Monday, June 30, 2008

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.

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.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

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.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

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.

Monday, June 23, 2008

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.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

overheard from miss o's room

Nothing can break this
Nothing can break this
Nothing can break this

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.

Friday, June 20, 2008

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.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

no porn here

There are a number of little pervies finding my blog based on the following Google searches:

jessica rabbit nude

grownup girl

what happened to grownup girl

spanking dayton

ticklish and spanking

spanking hot dogs

AND BRAND NEW FOR TODAY: she got fingered

Sorry to disappoint you. But porn can be found through these searches. Good luck finding what you're looking for. Oh- another thing- don't look at pics of little kids. You will go to jail for that. And you will get hit by a Mack truck. Well, maybe you won't.

Here's hoping you will.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008


(Front door opens, then slams. Five minutes pass, door opens and slams again. Little feet stomp up the stairs.)

Mama: Where'd you go, little man?

J, all-consuming pout on his face: Gamma not home.

Mama: You went to Grandma's?

J: Yeah, but she not home.

Mama: I *told* you Grandma was not home.

J: Yeah, well, she not.

Mama: Don't go to Grandma's and Grandpa's without asking me first. I have said that nintey million times. Don't go outside without asking me first. (I know, I ask a lot.)

J: Okay, mama.

(Stompy feet go downstairs, front door opens, then slams. The Mama's head subsequently spins around, big stompy feet go downstairs.)

Mama: Dude, seriously. Don't go outside without asking. Come in the house.

J: Mama, I'm looking for Sis. I can't find her.

Mama: Get in the house.

J: I need to find her.

Mama: Come inside.

J: Is she in da house?

Mama: Probably not, with the way things are going. Come inside.

J: Is Sis in da house?

Mama: Come. In. The. House. Now.

J: You make me a sandwich?

Monday, June 16, 2008

totally apropos of nothing

Sometimes I find myself with a phrase stuck in my head.

How's that for an exciting opening?

Lately I have been just dying to say apropos of nothing. It's in my brain, waiting to be used. I don't even know if it is that I really want to use the phrase, and I do know how to use it properly. I just like to say apropos.

I'm saying it now. Apropos. Apropos. Apropos. Apropos. Apropos. Aproposaproposaproposapropos.

Guess that means I should probably go to bed if I'm that easily entertained. When I'm over my apropos kick, I will tell you all about The Great Bedroom Shuffle of 2008. But I'm too busy saying apropos right now.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

incompetence, or how to get pamela's head to explode

Today was the fourth or fifth golf tournament I've helped organize for Habitat. Of Genesee County. I have neither the brain power, nor the energy, nor the money to pay a babysitter to organize a national golf tournament. And pssst...I don't especially care for golf. But that is another post for another day.

I really do enjoy organizing events. I cannot describe to you why that is, but I just do. And I am okay with that.

Except for this tournament that happened today.

I just didn't care. I didn't even care that I didn't care. Usually I am all worked up about it, when I realize I'm having a Don't Care That I Don't Care Moment. But not this time. I kindasorta did what I was supposed to do, just enough to get stuff mostly done. And I'm not saying that in any sort of bragging fashion, or with any kind of attitude. Except blase'. I am totally blase'. And I know that the ' is not the appropriate accent francoise there. I don't care about that, either. Blase', I tell you.

I found myself caring yesterday, much to my surprise, as I stood in Office Max, at the ImPress counter, no less. NOT IMPRESSED. I called the copy desk, and spoke with a reallive person who guaranteed me she would watch for the email I was about to send with my enormous order in it. And she also guaranteed me that I could pick it up between 3 and 4 o'clock that day, a mere 2 to 3 hours later.

Except, pretty much not.

I stood in that hateful store waiting for her to laminate things. For TWO. (ENTER YOUR FAVORITE EXPLETIVE HERE, MINE STARTS WITH EFFING). HOURS.

And when she had finally finished, and my hair had turned completely grey, and the elastin in my cheeks had let go and my formerly perky cheeks turned into jowls, and I found myself on blood pressure medication, and I had chewed off every last shred of fingernail, she wouldn't accept my New York State Tax Exempt Certificate. She was sweet enough to call the manager, and the manager suggested I come back for a refund when I had my Office Max Tax Exempt Certificate.

I suggested that the manager come back. Because really, it is the law that they take the tax off HFH's purchases. And also, I was no longer In The Mood.

