Momma Says the F Word

We must have gotten into some bad sushi

2009-12-15T15:13:00.000-06:00

Why do I spend the better part of every holiday season vomiting? Really. I'd just like to know.

Man.

My family has been sick since mid-November with a godawful plague. It seems like swine flu lite. What I mean by that is that it includes hacking cough, chest congestion, runny nose, and miscellaneous yuck, without the incredibly high fevers of swine flu proper. I think it's possible the kids actually do have swine flu lite, because they've been vaccinated, which can give you less than complete immunity. I think I recovered from middling swine flu right before we went to Texas. I think Big K has had swine flu proper for weeks.

But that wasn't awesome enough. No.

Last Wednesday, we got like 20 inches of snow or some shit. It was awesome. Snow day extravaganza. The planet that is The Woods essentially stopped spinning. My sister came over to bake Christmas cookies. I felt so dang festive I dressed my children in matching outfits. Nothing indicates my sense of festivity like putting my kids in matching outfits. They were ready to rock. See?

We had a pretty fun day baking. Grandma J called and said she was bringing over chili for supper. It was all very festive. And then around 5 p.m., I was smashing Phook on the belly with a pillow, and she sort of puked a little bit. Just like a toddler version of spit-up. I chalked it up to my beating her and the fact that she'd eaten nothing but sugar all day. But then like half an hour later, she informed me she had a sore "budd" (short for buddha) and needed medicine. And then she said she needed to spit in a bucket. And then she spit in a bucket like 15 times and on the 16th time she blew her cookies in that bucket. (Can I get a shout-out for Phook's excellent vomit prediction? I don't think many 3-year-old's do much other than spontaneously puke somewhere really horrifying.) So, yeah, I was hopeful it was a sugar problem (although both my kids have steel guts inherited from their father, so I deep down knew that was unlikely). But then she did it again. And proceeded to spend the entire night heaving ho like a pathetic little creature.

The next day, we did the Pedialyte-sip two-step and she held it down and proceeded to get better. But then Big K walked in the door looking like nine kinds of hell at about 1:30. He crashed in bed for a couple hours and woke up boiling. He then sorta kinda basically blacked out/passed out and said we needed to go to the E.R. upon regaining consciousness. His fever was 103 and they packed his head and pits in ice to bring it down and gave him some I.V. rehydration. He hadn't tossed his cookies but other unsavory things had occurred and he was all kinds of fubar. So that was neat.

We got home from the E.R. that night and I felt the godawful and sadly familiar rumbling in my gut signaling I had calls to make to my friend Ralph, and that I'd be calling him on my big white phone. I did not disappoint myself. I proceeded to spend the entire night on the bathroom floor in a horrific stew of my own spewings of all varieties, freezing and shaking and getting charley horses in my legs once the dehydration started to get really special. I crawled into the tub a couple times in the middle of the night to rinse the offal off of myself and I'm sincerely surprised I didn't drown. Finally morning came and Phook came down the stairs and found me lying in a pile of filthy blankets and discarded soiled pajamas.

"What's a matter wif you, Mumma?" she said. I told her I was real sick. She went and got me a bottle of 7Up from the fridge, which awesomely had been opened so it was already flat, and then she gave it to me and said, "Don't drink it all - just little sips." Dude. I'm not kidding. My 3-year-old child actually provided me with effective care. I then crawled my feverish arse back into the tub and she tested the water for me to make sure it wasn't too hot. I'm not kidding. She said, "Don't worry, Mumma, it's not too hot and not too chilly. It's just real warm." Thanks, little buddy. So then I floated in the tub while she watched and eventually Big K and Bigs came downstairs and bless their hearts, my parents agreed to take the kids off our hands for the day, because we were sincerely dead. We could not safely have cared for our children. It was so friggin' bad.

Friday passed in a feverish haze and eventually I was able to walk up the stairs (instead of crawl), and that was good. The days since have passed in a similar haze of gradually getting strength back, but Big K and I are still nowhere near 100%. Phook seems totally fine and Bigs has yet to go on his maiden vomit voyage, so we are counting our blessings and hoping his relative good health holds. Did I mention that both kids are still hacking like the Marlboro Man?

Overall, I just need to note that I am pissed. I am nowhere near done Christmas shopping and haven't even started wrapping. Cards aren't sent. Baking is utterly derailed. House is a disaster. And now I'm feeling frazzled and Scroogey. I hate that. I don't want to be Scroogey. But my holiday vibe was hijacked by my intestinal tract and I'm feeling bitter about the whole transaction. I should be done with my baking and shopping and just have a few things left to wrap. Instead I'm all Scroogey. Sonofabitch. It's the most wonderful time of the year. I was supposed to gain 8 pounds instead of puke up 8 pounds. What a crock.

So that's that. I'm pissed. I don't have my shit together. I will get it done. There isn't a question of getting it done. I just prefer to enjoy it. So now I am left to focus on trying to enjoy it while doing it in a hurry while trying to ignore the bastard that is stress that keeps scratching at my happy holiday door. Today is the first day I've even attempted to do anything since this shit storm started, and it's just been catching up on general household maintenance. Ugh.

The only solution is to put my kids in matching outfits. And to get myself a belt. I definitely need a belt, at least until I can get back on track with gaining my 8 pounds of frosting fat.

Quote of the Day

2009-12-07T21:58:00.003-06:00

So you probably forgot (or never knew) that I have two Christmas trees every year. My standard tree and my food tree. I was a little behind my normal holiday decorating schedule this year on account of our vacation, but we finally got the big tree decorated last night. And tonite, with Big K at a meeting and Bigsy in the sack a bit early on account of a simultaneous quadruple molar eruption, two freshly immunized band-aided thighs, and a big dent on his head from a recent incident (just a day in the life!), Phook and I took to the task of decorating the food tree.

The food tree is decorated with all food ornaments, of course. 95% of them are delicate glass types, mostly this Old World Christmas brand. I've collected them and been gifted them over the years. They're not super-cheap. I love them more than a person should love earthly goods. So of course I let my 3-year-old unwrap them all from the little bubble wrap and tissue paper nests I had painstakingly packed them in last year.

So we're going through the ornaments. She's unwrapping and commenting. I'm hanging and responding. We're having a nice time. Oooh! An orange! Whoa! Dat's a big huge pepper! Hey Momma, it's a hot dog! I wike to eat hot dogs!

And then she unwrapped the sushi roll. Now I like to think my kids have pretty adventurous appetites for toddlers, but they've never had--or seen--sushi. (They ban you from The Woods for life if you enter city limits packing sushi.)

So anyhow, Phook examines the thing and finally says, "What's 'dis?"

And I said, "That's sushi, Phook."

And Phook said, without any further questions and with unbridled passion, "I love sushi!"

Dude, that kid is so friggin' funny.

Fit and Fat: Actual Living Specimen Found Roaming The Woods

2009-11-18T10:50:00.002-06:00

I'm hating myself a little for this post already, despite not having written it yet. But I'm gonna do it anyway. I'm gonna talk about fitness.

To paraphrase my sister, I'm the type of person who is inclined to sit on my porch drinking a giant Dr. Pepper while armed with a Super Soaker filled with mayonnaise that I use to shoot any poor sap who comes jogging past my house in body-hugging, moisture-wicking activewear. I mean, don't get me wrong. I've pretty much always been outdoorsy and basically active in my day-to-day operations: hiking, walking several miles a day, gardening, and generally dicking around in a state of perpetual low-grade motion. But I am not a person who purposefully tends to fitness. You know, for like 45 minutes at a certain point during the day while wearing a heart rate monitor. No, not Big W.

Ahem.

So, Hosedog. My sister went on this fitness and Weight Watchers bender nearly two years ago and she got all fuggin' fit. She made pals with this weight-lifting meathead at her former school, and he got her on a serious lifting program and she got hooked. And then she got all cardio-tastic and ran a half marathon. And shit like that that I disdain. And then she moved home to The Woods to teach here. And then she asked me if I wanted on her fitness bandwagon. And I was all like, "Fuck no. Okay."

So since the beginning of the school year, I have been waking up at 5:30 IN THE MORNING, and my sister pulls in my driveway at 5:45 and we drive up to school and we go in the weight room and we work out until we almost puke. Every day, unless there are extenuating circumstances. But we've been pretty dang faithful for a couple of semi-roomy gals who don't necessarily shy away from a cream sauce. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we do cardio. Tuesday is arm day. Thursday is leg day. Sometimes we throw in an ab workout. We wear weight-lifting gloves and shit and grunt when we have to. It's all like scheduled and planned and just like all the fit people who do fitness every day because they're fit. And then I come home and walk the dog a mile or two for a cool down. And people say to me, "Wow, I saw you out walking before 7:00 this morning!" And I casually affirm their statement, but on the inside I'm thinking, "Bitch, that was my COOL DOWN! I am so fit that the impressive little early a.m. trot around town with the houndy is my fuggin' COOL DOWN!"

So, Hosedog is pretty much the best personal trainer ever. She has enough weight training knowledge to actually impress my husband, which is close to impossible in pretty much any department, but most especially that one. When I'm like dying my way through the third set of some horrific skull crushers or some other horrifically named weight lifting maneuver, she always casually but in a very timely manner says, "Hode, your forearms look HUGE right now!" I mean, not that most people desire huge forearms, but I'm a fan of all hugeness and it works. She's really supportive and knowledgeable and awesome and a great person to almost puke with. And it's a nice way to start our day together. We can bitch about things, almost puke, and bitch about things. It's nice. Pretty much every day, we spend a minute in my driveway deciding whether we should just go out for a big fuggin' omelet instead...but up to the weight room we trudge. The only way to work out is with a partner. I don't know what the heck I'll do when she moves away again.

