Bub's Glove

I just wanted to share with you all that we recently made a very important purchase for Phookie. Yes, buddies, we got her her first glove. Isn't it awesome? This has sparked a debate in my family over what position she will play, which hinges on whether or not she gets my legs (1st base) or Big K's legs (catcher, unless she also gets his knees, in which case we should probably get her a bubble to live in now). There is also some speculation that she could play 3rd, as she could be quick and fiesty.

All right, all right, since I am taking the time to post a picture of the glove, I'll throw in a picture of the actual Bub, taken just moments ago. She is in her new most favoritist thing ever...a hand-me-down Jumperoo. You might say the child enjoys bouncing. I am considering putting her in there and going to Mexico for a weekend...she is sure to survive.


That's it. Peace.

Let's further discuss American Idol, shall we?

So despite my earlier criticism of this season of American Idol in regards to their mockery of people with special needs, I have continued to watch faithfully. Yes, I am a bonafide hypocrite. Now, last night was the first stage show, and all 12 guys performed. I'd like to go on record here saying that it blew goats. I mean, it was like lounge acts and leisure suits. I want to be entertained, ladies!!! What is this nonsense? Are these gomers going to step it up, or what?

Now, I have to admit that I did cast a vote last night for the first time. I went for the beatboxer, even though he didn't beatbox. I gotta root for someone. Man, where is my Daughtry? Where is my Mandisa (I loved her)?

Now, I'd also like to take this opportunity to share with the world the fact that I have a crush on Simon Cowell. I was in denial for a long time, but I am now officially smitten with his sarcastic, smirking self. The thing is, he is largely correct in his judging. I have to admit I was a little hurt when he called that tall girl a giraffe during auditions, what with me being a bit giraffe-y myself, but that wound will heal. I think Simon Cowell is one charming cat. There, I admitted it.

Paula Abdul. I know people are on her jock a lot about being, well, stoned, but I still like her. Quite heartily, actually. I believe that she's not drunk - I think she's just on enough pain meds to make her, well, stoned. I feel for her if she actually is battling a chronic pain condition as stated, as I have one too, and I've considered entering the world of the perpetually stoned on more than one occasion.

Randy Jackson. I also like him, but I believe he wears too much man-makeup. That's all on that.

Ryan Seacrest. Again, a much maligned individual who I happen to like. His tight little vests work for him. And he's gotta be the hardest working man in quasi-showbizness. He has like 973 jobs. Dude must not sleep.

Ok, enough about this. I just wanted to put it out there that I hope the ladies are better than the dudes. I won't know for awhile, since today is Ash Wednesday and church is gonna have to take precedence over the show, but there you have it.

Also, I'd just like to share with you all that the International Brotherhood of Poop had their annual meeting in my child's dipe this morning.

143 Days

That, buddies, is how long it has been since I went somewhere alone with my husband. And that last place we went was the hospital for the birth of the Phook. Too long? Um, yeah, that might be an understatement.

So the Ks had determined that the structural integrity of our bed had finally been breached, what with having us sea cows on it for the past 8 years or so. We asked the Grandparents J if we could borrow their big truck to go to the big city and try to acquire a new one. They acquiesed. And then, Grandma J asked if we would like her to keep Phook for the day. Such a thought hadn't even occurred to me. I said I'd think about it, and then called her back 2 minutes later to agree to the plan before I changed my mind. So Saturday, Big K and Big W set off for the big city sans child. Holy balls.

We started off the day by visiting a furniture store where the pubescent idiot "salesman" tried to sell us a $2000 mattress based solely on the fact that he had just visited the factory and it was "really cool how they made the beds." Um, yeah. He provided no information other than the statement that the $1200 bed sitting right next to it was "going to break down, I guarantee it" because of its inferior foam. Fuck that noise. We left.

We then went to Best Buy because Mr. K had received a gift certificate for this establishment as a Christmas gift. After skulking around that place for 45 minutes (during which time I saw a gamer teenager pick his nose and eat it after walking away from one of the in-store gaming consoles - no lie, no exaggeration), he finally selected his purchase. Yes, friends, Big K purchased the American Idol Karaoke game for PS2. It comes with a microphone. (More on this later.)

