Return of the Poo-zooka

Longtime readers may vaguely remember a story I told many moons ago about an incident involving my child's newborn poop. Since then, yeah, some dipes have been blown out in this house. There was this incident. And then there was some poop drama here. But by and large, Phook's pood's have been pretty human, regular, and respectable lately. We were able to ditch the prune juice repertoire awhile back, probably because she's a water guzzler now and her systems seem to be processing nicely. But then tonite happened. Here in the House of K, we had an RCD (Ridiculously Compromised Diaper) of epic (wink wink, old buddies) proportions. Now I'm gonna tell you about it. So browse somewhere more sanitary if you don't want to read about pood.

Phook was in her high chair for dinner, having just downed some leftover chicken stir-fry, an apple-cinnamon rice cake, some boiled potatoes, some homemade squash, and several ounces of water. This being on the heels of the half avocado, full pear, rice cake, peaches, and tortilla she ate for lunch. That being on the heels of the baby oatmeal w/ prunes and applesauce she had for breakfast. And of course several servings of titter milk. We all know she's a big eater, right? (Having written that, I kind of wish I was kidding, but yeah, my kid actually ate that all today, and it was not even remotely out of the ordinary for her to do so. I'd kind of like to share this menu with all the bitchasses who ask if she's "small for her age," and look at me with some concern as if I'm starving her. I think I'm going to type up this little menu as a handout, now that I think of it.) Anyhow, she had several hearty helpings of everything known to man in her gut, excepting of course cow's milk, fresh strawberries, peanuts, honey, hotdog slices, whole grapes, and shellfish.

Now, Phook is an animate pooper. You do not quizzically wonder, "Is she pooping?" No. You know when Phook is pooping. There is a face that involves shrinking up her entire set of features into the lower third of her head somehow, pursing lips, and grunting. No missing it. So she commences this process, and I act casual, because I don't want to give her some complex by staring at her or laughing at her when she is dropping a deuce. The rest of the K Family finishes their meal, and then, after all others had fled the premises, I removed Phook from her high chair, barely even remembering that she was freshly sharted. I backed away from the high chair with her propped on my arm in carrying position, and when I was about two feet from the chair, I heard the most horrific "plop" that has ever violated my eardrums. I knew that the only thing on the planet that could make such a sound was poop, but at the same time I was in denial that something so clearly large had somehow escaped the confines of a well-fitting, well-applied dipe. There was nothing to do but confirm my suspicions, so I looked down at the linoleum floor, which of course I had freshly mopped just hours prior to the RCD. There it was. On the floor roosted a plop of pood approximately the circumference of a standard coffee cup. It was, of course, a mounded little pile, reaching about 2 inches into the atmosphere. It was of tomato paste consistency and it was brown. There was no mistaking it as shit.

I started screaming and confusedly looking for the source of the pood, as if it wasn't Phookie. After confirming that it was indeed my daughter, I lifted her up and expected to see her entire bottom covered in pood. But no. What was instead covered in pood was my left arm. Somehow this pood had taken a neat express route directly out the leg hole of her diaper and onesie, marring her ensemble not one iota. But it sure as hell marred me. The nearest cleansing tool, the paper towel holder, was empty for the first time since the Clinton Administration, so I started screeching for Big K to come save me. He was upstairs getting ready for his big pimpin' city council meeting, probably applying Gold Bond to his nether regions as I was downstairs being victimized. He came ambling down eventually, probably thinking I had a snack to offer him or something. I was screaming at the top of my lungs at this point, and he of course, being completely worthless in situations involving excess pood or even mere dirt, grabbed her sideways and held her by her pinkie or something until I could wipe the shart pile off my arm and handle things properly. Which I did.

I stripped her of her Phooksuit and opened the RCD and found the evil twin of the thing on my linoleum. Big K wiped up the thing in question and I wiped up our precious infant. Big K then ran out the door gagging and sputtering, and I'm sincerely hoping he returns. Phook was bathed quite presently. Now all parties are resting comfortably.

And that about wraps it up from here, the home of the one and only Poo-zooka.

A Phooktastic Voyage

Phook here. I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I wanted to tell you about my sweet camping trip with my Mom and Dad, my Grandma and Grandpa J, and Auntie Hode. (Uncle Growler was not allowed to come along, despite my repeated requests that we pack him.) Regardless, it was a swell trip, and I want you to know all about it. It started on Friday when we packed up the truck and trailer of the Grandparents J and headed several hours north to Peninsula State Park. You should have seen the amount of shit these a-holes packed. (Truly, it had nothing to do with my playpen, stroller, 14,000 changes of clothing, and the fattened calf my Mom slaughtered that morning for me to eat while we were away.) My Grandma was threatening to ride on top of the trailer in a rocking chair, but we vetoed that idea right quick.

Anyhow, we eventually got to our destination, and boy was it chilly what with the Great Lake a few feet away from our campsite and all. Luckily, my mom had brought some warm clothes for me, including this sweet hat with ears on it. For some reason, whenever I wore it, the jackasses kept calling me "The Grand Poobah." At first I was like, "What the phuck, how many names are you gonna give me before I'm one year old?" But then I realized that the name was fitting. Especially when they said crap like, "The Grand Poobah will see you now." Anyhow, here I am in my Poobah hat with my Dad in my specially designated play area, which bordered on leaves and stones that were far more interesting than the shit my Mom brought for me to play with:

In keeping with my status as Grand Poobah, I saw fit to occasionally bless my peoples:

On Saturday, it got a little rainy, and I was partly to mostly irritated, what with having been up for an hour in the wee hours of that morning letting the entire 3,776 acre park know that I was seriously pissed to be in the 40 degree weather rather than my nice furry crib at home. I pretty much scowled like this all day, even though my parents were apparently feeling pretty cheeky:

