Friday, September 17, 2010


I may or may not have a slight obsession with Sharpies.

Okay, I may.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Gone in 5, 4, 3, 2 --

I can't keep it a secret anymore. I'm so giddy I could explode. In fact, I'm pretty sure I will explode if I don't tell you - and that would be quite the mess, and you know how lazy I can be. I sure don't want to be cleaning that mess up. So, at the risk of jinxing everything, I've got to tell you -----


Yes. That's right. Gone. Adios. Good bye. Send her packing! Don't let the door hit you on the way out!

In just five more days! Gone!

As in, no longer in our house.

As in, no longer destroying furniture or running out in traffic or barking and whining at midnight. And 2am. And 5am.

As in, no more getting knocked over by dirty dog stench the second you walk into our house because the thing goes manic when you try to bathe it.

As in, no more splinters of wood from whatever piece of wood she chewed up. (Like baseboards, pantry doors, book shelves - you get the idea.)

As in, no more urine soaked pillows. And blankets. And carpets. And towels.

I can hardly stand it!

I don't care where she's going. All I care is that she doesn't find her way back into this house. The thing is crazy. Trust me when I say it is only a matter of time before she starts gnawing on the children. Actually, she has nipped at the children. Once, Dotter was crawling across the floor and the dog freaked, nipped and caught her on the top of her head.  Another time Dotter was eating a popsicle and the dog jumped up and snapped the treat away from her. It was in her mouth. And another time she bit some guy in the dog park bad enough to draw blood. Lucky for us the guy didn't sue because he, too, had a pit bull. So he tied a makeshift tourniquet around his knee and hobbled home. (And you wonder why I've never let Satan play with the baby. Really? Use your own baby as the example. Really. I won't mind.)

Big V has his own version of events; they center on the Pollyanna "she was just playing" theme. Just like all the urine all over the house is simply "happy pee." (Happy pee, sad pee, aggressive pee - dude, it's still pee!)

I may have a Dog Gone Party to celebrate. (Yes, I have parties. I just don't have 1-year old birthday parties.)

I'm not having a birthday party.

I'm not having a birthday party.

There. I said it. No, not for me - I'm not having a big ole' birthday party for Cletus the Used to be Fetus's First Birthday. Big V doesn't mind. Jelly Bean doesn't mind. Dotter doesn't mind. In fact, no one has lost sleep, become traumatized and/or needed the assistance of the Mental Health Officer to deal with this. It's just the way we do things in our family. We really don't see why we should have one.

I could give you a long list of reasons why - starting with I hate people and ending with so there! and they'd all make sense to me, but my decision still might not make sense to you. That's okay. You can throw your own birthday party for your own 1-year old. I won't even feel bad if you don't invite me. It still doesn't change the fact that we're not having one for Cletus.

In my own mind a birthday at this age is for the parents. It's sort of like announcing to all your friends and family that we survived an entire year and somehow managed to keep the kid alive! Kudos to you! Here, have an oversized plastic toy that lights up, makes noise and has batteries that will need to be changed every four weeks (of which you will never have any on hand).

I'll be honest. I don't feel like cleaning the house, cooking food, picking up a cake, and serving drinks to you simply because my child was born a year ago. I don't feel like watching my child smush cake up his nostrils and smear frosting in his hair while everyone laughs and takes a gazillion pictures of the disgusting event. (I would never tolerate that behavior at meal time; why would I encourage it?) I don't feel like spending twenty minutes cleaning up a sugar-shocked one year old while all my guests are in the living room enjoying bacon wrapped water chestnuts.

Yes, it's been one year. One year of running on empty due to lack of sleep (in our case, more so because of the dog but that doesn't make me any less tired) and trying to figure out how to work full time, keep the baby from sticking bobby pins up his nose, out-wit the teenager who is getting really good at perfecting the angsty teen role, and trying to convince an anxiety ridden 8-year old that no, we will not suffer from an earthquake and yes I do see those tree limbs that could possibly crash through the roof of our house and kill everyone while they sleep. Yes, I survived this year, but that doesn't make me feel like hosting a big old party in my house. No, I'm not going to rent out a room at the County Club and invite 40 of my closest friends and family members. No, I'm not going to buy coordinating paper plates, cups and napkins. And then have to drive back to town because I forgot the crepe paper. And then again because I forgot the tape. My 1-year old will have no idea what is going on, except wonder why I'm now telling him no, no, no every time he tries to reach up to pull the table cloth off my newly decorated presents table.

Before you tell me how horrible I am that I'm not choosing to elaborately celebrate the life of my child, I'd like to clarify for the record that I treat all three of my children equally and none of them had a first birthday party. That's just how we do it in our family. So there!

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Things That Confuse Me #72

Our cuttting board.

Our cutting board slides nicely under the counter. When you want to cut something, you pull it out. Use it. Clean it. Slide it back into its resting spot.

No matter how many times I explain to the people who reside in our house that you really should clean it because little crumbs will entice rodents and ants and creepy crawly things that totally gross me out, they still can't figure out how to clean it. It's odd, really. I've actually witnessed the teen pulling out the dirty and used cutting board, throwing on a freshly cooked pizza and cutting it without a care in the world, almost as if forgetting the fact that day old crumbs are sitting under the pizza. It kind of grosses me out.