Roadtrip

Phook here. I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I wanted to tell you all about my vacation to the Carolinas, and my mom finally got her head out of her rear and let me get on my laptop, so the time has come. Straight up, the trip was real swell. The day we left was, for some reason I'm choosing not to reveal, the best day of my life. I was in the best mood ever. My parents had been so nervous about taking me on a 14-hour car trip, but I flipped the script on them and decided to be a rock star. Unfortunately, our van, Vanna Burgundy, had other ideas. About 170 miles into the 860 mile first leg of the journey, the vehicle started whining something fierce. Fierce. We pulled over and my dad diagnosed us as having low transmission fluid, and then set about reassuring my histrionic mom that it was no big deal. She knew otherwise, but attempted to silence herself by gnawing off all of her fingernails. Sure enough, the old whine came back about a hundred miles later. More tranny fluid was added, because surely there was a leak. And then 50 miles later. And then 30. All the way to Nowhere, Indiana. By this time, my mom was pretty close to needing a defibrillator thanks to her skyrocketing blood pressure. And my dad was filthy and sweaty from having attempted to wedge himself under the van looking for the mysterious tranny fluid leak 678 times throughout the motorists' nightmare that is the fair state of Indiana. They decided to call it a day, and we checked into the Lowbuck Inn, where we met some of the biggest psychos in the history of humankind. I kept my positive outlook and laughed at my parents as they housed some pizza in the corner of the rank hotel room, trying to be all quiet and shit so I'd sleep. Which I did with one eye open, gripping my pillow tight.

Now, the next morning we found ourselves an auto dealership with a mechanic who could look at Vanna. I took a nap on two chairs pushed together in the dealership waiting area, having decided that my lovey, Sleep Guy, is all I really need for a comfy nap. My parents shit themselves accordingly. Mechanic dudes couldn't find a tranny fluid leak. Turns out there wasn't one. Dad had just been adding more fluid because, well, I don't know why. (Oh, there's an elaborate reason, which he'll probably have to fight himself from explaining in the comments...but I'm not gonna waste your time with his nonsense!!!) Anyhow, they flushed our tranny and away we went (more on this later, good buddies). My mom kept calling my dad "tranny" for the rest of the day, but he didn't like that for some reason. Hmm.

So anyhow, we got back on the road and of course pit stops were required for many reasons. At one point, my parents pulled off the road in Scaryville, Kentucky, in order to get gas. At the run down gas station, my mom saw these signs:

Being an animal lover, she of course paused to read them. Here's the thing: there was a dog matching the exact description of the dog on the bottom sign lying directly beneath the sign. I heard my mom saying, "Hey, dog...are you that fucking dog? Are you deaf or no?" The dog did not reply. My mom was just about to call the number on the sign to say that the lost dog was hanging out by his own missing poster, when this guy walked out of the gas station and absconded with the dog as pictured below. My mom wet her pants and made heinous snorting sounds as her eyes beheld this sight:


So either this was another random dog matching the missing dog's description, or old dude freaking stole the lost dog. I guess we'll never know. Later that day, we arrived at our first destination, the beautiful city of Asheville, North Carolina. We promptly invaded the home of my momma's best friend, Miss Scarlett, and her hubby, Sheepish Pharmacist Hottie (SPH). Man did I laugh as those clowns, my parents, hauled all my phooking equipment up into their apartment...I love that I am so high maintenance. I was then provided with an avocado to eat which I rubbed in my hair to celebrate my arrival. We settled in for the evening and I chose to be a good kid and sleep all nice in my pack 'n play.

Now, the next day we did some really fun shit. The clowns took me hiking in my phooktoting device (I really am the cutest marsupial ever):

We hiked to a big waterfall where I shared a sandwich with my dad on a sweet rock:

Then I dipped my toes in the water and hooted and hollered and prevented wildlife from mating with my sound effects:

Here we all are together looking like a bunch of damned tourists in front of yet another waterfall (Geez, Asheville, don't you have anything to offer other than nature's wonders?):

Speaking of nature's wonders, my parents abandoned me one day with Miss Scarlett and went whitewater rafting on the French Broad River. Now, I was pretty sure that my dad was gonna come back either a) missing a limb b) a cyclops or c) requiring tube feeding, given his track record with injuries, but he actually survived. I heard he even overcame his fear of heights and followed my mom up this big rock and jumped off the cliff into the river. Hot shit! So, yeah, they were all excited about their big adventure, and I was excited that I managed to pinch a couple loaves in my dipe for Miss Scarlett and SPH to handle.

