And Away We Go!

I have been thoroughly spoiled for company the past two weeks. This morning I was cranky after my AuntieM drove away. A body gets used to having grownups to talk to, and the prospect of losing that made me a little grouchy.
The baby is down for a nap, so I thought I'd work on getting Boy set up for homeschool. Just a few last minute details. Like, oh, say, what I'm going to teach him. I feel a little like I'm on a roller coaster, at the top of the first hill.
Example. I want to teach him Biology. I know a fair bit about it, shouldn't be too hard. So I need a text. So I go online and look at a review of texts by a committee of teachers, who conclude that the nine most frequently used biology texts ALL SUCK.
I wasn't expecting this.
Hmmmm.
OK.
So I'll just pull something together myself.
That's like saying I'll just write my own textbook.
HA!
Actually, what I'll be doing is referring to textbooks for content, to make sure I don't skip anything, but pulling together the information from the texts and the internet and who knows what all, and ordering it myself. A whole lot of work. And that's just biology. I'll be doing the same thing for history and Spanish too. That's even more work.
Suffice it to say I'm intimidated.

See you next week...

Am spending time with my aunt, will write more later...

News Flash

I'm Not Pregnant!

And the Survey Says.....

Let me just preface this by saying that for two years or so I made a living in a company that makes pregnancy tests. I know more about them than you would believe. I know things about them that you didn't even know there were to know. And one of these things is that a negative result doesn't always mean "Not Pregnant". Nope. And if you bother reading the directions to the pee-stick tests, you know that you shouldn't read the results after ten minutes. Because they're unreliable. That's true. But the secret that I know is, if you get a line after ten minutes, there's a good chance you really are pregnant. Depends on your body chemistry.
I've done about a million tests with my own pee, and I know I never get a line after ten minutes. Normally.
I've taken three tests in the past two days. Two of them gave lines after 10 minutes. My period is late. I know a positive should be showing now. The fact that it isn't could mean I'm not pregnant. Could mean I am pregnant and my pee was too dilute. Could mean I have an ectopic.
Wish I knew already, because the thought that I could become a mother of THREE is very scary. The phrase just keeps rolling through my brain, MOTHER OF THREE MOTHER OF THREE MOTHER OF THREE. I realize three is not that bad. Many people have three. Or More. Goody for them. For me, three feels like a hell of a lot.
I've got to go be a mother of two. Help make dinner and clean up some spit-up.
Wish me luck,
ephelba

New Jeans

I remember being in high school and trying to buy jeans. I would occasionally get some money set aside for clothes, and in a fit of optimism I'd head out to a store with a likely sale. I'd try on pair after pair until I found some that covered my ankles, then I'd say, surely These ones will work, and take them home. Where I would wash them. And they would shrink. And my ankles would show. And my money would be wasted and I'd have to be angry at myself 'cause I knew better, but I spent the only money I had on them and now all I had to wear were GOD DAMN SPOCK PANTS.
Then I discovered Boy's Jeans. These came in long lengths and straight legs and were just the ticket.
Mostly.
The year before Peanut was born I decided I was tired of wearing clothes I hated. My beloved Loon gave me some hand-me-down jeans that were made for girls and they were cute. I began doing a little looking on my own and discoved great strides had been made in women's jeans. I collected a full set of jeans I loved, then started collecting a set of T-shirts.
At which point I got pregnant.
Which meant that none of those clothes fit. So I tried to collect a small set of happy pregnancy clothes, but unless you're rich it ain't happening.
Now I'm post-pregnancy, but I'm slipping past my pre-pregnancy weight. I'm not complaining about losing weight, but all those lovely fun jeans were size 14. For the past month or so I haven't have to unbutton my jeans to pee.
My Mother-in-law noticed, so for a birthday present she took me to Old Navy to get some britches. I grabbed some 14s and some 12s. I was surprised the 14s were too big. I was downright shocked the 12s were too. So I make a run for some 10s. Oddly, the 10s seemed too tight. So I go out the stall and show off my booty to my MIL to see what is up. The girl who is the Keeper of the Keys says most people wear the jeans that tight, but it seems obscene to me. I decide I'm a 12 Long.
Which they have. Do young people today realise how good they have it? Straight leg girls' jeans that come in a long. Who'd a thunk it.
Then the MIL says "Try on this shirt". It is soft as butter, and light as a feather, and tight as something really tight. I put it on with the jeans and I feel so weird. The jeans fit and the shirt does too. You can see my body. How strange. I can't help but stare in the mirror. I decide Simon will like the effect. Maybe I will put a picture up, and you will understand what a mind fuck it was to try on clothes that fit.
So I come home and put on the clothes for the Boy and Simon. Boy says "Wow" with a little gasp. I could have kissed him.
The up shot is I've come full circle. Hating my clothes, finding some clothes I liked, not fitting the clothes I liked, hating the clothes I have...now I'm finding some more clothes I like.
Is the next step to get pregnant again?
I'll let you know tomorrow- I'm peeing on the stick in the morning.

