All good things must come to an end

Just kidding.

I'm moving on. To bigger and better things. If you have wondered where I have been for the last week, I decided a week ago to start a business. You can find it a www.babybrewing.com. Too bad none of you readers are pregnant. But if you know any pregnant people, send them my way. As for the blog, I'm at www.mommyneedsacocktail.com. Because Mommy really needs a cocktail...

Here's one of my shirts. I hear Katie is ready to lose all of her fake pregnancy weight now.






If you could HASU (hook a sista' up), please link Baby Brewing on your blog pages. Every link helps put me on the Google map. As soon as I rob a bank, I'll start making blogging t-shirts for all those of you who are smart enough to NOT be pregnant. Lots of love and hope to see you over a www.mommyneedsacocktail.com. Leave lots of comments so people get the wrong impression--that I am actually readable.

Great Expectations

Today my elderly neighbor mentioned to me that she was planning on coming over to our house on Sunday to watch E hunt for Easter eggs.

She is so sweet.

Except there was no plan for an Easter egg hunt. Just like I spent $15 on his Christmas present (Matchbox cars) and only bought him a chocolate cake for his birthday, I am the minimalist mother. He is 1, for heaven's sake. But now I am starting to realize that the pressure is going to rise and that other's expectations may be unnecessarily dashed by my lack of interest in the "fun" aspect of holidays. Let's be honest. Nana could go into cardiac arrest if she finds out that the boy was denied his God-given American right to excessive candy on Easter Sunday. If I don't produce a video of the kid searching through the waist-high grass in the back yard, oooohing at the colored eggs, she might think I'm a bad mother. And she was such a good mother, especially on these points, that I really don't want to disappoint her.

So I guess I'll be going out tomorrow morning to Michael's to buy eggs. And I guess the baby is going to get his favorite--chocolate. Who said you outgrow peer pressure?

The news is big. Very big.

No, I am not pregnant. Stop asking me. You know who you are. STOP asking me. Asking me 4 times a day is not going to make me pregnant. You know that I am a contrarian and that every time you ask me, I am on the other end of the phone, taking handfuls of birth control pills. And chasing them with red ruby martinis.

Back to the news.

I got my letter yesterday from Local Community College. "Congratulations, you have been accepted!" Complete with an exclamation point. I love exclamation points. I know they are overused (often by myself) but sometimes a little shouting is in order.

D: Did you think you weren't going to get into community college?
K: Ok, so I wasn't as nervous as, say, when I applied for law school, but you never know. Maybe they were going to deny me for attending too many colleges in my lifetime. Over colleging.
D: Well congratulations, babe.

It then took me 55 minutes to register for a web design class. Fifty-five blanking minutes. I don't want to start a derogatory tirade about community colleges since I am a graduate, but WTH??? My husband thought that this was by far the funniest thing he had ever seen. His wife unable to register for community college. I guess you can be snotty when you went to a pseudo Ivy League university?

Turns out I needed to know that the code for the summer 2006 term is 2063. 2063. Who would have thought that I couldn't figure that one out? I mean, it's so user-friendly and logical.

Fifty-five minutes. If there was bus service to school, I'm sure mine would be short.

Maybe I am pregnant.

Life lessons CAN be learned at a bar

1. You are only as old as you feel.

Derek's cousin Mike beat us to the bar. He called Derek on his cell phone.

M: Buddy, I showed up at the bar and said I was here for the party and they ushered me to a back room with a huge "50" balloon. Did you turn 50?

This coming from the man that spent at least the first 20 SUMMERS of his life with D. They are 11 months apart. You think he would have noticed that Derek was 10 years old than him when they were, say 5 years old. I asked him if he took his driver's license out to check his birthday.

Crickets.

2. What constitutes morality anyway?

Dave said that when he was asked by his background investigator if he considered himself a moral person, he replied that he was morally opposed to describing himself as moral.

