Al Gore drinks out of the toilet

Let me explain.

This evening, after bathing my filthy children and putting the chubby short one to bed, Phook and I enjoyed a bowl of ice cream together. Big K was off attending to one of his many extracurricular activities, making this the third evening this week I've had no co-parent around during any of the children's waking hours, and as a result, I was feeling like I ought to take in some adult mental stimulation of some sort. With that in mind, I turned on the coverage of the Democratic National Convention for Phook and I to enjoy. You know, so I could continue to talk in toddlerese for awhile longer...only with people wearing ties yapping in the background.

So Al Gore came on and proceeded to give a speech that I rather enjoyed. As did Phook. She started gesticulating wildly and jabbering happily and excitedly as Al talked. She seemed to be giving her own political speech. "Read my lips...no new siblings!" Or something like that.

I was growing more and more amused as Phook raved like a lunatic during Al's speech. Then I asked her, "Phook, do you like Al Gore?" She paused for a moment in thought and then replied with a meaningful, "Mm Hmm." I repeated the question just to be sure, and she repeated the answer. I then asked her, "Where is Al Gore?" I fully expected her to point to the television. But she did not. No. Friends, she pointed at that fatass cat Uncle Growler, who was comatose on the back of the couch.

Maybe you had to be there, but I peed a little bit. That was awesome.

I've spent the remainder of my evening addressing the cat with statements such as, "Way to go buddy on that whole inventing the Internet thing" and, "Whoa, that Tipper is a hottie." And then I think I'm funny.

The best part was right before coming upstairs to go to bed, which has turned into writing this post, when I found the overweight animal teetering perilously on the edge of the toilet. I love it when post titles come to me with such clarity.

Funny shiz.

And also, if Barack Obama is not elected this November, I'm fuggin' out of here. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm out. Word.

At 7:30 p.m., both my children were in bed and soundless

And that, my friends, is all that a recently minted mother of two can ask of the universe. And the reward I give to the universe in return is this blog post.

Oh, friends inside the computer, never have I had so many unwritten posts rattling around inside my goat brain. Alas, time is short and what wee quantity of stamina I have left when a nugget of time lands in my lap usually has me driven to some more pressing task, like washing my face. I'll admit I have actually written a couple of posts for therapeutic purposes, but then haven't had the stones to throw them out there to you. But they've served their therapeutic purposes helping me process various things associated with the recent revisions in my job description here in Momville, and who knows, perhaps someday I'll turn them into something a few other people can stomach.

In the meantime, I wanted to give you all a quick update on things. Circus, okay, screw it...I'm changing his name. I have to force myself to type "Circus" at this point so I'm officially changing it. Circus is now officially Snuffle Pig, okay? Or maybe Snuffy, if I'm feeling into the whole brevity thing.

So, Snuffle Pig, well, he is growing. Holy flaming beanbags is he growing. He outgrew the newborn size of diapers in about 2 weeks and newborn/0-3 month size clothing at about 4 weeks. He is now begging for a size 2 diaper as I continue to cram him into my stockpile of size 1's, is solidly filling out the 3-6 months size, and, dare I say it, even wearing a few choice items in 6-9 month size. I estimate his weight to be in excess of 13 pounds. And I measured him the other day with a yard stick and he was pushing 24 inches long. This is our big one. Dude.

He continues to spit up copiously. I wore 4 different shirts today. I don't know why I continue to change. Really, what am I thinking? His 2-month well baby visit is on 9/2, and I suspect we will be entering the world of reflux meds. Ah, yes. That being said, his overall demeanor is really improving. He's still a tough nut, but we are getting more and more awake and content time out of him. Thank God. My main difficulty with him continues to be getting him on something resembling a routine. It has been really hard, as he does not just drift off into a happy slumber on his own at this point. Oh no he does not. So it is hard to get him down with a raging flaming Phook wrecking shop around the house. But we're making progress with him. I need to do a whole post about this topic, because it's kind of sort of about 98% of my existence right now.