We had a chat, the manager and I, and she was all, Sorry, this is our policy, and I was all, Sorry, this is the law, and she was all, Well, maybe you're in our computer, and I was all, I don't care if I am, I have been in this store for two hours, and I want to leave one hour and forty-five minutes ago, and she was all, Oh, look, there you are, right here in the computer, you lovely and loyal customer, and I was all, Stop bloody talking and check me out already and by the way, I want some serious money off this ridiculous bill for having to endure the past two hours of my life that I will never get back.

And I was the winner. The End.

Of the Office Max portion of the story.

This morning, I was running late, not due to the things that normally cause me to be late, but because I had no shirts. Clean shirts. And seeing as how I do not run THAT KIND of tournament, I opted to wait for the dryer.

And then I went to the grocery store to pick up the rolls for the Great and Awesome Pig Roast By Rook (if you are in the area, and you need a man to roast your piggy, I highly recommend this man and his contraption).

I walked up to the bakery counter, and the nice young man was there. The nice young man who had taken my order for rolls and a sheet cake on Wednesday, when I actually went to the store, in person, with my children, for no other reason than to place the order.

Waste of $4.25 gas, that trip was. Both trips, actually. Wednesday and today.

Because somehow, somewhere, someway, somedumbass THREW MY ORDER IN THE TRASH CAN. I went in person to make sure my order would be correct. I went in person to be sure I wouldn't be forced to have an aneurysm and have my head explode the morning of my event.

The nice young man was terrified when he saw me. Even before he spoke, I knew it was bad freaking news. You see, on Wednesday, the children found themselves having a teensyweensy bit of behavior problem at the grocery store, and apparantly it was shocking to him the way I parent (read: the way I am the person in charge and they are the obedient children and do my bidding)...must be something new for him. I think he was afraid I was going to go all Behavior Management Queen on his ass or something.

And sometimes fear is justified.

To his credit, he told me straight away that my order had been thrown out, and the cake was not made. He didn't make up some story or blame anyone. Even so, I found myself unable to close my gaping mouth, or re-insert my eyes in their proper places. Because really, people, I have a serious appreciation for store-bought cake, and I really needed to be serving some store-bought something for dessert six hours later.

I said, There's no cake? in a very quiet and restrained voice, except it was totally not that voice, it was the voice that is fairly shriek-y and causes glass to shatter and makes puppies whimper.

And suddenly, every employee in my line of vision became very interested in solving this problem. I should remind you that my eyes were still popped out of my head, and my field of vision was much greater than normal. That included a LOT of employees.

I used that same quiet and restrained voice, you know, The Puppy Killer Voice, and suggested that they concoct some sort of cake, enough to feed 75 people, and deliver it like the pizza boy, to the golf course, because if I had to come back to that store, I was going to be physically unable to refrain from using profanity. And lots of it. And I had better get a really, really REALLY good deal on the cake, and it had better be the best cake I have ever eaten in my life and people I eat cake.

So then I asked about the dinner rolls. (I had ordered 9 dozen.) The frightened little grandma bakeress ran back and brought out a paper grocery bag... ONE paper grocery bag, with the top of the bag all folded down five or six times, forming a nice, tinylittle parcel. She presented this to me with a nervous smile.

Where are the rest of my rolls? I ordered 9 dozen. The voice was back.

They hadn't made my rolls, either. Now they were really scared. And my head was spinning around, and the fire coming from my mouth, ears and nostrils was beginning to form a funnel cloud.

I don't care what kind of rolls you give me, but I need 9 dozen. Right now. Dang voice always sounds like that when I am breathing fire.

I got 9 dozen very lovely rolls. For $10. And I left the store.

And my cake(s) were delivered. And they were good. And I have the leftovers in my kitchen. Because I loves me some cake.

And I am the winner. The End.

This is so long already that I will not discuss the thunderstorm and the excessive amounts of rain and the public drunkenness of some of the other volunteers.

The Actual End.

