Prolly All the Time

"Dutch Oven"

** WARNING -- this post may contain references to off-color, bathroom humor.  If you do not find discussion of flatulence to be appropriate, better turn around and come back later. Thank you, management.**

Not sure how many of you are familiar with the term "dutch oven"... N. was actually the person that introduced me to both the term and the experience (one, in retrospect, that I gladly would have lived my entire life without).  Essentailly, in this case, a dutch oven involves farting under the covers and then trapping your bedmate so as to cause some level of asphyxiation.  I know, totally infantile, what can I say... he has a twisted sense of humor and I have been told on several occasions that this is how N. shows his undying love and devotion to me. 

Now, if you happen to have the fortune of living with someone whose gas does not smell like roadkill four days into a South Texas summer, you might be ok.  I, however, seemed to have knit myself for eternity to a one-man, industrial-strength stink bomb.  Seriously, there is something wrong with him.  I have been begging him to see a doctor about this issue.  It just isn't human, I don't even think it is natural.  When he farts, the fur babies even get up and leave the room and they lick their own (and each others) asses SEVERAL times a day. 

It is the worst at night, as if by lying on his side, he is able to conjure all the stink of hell and shoot it right up my nose.  He has the power to wake me from a dead sleep, gagging for air.  I think that he must fart several times over the course of an hour and it all builds up under the covers, marinating, little smell molecules bumping nasties and reproducing stink just like rabbits.  All this occurs so that when one of us moves, there is a rush of putrid air, stale fart stank that hangs above me, choking the life out of me like a Ring Wraith.  Silent, ephemeral, deadly.  Sometimes, it is so bad... we have been forced to evacuate the room.

And I always get caught in it, because the immediate survival instinct is to move away from the smell QUICKLY... flight is the only thing, my brain surmizes as it is wrestled from sweet slumber, that will save us from this horrible fate.  But, you see, flight is not right.  By flipping over or scooting back, I just release more of the fart in big wafts of air... the smell can then penetrate the pillows, the curtains, cinge my nosehairs, burn the paint off the wall, and force the fur babies into the farthest corners of the room. 

So last night, I fought my instinct.  I was roused by the stink of a thousand farts, just a trickle of it drifting out from under the covers, teasing me.  Panic began to take hold, I wanted to roll over, get away... instead I stayed put and endured the trickle of smell, turning slightly ever so often to get gups of fresher air.  It was horrible, but bolting would have released the beast. 

I stayed there for 20 minutes...  waiting, breathing slowly and deliberately.  I waited out the beast, I conquered the stank, I prevailed.

2 hours later, the beast caught me by surprise and punished me for my uprising... I shall not ever win.

golden slumbers...

OK, I know that this is v. cliche and that I need to come up with some interesting shit to write about lest I lose the 8 people who read this blog, but I have to confess that this mind numbing fatigue I am experiencing is really starting to mess up my days. I can't focus at work and I can't think of a damned thing to write about, except how freaking tired I am. So, this is an attempt to purge it, make an appeal and get back to something good. 

I admit that this is most likely my own fault.  I tempted fate by bragging (I am using this term loosely...  I would catagorize it more as "pointing out," but N. says that I must have been bragging to bring about such swift retribution) about what a FANTASTIC little sleeper butterbean was turning out to be.  As my friends both inside the computer and outside the computer lamented the lack of sleep associated with their off-spring, considered ways and means of giving their children back and told tales of going to work half dressed or trying to pay for groceries with a Petco card, I thanked my lucky stars that my son was sleeping like a champ at a mere 8 weeks of age.  And as these same friends began to babble incoherently, I chirped that bean was putting himself to sleep and staying down for 10 hours at a time (which was true, not like some lying liar-pants parents out there that will tell you their kid was potty-trained at 10 month).  It was nothing I had done, just luck of the draw.

I know, I am a total a*s-hole. I should have been thanking my freaking lucky stars.  Instead, God is now playing a little joke on me...  and you know what, I am not laughing. not even a little bit.

Like Tertia, my son has determined that night time is the right time for play time.  He still sleeps like it is his business for the first part of the evening. But right around 3:30 AM, he turns his room into a freaking one man gymboree class, complete with rolling, squealing and endless rounds kicking fun.  And when the shiny newness of that activity starts to fade, lo and behold the cries for a "fun buddy" begin. I realize that there are those of you out there with far worse sleeping issues, but once you are given back the coveted eight hours of consecutive sleep, you can't go back.