But, for now, we'll talk about the other 2%. The other day, before Auntie Hode left, a friend of mine who has the most gigantic garden I've ever seen (it's bordering on a farm), invited me to come harvest some of her cucumbers. Hode and I loaded up the kidlets and drove to her homestead and went to town. We picked a 5 gallon bucket of cucumbers. Holy shiz. Obviously, as I'm kind of into the whole home canning thing, our intention was to make a few pickles, but that is a serious quantity to contend with. A long day's work, and that's not even taking the shorties I've got running around here into consideration. So, totally having our wits about us, we stopped at a farm stand on the way home to get some dill, and I found myself kind of limply falling into a fugue state as I heard my sister wheeling and dealing herself into half a bushel of beets for pickling. And then I found my car driving to this Amish grocery nearby and purchasing an entire bushel of fresh peaches. For $19. How could I not?

When we got home, my kitchen table was awash in raw materials. It looked like this:

And I, realizing the complete and utter lunacy of acquiring so many perishables when I had a suckling piglet and a crazed, perpetually teething toddler on my hands, looked like this:

There was nothing to do but dive in. Because that's what I do. Dive into things. Empty pools, for example. Even Snuffle Pig knew we were nucking futs:

He got a little sad though when I told him he couldn't eat anything himself for at least another couple of months:


The first thing that happened was that we weighed our jumbo box of cukes about 9 trillion different times trying to figure out the best way to optimize them for pickling by size of cuke and quantity needed for various types of pickles. This picture, not showing the depth of the box, really doesn't do it justice, but this is what we were working with:

We ultimately determined that we'd do a double batch of dills (half spears, half whole pickles), and a double batch of bread and butter pickles. Ultimately, it looked like this:

Okay, now I'm feeling compelled, since this post features pictures of my kitchen, to offer my biannual disclaimer about that godawful faux brick in my kitchen. I hate it - I hate it - I hate it - I didn't put it there - I need $30K to redo my kitchen - I hate it - I hate it - Don't judge me - I hate it. Okay. Moving on.

As I mentioned earlier, we also acquired a bushel of peaches. After sorting out a few bad ones and appointing Uncle Growler to monitor ripening, it looked something like this (note a special peach reserved on Phook's high chair for her breakfast the following morning):

When confronted with this situation, even when I'm on a canning mission, I can never prevent myself, as hard as I try, from making a pie. I mean, seriously. Those things are just begging to be pied. So I slipped and this happened:

And, as anal as I can be, I'm all about getting my kid in on the fun as far as cooking is concerned. So I sort of let Phook squat on the kitchen table and dick around with my leftover dough for an hour and a half:

But back to business. After making the pie and eating many peaches, we still ended up with 14 pints and 3 quarts of canned peaches. Oh, yeah, and a few pints of peach butter. And, well, yeah, we pickled those godforsaken beets too. I present the following:

So there you have it. I was really thinking I wouldn't get around to any canning this year, but through the miracles of Auntie Hode, a baby swing, and letting my big kid plop her ass down in myriad foodstuffs, we got 'er done. And since I've put the word out to the tomato people in my life that I'm in the market for their overflow, I suspect there will be additional fun to be had in this arena before it's all said and done. It's just a bunch of jars, friends, but it's proof that Big W is still managing to exist, even now, even against all odds, even with two kids. I suspect those peaches will be extra sweet this winter.

And, speaking of extra sweet, check out the smile on my little puker:

His sister didn't pony up goods like that until she was significantly older. I think the Snuffle Pig is a keeper. And now I should probably go to bed, because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, and I'll probably be dealing with hourly nightwakings and a stomach flu within a few hours.

When running into oncoming traffic seems like a good idea...

...you know you've had a rough day. Against all odds, this isn't a post about sleep deprivation or a baby that cries a lot or a toddler that hurls her food across the room. No, this is a post about the sucktastic fact that my sister, Auntie Hode, returned to her 'hood today, permanently. I've referenced her a lot lately, but if you didn't catch it, she's been in The Woods since shortly after Circus was born, primarily hanging out at my house. Alas, she is a high school teacher and she has to report for duty this coming week. So off she sped this afternoon, leaving me in a puddle of my own pathetic snot.