So I'm feeling muscular. I mean, I am muscular...my baseline physique is abnormally muscular for someone with a uterus. But Hode's maneuvers have got my arms all firm and, dare I say, almost toned? My legs need more muscles like Turbo needs more ears, but it's always nice to be just a little bit more of a badass, right?

And the cardio. That's the reason I'm posting today of all days when I've been keeping this big fitness secret from you all. Today I did something that is, for me, epic. When I was a kid living on my block filled with my cousins and 100 other kids, we of course ran all over hell all the time playing ridonkulous games that involved a lot of, well, running. And I hated it. I hated feeling winded. I hated the way it made my sides hurt. I hated the burning feeling in my lungs. I took to telling the other kids I was allergic to running. And I wasn't kidding. That's right. As an 8-year-old, I very seriously told people I was allergic to running. Fast forward to high school, during which time I participated in lots of organized sports and tended to not suck. I still hated running. I played many, many basketball games during which I saw not even 30 seconds of bench time, but still that is different than straight up running. There is stopping and starting, for example.

But that, high school, was the last time I was actually purposefully moving my body at a speed greater than a brisk walk with any regularity. Yeah, I graduated 12 years ago. And gained 600 pounds. And spent 44 consecutive months pregnant or nursing (that particularly statistic is never going to get old for me).

So Hode says we're gonna do real cardio. Me, seeing no point in this, decided that if I was going to do it I needed some explicit plan to follow so I could have goals, meet them, and generally feel as if there was a point beyond self-torture. So I found one of those Couch-to-5K programs, even though I wasn't doing a 5K. Because it was a plan, it was clear, I could cross things off. So I started doing something like walking 90 seconds, jogging 60 seconds, or something like that. Of course it was easy. But then when I started to run for like 3 minutes, my body got a little pissed. I never had wind problems (amazingly), but where my calves connected to my bones hurt and my hips hurt and various parts of my legs felt like they'd explode. But I kept at it, and never couldn't do the workout I was supposed to do on any particular day. Thanks be to iPod (ironically, also a gift from Hode).

So today, today was a big deal. I ran for 20 minutes (21 actually, because I wanted to do an even 2 miles), without stopping. The previous workout had been 8 minute run, 5 minute walk, 8 minute run...so 20 minutes seemed like an eternity. I mean, really. That is a long time to be running on purpose if you haven't so much as broken into a trot for 12 years. I wasn't going to attempt the 20 minutes today because I've had a horrible chest cold for what seems like 3 months, but at the 8 minute mark, I felt good. So I kept running. (You know, like Forrest.) And I just kept running. And my body kept running. And then it ran some more. I was sweating pretty awesomely and feeling like I was exerting myself, but it was totally freaking doable. Me. Running. For as long as it takes to watch an episode of Cougar Town if you fast forward through the commercials.

The weight room is in a mezzanine overlooking the gym, and we are roughly at eye level with the gymnasium lights. There is a big silver light that another light casts it light off of right in the middle of my field of vision...making for a big silver shiny spot. It is my focus object in labor. I go to the light. I actually enter the mythical place where I am just going, not really even completely conscious of the fact that my body is moving. Holy shit, right?

Because, um, pals, I'm a chubster. Really. I've lost a few pounds since we started with these shenanigans, but I do not look AT ALL like a person who runs. I am, in fact, muscular. But I am also a giant cow. My midsection is decidedly wrapped in an exoskeleton of flub. Not "pinch an inch" flub. Actual flub. I am flubby. I have back fat. My BMI is, like, a lot. (Eff BMI, by the way.)

So, here it is. I am fit and fat. Ha! This phenomenon actually occurs! Neat!

You know what the cool thing is? Now that I am reasonably fit on top of my fat (or underneath it, as it were), I don't really look at the fat the same way. I'm just pretty much cool with myself. More forgiving, definitely. Whatevs, back fat, you can't keep me down! I can run for 20 minutes! And next week I will run for 30! So, take that, Fatty McBackfatterson.

This is entirely personal. I don't much care about anything except the fact that I feel really good. When Bigsy takes off for the highway, I can definitely catch him. If I ever need to flee from an attacker, I could actually potentially get away. I feel strong. I feel healthy. I feel solidly mentally stable. My pants fit better. I don't look in the mirror and get all pissy about my midsection...I just flex my big arm muscles at myself and then go make Big K feel my triceps while I gloat.

This, this...fitness...was not a bad idea.

Dude.

Good times.

So I came in the house this morning after my big marathon (ha!) and I was shrieking and dancing and yelping. Phook laughed at me for a bit and then said, "Okay, Mom, it's time to settle down." Big K was appropriately proud of me but could not resist saying, "So you ran two miles for the first time in your life at age 30. You're an inspiration to old ladies everywhere!" That was a good one, I gotta admit. And then we laughed about how I'm going to try to stay fat as a disguise of my fitness so I don't make other people feel bad about how unfit they are. You know, it's kinder to the general Wisconsin populace if I keep an ample midsection. Can't fly your fitness flag too high around here. Good times in the K bathroom this morning.

So, there you have it. I don't think we can call me a runner, but I think we can call me fit. Yes, we can say fit. I will indeed call what really fit people consider a warm-up to be evidence of my own watered-down version of fit. Yes, I will. Yes, fit. I am.

Ha!

XO,
Momma

P.S. If you read this whole post while loading your mayo gun, I really understand. I've read a lot of posts like this on other blogs while loading my own mayo gun. I hate few things as much as other people's fitness. So if you hate my fitness, I understand, I really do. Just don't tell me in my comments, because that would make me really sad on a very fit day.

And a good time was had by all

2009-12-04T13:12:00.001-06:00

Well, we returned to The Woods late on Wednesday night in one piece, if a tad worse for wear on account of a LONG day of travel. The trip was good.

You all want to know if Bigsy caused a scene in international airspace. We'll get to that. But first I need to tell you that Phook is the rockstar of the air traffic scene. As I predicted, I would fly that kid to Australia. She just gets it, she's cool with it, she's down with it, she was awesome. I was a wee bit nervous that once the engines got very loud on take-off she'd get weirded out, but no. She just casually looked out the window and said we were going "way up to the top of the sky" like she's got more frequent flyer miles than a jet-setting celebrity. There was no fear, no discomfort, no mayhem. The kid pulled her brand-new mini suitcase on wheels (b-day gift from Granny and Grampy) the entire trip, and when she boarded the second plane when we connected in Atlanta, like 3 miscellaneous passengers blurted out, "Well, she looks like she's done this before!" as she walked down the aisle. Phook fuggin' owned air travel. At one point on the return trip when I was seated across the aisle with Bigsy, her father ordered her a Fresca to drink, which for some reason struck me as absolutely hilarious. He then busted out a bag of Funyuns he had been hoarding and she sat there and wolfed down Funyuns off her tray table while downing a Fresca, and it was such an amusing moment that only a dad would orchestrate, I nearly peed my pants.

So, Bigs. Well, my tiny hope that we'd be able to transfer the kids from bed to car on our first wake-up was of course extinguished as quickly as the thought entered my mind. So the kids were woken up at about 3:45 a.m. after having a very late night on account of travel to Milwaukee and the process of getting settled in there. So I was filled with horror from the get-go. Getting to the airport, checking in, and security were all a blur that involved an intense amount of jostling of crap while I wore Bigsy on my back. When we hauled Phook out of bed with her ever-expanding collection of guys (which included pink blankie, daddy sleep guy, mommy sleep guy, baby, kitty cat, and little baby), I was not cogent enough to think to stow the majority of that zoo somewhere. Instead we let her attempt to carry it and we all ended up with blankies and babies and guys sticking out of our every orifice. [That was a funny sentence.] (On the return trip, only pink blankie was accessible and he was towed hands-free, stuck in the handle of her wheeled case...much better.) We got on our plane for the 5:40 departure with only a couple minutes to spare.

Bigs was in no way scared or disturbed by the process of being launched into the air in a very noisy machine. And he was...wait for it, wait for it...good. Now he wasn't easy, but he was good. He required intense maintenance to keep him amused. This involved many, many snacks. It involved the use of a new kiddie digital camera. It involved suckers. It involved animal noises. It involved books. It involved an iPod.

It involved wrestling, wrangling, changing a poopie dipe in an airplane bathroom, being fed lots of snacks we didn't want by a grubby little paw, and a spilled bottle of Aquafina. It involved, as Big K says, "extreme parenting." But he was good. We successfully contained him without medicinal supplements. A miracle. I dare say that I will travel again by air with my children. Wowzers.

Our first full day in San Antonio, we took the kids and their cousins-in-law-to-be to this place called Inflatable Wonderland, which I was lovingly referring to as InflataHell. I didn't think Phook would like it since she has shown tendencies toward claustrophobia and fear of heights (she won't go into a McDonald's Playland tube structure), but she proved me wrong. She was all over that place. It was basically a huge building filled with assorted bounce houses and inflatable slides. Bigs was of course the youngest kid in there and the most insane, dive-bombing himself all over like a madman. He definitely ended up with a huge scrape on his forehead, and I wouldn't be surprised if he was concussed. But it was a good time.

