New Year's things I'd like to do that are not resolutions

I don't think I've ever made a New Year's resolution. I'm pretty much the most intrinsically motivated SOB you'll ever come across, so if I want to do something or change something, I just kinda do, without ever really telling anyone that I'm gonna do it, or making a big pledge on the day that all the size 2 people in the world swear they'll be a size 0 by Valentine's Day.

For some reason though, I am thinking of this New Year's as a starting point or something...maybe it's the new human I created that will be running around like a little crazy child this time next year. I don't know. Anyhow, I thought that just for shits and giggles, I would think of some things I'd like to do this year (that are not resolutions) and then next New Year's I will return to this post and mock myself for it. So here it is:

Stop biting my fingernails. I've been a badass nail biter since the beginning of Big W time, and although I occasionally think about knocking it off, I've never really made a goal of it. I don't know, I started putting that Burt's Bees lemon cuticle cream on not too long ago, and already I seem to have some white parts on my nails. I even had to file a couple of them yesterday.

Keep it up with my recent committment to consuming a reasonable amount of water. I made a deal with myself before Chrismas that I have to drink 64 oz. of water before consuming any pop in a given day, since I was essentially pissing cola, and I don't think that's good form when you are trying to feed your little parasite/baby. I'm on about Day 10 of this regimen, and it's actually working out ok, given that carbonation is my BFF.

Stop swearing in front of my kid, which essentially means stop swearing. This is not going to be easy, what with the versatility of the F word and all. At a certain point though, the kid is going to pick up what I say, and given that she will be attending a parochial school, it's probably not going to go well if she asks her teacher if she can get a bastardassfuck of a drink from the bubbler. This blog might get more profane if I'm walking around all day saying "shucks" though...

Keep trying to do good things for my health, like strollering around The Woods, munching on my fiber chewables, and eating lots of salmon and shit like that. Also, sleeping is gonna be on the menu. Healthy mom is important for healthy family.

Try not to dissolve as a person. It might be obvious that I am kinda obsessed with my kid and that I am digging this mom shit. While I feel good about the way things are going right now, I don't want to turn into a nutcase who is completely absorbed by motherhood to the point where my actual person dissappears. I don't want to look back at my life in a couple decades and mourn my personhood. So I'm going to try really hard to keep doing shit I like to do, and to every now and then, put myself first. This is gonna be a hard one, but I think an important one.

Save money for a kayak. Whenever I go on vacation, I end up in a kayak, and I love it so much. I like canoes too, but they hurt my bad back more. I think I want this one. I really want to throw Big K and Phook in a boat and go paddle around.

Camp a lot. Big K and Big W love to camp, and I hope that we don't stop because of Phook. In fact, I hope we camp more. I want her to get covered in dirt and then sleep in it. It's good for the soul.

Deal with the commentary of others on my parenting in a less sensitive way. I have not been viciously attacked yet, but people have of course put their two cents worth in on my childrearing, and I don't FN like it. Mainly related to the co-sleeping of course, since that's the hallmark of bad parenting according to the majority of the population. But on Christmas, my Grandma said something about how you could tell that Phookie was "used to my undivided attention" and she did not mean it as a compliment, and it kind of stung like a really big bee. I wanted to point out the large tray of candies and cookies I'd made, which was across the counter from the veggie pizza and cheeseball I made, and scream that a good amount of ignoring of the child was necessary in order to accomplish said foodstuffs, but I held my tongue, because she probably wasn't trying to hurt my feelings. I've been told that her sister apparently used to set a timer for 20 minutes when one of her 5 children started crying, and that she did not tend to the child until that time was up. I have a parenting philosophy that is just ever so slightly different, and I need to learn how to just smile and nod and not be wounded when people make their damned statements. She's my kid, and I can screw her up however I like. (Man, I got defensive just writing that. I'm not going to be able to do this one, not even a little bit. Whenever anyone (other than my own mother, who gets a free pass most of the time) says anything about her eating or her sleeping or her whatever, whatever is said is basically translated into "Your kid is ugly and you're a bad mom" in my head, regardless of the actual words said. Big K doesn't do so well with this either. Yesterday a lady came up to him in the store and out of nowhere asked if Phookie took a pacifier, and when he said no, she claimed it was necessary for mouth development, and then said that if she ever took one and ended up addicted to it and needed to be broken of it before starting FN kindergarten, you should just cut the tip off to ween her off it. What a loon. Big K was cheesed about this for the rest of the day.)

So that's it. At least that's all I can think of right now. Wish me luck. Happy New Year's, coolios.

I have no point

I'm tired, I have nothing really valuable to say. I just kinda feel like typing. (I guess this is not significantly different than other posts.)

Poor Phook. She's been dragged over the river and through The Woods for days on end, what with all this holiday excitement. I'm afraid it's taking its toll even on my most good natured of babies. Last night, she just went ape shit like I've never seen in my (her) life. We were over at the Grandparents J home, because it was Auntie Hode's last night in town, and she was kinda fussy. She'd actually been weird all day - woke up with puffy eyes and was really nappy. But I strollered her over there nonetheless, kind of knowing it wasn't going to go so hot. After some incessant snacking and fussing and whatnot, she just sort of lost it. She started with the "Heh, heh, heh" sounds, which usually means uncomfortable according to the Oprah baby language. For her, this is usually a too tight or otherwise bothersome sleeper. So I stripped her, but she just kept screaming. I can almost always console her in under a minute if she gets fussy...but this was not "fussy." This was all out screaming...she could hardly breathe and she looked like she was just in terrible, terrible pain. Big K and I pretty much wanted to call 911 because it was so out of character for her and so different from anything we've ever seen her do before and we were pretty much positive she was dying of something. Well, after about 20 minutes, I swaddled her up (something we don't normally do because she usually just busts out of it) and started rocking her hard and it was like she just gave up. She got really quiet and passed out in my arms and took about a half hour nap that way. Then she woke up and smiled at us, at which point we re-dressed her and hauled her home, and put in a pretty normal night. I don't know man, all I can say is it was terrible. I guess I have taken for granted that it seems like my kid has just been talking to me for most of her life, and I just listen to her and know what she wants...but this time, all bets were off...way off. Now, my parents raised two colic monsters (according to my pediatrician, I was apparently the worst case of colic he'd ever seen), and they had serious flashbacks with this occurring in their house. They said her screaming like that was what I did as an infant for months on end. I have no idea how people survive a colicky baby. What do you mean the baby just screams? Holy, holy, holy balls. I laud all you parents of the colicky babies. Especially those of you who are brave enough to have additional children. We just felt so helpless and it was such tremendous suck. And it was only 20 minutes.

So anyhow, today was our final Christmas. Big K's 'rents are divorced, so there are multiple families to have a shindig with, and today was his mom's event. I received one of those vacuum sealers for food. Now, I rarely have the experience where I receive something I didn't know I wanted...but this was just such a case. This is the kind of gadget a headcase like me gets pretty freakin' excited about. I'm already planning a bigger garden next year because you can freeze shit for about a quarter century after you suck the air out of the bag with one of those things. If you find any roadkill that still looks semi-fresh, bring it to The Woods, and I'll vacuum seal it.

I am tired. Tomorrow is the 8 year anniversary of Big K and Big W love. Yes, we got together on New Year's Eve, when Big W was a spritely 19-year-old. We were in a dingy basement at a party, and we marveled at the size of each other's muscular calves and speculated that we might be able to breed some kind of superhuman, should it ever come to pass...and then he handed me a nasty beer and I drank it...and he said, "Hey, aren't you supposed to kiss somebody at midnight?" and we did. So, we're going to stay home tomorrow and hopefully heal our tired Phook and our tired selves. It's a Sunday, so I suppose church could happen. But other than that, I think we're gonna lock the place down. Maybe even take the phone off the hook, or flush it down the toilet or something...or use one of the "Do Not Disturb" signs my Grandma gave me when Phook was born. Or some shit like that. It's not like we have any social life to speak of, but the holidays can be taxing even for the biggest losers.

I did accomplish something somewhat exciting (to me). You see, we of course have a digital camera. But all those digital pics just end up on our computer/network/secure, firesafe offsite backup redundant whatthefuck server and never get printed out. We have a printer and photo paper of course, but we aren't really good at making it happen. So I've been thinking that if too much time passes, it would be too overwhelming to even consider doing something with the 8 billion pictures we've taken lately. So I went throught them all and selected those I wanted printed (368 pictures from 2006, if you want to know), and uploaded them to the website of a large superstore that I refuse to name because I am morally opposed to its existence even though my coordinates make it really the only viable option for acquiring certain necessities. So in another day or two, my 368 photos will be ready to be picked up, at which point I will lovingly put them in albums for peoples to enjoy for lifetimes to come. This is costing me just under $60, which I consider highly reasonable. (Big K kind of pissed in my Cheerios by claiming that people will not look at photo albums in the future, but will rather view them on a TV from their media server or something like that, but whatever. I want photo albums.)

So anyhow, that's it. Phook has woken up and I think I am needed. I hope she goes to sleep soon, for Big W needs to go nigh-nigh.

My big date

I went on a big date last night. It was with my Dad, but it was a big date in a big city, and therefore warrants a post. You see, last year my family went to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra around the holiday season, and my Dad was smitten. This year, I asked if the family wanted to go again, and everyone was lukewarm about going two years in a row, with the exception of my Dad, who REALLY wanted to go. However, he lost the vote and we decided not to go. He spent the next several days telling me how sad he was at every opportunity. Being a good kid, I ordered tickets, just for the two of us, and surprised him with them on Christmas morning. Hence, the date.

