The Li'l Buddy's Li'l Butty

Bump reports that he and Lumpyhead had a tough day yesterday. Lumpyhead woke up early - around 8am (that's very early for him) - and was overtired. He only took a couple of ten-minute naps during the day, which made him even more fragile. He farted a lot, which made him cry. (How sad is that? Farts are supposed to be funny, not painful.) He demanded to be fed pretty much non-stop, and ate a lot. No pooping, though. And the crowning achievement: he managed to flip his carseat over in the grocery cart and has a red mark on his lumpy head.

I fear Bump's feeling the weight of being a single parent, and the baby's earlier sleep schedule isn't helping. He hasn't gotten a break from full-time daddy for the last two days, and the shopping cart thing nearly did him in. Lumpyhead was asleep when I got home on Tuesday night Wednesday morning, and was still asleep when I left for work yesterday. I got home last night at 11:30pm, and only saw Lumpyhead for about thirty minutes before we both fell asleep. You know what Bump did in that thirty minutes of peace he had when I got home? He showered. Then he washed bottles and made up some more BREs (Bottle, Ready-to-Eat).

This morning Lumpyhead woke up at 8:11 am, which is just as I should be leaving. I stuck around a little longer than advisable, just so I could spend some time with him. I changed his diaper and danced with him a little, then deposited him on the bed next to Bump and flitted off to work, leaving Bump to another day in the trenches.

So I'm at work, buried under shitImustdo, and Lumpyhead is all I can think about.

And here's where the post degenerates into random mamababble:

The boys are going to see the cherry blossoms today, and may stop by the office for lunch. I hope Bump remembers to take pictures.

Bump says Lumpyhead wants to stand all the time, but keeps pulling himself up on things that aren't stationary, like his music gym. Or things he shouldn't be playing with, like the stereo. What happened to crawling? He just started crawling this weekend, although he's been getting around just fine by lunging and rolling. We haven't even babyproofed yet, and now we've got to guard against a cruiser? The hell?

Lumpyhead's top teeth are here. We could see them for awhile, but they're finally through for real. I could feel the left one over the weekend.

Today's title is from a Nana V email asking, "How's the Li'l Buddy's li'l butty?" I thought it was funny. It was that, or "Buttdate," a combination of "butt" and "update," but I thought that sounded too much like a bad match.com experience.

Thanks again to everyone who has sent good wishes Lumpyhead's way. Your emails and comments are so encouraging; thank you from the bottom of Lumpyhead's new butt.

I'm a Bit of a Wreck

Lumpyhead went back to the surgeon this afternoon, where the doctor basically dug out the blockage. There was a great deal of poop. Piles. A shitacular amount of crap. Fecaltastic sums of stool.

And this was after more than one enema before his surgery.

I'm trying to put a happy spin on this, but it was traumatic. Truly awful. Lumpyhead cried. He bled. He sweat a halo on the paper table cover. Afterward, he clung to Bump and me, wanting to be held. We cleaned him up and gave him some Tylenol, and I fed him a bottle in the waiting room. He was calm, but clearly rattled. He complained a little about being put in his car seat.

"Rattled" barely scratches the surface of what Bump and I were feeling. Just thinking about it makes my ears ring. I'm still carrying a hazy, shocked sensation. Before beginning, the doctor offered that if either Bump or I got nauseous or felt faint, we should feel free to sit down. Neither of us did, but I can see how it happens.

I went back to work after the appointment, and will probably be at work all night tonight. I called Bump, and he said Lumpyhead took a long nap and seems to be doing fine.

An IM with Aunt Bob, a picture of a horse head, and a very amusing email thread from Sarah are keeping me upright at the moment. Without them, I'd be whimpering under my desk or sniveling on my couch.

Work is keeping me sober at the moment. Without it, I'd be completely plastered by now.

Lumpyhead is keeping me going at the moment. Without him, I wouldn't know how pain that isn't your own can still be excruciating.

Kites, Wine and Some Setbacks

Lumpyhead's first night post-surgery went very smoothly. I gave him some Tylenol after we got home from the hospital, and another dose during the night, but he didn't need any more after that. He woke up on Saturday morning all grins and gladness. He was in such great spirits that we decided to go with Aunt Bob and family to the Kite Festival on the mall.

How cute is Aunt Bob's Little Guy? So cute is the answer.

On Sunday, Sarah (she of the gorgeous fabulous new blog template) came to visit, bearing wine and the Ian half of the Goon Squad. How nice is that? So nice.

They didn't exactly play with each other, but they played near each other.

Yeah, Ian is playing with a basketball hoop while Lumpyhead is playing with . . . a catalog. That plus the fact that his mom keeps blogging about his butt is why he's going to be so screwed in middle school.

After a great weekend, Lumpyhead has taken a bit of a turn.

This morning Lumpyhead took his first attempt at a real poop through his brand new bunghole. Not successful. Much screaming and crying. After he calmed down, he had a bottle, then threw up all over. Not good.

Since then, he's been struggling to use his new poop chute to no avail. After being bounced from the surgeon to the pediatrician back to the surgeon, I spent most of the day waiting for a call back. We'll take Lumpyhead to the surgeon's office tomorrow to see what's going on.

He's had two more episodes of shrieking, tears and grunting this evening. He draws up his little legs and wails. His whole body shakes. At least he's no longer puking.

Why, hello Paralyzing Fear. I haven't seen you in awhile.

I also reread my last couple posts, and realized they were crap. Hard to read, difficult to follow, sentence fragments, odd italicized dialog . . .yipes.

Sorry. Here's hoping the next ones will be better. Don't count on it; the prospects for this one certainly don't look good.

In other news, Bump came back to town on Sunday afternoon and his mom left this afternoon. I'm glad she was here for this ordeal, especially since Nana V was out of town this weekend.

[thunk thunk thunk] That was my head against the table. Sweet merciful crap. I was trying to catch up on a little work from home because I didn't go into the office today. What would have taken five minutes from my desk took 30 minutes on the laptop. Then I closed the document and hit "no" when I was asked if I wanted to save my changes. [thunk thunk thunk] Why why why would I say no? Serves me right for making fun of Aunt Bob for losing that memo.

I'm opening that wine from Sarah now.

Frankenbutt

Lumpyhead is doing great with his new and improved bunghole. It looks mean and scary with the stitches and all, but the surgery went smoothly and he is sleeping comfortably right now.

The doctor's office called first thing yesterday morning to move Lumpyhead's originally scheduled surgery time of 3pm up an hour. This meant that it made sense for Bump to come to the hospital with Lumpyhead, Bump's mom and me, which was nice.