Another exciting thing we did was hang out in the swimming pool at our hosts' apartment complex. Here I am pretending to be a periscope:

And here I am pretending to be Lindsay Lohan halfheartedly blocking herself from the paparazzi as she leaves the club at 4 a.m.:

Although I don't have a photo I feel like posting to prove it, we also spent some time hanging out at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville. We went to the big house, the farm, the fancyass gardens, the winery...they have all kinds of shit to do there. My dad held me and I made a total scene while my mom and Miss Scarlett tasted wine. That was funny and I'm pretty sure that all the oenophiles who were glaring at me were secretly charmed. We also had an ice cream cone at the fanciest McDonald's on the face of the earth, which is located just outside of Biltmore. Here I am with Miss Scarlett getting a talking to about the evils of fast food:

Anyhow, we dicked around there for awhile longer and then, sadly, it was time to part ways with our comrades and head to South Carolina to hang out at the beach. We arrived on Hilton Head Island and checked into the shittiest hotel that place has to offer, since my parents have no business whatsoever spending time in a ritzy golf mecca, but knew the beaches to be quite choice.

Now my mom, being a crazed bastard for oceans, insisted that she dunk me in the salt water immediately. She was so excited for me to touch the ocean, it was like Christmas morning or some shit. Anyhow, here is my big moment:

My mom was like teary eyed and shit. What a gomer. She insisted we spend a lot of time at the beach. I ate a lot of beach. I also got dragged into the ocean on many occasions. It seems that despite my usual capacity for controlling my environment by simply screaming, I cannot stop waves from smashing me in the face no matter how hard I yell. Every time a big one would hit us, my parents would scream, "Bilge pump!" and then laugh hysterically. I truly can't believe I sprung from the loins of such dorks. Anyhow, here I am all duded up in my UV protection ensemble (more on this later):


Now, one day, we decided to take a little day trip to Savannah, GA. Here I am all geared up and ready to go on the grungy hotel floor:

Of course my mom is a maniac so we had to take a walk on the beach first (I'm cashed, but whatever - it's so not my fault - my parents have been playing an "Ocean Waves" CD for me at bedtime for like 4 months, so of course I'm gonna gray out when I'm strolling along by the actual ocean):

So anyhow, we made our way to Savannah where we hopped on a trolley tour. At one of the first stops, the conductor excitedly proclaimed that there was no line at The Lady & Sons, the restaurant owned by none other than that butter-lovin' goddess Paula Deen. My parents threw me off the trolley and sprinted down the street, because my momma loves that Paula. Sadly, it was a red herring...there was no line because they were already fully booked for lunch. My mom took this picture to commemorate walking where Paula has walked. (I know it looks all weird and superimposed and shit...it is a glass window and we are of course the beauteous silhouettes you see):

So that is as close as we got. You can see Paula's assfat buffet if you look closely. We ended up eating at this pirate place...my mom shoved some macaroni and cheese and a bunch of other southern studies in obtaining a badonkadonk butt into my grill, so it wasn't all bad. Here we all are hanging out with a nice cheesy anchor (and if you are interested in a weather report, feel free to observe the barometer that is my mom's frizzed out hair...yikes, lady, get some product for that shit!):

After eating non-Paula food, we spent some time on River Street in Savannah, and I napped and shit. We also got to see the traveling version of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, which my mom explained to me is serious business. My parents got all quiet and we slowly strollered down along The Wall, and I sent a little Phook message to the Man Upstairs for all those names I saw.

