Silent Treatment, Shmilent Treatment

July 31, 2008

Every morning, when James wakes up, he likes to stand at the top of the stairs and scream some sort of news in my general direction.

Usually it's something like, "MOM! I EM AWAKE! ARE YOU SO HAPPY?!" or "I EM DONE SWEEPING FOR DA NIGHT. ARE YOU SO HAPPY?"

And I think to myself, "Am I happy? Well that goes without saying--because I've been sitting here, just hoping that someone would come into my kitchen and stick their entire fist into my bowl of Special K...and now my wish comes true!"

But really I say, "Of course I'm happy! Come on downstairs, buddy!"

This morning, however, our conversation was completely new and different. James stood at the top of the stairs and yelled, "MOM! MY ROOM ES NASTY!"

Let me stop and point out that when a person who regularly licks the soles of his shoes, takes one bath a week, and earns time-outs for touching the dog's rectum describes something as "nasty," you can very safely assume that you have a major issue on your hands.

"Why is your room nasty," I asked?

"PACUASE I POOPED AW ON DA BED, MOM! DER ES A WOT OF POOP ON DA BED!"

"That's okay, buddy," I calmly replied. "We'll wash it."

"BUT MOM! WE CANNOT FIT DA BED INTO DA WASHEN MACHINE!"

You know what? My three-year-old son was absolutely right--his twin size bed is far too large for the barrel of my Kenmore. Since I was no longer sure how to handle the problem, I tiptoed back into my own bedroom, shook my husband awake and said, "Hey babe...James is asking for you. He only wants you."

Summer Fun

July 30, 2008

I'm so unmotivated to blog these days--and I'm not totally sure on this, but I think it has a lot to do with the fact that it's the summertime. The birds are chirping, the flowers are blooming, and I spend several hours a day chasing a half-naked James up and down our street. The neighbors must love it. I'm like, "Hi Betty! Beautiful day today!........JAMES DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH BETTY'S HYDRANGEA WITH YOUR PENIS!.....Really Betty, your flowers are breathtaking."

See? I'm having too much fun to blog.

Speaking of fun, I've developed a new summertime hobby that is also absorbing a great deal of my time--fattoo watching. Unless you're a close family friend, you probably don't know what a fattoo is--after all, I made it up myself.

A quick Google search will tell you that a fattoo is a face tattoo, but let me tell you, Google is completely packed with shiz. When you're in a state like Maine, where there are precautionary signs at the State Fair urging you to "Eat Responsibly," then fattoo = fat + tattoo (but only if the owner is wearing a teeny-tiny string bikini)

Let's review the math:

FAT + TATTOO = FATTOO

Got it? Genius, I know.

We are lucky enough to live one tenth of a mile from the public beach, and we are doubly lucky because that place is a hotbed for teeny-bikinis and out-of-this-world fattoo artwork. As far as flamboyant body exposure goes, our little beach is really quite similar to muscle beach in California--but also very different. I would have to venture a guess that my beach has a few more cans of Pringles floating around.

So that's my new hobby, and that's where I've been spending the bulk of my time. And now it's official--I'm a horrible, horrible person.

The Glue Factory

July 26, 2008

We've always enjoyed family walks, and as such, we try to take one every night after dinner. We usually do the same route--down the hill, past the lake, turn right at the ice cream shop, turn right at Ted's Restaurant, and then head home.

Half way between the lake and the ice cream joint sits a tidy, little funeral home that gets a whole lot of play. That's just the name of the game in a town where fifty percent of the population drives an Oldsmobile, forty-nine percent of the population drives an automated wheelchair, and the other one percent of the population is named Amy, Jared, or James.

Last night as we approached the funeral home, I noticed a congregation of our neighbors wearing golf shirts and standing around in the front parking lot. Some were laughing, a few were crying, and there was quite a bit of hand-shaking and shoulder-patting going on. Obviously one of my neighbors had "relocated"...if you know what I mean.

As we approached the crowd, I bent down to James and said, "James. You need to get off of your tricycle so Daddy can hold it. Fold your arms, use your quiet voice, and be very, very reverent as we walk past these people." You would have thought my kid was in a shock collar, because he followed those directions like an arse-kissing employee with a raging case of OCD.