Anyone who knows me or reads this blog regularly knows that I am very happy to be a stay at home mom. Either that or at least I am really good at faking it. But it has its pitfalls. There is the financial pitfall...well, actually, that's more like a giant ruptured fault line with bridges and cars falling into it, but I digress. But possibly the most significant pitfall of spending all your time with tiny children is that you don't get to spend any time in the company of adults. Now, I'm by no means a social butterfly, but I have my people, and I love them. I don't have a wide network of casual acquaintances that I cherry pick from to find someone to hang out with every weekend. But I have a few cherished people that I keep up correspondence with and see whenever I can. And I have a little mom network here in The Woods that is becoming more and more a pack of real friends for me. And then I have Hode, who is my special person. So while I don't need to constantly be texting my pack of frenemies like all these newfangled teeny boppers do, I have some people. And I need them.

It can be very, very difficult to go long stretches without interacting with other adults. As much as I hate most of you bastards out there in the universe, even I have to admit that there fact. Spending your day being smeared with noxious fluids, pastes, and stews by the barely verbal is something that can be hard on the adult mind. And there is, I have found, a cumulative effect. When it's winter and I don't see another adult really for days on end...yeah, those are the days when I'm standing at the driveway at 5 p.m. on Friday night demanding my husband drive me around the block.

What I am ultimately getting at is that I have had another adult in my presence during daytime hours for a solid 6 weeks. And not just any person, but my special person. Far, far, beyond the awesomeness of having someone else here who will wipe my kids' noses and fold my laundry (although that it pretty awesome, obviously), is the awesomeness of just hanging out with my person. God only knows what kind of postpartum mess I'd be if I hadn't spent the last several weeks marveling at the size of Giada de Laurentiis' head while watching Food Network with Hode. I mean, we just have a good time together. We have the same weird sense of humor. We speak a whacked dialect, if we're even bothering to use words to communicate. We have so many shared experiences, both in childhood and in our relationship as adults, that there is a buried comical reference in everything we say, and no one else gets it. I've had that person in my home--making me laugh, keeping me company, becoming one of the handful of people on this earth who can console a wailing Phook--for the better part of the summer. And today she drove away.

I spent at least 3 hours sobbing this afternoon. She dropped me off to pick up my car at the mechanic before she left, and we hugged and sobbed in the parking lot. And then I had to get my shit together to go in and collect my keys. I failed, and ended up blubbering to the staff like a total clown. I'm talking about actual tears and snot dripping off my face while I tried to pay for an oil change. And then I came home and threw myself on the couch and sobbed. And then Big K left to teach this class to troubled kids like the Citizen of the Millennium that he is, and I sobbed some more. And then I pathetically fed Phook two generic blueberry waffles and a bowl of frozen mixed vegetables and sobbed some more. And then I went for a walk, felt there was far too much room on the sidewalk without having someone next to me, and sobbed some more. And then I walked to my parents' house and sat on their deck for a few minutes and sobbed some more. And then I came home and put my kids to bed and sobbed some more. And then I washed Hode's omnipresent water glass for what was probably the 9 millionth time but was definitely the last time, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Like grabbed the sink and did that crying/heaving thing you do when you break up with your high school boyfriend. Because she is gone. And I am still here. (And I'm sobbing again now, FYI.)

Oh, I will make it. Of course. There isn't an Option B. And you're probably reading this and not really relating, because your sister bugs the shit out of you. But I know there are probably some of you out there who get it. The lucky ones, those of you who get it. I'm so grateful to be a lucky one.

On that walk of sobs today, I kept thinking how weird it was that I had actually grown relatively complacent about not seeing her on a daily basis. How it had become normal over the past couple years that she has lived over 3 hours away, this seeing each other monthly, or less than monthly, how odd that it had become normal, when we're clearly not meant to be apart. Of course I missed her, and we talk on the phone almost daily, but it had become normal. And it really isn't, not for us. Because she is my special person. On said walk, I called and told her this. And she said, "You know Hode, you know how we always joke about some day living with our families in a duplex? Maybe those aren't jokes."

So we've determined that someone must relocate ASAP. In the meantime, here in The Woods, just like that I'm back to talking jibberish and wiping slime off of every conceivable surface without anyone here to laugh with me at the fact that Circus' beard of spit-up makes him look uncannily like Santa.

