i obsess.

Authoritize.

Tonight at dinner, while my husband and I discussed details of a matter between himself and a person with whom he and his company does business, Jack tried to join in as often as possible.  Finally, he informed his father, in clear terms, that he should write a letter, and what it should say.  I couldn't help taking the dictation.  (I'm a born secretary.  Don't question it.)

Here's the letter:

Hey!  Man!

You are not being nice.  You are not the Captain of anyone.  You are just a man.  You are not the King.  Stop acting like the King of the Wizards.  Please don't act like a mean old wicked Wizard.

Signed out by Jack.

I had to keep kicking my partner under the table to keep a straight face while reading the letter back to its author.  I failed at getting all the way through it without laughing, I'm ashamed to admit.  After all, he composed the thing with sincerity.  Who am I to criticize, even find humorous, such good intentions?

Toy Story 3: After Which, I Am Left a Beautiful Wreck.

No spoiler in the title of this post for the film, unless you *haven't* seen the trailer, in which case, see the trailer, and then all will be made clear (the spoiler, yes, is that Andy, the kid from the original film, leaves for school as a grown-up boy).  My heart was smashed in the process of watching a little boy grow up and leave for college.  Smashed and made whole and smashed again.  And cycled.  But I didn't come here just now to tell you about the movie.  Instead, I must report on the viewing experience, *my* viewing experience of Toy Story 3.

Some background is required.

Toy Story was the first truly beloved Pixar film in our house.  Before my kiddo was born, my brother, in the Nineties, loved Toy Story.  He collected several film posters, which were all left behind with the rest of his things when he removed himself to crazy-people-who-hang-about-under-bridges lands.  My parents, when my son was very small, asked if we'd like to have the blue-and-white-clouded homage to Woody and Buzz art from the collection of posters.  I said, oh, lordy, yes, because Jack was already besotted with those two.  In fact, the only things we gave him for his second birthday were the Woody, Jesse, Buzz and Bullseye dolls I spent much time earning on ebay in advance of the day.  He was mad about them, too.  Still is.  Still plays with each of them.  Ironically, though we've been to Disneyland three times since he began his idolization of Woody, we have yet to encounter him.  Well, not entirely true.  The second trip brought us face-to-face with Woody and Jesse but the line for photos had been closed only a moment before we discovered them.  Disappointing, but we figure we have lots of times left to find Woody and get some photos with his kindly yellow-plaid Sherriff's arm draped about our kiddo's shoulder.  (And honestly, we were thrilled on our last trip to find both Buzz *and* Jesse and get some snaps.  And by we, I DO NOT ACTUALLY MEAN ME.  Please know that I haven't lost my mind to that extent.  Jack was the happy one.  I was only glad to participate in his excitement.  You believe me, right?

*sigh*)

So this movie.  I cried for about the first ten minutes, give or give ten + more minutes.  SHUT. UP.

It's good.  I know you've heard about the positive reviews on rottentomatoes.com.  WE ALL HAVE, LADY IN THE THIRD ROW OF THE THEATRE WHO WAS PROUD TO KNOW THINGS THAT GO ON ON THE INTERNET.

*ahem*

(The lady in the third row wasn't, in case you were wondering, me.  Probably.)

So after I got through crying and focused on the moment, because I did a quick mental check and realized I was doing what I already do in life, I focus so hard on how it will end and how I need to be prepared to feel about the ending I forget to be here, now, living it.  I kind of feel like I'm not alone, here, with this manner of dealing with how life comes at us, tsunami-style, but it's something I'd like to change nonetheless.

Then -- the movie.  The improvement on the art alone is worth the price of entry.  The story is, well, it's Pixar.  You need feel no less trust in their ability to take your heart and shine it up and then drive a freight train over it and then lovingly kiss and clean it and shine it back up again, good as new, no, BETTER, than you ever have had before.  