I had hoped that if I just ignored it, let him CIO (i know now, after several trips to check that he is fine... not hungry, not wallowing in his own special blend, not trapped underneath the mobile), he would wear himself out and fall back asleep.  Sometimes he does, but it is just a disco nap, because there is apparently more fun to be had from 4-5 AM.  I know that the crying is about getting me to come in because as soon as he sees my face, it stops and bean produces a smile designed to wipe my brain of any recognition that it is, in fact, the butt crack of night and I am expected to show up at work tomorrow to earn the bucks to pay the nanny. UGH!

So, what do I do?  Is it a phase or are the good times over for sure?

I am tempted to turn off the monitor and just let him do what makes him happy all night.  If I go up and give him his binky it buys me some extra time, but I don't want to be binky-dependent when I send him off for sleep-overs years from now. I have decided that it is time to atone for my mommy sin.

Jesus, I am sorry for being a smug bitch when others conferred tales of woe and weariness as a result of their new non-sleeping children for being so prideful.  I have learned my lesson and I would be most grateful if you could bring the golden slumbers back to casa t'pon. Amen.

dreaded return of P-M-S

Ok, I understand that during pregnancy most women are a bundle of nerves and hormones, so tenderly held together that the slightest tug on that errant thread can cause the whole delicate house of cards to fall apart.  But such was not really the case for me. 

I had my moments... a particular morning, the events of which culminated in me screaming at N. not to talk to me like I was one of the dogs, leaps to mind.  All in all, pregnancy had a mellowing effect on my personality, generally more pleasant and patient (except when forced to wait for the facilities) and certainly without the monthly BAM (bad-ass mood) that had plagued me and, by extension, my loved ones for many, many, many a year.

Slowly, things that left me during the pregnancy have been returning...  some good, like the aforementioned return of my cutie pie pants and the ability to wear 3 inch heels again without looking like a beach ball propped atop two toothpicks.  Some not so much good...  Oh, and some things that left haven't come back at all...  like my ass.  I used to have a little junk in the trunk, but I guess my junk packed up and left during those 40 weeks and got lost.  because now my ass is flat... ah well.

Anyway, my BAM is back in a big way.  Early last week, I was ready to be pissed off and cranky. Universally.  No reason required...  just pissed.  I went to bed that way and woke up that way.  I flipped off or cursed out no fewer than 17 people in 2 days (in my defense, not to their faces.  I was pissed, not rude).  Long about Thursday, I just got depressed and bean was on a cranky jag, what with the teething and still no baby denture options.  The combination was a completely self-defeating pity party as described in my last post. 

The good news is...  the BAM has passed.  I am back to my "happy go lucky, the world is my oyster" self.  I know that the check-out folks at the grocery store, gas station, and customer service reps on the phone are all singing like a pack of munchkins this morning.

The only problem is...  if I am going to have to stay pregnant in order to avoid PMS and the BAM...  we are definitely going to need a bigger house and more hired help.

12 letter word, universally worse than mad…

D-I-S-A-P-P-O-I-N-T-E-D.

I am thoroughly disappointed in myself.  I am pathetic.  This afternoon, I outsourced yet another one of my domestic duties, leaving me with very little full-time responsibilities around the house.  I am my mother-in-law’s worst nightmare…

I have someone who cleans my house, watches my kid, does our laundry (including bed linens), and now my grocery shopping.

That leaves me the following chores:

• Cleaning the shit-box (litter box), very infrequently
• Feeding the fur babies, if I remember and have not been able to whine loud enough to get N. to do it
• Cooking… sporadic at best.

I am maybe the laziest person I have ever had the distinct pleasure of knowing. 

Now, in defense of myself (read: justification, on deck) I do work full-time and by eliminating these errands and chores, I do get to spend more time with the precious bean.  So why do I feel so pathetic?

It is not as if I particularly enjoy these things, at all.  Is it because I feel like I should be able to manage these things and not being able to deal is some reflection on me, or my ability to be a grown-up? Prolly.

I am sure that I will get over it and will enjoy the extra time that bean, N. and I can spend together.  And, I am sure that I should be thankful that I can afford the luxury of turning my house into a veritable hotel… but I can’t help but feel a little guilty.

That said, I certainly don’t feel bad enough to cook and the dogs are starting to look a little piqued.  Hmmm.

of babes and dogs

It is a curious thing the connection between a kid and his/her dog, or dogs as the case may be.  If you need convincing that kids are sponges very early in life (I mean other than the fact that your toddler is prone to shouting endless repetitions of the latest epithet you threw at the driver of the white mini-van), just look at the things kids pick-up from the family pet.  I started to think about this in earnest as I noted this...

and then this...

I can only assume since neither N. nor I sit around with our tongues hanging lazily from our mouths, that he has picked this up from the pup.