3. Sometimes a bar is just too loud to facilitate good communication.

Matt told us that he went to a "Meet the Puppy" party hosted by his boss because his boss was hosting. Two weeks later he got a phone call suggesting that he and his kids go to the ER because the boss had to put down his puppy for being rabid.

Now if that isn't rich enough, the whole time Matt was calling it the "Meet the Puppy" party, I thought he was saying a "Beat the Puppy" party. I kept saying "a Beat the Puppy Party?" Even I couldn't understand why someone would have a "Beat the Puppy" party, and I have a Lab.

4. Can you ever really "know" a person?

A person who shall remain nameless since he still thinks he has a shot at becoming a judge one day and they frown on these kinds of experiences told a story about how he used black powder to make pipe bombs when he was in elementary school. Several times.

5. Who says "you can't always get what you want?"

My mother called during the party to tell my sister that my niece had called my mother to ask my mother to call her mother for her. Apparently my niece wanted to buy some I-Tunes online and she needed a credit card number to do it. She called my mother because she knew that if she called my sister, my sister would not pick up the phone. When my sister called my niece back, my niece told my sister that she didn't want to listen to my sister's music anymore and wanted to order her own music. She just needed a credit card. "Your choices are MasterCard, Visa or American Express, Mom."

She is 7.

6. If you don't use a public restroom, you can avoid all sorts of problems.

For the first time in years, it was only AFTER I was done peeing that I realized there was no toilet paper. In a bar bathroom. Shocking.

7. See Number 4.

When we commenced introductions, Matt's friend Deb began saying, "Lenny, I know you, I know you." Rather excitally.

Apparently Deb is neighbors with Lenny's PIANO TEACHER. And apparently Lenny is a very good piano player. Lenny. Plays. Piano. Almost as good as Liberace.

8. It's the quiet ones that will hit you with the zingers.

Steph's contribution to the Lenny/piano story: "And Lenny calls her 'Grammy.'"

Could you ask for more material?

Sometimes it's nice to get mail

My blogger friend is very talented. And funny as hell. Check her out. If you click on her vlog, you can check out her legs too. She has her husband to thank for that one, I think.

Death and taxes

This is not a post about death. It is, however, about taxes.

I've been doing my taxes for years. Which is good because it's a felony NOT to do taxes. But this year is my first year of doing taxes with my new business. What business, you say? The one that isn't off the ground yet, but apparently is legal enough that I can write my laptop off to it. I think. If it's not, I swear I thought it was.

It also seems that I have gotten my father's genes when it comes to doing taxes. I remember one year after my father did taxes that we ended up with a negative income. I guess that would be a loss. The man knew how to write off everything. And his record-keeping left a lot to be desired. A shoe box full of receipts. I think his accountant would have jumped off a mountain he hadn't had to drive 7 hours to find a hill tall enough.

So this morning I am doing taxes and saying things to myself like, "I think it was $325 to list the condo that never sold, or was it $375?" It is too sad that I am too damn cheap to share my return with H&R Block, because they could probably save me dollars.

And the possibility of tax penalties. Ah, screw it.

Imagine a world without Direct TV and Tivo--it's called Hell

Yesterday the kid got a hold of the new remote control for the tv. He did something crazy and I thought I might get stuck watching Sesame Street on loop for 72 hours. It took me 20 minutes to figure out how to get the tv to speak English again. Not that I wasn't enjoying the German. It's just that I don't speak German. It was like the time I was in Munich and watched "The Hitcher" on German tv. The true meaning of lost in translation. It just isn't as scary.

We don't actually know how to use the new remote which is why the boy is allowed to wander aimlessly around the house with it. We gave up and are back to using the old one. Occasionally I'll hide the new remote behind a cushion in case I lose out in the remote-control-acquisition and I'm caught watching a really riveting Nova episode on the creation of evolution. Just hit "List--The Girls Next Door--enter." Pisses him off every time.