Wish me Luck,
ephelba

If you type it, they will come...

Wow.
I was at Diaryland for how long, and no one read the blog unless I told them it was there. Mostly friends and some family. I've been here for maybe a week, and I kid you not, people from five different countries have checked me out. Ages range from 13 to 46 (as far as I know). And Three lovely lovely people left comments. I'm just so pleased.
Hello! How are you? Why on earth are you reading this?

Blogs are weird. The internet is weird.

You should know it is a habit of mine to pop up with this observation from time to random time, which makes Simon roll his eyes and say "You think Everything's weird". Which is true. Because it is. Oranges are weird. Hands are Really weird, even if you're not high. Being a mom is Really Really weird. Take it from there, you know the words...

Methinks it is a Good Weird. If we read what's happening in 100 people's brains, do we not feel less lonely, because many of us are thinking the same thing. And when we're not thinking the same thing, do we not gain insight that makes us more tolerant and understanding?

Usually?

I have read a few blogs that made me want to puke. Someone ranting about how feminists hate babies. Ack. But I suppose even then it's good to know what she was thinking.

My Mother-in -Law is here. Yay! I about talked her ear off, and she's only been here five hours. It's just so good to have someone to talk to. I think I'm usually a pretty good listener- hope I haven't just made her sick to death of me already.

It is incredibly late, and I still have to pump, and then I have to get up at four to drive Simon in to work because we just have the one car, so talk amongst yourselves.

Ever so pleased you're reading,
Thank you, thank you!
Ephelba

Googling

Ever Google yourself? First I Googled my given and married names. In my case it was very, very humbling. Then I Googled my favorite screen names, and HEY! That so-and-so stole my favorite screen name!
I realize that there are a million people with my given name, but somehow the fact that there are a million with my chosen name made me feel not very special. Also rather unoriginal.

Then I looked up the screen name I use here and the first thing that pops up is my Husband's entry about our threatened miscarraige with Peanut. And I feel famous. Like a million bucks. Then I feel kinda weird, because don't you get to be listed on Google by how many people link to your site? So, people are linking to this?

Then I keep reading and I feel mad again, because many other people have made the Ephelba, Elphaba mistake, and again I'm not so special. At least I know better. And I read the book and don't think it's about a sadly misunderstood witch who just wanted to be good. I think that's a gross over simplification. Don't ask me what is about, but I know it ain't exactly that.

So Simon's entry is on Google, so I wonder how many of mine are, and I start searching for combinations of words that should hit my blog, and I get none. A Great Big Nothing. Google says, Did I mean something else? No, Google, I meant just what I said, why you don't stroke my ego and show me my Blog? Apparently because no one has linked to my blog ever.

Ouch.

That could have been the end of it, but I set up a site tracker for this blog, and for the first time since I stated blogging I can say for sure that people I don't know have at least glanced at something I wrote. Rather intimidating. And exciting. Makes up for the lack of Googleness somehow.

So now I have a favor to ask. One of the reasons I moved here from Diaryland was to have the comments feature. It is, I believe, up and running. Could you please, just this once like, leave me a comment? It would so, so make my day.