Around 1:30pm, Bump and I went with Lumpyhead to a triage-like staging area. We changed him into a hospital gown and Lumpyhead made happy noises, despite being pretty hungry. Bump played peekaboo with him behind the curtain, and Lumpyhead laughed and laughed, much to the delight of the woman in the bed across the aisle from us and her husband.

We spoke briefly with the surgeon and the anesthesiologist, then it was time to go. I received a paper gown and cap, and Bump made endless fun of how I looked. I swear even Lumpyhead laughed at me.

Following the anesthesiologist's assistant, I carried Lumpyhead to the operating room. A nurse stopped and cooed at him. A patient in another of the triage beds said hello. The woman I was following said, "It's gonna be a pretty long walk," which I interpreted as "This ain't a parade. Pick up the pace, lady. If you stop for everyone who makes googly eyes at the baby, this is gonna take all day." I stopped dawdling. What she probably meant was, "It's a pretty long walk."

The operating room was large. I've never actually been in an OR before, but I guess I didn't expect it to be so big. I laid Lumpyhead down on the table, on top on what looked like a paper air mattress with holes. It was emitting puffs of warm air, and Lumpyhead was immediately covered with a blanket. The anesthesiologist and his assistant put EKG monitors on him, and I was instructed to hold his shoulders down securely.

Then came the mask, which Lumpyhead tried to lick off. In less than a minute, the assistant announced that he was out, so I should give him a kiss and leave. Lumpyhead's eyes were still open. I kissed him, and walked out.

And then my head exploded.

Actually, it wasn't my head. It was my heart.

A nurse walked me to the hallway for the waiting room, and took the paper gown and cap. We were told the surgery would take an hour or two, and one parent should remain in the waiting room at all times.

Bump left for the airport, and his mom and I waited. About a half an hour later, I went to find a place to pump. When I got back, Bump's mom and all our stuff were no longer where I left them. PANIC! PANIC! PANIC! I found her at the nurses' station with a volunteer, clearly waiting for me. PANIC! PANIC! PANIC!

They were done. Everything was fine. The doctor had come out and talked to Bump's mom, because I was an irresponsible parent who left the waiting room after strict instructions to be there at all times. (but I was making food! for the baby! and you said it would be like an hour! or two! Still. Bad parent.)

The volunteer took us to the recovery room, where a nurse was holding my little boy. Mine! MINE! GIMME GIMME GIMME! He had been crying, his eyelids were wet and his little eyelashes were all clumped together. I gave him a bottle, and he fell asleep almost instantly.

Lumpyhead was safe, calm, and with me. Breathe, breathe, breathe. What? Hey, the nurse is talking! What's she saying?

Yes, he's very cute, I know. Thank you or something. Breathe breathe breathe. Did I miss the chance to talk to the doctor, because I was out being irresponsible? No, we'll try to find the doctor. Breathe breathe breathe. He came out from under the anesthesia quickly and easily, was alert and looking around immediately. That's nice. Breathe breathe breathe. Hey, you look pale. I'm getting you some apple juice and crackers. What?

Okay, so apparently not eating anything all day then pumping plus PANIC! and trying not to hyperventilate equals me looking like I'm gonna faint. So I drank the nice lady's juice and ate some saltines even though I felt fine. Just fine. Except that I was sort of fading in and out of with-it-ness. What? You're talking again? I was looking at the baby and not listening to you.

I was saying you're all set to go. Here are your discharge orders. Wait, he doesn't have to be admitted? Nope.

We'd been warned that Lumpyhead would be admitted to the hospital after his surgery, maybe for just a few hours but possibly overnight. Because he wasn't exhibiting any problems with the anesthesia and the surgery had gone smoothly, we could take him home. We were told to watch for nausea or other signs of reaction to the anesthesia, but since he was only under for 25 minutes, we probably didn't have to worry.

We called Bump as we got to the car, and . . . his flight was delayed. Really delayed. When I talked to him last at 6:45pm, they were still waiting for the inbound flight. He may still be at the airport, for all I know.

Lumpyhead is subdued and sleepy, but his personality is pretty much intact and we've even gotten a few grins from him. Thank you to everyone for their good wishes and kind words; I cannot express how much I appreciate them. It was a long and exhausing day, but the little guy is fine. Hope you had a happy Butthole Embiggening Day yourself.

My Morning Thus Far

12:05 - 12:20 Photoshop my head exploding. Post it.

12:30ish - 5:28 Sleep fitfully.

Dream about being a ghost in a server room who haunts this annoying chick who comes in to make out with a married man. It’s kinda fun, actually. I throw my socks at her to scare her. (um, socks? Whatever, it’s a dream) She freaks out, and I yell “GET OUT” in my best ghost voice. Except, you know, I’m dreaming so my yelling doesn’t make any noise.

Fart a lot. (Bump made lamb chops for dinner)

5:32 Lumpyhead stirs. Give him a bottle.

We had been feeding Lumpyhead during the night for awhile, because he wouldn’t take a pacifier and feeding him would get him back to sleep. Some nights he would eat as much as 8 ounces. At the last pediatrician visit, our doctor told us he should be able to make it through the night without eating, even on an all-breastmilk diet, so we cut back the feedings.

Not that we were trying to follow her orders, but Lumpyhead happened to start taking a pacifier. Yes, we were relieved when he started taking a pacifier, because it meant it was easier to get him to sleep. At some point, you’re willing to hack off a fingertip if it means more sleep, so having to wean him off a pacifier some day? Not sufficient disincentive to stick the thing in his complaining craw.

When I say he wouldn’t take a pacifier, I mean he wouldn’t use it for its intended purpose. We would give it to him, he would suck on it for 5 seconds, then take it out of his mouth, play with it, make a popping noise with it, put it back in nipple-side out, chew on the plastic part . . . you get the idea. Now he sucks on it. So I’m totally buying one of these.

Anyway, because he can’t have anything to eat after 11:00 am today, we decided to feed him during the night, rather than just give him the pacifier.

5:35 Sneeze sneeze sneeze sneeze sneeze. WTF? Leave room to blow nose in the living room.

5:36 Return to bedroom. Note odor. Blame Bump.

Our usual exchange about blame goes like this (Either of us are Person A, although it's mostly him, of course. Um, yeah.)
Person A: It stinks in here like a dirty fart.
Person B: It is because you farted dirtily?
Person A: Well I farted, but I don’t think that has anything to do with it.

5:42 Bump farts. He looks sheepish. (Heh, get it? Lamb chops. Heh.)

5:43 Giggle, because I’m so posting this. Because farts are funny.

5:46 GOD it stinks in here

5:52 Get up. Have to blow nose anyway.

6:05 Think I hear the baby. Check on him. He’s sound asleep, as is Bump. Doesn’t smell as bad in there. For now.

6:54 Find this and change mind about buying any brand of fake teeth pacifier for Lumpyhead, ever. Did I ever tell you about the “oh my god, the nipple is going to break on this bottle and choke my baby” phobia that I have? No? Bah.

