eat your heart out Lou F.

tricking and treating
what being four is about
every single day

The wee one has decided to be the Hulk for Halloween. I’m not sure how he’s even heard of the Hulk, but we’ve bought the costume so there’s no going back now. I tried to talk him into finding some too small purple pants at Goodwill and then ripping them up ourselves. Then we could paint him green, outline his muscles, dye his hair black… it would have been awesome. But he wants the Hulk suit with the built-in muscles. Sigh. What four-year-old boy wouldn’t? So mama doesn’t get to go crazy with the costume. Oh well.

I think the wee-er one is going to wear the Star Trek uniform my parents got in Vegas for the wee one when he was tiny. I can fashion up a bun for her head and she can be Captain Janeway. Either that, or she can wear this one-piece suit thing with a fake vest that the wee one never wore. A hat and some pearls and voila – Annie Hall in miniature.

I’m going to be Cylon. But not the hot one in heels and a red slip dress. I’m going to be one with frizzy curly hair and nipples that refuse to point in the same direction. Sexy.

it’s a new week!

rocking chair trouble
activated by full moon?
werewolf furniture

So on Friday, just to get back at me for canceling the week, the wee one’s small glider (not the one he got his leg stuck in, a different one) FELL ON THE WEE-ER ONE’S FACE. Just tipped right over and accosted her while she was happily playing on her butterfly blanket.

After that?


Oh she screamed. And when she screams her whole body turns red, so I couldn’t tell what part of her had been hurt. Finally she calmed down just a tad, and there it was… the beginning of a black eye. Inspidly growing, a purple lump appeared under her eye. And what was I going to do? Put ice on it? On a screaming three-month-old? When we all know ice actually makes it hurt worse before it makes it hurt less?

Well, I called a friend of mine (no, not the fire department). She recently graduated from AOMA and is my number one go to person for interesting herbal-y, organic-y, not-available-at-the-regular-grocery-store, bet you didn’t know THAT, kind of stuff.

She brought over a bunch of arnica montana stuff. We settled on Hyland’s Bump and Bruises ointment, which looked like a glue stick to me), and which seemed our best bet with the wee-er one being so young, and me still not fully embracing homeopathy because I am a western medicine, give me a shot in ass and make it all better kind of a gal.

Y’all… that arnica stuff is like a miracle in a tiny glue stick. We used the Hyland’s arnica glue stick right on the growing purple lump, and by the time my husband was home from work a few hours later, he didn’t even notice what was left of the bruise until I pointed it out.

So, yeah, it might not be a shot in the ass, but I’m all about homeopathy right now. At least the arnica part. I only wish we’d had some around when the wee one was little and ran a hundred miles an hour into the corner of the doorway.

Anyway, the week from hell is over. It ended with a bang, too. Shit.

Saying I’m happy it’s over is a bit of an understatement. Yet, I’m still suspicious of all furniture, especially anything that glides or rocks. I guess it’s time to buy my kids some motocross armour they can just wear around like everyday clothing. That and some helmets. Helmets that automatically squirt out little globs of arnica gel at fifteen minute intervals.

a little retail therapy

way too much money
and yet spending it feels good
when it’s spent on me

In celebration of the rest of the week being canceled, I went out with a friend last night and spent a kajillion dollars on books.

A quick rundown:

Spook, by Mary Roach
The Sea of Monsters, by Rick Riordan
Peter and the Starcatchers, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
The 9/11 Report, A Graphic Adaptation, by Sid Jacobson and Ernie Colon
Here Be Monsters, by Alan Snow
Pride of Baghdad, by Brian K. Vaughn, art by Nico Henrichon

It felt a little wrong to only buy things for myself, considering I’ve been mostly a bystander/nurse/911 caller/drama queen for the week, but maybe the wee one will get a trip to Sea World soon.