One night, my Auntie Hode decided to light her coffee tables on fire. I don't ever want to talk about this again, so please don't bring it up in front of me:

One morning, my Mom decided that I really stunk, so she got me all nakey in the tent and wiped me down. I took the opportunity to snack on Auntie Hode's hairbrush:

We dicked around a lot on Sunday, going all over the place and further laying waste to the routine my parents established for me three whole months ago. I exhibited some unchecked aggression on a few occasions, but for the most part I rolled with the nonsense they were throwing at my grill and was a personable chap. I especially liked our visit to the beach, even though it was a tit bit nipply out. Here I am testing the water:

And here I am getting a sweet view of the area. Don't tell my Mom, but I love it when she does this kind of shit:

And here I am with Auntie Hode and Mom. When we were out and about, some crazy cracker asked them if they were twins. My mom has at least an Andrew Jackson on Auntie Hode in the poundage department, as well as two inches, so the nutter must have been thrown by their track suits. I have to admit I was thrown by them too...this picture captures me eying the wrong boob with voracious hunger clearly brewing just beneath the surface of my cuteness:

I have to say that I am glad my parents took me on this trip. Something about living in the outdoors inspired me to reach additional levels of loudness within my vocal range, which was awesome. I also cruised for the first time, from my little camping chair to an upended sleeping bag box. That incited some howls. I also took the opportunity to try my hand at standing unaided, albeit accidentally. I just got so busy eating my toy, I didn't realize I was standing there without holding onto anything until people started freaking out and shit. Then I promptly fell on my arse. Anyhow, here I am with the clowns that spawned me:

All in all, it was a great trip. I heard my Mom say that it was worth the trip just to eat a full stack of cherry pancakes, which she of course did with great gusto. I also heard her muttering something about being happy about kid rock staying trapped in her ureter. My Dad caught a few (hundred) naps, and that's definitely his idea of a good time. My Grandparents J knocked the dust off their camping asses, and that was a picture worth a thousand words. And Auntie Hode got in a few games of militant Scrabble with my Mom, so I think she was satisfied as well. As for me, well, I am now a seasoned camper, and I'd be happy to talk to any other babies interested in adventure sports for the low, low price of $250 per consultation. Here we all are, looking like the bunch of crazies that we are:

So, that's it from the Phook files this time. See ya'll soon!

XO,
Phook

exhausted

So tired, have no business blogging. Should be in bed. Feel the need to provide random update due to dicey health situation previously reported. Still alive. Still harboring kid rock. Personally threw approximately 1/3 of my 2000 square foot stripped off roof into the dumpster today barehanded because the impending thunderstorm was generating high enough winds to blow little shards of tar paper and shingle all over the neighborhood, and who else was going to do it? Bub was on my back in a carrier for most of it. Forgot how rough shingles are - but my hands know, because they are missing their epidermis. Nearly fainted as the winds picked up and both Brothers K were still on the roof putting down new tar paper, and I thought they were gonna die on my watch. Kid rock hurts. Going camping tomorrow for four days...Phook's first trip. Packed for that today too. Yesterday I made hummus from scratch...removing the shell from a billion chickpeas (or garbanzo beans, as it were) is strangely therapeutic but intensely time consuming. We frequently find Phook standing up in her crib now...but it is still amazing to see each time...who is this big kid and what did she do with my baby? Felt bad for my pot-bound plants that have been patiently waiting for shingle-free soil to live in, so I put them in the ground in safe places even though I didn't want them there...this after putting Phook to bed for the night. Figured the best way to ignore back spasms is to keep bending and squatting until I forced my nerves to completely shut down. Took one shower already today to wash off the shingle filth and need another one to wash off the planting filth. Wish someone would just throw me on a floor with a drain and hose me off. Excited to camp. Hope kid rock doesn't decide to make a run for the border while I'm hiking or eating bacon or something. I've been meaning to tell you about the sweet, sweet present my Dad made me for a Mother's Day gift. Boy is it sweet. It is a potting bench, complete with hooks, drawer, shelf, hole for scraping scraps into a bucket, and overhead bar for hanging baskets. Definitely on the shortlist for best present ever. Here it is, in my dogless dog kennel:

I know you're jealous.

Enjoyed the Idol finale. Kind of wanted Blake to win, but knew it was a long shot. Was disturbed to have to behold Phil Stacey once again. Loved the Brothers & Sisters finale, by the way. A thing of beauty. Secretly glad all my shows are over for reasons I can't pinpoint.

Yesterday, Big K started a sentence by saying, "My man crush on Chris Daughtry not withstanding..." The rest of the sentence probably wasn't as funny as that part. I never knew he had a man crush on Chris Daughtry. Or anyone, for that matter. But I'm oddly glad he does.

I love Phook.

Have I mentioned that I'm a stoner?

Sadly, I'm not talking about puffing the magic dragon, friends. No, I'm talking about the new piece of nightmare that was added to my remarkable list of health snafus this weekend as I sat all dressed up in the ER missing a graduation party that was completely unlike the fictional graduation party described in my last entry.

You see, at the butt crack of dawn on Saturday morning, I woke up with a horrific pain in my mid-back on my right side, which reached down to my pelvic region. Being one hardass momma, I thought I must have slept on my nightgown wrong. I also felt like hurling and doing other unsavory things in the toilet, but I attributed that to my raging anger (um, I meant excitement there...yeah, excitement) over the graduation party I was to attend that day (with all the food in tow). I came downstairs, bitched and moaned and considered dying, ate some Raisin Bran, consumed a large ibuprofen, sent my husband out golfing with his brother, and got down to the business of the day. The heinous pain waned, but returned a couple hours later. This time it felt somewhat in the ballpark of labor pains in its intensity. Now, as detailed copiously on this blog, we all know that Big W has a bad back. But this was just different. You could have called me frightened. I called the nurse on call and described the symptoms and she said to go to the ER. (Here in The Woods, Urgent Care does not exist, and the nearest ER is 25 miles away). I called Grandma J to come watch Phook, I told Big K to stay on the golf course and then handle the godforsaken party despite his protests, and Grandpa J took me down to the ER.