We then spent a day at SeaWorld, an event that I can't really show you pictures of because Big K had the camera all day and somehow managed to take approximately 50 pictures of nothing and/or me with a mouth full of popcorn and a lazy eye. But it was really fun. Phook really enjoyed feeding the dolphins and sea lions, something that freaked her out when we went back in March. The San Antonio SeaWorld also has a couple of major roller coasters, which Phook was totally obsessed with. She did not want to make forward progress when we were near them...she just wanted to watch people go rocketing down the coasters. She also road on this little Shamu coaster, a little ferris wheel type thing, and a little ride that took her up in the air and then dropped down a little bit. We have a picture of that last one, which I apparently took because Big K is on the ride...okay, so our lens was dirty.

And no matter how many times I see it and no matter how cheesy it might be, I officially cry during the Shamu show regardless of whether my hormones are in a pregnant, lactating, or dormant state. FYI. Also, it is totally weird to be in 65+ degree weather watching people walk around in scarves singing Christmas carols. My holiday brain is very much set to go into seasonal cheer mode with the weather...not so much in a place where people are still riding water rides. Good data to have collected about myself.

We also spent some time on the River Walk area in downtown San Antonio after a (relatively lame) visit to The Alamo. (Which Phook called "The Elmo" in very charming fashion.) I wish we would have had more time down there but we ran into a desperate naptime situation and had to call it a day. My brother-in-law who we were visiting got engaged while we were down there though, so I'm guessing we'll need to make a return trip to see the wedding, during which I will spend more time downtown. There was a lot more to see down there. But Bigs did dig the Mexican chow:

On Sunday, we took off for Port Aransas, which is a little island off the coast of the Corpus Christi area. Luckily, the weather almost cooperated for the first afternoon we were there, and we ran in the surf with the kids for a couple hours, even though the local types looked at us like we were on drugs for running around in the water in "winter." My kids absolutely adore the ocean. I wonder where they get it from???

They also spent some quality time dicking around in the sand. You can't have a bad time doing that.

Unfortunately, the cold/wind/rain front that was expected did come in, despite my prayers that it miss us. So I put my kids under the bathroom cabinet for a couple days:

Kidding. It was only a couple hours. We decided to make lemonade and went to Corpus Christi to check out the Texas State Aquarium, which the kids totally and completely loved. I didn't have to show them shit and try to get them to love it...they just loved it. (Makes me want to do a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago this winter.) A highlight was the dolphin show, which was just an underwater viewing on account of the weather, but was still awesome. Phook got to hold a triangle to the glass while the dolphins practiced shape recognition, but sadly the trainer walked right in the way when I was snapping a picture of the dolphin touching her shape. However, I got one of the dolphins socializing with my kids:

They also really adored the sea turtles, especially Bigsy. They seemed to think he looked like a tasty appetizer, because they followed him around from viewing area to viewing area.

Right after this, our camera died, so that's the end of the photographic record. (Ironically, I just fixed the camera 5 minutes ago while sitting in the recliner...bummer.)

Anyhow, we wrapped up our time at the ocean, returned to San Antonio for one more night and basically crashed, and the kids started losing their shit on account of a week of a jacked up routine, missed sleep, and homesickness. By the time it was time to go home, it was time to go home. Wednesday's travel was awesomely successful with Phook on account of Funyuns and Fresca, and I did managed to walk Bigs to sleep in the carrier before boarding the first flight, which gave me an hour and a half reprieve while he remained cashed on my chest. But then he woke up, and it was extreme parenting again, now with more tired. We made it to our connection in Detroit with little mayhem, but the final evening flight from Detroit to Milwaukee is a memory I have already started to repress. I got the kids bagels and tasty yogurt parfait things from a coffee shop in the airport, and that was good until Bigs refused to let me feed him and ripped the spoon from me and began flinging yogurt, granola, strawberries, and blueberries all over himself, me, and the aircraft. And then when that was done, he screamed some more. It was a very short flight, thank the gods, but it fuggin' sucked. I am pretty sure my face looks like Tiger Woods' after his "car accident" on account of Bigsy's flailing. Dude and dude. But it was really overtiredness and end of ropedness more than an actual problem with flight, so I'm gonna let it slide and keep my options open re: future air travel.

So here's the best part. Upon returning to Milwaukee, Big K's uncle came and picked us up in our own van, which had been at his home in a Milwaukee suburb while we were away. When Phook saw the rusty shitbomber van pull up, she ran up to it, hugged it, and woefully declared, "Oh van car, I'm so happy to see you!" I think she was homesick, hey?

Now it would have been better for this blog if I had a really horrific story about how we hit turbulence and all ralphed on ourselves in glorious fashion, but unfortunately everything went well. It was a good trip, good times, and we're happy to be home. (And boy was the hound happy to see us!)

And that's a wrap, kids!

Wish me luck

2009-11-23T13:50:00.003-06:00

Well, friends, we're leaving late this afternoon for Milwaukee, and our plane leaves for Texas at 5:40 tomorrow morning. I am as prepared as I can be, which means I am completely ill-prepared. It is fair to say I'm nervous. It is fair to say that today has been a pretty major disast of trying to do last-minute packing and errands while trying to keep two cranky children from eating each other in a fit of cannibalistic rage. It is fair to say I am ready to get out of here - I just am not particularly amped for the getting there.

Please send good flying vibes to the vicinity of the Ks tomorrow.

Please send good boarding vibes to my nervous Houndy, who my sister predicts will be hairless by the time I return as a result of his anxiety.

And on that note, have a Happy Thanksgiving!

XO,
Momma

Leavin' on a jet plane

2009-11-16T10:03:00.000-06:00

Aw, buds.

Next Tuesday, my whole family and my MIL and BIL are getting on a plane and flying to Texas to see Big K's other brother; he defected there a couple years ago. Our flight leaves at 5:40 a.m., which means I'll be dragging myself and the kids out of bed at a really disturbing hour. My plan is to have everything ready and throw them in the car in their p.j.'s at the last possible minute and pray that they'll still be in a deep enough sleep to pass back out in the car, but that's highly unlikely and I'll functionally be getting my children up at about 4 a.m.

We then take about a 2 hour flight to Atlanta, have about 40 minutes to change planes in what is a huge and extremely busy airport, and then take another 1 hour flight to Texas. We'll get there at about 11:30 a.m. local time. Right now, I can't even look at the itinerary to check the return flights, but I know it spans over nap time.

Allright, crap.

This was my idea, the flying. Big K had been angling hard for the typical K Family 24-hour roadtrip, but I couldn't imagine Bigsy strapped to a carseat for 24 hours. Sure, we did it when he was 9 months old, but a 16-month-old is a decidedly more mobile animal, and this one is rabid. And then there is a 3-year-old thrown in the mix just for giggles. I had credit card miles, we have a vehicle to use when we get there...we only had to buy one ticket and therefore it is actually cost effective to fly. When I was clicking my heels and booking the tickets, I was amped.

But now that I think about the realities of those hours and what the heck it might do to my kids at 30000 feet, I'm not able to control my gag reflex.

The good news is that we do not have to haul strollers or car seats because our destination has a kid population-in-law and they have stuff we can borrow. Major awesome. I will wear Bigs in my Ergo carrier in the airport. Phook is oddly adept at marathon and sprint distances, and my husband is a pack mule. So I'm not even worried about airport logistics.

Nor am I worried about the 3-year-old in question. The child has been totally amped to "fly up to the top of the sky" since I broke the news to her months ago. She is a great car traveler, she enjoys nearly anything we hype up to her as awesome, she can be entertained with books and drawing really easily, and she is generally not a real big shithead until after she has had her sleep schedule jacked up for more than a 24 hour period. So Texas may suffer some damage, but I'm optimistic that she'll do her part to keep the skies friendly.

But Bigs. Oh Bigs. I love him, I do. But the child is mad man. Have I mentioned that? I don't blog about him enough. Here's the thing. He puts Phook's status as a physical savant in a fairly distant second place, and we thought she was a rockstar. The child taught himself to two-footed jump--both on the ground and off of miscellaneous items--several months ago. You know, right around the time most kids are starting to get the hang of walking. He now spends about 4 hours per day jumping. You know, just cuz. He goes up and down stairs with ease. He can climb up onto any piece of furniture, even if it starts at a height that is taller than he is. He bends over, puts his head on the floor, and drives himself around with his forehead stuck to the carpet just for the fun of it (we lovingly call this the "meat plow."). He thinks all his body parts are weapons. He can kick, throw, operate a scissors, put a straw in a juice box better than I can, operate most features of the DVD player, and if I gave him chopsticks, I'm guessing he could figure out their operation by suppertime. He also has a cruddy, garbled vocab of maybe 20 words and screams really loudly when unhappily restrained.

A couple weeks ago, at church, he wanted off my lap and he crawled down onto the pew and sat like a big boy next to Phook for about 4 minutes. I think that's the first and last time I've ever seen him hold still while conscious. I was gasping for breath and clawing at the pew in front of us because I nearly lost consciousness from shock.

Fellow passengers, I apologize in advance. Given that it's a 5:40 a.m. flight to a huge international hub on a Tuesday (albeit Thanksgiving week), I'm guessing it is not going to be a particularly family-filled flight. Just us and a lot of people who hate us. Oh shit.

Did I mention he's flying as a lap child?

Did I mention he's getting his molars?

Did I mention we've all been sick for what seems like forever and I'm sure we'll still be flying snot rockets early next week?

So, okay. Snacks. I take lots and lots of snacks.

Someone told me to get little white boards and markers. I might.

Books. I'll take some for him to throw at me.

Miscellaneous small amusements to brain other passengers with.

But, really, I'm screwed.

Assvice? Anyone? Ever flown with a 16-month-old often mistaken for a hurricane? One with poor listening skills?

