"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"How do you spell 'booty'?"
"B-O-O-T-Y."
"B-O-O-T-Y spells booty. B-O-O-T-Y."
Wait...shit.
Showing posts with label Stoopid Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stoopid Me. Show all posts
Friday, March 07, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
My Something Happy
With all the sadness in the world lately, I feel the need to post something happy.
Voilà one "Smiling Porcupine"
(And if you happen to be eating your Wheaties at the present time urine is mentioned in a not so appetizing way below.)
Being the weirdo that I am, I asked the Cracker if he knew what porcupines eat. His guess? Popcorn.
So we ran to the computer to Wiki it.
Salt. They like salt. I enjoy popcorn for the salt, so awesome guess in my book. Know what else they like?
"Natural sources of salt consumed by porcupines include varieties of salt-rich plants (such as yellow water lily and aquatic liverwort), fresh animal bones, outer tree bark, mud in salt-rich soils, and objects impregnated with urine."
One day I shall remember to read ahead.
Voilà one "Smiling Porcupine"
(And if you happen to be eating your Wheaties at the present time urine is mentioned in a not so appetizing way below.)
Being the weirdo that I am, I asked the Cracker if he knew what porcupines eat. His guess? Popcorn.
So we ran to the computer to Wiki it.
Salt. They like salt. I enjoy popcorn for the salt, so awesome guess in my book. Know what else they like?
"Natural sources of salt consumed by porcupines include varieties of salt-rich plants (such as yellow water lily and aquatic liverwort), fresh animal bones, outer tree bark, mud in salt-rich soils, and objects impregnated with urine."
One day I shall remember to read ahead.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Little Boys
This afternoon I came home to find the Cracker with a hammer, pliers, and every roll of Christmas/Birthday/Wedding/New Baby wrapping paper I've collected over the years spread across the living room floor.
"What are you doing?"
"Building roads."
I grabbed a vehicle, got down on all fours, and made a lame ass girly attempt at playing cars.
"Vroom, vroom."
(Shaking his head.) "No Mommy, the roads aren't done yet. Those are just the pipes."
"What are you doing?"
"Building roads."
I grabbed a vehicle, got down on all fours, and made a lame ass girly attempt at playing cars.
"Vroom, vroom."
(Shaking his head.) "No Mommy, the roads aren't done yet. Those are just the pipes."
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Deep Thoughts: Marshmallows
Vegans have totally ruined marshmallows for me, which I find odd since I am not vegan or even vegetarian. Everything about their elasticity and meltiness now totally freaks me out and I find myself searching food labels everywhere for gelatin.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Time Suckage Revisited
Remember the How many states can you name quiz? I innocently ran across the How many countries can you name? version today. I'm not even going to try until I've had a glass of wine.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Time Suckage
Am I smarter than a 5th grader? Probably not.
I came across this How many US states can you name in 10 minutes? quiz tonight. Turns out I can only name 49 states. But hey, I can do it in just under 3 minutes and they give 10. Does that count for anything?
I am humbled. I honestly expected a perfect score the first time, and then again the second time, and yes, even the third time. Ninety-friggin-five percent all three times.
(But can I have bonus points for knowing that 95 is Lightening McQueen's number?)
So here are my complaints with the test:
1. No map provided. I could totally do it with a map.
2. Incorrect spelling should count. I was finishing up with New England and could already see I was going to hit 49 again and in frustration suddenly was unable to spell M-a-s-s-a-c-h-u-s-e-t-t-s.
3. Instead of alphabetical order I would like them listed in the order that I entered them.* I do not even kind of possess the patience to go through again in my head geographically and then compare against an alphabetical list. Hello? Lazy American here.
4. I would like a grade me now/cheat button. When I'm done naming 49 states and have spent a whole additional minute half-assedly trying to figure out which one I missed this time I'M DONE. Making me wait until the clock runs out is really shitty.
(My misses in order: Iowa, Missouri, Minnesota)
*As it turns out, that was the original version. For tonight I'm done aggravating myself, but I might have to try tomorrow.
Also from the same site, a YouTube link to this.
My Dad used to reenact it for me as a child.
I came across this How many US states can you name in 10 minutes? quiz tonight. Turns out I can only name 49 states. But hey, I can do it in just under 3 minutes and they give 10. Does that count for anything?
I am humbled. I honestly expected a perfect score the first time, and then again the second time, and yes, even the third time. Ninety-friggin-five percent all three times.
(But can I have bonus points for knowing that 95 is Lightening McQueen's number?)
So here are my complaints with the test:
1. No map provided. I could totally do it with a map.
2. Incorrect spelling should count. I was finishing up with New England and could already see I was going to hit 49 again and in frustration suddenly was unable to spell M-a-s-s-a-c-h-u-s-e-t-t-s.
3. Instead of alphabetical order I would like them listed in the order that I entered them.* I do not even kind of possess the patience to go through again in my head geographically and then compare against an alphabetical list. Hello? Lazy American here.
4. I would like a grade me now/cheat button. When I'm done naming 49 states and have spent a whole additional minute half-assedly trying to figure out which one I missed this time I'M DONE. Making me wait until the clock runs out is really shitty.
(My misses in order: Iowa, Missouri, Minnesota)
*As it turns out, that was the original version. For tonight I'm done aggravating myself, but I might have to try tomorrow.
Also from the same site, a YouTube link to this.
My Dad used to reenact it for me as a child.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Another Embarrassing Moment, Batteries Included
Whenever my parents visit my Dad is delighted to take on any job that needs doing around the house. And because he takes pride in his work the guy won't quit until it's friggin perfect. It's just...awesome. My dear husband, on the other hand, puts so much energy into bitching and moaning even if I'm not nagging about the prospect of having to do something that he exhausts himself to the point that he needs a nap before he can even begin, and so begins the process again the following weekend.
So last weekend my Dad asks if there is anything else, anything at all, that I'd like him to look at before they left. Yes, I have a clock that has never worked right.
"Let's start with a new battery."
So I go into our bedroom and reappear with AAs.
"Uh, actually it takes AAAs."
No sweat. Thinking nothing of it I head off in the opposite direction for J's office where all the other batteries are kept.
J, witness to it all, is dying.
And did he cover for me? Noooooo.
Bad husband.
Then, to rub it in, he makes me watch that episode of Coupling where the guys keep telling Steve to check out Susan's remotes.
In case you were wondering, yes, I still find ways to embarrass myself. It's a talent, really.
So last weekend my Dad asks if there is anything else, anything at all, that I'd like him to look at before they left. Yes, I have a clock that has never worked right.
"Let's start with a new battery."
So I go into our bedroom and reappear with AAs.
"Uh, actually it takes AAAs."
No sweat. Thinking nothing of it I head off in the opposite direction for J's office where all the other batteries are kept.
J, witness to it all, is dying.
And did he cover for me? Noooooo.
Bad husband.
Then, to rub it in, he makes me watch that episode of Coupling where the guys keep telling Steve to check out Susan's remotes.
In case you were wondering, yes, I still find ways to embarrass myself. It's a talent, really.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I Demand the Return of My Living Room
Back in early December J and the Cracker hauled out all the Thomas crap and began construction on their biggest project ever. Over a period of weeks I watched the affected area of my living room grow. At first it was really cute to watch them, my two sons, discussing layout changes and playing trains, but as days turned into weeks it the damn thing kept spreading out and the cuteness faded long before their interest.
"Is it okay if I take this down?"
"NOOOOO!" "NO MOMMY NO!"
Arugh.
"Well, couldja kinda rework things a little, maybe move the roundhouse and the engine wash so that there's a path into the bedroom?"
"Uh, no! Do you know how long it took us to come up with this configuration?"
Sadly, I do.
(multiple nights in the preceding weeks)
"I'm going to bed, wink wink."
Picking my way around the above-mentioned obstacles I realize that my loving husband has not made a move.
"You coming?"
"I can't."
"Huh?"
"I think I may have figured out how to fix blah blah blah! You see the way it is now, blah blah blah, you get forced in this direction blah blah blah can't turn around to go back to blah. So I'm thinking that if can rework blah blah then blah blah and blah blah flow!"
(He looks up at me, big ass smile, oh so pleased with the plan.)
"Are you fucking kidding me? Sex! You'd rather play trains by yourself in the dark than have sex?"
"I'll be there in a little while."
"What you're not getting is that this is a limited time offer."
Yesterday I had one of my I've-had-it! moments and I declared (to no one other than myself) the branch lines of Sodor relocated to a more out of the way location where I will not trip over them quite so often.
Compounding my frustration is the fact that we have an actual playroom off our living room. (In the model they called it the formal dining room, but I find I love my family more when I'm not cleaning food off carpet.) When you walk into our home the first thing you see is the living room ahead of you. It isn't until you get halfway down the entry hall that you realize there is a playroom on your left as well. I like it like that: the toys are all in his reach, I can keep track of him from the LR or the kitchen, but you cannot see the chaos from the front door.
So why isn't it in the playroom? Because the configuration spans 8 feet, 2 inches by 7 feet, 1 inch.
Welcome to my nightmare.
Not even daring to take a breath I ever so carefully, section by section, begin moving the land of Sodor from one end of the living room to the other, cursing myself that I did not remember to first take a few digital pictures in case I accidentally rip it all apart and cannot figure out how to get it back together just so. Simultaneously I applaud myself for not buying more track for them at Christmas.
(Even with my 50% any one item at Michael's coupon I just could not bring myself to spend $1/inch for a few curved pieces.) (Most of our track is generic Imaginarium BOGOHO or the retired plastic yet compatible "Interactive Thomas" I bought on clearance 2 years ago at Target and later at Ross for a few pennies an inch.)
I move it to the corner recently vacated by our holiday tree. Crap, it doesn't even really fit there either. Should have measured first.
I spend the next hour wiggling it around the LR, a little to one side then the other, trying to figure out if minor adjustments will suddenly open up a fat path for foot traffic.
No.
Pissed and mentally exhausted, I get up and look around. Hmmm...maybe if I move the couch and the big chair...
Forty-five minutes and no solution later my mind yells out "WFT are you doing rearranging your living room furniture for Thomas and Friends? This is bullshit! You have totally lost your mind woman! (But, on the plus side, maybe I'll leave it this way for the night. Having the couch smack dab in front of the TV like that would give us a much clearer shot for throwing Pirate's Booty at the President during his address. Decisions, decisions...)
"Is it okay if I take this down?"
"NOOOOO!" "NO MOMMY NO!"
Arugh.
"Well, couldja kinda rework things a little, maybe move the roundhouse and the engine wash so that there's a path into the bedroom?"
