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Little Man typed my title. He was sitting on my lap and started pounding keys.

He's eating apple saucenow,which he doesn't like nearly as well as bananas...

He's actually sleeping four and five hours at a stretch, sometimes.

I'mslowlylosingmyminddealingwithseveralvery highstresssituations. Thefact that the space bar onmy keyboard only works abouttwentyfive percentof the time does nothingto improve matters...

Gas Mask, Please

Remind me to wear a freakin' gas mask when changing banana poop diapers. Oh.My.God.What.A.Smell.

The fabric cover of The Boy's swing is currently making its way through the spin cycle for the second time. The safety harness is, unfortunately, not removable for cleaning. Whatever genius decided to use white strapping should be dipped in banana poop and sprinkles... I will never get the yellow ochre stains out.

Of course, the only place I can safely deposit him (without screaming) while attempting to clean up his lovely mess is the Exersaucer Poop Machine, so the fun continues...

Update-- he has once again produced prodigous amounts of yellow ochre mush... This was not what I had in mind for a birthday present...

MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA!!!

As of Monday night, my little guy is saying Mama. The Dada-ing started over the weekend. Anytime I leave his immediate vicintiy, he yells "Mamamamamama!", so he actually connects it with me.

He also seems to say "nay nay" when he wants to nurse, which is cool, because I never taught it to him. My ever so subtle inquiry is: "Hey, Mikro, want some boobie?"

He's sitting up without support. He can't quite get into a sit himself, but if you plunk him down, he stays plunked. Except when he's really tired, because falling on his face takes less effort...

He's constantly babbling and trying new sounds now. I am pretty sure he said "baby" today. He's been doing bababa for a while now. He also loves to scream at the top of his lungs and vary the pitch.

Did I mention he's just barely five months old?

The Boy scares me. Shades of Doogie Howser...

In other news, he ate some Gerber First Foods mushed banana last night. I poured half a jar on a paper plate to feed him. The little monster grabbed the plate out of my hand, and went for the spoon too. I don't think he has a prayer in the world of feeding himself yet, because I doubt his aim is that good. He can get his hands or thumb to his mouth, no problem, but he flails wildly with utensils and drum sticks and such. After he ate every bit of the bananas, he yelled for more. He ate most of the remainder in the jar, then nursed awhile. He definitely likes to eat. He is constantly snarky when we eat anything, and attempts to grab from our plates. He was more than ready to start solids. I wasn't. Sigh. He is growing up way too fast!

My Husband is NOT a Domestic Goddess

I have not been down in my basement since shortly after becoming pregnant, because the combined odor of the mildew and the catbox caused me to projectile vomit as soon as I opened the basement door.

The laundry is down there.

My dear spouse has been "doing the laundry" since September 2002.

What that translates to is dumping buckets of clothes on the wet basement floor, walking on them, and grinding the dirt in, while actually washing only those articles which in his estimation were essential to our continued survival.

He keeps telling me he is not yet ready to turn the job back over to me, despite the fact that our son is now five months old.

That has caused me no end of dread wondering what the hell my basement looks like.

I just took a freakin' safari down there. It is another world. It should be the site for the next version of Survivor! It is utterly disgusting. I didn't have to puke, but I wanted to...

We won't even mention the cat barf and scattered litterbox contents. Oh, guess I just did...

There are clothes I have not seen in a year down there.

There are also piles of very good clothes that are now nothing more than stained rags. And, oh, yeah, coincidentally, the vast majority thereof are mine. Stuff I cannot afford to replace.

OK, so he's passive aggressive, and definitely NOT Martha...

But what currently has me pissed purple is he is now throwing the baby's clothes on the moldy yucky floor.
That is just plain gross.

I am now on load number three, and the pile is literally taller than I am and about twelve feet square.

What the hell was he thinking?

Uncertainty Sucks

It seems like many major major things are up in the air right now, and it is driving me crazy. I hate uncertainty. Tragedy I can deal with, joy too. But that knife edge you ride before you know which of the two it is going to be is enough to have me pulling out what little hair the post-partum hormonal stew hasn't already taken care of...