So tonight the kid starts pushing buttons and the screen goes blank. Blank, I say. But with the nasty static sound.

K: What did he do?
D: I don't know.
E: This.
K: Get it back. I want to watch Law and Order.
E: That.
D: I can't.
E: This.

20 minutes later and we have come to the conclusion that the gloriously loud lightning/thunder storm we had may have blown out our TiVo.

K: You gotta fix it.
D: I can't.
K: What do you mean, you can't?
E: THIS!
D: I think one of those strikes blew out the TiVo.
K: What are we going to do? What if we have to just talk to each other? OMG! We have to have TiVo. Is Costco still open?
E: THAT!
D: No.
K: What will we talk about? This is a crisis. I can't live without TiVo.
D: I'm going to give the boy his bath. I guess we'll just read in bed.
E: THIS!

I feel like I need one of those board games you play at mixer parties to get to know other people. You know the ones that have those cards to generate conversation. If I don't figure out something to talk about, my husband will think this is a perfect opportunity to talk about babies.

"So can you believe the crappy hiring practices at Homeland Security..."

It's good to be at the top

I'm talking to B today, whining about how I am going to have to get a job, and quick, and she offers me an opportunity to get in on the top of a pyramid scheme.

It seems that this girl she knows, who hates her, called her yesterday to tell her at she was looking for a strong member to be part of a strong team.

K: Amway?
B: No, some beauty products.
K: No kidding. Isn't she the adjective queen. She didn't actually say "strong member" of a "strong team" did she?
B: Yep.
K: So what do you sell?
B: Nothing.
K: What do you mean, you don't sell anything?
B: I just have to find more "strong members" for our "strong team."
K: She is not this stupid. And she hates you. Which may explain why she is offering you an opportunity to commit a FELONY. Does she know this is a pyramid scheme?
B: How can she not? She's not actually selling anything. At least I don't think so. I didn't read any of the stuff she gave me. So how am I supposed to tell her no?
K: How about "I hate the Bureau and being under investigation does not sound fun to me." Or "you know, Madonna, I have issues with embezzling and it would only be a matter of time before I was ripping you off and I wouldn't want to jeopardize our totally fake friendship." And if you like you could add "and I mean 'friendship' as it refers to someone who goes to someone's grandmother's wake and never actually acknowledges her presence and yes it is seven months later but I can hold a grudge and I never really liked you anyway, you self-centered money-grubbing conniving bitch."
B: You know, people in the Midwest are making a LOT of money in this pyramid scheme.
K: You didn't actually refer to it as a pyramid scheme when you were talking to her about it, but if you did, you are so cool.
B: There is even a weekly conference call to discuss it.
K: Wow. Now I know it's legit. I was wondering before, but if there is a conference call it must be for real. You should totally do it.
B: You know, she said that lots of lawyers are involved in this.
K: Yes, they are. I have no doubt that LOTS of lawyers are involved in this. On retainer, I'm sure. So how are the beauty products?
B: I haven't really noticed a difference.
K: I will so give you $10 I don't have if you call her up and tell her that you don't know what is in this lotion but you have had 3 guys propose marriage already today, and that one was at a red light.
B: You think?
K: Totally.

And to think that people are still falling for this. I love it.

Mute! There's a mute button, right?

My son has developed righteous indignation. Righteous indignation equal to that of a Southern Baptist minister who has just found out that instead of going to the mall, the youth group went to see Dirty Dancing, and now the youth minister's daughter is pregnant, and we told you that dancing would lead to this, and I don't care what you say, Marelle, that baby's sunken eyes, just because she had sunken eyes, didn't look anything like my boyfriend's sunken eyes.

The latest outlet for the boy's indignation? How his evil mother who has blatantly ignored him for twenty minutes as she attempted to make chocolate chip cookies would then DENY HIM the right to the 14 ounce package of chocolate-covered expresso beans that he so faithfully and laboreously freed from their captivity and was speedily piling on the floor between his legs while occasionally snacking on a couple. You would have thought I pulled all 10 of his teeth right out of his head with a pair of plyers. I couldn't even hear myself think.

