Yo Gabba Gabba

I give you DJ Lance Rock Lumpyhead.The costume parade at preschool went pretty much as I expected. Either people had no idea who the hell Lumpyhead was supposed to be, or they "got" his costume right away.

We go trick-or-treating tonight in Aunt Bob's neighborhood, where even fewer people will recognize Lumpyhead's costume. But as long as they give him candy, who cares.

Lula remains unimpressed by all this Halloween nonsense.

Lumpyhead’s DJ Lance Costume

The DJ Lance costume is finished.

Behold:
I think we can all agree that I wouldn't last one episode on Project Runway. Tom and Lorenzo would be brutal.

Close up of the hat:It is not as big and furry as I would like it to be, but it's the best I could do. In the couple times I have put it on Lumpyhead's noggin to test for fit, he has hated it. Awesome. I bet he won't wear it for more than two seconds.

The glasses arrived a couple of days ago:
(Men's black-rimmed glasses from ebay, with no-power lenses.) Unlike the hat, Lumpyhead seems to love these, even though they slip down his nose immediately.

I made the shirt, pants, and hat using this pattern, then glued felt trim onto them.
"Made easy" would be the key selling point about this pattern, because I'm a lousy seamstress. It still took nearly two weeks. (I'm sure it would have taken an eleven-year-old Indonesian sweatshop worker 14 minutes.)

The biggest let-down of the whole process? These things:
I printed the puppets onto transfer paper, sewed up a little pouch, and stuffed it with batting. The plan was to have Lumpyhead carry them around in my friend Rich's poker chip case - which is silver on the outside and black felt-lined on the inside - to which we would affix color paper cut-outs to make it look like DJ Lance's boom box. But I'm really disappointed with how the dolls turned out. Because of the jersey-knit fabric I used and the "lousy seamstress" thing, they look like iron-ons stuck to some hoopty old socks.

Now, because 1) they suck and 2) we don't think we can convince Lumpyhead to carry the poker chip case around, they won't be part of the costume. Which is sort of a shame because . . .

From the “Because I’m a Damn Genius, Yes I Am” Department

While I was making the dolls action figures, I did this.
Can you see it? How about now?
It's a spot on our dining room table where all the finish has been removed. It is exactly iron-sized.

Why, no, I don’t know how that got there.

[whistles while avoiding your eyes]

Happy Halloween.

Guaranteeing Tacos

In case you missed it, we can all thank Jacoby Ellsbury for scoring us one free taco.

A free taco from 2-5pm on October 30. Because mid-afternoon is when everyone is really jonesing for some scary food-like product. I guess this would put your severe diarrhea somewhere in the middle of prime time, depending on your digestive system and the speed at which it processes garbage. I wouldn’t count on watching House in real time, is all I’m saying.

Kevin Youkilis noted that this promotion “might cost Taco Bell more if they did it from 2 to 5 a.m.” Good point.

To be fair, Mr. Ellsbury was clearly goaded into stealing that base by Royce Clayton last night, in perhaps the best exchange Major League Baseball has ever seen. (I’m sure this is available on YouTube by now, but it went like this:)

Royce Clayton: Hey, you like Taco Bell?
Jacoby Ellsbury: [Nods]
RC: You know, if somebody steals a base in the World Series, everybody in America gets a Taco Bell. Free taco.
JE: Everybody in America?
RC: Everybody in America gets a free taco.
JE: Doesn’t look like we’ll be getting one tonight.
RC: Nah. But America’s depending on you, next game.
JE: Tomorrow?
RC: Yeah.
JE: Tomorrow night.
RC: Tomorrow night. Woo hoo. Tomorrow night, you guaranteeing tacos.

I’m sure Taco Bell has insurance for this kind of thing - like the furniture store in Boston that promised to refund everyone’s money if the Sox win the Series - but honestly, Taco Bell is going to make a ton of money from this.

Because who the hell eats only one taco? Once you’re there, you’re obviously leaving with more than just your free taco.

I mean, if you’re going to have to run to the bathroom later anyway, you might as well make it worth the trip.

I’m Crazy Spoon Head. Now Gimme Some Candy

I have a dentist appointment next Wednesday. I’m going to reschedule, because I don’t think I can bear to go to the goddamned dentist on Halloween.

Halloween is for stuffing your mouth full of mini candy bars before your kid sees you, then hiding the wrappers beneath a layer or two of kleenex in the trash can. Halloween is not for flossing. (Because flossing right before my appointment is sure to fool Gwen the Hygienist into thinking I’ve been faithfully flossing daily for the last six months.)

I’m sure the dentist’s office will understand that I can’t make my appointment because I’ll be too busy hoarding my son’s hard-won booty and/or stealing the stash Bump ostensibly purchased for the couple of random trick-or-treaters who wander by.

I want to leave work early on the 31st so I can take Lumpyhead trick-or-treating, not to have someone poke at my gums until they bleed. (Yes, I understand that the bleeding is related to the not-flossing. Back off. God, you’re as bad as Gwen the Hygienist.)