Least critical but still annoyingly uncertain thing on the long list-- whether my brother is going to show up here today, and whether he is bringing La Viper with him.

It turns out his sicko gorlfriend just told him she was pregnant with someone else's child as a test. I think that's not only cruel but stupid and I have a hard time deciding when to believe an admitted liar. Was it just a ploy, or did she get rid of an inconvenience? I feel like shreiking "Have you ever heard of birth control or AIDS?!?" I'm not sure I believe this latest retraction, because why wouldn't the test involve it being HIS kid? Why go as far as she did with the lie? Who knows. I used to stick up for her and give her the benefit of the doubt. Now I have major misgivings. And my brother appears willing to blithely accept the "explanation" and take her back. Which may well be a case of seeing what you want to see... It is his life, his relationship, his risk to take. I can only wish him well.

But I would rather not have La Viper sitting on my couch cooing at my baby.

Anyway.

It would be really nice if I knew who was coming, and when, if at all.

Sigh.

TFMB-The Total Fucking Moron Brigade (TM)

What a long, strange trip its been...

I am surrounded by stupidity, flanked by fools, drowning in dumbshit.

I can continue the alliteration, or describe the idiocy...

Tuesday Sept. 9th:

Having asked our mortgage broker not less than five times whether I needed to be at the closing, or provide dear spouse with a power of attorney (to which the answer was very definitively "No!" each time), dear spouse arrives at the closing, only to be greeted by a halfwit chorus of: "Where's your wife? We can't do this without her!"

(Picture me doing a primal scream that can be heard three states away...)

So, for what must be the first time in the history of real estate closings, they allow Kev to sign and then bring the papers home to me for signature, after I telephonically tear them a new one...

Wednesday September 10th:

Kevin sits home from work, awaiting a fed ex of a final few closing documents. He is planning on sticking around to receive them, accompanying me to the bank to get my signature notarized, and then heading into NYC to work, and to drop the docs at a FedEx outpost somewhere.

Tra-la-fucking-lovely, except the assorted real estate mavens, whose collective brain activity would measure lower than that of most coma patients, never sent the documents out!

It was a good thing he called, or he'd have sat here all day waiting, we'd have missed the notary, and he'd have to miss another day's work tomorrow.

So, off we head to the bank, and we think, notarization nirvana.

Oh, no. This is when we discover that we truly live in a one horse town.

The bank does not have a notary.

Neither does the other bank, three pharmacies, a CPA's office, an insurance agent, or the post office. We finally do locate one, at the one remaining pharmacy. But, we are informed, prescriptions come first, so you may have to wait.

We wait and wait and wait some more, but then it is done. Four hours later.

Thursday, Sept. 11th:

I am triggered beyond bearing, as well as desolately sad. I went to work one day and nearly got killed. So I tend to feel connected to the poor unsuspecting people at their desks in the Towers two years ago...

I post a memorial tribute off my family's main website, which I will not link here due to the lawsuit crap, because there are actually people with nothing better to do than track my steps around the internet in an effort to further harass me and abuse me because I dared to sue their asses for trying to kill me. And people who are pissed at me for speaking the truth, who think I should muzzle myself out of fear of reprisals. My compromise to them is the relative anonymity of this blog...

Nevertheless, I agree to meet with my lawyer that evening to discuss my accident-at-work case. Large mistake.

More than the date conspires to make it a harrowing day. My lawyer proceeds to heap unbelievable abuse on me, which continues for days, and still isn't resolved. The worst part about that is that he is someone I called my friend.

I spend the night dreaming plane crashes.

Friday September 13th:

My lawyer threatens to fuck up my case if I don't increase his fee. He also suggests that, if I refuse to agree to his demands, he will deem me incompetent/insane, and usurp control over the case, because I "can't act in my own best interests."

Them's fightin' words!

Saturday and Sunday:

Fighting.

In other news, my son ate his first solid food and is beginning to sit up unsupported. He also sucked on his toes for the first time ever. I discovered that, despite being old, broken down and fat, I can still stick my foot in my mouth. Aren't you thrilled for me?