We eventually finished our trolley tour, and headed back to the Grungytown Inn, where I posed for this study in charm:


Now, you can't really see it in the above picture, but my parents had started to detect something a little suspicious on El Phookerino that day on the beach during which they dressed me in the UV protective snowsuit...mysterious red rashiness all over my charming person. My mom did some serious convulsing and mad googling and after considering possibilities such as the measles, allergic reactions, and impending death, decided (with the help of my more rational father) that I had a heat rash. Finally putting their faith in SPF 50 alone, I actually got to sport my hand-me-down bikini with 1980s neon trim as I performed quality assurance on local beach sticks on behalf of the Hilton Head Island Bitch Stick Conservancy. Perhaps if you look real close you can see my sweet rash:

If not, it is slightly more visible on my back in this photo, during which I am sailing on a dolphin watching vessel but am really more entertained by beating the shit out of the seat:

Regardless, I was pissed on this day:


My mom finally started to chill out on the screams of "Bilge Pump!" every time I swallowed a gallon of salt water and decided to switch it up a bit by offering me some chlorinated water one day. I decided that the pool was a bit more my speed, and agreed to smile for this photo, provided all proceeds stemming from its sale be donated to charity (and despite what people say to flatter her parents, that Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is a weird-looking kid, so this shot should fetch more):

Finally, our last day as islanders rolled around, and my parents decided it would be prudent to spend as much time as possible getting sand in our nether regions before heading back to our homestead, which is over a thousand miles from the ocean in any direction. We breakfasted on a beach towel, and my momma took this picture of me and my big buddy daddy:

Then my mom took me flying around the beach, and daddy snuck out the camera and took this shot on the down low, which is rather iconic, if I do say so myself:

I did a final round of stick inspections, and away we went. My mom had a very hard time pulling herself away from the beach, as she apparently always does when she leaves the ocean. Perhaps she was a giant squid or something in a previous life. Anyhow, here I am with the last stick I inspected:

Our big final stop was some quality time in Charleston, South Carolina. We took a horse drawn carriage tour and checked out some shit. I practiced my best happy yelling the whole time. I think that the honeymooner-esque gourdheads on the carriage with us were, not unlike the winery snobs, secretly charmed. How could they not be? Anyhow, here I am with my dad being ferried about the old city:

After the tour, we ate some lunch. Now my mom said to go ahead and post some free advertising on her blog, because this was one of the Top 5 meals she's ever consumed in her life, which is saying a lot given her penchant for being a chow hound. Friends, go to Hyman's Seafood if you are in Charleston. Actually, go there immediately, regardless of your coordinates. Get some broiled shrimp and scallops and calamari...cajun seasoning...oh man oh man oh man. (I am quoting my mom here...crazy lady wouldn't shut her yap about it for like 500 miles).

All right. Finally, I will share the last picture of me from the trip, with Sleep Guy in my stroller, just as we were about to load up into our car:

Right after this photo was taken, we got in the van and my dad dropped the crazy bomb on my mom. Rather than pit stopping in Asheville again at Miss Scarlett's pad, he proposed we drive the entire 19 hours home without stopping. My mom protested (largely because she was wearing shorts with a button and a zipper and that is against her elastic-waistband-only roadtrip rule) but eventually gave into his scheme. So that is what occurred. We left Charleston at 4 p.m. and got home at about 11 a.m. the next morning. We all stunk, quite frankly. What also stunk was the fact that the tranny whine returned around 3 a.m. (My mom KNEW this would happen.) But they just kept driving and we eventually made it home. I slept like a champ and was pretty jovial about the whole clusterfuck. I got my dipe changed at the Belvidere Oasis, so that was positive. When we rolled into town, mom and I dove out of the van and dad took it up to our mechanic dude's shop while it was still hot and whining (not unlike myself) and dude confirmed we have tranny problems, which will most likely result in a very expensive repair job for my parents; it remains to be seen whether that will occur tomorrow or in 2038. If you are interested in making a contribution to the "Save Vanna" Fund, please post in the comments.

So that's about it. We had a grand old time and I am a card-carrying roadtripper.

Bilge pump!

Now this one I didn't see coming

So Phookster is 9 months old today. She had her well baby visit today to mark the occasion. She is a wee nugget of 17 lbs 7 ounces (25th percentile) and 28 inches long (60th percentile). So I guess when people say, "She's tiny!" the correct response from me is, "Yup." She is healthy as a wee horse. A miniature horse, I guess that would be. No shots today, which was positive. All in all, a good visit.