Thank God he's cute. I'll dress him in bibs to maximize any potential charm he has in the hopes that the other passengers consider sparing him. The only other good thing is that, at least on the trip there, our family will have all 5 seats across a row in an aircraft, if they honor the seat selections I made...which means he can theoretically be tossed back and forth across an aisle and not be assaulting a stranger. That's got to be worth something, right???

If there's one thing I've taken a stand on on this blog it is about appreciating what you have and not being the type of idiot who bitches about the color when someone gives you a free cashmere sweater. And yet, here I am. About to go on a long, extremely cheap vacation to a place that will be decidedly warmer than my homeland. And we're even driving down to the ocean for two days, which is, um, my favorite thing to do. And I'm all Whiny McWhinerson about the flight. Note that I've noted this, and I'm feeling appropriate levels of guilt and practicing appropriate amounts of self-flogging. I'm just having a hard time suppressing my own survival instinct...because, dude, Bigsy in a confined space for multiple hours when he is supposed to be nestled in bed...yeah, the thought of that scenario makes me feel like my life is in jeopardy.

So, dudes, have a hearty chuckle on me. And send earplugs.

XO,
Momma

Better late than never

2009-11-12T14:21:00.006-06:00

Allrighty, so, the retail world long ago decided that it is the Christmas season, totally skipping over the lovely holiday that is Thanksgiving. But despite being behind the times, I wanted to share a few Halloween pictures with you. Because my kidlets were really cute, methinks.

First I must share with you that both kids were totally into the pumpkin gutting this year. Bigsy was all in it to win it.

Phook was also onboard this year, after years of trepidation. She pretty much solo gutted her pumpkin, then requested that we carve the face of her gymnastics instructor into the thing. Alas, Big K carved her second choice, a cat.

Big K rocked his classic maneuver of absurd pumpkin art by carving a chupacabra within a pumpkin as designed by Hode. I didn't even know what a chupacabra was, which apparently makes me really lame.

For costumes this year, Big K desperately wanted us to go as The Flintstones, because he thought Bigs was the perfect BamBam. Well, he was on point on that count, however I couldn't figure out how to get us all in costumes that are essentially scant animal-print rags without making a major investment in insulated flesh-colored body suits, so we went with two witches and two mad scientists. I think it was hott.

I really loved the mad scientists:

And this was supposed to be the witches-only picture, but a mad mad scientist snuck in:

Let's check out the cutest mad scientist in close-up:

And my favorite witch:

Man, this Halloween was really, really, really just fun. It was the first time for Phook that the holiday was all fun, no fear. She was into trick-or-treating bigtime, had the whole routine locked up, and really enjoyed herself. Bigsy was his jovial self and ate like 19 pounds of candy before we even got home. Just a good old time. I hope yours was fun as well. Now get out there and finish that Christmas shopping, you slackers! (Eff that noise, I say.)

Quote of the Day x 2: The Potty Humor and International Relations Edition

2009-11-06T19:06:00.000-06:00

Quote of the Day - Potty Humor Edition

So the other day we were driving to gymnastics. I asked Phook if she needed to go potty or if she could hold it all the way to gymnastics. She said, "No, I don't need to go potty. The potty at quastics (her adopted word for gymnastics) is real big. And all the kids fall down the hole into the poop and into the pee. And then they get real mad."

And I said, "Really buddy, they do? What kids do that?"

And Phook said, "Nobody. I just teasin' you."

I thought that was good bathroom comedy.

Quote of the Day - International Relations Edition

Today we were in the car in a nearby town. There is a camo-painted Army tank permanently parked and displayed in sort of a town square area in this town. Phook spotted it and asked what it was. I found myself struggling to give a reasonably detailed answer, because reasonably detailed answers are what she is going for these days, to the point where I sometimes have to invoke the "We'll have to ask Daddy when he gets home" response because we're getting to some grade level in science that exceeds my personal knowledge base. What I ultimately came up with was something like, "Well, Phook, that's a real big 'chine that's like a big tough car. And sometimes countries, like the big place where we live, get in fights with other countries. And those big fights are called wars. And when our country is in a war, we need to use big 'chine cars like that to help us win our fights."

And Phook said, I shit you not, "Those guys need to change their attitudes. They need a new attitude."

Seriously. My recently minted three-year-old is able to figure out what the world's heads of state are incapable of realizing, based simply on the most ridiculous, most elementary description of the concept of war.

That made my day. Maybe my year. Phook, budding diplomat?

And one step back...

2009-11-03T15:45:00.000-06:00

In parenting circles, you hear the term "regression" not uncommonly. People talk about their kids regressing after the birth of a sibling...wanting to use a bottle or sleep in a crib after they've graduated from these things. Or regressing in their potty training when they move to a new house. Or something like that. I've also heard about kids randomly regressing in some way in conjunction with a growth spurt or some developmental leap. I dunno. I kind of thought all that was bunk, since I'd never witnessed it here in the House of K and I'm narrow-minded like that. I mean, I've witnessed ear-splitting naughty and maddeningly emotional outbursts and all those joys. But I've never seen one of my kids very markedly go backward in their behavior. Until now. Let's discuss.

Phook. Phook is mid-regress. It's weird. She is not being especially naughty or especially confrontational or especially difficult. But she is definitely doing some things that are so 6 months ago. Or maybe even a year ago.

Not the pottying. Thank everybody's god, not the pottying. The pottying is intact.

The first thing I noticed was that she was asking to be carried, particularly up the stairs to bed. And not just in a random way, but she wants to be carried slung across the front of the carrier's body, "over the threshold" style, let's call it. This is a child who has been walking miles on her own since her first birthday. Also a child who is a big fan of the "I want to do it ALL BY MYSELF" school of fun. So I noticed this. She does it with me and with Big K. We simply comply. No harm, no foul.

The second thing is her language. Now Phook has never been known for her pristine diction. Not by a long shot. But she had gotten to a point where there was less than one percent purposeful gibberish in her speech. I would have called it a rarity. I would go so far as to say she was at the all-English all the time phase of linguistic development. But the last few weeks, we have gibberish again. Yesterday, she was sitting against the wall waiting for her turn at the gymnastics class she's taking, and all of a sudden she just burst forth at me across the gym with a not angry but not entirely pleasant streak of something resembling, "Jock a pee a pall a peen a pop a pood a pep!" I smiled and nodded, looked around for her real parents, shoved a handful of craisins in Bigsy's mouth, and moved on. She is spouting a streak of gibberish at least 15 times per day at this juncture.

Her overall pronunciation is intact with the exception of her brother's name. When he was first born and she was 21 months old, she still had a significant amount of difficulty with the ending consonant sound in words. For example, she would say "ca" instead of "cat" and "cu" instead of "cup." Her brother's name ends in a hard sound and when he was born she couldn't say that ending consonant. A couple months later, that part of her pronunciation developed both with Bigsy's name and with other words. The last few weeks, she is back to calling him just the first sound of his name about 70% of the time. So odd.

She has also been very, very clingy with me. Today at storytime at the library, she chose to sit with me (I was on the floor monitoring Bigsy's ill-conceived attempt at squishy juice box consumption anyhow), instead of on her carpet square. When I left her with my sister last week to go play volleyball one evening when Big K had an evening meeting, she for some reason thought I hadn't given her a hug and a kiss before I left (I had) and launched into a meltdown the likes of which I could not even imagine her engaging in as my sister described it. Really. And this child, while healthily attached to me, has been able to casually wave and say "bye" when I leave since at least her first birthday. If I am sitting on the love seat and she on the couch, she comes over to sit by me...something I would normally have to beg her to do. Very, very odd.

So I can't figure it out. Heaven help us if it's a growth spurt because between her two-year and three-year checkups she jumped from 75th percentile in height and 50th in weight to off the charts in both measures. The child just turned 3 and she is wearing a 5T. So I think the growth spurt has to have already happened.

My only theory, and it is a shaky one, is that it has something to do with her social development. As I mentioned, she started taking a weekly gymnastics class about two months ago. She really likes it. There are like 5 kids in the class with an instructor. They do all sorts of cool stuff. Headstands, somersaults, launching themselves onto foamy pads, getting in a harness and jumping on a trampoline, walking on a beam, etc. All lovely. A couple weeks ago, Big K got home from work early so I was able to take her by myself and leave Bigsy at home with Big K. On the way there, I was making conversation about the class, asking her if she liked it, etc. She does. I asked her if she liked her teacher. She does. I asked her if she liked the other kids in her class. Her response stunned me. She said, "I like Jake. Not the Sarahs." (There are two girls named Sarah in the class.) Maybe for those of you with kids in daycare who have formed little friendships since they could crawl, this is not noteworthy. But for Phook it is. She has met and played with about 9 billion little kids - kids of my friends, playgroup kids, etc. It always goes pretty much fine and without incident. This gymnastics class is the first time she has been engaged with a consistent group of other kids regularly, so maybe that's what has her forming firm opinions on her peers. Whatever, it is new. She informed me that she does not like The Sarahs simply because they are "real weird." She will not elaborate.

But I know she does really truly like Jake. She is worried that he won't arrive if we get there first. Yesterday, she didn't want to play in the warm-up area until he got there. Halfway through the class yesterday I looked up to see her very gently clasping his cheeks with both hands, staring into his face. When she left, they hugged each other warmly. I would say it is the first time she has formed--or has had a chance to form--what seems to be something of a meaningful relationship with another kid.

So I'm wondering if this new development of friendship outside our family has the other half of her wanting to cling to her family more than usual. It is the only big change I can see when I sit around and theorize about this.