E: WWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
K: (frantically scooping the beans off the floor with one hand and yanking the beans already in his mouth with the other hand) NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
E: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! (trying to hide the beans under his legs while frantically chew, chew, chewing when he actually stopped to breathe).
K: These are for MOM and they are only for emergency purposes. Do you know that one time Mom ate 4 of these and managed to stay up for 20 hours straight.
E: WWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
K: In baby world, 4 beans is like 40 and that would make it ........................ (realizing that math was never my forte) staying up a long time!
E: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Lord have mercy. I'm buying this kid a "Drama Queen" t-shirt.

I need some help here

Why is it that my child, when handed a cup, can miraculously grip it tightly (yet in a bizarre twist, almost gently) with both of his grimy little hands, slowly put it up to his mouth and drink without spilling even a drop sometimes, but when there is a full can of Dr. Pepper (minus one baby sip because God forbid anyone give me a chance to drink a drink or actually do anything in this house EVER) resting on the back of the couch against the wall, my son has to grip it with both hands at the very bottom of the can and up-end it so the entire thing pours all over the couch faster than shotgunning a beer like you did back in the old days before domesticity and parental obligations forced you to this life of involuntary servitude?

Why? On a stack of Bibles, the kid wouldn't do it if it was a bottle of water. Just remember, it's not a consipiracy theory if it is really happening. And perception is reality.

If you thought I was a hard ass before...

I think I have found the solution to getting this kid out of my bed.

Because he has to get out of my bed. If he doesn't get out of my bed, I can already see the argument when I catch him in bed with his girlfriend--the argument about whose bed it really is.

So last Friday I put him in his crib for his nap. You know, the torture chamber. He started to scream maniacally. I called D.

K: I put him in his crib.
D: I can hear him.
K: From work?

Crickets.

Of all the things I miss since I have gotten pregnant and had a child, I miss my brain the most.

K: He is not happy. (able to actually smell my husband disapproval at my actions)
D: (clearly trying to decide of catching a cab home to save his mirror image from the EVIL MOTHER would be faster than, say, calling Child Protective Services directly) I thought we were going to get him his own bed this weekend.
K: I won't let him cry long. He has only been crying for 5 minutes. That's about how long he has cried (cumulatively) since birth.
D: Well I guess crying for a little while won't hurt. Maybe 10 minutes.

This spoken like a man who has not had to give up ONE INCH of his side of the pillow top mattress to the child I am now affectionately referring to as T-bone, because that's how he likes to sleep these days.

I then went out to Costco and bought an Elmo blow-up toddler bed. Which looks frightfully like a dog bed. Which my husband HAD to bring to my attention.

However, I have not had to share my bed with anyone (excect the person who pays the mortgage) for three whole days. So the kid sleeps in an Elmo dog bed. At least he's sleeping and it isn't with me.

A day at the zoo feels like a day at the circus

Our zoo is notorious for having to put animals to sleep or just killing them by letting them eat rat poisoning that someone forgot to put away. Frankly, it's embarrassing. It is a zoo. It's not like it's a brand new idea. I mean, they aren't killing the animals in the San Diego Zoo. The animals actually seem happy there. No, I'm not kidding. I have a picture of a bear with a smile on his face. But maybe that's just all that good weather in So. Cal. I don't know.

So yesterday I took the boy to the zoo. His father thought that maybe all of his crying lately had to do with depression and lack of playdates. I swear on a Bible. Those very words came out of his mouth. Rather than put the kid on Zoloft, I decided to expose him to wild animals. Our very first exhibit was one that truly expresses the care and concern shown to animals at our zoo.

There was a kangaroo, lying on his side, rapidly breathing.

"What's wrong with that kangaroo, Mommy?"

