Halloween

So, it's Halloween, and my little black cat and Batman have gone off to wrestle candy delights from every house in a three mile radius. Batman's excitement was overwhelming! He just couldn't wait to fill his orange, plastic pumpkin. My little cat has been waiting for the this for weeks! We even had to buy parts of her costume back in August.

We spent the afternoon hanging lights and posing the skeleton. Our house looks purple and spooky. I have an asthma attack every time I go outside and step into the fog machine's mist. It's been dark for about a half hour now, and my candy stash has been raided by only my own children, my black cat's best friend, and her dinosaur brother. My Batman hurriedly scooped handfuls from the bowl, almost as though he expected not to be fed for days.

So, here I sit. By my side is my trusty dog, poised to kill anyone who rings the doorbell. Wait, do I hear something? Oh, it's just our squeaky wagon. Is Batman coming with the cat to save the day? Nope, they walked right past us. Oooooohhhhhh, the dog is growling. Let me check the window...

Nope, nothin.

I can tell this will be a thrilling night! So much for my face paint.

Oh, on the lighter side, when I asked my eighth grade what I should be today, they told me I should be an old woman because then I wouldn't need makeup. I told them I love them for their sarcasm. They said they weren't being sarcastic. Nice.

Stinky

So, Bubby Wubby has been sick for a week, and yesterday, as the two of us were driving to school to pick up Tootsie Wootsie, he fell asleep. Gradually, I started to smell something quite foul, and then it dawned on me that I had not made Bubby go potty before we left. He had taken a bath, and as we all know, water makes you go, so I figured he went. I flew into a panic. I’d have to leave my wet Bubby in the car while I went inside to get Tootsie. Poor Bubby. The odor gradually intensified until it was almost unbearable. I actually considered pulling over.

Mind you, I haven’t done that since Tootsie Wootsie was three and I was nine months pregnant with Bubby. She had thrown up all over herself in the backseat of the car. The Passat I was driving was not very spacious, I was a house wrapped in a wool coat, and after I twisted around to help Tootsie, I got myself wedged between the steering wheel and the seat. I panicked then, too, because I was afraid I’d have to call the fire department to get me free. They’d find a big, fat, pregnant woman wedged in the front and a hysterical, slightly vomit-clad little girl in the back. I did eventually wiggle free, and there were no calls to the fire department. I can only imagine the stories they'd tell back at the fire house.

With this incident in mind, I chose to keep driving yesterday. It was then, once my mind whisked back to the here and now, that I realized I was driving next to a pig truck. Thank God. What the hell was I thinking? My Bubby could never stink that badly.

A Song from My Youth

Well, apparently my boy likes big butts and he cannot lie
You other brothers can't deny
How disappointed I am that my children learned this song.

Oh, I just thought of something: how many of you stumbled upon this post by performing a search for "big butts"? What's wrong with you?

Why I Am Tired

Age. There was once a time when I scoffed at my neighbors, for their lights were out and their house was silent by 8:30 each night. I wondered how they could possibly be such wusses, going to bed so early. I enjoyed tequila and rum. Then, I had kids, possibly a direct result of tequila and rum. And I got grey hair. And the tops of my feet hurt every morning when I get out of bed. One side of my face droops a little. Just thinking of getting wasted is exhausting and nauseating (because who wants to wake up and be expected to exhibit the energy of a three-year-old after a night of drinking?). I like seersucker. I enjoy shopping for towels and tablecloths. I start thinking about what to make for dinner at lunchtime. I make certain to have the appropriate amount of fiber every day. I make molasses cookies. Was it the kids who made me like this?

Now, I understand why my neighbors were in bed by 8:30, and the truth be told, I am envious. I’d love to be in bed by 8:30. It would be heavenly to curl up under the blankets right now—in a nice, soft bed—and drift off to sleep, but oh, no. I have to wear out the kids, then have the tooth-brushing argument, read a book, tuck people in bed, check on that noise someone heard downstairs, be sure it’s not raining, make certain the dog doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, tuck people back into bed because they got up because I got up to check on the dog, get the boy a drink of milk so his bones don’t turn to rubber, rub a cramped calf muscle, hunt down what’s making the buzzing sound, trap a stink bug, set it free, tuck people back into bed because they wanted to see the stink bug, explain why a stink bug is called a stink bug, explain why we have bugs, explain why bugs get into the house, explain why the dog eats bugs, explain why the dog doesn’t eat stink bugs, explain why Bethany Hamilton doesn’t surf with a fake arm, explain why sharks attack, explain that shark attacks are rare, explain that we don’t have sharks here, explain why some sharks are protected species, explain that people don’t understand nature, explain why I know that people don’t understand nature, explain why I understand nature but other people don’t, explain why we live in a house and not in nature—because I don’t like bugs, and neither do sharks, but Bethany Hamilton is probably ok with them because she’s tough and lost her left arm to a shark but didn’t let her fears stop her, so I should just take a trip right into the basement and visit the bugs right now. Not. Breathe. Go to sleep, everyone!

Best Name Ever

I had to post this because I think this guy needs more publicity. And because it's absolutely hysterical.

This guy is awesomely real. A friend (who is a photographer) took this pic and sent it to me. I distorted his phone number--I bet Phil doesn't want prank calls reminding him to SAY NO TO CRACK.

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

I just want to brag a little bit that Santa is bringing my girl and boy a Wii. Yes, though they are near impossible to find, Santa has pulled through, even getting one with a steering wiil (without paying an inflated price, which makes it a Christmas miracle!), and on December 26th, everyone in my household will be laid out, suffering from our injuwiis. We may even have wiinitus, tennis welbow, and twiiked knees, but it will be wiinderful!

Wii hee!

Grass

I do so love cutting my grass. Very few things bring me such pleasure as to see my yard even and well groomed. I derive such happiness from pushing around the mower and riding the tractor. The weed whacker absolutely thrills me. I look forward to it every weekend, like an addiction (because it's my time alone). I have to get my grass fix, or I might just be found curled up in the fetal position in the corner, murmuring to myself in a state of utter confusion. I experiment with new patterns, not just diagonal, but crop circle-ish. A little circle here, a figure eight there, squiggly lines around the swingset... I just enjoy it so much, and soon, the fun will be over. No more growing blades, no more sprouting weeds. The color will dull, and everything will go dormant. And I will have to stay in the house and deal with reality.

In other grass related news, I encouraged (read that coerced) my children to roll down the hill yesterday. Don't you remember the fun of rolling down the hill and feeling nauseatingly dizzy at the bottom? My boy was gung ho! My girl, however, was afraid of ticks, so I called her chicken and clucked until she agreed. Of course, the whole thing backfired because everyone involved was overcome with a completely insatiable all-over itchiness (except me). All they did was complain of being itchy until bed time. Are these kids a different breed? What the hell happened? I don't remember ever itching as a kid, except when I was covered with chicken pox, and even then, I was totally engrossed with picking off my pox (oh, the scars!). Anyway, hill rolling is no longer condoned in my household. We are currently constructing a tick-proof, grass-proof bubble.

A Fungus on My Gasket

Am I really supposed to clean the inside of my refrigerator? Honestly, that's going to be a pain in the ass.