Speaking of crazy fears and dreams, on the night Lumpyhead was born, I had a terrible dream that I had to say goodbye to Bump and the baby. In my dream, I had already said goodbye to Bump, and was allowed to kiss the baby one last time before they took him away. I woke up crying, and cried for days whenever I thought about it.

What a horrible trick to play on a new mother. You suck, crazy brain. Physically, I was exhausted, in pain, and shocked by all the gore that follows childbirth. Emotionally, I was a wreck. I had all kinds of wacky hormones raging, paralyzing fears about my new status as a parent, and no doubt that I was gonna break this new little being.

Also, if you’ve ever even touched a psychology textbook, you’re probably not surprised that I have a teensy problem with separation anxiety. Yeah. Adoption + Bereavement = Nutjob. Bump is an hour late getting back from pool? The cops are coming to tell me there’s been a terrible accident. Gah.

I think I’ve dealt with my irrational fears pretty well (although I think I can hear Bump rolling his eyes - in his sleep - as I type that). I recognize that my fears are unfounded most of the time. I don’t flip out or make Bump call me to check in every half hour. The little ferret in my head just spins around in his wheel and drives me a little batty, that’s all. Hello, alcohol? I could use you as a crutch right now.

I recognized, when Lumpyhead first arrived, that what I was feeling was painful, but probably pretty normal. I didn’t have any fantasies about hurting myself or Lumpyhead; I wasn’t sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn’t bear to make the simplest of decisions - ohmigod, what kind of salad dressing do I want? It’s so hard - but I think that’s par for the course, too.

Yesterday morning, I realized that my terrible dream was coming true. I am going to say goodbye to Bump, and then kiss my baby before the nurses take him away. I nearly crawled back into bed and curled into a ball.

But I realized that in my dream, I was really saying goodbye. I was leaving them forever, and it was awful.

This afternoon, Bump will get on a plane and return in less than 48 hours. In the time he is away from us, he will be surrounded by his closest friends on the planet. What was slated to be a great time will probably not be so fantastic now; I’m sure Bump will worry a great deal the whole time he’s gone. But if anything were to take his mind off this afternoon, his friends and an activity he loves should be the thing to do it.

Lumpyhead will go to sleep and have a few snips of skin taken. I imagine his procedure will be less involved than my episiotomy. By late afternoon, he’ll be back in my arms, being smothered in kisses.

But until then,

Good Morning

Hello. I thought I would post a picture of me.

Okay, this isn't what I look like right now. This is what I will look like when my head explodes from the stress.

Yes, that's champagne. Because nothing says "celebrate" like your son's anoplasty.

We'll check in to the hospital around 1pm. I'll post again when we're through it.

The Softies Arrived!

When I got home last night, there was a package waiting for me from Houston. Bump thought it was ebay stuff, but I could tell immediately it was from Miles, etc. After all the surgery-related stressing, it was exactly what I needed to brighten my day.

Are they the coolest things you've ever seen? Yes. Yes they are.

That one of the left? That's clearly Bump. The fabric is bark-brown corduroy - like a log, get it? The back is this cool cow-print suede.

That's me, the red one with the strips of the asian print fabric. I think the face even looks like me, Roundy McBallface. The back references my awesome poker prowess.

The third one is obviously Lumpyhead.

The hat comes off.
And the coolest thing? I updated the blog template on Monday, so given shipping and construction time, Heather must have made the Lumpyhead softie before the update. Yet the softie has a similar color scheme and the dots of Lumpyhead's new blog. That's so cool it's freaky.

Lumpyhead thinks they're great.

And he enjoyed reading/eating the enclosed letter from Miles.

Surgery Alert (Complete with Random Blabbering!)

Lumpyhead's butthole embiggening has been moved ahead. (Yay!) To Friday. (oh.)

This is good, because sooner is better. It means we can start Lumpyhead back on solid food again soon, which will put him back on track on the growth charts and return him to the great land of Sleeping Through the Night, which will make Bump and me happier people. Or not. But at least the baby won't be constipated all the damn time.

Except, wow, Friday is really soon. And, oh yeah, Bump leaves on Friday for Detroit. A trip he's been looking forward to for months. A trip he doesn't have to go on, except that OF COURSE he has to go. He's going. I think.

Bump's mother will be around, so it's not like he's leaving me and Lumpyhead by ourselves. By the time Bump's flight leaves, Lumpyhead should be out of surgery. It's not like he can do anything more for me or Lumpyhead if he cancels his trip. He should totally still go. He's going. I think.

But he was already worried about how much he would miss the baby this weekend, and this development will make it even harder for him to leave. Crap, I'm sure he's torn about this. I hope he goes anyway. He's going. I think.

Hello, Roto

Bump is going to Detroit this weekend. He and his college buddies are in a rotisserie baseball league, and each year they get together to hold their draft. The league is a good way for them to keep in touch, and it guarantees that they see each other at least once a year. In the past they could rely on weddings to get them all assembled in one place, but now that they're all married off, the draft has become more important for that.

They also gather in Las Vegas for "winter meetings" once a year - and they even discuss baseball for a few hours at this event. Not much baseball, though, I'm guessing. Not all of them attend the Winter Meetings each year, but they all come to the draft.

The location of the draft rotates every year to the home city of one of the owners. They try to make sure everyone gets to host, and cities with more than one owner host more often.

Buttmunch told Bump that every time he thinks of this weekend he hears that little voice from the Motorola ad saying, "Hello, Roto." The guys have literally been preparing for this event for months. They have spreadsheets and comprehensive resource guides and pore over Baseball Prospectus.

Since we didn't know if I would be working this weekend (I often have to work weekends in March), Bump's mom is coming for the weekend. It turns out we didn't need her to come, but she loves the excuse to see Lumpyhead. She arrives tomorrow, and it should be a good time.

White Trash Food and Cheesy TV Night

On Tuesday nights, Bump plays in a pool league. While I find the idea of a "pool league" slightly dorky, the people on his pool team are all very cool, and he enjoys playing. I think the social outlet is important for Bump, especially now that he's home with Lumpyhead all day.

Before Lumpyhead was born, Bump would go straight to pool from work, leaving me to fend for myself as far as dinner was concerned. I used to sigh dramatically and tell Bump it was okay, I would just sit on the floor and eat dirt while he was gone.