That's probably a crackpot theory. I don't even really believe it. I just thought I'd throw it out there. Big K simply says, "Child development is not linear" and dumps an entire bag of M&M peanuts from the kids' trick-or-treat candy in his mouth. I sit around and think about it. Of course.

So tell me, have your kids gone through seemingly random regressions? What did they end up being linked to, if anything?

(Let me be clear than I'm not hoping to "fix" this or even lamenting it so much as I am just feeling curious about it. I don't mind extra snuggling. For all I care, I'll carry her up the stairs when she's 16 if she asks me to. I'm a sucker like that.)

XO,
Big W

your daily nonsense

2009-10-28T09:46:00.001-05:00

People ask how the cats are getting along with The Hound.

Fine. Just fine.

***

Also, my son can fly.

Word to Big Bird.

Wiping Noses

2009-10-18T10:17:00.000-05:00

A huge part of caring for little children is tending to their personal care. Clothing, feeding, dressing, brushing teeth, bathing, all of it. I spend a huge portion of my day physically caring for my children's bodily needs. It's a huge amount of work, obviously. And you have to do it every day, all day. It repeats constantly. They're clean and then two minutes later they're dirty again. So you clean them again. And on and on and on until you realize that the crux of your life has been a cycle of these repetitive, mundane tasks for years on end.

A lot of moms I talk to talk about how difficult this is. And it is.

When you run into grandmas in the grocery store, a lot of them say, "Enjoy it, because it goes so fast!" Some days, there is a temptation to say, "Thank God for that!" But when I embarked on this mom gig, I somehow managed to take to it with the understanding that this phase of my life would be a very difficult span of exhausted years, but that it is the blink of an eye in the span of my life. That knowledge is what got me through Bigsy's difficult first months. The months I can barely even remember only a year later.

I don't know if you read this famous blog, written by a mother of four who takes great joy in motherhood but is now working to build a new life for herself after she and her husband were horribly burned in a plane crash a year ago. Or this awesome blog, written by her similarly-minded sister. If you don't read them, you should. You should start at the beginning, and read every word they have said. The word "inspiring" is overused. But if anything you can read is truly inspiring, you will find it there. It is particularly inspiring for a mother. Her outlook on mothering prior to her accident was inspiring, in and of itself, because she utterly delighted in it. All of it. Even the mundane, the repetitive, the draining. She knew how wonderful her life was and she cherished every moment of it, even before she was given the cruel reminder of the precariousness of life.

I try extremely hard to mother in that mold. I try not to get bogged down by the constant cook-feed-clean of my day. When I pick a child out of a high chair and they leave an avocado smudge down my shirt, I try not to let it frustrate me. When I am trying to accomplish something around the house and there are little people undoing everything in my wake, I try to power through and just eventually get it done and not attempt to figure out how quickly I would have been able to accomplish the task if the children weren't around. When I'm trying to get out of the house and a child removes the shoes I just finished wedging onto their feet, I try to just calmly get the shoes and put them on again. The simple fact that this is my goal and that I usually get pretty close to succeeding is something I am proud of.

But sometimes I fail. One occasion on which I fail to appreciate my children and the gift of my ability to care for them is when they have colds. Runny noses. It is hard to derive joy from tending to children's runny noses. A kid with a good head cold seemingly generates a gallon of slime per day from their various orifices. Two children = two gallons. And every drop of it has to be handled by me. I walk around with tissues or other wiping devices wedged in every pocket, up every sleeve, tucked into the waistband of my pocketless pants. (I now know why my mom always has a stash of Kleenex on her person, and always will.) Having children with colds makes the grossness of my day even grosser. It makes the endless cycle of keeping the children even modestly tidy even more of a chore. And I don't like it. At my worst, I even resent it. I think smugly about how damned smart I am, and I get a little huffy that my purpose on the earth seems to be Snot Patrol.

But she reminds me.

It is a gift. Wiping noses is a gift. I am not being melodramatic. I mean that, completely. Caring for your children, even when they are sick and nasty, is an incalculably huge gift. It means you were blessed with children. It means that you are able-bodied. It means that your children are healthy enough that a cold counts as a sickness. In my case, it means I am lucky enough to be the person who cares for them all day long. I do not need to worry that someone else is letting their nose run, or wiping it carelessly, or wiping it too harshly. I am the one wiping their noses. The noses I grew within my own body. The noses God gave me to care for.

Recently, she was featured on Oprah. They did a piece where a weary mother followed her through her daily struggle to care for her children. How she couldn't pick them up out of the bathtub because of her burns. How hard it was to open a bag of carrots for their lunches. The weary mother predictably lost it and realized how much she takes for granted in her own life. And Oprah, with whom I have a volatile relationship, said something that actually rang very true for me. She called the mundane tasks of caring for little children "sacred." That is the perfect word. They are sacred. Because in the grand scheme of raising a child and then being their parent after they reach adulthood, the moment during which you carry them up the stairs to bed exhausted on your shoulder after a long day is a grain of sand on the beach of their life. And it is an honor and privilege to be granted that moment.

I need to remember that.

I need to remember it always. Not just when Phook is feeding Bigsy ice cream off a spoon and we're all laughing and enjoying each other, but every time I pull a tissue out of my pocket. I need to remember.

All clear

2009-10-09T13:36:00.002-05:00

To those of you who read my post about Bigsy's health scare before I pulled it down on Wednesday, I am writing simply to say that he got a clean bill of health yesterday. For those of you who knew about this and sent your thoughts and prayers our way, thank you.

A letter to Phookie on her 3rd birthday

2009-09-27T20:41:00.002-05:00

Dear Phookie,

Here we are. Three. Your momma has been so busy the past couple weeks and is so tired and is so sorry that this letter may not be able to express much of anything of value. But here we go.

Phook, Phook, Phook. The "terrible twos" officially came to a close for you today, but I'm pleased to say that for you, it was the "terrific twos." Sure, you went gonzo your share of times and we've had our highly unpleasant battles of wills, but all in all, this year has been pretty awesome.

There was a shift this year. In the past, I've written about your shyness and your "slow to warm up" tendencies, but that has begun to fade away. Two weeks ago, storytime at the library started up after the summer break, and the lady who reads the stories could not believe you were the same child. Rather than quietly sitting on your carpet square sipping your juice box, you were leaping up to answer each of her questions. "That's a hippopominus!" you shouted in one of your awesome mispronunciations. You were eager. You were confident. You were engaged. You knew all the answers. You were something so very different than you were a year ago. And I was so proud.

This year, something also shifted in the way I viewed you. Rather than viewing you as vulnerable, I came to view you as strong. So incredibly strong. And you are so incredibly responsible for your age. And sensible. And reasonable. And thoughtful. And empathetic. And observant. And funny. And beautiful. You, my little girl, are amazing. You are amazing as a person who has just turned three. I do not know exactly what you will do with yourself as an adult (other than your proclamation that you will be driving airplanes), but you will be something. Something fierce. Something fantastic.

I do not worry how you will turn out. I think about your future all the time, but I don't worry how you will turn out.

I know.

You are an incredible little person with capabilities and traits that don't belong on someone your age. You will never be anything other than amazing. So I don't wonder. I know.

I love you, Phook. I am amazed by you, Phook. You are three, which is mind blowing but somehow not as devastating as I once felt the loss of your babyhood was. I am just loving watching you grow. Watching you learn. Watching you soar.

I was so lucky to have you be my baby. But I am far luckier to have you be my daughter.

Love,
Momma

Quote(s) of the Day

2009-09-10T08:52:00.000-05:00

Phook went to the dentist for the first time yesterday. Our plan was to have her watch me get a cleaning, and then she'd get hers done. We had talked a lot about what to expect at the "tooth doctor" over the previous couple of days. I had told her that if she wanted me to, I'd hold her hand while they put the little 'chines in her mouth.

So yesterday, I was lying in the chair, having my teeth scraped at by an instrument of torture while Phook looked on from Big K's lap. At one point about halfway through, she hopped off his lap and came over by me and said the following:

"I have an idea. How 'bout I hold your hand?"

And then grabbed my big meat mitt with her little paw and stood there holding my hand for several minutes.

First time my eyes ever teared up in a dentist's chair for a good reason.

And if you're curious, Phook did great during her cleaning. Her teeth looked great and her incessant finger-sucking hasn't jacked up the alignment of her teeth; the dentist said she was not concerned about it. This of course gives me something of a license to continue my bad parenting by allowing her to keep on keepin' on with the finger sucking. Maybe I'll put that on my list of fun winter projects. ;)

****

I think it's also only fair that I share Bigsy's quotes of the day, because after having exactly zero words (other than mama and dada) at his birthday, he has been adding 1 word per day this whole week. Totally weird. So let's all enjoy a look at what I can discern from Bigsy's vocabulary, in the order in which he acquired the words:

1) all done
2) bubble
3) Elmo
4) up
5) bye

Okay, really, Elmo? The 3rd word my child acquired in the English language was Elmo? Woof. (In all honesty, both "bubble" and "Elmo" came from this little book I read to him every day which shows the baby versions of Bert, Ernie, Cookie Monster, and Elmo taking a bubble bath. We go through it like 3 times before each of his naps because he loves it. So let's attribute it to that rather than the omnipresent din of Phook's Elmo movie that addresses the important issue of opposites, m'kay?)

And that's all for now. See ya, suckers!

