Fries With Mayo

On stepping on pets

2021-04-21T12:04:00.008-05:00

I'm not sure what was going on this morning with the alignment of the stars (and the alignment of the pets), but things were not going well.

My heater broke, which, since it has been on its last leg for about three months, was not a surprise.

My pets, for some reason, all managed to end up underneath my feet at some point before 9:30 a.m.

This is not a surprise either, because I'm convinced that, emotionally, the cats, at least, are torn between showing me love by winding between my feet, and trying to trip me for kicks and giggles by winding between my feet. I have not as of yet, in my 13 years with them, figured out whether they love me or just care because they want me to feed them.

The dog, though, does not usually end up under my feet, mostly because he is the dog equivalent of 150 years old or so and spends most of his time sleeping on the couch.

This morning, however, he smelled that I was making food for the cats, he liked the smell, and he decided he clearly needed to bask in the smell's glory by sidling up behind me and slipping his toes directly under my heels at the exact moment I was standing on tiptoe to get something from a shelf.

The reaction each pet has to my stepping on him is, I believe, directly proportional to the amount of love the pet has for me.

Bad Cat:  ERMAGERD!!!  What are you doing to me!?  Why are you so MEAN!?  (dashes under couch with disbelieving terror in his eyes)

Hyperhund the Dog (looking at me balefully, with much sorrow and deep hurt in his eyes):  Why, Mother?  Why would you do this to me when I clearly love you so much and devote my life to you?  Why would you hurt me like this?

via GIPHY
Good Cat (who maybe should no longer be thusly named):  I despise you, you clodhopping cow.  (hides under couch with rage and disdain in his eyes)  As soon as you're asleep, I'll eat your face.

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Freecycle!!

2021-04-20T19:22:00.006-05:00

Me (putting non-dairy creamer on Freecycle):  "I do not like this creamer because it is too sweet.  I will be home all day.  Pick-up is near the intersection of * and *."

Person:  Oooh!  I want it!  Pick me.

Me (private messages the person):  When would you like to pick it up?

Person:  Umm.  I don't know.  I'm not sure how far you are from me.  Where are you located?

Me (sigh): The intersection of * and *.

Her:  Oh.  That's a bit far.  What time can I come over?

Me:  Anytime.  I am home.  Just let me know when.

Her:  Is the creamer very sweet?  I'm not supposed to have too much sugar.

Me:  I'm getting rid of it because it's too sweet for me...

Her:  Can you please go look and tell me how many grams of sugar there are and what the serving size is?  I may need to pass...

Me: (in my head)  Seriously?  Am I getting up off the couch for this!?  (in messenger) It is 3 g of sugar per Tb.  That means for every tablespoon of creamer you put in your coffee, you are getting a teaspoon of sugar.

Her:  Ohhhh... I love to put lots of creamer in my coffee.  Sounds like I probably shouldn't have that creamer!  It's pretty sugary!   And you're a little further away than I thought, too.

Honestly, it sounds like you probably shouldn't be putting any creamer other than um... cream... in your coffee if that's a lot of sugar.

Every. Single. Time I post on Freecycle...

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Tactics to Delay Bedtime

2020-11-09T21:40:00.002-06:00

"If we had the ability to throw up our 'tomach acid, it would kind of be like a Dilophosaurus. Unless they have a gland in their necks that make the acid and it's not really stomach acid. It would probably hurt a lot to get hit by it, but probably not as much as falling in lava. If you were lucky. If you were lucky, it wouldn't hurt that bad."

-Things my son verbally contemplates instead of going to sleep, #49720

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The Haunted House and the Flying Ghost Car

2020-09-10T22:02:00.015-05:00

I think my house was haunted.

Was. Like, I don't think it is anymore, but you know what they say about little kids and ghosts and stuff, so maybe it still is but my kid just can't pick up the vibes anymore.

About a year ago, I was minding my own business and waiting for the Instacart order to arrive. When the shopper arrived, she looked at me and the house as though she'd seen a ghost and greeted me with, "I was friends with the family who lived here before. The dad died here pretty young after being slipped something bad at a party."

Ooookay.

Actually, this explains a lot.

I should backtrack.

When my son was about a year and a half old, he came running out of his room to the kitchen where I was making dinner.

Don't judge. My house is literally about 50 feet long. Yes. I know what literally means. And my house is literally, not figuratively, 50 feet long. My kid's room is, like, no inches away from the kitchen.

I digress (albeit a tad bitterly). My darling Meatloaf came running out of his room, delayed speech and all, making super excited noises and pointing toward his room. Being a good mom, I left dinner on the stove and walked one foot or so over to his room.

Dear Son pointed to the wall and waved his arms ecstatically.

And right there, up against the wall, his toy car was floating in the air.

I'm not superstitious. I'm not even sure I believe in ghosts. I did not quite believe I was seeing a floating toy car. In fact, I just stood there and stared at it for a few seconds, my mind trying to wrap itself around this strange turn of events.

"Um. Don't touch that. Mommy's gonna go get her phone." Yeah. That was the best I could come up with. I mean, if I could get this on social media, people would explain this to me and everything would be all right.

My mind kind of rationalized that by the time I came back with the phone, the car would be safely down on the ground.

I'm not proud of the what happened next.

Y'all, I left my toddler alone in a room with haunted floating car. Mother of the Year.

You'll all be happy to know that when I returned to the room, my child's head was not spinning around his neck, nor was he crawling on the ceiling. No need to call a priest for that, anyway.

The car, however, was still there, hovering away about a foot and a half off the carpet, perfectly parallel to the ground. It wasn't a little car, either. It was one of those heavy plastic Little People Fisher Price cars with a little cowboy in it.

I took two pictures and then I very bravely inched toward the car and looked behind it. Nothing appeared to be holding it next to the wall.

I reached out one, shaking, cowardly little finger and gently and non-threatening-to-a-ghostly touched it ever so lightly.

And it crashed immediately to the floor.

No give or anything. No tug, no pull, no resistance. I quite almost barfed.

Then I picked it up and checked the other side for attachment-type things that a one-and-a-half-year-old child could have devised to make a heavy toy float parallel to the ground, like he was Nikola Tesla or something when he barely had just actually figured out how to walk a few months prior.

I dumbly tried to restick the car to the spot on the wall, like it would magically jump right back up there. I tried asking Dear Son how it got there, but he just smiled and drooled because he couldn't actually talk.

You don't believe me. I can tell. I didn't believe me either. I checked my phone. There were three pictures in it:

You're probably secretly like, "Yeah, ok, those are the worst-quality photos I've ever seen! Why don't you go bring us a photo of the Loch Ness Monster, too, while you're at it, and that wild Chewbacca monster that lives in the woods in Oregon or wherever!"

I had an iPhone 4s at the time. Even back then, it was pretty lame technology. I think by then (2015), there was already an iPhone25XS!L500. So, the quality was dubious. Plus, my hands were shaking like I just snorted a lot of heart-rate-enhancing substances (I'm just guessing what this is like, because in high school, I hung out with friends and our idea of titillating fun was watching Liesl and that kid who joins the German army prance around a gazebo in our 56th viewing of The Sound of Music and the closest I ever got the drugs was Sudafed. Bless the band and choir nerds. Heart-heart!).

I of course did what any middle-aged mom in my era would do and posted the pictures to Facebook. I asked for an explanation. I was not disappointed.

Actually, I was. What the actual flippin'-flop!? People had much to say. Invisible spiderwebs were cited as a probably cause. Also, static electricity. Magnets in the wall. And boogers. Yes, boogers.

Let me address these theories one by one, though in a different order..

If you live in the Midwest and it is August, the humidity is so high that the probability of a 3 - 4 oz. plastic toy car sticking to wall in a parallel position for well over five minutes is practically 0.0. Just saying. Even if I rubbed my stockinged feet into a carpet for 20 minutes and licked a metal bar, no sparks would occur and a balloon would not stick to my hair.

Spiderwebs? I don't even know how that would work. There was nothing there to attach a spiderweb to, and honestly, how would a car get in there and hang perfectly parallel to the ground? This, I do not know. I mean, unless a freakin' tarantula came into our home and made some sort of funnel web, this whole scenario is unlikely at best. And even if that had happened, you'd think I would have enough motherly instincts to stop that s*** before the web got big enough to hold a car.

Magnets in the wall. There's like, almost no metal in this car except for two axles. If you can find a magnet in the wall and hold a car parallel to the ground by one axle, you win! It probably will not shock you to find out I actually went back to the room later and tried to stick metal crap to the wall in that location just in case I was wrong. Hint: nothing stuck because there is no magnet in the wall.

And finally, boogers. My friends, I do not know what kind of super-calcifying boogers your children have, but my little angel's boogers are not nearly E6000ish enough to hold a Little People car to the wall, let alone several millimeters away from the actual wall. In fact, I do not think actual E6000 would hold a Little People car to the wall that fast. Maybe hot glue, if you waited a while.

All these theories, too, are putting a lot of stock into the abilities of a very young toddler to coordinate his hands, when even getting his fingers into his actual nose holes was a feat of enormous coordination at the time.

Five years has passed since this event, and every year, on August 17th, I see this pop up in my Facebook Memories. Occasionally, I re-post it, just for fun, to see what other theories are offered.

In the meantime, we had a few other weird little incidences where the cats, the dog, and the kid, all acted like something was there with us or we felt like we were watched, but it was never a scary thing.

Then one day, the feeling of something being there just wasn't anymore. And that, as they say, is that.