"Uh, no! Do you know how long it took us to come up with this configuration?"
Sadly, I do.
(multiple nights in the preceding weeks)
"I'm going to bed, wink wink."
Picking my way around the above-mentioned obstacles I realize that my loving husband has not made a move.
"You coming?"
"I can't."
"Huh?"
"I think I may have figured out how to fix blah blah blah! You see the way it is now, blah blah blah, you get forced in this direction blah blah blah can't turn around to go back to blah. So I'm thinking that if can rework blah blah then blah blah and blah blah flow!"
(He looks up at me, big ass smile, oh so pleased with the plan.)
"Are you fucking kidding me? Sex! You'd rather play trains by yourself in the dark than have sex?"
"I'll be there in a little while."
"What you're not getting is that this is a limited time offer."
Yesterday I had one of my I've-had-it! moments and I declared (to no one other than myself) the branch lines of Sodor relocated to a more out of the way location where I will not trip over them quite so often.
Compounding my frustration is the fact that we have an actual playroom off our living room. (In the model they called it the formal dining room, but I find I love my family more when I'm not cleaning food off carpet.) When you walk into our home the first thing you see is the living room ahead of you. It isn't until you get halfway down the entry hall that you realize there is a playroom on your left as well. I like it like that: the toys are all in his reach, I can keep track of him from the LR or the kitchen, but you cannot see the chaos from the front door.
So why isn't it in the playroom? Because the configuration spans 8 feet, 2 inches by 7 feet, 1 inch.
Welcome to my nightmare.
Not even daring to take a breath I ever so carefully, section by section, begin moving the land of Sodor from one end of the living room to the other, cursing myself that I did not remember to first take a few digital pictures in case I accidentally rip it all apart and cannot figure out how to get it back together just so. Simultaneously I applaud myself for not buying more track for them at Christmas.
(Even with my 50% any one item at Michael's coupon I just could not bring myself to spend $1/inch for a few curved pieces.) (Most of our track is generic Imaginarium BOGOHO or the retired plastic yet compatible "Interactive Thomas" I bought on clearance 2 years ago at Target and later at Ross for a few pennies an inch.)
I move it to the corner recently vacated by our holiday tree. Crap, it doesn't even really fit there either. Should have measured first.
I spend the next hour wiggling it around the LR, a little to one side then the other, trying to figure out if minor adjustments will suddenly open up a fat path for foot traffic.
No.
Pissed and mentally exhausted, I get up and look around. Hmmm...maybe if I move the couch and the big chair...
Forty-five minutes and no solution later my mind yells out "WFT are you doing rearranging your living room furniture for Thomas and Friends? This is bullshit! You have totally lost your mind woman! (But, on the plus side, maybe I'll leave it this way for the night. Having the couch smack dab in front of the TV like that would give us a much clearer shot for throwing Pirate's Booty at the President during his address. Decisions, decisions...)
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Google Me
I know I suck. The last month has been a flurry of illness, birthdays, get to the dentist/optometrist before the end of the year appointments, travel, record breaking snow and a little more illness. I just logged in and found a bunch of posts I don't remember even writing that I never published. (See below.)
Ahh! The holidays!
But I am here now, thank you notes not even started, inspired by the fact that I just checked for the first time in forever what searches have brought people's asses to my blog and found a fairly good one: renuzit room spray with a penis on the can.
Sweet.
(You can't see it, but I am swelling with pride. At press time I am the third link down on the first page. The first page!)
I originally got the idea from DGM. (Except don't follow the link yet, because then mine really suck in comparison.) Sometimes I will spend way too much time getting as far as page 20-something before I give up trying to find how "super glue locks rock-hard" brought them here of all places. It's amazing how quickly these things get buried if I don't check them, like, that day.
And for the most part the search terms aren't all that weird: I get a surprising number of hits from shoes I've mentioned, though the majority are along the lines of "poo stained panties" which has lead me to conclude that there isn't a lot of graphic potty training vents on the net. Shame.
Most of my favorites are from Ask.com, where I am/was supposedly a good resource to answer:
Where can I find Aloe Vera gel and how to use it on hair?
Will a jell dildo go through airport security?
Where can i find a monkey hitting himself in the head?
The inside of my belly button has a red rash and burning feelin (no G, which somehow makes it better)
And a few of the other stranger ones:
Sugar ants in dirty laundry
32A July (Thank you...that would be my old bra size)
why adults and teenagers would wear diapers on purpose
sex w/pumpkins
male bedroom finished in animal print
unpotty training
rash from alberta spruce
Ahh! The holidays!
But I am here now, thank you notes not even started, inspired by the fact that I just checked for the first time in forever what searches have brought people's asses to my blog and found a fairly good one: renuzit room spray with a penis on the can.
Sweet.
(You can't see it, but I am swelling with pride. At press time I am the third link down on the first page. The first page!)
I originally got the idea from DGM. (Except don't follow the link yet, because then mine really suck in comparison.) Sometimes I will spend way too much time getting as far as page 20-something before I give up trying to find how "super glue locks rock-hard" brought them here of all places. It's amazing how quickly these things get buried if I don't check them, like, that day.
And for the most part the search terms aren't all that weird: I get a surprising number of hits from shoes I've mentioned, though the majority are along the lines of "poo stained panties" which has lead me to conclude that there isn't a lot of graphic potty training vents on the net. Shame.
Most of my favorites are from Ask.com, where I am/was supposedly a good resource to answer:
Where can I find Aloe Vera gel and how to use it on hair?
Will a jell dildo go through airport security?
Where can i find a monkey hitting himself in the head?
The inside of my belly button has a red rash and burning feelin (no G, which somehow makes it better)
And a few of the other stranger ones:
Sugar ants in dirty laundry
32A July (Thank you...that would be my old bra size)
why adults and teenagers would wear diapers on purpose
sex w/pumpkins
male bedroom finished in animal print
unpotty training
rash from alberta spruce
Friday, December 22, 2006
Just Stop Talking, Like Right Now
I hate vomiting and I try not to do it often. My kid? So NOT a barfer. The virus that hit me the night of December 1st was the first real can't-keep-water-down since Christmas Break 1996.
(Have you seen that Seinfeld?)
Dictionary police: I used the word "virus"...didja see? Know what I hate more than people who use the word virus when they've been throwing up and/or having diarrhea and say "flu" is the people who correct them.
"Wow, you don't sound so good. You okay?"
"Getting there. I got the flu and haven't even been able to even keep down ice chips for 3 days. It sucks."
"Nenenenoooo! That's not the flu! The flu is res-pi-ra-tory. You had a virus!"
Assholes.
(Have you seen that Seinfeld?)
Dictionary police: I used the word "virus"...didja see? Know what I hate more than people who use the word virus when they've been throwing up and/or having diarrhea and say "flu" is the people who correct them.
"Wow, you don't sound so good. You okay?"
"Getting there. I got the flu and haven't even been able to even keep down ice chips for 3 days. It sucks."
"Nenenenoooo! That's not the flu! The flu is res-pi-ra-tory. You had a virus!"
Assholes.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Not just snacks anymore
Ever been so tired that you just forget everything? Things you've known for years, but in the moment that formerly useless trivia become actually useful your brain just completely fails you?
Like that we could be using Cheerios and Fruit Loops to teach aim?
Why oh why did I totally forget this? Must have been that all of my available resources today (twice today) went to destroying evidence that my son peed on the wall/seat/back of a public toilet.
And the floor. Don't forget the floor.
(I am going to make myself learn to pee standing up. I am never sitting my bare ass down on a public toilet again.)
So what was my excuse yesterday? How about that occasionally the Cracker will ask to take a bath when he's actually already very clean at a most inopportune time and my promise of later isn't NOW so he pees on himself on purpose in hopes that he will get to play with his tub friends?
Actually I think it's amazing I even know who I am anymore, even if I don't know the difference between a pumpkin and a honeydew.
So in my eternal quest to have a child fully able to take care of his own waste needs I've forgotten a few things along the way. Sue me.
The thing you have to realize is that this potty training thing hasn't been a black and white matter. Really, truly, the whole thing is gray. Lotsa gray. I came into this figuring that you're either potty trained or you're not.
Oh no.
And it's been going on since approximately 18 months.
STEP 1: Matching the word to the receptacle.
STEP 2: Agreeing to sit on it.
STEP 3: Understanding what it's for.
STEP 4: Learning to recognize the urge.
STEP 5: Before the urge hits.
STEP 6: Being able to sit still long enough.
STEP 7: Actually agreeing to.
STEP 8: Trying more than occasionally.
STEP 9: Learning to accept that you must stop what you are doing to do business, even if what you were doing was more fun because it always is.
STEP 10: And care that dry pants are preferable to wet ones.
STEP 11: How to hold it.
Followed in no particular order by: dry during awake time, dry during nap time, dry all night long, doing it on the command of your mother, taking care of business all by yourself, and (the one thing I most look forward to) poo in porcelain.
"Ms. X is finally potty trained!"
"Wow! That's great! I can't wait for the Cracker to be there."
"It's the best! You're going to love it! It has changed my life!"
"So how is that going overnight? Is she still sleeping through or does she get up to pee often? Do you get up with her? Does she go back to sleep right away?"
"Oh no, she's only DAY trained."
"Oh. How about naps?"
"Mmmm...she's dry maybe once a week?"
"Uh huh. And what about poo?"
"Oh no, she won't poo in the potty! She asks for a diaper and then does it in that!"
"Okay...well it must be nice to not have to think about it, for her to just go when she needs to."
"Oh no no no! If I don't make her try every hour she has an accident."
???
In the last two months we've made the following pee related progress:-Pee standing up.
-Which lead to (woo hoo!) being able to urinate in potties other than our own at home without a special stool or ring.
But best of all:-Hold our own penis while peeing. (Okay, this is really new and really big. Yes, he made us hold it. And we did because we are first time suckers. Even J. And now that it's on the Internet everyone I have ever known knows. Why did I tell everyone? Because I never knew that this was even a possibility, that one day I would be holding a 3 year old penis while it peed. Did you know that???)
Which brings us now to aim. Aim is next. Hi ho Cheerios!
Monday night, when I really needed some adult alone me time, so I went to the grocery store down the hill to buy milk. Woot.
And after I was done I found myself sitting in my car in the parking lot with the engine running, enjoying the peace and quiet, admittedly not really wanting to go home yet when my cell rang.
"Umm...how would you go about sucking up dirty water if the bathroom...uh...flooded? Do we have special towels for that?"
"No. Use the steam cleaner. Just turn it on and the default is sucking mode. Wait...the bathroom flooded?"
"Yeah."
"Is it bad?"
"Yes."
"How bad?"
