25 March 2008


I feel like crap. Not normal crap, week-old-in-the-middle-of-the-freeway-run-over-by-a-semi crap. The sore throat, headache, dizziness, and ear pain lead me to think I may be developing a scorching case of strep. One would hope not, as I have no time for that nonsense. I started feeling lousy at baseball practice last night, chills (which I never have) and a headache (which I usually have and that is why God invented ibuprofen). I got home and sent the offspring upstairs in search of showers with several admonitions. These are numerous, but repeated daily in the vain hope that just once, all will be obeyed. They are as follows: use soap, aim the nozzle away from the shower curtain, close the shower curtain, put the shower curtain inside the tub, leave the drain open, dry off before you get dressed, and put your towel up. With the amount of water that has been on that floor, not to mention the three, count 'em three, times water has come through the light fixtures in the hallway downstairs, I'm expecting to have the ductwork break through the ceiling and land on the hardwoods. Apparently, I need to add "don't chew gum and flip it over your head, especially in a hot shower." Spawn of Satan came downstairs and said, "Mommy, I need help." I was thinking it was only to get over the dog gate, but once again karma punished me for being so very naive. The little horned angel had flipped the gum out of his mouth and over his head. Then fearing (rightly so) my reaction had tried to remove the gum himself, thereby assuring us all that it was matted down to the roots.

You can see on his shirt where he didn't dry off before dressing.

Out of focus, but a better shot of the sheer mass of gum bonded to his baby-fine hair.

So, began the gumectomy. I tried hand-picking, icing then handpicking, a little peanut butter, icing and a fine toothed comb. All the while snarling in an undertone about just shaving his head and having done with it. His brother kept up a running commentary regarding reverse mohawks and baldness, his point being, while he didn't want to be bald, he wouldn't mind a reverse mohawk. Not wanting to get into a post doctoral thesis regarding genetics and the likelihood of these boys losing their hair, my only comment was "You want to look like a doofus?" Whereupon, Spawn of Satan began sobbing, "I don't want to be bald, I don't want to look like a doofus!"

I had, at this point, determined there was no help for it, but I needed to whip out the clippers. Amid the shrieks of "Don't make me bald!" and my gentle assurances of "Dude, knock it off, you're not going to be bald!" (I felt like crap and I was frustrated, that's as gentle as it gets) I slapped on a #3 guard and buzzed the little goober's head.

This being the end result(s):

That is a mass of hair. So, now, I have one sheep shorn, one who wants to be, and an Australian Shepard who doesn't care as long as he can take 'em down.

15 March 2008

Complete waterheads

Okay, it's a moot point if we should or should not be in Iraq or Afghanistan - we are there. We will likely be there for a long time. I completely agree with any one's right to support their beliefs and to choose their own path. I feel that there are men and women who are doing a wonderful job in a horrible situation. I also feel everyone is entitled to their opinion. But, by all that's holy, could these people be anymore deluded???

I particularly like "I don't know a good use of the Marines in my lifetime." and this little gem:

Code pink protester: "It is very important to protect free speech...and so we clearly have the right to be here."
Snarky-ex-Marine-interviewer: "If only there was an organization sworn to defend that free speech..."
Extremely clueless waterhead protester: "Wouldn't that be wonderful?"
Incredulous-ex-Marine-interviewer: "That would be outstanding!"

I may be pretty oblivious, but I can smell snark and sarcasm when it is dripping off my nose. Perhaps I should give lessons to these poor little chuckleheads. Although their "make out not war" session was looking pretty good. (Four years without sex, remember?)

13 March 2008

This might get ugly

So, there I am minding my own business, tucking my children in to bed when a small, niggling thought burrows it's way to my frontal lobe, not unlike a chigger falling from the Spanish Moss overhead to your unsuspecting skin, where it then sets up housekeeping and constructs superhighways. Last year I had mentioned to the pediatrician that the oldest of my offspring had seemed to sprout two or three underarm hairs, and I was concerned this might be signalling the onset of precocious puberty. Or, as I like to refer to it, the fifth ring of hell. I was assured my by lovely, fully bearded and board certified ped, that it was just a few aberrant hairs and "pooberty" was still a ways off. Sigh of relief heard around the world. Many months have passed, and on whim (why do I insist on following those things?) I checked my boyo's left armpit. I know it's weird, I'm a nurse, that's what we do. Still just the few little stragglies that were originally there. My sweet boy then starts giggling and says, "The other one has hair." Huh? So, I check and OH MY HECK! There is a tuft of what can only be called "man fuzz."

Yes, I am freak enough to take a picture of it! Stunned, I was! And to prove it, here is the other side with a nearly complete lack of aforementioned man fuzz. If it only exists on one side, is he considered half a man?

Holy crap! It is not enough that I don't have to bend down to look him in the eyes when we talk? No, I have to be cursed with a nine year old who will not only tower over me in about 6 months, but will also be using up all the shaving cream and razor blades. All I have to say is if my lotion starts disappearing, I'm going to take a little mental vacation. Say, until he graduates . How can this sweet face be about to sprout all kinds of fugly adolescent angst and body hair?

It's kind of a chicken and the egg situation: what came first, the body hair or the nocturnal emissions?

As a side note, Spawn of Satan got jealous of his brother getting all the pictures taken and insisted on one for him. I insisted on not getting arrested for kiddie porn, so he acquiesced to covering up.
Note the eyes despite the red-eye eliminator active on the camera

01 March 2008

My children ARE being raised by wolves.

Okay, see, I'm a good person, I truly believe this. So, what the HELL?!? Perhaps I should explain. I have a tendency to let some things, like organizing the office, slide. So, it looks like the tornado from The Wizard of Oz and Hurricane Katrina mated in there, so what? So, it takes a Nepalese Sherpa to traverse the floor from door to computer, I know where everything is. Does this mean that I should be subjected to such horrors as I was on Friday last? The littlest person in our house requested to play on the computer and, as I will not reveal the password upon the pain of death, I went in to set it up for him. In the office is the unmistakable odor of urine. I ask, understandably, "Who peed in here?" Thinking (also understandably) that I wouldn't receive an answer because I assumed it was either the cat or the dog. NO! My little blond-haired, blue-eyed Spawn of Satan pipes up, "I did!" I have too many WTF moments in my life. I had thought that he grasped the concept of peeing only in the toilet after being grounded for whizzing in the cat box. (Note: cats will not use the cat box after a 5 year old pisses in it!) I even thought it was a little more clear after he peed in the trashcan (that was 6 INCHES from the toilet) in the bathroom. Last, but not least, when the top of my head blew off after he peed from the top of the big toy onto the climbing wall. Luckily, this was our big toy and not one at the park. *sigh* Well, maybe he'll get it now. After much yelling, more grounding, and the threat of living in pampers until he matriculates, he may figure we only pee in porcelain bowls filled with water and equipped with magical silver handles. Or out in the woods. Either that or 20 years from now he'll have $40,000 worth of therapy under his belt and a national bestseller Toilet Nazi: the true story of horror and control.