Worst Pet Owner Ever? Darth. Vader.

2020-08-05T22:53:00.003-05:00

I am not a "playing" mom. I do not enjoy getting down on the floor and playing cars or whatnot. I do not mind, however, playing pretend games in which, as my son says, "You be (that character) and I'll be (this character) and we'll just talk like them and pretend." I'm totally cool with those sorts of games because I can do them while going for a walk, cooking dinner, or even sitting in a chair eating ice cream. You should try it sometime; it's good family bonding.

Some days, I am the Pink Power Ranger, and he is Green. Others, I am one of his Smashers* toys and he is another.

When he was little, he was always Batman and I was Robin, and he'd say, "I'm done going potty, Robin! Can you come wipe me now? I love you, Robin!" and the whole game got a little awkward, even though it was also endearing in an awkward way.

Today, we played Star Wars. He was Luke, and I was Leia.

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Dear Sweet Son: Leia. (looks crestfallen) My family was killed and their house burned to the ground.

Me (mustering an equally distraught face): My family died too. Someone blew up my whole planet.

DSS (looking sadly down at our cat, uniquely un-empathetic about my blown-up planet): But I took the time to rescue our dad's cats. They were wandering around outside. I didn't want to leave them with our dad... (dramatic pause) ... DARTH. VADER.

Me (looking suitably shocked): Darth Vader is our dad!? Well, then it's probably for the best that you didn't leave the cats with him.

DSS: Because I bet Darth Vader probably EATS CATS. Or at least, he throws them in that trash compactor with the monster at the bottom.

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Yeah. So I'm guessing Darth probably isn't the very best pet owner out there. Good call on saving the cats, Twin Bro.

The real question we should be asking is, who rescued whom?

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*Random, non-funny stuff ahead.

The three Amazon links are affiliate links, which means if you purchase through my link, I will get a small portion of the revenue, at no extra cost to you.

Dear Sweet Son's favorite toys: Zuru Smashers. He is working on collecting the Ice Age series next. He does chores for a quarter each and then he buys some. It's win-win on both ends of the deal. Highly recommend for kids that like those little tiny collectibles like Shopkins and Hatchimals, but grosser, and you can leave them, like, all over the house.

Toilet Koalas and Booze: What Happens in a Pandemic Stays in a Pandemic

2020-07-29T20:20:00.012-05:00

This morning, when Dear Sweet Son and I went for our morning HyperHund walk, we ran into a little girl and her dad, who was holding a tote bag. The little one was about two years old and gave me a huge smile.

"Hi there, sweetie!" I said enthusiastically, "Look at you with that big smile on your face!"

"Oh yeah!" the dad answered cheerfully, without skipping a beat, "She's smiling because we're walking to the liquor store and she gets a piece of candy when we get there!"

Now, you may be thinking that I might secretly be judging that dad for walking his toddler to the liquor store at 9:00 a.m. with an empty tote bag, ripe for the filling, but let me tell you something: in a pandemic, anything goes.

Dude clearly needs a drink by 10:00 a.m. I'm not judging.

Kid needs candy at 9:00. No judgment (except if you spell judgment this way: "judgement," because then I'm totally judging you for sucking at spelling "judgment" the way I prefer it spelled. Don't even ask me about the Oxford comma).

Walking your toddler to the liquor store for a fun family outing? Nope. Still not judging.

You know why?

Because I'm an old mom, I've been home with one kid and no adults for over five months, and if I actually enjoyed drinking, which I no longer do but recently I've felt tempted, I'd be filling up that bottomless tote bag with the cheapest Boone's strawberry wine, too.

I now totally, totally have grown to appreciate the value of YouTube as a child entertainment. It's like a magical wonderland of videos that will keep kids riveted for hours. Hamsters in a maze of swinging hammers? Check! Middle-aged men playing ecstatically with kids' toys and turning their entire houses into box forts? We've got that covered, too! No judgment, old man. Play with that sack o' Shopkins! You do you!

In case you are now secretly judging me (which is cool - have fun! - no judgment on my part!), please note that we also do very educational and wholesome family activities such as going to the forest preserve to chuck clods of mud into a pond, rolling down the same hill fifty times in a row, catching and releasing probably-parasite-laden snails in the creek, and walking the same path around the neighborhood every morning.

We also do school-related learning things such as whine about homeschooling for several hours a day and then actually homeschool for a few minutes, too.

Every evening, we have a fun, family-bonding ritual in which my son pretends to go to bed and then finds eleventy-billion reasons not to actually be in bed. These creatively thought-out and emotional-stamina-building excuses include: drinks, bathroom breaks, requested-but-not-received snacks, and being terrified by toilet koalas.

You may wonder why there are koalas in our toilet anyway. Hint: there aren't.

At some point, DSS was shown a YouTube video of a fighting koalas by an adult who had not anticipated said koalas to vocalize in such a horrifying manner, and from then on, he (DSS, not the koala) was sure that a koala would sneak out of the toilet pipes at night, climb into the toilet, and sneakily attack the nearest rump that dared poise itself onto the seat.

Pretty much imagine the above video scenario, but with the koala aggressively wrestling and gnawing your butt and trying to drag you, not down a tree, but down into its sewer-pipe home, and you'll understand why this is actually a very legitimate fear.

For months after watching the video, Dear Sweet Son refused to go to the bathroom without clinging to my hand like a limpet in need of Xanax.

Luckily, this phase has mostly passed, but occasionally, the toilet koala does make a surprise encore reappearance when DSS is trying to avoid going to bed.

So yeah. Rock on, Liquor Store Totebag Dad. I hope the Boone's or Zima (do they still make that stuff? If not, they should.) was everything you dreamed and needed it to be. See you at noon for your refill when we walk around the block again!

"Group Activities, " Homeschooling, and Other Ways to Make Me Lose My Mind

2020-07-28T13:30:00.004-05:00

As you may know from my article on Scary Mommy, I have decided to take a leave of absence from teaching this year to homeschool my son during "these uncertain times." I'll let that article speak for itself since I don't usually write in a serious manner, and seriousness has no (or at least, very little) place here.

Lest you think I am forgoing a year's worth of salary because I am a superdeeduper lazy teacher and I like to loaf around in my multi-million-dollar home on my ginormous savings account while my son panders to my every wish and feeds me grapes and bonbons between Pinterest-worthy homeschooling sessions filled with cute crafts and and intellectually-stimulating science experiments, let me correct your thinking.

People. Teaching 25 angsty tweens belonging to someone else in a classroom is actually infinitely easier than trying to homeschool my one kid who wants to be back at (pre-Corona) school.

Lately, I have been depending mostly on worksheet type books because my son would much rather do a bunch of worksheets and be done with it than waste his precious t.v. time by doing Pinterest science lessons.

I cannot blame him. I was one of those kids, too. I hate wasting time, and "activities" just angrify me.

Even at staff meetings, anything cutesy or "fun" secretly fills me with unbridled rage. I just want to sit there, take notes, internalize whatever I'm supposed to learn, and move on with my life.

None of that Kumbaya, group activity, feelings-discussing stuff for me.

Once, all of us teachers had to stand in a gym on the first day of before-school-starts institute days, write our feelings on a piece of paper, ball up the paper, and then chuck the pieces of paper at each other in a "snowball fight!!!" of feelings.

My only feelings were that I wanted to sit down in a chair and not share my feelings with 50 other people I am not related to in a middle school gym.

Just give me a dang worksheet.

So, I've now been schooling my child at home for five months. Every weekday, we do math after breakfast, science/social studies after lunch, and reading/writing after dinner.

Every day, it is as if he is going through all twelve stages of grief whenever schooling time is announced.

Me: All right; time to start math.

Dear Sweet Son: What!? (said in a tone that conveys disbelief and horror) No!

Me: Yes, it's time. Let's go.

DSS (throwing himself down on his beloved blankie in despair): Why!? WHY!? Can't I just wait ONE. MORE. MINUTE!?

Me: No.

DSS: PLEASE!? (as if begging for me to spare his life) JUST ONE MORE MINUTE!?

(Don't be fooled. There is always another minute. Always. Even after the original minute. Don't ask me how I know.)

Me: No.

DSS (looking at the worksheet with 5 problems): This. Is going. To take. (super dramatic voice) FOREVER!!!!!!!

(writes the answer to one problem and immediately throws himself to the ground, writhing around in sheer, unbridled despair)

DSS: I just CAN'T! This is going to take forever! I'll NEVER finish this!!!

Me: Not if you keep rolling around on the floor. At least bring your pencil down there with you so it has a fighting chance of actually writing something.

DSS (switches tactics): OK. This won't take that long. (sits on chair) I know this. This is easy. I can do this! (writes one more answer down) There. Only three problems left. (woops... here we go again) THREE PROBLEMS!? WHY?! WHY!? (slams pencil on the table, sticks out lower lip, starts sliding down out of chair like a fading sea cucumber)

Two minutes later, the whole assignment is done.

DSS (looking elated): I'm done! That was super fast! This barely took any time at all! Like five minutes!

Me: Great! Now please write your name on your paper so you don't forget how, and then you can do what you'd like.

DSS (horrified face): What!? My name!? This. Is. Going. To. TAKE. FOREVVVVEEER!!!!!

Then, the whole thing repeats itself two more times each day, and every single week day. Multiply that by five months. Actually, multiply that by a year and five months.