"Are you on your way home?"
"Yes, I'll leave right now."
"Okay, I'll just wait for you then."
And the good news is that it was the first time the Cracker tried to take care of business by himself!
The bad news is that I had spent the whole day cleaning, that my parents were arriving for a Thanksgiving inspired visit the next day, and now there was soggy toilet paper floating in pee water in the bathroom, running down the carpeted hall, under closet doors, etc. Not a puddle, A FLOOD. INCHES OF WATER. OUT THE BATHROOM AND DOWN THE HALL.
So happy I cleaned all damn day long.
And J totally knew what the Cracker was doing. But instead of being like me and sneaking into the hall outside the bathroom to listen and observe he just stayed where he was. Even when, in his own words, the Cracker started screaming "Daddy! Daddy! UH OH! OH NO! DADDY HELP ME! TOO MUCH PEE!!! TOO MUCH PEE!"
Oh yeah, and before that, the sound of rushing water.
When he finally got there he found my dear child holding the lid down and trying valiantly to stop the water with his little hands.
"Wow, sucks you have to clean the bathroom again."
"Did you at least give him a bath?"
"No, but I guess that would be a good idea."
You think?
(If don't already own one, buy a damn steam cleaner. Best purchase of my life. Not only can it be used as a wet/dry vac in a pinch, but you can steam clean you carpets to your hearts content. Quite useful in my line of work.)
Like that we could be using Cheerios and Fruit Loops to teach aim?
Why oh why did I totally forget this? Must have been that all of my available resources today (twice today) went to destroying evidence that my son peed on the wall/seat/back of a public toilet.
And the floor. Don't forget the floor.
(I am going to make myself learn to pee standing up. I am never sitting my bare ass down on a public toilet again.)
So what was my excuse yesterday? How about that occasionally the Cracker will ask to take a bath when he's actually already very clean at a most inopportune time and my promise of later isn't NOW so he pees on himself on purpose in hopes that he will get to play with his tub friends?
Actually I think it's amazing I even know who I am anymore, even if I don't know the difference between a pumpkin and a honeydew.
So in my eternal quest to have a child fully able to take care of his own waste needs I've forgotten a few things along the way. Sue me.
The thing you have to realize is that this potty training thing hasn't been a black and white matter. Really, truly, the whole thing is gray. Lotsa gray. I came into this figuring that you're either potty trained or you're not.
Oh no.
And it's been going on since approximately 18 months.
STEP 1: Matching the word to the receptacle.
STEP 2: Agreeing to sit on it.
STEP 3: Understanding what it's for.
STEP 4: Learning to recognize the urge.
STEP 5: Before the urge hits.
STEP 6: Being able to sit still long enough.
STEP 7: Actually agreeing to.
STEP 8: Trying more than occasionally.
STEP 9: Learning to accept that you must stop what you are doing to do business, even if what you were doing was more fun because it always is.
STEP 10: And care that dry pants are preferable to wet ones.
STEP 11: How to hold it.
Followed in no particular order by: dry during awake time, dry during nap time, dry all night long, doing it on the command of your mother, taking care of business all by yourself, and (the one thing I most look forward to) poo in porcelain.
"Ms. X is finally potty trained!"
"Wow! That's great! I can't wait for the Cracker to be there."
"It's the best! You're going to love it! It has changed my life!"
"So how is that going overnight? Is she still sleeping through or does she get up to pee often? Do you get up with her? Does she go back to sleep right away?"
"Oh no, she's only DAY trained."
"Oh. How about naps?"
"Mmmm...she's dry maybe once a week?"
"Uh huh. And what about poo?"
"Oh no, she won't poo in the potty! She asks for a diaper and then does it in that!"
"Okay...well it must be nice to not have to think about it, for her to just go when she needs to."
"Oh no no no! If I don't make her try every hour she has an accident."
???
In the last two months we've made the following pee related progress:-Pee standing up.
-Which lead to (woo hoo!) being able to urinate in potties other than our own at home without a special stool or ring.
But best of all:-Hold our own penis while peeing. (Okay, this is really new and really big. Yes, he made us hold it. And we did because we are first time suckers. Even J. And now that it's on the Internet everyone I have ever known knows. Why did I tell everyone? Because I never knew that this was even a possibility, that one day I would be holding a 3 year old penis while it peed. Did you know that???)
Which brings us now to aim. Aim is next. Hi ho Cheerios!
Monday night, when I really needed some adult alone me time, so I went to the grocery store down the hill to buy milk. Woot.
And after I was done I found myself sitting in my car in the parking lot with the engine running, enjoying the peace and quiet, admittedly not really wanting to go home yet when my cell rang.
"Umm...how would you go about sucking up dirty water if the bathroom...uh...flooded? Do we have special towels for that?"
"No. Use the steam cleaner. Just turn it on and the default is sucking mode. Wait...the bathroom flooded?"
"Yeah."
"Is it bad?"
"Yes."
"How bad?"
"Are you on your way home?"
"Yes, I'll leave right now."
"Okay, I'll just wait for you then."
And the good news is that it was the first time the Cracker tried to take care of business by himself!
The bad news is that I had spent the whole day cleaning, that my parents were arriving for a Thanksgiving inspired visit the next day, and now there was soggy toilet paper floating in pee water in the bathroom, running down the carpeted hall, under closet doors, etc. Not a puddle, A FLOOD. INCHES OF WATER. OUT THE BATHROOM AND DOWN THE HALL.
So happy I cleaned all damn day long.
And J totally knew what the Cracker was doing. But instead of being like me and sneaking into the hall outside the bathroom to listen and observe he just stayed where he was. Even when, in his own words, the Cracker started screaming "Daddy! Daddy! UH OH! OH NO! DADDY HELP ME! TOO MUCH PEE!!! TOO MUCH PEE!"
Oh yeah, and before that, the sound of rushing water.
When he finally got there he found my dear child holding the lid down and trying valiantly to stop the water with his little hands.
"Wow, sucks you have to clean the bathroom again."
"Did you at least give him a bath?"
"No, but I guess that would be a good idea."
You think?
(If don't already own one, buy a damn steam cleaner. Best purchase of my life. Not only can it be used as a wet/dry vac in a pinch, but you can steam clean you carpets to your hearts content. Quite useful in my line of work.)
Saturday, November 25, 2006
The FINAL Pumpkin Update
Somebody knew and didn't speak up. (You suck.)
Or maybe you just believed me. (Don't do that.)
So let's take another look at my "pumpkins" shall we?
Now, tell me honestly, does that look like a pumpkin to you? First it was green, then yellow, and finally now past it's prime, white.
What if I cut it open?
In my defense, who knew you could grow nice looking melons out of a compost pile in the desert Southwest? This sure as hell isn't Florida folks. Wouldn't you think they'd grow best somewhere a tad more tropical? And I hardly ever buy melons or have them in our home because J is very allergic to them. If they are even in the vicinity of other fruit he ingests he is incapacitated for a good few hours. And it's quite the accomplishment to grow anything here except tumbleweed, so I know that these are not wild honeydew.
Ugh.
Or maybe you just believed me. (Don't do that.)
So let's take another look at my "pumpkins" shall we?
Now, tell me honestly, does that look like a pumpkin to you? First it was green, then yellow, and finally now past it's prime, white.
What if I cut it open?
In my defense, who knew you could grow nice looking melons out of a compost pile in the desert Southwest? This sure as hell isn't Florida folks. Wouldn't you think they'd grow best somewhere a tad more tropical? And I hardly ever buy melons or have them in our home because J is very allergic to them. If they are even in the vicinity of other fruit he ingests he is incapacitated for a good few hours. And it's quite the accomplishment to grow anything here except tumbleweed, so I know that these are not wild honeydew.
Ugh.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Poo Post
Oh crap. Literally.
Since repotty training we've had some issues. The Cracker will NOT, I repeat NOT! poop in the potty.
Now the great thing about 3 is that my child owes me in the "why" department. I get down to his level (that counts as squats by the way) eyeball to eyeball with my sympathetic Mommy mask.
"Honey?"
"Yes Momma?"
"Poos go in the potty."
Fidgeting. "I know."
"Why didn't you make poo in the potty?"
"I dunno."
"Does it hurt when you poo?"
"Nope!"
"Are you scared? Is it scary?"
"Nope!"
"Then why won't you poo in the potty?"
"Cause............"
"Because why? You can tell me anything."
"Cause...cause...I no wike (like) to."
Every day between 5 and 5:30pm he lays a nice stinky in his drawers.
(Interestingly, you can also tell time in our house with out using a clock by the smoke alarm low battery beep that goes off every friggin afternoon 50 minutes before sunset no matter how many times we replace the batteries. Everyday, for a good 10 minutes. And that time would be right now.)
And at least three times a week we have a double poo day which I have not yet figured out the math for and am always caught off guard.
(Who has the formula? Pretty please?)
When I'm lucky J is home by dookie time. Then can I kindly refer to him to clean the child while I wait for him to hand me the soiled undergarments.
Let me tell you how fun it is watching miniature pairs of stained underwear pile up because I refuse to dry and put them away with skid marks. It's a fucking par-tay! My mother always told me that the heat of the dryer sets stains and so I refuse to put anything not 100% in the dryer. Luckily my chemical arsenal has worked well until this point, and in the last few years the only permanently stained item has been a brand spanking new shirt my mom bought at full price from Gymboree that made it into the dryer unbeknownst to me with paint in the armpit from school.
(I check everything for stains. I just hadn't been checking the armpits.)
So stained underwear? I refuse to give up.
(What did everyone's mother always say?)
And even if they are otherwise clean (think freshly laundered) and I put them away to save for the 5 o'clock turd parade, we will unknowingly grab the only brown pair in the drawer and get in an airplane crash. Or, even worse, send him to school where they actually know us.
Okay, okay, so I'm making a big deal about nothing, right? Well it is a big deal to me because as much as I *hate* having super soiled undies hanging around stinking up my house (and garage where one troublesome load that inspired this post is currently residing) I also refuse to wash poopie underwear with our regular clothes and I also in most cases refuse to scrub them out by hand first or stick something the size of a sock in the washing machine alone. I will extract chunks and I will rinse well, but I will not get poo under my fingernails. That is where I draw the line.
(Oh yeah, and I didn't cloth diaper. And since J and I don't shit ourselves, this is new territory for me.)
Now that you have the background:
One night I have a good pile going in the dirty underwear bag so I toss in a load of Cracker undies. Do I take each piece out one by one? Nooooo, it's excrement laden. Without looking I just dump the bag upside down and walk away. Only scalding hot water was getting all nastiness out thus appeasing my inner need for sterility, so into blistering hot water they go. A few minutes later on his way in from the garage J walks in through the laundry room and nearly passes out.