Shamelessly Begging,
Yours truly,
Elpheba

On Sleeping With Babies

Can you imagine a gorilla getting ready to sleep, making a nest for itself, then taking its infant to another part of the forest and leaving it there? Or a chimpanzee letting its baby monkey cry it out? No, because any monkey that leaves its babies alone like that gets those babies eaten. Obviously, there must be some pretty heavy selection going on towards monkeys who keep their baby monkeys close to them all the time, even at night. And it only makes sense that nature would select for monkeys who respond quickly and reliably to their crying babies.
And somehow we think that because we have opposable thumbs these instincts don't belong to us. That responding to a baby that is crying alone in its crib is pandering to it. That a baby who doesn't want to sleep by itself isn't demonstrating a valuable survival instinct. That we can train out of our babies in a matter of days what eons of evolution put in place.
It riles me.
And it riles me that mothers are made to feel guilty when they give up on Ferberizing their kids, or when they never bother to try. And it really riles me that it's usually our own mothers or mothers-in-law who lay the guilt on us. We need our Mothers to inspire us to have confidence in ourselves, to teach us to trust our own instincts about our children.
I slept with Boy from when his head was under my chin and his feet at my belly button until he was out of diapers. Peanut doesn't sleep in our very bed, but she sleeps in her crib right next to us, where she can hear us snore and fart and (clutch the pearls) have sex. She knows she's not alone, and she sleeps better for it.
I sleep better knowing if she cries I can throw out my hand and rub her little head.
Of course, it is true that some babies don't care where or how they sleep. This rant is not aimed at their mommas. Nor is it aimed at people who are happy having their babies sleep in another room. I doubt that many people end up in therapy because their mommas let them cry it out. In the big scheme of things it doesn't matter. In the little scheme of things, though, it matters to some babies. And it hurts their mommas to feel guilty about letting them cry, then feel guilty when they pick them up and take them to their bed. And it hurts mommas to have their judgment questioned. This entry is for them.
Here's hoping we all learn to trust ourselves.

Ta Da!

So here I am on Blogger. Want to know why Blogger is cool? Because adding links and pictures is super easy. Here. I'll add a picture to this very post. Three in fact.
Today's entry is about hair loss. Did you know that while a woman grows a baby she pretty much quits shedding hair? It's true. And did you know that a few months after the baby is born she makes up for it by shedding the hairs she should have shed all at once? Yep. And what is a girl to do with all that hair?
Here are some ideas:










Clog your drains!










Make a Bouncy Hairball!













Tired of your baby being bald? Give her a DIY Wig!
Boy wanted to take the hairball to school for show and tell, but I wouldn't let him. Can you blame me?

Hmmmm....

Maybe you've read Wicked, and you're thinking "She's spelled Elphaba wrong." OK, I did, but I spelled it wrong years and years ago, and it's stuck to me like wet grass to feet and I kinda like it now. Besides, I'm not her, I'm me.
I have been blogging over in Diaryland for several years now. I am used to it. It is comfy and good unto me, even though I have to pay to add pictures, and I don't have the Comments feature, and the rings don't work, and there isn't a spellchecker.
Then I enter this phase where I MUST READ BLOGS (since I don't talk to people), and for the first time ever I find that I can't shut up, I have to leave comments, and in order to do that here you have to register, and then I discover this thing rocks hard.
Now I'm torn.
Do I move here? Is that unfaithful of me? Would I be nuts to repost all of my entries from the other site? Cause I'm not one to have my eggs in thirty two Easter baskets- that shit makes me nuts. I have two e-mails that I regularly use and I hate that I can't merge them now that yahoo lets you have two names for one account.
Sigh.
It's too late at night to be awake, much less deciding things.

Go read my other blog...

No Poop Here!

I surprised myself today; this is how:

Boy has had swimming lessons all week. The Y is running a program for free, so I'm all up in it. Yesterday Boy experienced a huge leap in his confidence around water. What did he do with this gift? Why, go in the deep end without any floating device actually attached to him. With a floaty barbell and some flippers he heads for a good place to DROWN. I'm watching from the observation deck. I'm really starting to worry. Just when I'm ready to bust out the window the swimming teacher catches him and suggests a floaty belt for these hijinks.

Ahhhhh....

Later, Boy jumps in the shallow end for a few last minute maneuvers. These are marketed as a chance for me to see what he can do, but actually serve to keep him in the pool for every last possible second. Another boy begins a game of chase. The other boy, WEARING A FLOATY BELT, aims for the deep water. Boy pursues him on a floaty bar. I yell at boy and tell him to get his non-swimming butt back in the shallow end. He turns around. He puts the barbell under his chin in a "Look Ma, no hands!" posture. The barbell goes Shloop! right out from under him and lands just out of reach. He utters one desperate "Help!"...we will now follow events in slow motion....