Bump has always done the cooking in our household, because he enjoys it and is good at it. I know how to cook, I just don't do it very well. I gravitate toward convenience food that is bad for me. Tuesday menus were likely to include:

• fish sticks with legendary amounts of tartar sauce
• macaroni and cheese from a box - the powder kind, and possibly a store brand
• microwave popcorn and Freixenet
• a can of green beans and half a bag of potato chips
  
• tator tots with legendary amounts of ketchup
• Hot Dish - if I was feeling ambitious
• Triscuits and a bottle of red wine
• Dinty Moore beef stew - mac and cheese I'll skimp on, apparently, but not beef stew. Only name-brand stew for me! Cripes.
• frozen pizza and four beers

Bump says that when you hear the can opener in our house, it means I'm probably "cooking."

Once, when I was living with Aunt Bob and Scrubly, I prepared A Bowl of Meat. It started off as sloppy joes, but we didn't have any rolls and the bread had gone bad. When Scrubly came by and asked me what I was eating, I tried to come up with something nice-sounding, but gave up, and admitted that I was eating A Bowl of Meat.

John once evaluted my cooking by doing a little dance and singing, "You like to eat your white trash food, you like to eat your white trash food. . . "

I started to really enjoy my Tuesday nights alone. I controlled the remote. I watched stupid TV shows without guilt.* I might work on a crafty project. My mother would call to chat.

Peter often invited me over for dinner on Tuesdays, aware that I was fending for myself and fearing evening after evening featuring Bowl of Meat. He would even try to maintain the spirit of White Trash Food and Cheesy TV Night, but he could never really get it right. (I think you gotta be from there to do it correctly.) I appreciated his efforts, but started declining his invitations. His food was fantastic, but I liked the evenings by myself.

I found out Lumpyhead was on the way on a Tuesday night. I didn't tell Bump I suspected I was pregnant, because I didn't want to get his hopes up. After all those years of contraception, my initial reaction to the EPT was "SHIT! Oh, wait, no. It's okay. Huh."

Then I sort of wandered about for a bit, wondering what to do. Should I call Bump? (I didn't. I waited until he got home.) How should I tell him? (I left the test on the bathroom counter and knit a bootie, which I flung at him when he asked about the peed-on stick.) Is it gross to leave a peed-on stick on the bathroom counter? (Yes.)

Now Tuesdays are Lumpyhead and Me Time. My mother still calls to check in, but now we have a videophone set up so she and Dad can see Lumpyhead. I don't watch much TV, but I have other guilty pleasures. Like holding Lumpyhead throughout his entire evening nap; the back of his head gets sweaty when he sleeps.

--
*Oh, I did stupid. Stooopid. Gilmore Girls, Smallville, then I'd switch over to Charmed on TBS. Or Nip/Tuck (until it got dumb. . .er). Eventually the lineup included Babies: Special Delivery, which Bump termed "Scary Baby Stories." I loved watching Scary Baby Stories when I was pregnant. Babies: Special Delivery was my favorite, though. Birth Day is okay, but not as good. Maternity Ward was too scary - all 14-year-olds or drug addicts - and TLC's A Baby Story was too sacchariny-sweet - all blonde sorority girls (and I mean that in the unflattering way) holding showers where they play idiotic party games and coo over the arrival of little Madyson and their life is complete. Gah.

A note: Gene Weingarten claims that the term "white trash" is inherently racist. I do not intend any racism whatsoever, and apologize if that's how you see it. If you can think of a better term to describe the trailer-living tornado bait set, please substitute it for white trash above. I find the term endearing, particularly as it applies to me. For I am White Trash from way back, just without the white.

Assicons

You've probably seen this email, the one with a different take on emoticons? For example:

(_!_) a regular ass

(__!__) a fat ass

(!) a tight ass

(_*_) a sore ass

{_!_} a swishy ass

(_o_) an asshole

(_x_) kiss my ass

(_zzz_) a tired ass

(_E=mc2_) a smart ass

(_$_) Money coming out of his ass

(_?_) Dumb Ass


and I'm adding . . .

(_:_) Lumpyhead

Hoping desperately for an earlier surgery date, but no progress thus far. Still scheduled for April 14.

CityZen

Several of our friends pitched in and gave us a hefty gift certificate to CityZen as a wedding gift. Last night, Bump and I got a babysitter and made use of it before it expired.

A babysitter. For free. (dance of joy)

Bump and I are very, very lucky on the babysitting front. A colleague of mine who loves children is always willing to babysit if her schedule allows, and two of Bump's pool buddies offer to babysit from time to time. For free. (dance of joy) What's more, Nana V and Doc are getting an apartment in the DC area for the next year, so we'll even have a local grandma. Hooray! (dance of joy) And of course there's always Aunt Bob and Peter if we have a last-minute thing.

So, CityZen. Oh My GOD. Wait, let me rephrase that: Ha ha! I got to go to CityZen and you didn't. Ha ha.

(dance of joy)

The food was amazing. I did the five-course tasting option while Bump did the three-course menu. The dishes were tiny with complex and delicate flavors. The warm little garlicy-buttery rolls had a sprinkling of salt. The staff brought out extra caramelized powdered sugar popovers because I said I liked them.

Bump and I would have gotten out of there for less than $100 if I hadn't ordered the flight of ports to go with the cheese course. Yes, there was a cheese course. (yay!) And yes, I got a flight of ports because I'm a brat and we were in a fancy restaurant and three ports distracted me from wanting to shove my face into the cheese trolley like some form of feral swine.

So, fancy schmancy very expensive dinner at a bargain price (dance of joy) because we have friends who rock.

After dinner, Bump and I decided to take advantage of our babysitter (for free - dance of joy) and have a drink at the bar instead of going directly home. Bump's running commentary provided endless amusement for me, so instead of describing how lovely the food was at this world-class restaurant, I'm going to spend the majority of this post on the after-dinner drink portion of the evening. Sorry, I'm not a restaurant reviewer.

So, the hotel bar at the Mandarin is as nice as one would expect. During the day, I imagine the views from the bar are of the Jefferson Memorial and the Tidal Basin. At night, all you see is the traffic on the 14th Street Bridge. There's a painting in the lobby, from which the bar gets its name. Bump: What's with the monkeys?

There was a band - called a "jazz trio" in the hotel propoganda. They weren't bad, actually. I wondered if this would be considered a good gig for a musician. Bump: It probably pays well, but I imagine this isn't what these guys dreamed about doing someday. At least it's not the bar at an airport Sheraton or something.

The "jazz trio" spent most of the night playing 80s music. During "The Lady in Red," one of the two smoking guys at the table behind us started singing along. I found this both horrific and hysterically funny. Bump: I think there may have been alcohol involved.

I ordered a glass of champagne (a $14 glass of champagne. Why is it that my cheap Dutch ass bristles at paying $15 for a cheap bottle of champagne to drink at home, but last night I actually thought $14 was a pretty good deal? Maybe it was the nice chairs.) The waitress came by and gave me such a full glass that only surface tension kept it all in the flute. Go, meniscus. Bump: That's a generous pour.