"My God woman! What are you doing in there?"
Uh oh. The smell is OVERWHELMING.
Now, since I already know that heat locks in stains, it would be safe to assume that I would also know that hot water will seal in smells.
Yeah, I don't.
And I'd already done this numerous times without a hitch.
After a quick internet search on cloth diapering I learn that while hot water washes away the stains, cold water washes away the smell.
(Seriously, two loads?)
I turn on the fan, open the door to the garage and spray more than a little Febreeze around praying for a miracle while I attempt to finish making dinner.
It's only that when the cycle is finished and I take out the undies for inspection that I find a big hunk o poo sitting in the bottom of the machine.
(At least I'm not hungry anymore. Squatting and now dieting, all in one day!)
Apparently someone forgot to remove the chunks.
(Pretty sure it wasn't me. Who would that leave?)
I grab a baggie to protect my hands, hold my nose, and run it as fast as I can to the bathroom and flush.
Fast forward...I have now run the same load 4 times, all in hot. And the smell in the laundry room seems to be getting worse though the undies themselves don't reek as much anymore, though upon a close crotch sniff test J and I both detect a lingering odor.
Toss undies into the garage.
So then I run the washer again, on hot, empty, and use an entire bottle of Febreeze.
And again.
Smell seems to be gone in the room, but not in the stainless steel tub of the machine.
OMG! Realization sets in that in all likeliness a little piece broke off and worked it's way through the holes and is lodged in the machine!
Which, eew, reminds me of my midwife inspecting the Cracker's placenta for completeness. Suddenly I wish I hadn't been so quick with disposal.
No...wait...no I don't.
Out to market at 11pm. I pick up a gallon of white vinegar, 2 boxes of baking soda and a bottle of NEW! Fresh Scent Purex® plus Renuzit™ Super Odor Neturalizer™ promising Long Lasting Freshness!
Run the vinegar through. Run one box at a time of the baking soda. And now it's 1:30 in the morning and I haven't a clean article of clothing to show for it. But the smell in the machine seems to be totally gone.
Next day I avoid the laundry like the plague as I am just not feeling caffeinated enough to face what needs my attention. Finally, in the afternoon, I take a sniff and all still seems well on both a room and machine level. Looking around I ask myself what laundry is most important since I'm getting such a late start.
Ah! The beloved night-night blankie, which was mine as a child. It's the Cracker's most prized possession. Now it didn't get pooped on, but it smells a little like pee from the wee amount that came out with that enormous poop.
And stupidly I put it in on hot thinking that sterilization is key.
Forty minutes later I realize what I've done.
The poop smell is baaack.
This is BAD. This is THE blankie. And it was mine. And my mom made it. And it's the most amazing 1970s fabric that you can no longer buy and has a softness to it that only comes from 29 years of washing. It is so not replaceable.
So here we go with the NEW! Fresh Scent Purex® plus Renuzit™ Super Odor Neturalizer™ promising Long Lasting Freshness!
Again with the sniff test we detect lingering odor! Or do we? At this point we've sniffed so many crotches that both J and I decide that maybe we're imagining things. But sadly there are no impartial noses around, so back in it goes with not only the Purex but more baking soda.
And then it seems to be fine. But now I'm terrified of my dryer. What if the activation of heat brings it back and seals in the smell! And what if this one little poo has totaled my washing machine and anything I put in it from now on without excrement comes out smelling like we shit ourselves???
(I am full of issues. Tell me something I don't know.)
So instead of going right into the dryer I do a little test by sticking a load of towels through w/o the Purex given to me by my evil Mother In Law. They go straight into the dryer.
And sadly, with another crotch sniff, they seem fine too.
It's okay! It's okay!
(And more than a glass of really cheap Zinfandel helped too.)
And that is all I have to say about poo. For now.
Since repotty training we've had some issues. The Cracker will NOT, I repeat NOT! poop in the potty.
Now the great thing about 3 is that my child owes me in the "why" department. I get down to his level (that counts as squats by the way) eyeball to eyeball with my sympathetic Mommy mask.
"Honey?"
"Yes Momma?"
"Poos go in the potty."
Fidgeting. "I know."
"Why didn't you make poo in the potty?"
"I dunno."
"Does it hurt when you poo?"
"Nope!"
"Are you scared? Is it scary?"
"Nope!"
"Then why won't you poo in the potty?"
"Cause............"
"Because why? You can tell me anything."
"Cause...cause...I no wike (like) to."
Every day between 5 and 5:30pm he lays a nice stinky in his drawers.
(Interestingly, you can also tell time in our house with out using a clock by the smoke alarm low battery beep that goes off every friggin afternoon 50 minutes before sunset no matter how many times we replace the batteries. Everyday, for a good 10 minutes. And that time would be right now.)
And at least three times a week we have a double poo day which I have not yet figured out the math for and am always caught off guard.
(Who has the formula? Pretty please?)
When I'm lucky J is home by dookie time. Then can I kindly refer to him to clean the child while I wait for him to hand me the soiled undergarments.
Let me tell you how fun it is watching miniature pairs of stained underwear pile up because I refuse to dry and put them away with skid marks. It's a fucking par-tay! My mother always told me that the heat of the dryer sets stains and so I refuse to put anything not 100% in the dryer. Luckily my chemical arsenal has worked well until this point, and in the last few years the only permanently stained item has been a brand spanking new shirt my mom bought at full price from Gymboree that made it into the dryer unbeknownst to me with paint in the armpit from school.
(I check everything for stains. I just hadn't been checking the armpits.)
So stained underwear? I refuse to give up.
(What did everyone's mother always say?)
And even if they are otherwise clean (think freshly laundered) and I put them away to save for the 5 o'clock turd parade, we will unknowingly grab the only brown pair in the drawer and get in an airplane crash. Or, even worse, send him to school where they actually know us.
Okay, okay, so I'm making a big deal about nothing, right? Well it is a big deal to me because as much as I *hate* having super soiled undies hanging around stinking up my house (and garage where one troublesome load that inspired this post is currently residing) I also refuse to wash poopie underwear with our regular clothes and I also in most cases refuse to scrub them out by hand first or stick something the size of a sock in the washing machine alone. I will extract chunks and I will rinse well, but I will not get poo under my fingernails. That is where I draw the line.
(Oh yeah, and I didn't cloth diaper. And since J and I don't shit ourselves, this is new territory for me.)
Now that you have the background:
One night I have a good pile going in the dirty underwear bag so I toss in a load of Cracker undies. Do I take each piece out one by one? Nooooo, it's excrement laden. Without looking I just dump the bag upside down and walk away. Only scalding hot water was getting all nastiness out thus appeasing my inner need for sterility, so into blistering hot water they go. A few minutes later on his way in from the garage J walks in through the laundry room and nearly passes out.
"My God woman! What are you doing in there?"
Uh oh. The smell is OVERWHELMING.
Now, since I already know that heat locks in stains, it would be safe to assume that I would also know that hot water will seal in smells.
Yeah, I don't.
And I'd already done this numerous times without a hitch.
After a quick internet search on cloth diapering I learn that while hot water washes away the stains, cold water washes away the smell.
(Seriously, two loads?)
I turn on the fan, open the door to the garage and spray more than a little Febreeze around praying for a miracle while I attempt to finish making dinner.
It's only that when the cycle is finished and I take out the undies for inspection that I find a big hunk o poo sitting in the bottom of the machine.
(At least I'm not hungry anymore. Squatting and now dieting, all in one day!)
Apparently someone forgot to remove the chunks.
(Pretty sure it wasn't me. Who would that leave?)
I grab a baggie to protect my hands, hold my nose, and run it as fast as I can to the bathroom and flush.
Fast forward...I have now run the same load 4 times, all in hot. And the smell in the laundry room seems to be getting worse though the undies themselves don't reek as much anymore, though upon a close crotch sniff test J and I both detect a lingering odor.
Toss undies into the garage.
So then I run the washer again, on hot, empty, and use an entire bottle of Febreeze.
And again.
Smell seems to be gone in the room, but not in the stainless steel tub of the machine.
OMG! Realization sets in that in all likeliness a little piece broke off and worked it's way through the holes and is lodged in the machine!
Which, eew, reminds me of my midwife inspecting the Cracker's placenta for completeness. Suddenly I wish I hadn't been so quick with disposal.
No...wait...no I don't.
Out to market at 11pm. I pick up a gallon of white vinegar, 2 boxes of baking soda and a bottle of NEW! Fresh Scent Purex® plus Renuzit™ Super Odor Neturalizer™ promising Long Lasting Freshness!
Run the vinegar through. Run one box at a time of the baking soda. And now it's 1:30 in the morning and I haven't a clean article of clothing to show for it. But the smell in the machine seems to be totally gone.
Next day I avoid the laundry like the plague as I am just not feeling caffeinated enough to face what needs my attention. Finally, in the afternoon, I take a sniff and all still seems well on both a room and machine level. Looking around I ask myself what laundry is most important since I'm getting such a late start.
Ah! The beloved night-night blankie, which was mine as a child. It's the Cracker's most prized possession. Now it didn't get pooped on, but it smells a little like pee from the wee amount that came out with that enormous poop.
And stupidly I put it in on hot thinking that sterilization is key.
Forty minutes later I realize what I've done.
The poop smell is baaack.
This is BAD. This is THE blankie. And it was mine. And my mom made it. And it's the most amazing 1970s fabric that you can no longer buy and has a softness to it that only comes from 29 years of washing. It is so not replaceable.
So here we go with the NEW! Fresh Scent Purex® plus Renuzit™ Super Odor Neturalizer™ promising Long Lasting Freshness!
Again with the sniff test we detect lingering odor! Or do we? At this point we've sniffed so many crotches that both J and I decide that maybe we're imagining things. But sadly there are no impartial noses around, so back in it goes with not only the Purex but more baking soda.
And then it seems to be fine. But now I'm terrified of my dryer. What if the activation of heat brings it back and seals in the smell! And what if this one little poo has totaled my washing machine and anything I put in it from now on without excrement comes out smelling like we shit ourselves???
(I am full of issues. Tell me something I don't know.)
So instead of going right into the dryer I do a little test by sticking a load of towels through w/o the Purex given to me by my evil Mother In Law. They go straight into the dryer.
And sadly, with another crotch sniff, they seem fine too.
It's okay! It's okay!
(And more than a glass of really cheap Zinfandel helped too.)
And that is all I have to say about poo. For now.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Our iTunes Playlist of Shame
Last week we celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary.