Parenting experts will tell you that consistency is key. I'm not sure how much more consistency is needed than doing the exact same routine every day for five months, but we sure are trying hard to find out.

Please note: he chose this schedule because he felt, and still assures me, that it is the way he most wants to learn.

Good times are in store, my friends.

(P.S. Please also note that I do feel, as I mentioned in the Scary Mommy article, very blessed to be able to homeschool / SAHM-parent my son this year. I realize that so many people do not have this opportunity. Because I've been working since he was born and most likely will return to full-time teaching after this year, I probably will never have this chance again. I love this opportunity and I actually am very happy with the decision I made.

We now return to our regularly-scheduled sarcasm and cynicism.)

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ATTENTION: not-funny, homeschooling-related stuff below

In case you are interested, below are the resources I use for my son's schooling.

The three Amazon links are affiliate links, which means if you purchase through my link, I will get a small portion of the revenue, at no extra cost to you.

The Social Studies and Science books are in the 180 Days of series. This series goes from Kindergarten to 6th grade and have one short worksheet activity per day. I used these in class with my elementary school kids, and I now use them at home with my son. There are also grammar, writing, reading, math and other things I forget.

Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons was recommended to me by my sister-in-law who home-schooled her first child, my nephew, with it and then did the lessons with her second child before my niece went to kindergarten. It is very scripted and claims to have your child reading at a second grade level by lesson 100. So far, we're on lesson 68 (we started with 23 at the end of kindergarten, since he'd gotten a bit of reading instruction).

We use Eureka Math at my school. Engage NY is the free version of this platform. There are videos, printable teachers' guides, tests, student work pages, and pretty much anything you need to teach math from kindergarten to 12th grade. It is aligned to Common Core and is pretty "rigorous," as schools like to say. They also have a free complete ELA / Reading course you can use that also has workbooks, skills books, reading texts, etc., all ready to be printed out.

Tribute to an Old Dog

2020-07-22T11:50:00.005-05:00

When I first started this blog ten years ago, the HyperHund was two years old, and by herding breed standards, this was the pinnacle of his hyperness.

Now, he is almost 13 years old.

Time has taken its toll on his old bones, and he has gone progressively deaf, to the point where he can pretty much no longer hear anything.

This is both a sad and a good thing.

On the sad side, the highlight of his life was pretty much hearing me tell him he was a good dog and running to greet me when he heard the door open when I got home from work.

Now, the only way he can hear that he's a good dog is if I put my hands on his head and holler very loudly, "WHAT A GOOD BOY!!! WHO'S A GOOD DOG NOW!?!? YOU ARE!" so loudly that the neighbors can hear me and that sound waves travel directly down my arms and into his skull.

Then, he wags his whole body and he tells me life is good.

Most times now, when I open the front door, there is no one running to greet me. Dear Sweet Son will shout at the top of his lungs, "HH!! WE'RE HOME!" and we both stomp our feet loudly, and there's still nothing. More often than not, HH is sleeping soundly on the cool tile of the back bathroom.

On a more positive note, we have never had as easy of a 4th of July.

Actually, I take that back. I think it might still be Cinco de Mayo even though it's the end of July. Or maybe Cinco de Mayo and the Fourth of July had a hybrid love child called Cinco de Julio or Fourth of May or something, because people are taking all their quarantine frustration out via fireworks, and we've now had nearly 80 straight days of fireworks.

HyperHund used to be terrified of fireworks. He'd lie in a 4'-wide puddle of his own drool, panting and shaking, till I was truly worried for his safety. "But," you say, "The Rescue Remedy, and the cannabis oil, and the Thundershirt!" Blah blah blah. Would your DoTerra oils help if you thought a bomb was going off in your back yard, Linda? I don't think so.

This year, he just sleeps through the fireworks. Notice I used the present tense. This is because both fireworks and dog-sleep are occurring as I type. Cinco de 4th of Almost August.

Holiday festivities aside, HyperHund sometimes seems to miss hearing stuff, so he will create his own joyous noise, because I think he can still hear it in his own head when he barks.

So, in the past few months, he's taken to suddenly running around the house, joyously barking and prancing for no reason other than to hear something... anything. It usually happens when Dear Sweet Son is getting ready for bed or for the bathtub.

He's REALLY loud and he'll do this for 15 minutes or so each night, but he looks so dang happy doing it that I don't have the heart to stop him.

I feel for my neighbors, though. In fact, I now take HH out at night on a leash because he is convinced that there is a whole pack of coyotes that he can barely hear, located right in the neighbors' back yard. Unless I leash him, he will run up and down their fenceline, bouncing straight up and down ferociously, his shaggy neck hair sticking straight up on end, while he barks aggressively (but with slightly confused overtones) at these imagined enemies.

You know who also hates being barked at in the middle of the night by deaf dogs? Skunks. Just saying.

HH will now also pull this trick in the middle of the day, which is unexpected, and this causes me to have to run after him to get him to stop barking. Occasionally, I try to demand respect by calling him back, which is actually kind of dumb because then, in essence, not only is my dog shouting, but now so am I.

"HH! COME HERE! SHHH! YOU STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

My neighbors are probably more annoyed with my hollering at HH than they are at the actual HH.

Sometimes, at night, when I take him out on the leash to pee, HH becomes engrossed in smelling rabbit poop or whatnot, and he forgets why he is out there. I have to remind him, but this is hard, especially since homes are close together in my neighborhood and I usually go to bed after midnight.

"HH!! GO PEEEPEEE!!!!! DO!! YOU!! HAVE TO GO PEE!? GO PEEEEEEE!!!!"

(Nothing. Bucolic sniffing of air - him, not me - Neighbors are like, "Seriously? WTF? It's one o'clock in the morning!")

In the end, the hardest thing to get used to, and the part I never thought I'd see, if you recall my first posts, is the fact that HyperHund is no longer hyper. He spends much of his time sleeping.

He sleeps so hard, and so deafly, that sometimes, he doesn't even wake up when I shake him, and it's terrifying because I'm not even sure he's going to wake up.

He now sleeps with just the tip of his tongue hanging out between his front teeth. I'm not sure when it became a thing... sometime in the last six months... but it's constant. Dear Sweet Son and I call it his "dippy tongue," because it looks so silly-cute.

Sometimes, I try to push the end of his tongue gently back in his mouth so it doesn't get too dehydrated during his extra-long napping sprees.

And just like that, ten years has passed in the blink of an eye, and the HyperHund is hyper no more.

I SPEAK FRENCH - AND IT'S A GREAT NINJA PARENTING SKILL

2020-07-21T16:50:00.007-05:00

I speak French as a first language, though my French sounds more and more Frenglishy with all the years that pass.

French is a super useful language because not as many people speak it around these parts as they do Spanish. So whenever there's a problem or a socially awkward situation going on, I can revert to French with my family.

A fond family tradition passed down from one generation to the next in my family is switching to French to shout thinly-veiled threats to kids who are not following parent directions.

My son does not speak a whole lot of French, but he understands it well. It brings back an adorable anecdote from his first visit to a public restroom (this one at the library) when he was a wee lad.

Dear Son (in the middle of the library, loudly in semi-English): Mommy! Me want to go poopoo in library toilette!

Me (in French): OK. OK, let's go!

(We walk into the bathroom and start the "keep your hands off everything!" routine.

Another woman walks in and sits down in the next stall. She starts grunting and straining loudly . I am not making this up.)

Dear Son (Eng): Hey, Mommy! Look! Look at me poopoo! That's a BIIIIIIIIGGGGG one!"

Me (Fr.): Shhhh! Yes! Very big. But shhhh. Not everyone wants to hear about your poopoo.

Dear Son (more loudly, in Eng.): Hey, look at all this peepee me make! All this yellow peepee in this toilet and this big poopoo!

Me (cringing, Fr.): Yes. Shh. Remember, we don't need to talk about that when we're out somewhere.

(Lady next to us starts grunting more loudly)

Dear Son (looking shocked, loudly in Eng.): Mommy!! What that sound!?

Me (English, loudly): That's you peeing, silly! (Fr.) Don't say anything! Don't say anything else while we're in this bathroom, ok!?

Dear Son (Eng): OK! Why!? Why, Mommy!? (tries to look under the bathroom stall with his pants around his ankles... I yank him up)

(We exit the stall and I wash his hands. Lady behind us starts pushing and breathing rhythmically as if ready to deliver a child.)

Dear Son (whirling around and gaping at the stall door): Mommy!! WHAT....

Me (interrupting, Fr.): Remember what I said!! NO talking right now!! Don't say anything until we leave the bathroom!!!"

Dear Son complies.

Honestly, I'd say that went as reasonably well as one could expect.

I used to teach French to middle schoolers. They liked learning a secret spy language they could use to talk to each other about secret stuff no one was trying to overhear.

Today, I created a thing on Teachers Pay Teachers. It's a color-by-French-IR-verb-conjugations. It's better for older kids. My students love color-by-anythings!

Bargain basement price of $2.50 in my Teachers Pay Teachers store!

♥ YOU CAN TAKE A BELGIAN OUT OF BELGIUM, BUT YOU CAN'T TAKE THE HERRING OUT OF HER FRIDGE ♥

2020-07-18T23:31:00.003-05:00

Today, I posted this onto my dad's Facebook: "You can take the Belgian out of Belgium, but you can't take the herring out of her fridge. Or the mayo out of her fries."

My dad had just posted a picture of the maatjes he'd had for dinner. Maatjes are raw herring.