Except this one thing. You see, I haven't been blogging about it because I probably already exhausted my readers' patience with talk of titter milk over the past 9 months, but the time has come for me to address this subject once again. Phook, my sweet little cluster feeding Phook, has become nearly impossible to nurse. Oh, sure, she roots for the boob and does embarrassing things in public in terms of ripping my shirt down and whatnot when she is feeling feisty, but when it comes time to do the business, she is just not having it. She'll latch on like she's voracious and ready to wolf down a pint of the top shelf stuff, but she pops off in under 10 seconds, almost every time. I try again. And again. And switch sides. And do our business in a dimly lit, unstimulating place, free of distractions. And still our "nursing" sessions last 2 minutes and result in very little nursing. At first this only occurred during the midday nurses after naps, but lately I have even been having a hard time with her at bedtime, when I used to be able to count on her for a sleepy big old nightcap feed. The only remaining feeding that resembles a feeding is her morning feeding, and even during that (which I do lying in our bed after Big K brings her to me) she is trying to roll over and push up and even somehow almost stand up while actually nursing. (As an aside, I never could have imagined myself in a plastic surgeon's office until I witnessed the tremendous impact nursing a wee nugget could have on one's funbags. Yikes.) So anyhow, the point is that the child has been getting very little breastmilk.

So I shared this with Phook's doc. Phook's doc is of the opinion that she is weaning herself, which is pretty damned obvious to me as well. She said to add 16-20 ounces of formula to her daily diet, which as loyal readers know, consists of approximately 4 metric tons of table food per day. Sitting in the office, I smiled, nodded, and asked what kind of formula to buy. I then went to the store right after leaving the office and bought it without incident. I mean, I knew this was the answer and it was no big deal. From there, we attended a small retirement party and although I was not actively thinking about Phook's liquid caloric intake at the time, I found myself staring kind of glassy-eyed at my veggie pizza, not really sure why I felt so out of it. And then we got home, and Phook starting doing her phooking and I was watching her and all of a sudden it fucking hit me like ton of bricks. My baby was weaning herself. From me. Without help. Cue the tears. Seriously, I started bawling like a bastard. She looked at me with curiosity but continued playing. Then it was time for her new snack, so I mixed her up a 4-ouncer...being on the conservative side in case she didn't like it. Of course I sliced my hand open on the container as I was peeling back the metallic whatever the hell that shit is that covers the can. I put it in her cup and gave it to her. She chugged it in about 90 seconds and looked at me happily afterwards, and then commenced playing.

So that's it, there it is, my kid is on formula. I'll probably still try and hang onto that morning feeding for awhile, and any other time she seems really interested, but I don't know how long it will last. I have spent the afternoon alternating between sobbing and almost sobbing. Now this probably sounds pathetic and weird. But this is seriously unbelievably tearing at my heart. I'm not having some panic attack about feeding my kid poison formula or something...she has clearly slurped up the benefits of breastmilk already and it is pretty obvious that this is nutritionally the best thing for her at this point in time. I am just so sad that this bond we have had since her birth is breaking. Now, a year ago this summer, I was traversing the 25 miles to my health care provider's clinic to attend a "breastfeeding workshop," and I was bawling like a bastard then too. Why? Because I was so dreading breastfeeding my newborn. I wasn't grossed out by the mechanics of it or anything...I was just feeling resentful that a parasite had taken up residence in my body for 9 months and was about to seriously cramp my style even further by requiring me as a food source for the next considerable stretch of time. Perhaps that sounds cold and heartless, but I was really frightened by the level of commitment breastfeeding requires. And honestly, I wasn't wrong or overestimating that commitment. But once Phook and I got the kinks worked out with our breastfeeding arrangement, it became something really wonderful, for both of us I think. I remember her being a newborn and looking up at me while she nursed, as if to say, "Hi Mom, I'm Phook!" and I remember her sleepily reaching up with her hand and gently touching my chest with her hand as she drifted off...the same way she now caresses her lovey as she goes to sleep. I remember catching glimpses of us in the full length mirror on the back of her bedroom door as we nursed in the rocker and thinking, "I am a mother and this is my baby. This is all I ever wanted," and then of course I'd cry a little bit. I mean, I am a big, cursing, crass, ridiculously boisterous human being, but nursing my child has provided the most tender, quiet moments of my life. It is soul food, for both parties. If everything works out and no one is getting painful infections and no one is sick and no one is having some heinous complication, it really can be that magical bonding shit that all the breastfeeding nazis include in their guilt-inducing propaganda. But nothing I can say or they can say can ever describe the experience until you've had it. Nourishing another human being with your own body, it turns out, can be a very big deal.