I think I have to save him.

In dumb-ass-mode I go to put my wallet and keys down, as if they'd cease to exist if they got wet, or as if I would care....

The two life guards are already at the edge of the pool.

I get ready to jump in and wade over. It is taking SOO LONG for me to get in the water!

One of them dives and pops up right next to him.

This all happened so fast Boy didn't even go under.

This freaked me out. Really a lot. Way more than Boy. Later that day I retold the story to Loon. I then told her about shocked I was that Boy had NO FEAR OF DEATH! Loon looked askance at me. She said there was no real reason to worry that Boy would drown in a pool surrounded by lifeguards. She said I should encourage Boy's risk taking, if not his rule breaking.

She is right. I realize she is right. I also realize that Boy could DIE in any pool anywhere. He could. People do. Ok, so this maybe a little teensy bit irrational. If you don't have kids, just wait- someday you will grow an irrational fear of your own.

At today's swimming lessons Boy learned to swim. Just like that. Now, I'm not saying he'll win the Olympics or anything, but he has made a sudden progression to a level where motion results from his movements. I was so excited. We decided there must be more swimming in celebration of his physical feat. It was supposed to be raining today, so we decided just to go back to the Y.

This is where I surprised myself...I had so much fun with Boy. Real fun, not the kind of fake fun you have when you're doing something for your kid that you really hate doing. He's never playd Marco Polo before, so we played that. We goofed around. I taught him all my best splashing and squirting techniques. We played with floaty balls. I taught him to do that thing where he stands on your shoulders, then you stand up real quick and throw him. I just plain threw him. It was SO FREAKIN FUN. Just me and him. There was no way for him to get into trouble, there was no one else to argue with. We didn't have to put on sunscreen (he hates that, but we're way too wonder-bread not to). It was perfect.

On the way home we sang to some downloaded tunes like "Fish Heads" and "Happy happy joy joy". They were all new to him and he thought they were soooo funny. We had a hoot.

ASIDE:

I have resisted exercise. Someone told me every year that you don't exercise your metabolism slows four percent. My body has recently been presenting a nice demonstration of this. My weight is not changing; composition is. The effect is like unto what would happen if I were made of wax and started to melt.

Actually, in some regards I have been pleased, never really having an ass before, or a "pot" (remember Pulp Fiction?). Then today I went to get into my swim suit. Same swim suit as last year- drastically different look.

I have decided I will exercise now, ass or no ass.

Poop

Boy story for the day:

Crazy/Loon run a daycare, did you know that? Today I helped Crazy take the kids to a restaurant for lunch. Boy had a chance to get ice cream, but chose not to.

?

This immediately makes me think he's going to barf, because what other reason is there to not eat ice cream?

Boy says he's just tired. Then he asks where the bathroom is.

After he walks away, Crazy decides she'll leave with the kids she brought. I help her clean them up. Boy still isn't back. I help her pack them up. Boy still isn't back. I go to the mens' bathroom, stick my head in and ask if he's alright. He replys, in a rather irritated tone of voice, that he's just fine. All her children are packed up and gone, and he's still not back.... when I'm about to go gangbusters right up in there, out he comes just as pretty as you please.

I ask what he's been doing. He says "I was reading. There was graffiti on the wall- somebody wrote 'My dick rules' and"

There you have it. Boy was not puking, being raped or showering in a urinal...no, he was catching up on some light reading.

Another potty story:

So one of their kids had to go to the bathroom, but he came running out saying "There's a large amount of water! There's so much water it just chased me right out of there!" This is a funnier story if you keep in mind he's three. Then, after it's all cleaned up, he looked at me and said "Well, that was a drag."

Potty story the Third (Are you noticing a trend?)

So Crazy decides that what the kids need is homemade playdoh. She procedes to make a perfectly good batch of the gloppy goodness. When faced with the task of choosing a color, she decided that purple was the way to go. She had red and blue, which, when mixed, made chocolate brown. This was alright by me, because I noticed the resemblance the mixture had to poop. There is little that amuses me and my son as much as making realistic playdoh turds. It would amuse you too, admit it.