At this point, an acquaintance of ours replied something to the effect that herring made him gag, which is weird because I think he's German or something, and who even knows what they're eating because everything there sounds like "Veenerkugelschnitzelweiner," so by default, herring actually sounds more appealing even if it is more specifically raw baby herring soaked in milk.

I chortled heartily at my own inner dialogue and then posted a picture of the ubiquitous jar of herring I keep in my fridge for those midnight herring cravings (don't judge...).

Then, I became bored with Facebook, called my mom, and talked to her about herring, and she said she had a jar of it in her fridge, too.

I know at least one of my younger brothers also keeps a jar in his fridge on occasion, for what he refers to as "recreational use."

I'm not sure what it is about Belgians and their herring. It's a lot like their need for mayonnaise in their fries (they're not French fries, by the by; they're Belgian fries, and all the Belgians know this and we do NOT forgive the French for stealing our idea).

You know what's even better (better than mayonnaise and better than seething at the French for stealing our fry idea)? A big plate of maatjes served with homemade-mayo-topped Belgian frietjes served in a newspaper cone.

Another fun tidbit about Belgians: we're are all born instinctively knowing how to make mayonnaise from scratch. Seriously. None of that Hellmann's stuff for us.

You hand your two-year-old Belgian neighbor kid an egg, some oil, and some Dijon (Dijon... see?...now that actually is from France) mustard; hand him a little whisk; and the kid will whip that sh** up into mayonnaise faster than an American kid can hone in on an open bag of Cheetos.

Okay, maybe not that fast, but it's a close second.

In the end, it was a unanimous decision by me that the title of this post should be an official saying, because it's incredibly accurate (it was also a unanimous decision by others that it should not be a saying, but this is my space, so, hey, them's the breaks).

Pass the herring, my Belgian friends.

"DO NOT EAT THE GATO" - OR "A STUDY IN FALSE COGNATES"

2020-07-18T12:06:00.004-05:00

As someone who speaks two and half languages, I am well aware of false cognates.

Wiktionary.com describes a false cognate this way: A false friend, a word that appears to have the same meaning as a given word, but that does not (without regard to whether or not the two terms are cognate).

Once upon a time, a long time ago (I'm guessing in the early 1950s), my grandmother learned about false cognates in a way that could have led to a tragic ending.

My grandmother was a French-speaking Belgian, and as most ladies in her neighborhood did, she had a maid who cleaned and cooked for the household. My grandmother's maid was from Spain and spoke mostly Spanish.

(Hey, don't get all snippy on me about maids and equal labor and all that... I have nothing to do with maids and everything else... different time, different country... I'm just telling the story.)

My grandmother, like me in my previous post, fancied her Spanish much better than it probably actually was. She often told me that in order to figure out a Spanish word, you could just take a French word and slap an "o" to the end or just pronounce it with a Spanish accent and be done with it. Actually, I'd say this worked out pretty well about 97.5% of the time.

During this time period, I think most ladies socialized by way of coffee klatsches, and my grandma was no exception. Prior to having five children, she was a social worker who helped hide Jewish people in attics in Belgium during World War II, which is pretty amazing at the age of 23. At any rate, big change from doing that to being a stay-at-home mom of four girls and a boy.

On one particular day, my grandmother decided that she wanted a coffee cake of some sort for her lady friends coming over and that she would ask the maid to bake one.

Now, if you are a French speaker of any sort, you will already know that the French word for "cake" is "gateau."

If you speak any Spanish, you are probably thinking at this point that no good can come of what comes next.

My grandmother did not know the word for "cake" in Spanish, so she decided to fall back on her old technique for figuring out an unknown Spanish word.

If you speak any Spanish, you probably know, at this point, that no good can come of this.

(On an unrelated side note, my grandmother had two pet cats.)

According to my grandmother, who would fall over, laughing hysterically every time she told this story, the scenario unfolded something like this (imagine this whole conversation in Spanish):

Grandma: Serena, por favor, I have friends coming over today.

Maid: Sí, señora. What do you want me to make?

Grandma: I would like you to bake a gato for me and my friends.

Serena (looking around the room uncomfortably): Gato, señora?

Grandmother (insistently): Sí, Serena. A gato. Please bake a gato for me and my friends.

Serena (starting to look concerned): Señora, no! Not a gato!

Grandmother (pantomiming opening the oven and firmly shoving a hapless gato in there): Sí! Sí! Un gato. In the oven. Bake the gato so my friends and I can eat it this afternoon.

Serena (horrified and on the verge of tears at my grandmother's insistence): No! I cannot bake the gato! That's not ok!

(Cat wanders into the kitchen, looking coy and unconcerned about being baked in an oven.)

Serena (pointing to the cat): This gato, Señora? No, I can't bake this gato! Or the other one! I will not bake a gato!

Grandmother (lightbulb coming on over her head): Oh my God! No! No, not a gato! Not a cat! No gato!!!

I'm unsure as to how this scenario ended because my grandmother was always besides herself in gales of laughter by the time she got to this point in the story. She would usually be cackling wickedly, tears running down her face, and completely unable to finish her sentences.

Surely, this kind of thing happens to other people? What false cognate gaffes have you made?

"THANKS FOR THE GRASS, MAN," OR WHY I SHOULDN'T SPEAK SPANISH

2020-07-17T23:20:00.002-05:00

I like to fancy myself a polyglot. I speak French, English, and, I believe I speak Spanish.

The only problem is that others do not always agree with the latter. Actually, I take it back. I can fake a really good Spanish accent and I know a lot of Spanish words (both of these because I speak French), which lulls people into a false sense of security that I can actually understand what they are saying and that I can respond in a meaningful way.

I live in a neighborhood that is half Caucasian Americans and half Mexican-Americans. Many of the wives in the Mexican-American families do not speak English, so I enjoy blithering on in Spanish in the hopes that someone will understand me.

A truly epic moment in my Spanish-speaking career occurred several years back when a Mexican-American family lived in the rental house next door. They were super nice, they had a cute baby, and I liked to chit chat with the husband (John), who spoke fluent English. Occasionally, the wife (Ariana) would come out, and I'd try out a little Spanish since she didn't speak English.

John often mowed my front lawn for me because he knew I lived alone with a little child and because he was a good guy. In exchange, I gave him my son's outgrown baby clothes and car seats and whatever else he and his family could use. Win-win.

One day, I came home to find my lawn nicely mowed. Ariana came out of the house as I was pulling into the driveway, so I decided I would use some of my outstanding Spanish to ask her to thank her husband for mowing the lawn for me.

"Por favor, digas a tu esposo gracias por la hierba," I practiced in the car.

"Por favor, digas a tu esposo gracias por la hierba," I said smoothly and confidently to Ariana.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, "Did this girl just tell her neighbor to thank her husband for the dime bag of weed?" and YOU WOULD BE CORRECT! * That is exactly what I did! **

*Thanks so much for not being there to tell me to shut up.

** Except for the dime bag part... is that even a thing? I think I heard about in a Snoop Dogg song once. I don't know... I went to college and all, but I was a good kid.

Ariana looked at me funny and nodded her head like one would do to a small child, and she slooowwwly backed into her house. Frantically, I gestured to the lawn, but she was gone.

Later, when John came out of his house, I had the good graces to look sheepish as I asked, "I totally thanked your wife for the drugs the other day, didn't I?" and he nodded kind of sadly and was like, "Yeah. Yeah, you did."

And we looked at each other awkwardly, and then he went back in the house.

And that's the end of that.

So, honestly, I'm good at words in Spanish, and I'm pretty good at faking an accent. I now actually have a in minor in Spanish.

I am so good at faking a Spanish accent that once, a now-long-retired administrator from my distant past told me I should be able to teach Spanish (before the minor), and that anyway, Spanish and French are both Romance languages, so it should be an easy switch.

I firmly told him in my head that English and German are both Germanic languages, so can you just teach German since you speak English, Karen?

Anyway, I made another thing (much like my last thing). It's also a color-by-verb-conjugation for big kids, but this time it's an ER verb sheet for Spanish. It's like a color by number and it's available for $2.50 in my Teachers Pay Teachers store (DZ Mars).

I don't even mention illegal substances in it.

♥ HAM-SARDINES AND BROWNIES ♥

2020-07-17T23:15:00.001-05:00

Every once in a while, I come across funny memories from my old journals. Throwback Thursday seems like a good excuse to post those old memories here. This one comes from when my son was 5 1/2.

Dear Child: Mommy, why don't you like brownies that much?

Me: I don't know. I just don't.

Dear Child: But, why? I just need to know: why?

Me: It's just a matter of taste. Why don't you like sardines?

Dear Child: Because the inside is meat.

Me: You like salami. Salami is meat.

Dear Child: I just don't like ham.

Me: Huh?

Dear Child: I don't like ham and the inside of sardines is made of ham.

Me: Um... Sardines are made of sardines and ham is made of pigs. Sardines are fish.

Dear Child: Well, I just don't like the taste of the insides of the sardine, and the looks of the outside, and the gross water of it, okay?

Me: Okay. That makes sense.

Dear child: So why don't you like brownies?

Me: They're too sugary tasting.

Dear child: Okay.

The moral of this story is: never answer a question with another question when you're talking to a kid.

All Y'all Can Just Keep Your Body Fluids to Yourselves

2016-08-04T20:38:00.027-05:00

Sometimes, you leap out of bed in the morning, everything goes your way, and the sun is shining. You feel an overwhelming sense of optimism and practically make everyone around you throw up a little in their mouths because you're so flipping happy.