So, there we have it. Big W sobbing about the baby who is too busy crawl-running around the house to hang out attached to her momma. I don't know how many nursings I have left with this kid, but boy am I going to try and savor them.

And here is the kicker. At one point during my sobfest, Phook decided to engage me in her new favorite game, which is crawling away from me really fast, stopping and turning around to make sure I am chasing, crawling faster, and then collapsing on the floor with giggles once I catch her. Only today, it took on the beautiful, awful metaphoric significance of the day. There she is, this perfect child crawling away from her momma as fast as she can, with her momma right behind trying to keep up. And every once in awhile she'd stop and let me catch her, and we'd both laugh as my tears hit her back. It makes me wonder how many of my own parents' tears I never noticed. It also reminds me of the hardest thing about being a parent. It's not the interrupted sleep or the empty wallet or the audience in the bathroom. It's the fact that from the day you have that baby, they start crawling away, and you're going to spend the rest of your life trying to catch them, if only for a moment.

I just hope she keeps letting me catch her every once in awhile.

Apparently there is no kid rock without joe c

Dudes. I was in the ER again on Thursday night with the most excruciating nightmare badness pain ever (except the crowning fetus thing). Yeah, about 3 o'clock on Thursday afternoon I started feeling something eerily similar to the pain I felt with my previous kidney stone. I decided to trek 30 miles to run some errands anyhow, including a farmer's market, grocery shopping, dropping some stuff off for charity, and dropping off the chunk of kid rock that I passed uneventfully on vacation for analysis. Stupid me. By about 5:30 I was seriously hurting. But 5:30 is Phook's dinner time, so I took her out to eat and fed her a chicken tender and a banana. By the time I got home at 6:30, I could barely walk, but I had melting groceries in the car, so I carried them all in on one hip with Phook on the other. I then put them away. I then collapsed on the floor and let Phook crawl around on top of me until it was seriously past her bedtime. I then got her in bed. I then felt the full brunt of hell in my back, and I spent some quality time on the bathroom floor staving off impending vomit.

At this point, I felt like it might be pertinent to call some member of my family, such as my husband who was (is) in Omaha at the College Baseball World Series. Or my parents, who were an hour away on their first solo camping trip, well, ever. Given that these were the peoples I would call in such a situation, I decided I would will away the stone. I crawled to bed with a receptacle to catch any offending matter spraying from my body, and began simultaneously wailing in pain and praying for relief. About 9:30 when I started shaking, I finally called my husband, who freaked out and told me I had to call my parents. He offered to fly home and I told him to kiss my butt. I eventually consented to calling the 'rents. Of course I was in tears. Of course they came home. I suck. I called the urolochick and got her on-call dude, who was an ass to me. That sucked. I laid there for awhile and wished for a sweet coma. That sucked. My parents showed up. That did not suck. My dad took me to my vacation home, the emergency room. They IV'd me, collected my piss, scanned my cat, and told me I had another stone. At 4 mm's, I decided it was Joe C. I got some non-narcotic something good in the IV line. That was nice. They sent me home. I'm sure my insurance company is proud to have me on their rosters.

We returned home at 2:30 a.m. on Friday morning. My mom hasn't left, and we've eaten all their camping food. The first day I was a useless face of death. Yesterday I felt somewhat better. Today a bit more better. But let us call me pissed, huh? And let us call me an asshole, for sabotaging my parents' weekend, huh?

I am seriously sick of this shit.

Guess who's back?

No, I'm not talking about the K Family, recently returned from vacation (although Phook plans to blog at ya once she finishes organizing the 350 photos she took on our trip). No, friends, I am talking about something that is just ridiculously fabulously awesomely awesome. Buddies, I am talking about the return of Vanilla Coke. Yes, after being discontinued in favor of Black Cherry Vanilla Coke, the real deal, Vanilla Coke, is back in action. Now, I happened upon it while on vacation in some sinkhole of a gas station, and I assumed that it was locally available and that I could not have it myself in The Woods. Or that the store was such a cesspit that it had never managed to go out of stock there after it was discontinued. Either way, I couldn't fathom the possibility that it was actually back in full force. But it is. I even saw a billboard for it in Chicago. And it is available at my local convenience store. Rejoice.