The triage bastard scoffed at my complaint of "back pain" and hollered, "we got another back pain" to his cohorts. Eventually I was seen by another level of triage dude, and he said, "It sounds like a kidney stone." Jigga what? I don't get kidney stones. So I peed in a cup, and many moons later the diagnosis of blood in the urine was made. A few minutes later a cat was scanning me, and soon after that I learned that I had a 5mm kidney stone hanging out in the tube between the kidney and bladder. I was informed, "They usually don't do surgery until they're around 7 mm," and found that completely the opposite of reassuring, since that meant I was harboring something pretty close to the max size it is considered possible to pass unaided. Of course I was. So they pumped me full of IV fluids to help flush me out. For some strange reason that has nothing to do with graduation parties, I was so wildly dehydrated that it took three needle sticks to get an IV in me. Boy was that fun.

Four hours after the ordeal began, I walked out of there with a strainer to pee through, a specimen jar to catch the evidence in for later stony analysis, a prescription for a painkiller I can't take unless I want to pump my milk and throw it away, and the direction to make an appointment with a urologist and to call if I get close to passing out from pain. Hot. By that time, it was too late to make an appearance at the graduation party in question, so my Pops took me out for some foodstuffs. I ate heartily and with great anger.

Since then, I have felt only relatively minor aches, pains, and stabs in the general vicinity of my ureter, but I sure have pissed on my hand a lot trying to hit that strainer. I attended a graduation ceremony yesterday and had to argue with the rent-a-cops about whether I could take my water and bag of piss collection utensils into the venue. I simply said, "I have a medical condition that necessitates me having these things on my person," but I was prepared to drop disgusting details if it got heated. I kind of wanted to, actually, but if you say "medical condition" in a deathly way, people generally let things slide, I find.

So right now I feel dreadful anticipation of "passing" this thing. It's sort of like being 9 months pregnant and knowing there is a tremendous amount of pain in your future, but not knowing exactly when it will strike or exactly how bad it will be. Only once it's over, I get a spiky pea-sized demon rather than a beautiful howling Phookie. I will certainly be the only howler in this scenario. Damn. I don't have time for this.

Big K has taken to calling the interloper in my anatomy "kid rock." Isn't that charming? So, shit, yeah, I'm sitting here with a villain lurking inside me, and it's not that cool. More information will be available as news breaks...

If you have any extra black clothing in a size XL, send it my way...

...because I'm going to be in mourning until the next season of Grey's Anatomy begins in the fall. Did you hosers see that freaking finale? Did you see it? Did your eyes bleed out of your head the way mine did? Did your eardrums burst? Did the street in front of your house crack open and give you a glimpse of Satan doing his dance of joy amidst the flames lapping at his TV screen? Cause that's what happened here.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all in favor of a dramatic cliffhanger to toss and turn about all summer, but did they really have to pulverize the hopes and dreams of every single cast member? Could we not have had one sexy little moment to hang our hats on? Couldn't Karev at least have hooked it up with the gray gorilla from Congo? Couldn't Bailey have been made chief resident, or even chief of surgery, as I was (incorrectly) predicting? Couldn't Meredith have thrown Dreamy a bone and just said she was in it to win it? (Why her hopes for the relationship were pinned on the successful completion of the Burke/Cristina union, I do not understand.)
And what is up with throwing Meredith's hot little half-sister in the mix, huh?

Man, I don't know. This season has been a nosedive from the previous seasons, so my only (tiny) hope is that the hellbeast that is Shonda Rimes recognized her story lines were in the shitter and decided to blow the show as we know it to smithereens in the hopes of starting fresh with some zesty vintage Grey's next season. Either that or the actors are all big time now and who knows if they'll be able to successfully hammer out contracts for another season, and she wanted to make everyone's place at the table seem questionable.

I don't know. I'm apoplectic. It is so late and I so need to be slumbering, but I'm madly bonging Cherry Coke Zero as if I don't have to get up tomorrow and make all the food for Brother K's graduation party while supervising a child who is now wildly prone to wiping out and bashing her head on shit after she's pulled up on something, anything, everything. Shonda has taken a seriously vile piss in my Cheerios. What is up with her and finales that include formalwear, anyhow? (Okay, now I'm just ranting aimlessly.) What I want to know is if there is any Grey's fan out there who is feeling the nicely buzzed, twitteringly excited and anxious sensation one is supposed to experience after viewing the season finale of a great show. If there is, please post in the comments.

Here's the thing, Shonda, you sewer rat...the one thing that is saving you right now from receiving one of Phook's dook-bombed diapers in the mail is my supreme confidence in the knowledge that the Brothers & Sisters finale is going to conduct itself in the manner I expect and fill that special season finale place in my heart, which is currently a ghastly, seeping wound. I am done with you now. Have a nice hiatus. I hope you get a lot of bug bites. Huzzah.




Does this post make me a little crazy? Just wondering...

Livin' in a van, down by the river!

Perhaps I have a bad attitude, but I've always kind of felt like everyone in my circle of friends has some major leg up in the world in terms of their ability to prosper. Simple things like parents who paid the college bill in full. Or parents who gift them enough money for a down payment on a house. Or a husband who happens to know a guy who knows a guy who can get your house professionally sided for $50. Sadly, I am basically referring to monetary situations here, and I'm not all that proud to admit I sometimes think like this. I'm keen on telling myself I have more than most people on the planet, but sometimes I still feel like I have to claw for everything I need when so many people I know just seem get it delivered via parcel post. Perhaps we all fall prey to this mind game on occasion, or perhaps I'm the only covetous bitch out there. Who knows.