Forty-two and a half

2009-09-04T14:53:00.003-05:00

Along with Phook's quotable quotes, I would hereby like to share her favorite number. Because it is hilarious. Friends, my child has been obsessed with the number "forty-two and a half" for a solid six months. I find this really interesting, because the child can currently count to 9.

Upon stepping on a scale for recreation, when I ask her how much she weighs, it is always, always, always, "forty-two and a half." Not accurate. But she's getting close.

Upon asking me what time it is (another favorite activity of late) and upon hearing my response that it is 5:30 or something, she inevitably says, "No, I henk (Phookspeak for "think") it's forty-two and a half."

Upon being asked how many deer are rambling around in the field, she replies, "Forty-two and a half." That's especially interesting to contemplate.

Upon carrying armfuls of stuffed animals from one location to another, she reports, "I've got lots and lots of guys. Forty-two and a half of them." Okay, Phook, it's your story.

So there you have it. Yet another example of the absurdity of Phook that I think the world is better off knowing. Gotta love her.

You dog people are some real weirdos

2009-09-02T14:17:00.002-05:00

I believe I've mentioned that I'm a dog owner now. I have 2/3 of a post written talking about how nicely the dog is fitting into our routine, how much I enjoy the dog, how relieved I am that our lives have not come to a screeching halt with dog ownership, even though my mother warned me that the earth stops orbiting the day you bring home a dog. So someday I'll finish that post and share it all with you. Until then, I just want to say that dog people are nuts.

You know, as a lifelong cat person crossed over to the dog-walking dark side, I officially need to go on record and state that cat people are getting a raw deal. The whole "crazy cat lady" stereotype. The notion that only a mindless tool would prefer a cat, what with their boring tendency to laze around all day, refusing to follow basic commands. The notion that cat owners are, at their core, weirdos.

It's you dog people that are crazy.

I base this assertion on my experience as a dog owner these past two months. I cannot begin to describe the amount of attention...the absurd amount of absurd attention...I get thanks to this hound. But I'll try.

First off, there is the segment of the population that will slam on its brakes while driving on a state highway to yell out their window, shooting queries at me re: the hound. "Hey lady, is that a basset hound?" "Yes." "Really? No way. That's the longest basset hound I've ever seen." "Um, it's a basset hound." I'm not kidding you. A good portion of my walks occur on my local sidewalks which line two state highways. And people scream out their windows at me re: the hound at least 3 times per week.

Also, I can state quite definitively that pushing a double stroller stuffed with two really cute children will get you a lot of attention, commentary, and the like. Typically, comments on Phook's curly hair, Bigsy's big fat smile, or, the ubiquitous line, "Well, you've got your hands full!" And now I can state just as definitively that the amount of attention I receive with the two children absolutely pales in comparison to the amount of attention that damned hound receives. I am telling you, if Big K ever goes up to the big World of Warcraft convention in the sky, the first thing I am going to do when I get to itching for a fresh spouse is take my hound out for a walk. Really. He is the ultimate conversation starter. Every bastard I see wants to discuss this hound. People dart in front of oncoming traffic to see the hound. Old ladies and random mutterers bust out of their stupors to discuss the hound. It's as if the stroller full of children has been covered by a magical cloak of invisibility and people can only see THE HOUND. They don't even comment on my poor kids anymore, even if I dress the little clowns in coordinating outfits. (Actually, I'm not sure I've ever done that. But I'm guessing it would be worth a shot.) Dog people are off the chain. I never knew this before, but now I do.

And here's the other thing. Dog people have dog knowledge. They can guess the hound's age based solely on the way he trots about. They talk about dog behaviors. Dog training. Dog habits. The care and feeding of specific dog breeds. Things to look out for with each breed. Dogs with motion sickness. Dogs with separation anxiety. Dog boarding. Spraying PAM on your dog's paws in the winter so ice doesn't get built up around their toes. (WTF? Is that legit or did I run into a nutter?) I dunno. Dogs. Dogs. Dogs. The only thing I know about dogs is that I don't know shit about dogs. But DOG PEOPLE DO.

Dude.

Sure, you'll get the crazy crotchety old man (my dad, for example), who treats a cat like an extension of the self. But generally, I think that cat owners, while they love their cats very deeply, are somewhat more able to view their cat as a pet who inhabits the same living space. Dog owners are insanely bonded to their dogs. When they are talking about their dog, they are talking about their child. Or perhaps in some cases, a creature they are even closer to than their child. Dog people are DOG PEOPLE. I don't even think they can be classified as pet owners. It would be more accurate to say they are part of a family, some members of which happen to be canine in nature.

I'm not saying that any of this is bad. I'm just saying that I feel really defensive on behalf of all the crazy cat ladies of the world, because they are not the weird ones. It is you people who are nearly slamming into mail delivery vehicles because you are ogling my hound and hollering out the window to determine his name. It is you people who are completely capable of lavishing my hound with a solid 15 minutes of attention, barely speaking to me at all, and completely disregarding the 1-year-old and 2-year-old sitting 9 inches from your face who are wondering why you are molesting their dog. It is you people who see me juggling snacks, beverages, and amusements for the aforementioned children, all while trying to make a dentist appointment on my cell phone, push the stroller, scoop the hound's poop into a baggie, and shove a letter in the mailbox, and STILL, STILL, STILL think that now is a good time to engage in a 10-minute chat on the beauties of dog ownership. You are the crazies.

I've talked to cats a lot in my day. I've dressed cats up like Smurfs. I've invented richly detailed stories about the luau-themed parties my cats are secretly throwing while I'm on vacation. I've been labeled a crazy cat lady. But now....now I know the real deal. It is all a ruse. A giant ruse orchestrated by the dog people of this world to make all of us cat people feel self conscious about our cat love. The dog people...oh, those dog people...they are sitting in their glass houses throwing giant ass stones (or milkbones, probably) over at us cat people...all to disguise the simple fact that they are the true crazies.

So here it is, I've officially busted out my conspiracy theory on Momma Says the F Word. And I hereby absolve all the crazy cat people of the world of any sense of personal weirdness. You rock on with your semi-normal selves, you cat-loving S.O.B.'s. You ain't got a thing to worry about with all these dog people running around.

Teddy

2009-08-26T16:51:00.003-05:00

Ted Kennedy died today, in case you missed the news. I can't remember if I've told you this before, but I have a long-standing, flaming, intense obsession with the Kennedy family. I've read so many books on the Kennedys, I may have a graduate degree in Kennedy Sciences and not even know it. I am fascinated by them. I love them. I feel like I hung out at their dinner table and sparred with them intellectually long before I was born and well before they started dropping like flies. In my dreams, I sail with them off the coast of Martha's Vineyard.

Eunice died August 11. That ripped me up. But now Teddy? I mean, he's been sick for forever and a day, so it's not like I'm shocked.

But I am a little bit devastated.

Obviously, this family had a dark side...and to say that is to be charitable. But they deeply valued public service and dedicated their lives to improving the world they lived in, even if what went on in their private homes wasn't something we can call exemplary. I just feel like they were a huge net positive for the world, and I mourn them.

I am sad today over the loss of my buddy Teddy.

When something like this happens, I am thankful for my Christian faith. Because I can tell myself that he is up sailing around the skies, reunited with his brothers, sharing their company for the first time in far, far too long...and really believe it is happening. Think what you want of that, but I really believe it. Teddy, Jack, Bobby, and Joe Jr.. Up there, sailing together. It makes me happy to think of all the fun they must be having. I sure am glad I believe that heaven is there, because it makes earth a lot more manageable.

Quote of the Century

2009-08-25T14:12:00.004-05:00

I'm having a terrible day today. A terrible day with my kids. Bigs is whiny and deucing his drawers constantly (I suspect teeth). Phook is hell on roller skates. (I suspect 4 days of jacked up sleep while we were camping, her spontaneously skipped nap yesterday, and the fact that she senses her mother's own short temper and fatigue.) Phook is currently in the process of potentially skipping another nap. I am really, really excited that I get to blow this pop stand at 4:30 to go meet a dear friend an hour away...a town mid-way between our homes where we can get a burrito and bitch.

But on this day when I have looked out the window and bellowed, "God save me!" in complete sincerity, I wish to share with you Phook's quote of the century, which she uttered while we were camping this past weekend. I hope it cheers me. Especially because I can hear her wandering around upstairs again, and I might lose my mind in the next 8-10 minutes.

Anyhow, we were camping at Copper Falls State Park in northern Wisconsin. We were all hiking. Bigs on my back. Hode and her boyfriend RFL. Big K trudging along, each step bringing him one minute closer to the inevitable double knee replacement he's going to need. And Phook. Gamely walking multiple miles through the woods. So we were on this particular trail that takes you near some beautiful waterfalls, but includes some moderately treacherous terrain. The trail is extraordinarily well-maintained, but you are doing a fair amount of uphill walking with a very deep, rocky river gorge on one side of the trail. So we're all on the trail, and we're climbing this gigantic flight of stone steps that is in place at one point on the hike. My sister and I began reminiscing about our journey on this trail last Memorial Day...a trip which included my parents. We were laughing about how my mom was convinced that my father would be unable to continue at some point on the hike and how she was sure he'd need to be "airlifted out of there." My mom is pretty much positive my dad is going to need to be airlifted out of somewhere at any given moment, and my sister and I enjoy snorting heartily at my mom's copious claims that he's going to require said airlifting. I'm not saying the man won't at some point require a chopper to haul him out of someplace or another, but she's prone to make this claim even when they're going to Target. So it's kinda funny.

But I've digressed. Again.