Ok, I promise to get off my poop jag. The next entry will have no poop in it what-so-ever.

Nothing's Shocking

Have you ever wanted to do something shocking just for the hell of it, just to see what would happen? Something silly for no real reason. Like, if I had a nice two-melon ass instead of a white-woman-peach butt, I'd like to go into a nudey bar some night, drop my drawers and lay a big ole' log right on the floor.Then I'd zip up my pants and walk out.

Bet that would raise a few eyebrows. Can you imagine what would happen after I'd left?

"Did you see that!?" "Dude! Some chick just took a crap on the floor!" "Nice ass!"

Of course, I'd never do that, mostly 'cause it's not fair to the person who'd have to clean it up. Also, I would have crusty butt, having not wiped. Makes me giggle to imagine it though.

Or what if I walked right into a men's rest room, stood in front of a urinal and whizzed. Hee hee.

I have less grandiose ideas too, ones that don't involve elimination... like licking a complete stranger's ice cream, or giving a speech with my skirt tucked into my panty-hose in back just to see if anyone would tell me.

One time Loon and I were fixing caramel apples in the kitchen and I noticed how the caramel looked JUST like earwax, so I got a q-tip and dipped it in, then went into the other room and started a conversation while I pretended to clean my ear. When the moment was right I pulled out the chunky q-tip, licked it, and went right on talking. Hee hee hee... of course, the people present knew me well enough to know something was up, but it was funny none-the-less.

Today I am all about hyphens, have you noticed?

The Scary Boat Ride

I tried and tried to add an entry about my trip to AuntieM's, but every time I do the computer pukes before I can load it. Loon and I decided the only thing to do is to type it up else where and paste it in. At first I thought that it would be a good thing to write the same entry more than once. Instead of getting better and better I think it gets worse from wear.

So, as I was trying and trying to say, I had a very interesting visit up north. Ben wanted to go out on the lake, and having gotten permission we headed out for a three-hour tour. Please keep in mind this was the second time I had been captainess of a vessel. We began by having the first mate (Read that as "Boy") row us out. This event was somewhat complicated by the fact I was only familiar with going places frontwards. When I gave directions I was expecting the front of the boat to go the way I was pointing. It was with some befuddlement that the first mate got it through my head that the Back of the boat goes first. At least it does when he rows. Later on he tried it my way and decided going frontwards isn't half bad. Soon thereafter he decided he was Done rowing. He asked if he could get in the water.

Let's have a peek inside my head, shall we? "This can't be a good idea, can it? I mean, he is wearing a life jacket, so he wouldn't drown. And the water isn't deep. And I'd be right here. What a pain it is to get in and out of a boat, but then I guess it would be a pain for me. He probly wouldn't care, he'd be so happy to be in the water. Of course, there are icky slimy huge leviathan unseen creatures down in the brown, cold layer your toes can just reach, but if I don't tell him about them he may never imagine them and manage to grow up a sane man who'll swim in lakes...."

I answers "Ok."

Boy climbs in. His face registers a moment of fear as he slides into the water, then relief as the life jacket does its job. He paddles his arms.

Suddenly he realizes the boat is drifting ever-so-slightly away. He tries to swim towards the boat, but he really hasn't learned anything about swimming in swim class, and he's not getting anywhere. Now his face is all about fear. I'm talking to him the whole time. I'm telling him I wouldn't leave him there. I tell him I'm bringing the boat around. I tell him to hang on, he's alright. He obviously doesn't hear a word I say. He's begging me to get him. "Mom, come get me!" "Mom, don't leave me!"

Now That's a heart breaker.

I did get the boat within his arm's reach, after a maneuver that briefly looked as if I was going farther away. He grabbed onto the edge and..... was fine. Didn't want to get in the boat, just wanted to be sure he could reach the boat.

?

I mean really, would I leave my kid in the middle of the lake?

So now that the crisis is avoided he does a one-armed shimmy down one side of the boat, up an oar, down an oar and back.

At this point the thought occurs to him that there is no elevator, crane, ladder or magic wand to put him back in the boat. Worry begins to rear its head again. Amidst his pleas to "Get me, Mom" I reach, haul, drag, yank, pull and heave him back into the boat. His reaction?

