halloween, or yes people, paintballing my house *does* piss me off

This is why I am still awake. Some little delinquent moron did a DRIVE BY to my poor little house with some sort of not-quite-jury-rigged-semi-automatic weaponry that, in its weakened state, managed to eek three orange paintball splats on my front porch windows. Bastard. Or Bastards.

And there are two smashed eggs, one on my sidewalk, and one on my grass. Ooooooohhhhh, children, look! The naughty big kids are COMPOSTING OUR LAWN FOR US. And also, lookey here: they were kind enough to only get paint on the windows! What a considerate bunch of gas holes they are.

Miss O coined the term Gas Hole today, and no, it's not because I was saying the curse word that RHYMES with Gas Hole. Because I wasn't. Really. There were a few certain children in my home this morning who were letting loose and feeling fine, and those verysame children were tired of the correct anatomical names (and humourous names) for keister, so they set out to create some of their own. Gas Hole was the clear winner.

Because? Farts are funny, and any body part that can be named after a fart, especially the one that does the farting? Is a winner.

I know this does not empower my children, exactly, but we just may run out of oil and we just may need to rely on the Gas Hole for the power to run our world.

I'm just saying.

It's still that stupid Halloween here, and The Mister is out prowling the yard for Gas Holes. Someday, I'll tell you about the spectacular entertainment we had last Halloween. It was nicey. I'm going to bed, because it's stupid o'clock and I have to get up to go to work at even stupider o'clock.

One final thought: It would be funny if the Gas Hole(s) came around again when the Under Porch Skunk was out and they got sprayed. Funny and convenient.

change is not always good

This is not a political post.

This is a post about how I wanted to use a fun toy called CommentLuv that works brilliantly on Wordpress blogitas, but not so much on Blogger bloggys. And I changed to the other way, and then I changed my mind, and changed it back to the Blogger way, and now?

I lost all my pretty comments. They went away. And I think I remember what four of the questions for me are, but I'm not entirely sure, as you can't really count on my brain this time of the year, or when I'm knocked, or both.

Make sure you check out Open Book, Schmopen Book and leave me your pressing questions. And if I lost your first comment, please ask again.. I would hate for someone to be left out of the mad, mad fun.

open book schmopen book

It's a big day here at the dayton time. (drum roll, please.....)

Welcome to OPEN BOOK, SCHMOPEN BOOK!

(For the record? It's pronounced schmo-long O sound-pen. Just want you to keep up, that's all.)

What in the WORLD is Open Book, Schmopen Book? I know you want to know. The name itself is just plain fascinating. I'm an INTRIGUE MACHINE.

Open Book, Schmopen Book, or OBSB, is where you get to pick my brain about your Most Pressing Questions. Or, if you find yourself completely void of Pressing Questions, and just want to know, say, what color socks I'm wearing at noon on Thursday, you can ask me that. Maybe you would like to know my reaction, should the world as we know it cease to function and John McCain become the next POTUS.

Ask away.

I'll be checking the comments, and on Sunday, after church and a nap, I will answer your questions. Supposing there aren't, say, nintey gazillion. That'd make the answer session post a wee bit too long, don't you think? No? Well, I think it would, and it's my blog, and what I say is the truth. So neener-neener. Or nanu-nanu, if you're a Mork fan.

Or? nanu-neener. Because it's fun.

wordless wednesday: i haz mor sickness

Poor baby. Poor mama. Poor Sis. It seems we have drawn the short end of the stick as far as non-life-threatening illnesses are concerned. Two weeks ago, it was the barfing flu. Now? Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease. I do not have the HFMD, but my oldest and youngest do. And Wee Man? Well, he's just annoyed that he's not getting any of the yummy Motrin. And to that, I say, Whatever, dude.

The Mister took this picture Monday night around 11:30, after HB woke up crying for the umpteenth time. We were tired.

The doctor said we should keep the kiddos at home until the blisters aren't active. Blisters? Oh yes. You must not have clicked the link to the CDC website. It's all about the blisters, baby. And keeping them home? Means...

We might have to miss out on the trick-or-treating. And that? Would totally not ruin my day AT ALL. I would rather hit the grocery store for a few treats, stay home and watch a movie than trudge around in the snowy mud with a bunch of weirdos in costumes.

But that's just me.

And speaking of just me, would it be really, REALLY wrong to dress up as Bristol Palin for Halloween? I haven't been able to think of any other pregnant people. And I think I could pull it off.

in which i am informed of issues i never even knew i have

There we were, sitting on the couch, watching Cloris Leachman shake her stale bon-bons (they've traveled so far from where they started). And then we watched the commercials.

Mostly, it's the commercials that make me have crazy eyes, because they are so ridiculously far-fetched. I can point out at least one, if not twelve, reasons a commercial is not believable.

