Fair warning:

This video is unedited, and is several minutes of my kid eating a doughnut. Slowly. There’s no surprise ending. She eats sprinkles off a doughnut, and then asks for milk. Editorially, it should end at least a minute before it does. If you’re not related to this kid, you should feel absolutely no obligation to watch this. I won’t be offended. I do, however, think my kid eating a doughnut is the cutest doughnut eating kid ever caught on tape. But they don’t pay me to be objective.

A friend of mine just said ‘Hey, your blog misses you.” And I was all, “Wait. I have a blog??”

Turns out, I do!

I have been busy shopping for furniture to make our living room more comfortable, less echoey (echoy, there matey, atey, atey!) (that was worse than usual!), and to give the dust a place to land. Dear god, the dust in this house eats power bars. For ENDURANCE! Rawr!! I vacuum daily and there are tumbleweeds skittering across the hallway by 5 o’clock. My house grows 5 o’clock shadowS. I think it’s the dogs, mostly. I’m fairly certain that they grow hair with the express purpose of putting it on my floor. I’m also fairly certain that our next dog will be a goldfish.

But I love a lot of things about our new house.

For one, I have an office, which is, as I type, only partly filled with boxes. I had a picture of empty, bare floor on my phone that I was going to include in a future blog post (this one!) and talk about how it was the sexiest thing I’d seen since August. But then my phone fell in a toilet died and its replacement is made out a tin can and legos. (also lost? an awesome series of photos detailing a dwindling pile of random erector set bits, courtesy of IKEA. And my collection of 19 hex wrenches.) (I sob, stoically. So, not so much, really.) Someday, I’m guessing three weeks after Peach starts school, my office will be organized, orderly, box-free, filled with sciencey publications and wool. Mmm.

Huh? You’re still here!

Right. So right now, it’s still piled high with boxes of books and random bits that don’t have a home yet. I think that’s one of the worst parts of moving: finding and then remembering places for all kinds of random, infrequently used things, like sunhats and drawer liners and electronic cables. You’ll need them. And when you need them, you’ll need them now. And you’ll wonder where the hell you put them. Need a safe place for the passports? Stick ’em with the hammock ties! Presto, safe forever. Also probably safe from you.

See, the problem with finding places for things is that odds are extremely low that you’ll be able to recreate the logic that led you to that place. Thus, you find yourself unpacking crap and wondering where to put all three (3!) pairs of hammock ties. In four years of marriage, we have used our ONLY (singular. one. sole.) hammock once. And we had to go buy new ties to do it. I have no idea how we got the third set. It probably involved uncut cocaine and contraband pandas (hello, band name!). How do I know? Buying habits, people. That data is gold. Unless your wallet’s been stolen. In which case it is damn amusing. Provided you’re drunk.

This is a long, rambling post with almost no point at all. But I started talking about furniture, which is where my brain has been lately. So which do you like better?

PS! I’ll be around more this week. I have updates about missing yarn and dead phones!

PPS: That’s called marketing, people.

Dwayne

September 27, 2011

Here’s part of a conversation I had with Dan last night:

Me: Dwayne was here this morning.

Dan: [pauses] Wait. Who’s Dwayne?

Me: You mean you don’t know Dwayne??

Dan: Are you trying to be cute?

Me: [blinks innocently] (this is somewhat difficult for me.)

Dan: So, who’s Dwayne?

Me: Well, every night, I leave the sink clean and empty, and Dwayne visits in the small hours of the night and fills the sink with all kinds of crusty nasty dishes and puddles of mystery liquid. Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve never crossed paths with him, given how early you wake up.

Dan: Oh yeah, I know Dwayne. He’s married to Tina, the used tissue fairy.

Touché, Dwayne.

Being Elmo

September 26, 2011

Honestly, Elmo kind of makes my teeth itch. But I watched this preview with rapt attention, and now I’m looking forward to seeing a whole movie about him. (Gina, if you ever read this, I got the link from you! Thx!)

A riddle! For you!

September 25, 2011

A few good friends asked if my last post was a riddle of some sort. It wasn’t, but I thought up one for you!