"Cool, can I get back in?"

Believe it or not, I let him. After the three minutes it took for him to become a Popsicle he asked to go through re-entry again, to which I replied that this was THE LAST TIME I was doing that procedure. He agreed, and I reached, hauled, dragged, yanked, pulled and heaved him in again.

The first mate then decided he needed to pee. We landed on the shore where he chose not to pee on land, but in the lake.

"Ha! Now the lake is full of MY pee!"

I dare you to tell me that man is not a territorial animal.

As I rowed us out to the middle of the lake again, we encountered another obstacle. A soft "ploop" signaled the loss of the nut that held the oarlock together.

Boy freaked.

You may think he was justified, but you haven't seen the lake. I was rowing because it was really too shallow to use the trolling motor comfortably. You can walk across the lake in many spots. Even if all that weren't true, it's not like the family didn't know where we were.

I related this to him. He didn't seem to believe me. After a tiny bit of finagling I got the motor set at a usable angle and we set off for home. Boy leaned over the side. I thought he was looking at the bottom of the lake. As we pulled into the landing I realized he'd fallen asleep.

When he woke up he jumped out of the boat, turned around and said "That was a SCARY boat ride!"

Ok, there's more to tell, but it will have to wait.

Phooey

Aww hell, I went through the trouble of typing up a nice crispy new entry and the computer barfed afore I could load it up.

Guess I'll try again.

Just got back from visiting AuntieM. We did indeed have a little drinky of some homebrew, and it was good unto us. We also talked and talked. We talked until both husbands and Boy asked how we talked so much. We then continued talking. We would still be talking but AuntieC had to go home.

:(

Do you remember staying up past your bedtime and listening in on your Mom (Maybe your Dad) chatting with friends or relations? Remember the thrill of realizing you were privy to a conversation she would never have with you. It was exciting even if (because?) you didn't always understand what they were talking about. AlmondUnjoy went upstairs to get something and saw the fleeting scuttle of a supposed-to-be-in-bed Boy. It would seem Boy was basking in that thrill. I can't be mad at him.

Boy caught three fish. They were yummy- sorry I can't share over the internet 'cause they were GOOD. My other grand-folks used to tag team for the best fish ever. This is how it went down: Granddad would take a five gallon bucket and hie him down to a froze-over lake for some ice fishing. He would proceed to fill the bucket with bluegill and sunfish. (Almost) no fish was too small. I believe this was illegal somehow, but I also think that pleased him. When the bucket was full he would bring it home and then he and his wife would fillet the whole mess. If you have never cleaned a fish then you have no appreciation for the skill necessary to fillet a fish that's smaller than your hand. It is significant. The resulting piece of meat is about the width of a potato chip, and when battered and fried can be eaten sans fork in a similar manner. The pain in the butt that the filleting had to have been was definitely worth the yummy result.

Gosh I have a lot of tales to tell, but they'll have to wait for tomorrow as I'm tired.

Super Boy!

Written by Boy

Shazam, there he goes.

"Super Boy, come back!" said the Mayor. But it was too late. Super Boy had vanished. But the huge bigger than BIG monster was still alive.

TEACHER'S ASIDE: Where could Super Boy be? Will he be there the next time a BIG MONSTER threatens our safety?

BOY'S REPLY: I don't know, I'm not him.

You know, maybe he left 'cause he couldn't stand the ugliness or the stink. That monster's mom didn't give it a bath.... since 1969.

Super Boy really left cause someone was calling him. Someone evil. Someone untrustworthy. Someone he worked for.

Just joking, it was his mom. He was late for dinner. And he really wasn't a super hero. He was just a normal person. And he left because the monster was a super pooper party pooper ugly....galooper.

TEACHER ASIDE: Ooh Yuck! Hey, what's for dinner?

BOY'S REPLY: Fried monster.

The monster looked something like this:

(picture to be added later)

See what I mean. Maybe he did go 'cause of the ugliness. And I don't blame him. It is ugly. But he is as blind as a bat. So how could he have known. Maybe he used his super seeker.....

