in case you were wondering

I'm not a fan of the nicknames, despite assigning them to my family members here.  One of my most hugestest pet peeves ever is when I introduce myself to someone by saying, "I'm Pamela.", and they come right back with, "Hi, Pam."  And I say, "My name is Pamela."  And then they call me Pam again, and I say, "Not like the cute girl on The Office.  I'm Pamela, not Pam."  And then it just goes on and on.  Really? Are we as a people that self-centered and un-listening that, upon receiving CLEAR directions, totally ignore what another person has said?

I told you it made me peevish.

Also? When people make up their own nicknames for my short people?  Also peevish.  Changing my little boys' names into little girls' names?  IS NOT CUTE.  So knock it off, I don't care how old or usually lovely you are.  And no, we are not going to shorten ELLIOTT to ELI.  Not. Gonna. Do. It, just like Forty-One.

That being said, we do have a pet name for Miss O each of the boys.  And sometimes, I just call them My Loveys.  It eliminates the hole Remembering The Names Of Each Individual Child Thing.  I kid.  Honest.

Today I sat on the red flowery sofa, nursing my not-so-little baby, and HB climbed up next to me.  He nestled himself in between the couch cushion and my shoulder, and pressed his cheek up against my bicep.  Because it's supersofty, that's why.  And he patted my cheek and said, "Mama, you are still my Lovey.  You are my Lovey forever.  Forever and ever."

Sigh.

once again it is monday

Good Morning, friends. I like to think about you, even the many yous that are hiding out there in West Wherever, whose faces are like little secrets of mine. Sometimes, well, usually when I write, I think of you sitting with me, on my red and flowery sofa, drinking coffee, and that we chat like the oldest and dearest of friends.

Usually we talk about the weather, or the guy in my neighborhood who mows his lawn in a Speedo from April to November, about the chickens or the gardens and what we will eat for dinner. Sometimes I listen to you tell me about the myriad things going on in your neck of West Wherever.

We laugh, we chatter, we sit in the quiet.

Today I am sad and overwhelmed and unmotivated. There are dishes to do, and laundry to move along and fold. There are orders I need to cut and sew for pretties people have ordered from Revel Baby. There are pictures to edit and delete, and I desperately need a shower. DESPERATELY. I am painting scenery for the play I'm directing, props to gather. Miss O's flower girl dress for next weekend's wedding sits as a pile of chopped up material. My dress for next weekend's wedding sits folded up, one uncut piece of material hidden by a thousand tissue paper pattern pieces. The piano music sits in a folder in the bottom of my blue birdy bag, waiting to be practiced for next weekend's wedding. Because I'm the pianist, naturally. Or insanely. Either way.

Next weekend's wedding unites my younger brother and his love. It will also put my entire family in a room together for the first time in nine years. Mother, father, two brothers, their wives, me, The Mister, our children, my nephews.

Nine years. It weighs heavily on my spirit today, as is has for the past however many thousands of days.

I don't know if I'm up for the Happy Family Game. Do you know the one I mean, friends? Equal parts denial, pretending, and choking? People play this game all of the time, but I just don't know how, and I don't think that I want to learn.

We will make cupcakes, from a box because we have no butter, and we will frost them with frosting from a can, also because we have no butter. We will pick up sticks from the windy weekend, and paint scenery. The laundry will wash, and dry, and sit folded on the green sofa until a date to be determined by the direction the wind blows in combination with the availability of willing labourers and also the price of tea in China. We will eat Swedish Fish and have pasta for dinner.

Forward.

you know you want it: gazillion bubbles

Usually I ignore the Tweets that say, "Looking for a mommy blogger to review a (you fill in the blank)!!! DM for details!!!"

BUT.

The short people. The bubbles. The true love. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And also?  Bubbles are superfun to photograph.  Seriously.  I shot over 400 pictures in fifteen minutes.  I have a crazy trigger finger, yo.