What goes “glunk, thunk” and then bubbles for a few, pathetic moments?

Your phone.

In the toilet!

Ask me how I know!

I wish I could blame this on Ivy. Toddlers do this stuff aaallll the time, and there would be something very satisfying in holding it over her head until she was 35. But she’s never put anything in the toilet. Yet, anyway. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

So. Two important things:

1. Take  your phone out of your back pocket before dropping trou over the terlet.

2. Freaking back up your damn phone.

3. Don’t expect me to call you for a few days.

That was three. Whatever. Obviously, I can’t function without my phone.

So, gentle readers, what’s the verdict on using a dried-out toilet phone? Too gross to even try? It wasn’t a public toilet, but I think someone (who doesn’t use toilet paper) may have forgotten to flush his pee-pee. Or there was a half-flush. I’ve dropped my keys in the toilet before. Those you can kind of wash… phones not so much. Also they touch your face. Should I send it off to have it’s parts harvested? Or am I being spoiled and finicky and I should just suck it up and learn to love my new toilet phone. Assuming it will even dry out. I hear good things about rice.

And hey, I just learned that WordPress has a survey function! What better excuse could a girl ask for, than querying her friends about pee-soaked phones. Assuming I have still friends, after they’ve read this.

To my future self:

September 24, 2011

Dear Future Me,

Someday, perhaps someday soon, you will have a brand new babe in your arms again, and you will be delirious with lack-of-sleep. I am here to remind you of a few things, because you are not one of those people that deals well with little sleep. Some people in this world function perfectly well on 5 hours of sleep. You are not on that team, my friend. You are a champion sleeper. In fact, you are better at sleeping than you are at many, many other things. Like sports involving motion. Or sneezing.

So here we go:

1. Do you remember that first time you gave Ivy a bath by yourself, when Dan was working a night shift at the hospital? You couldn’t figure out how to get her into and out of the tub without dropping her, or possibly drowning her, and she wouldn’t quit screaming? Remember that? Okay, if that scenario should repeat itself in the future, do not, I repeat DO NOT get into the tub with the baby. At least, don’t do it with your clothes on next time. It really won’t make anything better. I promise.

2. At some point in time, all babies resist the carseat. And babies, especially older babies, love keys. Baby keys and fake sets of keys might as well be dog toys. No, I take that back. Dog toys are also fascinating. Fake keys are more like, oh, I don’t know, that $74 developmental toy that your baby couldn’t care less about. Your keys, your really real keys, are where it’s at. I’m sure there is a valid developmental explanation for this, but as far as you’re concerned, it really doesn’t matter. The keys, they’re so handy, they’re right there in your hand! And so you might be tempted to give your keys to the squirmy thing in the carseat that looks more like a screaming paperclip than your sweet bundle of love. And if it gets you out of the Target parking lot without stares and whispers or calls to Child Protective Services, great. Do it. Those keys are hers if it gets that kid strapped in and properly oriented. Bonus points if all her clothes stay on. What you should NOT do, however, is close the doors to the car without snatching those keys back. Because! Ha ha hahahahah. Because, moron, your baby is 100% guaranteed to lock herself in a sealed car on a hot day. She couldn’t get a spoon into her mouth if she starving, and she can’t do jack with that $74 developmental toy, but those buttons on the electronic keychain? She was practicing in the womb for that shit. So, yeah. Now is when you  should really worry about CPS coming to take your baby away.

3. And speaking of CPS… Don’t leave a full beer bottle in the same room as your toddler, mmmkay?

4. Okay. This probably isn’t something that you’re going to need reminding about… but then again, you really function poorly without sleep. So I might as well remind you that to check a suspicious diaper, you should gingerly pull back the uppermost margin of the diaper. The outside uppermost margin, if at all possible. What you should not do is stick your whole hand down that sucka like you’re looking for eggs under a chicken. Because there aren’t any eggs, mamacita. Best case scenario, your hand will be moist and smell like low tide. Best. Case. Scenario.

 5. And while we’re on the subject of poo… an infant not pooping for three days does not necessarily constitute an emergency. But should you choose to go the suppository route, you might as well put the kid in the bathtub to start with. Also, I wouldn’t frown at goggles and a nose clip. At the very least, be ready to aim, duck, and dodge. Sorry.


