This morning Will was whining about something, I forget what--probably something along the lines of "my cereal has milk iiiiiiiiiin iiiiiiiiit!"
Unable to stand the noise any longer, I sent him to his room. And then I said to Dashing Husband, "That child needs a nap, like, yesterday."
Suddenly, the crying stopped. From the bedroom came an indignant little voice: "Hey! Who said that?"
Later, at the dinner table, Gus was being really foolish, giggling every time Superbaby farted (we're terribly high class). I quickly tired of this, and told Gus to knock it off.
I did the grocery shopping today. Normally, this is a harmless way to kill a couple of hours and rather quickly drain my bank account buying household necessities. Today, however, things were different.
As I left the Uber-Mart, my cart piled high with bulk purchases, I was approached by a parking lot salesman. No, he wasn't trying to sell me a parking lot. Instead, he was trying to sell me some kind of spray-on car-wash-in-a-can that requires no water. But he was roaming the parking lot in his yellow polo shirt, probably hoping that I would overlook the creep factor and give a damn about his product.
Of course, he picked the wrong mama. Yes, I'm strapped for time and my car is in dire need of a wash, but I do not have time for asshats. And this guy? MAJOR ASSHAT.
Guy: Hello.
Me: [juggling fussy baby and giant packages of bulk freezer bags, Pull-Ups, etc.] Uh ...
Guy: Did you see the Car-Wash-in-a-Can display? I'd like to show you how it works. [sprays something on the side of my car BEFORE I CAN STOP HIM]
Me: [blinking incredulously] ...
Guy: Will you hold this? [Here is where he moves to hand me the can of spray-on car crap.]
Me: No, thank you.
Guy: I'm not trying to get you to buy it, I want you to hold it.
Me: [still blinking incredulously] I'm trying to get the baby in the car. [And, in my head: Do you NOT SEE the cart full of groceries which I am putting in the trunk of my car?] Can you wipe that off the car, please?
Guy: [wipes the stuff off the side of my car, after a stunned siilence which he spent looking at his two hands, because I don't think he knows how to use them both at the same time] Have a nice day. Thanks for being so kind.
Because I realized immediately that it wasn't worth it, I did not jump The Asshat. I'm not saying that he didn't deserve it. I mean, COME ON. Do NOT approach a single woman with a baby and a full grocery cart in a parking lot when it's one billion degrees outside and expect her to give a rat's ass how fast your cleaner works without water. I can hold a diaper bag, a crying baby, a two-year-old, and three grocery bags loaded with gallon jugs all at the same time. NO, I am not going to hold your 10-oz spray can so you can use both hands to polish an area the size of a phone book. Also? I'm not going to listen to your sales pitch when the baby is melting in his carseat because I haven't had a chance to turn on the air conditioner for him. If you were any kind of successful salesman at all, you would recognize my body language had gone from "not interested" to "threat level: imminent doom."
I'm just sayin'.
You know what? I was kind. The Parking Lot Salesman is extremely lucky I didn't bust out the bulk-size Gatorade and get all medieval on his ass. Homeboy might want to think about a career change.
In the words of Forrest Gump, "That's all I have to say about that."
Today is Dashing Husband's birthday. Because I love him, I bought him two CDs that were not the ones he asked for, and then I gave him a wedgie. Happy Birthday!!
Sharon mentioned yesterday while we were watching The Magical Smoking Box (actually some kind of firework that was supposed to be a shower of golden sparks but fizzled) that we were all going to go home with black stuff inside our noses from the smoke. Sooty boogers! (You know you're partying with sophisticates when you can brag about your sooty boogers. Incidentally, you also know you're partying with sophisticates when they light their sparklers after placing them in a beer bottle in the middle of the road.)
Watching the fireworks had the same effect on Gus as listening to Flogging Molly. Meaning, my child became a dancing spaz right before my eyes. Which is how I found myself having this conversation:
Me: Do you need to use the bathroom? [I only asked because he was dancing around with his hands clinging tightly to his crotch]
Gus: No, I'm just SO HAPPY!!!
