .

***Personally, I use the phrase "space-age technologies" a LOT.  Mostly to win arguments: 

Michael--"WHY is there a mess on the wall in the pantry??!?  How are we going to get this OFF??"

Me:  "Space-age technologies, Michael.  Don't worry about it."

(I've found it to be VERY useful.)

So I feel very correct in saying: 

SCIENTISTS!!!  I have stated the problem for you.

NOW.  GET.  ON.  IT!!!

Item #3:  Summer reading.

It has been a very good summer for reading so far.

The baby is a little older, a little more self-sufficient, and COMPLETELY IN LOVE with playing outside, so I have been lucky enough to make my way, leisurely, through SEVERAL really good books.

Last week I finished Deeply Odd, the new Dean Koontz book about Odd Thomas.  (GREAT character.  I highly recommend all of them.)  Before that, I was tearing through all the Game of Thrones books I could get my hands on.  (Now I'm just waiting for the next one.)  Then there's the Divergent series, which was really good, and I'm eagerly anticipating the third installment in the trilogy.

And right now I'm reading Inferno, the new Dan Brown.

So all this was in my mind as I was browsing pinterest the other day, and came across THIS:



I want one for our neighborhood!

I have all these great books that I've read, that are just SITTING HERE, taking up space, when THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE WHO COULD BE READING THEM!!!!

(And I could be sharing and reading THEIR books, too!!  It's GENIUS!!!!)

However. . . unfortunately, my cabinetry skills are sadly lacking.

I find it shameful to admit this, because I am an intelligent and (mildly) creative woman, but there is simply no way that I could make this.

(I realize, of course, that it IS just a box.  So you can just shut the hell up right about now.)

At least, I couldn't make it without the potential for great harm to myself and possibly others, the destruction of untold amounts of lumber, a trip to the emergency room, and possibly a tetanus shot.

I am not selling myself short. . . I am simply aware of my multitude of limitations.

So . . . if anyone out there would like to construct this for me, and then donate it to our neighborhood (for the greater good, remember), then I would appreciate it very much.

And I would let you have first pick of my used books.

(There are a LOT, so that's kind of a big deal.)


So anyway. . .