6. Baby teeth are effing sharp, dude. And if you can’t remember what I’m talking about, you should spend five minutes imagining that you’re nursing a furious chipmunk as a mental preparedness exercise.

7. And speaking of wildlife, perspective is important. It’s one of the first things to go when you’re in the blur, so I’d like to remind you that you do not have to forage or regurgitate to feed your offspring. Also, you don’t have seven at once, every two years. Right?! If we have 15 kids in five years, you are totally on your own. And my parting words will include “spay and neuter.”

Of course, it occurs to me that you will have two children when you read this letter. And I have NO IDEA! what that’s like. But considering your performance with Ivy, I’m pretty sure we’ll be in way over your head.

Smooches,

Stephanie
(2011 vintage)

PS: I am not pregnant, y’all. Not even a little bit. Unless you can get pregnant from eating reese’s peanut butter cups. This is just a brain dump of  infant stuff before it all becomes a warm fuzzy glow.

Probably I’m dying

September 24, 2011

Lately, my fingers have been smelling like metal. Like, all the time. Is that a thing?

I asked the internet, and it said that I might be a robot. Or someone with a whining problem. But I have a sinking feeling that metal-finger-smell is probably a rare symptom of something awful. And totally deadly. Like Hepatitis Fe.

Ugh. I should call Dan and tell him I’m dying. Man, does he have a lot to learn. Quick-like. Metal-finger-smell-hepatitis-Fe sounds like it’s fast-acting, doesn’t it? He required instruction on “the best way to cook chicken” (after a few carefully worded questions, I found out that “best” = “easy+fast”) a few nights ago, so we have some work ahead of us.

Although, I’m sure he’d just sigh and say something like “I’m not coming home. And this could have waited. Because Hepatitis Fe doesn’t exist, Stephanie.”

Robots, on the other hand…

Yeah, I’mma need him to come home and smell my fingers, ASAP. I’m pretty sure that was part of our marriage vows, though. We wrote our own, and I can’t really remember what we said. I was too focused on covertly watching the drip of sweat trembling at the end of the officiant’s nose. Ah, the memories! But I think there was something about finger-smelling in there. Or there should have been.

Young lovers, heed my dying words and plan ahead!

I’ll let you know how things turn out. Unless I’m reprogrammed. Or dead. Or figure out how to stop whining.

Dinosaur breakfast

September 22, 2011

Roar!

Dan: Ivy, is that how dinosaurs eat breakfast?

Ivy: Roooaaar!

Coming out

September 20, 2011

I find that in awkward situations, a direct approach is often best. Soooo…..

I’m Stephanie, and I’m a recovering (sucktastic) anonymous blogger. My husband’s name is Dan (Hi, Dan!), and my daughter’s name is Ivy (Hi, Ivy! In about 13 years, you’ll probably wish someone in this family was dead. My maternal intuition tells me that discovering this blog will make it aaall better. Smooches, punkin!) Chances are, you dear readers, have already picked up on my unsecret identity, because I have used all our names by accident in previous posts. Whoops! Witness protection, I would be a waste of your money.

See, almost everyone who reads this here web-log is a friend of mine, or related to me. Most of these people know my name. Probably. Visions of achieving international fame and glory overnight, without having to work very hard were (completely awesome and totally) deluded fantasies (sucksucksucksucksuck.). The reality is that there are no paparazzi from which to shield my fragile family. When I don’t post, this here blog gets about 3 readers a day, and two of them are from a Chinese spam site. Ha ha, isn’t that weird?

On second thought… My name is Sissy LaWad! My husband’s name is Larry! And my daughter is actually a son, and her/his name is Nuk! We live in Texas and like to eat soy. The end!

So anyway! The moral of this story is that anonymous blogging is really hard on the ol’ noggin. Also, I would make a terrible spy.

Smooches,

Midge

Sissy


Stephanie!


I’m probably about a decade late in discovering this, but last Thursday, I found out Handsome has a gig on the side that HE HAS BEEN TOTALLY HIDING FROM ME.