So, yesterday afternoon, we set off for the big city of Milwaukee, headed for the Five O'Clock Steakhouse (formerly the Five O'Clock Club) for a big meal. This is my Dad's favorite restaurant, and he wanted to treat me. Given that I've spent about 6 eyeblinks away from Phookie since her birth, I was ready to be treated. He warned that the ambience left a little something to be desired, but the food was excellent. This place is in a seedy-ish part of town, and the building looks essentially like a storefront/bar you would find right here in The Woods. Neon signs, etc. We walked through the door and back in time. Red velvety carpet with a palm frond pattern. Those cylindrical light fixtures with the little multi-sized holes in them to let the light escape. Waitresses and two hostesses who were ladies of a certain age who had clearly liked to be taken out dancing in their heyday, and who had clearly been working in this joint for decades. Wood paneling, which my Dad said was an upgrade from the red velvet walls they used to have. It rocked. We ordered some cocktails (cocktails!) and our dinner. We were then escorted to our booth where the table had been set with bread, salad, breadsticks, and a relish tray. Soon our appetizers came (crab-stuffed mushrooms and shrimp cocktail...yee haw!) and we housed them with gusto. Then the steak, which ruled. I ordered the filet mignon and it was charcoal-y goodness with mushrooms on top. I actually chewed my food (my teeth were exhausted from being called to action for the first time in months).

Then we were off to the Bradley Center. At this point I had been away from Phook for about 5 hours, so it was necessary to relieve the pressure on the bosom, so I hauled my breastpump into the arena. Now, being hyperanal, I had called arena nformation in advance and asked if they had a nursing area or something where I could do this. No, they did not, but I could go to the First Aid station. Well, first I had to get past security with this pump. Old dude says to me, "Ma'am, please open your purse." I said, "It's not a purse, it's a breastpump" as I unzipped one of its many pouches. Dude looked like he'd been hit with a taser - he jumped back like 3 feet with his hands up like I was honestly threatening him with a weapon. He's like, "Just go." Evildoers are apparently not aware that the breastpump is the key to getting through security quickly or else they'd be carrying them on their missions. So in we went and up to the First Aid station. I walked in, acting like I was confident in my request, and said to the middle-aged bored looking guy manning the station that I had been told there was a private place there where I could use a breastpump. Rather than looking threatened, this guy just looked at me like I was impaled upon a railroad crossing sign or something and said, "Ah, I dunno." Thankfully, some nice EMT-type guy jumped in (he must have a wife he likes who has nursed a baby) and offered me a curtained off area in the corner. And then a lady jumped in and said there was a plug in the bathroom, so I could go in there. I did, but I was kind of shaking and panicky the whole time because everyone was so freaking WEIRD about it and I felt WEIRD about it, even though I shouldn't have had to. I am starting to get annoyed that this country has absolutely no accommodations for nursing mothers. How hard is it to install electrical outlets in private places? How hard is it to not freak out about anything remotely related to breastfeeding? I've seen a lot of boob in my life in public places, and none of it has been related to nursing a child...and yet it is the nursing that is somehow weird and shameful. I digress...

So anyhow, we proceeded to row W on the 400 level, which is second only to row X in its ability to induce altitude sickness. Luckily, I have no problems with heights...but these seats were not what you might call "good." We hung out for awhile and I engaged in one of my favorite activities that is the observation of humankind (there was a heavily pregnant girl several rows down and when she put her hand on her belly, I felt a strange sensation of jealousy that I no longer had a baby in my belly...weirdness...) and then the show began. It was the exact same show as last year, but that was basically okay, except for the fact that the people who spoke actually told the same jokes during the introduction of the band members as they did last year. "This guy is what would happen if Alice Cooper and Liza Minnelli had a child..." I thought that even if they weren't re-working their show, they could at least re-work the "off the cuff" comedy that happens during the intros. Anyhow, I'm not the kind of cat who is going to pop a TSO CD in at random, but these clowns do know how to put on a show. At first, you're kind of like "Lasers, noise, I heard this song on a commercial..." but after awhile you are basically a disembodied head floating around in the midst of light show and electronica and you just kind of give in and enjoy it for what it is. Which we did, heartily. Now, I must comment on the little lady that plays the hot pink electric violin for this show. Since I am now capable of getting in trouble for things I say on this blog (see fun comment on my insensitivity on earlier post), I'm kinda leery of mockery, but free speech, right? Here's the thing. This girl runs around stage playing that violin like a complete and total maniac. I am telling you that she has to be in better cardiovascular shape than your average Kenyan marathoner. The way she throws her giant mane of hair around, I am seriously concerned that she is going to get it tangled in her strings and behead herself. And the weirdest thing is that despite all this performance, you can only hear the violin for about 90 seconds during the entire 3-hour show. Therefore, I think the requirements for her position are that you must be a) hot b) not suffering from a seizure disorder so you can survive all the strobe exposure and c) able to hold a violin. Okay, I'm sorry. I'm done. I'm sure she's very talented. Allrighty. So the grand finale is a guest performance by the dude from the Blue Oyster Cult, which was kinda cool. All in all, it was a great show. My Dad enjoyed the shit out of himself, and that's worth at least twice the ticket price.

Then we busted out of there to begin our journey home. We made a pit stop at a gas station, and I decided some more breastpump drama was necessary, so I hauled it in there with me just in case they had an electrical outlet. They did, right by the sinks in the large, public area. No one was there, and it had been another 4 or 5 hours by this time, so I hooked up my unit, standing right by the sinks. Of course, 3 weirdos promptly came in and looked at me like I was the spawn of Satan. Feeling like an ass again, I wrapped up my little production quickly so they could get to the paper towel dispenser. Man does this suck! I guess I should travel with an extension cord or get a newer pump that can be battery operated or something, but I just wish it could be easier to handle the nourishment of my child when I have the audacity to be away from her. I think that if I ever become really wealthy, I'm going to start a charity that builds little Habitat for (Breastfeeding) Humanity huts all over the place where women can comfortably nurse and/or pump for their babies. It just shouldn't be difficult to do this.

Anyhow, we rolled into my driveway a little before 2 a.m., and not a creature was stirring, not even a Phook. She was nestled in Big K's armpit, acquiring his scent, and I snuggled in with them after happily breastpumping in my bedroom while wearing the awesomeness that is my full frontal nudity. Bastards.

Phookie's 1st Christmas (as told by Phook)

Well, my Mom finally got her head out of her ass the other day, and she got all festive and shit just in time for my 1st Christmas, which was very fine. It started out with a little bit of Thanksgiving though, when Auntie Hode survived this nonsense:

Yeah, it was her 25th birthday, and she spent it by hitting a deer (or a buffalo, from the looks of the car), and narrowly avoiding some serious badness. Since Grandma J was pretty wigged out, my Mom and Dad spent the whole evening waiting with her for the safe delivery of Auntie Hode. They had this swell idea to drive around and look at Christmas lights to pass the time, and I got a little delirious from all the blinking tackiness, but it was pretty fun. Hode did arrive safely, and she only transferred a few miniscule glass particles to my person!

The real fun started on Christmas Eve, when I got this crazy chair called a Bumbo from my Grandparents D. I felt its wonderful texture, and then deemed it a fine place to take a poo! I sat in my seat and shart, shart, sharted! I heard my Mom say something about how this thing is the best baby product invention since the shock collar, but I ignored her.


Then everyone left, and Mom and I dicked around for a little while before church. She was slobbering about how I was the best present ever, as per usual.


Then we got all dressed up for church, which of course was more trouble than it was worth. (The clothing of course, not the church.) I decided to perform a little Christmas miracle by consenting to wear this ridiculous headband, despite my penchant for rage whenever anything touches my head. My Mom was scared to take me to church at night (what with my, shall we say, "uneven temperament" in the evening hours) but I was pretty good. A lot of people admired me, of course, so it was worth it. Anyhow, don't I look cute with Auntie Hode?


Here I am with my Mom and Dad, standing in front of our pretty tree (my Mom is really savoring this tree, because she knows that next year I will be a destructive little bastard, jovially smashing all her precious ornaments). I sure am being raised by a couple of clowns.


We slept over at the Grandparents J House on Christmas Eve, even though we live less than a mile away. My Mom is deeply unwell and she insists on waking up there on Christmas morning. (Grow up, lady!) I was groggy as all get out when the fools started opening presents, so I allowed Dad to stick a bow on my head. I got a lot of neat crap, including a sweet Rattle 'n Ride Pooh toy and an exersaucer thingy, which my Grandma J keeps referring to as a "jazzercizer." I'm letting it slide.

Then about 150 people came over to the Grandparents J casa, (I exaggerate, like my Mom...it was more like 36) and ate like hogs. It was weird, man. With all those stinky fools around and everyone holding me and smiling at me and making monkeyass faces at me, I just felt so, well, stoned. I kinda just stared at everyone for a few hours and they all marveled at the wonder that is my cuteness. Speaking of cuteness, here are my grandparents. They rock. Especially my Grandma's antlers. When I got stressed out during the day, I just focused on the antlers.

Finally, all the interlopers left, and we settled in for a movie. It was my first Disney movie, Cars, and much to my parents' horror, I was fascinated by the TV for an extended period of time. I chilled in my Bumbo and wished someone would just bring me a bucket of popcorn. Mom said something about starting with rice cereal sometime in the near future, but I tuned her out. Just give me the popcorn!

Finally, the day was done, and we returned home. Yesterday we napped a lot and housed some leftovers. And today, I turned 3 months old! I can't believe I've made it this long with these crazies...sheesh, I should get some kind of reward!


Well, I hope you had a Merry Christmas too. Rock on with your bad selves.