ASIDE:

The story is currently unfinished. Considering it took a first grader five pages and three different bouts of writing to accomplish, it is already of epic length. I edited it for spelling and punctuation just to make it readable, but all the words and "..."s are his. Ain't I proud.

Oddnesses

Today she speaks about herself in the third person.

Last night Hayric and Morning agreed to keep the Boy for another night, leaving Her free to party like a rock star. She showered, put on a suitable bra that put her boobs in the correct location (no wonder it's called a wonder bra), and went to see Loon. Crazy was off on a little trip, so She had Loon all to herself.

You would think the women would take advantage of the situation and go downtown, find some men and ravage them. Indeed, this is what She intended, but both agreed that, in the end, the net result would be disappointment and a hole in the pocketbook. It's rarely fun to go out to bars unless you have a gaggle of fun people going with you already. And the beer's expensive.

Instead, they hied themselves to Dairyqueen where they indulged in various yummies. Afterwards they rented Margaret Cho's new video and laughed muchly.

This morning She woke up before Loon. She let all the dogs outside, and sat in a wooden lawn chair while they chased each other in a string of growls. Suddenly the dogs stood still, and the hairs on the back of Her neck rose as She heard a "zhhr, zhhr, zhhr,zhhr"...Following the dog's stare She saw two HUGE cranes flying low overhead. It must have been the wing beats, because the eerie noise could never have come from a bird's throat.

It reminded Her of the time there was an earthquake right here in Ypsi. She had been sitting on the couch in Little-the-great's house, when the cats all came running up. This was disturbing enough, since they usually spent all day in hiding, but their mewing was oddly creepy too. Then the couch trembled, like someone terribly heavy had sat down next to Her. She looked and looked, but there was no one there when the couch trembled a second time. Her mind simply couldn't fathom what had happened. She walked outside, thinking maybe a heavy truck was coming, or a meteor, or at least that other people would be standing outside equally perplexed.

They weren't. This must mean it had happened solely in Her own house. She decided it must have been a ghost and forgot about it.

Read that again please.

She doesn't believe in ghosts. She is a normally logical person. This explanation made sense to Her at the time, so much so that She ceased to think of the occurance as abnormal. It wasn't until watching the news that night that She realized what a wacked-out thing Her brain had done.

It still disturbs Her to think that the organ She depends on the most is so desperately fallible.

Boy is Still with Morning and Hayric, and She is starting to jones.

Mabel Mabel Set the Table

Mabel!
And now, Mabel the wise!

And now..... Dead Mable!

Coming soon, Lucy!

The Wee-Wee Fairy

The Wee-Wee Fairy
I told the girls that if they didn't pee in the house for a whole week, the Wee-wee Fairy comes and puts the yummiest bone they've ever tasted in their crate.

Think it'll work? Me neither, but I was hoping to speed up the process.

Boy is at Little-the-great's house this morning. Last night we went to visit with other kids I used to watch... it was a nice little reunion. It's a good feeling to be surrounded by small humans you had a hand in raising. Little-the-great came with, and when Morning came to get him she got to say hi to some long lost chums too. Then she did me a big favor and took the boys to see Scooby-Doo, which I did NOT want to see. Boy spent the night, leaving me free to... well, um, have a beer and go to bed. WOO HOO.

Want to hear a joke one of the kiddo's told me? It goes like this:


abcdefghijkk...

kk?


Ok, so it's funnier when she tells it, she being two and all.

This morning when I was half asleep I had an odd urge to create a family with three or four children in it, instead of just one. Then I got this overwhelming feeling of guilt, like I'd contemplated cheating on Boy, and then I decided it could wait until boy was older, like 18. Then I could find myself a sugar daddy and hatch a brood of youngins... and the time that Boy and I had together would be a something special to cherish between us, something for his future younger siblings to be jealous of. And boy could go through college grousing about me to his friends, "Yeah, I don't know what's up with the horny old bitch, I mean, she's too old for that, ha ha ha..." Won't it be swell.

Or not. By then I'll be 38. That's the prime of life, you know? Do I want to give that up to kids?

News Flash

Just in case some of you were worrying, I now have both clean underwear and dishes.

Also: I have just discovered that BOTH of the puppy girls have SEVEN nipples. Three on one side and four on the other. Somehow that seems odd... perhaps that is true of all dogs and I just never bothered to count before.