Sock in water bowl
The hell is it doing there?
Blame dog. Blame baby.


I was going to regale you

Hilarious stories of grocery shopping, court house annex visits, and the trials of other mundane yet exciting things will have to wait. As I stand here trying to blog (yes, I’m standing and typing as I cook dinner. What? Don’t you do that?) the wee-er one has BITTEN me on the THIGH through my jeans.


The baby wins. Blogging must wait. And I must buy thicker jeans. Or a new kid. Either way.

Dear Gas Tank,

mileage may vary
the car conspires against me
and my poor budget

Hey there, Gas Tank. You and I have been getting a lot more face time lately, haven’t we? I think you’re a really nice tank and everything, and I do appreciate everything you do for me and my family, but, well, I think it’s time we talked.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy standing next to you and freezing my ass off while you guzzle away my vacation savings, it’s just that I think we’ve been spending a little too much time together lately.

I’m flattered that you want to spend all this time with me, but I want the time we spend together to be out of mutual appreciation, not desperation, you know what I mean? I feel like maybe you’ve been working overtime, or conspiring to get me closer to you or something. And I’m totally not criticizing, because I get it. You have a crush on me. And when you see me your day brightens. Birds sing a little louder. The clouds make little heart shapes in the sky. I’ve had crushes before. I know how you feel.

But manipulating the mileage you get? Just to feel my hand unscrew your lid? I don’t think that’s the most effective way to get my attention. Because I can tell you for certain, I didn’t drive 520 miles last week. That’s why I’m confused as to why you were empty today. I’m pretty sure this happened the week before last, too, Gas Tank.

I hate to say it, but… that’s not cool.

Not cool at all.

I know our relationship is complicated. I know it’s based on money and uncomfortable politics. But in the past we’ve been able to put that aside, you and I. Our relationship has been pure-ish. I feed you once every few weeks, and you help me haul shit around. It’s very win-win.

But, now? Now I don’t know what to do, Gas Tank. I feel betrayed. I feel like you’re guzzling gas just to get my attention. Can’t we go back to how things used to be? Can’t we relive the good old days? I think we have something special and that we can work out our differences. Does that make me crazy? I don’t know. But I need your help with this. A person-Gas Tank relationship takes work from both sides. Can I count on you to cut out these shenanigans and go back to our 520 mile days?

I genuinely like you. Almost even respect you. Will you respect me back?


Because if you don’t stop fucking around I could easily toss you aside for one of those fancy new hybrids.

Get it together, Gas Tank. I mean it this time.

concerned mother

I know this is going to sound crazy, but…

people can be nice
even when they don’t have to
how crazy is that?   

I just got back from the Tax Assessor’s office. Now, you’d think this might require a Letter to Someone I Hate, but it doesn’t! I’m am very, extremely, happily pleased to announce that the people at the tax assessor’s office are quite nice. They’re nice on the phone, they’re nice in person, and then they’re nice in person again when you have to go back because you lost the receipt they gave you when you went the first time.

The lady today thought about not being nice. I could see the battle of good vs evil going on behind her eyes. But I smiled a lot, made fun of myself, totally played the frazzled mama card, and even batted my eyes a little, and it worked. She was nice!

Thanks to her willingness to be friendly and helpful, I will avoid having to pay extra fines and/or have a warrant issued for my arrest. Whew.

Have I mentioned lately how much of a pain in the ass traffic tickets are? It’s not the money, it’s the hullabaloo involved in taking care of the thing.

But anyway, hooray for the tax assessor’s office. I never thought I’d say it, but there you go.


By the way, when your seventeen-month-old wakes up looking like a prizefighter because her eyes are swollen? It may turn out she has a double ear infection resulting in pink eye.

In case you were wondering.

our eight weeks is up

wily little thing
superhero steel stomach
makes me cry sometimes

That wasn’t a very good haiku, but you have to forgive me. First, the wee-er one woke up with both eyes almost swollen shut. We called the doctor and made an appointment. Then she slammed her fingers in the closet door. We kissed them and felt better. Then we had a lady come walk through the house to tell me how much it will be for her to scour it from top to bottom (not too bad, though she did seem a bit dazed to be accosted by a noisy dog and a toddler prizefighter).

And then.

Then we had a bit of a catastrophe. You’d think I’d be used to these things after the wee-er one has eaten rocks, sipped old beer from the trash, sucked on an imodium, gobbled up some pirate’s gold, etc. But it’s always a shock to have to call poison control.

Here is the aftermath:

There is no such thing as childproof with this kid.