Regardless, the one thing that had been sticking in my craw a little bit about our life plan (the focal point of which is having just ditched the majority of our income) is that we had two vehicles with a crap-ton of miles on them, neither of which really met our family's needs, and no possible way to afford a payment on a new (used) vehicle. But even more than that, I was irritated because our vehicles are inadequate enough that I was imagining a day several years down the road during which I am making a solid argument to Big K for yet another baby and he pulls out the trump card that is us having no way to transport an additional person, at least one who is properly restrained in a child safety seat. (Perhaps this kind of aggravated forethought is the root of my high blood pressure, but I guess we'll never know for sure.) So anyhow, we had a sweet 1999 Chevy Cavalier with about 150K miles on it and a sweet 1999 Chrysler Concorde with about 130K miles on it. Big K has been driving the Cavalier to work since Phook showed up on the scene, and then me and the car seat and its contents drive the Concorde. Don't get me wrong, the Concorde is definitely a full-sized car and it's been doing just fine for me. But you know, loading the Thanksgiving turkey that is my kid into and out of the middle seat of a car is kind of painful for me, what with my back being sans a few disks that God thought it was a good idea to include with my original kit of spinal components. And the trunk kind of has a mind of its own and has knocked me nearly unconscious on more than one occasion when I was loading crap into the cargo bay. You know, lots of minor inconveniences that us First World bastards interpret as problems here in our spoiled state of affairs.

Alas, there was no way out of our vehicular situation that I could possibly imagine. I had resigned myself to several years of increasing mileage and increasing mechanic bills, since these vehicles offer the one thing that is true gold here in K-town: no monthly payment. But then something occurred. The sun shined on this dog's ass. We were given a gift to help us prosper that only seems to happen for other people. My husband's co-worker grenaded his minivan. Dude tried to drive home (about an hour's drive) even though oil was pouring out of the thing as fast as he could pour it in. Bye-bye engine. So he calls Big K and says we can have it, since he happened to break down near the car dealership where Brother K does some work as a mechanic, and we have junkyard ties, and I guess he's basically just a good guy who likes Big K. Big K asked me if I wanted the van. I said, "Oh hell no," because I was imagining a serious rusted out jalopy...I mean, the guy was giving it away. Even if it had no working engine, you'd think he'd want something for it if it was worth anything. So Big K told Brother K he could have it, since he's been in school for mechanic stuff. But Big K kept asking me if I wanted it. I just wasn't imagining a family-friendly van here. I was imagining a 1980's bank robbery getaway van with lots of ashtrays in it. Turns out that the van in question was a 2001 Chevy Venture with the Warner Brothers package, which means it has a little logo on the side, some kid-friendly features, and, get this...a VCR. (I'm thinking VHS was pretty much already obsolete in '01, so who knows what the manufacturer was thinking, but whatever. Phook ain't watching movies in the car anyhow, at least on my watch.) Turns out that this is actually a decent vehicle with 118K miles on it...a youngster compared to our snaggletoothed rides. So it became clear to me that good fortune had actually fallen on us. At this point though, the van was given to Brother K, so Big K had to work him for a Kimura to reach agreeable terms on the issue. (Which struck me as odd, given that the van was given to Big K and he basically accidentally gave it to Brother K for a couple minutes, but whatever.) The terms were that Brother K would get a new engine and put it in the van as part of his mechanic class, and in return we would give him the Cavalier to put up his nose or sell or whatever. Fair enough.

So the other day, up rolls me my minivan. I threw up in my mouth. I mean, the day you become a minivan driver is a key day in the life of any person. It means you have surrendered your youth in its entirety. You have thrown away the thong and put on the big whites. You are, in effect, driving the big whites. I always swore I wouldn't fall prey to the siren song of the minivan, but when you are playing "Groceries are for Pussies" (that's a game Big K and I play when we are out of money for food and go pantry-diving for supper...its origins lie in our college days but it is back in style...) on a regular basis, you must cast off your doubts and embrace the gifted minivan. So we did. We put Phookie (who was wearing only a diaper) in her Bub Car in there and took her to the car wash, where we attempted to vacuum the pack of sled dogs out of the interior with mixed results. (We are getting it detailed at some point...) The carpeting looks like each member of a family of seven was enjoying a 2-liter bottle of orange soda when they got in a fender bender, but I can overlook that. The gas gauge has a mind of its own and the ABS light is on, but other than that the thing seems to be in good working order. Brother K is going to investigate some of these things before he flies the coop, and I hope they can be repaired with minimal cost. If not, well, I can always get on the pole on Hoggin' Night at the local gentlemen's club.

So anyhow, this past Saturday Phook and I took it for its maiden K Family voyage...we went on a road trip across ye olde Wisconsin to see a friend and her kidlet. I packed in the stroller, a dipe bag, a kid, and my Cherry Coke Zero, and away we went. At first I felt like everyone was looking at me and snickering, "Look at that weirdo in a MINIVAN!" "Ha, loser, nice MINIVAN!" "Holy shit, did you see that she-beast in the MINIVAN?!?!" But it got comfy kinda quick. Especially after I christened it by singing Bon Jovi's New Jersey in its entirety at the top of my lungs while Phook blissfully slumbered. Oh, and Wheatus' sweet track, Teenage Dirtbag. That's a good song to sing in your minivan. I gotta admit it was a pleasure cruise. Easy in and out with the kid and the stuff. It even has an automatic side door with buttons to activate it on the key fob and in the driver's control center. That's a feature every parent needs, and I'm not dicking around when I say that. The thing is hot, hot, hot. Here she is:


So, yeah, something happened totally randomly to help the K Family prosper. I think the Man Upstairs got the memo that we are in need of a little assistance these days. So, thank you, Man Upstairs. If you need a lift, I have plenty of room...