Aw, Hode, come back. There's just nothing else to say.

Snapshots of said grand adventure

Well, we survived our adventure to the Land o' Hode. Barely. Let us say that the sleeping arrangements were flawed. And any parent knows that with children, flawed sleeping arrangements can break the needle right off of your mayhem-o-meter. But we all slept a little. I am sporting a lot of bruises from getting kicked in every quadrant of my person on account of sharing a bed with my daughter. I now know why she wakes up every morning with Nick Nolte mugshot hair...she just spins all night long in all directions. She also fell out of my sister's double bed that we were sharing no less than 3 times on account of this spinning...our scheme about getting her moved into a big girl bed just got backed up about a decade, at best. Oh lordy. Despite this mayhem, there was some fun to be had, some beautiful scenery to ingest, and at least a change of pace. Let us behold.

Firstly, we have a picture of Circus all up in Hode's papasan chair. I think he looks handsome:

And in a blast from the past, let us review a picture of Phook taken in the same chair at almost the exact same age...there is more resemblance between the two of them than I had recalled as I reflected on Phook's early days:

We took most of our meals in Hodeville, which allowed us to let Phook get naked and go goat-faced crazy on a bowl of spaghetti:

And a second bowl of spaghetti, with intensity:

One day, we went to this truly sweet farm place tourist attraction that wasn't shitty, where all the little girls and boys, Auntie Hode included, fed some animals:

Now, with the purchase of admission, you got a little ticket that entitled you to purchase a 25 cent bottle of milk with which you could feed these wild mad goats running about the place. With 4 entrants, we got 4 tickets. The goats, unlike a lot of human babies who like to make feeding difficult for their parents, know what the fuck they are doing. They run at those bottles of milk and absolutely drain that shit. I was worried that Phook would be overwhelmed and skittish about the whole goat-feeding business, but she didn't have time to react at all, let alone negatively. I handed her the milk, and the goat just ambushed her and did the rest, although at one point she tried (and failed) to pull the goat off the bottle:

We also spent some time at some lovely beaches. But the loveliest thing on this stone beach was Phook:

At another beach one evening, in between bouts of me exposing myself to feed the manimal, Circus chilled out and posed for the ladies in his sweet trunks:

While all that was happening, Phook was dragging Hode out into the water. And then insisting she be picked up. And then telling Hode she wanted to go "Dee! Dee!" (deep in Phookspeak, a language which includes no ending consonant sounds). Hode, who hadn't felt like swimming or changing into her suit, actually walked out into freezing chest-deep water carrying Phook. Watching her do this with no qualms, I realized that if I get hit by a bus, my children will be left with a mother figure fitting enough that I can rest peacefully in my grave. That's saying a lot. Here we have the buddies as they embark into the depths:

I got to hang out with the little Snuffle Pig on the beach, and that too was lovely:

But the best part of the whole trip was the cone. Now, Phook has had ice cream a handful of times. We are a cone-loving family, and oftentimes, a cone and a ride around The Woods looking for wildlife is the highlight of our weekend. So, yes, ice cream is a go. However, what with me being anal and perpetually thinking of Phook as a baby, we'd always gotten hers in a dish, and then helped her with it, with a stack of napkins as tall as Phook nearby. So the day we were leaving Hodeville, we stopped for a quick lunch at this deli/ice cream shop. We ate sandwiches at some tables outdoors and then decided to go back in for a cone. I was of course nursing the pig, so Hode and Phook went in to get the ice cream. A few minutes later, Hode came out holding a waffle cone for the each of us, and was laughing her ass off. My view of Phook was blocked by a parked car, and from the size of Hode's laughter, I assumed she had handed Phook her dish of ice cream and Phook had upended it upon herself or something. But no. What I saw when Phook emerged from behind the parked car literally brought tears to my eyes, it was such a sweet sight. Phook was holding her very own cone, two handed, walking so careful, so indescribably proud of having her own big girl cone, and licking like mad. It was, fittingly, a moment that melted me. See?