Friday, June 13, 2008

some things to think about

  1. It is insanely humid. I know that this is not something you especially want to think about, but it is something I cannot help thinking about. I have worn a bandanna on my noggin for eight days, now, it's so stinking humid. I have frizz on my frizz.
  2. Playing golf. So tomorrow, if you are doing something important that you do not want to do, say, laundry, or if you find yourself puttering around doing things that are unimportant, I highly recommend that you bring your golfing shoes, golfing implements, and your checkbook to the Bethany Hills Golf Course to meet me for a round of golf. At noon. Clarification: I do not actually play golf, because are you kidding me? I am there to take your money. The golf is a means to an end. You pay me money to let you play golf, and allow me to feed you the most loveliest pig roast dinner and ply you with gifts, and I take your money to the Habitat for Humanity of Genesee County, NY, bank account, and we use your money to rehab our seventh home. That, my friends, is an Excellent Idea.
  3. How bad would it be if HB only wore diapers for bed and naps for the rest of the summer? That is what I would like to know.
  4. Putting laundry in its assigned place. And I mostly just think about that and never do it.
  5. What is the matter with Fox News, and who lets them use the phrase 'Baby Mama'? Nobody is calling Cindy McCain John's 'Ho'. Seriously. Equal treatment by the media. Let's have it.
  6. Dinner. People must eat. Short people are not so much good figuring that out on their own. Hmmm.
  7. Will it actually ever rain? I think it may not. Ever. Rain. Again. And that is bad news for my garden.
  8. Great deals at the pharmacy. It's that time again, when my roots take over control of my entire being, and advertise that I am 900 years old when I am only 31. So I bought hair dye. Not the cheap kind I used when things went badly, but Real Good Stuff. And it was buy one, get one free. And the lady at the counter had TWO, $3 COUPONS! So it was really, Pay Two Bucks and Get Two Hair Dyes! Or, Get Two Hair Dyes For Wicked Cheap And Feel Like You Didn't Actually Buy A Pint of Dulce de Leche Haagen-Dazs. Either way.
  9. Woot. What is the deal with Woot? I hear it, I see it in actual writing. What the, people? It doesn't even flow trippingly off the tongue. It's not natural. And running a close second to 'woot' is 'right?'. As in I was walking to the post office, right, and I saw a fire truck. Right.?.?. Not a question, not seeking correctness. Just punctuation. Here's a tip: Just stop talking, and let the period at the end of the sentence speak for you. And itself. It is much more efficient.
  10. And finally, The Potential Sex Dream That Never Actually Materializes. It was shaping up to be such a nice dream. But there were lots. And. Lots. Of interruptions. Until finally I woke up this morning to hear a friend in my house, shouting to me that the Wee Man had escaped and was running down the street to Grandma's. Rude. Interruptions are just plain inconsiderate. Except for my friend who was trying to help my son. We like that. We do not like rude interruptions, though, even if the interruption is interrupting something that is not actually happening.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

we interrupt this day to bring you...

It would really be more accurate to say, We interrupt this five seconds to demand from you, but that might just make it sound like I'm being whine-y. And Lord knows we have enough whine around here. Enough wine? Not so much. It's sad, anyway you look at it.

But to make us feel better, and by US, I mean me and The Mister, not me and you, but if you wanted to swing by and share some of this with me:

Don't see it? The picture of the ENORMOUS and GIGANTIC bottle of Maker's Mark in my pantry?

Right. And this is why: I just. Drank. It. All.

And this is why: Due to the location of my computer (upstairs in the hallway, between the short people's bedrooms), I am often interrupted in my blogging/blog-reading/searching the internets activities by sounds of horrifying things coming from the room shared by the 2 tallest short people.

I give you today's edition of Is It Happy Hour Yet?

J: I have to pee.

O: Don't get out of bed. Mommy will be mad at you.

J: I have to pee.

O: Well run to the bathroom then. Hurry. Maybe she won't notice.

Me, thinking: AS IF, on so many levels. Maybe I won't hear your elephantine stomp through the whole upstairs. Maybe I won't notice your shiny white bottom streaking by me as I attempt to document this event for the whole world to see. Maybe...

J: I just pee in this cup right here.


J: I have too much pee for this tiny wittle cup. It's spillin' on the fwoor.

Me: Silent scream.

I walked into the room to see Jack holding a pink, plastic teacup with a volume of about 1.2 ounces, full of pee, and a colossal puddle on the floor.

I gently, but firmly encouraged wee Jack to get his pee-covered self into the bathroom to clean off. Jack, I said, what were you thinking? We don't PEE in CUPS. We pee in the TOILET.

And on trees. And in holes in the ground and on rocks. Says Master of Where To Use It Outside.

Right. That's for outside. But you don't pee in toys. That's gross. It's grosser than drinking the bathwater.

I know the risks of assumption, but there is someone close to us who regularly 'uses it' in Mountain Dew empties. Nothing says potential drink-induced bacterial infection like a plastic bottle holding a yellow liquid similar to the liquid it is intended to hold. I feel compelled to assume that this Person, He Who Will Not Be Named (for the moment, at least) has done this in front of my impressionable son.

And He Who Will Not Be Named Yet knows who He is. Be careful, you. There is a young lad equipped to take a mighty piss in your Mountain Dew. And a mama who just might give him a quarter to do it.

Monday, June 9, 2008

yeah, they will

We went to the Spray Park Playground today, and by spray park, I mean water shooting and spraying and dripping from a number of interesting geysers and spigots. It is VERY EXCITING. Which is what I needed to stay awake today, after staying up until stupid o'clock reading Anne of Avonlea in its entirety. Because it's delicious. That's why.