My Mother's Day Wish

On this Mother's Day, I would like to go on record with a personal plea for mom-to-mom appreciation, understanding, and support. An excellent blogger I read regularly recently posted some thoughts on her annoyance with the "mommy wars" and I'd like to jump on that bandwagon. I feel a little bit like something about becoming a mom turns you into a half-crazed defensive animal. And not in the obvious "I'd kill for my child" sense, but rather the sense that you lash out at others a little too quickly (albeit only in your own head, in gossip to others, or possibly via some passive aggressive word or act) for the sake of preserving your own sense of yourself as a good mother.

What in the hell am I talking about? I'm pretty sure that no matter how confident you are as a mother, there are still times that you feel like you have to defend your position on some mothering issue (as evidence, I offer you the 98% of my blog entries that include long-winded explanations as to why I felt it pertinent to do something, often insignificant, with Phookie). Pacifier or no? Co-sleeping or no? Breast or bottle? Sling or stroller? Baby Einstein or TV-as-devil? The list goes on and on and probably gets even dicier as the kid ages. The thing is, both sides of each of the above coins is okay. Sure, we could all argue on which is better, and we do, but both choices are okay. The kid will be okay. The fact is that kids are incredibly resilient and adaptable and unless you are doing something truly neglectful or abusive your kid is going to be okay. So why then do we conspiratorially whisper to one another, "He's two and he still has a pacifier!" "Do you know that their 18-month-old still sleeps in their bed?" "She gave up on breastfeeding after two weeks!" Hell, I think every single one of these statements has left my mouth, and I kind of want to shoot myself for it. Who am I to judge what is best for that mom and that kid? No one. I am only uttering those statements to protect my own fragile mothering psyche and to reassure myself that my choices are really the best ones. And that's a crock. Not to mention totally unnecessary, since Big K and I are the owners of the only opinions that matter when it comes to our kids. See, it's a vicious circle. I feel judged so I judge to reassure myself of my own judgment. What a ridiculous waste of time and energy.

Although I could offer up my hypotheses, I don't really want to go into some deep academic exploration of the root of this phenomenon; I just want to say that it sucks. It's just that having a kid is so damned important. I mean, two guys can get into a heated debate over whether their natural wood deck is better than that newfangled composite shit, and get pretty fired up about which is preferable. But when you are responsible for caring for and raising a human being, you are going to feel defensive of your choices to an extent that makes the decking argument seem like absolute comedy. You are going to be a half-crazed defensive animal. And this sometimes manifests itself as judgment of other parents. And more specifically, moms. I think it's pretty rare to hear the statement, "He can't control his kids; they scream until he gives them what they want." No. Value judgments about kids are almost always presented as a reflection on the mother. This is so shitty. Mainly, it takes fathers out of the parenting equation, which is unfair to all the dads who bust their asses being dads. And then there about 847 feminist issues going on there that I am not savvy enough to even delve into other than to say that they most definitely exist.

So I just want to throw it out there that the nicest thing you can do for any woman on Mother's Day is to refrain from judging her in any form. And maybe she could do the same for you. And then maybe she wouldn't feel judged, and you wouldn't feel judged, and I wouldn't feel judged. And then maybe we could all stop being half-crazed defensive animals and just be. Just be moms. Moms who already carry so much that it sure as heck would feel good if someone just lifted this one little burden off our shoulders. (I can already feel the spring in my step just having written that...)

Happy Mother's Day, Mommas. You're doing a good job.

The most wonderful time of the year

Here in The Woods, we have a holiday that all the other poor saps on the planet miss out on. It's better than Easter. Better than Christmas. Better even than National Mustard Day. People, here in The Woods we have a gem of a holiday known as the city's "Clean Sweep." I love this day so much I consider it an intense writing challenge to try to convey to you how sacred and marvelous it is. But I will try.

You see, here in The Woods, people are poorhousers. And poorhousers are the kind of people who deal in junk, like it or not. I myself gave birth to a junk heiress in Phookie...her paternal grandfather is the owner and operator of an actual junkyard. But not everyone actually has an all-access pass to an actual junkdom, so the city has seen fit to create the annual Clean Sweep event to allow all citizens to put their junk out on the curb and have it removed to an undisclosed location. At least theoretically, that is what would happen. But in reality, it's more of a city-wide swap meet. No one around here can resist other people's junk. So you see clowns cruising around town picking up other clowns' old couches and shit.

To really bring this to life for you, I am going to share some of my own personal experiences with the Clean Sweep for you. I'm going to take you back, way back, to Clean Sweep 2004. I came home from work one balmy evening and for some reason that has now faded away, I stopped at my parents' house. My mom had her junk out on the curb. Her junk consisted of some old windows and some old flower pots...the plastic hanging kind, to be precise. So mom and I are hanging out, and one of us notices that a truck has pulled to a stop in front of her house. Old dude gets out, glances around furtively, promptly loads the old windows into his truck, and peels out. We snicker heartily because it's amusing when someone picks up your junk. A few minutes later, this clown car full of unkempt children and two adult women pulls up. The women climb out of the car and start rooting through my mom's trash cans, which contain the flower pots. My mom and I are dying watching these ladies, and we are crouched down on the floor in her front entry way so we can hear these women through the screen door. They are digging and digging and we hear one say to the other, "Geez, at least she could have a couple that match." They were actually bitching about the quality of the trash they were digging through. At this point, my mom sees fit to yell, "This ain't fuckin' Kmart!" and totally blows our cover. We are rolling around on the floor totally snorting now. At this point, she says, "You wanna drive around town and see what other people have out?" I acquiesced immediately. So we spent well over an hour driving around The Woods absolutely seizing over the kind of shit people had on the curbs, and watching other Woodsians rifle through it for treasures. My personal favorite piece of junk was an enormous, dirty aquarium with the front half of a snowmobile set in it. That was hot. We seriously laughed so hard that our bladders were compromised...and that was before my bladder was always compromised.