Monday: That would be today. My lawyer is a jerk. I am surrounded by jerks. The closing is STILL not finalized, because the idiot bank forgot one more form they need signed.

I hereby form the TOTAL FUCKING MORON BRIGADE (TM), a society in which membership is conferred by nomination by yours truly. I think I will have Tshirts made, and give them out to deserving inductees. Whether I shall be subtle and design a logo using only the acronym, or use the full organizational title, remains to be seen...

Fairy Tales and Freakouts

I am having a bad bad bad set of days. On the edge of a breakdown bad. Of course, I am looking for ways to avoid dealing with reality...

Hence:

FAIRY TALE

nce upon a time there has a young WOODCARVER named HORATIO. He was BRAVELY TRAVELING in the FURRY forest when he met WISE MICHAEL, a run-away JESTER from the SMELLY Queen MIRANDA.

HORATIO could see that WISE MICHAEL was hungry so he reached into his TREASURE CHEST and give him his UGLY PORRIDGE. WISE MICHAEL was thankful for HORATIO's PORRIDGE, so he told HORATIO a very GOOFY story about Queen MIRANDA's daughter CHELE. How her mother, the SMELLY Queen MIRANDA, kept her locked away in a TOWER protected by a gigantic WOLF, because CHELE was so SWEET.

HORATIO SEARCHED. He vowed to WISE MICHAEL the JESTER that he would save the SWEET CHELE. He would JUMP the WOLF, and take CHELE far away from her evil mother, the SMELLY Queen MIRANDA, and SERANADE her.

Then, all of the sudden, there was a STRANGE POOPING and WISE MICHAEL the JESTER began to laugh. With a puff of smoke he turned into the gigantic WOLF from his story. SMELLY Queen MIRANDA JUMPED out from behind a HARP and struck HORATIO dead. In the far off TOWER you could hear a SONG.

THE END.

Make your own Fairy Tale at fuali.com

and from the same site:

I am 74% Tortured Artist

Art is significant in my life, people are scum but I have the capicity to deal with it. Give it a few more years and I will either forget about art or hate the world.

Take the Tortured Artist Test at fuali.com

How silly is that?

My Life Is a Sit-Com and It Belongs on Fox!

I am supposed to be getting together with my girlfriend Cathy tonight. At around 6 pm, two hours after he is supposed to have left his office, my dear spouse calls to inform me he is still there and my plans are screwed. OK. We'll just go out later, I think. I hang up the phone, and the kid starts screaming upstairs, having awakened from a far too short a nap.

So the phone rings again, and it is Cath, and as I am explaining that I need to call her back because kidlet is having a meltdown, it occurs to me that my feet are wet. Huh?

My dear blind, geriatric diabetic dog has just pissed Lakes Erie, Michigan and Superior, not on the floor, but ON my feet. Joy. So Cath is gabbing in my ear, and I am attempting to stretch the phone cord to reach the very few sheets of newspaper left in the house, because stupid me put it all out with the recycling this morning, and trying to sop up piss, and placate kiddo long distance. Cath says she'll call back. She is not staying over at her parents' tonite, so if we are going to get together, it has to be soon.

I run around, leaving pissy footprints across the living room, kitchen and dining room as I hunt newspapaer. I fling it on the deluge, then run up the stairs, wash hands and stick a boob in the kid, while trying to remember to hang my still pissy feet off the bottom of the bed and not foul the sheets. As soon as he drops my boob, I grab him, run downstairs, stuff him in the exersaucer and attempt to deal with the mess, which is right in front of my front door, so I can open it to let Cath in for coffee.

At this point, my big dog decides she needs to get involved and attempts to lay in the piss puddle. So now I am yelling, "What, is there a mop handle up your ass? If not, get outta there!". She rolls in it some more. I drag her out to the dog run. I realize I can't leave a muzzle on her, because we are down to one, and I need it not to smell of mud and dog piss, so I put her in without one.

Then the neighbors' kids decide to play basketball. So the dog starts barking louder than I have ever heard her bark before, on continuous loop. Lovely. No muzzle to muffle her.