And you know, I probably wouldn't have gotten her her own cone for at least another year. Or five. On account of the stain removal and sticky car seat nonsense that would inevitably follow from such an exercise...because sometimes, I have to admit, I suck like that. But Auntie Hode just got her the cone, no worries. And there were no worries to be had. Just one of those memories that you try to burn in to your brain to pull out later for reliving on some awful gray February day. But even if the memory fades, this picture of my big-eyed beautiful girl won't:

Man, I'm gulping tears just looking at that. Woof. I have mommy-vision of course, but that is a gorgeous child right there. With her one and only first cone. Gulp, gulp, hormones, gulp.

So that's how we rolled. And upon returning home, Phook saw her favorite cat, Uncle Growler, cruising about in the kitchen. Apparently rather excited to see him, she immediately dove completely on top of him and screamed at the top of her lungs, "GOWER!!!" That was pretty awesome. Home sweet home for all of us.

Off on a grand adventure

I'm packing up my spawn and heading to the place Auntie Hode calls home for the week. She just so happens to teach at a school located in a lovely vacation destination. I cannot tell you how much equipment is involved in hauling two young youngsters and myself away for the week...I'm kind of exhuasted having just broken my brain in half trying to think of everything we'll need. Can a minivan actually be small? Anyhow, I thought I'd leave you with some photos of the K family, since I won't be posting again for awhile.

Here we have Circus on his one month birthday. Pardon the red-eye...you get the idea. The child is growing up already. And I'm guessing he weighs nearly 12 pounds, from the size of his man boobs, anyhow.

Speaking of Circus, we had him baptized last Sunday. He was very good, until he sharted through his diaper and onto my dress mid-service, and then urinated all over the pew when I changed him as soon as church was over. That was neat.


And here are a few shots of Phook dicking around on some playground equipment. She scored that sweet flag when her parents finished walking a charity 5K last Sunday with our shorties in the stroller. That was neat.


And there you have it. Wish me luck on my "vacation," which will be nothing of the sort, what with these omnipresent children involved. But I'll probably at least knock back a few beers on Hode's porch, so that's worth something.

I'd like to present a fresh new definition of hell

When I had Phook, I thought I was pretty bold. When she was 9 days old, I remember that we took her to a state park about 45 minutes from here, and we dicked around there a little bit. And then we went to this orchard and got apples. It was a big outing for us new parents, and I remember feeling mildly proud that we got our shit together and got out of the house. At the time, Phook and I were still working out the kinks in our breastfeeding operation, and it could sometimes take absolutely forever to feed her. But I felt that if we set a precedent of getting out of house, we'd theoretically continue to do so, which was important to me. So we got out whenever we could.

That being said, I remember every outing being, at least mentally for me, a big fucking production. I'd think for two days beforehand when she might eat, where I'd be able to feed her, would she feed okay wherever we were, would I have enough hands to do whatever I was supposed to be doing on the outing, would she cry at an inopportune time, would she sleep on the road, would I pack enough diapers/wipes/wardrobe changes. I didn't really like the idea of doing anything major major without Big K's involvement. Of course, Phook eventually grew into less of a sucklemaniac, and I got used to being a mom, and leaving the house became a matter of a 30-second decision and an extra diaper wadded up in my pocket on the way out the door.

One of my big fears about introducing Circus (who is getting darned close to being officially renamed Snuffle Pig for blogging purposes, since he continues to snuffle copiously) into the mix was that it would shut down my mobility. And here in Wisconsin, the weather only gives you a few blessed months during which you'd want to even consider leaving your house anyhow...so I like to take advantage of water before it freezes and grass before it is covered in 9 feet of snow. Once again, the game plan was to just be on the go as soon as possible, no matter how daunting the event. Hence, we already have a demo derby, a Brewer game, and about 9,000 non-blogged other outings under our belts. I'm not gonna lie - the logistics of getting myself, a toddler, and a newborn out of the house are not exactly minor. But we are getting out of the house. Hell, the other day, we all wound up a good long distance from home sampling mustards at the Mustard Museum, and Circus got himself discreetly nursed in a booth at the Grumpy Troll brew pub while I housed the cajun bleu burger. Not exactly amateur hour. Basically, Circus just gets fed when he's hungry, and I act casual.