The one that really got me was for kid-proof electronic thingys from Fisher-Price. (I have a reader or two who are actually employees of Fisher-Price...hiya, gals!) One of the scenarios was the three year-old girl with excessively long piggytails taking a picture of a goldfish in a bowl. A very nearly spherical bowl, with not a very large opening in the top of the bowl. And the girl? Well DUH!, she drops the camera into the fishbowl.

That would never happen like that.

?????????

Don't look at me like that! That kid would never be able to drop the camera face-first into the fishbowl. The hole isn't big enough for the camera to just slip in like that.

??????????

I have a problem.

What? You don't have any Samoa ice cream in that bowl?

Awesome. My lack of ice cream, instead of being viewed as a positive health choice for me and our baby, is now construed as a character flaw.

????????????

Well, don't just sit there, letting me languish in my flaws. Build me up, Buttercup!

????????? (While going to fetch some Edy's Girl Scout Mama Lovin' Samoa Cookie Ice Cream)

He came back with two bowls. One for him, one for me. Unfortunately? Not two for me. It's okay, though, I'm here all day. I can have ice cream whenever I want, even when he has to interrupt his lunch to heft around some dead people in big plastic bags. (What? Oh, hi, Babe. That's right! You *DO* read this! I love you a lot!)

Busy dissecting the commercial I was watching, I didn't pay any attention to the ice cream for about five minutes. Wha-at? I know. Commercials aren't that long, but the PICTURES!!!! WERE!!!! MOVING!!!! ON!!!! THE!!!! SCREEN!!!!

I picked up my spoon, and gazed lovingly down at my bowl of superyum. I was jolted to the reality of three teensytinynearlynonexistant pieces of ice cream.

Well, for somebody eager to point out my flaws, you're not really eager to help me overcome them, are you?

It's called Portion Control. And it's because I love you.

He said. When he finished rolling his eyes.

ahh, the humour of the brits

Childbirth Song

You've bags under your eyes
You've got boobs to your knees
Your hand's full of poo and your bra's full of cheese
Your stomach is bloated your clothes do not fit
He still wants sex while you feel like shit
He begs for this favour not long after labour
It's like eating a meal after you've just been sick

And the boys at the office tell him I should give him what he wants
To this I say that they're a bunch of lalalalalalala

You bastard you cocked up it's you got me knocked up
Just cos you want me to have bigger tits
You're pleading, you're pining
Oh please stop your whining
You're not getting sex 'til the kid's 26

You say you want another child, another pregnancy
When you can poo a watermelon I'll agree

I could have been someone if you just hadn't come (along)
If I hadn't been so drunk and I'd said maybe
We'd be going out and stuff, now there's foreceps up my chuff
Pulling the head of a screaming 10lb baby

And the mums on Hornby Island* say keep breast feeding 'til they're four
If I do I won't have nipples anymore

And all the doctors told me that I'd need a stitch or ten
I say sew me up so I can't do this again.

there is an odor. and the odor is everywhere.

Friday night, whilst checking my blog stats email, I noticed a distinct, and particulary offensive odor in the air. I called The Mister in, because of his roles as Major Source of Offensive Odors and Head Person In Charge of Containment and Removal of Offensive Odors.

It smells.

I don't smell anything.

It smells like skunk.

I don't smell skunk.

You can't smell. I am telling you there is some sort of skunk issue going on here.

I don't smell anything that smells like an issue.

Skunk.

I thought maybe one of the stupid cats had decided to throw down with a skunk. Because, umm, STUPID! cats. I went to bed. The bedroom? Smelled like a skunk. The bathroom? Smelled like a skunk. For fun sometime? You should be pregnant with a proclivity for vomiting, and try to go in your bathroom to brush your teeth when it's gavomitous with skunk spray. That's right. I said gavomitous. Look it up if you need to know.

Yesterday, at work, I called The Mister to see if the children were still alive.

Yes.

That's great.

It smells like skunk.

I know it smells like skunk. Have you looked into that?

Ummm, I think I may have left the back door open and the skunk might be in the basement.

Are you kidding me? I have asked you ninetyeleventwenty gazillion times to close the door because the stupid cats bring dead things in for me to admire and drag away, and now there is a &^c#!n% skunk in the basement. Brilliant.

(Have you forgotten about this incident? I HAVEN'T!)

Well, I have to pick up some toilet paper after work, so I'll call you later to see if I'm actually coming home or not. And babe? I HATE SKUNKS!

I'm supernice.

But I did go home.

And now? It stinks like skunk. STILL. The new hypothesis is that the skunk is under the front porch. Which is much better than in my home. But? IT STILL STINKS LIKE A FREAKING SKUNK. And me? I still hate skunks.

So The Mister decided to smoke the skunk out from under the front porch. At two in the afternoon. And now? It stinks like a skunk in a house fire. AWESOME!!! He just came in the house. His conclusion?

Skunks are nocturnal. It's asleep with its nose buried someplace, and it's not going anywhere.

That is great news, and why? Because neither is the skunk smell. We are just going to sit here and marinate in the odoriferous eminations of the stupid skunk.