The staff came by with little nibbles - olives, those little rice thingies, and green crunchy things that looked like edamame funyuns. They kinda tasted like edamame funyuns, too. I don't think the little rice thingies were actually rice thingies, because they tasted like peanuts. This surprised me, and apparently the surprise registered on my face when I ate it. Bump: I don't care how you describe those, I'm not trying one.

He did actually try one, and agreed they tasted like peanuts.

Then Bump went to get the car, and I stole a hotel pen.

When we got home, Lumpyhead seemed genuinely happy to see us, and the babysitter said he had been very good. The babysitter that we got, you know, for free. (dance of joy)

IM with Stupid

"Stupid" would be me, not Electricyoak. I couldn't think of anything to post today, so I'm posting my IM conversation with Electricyoak from last week Friday.

me: dude. ENTERTAIN ME!
electricyoak: Wassssup
me: am bored. not because I don't have anything to do - I have LOADS of shit to do - I just don't want to do it. Say something funny so I can post it
electricyoak: This is like being at the Metrodome urinal next to 100 of your best friends too much pressure to perform.
electricyoak: I'm trying to download this lazymuncie.com which is supposed to be a takeoff of the SNL Chronicles of Narnia. Don't think I'm doing it right.
electricyoak: I got it to work but it is taking a while to stream
me: I am SO entertained
me: that was awesome
me: don't like it? move your ass to Ft. Wayne
me: the Jim Davis stuff almost made me spit water. I managed not to spit, but then I dribbled on my shirt.
electricyoak: I just finished it. That was hilarious.

me: where is H this weekend?
electricyoak: knitting retreat. we are wild people
me: hoo boy. Knitting retreat? like at a cabin in the woods where you learn to trust your yarn?
electricyoak: something like that. My fantasy is that it is "Girls Gone Wild" but in fleece and long underwear.
me: where the ladies shriek over new bamboo number 10s?
electricyoak: I don't know what that means but probably.
me: um, never mind
me: so what do you and the dog have planned?
electricyoak: probably ribs and beer on the couch in our underwear
me: can you use Loyd as a napkin?
electricyoak: He'll lick me clean.
me: nice
me: or, ew
electricyoak: little from column A and a little from column B

electricyoak: I should be doing some other things. But I'm not.
me: I should be doing
some other things. But I am
not. How about you?
me: It's haiku
me: I think
me: or is haiku 7-5-7? that was 5-7-5
electricyoak: Very clever. I don't remember the count.
electricyoak: according to Wikipedia it is 5-7-5
me: well then, I rock.
electricyoak: Yes, yes you do.
me: well, dammit, write me a poem
electricyoak: The bone is needed/by the black dog bereft/of able dad type
me: Walk me, you bastard
all you do is sit there and
eat ribs. Please drop one.
electricyoak: I already did/you are now stepping in it/ha ha ha ha ha
me: lol
me: that was sweet

Look at Me! I'm Totally Judging You!

Sarah left a comment on Mom-101 yesterday about something I said - and after I read her comment, I remembered saying it. (I must have said it toward the end of that second big glass of Châteauneuf du Pape.) I don't remember how I said it exactly, but the idea is this: when you take some Me Time - some time to decompress and relax - you're a better parent.

I know it's hard for parents to take time for themselves. Aunt Bob talked about it a little in her very first post, and I'm sure it's true for all parents - moms and dads, stay-at-home and go-to-work. When you're not with Precious Angel, you feel guilty. When you're with Precious Angel, you wish he'd take a nap already because your head is filled with all the other things you have to do and you wonder how those dishes are going to get done.

I find I'm much more likely to let Lumpyhead just play at my feet by himself when I go straight from work to traffic to mommy. If I've had some buffer time, I give him my full attention. I'll play with him, instead of just giving him a toy to chew on. I act more like the mom I want to be. I can be more focused on him if I've had some blank time to do something I don't have to do. Like look through a catalog. Or paint my toenails. Or do a last Saturday's sudoku.

Maybe this isn't true for everyone. Maybe you can juggle it all and be happy and engaged full-time, and if that's the case, good for you. (actually, no. Fuck you. You're ruining it for the rest of us.)

I know that Me Time isn't always possible. I worry that Bump doesn't get enough time to for himself as it is, and if I'm taking Me Time, it means more Daddy Time for him. In fact, I'm feeling like quite the brat just writing this. It's all a balancing act, I guess, but I'll close with this:

I see you, being a martyr. I don't like it. I think you should take some time for yourself, or I'll call you a Bad Mom (or Bad Dad). So there.

Why Ide Outta . . .

Happy Ides of March.

Wow, such an eventful couple of days. Not only was it Steak and a BJ Day yesterday, it was also Pi Day. Hope you got your pie, porterhouse and hummer.

Apparently there's also Pi Approximation Day on July 22 (22/7), in case one celebration of a mathematical constant isn't enough. Can you imagine how pissed off the Golden Ratio is, what with Pi getting two holidays and Golden Ratio not getting one? I'd be mad.*

This is from an email exchange with my friend Jerry yesterday, who sent around some St. Patrick's Day tips with this note: "Some of these are pretty funny and good to keep in mind this coming holiday."

Me: "Coming holiday? You realize today is Steak and a BJ Day, right?"

Jerry: "Dammit. I forgot all about that. Is that today? Looks like I may have to leave work early. Though I did have a Smith and Wollensky (sp?) steak last night. Just, unfortunately, not the other thing."

For emphasis, allow me to repeat, "Just, unfortunately, not the other thing."

This sums up both Jerry's personality and general outlook on life. I think it has become his new tagline, although he doesn't know it yet.


*Note to Bump and Aunt Bob: yes, I had to look that up. I can't pull mathematical constants out of my butt you know. In fact, if you mention "Golden Ratio" to me in a month, I will have completely forgotten about this post and think you are talking about something dirty.

Note to everyone else: Bump and Aunt Bob are math geeks.

Secondary note to impugn myself (even though I was sure I never ever wanted to reveal this EVER but Aunt Bob and Bump always bring this up when I call them math geeks so I'm beating them to the punch): I was a cheerleader in high school. Yes. Stop it. We all have crosses to bear. But if you put me, Aunt Bob and Bump together and add beer, you get "Sine sine cosine sine! 3.14159!" Do it with pom poms. And large quantities of tequila. Repeat until you have no more friends.

Quite the tangent, huh?

(ar ar ar)

The Dumbass That Keeps On Dumbassening

Hey, some love! And wouldn't you know it. . .

So yesterday, I got a mention on DCblogs for last Saturday's post. Phenomenal, right? I was so psyched.

But then. . .oh yes. [heart stops] Yesterday. The day I went all stalker crazy girl and turned the blog into a Sarah fansite of nuttiness.