I guess what I am saying is that although we require a lot of baggage and a lot of trips back and forth from the house to the car, the mental fretting is pretty limited this time around. I have no expectations that any event will be wildly idyllic or successful. I just plan to go, and if the shit hits the fan, well, I have wipes for that. That being said, I may have been just slightly delusional when I found myself calling the vet and making an appointment to take my 4 cats to the vet during hours when no one else would be able to assist me. But having survived a lot of outings in these 5 weeks of double motherhood, I just kind of made the call on autopilot...cats need shots...call vet.

But then yesterday I actually had to do it. Holy mother of fuck was that an operation. The appointment was for 10:15 a.m. in a town about 20 minutes away. I'll spare you the details of my early morning, but suffice it to say it involved a lot of nursing a baby and a really half-assed attempt at showering and otherwise tending to my personal hygiene. Eventually it came time to herd cats. Literally, of course. I decided the best course of action was to throw cats in the bathroom as I found them, and then cage them all at the last minute. If you have a cat, you know that the sneaky bastards like to find a new hiding spot as soon as they hear their cage clinking around, and you've got an easter egg hunt for cats on your hands. Luckily, only one of my cats was smart enough to pull that kind of Houdini shit on me, and I found the other three rather easily. So I've got 4 cats in the bathroom, I'm discussing with Phook the matter of being a good girl and being mommy's helper when we take the cats to the doctor, and I've got a suckling Circus pig having 4th breakfast as the clock ticks down to the "MUST LEAVE" moment.

So I started getting cats in cages. After I put Shib in her cage, I was reiterating to Phook that she was going to be mommy's helper today. I did not realize how seriously she took this role until I heard a crash as I was getting another cat to cage. The crash was Phook picking up Shib's cage off of the kitchen table and it falling to the ground...Shib included of course. Shib was still alive and had movement in her extremities, so I just kept caging animals. I got two into their carriers and ran out and chucked them in the van. I then caged the other two, noted the distinct odor of cat piss in the bathroom, was unable to identify the location of the piss after spending an inconvenient 4 minutes sniffing all the towels and therefore allowed myself to pretend it hadn't happened, ran the other two cats to the car, got Circus in his carrier and got him in the car, and got Phook in the car. At this point I was winded, sweaty, and running late. And I hadn't breakfasted myself on account of breakfasting others, so I was starving. As I ran back in the house to get a granola bar, I remembered the most awesome thing ever...there was a detour between my home and the vet that would add a good 10 minutes to my drive. Awesome radness. So I got back in the car, crammed granola in my face, and peeled out of my driveway like a madwoman.

Once I was on the road, I realized that every living being in the car was making a tremendous, godawful racket. Circus wailing wanting to go to sleep. All 4 cats howling like mad, as cats tend to do when caged and pissed. Phook chatterboxing in 5% English, 95% angry jibberish about something in a cornfield. Me gnawing ferociously on granola. As I drove down the road, listening to the concert of insanity in my minivan, I thought, "Well, this is a fresh new hell." (Hence, my post title.) Dudes. Have you ever heard what one howling cat or one howling baby sounds like? Please, people, my car was vibrating with animal rage.

Allright, so I sped through the backroads of the greater Woods area, and ended up at the vet about 10 minutes late. I hauled cats into the place two at a time. Then I strapped Circus to my person in an infant carrier and grabbed Phook out of her seat. At this point, all the staff and customers had basically lined up to stare. "Woof, you've got your hands full!" "Wow, you've been busy!" "Are those all yours?" I just let a friendly river of drool escape from the corner of my mouth in response. Phook found some crayons and charmingly started chanting, "Color! Color! Color!" so she was good, at least until she wiped out off the bench and started sobbing and required that I pick her up. Circus actually shut his yapper for the most part, since I was doing the mom jiggle-bounce step for him. Luckily the staff decided to be helpful and carry cat cages back to the exam room for me, and all my tough-hided animals were vaccinated in a timely manner. Eventually we paid, someone gave Phook some candy, and we ended up back in the van and on the way home. I promptly called my husband and told him that flowers, chocolates, maid services, or any other reasonable expression of his appreciation for my efforts were not only desired, but required upon his return home. Alas, this plea seems to have fallen yet again on his wildly deaf ears, because last night he came home with nothing more than pockets full of random crap that will end up doing bad shit in my washing machine.