Mommy was stunned. I guess she hadn't anticipated a conversation with her 5-year-old at the zoo about long-term care, assisted living, Alzheimer's and death. I decided to HASU--Hook A Sister Up.

"The kangaroo is taking a nap. It's his naptime. Isn't he a good napper?"

Mommy (and the other 7 parents) looked grateful. Apparently the Wisconsonites had not heard about our less-than-stellar zoo mortality rate. The zoo had a sign posted by the hyperventilating kangaroo stating that they were keeping Roo as comfortable as possible. I'm thinking it's time to up Roo's morphine. That wasn't looking too comfortable.s

All I'm saying is that if you can't do a job right, don't do it at all. The animals deserve far better.

If you can't play with the big dogs, stay on the porch

Which has nothing to do with this post.

Last night my husband came to bed with a look on his face. That look that said "you are in big trouble."

K: Hi.
D: Hi.

Crickets.

D: Do you want to tell me what was up with the shower this morning?
K: (thinking that playing dumb might be helpful at this point even though I know EXACTLY where this is going) Huh?

Crickets.

D: What the hell was up with hair in the shower this morning? There was hair EVERYWHERE. I actually got out of the shower this morning and came back to bed to see if you were bald and I just hadn't noticed it last night.
K: Well there was this poo incident and I had to dump the little tub out and I forgot to get my hair out of the drain when I was the shower earlier and then there was hair everywhere but then it had poo in it and he was screaming and did I mention that there was poo everywhere?
D: Do you know how long it took me to clean up the hair?
K: Uh, sorry. But haven't I've been better lately about the hair in the drain?

Crickets.

D: Not so much.
K: I'm trying, babe.
D: Do you have any idea how much hair was in the drain?
K: But there was poo! Can't you give a little for the Poo Factor?

Crickets.

The baby is in the 20th Percentile for weight, and his mother is in the 20th percentile for Mothering

I have issues. I’ll admit it. I’m lazy. I’m the mother that took her shoeless infant to an Italian wake. I’m lucky someone didn’t take me out in the parking lot due to my lack of respect. Ever since this child’s birth 13 months ago, I have neither the time nor energy to deal with the torture that accompanies shoes.

I finally resorted to just putting socks on him. In 45 degree weather. My mother would be mortified if she knew that I deemed this a solution. But even the socks create a situation involving maniacal screaming akin to torture. He has now figured out how to stand on one foot while leaning against something in order to take the socks off. And if, God forbid, you put shoes on him, he takes them off and throws them at you. His aim is not so good, so we are all still OK. But the kid cannot go out without something on his feet. I just can’t tolerate all the comments. I know you are the perfect mother and your child’s clothes never had stains, always matched, and your child wore activity-appropriate shoes. Your child will also probably grow up to be an uptight accountant who will secretly cross-dress on weekends. But leave me alone. I’m doing the best I can.

So I got clever. When I take him out now, I dress him in a onesie and put his snowsuit on that has feet in it. His feet stay warm, he doesn’t get too hot, he’s pissed but I still win. Yippee.

Until the bitch in BJ’s the other night. She said to Derek, “is that pajamas or a snowsuit?”

I missed all this and when he told me about it 5 minutes later, I asked what she was talking about.

D: I think she was being sarcastic. Like either answer would be unacceptable.
K: What does that mean?
D: Well, it’s not snowing.
K: I’m sorry. Will the outfit spontaneously combust if there is not precipitation in the air? It’s 45 effing degrees out. It’s not like it’s Miami in the summer time.

I then may have threatened to go kick her ass, but my husband was wise enough to wait until AFTER her soccer-mom-minivan-driving-fat-ass left the parking lot. She probably would have maced me anyway.