Cripes. The day I change the blog with the intention of sending people running for the hills (because, com'on, who stops by that often?) is the day I get noticed. It's like being called "hot" when you've got your finger up your nose. Bye bye, opportunity.

Maybe DCblogs doesn't get very many readers? [Bangs head against keyboard]

Nice One, Dumbass

This is a variation on the "Hey Dumbass" column - instead of making fun of some poor soul looking for advice, I make fun of me.

Small and large groups are always on the Hill, especially in the springtime. Most organizations hold their annual legislative conferences now, and let's face it, spring is a nice time to be in the city. Any time Congress is in session, though, you're likely to encounter a huddle of people clogging the hallways or slowing down the security line at the entrances. If it's not a flock of middle schoolers in matching tee shirts, it's the little old Midwestern-looking ladies in their "good" sweatshirts, or the five white guys in suits and matching nametags.

If the visitors are looking particularly clueless, and I'm not feeling especially pissy, I'll stop and help them figure out where they should be. I'll at least point them in the right direction. "You need to go to the Senate side for Russell" or "The cafeteria is down that hall."

The other day I walked past a pack of people with the National Federation of the Blind.

I nodded hello and smiled.

God, I am such an idiot.

We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Yammering

Okay, we're back to normal here at Lumpyhead. Such that it is. I guess "normal" was always a pretty relative term to begin with. Anyhoo, if your first visit to the site was today, and you're still hangin around: 1) Sorry, I'm not usually like that and 2) What is your deal? You're still here? Do you enjoy reading sites written by obvious wackos?

I thought it would be funny to go all stalker on Sarah, write a weird post, and then delete it. Because, come on, if you're gonna do total batshit nutjob, you gotta do total batshit nutjob right.

If you missed it, this is what the blog looked like for the past six hours or so.

While I think it's funny, I gotta admit, it even creeped me out a little bit.

Sarah and I met last night, and it was a lot of fun. She is, in fact, just as cool as she seems on her blog. We drank wine and gossiped about other bloggers. Yes, we talked about you! behind your back! ha ha ha ha ha. Well, actually, no. You never came up. Because we don't read you, remember? We gossiped about other, cooler bloggers. (I guess I haven't gotten the crazy entirely out of my system yet.)

When I got home - over three hours after I left - Bump told me, "You can tell your blog that I worried you and Sarah went all Thelma and Louise on us."

I'm not sure what I like most about that remark. The part where Sarah and I abandon them for a crime spree and meet Brad Pitt? Or the part where I "tell my blog" stuff. You know I write this blog, right, Bump? I don't "tell" it anything.

But sometimes it tells me stuff. Like how much I like Sarah. (cue creepy music)

Could I Do It? I Don't Know.

Now that I have a child, I think about how hard it must have been for my biological mother to give me up for adoption. I was found on the doorstep of a house in Seoul. The woman who lived there had ties to an organization that sent children to the United States. My mother likes to imagine that whoever left me there hid nearby until I was taken inside. (That seems a little “Moses in the bulrushes” to me, but sometimes there’s no explaining my mother. If there’s a Pharaoh somewhere holding my people in bondage, however, maybe you should give me a call. Flaming foliage preferred.)

Like all parents, I wish only the best for my son. Bump and I undertake every stupid thing we can if it might give Lumpyhead some slight advantage in the future. He needs a $3,000 helmet so his head’s not lopsided? Get one immediately. Baby Tad builds early math skills? The boy must have it. There’s a CD that will make him a better non-linear thinker? Let’s buy two, so we have one for the car!*

Once, when we were spending a few minutes with a babysitter before leaving the house, Lumpyhead fussed a little. Bump admitted to me later that he had to resist the urge to snatch the baby away from the babysitter to calm him down. We both suffer from “I’m his parent, and only I can make it better” syndrome.

It must be excruciating to come to the conclusion that the best thing for your child is to remove yourself from her life. How selfless, and how heartbreaking.

I may be romanticizing things. I could be the unwanted result of an unspeakable act. My biological mother may not have felt a bond with me the way I felt close to Lumpyhead while I was pregnant. Maybe she was glad to be rid of the little parasite that made her sick for nearly a year. (Okay, I felt a little of that with Lumpyhead, too, in addition to the bonding.)

Perhaps the decision was forced on her by economics; maybe my biological parents couldn’t afford to raise another child. Maybe my birth mother died, and her partner wasn’t in the picture.

There are so many possibilities. I admit I’m sort of curious, but in truth, I don't really care. I was raised by people who love me; who would do anything to ensure my safety and happiness. I don’t feel the urge to connect with my biological family.

People often ask me if I want to “go back” to Korea. I usually answer that there are other places I would like to see first. I guess what I don’t articulate is that if I did visit Korea, it wouldn’t feel like a homecoming to me, it would simply be a tourist destination. By contrast, when Bump and I traveled to the Netherlands several years ago, I felt like I was on a heritage field trip.

While I don’t have a strong desire to meet my genetic relatives, there’s a part of me that wants to reassure my biological mother, or whoever left me on that doorstep: I’m fine. I went to the U.S., as I assume you wanted. I was raised by loving people with a strong moral compass (who are a little kooky, but in a good way). I have a brother. I got good grades. I went to an Ivy League college. My job is to advise Members of Congress. I have a husband, a son, and wonderful friends. I am happy.

You did the right thing.

*I know of no CD that accomplishes this, I just made it up.

69 Things

Because I couldn't think of 100, and 69 is funny. Heh heh, 69.

1. Sarah and I are going to meet.

2. When we do, we’re going to blog about it.

3. We might post pictures of us having a grand time.

4. You’ll be sooo jealous.

5. Cuz we’ll be all: she’s even cooler than her blog!

6. And you’ll want to be our friend.

7. We’ll say, “Of course you can be our friend!”

8. “We love everybody!”

9. But we won’t really mean it.

10. We’ll pretend to mean it

11. and fool you by exchanging light-hearted emails,

12. maybe even setting up a time to meet.

13. But we’ll have last-minute excuses.

14. Like, “I can’t find a babysitter.”

15. Or, “My son needs butt surgery.”

16. And you’ll believe us.

17. You’ll check our blogs to see if we’ve mentioned you.

18. But we’ll be snickering

19. about how gullible you are.

20. We’ll sneer how we really don’t like your blog very much

21. even though we both said we did.

22. We don’t even read your blog,

23. unless you’ve just left a comment on ours.

24. Mostly because, that one time?

25. on your blog?

26. you spelled “receive” wrong.

27. But you noticed it right away

28. and changed it

29. and republished.

30. But we caught it, and we took note.

31. We said to each other, “Did you see how dumb that chick is?”

32. “And how she tried to fix that typo right away?”