[this may not seem to be the greatest cause for concern, but this picture of bean is not entirely representative of the extent to which his tongue just sort of hangs out...]

I also remember our niece, Miss K., picking up some interesting , shall we say, communication skills from their family dog, Gunther. She would pant expectantly while waiting to eat, and if you were to remove a toy or other shiny object from her grasp before she was “sufficiently done”, she would growl - a low, deep throaty growl.  Disconcerting? very, but also funny as hell, because, well... ain't my kid...

Now, I love my dogs, but we have not done the best job of training these animals… they are crazy spoiled and I am quite convinced that a good 75% of the neighborhood is afraid of them (they put on a serious show when people walk past the front of the house).  I am suddenly concerned about the “skills and habits” that butterbean may develop as a result of unlimited exposure to the fur babies, the cat included. I have drafted a list of potential habits, that we will need to nip in the bud:

• Throwing himself against the glass doors to indicate a desire to re-enter the house
• An obsessive need to follow me around the house if I have or might decide sometime in the future to pick up some kind of food item
• Blowing hot, nasty breath in my face beginning at 5:35 AM sharp until I decide to wake up and feed him
• The tongue thing… gotta get that fixed ASAP, perhaps having teeth will help
• Running around the house like a maniac anytime I mention to words “go” or “car” or “walk”
• Licking or sniffing of any kind as it relates to “special areas” -- his or others
• Jumping on furniture at 2 AM and knocking off all manner of chotchkes (vases, candles, glasses, picture frames) in order to wake up the house and scare the pups
• Spraying the walls and cabinets with all manners of spit and froth following any kind of cleaning (bath, ears, etc)
• Rubbing against walls and furniture obsessively, like some kind of perv in the dollar theater
• Crapping in the utility sink to indicate a displeasure with the current brand of food
  

And I thought that all i was going to have to keep an eye out for, in the way of bad influences, was smoking underneath the bleachers and "tramps-in-training" calling here in the middle of the night.

Man, parenthood is tough.

cornucopia of crap...

hmmmm, now doesn't that just sounds like a bounty of goodness.  actually, the title refers in large part to the random thoughts that have been filling my mind today.  I wish that it were possible on typepad to have a sidebar where I could dump thoughts... the ones not fully formed enough for a full entry, but that are taking up huge amounts of space in my brain that might otherwise be occupied by a never-ending loop of "crocodile rock..."

Does anyone know if this is possible?

In the meantime, I am putting them all here. Enjoy!

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Sometimes, I get started on a random chain of thinking that ultimately leads me to a memory that makes me laugh out loud.  Today, for example, I started thinking about how much I am irked by someone that I am forced to work with and I ended up with the memory of the best Halloween costume ever.

A friend of N., in a rush to come up with something to wear for the festivities, came out in a matter of minutes decked out in a brown garbage bag with yellow post-it notes attached. When asked what he was, he simply replied...

Shit with corn.

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Do y'all remember being 10 years old and how $5 used to burn a gawddam hole in your pocket.  I don't know about you, but I would have killed my dog if it meant that i could get to to the mall even 4 minutes faster to spend all of my money on the nastiest cheapest shit I could find... and this is what i finally remembered in fondness.  CHARMIES... [i am desperately hunting for a picture that I can post here, but they all belong to individuals.] I lurved my Charmies bracelets and necklaces...

Anyway, what the hell has my mom done with all that stuff?

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I suspect that my cat is planning my untimely demise... I can't give specifics.  He is watching me right now. v. closely.

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I keep a file of pictures here in the house.  The pictures are actually of self-inflicted wounds and bruises... I am a very clumsy person, for examples see here and here.

I have titled the file "in case I go missing."  Do you think that I have a sick sense of humor?

My battle with the porcelian god

They have recently installed automatic toilets in my office building. 

I have mixed feelings about automatic toilets... yes, there is something to be said for the hygienic milestone of not having to touch a public toilet, but I am always paranoid that the toilet will either not flush and my "business" will be on display for the next unfortunately soul to occupy that stall OR that the toilet will flush before I am finished paying my respects.

Today, a fear was realized.  I faced it, have overcome, and am stronger in the knowledge that I have outsmarted a piece of plumbing. [Queue the swell of victorious music circa Chariots of Fire or something equally as moving...]

As I sat upon the throne, scraps of TP strategically placed around the rim, I looked down to inspect my pathetic pedicure.  It is really bad, I should be ashamed to show my piggies in public.  But, I am not.  I have a 5 month old, gawddammit, I will get to it when I get to it.... anyway, I digress.

I leaned over to chip some pink polish from my pointer toe and the toilet flushed... violently. Material that I was actually trying to expel from my "special area"  was, well, I can only describe it as, re-applied...  GROOOOOSSSSS, and distinctly un-hygienic.