Gus then ran over to where I was sitting to add in a stage whisper, "My penis itches!" This was followed by maniacal giggling. I offer this anecdote as scientific proof that the male happiness gland is connected directly to the penis.
Speaking of the penis, I have another story. I know, I know. This is supposed to be a family blog. Really, I record this here mostly for posterity.
Me: Do you think it's weird that people shave their legs?
Dashing Husband: No, people do lots of weird things. Some people pierce their noses with bones, some people get tattoos. In some cultures, they actually refer to each other by the shape of their genitalia.
Me: How does that work?
Dashing Husband: Well ...
This is the place in the conversation where Dashing Husband listed off some examples. I, however, cannot remember them, because I had started giggling and couldn't stop.
Dashing Husband: [has noticed I'm giggling] What? What's so funny?
Me: Well, when you said "the shape of their genitalia," the term "pencil dick" popped into my head.
Dashing Husband: That's the spirit, honey.
Me: I've heard people say that. And, well, who wants to be "pencil dick"?
Yes, it seems like living in that culture, whatever it is, holds a lot of potential for embarassing nicknames. This entire conversation was a direct result of one I had earlier in the day when a friend of mine asked me if I still shave my legs. To which the answer is yes, and not because I think I have to or that I don't support women's liberation. I just like the way my legs feel when they've been freshly shaved. My friend, however, is married to an anthropologist, and she mentioned that anthropologists think it's weird to shave because primates don't. So, out of curiosity, I went home and asked my own anthropologist husband what he thought. How quickly it all goes south, yunno?
We ended the fireworks by writing with sparklers in the dark after the children went to bed. My loving husband wrote my name in fire, which I thought was romantic. And then, because we are so mature, he wrote "boobies!"
I think this basically sums up our relationship.
So, yeah. Happy Sooty Booger Day! I knew for sure the holiday was over when Superbaby released two huge poops in my lap today. Also? I found a discarded pull-up that Will had stuffed into the diaper pail ... and it was full of moldy poop.
I gave Wolfie away on Sunday. It's funny, I didn't think I was going to miss him that much, as I largely went about my day without noticing him. Still, the house feels a little empty. There is no one sitting behind my chair loudly scratching his ears, and no furry little body under the desk while I pay the bills. No one barked at the door when I got home this afternoon, and Catcher's bowl looks just a little smaller sitting all by itself.
He went to a good home. I am lucky to have surrounded myself with incredibly compassionate and understanding friends, who have incredibly compassionate and understanding friends of their own. Animals are near and dear to all of them, and they are devoted pet owners. The couple who adopted Wolfie took him in because they had to put their old dog to sleep, and their younger dog needed a friend. They were looking for a cuddler. I know deep in my heart of hearts that Wolfie will be happy in their home.
I just didn't realize this would hurt so much. I had no idea that I would cry all the way home, remembering how Wolfie was with me through some of my most difficult moments. I had no idea that I would feel like such a failure.
I have this dog, Wolfgang. He's small, furry and cute, but he is not happy in our house. There are too many kids. He's started peeing on the carpet, something he hasn't done since he was a puppy. I think I knew this day was coming, but I was trying to avoid it: the dog has to go. Our home is no longer the best home for him. This breaks my heart, because at one time, Wolfie was my best furry friend, and we went everywhere together. He slept in my bed, which he would walk the perimeter of while I was sleeping. So, I suppose I'll list him on Petfinder.
We got into the study. Gus was accepted a couple of weeks ago, and we've started some hardcore behavior therapy. I've learned a lot already, mostly that interactions between Gus and me have turned into little more than questions, commands, and criticism lately. I'm working to change that.
But still, I feel like I'm chasing my tail. This evening, Gus was supposed to be in bed, but instead decided to get up and bite Will. Dashing Husband and I have reached the conclusion that the kid needs his own room. We will be making that happen this weekend. I'm loathe to give up Superbaby's nursery, but I am seriously afraid that Gus is going to hurt Will. Badly.
This is going to go on record as The Summer We Barely Survived.