As we worked our way past the crowd, Jared carried the trike and I walked the dog. We offered up a few smiles and waves to our neighbors, as well as a couple of sympathetic head nods. As we gracefully passed our neighbors, serving as a reminder of life's true joy, I felt a sharp tug on Gracie's leash--like it was attached to a brick wall instead of a sixty pound greyhound.

When I turned around to investigate the cause of the leash tug, I was absolutely mortified. My dog--you know, the one with chronic canine IBS?--decided to take a big, fat, watery dump right there on the front lawn of the funeral home. In front of fifty-or-so grieving souls.

By the time she was finished, the poo had the approximate circumference of a regulation frisbee--or in other words, a little too much for my Target bag to handle. But rest assured, I did every possible thing I could with that Target bag since fifty grieving souls were watching to see just how well I handled the situation.

James earned a popsicle for his flawless demonstration of reverence last night--but Gracie? Let's just say that the old "glue factory" threat is becoming more heartfelt with every passing day.

Not Very Exciting

July 26, 2008

There's really nothing new to report from my neck of the woods this morning.

The lawn needs to be mowed, our vacuum exploded, and I wish we could take a family vacation to Disney World. What can I say? I have a major soft spot for huggable, lovable, life-sized cartoon characters.

See? Not very exciting.

As of a few nights ago, James decided that he'd rather sleep in a tent in our basement than in his newly decorated bedroom. And seriously, why would I say no to that?

Before you start freaking out, please understand that we have a finished (albeit tacky) basement, and there's a potty down there too. I check on James throughout the night to be sure that he's not curled up next to the hot-water-heater, and he really doesn't seem to mind the colony of beetles that are large enough to wear backpacks.

James has been sleeping like a baby on Benadryl, I'm raising a future Bear Grylls, and Jared couldn't care less about any of it--that's what I like to call a win-win-win situation.

See? Not very exciting.

Other than that...James loves to eat pickles (who knew?), and I've taken up napping during my 4-hour shift at work. After a many year hiatus from soda, I've rediscovered the lusciousness that is Coca Cola Classic, and James now insists on eating four different kinds of cereal every single morning. And Jared's still kicking around here somewhere, too.

See? Not very exciting.

Monster Truck Dreams

July 23, 208

I've recently developed a new and overwhelming interest--driving over things.

I should actually say that I've recently rediscovered an old interest--because in the days before motherhood I drove over every damn thing in my mother-lovin' site. If you haven't already, you really should totally try it--gives you a whole new perspective on the world. And you don't need a 4x4 Blazer to do it, my Toyota station wagon works perfectly well.

I'm not totally sure, but I think this new hobby developed as a result of living in a house with a driveway. James loves to play in our driveway, and consequently it's littered with cups, bowls, plastic animals, bikes, Legos...everything.

I've been telling James for weeks that "if toys stay in the driveway, Mommy will run them over with her tires," and hot-damn, I wasn't lying. It started with a sippy cup. I wanted to see if I could aim the car well enough to squash it--I could. Then I moved onto a ball. I wanted to see if it would pop when I ran it over--it didn't. And then, it evolved into a large, rubber dinosaur. I wanted to trap him under my wheel so it looked like he was having an emergency--mission accomplished.

Rather than feeling sadness at the destruction of his toys, James found it to be completely awesome--and now we work as a team. James takes the time to set up obstacles for me to hit, and jumps up and down when I do it. I've come home to find strategically placed rolls of toilet paper, leftovers from the fridge, and my favorite sweater--which is precisely where I had to draw the line.

We've also moved on to bigger and better "drive-overs." We specialize in lawns, embankments, and when the winter rolls around I'm sure we'll do loads and loads of snowbanks. At work I've stopped pulling out of the paved entrance/exit, and upgraded to a lovely little strip of grass.

Last week, when I cautiously pulled out in front of a little convertible, the driver actually had the nerve to put down her cell phone and give me the finger. While I'm sure she wasn't expecting a car to pull out from between two pine trees, there was absolutely no need to flip me off--I totally used my blinker! Ho.

I guess I should mention that there really is no moral to this story, I'm simply suggesting a new activity to brighten up your day. Go ahead and jump a curb at lunchtime or something. You'll feel very, very powerful.