So anyhow, a tradition was born. My mom and I have annually gotten in the car on Clean Sweep Eve and driven around perusing the trash of others. 2005 was a bit disappointing, but we did see a discarded Hoveround, which I really wanted but decided against. And Big K and I found one of those video game things that is like a table with the screen set beneath it with the joystick on each side...it probably originally housed PacMan or something. He begged me to bring it home but I held firm...and he still brings up what a loss that was at least once per week. (He says he has salvage in his blood, what with the junkyard gene and all.)

For the 2006 Clean Sweep, I was pretty much obviously pregnant, and the fact that there was another heart beating within me on this most special day made the day even more precious than normal. Auntie Hode was also home, and happened to have recently been offered her teaching job, which meant she was anticipating her first grownup apartment. When you are moving into your own place and you don't have any money, you definitely look forward to a day where people's discarded junk is on the curb, free for the taking. So we hopped in the car with mom, and drove around until we hit the jackpot...yard sale remnants. Some crazy bastard had had a yard sale and put the unsold leftovers out on the curb for the Clean Sweep! Hot shit, man. So we pulled over to rifle through the goods. I was literally barefoot and pregnant. My sister was wild with excitement at all the orange/yellow/brown plaid. My mom was ridiculously amused. (The general vibe of the Clean Sweep is about 16 hours into a roadtrip, when you are really slap happy and everything is funny.) So my sister sets her sights on this horrifying plaid love seat which was originally going for I think $7, per the price tag taped on the arm. But now it was free! So pregnant ass me and Hode haul this thing over and try to cram it in the trunk of Mom's car. It wouldn't fit. So we hauled it into the yard of a nearby person we knew and told her to guard it until we got a truck. We then got my dad's truck, went back, and loaded the thing up. We had the cushions in the vehicle, and as we were driving around looking at more junk, we got a big whiff of piss. Or maybe it was vomit. I can't remember now, but we were convinced it was the cushions. So we went back to re-dump the thing, but realized that the smell had dissipated. We then (against all common sense) inspected the whole thing via nose, and could not find the source of the funk, so we loaded it up once again. On our way through town again, at the very spot we originally smelled the piss/vomit, we smelled the offending odor anew. "Aha!" we thought, "It's someone else's junk that smells like piss/vomit!" So Auntie Hode had herself a love seat.

So that is a historical overview of the joys of Clean Sweep. I hope your pulse is visible on your forehead thanks to the excitement this was sure to generate as you read. Now, today is Clean Sweep proper, my friends, which means yesterday was Clean Sweep Eve. So Grandma J, me, and Phook packed into the car and took our annual tool around the Woods to check out the merchandise. I've got to admit the effect wasn't as mind-blowing as usual, because they've gotten proactive and started sending around trucks all during Clean Sweep Week, keeping the overall busted appliance effect at paltry levels. But I tell ya what it was, friends. It was a toilet-centric Clean Sweep. I took some photos for you. Don't ever say I don't put a lot of effort into our relationship, okay?

Here is a nice, horrifying toilet, which exemplifies the overall aesthetic of the Clean Sweep:


And here we have another, complete with butterfly decals:


But my personal favorite is the wreath-laden toilet, which defies any explanation I can come up with:

And finally, I am just going to leave you with this sweet image - the dog must have upgraded or something:

In closing, I'm thinking that next year I will perhaps post notice of the impending Clean Sweep a few weeks in advance, and ya'll can come visit, huh? I'll make a noodle salad.

Shorty McShortserson

Dudes,

I am working on a fabulous post for all of you about garbage that I hope to have up tomorrow, but in the meantime, can we just check out this kid? She wore shorts yesterday for the first time, since it's getting nice and toasty here in The Woods. I think there is a warrant out for her arrest for violating some kind of ordinance against illegal levels of cuteness.

Also, who is this big kid, and what did she do to my baby?

And since I am incapable of posting just one picture, here is the encore:

That is all for now, friends.

Man. Look at that kid.

I'd like to tell you some things about Phook

I realized I haven't really shared much lately from the "Phook is cool" file, and the file is getting pretty fat, so I'm gonna do that now. Here are some things that I am enjoying about Phook of late:

1) Phook is crawling. If I leave her in the living room by her toys for a second, when I come back she has crawled all the way across the room and out into the dining room to find me. She goes extra fast when there is something naughty for her to find, such as her favorite food, newspaper. The other thing, which I find even weirder, is that she can go from sitting to crawling and back to sitting. I went to get her after her nap the other day and she was sitting in her crib looking at me. This is wild.

2) Phook has two teeth. The lower middle two. They are really charming. They are also really sharp. I was feeding her a bite of my pear the other day and she chomped down and drew blood on my finger. (So far my funbags have escaped damage...I know you're curious, you sick bastards.)

3) Phook understands some words. When I say "Come?" to her, she holds up her arms to be picked up. Man do I love this. I also think she understands what a cat is, because I say it to her 304 times per day whenever one of our furry buddies passes by.

4) Phook is figuring out how to talk. She was a late babbler I think but is now definitely babbling. She has the "Mmm" sound mastered and likes to use the back of her throat to make weird sounds. I think I've heard her say "lee lee" a couple times, but it is always faint and I might be hallucinating it. She talks soft sometimes and loud sometimes and I totally dig her sounds.