It started out like any other morning. I got out of bed first and headed straight for the bathroom to pee. Suddenly J is behind me, giving me a big sqeeze. "HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HONEY!"
Dude, I gots to pee.
"Today?"
"You forgot?" Big smirk.
No, I just haven't had coffee yet. And I really need to pee.
Ten minutes later...the coffee pot has mysteriously stopped working and it refuses to make coffee even though it worked perfectly yesterday. Are you friggin kidding me? I finally give up when I realize that it's going to start a fire. (There was actual melting.)
That night he came home with a card with penguins on it. Penguins are very hip in my book.
"I'd already bought it, I just forgot to write in it so I had to take it to work!"
"Okay, okay, you get points."
"Let's go to dinner!"
Ugh, I am far too lazy to drive into town. But he's so excited.
"Crap, I never got around to taking a shower today."
"You forgot! Hahaha!"
"Yeah, I forgot."
In case you haven't already figured me out I often do really stupid things and I always feel the need to share them.
The previous night my eczema was acting up. I was trying to fall asleep and exhausted enough but my skin was screaming for moisture. I had left my creams on the other side of the house, J was out of shouting range, and I really didn't want to get up. So instead of taking a 20 second walk to the other side of our not-very-big house I opted to instead just take a 2 second walk to the bathroom.
I opened the vanity. No lotion but I did see Aloe Vera Gel. (We keep it around because J gets sunburned easily.) So I grabbed it, took it back to bed, and then lathered myself up.
Twice.
Wait? What's with the sticky?
Oops. Aloe Vera HAIR Gel.
When the hell did we buy that?
Since there is no time for a shower I decide to at least try to look nice. I grab a pair of high heeled boots and find a pair of skinny jeans that I know are too long for my normal frumpy shoes. Not my "skinny" jeans, but a pair of jeans that didn't fit a few months back but now probably do since I've recently lost weight.
And being tall in skinny jeans will make me feel sexy even if I'm still covered in hair gel and have been doing dirty work in the yard all day, right?
Shit. They are circa 2003 and go up to my belly button back from my just-had-a-baby days when up to your belly button jeans did seem like a good idea because they sucked in the loose belly skin. Not sexy. And the color blue is just kinda weird. Why did I ever buy these? Whatever. They do fit and everything else is dirty anyway. I just won't lift my arms and try to keep me belly jeans a secret.
Lip gloss! Maybe I can wear lip gloss! I start digging around under the sink.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for makeup."
"You OWN makeup?"
"Uh, yeah!"
"When did you buy makeup?"
"Well, it was when Garden Botanica was still around. Like 96 or 97? Maybe even 98. Found it!"
What the hell was I thinking in 96, 97 or 98? Even tan I am still pale, and I the only lip gloss I own is light brown? Taupe even?
Once we got home and the Cracker was in bed I finally relaxed enough to get a little in the mood.
At my suggestion we opened up iTunes to listen to our song. Yes, we have a song. And suddenly I just had to grab him and as our Itunes list of shame played on we slowed danced and even did quite a bit of necking.
TMI, right?
So what is OUR song?
Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover (Track #1 if you care to take a little listen.)
Pretty sure it's been on every worst song countdown VH-1 has ever done. But that's why it stuck. We go around around singing it because it's makes us crack up and snot drinks out our noses.
Here's a little sample:
This bloke can't stand to see you black and blue
I give you something sweet each time you
Come inside my jungle book
It's just too good
Don't say you'll stay
'Cause then you go away
Damn! I wish I was your lover
I'll rock you till the daylight comes
Make sure you are smiling and warm
I am everything
Tonight I'll be your mother
I'll do such things to ease your pain
Free your mind and you won't feel ashamed
Shucks!
For me there is no other
You're the only shoe that fits
I can't imagine I'll grow out of it
It started out like any other morning. I got out of bed first and headed straight for the bathroom to pee. Suddenly J is behind me, giving me a big sqeeze. "HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HONEY!"
Dude, I gots to pee.
"Today?"
"You forgot?" Big smirk.
No, I just haven't had coffee yet. And I really need to pee.
Ten minutes later...the coffee pot has mysteriously stopped working and it refuses to make coffee even though it worked perfectly yesterday. Are you friggin kidding me? I finally give up when I realize that it's going to start a fire. (There was actual melting.)
That night he came home with a card with penguins on it. Penguins are very hip in my book.
"I'd already bought it, I just forgot to write in it so I had to take it to work!"
"Okay, okay, you get points."
"Let's go to dinner!"
Ugh, I am far too lazy to drive into town. But he's so excited.
"Crap, I never got around to taking a shower today."
"You forgot! Hahaha!"
"Yeah, I forgot."
In case you haven't already figured me out I often do really stupid things and I always feel the need to share them.
The previous night my eczema was acting up. I was trying to fall asleep and exhausted enough but my skin was screaming for moisture. I had left my creams on the other side of the house, J was out of shouting range, and I really didn't want to get up. So instead of taking a 20 second walk to the other side of our not-very-big house I opted to instead just take a 2 second walk to the bathroom.
I opened the vanity. No lotion but I did see Aloe Vera Gel. (We keep it around because J gets sunburned easily.) So I grabbed it, took it back to bed, and then lathered myself up.
Twice.
Wait? What's with the sticky?
Oops. Aloe Vera HAIR Gel.
When the hell did we buy that?
Since there is no time for a shower I decide to at least try to look nice. I grab a pair of high heeled boots and find a pair of skinny jeans that I know are too long for my normal frumpy shoes. Not my "skinny" jeans, but a pair of jeans that didn't fit a few months back but now probably do since I've recently lost weight.
And being tall in skinny jeans will make me feel sexy even if I'm still covered in hair gel and have been doing dirty work in the yard all day, right?
Shit. They are circa 2003 and go up to my belly button back from my just-had-a-baby days when up to your belly button jeans did seem like a good idea because they sucked in the loose belly skin. Not sexy. And the color blue is just kinda weird. Why did I ever buy these? Whatever. They do fit and everything else is dirty anyway. I just won't lift my arms and try to keep me belly jeans a secret.
Lip gloss! Maybe I can wear lip gloss! I start digging around under the sink.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for makeup."
"You OWN makeup?"
"Uh, yeah!"
"When did you buy makeup?"
"Well, it was when Garden Botanica was still around. Like 96 or 97? Maybe even 98. Found it!"
What the hell was I thinking in 96, 97 or 98? Even tan I am still pale, and I the only lip gloss I own is light brown? Taupe even?
Once we got home and the Cracker was in bed I finally relaxed enough to get a little in the mood.
At my suggestion we opened up iTunes to listen to our song. Yes, we have a song. And suddenly I just had to grab him and as our Itunes list of shame played on we slowed danced and even did quite a bit of necking.
TMI, right?
So what is OUR song?
Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover (Track #1 if you care to take a little listen.)
Pretty sure it's been on every worst song countdown VH-1 has ever done. But that's why it stuck. We go around around singing it because it's makes us crack up and snot drinks out our noses.
Here's a little sample:
This bloke can't stand to see you black and blue
I give you something sweet each time you
Come inside my jungle book
It's just too good
Don't say you'll stay
'Cause then you go away
Damn! I wish I was your lover
I'll rock you till the daylight comes
Make sure you are smiling and warm
I am everything
Tonight I'll be your mother
I'll do such things to ease your pain
Free your mind and you won't feel ashamed
Shucks!
For me there is no other
You're the only shoe that fits
I can't imagine I'll grow out of it
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Pumpkin Love
(Wait for it, wait for it..............sex with pumpkins mentioned.)
Pumpkin update = not so good.
First off we had a bad ass hail storm last week that did some major damage to both p-kins and vine. The two biggest p-kins weathered it pretty well, but a bunch of babies lost chunks.
Stupid hail.
A few days later I discovered the tiniest, nastiest looking little white worms entering my pumpkins through the little hail holes. Eew! Yuck! Eew!
Stupid worms.
On the plus side, the hail damaged ones are still growing. And I have a bunch of new baby p-kins, the vine is still getting longer and I'm getting even more new flowers. And tonight I finally dragged myself to Lowes where two nice people helped me find the best pesticide for the worms. Tomorrow I will spray.
The two biggest happiest p-kins appear to have stopped growing bigger once they hit cantaloupe size. I'm was really hoping for some biggies, but what can I ask from a vine that planted itself and is growing on last year's Christmas tree? At this point if I end up with anything I'll be happy. This was all too good to be true.
Now for the sex:
Last week a very sad me, counting my pumpkins before they'd erupted, whined to my dad about how large numbers of flowers had started drying up and falling off, producing no fruit.
"Oh, they most not have gotten pollinated."
Stupid bees!
"Ugh! It's because they love the flowers in my front yard."
"Well that's okay! You can pollinate them yourself."
(Silence. Millions of visuals streaming before my eyes, none of which I am going to mention to my own father.)
"Like...uh...blow on them or something?"
"No, find something small and rub them gently."
Are we really having this discussion?
"Like a something-I-can't-remember now."
"Or a Q-tip?"
"Sure, that would work too. Just open them up and use the lightest touch."
"Seriously???"
So there I was, a few nights later, in my patch, in the dark (yeah...I don't know the back fence neighbors well enough yet, and none of them have window coverings) Q-tip in one hand, flashlight in the other, making pumpkin love.
Seriously.
No luck.
Finally I take my problems to the all knowing internet. Here's what I found: P-kin vines have both male and female flowers, and of course male flowers will not produce fruit, so it's not only not my fault but beyond my control.
Dude. Why didn't I know this? I took Bio, and...well...it's totally logical.
In fact male flowers only last a day. BUT I need to catch them right away so I can collect their pollen for my girls before the bees do. Suggestion? Stalk the bastards out the night before they open and tie baggies over them so the bees won't steal their goods by 5am. And while you don't need to fertilize your girls before sunrise, on the other hand this person does it between 7:30 and 9am.
I hate morning sex, any kind.
And if you think I'm making this shit up, here you go: first hit on Goggle search for pumpkin + flower + pollinate.
Seriously.
Pumpkin update = not so good.
First off we had a bad ass hail storm last week that did some major damage to both p-kins and vine. The two biggest p-kins weathered it pretty well, but a bunch of babies lost chunks.
Stupid hail.
A few days later I discovered the tiniest, nastiest looking little white worms entering my pumpkins through the little hail holes. Eew! Yuck! Eew!
Stupid worms.
On the plus side, the hail damaged ones are still growing. And I have a bunch of new baby p-kins, the vine is still getting longer and I'm getting even more new flowers. And tonight I finally dragged myself to Lowes where two nice people helped me find the best pesticide for the worms. Tomorrow I will spray.