I know you will be saddened to know this was not one of those days. In fact, it was like every living being in this house decided to gang up against me with body fluids and then laughed as I tried contain the deluge.

DS and I were playing with elastics and carabiners... much more fun than all them fancy toys... when from the depths of the litter box came a strange and sinister sound.

I leapt to my feet, all sorts of 40-year-old, ninja-like grace about me, and dashed to the bathroom to see what was going on.

Usually, I leave a baby gate across the bathroom door, for reasons obvious only to someone who has a dog and or a toddler. Of course, I'd forgotten to gate the door...

Also of course, my dear dog had managed to get the entire front half of his body in the covered litter box and was having a light snack from within its depths.

By the time I'd wrangled Poo-Breath out of the litter box, there was a huge mound of litter (minus poo, count those small blessings) on the little litter-catching mat.

There was also a huge mound of litter in my sweet Doo-Mouth's beautiful ruff, but I chose to ignore this.

Sighing, I barred the door again, much to DS's chagrin... he loves anything tragic that has to do with poo.

In fact, he will run around the yard just so he can shout dramatically, "Mommy!! Poop!! Mommy here! Biiiiiig pooop!" and my job then is to run over with the poop scooper before he tries to touch it, and then I throw it over the back fence into the forest and I'm like a poop-flinging Super Girl.

My strategy for cleaning up the mess included picking up the litter mat and flinging the litter back into the box. The whole process went remarkably well until I got to the part about actually lifting the mat, which, incidentally, was actually the first step.

As soon as I lifted it, I found the floor underneath covered with cat pee. Apparently, though not shockingly, Bad Cat had peed all over the mat and it had gone under there and nicely worked its way (probably) into the grout of the tiles.

Sighing once more (there's a lot of sighing in this story), I threw the mat into the litter box (screw it - that mat stunk like pee for some reason anyway, and hey, it's about time to change the litter box) and went to get some paper towels and some hydrogen peroxide from under the kitchen sink.

At this point, DS had grown disinterested in the poop drama and had gone back to the family room to string elastics on his carabiners. As I headed dejectedly back to the kitchen, his dear voice piped up from behind to coffee table: "Mommy! Mommy, look! Mess! Look, Mommy!"

He held his bare foot up in the air at an angle I have not been able to produce since I was in Tae Kwon Do at age 12. From his foot dripped some sort of slimy bile I identified as being either the dog's or the cat's vomit (my bets are on the dog, being as he'd just eaten a load of poo).

DS dipped his foot back into the slime and kind of slid it back and forth, making a sickly "thup-swup-thup-swup" type of noise that made my breakfast want to pay me a second visit.

My only recourse at this point was to holler helpful things such as, "No! Stop! Do NOT put your foot down!! Hold it up! Hold your foot high up in the air!!"

DS dutifully did so while I ran back into the kitchen, got the roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of vinegar water (does that even actually disinfect anything? I needed Lysol and bleach mixed together, but I doubt the sanctimommies would have approved of me using that on my child's foot).

I sprayed his foot and the floor with the dubiously-antibacterial mixture of vinegar and water and swabbed it all up using copious amounts of paper towels (foot first, then floor. Duh).

At this point, it should have been the end of the story, except I then decided I realllly just needed to get this all taken care of and I had to clean the litter box, too.

So I dragged the litter box into the garage, took the lid off, and proceeded to clean it. DS came out to inspect and to check for any pieces of poop I might have missed. I went to grab the bag of litter and when I turned back around, DS was adorably sliding his hands around the inside walls of the (not-sanitized) litter box.

I sloooowly instructed him to remove his hands from the litter box and to not touch his face... for the love of God, kid.... don't touch your face!!! as he looked at me with a confused expression and said in a very sweet voice, "What, Mommy? What?"

Then, he ran his hands across his entire face: mouth, eyes, and then ended by accidentally getting one of the fingers stuck in his nose.

I whisked him off to wash his hands and to have him drink a shot of Listerine (jk, jk... I did not make my kid drink Listerine, settle down, geez).

Finally, I finished cleaning the litter box.

"That is the end of the my story," as my students like to say to end their papers. Thankfully, nothing else happened.

EDIT:

Lies. More lies. Of course something else happened. I also stepped in dog poop in my flip-flops later on in the yard.

Also, Good Cat tried to bat down a wasp and got his paw stung and it swelled to twice its size and the vet told me to give him Chlore-Trimeton, so I had to go buy some of that and then finagle the pill down his throat. But I don't even want to get into that.

Life: 6, Mo: 0

On adopting babies and such...

2016-07-19T08:00:00.014-05:00

If you have been following this blog for a while, you may wonder why there was a huge long pause and then suddenly I came back and there was a toddler in my stories. As most of you know, I was, in my other life, previously a single dog lady with a side-helping of cats.

All of a sudden, fate threw me a curveball and life changed in every way.

Now, I am also (I still have aforementioned dog and cats) a single adoptive mother of a splendid baby boy, who is actually now a toddler. It was a private adoption and I will spare the lad's privacy by not telling you the circumstances surrounding it, but suffice it to say it was a huge life change. The lad, whom, for the time being, I referred to as "Meatloaf" due to his gargantuan size (he was 22 lbs. at less than 6 months), was born in December 2013 and came home from the hospital with me.

People's reactions varied to the news, but mostly, everyone sweetly said things like, "Holy (expletive), M! You (expletive) adopted a child!" and other endearing nothings of that nature.

The most common reaction, though, happened something like this:

Person: Hey, M, what's new?
Me: Well, I adopted a baby.
Person: A baby? Like...umm... a baby dog? Like a puppy?
Me: No, like a little boy baby.
Person: A boy puppy? What did you name him? Is he neutered yet?
Me: Like a human boy baby. He's not neutered.
Person: Holy (expletive), M! You adopted a (expletive) child!"

This happened far more often than one would imagine. And even though I have been known to cuss like a sailor, my eardrums were pretty much seared from all the F-bombs I heard in those early weeks during which I suddenly announced to the world that actually, I'd had a baby living with me for a few weeks already.

Because it was the middle of winter in the midwest (the worst winter since 1979, so they say) and because I have a dog, I would put my darling Meatloaf (who was actually a mere Porkchop at the time) inside a sling inside a special "babywearing coat" which cost somewhere between 175 and eleventy billion dollars, zip him under there good, and go cross the tundra to let the dog tinkle.

One of my neighbors spotted me and my bulging (is it just me, or does that word always sound naughty??) coat, and the conversation started anew. Except this time, when I mentioned I had a baby in my coat, my neighbor expressed her doubts. She actually asked me to open my coat and show her the baby, which I did, mostly because I was kinda stunned.

At this point, she peered into my coat, spotted DSS's baldish head and said, "No (expletive) way! Are you kidding me!? You totally stuck a doll in there! Right?!"

Let me tell you something... I am quite confused as to how it is believable that I am crazy enough to walk around with a doll in a 179 thousand dollar, gold-lined baby-wearing coat trying to trick hapless neighbors into thinking I adopted a baby, faking my glassy-eyed "I-haven't-slept-in-4-weeks" look," but apparently it would not be believable that I had actually adopted a baby (the kind that you don't have to neuter).

My most favoritest adoption story happened when a lady from the bank came to refinance my condo. As she worked, she asked questions about Dear Sweet Son and about his adoption. Now, at this point, I had already told her that he was currently eight months old and that he had been with me since he was born.

As he sat on my lap, cooing, laughing, and drinking his bottle, she looked at me, perplexed, and queried helpfully, "Wow! He really seems to like you! Do you think he knows who you are?"

Cricket... cricket...

Umm, well, sheesh... I sure hope so... I have changed almost every diaper and filled every bottle since the day he was born. It would be shockingly bizarre if he woke up every morning and thought, "Well, who the flippin'-flop is this lady?!"

A few minutes later, she asked me if his adoption was the kind where "you don't have to return him, or the kind where he has to go back." I'm really not certain where she got her adoption information, but the textbook she used clearly leaves a lot to be desired....

I think at one point, every adoptive parent has heard something similarly odd (or they have very nice, tactful, well-informed friends). Because my son looks like me and acts like me, few people question a biological relationship. But as soon as anyone finds out we are related by adoption, it is generally only a matter of time before interesting questions and comments begin.

And I don't see that ending anytime soon

A delayed welcome to my Fries with Mayo World, little (aherm...) Meatloaf!

This article was republished here on Scary Mommy.

-----------------------------------------------

Attention: Non-humorous stuff ahead!

Below is a link to the super-high-tech Suse's Kinder Coat / Kindercoat babywearing / baby-wearing coat I used with my Meatloaf Baby. This is a phenomenal coat and every new parent should have one. You can carry your baby on your back, your front, and even on your hips under this coat. It can be a light fleece, a windbreaker, or a heavy winter coat. Contrary to what I stated above, it is not actually lined with gold.

This is an affiliate link, which means that for every purchase you make through the link, I receive a small percent of the revenue, at no added cost to you.

Suse's Kinder Deluxe Babywearing Coat

3 in 1 Jacket for Men and Women (Large, Black)

Do Pets Prepare You for Children? Yes. Yes, they do.

2016-07-17T14:45:00.004-05:00

One of the good things about being a pet owner before being a parent is that you get the opportunity to sometimes practice with parenting tools, such a cabinet locks, ahead of time.