Next, we made our way to another establishment where mattresses could be acquired, and here we had more success. However, I would like to say to all the world's mattress makers that I know you are in cahoots with The Evil One. This little racket where you do not sell the same model to multiple stores, so as to obliterate the possibility of any valid comparison shopping? Yeah, nice. Thank you on behalf of me and my budget-conscious buddies. This thing where you count a coil that is 3 little pieces of wire spun together as 3 coils, even though they are formed into a single coil, thereby falsely inflating the coil count? Also nice. Thank you on behalf of me and all the other chubsters in the world, just tryin' to get our fat stubby fingers on a bed that will last more than 3 nights. Anyhow, we came away from there with 2 contenders and decided to debate the merits of them over lunch...

...which occurred at Red Lobster (or, Dead Lobster, as Big K affectionately calls it). Yeah, whatever, it's seafood at its most mass-produced, but whatever. Garlic butter and shellfish are where it's at, homies, and we had a coupon for $4 off two entrees. I enjoyed some grilled nonsense involving scallops, shrimp, and a lobster tail. Big K enjoyed some coconut shrimp and some salmon (the Pick 2 menu option). I think that all my (meager) table manners are lost forever. I eat in like 30 seconds, and forks seem like such a waste of time when I have perfectly good fingers. And my left arm just cramps up anyhow since it's usually holding a child while I shove the chow in my pie hole, so it's useless to me even when it is technically available. Good thing seafood doesn't require a knife. Maybe someday when I'm a grandma I'll learn to eat like a normal person again.

At this point, I had been without the little Phook Boober Hoover for many hours, and it was time to handle that. Now, I've posted previously about the difficulties of finding a place on this planet to utilize the torture device that is a breast pump, and things haven't improved since I wrote that. Big K, being the kind of man who doesn't want his wife's bosom flapping in the wind, decided to run into Sears and purchase one of those power inverter things so you can plug a regular plug into a car lighter. (I know that modern breast pumps do offer this option themselves, but I don't have one of those...) So I sat there in the truck while he sprinted into the store and acquired said item. Then I milked in motion as we drove to...

...the movie theater! Peoples, we decided to go to a matinee! Ah, the excitement. I have a fervent love of (mass-produced, heavily marketed) movies, and I love going to the movie theater. Counting the pre-Phook bed rest, it is safe to say I have not been in one since mid-summer. (I am weeping tears of blood as I write this.) So anyhow, this was a major treat. There wasn't anything I'd been dying to see playing, so we opted for "based on a true story" spy-thriller Breach which is about that Robert Hanssen dude that got busted a couple years ago for pretty much being the biggest spy in American history. It was a pretty good movie. Ryan Phillippe didn't pout out his lips as much as he normally does while "acting," so I thought that was good. The dude who played Hanssen scared the piss out of me. Who cares, really, about the movie? I was just happy to be in the freaking theater. Given that I had just housed Dead Lobster, I had to opt for the small popcorn and soda, and even that was sub-good as an idea, but I couldn't go to the movies and not have the snack of the gods that is the popcorn. (I haven't had breakfast yet, and that sounds really good right now, actually...)

At this point, we had developed some fatigue, and rather than shopping around further, we decided to just go back to Store B and purchase the less expensive mattress of the two we'd been looking at. We threw it in the trailer and commenced our journey home. We determined that the frequency of marital outings has to be upped to at least once per month. We've got gomers around the world clamoring to babysit for this kid, so we might as well take them up on it.

We returned home to find a happy, tired Phook with the Grandparents J. They also cooked us some burgers on the grill and that found a pleasing home in our bellies. Absence makes the heart grow fonder as far as the child is concerned. I'm not saying I could leave her for a week and be cool with it, but the occasional outing without the child is good for all parties involved. As if that needed to be said.

Now, back to American Idol Karaoke. Yesterday morning before church, my husband revved up this game. Yes, friends, he was singing "Build Me Up Buttercup" pre-8:00 a.m. As well as "Stand By Me," "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," "What a Girl Wants," and many more. His "character" was a busty blonde. So I see Big K singing into the microphone, I hear Big K coming through the speakers in my living room, and I see a blonde rocking out on the TV screen. And then I hear Simon Cowell tell my husband, "It was like this competition was invented so you could be discovered." That, buddies, is unnatural. He loves the game. He wants to have people over to play it. Ah, the hilarity of Big K is endless...

That about wraps it up, friends.

Happy Valentine's Day, Yo!