The two biggest happiest p-kins appear to have stopped growing bigger once they hit cantaloupe size. I'm was really hoping for some biggies, but what can I ask from a vine that planted itself and is growing on last year's Christmas tree? At this point if I end up with anything I'll be happy. This was all too good to be true.
Now for the sex:
Last week a very sad me, counting my pumpkins before they'd erupted, whined to my dad about how large numbers of flowers had started drying up and falling off, producing no fruit.
"Oh, they most not have gotten pollinated."
Stupid bees!
"Ugh! It's because they love the flowers in my front yard."
"Well that's okay! You can pollinate them yourself."
(Silence. Millions of visuals streaming before my eyes, none of which I am going to mention to my own father.)
"Like...uh...blow on them or something?"
"No, find something small and rub them gently."
Are we really having this discussion?
"Like a something-I-can't-remember now."
"Or a Q-tip?"
"Sure, that would work too. Just open them up and use the lightest touch."
"Seriously???"
So there I was, a few nights later, in my patch, in the dark (yeah...I don't know the back fence neighbors well enough yet, and none of them have window coverings) Q-tip in one hand, flashlight in the other, making pumpkin love.
Seriously.
No luck.
Finally I take my problems to the all knowing internet. Here's what I found: P-kin vines have both male and female flowers, and of course male flowers will not produce fruit, so it's not only not my fault but beyond my control.
Dude. Why didn't I know this? I took Bio, and...well...it's totally logical.
In fact male flowers only last a day. BUT I need to catch them right away so I can collect their pollen for my girls before the bees do. Suggestion? Stalk the bastards out the night before they open and tie baggies over them so the bees won't steal their goods by 5am. And while you don't need to fertilize your girls before sunrise, on the other hand this person does it between 7:30 and 9am.
I hate morning sex, any kind.
And if you think I'm making this shit up, here you go: first hit on Goggle search for pumpkin + flower + pollinate.
Seriously.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
I'm Baaack
Since it's an ungodly hour I'll make this quick.
I just returned a few hours ago from a visit with my parents (aka perfect Grandparents) in freeze your ass off in August foggy California. I can't for the life of me tell you when I left except that it was last week the same night that the news broke about the whole terror plot thing. I know this because we couldn't get our luggage. No one was getting luggage, and it is a pretty darn friggin big airport which meant not a pretty sight. Instead they sent out some poor woman to with a megaphone to tell thousands (pretty sure I'm not exaggerating on this one) of people overflowing the luggage carousels that they couldn't get our luggage unloaded because everyone had been re-ass-igned to outgoing duties so that they could get planes off the ground. It was hours. And of course, we didn't know that afternoon why, just that it sucked.
I wasn't too worried about the coming back today, just because the Cracker and I qualify in my book as seasoned travelers. In his 3 years, 4 and a half months the Cracker has experienced 39 take offs and landings. (Yes, I've kept track.) Tonight's trip? Paid for with our frequent flier miles, which ain't bad when we've only been actually buying him seats since he turned 2 and could no longer go for free. And of course I count each take off and landing because not only have most of our flights been direct (minus two trips to Hawaii paid for by the above G-parents...giving credit where credit is due here, which required 3 t and l's each way) but except for Hawaii where J came along too I have done all of these BY MYSELF. And of course, when J did come, he was totally useless. That means installing the car seat (or gate checking it last minute when they didn't have an extra seat and he was a lap babe) and keeping him totally happy 39 times. That totally counts.
I have a system. (It involves a Maclaren with double it's weight limit, a car seat and all the necessary take-on crap to keep a kid amused with a 30 second attention span stuffed into one barely fits under the seat carry on. Quite the delicate balance.) And damn I am good. I float through the airport with ease, toddler and all, and it's friggin graceful. I bring too much checked baggage too, but I still make it look so damn easy. There was even the time last October when the Cracker chewed off the nub the only pacifier I had with me on the way to the airport which meant going from 24-7 use to none on a plane and I still didn't have a single issue.
No shit.
System.
Tonight, hell no.
Check in was horrible. The lines were long, out the door and to the curb long, and one asshole after the next kept cutting until I got all bitch ass on them. And as I attempt to shelf check with the little computer I find that I can't access the Cracker's reservation so we have to get a person, which is, like, not easy.
Then my parents remind an overtired Cracker that they won't see him for a whole 'nother 3 weeks. And he's 3. So he I had to carry him kicking and screaming through long ass security lines while he struggles as hard as possible to get out of my arms and make a break back to a watching Nana and Pappy who he thinks love him more than I do because they let him stay up until midnight. And he's had a runny nose the entire time we've been gone, I'm wearing black, he's wearing black, and so we're now both wearing a lot of visible snot. And then he saw everyone taking off their shoes and he flipped. I'm still holding him, he's squirming, the snot is not helping my grip, and he's screaming bloody murder style "ME NO TAKE OFF MY YOUSE!!! (youse = shoes) MY YOUSE!!! MY YOUSE!!!" 30lbs dangling over my only free arm, he's bent in half and pretty much upside down, but has still some how managed to grab a hold of both of his feet and isn't about to let go of his youse. Miraculously I didn't drop him on his head, and still managed to get my laptop out of it's case, take off my belt, get the big ass bag up on the x-ray thinger, and the car seat, take off my own shoes, collapse the stroller and whip it up, and then peel his fingers off his shoes one by one and get the suckers off while he kicks me in the shins and knees me in the stomach. (Hurray for flabby abs!) And then the belt stops. It reverses at a frightful speed, all my stuff gets knocked around and comes as close to falling off as possible with out actually falling off, and then repeats as soon as I have it all unclumped again. AND THEN the x-ray lady yells at me, telling me I'm holding up the line by not shoving my stuff through faster. Hello Biotch. I am standing there, waiting for the last person's stuff to move forward enough so mine can go through, but it can't yet unless I start piling it on top of the previous person's crap. "THE BELT DOESN'T SUCK IT UP! YOU NEED TO FEED IT IN!!!" Fuck you. There is an inch of space between my first item and the item in front of it, and I haven't walked us through the metal detector yet because I'm waiting for her to get that shit out of my way. "It's not mine." "IT DOESN'T MATTER! YOU'RE HOLDING UP THE LINE!!!"
Go buy a dildo. Seriously. Get laid.
Finally through, I piece us back together and my belt can't wait because everyone in line behind me has already seen my black lace Target panties the Cracker is still screaming, and still trying to get the hell away from me.
Finally get to the gate, which of course is in another time zone, and then find out it's delayed. And of course they lie about how delayed it is, so instead of taking him for a walk to keep him happy where we will have a view of airplanes unlike at this gate where there are people everywhere because the two planes leaving before ours at the same gate are also not yet in, we sit like chumps with no airplane view because I believe them every time they announce we'll be boarding in 20 minutes even though there is no plane, or even an announcement that the plane is on approach. Which now means there is no chance we'll get in before midnight.
We finally get on and grace is so not on my side. I preboard, but the regular no child with them people are sent on my heals since we are late. And so I hold everyone up as I try to break down the stroller and get my child to carry his own little bag which he insisted on bringing but now refuses to hold. We are blocking everyone. And remember the late part? I've got a car seat, the big ass bag of my own with all his stuff and a laptop. And then he decides to take off his jacket too.
Oh goodie. More things for me to hold.
I finally squeeze to one side just enough to let people by, but then we've actually got to get on, and I'm holding everything we've ever owned.
(And because I know you're wondering...what is in that gigantic carry on?
-beach trash paperback for me
-various hardcovers for him (why can't they make Tonka's version of Where's Waldo in paperback?)
-Night-night blankie, the Cracker's most prized possession, which was my most favorite as a toddler too. My mom made it for me in the most amazingly soft (and undboubtfully flammable though not polyester) 70s fabrics that you could never find now and if the airline lost it in our checked baggage we'd surely parish.
-The Cracker's favorite stuffed animal, a horse name Not-Bob. (He needed a name, and after at least a dozen which were deemed uncool enough for a horse that he uses as a body pillow between his legs and likes to pee on, I stupidly suggested Bob. In his mom-your-such-an-idiot voice was informed that "Bahb" is most certainly NOT a horse. He's a BUILDER. When Not-Bob isn't getting pissed on, the Cracker likes to hurl him by a hind leg at ceiling fans and ceiling mounted light fixtures. (And J was afraid that having "babies" even of the farm animal variety was too girly...)
-a fleece for us both
-a days worth of potty supplies including extra pants, in case we get stuck
-crayons and coloring book, which last all of 40 seconds
-one toy airplane, one toy truck or car, and one toy tow truck
-my purse
Yeah, that's it.)
So back to holding everyone up at the door. Now he doesn't feel like walking. (The kid who takes 3 mile hilly hikes and begs for more doesn't feel like it, so he doesn't. He wants me to carry him. You get this is NOT an option, right?) He just stands there. So I'm pleading "walk, damn you, walk" while we hold up boarding some more. Then I am already over anxious, trying to keep us moving, and our big ass Cowmooflage Marathon is stuck on something and I can't figure out what. Jeez, all I'm trying to do is make it to the second row. (SW open seating...I am their biggest fan.)
Once we're in our chosen row, he's happy. It's an airplane, so what's not to be happy about?
I already knew water would be a problem, since I took their word for it and didn't bring any bottled on board, which I have decided was a crock since they weren't checking. And the Cracker? It's really all he drinks. On a single two hour plane ride he will consume no less than 28 ounces. I am at the mercy of the drink service. (Dude, take the bottled water. They aren't looking at the gate. Sadly I'm not all that scared of airport security. What a rebel I am.)
Which reminds me...things YOU CAN bring aboard from checking with the TSA's site this morning:
corkscrews
cigar cutters
"up to 4 oz. of essential non-prescription liquid..including KY jelly"
and gel-filled bras.
And to think I went flat chested in a Target bra that matched the above mentioned panties when I could have worn Victoria Secrets.
Because of turbulence we are late placing our orders. And then they serve cute salty airplane shaped crackers first, and he eats both of our bags before drinks come around. And because I don't want to be a bother, even a pleading toddler asking for water won't make me actually ask. Screaming, maybe, but we don't scream on airplanes.
Thank God.
And I'm not going to get him airplane bathroom water no matter how desperate I am because EEW.
So the nice flight attendant fills up his 9 ounce sippy and he downs it in less than 30 seconds and hands it back with a "more please."
But she's gone.
So graceful? Not tonight. Not even kinda. I looked like the biggest, stupidest rookie ever, and I'm just hoping no one on the plane actually knew me.
I did acquire some fun new stuff on my trip that I will have to share with you later. Fun quirky stuff, and new shoes!