5) Phook thinks it is funny when people sneeze. She laughs very loud when she hears sneezes or when someone makes a fake "achoo" for her. The noisy yawning sound is also funny to her. I love this.

6) Phook can feed herself stuff. She picks up crackers and other random morsels I give her to eat. She will shove a whole cracker in her mouth and then it is sticking out and she looks hilarious with a giant cracker hanging out of her little mug.

7) Phook looks for the source of her farts. The other day we were horsing around and she blew an adult-sized fart. Her head immediately snapped around to look behind her for the source of the sound. I called 90% of the people whose numbers I have when this happened, because I thought it was so wildly hilarious.

8) Phook is very interested in textures. She almost always has her little hand raking on something. For instance, when I nurse her, she reaches her hand behind my back and gently scratches at the chair we are sitting in. She feels for everything.

9) Phook is outdoorsy. Even if she is being a raging maniac, she is generally calm and pleased when we are phooking around outside.

10) Phook is undiaperable. Well, that is an exaggeration, but it is seriously becoming an Olympic sport to get this kid in a diaper. She is flipped, up on her hands and knees and crawling away before I can even attempt to anchor the diaper to her person. I know it sounds really dumb and that it shouldn't be hard to restrain something the size of my forearm, but I am telling you that she is a speedy devil and she has places to be with her nakey ass up in the air.

11) Phook is happiest when both Big K and I are with her together. She loves her daddy and she seems to at least be attached to me, and it is amazing to see how excited she gets when the three of us are all together. This warms my heart.

12) Phook's hair is getting thick. She was born with a nice head of that very dark baby hair but it receded and thinned out for quite awhile...and now she is getting a crop of her very own Phook hair and it is thick and pretty. It still looks like the perfect pixie cut, but I am hoping there is enough there by sometime this summer for me to put an antennae-style ponytail on the top of her head. I want her to be able to communicate with the mothership and all.

13) Phook is learning to clap. I clap for her a lot and then clap her hands for her, and now she will clap with one of her hands and one of mine. By that I mean she will unball her little fist to make a hand for clapping against my hand.

14) Phook is drinking water. This probably sounds dumb, but I decided that I was going to try really hard to make her a water drinker rather than a juice drinker. (Could have something to do with the fact that her doctor said, "I think juice is the devil." That is an actual quote, but she was being lighthearted when she said it, for the record.) So anyhow, I've been offering her water in a sippy cup for months and she couldn't seem to get the hang of the cup or disliked the water or something because it wasn't going all that well. But a few weeks ago, she started gulping down that water. She now slams water after and between meals and I kind of feel like this is a small (although probably temporary) victory.

15) Phook rides in a backpack. I got this baby carrier backpack thing for Phook-toting, and it rules. It can also be used as a front carrier, which is nice for shorter Phook-totes. I kind of always imagined a kid affixed to my back in my daydreams about parenthood, so it's nice to see that come to fruition.

16) Phook hit the "on" switch on my life a few weeks ago. Did you at any point in your life ever feel like you were going through the motions in your existence but actually waiting for your life to start at some point in the future? Like when you graduated from college, or got a new job, or got married, or something like that, your life would really start? And then maybe those things did happen, but your life still hadn't started, and it was disappointing and frustrating and awful, making every day wildly unsatisfying? I've kind of felt like that for 10 years or so. But a few weeks ago, I was at the park pushing Phook in the swing and she was laughing and her hair was tufting up in the wind, and I had one of those moments when you stop and taste it all, and I realized that what I was feeling at that moment was my life starting. I actually have the feeling that I am living my life and doing what I'm supposed to be doing...I'm not waiting for anything to start or anything to change. My life is happening now. That is a major boon to one's mental health, I tell ya.

Aw, Phook, I love ya.

Free to a good home

No, I'm not trying to peddle my kid again. This time, rather than just trying to give away Phook, I offer you a "two for the price of one" special. And since the first one is free, that's quite the bargain. Seriously, both Big W and little Phook are now available to anyone offering sound shelter to two lovely ladies. Why, you ask? The House of K is compromised. Not metaphorically or anything, K Love is still intact and all, but quite literally. Our house itself is compromised.

Careful readers may have noted a mild reference to a live-in brother-in-law awhile back. Yes, one of Big K's bros (the tall half of a pair of fraternal twins) moved into our home in March, and out of the home of short twin. Tall twin is finishing up his education at a tech college this month, and then moving to Texas to be with his hot lady. He moved in here because things in short twin's house strongly resembled a cross between living in Oscar's trash can and living in a 24-hour tavern catering to unsavory elements. So he has been boarding here.

Now in exchange for our hospitality (and some cash), he is putting a new roof on our house for us. This is no small task. Our house is a pretty big almost Victorian style house with a roof with lots of peaks at very steep pitches. The roof is approximately 2,000 square feet, only slightly smaller than the actual two-story house. It would probably cost us about a million dollars to pay a roofing company to do this roof. So the fact that he is doing it is an amazing stroke of luck for this here newly minted poorhouse.

But let's talk about how bad it sucks, because that's really the sweet spot of this blog. Because, seriously, when I imagined having the current roof ripped off and a new one put on, I sort of had a dainty process in mind...old roof magically gone, new roof magically there. Some money and homemade pot pie change hands, and it's done. I think I mentally blocked out the tremendous amount of noise, mess, nonsense, and wild, wild inconvenience that a major ass construction project such as this entails.