Now, you might make a guess that the dog would get into the trash or something, or maybe into the pantry cupboard, and this is why I would need the cabinet locks, but you would be wrong.

Luckily for me, Bad Cat is about as bright as a sack of rocks... or maybe a sack of broken light bulbs, because we know how bright those are.

Unfortunately, Good Cat is blessed with above average cat intelligence and can open all cabinet doors using strange combinations of head banging and paw flipping. This in itself would not be a problem if a) he didn't open the linen closet and b) Bad Cat didn't love to pee on linens.

So anyway, cabinet locks. Yay.

Good Cat, as I've previously mentioned, has a splendid and hearty appetite, especially after he has indulged in a good hit of catnip.

One day, I came home from work to find Good Cat missing and Bad Cat looking decidedly put out. After much searching of rooms, I decided perhaps I should check all the cabinets and closets, and I started with the kitchen since it seemed like as good a place as any.

Upon opening the trash can cabinet, I found a rather repugnant sight.

There was "Good" Cat, lying belly up inside the trash can, a chicken bone underneath his crossed paws, and a few pieces of chicken skin strewn across his shiny coat.

And no, I am not saying "shiny" in a complimentary way because he was shiny in the same way that Fat Bastard was in the eyeball-searing scene in one of the Austin Powers movie, the one where he (Fat Bastard) is lying in bed wearing not much except turkey grease and snaggle-toothed smile.

Now before you panic about sweet, soft kitties and the fact that Good Cat might actually be dead in this story, I want to remind you that he was still mentioned as being alive in my other post, so you should stop fretting.

Good Cat was just seriously bloated, pancreas probably just on the verge of exploding like a water balloon filled with tomato sauce (tomato balloon?), satisfied as all get out, covered in chicken grease-slime, and apparently quite proud of himself.

He didn't even try to fight back as I removed him from the trash can; he was like a 15 lb. sack of nasty, grease-covered, hairy whale blubber.

I had one of my friends come help me set up those little flippy cabinet locks the next day.

For the next week, Good Cat would sidle up to the trash can cabinet hopefully, a lusty gleam in his cat eye, and attempt the paw-flip/head-bang the cabinet open.

It never worked again.

The Truth Comes From the Mouth of Babes, Except When It Doesn't

2016-07-14T20:38:00.002-05:00

They say the truth comes from the mouth of babes. This may be true, except that sometimes, lies also come out of the mouths of babes, and then everyone's so busy believing trite platitudes about the truth that they assume the lies are truths and awkward awkwardness ensues.

This came to play the other day (and several times since) when I went to the wonderful world that is Walmart. Dear Sweet Son was in the cart, charming people with his winning smile as usual, trying to grab energy shots (which we know toddlers need quite much) off the shelves of the checkout line.

As we got the the cashier, DSS decided to woo two middle-aged female employees with his great charms. They succumbed instantly and began cooing over him in broken English (and I say this with love, as someone who spoke broken English for quite some time), patting his bare feet (bare due to the bizarre toddler need to instantly remove all footwear), and patting his adorable buzzcut. He smiled his smile, turned around and directed their attention to the entrance of the bathroom (conveniently located near the register).

He then proceeded to whisper in a winningly-cute shouting sort of tone, a highly important piece of information:

This was a blatant lie. I do not, in fact, poop in the Walmart bathroom. In fact, I cannot think of the last time I pooped in a Walmart bathroom ever, even before he was born.

The two lovely ladies, however, appeared to believe his every word. They looked at me, concerned, as if trying to figure out if they had correctly understood his Frenchly-accented English, looked at me as though to say, "So YOU'RE the one who poops in our bathrooms!?!"

No. No I am not.

I laughed a hearty, devil-may-care laugh, as if to say, "Silly kids! Full of completely nonsensical untrue untruth! Har-dee-har."

In reality, which is what happened outside of my head, I turned a crimson color and stammered, "No! No, I don't go poop there! I've never gone poop in there and I have no idea where he got that idea!"

Meanwhile, my traitorous child repeated this piece of information with an innocent, persuasive look upon his traitorous face. Pointed innocently to the bathroom, eyes wide open. Looked at the two ladies with doe eyes meant to convey he was a pawn, dragged into a public bathroom for my pooping pleasure.

The ladies' bathroom sign taunted me (ok, I realize that in the picture, it slightly resembles an ad for a naughty nightclub of sorts, but it was supposed to convey taunting-ness) as I hustled my little Benedict Arnold out of the Walmart, the two little ladies still staring at us wide-eyed with shock and disbelief.

Lest you think this story stops here, it doesn't. Let me tell you something about Targets and Walmarts and such: their bathrooms are all right by the cash register. Every time we leave the store, my DSS will shout, "Mommy poops here!"

And I still don't.

Not even at Target, which has nicer bathrooms with far less toilet paper on the floor.

Conversations with my toddler

2015-11-01T19:41:00.003-06:00

Conversations with my toddler (B's side approximated by translation)...

B: I would like some tea, Mummy dearest.

M: No you don't. You don't like tea.

B: I want tea.

M: Are you sure?

B: I'm sure. Brew me some, please.

M (brews some tea, adds honey, turns it into a cooler temp, puts in sippy cup, presents to B)

B (with a dismissive wave): No, no. I don't like tea.

...............(elapsed time)..............

B: Banana, please, darling mother.

M: You'd like a banana! Let me get you one! Would you like it peeled or to eat it like a monkey?

B: Monkey-style, dearest mum. That sounds like the most fun!

M: Here you go!

B (takes one bite): Here, Mummy. Here's a banana I got for you!

M: I don't want a banana right now. That one's yours.

B (peels down the banana till the top of it flops over and lands in a pile of cat hair): Oopsies. Your banana fell, Mumsy.

M (picking up the hairy banana chunk): OK. We're just going to put this banana in the compost because *I* don't feel like eating a hairy banana. I'll just eat the small piece that's left there.

B (breaking into sobs): No! No! I WANT that hairy banana! Please, don't throw its battered body away to the compost! Why would you perform such a heinous act!? GIVE ME THE HAIRY BANANA!!!!

M: We are NOT EATING THE HAIRY BANANA!!!!

I hate daylight savings time changes.... time changes matched almost perfectly with a full moon and Halloween.

When cries from within the litterbox call

2013-08-06T22:45:00.003-05:00

In case you don't remember because I hardly ever write here, I have one Good Cat and one Bad Cat. You may remember Bad Cat from this episode. You can rest easy knowing that I accidentally switched back to the brand of deodorant he prefers, and I am once again peeling him daily from his attachment to my armpits.

I digress.

This is actually a very short post.

I have learned over time to psychically predict when Bad Cat is about to pee because he starts to yowl several minutes ahead of time. Lest you decide my cat has a urinary tract infection and start getting all judgy, I will preemptively tell you that you are wrong so that you don't embarrass yourself later. He's fine.

My hordes of friends all know about my cat's weird habits. In fact, when we're in the restaurant and one of my friends has to pee, she will meow loudly in my ear so I exit the booth and let her pass. Or, alternatively, she will meyowl softly in my ear, which is almost not disturbing at all.

Anyway, Bad Cat had just spent a good half hour working up bladder pressure by antagonizing and violating Good Cat after an unfortunate exposure to catnip. When Good Cat smells catnip, he's mellow and craves White Castle. When Bad Cat smells catnip, he gets violent, angry, and amorously lascivious, all at once.

He disappeared to the litter box, and within seconds, I heard the screeching meows beginning. However, unlike in his normal potty excursions, the meowing did not soon stop. Oh no... it increased in both volume and duration. It was soon followed by loud thumping sounds, and then... the meowing became muffled.

Concerned, I decided to go take a look. I came face to face with this disturbing spectacle.

Round and round Bad Cat spun, face buried deeply in his soiled, disintegrated Feline Pine litter pellets. Like a little kitty cat-litter-face-plow, he plunged his head, eyes open, into the piles, the meows a screeching crescendo from the top of his lungs.

There is no deep ending or moral to this story. In fact, I have no flipping clue what he was doing or why he thought it was a good idea.

In fact, I may actually have said, "What the...?" and then dropped the F-bomb. In other fact, his eyes may not even have been bloodshot, for all I know, but I think they were.

Because of the catnip.

Dances With Coyotes: A Public Service Announcement

2013-02-05T21:11:00.000-06:00

I won't waste your time telling you why I haven't written in a million years. No one really cares. So, moving on...

HyperHund and I spend our evening walks in the hunting training grounds located nearby. This is basically a tundra with no windbreaks but plenty of coyotes. This is really fun for us, especially when the sun starts to set and it gets dark and the ice on the lake is cracking and the coyotes are howling from around us in a circular yet invisible formation, and it's all very reminiscent of Simba wandering into the elephant graveyard, except with more coyotes, fewer hyenas, and remarkably few dead elephants.

Our area has been having a minor "coyote problem," with "minor" meaning unprovoked attacks on humans, random eatings of common household creatures, and coyotes trying to break through glass patio doors to reach the aforementioned household creatures.

And yet, tonight, at the hunting training grounds, I saw several cars lined up on the street side, coyotes circling around them, while some random ding-dongs attempted to whistle the coyotes over close to try to lure them to eat delicious snacks from their hands.

I am not sure why they thought this was a good idea. Coyote need to stay afraid of humans. No good can come of luring them over with hot dogs. This reminds me of a story my dad told me in which he saw a family attempting to lure alligators out of the Florida Everglades with pieces of hot dogs held by children. Also not a good idea, if I ever heard one.