I just returned a few hours ago from a visit with my parents (aka perfect Grandparents) in freeze your ass off in August foggy California. I can't for the life of me tell you when I left except that it was last week the same night that the news broke about the whole terror plot thing. I know this because we couldn't get our luggage. No one was getting luggage, and it is a pretty darn friggin big airport which meant not a pretty sight. Instead they sent out some poor woman to with a megaphone to tell thousands (pretty sure I'm not exaggerating on this one) of people overflowing the luggage carousels that they couldn't get our luggage unloaded because everyone had been re-ass-igned to outgoing duties so that they could get planes off the ground. It was hours. And of course, we didn't know that afternoon why, just that it sucked.
I wasn't too worried about the coming back today, just because the Cracker and I qualify in my book as seasoned travelers. In his 3 years, 4 and a half months the Cracker has experienced 39 take offs and landings. (Yes, I've kept track.) Tonight's trip? Paid for with our frequent flier miles, which ain't bad when we've only been actually buying him seats since he turned 2 and could no longer go for free. And of course I count each take off and landing because not only have most of our flights been direct (minus two trips to Hawaii paid for by the above G-parents...giving credit where credit is due here, which required 3 t and l's each way) but except for Hawaii where J came along too I have done all of these BY MYSELF. And of course, when J did come, he was totally useless. That means installing the car seat (or gate checking it last minute when they didn't have an extra seat and he was a lap babe) and keeping him totally happy 39 times. That totally counts.
I have a system. (It involves a Maclaren with double it's weight limit, a car seat and all the necessary take-on crap to keep a kid amused with a 30 second attention span stuffed into one barely fits under the seat carry on. Quite the delicate balance.) And damn I am good. I float through the airport with ease, toddler and all, and it's friggin graceful. I bring too much checked baggage too, but I still make it look so damn easy. There was even the time last October when the Cracker chewed off the nub the only pacifier I had with me on the way to the airport which meant going from 24-7 use to none on a plane and I still didn't have a single issue.
No shit.
System.
Tonight, hell no.
Check in was horrible. The lines were long, out the door and to the curb long, and one asshole after the next kept cutting until I got all bitch ass on them. And as I attempt to shelf check with the little computer I find that I can't access the Cracker's reservation so we have to get a person, which is, like, not easy.
Then my parents remind an overtired Cracker that they won't see him for a whole 'nother 3 weeks. And he's 3. So he I had to carry him kicking and screaming through long ass security lines while he struggles as hard as possible to get out of my arms and make a break back to a watching Nana and Pappy who he thinks love him more than I do because they let him stay up until midnight. And he's had a runny nose the entire time we've been gone, I'm wearing black, he's wearing black, and so we're now both wearing a lot of visible snot. And then he saw everyone taking off their shoes and he flipped. I'm still holding him, he's squirming, the snot is not helping my grip, and he's screaming bloody murder style "ME NO TAKE OFF MY YOUSE!!! (youse = shoes) MY YOUSE!!! MY YOUSE!!!" 30lbs dangling over my only free arm, he's bent in half and pretty much upside down, but has still some how managed to grab a hold of both of his feet and isn't about to let go of his youse. Miraculously I didn't drop him on his head, and still managed to get my laptop out of it's case, take off my belt, get the big ass bag up on the x-ray thinger, and the car seat, take off my own shoes, collapse the stroller and whip it up, and then peel his fingers off his shoes one by one and get the suckers off while he kicks me in the shins and knees me in the stomach. (Hurray for flabby abs!) And then the belt stops. It reverses at a frightful speed, all my stuff gets knocked around and comes as close to falling off as possible with out actually falling off, and then repeats as soon as I have it all unclumped again. AND THEN the x-ray lady yells at me, telling me I'm holding up the line by not shoving my stuff through faster. Hello Biotch. I am standing there, waiting for the last person's stuff to move forward enough so mine can go through, but it can't yet unless I start piling it on top of the previous person's crap. "THE BELT DOESN'T SUCK IT UP! YOU NEED TO FEED IT IN!!!" Fuck you. There is an inch of space between my first item and the item in front of it, and I haven't walked us through the metal detector yet because I'm waiting for her to get that shit out of my way. "It's not mine." "IT DOESN'T MATTER! YOU'RE HOLDING UP THE LINE!!!"
Go buy a dildo. Seriously. Get laid.
Finally through, I piece us back together and my belt can't wait because everyone in line behind me has already seen my black lace Target panties the Cracker is still screaming, and still trying to get the hell away from me.
Finally get to the gate, which of course is in another time zone, and then find out it's delayed. And of course they lie about how delayed it is, so instead of taking him for a walk to keep him happy where we will have a view of airplanes unlike at this gate where there are people everywhere because the two planes leaving before ours at the same gate are also not yet in, we sit like chumps with no airplane view because I believe them every time they announce we'll be boarding in 20 minutes even though there is no plane, or even an announcement that the plane is on approach. Which now means there is no chance we'll get in before midnight.
We finally get on and grace is so not on my side. I preboard, but the regular no child with them people are sent on my heals since we are late. And so I hold everyone up as I try to break down the stroller and get my child to carry his own little bag which he insisted on bringing but now refuses to hold. We are blocking everyone. And remember the late part? I've got a car seat, the big ass bag of my own with all his stuff and a laptop. And then he decides to take off his jacket too.
Oh goodie. More things for me to hold.
I finally squeeze to one side just enough to let people by, but then we've actually got to get on, and I'm holding everything we've ever owned.
(And because I know you're wondering...what is in that gigantic carry on?
-beach trash paperback for me
-various hardcovers for him (why can't they make Tonka's version of Where's Waldo in paperback?)
-Night-night blankie, the Cracker's most prized possession, which was my most favorite as a toddler too. My mom made it for me in the most amazingly soft (and undboubtfully flammable though not polyester) 70s fabrics that you could never find now and if the airline lost it in our checked baggage we'd surely parish.
-The Cracker's favorite stuffed animal, a horse name Not-Bob. (He needed a name, and after at least a dozen which were deemed uncool enough for a horse that he uses as a body pillow between his legs and likes to pee on, I stupidly suggested Bob. In his mom-your-such-an-idiot voice was informed that "Bahb" is most certainly NOT a horse. He's a BUILDER. When Not-Bob isn't getting pissed on, the Cracker likes to hurl him by a hind leg at ceiling fans and ceiling mounted light fixtures. (And J was afraid that having "babies" even of the farm animal variety was too girly...)
-a fleece for us both
-a days worth of potty supplies including extra pants, in case we get stuck
-crayons and coloring book, which last all of 40 seconds
-one toy airplane, one toy truck or car, and one toy tow truck
-my purse
Yeah, that's it.)
So back to holding everyone up at the door. Now he doesn't feel like walking. (The kid who takes 3 mile hilly hikes and begs for more doesn't feel like it, so he doesn't. He wants me to carry him. You get this is NOT an option, right?) He just stands there. So I'm pleading "walk, damn you, walk" while we hold up boarding some more. Then I am already over anxious, trying to keep us moving, and our big ass Cowmooflage Marathon is stuck on something and I can't figure out what. Jeez, all I'm trying to do is make it to the second row. (SW open seating...I am their biggest fan.)
Once we're in our chosen row, he's happy. It's an airplane, so what's not to be happy about?
I already knew water would be a problem, since I took their word for it and didn't bring any bottled on board, which I have decided was a crock since they weren't checking. And the Cracker? It's really all he drinks. On a single two hour plane ride he will consume no less than 28 ounces. I am at the mercy of the drink service. (Dude, take the bottled water. They aren't looking at the gate. Sadly I'm not all that scared of airport security. What a rebel I am.)
Which reminds me...things YOU CAN bring aboard from checking with the TSA's site this morning:
corkscrews
cigar cutters
"up to 4 oz. of essential non-prescription liquid..including KY jelly"
and gel-filled bras.
And to think I went flat chested in a Target bra that matched the above mentioned panties when I could have worn Victoria Secrets.
Because of turbulence we are late placing our orders. And then they serve cute salty airplane shaped crackers first, and he eats both of our bags before drinks come around. And because I don't want to be a bother, even a pleading toddler asking for water won't make me actually ask. Screaming, maybe, but we don't scream on airplanes.
Thank God.
And I'm not going to get him airplane bathroom water no matter how desperate I am because EEW.
So the nice flight attendant fills up his 9 ounce sippy and he downs it in less than 30 seconds and hands it back with a "more please."
But she's gone.
So graceful? Not tonight. Not even kinda. I looked like the biggest, stupidest rookie ever, and I'm just hoping no one on the plane actually knew me.
I did acquire some fun new stuff on my trip that I will have to share with you later. Fun quirky stuff, and new shoes!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Breaking the Rules
So you knew I was totally going to buy one, right? With a little online checking I found it at Overstock.com, Costco online, and Amazon. For just under $18.00 including shipping I totally had to have one. One of the Amazon reviewers said they bought one in Target, but I didn't find them online and our closest Target is little.
Now I totally realize the numerous downsides of such a device when your child is small...
The Cracker is still in a crib. He climbs IN, but won't climb OUT. Why? Hell if I know. But why would we screw with a good thing? (Insert one of my favorite lines here: If you wake him you take him.) He climbs everything else. He is A CLIMBER. But since he's still perfectly happy, or rather when he's perfectly UNHAPPY and doesn't want to nap/go to bed but doesn't do anything except scream from what we like to call baby jail, it's nice knowing that he won't escape. (Knock on wood.) So a smoke alarm with my voice yelling "Wake up (insert Cracker's real name here)! Wake up! There's a fire! Get your ass up!" isn't going to do much except wake him up and confuse the shit out of him. But we still use our baby monitor, so if the alarms don't go off on our side of the house, it might just wake my ass up.
Another downside: a little kid, say under the age of 6 or 7, may get scared and hide. So then you have to go looking for them, IN A FIRE, that is, until they are old enough to understand your family fire plan AND actually follow instructions under stress.
Next downside is that if you have child proof locks on your doors to prevent escaping they need to be old enough to be able to figure out how to unlock them in an emergency. We have locks on 2 of 3 of our best non-window exits because if he could, the Cracker would take himself outside every time I turn my back. I know this because he's already done it. (Story time!) We had already installed a lock on the sliding glass door, but I wasn't yet in the habit of remembering to use it. (It's on the track up top so that he can't reach.) Now the way the house is set up is garage, laundry, kitchen, breakfast nook with sliding glass door all in a nice straight line. I was in the laundry room, door to kitchen open, with a perfect view. But I bent down to transfer clothes from the washer to dryer for all of 90 seconds and didn't see or hear him unlock the sliding door, then the screen, and then close them both to conceal the evidence. A few minutes later, after I was done with the laundry transfer and back in the kitchen, I saw a streak out the window. What the heck? I thought it was a dog or maybe a burglar. No, IT WAS MY CHILD, MY THEN NOT QUITE 3 YEAR OLD, RUNNING AROUND THE BACKYARD HAVING A GREAT OLD TIME. Yeah, that's right, I didn't even realize he was gone. HOLY SHIT. Let your mind wander with the implications of that one. I didn't know he was GONE.