XO,
Phookie

I am so ashamed

I like to make fun of stuff. One of the things I like to make fun of is advertisements for prescription drugs, particularly if they are for what I perceive to be ridiculous ailments. One of my favorites to mock is the restless leg syndrome (or, the more daunting sounding "RLS") ad, because it just seems so silly. Now if you have this, I'm sorry. It does sound sucky and I don't mean to make light of it (well, I guess I do, but I am sorry if you have this and it causes you suffering). I just think it's kind of funny in a not really funny sort of way that there is a prescription available for everything. Any body part that's pissing you off can be silenced with medication, it seems. Another ad I have always laughed at is the ad for the dry eye stuff. I'm like, "Ha! Like anyone's eyes are dry enough to require medical intervention! Lame! Losers! Americans are so addicted to prescriptions! Ha!"

Cut to my visit to the eye doctor today. I always wore contacts as soon as I was old enough so I could engage in my addiction to sports. Kept wearing them throughout my vain early college years. But in my working, computer screen 14 hours per day adulthood, I kind of gave up on them. They made my eyes so, well, dry. My last batch of contacts was a 3-month supply, which I ordered thinking it would last me 6 months due to my limited wear, but when a year had passed and I got my reminder note to go see the eye doctor, I still had over half of that supply left. So you could say that discomfort was causing me to not really ever wear the contacts. So we tried a new kind of contacts that are supposed to be super comfy. I got the sample, and while my vision didn't degrade and give me headaches with these (like the others), my eyes still got so...dry. So I tell this to (hot) eye doctor man, and he says, "Do you have any rheumatological issues or anything like that?" I said, "Well not exactly, but I do have fibromyalgia." A light bulb goes on and he proceeds to inform me that people with these sorts of plagues frequently have problems with dry eyes. The conversation proceeds and before I know it, I'm walking out of there with a prescription for Restasis, the very shit I mocked on TV! I kind of have my tail between my legs, now that I've joined the ranks of ridiculously medicated Americans. Woof.

Ode to Hode

This Friday, 12/22, is a very special day. That's right, buddies, it's Auntie Hode's birthday. And not just any birthday, but the very special quarter-century mark. Sadly, this isn't much of a happy occasion for Hode, because she hates birthdays. Mine, hers, everyone's, I think. We aren't talking about the march towards those inevitable crows feet, but rather the departure, in years, from childhood. Hode mourns its' ending, even though one of the best things about Hode is that the child is alive and well in her, and always will be. Now, let's keep going with that theme, and discuss other great things about Hode to commemorate her upcoming special day. (I am posting this early because she is feeling pretty homesick, having not been back to The Woods since Thanksgiving, and I suspect she might appreciate it a few days early to get her through the final push until her homecoming on Friday.)

25 Things that Make Hode the Coolest Person Ever

1. Hode claims that when she gets married, she will not have a cake, because she hates cake. Rather, she will be having a 3-tiered smoked salmon.

2. Hode has the worst singing voice in the history of humankind. And yet, she insists on singing with gusto. Her signature tune is Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On, and boy does she rock it. She also karaokes (Janis Joplin, etc.) with some regularity and brings down the house with her combination of nightmarish sounds and completely straight face.

3. When Big K and I got married, Hode, the maid of honor, snuck a pair of giant, square-ish, Jackie-O style shades up to the altar with her. They're the kind with the pinkish tint that starts out very dark on top and gradually fades into a beautiful light pink 5 inches later, where they end halfway down her face. After the ceremony, she turned to the congregation wearing these gems, punctuating our wedding with that very best gift, laughter. Now that I think of it, I think she might be wearing them (or a close facsimile) in her profile pic on her blog if you'd like to see for yourself.
4. Hode's kitchen is decorated in SPAM paraphernalia. She frequents the SPAM museum (yes, it really exists, somewhere in Minnesota) and acquires things like a SPAM clock, SPAM dish towels, SPAM floor rug, SPAM dishes, and even a miniature light-up replica of the SPAM museum itself.
5. Hode went to Costa Rica for some environmental something-or-other class in college. While she was there, she apparently saw one of the Top 5 most sought after birds of bird-watching enthusiasts. A rare bird, you could say. Based on this, she thinks she needs to become a "birder." So far, this has only manifested itself as an obsession with roadside hawks, which are quite common. She regularly calls and reports sightings.

6. As a child, Hode insisted on wearing a bike helmet before any kid in their right mind would consider wearing a bike helmet. Our dad was so leery of this request that he made a pact with her that if he bought the helmet and he ever saw her riding her bike without it on, her bike would be taken away for one week. She wore the helmet religiously, even though I successfully orchestrated an evil plot to get all the other kids in the neighborhood to call her "Dick Helmet."

7. Hode is a great blogger.
8. Hode wants to get a cat, and has for a long time. Unfortunately, she has spent many years in college housing, followed by the tyranny of living with parents, and now a cat-free apartment (because rental housing is limited in her area). Nonetheless, she spends a lot of time thinking about what she is going to name her cat. And she came up with the best cat naming paradigm ever. Clue characters. Dude! Colonel Mustard? That's the best cat name ever.
9. Hode drives a pink Chevy Cavalier that has seen better days. On the back, there is a oval-shaped bumper sticker that is all sparkly and shit, and reads, "Stripper." She has covered it up twice, to my knowledge. Once with duct tape when she went on a roadtrip to Utah, where she theorized that Mormon cops would be more likely to pull over someone advertising such an unholy profession. And now that she's a high school teacher, with one of those magnetic ribbon things that reads, "Save Darfur."

10. Hode could be a hand model. She has long, skinny fingers with unobtrusive knuckles, well-manicured, beautifully shaped nails, and nice rings. (I, on the other hand (ha ha), have giant man hands to the tune of being able to hold a men's basketball with each hand and hold them out at arm's length, just like that famous picture of Michael Jordan.)

11. Hode can quote movies like some kind of savant (Rain Man is still on, so I have savants on the brain). I know a lot of people who can quote movies, but not like this kid. She's off the hook. We have entire conversations in movie quotes. It's really special. (Hode, maybe for your birthday, I'll get you a gift certificate to learn how to link your own sausage!)

12. When we were kids (and even now, actually), Hode asked for--and received--the most ridiculous gifts in the history of the universe. Favorites include a Charlie McCarthy ventriloquist doll, a wood-burning kit, and a unicycle. I'm not shitting you.

13. Hode is kind and good.

14. Hode can imitate Alton Brown's commentary on Iron Chef America perfectly.

15. When we were kids, Hode had an imaginary friend named Ran Cool. They used to meet for a meal called EggMicks (spelling?) at an interplanetary location known as The Median Station. Their relationship was quite intense.

16. When I was a kid, I asked for and received a giant Rainbow Brite doll. Hode asked for and received a stuffed Lurky.

17. Hode is obsessed with the art of sandwich making. She calls me to describe her sandwiches. It always begins with the same phrases, "Start with a little Oat Nut, layer of mayo..." and when she says "layer of mayo" she does her patented "layer of mayo" interpretive hand dance. Her methodology for calming an angry Phookie consists of sandwich description.

18. Hode does not wear shorts. Now, me, I am shorts-tastic. I love shorts. Morning, noon, and night, summer, winter, whatever, I'm in shorts. I wore shorts today. I didn't leave the house, but still. I love 'em. Hode just doesn't feel the same. She wears jeans all summer long. While I can't relate to this life choice, she has made it, and she sticks to her guns. You've gotta respect that.

19. Hode loves beef sticks. Her favorite is Jack Link's Teriyaki Beef Stick. But her beef stick love knows no bounds. When on a road trip (often), Hode subsists pretty much on beef sticks and diet soda. I like this because most ladies are not big beef stick eaters. It's kind of a man food, if you can pardon my sexist beliefs relating to convenience store fare. But she can house a beef stick faster than most people can eat a goldfish cracker. Gotta love that.

20. On one of our road trips (a.k.a. Hodie Rodie), we went to Hilton Head, SC, off season, for no good reason other than that it was on the map and on the ocean. On our way home, we stopped at this Magnolia Plantation place. When you drive up, it's like a freaking McDonald's with a menu of tour packages of the various amenities. A bunch of flower-centric girl stuff, mainly. However, they also offer a swamp you can tour. Now, you've got to understand that Hode has never made a decision in her life, largely because she likes to defer to the interests of others. But here, Hode asserted herself. As we looked at each other at the drive-thru, she matter-of-factly stated, "I'd like to see the swamp." And we did. It was the best part of the whole stupid place, by far.

21. Hode deeply mourns the passing of famous people. Princess Diana, Mitch Hedberg, etc.

22. Hode prefers ads to the actual television shows she watches. She calls me frequently to tell me about great ads she's seen. She "likes to be marketed to," even though she is not in any way a material person. She just digs funny ads.

23. The flipside of the previous note is that she absolutely despises Jared the Subway spokesman/former fatman. She is always telling me how if she could kill anyone with her bare hands, it would be him. And also that she wants to see him in a Celebrity Death Match with various other people she thinks need to go down in flames.

24 .Hode has a profound sense of social justice and is very vocal about it. Being a high school teacher, she has a decent chance at changing the world.

25. Hode is my little sister, but I look up to her, because she is the finest example I've ever seen of how a person ought to be.

I love you Hode. You know, no matter how old we get, we're still gonna be just two little girls holding hands in our matching dresses. Happy B-day.

Bub in a Tub

It is sad that people spend time thinking about what they do not have, rather than what they do have. I think everyone falls into this trap every now and then. I certainly do. But tonite, I remembered something that I do have. A very big have. Friends, I have a whirlpool tub. That's right, I live in an ancient house with cracked window panes and a shitty roof, but I have a whirlpool tub. When we purchased this house, we saw immediately the reason it had been on the market so long...a single 3/4 bath. No tub to be seen...just a sad little corner shower in a sad little plastered room. It was our #1 priority to rectify this situation, so when the winds of cash blew our way, we invested, heavily, in completely remodeling our bathroom. We made it bigger and moved everything around so as to accommodate a tub. When it came time to select said tub, we decided, on account of my surgically-not-so-repaired back, to get something cool. Unfortunately, space constraints kept us at the standard length, but we were able to get a very wide, very deep tub with a heated back rest, air jets, and a little touchpad controller that glows in the dark and lets you tell the thing how to give you the business. Recently, my hot water heater went to pot, so now we have a jumbo new water heater to enhance our bathing delight.