Princess Phookissimo would like to share her cuteness with the world today and wish you all a good one.


In addition, Big W would like to share a photo of the heart-shaped Cake of Love she made for Big K. It is so semi-homemade, I might as well have called up Satan and offered him my soul for $1.99. This doggie includes a box cake mix, Cool Whip, and canned pie filling. I am so ashamed. But Sandra Lee, I want you to know that you may have won this battle, but you will not win the war. (And it wasn't your recipe, anyhow). Plus, I did have to cut cake layers in half to make the four layers. That's gotta count for something.

Peace out, Valentines.

P.S. Phook would like to wish a Happy 3rd Birthday to her buddy S.S.

You spin me right round baby right round...

I have no idea if this is developmentally advanced of her or not (so perhaps this is not miraculous) but Phook did something that the Ks considered quite remarkable tonight. I got home from work, and Big K for some reason only a man-brain would consider decided to put her down on her belly on the linoleum floor in our kitchen. Now, she has been pushing up on her arms and all that for quite a little while, but she is still not a super-huge fan of long-term stints on her tummy. While she can roll over, she rarely does. She is not one of those kids (yet) who rolls around as a form of transportation. However, she exhibited a hilarious trick of mobility tonight. She was facing the laundry room where the cats were eating. Let us call that 12 o’clock. I was standing at the sink when she was placed facing 12 o’clock. I looked down about ten seconds later, and she had spun herself around so she was facing at me…6 o’clock. She then watched another cat wander into the room, and spun back to 12 o’clock to get a better view. Yes, friends, a 360 degree Phookturn. It was awesome. She repeated the feat about half an hour later on the wood floor in our office. I doubt she could do this on carpet because I think she needs a shiny surface to enable the spinning, but I’m gonna experiment with that tomorrow.

Other thoughts:

• Readers, I am kind of annoyed by the relative lack of comments on my last post. I spent like two hours on that uploading all those pictures and shit. Was it the Gold Bond commentary and Man-Using-Breastpump shots that scared you away? Did I cross a line there? I don’t know, I thought that shit was hilarious. I was jesting, you know. (Well, Big K does really powder his balls, but I have it on good authority that that isn’t all that weird.) Anyhow, I was real sad to see so few comments on that. But oh well, I pretty much blog for myself anyhow. I just like the affirmation of comments I guess.

• I got another wisdom tooth jacked out of my head today. (Last one.) I’d explain the nuances of my dental adventures to you, but I’m already a little too wordy. So I’ll just say that it went fine, but I know I’m going to feel like hell for a couple days. At least, that’s how it went last time. Poop.

• I caught approximately 1 hour of the Grammys last night, which was long enough to witness the Justin Timberlake Weirdcam. I don’t know what producer dreamed up the extreme close-up idea, but it was lame. Justin, I fear, is getting uglier, and that weirdness pretty much sealed the deal for me in terms of putting him on my Man or Dog? List.

• Do you watch the show Brothers & Sisters? It is on after Desperate Housewives. Man, Season 1 of DH, that was the best hour of my week. Season 2 I got annoyed with it and Grey’s Anatomy took its place in my heart, although I still watch DH regularly. But my sister convinced me to stay tuned for Brothers & Sisters afterwards. People, that is a good show. It is vying with Grey’s for the top spot in my TV heart. I mean, I’ve never been a Rob Lowe fan, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been caught saying that Calista Flockhart is the Antichrist, but I even like them on this show. It is a great comedy. A great drama. (Is there a word for that? I don’t know.) Anyhow, did you see last night’s episode? The introductory sequence with all the phone calls? I mean, I am aware that this is the kind of extramarital-sex-drenched show (complete with gay love!!!) that my pastor occasionally rants about from the pulpit, but I have to admit that I like my sin with a bowl of popcorn on Sunday nights.

• It took me 2.5 hours to get to work today, which is over an hour of bonus footage on top of the normal commuting time, on account of some copious snow in the city of my employment. That was irritating. Even more irritating was that when I reached into my man bag to get out my wallet to get my keycard to access my building, my hand was covered in a sticky sludge. WTF? Yeah, I had very responsibly thrown my toothbrush and toothpaste in the bag so I could be courteous to my friends who were jacking the aforementioned tooth out of my head, and the freaking toothpaste blew itself up all over the innards of my bag. That, friends, was a craptastic way to kick off a Monday. I spent the first half hour of the day trying to cleanse Arm & Hammer Enamel Care from the nether regions of my cell phone and the zippers of my wallet. Annoyance. But then someone gave me a piece of homemade cheesecake and it lifted my mood considerably.