I dash back in, turning my kitchen upside down for a trash bag, but my helpful spouse has concocted a treasure hunt for cleaning supplies for me. I can't find bags, mop, bucket or pinesol. I finally trip over the mop and bucket. So I am dashing in and out of the house, with handfuls of dripping pissy paper, when the parade of Friday night home-from-work neighbors begins, all of whom want to socialize, which I can't do well with piss dripping off the paper down my leg. They now must all think I am a rude antisocail jerk, or hate them, because it goes like this:

Them: "Hi, how are you?"
Me: Growl. Hi. Bye.

I grab the lysol with bleach kitchen spray and use it to mop up my floors (knowing spouse will bitch about fading, but then I will bitch about treasure hunts).

Now the kid is screaming, and the doggie perpetrator of piss puddles is under my feet, so I am screaming at the dog. Cath calls. I peer into kidlets diaper, and once again the exersaucer or gravity have had their effect and he is fully smeared with ooey gooey mustardy shit goodness.

Cath is coming over in 5 minutes.

So I scoop him up, run up the stairs, wash hands with alcohol wipes, clean up humongous shitty mess, stuff him into diaper and shorts, alcohol wipe piss off my feet, change into clean clothes, grab kid, run downstairs, look at watch, realize diabetic dog needs food and shooting and a walk. Stick kid in car seat. Throw diabetic dog out of house on leash, yelling "go piss you fucker" (with full complement of friendly neighbors for audience). Run back in, fill dog dish. Run back out, almost throw it at dog, yelling "eat you sonuvabitch." Run back in, fight with stupid fucking over priced over packaged syringes, until finally I can get the fifth one out of the stupid plastic tube packaging, grab insulin, run out door, pull insulin, shoot dog after verifying some food ingested, again, with entire neighborhood watching. Hear big dog barking like machine gun fire. Run in. throw insulin in fridge and syringe in bucket. Run out and around back of house to kennel, yelling "shut up you fucker" and threatening to make dog go live with my mother. Also with audience. Muzzle dog, leash dog, drag dog in. Drag little pissy dog in. Kid is screaming yet again. No poop this time. Start singing to kid (who was laughing at idiot mother thru most of the above).

Phone rings. Cath is not coming.

AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

No Pottery For Me

Sigh. My adult ed pottery class isn't being given this semester, not that I thought it was going to be easy to do with a new baby... But Kev did encourage me to sign up for it... What will I do for stress relief if I can't beat up clay?


Kiss:: Kiss
Nothing:: Ventured, nothing gained
Reach:: for the stars
Late:: night
Stump:: remover
Dreams:: schemes
LOL:: PIMP
Ornament:: hook
Neck:: pain
Guitar:: player
Unconscious Mutterings

I Flashed the Restaurant

On August 24, 2003, I took a big step. I breastfed an inconsolable baby at the table in our favorite restaurant. Normally, I would slink into the bathroom and hide behind the privacy of a stall door. But Mikro was insistant, and my Tshirt was long. So I stuck him up under the shirt and he ate. (Now that I think about it, it actually isn't the very first time I breastfed him in public, if you call a deserted beach public... but there were lots of people around this time.)

Then, a week later, same bat-time, same bat-channel, same bat-restaurant, he wanted to do it again. My Tshirt wasn't as long, but I had this long pareo thingie that I bought at a pier in Key West, so I tied it over my shoulder and across my chest, and we did our thing.

I figured that must have been scads more discreet than the prior occassion. Well, last night my helpful spouse informed me that, much to my dismay, I managed to flash the entire restaurant in the process...

Oh well. It isn't going to stop me, but it does make my face burn red.

Gravity works...

At least it seems to for my little boy. If you pop him in the Exersaucer, within half an hour an unbelievable amount of material works its way down through his digestive tract. We have begun calling this toy by a new name...

The Poop Machine.

Kev had to work today. Sigh. Its just me & the Boy, and he's snarky...

Just ordered a Maya Wrap to carry the Boy around in. We have heard good things about their baby slings and pouches...