So anyhow, I was sitting on the couch tonite, and it occurred to me that we had this tub. It just hadn't popped into my mind lately, what with personal leisure pretty far down ye olde list of priorities. So I announced to Big K that Bub and I would be getting in the tub. He ran a pretty shallow, pretty lukewarm baby-friendly bath, and in we went. Now, I don't know what my Friendly Neighborhood Child Safety Expert says about taking your not-quite-3-month-old slippery little otter baby into your gigantic tub, but they can bite me. Bub experienced floatation, sans womb, for the first time. I just kind of supported her head and let her float in there. Dude, she loved it. She smiled and cooed and I kind of body-surfed her around the tub. She didn't even pee on me, although there were some suspicious bubbles in her general vicinity. During this excursion, I also noted that our naked skin tones are an exact match, giving me hope that I passed on at least a snippet of genetic material to this K-clone. So anyhow, Bub basically went swimming for the first time, and it ruled. Perhaps she remembered hanging out in there when I wedged my heavily pregnant carcass into it this summer.

And then I summoned Big K to dry/diaper/dress the nugget, and while he was taking care of these things, I cranked up my hot water and activated my heavenly jets, and floated away to a place where only me and my bubbles existed. I made it through 12 minutes of the 20 minute cycle before Big K appeared at the door with a hungry Phook. Still, it was a great 12 minutes. What an ass I am to essentially forget that I had a mini-spa just steps away. I shall be bathing more.

P.S. I am watching Rain Man right now on E! It's the beginning of the casino scene, which is awesome. And I love the soundtrack. Love it.

A retrospective look at Phook's activities on 12/18

I believe that all you cool kids who take your cool kids to real daycare centers get progress reports and all sorts of written stuff from your providers, detailing your kid's activities during the day. On Monday, Phookie was with Grandma J all day for the first time. I recently discovered that I, too, had a bonafide babygram in my diaper bag, detailing her activities during the day. But instead of it informing me that my little McKenzie/McKenna/McKinley/McKayla/ McKid had learned baby sign language, been yodeled at by the planet's foremost baby yodeler, and had spent the requisite amount of her day partaking of the all-important "tummytime," my report said this:

Bub's Day 12-18-06

7:58: Dad threw me out the car window with my lunchbox.

8:40-9:02: Catnap. In Grandma's arms. I like Whitney Houston's "One Wish Christmas" CD.

9:30: 3+ oz. btl - pissed self - changed dipe.

10:20: Mom called from work, "What up dick?"

10:50: 3+ oz btl

11:22 - 2:30: Out cold on living room couch. Grandma snuck a smoke, peed, and ate a bowl of chili. Woke up after 3hr nap. 1/2 hr couch, 2 hrs on Grandma, 1/2 hr couch. Chugged 2+ oz. milk - dry pants. Is holding it until she goes to Camp Randall and will piss on Barry Alvarez's brass statue. [Editor's Note: Grandma J hates Barry Alvarez and all things Wisconsin Badgers because he "Sleeps with 14-year-old cheerleaders." Unsure where she gets her information from.]

3:45: 2 oz. milk and pissed myself. Major farts. No poop.

So that, friends, was my report on Phookie's day. Every kid needs a Grandma like this.

Working for a living

This is going to be a dumb post. The only reason I am posting right now is so that I do not log onto work via my VPN. You see, I am working 20 hours per week. I mean, I'm getting paid for 20 hours per week. Yesterday was my day to actually drive to the workplace, and I worked 9 hours, which means I only have 11 hours to go spread out over the next 4 days. Sweet, right? The problem with having this here laptop and being just a few clicks away from remote desktopping to my wondrous workplace is that I have MENTAL PROBLEMS that prevent me from shutting the stupid thing off. I'm not necessarily doing super productive crap in excess of 20 hours, but I am always checking my e-mail to see if someone has a question or if a new project popped up that I should help with or if something I am managing has exploded while I was off handling someone's feces. I need to shut the stupid thing off. I am deeply unwell. I have fantasized about my (hilarious) resignation letter since about 3 months after I started this job in July 2001, so it's not like I just miss the place and love the work so much that I can't tear myself away. I just have this genetic mutation that wrecks shop on my best laid plans to be a bit of a slacker. Blast! I think I am going to go find myself a table saw and see if I can rid myself of a few fingers. I still have some insurance policy with the word "dismemberment" in it, so it really might be my best option.

This one's for Wendell

Dear Wendell,

I wanted to let you know how much I love the onesie you and R got me. It's tits! Thanks again!


Love,
Phookie

P.S. I can't wait to see you at Christmas. I'm going to eat all those crunchy freeze-dried-esque onions off the top of the green bean casserole.

Therapy

I know, I know, my loyal readers are probably getting tweaked out about my crappy posts lately. But life is not all fun and games and baby shart amusement. And this is my blog, so I'm gonna use it however I wanna. So now, for my own therapeutic purposes, I am going to write some stream of consciousness nonsense listing some things I am happy about, as the counterpoint to my earlier post of holiday depression. Let us begin.

I am happy that right now, multiple cats are drinking from the Christmas tree stand, and I can hear them lapping.

I am happy that my lunch at work today involved "taco bar" and that I smooshed up my tacos like a rogue and made a taco salad. And there was lots of sour cream involved.

I am happy that Bon Jovi still tours.

I am happy that my husband wears a stocking cap and shorts all winter, and that the neighbor, who is a nurse, has speculated to other neighbors that he must have a high body temperature.

I am happy that my cat Shibby, who was diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (I think that is what it's called) when she was a kitten is nearing 6 years old, even though I was told she could die at any minute.

I am happy that my dad can quote from the movie Spaceballs.

I am happy that my kid seems to like it when I sing weird made-up songs to her.

I am happy that my mom swears with gusto, and that she calls one of their cats Otis Bloatis Meatloaf Fat Fuck, and abbreviates it O.B.M.F.F. in written form.

I am happy that there are some brown chickens on a road I often take, and that the people who know me well know to call it the "browner house," as I do. When there are a lot of browners out, good is sure to come.

I am happy that my baby is getting chubby.

I am happy that sun-dried tomato is currently a popular concept.

I am happy that Uncle Growler has established a petting station at the top of the stairs, and that he fully expects you to reach through the railing to scratch him when you reach a certain step.

I am happy that I can see my church from my house, and that we get to walk there instead of drive.

I am happy that I am very tall, and that I often get the opportunity to reach things for short ladies in stores.

I am happy that my dad took me out in the country to see Halley's Comet through his telescope when I was a kid, and that I was wearing my flannel pajamas at the time.

I am happy that if you put a magazine, or a newspaper, or a bag, or a box on the floor, the cats will immediately find it and sit on it.

I am happy that my hair gets curlier with age.

I am happy that Phookie likes baths.

I am happy that I know how to grow flowers and vegetables.

I am happy that I like to swim.

I am happy that Big K has an awesome singing voice, even though he most often uses it to sing death metal.

I am happy that someone invented snow cones, even though they are crappy after you suck out all the flavoring.

I am happy that I have a lot of Christmas ornaments that look like food.

I am happy that Phookie was a girl, and that this fact was a surprise.

I am happy that my house has an upstairs.

I am happy that my husband occasionally gets out lotion and gives me a foot rub without being solicited to do so.

I am happy that the ocean exists, and that I have been in it quite a few times.

I am happy that Meredith and McDreamy are together again.

I am happy that people seem to enjoy my foodstuffs.

I am happy that when I go for a walk around The Woods, a large percentage of the people who see me wave.

I am happy that when I was little, we lived next door to my grandma, and that when we moved, it was just down the street.

I am happy that when we see a dead animal on the road, Big K always says, "That's a funny place for that guy to take a nap," because he knows I'm upset, even if it's only a raccoon.

I am happy that movie theaters exist.

I am happy that my kid charmed an entire church full of people yesterday as she stood on my lap and Grandma J's lap and smiled at the entire place, and that on my way out, 10 old ladies grabbed my hand and said some variation of, "She entertained us all!"

I am happy that Auntie Hode is my sister.

I am happy that I live in the heart of fish fry country.

I am happy that when we were little, Dad used to sit on the porch with me and Hode all snuggled in a blanket, and we'd play a game where we wouldn't have to go to bed until, say, a green car passed. And that when that green car passed, we'd argue that it was blue so we wouldn't have to go in yet, and he let us win the argument.

I am happy that I own a KitchenAid mixer.

I am happy that I believe in God.

I am happy that Big K and I sometimes play catch with a softball in the yard, and that he throws the ball at me as hard as he would at a boy. Because I was one hell of a first baseman, and I can catch anything.

I am happy that I have been to San Francisco.

I am happy that my mom takes care of me still.

I am happy that Big K and I danced to Ben Folds' song, The Luckiest, at our wedding, and that the same is engraved on our wedding bands. 'Cause we are.

I am happy that my cats groom each other.

I am happy that Adam Sandler makes up his dumbass songs and records them.

I am happy that true crime (both books and television) is quite popular right now, and readily available for my consumption.

I am happy that Perez Hilton blogs.

I am happy that Phookie really and truly reached for something for the first time this weekend, and that it was a cat's tail.

I am happy that my family is going to play Dirty Clubs over the holidays, even though we don't play cards very much at other times of the year.