• While I was in the dentist’s chair waiting for the numbing agent to take effect, I was handed the remote control for the TV. Now, since Captain Head-on-a-Swivel Phookster is mesmerized by the TV, I have taken to not turning it on during the day, with the occasional exceptions of Dr. Phil and Oprah in the afternoons. I’m trying to be a good Mom in this regard…probably futile, but whatever, humor me. The side effect of this is that I have seriously been slacking on my Food Network consumption. Like, I have not watched it in months for more than 5 minutes at a time. So anyhow, the TV at the dentist was on mute so I had closed captioning to contend with, which was fine. I stumbled onto Giada. At first I was reading the closed captioning, laughing in my head about how many times she used mascarpone (and hearing her distinctive pronunciation of said ingredient in my head each time I read it). But then I started watching her and ignoring the closed captioning. Man, if you want to laugh, I suggest you mute Giada and watch her face. It’s hilarious. She’s taking the crack, I swear! That giant gourd head! That giant grill! Those impossibly narrow shoulders supporting that gourd and that grill! Funny. (Also funny is the fact that both “gourd” and “grill” are food-ish words that I just used in non-food ways in the context of a Food Network star. I sure am witty.)

• And finally. Phook is cycling through her vegetables right now. We are doing 4 days per vegetable before moving onto another one so as to be able to detect any possible allergies. I think this is what you’re supposed to do, I don’t know. Phook’s doc told us to do this. (Why the hell do I feel the need to justify every single thing I do with this kid, just in case someone who thinks differently is reading this? That is another issue…) Anyhow, she is on carrots after completing both green beans and peas. Let’s talk about stains. Carrots for some reason have an escape velocity far exceeding that of the green vegetables. She could shoot carrots across the street I think. She loves the carrots, but they blow everywhere as she attacks the spoon. I believe the bucket of Oxyclean soak in my utility sink is permanent. Carrots are a vicious animal. We’ve taken to stripping her down to a dipe before giving her carrots. Tonite, Big K was going to feed her, and he was still wearing his work polo shirt, and I suggested he remove it before beginning the task. So in order to feed the child carrots, both parties essentially need to be in their underwear. FYI.

That’s it, buddies.

Phook's thoughts on her quasi-vacation

Hello Phook fanatics,

Phook here. I'd like to tell you about my trip to beautiful Waukesha, Wisconsin. Well, the first thing I did when I arrived for my very first hotel stay (sans uterine environment) was to strip down to my dipe and see if the wireless worked. I really like to keep up on reading my blogs and freaking out all the new moms by planting ridiculous baby sleep tips on the dumbass websites they desperately read seeking advice to woo me and my kind into sleep. I also commandeered the remote. Ha! (Did I mention I can sit the fuck up?)


After this, my parents took me to the water park, where I chilled in the lazy river and went down a slide on my Dad's lap (before the fourteen-year-old "lifeguard" told my Dad no double riders were allowed - what a crock!!!). I also dunked my feet in a hot tub. Man, I look so cute in a suit. My Mom muttered something about a round belly only being endearing for a limited period of time, but I ignored her. I was a little freaked out by all the noise in that bastardchild-laden water park, but I eventually decided that I owned the place, and all was well. My chubby parents even took turns holding me so the other one could cause a tsunami by launching themselves down the big slides. I nearly pissed myself. Oh, wait, actually I did piss myself.

Then I passed out, but not for long. My Mom was all jacked about this exciting, restful vacation free from housework and cooking responsibilities, but I was sure to remind her that resting is for bitchtits. So I partied a lot between the hours of midnight and 6 AM. Rock!

The next morning, I read the paper to my illiterate father.

My parents had really hoped the hotel room would have a fridge and microwave so they could prepare my elaborate meals, but, ha, no! So my Dad, being the type of guy who may or may not have experience crafting pot-smoking devices out of soda bottles, came up with the MacGyver solution of heating up my food in the miniature coffee pot. While this worked, its wild inconvenience pissed my Mom off something fierce. But I got fed, bitches!