We were glad to meet up with some friends (read: I was glad to have an adult to talk to) that also happened to be there. Sarah and I were watching Jack climb a tree, his first tree-climb!, and she remarked to me what a handsome devil that lad is. Naturally I agreed with her, because have you seen that kid? He's adorable. Allow me to pause to put my mama ego back in check... there it goes. Better now.

So at bedtime, I told Jack, E's mama said that you were a very handsome boy and that all the girls will love you.

He grinned his pointy-chinned silly grin and said, Yeah they will. They will love my pull-ups.

So that's what's hip in the Nearly Three Crowd these days. Good to know.

Friday, June 6, 2008


The Internets tell me that today it will be 90 degrees, with 45% humidity. Also that it will be hot.

Tomorrow, The Internets tell me that it will be 86 degrees, with 55% humidity. And that it will be warm.

I have always wondered at what point the weather changed from warm to hot. And sometimes I've wondered when will it ever cool down. And now I know.

Thank you for clearing this up for me, oh great and powerful weather channel dot com.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

what the...?

HB often wakes up from his nap with a messy diaper, or messes it promptly upon wakening. I was not surprised when I walked into his room this afternoon and smelled the smell.

I was, however, astonished that he had pooped entire logs ON HIS BEDSHEET, while he was wearing a diaper and a cover and overalls. All were still on him when I walked through his bedroom door. But the poop was in the bed.

So I ask, how is this at all possible?

she is not the winner

And that is most excellent.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

mind-numbing day



Break up fight between O & J.


Wonder why HB is screaming. Oh, kicked in the face? Right. Of course.

Discipline J, but not by kicking him in the face. That is bad.

Vile diaper. Must be that is how HB deals with getting kicked in the face. (Note to self: remind everyone NOT to kick HB in the face.)

Notice sketchy diaper rash. Not rashy-looking, exactly, more just pretty pink skin. Like a Fuji apple.


Deal with bread.

Feed the team.

Take the team outside, even though they really should take a nap.

Do lot of math to figure out how much 227 pounds of asparagus costs. $397.50, if you were wondering. And no, it is not all for me. That would make our house smell like stinky asparagus pee, and that would be gross.

Grocery list.

Put team in car.

Oops, but first, move ALL OF THE CAR SEATS to the middle row of vehicle, in order to accommodate 227 pounds of asparagus, which will be in eight 25 pound boxes and one 27 pound box.

Actually put team in car.

Go to the Tractor Supply store to buy Red Clover seed to make my tomatoes happy. Get what might be a good deal: a 50 pound bag originally costing $99, for $30. Lower germination rate, because the seed was from December, but I'm not growing a crop, here, just a ground cover.

Get a phone call from a friend, who asks a very oddly-worded question. Say I don't understand what you are asking. Friend re-words question by putting the same exact words in a different order. Say I don't understand what you are asking. Friend re-words question by putting exact same words in a new, different order. Say I don't understand what you are asking. Finally, after exhausting all of the permutations of the words in the question, thereby giving me enough time to kindasorta figure things out, I answered. Friend did not really like my answer (which was not an opinion sort of answer, pretty much fact-based and all). I attempted to joke with Friend about not dropping money off for the asparagus.

Get groceries, speedy quick. Team somewhat cooperative.

Get back in the car, notice voicemail on the phone. Listen to Friend's voicemail. She called back to leave me a 19 year long message about how I treated her like crap in front of her student (over the phone, mind you), and how I am just so rude and on and on and on and how she had rude kids all day long and on and on and on.

Scratch head on the way to other friend's house to pick up money for asparagus, refrain from calling Friend back and Actually Being Rude.

Called Friend back and Apologized Profusely And Genuinely While Saying In A Straight-Forward Manner I Really Truly Have No Idea What In God's Name She Is Talking About.

Make 354987321349876 more stops before picking up 227 pounds of asparagus.

Notice the baby kindasorta looks like a tomato.

Make 76543 stops before coming home.

Attempt to make dinner for the children whilst weighing out people's pounds of asparagus.

Put bread in the oven, hope it isn't overproofed.

Attempt to feed the children dinner that they really Are Not Going To Eat In This Lifetime Even Though It Is The Single Most Desireable Food Ever.

Measure more and more and more asparagus.

Notice the baby has enormous welts on his arms and legs, and that he is a bright, sort of food coloring color of red. Not the kind of red that actually happens naturally.

Call Cross Current, call the on-call doctor. I hate calling the on-call. I know it's their jobs, but the doctor on-call last night has three small children, and it was getting bedtime-ish, and really, who wants to hear about a rashy baby?