To celebrate the return of this beautiful nectar, I am going to talk about pop. (You may call it soda. Or soda pop. Or something else. But I call it pop, allright?) Now, I have made reference on this blog to my love of pop, and carbonation as a concept, on more than one occasion. But I think carbonation is actually my favorite food. Have I mentioned that? Perhaps I have. I have a deep, deep love for pop. A deep, longstanding love. Let's reflect, shall we?

When I was a kid, I recall my parents having 7Up in glass bottles, and we had these nifty little stoppers that kept it nice and fizzy after the bottle was opened. I liked that. We used to get flat 7Up whenever we were sick with stomach ailments. I was always supposed to have just a sip at a time every 30 minutes or at some other ungodly interval, but I would sneak sips more often, knowing full well I wouldn't be able to hold it down. So I guess that as a 6-year-old I liked pop more than I disliked vomiting. That's saying something.

As a young kid, we drank a lot of Jolly Good and store brand pop. I really liked the variety of flavors you could get. Pina Colada, for instance. Fruit punch. Orange. Lemon Lime. Black Cherry. I loved them all. Loved when there was a fresh stock of them and I had to debate the merits of each flavor before committing.

As a teenager, I became wildly addicted to Pepsi. I don't even know how many thousand cans I drank during my teenage years, but I loved that shit. I would go to bed at night, sleepwalk downstairs, open the fridge, grab a Pepsi, take it up to bed with me, and spill it over the floor as I drank it while comatose. My parents' carpet has never recovered. (My mom may have removed my high school student-athlete awards, but she'll never get rid of that shit.) I think at some points the parents attempted to set a pop limit on me, but I was subversive and managed to pretty much drink as much pop as I wanted most of the time.

As I progressed into young adulthood, I developed a fondness for Ruby Red Squirt, which my grandma always had on hand especially for me and a cousin who loved it, should we happen to drop by. (Why do grandmas rule so much in this way?) Anyhow, I got real cozy with Ruby Red, but it was somewhat difficult to acquire, never being a major mainstream pop.

At this point, I also started my love affair with Dr. Pepper. There is nothing like Dr. Pepper on God's green earth. It is a wondrous thing. It became my sweet, sweet love. Unfortunately, around this time I also stopped being a 16-year-old who spent 4 hours per day involved in intense athletic pursuits, and it started becoming obvious that I could not swill a case of full-calorie pop each day and not end up in line for my gastric bypass. Hence, my amorous affair became more of a love-hate relationship. I loved my pop, but I hated the fact that it gave me back fat. Like many others before me, I switched to diet. Diet Dr. Pepper is a pretty excellent diet soda, and it became a mainstay. But you know, I am an equal popportunity type of gal, and I sampled my fare share of diet sodas. Diet Rite, in its many flavors, was a big favorite. Diet Squirt also good.

I also find it important to note that I drink ginger ale when aboard an aircraft. They offer you a pop, you ask what they have, they recite the list, and it always includes ginger ale. And you think, "Geez, it's been forever since I had ginger ale. That sounds good." And then you enjoy a ginger ale.

Now, fast forward a few years, and we have a Big W who has some health concerns of the high blood pressure variety. Screwed up back, etc. I start to think more about my diet, and that of course includes hearty helpings of diet pop. So I eliminate it completely for weeks or even months on end, yearning lustily for pop as I force the water down my pie hole, hating every flavorless drip. Particularly since the Phook incubation began, I've tried so hard to break up with pop. But let's just go ahead and admit that the breastmilk Phook's been lapping up for almost 9 months is probably 40% carbonated. I can't win. I just can't. My love for pop is overwhelming, unbeatable, unending.