I am happy that this happened.

I am happy that when I walked into my office today, someone had put up lights and garland and left a gift and a Merry Christmas sign for me, presumably because they read my sad post from the other day. Right now, I think I might be most happy about this.

I am happy that I could keep typing this post for a couple days, and not run out of stuff.

There. That's better.

A new horror

Just when I think I am "used to" breastfeeding, something new and exciting happens. Like last night. Phook was snackin' around in the dead of the night, and I offered her a meal. At some point during said meal, she de-boobed. No big deal, right? Well, the boob didn't get the memo. It was stuck in the "on" position. I felt some (firehose-like) spray hitting my hand, so I kinda just aimed for the kid's mouth and prayed for the best. I was basically unconscious during this whole incident, and she wasn't screaming or anything, so I remained in my blind mole glasses-free state and let things take their course until we were both back in our respective comas. Well, this morning I saw the error of my ways. Phookie's entire face and her hair were covered with dried milk. Eyelids, nose, chin, cheeks, forehead...all covered in milk. It was decidedly a high velocity impact spatter pattern. Shucks.

Happy Anniversary to Phook

Today is the one-year anniversary of the beginnings of the Phook. No, I'm not posting some graphic story about the actual beginnings of the Phook. Rather, it just occurred to me that 12/15 is the date the Phook pregnancy was counted from. (Peeps in the know are aware that the pregnancy clock starts ticking two weeks before the eagle has landed, if you know what I'm saying. Basically, you are two weeks pregnant when you actually get pregnant.) So anyhow, all that counting of those all-important weeks began one year ago today. The thing about this is that I am simultaneously in awe of how long it takes to cook a baby to desire doneness and how short of a time it really is. It's one of those strange things. Anyhow, I have no real point. I just wanted to commemorate the Phook kickoff.

Bummer

I have always loved Christmas. I love picking out gifts for people, decorating the house, making candy and baking, the whole build-up to the actual day. I spend weeks saying to Big K, with a child-like, obnoxious lisp, "It's almost Christhmus Marning." I call myself Santa W***. I like the church services. I like everything about the season. I run around on Christmas crack every year from the day after Thanksgiving onward. I reminisce about Christmas moments all year long, like last year when I got Big K a bike and put a big bow on it, and when he saw it, he very cutely said, "Santa brought somebody a bike!" all innocent and truly childlike, and I got to tell him it was for him. I am a Christmas Person. I annoy people. This year, I am so not feeling it. You'd think that with a "Baby's 1st Christmas" to add to the mix, I'd be running around high as a kite. Instead, for the first time in my life, I feel kind of sad. And I really don't know why. Perhaps it's the global warming temperatures and lack of snow. Christmas decorations look so ugly against a backdrop of dead grass. Perhaps it's because Auntie Hode is far away. Perhaps it's because we bought our tree pre-cut instead of going on an expedition to cut one ourselves. I don't know. I just feel like I'm forcing myself to do all the stuff I usually do this time of year, but it's no fun. I made my arm-long list of cookies and candies that I wanted to make, and I'm slogging through it while Phook naps, but I'm not pleased to see a sheet of finished cranberry pistachio bark in my refrigerator. I just cross "cranberry pistachio bark" off my list and check Phook to see if I have time to sneak something else in. (Is it a good thing that I am self-aware enough to realize that my sweatpants are the only thing keeping me from being Bree Van De Kamp (excuse me, Bree Hodge))? Maybe that's it. Maybe I am just trying to do all the pre-kid stuff that no one would attempt post-kid. Or maybe it's the finances. As I've kind of mentioned before, the K Family is cruising for a major economic change. Like attempting to live off slightly more than a third of our pre-existing income. The hot water heater breaks, the check engine light is on, the ceiling fan breaks, everyone is getting wisdom teeth yanked, and why in the hell does this sort of crap have to happen now? I like to be able to spoil my loved ones at Christmas time. No one in my family ever really has a lot of money to spend on themselves, and I like being able to do it for them at Christmas, because they so deserve it. I realize it is shallow and crappy to boil it down to quantity/quality of gifts, because that's not what the season is about, but I was wrapping some gifts tonight, and I got kinda sad at what was there. I'm not going to blow my sister's socks off with an unexpected Nano this year, just for shits and giggles. That sucks. Or maybe it doesn't. I don't know. I just feel like hell. Christmas shopping was no fun. It's pretty much done now, but it was no fun. I have a grocery bag full of chocolate candy coating that still has to coat shit. Normally, Big K likes to bake (I'm not making this up) and we spend a day or two baking stuff and eating the frosting until we both gray out from the sugar and have to take a great big afternoon nap to recover. This upcoming one is the last real pre-Christmas weekend, and Big K is gonna be sporting a head the size of a beachball from having 5 teeth viciously jacked out of his head, and something tells me that playing with a candy thermometer is not going to be his idea of a good time. I'm just not ready for Christmas. I need more time. I've been busy learning how to be a mom, not painstakingly combing the 897 catalogs I've received, searching for perfect gifts. I just throw all catalogs directly in the trash these days, because Lord knows that if I can't get to my US Weekly, I can't get to Lands' End's cashmere bonanza book, or whatever the hell it is. There is also always some Big K family drama related to holiday event scheduling, and that sucks my ars too. And then this year Big K's stepmom suggested I make prime rib for dinner on Christmas Eve. Excellent, I thought...the perfect meal for someone without a) time and b) money but with a c) infant. I am not making prime rib.

You know, I hate this post. I so hate when people whine about holiday stress, because if you are stressing over the holidays, you are totally missing the point of them. It's late at night, and I'm tired. Despite there being no chance of precipitation tonight, I really hope it snows. I would feel better if it would just snow.

Rock-a-bye baby

This is totally weird. I have caught myself doing this so many times now, I can't call it a fluke. I realized, much to my embarassment and horror, that I now rock my cats. And bounce them. And jostle them in other ways that are pleasing to my Phook. I scooped up Uncle Growler the other day, and I realized that I was mindlessly BOUNCING HIM ON MY KNEE! This was not an isolated incident. The other day I caught myself gently swaying while holding Shibby. I've also caught myself rocking when I'm just standing there by myself. Swaying, bouncing, soothing my phantom baby. Wow. My subconscious has apparently figured out it's a mom.

I do not feel very wise

Yesterday after work, I went to the dentist for a filling. I was sitting in the chair, and Captain AssDentist says, "You've got that wisdom tooth back there. You know, I could just pop it out when I do the filling. You'll already be numb." After being reassured that my dental insurance would pretty much handle the expense and that the procedure was "no big deal," I consented to this swell plan.

And now I'm going to whine about it. The actual removal was truly no big deal (but really, what would be, now that I have GIVEN BIRTH?). But then I had to drive 80 miles changing bloodied gauze pads every 20-30 minutes as my face unnumbed and gradually got more and more painful. And I kept gagging on the gauze pads because my mouth is so (physically) small. I hit the ibuprofen hard all night, and it wasn't really all that bad. Today, however, I kind of want to die. The whole left side of my face aches, I have a chipmunk cheek, and I have a cavernous nasty socket in the back of my mouth that has me breakfastless at 10:50 a.m. In addition, Phookie slammed her head against my face 3 times, I accidentally smiled while having a conversation with a co-worker on the phone (nearly making my head explode), and a plumber was supposed to be here at 8:30 to install a new hot water heater (Merry Christmas, K Family), making me nervous about my oft-exposed bosom and preventing me from taking a nap, which I swear to God and everyone I am going to do today, since Big K's last words to me this morning were, "Do us all a favor and take a nap when you start to see spots," and he was serious. So I can't smile at my kid or talk to her without pain, and that sucks. Thankfully, I almost have all my hours of work in for the day already, so if I can make myself turn off the stupid computer, that will at least be handled. Oh, yeah, and it was also highly amusing when the dentist was giving me care instructions for the tooth and he said, "Just go home and lie down with your head up like you are in that chair." Ha! Do you know I have an infant? Unlikely that lounging around appropriately propped is going to happen. (It did not, for the record.) Why did I consent to this stupid, stupid plan?

In a related story, Big K is having all 4 wisdom teeth, plus a rogue random tooth in the roof of his mouth (I nearly broke up with him when I saw THAT for the first time during our dating years), extracted this Friday. It is gonna suck for him, and for me by proxy. Crap. I wish I didn't have teeth. I wish I could survive off of plankton or some shit.

I am annoyed.

dude

On Saturday, Grandma J and I met Auntie Hode for some holiday shopping. Having left the house approximately 6 times since August, I had an extensive list of items to purchase, as you might imagine. Despite our grand scheme of ultimately trying to live off of about a dollar a month, I informed Big K that in addition to Christmas shopping, I would be looking for a new purse for myself. I have a tendency to purchase one and use it for awhile, and then get sick of it and put it away, and then resurrect it later. Well, I've now rotated each purse through my rotation about 3 or 4 times, and there isn't much love left in any of them. Hence, my desire to find something new. Now, when I say "purse," what I generally mean is a casual, relatively large vat to hold all my crap for daily use. So, we were at the mall, and I looked in a couple stores without finding much to suit me. On a whim at the end of the day, we decided to hit up Old Navy and see what was happening, other than low-quality merchandise at low prices. We were browsing around, and Grandma J finds this casual, canvas bag and points it out to me. Perfect! It was exactly what I had in mind. Seeing that it was an acceptable $24.50 and had the capacity I was looking for, I deemed it my new purse. I carried it with me as I cruised into the men's section perusing stuff for Big K, and then I saw the same "purse" slung over a rack of what were clearly men's shirts. Looking back to where we picked up my "purse," I saw it was just on the border of the men's section, but was decidedly in men's. I was briefly confused, but then I realized what I was holding in my hands....a MAN BAG! That's right, friends, I selected a man bag as my new purse. All the signs were there...I just couldn't see them for what they were. The rugged look of the canvas. The camo lining. The military-esque stamp on the side. The lack of extraneous interior pouches. Hell, it screamed man bag. I was just blind. See for yourself.