Lumpyhead is going trick-or-treating as DJ Lance Rock. It will either be really cool or the lamest costume ever. I suspect that no one over the age of four will have any idea who the hell the kid in the orange jump suit is supposed to be. (A really skinny convict? Why does he have a furry hat?)

Unrelated to Halloween, our receptionist - who I suspect is evil - keeps a candy dish stocked outside my office. I have discovered that I love caramel peanut butter cups. Also, when did they start making Milk Duds out of crack? Because, damn.

A Dead Dog, a Dickhead, and the Former Vice President Walk Into a Blog

My friend ElectricYoak is a teaching assistant for a fancy-pants grad-school class. His dog died yesterday. Among the email back-and-forth, he sent me this:

One of my duties is to prepare the powerpoint and I use my computer for the lecture. Even though I uninstalled it, I still have this fear that when Vice President Mondale is lecturing from my computer a "Hey Dickhead" IM is going to pop up on the big screen in front of 200 people.

I’m so honored that he thinks of me every Tuesday.

Oh, and if the mood strikes you, go send his lovely wife - the primary owner of the much-loved Loyd - your condolences on her awful loss.

Bump Is Totally Taking Her Next Time

Yesterday I brought Lula to get official photos taken in the sailor suit.

"Official" means go to the photo studio in a department store that rhymes with "beers" (but there is no beer there, don't you think that's just wrong?) and have some pimply-faced teenager who took a photography class two semesters ago push a button.

You know it's not going to go well when you see the "We're Hiring!" sign prominently displayed.

Look, I know, I know. If I want real pictures, I need to pay a real photographer to take them. But I'm cheap. And the photos of Lumpyhead in his kickass sailor suit were department store photos, so Lula's might as well be, too.

The grandmothers have been clamoring for Return of Sailor Suit, The Girl Version for quite some time. Do you think we should use the one with the hat:

or without?
Yeah, it was awesome. (Not.)

Lula was a wreck.

These are not just the bad photos from the session, they are the only photos from the session.

I suppose we'll try again in a couple of weeks.

Can Today Be Love Your Auto Body Day?

Sarah tells me it’s Love Your Body Day. I learn a lot from the internet.

I’m sure you have never waited so long between oil changes that the little reminder sticker on your windshield displays only sad, faded numbers that you can no longer read.

And I’m sure what prompts you to get your oil changed is the realization that the appropriate number of months or miles driven have elapsed since your last oil change. You are not nudged into action by the fact that you seem to be out of windshield washer fluid, so you might as well have all the car’s essential liquids topped off.

Also, I bet you don’t decide “today is the day for that oil change” because you are already so late for work that another 30 minutes is not going to make a difference.

Or maybe you change your oil yourself, on the weekends, because you’re all conscientious and self-reliant and shit.

Well, fuck you.

There. I’m glad we’re past all that.

So let’s say you have taken your car to the garage for an oil change, only to have the mechanic come find you and walk you solemnly to your hoisted car. (Is this the equivalent of gyno-stirrups for your auto? Is it embarrassed to be up there on the lift, having you parade around its undercarriage whilst some greasy-handed man pokes at it?) The mechanic points to your cracked and nearly-bald tires and insists that you desperately need all four tires replaced. Today. As in, “it’s a good thing you weren’t planning to take a long drive on these tires” and “if you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let you drive back to your house on these.”

So, nearly $350 later, you’ve got your damn oil change. And four new tires.

Later that day, on the way home from work, you notice that your radio is really soft. Then you realize it’s not the radio that is quiet, it’s the car that is loud, and suddenly you’re sitting on a jet engine. The damn thing is so loud that when your two-year-old son rides with you he spends the entire drive asking, “What’s wrong with Mama’s car?”

Awesome.

Back to the garage. New muffler. Another $350. Warnings that within a few months that timing belt should be replaced.

I just wanted an oil change.

The car is over 7 years old, so I knew that blissful period between “loan paid off” and “all manner of shit goes wrong” would be over soon. Oh, it’s over.

I wonder if I would love my body more if I just spent over seven hundred bucks on it, after recently tossing several thousands in (insured, thankfully) front-end body work at it, with another several hundred on the horizon.

(Probably not, as the kind of work I need totals much more than a couple thousand.)

(My teeth would probably be whiter, though.)

(And my insides wouldn’t smell like sour milk.)

(Or so I assume.)

(What do you think your innards smell like? Remember, it's Love Your Body Day . . .)

I'm Trying to Teach Him "He Who Smelt It, Dealt It"

[Unidentified thump]
Bump: What was that noise?
Lumpyhead: Papa farted.
Bump: Hey!
Me: [giggling]
Bump: I didn’t fart.
Lumpyhead: Mama farted.
Me: [indignant now] Hey!
Bump: [chucking the Laugh of Righteousness]
Me: I didn’t fart, either.
Lumpyhead: Baby farted.
Lula: [stares blankly. Drools.]

[Shrug] Fine by me.

Because Lumpyhead’s rote response to “What’s that smell?” is “Mama farted.”