If my child had his way, he would be naked regardless of the weather. I come up with a solution and I still get opinions. So I didn’t want to spend the evening looking for socks down 37 aisles. Maybe I should just duct tape the bastards to his feet. Would that be an acceptable solution? Maybe he could throw a shoe at her instead of me, the woman who has suckled and nurtured him and still manages to get the ass-end of his moods. I hope she ran home to write a book that will help all of us 20th percentile mothers. Cause Lord knows we don’t have a clue.

"Oh, what a beautiful mornin', Oh, what a beautiful day."

No more stomach flu for the Boo.

Chocolate Mint Brownies.

I was told by a 15 year old girl that my jeans were "cool."

George Mason 86, U. Conn. 84.

Did you say Georgetown? Nope.
Did you say George Washington? Nope.

George Mason? Who/Where the hell is George Mason?

"I got a beautiful feelin'
Ev'rything's going my way."

OCD would really come in handy now

My latest bad choice of the day is offering to design and make my friend's wedding invitations. She would rather spend $3,000 on a videographer that will document the big day, all to cheesy music that will later on remind her of how bad music is these days, rather than spend $1,500 on invitations that will be promptly be thrown in the trash (damn, where the hell did we put the directions to that reception? Forget the reception, do you even remember what day, let alone what time the wedding is? If I have to call the bride's mother, I swear I am going to be pissed).

And I am not just saying this because my videographer/bestest-best-friend-and-undercover-lover-of-my-brother-in-law got hammered the night before our wedding and the video is nowhere to be found. I wouldn't be surprised if it showed up one day with clips of the Airport Bar included.

So what did I do about this invitation situation? I found lots of "pretty paper" (an odd size). I bought lots, but not enough. Just enough to have me committed to that GD "pretty paper," that, surprisingly, is not available on the internet, and apparently is no longer carried in stores. Unless you special order. Which requires talking to Jeff, the store manager, who is looking at you with an odd look. You can only imagine it is because it is 2:00 p.m. and you are standing in front of him wearing your pajamas. Which you wore, in your defense, because you thought you would just be able to run in and out of STORE NUMBER FOUR looking for the odd size "pretty paper" and only upon not finding any left did you realize that you were going to be required to seek professional attention regarding this matter.

There was then an incident with a rubber stamp company involving the purchase of the Chinese character (which must be referred to as a character rather than symbol, because if you refer to symbol, your friends will then ask if you refer to them as "Oriental" as well, which is apparently better than "yellow" but not by much) for "love" and so now there are "love" stamps coming from all over the world. Hopefully soon.

I then made the mistake of asking my husband what he thought of the changes I made to the reply cards.

D: Yeah, I think I would put "requested" on the next line.

If I had wanted his opinion, I probably should have asked for it BEFORE I printed up 250 reply cards with "requested" on the first line rather than the second. And I am not doing them over again.

My sister, the one with the OCD, she would do them over again if she thought they would look better. Me, I just think that 95% of the people won't even notice that "requested" would look better on line two, and of those 95%, 35% will not even return the reply cards and will be emailing the bride the Thursday before the wedding to tell her they are coming. So I guess it would be OCD wasted anyway, huh?

The anatomy of a "Bad Bet"

K: He is so going to throw up in my hair while I am asleep tonight.
D: No, he's not.
K: I'll bet he will.
D: Double or nothing (referencing an outstanding debt that continues to grow, because, I'm an idiot).
K: Double or nothing he vomits in my hair tonight.

(sideline: flash to Beautiful Girls)
Paul: I can't find Jan (his ex). I'll bet she's with that meatcutter Victor.
Birdie: She's not with Victor.
Paul: I'll bet you $20 she's with Victor.
Kev: Bad bet.
Paul: What do you mean, "bad bet?"
Kev: It's a bad bet. If you are right, she is with Victor. If you are wrong, you gotta pay $20. Either way you lose. Bad bet.