So we're climbing this gigantic flight of sharp-edged stone steps. My sister and I are claiming we're going to need to be airlifted out of there. And Phook has taken to crawling up the stairs. She's hands-and-knees going up this treacherous multi-story flight of stairs with the aforementioned river gorge on one side. She's clearly working really hard at this physical task. And all of a sudden, she says this:

"Man, we all gonna die out here!"

Allright, seriously, we all laughed so hard we were screaming. It was so well-timed...the child's a comic genius. (In retrospect, she may not have been kidding...)

But anyhow, that's it. I hope it brings you a chortle and some good cheer.

****

During the composition of this post, I have put Phook back to bed 3 times. I'm considering vodka. Not sure if it would be more effective if applied to me or Phook, but someone could surely benefit. I've got to have a 9-year-old bottle of $3 vodka lying around here somewhere.

I just want to complain

2009-08-18T15:10:00.000-05:00

This will likely be the most boring post ever. I just need a moment to really whine like a child, and no one is here but you, internets.

I just want to say that I am very angry at the technology in my life. This crap is supposed to be helping me, not sucking away time I don't even have. Really, if I spend a few minutes letting my mind go unchecked, I can just about get behind those theories positing that technology will get smarter than humans and eventually computers will hold us all hostage. I mean, they practically do now, at least metaphorically.

It started with the fact that my wood-burning cell phone, the one I've had for like 300 years in cell phone time, was officially dying. I ran it over with the stroller in gravel, Phook spilled a sand pail full of water on it, the battery didn't hold a charge, it cut out at inopportune times, it has been on life support all summer. So last weekend Big K schlepped off to find me a cheap/free replacement. And unfortunately, due to the water damage to my phone, they couldn't do that thing where they impregnate the new phone with the old phone's contacts. So I need to manually enter all my contacts into the new phone. With my wee job and all my sundry associates, I do in fact have quite a few contacts. So I've spent the last couple days toying with the phone, entering a contact here and there, and generally screwing up something...usually related to saying it's a mobile number when really it's the home and not being able to figure out how to change it once it's entered. I am not clueless really when it comes to technology, but I'm no 16-year-old who can text with my tongue ring either. Really, I'm annoyed. I'm putting off sitting down and plowing through the project. Today I had to turn on the old phone to get the number to the pharmacy, because I of course didn't have it in the new phone yet. This process is cumbersome at best. Ugh. I don't know why, I'm just angry about this time suck annoyance.

Also, we are users of Microsoft Money. Not that I'm good at budgeting, but I do at least track our finances. We put everything on a rewards card and then pay it off every month, and I even track all those credit card transactions individually. A lot of data entry. The primary reason I do this is that Big K fixes computers on the side and I am technically a contracted employee for my job, so we have various business expenses we need to get the computer to puke out at tax time. Really, sitting down and hammering all that data into the computer each month is one of my least enjoyable jobs here as CEO of K Enterprises. So imagine my glee yesterday when I went to put in the previous month's transactions and found an old version of Money where the usual one should be. I wasn't super-worried, since we have a server at home and my laptop does a regular backup to an external hard drive and we upload crap to online storage locations and occasionally burn crap to CD to have in an alternate location and we require a retinal scan when anyone logs onto our computers. (That's all true except the last part...my husband is a bit nerdy.) So Big K was covered in seeping wounds from unwise sliding and really sore and tired from a weekend marathon of a softball tournament...which means that when I called him for tech support he was all too eager to knock off a bit early to come home and find my data.

Except he couldn't find my data.

Basically, he had opened some crank yanker version of Money this past weekend to make an invoice for my dad's company for whom he'd done some computer work. And then he closed Money. And, yippee, Money backs up automatically upon closing if you have this setting enabled. So it backed up the old version, overwriting all my other backups. And then in my attempts to find it, who knows what version of what I restored on top of what and basically it was a data disaster and after 2 hours of attempts Big K declared us screwed.

While he was dicking around trying to find the data, I propelled my energy into rooting through 9/10 of my home, covering my entire dining room in things to sell at my mom's upcoming garage sale. I didn't think I had much, but then I got pissed and that led to some quality purging. Come on over if you're a size 16 with a pituitary problem. I've got shit with the tags still on with your name on it.

So I mourned my losses by jettisoning my childhood keepsakes and then I sat my ass down and recreated the last 10 months of our finances, one stop at the convenience store for a 73 cent coffee at a time. The kids' accounts, our accounts, the dog's account...it just seemed like there were a trillion accounts to go through. It was hell. Hell because I sat in the recliner with laptop burning a hole in my thigh entering data for 9 hours and hell because I got to relive every dumbass purchase and every unexpected car repair bill and dental visit ALL OVER AGAIN. Really, truly, torture. By the time I was done at 1 a.m., I had to hold the credit card statements about 2 inches from my face because I could no longer tell the difference between the numbers. Seriously. Disaster.

We've disabled the automatic backup feature.

I am upset.

We're going camping for 4 days and I have a ton of crap to do to get us ready. (I certainly shouldn't be compounding the problem by blogging.) And, really, I have PMS. If I thought I could reign in my propensity for too much detail, I'd do a great post about how it feels to have your body attempt to restart its "normal" hormonal engines after 44 consecutive months of pregnancy and nursing. That'd be a hoot. But I'm not going to do that (at least right now). Instead I'll tell you that it means I have no energy (especially infuriating given that on an average day I feel like I could hike the AT while hosting a toddler's birthday party and making something with phyllo dough). It means my patience with the humans I have created is not what it ought to be. It means I have acne. It means I am falling off the wagon on my one pop per day promise to myself. It means I should not have been challenged by the universe with this kind of colossal annoyance. It means I just want to complain.

So there you have it. Technology can really suck the big one. I want it to work for me, I do. I just do not want to work for it. Ever. Ugh.

And that is it. Just a boring complaint. I have to go now. I have 200 contacts to fumblingly enter into my new cell phone. Woof.

Quote of the Day

2009-08-15T09:29:00.003-05:00

So this one is more touching than funny, but still worth sharing.

Yesterday, on our morning walk (lots happens on our morning walks), Phook sees a cop car. She notes this, since she's into law enforcement. She says that it's a big one. I agree. Being a dusky color in the bright morning sunlight, Phook says, "It's a brown one." I say, "Actually, Phook, it's a gray one." She thinks for a minute. And then she says:

"Yup, it is. Just like Shib."

That one brought tears to my eyes. I haven't talked about Shib with Phook for several months. But I've been missing her a lot lately.

Aw, Phook. I love you.

Quote of the Day

2009-08-13T16:10:00.003-05:00

I'm thinking I could do a pretty hilarious regular feature on this here blog by posting Phook's quote of the day. There always is one...it's usually the first thing I tell Big K when he walks through the door. Really, truly, the smack that Phook runs can really brighten my day, especially when I'm considering selling her. So I'm gonna share one with you to brighten your day.

The scene is around the corner from my house on our regular morning walk. Phook has determined it is time to get out of her seat of the double stroller and start running ahead of me - I am of course pushing Bigs in a bigass stroller while also walking Turbo on a leash. (It probably sounds a bit horrifying, but I enjoy this part of our walk because it really speeds us up and gets us home in time for Bigs' morning nap on most days. Essentially, Phook is the mechanical rabbit that we are all chasing. The dog runs, I run, the stroller does unspeakable things to Bigs' c-spine.)

So anyhow, Phook is running ahead. All of a sudden Turbo decides, mid-sprint, that it's time to stop and pee. (Dude, dogs have insane bladders.) My part of the parade slows itself to wait for the hound. Phook has gotten a decent distance ahead. Sensing this, she turns around and asks what's going on. I tell her that Turbo is peeing. She thinks about this for a minute and looks annoyed. And then says this:

"Man, he's takin' his sweet time."

I am still snorting unattractively every time I think about it.

All in a day's work

2009-08-12T08:21:00.000-05:00

Ha! I don't know what you bums have been doing this summer, but my husband has been up to absolutely no good. A prime example would be the fact that he's been spending time hobnobbing with Wisconsin's governor in the course of his daily duties. Something about the governor coming to say "Yeah!" about some program he's in charge of. Don't believe me? Here...I have proof:

(He asked me to pick him out an outfit for that day, something that has only happened about 4 times in about 11 years, so I knew he was really pissing himself.)

If you're you, you see Big K and the gov'nor in the above picture. If you're me, you can see that Big K is shitting himself. He's got that uptight draw to his face, his chest is puffed out a bit like a rooster, and he's not breathing enough. (He really was excited about this.)

Here they are, discussing the world's problems. Maybe they're setting up a poker game for later. Who the hell knows. Once you bust out of the junkyard and onto the international political scene, the sky is the limit. He might have a lunch date with Hillary Clinton this afternoon. Who knows. The Woods can't keep this guy down. Oh no.

I can nearly guarantee that while these photos were being taken, I was personally handling the bodily fluids of a human or animal other than myself. Some stars rise, some stars fall. 'Tis the way of the world. :)

And in completely unrelated news, I had a funny moment this morning where I realized that I am definitely no longer anything resembling a new mom. (I could (and should) write a really hilarious post on new mom vs. experienced mom tendencies...that would be a trip.) But anyhow, I don't know about you people, but my kids (as babies/early toddlers) like to scream as if they are being slaughtered when you try to wipe the food off their face and hands after they've eaten. Bigs sees that rag coming at him and he turns away like it's a sledgehammer. So when this was Phook, I felt really terribly about how much she hated having her face wiped. I dreaded it on her behalf and was overcome with compassion after every meal. Today, when Bigs was having his morning wipe-down after breakfast, he of course threw his head back in a howling, militant rage. And my thought, rather than a wave of compassion for my child's plight, was this: Geez, it sure helps me get the food out of your neck fat when you throw your head back like that.