What do you think I did? Yeah, I bought it anyhow. What can I say, it met my needs. Today, I took my man bag to work, and I really felt good about the way it served me.

What does this mean?

Victories and Defeats

Once you become a mom, your life gets chopped into tiny, tiny pieces. I don't mean to say that everything you once were is now shredded and in no way resembles its former self (although that happens to also largely be true). I am referring more to the way time passes. Babies, it seems, may need you, or need you to do something for them, at any moment, regardless of what you may be doing. They have no interest in your agenda. The creature that is the new mom must evolve quickly to get used to the fact that any time she may be able to snatch from the grasp of her infant's perpetually clenched fist is fleeting. As a result, anything you manage to accomplish in those stolen moments becomes magnified in its significance. You might greet your husband at the door when he gets home from work with the news that you successfully peeled a carrot (an act that decidedly takes two hands...I know because I have tried repeatedly to do it with one), and be a little disappointed when he doesn't give this monumental accomplishment the props it deserves. You might collapse into bed at night, exhausted with all you have done, and then try to recall all you have done, coming up pretty much empty-handed. And then you remember that you failed to brush your teeth that day. Anyhow, it all boils down to a series of tiny victories and tiny defeats. Surely, "big stuff" will occur in my life again some day (right?) but for now, this is the kind of shit that is making or breaking me.

Victories
Let's discuss the most insane thing I've ever done. No, I'm not talking about driving through the night to see Punxsutawney Phil, world famous groundhog, while in the throes of a very nauseous first trimester, even after receiving the news (around Toledo) that my husband had just broken his kneecap in half. Nor am I talking about spending an entire drunken evening driving around Sheboygan, Wisconsin stealing holiday lawn ornaments out of people's yards one festive holiday season during my early college days. (Geez, that wasn't insane. That yielded a sweet little elf that my sister adorned with a sign reading, "I'll suck dick for crack," and lovinging placed on my parents' hearth when they were expecting 30 people for Christmas dinner. Grandma J has a great sense of humor, so she let it sit there for all to enjoy.) What I am talking about is the decision to work with phyllo dough when you have an infant to care for with no reinforcements. This is a highly volatile substance in the cooking world. Once exposed to the air, there is like a 45-second window before the planet drops out of its orbit, ending all humanity. Anyhow, I was deciding what to make for my work Christmas party, and I got this fucking crackpot idea to make these cranberry-filled phyllo triangles. I have like 76 mixes for dips where all you do is add sour cream and buy a box of crackers to accompany the shit, and no one would have been the wiser. But I decided to make these things. Phookie was (finally) happily nesting in her swing, and I uncorked the phyllo package. I proceeded to turn into a whirling dervish with a pastry brush, maniacally uncovering my phyllo from its subterranean nesting place beneath a piece of plastic wrap and a damp towel, brushing butter between layers, cutting it into strips, plopping a little nugget of cranberry filling in the corner, and fold, fold, folding those little triangles, all the while not fricken' breathing out of fear Phook would wake up. I swear that I did irreparable damage to my heart via my increased blood pressure, but those suckers got made. The whole time I was doing it, I was also chanting in my head, "I am insane. I am insane. No one would do this. No one would do this." Well, they got made. And some people seemed to like them. Big K, especially, and baking shit for his most giant of giant sweettooths is pretty much my highest calling.

Another victory occurred today with regards to Phook-toting. My physical therapist for my back recommended that I acquire a baby sling rather than a Bjorn or other contraption of that nature. When I first brought Phook home from the hospital and she was essentially a human gummy bear that could be crammed anywhere and was too tired to protest, I jammed her in the sling and we walked her around the block that way. Once she got a bit bigger and militant and I tried to put her in there, she just seemed really uncomfortable and got angry. So we switched to the stroller for our walks. The thing is, she does like to be toted. Curious and all that noise. So a lot of my daily tasks have been accomplished one-handed, with me carrying the Chub Bub with the other. (Hence the major accomplishment that is carrot-peeling.) At the aforementioned work Christmas party, my co-worker/bud Amy had her wee nugget in a sling, and he clearly dug it. So today I was inspired to re-sling Phook. I put her in on her back in the standard sling position, but she wasn't having it. I was sad. But then, lightening struck in my little goat brain, and I decided to just face her towards me in a seated position, and arrange the sling to make a little baby butt chair underneath her. Since she has the head control of a kindergartener, this worked like a charm. She just sat there, happily surveying the scene, all affixed to me and stuff, while I made Spanish rice, which I love with all my heart. This may have opened the door to a whole new world of productivity for Big W. And we all know Big W likes to be be productive.

Defeats
Since Phookie was born, I have taken 1 nap. I know that the postpartum period is supposed to be a great time for mother/baby co-napping, but I just cannot do it, what with phyllo dough to fuck with instead. Today, I was feeling really sleepy after wrapping up my first week of this back to work noise, and I decided that my list of invented to-do's could just wait. I snuggled into bed with my Phooker, offered her boobage via our newly acquired and ultimately restful side-lying nursing position, and we both drifted off into the wonders of a long winter's nap. Only it wasn't very long. I had just entered that happy place of real sleep when, of course, the phone rang. It was the Queen of Impeccable Timing, my mother-in-law. She wanted to know if I wanted a free subscription to Parenting magazine. I acquiesced and cursed the day she was born. Nap over.

Another defeat involved (nearly) crying over spilled milk. You guessed it, we're talking about liquid gold. The one downside of our new nursing skill is that it messes with my liquid gold collection methodology. I had always collected my surplus at night since the feedings were more spaced out and the bounty was more bounteous. In short, Phook got leftie and the pump got rightie, resulting in a nice full bottle of excess produced every night. Well, my lazy can abandoned that as soon as we got this prone feeding thing down. Hence, the liquid gold reserves have been dwindling. Knowing I was going to be shopping a day this weekend, I decided to try to sneak a little off the top at each daytime feeding in the hopes of accomplishing a similar result. Well, I had just successfully stolen about 2.5 oz. from Phookie and the bottle was on the floor next to my chair as she finished her snack, when along comes Uncle Growler. Before I had time to react, my carpet had drunk about 2 oz. of milk. Imagine my rage. Of course I love Uncle Growler too much to rage at him, so I raged at myself, filling Phookie's remaining meal with red hate. I will be more careful in the future.

My US Weekly arrived. I had not yet finished the previous installment of said beautiful tome. Now, pre-Phook, you could count on me to finish my US Weekly (and at least half a bag of chips) within 1.5 hours of its arrival. When that thing came, I had a date with my couch. So the fact that I actually got a new one before finishing the previous week's issue is kind of devastating. And let's not even discuss how far behind I am on Newsweek.

I am out of lunchmeat. I'll let that statement stand on its own.

So this is it, the minutiae that makes or breaks me. It is so weird how the smallest events take on such grand significance. Imagine what I'd do if something actually happened.

Drool: The Final Frontier

So I have discussed Phookie's various bodily functions and grossities with some candor and amusement. We had the poo-zooka incident, the spitup in the face incident, the monster poo incident, the poo in restaurant incident, and the grunting like pooping in church incident. The one thing I have not discussed is drool.

Some background: I hate drool. I hate drooling kids. The sight of drool on a cherubic little face makes me want to kill myself. The sight of a kid wearing a bib due to its teething and therefore extra copious drooling makes me wish for the apocalypse. If you had asked me before we were attempting to conceive a child what reservations I had about parenthood, I could have summed it up by saying the word "drool." That's how much I hate it. It grosses me out more than anything.

So, a couple weeks ago, Phookie started drooling. My mom said it was because wee ones' salivary glands kick in at some point. I didn't bother to look it up, so that may or may not be accurate. It doesn't really matter. Anyhow, I was seriously disturbed to see those first little drools sneaking out of my precious Phookie's little mouth. At first, I was kind of in drool denial. I thought maybe it was just a little clear spitup or something (yeah, like that exists). I thought it was just a temporary little thing related to a cold she was getting over (3 weeks earlier). I thought a lot of things that were stupid. Then, finally, I came to believe it was what it was. Drool. At first, I insisted on wiping her mouth off before she nursed, because I didn't want her drool on me. I got a little queasy and disappointed that she was in fact a drooler every time I saw it on her chin.

Well, that was then. This is now. I now have a drool spot on my shoulder almost every time I pick her up. She has a little trail of drool on her face more often than not. I still wipe it off on occasion. But more often, I'm looking for the camera so I can capture a cute drool shot.

My crossover to the dark side can be considered complete.

Cat Toys

I have noticed something. Infant toys are really cat toys. All of the hanging, visually enticing, noise-making nonsense. Plus, crinkly crap to put in your mouth. Plus, sometimes lights and music.

Exhibit A:

Uncle Growler sure does love Phookie's activity mat or crazy gym or whatever the hell it's called. She seems to like it too, but not like this, at least not yet. If you would turn your attention to the lefthand side of the photo, you might notice some pink flowers to the left of the elephant's trunk. Those, it seems, have lights in the center of them, and music plays when they are activated. Trouble is, I couldn't figure out how to activate them. But Uncle Growler could. Turns out you simply have to press down kind of hard on the green area of the mat. Thanks for that, animal. I'll be looking to you to figure out future toys as well. Perhaps you can also help with math homework someday.

I find this hilarious.