Nevertheless.... not a good plan. I imagine one of several things was going on in these people's heads.

a) They fancied themselves in a Disney movie of sorts, perhaps where all the animals were dancing together in harmony, ribbons inexplicably flying through the air, and everyone singing. In this fanciful moment, the coyotes would be prancing along in unbridled glee.

(Yes, I realize the lyrics are incorrect. Focus on the prancing coyote. Cute, huh?)

b) Perhaps they believe that, in feeding the coyotes, they are bonding with them... connecting nature to human... truly bridging the language gap and using almost mystical powers to turn these feral creatures into familiars or totem animals.

I do not want to be the bearer of bad news. I will be, though, because the truth is that the first sentence in this paragraph is actually a lie. I'm fine with breaking the bad news. The fact is, the coyote does not love you, care for you, or want you to domesticate it. Ribbons will not fall from the sky, birds will not help you make your prom dress, no one will sing like Pocahontas.

No. The coyote sees you and your hot dog as one thing, and one thing only:

Don't fool yourself. If the coyote could unhinge his jaw, he would eat you like an egg snake swallows that egg. He might lure you into a sense of security by prancing with you and singing a Disney song first, but make no mistake... you are not his friend. Or maybe you are, but in the same way that bacon is my friend. Incidentally, this should not be reassuring.

Befriending coyotes can only lead to several ends...

The coyote is no longer afraid of people. Then, he will either get shot, get moved, or you'll notice your furry household friends no longer showing up for din-dins...

This has been a public service announcement. Please do not feed or befriend the coyotes. You are not Pocahontas or Dances With Coyotes. No good can come of this. Leave the wildlife alone, and keep your processed meat products to yourself. Thank you for your concern.

From the Archives: Dog peeing in mayo and frothing blood

2011-08-19T09:04:00.004-05:00

Sometimes, for fun and enjoyment, I look in my blogger stats and find out what search keywords led people to my blog. I have come across some interesting ones, such as "dogs that look like sheep," "funny puggle stories and nicknames," etc. But hands down the most disturbing one so far has been... wait for it...

"dog peeing in mayo."

What? WHY? And in case you are lulled into some sense of security thinking that maybe this was some sort of crazy typo someone made, let me inform you that this search string led not one, but two different people to my blog.

This leads me to wonder if there is some subset of people that enjoys watching dogs pee in mayonnaise. That's actually pretty specific, and trying to watch it happen must be pretty un-fulfilling seeing as, oh, it probably hardly ever happens. I suppose it could be carefully staged to happen, but still. Why? (In case you were wondering, I am not going to draw a picture of this, because then whoever was searching for this would actually have found what they were looking for on this blog. Then everyone would come here just to look at a picture of a dog peeing in a jar, or maybe a plate, of mayonnaise.)

Anyway, on a completely related note, I have been walking every morning with my dog and a group of other people, and they all have bully breeds (one also has a particularly ornery pekingese, but that dog mostly stays out of the fray). My dog is the sole shepherd in a group of a boxer, a boxer-mastiff, and a pit bull with a head the size of one of those little school buses. This means that while the bullies are all running around jawing each other and body-slamming, HH is running around them in a circle, helpfully keeping them close together, herding them and barking in a totally-not-annoying way.

You'd think with a group like this in the park, most people would be the least scared of the fuzzy shepherd dog and maybe the most scared of the bus-head pit bull. And they are... at first.

Sadly, my dog does not make a very good first impression.

First of all, he has repeatedly gotten into burr bushes, which led me to shave him and hack out large chunks of tail hair, which then led him to look more like a mange-ridden coyote than an English Shepherd.

Secondly, my little HH has an almost manic obsession with a certain empty field behind the park, so much so, in fact, that my fellow dog walkers have named it his "Field of Dreams." I have to leash him as we walk toward it so he doesn't get there 20 minutes before I do. Then, he pulls on his leash, gagging and grunting in a pathetically valiant effort to get there as soon as possible.

Something about running through the tall grass in a specific field causes him to go into an absolute frenzy. He tears through this field with no apparent purpose, mouth snapping wildly as he rips out long blades of grass, with Bus-Head running behind him, not having a clue why this is fun but suspecting that if HH is doing it, maybe he should be, too.

And then, HH comes out of the field, drenched in dew, eyes bulging from his head, jaws open, tongue out, and mouth frothing with.... blood. Yes. Blood. While Bus-Head, Boxer, and Mastiff Mix are being cute in a giant-cranium, thuggish sort of way, my dog is frothing blood.

You might be thinking at this point that I am a horrible dog owner, but really, the Field of Dreams is to blame. The grass is quite sharp or maybe serrated even, and when HH runs through it, tearing it out as he runs, apparently this lacerates his tongue. Combined with the wet, wild-eyed, mangy coyote look, this really ties the look together in a combination that causes most people to back away from him and straight into a pile of rough-housing bullies.

Who can really blame them? Those dogs just seem safer, at this point.

From the Archives: Adventures in veterinary visits

2011-08-04T22:08:00.003-05:00

So, I have realized several things here. One of these is that drawing pictures for this blog takes so long that I would rather completely avoid posting than having to draw pictures and then edit them and then stick them in this blog. I know that's terrible, because, as you can probably tell, I am a Gifted Artist. That being said, I will probably not put so many pictures up (like maybe one or two per post, or maybe, like, none), and you can make pictures in your head until I feel like drawing. The second thing I have realized is that if you have animals, they will inevitably make you broke with vet bills.

My first recent veterinarian visit occurred about a week ago and involved a dog tongue-laceration. Now, I previously have led you down the road to believing that my dog, though neurotic, is rather intelligent. Apparently, this intelligence does not encompass the knowledge to avoid running around at high velocities with a pointy stick pointing pointily toward, say, the back of one's gullet. In this case, my highly intelligent shepherd dog's gullet. To the untrained eye, this activity may, in fact, seem funtastalicious, but the reality is a bit different.

I realized something was wrong with my dog when he stopped mid-wrestle with the stick, looked at it balefully and backed away from it, then switching the baleful look to me and rolling over to expose his soft underbelly in a motion meant to evoke pity and to psychically imbue me with a feeling that something was very wrong with him. After he refused to play with Squeaky Toy and eat his breakfast, I took him to the vet.

The vet decided to get a good view in Hyperhund's mouth by somehow grabbing his tongue and his nose at the same time, while simultaneously attempting to shove a flashlight into the depths of his maw. After a few attempts, mostly resulting in loud dog gagging sounds followed by trails of drool, the nice doctor suggested she sedate him to get a better look. I reluctantly agreed, though I secretly felt maybe a little happy because that meant I would not have to take HH on his hour walk in the afternoon.

Two hours later, the kindly doctor explained that the dog had a 3" laceration under his tongue, which technically should have required stitches but it was in a bleedy place, so poking needles in there just would not do. I was told to bring HH home and give him antibiotics. Because of all the poking of the tongue, he also now had a tongue water blister so he also got a pain-killer.

All was good. He walked to the car, got in, got back out when we got home, walked in the direction of his bathroom area like he was on a mission to pee, and then kind of stood there, blinking as if trying to decipher what exactly this particular area meant to him. We moseyed back to the house, mission unaccomplished.

I left him there for ten minutes... ten, I swear... alone, while I went to put the neighbor's puggle outside. When I came back, the HH has ensconced himself in his happy place, the tiny space under the coffee table behind which all the tv cables lie. He likes to hide amongst the cables. Perhaps they evoke memories of wilderness and vines; I really don't know. Nevertheless, when I came back, he was ensconced. The problem was not just the aforementioned ensconcement, but also the fact that he was still as loopy as a kid who'd gotten one too many swigs of Nyquil and then been sent for a downhill tricycle ride. Not pretty.

I could not get him out.

I tried coaxing, pulling his front end, shoving his paws through loops of cables, but no. Ensconced he remained, glassy-eyed and confused. Lest you wonder why I am so feeble-minded as to not think about unplugging the flipping cables, I would like to tell you that the cables go behind bookshelves, around corners, and have all sorts of other technical difficulties.

And lest you don't believe me, I would like to include this incredibly pathetic photograph, which I think truly captures the moment well, better than I could even draw it:

See? How much more pathetic can you get than that? That's so sad I almost didn't post it. Note the doped-up face and the cables around his body. So tragic.

You'll be happy to know that I did eventually get him out unscathed (both of us).

I was going to write about my cats' vet visit in this post, too, but I feel too emotionally vulnerable from the sadness of the above picture. I'll probably post that in another year or so if I remember it.

From the Archives: Following Directions, Part 2: Bunny-Petting

2011-01-25T21:23:00.007-06:00

For those of you who have read this blog before, you may have been wondering why a) I haven't been writing, and b) why there was a blog in July entitled "Following Directions, part 1," and there has been no part two. In reference to question a) the grade schoolers are sucking the very life from my veins, and in reference to question 2) here you go. HA! Caught you! Pay attention! That was supposed to be b), not 2).

Now, being Foreign, my family has always had a strange relationship with our pets, such as eating them in a stew, for example, as was the case with our pet bunnies when I was a wee lass back in the old country. Needless to say, it was quite devastating and I have spent years trying to make up for this by being a Friend to Rabbits.

You may remember the epic beginning of my relationship with Ernesto. I'm sad to say things did not improve from there on out. After our hot date to a hospital in a cornfield, we decided to stick to a hee-haw theme by going to the County Fair, which is just about my favorite place in the world because I can eat funnel cakes, pat pigs, and go feed baby goats (who usually end up trying to eat my hair) all in one afternoon.