Send my mother to the pharmacy for Benadryl. And ice for my whisky, which I was planning to get into. With a pint glass normally reserved for beer. Aim high, that's what I tell the kids.

Got a phone call from Friend, who said it was highly likely she was being oversensitive and that she had the Worst Day Ever, which included passing out at the eye doctor (whatthe?!?!?), and that she hopes we can just be over it. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Put the children to bed whilst continuing to measure out asparagus.

Visit with an old friend (she's not old, I've just known her longer than my kids, so that makes her old). Try to have intelligent conversation without falling asleep midsentence.

The Mister came home around 9:30. He fetched me booze. Thank God.

Friend stayed until 11 (and that is a good thing).

I fell asleep at 11:02. It would have been sooner, but I had to brush my teeth and take my contacts out.

All this on no coffee.

pamela's guide to recovering from a mind-numbing day

  1. Jump out of bed after being rudely awakened by thunder at 6:27 a.m. to run outside for the two loads of laundry that are still on the line from yesterday. Try hard to find a shoe for your right foot from the pile of shoes at the bedside. Settle for two left fake Crocs. Trip down the back stairs and over the demon cat. Carry the overflowing laundry basket to the front door and knock so that you a) scare the fluids from The Mister, who was not aware that you were outside, and b) do not drop all of the clean diaper covers on the dirty porch floor.
  2. Hug said Mister goodbye, wish him well for the day, say you'll see him sometime when the evening hours are represented by double digit numbers.
  3. Put the kettle on to make coffee.
  4. Go upstairs to ask the internets what the weather will be, and if it will rain for the rest of the day. Because you promised the short people they could go to the playground today, and they are going to be pissed off if you have decided to Make It Rain and Renege On Your Word. Because all they wanted to do Yesterday, Day Of Misery And Riding In The Car For Hours With Gas At $4.12 A Gallon To Get Groceries And 227 Pounds Of Asparagus, was go to the playground and you are a Bad, Meanie Mother.
  5. Cringe, and Consider Drinking Whisky At 7 a.m. when the internets say it is highly likely that it will rain all day.
  6. Read Bossy, Maggie, Dammit, and read the New York Times.
  7. Catch a whiff of something that smells hot. Cringe again, because once it smells hot, it is too late already, so prepare to deal with something really awful.
  8. Run to the kitchen just in time to see the handle fall off the tea kettle. And be overwhelmed by the smell of melting plastic.
  9. Cry.
  10. Cry.
  11. Cry some more.
  12. Photograph singed tea kettle.
  13. Take a self-portrait to show everyone on the internets how sad you are.
  14. Get makeshift tea kettle (read: saucepan) out of the cupboard and attempt to boil water without ruining things.
  15. Grind coffee.
  16. Do not leave the kitchen, because you cannot be trusted to remember what it is you are actually doing.
  17. Pray that you do not burn anything for the rest of the day your life.
  18. Thank God you don't ever put the children on the stove, because you probably would have ruined them by now as well. Also pray about no rain, and that you don't leave a child at the playground.
  19. Try to push the French Press down, but find you are unable to even do that. Pour one half cup of coffee. Try again with moderate success.
  20. Sigh.
  21. Pour some creamer in your coffee, and some on the floor.
  22. Sigh. Again.
  23. Go outside to look at the pretty poppies, and wish that your poppies were the kind that knocked Dorothy and her friends out on their way to Oz. Because that might help a little.
  24. Enjoy a highly mediocre cup of coffee, and keep reminding yourself that it is more coffee than you have had in 48 hours. Also enjoy one of the last items left of the Really Bad Habit, as NYS has just enacted at $2.50 tax on each pack, and there will be no more Really Bad Habit going on over here. Good work, NY state! Bastards.
  25. Turn to walk into the front yard to admire the pea plants. Stand there like a moron and watch the cat puke all over the neighbor's sidewalk. (Note to self: Get worm pills.)
  26. Realize you left your gallon of expensive organic Amish cow milk IN THE CAR, OVERNIGHT.
  27. Go back in the House That Smells Of Burned Plastic, and say a few words of fond remembrance over the tea kettle.
  28. Don't fold the six loads of laundry that really wish they were back in the drawers, already. Because it has been days and days since they have been clean. And they are considering moving out.
  29. Contemplate showering, and its positive effect on your life.
  30. Get more coffee.

Sunday, June 1, 2008

happy june.

This is the June picture on the calendar we gave the g'parents for Christmas.

He has more teeth now. And his face is a little thinner, but he still has the same number of chins as me.