I'm sure his father taught him that.

Cool Tricks Part II

Bump cannot hang a spoon on his face without the aid of uni-directional bonding strip. (HA ha!)

But can you stick a suction cup mobile to your forehead?

Didn't think so.

Don't be sad. I can't do it, either.

I hope they never recall the Skinsticker Forehead Mobile for excessive levels of lead, or we're all going to be sorry.

Cool Tricks! Cool Tricks!

My name is Lumpyhead, and my cool trick is hanging a spoon on my nose.
[Cool, cool, cool tricks. Yeah!]

Bump couldn't get the spoon to hang on his nose, so he hung it on his cheek. With tape. I'm pretty sure that's cheating.

Is It the Teeth?

Why do babies suddenly switch from angel breath to dreadful full-on morning mouth? One minute they're blowing sweet kisses into your face and the next they're heaving the rife stank of landfill waft in your direction.

Lula has made the shift from exhaling marshmallow-scented purity to smelling like she just ate a vat of Elmer's glue.

Listen, I'm not saying I'm always a mentos ad - you don't want to be within 10 feet of my fetid morning ass-mouth - but I was hoping Lula would have milky-scented sugar breath for just a few more months.

Just Following Directions

The sticker told me to.

(Oh, and if any of you were planning to meet us at Rock Bottom tonight, we've postponed that venue until next week. Cheers.)

Random "Milestone" Post You Can Feel Free to Ignore

Lula finally has teeth. On Saturday I saw and felt the first one breaking through. Bump and I are waiting expectantly for the diarrhea and associated diaper rash that accompanied Lumpyhead’s first teeth. Good times.

There is no sign of Lumpyhead’s two-year molars. Every time he’s acting like a little shit I think, “Hmm, could it be the teeth?” but it turns out he’s just being a pain in the ass.

I came home last night to Lumpyhead sprawled out on the living room floor, talking to himself.

His new rainboots arrived. They’re cute (covered in frogs, like Egypt in the full grips of Plague Number 2), but way too big. Apparently he put them on, took one step, and fell down.

When he trips or bumps into something or injures himself in some minor way, he says, “Okay? Okay? Are you okay?” Since we’ve been working on “Your name is not ‘You,’ it is ‘Lumpyhead’” he often adds “You okay Lumpyhee-yud?”

I’m pretty sure he now thinks his name is “You, Lumpyhead.”

Having a Daughter Means

I can put goofy things on her head.


>Okay, that last one is a proper hat, but I still think it's funny.

Wait, I guess I put goofy things on my son's head, too. Never mind.

Rock Bottom

Usually a title like that begins a post about how, after much reflection and denial and self-hate, I have reached some awful conclusion about myself.

Or perhaps I’ve taken part in some parenting-related debacle that highlights, once and for all, that this was not the adventure I signed up for.

Instead, it is an announcement that next week’s Tuesday Happy Hour will be held at the Rock Bottom Brewery in Ballston.

I’m thinking of joining the Mug Club. (“Do you like beer?” asks the propaganda. “Yes! Yes, I like beer! This club is for me,” I dutifully reply.)

Last night Aunt Bob and I met Anne at Chef Geoff’s, where - as promised - we had much great food, libation, and merriment. (Great Food! Libation! Merriment! I like all of those things.) We were thrilled to discover that the happy hour specials were available all night on Tuesdays, so, woot! we’re probably going back there again. Aunt Bob and I also discovered that if we shared the humongo mug, the beer stayed colder, she could have more beer without being overserved, and I could just have more beer. Bonus.

Sure, sometimes I drink too much and Aunt Bob has to ferry my slurring, overly-animated drunk ass around. And when I use my shirt to wipe Lula’s chin or Lumpyhead’s nose, then wear that same shirt for a few more days, I feel a little unglamorous.

But I won’t hit Rock Bottom until next week.

You should come, too, and we could both join the Mug Club. Together.

Aunt Bob, you’re driving me home, right? I’ll have a shirt with three-day-old snot waiting for me.

Oh, WCCO. First a Drunk Duck Decapitator, Now This. Where Have You Been All My Life?

I'm not sure what the oddest thing about this story is.

A. "The sheriff's office urged parents to always directly supervise children when they're shooting firearms, and for shooters to always know what's behind their target."

(Maybe that's not odd. That's just sound advice.)

or

B. The victim just kept driving.

According to Mapquest, Cusson (where the truck driver was shot) is 50.2 miles from International Falls (where the man was treated and released from the hospital). Granted, it was probably the nearest medical facility, and if the man was already headed that direction, why wait for an ambulance when you can just drive yourself there?

I don't think I would keep driving after being shot by a .22. But then, I guess I'm just a sissified city girl.

I imagine the conversation that followed this incident went something like this:

"Say Bob, how was the drive today?"
"Oh, not too bad. Had a little rain. Got shot in the arm."
"Oh yah?"
"Yah."
"How much rain do you suppose they got over there, then?"
"Oh, less than a quarter-inch."
[The End]