Now since we're now off on a tangent, let's just continue.
When my parents came to visit last month, I had my dad (with J supervising) put a lock on the front door too, up high. The Cracker has been able to manipulate the lower preexisting locks on it for months now, but hasn't gotten it open on his own yet because he can't figure out which is lock and which is unlock and there are two locks to get through. So he stands there, locks one, unlocks the other, and is unable to make a getaway for cookies and Tootsie Rolls (ahh! Choking hazard! Stop giving them to him without asking me!) at the neighbors. (The neighbor with the dog I am constantly dog sitting.) Now he could easily unlock the new one too, but even with a stool (and he's tried, oh he's tried, and he knows what a stool is for) he's not yet tall enough. Phew!
So my beautiful SIL had this problem a few years back, when perfect nephew was around the Cracker's age. They lived in an apartment complex and he'd just unlock the door and let himself out without asking. Snuck, really, if we want to get technical. At the time I was disgusted and shocked by her solution, but now that I'm a parent I think it was genius. They didn't know if they couldn't install hardware, they were renters and moving out soon anyway, so she used BEARS. Yes, bears, as in the animal. Their area is well known for bears, coming to raid your garbage, and so she told him that if he went out alone that the bears would get him. And he was scared shitless of bears, so it totally worked.
You do what you gotta do to keep your kid safe.
Back to the smoke alarm, why would I buy one now? Because when he is old enough, which will be in just a few short years, I'll probably have forgotten all about it. Or, I will remember as I'm counting sheep and desperately trying to fall asleep, and not want to get out of bed, turn on the internet, shop around, and then buy one.
I'll let you know what a worthless piece of crap it is when it arrives in 5-10 days.
Now I totally realize the numerous downsides of such a device when your child is small...
The Cracker is still in a crib. He climbs IN, but won't climb OUT. Why? Hell if I know. But why would we screw with a good thing? (Insert one of my favorite lines here: If you wake him you take him.) He climbs everything else. He is A CLIMBER. But since he's still perfectly happy, or rather when he's perfectly UNHAPPY and doesn't want to nap/go to bed but doesn't do anything except scream from what we like to call baby jail, it's nice knowing that he won't escape. (Knock on wood.) So a smoke alarm with my voice yelling "Wake up (insert Cracker's real name here)! Wake up! There's a fire! Get your ass up!" isn't going to do much except wake him up and confuse the shit out of him. But we still use our baby monitor, so if the alarms don't go off on our side of the house, it might just wake my ass up.
Another downside: a little kid, say under the age of 6 or 7, may get scared and hide. So then you have to go looking for them, IN A FIRE, that is, until they are old enough to understand your family fire plan AND actually follow instructions under stress.
Next downside is that if you have child proof locks on your doors to prevent escaping they need to be old enough to be able to figure out how to unlock them in an emergency. We have locks on 2 of 3 of our best non-window exits because if he could, the Cracker would take himself outside every time I turn my back. I know this because he's already done it. (Story time!) We had already installed a lock on the sliding glass door, but I wasn't yet in the habit of remembering to use it. (It's on the track up top so that he can't reach.) Now the way the house is set up is garage, laundry, kitchen, breakfast nook with sliding glass door all in a nice straight line. I was in the laundry room, door to kitchen open, with a perfect view. But I bent down to transfer clothes from the washer to dryer for all of 90 seconds and didn't see or hear him unlock the sliding door, then the screen, and then close them both to conceal the evidence. A few minutes later, after I was done with the laundry transfer and back in the kitchen, I saw a streak out the window. What the heck? I thought it was a dog or maybe a burglar. No, IT WAS MY CHILD, MY THEN NOT QUITE 3 YEAR OLD, RUNNING AROUND THE BACKYARD HAVING A GREAT OLD TIME. Yeah, that's right, I didn't even realize he was gone. HOLY SHIT. Let your mind wander with the implications of that one. I didn't know he was GONE.
Now since we're now off on a tangent, let's just continue.
When my parents came to visit last month, I had my dad (with J supervising) put a lock on the front door too, up high. The Cracker has been able to manipulate the lower preexisting locks on it for months now, but hasn't gotten it open on his own yet because he can't figure out which is lock and which is unlock and there are two locks to get through. So he stands there, locks one, unlocks the other, and is unable to make a getaway for cookies and Tootsie Rolls (ahh! Choking hazard! Stop giving them to him without asking me!) at the neighbors. (The neighbor with the dog I am constantly dog sitting.) Now he could easily unlock the new one too, but even with a stool (and he's tried, oh he's tried, and he knows what a stool is for) he's not yet tall enough. Phew!
So my beautiful SIL had this problem a few years back, when perfect nephew was around the Cracker's age. They lived in an apartment complex and he'd just unlock the door and let himself out without asking. Snuck, really, if we want to get technical. At the time I was disgusted and shocked by her solution, but now that I'm a parent I think it was genius. They didn't know if they couldn't install hardware, they were renters and moving out soon anyway, so she used BEARS. Yes, bears, as in the animal. Their area is well known for bears, coming to raid your garbage, and so she told him that if he went out alone that the bears would get him. And he was scared shitless of bears, so it totally worked.
You do what you gotta do to keep your kid safe.
Back to the smoke alarm, why would I buy one now? Because when he is old enough, which will be in just a few short years, I'll probably have forgotten all about it. Or, I will remember as I'm counting sheep and desperately trying to fall asleep, and not want to get out of bed, turn on the internet, shop around, and then buy one.
I'll let you know what a worthless piece of crap it is when it arrives in 5-10 days.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
I Want Credit
After reading SJ's lastest post, I decided to play the look how my baby's grown game. I have all pictures sorted rather anally by date, yes, the actual date taken, and then folderized by month and year.
There isn't much that I like about my body. Even back when I was a waif (but, of course, thought I was fat) at 5 foot 6, 115lbs and toned, I always had hips...big hips, and THIGHS. (No one ever looked at me and wondered "if she'll be able to get the baby out!" like they did with my SIL.) Throw in a freakishly big head (bigger even than my 285lb 6 foot 6 star football player exboyfriend), tiny ears (which are now the same size as Cracker's and he's 3), a tiny chest (32A pre-Cracker = shopping in the children's department to get any sort of selection), tiny wrists and fingers. The size of my first wedding ring? Four and a half.
I'm sorry...did you say curvy? Well, I wish I could too, but that would imply that I have more than one set of curves.
How disproportionate can one gal be? (Credit and shout out here to Karen who posted just the other day about her own body image issues.)
On the plus side, now that I weigh A LOT more, I have boobs. Which brings me to a tiny vent: Victoria's Secret sucks. (No link for them!) They never really carried 32A, so when my chest exploded after childbirth VS was my first stop for new bras. But, no, instead of being too small, now I was too big. They don't carry many D's, and certainly not 38DD's. And, of course, no nursing bras at all. Assholes.
And so, in RL, I am always hearing that the Cracker has J's eyes. Even when J is not around, perfect strangers compliment my child with "Wow, he has beautiful eyes! They must be his dad's because they certainly aren't yours! And those eyelashes! So wasted on a boy!" Okay, they both have these deep brown bedroom eyes compared to my freaky blue ones, but J gets credit for the whole darn area. And dammit, my best feature is my eyelashes. They are L-O-N-G. Sunglass shopping is impossible because I have the darndest time finding ones that my eyelashes don't hit every time I blink. Seriously, I shit you not. Mascara? Even if I wore makeup, my eyelashes are too thick.
SO HIS EYELASHES...THOSE SUCKERS ARE MINE. I GAVE THEM TO HIM. WHY? BECAUSE I LOVE HIM.*
Which finally brings me back to the look how my baby's grown game. Here are his eyelashes from July 4th last year. Believe you me, they are much more impressive in person, but so darn blond that only the darkest ones come out in the picture.
Trust me...they are fabulous, they are mine, and they just keep growing along with the rest of him.
*My mom says that I got my eyelashes from her love affair with chocolate. My dad would take her to HoJo's (as they tell it, nightly) and watch her eat chocolate cake with chocolate sauce and chocolate ice cream. Even though my natural hair color is *assumed* to be medium brown, my eyelashes are dark, black even. Now the Cracker's are blond... No obsessive amounts of chocolate here, but I did ingest insane amounts of cow, citrus, Jamoca milkshakes from Baskin Robbins and key lime cheesecake.
Which reminds me: you know how if the baby isn't moving you are supposed to eat an orange because the natural sugar (or whatever) will get them going? Yeah, I was eating 10+ a day and had to go in because he wouldn't STOP moving. Poor little guy was on a crazy orange induced buzz for more than a week before my midwife figured me out. Nobody was sleeping at our house: not me, not him, and not J, because I had to wake him up and complain. Why eat just one when you can eat an entire bag?
(The top two pictures are from October 2004, and yes, they were taken at Starbucks. Where else?)
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Now I've Done It
I just went in to clean the guest bathroom, you know, the one that no one but guests is allowed to use? As I was dusting the sink off for impending visitors a red ant crawled up out of the drain.
Holy shit.
Guess I jinxed myself.
Shit shit shit!
Because I had no idea what else to do, I Drain-O'ed his ass.
Oh, and can I just say, here we go again with bathroom ants like 4 years ago in the rental. The guest bath is in the middle of the house and we don't even use it. Fuck. They must be under the friggin house. Whoop-dee-do. Guess I should count my lucky stars that this is the first ant ever here in more than a year.
Now I'm off to go stare at the drain for hours waiting to see if more are following. I've already checked the tub and pulled out all the bandaids from under the sink.
(Whimper)
Holy shit.
Guess I jinxed myself.
Shit shit shit!
Because I had no idea what else to do, I Drain-O'ed his ass.
Oh, and can I just say, here we go again with bathroom ants like 4 years ago in the rental. The guest bath is in the middle of the house and we don't even use it. Fuck. They must be under the friggin house. Whoop-dee-do. Guess I should count my lucky stars that this is the first ant ever here in more than a year.
Now I'm off to go stare at the drain for hours waiting to see if more are following. I've already checked the tub and pulled out all the bandaids from under the sink.
(Whimper)
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