Ernesto and I wanted a romantic afternoon of gazing into each others' eyes and patting cute farmland mammals while whispering sweet nothings into each others' ears over the dull roar of people in spandex and denim combinations shoving food into their mouths and buying cowboy boots to look more westernish. It was going to be awesome.

Okay. This is actually a very short story that I am dragging out because teaching grade school has changed my idea of what is funny from actually funny stuff to fart jokes. Nevertheless, what is coming up is not a fart joke.

Ernesto and I walked into the rabbit and goose tent, where I was instantly drawn to the rabbits. I have always felt a sense of kinship with the rabbits, since, you know, I ate my rabbit half-brothers and essentially made them part of me. Ew.

I raced around between the cages, making cooing noises which are supposed to lead guys I am dating to believe that I have kind maternal instincts and am not the type to, say, eat my pets.

We arrived in front of the cage of a particularly handsome specimen of rabbit, which had a silky gray coat and very soft, velvety-looking ears. He looked at me through the bars, communicating with me with his liquid brown eyes.

I felt as though I were a Wabbit Whisperer. I knew his soul. I knew that I must reach between those bars and give him the love he so richly deserved.

Well. Clearly this was an unfortunate and unexpected turn of events, but I was not one to let obstacles stand between me and my rabbit-kin.

I surreptitiously stuck my fingers between the bars and buried them deeply into my rabbit-hermanito's coat, mentally changing my name to "Dances With Rabbits," and thumping my hind leg in a sort of bonding ritualistic dance.

Yeah. Let me tell you something about rabbits. Apparently, someone neglected to tell me that when they are frightened and unneutered, as, incidentally, this one was, they are well-equipped with a self-defense mechanism.

They can apparently power-blast their urine.

No, I am not making this up. And on this 95 degree afternoon, while wearing a thin white shirt, I became the victim of rabbit urine-blasting. My brother-rabbit turned around in a tight circle, aimed his rear end at me, and sprayed me with so much pee that I one could logically assume I'd been the victim of a drive-by horse power-peeing instead.

The next moments were unbearably pathetic. I shudder to recount them, even now ten years later. I burst into tears, standing there in a dripping yellowed shirt, shoulders heaving.

The guys who owned the rabbits simultaneously burst into hysterical laughter, and one of them kindly procured a 4" by 4" wet wipe, which he handed to me and laughed even more loudly as I tried to use it to wipe down my shirt front.

Stupid 4-H kids. Pillars of the community, future farmers of America, my rear end. Those kids are bad eggs.

Bring on the stewpot.

From the Archives: Puggle

2010-08-16T23:03:00.004-05:00

Most nights of the week, I take care of my neighbor's puggle. It's a nice arrangement: I take out the puggle when neighbor's at work, neighbor takes out the HyperHund while I'm at work. We have a deep and meaningful relationship.

If you are not familiar with puggles, you are missing out.

Puggles are touted as expensive "hybrid" dogs, which makes them sound like they run on bio-fuel (which, if you count goose poop as bio-fuel, they do), but it really means they are mixes of two dogs who should never ever be allowed to suggestively bat their eyelashes at each other.

Don't get me wrong... the puggle is great. But a puggle is the result of a carefully-thought out planned mating between a dog whose main goal in life is to sit on laps, snort and eat (pug) to a dog whose main goal in life is to sniff things and then see if they fit in his mouth (beagle).

The result is a cute, floppy eared dog that sometimes snores, spends a lot of its time obsessively trying to ingest various substances left lying around the house, and has a marked propensity toward gaining weight.

For the sake of this puggle's anonymity, I shall call him Raffles. Actually, the real reason for this is that Raffles is a really outstanding name, especially for a puggle, and if I owned a puggle, which I will actually not probably ever do, I would totally have to name him Raffles.

Raffles knows a really large amount of cool tricks, if a really large amount equals two. He is extremely gifted at sitting on command.

If he happens to be running across a field, one could cry out "Sit, Raffles, SIT!" and he would drop into an insta-sit, with his mouth slightly open in case "sit" actually meant "sit and I will give you a microscopic piece of edible or possibly inedible but still stinky something as a reward."

Raffles's owner also taught him to shake hands to the command "paw paw." In order to obtain a treat, Raffles must sit and give paw-paw. He is really REALLY good at giving paw-paw.

The problem with this is that Raffles has applied the paw-paw method to every single occasion at which he suspects a piece of food may be directed toward his mouth.

If, say, I haven't washed all hints of dinner smells off my hands with Lysol and Clorox and I lean down over Raffles to put on his leash, he deduces that I may perhaps be contemplating the idea of giving him a little edible something and he commences paw-pawing.

By this, I mean he starts to windmill his paw repeatedly in some kind of hyperspeed high-five action that doesn't stop until food enters his mouth. When my brother was a kid, he had this action figure where you flicked a lever on its back up and down and the arm whacked up and down in a punching mechanism; this is Raffles.

But really... with the action figure, it stops when you stop flicking. Raffles does not stop.

Once, when I was still under the mistaken impression that I could train some understanding into Raffles, I reached down to put on his collar, and he began to paw-paw with great vigor. I decided to open my hand and leave it there, waiting for Raffles to eventually stop when it dawned on him that I had nothing and was not going to move until he was Calm and Submissive.

You may be thinking how similar I am to the Dog Whisperer.

Haha! Two minutes later, I had scratches up and down my arm that needed to be washed with peroxide. Raffles was still flailing in the ecstatic throes of paw-paw and was neither Calm nor Submissive. Now, you may be thinking, wow, that Raffles sure isn't bright, or you might also be thinking, wow that Mo sure is a hamburger short of a Happy Meal to leave her hand there for that long...what a fool.

You would be correct on the latter.

Raffles and the HyperHund have a uniquely disturbing way of playing together. There is a very specific pattern they follow every time they play together.

First, bigger HH will coyly sidle up to little Raffles, and invitingly place his PG13 parts in Raffles's face in a friendly sort of play invitation. Raffles instantly becomes intrigued and starts sniffing this new and wonderful offering as if it had never been presented thusly to him before.

Fired up with the intensity of the game, the two will race around the room, with HH barking loudly in a high pitched, non-manly way. The more excited he gets by the game, the higher his voice gets, until eventually it cracks like that of an adolescent boy, if that adolescent boy were going to, for some inexplicable reason, start barking.

Then, in a disturbing but inevitable turn of events, Raffles will latch on to HH's face and...well... start doing stuff I really can't describe without blushing. He will do this for minutes at a time, and HH just stands there, blinking his assailed eyeballs and looking kind of confused, but not really trying to escape.

Eventually, HH feels distracted and runs forward, at which point Raffles kind of turns while still latched on to HH's head and begins running sideways on his back legs. This is followed by more pre-pubescent barking noises.

Then, the whole process repeats itself, sometimes ten or fifteen times in a row.

Apparently, this never gets boring for them.

Puggle = Awesome.

From the Archives: Craig's List Pets Section

2010-08-13T11:20:00.005-05:00

You know how you see those bored housewife type characters in t.v. shows, and they're always reading trashy romance novels or watching soap operas?

That's me, except that instead of soaps or romance novels, I faithfully read the Craig's List pet section every day, several times a day. Why? I'm not sure. I already have two cats and a dog. Getting another dog would effectively reduce the chance of my ever getting married to about .5% while raising my chances of becoming a dog soccer mom to 99.9%.

While occasionally I do come across some awesome English Shepherd dogs, I have found that most people breeding dogs and selling the pups have awesome creative writing skills. This leads to some fabulous ads, of which I will now share the highlights. (Please go to the bottom if you cannot decode these.*)

Gotti Line Blue Baby Pet Bulls: $400. Excellent with kids, dogs, and other animals. Very playful.

Purebred Sharpies: $250. Super cute and love to be held.

Mini Datsun: I must rehome my mini datsun. He makes too much noise and I can't have him in my small apartment.

Miniture Pitcher: Rehoming my 8 week old miniture pitcher. $300 obo to good home only.

Sherman Shepherds: AKC registered, father is from working line, $500

While the ad itself is not that hilarious, you'd think if you were selling AKC anything from excellent lines, you'd know how to correctly write the name of the breed.

Baby Shiatsu: Baby shiatsus are now available.

( shiatsu = forceful, deep tissue massage. Therefore, baby shiatsus = bad idea)

Rock Waller: I need to rehome my two year old Rock. He is black and tan very muscular and very pertective. He his too big for my apartment now and needs a backyard.

(This one did take me a while to figure out, by the way.)

Labor Doddle: Great with kids, cute face, 65 lbs.

(I thought and thought, but I had no idea how to illustrate this one. It's hilarious, but it's hard to pinpoint why. It just is. Trust me.)

Then, we have a host of ads for a family of small dogs. We have chigugas, tea-cup chigwagwas, chihuhas, chiwawas, apple-head chiguhas, etc. I think these dogs are all related...

The saddest thing on Craig's List, though, is the large amount of lost dogs listed there. These dogs are always found "wondering around" and are always very "skiddish." If I had to guess, I would think they are probably wondering why they keep skidding so much. That just can't be comfortable.

* blue pit bulls, purebred shar pei, miniature dachshunds, miniature pinschers, German Shepherds, baby shih tzus, rottweiler, labradoodle, chihuahuas, wandering, skittish