argh apt name for yogurt

argh

apt name for yogurt
why did it have to be blue?
“splurt” is everywhere

any tried and true methods out there for removing bright blue yogurt from the wall, the miniblinds, khaki shorts, the carpet and a computer keyboard?

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new poll! new poll! There’s

new poll! new poll!

There’s a new poll to celebrate the moments of the Athens Olympics that you’ll miss the most. Please, vote your hearts out.

If you’re curious about the results of the last poll, here they are:

The winner of the thing more embarrassing than chubby midwesterners shaking their booties at the democratic national convention is…

The entire Bush/Cheney presidency! (with 50% of the vote)

Coming in a sort of close second is: The fact that you, too, are secretly shaking your rump to that “Ah, Ah, Ah am everyday peeee-pol” song they kept playing at the convention. (23 % of the vote)

Rounding out the rest of the votes were: the syntax of the question I posed for the poll (18%) and being from Florida (9%).

baseball four seven five for

baseball

four seven five for beer
at least five bucks for ice cream
first ball game? priceless

OK. Sorry to do the cheesy mastercard thing for a haiku, but it was all I could think of.

The wee one went to his first baseball game last night – it was a double A game between the Frisco Rough Riders and the Midland Rockhounds. Frisco got creamed 5 to 1. We didn’t care, though. In fact, I don’t think any of us actually watched the game at all. We were too busy chasing down the wee one and trying to keep him from 1)falling down the stairs 2) rolling down the berm 3) running onto the field or 4) attacking the mascot.

I was very proud of the wee man. After gobbling up some Ice Cream of the Future (dippin’ dots) that he disturbingly referred to as “rocks from payground” he went into full stalker mode and hunted down Deuce, the giant prairie dog that is the rough riders’ mascot.

Upon finding Deuce, the wee one chased after him yelling, “Deuce! Deuce! Deuce!” until the mascot was forced into an endless round of high fives. While other two-year-olds screamed and ran from the 6 foot plus prairie dog, my son tried to climb on him and beat him about the head. It was a proud moment.

When the mascot was thoroughly roughed up, we moved on to the berm area so that the wee one could run and scream with other kids without bothering people who actually came to watch the baseball game.

If you haven’t seen one of these berms, they’re, frankly, very frightening. Basically, it’s a grassy hill sloped at about 45 degrees where you sit with your family, trying to see who can get beaned in the head with a home run first. When you’re not getting knocked out by flying baseballs, your children are perilously rolling down the 45 degree hill and crashing their skulls into the thoughtfully placed concrete wall that anchors a small net fence into the ground.

The berm is harrowing.

While we were there, though, a Rockhound hit a pop fly. I, of course, dove straight for the wee one, body slamming him to the ground to try and protect him from the flying ball. The fact that the flying ball wasn’t going to land anywhere near us didn’t matter. One cannot be too careful.

The center fielder earned his $250 a week by catching the ball. Yay! Then he tossed it over his shoulder onto to the berm like chum to the sharks. There was a frenzy of action from all the 7-12 year old boys trying to retrieve the ball. At the bottom of the scrum, though, no one came up with it. It had rolled to the feet of my mom (aka Tutu the Grandma). Tutu picked it up, the family cheered, the scrum of 7-12 year old boys were very, extremely, possibly even dangerously angry, and the wee one got his first real baseball (which he promptly threw between the slats of the wrought iron fence surrounding the ballpark, and into the parking lot.)

We retrieved the ball, though, and all was well.

It was a great night, not soon to be forgotten. Especially since the wee one has a temporary tattoo on the side of his face that is proving to be difficult to get off.

memory lapse not even thirty

memory lapse

not even thirty
yet my memory is shot
I blame the wee one

Ever since I had a child I haven’t been able to remember anything. I walk into rooms, get in the car, peer into the fridge, take a weekend trip, and then moments later have no idea why I’m doing what I’m doing.

When I have to conduct adult conversations it’s even worse. After spending weeks upon weeks of watching Elmo and discussing the merits of NOT throwing macaroni on the wall, to find yourself thrust into a conversation with a former co-worker – or worse – thrust into an actual business meeting – is nothing short of terrifying.

Intelligent words and the ability to transistion thoughts must have seeped out with all of my breat milk. My conversations are as if Ah-nuld and a not very smart robot have taken over my brain.