Toilet 1, t'pon 0

However, the facilities had underestimated my resolve.  I simply bent forward again, turning the demon toilet into an automatic bidet (a little chilly, but effective nonetheless).  I completed my task, during which the toilet flushed an additional two times as if trying to catch me off guard again. But to no avail, I will not be fooled into complacency.  EVER VIGILANT!

Now, the person who had the distinct privilege of occupying the stall next to mine thinks that I am some kind of wasteful, compulsive flusher. I guess there are worse things in this world.

Pork Chops vs. Enfamil...

Last night, N. (formally referred to as M., just so that y'all don't think that I am sleeping around), as we were lying in bed discussing butterbean, had an important question to ask me. 

"Why," he pondered, "is butterbean always so nasty when I go up to give him his 11 PM bottle? I mean, I go to get him, gently lift him from the crib, coo in his ear, the room is all quiet and dark... and then all of a sudden, he is all GAAAAAHHHHRRRRRWWWW!" * **

[NOTE:order to get the full effect of the sounds you have to screw up your face as if you have just chugged rotten milk...  that's right.  now, you have it.]

T'Pon - "Well, I mean N., when I wake you up at 10 AM after close to 11 hours of sleep on a Saturday morning, you have been known to be downright volatile.  As I recall, you have even tried to hit me."

[NOTE: in his defense, when he tried to knock me out... he was half asleep and very ashamed of himself once I recounted the series of events. Still no reason to stop bringing it up. frequently.]

N. - "Well, you aren't offering me food... you are usually flipping on lights, yelling at me to get out of bed already... On the other hand, if you came up, cooing in my ear with the room dark, offering me pork chops, and applesauce and au gratin potatoes.  I would be really nice to you.  I would be damn excited to see you in the morning."

T'Pon - "You aren't excited to see me in the morning?"

N. - "That is not the point."

But, I happen to think that it IS the point. This weekend.  I am going to make the pork chops and applesauce and au gratin potatoes, gently come up to him in the dark room, coo in his ear...

AT 3:30 IN THE FREAKIN' MORNING.

Let's just test this little theory.

* Yes, we dream feed butterbean to help him make it through the night.

** Yes, we bottle-feed our kid formula...  I know, we are horrible people who should be forced into sterilization programs to prevent us from damaging anymore precious children.  If you feel this way, do me a favor...keep it to yourself.  There is more to this story than I care to share.

London 2012

I am making a bold prediction here, and it is not based on a mother's love-blindness or overindulgence.  I have always been a shrewd evaluator of talent, and this case is no different.  I would level with y'all if I believed my child to be just a few cells shy of a garden slug...  but no, today I am proclaiming to the world that he is, in fact, a prodigy.

This boy is a bouncing fool!  And I expect that in 7 short years, he will be the YOUNGEST world champion bouncer, ever!

I have no fear of those Eastern European or Chinese competitors the result of government athletic training machines churning out chiseled, steely-eyed trampoline experts.  Their precise and mechanical presentations will be no match for the sheer TALENT and heart displayed by my butterbean. 

He will move people everywhere to tears with his springy grace. He will become the world's sweetheart and eventually end war and worldwide poverty with his bouncy mission (step aside Bono and Geldolf, a new day is dawning). 

Given that he is a mere 5 months old, I am, of course, basing this all on three days in the "jumparoo"...  but it is clear that the raw talent is there, just waiting for some gentle guidance and a full-length spandex suit (preferably with some arty rendition of the American flag).  And just to put to shame any naysayers...  I hope to share video evidence of this talent shortly.

Great things will come from this child's bouncing, mark my words. 

(Either that, or he is going to scramble his brains.)

industrial strength brain soap

Ok, I have resisted commenting on a topic covered far and wide in the blogosphere, but an AP article I just read makes my skin crawl and forces me to speak out...

I think that is is fair to say the "crazy-man" Tom Cruise has somehow brainwashed Katie Holmes.  It is either that or he has body snatched her and replaced her with some kind of automaton...

During the W interview, the actress wouldn't part from Jessica Rodriguez, who is described as her "Scientologist chaperone." Rodriguez's role in Holmes' life remains vague, though Rodriguez says they're "just best friends" since meeting around the time Holmes met Cruise.

"You adore him," Rodriguez told Holmes when the actress was at a loss for words to describe her love.

Not to forget their day jobs, Holmes says she wants to make a movie with Cruise.

"That would be such an honor," she says. "Such an honor."

Where I come from, that is called "fucked up" -- we also call that significant break with reality.  I am organizing a rescue effort.  Someone has to stop him.