I briefly debated buying a tank of gas, a ticket to the TX-OU game and a breast pump, but I decided books would be better than running away. Hopefully.

and… we’re done.

truncate finale
do not let other shoe drop
this week has to end

OK. After we had the leg stuck in chair/firemen incident I was relieved to think that the rest of the week would have to be very anti-climactic.

[insert sounds of evil demon laughing]

Yesterday, on the way home from picking the wee one up at school, I had a flat tire. A giant screw through the sidewall. Please feel free to come up with your own joke here. Luckily, I was able to make it home and the three of us didn’t have to schlep our way over hills and dales (is that how you spell it? "dales"? What is a dale anyway?). Interestingly enough, the wee one’s school is right next to the fire station, so I guess we could have just gone over there and begged for help from our new friends.

So we make it home. Hooray. Then the wee one goes outside to play with some friends in the cul-de-sac. Minutes later – screaming, wailing, tears and the doorbell. The friends’ mama is at the door with wee one, and he is wailing as he holds his limp wrist like a fop holding a handkerchief. He was playing Spider-man and one of his friends was the bad guy and the bad guy fell on Spider-man (no doubt after Spider-man did one of his patented homemade "kung fu" ankle swiping moves).

We whip up an ice pack, examine the wrist. It seems OK. Red, but OK. We decide to keep an eye on the wrist, and it decides to be OK. (At least it seems OK right now – he says it still hurts, but not too bad. How long does one let a wrist hurt before taking it to a doctor to get looked at? Maybe I should consult my Target first-aid kit instruction manual thingy.)

So anyway, I hope no one minds, but I’m canceling the rest of this week. Firemen, flat tire, hurt wrist AND IT’S ONLY WEDNESDAY MORNING.

I, for one, think this week has already earned its name in the annals of history, and I don’t think we need to prolong it any more.

Do you HEAR ME effing first week of October? YOUR ASS IS GRASS.

woo woo woo woo

fire trucks are super
especially in driveway
at nine in morning

OK, the top five reasons why, when you start doing laundry on Sunday, you should finish doing laundry on Sunday:

5. So when you have to call 911 because your kid has his knee stuck
in the wooden slats of the glider’s armrest, your kid can be clothed in
something other than underpants smeared with peanut butter and poster

4. So when you’re talking to the 911 dispatcher you don’t have to
shout over the obnoxious noise your dryer makes (well, to be fair to
the dryer, you’d probably still have to shout over the screams of your

3. So when the firemen arrive they won’t trip on the piles of dirty clothes littering the hallway.

2. So you have something clean to dry your freaked out child’s tears
as you lube up his knee and try to slide it out of the glider armrest

1. So the firemen don’t have to sit on your piles of unfolded
laundry that cover the sofa as they take your personal information and
relay to the ambulance guys that your kid is OK and the paramedics
don’t need to come after all.


What a scary and crazy and funny and adrenaline-y thing to happen this morning. My hands have finally stopped shaking enough to type, and the wee one has chilled out enough to watch a little TV.

For a while there, though… it was pretty intense. I was on the phone with 911 dispatch, the wee one was crying and screaming "GET A KNIFE FROM THE KITCHEN AND CUT THE CHAIR" and I was frantically trying to give important information to the dispatcher, calm the wee one down, and find some kind of lube. (Olive oil and dish soap worked great, FYI.)

How does one get one’s knee stuck in the slats of the armrest of a glider? Only God and the wee one know, because I missed the actual insertion. But it was stuck in there good. I thought the fire guys were going to have to saw through the chair, but luckily they just distracted the wee one, and then squirted his knee out with a quick yank.

He’s fine now and I’m fine now, and the wee-er one just watched the whole thing, amusedly, from her bouncy seat, and Newman missed it all because he never stopped licking his butt.

I have since informed the wee one that if he wants a tour of a fire truck (which he got afterwards) and a cool 911 sticker (which he also got afterwards) all he has to do is ask. Nearly crushing his knee in a chair is not a prerequisite.

Is 10:32 AM too early for a margarita?