33. Ha ha ha ha ha

34. Yeah, we’re still mocking you for that.

35. Oh, and another thing?

36. All the other bloggers out there are making humongo wads of cash from their ads.

37. They're supporting their families,

38. paying for fabulous vacations,

39. and migrating from blogspot to their own domain names.

40. The ones who aren’t doing that

41. are sorting through the flood of book deals they’ve been offered.

42. Everyone,

43. that is,

44. except you.

45. Because their blogs are fantastic

46. and well-written

47. and funny.

48. Their blogs are deeply moving,

49. or heart-wrenching,

50. or capture some universal truth.

51. Not like yours.

52. You just yammer on about stuff you think is humorous,

53. or cute stuff your kid did,

54. or things you think about.

55. You discuss issues no one cares about.

56. No one shares your view.

57. You’re unburdening your conscience

58. or working out your petty problems.

59. Those other people?

60. They have real blogs

61. with gobzillions of readers and linky-love and shit.

62. No one reads your site.

63. Those comments you’re leaving all over the place?

64. They’re not witty

65. or wry

66. or endearing

67. or poignant

68. enough to get people to click over to you.

69. You’re just word-farting all over the internet and no one cares.


Okay, none of this is true. Except for the meeting Sarah part. That’s true. Oh, and the butt surgery thing.

Your blog is great. Really.

Descent into Self-Blogellation

The above reflects my doubts about my blog. People write what I mean before I do, more eloquently and with great humor. I’m blogging between waiting for the copier and bites of lunch, thinking of posts in the car. Others are blogging with huge readerships and hundreds of people who heart them and hang on their every word.

I should comment on other blogs more, but I always end up starting a comment and then deleting it. Either other commenters have already said what I want to say, or my comment is just dumb. Why would the author care what I have to say? I only have a handful of readers. (gratuitous aside: who are all great, of course. mwah mwah mwah)

What’s with this high-school insecurity?

Why do all the cool blog kids seem to be hanging out with each other? Am I missing something? Am I missing something I didn’t even care about before, but now that I know about it, I’m all antsy?

Since I'm meeting Sarah, does that mean I'm cool?

It makes me feel cool, so there. mneeeyah. Take that, blogging insecurities!

Mein Bumpf

Bump's Fabled Rise to Power

or

How My Husband Got Elected to the Condo Board

That sound that you hear? Yeah, that's the chanting masses.

[Bump! Bump! Bump! Bump!]

So, the Annual Meeting of the Condo Association. Meet your neighbors, hear what the board did last year, and find out what it has in store for next year. (read: are our condo fees going up again?)

The board is composed of seven members who serve two-year terms. Three of the seven board members were up for re-election this year.

[Elect! Elect! Elect! Elect!]

No owners signed up beforehand to be on the ballot, so nominations were taken from the floor. All three board members with expiring terms were nominated, although one member expressed some hesitation about serving again. With some cajoling, she agreed to be placed on the slate.

The slightly off-balance woman arranged to be nominated, again (more about her later).

Bump asked the President to review the board members' responsibilities, which are basically to attend a meeting once a month and not be an annoying gasbag (yeah, more later). The building manager (he of the great and glorious keys with the shiny and the jingling and OH MY GOD) immediately nominated Bump, interpreting the question as "interest." I can't comment on whether that interpretation was valid or not, but it was probably at least an exaggeration of what Bump was feeling when he posed the question.

[Elect! Elect! Elect! Elect!]

also

[run on sentence! run on sentence! run on sentence! but they're chanting masses, so it sounds more like mmmmsssst! mmsssttsptheu! mmmssttpptheu!]

So . . . meeting meeting meeting . . . blah blah blah, let's have the candidates say something about themselves.

Bump gave our unit number, detailed how long we've lived there, what he did before and now he's a stay-home dad, and dropped that his wife served as a past President of the board so he can make use of my expertise. (That would be "expertise" with air quotes and a stupid grin. Only Bump forgot to use the sarcasm when he said the word.)

Me: look doubtful and maybe roll my eyes a little bit.

You: Wait! You were on the condo board?

Yes. (roll eyes so far back my optic nerve hurts) More later.

[Vote! Vote! Vote! Vote!]

The building manager looks at me and says, after the ballots are collected, "I let Bump off the hook, I didn't vote for him." (Q: Wait, there was a tense change? When did that happen? A: When my optic nerve started to hurt and I wrote the word "expertise." It was like "armageddon" in The Hunt for Red October.)

The building manager's vote is pretty important, because he collects the proxies of the owners who don't attend the meeting. So he's not just voting once, he votes for all of the non-present owners who bother to sign a form. And did I mention he has keys?

So the votes are tallied, and the winners are . . .

The three current board members.

Duh. I mean, the building manager let Bump off the hook, right?

Then a question is asked. "Who came in fourth?"

Now, I thought this was just mean. I mean, why make someone feel bad? Also, I hope Bump at least had a better showing than the slightly off-balance woman.

It's important, someone says, because if there is a vacancy on the board, the fourth-place finisher would step in.

So, indeed, Bump finished fourth.

And the board member? the one who was hesitant about running again? Immediately resigns.

Bump is on the board.

[Default! Default! Default! Default!]

Wow, that was a fragmented, really annoying way to tell a story. I blame the masses.

So I promised more later, but I think I'll talk about it in another post. I don't want to steal Bump's thunder. Also, this is already pretty long. Plus, I want those masses to disperse.

The Condo Association Annual Meeting

On Monday, Lumpyhead attended his first Annual Meeting of our condo association. He slept through half of it, and was quite well-behaved throughout the rest of the meeting. The building manager pulled out KEYS which were the most fabulous incredible entertaining toy ever, with the shiny and the jingling and OH MY GOD. Lumpyhead dropped the keys at one point, so we put them away, and the baby became enraged. We quickly gave the magic keys back.

After the meeting, our neighbors cooed and giggled at Lumpyhead. He smiled back and was, overall, a joy to show off. (Hobby Parent much, Bitch?)

On the way home from the meeting, we stopped by Aunt Bob and Peter's for a beer. We saw lights on in the family room, so I peeked in the window. Aunt Bob heard rustling outside the window and looked out just as my peering face was pressed against her window. It scared the crap out of her. [snicker]

Heh heh, even funnier than scaring the pants off Aunt Bob? Bump got elected to the Condo Board. [snicker snicker snicker SNICKER HAW HAW HAWE]

In other news, Lumpyhead has a new trick. He can clap his hands, which is cuter than fuck.

Oh, and we have a date for the butthole embiggening: April 14. Until then, I'm planning to pretend he's been adopted by the Cardinals' first baseman and call him Señor Pujols.

Rules for the Real Worlders

Hi! Thanks for stopping by. Here are some ground rules, if I know you in real life.