Mom went back to work

This is what I think:

XO, Phookie

Werk Schmerk

I went to work today. Due to the party that was my month of pre-birth bed rest, I wasted a month of FMLA leave vegetating on the couch marveling at the size of Giada de Laurentiis' head. So I had to go back even though little Phook is only 2 months+ old. Thankfully, my employer allows peeps to return on a part-time basis for a period of 3 months following the hatching of a child, so I am only working 20 hours per week. I am actually going in to the office on Mondays for a full work day, and then cramming in the remaining 12 hours during the course of the rest of the week around meetings and Phookie and what have you from home. Big K and Grandma J are tending to the Phook on the aforementioned Mondays. So, it's pretty much the sweetest return to work situation ever, but it still sucks. In particular, it sucks because my job is exactly 80 miles from my home. Yes, friends, I have a 160 mile commute. Put that in your commuting pipe and smoke it. So, it is quite obvious that returning to full-time (and by full-time, I do of course mean the salaried, work until the work is done regardless of the fact that the rest of the planet is celebrating Thanksgiving full-time) work under these circumstances is not conducive to, say, participating in your child's life in any meaningful way. So, the K family is working on an exit strategy which will remain shrouded in mystery until it is professionally appropriate to uncloak it, lest I do something silly like basically resign online. (Oops.)

All right. So I went back to work today. I'd like to share some thoughts on the matter.

I found it highly disturbing how easily I slipped back into the commute. I thought that the drive would seem extra-long after not having to do it for so long, but no, my brain simply recognized the signs that I was embarking on a journey down that well-worn path and slipped into its defense mechanism of catatonia. It seemed like just another morning, and it freaked me out. In my 5.5 years of employment at this hut of shit, I have made this commute for 3.5 of them, so I guess it is understandable, but still, I thought I would have at least been modestly shook up by having to drive that far after such a hiatus.

There is this individual at my workplace that I kind of despise. Not because he/she/it is mean to me, but because he/she/it is one of those people that just sucks. He/she/its' most profound skill is bringing a room full of laughter to a screeching halt with his/her/its' utterly unfunny attempts at joining in the banter. When I entered a meeting today, he/she/it was sitting there, and I realized I had forgotten that he/she/it even existed. I was jarred to behold he/she/it. How weird.

I went to the bathroom, and upon entering the stall, took steps to pull down my pants, as one might do in such a circumstance. I simply grabbed my pants and yanked at them, and was utterly shocked to find that they had a button and a zipper that needed undoing. It seems I have grown ridiculously accustomed to wearing elastic-waist pants of the sweatpants/track pants/flannel pants variety. Similarly, I raised my hands to push up my glasses on my nose on several occasions, only to find they were missing, because I was wearing my contacts.

I really missed some of the people that I work with. I was happy to see them, and I think it was mutual, given that someone had taped a picture of a dude rocking a serious mullet to my computer monitor and clipped every conceivable surface with binder clips. What more could you ask for to greet you?

My job involves the writing, editing, and the process of managing sales proposals for a technology company. We say a lot of the same things over and over and over again in response to similar questions. We have a database that holds all of this information, but over time, you collect at least a subset of the database in your head. I was musing to myself about whether my database had started to evaporate while I was on leave. Today, I was in a meeting with my team leader, and I found myself saying, "For example, you get some sections where you just have to say, "We would be happy to include our response to the functionality portions of your RFP in our final agreement. We will need the opportunity to review and update this information before our agreement is finalized in the event that anything has changed since submitting it to you."" I realized my personal database has not evaporated. I wonder if it ever will, or if this shit is seriously burned into my brain on a permanent basis. If it is, I am so sad for that lobe of my brain and what it could have become, had I not subjected it to this torture. (And we won't even go into what could have become of my writing skillz.)

Since I couldn't just punish myself by returning to work, I decided to schedule a dental appointment for my first day back for a cleaning and a checkup. Clearly, this is asstastic under any circumstances, but let me tell you about my dental hygienist. First off, the chick was a mumbler. She enunciated for shit. And then of course she was wearing a surgical mask. She had diarrhea of the mouth not unlike my diarrhea of the keyboard, only without the jokes and amusing vocabulary. And she didn't even offer the courtesy of removing the tools from my mouth on occasion to allow me to participate, however minimally, in the "conversation." No, she just yammered. So we are talking about the height of obnoxious even before we get to the content of her speech. Now let us get to the content of her speech. While she cleaned my teeth, I learned that she has 8 nieces and nephews but they are all grown up now. She used to buy them the toys with the biggest buttons that made the most noise. And when her sister told the kids they were broken, she'd solve the problem with new batteries. Ha! Her sister could have killed her. The thing about her sister is that she stayed home with her kids, and after awhile, she couldn't talk about anything but kid stuff. She couldn't handle it if that was her, she'd need to get out of there. She is working on kids of her own but it's taking awhile. When the kids were little, grandma insisted that they opened presents one at a time, and it took 5 hours. Finally, grandpa put the kabosh on that because he was sick of holding the video camera for that long, as it prevented him from drinking his beer. She has a patient with 8 kids, and she says the key is discipline, and early. She would have thought the key would be organization, but it turns out it's discipline. She has a tenant with some kids. One is 23 and the other is younger. But those kids weren't disciplined, and it's time they get their act together. She doesn't even know what to think about this war in Iraq anymore. I mean, you want to finish what you started so all those people don't die for nothing, but sheesh, it doesn't seem like we can fix it. And then there is this Sadaam guy, who she knows has been a problem for a long time. But he's so elusive. No one even knows if he's alive or dead. No one really likes our President, because he's not doing a very good job. But at least he knows how to take action. And she likes that. She's not really sure what to think of him anymore though. And you know, it seems like babies are getting kidnapped all the time now. She doesn't know what's going on. And it used to be you were maybe afraid to send your kid off to college, but now it's second grade. And one time (probably at band camp, but she didn't mention that specifically) she was stung by a bee on her lip. It was like plane coming at her, and the bee was a fighter pilot and she had nowhere to go, and she couldn't even bat at it. And she started feeling tingly in her arms, and knew she'd better go home. So she did, and her face swelled up, and then she got hives all over her body. But there were so many, you couldn't really even call them hives anymore. It looked like she was dipped in a deep fryer, actually, and then pulled back out. So when her throat started itching, she made Greg take her to the hospital, because it's only 10 minutes away, and that's what insurance is for. But once, she didn't have her insurance for a few months, and she went to get her prescription for her Advair filled for her asthma, thinking it would be maybe 60 or 80 bucks without insurance, but no, do you know how much it cost? $180. So she told them to keep it. She was like, that's ok, I'll just walk every day to keep my heart strong. I ain't paying that much. And have a Merry Christmas. People, I am not fucking kidding you.

When I'd been at work for about 2 hours, I briefly had the thought that maybe I could stand to work, like, for real. I thought that perhaps I could manage to really be away from Phookie on a regular basis. It was a very fleeting thought. I was jonesing for my Phook like crazy by 10:00 a.m.. Just a little Phook sniff or Phook nuzzle. Let me tell you people, the breast pump doesn't love you back. As I drove home to the largely obnoxious but embarassingly enjoyable strains of Top 40 radio, I had raging hallucinations of little Phook galloping toward me (even though she doesn't gallop yet) when I got home. I sure was happy to see that little Chub Bub. Mondays are gonna be rough.

So that was it. Werk Schmerk.

A little vocabulary lesson

Close friends, family, and associates of the K Family are aware (to varying degrees) that we have adapted the English language to suit our weirdness needs. Sometimes we string together sentences using our terms and weird meanings, and realize that no other humans could understand what we are saying, due to the use of the K Family dialect. I have decided, for the purposes of my own amusement, to give you a glimpse into the inner circle and share some terms and word usage that crop up in the House of K. They are, of course, largely child and cat-centric. Enjoy.

Donkey Up. This phrase is used to describe the actions of a particular K cat, whose given name is Lucy. At one point when the movie Shrek was popular, I began referring to her as Donkey, since she was gray with a low-rider belly (belly that is low to the ground), not unlike the famous Donkey in the movie. So Lucy, when trying to charm her keepers for food, does this thing where she stands up on her back legs and bops your hands or your face (if you happen to be bending over) with her head. This move is the "donkey up."

Skippy and Spanky. Recently bestowed names of our ceiling fans, since Phookie loves them so much. (All inanimate objects that we love are named.) Skippy is in the living room, Spanky is in our bedroom. They're really funny.

Rabbit. The name of my red KitchenAid stand mixer. It has such awesome red power. Before the arrival of Phookie, I claimed that this tool was my firstborn, and noted that should I ever wake up to a raging conflagration, I'd grab the mixer on my way out the door.

Gooming. The is basically the phonetic spelling of how we say the word "gumming" to describe the cat behavior that is running the side of their gums on various objects. As in, "Snoot is gooming the metal lamp base again."

Schnauzing. The cat mentioned above, Lucy, is also referred to as "Schnauzer" or "Schnauze" on occasion, for no particular reason, or at least no reason I can recall at this juncture. If she or any of her cat mates tries to charm anyone by rubbing up on their legs or asking for affection via other feline mechanisms, they are "schnauzing." Other animals that are not our pets can also schnauze.

Shib/Shibby/Shibonium. Additional names for Lucy the cat. Origin unknown.

Being a guy. A "guy" is anything that is charming or in some way loveable. So if you see a dog, he might be a "guy," and it is a term of endearment to refer to him as such. (You say "guy" with a certain accent when using it in this way, differrent than you would pronounce it if you are just talking about a guy from work.) If an animal is charming, he is "being a guy."

Elevator butt. Now I admit I ripped this off from some cat haiku thing I was forwarded...it is not a K family original. It refers to the behavior of a cat as you pet their butt and they elevate it as you approach their tail. Which brings me to...