Which brings me to Vanilla Coke. I became a Coke person over a Pepsi person probably two or years ago. When Vanilla Coke came out, Big K and I saw it advertised and both wanted some immediately. When he had his first sip of it, he said, "Man, that refreshes my balls off." I reported this to my mother, who was also interested in the newfangled offering, and she somehow translated that into calling it "Creamy Balls Pop." Yes, readers, that is horrifying. But it is what it is. (And I'm sorry Big K's balls once again showed up in a post where they don't belong. Not that they ever belong in a post, but whatever.) So anyhow, yes, the Ks started imbibing Vanilla Coke (or actually, Diet Vanilla Coke) whenever the opportunity struck. We loved us some Diet Vanilla Coke. I still remember the day I heard it was being discontinued. The news was delivered to me by an obnoxious deejay on an obnoxious radio station while I was mid-commute, which is to say while I was at the worst possible point in my bad day. It felt like a punch in the gut. I screamed and then fell into a state of catatonia not unlike Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. It was a very dark day. I couldn't believe that my friends in Pop Land had gone and done something so evil as to introduce the most delicious pop ever conceived by man and then go and take it away. I took it as a sign of the apocalypse. Surely, everyone must love this shit. How, then, could they take it away? I mourned, as people do. You know, I Kubler-Ross'd it and all...Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.

But then, just as I had come to terms with my loss, my girl Vanilla Coke came back to me, in Vanilla Coke Zero form and all. I should have known. It's meant to be. I really loved her, I let her go, and she came back to me. True love, my friends, true love. It can't be denied.

No words today.

Is that light I see there at the end of the tunnel?

I would like to report that my jalopy of a dumpster was pulled out of my damned yard today, and I flicked it off as it drove away. I considered going outside and stomping naked on the beaten dead grass, but I decided to keep it rated PG since my neighbors across the street are highly retired and highly nosy. But anyhow, the stupid dumpster is gone. Which means the roof is done. Well, except for one little patch of rolled roofing over a bay window that will be completed today, per the statement signed in blood on my driveway (which is probably subject to change).

Anyhow, yes, my yard is now preening itself (with my help) for all passersby to see. The gardens are planted. (I finished the last one in a thunderstorm two evenings ago; that is the depth of my desperation here, people.) Things have germinated. Now, my entire population of birds that I've been fattening for 3.5 years moved to less toxic pastures weeks ago, but if they ever want to return, the feeders are full. I am well pleased.

Also, Brother K is moving out on Friday, going to Texas to be with his lady. We will miss him as a Wisconsinite but probably not so much as a roomie. I think the Boarding House K is going to be nailing up its windows and the like. Big K, Phook, and I need to return to our uncluttered unit. There will also be less dishes. And less towels. And less First Person Shooter video games.

We are leaving on Friday for vacation to hang with Best Friend of Big W and her husband, who we will call Sheepish Pharmacist Hottie. (I luv ya, JC.) Anyhow, they live in the great state of North Carolina, and we are road trippin' Phook down there in the van on Friday to hang for some days. We are then going to South Carolina for a few days of family beach fun. We are going to eat roadkill the whole time, but at least I won't be here crazily pacing and worrying about things like how much tonnage was in that dumpster that just drove away and what it's going to cost me. So we are wicked excited about that. Of course we are nervous about restraining Captain Mobility (that's Phook) for 14 hours of driving, but I'm prepared to make pig snorts and cow moos for the length of an entire business day or two being that I am secure in the knowledge that eventually I'm gonna be dipping my chubby toes in that most wondrous of earth's gifts...an ocean. Phook does have a bit of a cold, but I am actively willing it away, so I'm sure she will be fine.

Can I just say that packing for an 18-pound hamsteak who wears audacious bikinis and sunhats is kind of like packing for an entire contingent of the armed forces? Seriously. I mean, I'm no good at packing light, but I am seriously trying here, people. And no matter how you slice it, babies need equipment. Man. Sure am glad we have our sweet ride.

In other news, kid rock is still firmly ensconced in my urinary tract. I see a urologist tomorrow morning and a part of me is a bit concerned they're gonna throw me in a cage and not let me out until I magically produce this nugget the whole world is anxiously awaiting. (Kind of like having my labor with Phookie induced twice...) So say a little prayer to the ureter gods that the urolochick lets me leave the state. If she advises otherwise, I'll probably just act like that TB guy and take my noxious stone with me against medical advice anyhow.

So that is it for now. I have been metablogging a few posts that are gonna have to wait. I for some reason feel the need to recreate my sweetass hummus and take it with on vacation, so I must be going now. Perhaps you will get an update from the road...