1. Yes, I probably blogged about you.

Don't like it? Tough.

I blog about my life. You're part of my life, so you're fair game. If you and I do something you don't want your mom to know about, you shouldn't have given your mom this blog address. I haven't given it to mine.

If I've posted a picture of you, though, that you would rather not have floating around in cyberspace, let me know. I'll take down the picture or put a blue dot on your face or something.

2. Hey, that's mean.

If I hurt your feelings with something on the blog, allow me to belatedly or pre-emptively apologize.

A. I'm sorry.

B. I wasn't actually talking about you. It was my other friend Beverly. Whose home I visited on Thursday night. At 8pm. Really. I went to her house after I left yours. Funny coincidence, huh?

C. Get over yourself already, for the love of god.

How's this for mean? "Your blog is a strange combination of boring and overly personal." This is my biggest worry about what I write.

3. That looks familiar. Did you write that to me in an email?

Probably. And then I wrote a post about it. It's not plagiarism if I steal it from myself.

4. Why isn't there more about me in the blog?

A. Because this blog is about me, dammit. Get your own blog.

B. You're just not that interesting. Do something noteworthy or amusing and I'll write about you. That goes for you, too, Lumpyhead.

I don't use anyone's last name in the blog, and I might have used a nickname for you. Don't like your nickname? Too bad. It's what we all call you behind your back anyway. So now you know.

Electricyoak, I'm planning to post some of our IM conversations at some point, because our IM conversations crack my shit up.

5. Comments

Please please please leave comments. It makes me very happy, and reassures me that someone is reading my endless babbling. (Honestly, you don't even have to read the blog entry when I get boring. Just leave a comment and I'll be delighted and glow like a firefly all day.)

Anonymity

The internet can be a scary place, though, so I've chosen not to use my name, the baby's name, or Bump's. Please use our handles when making comments, or I'll delete your ass.

Don't be mean.

Only I get to be mean. Okay, you can be a little mean. But just be aware that if you leave a snarky comment about Ashley's new haircut, Ashley may stop by and see it. She didn't sign up for meanness, so I may delete your ass.

As Amalah says, "Freedom of speech is awesome, but ruling your own comment section with an iron fist is awesomer." Indeed. By the way, if you don't read Amalah, you should. She also cracks my shit up.

More Weekend Leftovers

I went to a bridal shower for a friend on Saturday. It wasn't a scary shower in the sunroom of someone's lovely home where punch is served and the honoree is forced to wear bows on her head (thank god). It was dinner at a restaurant in Adams Morgan with a pre-set menu and wine pairings.

It was nice.

I got drunk.

Not teeheehee-I'm-a-little-tipsy drunk. That would have been cute. I was weave, weave, can't see; pass out in the cab; throw up in the toilet drunk.

I have no idea how that happened. (Sarah is right now shaking her head and vowing never, ever, to be seen with me. I'm losing friends before I meet them!) I'm not usually such a lightweight. I was telling Bump, I just had some wine with dinner.

And then I reviewed the evening.

Actually, I had both red and white wine with dinner. (2) Both were offered and encouraged because they paired differently with the main course risotto and pasta.

We started the evening with bubbly, before dinner was served. (3) How festive.

And they served bubbly again with dessert. (4) Luvly.

DeAnn was sitting across the table from me, and she's pregnant, so I drank her bubbly. (6) Becuzz Im helpfull like that.

After dinnerrr, wehad mor buhbully atthe bar. (8) WHAT? OMG, who? WOOO HOOO! and then, this one time. . . bubbly is funny. say it fast a bunch of timez-buhbullee, buhbullee, buhbullee-that's so FUNNY! wait, what were we talking about? Sure, I think wee neeeed more (9? huh? how many fingers do you have? are you counting your thumbs? hahaha, thumbs) Oh my god! the boys are here! Hello boys! You're cute. If I weren't married, and you weren't gay, I would totally try to date you. Annie is here! I LUUUV Annie. Isn't Annie great?

Somewhere along the line, one of the boys deposited my drunk ass into a cab. I muttered our address and gave vague directions about how to get there. Four blocks away from home, I realized I should be going to Aunt Bob's, so changed my destination in a flurry. The patient/confused cabbie let me out in front of a house he was convinced I just randomly selected, confirmed by the fact that I paid him and then sat on Aunt Bob's front stoop instead of going inside.

(Why? I don't know. I had to be reminded that I spent a half an hour on the front step instead of coming in the house.
Aunt Bob yesterday: Why did you sit out on the porch last night? You were like, 'come sit with me, come sit with me.'
Me: I sat out on the porch? Oh. Yeah.

Then I remembered. Aunt Bob was only wearing shirt sleeves and sat out there for like ten minutes to placate me. I heard someone ask from the dining room, "Is Shaneese coming in, or is she gonna stay out there all night?" The question was posed in such a way that I'm pretty sure the asker preferred I stay out there. The asker was probably Bump.

Weekend Leftovers

Rolling around in my head right now? "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" and "Heading out on the Rainbow Run [toot toooot!]"

They're battling for dominance, and I think my skull may explode soon.

The People's Ovation and Fame Forever

Lumpyhead's on the Rice Daddies banner! Look quick, I'm not sure how long he'll be there. He's the third from the left, between Bunny and the smiling baby.

Rambling Idiot Mode, On

I had Cracker Jacks with lunch today, and the little prize? Lame.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, exactly, but the beaver pencil topper is really dumb. See?


(I’m sure “beaver pencil topper” is gonna get the creepy google hits flowing.)

I seem to remember Cracker Jack prizes being kinda cool, so either I’m just remembering wrong or the Cracker Jack people have gotten chintzy on us. Also, Cracker Jacks come in a bag now, instead of a box.

What is the proper plural use of Cracker Jack? Did I get a bag of Cracker Jack, or Cracker Jacks? If I got a bag of Cracker Jack, would several bags be Cracker Jacks? Or is it like deer?

And what’s the deal with the baseball song? Is it “buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack” or “buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks”? I sing “Jacks”, but “Jack” is a better rhyme with “back.” While I’m on the song, why would you want peanuts and Cracker Jacks? Cracker Jacks have peanuts in them, what’s with the peanut redundancy?

I wrote a letter once to the Cracker Jack people about this, but they never got back to me.

Bastards.

And the website? No help. (Although I admit I read it pretty quickly.)

I’ve gotta say, for my snack dollar? Cracker Jack? Not so much. I think I prefer Crunch N Munch or Poppycock for my popcorn and peanuts with caramely-toffee coating.

Okay, one more thing. Sailor Jack and Bingo, those twits on the Cracker Jack label? Not cute at all compared to this:

Yes, we dressed our son in a sailor suit. And took his picture had his picture taken. Shut UP. It’s funny.