“Uh,” I say. “Nice to, uh, [what’s the word? what’s the word? Not ‘greet’ not ‘seat’ not ‘pee’] MEET you.”

Really. It’s that bad.

Anyway, now that I’m here in Dallas, I can relax about intelligent conversations or anything of the like. I’m just gonna chill, watch some olympics, make sure the wee one doesn’t try riding any of the dogs like horses, and that’s that.

Of course, I’m going to be ugly, smelly and poor while I’m doing it. Why? Because I forgot just about eveything you need on a weekend trip.

Toothbrush? In Austin.
Wallet? In Austin.
Cell phone? In Austin.
Toiletries? In Austin.
Diapers? In Austin.
Brain? In Austin. At least whatever’s left of it.

crazy a heart stopping drive

crazy

a heart stopping drive
minivan flies like a bird
not in a good way

Just got to the big D after a spontaneous decision to bring the wee one up to visit the grandparents. What a harrowing drive. Normally, the drive up I-35 is scary but today’s drive wins the gold star.

We were outside of Waco, finishing up with our Wendy’s pit stop when we hopped back on the expressway. All of a sudden, the minivan in front of our car swerved for no reason. Maybe he was trying to avoid hitting a piece of trash I saw swirling around, or maybe he just drove into the emergency lane for a second… whatever the reason, the driver swerved and over corrected. I hit my brakes and just watched in slow motion as the minivan started to fishtail. I was thinking, “Please, god, have it crash away from us, have it crash away from us.” and sure enough, it did.

The fishtailing turned into full-on out of control circles, then the van spun out into the grass between the highway and the frontage road. When it did that it went absolutely airborne. It must have flipped three or four time, over three lanes until it ended upright on the grass on the other side of the frontage road (away from the highway).

Luckily, the other drivers on the road saw it happen and slowed way down. And luckily no one rear-ended us as we came to a nearly complete halt on the highway.

The van’s windshield was caved in and crushed, the front, top, sides – all crushed. I don’t know how many people were in it, but I hope they’re OK. As the van spun, I saw the people in the front being jerked around, and it looked to me like they had their seat belts on. Several cars stopped to render aid, and we tried to call 911, but the cell phone was “Searching for service”. Ultimately, we drove on, not wanting to stop our car on the highway and risk getting hit. If the wee one had not been in the car, I would have stopped, but I made the judgment that his safety was my biggest priority, and I wasn’t about to leave him in the car on the side of the highway while I got out to investigate the wreck.

I feel like I should have stopped. And I can’t believe the 911 call didn’t go through. But several other drivers stopped, so I know the minivan people got some immediate help.

Whew.

It was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen while driving.

Ho. lee. crap.

dang attractive, no stains serene

dang

attractive, no stains
serene smile gives the willies
hot story time mom

It’s cool. I’m content to be Young Story Time Mom, or on a good day Hip Story Time Mom. I’m even OK with being Story Time Mom With Abnormally Talkative Child. But I do admit it would be cool to be Hot Story Time Mom. And I’m not talking about the dyed platinum, long fingernail-wearing, alligator-skinned, thinks she’s the hot story time mom.

I mean the for real and true Hot Story Time Mom.

The one who’s clothes are never wrinkled, who’s hair is cute and does that spikey pony-tail thing that Phoebe’s used to do on Friends….

The one who has the movie star bronze luster to her skin, and even when she’s wrestling with her kid, never breaks out into that upper lip sweat the rest of us gets….

The one who, if she showed up to story time naked, would undoubtedly have no stretch marks or weird back flab….

The one who’s clothing always matches, who’s smile is always bright, who’s friendly enough to make you hang your anti-social head in shame….

THAT’S the one it’d be cool to be. At least for a day or so. I mean, I’m no slouch when it comes to sporadically cute hair and a somewhat skinny butt, but it would still be interesting to see what it’s like to be the one mom that all the other mom’s can’t help but envy just a little.

Of course, we don’t envy her for her child – that is one mad screaming monster – but her totally superficial appearance is something that makes even straight women take a double take.

I guess if the price to being Hot Story Time Mom is to have a writhing mass of angry child to tote around, I don’t even want to be her for a day. But I would at least like my hair to do that spikey pony-tail thing.

It makes me swoon just to think about it.