D: But I want to be clear about the vomit in the hair.
K: What are you talking about? you want to decide what actually constitutes vomit in my hair?
D: Yeah, what if he just vomits and some splashes up on one piece of your hair. I'm not paying $80 for vomit on one piece of hair.
K: I think any vomit, even if only on one strand of hair, is payable.
D: I don't think so.
K: So if I lie in bed beside you, with one strand of hair with vomit on it, and decide not to take a shower, you'll be OK. Just lying beside me, knowing that there is vomit in a strand of my hair, yet not knowing exactly WHICH piece of hair is foul?
D: OK, I'll pay up for one strand.

Of the 11 times he has vomited on me in two days, you think the kid could have been nice enough to do it so I could get $80. I am SO getting him back when he turns 15.

Living a charmed life

This morning I was having a lovely dream. We were on a boat with my in-laws in Hawaii. There was some discussion about my father-in-law's driving, and then my mother-in-law threw up.

K: Did you just throw up?
MIL: Yes, I hope it didn't get on you.
K: Just a little spray in the air.

Then she did it again. A WOOOSHHH of vomit.

Except we weren't in Hawaii, we weren't on a boat, and it wasn't my mother-in-law. I opened my eyes to find my child vomiting on me.

UGH! you say. Which time? The first time or the second time (Blue Raspberry Flavorice) or the successive 5 times. His father, showing his generosity by sharing his flu with his son, called at 10:30 to say that he was sick and was coming home from work. Not 30 minutes after he got home, I heard the boy working his magic in the kitchen.

E: This.
D: Do you want some bread, buddy?
E: This!


K: Why are you giving him bread?
D: He wants some.
E: This.
K: He is vomiting up bile.
D: Am I supposed to tell him no?

No? Tell the boy no? Is that an option?

Fastforward 2 hours later. The husband handed the boy over to me. And he vomited what looked disturbing like it had at some point, been bread. He had the kid for 2 hours and when did he throw up? Within 20 seconds of being handed to me.

There was a diarrhea incident, but I won't bore you. For the next 10 hours, every time the husband handed me the baby, the baby threw up on me. Not on his father, just me. I'm on my fifth outfit of the day. The boy is on his second. Because early on he figured out how to lean over to vomit, completely missing his own clothes.

If there is a God, this will be the 24, and not the 72 hour flu.

It's about time he contributed something other than lack of sleep or quiet

He has been sucking us dry. Some of us, literally, some figuratively. Let's be honest. That apple sauce, yoBaby yogurt and organic plums will hit you in the wallet. I mean, the kid must be costing us $ 10-12 dollars a week.

But it appears he has found a potential financial contribution to this family. You know when you go to IKEA and you get to the kitchen section and there, enclosed in the plexiglass is the machine opening and closing the cabinet door 37,234 times to show you how durable IKEA cabinets are? What do you think it is costing to run the electric to that thing day in and day out? I'm thinking renting the kid would be cheaper for them and would contribute to the family financial coffers.

His lastest thing is the endless pushing of the door open/close button on the X-Box. Open, close, open, cl, ope, close, open, clo. For hours. This does not bother me in the least because frankly, for years, I have been an XBox widow. All those nights I was cold in my bed, alone, listening to the sounds of Interactive Halo 2...

"I killed you!!"
"Hey, I gotta go. My mom said dinner is ready."

The loss of XBox for me would be like my loss of my birth control pills for, say, my husband. I can hear him now. "Too bad, so sad, come on over, come on over, Baaaaby!"

I wonder if IKEA would pay him by the push?

And they say law enforcement officers are stupid

On the news today, our local rug-wearing newscaster informed us of a most important cock fighting bust today (you could actually feel the intesity in the air). As he interviewed the animal control officer, the officer indicated that there had been no arrests. He indicated that in addition to the 30 to 40 roosters found on the property, there was additional evidence of cock fighting. They panned the camera to the owner of the property.

He was the one wearing the ball cap that said "Cock Fight" on the back of it. I wonder if the front of the cap said "Dumb Ass."