Now, my Dad is gonna be really cheesed off at me for posting this one, but I wanted to show you the industrial-size container of Gold Bond he brought on the trip. You see, he uses it for some purpose related to keeping his nards fresh, and says he likes the way it tingles. Hee hee! (I hope he doesn't ground me...)

During the day, my Dad went to his conference and my Mom alternately worked on her laptop and took pictures of me being charming. The neat thing about this trip was that I found a new level of vocalization to unleash in the "Executive House" of this hotel. Yeah, I showed those executives how to screech like a champ. Hooey, was that fun. (Did I mention I can sit the fuck up?)

In the evenings, my Dad returned and did really weird shit, like try out this strange device. I don't even want to talk about it, other than to say that if you'd like to post in the comments about starting a charity to pay for my lifetime of therapy, that would be great.

Oh, man, I almost forgot! I got kicked out of a bar for the first time! Yeah, my parents went to meet my Dad's co-workers for dinner in the hotel restaurant/bar. They bellied up to the bar with those creatures and ordered Diet Cokes (alright, I admit it, my Mom ordered a beer, but she told me not to tell you...) and then the (extremely haggard-looking) bartender came over to them and said, "No minors in the bar area." Um, yeah, loser. So we got a table 5.6 millimeters away in the non-bar area. I was like, "Lady, this is Wisconsin. I have a 98% chance of consuming my first Old Style before kindergarten, so why bother to make me move to that table?" But whatever. The Man is a real SOB. I mean, I was Little Red Riding Hood-esque and everything, and she still thought I was a threat to the sanctity of her shitty establishment.

Well, Thursday rolled around and it was time to roll home. My Dad was at his conference and my Mom had to check us out mid-day, and she was real irritated on account of that. She said her only recourse was to put me on the luggage cart, which handled like a bad grocery cart on ice, if I do say so myself.

So, that was it. My first "vacation." I can't wait until these brain surgeons try to take me camping!!!

Let's review the events of the last couple days, shall we?

Well, there has been some sadness in the House of K. One day at the end of last week, my brother-in-law called me and asked if we could accept some houseguests on account of a funeral. This little 8-month-old dude, who was my brother-in-law's girlfriend's cousin (got that?), died very unexpectedly while at the home of his daycare provider. I never got a definitive story on what happened...possible SIDS and possible bad pneumonia and definite non-breathing. It doesn't really matter. But with the inherent fear of these sorts of anomalous baby losses that comes with parenthood, that was enough to make me want to fall on the floor and scream. I kind of did. And then I set about the business of preparing my baby-outfitted home for mourning strangers. Jesus. Obviously cooking and cleaning your house in an unexpected whirlwind is not much to bitch about given the situation, but you could say that I was whipped into something of an emotional frenzy by Friday night. I was worried about whether I should stuff Phook in a closet or something, because if I was mourning a baby, I wouldn't really want to hang out with a baby. But Phook and her equipment are pretty much a permanent fixture at this point, so I just hoped for the best.

Add to this my burgeoning hypochondria, and you have something of a wreck in Big W town. For some reason, ever since a few weeks after I had Phook, I am so afraid I'm going to die. She made me feel very mortal. And all of a sudden it's very important to me that I remain upright. Just the thought of Little Orphan Phookie is enough to make me want to go into convulsions. This has manifested itself as hypochondria for me. I know enough to know I'm being crazy, so I think that means I'm not really crazy, right? But still, I'm afraid that every twinge I feel in my body is lethal...a sneaky cancer going undiagnosed too long. I felt a bump in my jaw and assumed it was jaw cancer. (Must have been a swollen lymph node, because it went away.) I have had intermittent chest pain and assumed I was having a gripper. (Now this is probably a real anxiety symptom and makes me feel a little nutty, but since I acknowledged to myself that it was an anxiety symptom, it seems to have gone away.) I burned my upper arm taking a baking sheet out of the oven (don't ask me how) and I was convinced it was infected and I was going to have to have my bicep removed (it's healing nicely). I watch the show "Mystery Diagnosis" every now and then and can become convinced I have a weird opthamalogical disorder that strikes 1 in 3,000,000 in the bat of an eye. Hell, at this point you could probably convince me I'm suffering from primordial dwarfism despite the fact that I'm 6 feet tall. I don't know, to be honest, I'm kind of embarrassed about all this and can't believe I am opening up this potentially real anxiety issue to all of blogville, but whatever, it feels good to vent this shit. So anyhow, yeah, I am afraid I am going to die and no one is going to teach Phookie how to cuss like a sailor when the time is right for her to embrace her cussing destiny. And no one will braid her hair for her. And no one will teach her how much she should really love gatos. And no one will bake Christmas cookies with her. And no one will show her how a laugh that turns heads is really the way to a (good) man's heart. You know, all that stuff.