Everyone howled their way home, and I thought back fondly to that trip to the state park on Phook's 9th day of life, and how I thought it was so amazing that two parents successfully took one baby out of their home. And now, a mere 22 months later, I was cruising down the highway in my minivan with 6 noisy creatures under my care, shoddy as it may be. I also thought wistfully that if there were merit badges for parenting, you should get a really bigass obnoxious orange one for taking this many cats and this many shorties in diapers anywhere.

Another amusing part of this is the evolution that has occurred for me from pet owner to parent. People, if there ever was a crazy cat lady, it was me. Cats have been my "children" since we got our first one when I was about 5 years old. And these particular cats, the ones I have acquired as a grown-up, at one time held a position in my life that surpassed the vast majority of humans I encounter. I never thought that these cats could fall in my esteem, even once I had kids. And I told people that. Loudly. When I used to take cats to the vet, I was so concerned that they would be stressed out, that they would be uncomfortable. Their wails in the car made me feel so guilty and so concerned for their welfare. And especially that damned idiot Uncle Growler, who has always thought he could fit through the holes in the grate on the front of his cage and gets pretty close to turning his face into french fries every time he is caged, as he smashes his nose or his gums into the metal trying to get out...I'd nearly weep for the poor little guy with his special needs. Now, friends, well, I'd be pretty comfortable throwing them all in a lawn & leaf size garbage bag, throwing it over my shoulder, and walking into the vet with a bag full of cat tornado. That's a horrible thing to say, oh it is. And it is a bit of an exaggeration of course. And I do still love my cats. But, dude, what "they" say is true. Once you bring home baby, you realize you really didn't love your pet the way you find you love your kid...even though you swore such a thing would never happen. It makes me kinda weepy, actually. When I took off Shib's collar yesterday to put on her new rabies tag and I saw her other little tag that says "Her Majesty" and has a little crown on it...and I remembered the days I bought extraneous shit for the cats...yeah, it's fair to say that times have changed.

I guess that's about the size of it. I've gotta go now...gotta call some clown in Beijing and see about getting cat/baby herding turned into an official Olympic sport, because I'm a contender.

All kinds of crazy

Man, I'm sorry I haven't been posting more often. Lord knows I've had a lot to say. Or at least the sleep deprived voices in my head are feeling chatty. Oh, we're getting along pretty well here, all things considered. Circus turned one month old on Monday. WTF, right? Dude. He's in full throttle baby acne mode though, so I'm taking it easy on the pictures. Sorry. I'm not going to exploit his awkward phases. Today, at least.

There has been some random hilarious shit occur in the vicinity of my person of late, and I'm gonna share a bit of it with you. The first thing I want to share is some hilarity discovered in the most recent edition of the weekly local paper for my county...yeah, there is one paper in the county. Okay, some guy, an unlikely local entrepreneur of sorts, put an ad in the paper stating the following (I swear I have only edited identifying details):

WANTED [this is printed in oldtime wanted poster font]
The person who decided to steal from me at The Wackass Establishment I Own on Sunday evening, 7/27/08 at 11:00 pm in downtown Nowhere.
When you are found, God have mercy on your soul. The damage you did far outweighs the small amount of cash you stole.

Sincerely,
Local Clown Business Owner

[clipart image of hands behind bars here]

P.S. If you know who did it, and are feeling greedy, there is a $500 reward for information leading to the arrest of the person(s) responsible.

Okay, is that not the most cryptic, random, insane thing ever? "The damage you did far outweighs the small amount of cash you stole?" This has me disturbingly curious. "God have mercy on your soul?" Holy shit. That's all I have to say about that. I don't know man, discovering this little gem nestled between advertisements for minimum wage jobs and pictures of grand champion cows made my freaking day.

