early reader

Mommy, mommy!!!!! I can read this!!! It says SEX BY SEUSS!!!!

things that make you want to drink whiskey out of the cat bowl

Anybody who knows anything about anything knows that i Am Bossy is just plain great. She has a very fun game called Ten-Word Tuesday. Here's last week's. And you should totally check it out tomorrow because it's Big Fun. And it's not About The Winning, people, it's About The Clever.

Also. Because The Mister and I (oh yes, even The Mister is lovin' on Bossy), are all Beyonce' and Jay-Z on Bossy, I am going to flat-out steal her idea. And not just any idea, not that Bossy has Just Any Idea.

Things That Make You Want To Drink Gin Out Of The Cat Bowl.

Except for the Drink Gin part, which I am respectfully changing to Drink Whiskey. Because I don't know what would actually make me want to drink gin. Just being honest, here.

Things That Make You Want To Drink Whiskey Out Of The Cat Bowl.

Item 1. HelMart. The W variety. There's a SuperHelMart in the Big Town Up North, and it's been open for about a year, and I freaking hate that place. I develop twitches and ulcers and, well, you know about the Cat Bowl, because it's in the stinking title. I rarely enter the horrid place unless it is an emergency or there's a golf tournament. This was an emergency: the short people were exhausted, and I needed four things that only existed in one stop at SuperHelMart. Otherwise, I'd be making stops all dang day long.

Item 2. Making Stops All Dang Day Long. It didn't happen, but since I brought it up, I thought is evil enough to give it its own item.

Item 3. Short People Who Refuse To Listen. I know I only said Don't stand on the side of the cart because it will flip over ninehundredfiftyseventhousandeighthundredfortynine times, but I really, really meant it. And when the two tallest short people flipped the grocery cart OVER ON TOP OF THEMSELVES, they were? Surprised.

Item 4. Old Ladies Who Decide You're A Bad Mother Because You Don't Cuddle Your (not actually) Deaf Babies When They Have Been Duly Warned That The Cart Will Flip Over And Find Themselves Trapped Under A Grocery Cart. Seriously. They came from no where and everywhere. Emerged from cans of ravioli and jars of salad dressing, from the coolers of steak (oh, is that the place to store your unused grandmas?), and under boxes of macaroni and cheese. And. They. Glared. I was definitely Unsuitable Material For Motherhood at that moment. But what they didn't know was that I DO NOT BEAT MY CHILDREN IN THE HELMART. And I was certainly not going to start in the SuperHelMart. Besides, I'm out of concealer. So there. No beatings for anyone. Are your children okay? they asked, not kindly at all. Of course they're fine, I said, not kindly at all, they have really hard, thick skulls. Too much wax in their ears prevents them from hearing me when I warn them to get the heck off the stupid cart for crying out loud, or some other currently unknown item is impeding their ability to comprehend and follow through when I give directions.

Item Five. No. Whiskey. In. The. House. I can't even talk about it. Because remember? I drank it all the other day.

from the mouths of babes

Miss O told me a joke today.

Why doesn't the government put wheels on anything?

Hmmm... why?

Because it's NOT GOING ANYWHERE!!!!

I laughed so hard I think she was offended.

flower girl seeking work

Let's give a warm welcome to Miss O. It's her first turn as a guest blogger on The Dayton Time. It is actually her first time blogging anywhere, for that matter. And it's the first The Dayton Time guest blogging slot. She has been asking for quite a while to do this post, and there's only so much I can actually take. So here she is.

I really want to be a flower girl 'cuz I've seen one, and I've been practicing really hard. So someone get my message on my mommy's blog that I want to be a flower girl, and I really, really want to be one, everywhere I go.

I would be a good flower girl because I walk REAL. SLO-O-O-OW.

Well, I would be a good flower girl because I look good in dresses, ex-pecially my Easter dress. So choose me. I'm the best. Well, not the best. I'm good at it.

Hmmm. Let me think. I throw the flowers good. I know how to spell good. G-O-O-D. Right?

A flower girl has to walk down an aisle. And I do that really good. Well, I've never really tried, but I do it on sidewalks.

A flower girl has to be good at following directions. I listen to my mommy good.

I am very good at getting pictures and getting my hair done.

I am very pretty. So your wedding pictures will look very nice with me in them.

I can't wait for someone to get this. Okay, I'm done.

outside the box

I laughed at myself today, as I struggled with HB to remove his shorts. He had been sitting in juice or something, and was soaked. I was sitting in the computer chair, and he was standing in front of me. Every time I gave his pants a tug, he would sit down.

But I kept trying.

I am dedicated.

He tired of this gig quickly, and began climbing me. What? Didn't you know? I am a TREE. So each time he lifted up a leg, I yanked on the pantleg. No such luck.

Eventually, and by eventually I mean, eight minutes later, I flipped him upside-down, and dropped him on his head whilst holding tightly to the shorts pulled his shorts to the ceiling.

It happens every day, me beating my head against the proverbial wall trying to accomplish something, only to discover that if I turn the situation on its head everything works out.

I just wish I could slow down enough to actually have time to process what it is I am doing, and figure it out before there's a head-shaped crater in the drywall. I think a big part of why I'm so tired is not taking a minute to breathe before I dive in, again and again and again. I just keep driving the little K car that is me, and don't stop for anything until the very last possible second.

One more thing to work on.

overheard from miss o's room

Nothing can break this
Nothing can break this
Nothing can break this
Friendship.

Nothing can break this
Nothing can break this
Nothing can break this
I love you.

This was her lullaby to Wee Man, who 'snuck' out of his room to cuddle with her during a thunderstorm.

And then to reassure him further, she said, Are you comfy? Do you like it here? Does it feel like home? I love you. You are the best brother I have ever had.

I do so treasure moments like these, when I feel like we are doing something right.

critters. i hates 'em.

Those cats I have!
Those cats I have!
I do not like those cats I have!

They will kill 'em in a box.
They will kill a big ol' fox.
They will kill 'em in a house.
They will kill a little mouse.

They will bring me birds and voles.
They will not kill any moles.
They leave them on the carpet, yes.
They eat the brains and leave a mess.

They bring them in alive and dead.
I do admit, it makes me red.
It makes me gag, it makes me yell.
I want the cats to go to hell.

This morning Sully, that little turd
Brought us one, part-dead bird.
He took it to Miss O's boudoir
He tossed it near, he threw it far.

He was so proud, so proud I say
But even so I took it away.
I swept it up with a broom
And took it out of the room.

It twitched its legs, it moved its beak
And that's when I really freaked.
This day has really traveled south!
I squealed and threw up in my mouth.

I love nature, this I ensure
Critters in my house? No more!
I admire them in the great outdoors
But not their bodies on my floors.

Update: The Mister read this poem out loud to Miss O. When he got to the line where I referred to the cat as a turd, she flipped. It seems that only Miss O is allowed to slander the cat. It is now more than 24 hours after she heard my poem (which she hates) and she is still angry I called Sully a Poop Turd. I wanted to tell her that any being, cat or man, who brings dead or partially dead critters into my Critter-Free Zone, er, House, is a turd. But that wouldn't have helped.