So it was Friday night, and I was exhausted from running my behind off in a cleaning frenzy, and we eventually settled in for some coma-inducing TV. There wasn't much on. Except Steel Magnolias. I laughed and asked Big K if he wanted to watch a chick flick. He said he didn't care what we watched. I flipped through the channels a few more times and kept coming back to the movie. Eventually, we just started watching it. Yeah, good freaking idea, given my emotional state. Why, Shelby, why? Dear Lord in heaven. Yeah, it was all worth it. Thirty minutes of wonderful instead of a lifetime of nothing special. I understand. But little Jack Jr. runnin' to his granny at the end? Oh, balls of fire, I was sobbing like a maniac by that time. It slayed me. Slayed, slayed, slayed me. It is a bad call to watch this movie when you're in a state like the one I was in. Pathetic, me.

So Saturday rolled around and the houseguests arrived late in the evening, and we spent Sunday morning with them and it was okay. Sad, but okay. I actually think Phookie made them feel a little better. She has that effect. Sunday night we watched Peyton Manning's team win the Super Bowl, so that made it all a little better, even though Prince's Rosie the Riveter head gear and phallic puppet show kind of made me upset at half time. Sunday night, more hanging with the houseguests, post-funeral. Lord did I feel bad for that family.

And another weird thing happened. Phookie seems to have crazy fingernail growth. Probably not, but they always seem in need of a trim. I had been using the (horrific and seriously unconventional) practice of biting them off with my teeth, due to my fear of the clippers. This worked well until I had some crowns done recently which changed my bite and made it difficult to get a good grip on those little nails. So I finally busted out the nail clippers and set about the business of trying to trim her nails. Third finger in, I of course hit flesh and made her bleed uncontrollably, and howl just a little more than a little bit too. Big K got her a Kleenex to wrap around the finger (after she bled a quart on my shirt) and she just kept bleeding for like 10 minutes. At this point, I caught myself looking at the middle finger on MY right hand to check to see if it had stopped bleeding yet. It was so weird and so telling an unconscious gesture that it took my breath away. It is true that you cannot explain the connection you feel with your child in words, but that little tale is about as close as it gets.

So anyhow, yesterday was Monday, the day I am supposed to make the 160-mile roundtrip pilgrimage to my employer, but I could not do it. My back was blown out (perhaps all the scrubbing?) and my mom pretty much threatened to come block my driveway if I attempted to make the drive alone in the sub-zero temperatures, so I called in non-seaworthy. I worked most of the day from home, and it was (thankfully) uneventful.

I also ended up here. Big K has a work conference at this here hotel/waterpark, and we were allowed to tag along. So I'm blogging at you right now from one of those little hotel desks. They have wireless and shit so I'm gonna do my work and hang with Phook as per usual, but with the added bonus of someone to bring me fresh towels and people who can deliver pizza to the room, and a waterpark to Phook around in just for giggles. Phookie has already asked if she can do one of her famous photo posts upon our return home, and I said we could if she behaved. So we'll see. The houseguests are still at my house chaperoned by my brother-in-law, but I am glad to be out of there. Big K and I needed to get our minds off of that bad bad badness.

So, there you have it. Bad shit happens for no reason and I'm a nutter. I promise my next post will be far more jovial.

Picture of the Day

The child and the animal have become quite fond of one another. She seems to know how to pet the creature appropriately.

Okay, okay, since it's Friday, I'll throw in another picture. Here we have the mohawk child, created by Big K. (What he didn't tell me when he showed me this work of art was that he used lotion to keep her hair spiked like this. I only discovered it when I tried to brush it and found it rather sticky...)
Okay, okay, one more. Here we have the child showing her vigor for spoon eating. (An aside: Please don't judge me by the faux brick you can see in the background. It came with the house, and Big W ain't got no cash to change it right now. Focus on the baby.)

There. Have a good weekend, kiddos.