Tail connector. This is the spot on a cat's back where their tail meets their body that basically activates elevator butt.

Snackin' around. This is the term we coined for when Phookie is exhibiting hunger cues, like attempting to suckle from her father's hairy chest. As in, she is looking for a snack and is therefore "snackin' around." This can be abbreviated to just "snackin'" as well.

Phookin' around. This is when Phookie is just doing Phook stuff that is not snackin' around. Being playful, smiling at things, making weird noises, etc. She can also Phook around in her sleep if she is being noisy while technically asleep.

Phookin' around on the boob. This is when Phookie is in position to nurse, but rather than eating, is just being a little prankster in the vicinity of my teet. It sometimes involves combinations of sucking and smiling at me and spitting out the boob.

Dactyling. I believe I have defined this previously in this here blog. It refers to her weird pterodactyl sounds that she makes, generally while sleeping.

Tats up Superman. This is a cat sleeping position in which the animal is laid out flat on its back (tats up) with his front paws completely extended in a Superman-like flying position.

Tats down Superman. The same as above, except the animal is on its belly. This one actually looks more like Superman.

Eggalope mode. One of our cats is named Chucky, and is occasionally referred to as Chuckalope (a derivative of jackalope). You know how cats like to sit or sleep with all their paws tucked under their body, making them resemble an egg? Well, this is eggalope mode in the House of K.

Platypi mode. This is a derivative of the word "platypus" and is used to describe the cat lounging/sleeping position in which the animal is on its belly with its face extended out with chin resting flat on the floor, thereby resembling a platypus.

Beanbag. I guess this word originated as a term for the male, well, um, ballsack. However, in the House of K it has morphed into a strange term that can be used to describe cats or people, generally when they are in groups. Whether or not it is an insult or a term of endearment is largely a matter of intonation. So you might say, "What a bunch of beanbags" if the cats are all schnauzing you inappropriately for their dinner before it is time. Or you might say, "Geez, those guys are a bunch of beanbags" if you see a group of cute animals. Or you might just say, "Nice beanbag" at random times.

Chow up the gatos. In this house, we don't really say "cats." We, being fluent in Spanglish, say "gatos." We also rarely refer to food as anything other than "chow." (This goes for our food, Phookie's food, or the gatos' chow.) So in the morning, I might ask Big K if he has yet had the opportunity to "chow up the gatos" which of course means "feed the cats."

Hosedog/Hodie/Hode. This blog contains many references to my lone sibling, my sister, Auntie Hode. Hode is actually a derivative of the gibberish nickname "Hosedog" which my sister and I began using to refer to one other several years ago. It is not simply my nickname for her or her nickname for me, but rather a mutual nickname that, like most K words, morphs over time (hence the many variations). I have zero recollection of how we invented this name, but it has stuck. We also occasionally refer to our parents as Hosemom and Hosedad, or the collective Hoseparents. When Phookie was born, and actually way back when she was in the hopper, we casually threw about the term Hosepuppy.

Schmo hunting. This is a term coined by my mom (Hosemom/Grandma J), but it is amusing and so I have co-opted it. She and my dad (Hosedad/Grandpa J) have this weird, ugly, female cat named Bob, who never grew beyond the size of about your average 6 month old adolescent cat. Anyhow, Bob likes to go out hunting for members of the rodent family that live around the shed in their yard. Last year she pranced into the house on Christmas Day with a fresh kill, just as the entire 30-person family began to pray. We thought her timing was impeccable, and that she was simply bringing a dish to pass. Anyhow, we couldn't decide what the rodent in question was (I think people were arguing it was a vole, even though I don't really know what that is.) and my mom has just taken to calling all the items she hunts "schmos." So Bob, when out of doors, is "schmo hunting." I have ripped off this term for my own use, because it is most excellent. (This entry probably conveys a lot about my upbringing and subsequent "creativity.")

Bub Face. I believe I have mentioned here that I sometimes refer to Phookie as "Chubbly Bubbly." This is largely due to her chubby cheeks, which, depending on her expression, range from normal baby chub to ridiculously huge looking. When her cheeks are particularly pronounced, I refer to this as the "Bub Face."

K****. This word is largely obscured because it is the actual last name of some people who live in The Woods. It goes back many generations of my family as a term used to describe anything that is essentially crappy or tacky. Now, here's the thing. As a kid (actually, probably until about mid-way through my high school years) I thought this was just a word that every English-speaking person used to describe things that were tacky or crappy, and it was just unfortunate that the actual K**** family had a last name that had such an unfortunate meaning. (Kind of the same concept as being named "Dick.") In some discussion on this point with my mother, I was apprised of the fact that K**** is not an actual word used by the population at large, but rather refers directly to this particular clan of Woods residents due to their inherent tackiness and crappiness. I believe it was coined by my grandfather, probably sometime in the 1940's, and lives on today in my home.

PFK. This is an acronym used with much gusto by many members of my family, particularly Grandma J. It stands for Pure Fucking K****. You use it largely when you are in stores or in the company of outsiders and want to convey, via code, that something you perceive is pure fucking tacky or crappy. So you might be walking past someone's home that is lovingly decorated for the holidays with about 800 million inflatable and/or plastic lawn ornaments and be overcome with the urge to freak out about how unbelievably horrifying their crap is, but instead you would just say "PFK" under your breath, lest they be hiding in the garage.

Rice pilaf tooth. One year my sister convinced me to go sit in her tree stand with her during deer hunting season, despite my aversion towards guns/animal-slaying/etc. Being quiet as a necessity of hunting decorum and overtired and all, we got a little slap happy and we were talking about some members of our extended family. At some point in the conversation, my sister made reference to my mom's cousin's wife, for whom there is no love lost. She mockingly referred to her "rice pilaf tooth," which lives on in our comedy to this day as a result of the fact that it so perfectly describes the shading of one of her front teeth. Actually, we have omitted her name entirely from our consciousness, and now she simply is "Rice Pilaf Tooth."

Miss Manners. This is a cat sitting position in which the animal sits perfectly upright with its paws arranged ever so perfectly in front of its body, as if showing you how well it can behave as a means of getting you to chow it up.

The B. This was the term used to describe the growth of my person during my pregnancy, in that it could be used to describe both my growing belly and also the growing baby. So I could say, "Look how big my B is getting" in reference to my midsection, or I could say, "When the B is born..." and both usages would be sensible.

The Lime. This was Phookie's first nickname. I had a tendency to read those websites o' pregnancy that detailed fetal development week-by-week. At one point, it said, "Your baby is about the size of a lime." I loved that image and began calling the growing K child "The Lime." Other family members picked up on it as well and it stuck even as she progressed through the size of every other fruit known to man. I think it would have been nicer to give birth to a lime, now that I think about it.

Wound bag. Big K has had bad luck the past few years in terms of injuries requiring major surgical intervention. In January '05 he blew up his knee playing basketball, tearing his ACL and some other crap. Surgery was necessary. 4 days later he had his appendix out due to an acute attack of appendicitis that all the friendly neighborhood nurses and doctors-on-call diagnosed as "constipation due to his pain medicine" even though he took himself off the pain meds about 12 hours post-surgery due to his mysterious gut pain. In November '05, he blew up the other knee, tearing his ACL and some other crap. Surgery was necessary. In February '06 (just about a week after we learned of Phookie's existence), he was at physical therapy doing rehab on his last knee, when he attempted to jump onto some box and managed to break his kneecap completely in half, dislocating a chunk of it up into the vicinity of his groin. Surgery was necessary. So anyhow, nowadays knee surgeries get you a piece of toast and about 45 minutes in the recovery room, and then they chuck you into your car and send you home with your wife with "drainage tubes" in place. Said tubes drain their hellish contents into a collection vat, and the wife must empty the thing into a specimen jar and measure the contents before disposing of them. The collection vat in question is known as the "wound bag" in the K home.

Ping-ponging. This is a cat sound effect most commonly exhibited by our cat Big Chuck. It is a pronounced purring that is very effervescent and just sounds like he is freaking out with happiness. If you push on his sides while he's ping-ponging, he kind of squawks like a goose. It's weird.

Godzeera. This is the phonetic spelling of how we say "Godzilla" with an inappropriate accent. It was originally used by Auntie Hode to describe the actions of our cat Gato Joe who rears up on her back feet and bats at any strangers who try to pet her with her front paws. Now, however, it has morphed into a term that could easily be substituted for things like, "Wow!" or "Oh boy!" You might, for example, luckily find a great parking spot unexpectedly in a full lot, and exclaim, "Godzeera!" as an expression of your joy.

Eh. Eh? Eh. Eh! I'm not sure I can really convey how this works in practice, but my sister and I can communicate without words in the majority of cases. We frequently use the sound "eh" with varying intonations to have conversations. So I might look at something I am considering purchasing, and say "Eh?" to her in the form of a question. She will then say "Eh" in pleasant tones to indicate her approval. We will then, in unison, say, "Eeh" (in a drawn out way, almost with 2 syllables) as I pick up the item to purchase it.

That, my friends, concludes the vocabulary I was able to think of off the top of my head. There is a lot more where that came from, but we all have our limits. You can probabably see how entire conversations take place in our home that people not familiar with the K Family vernacular would not understand. I have some sample sentences to illustrate the point:

• Is Chub Bub snackin' or is she just Phookin'?
• Scratch Shib on her tail connector; she's totally schnauzing you.
• Did you chow up the gatos yet? They're being a bunch of beanbags.
• Rice Pilaf Tooth showed up yesterday wearing a sweater that was totally PFK.
• Chuckalope was ping-ponging really loudly this morning when he was sitting on the table in eggalope mode.
• Phookie was dactyling at Skippy.

Surely, you get the idea. I hope you have enjoyed this journey through the depths of my weirdness.