So I DM'ed Gazillion Bubbles speedy quick.  And they said my blog was cute (really? cute? is it?) and sent us a big honking package in the mail.  And then the weather was icky, and there was the rain, and the cold, and the windy, and then, one fine day, we just couldn't wait any longer.  And that little bubble machine was big fun.

The bubble machine was a huge hit with all five of the short people (Elliott was sleeping, and we borrowed a few).  But the four year olds? LURVED THAT THING, I tell you.  We set it directly on the grass at first, and, meh, bubbles, yeah, cool.  But then we plopped that there Gazillion Bubbles machine on the back of our little red wagon, and that is when the crazy erupted.

This is my girl, Cute Mystery Woman, giving me the Finger of Warning not to post any pictures of her on my blog.  That's why I doctored her up real good so nobody will recognize her.  You're welcome, mama, don't say I've never done anything for you.  Also, please do not think that I am saying that Cute Mystery Woman erupts with teh crazies.  Because I'm not saying that.  Especially on the interwebs.  She only erupts butterflies and clouds and marshmallows and love and blue moons.  Never crazy.

I would like to take a moment to address the Catching of The Bubbles On The Tongue.  But I don't even know where to begin.

Moving on.

Except there is no moving on.  If you give your four year-old a tongue, they will want a bubble to catch on it.

And should said four year-old catch said bubble, the bubble will be promptly consumed.  Possibly.  Unless it pops first.

Thanks for the superfun afternoon of bubble chasing (and eating).  We had a blast.

baby needs a new set of brake shoes

Our Cozy Coupe is about to bite the dust.  And in an effort to not waste my money going to every garage sale from here to Pennsyltucky, I'm trying to win one here.

Don't even click on that button and enter to win one yourself.  Or HB will cry.  Hard.  And I will tell him it's your fault his heart is broken.

there's nothing like the bubbles

More fantastic Gazillion Bubbles action shots tomorrow... 

this day.

This day, with its sunshine and bird song and warm breezes, is a lovely one.  This day is an unexpected Monday at home with the family for The Mister.  This day began with mediocre coffee and chattering babies and the regular foot-stomping about the regular things.

This day finds us with one less family member.  And I cringe as I am typing, because I never thought of myself as one of Those People who would be crying about a pet.  It's embarrassing, in a way, but more than that, I'm embarrassed that I'm embarrassed.  

We have three cats.  Well, now we have two cats, and one buried beneath the apple tree.  Two were mine, that I brought here when I moved home from Ohio.  They were brothers, I found them at the animal shelter, curled up in a tight ball in the corner of their litter pan.  How could I have adopted just one of them?  I couldn't.  I didn't.

We called him Fat Jake.  Once, Miss O wanted me to draw pictures of the cats with sidewalk chalk, and write their names.  So I did, in HUGE.BLOCK.LETTERS.  Sully.  Sebastian.  Fat Jake.  A neighbor walked by and her eyes practically bulged out of her head when she saw the ginormous FAT JAKE on the sidewalk, because another of our neighbors was, coincidentally, both named Jake, and rather obese.  Anyway.

He had been losing weight, and was sleeping all the time.  We tried to help him feel better, gain weight, stop vomiting.  But he wasted away.  And this day was the day.  This day he is buried under the boughs of the apple tree, the place where he would spend every pleasant afternoon.

My babies' hearts broke in a million gazillion pieces.  I don't want my kitty to die!  I want him to be with me!  I hate vets!  I want the vet to die!  And the tears, and the red cheeks and the puffy eyes and the sad.  Oh, the sad.  The saddest of sads.

I want Jake to stay.  I wish he could stay.  Why did he have to get sick?  Why did he have to die?  I really want my kitty.   But I don't want him to die.  I really want kitty.  I didn't want him to die.  I don't want him to die.  I want my kitty back.

Me too, baby, me too.

so sad.

My favorite kitty is dying.  The Mister is taking him to the animal hospital now.  Maybe Fat Jake will come home later with meds, maybe he won't.  Super sick kitty, super sad mama, super sad babies.