spiderman shirts matter tremendously.

The one Jack owns is imperative.  He must be clad in it.  At. All. Times.  Even if it smells like urine, because when he sat down on the toilet on Friday to pee, he forgot to lift the lid, and the shirt soaked up some of the pee, the rest of which spilled all over the toilet lid and down the sides and cascaded onto the floor.  Caleb didn't wash it yesterday (he did ALL of the laundry while I was at a trade show for a bunch of girl scouts while representing the ski resort I'm working for and - oh, my dear baby jesus, that's its own blog post which I'm considering, very delicately, the writing of - possibly today.  We'll see; because, as you and I both know, LIES: I TELL THEM), but this shirt remained unwashed, because this shirt, with its flashing, battery-operated flashy-thingy that emits red flashes beneath a plastic image of le spidey, must be cleaned - very delicately.  Maybe I'll try to wash it AND write the girl-scout post all at the same time.  Then I may possibly bring the proper amount of care to both requirements. 

But probably not.

He's insisting it's fine, now, though, in the meantime, because it's *dry*.  Never mind that it smells of urine.  No matter.  That the urine is no longer wet is all he's concerned with.

 

*raises eyebrow*

p.s. We got a kitten last week.  I wanted to name it something literary or possibly after one of my jazz heroes (I was kind of hoping for Webster, after Ben Webster, whose tenor sax is a dream and I wish my record player worked because I have this double album of his that melts me and, oh, why am I starting down *this* path?  I'm not.  'Bye, path.  Leaving.  Jazz begone!  *poof*).  Somehow, Buster came up and then I quickly went with Dickens, because a.) he's a little Dickens, and b.) I love Dickens.

Buster has remained.  Even our attempts to sway Jack with the alluring sounds of the name Dexter (after Dexter Riley, one of my favorite all-time childhood Disney character favorites; please tell me you remember any of them?  The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes; Now You See Him, Now You Don't; The Strongest Man in the World?  No?  *Sigh*) did not work.  (Also, Dexter's Lab was good and I wouldn't have minded naming a kitty after such a mischievously adorable cartoon child whose accent I very much enjoy abusing whenever I think to do so.  Alas, 'tis not to be.)

But the two gold fish we bought when we got Buster (see?  Slowly growing accustomed) have, sadly, passed into that long night.  May their water be less murky and poopful than it was here on Earth.  Sleep well, little fishes.  Sorry 'bout that whole *really brief existence* business.

p.s. Caleb just called from the store where's he's busily buying those canned cinnamon rolls for me because I begged indolently for them because I am a disgusting, spoiled monster, *this* is a hell of a sentence so far, ain't it?, to tell me that he did, in fact, wash the Spiderman shirt of great importance.

Oh.

Comments

[Kyla]

KayTar has the same relationship with her fleece footsie hearts pajamas. They are the only ones that will do.

[magpie]

Washed successfully without destroying the delicate inner workings? Good man.

[Lotta]

Ah yes. We have one of those too.

[Mary]

The idea of you with a little kitten makes me so happy for some reason!!

[bea]

Where? Are? The pictures? Of the kitten?

[nonlineargirl]

Rather that have canned cinnamon rolls again, next week come to our neighborhood and we'll walk to the donut shack. It has a window with step for children to peer in and see the inner workings of a donut-making shack.

Plus, fresh hot donuts = delicious.

[hoppytoddle]

Impressive! Dad who doesn't operate under the "if I do it wrong, I'll never be expected to do it again" theory? Amazing!

Thankfully MiniMe has a few different favorite clothing options so I can rotate. She's happily wearing her Obama shirt today. Yay!

& I have to say that's it's completely unfair that you can eat those cinnamon rolls & not be a size 22.

[hoppytoddle]

& I completely love the name Buster. Great tongue-in-cheek opportunities. At least tell us what he looks like.

[Gwen]

We had a cat named Buster. He was deranged. Truly. The vet tried to put him on human anti-depressants, to the tune of $60/month (this was 10 years ago; imagine how much that'd cost now!). They did not help.

I hope your Buster is much happier and better behaved than ours.

(I didn't just jinx you, did I? NO, I DID not, because I have no power.)

[Lily]

*I* had a cat named Buster, too. He was rescued from the local humane society. Sadly, he felt it necessary to NOT use his box at times. Also when those times happened he felt it necessary to use MY BED.

But no, really, other than that he was an AWESOME cat. I just couldn't shake the murderous rage the built up when he would do that, so I had to return him.

[cynematic]

The Unreliable Narrator has light-up Superman jammies. There is nothing so adorable as seeing him asleep with the magic red pulsating light flickering in the dark. (But then again as his mama, I am programmed to believe that.)

Maybe the cloth retains the pee smell? Some synthetics are weird that way, and the Superman jams, at least, are some sort of evil witch's brew of modern nylon technology.

Congratulations (??) on the kitten. Let the child be the one to exhaust the kitten and vice versa. :)