I'm gonna start with the aesthetic aspect of this. Now, I am a yard person and a gardener. We have a modestly sized yard, but I guess it might be huge by city folk standards. Either way, I like to beautify it and subsistence farm off of it. I'd actually say that these endeavors are my #2 hobby after cooking/canning. The first year we moved in, I personally laid landscape brick around the house and planted gardens all around it. Lots of perennials and whatnot. We also put some gardens in the back, the side, whatever. I have a really nice perennial herb garden that I like to sniff. I've got tulips and lilies and random stuff planted all over. There are many garden spaces that I have made sweet gardening love to over the years. And May, my buds, is primo gardening season. It is dirt season, my favorite time of year. I love dirt. (I come from a long line of farmers on my dad's side, and I think I inherited the farmer gene.) So anyhow, I always draw out a little gardening plan for the season and then start doing my stuff. Seeds, plants, weeding, working the soil, all that shit. Well, as of this minute, there are old shingles raining down in my gardens and a huge jalopy of a "dumpster" parked over a good portion of my yard, blocking me from one of my garden areas. (We called to arrange for a dumpster. A trailer with severely abused wooden sides showed up. It's sweet, man. And here I thought an actual dumpster would be an eyesore.) So anyhow, my brother-in-law has been asked to try to be careful of the gardens and has agreed to do his best. But he is ripping off an entire freaking roof. So far, my little pod of freshly sprouted chives has been a casualty and some tulips met an early death. And my big, beautiful bleeding heart plant took a shingle to its midsection and it doesn't look promising. But more than the actual damage things have and will sustain, I kinda want to cry because I can't really get out there and get in the spirit of doing my gardening and beautifying of the K properties. Oh, I will do my best, but it ain't pretty out there. Oh no. And that puts a serious hitch in my giddy up.

Then we have the mayhem that has occurred so far. As Exhibit A I offer you the fact that our damned chimney collapsed and fell off the roof. We wanted to take it off, as it is not in use anymore and just serves as an invitation for leakage, but we didn't want it to fall off. Dude was up there checking out how hard it would be to remove, and one thing led to another and the thing started to teeter dangerously. He held it up for 20 minutes (we weren't home) before finally having to let it go. The entire chimney slammed into a little wall/window thing that juts out of our house and then crashed to the ground. In the process, it took out some siding. There also happened to be a shelf on the interior of the wall it hit that contained things such as a Raggedy Ann music box that had been mine in childhood. This and everything else on the shelf flew off onto the floor. Raggedy broke in half. Big K glued her back together, but I still threw up in my mouth when I saw it. Ultimately, I am really glad the Brother K did not get hurt, because that could have ended seriously badly had things gone slightly different. So I'm trying to focus on that and not the crushed memorabilia of my childhood bedroom.

The other exciting piece of fuck that occurred was the other night when I heard the words you do not ever, ever, ever want to hear in the context of the interior of your home..."We've got water!" Yeah, I was peacefully watching a movie when Big K shouted this battle cry from the kitchen, where water was running out of the ceiling light fixture and onto the kitchen table. We were having a major storm and half the roof was ripped off and covered with a giant tarp, so it wasn't like this was completely unexpected, but sonofabitch did I, again, throw up in my mouth. Our first thought was that water could not possibly get to our ground floor unless it had already made it all the way through the second story to come out the downstairs ceiling. This would indicate a total disaster requiring construction repairs I don't even want to comprehend. We ran upstairs and found the room above the kitchen mysteriously dry. Brother K ran up on the roof and adjusted the tarps, but we remained confused about how this water could be coming out where it was. And then I (yes, I) had the idea that it might be leaking in around the very same window thing referenced above that took the chimney in its gonads. Turns out that a piece of plywood (or whatever it is) had been cut crooked by the previous casually destructive homeowners and left a small gap near this window and the water was running in there, bypassing the second story, and down the rafter to its most convenient exit point, the light fixture. So Brother K caulked the hole (much to Big K's pathologically caulking delight) and we put a bucket under the light until it dried out. Ultimately, about 8 oz. of water made it through and there is only the mildest of damage to the drywall. You couldn't see it if you didn't know it was there, so the shit ain't getting fixed.

Now let's talk about the hazards to my health and well-being and that of my child. First of all, it is raining shingles around my house more often than not. So just walking outside is treacherous. Then we have the heaps of shingle waste all around the house, complete with about 9 billion giant staples that held the shingles on. My dad was over here the other day and he took one to the foot...luckily he coincidentally had a doctor appointment the next day and was reassured his tetanus shot was only 4 years old, so no homeowner's insurance claim is necessary up to this point. Then there are the remaining bricks from the chimney that are loitering in various peaks and valleys of the roof and sliding off when they put their mind to it. Then we have the sharp pieces of metal edging and whatever else metal goes on roofs that are all over the place. Dude. It's a good thing Phook can't walk, because it would be trouble. But still, I can walk, and I have this big idea that being in my yard is better than being indoors, and the fact that I am inviting something to cut my toes off by venturing outdoors is kind of starting to wear on me. So we sit on the sole remaining safe zone, our front steps, or at least we will until that becomes compromised in another day or two.

And you know what else is neat? It turns out that babies don't sleep all that awesome when someone is ripping the roof off directly above their crib. That, buddies, is a bit louder than the Ocean Wonders CD she listens to. Brother K did kindly ask if he could work while she napped, and I gave him the go ahead knowing full well what the result would be, but damn does it suck. Damn.

So I know I'm kind of being an ass here. I know that Brother K is doing us a major money-saving favor and it is a combination of hard physical labor, real physical danger, and a shitload of his time that he is subjecting himself to on our behalf. So my head knows realistically that this is a temporary situation and that ultimately this is a positive event. But the part of me who wants to be sowing radish seeds without danger of decapitation is really fucking pissed that my yard looks like London after the Blitz, okay? I spent an hour tonite helping Big K load old shingles and other crap into a wheelbarrow, and that's no way for a lovely lady such as myself to spend a Saturday evening. So consider me irritated until further notice.

If you have shelter available for one Phook and one Phookmom and have weeds that need pulling, we are your gals. Please post in the comments.