And on to random hilarious item the next. Today, Auntie Hode and I went to this local cafe/kayak outfitter type place to get some sandwiches for lunch. We were waiting for the sandwiches and the owner informed us that a television production crew would be out at a local park at 2:30 this afternoon filming for a commercial to promote tourism in our county. They needed some losers to come get filmed fake hiking. We were all over that shit. Big K happened to be home this afternoon, so I left my napping children and went to the park, thinking this was no big thing and it would be a shot of our backs from across a lake that no one would ever see. So I didn't bother to even smooth my frizzy curly hair or cover up my sweet acne crop. Hosedog's clothes didn't even match. So we show up, and find out that it is just us and 3 other women who will be walking along looking like some "girls day out" sort of scene, enjoying the lovely wilderness at this park. Like, we were actually going to be featured prominently in this TV ad. Which will air on a channel that is carried by satellite providers. Across the known universe. Allright, so it is a really, really lame channel that no one gets. And I'm sure no one will ever really see it. But still. It was hilarious. We ran around out there for half an hour faking that we were enjoying a pleasant afternoon with these women we don't even know. There will be no sound, so we were just supposed to talk about anything that would make us smile and laugh. My sister and I of course had a discussion about what kind of ice cream we would eat if we were able to have a cone right then and there. If any lip readers get the channel, they will know that I'm really interested in both strawberry cheesecake and blue moon. Dude. Hilarity. I need to get an agent, because I'm sure I'm going to be fielding lots of offers for sweet reality show gigs featuring a giant unkempt sister act.

And then there was the ride home. This random clown 112-year-old guy was also out there fake bike riding for the ad. He needed a ride back to town. He looked like a straight up leprechaun. All the way back to town (about 15 minutes or so), he yapped about himself. Like an insane maniac. He'll be going to Iowa and Canada this weekend. (That right there should be a tip-off.) Iowa for a family reunion from his mother's side (she was an O'Brien, you know), and Canada for a Toastmasters convention, because his wife was interested in becoming a better speaker...and he can now write speeches in his head "as he gives them." He worked in a pharmacology lab, was very proud of it, and didn't seem to pick up on the fact that we were ready to sob and/or scream as he discussed his research work and the animals that were "sacrificed" in the process. He lived in Sioux City, IA until he was five, moved to Milwaukee after his mother died, attended St. Norbert's College, was in the National Guard, and on and on and on with the crazy biographical details given in this oddly scary, soft, expert extemporaneous speaking voice that simultaneously lulled me into a hypnotic state while making me certain I was in the company of a serial killer. Dude was just a nutwagon. When we got to town, he asked that we take him to a car garage on the edge of town to pick up his vehicle which was being serviced rather than the original downtown drop-off point. He then flew out of the car after finally asking us what we did as we pulled into the driveway and therefore had no time to answer, started wildly yapping at the mechanic, and never really bid us adieu. My sister just chucked his bike out of the back of the van and I sent gravel flying about 300 yards behind me as I peeled out of that place. Holy shit, I'm a crazy magnet.

Possibly the weirdest thing that happened today was that Circus Act was utterly pleasant all day. He actually submitted to spending some time in a state other than eating/sleeping/being vigorously jostled...and didn't scream. So that was sweet. He also slept until 9:30 a.m. and took a 3.5 hour nap this afternoon in his bassinet. That just freaked me right the fuck out. He's in bed right now, and I'm guessing that since a) the day was good and b) I have spilled this joy onto the internets, he's getting ready to spend a rip-roaring night howling at the moon as I drip giant tears onto my spit-up and breastmilk covered shirt and pray that my husband's all-night gaming is effectively nuking his balls and silencing his sperm forever. After putting Circus down for his nap, I came downstairs and started running around the living room doing this ass-slapping, bull-riding motion in circles around the room, screaming that the kid was in a coma. Then I grabbed a cookie my sister bought me at a convenience store, ripped the plastic wrap off of it like a maniac, took a giant crumb-spilling bite out of the thing, and said to Big K in my most awesome Cookie Monster voice, "Me so happy! I eat this cookie...and the letter 'P'!" He about shit himself witnessing his wife turn into a glee-filled maniac playing an odd game of charades by herself/Cookie Monster impersonator, and then asked if I ever foresaw this moment as I was rolling in my 4.0 back in my college days. Oh, fuck no.

So, that's about it from here. How was your day?