I thought that was tits.

So anyhow, my husband is a pimp. The only way this would have been cooler is if we were Alaskans a few weeks ago, and then these pictures would have portrayed him shaking hands with a crazy, heat-packin' MILF. That would have been epic. But we'll take what we can get.

XO,
Big W

Mother of the Year

2009-08-03T14:55:00.000-05:00

Does your kid go to a great daycare or preschool? Do they spend their mornings learning to speak Spanish and play the bongos, all the while noshing on 100% organic snacks prepared by a monk? Or maybe your kids stay home with you, and you live in a really great metro area absolutely brimming with children's museums, kids' music classes, and amazing gyms filled with toys that teach 2-month-olds to walk. Maybe you spend your mornings taking your kids to marvelous places like those, stimulating their little minds and generally enriching every moment of their lives.

Not Big W. No. Instead, I allow this sort of thing to happen:

This photo was taken at 10 a.m. today. My daughter is undressed, unwashed, uncombed, untoothbrushed, eating Cool Whip directly out of the tub, and (although you can't see it in the photo), she is also watching a DVD of the movie Happy Feet. This sort of happened casually. I tend to be busy on Mondays, planning meals for the week, dealing with correspondence, housework, and laundry that has piled up, generally getting our act back together after the weekend. It's actually pretty much identical to walking into your office on a Monday morning. There's crap all over the place and you've got to hustle to get yourself back in the swing of things before your first meeting. (In our case, that meeting would be a playdate.) So, I got busy during Bigs' nap, and this is how Phook ended up in such a state at 10 a.m.

So I was sitting here entering Pampers points or tending to some other pressing matter on my computer, and I looked over at her, and I just started laughing. When gestating my first precious bundle, I truly could not have imagined the day that I would let her hygiene go completely by the wayside 4 hours after she rose, let her tuck into an entire tub of Cool Whip as a morning snack, and let her watch entire feature-length films with alarming regularity. Holy balls. How quickly I have fallen. How quickly I got to this point. How the hell did this happen? Woof.

I can't really tell if I'm actually beating myself up here or if I really am just flat amused. I think we're gonna have to say it's 50/50. Either way, my kid really enjoys Cool Whip. We can positively confirm that one.

Arf.

So, I did eventually get the children dressed, and we moved our dicking around party to the second floor. I was putting away clothes or something while Phook and Bigs were hanging out in her room. After two minutes, she yelled to me, "Mommy, I made a big book train!" I went in there, and indeed she had.

Phook is entering an extremely imaginative stage, where everything is something else. Books as train being a great example. The other day she was eating a curly noodle at lunch and she said, "This a fish." And then she bit it in half and said, "See, I bite his tail off." Today she was eating a square carrot chunk from a serving of frozen mixed vegetables (the resident monk is on vacation), and she said, "This one is a house. I gonna eat it." I am loving this. It is so, so, so fascinating to hear what she is imagining. I have (against all odds) enjoyed her year of being two. I think that three is gonna be totally awesome. I really do. I mourned her babyhood SO HARD, but I love few things more than sitting back and watching her become a kid.

Also, I'd like you all to really look closely at the photo above. If you do, you'll notice that I captured Phook about to put a basket on Bigs' head. You'll also notice half of a hound sticking out of a tent. You'll also notice a stray Swiffer, because it's Bigs' current favorite toy. I don't know, fuggin' Waldo is probably in that picture if you look closely enough. Man. It ain't the bongos, but it's good times nonetheless.

Speaking of good times, I am pleased to report that I officially completed my cherry pie filling canning operating this past weekend. Cherry pie filling is one of my favorite things that I can, and I am feeling rather satisfied that this task is complete. I'll be enjoying many a darn good pie in the coming winter months. See?

Mmm. I bet that'd be good with some Cool Whip.

XO,
Big W

Ink, mayhem, etc.

2009-07-28T23:52:00.000-05:00

Dudes, I have been out of town. So many exciting/crazy things have been happening and I just haven't had the time to sit down and spew it. I regret this. And while I should have been in bed 400 hours ago but instead spent too much time dicking around on a certain social networking site, I am going to throw up a few sweet pics as a tribute to my loyal reader who is about to get fired for bringing up my deadass blog on her workplace computer only to find herself still staring at that godforsaken Hoff pic which is clearly not related to any function of any working person on the planet.

So here's the speedy update...

We went cherry picking:

We dicked around on Lake Michigan:

My sister took this picture that I totally love (and boy oh boy was I surprised we needed that much gear in the middle of fuggin' July!):

The one thing I really must blog about in greater detail is the fact that my sister and I got inked (again) and I took my kids along to the tat place. Dude. Big mom badge of honor, that is. You don't see this every day:

I captured a shot of the Pig looking like I think he will look throughout his college career. I can totally imagine him egging on his buddies to do bad things while rocking this face:

Something happened and my baby no longer appears to be a baby. I appear to be the mother of two kids. This picture really freaked me out when I came to that realization:

My sister made me the raddest b-day cake ever. Here's proof that we really do call each other "Hosedog." Proof in fondant/scrabble tiles. Dude, she made me this cake with no cake-decorating knowledge/experience to speak of. Holy balls, right? (Yes, those are the correct point values on the letters. Do you really think she'd dick around with fondant and the correct colors for each square and assign the wrong point value to the letters? I didn't think so.)

And also, I am wondering if you people would be offended if I changed the Pig's blog name. The thing is, I really do call Phook the name "Phook" in the meatworld. I also call her 57 other things and occasionally reference the name on her birth certificate. And I used to call the Pig the name "Pig" as well. However, he's becoming less Piggish to me and I now refer to him as "Bigs" or "Bigsy" here in the meatworld. I kind of like my blog to reflect an actual nickname and the Pig no longer fits quite right. Is it offensive to change his name? Will it confuse passersby? I don't know. Help me.

Also, my hair is now officially straight. I was in denial for a long time but I can deny no longer. I couldn't be more pissed. I had a really nice natural curl for the past decade or so, and now it is straight again. I blame the Pig, although my sister threw out an interesting theory re: the use of hormonal birth control which I won't get into in detail but which holds some water. Whatever, I'm just pissed. What do I do now? Cut this straighty straight crap off and get an actual hairstyle? That sounds like hell. (And I guess technically there is still some wave.) But, shit, why did this have to happen? That curly hair was one of the few things I prized about my physical self. Anger. (Perhaps I should be more angry about the fact that my feet, in all honesty, jumped from the commercially-generally-unavailable size of a 12 to the absolute freak show drag-queens-only size 13 while pregnant with that dude. Hmm. It's a toss up.) Whatever. What kind of product do you put on hair that you just want to wash and wear when your hair is just wavy? Someone tell me. (If it matters, it is rather thick, full, and generally in some state of unmaintained color-treatedness.) Shit, help.

This post makes very little sense.

More later. Perhaps you'd like to see my ink?

Happy Birthday to The Hoff

2009-07-17T10:26:00.000-05:00

I just want you all to know that it is David Hasselhoff's birthday today. He is 57. Let us revere him in all his intense lameness (and reflect upon his incomprehensible status as a German megastar) and join in a moment of silent admiration.

There.

It is one of the supreme tidbits of amusement in my life that the celebrity with whom I share a birthday is David Hasselhoff. Yes, buddies, today is the day. The day I say goodbye to my twenties. Yes, suckers, I am 30. (But not until 5:32 p.m., so I have a few more hours...)

I'm not disturbed that I'm 30. Things are good, I'm happy to be on the right side of the grass, etc. It's just that I am shocked. Totally and completely shocked. I remember being 15 very clearly. It was only a few minutes ago. When I was 15, I would have considered a 30-year-old completely ancient. So what has me mystified is how I got here so quickly. How did I go from classifying this age as decrepit to being this age without much more than two or three moments passing? Dude. The passage of time is absolutely incredible. I cannot believe I'm 30.

One of the things I am doing for my job right now is organizing this little youth sports night thing at our city park. Big K and I have been playing volleyball with teenyboppers on Thursday nights. One night, we were marveling at how young they seem, how old we seem in comparison, etc. And then it occurred to us that those kids are closer to Phook's age than to ours. Holy balls. Teenagers are closer to my toddler's age than to mine? Really? When I was just a teenager a few minutes ago? Woof. And last night, we were talking about birthdays, and this kid busts out with, "I was born the exact same day that Kurt Cobain died." It was really embarrassing when I pooped my pants after that. I mean, really? Didn't that just happen? I mean, seriously. This kid running around with his parents' car and his fancy magic texty phone was born the day Cobain died? Holy shit.

To celebrate today, I'm parenting my children and tending to a hound and doing dishes and laundry and chores. You know, like 30-year-olds do. But I am throwing myself a party on Sunday at the city park. I invited all my hoodrats and some of them are coming and we're going to play pin the tail on the donkey and bob for apples and shit, and it'll be swell if anyone actually shows up. (I'm lying about those activities. Or maybe I'm not. We'll see.) So I'm really looking forward to that. And tonite I might eat a pizza. And drink a big pop. That'll be wild. Oh Lord, I am so 30.

So that about sums up my reflection on the matter. Tomorrow, I think that just for fun I'm going to make sincere statements to every stranger I meet that include the phrase, "Back when I was in my twenties..." You know, just to see how it feels. That'll be rich.

David Hasselhoff, you have a good one, you crazy bastard.