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.

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.

conversation

(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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Me: NO. TOILET. TOILET. NOW!!!!!

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.