THEN I kept having to shush Jack.  He was randomly talking VERY VERY UNQUIETLY during the film.  At first I simply said, babe.  We need you to whisper if you have something to say.  But his stage-whispers shook the seats, they were so ALSO UNQUIET.  After a few repetitions of the whisper-requests, I simply started to say, also in not-so-quiet whispers, WE DON'T TALK DURING THE MOVIE.  But then, he said one thing more, one last statement, and -- I thought about it.  His comment was a reference to the film's action taking place.  After I shushed him, I heard, *really heard* his sentence.  It broke through.  It wasn't "MAY I HAVE PLEASE HAVE SOME MORE LICORICE PLEASE" and it wasn't "I DON'T WANT ANY MORE WATER THANK YOU" and it wasn't "I HAVE TO GO POTTY DADDY/MOMMY."  It was (and here I am refusing to spoil with recognizable plot line references) a comment on what was taking place in the film.  And he said it loud.  Not because, I slowly realized, he had forgotten to whisper. 

He was trying to reassure himself that everything was going to be okay.

After that, I took his hand and I said, "babe, everything is going to be okay.  Remember, Woody and Buzz and Jesse and Bullseye and the others are all smart and awesome and they love each other and they're GOING to BE OKAY."  (Guess who felt better after hearing that.  It wasn't the child whose ears were the objective of the statement.  *points with thumbs at self*)

Then I held his sweaty paw and we watched.  It got kind of scary, I suppose, if you're a little kid.  I mean, it *definitely* got scary if you are a little kid whose parents haven't let you see the Wizard of Oz yet, or even the old-school Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  (We are NOT that overprotective.  We're just waiting until we know he can handle seeing those images and still sleep that night and for the rest of the week's worth of nights after *that*.  What.  Okay.  We *might* be a little overprotective.  Of our nighttime rest.  IT'S JUST WE REALLY LIKE SLEEP.  DO.NOT.JUDGE.US.)  It's a wild ride.  A great, exhilarating, thrilling, SCARY wild ride.  During the most intense part I took Jack onto my lap and held him close while he sobbed and shook.  I wanted to be a part of the action for my own sake, in that moment, but I wanted more to care for him while he rode out the difficulty of it.  I let go of my own needs, my own desires, in that moment.  And cried harder than he did again at the end when I was still holding him and Andy was saying goodbye and leaving, though Jack sobbed quite surprisingly hard in his own right.

(It was also interesting and eye-opening and heart-saddening to think of my brother while I watched, because I know he loved the original Toy Story and I can't help thinking of his having left boxes of things at my parents' house, never to be reclaimed.  I would give anything to pass that poster on to *his* child.  A child I know won't ever exist.  So -- that's pretty sad.  It's also comforting, somehow, to know that at least I have the child who loves those films.  And that my brother can take some random, unknowing comfort in his presence on Earth fractalized and carried on by my kid.  Jeff, if you ever read this -- yeah.  That.)

And all of these epic revelations and epiphanies, it's because of a Pixar movie.  The Toy Story 3 film.  The one that took me beyond myself. 

If a movie can do that, uh, yeah.  It's a pretty good movie.  Go see it.

pictures make up for lost time, right?

If I distract you with some nice pictures, you'll like me better, you'll grow a new layer of fondness for me, you'll not be bothered by my inconsistencies and my lack of focus, you won't mind my irritating habit of shearing my mental wool and spreading it out across this page in a wild tumble of fuzzy verbal disarray, you'll be nice to me still and you won't hint to me by word or grimace or oh-so-slightly-raised brow that I have underwhelmed you at any given point in our acquaintance.

You'll take me into your arms and embrace me and be glad I'm alive, glad I made it through the rain, Barry-style, won't you.

   

Camping self-portraits are such a rite of passage.  At least the camping part.  For, indeed, we finally gave Jack his first encounter with tent-sleeping.  Explaining the mechanics of houses-without-indoor-plumbing is so ridiculously inferior to simply experiencing it, after all.

Check out the fish we ate for dinner after we got back from a four-hour tour of the lake via canoe:

And while you might be on the point of assuming we caught it ourselves, you're nearly right; we caught it once it had been aimed at us from another guy's boat, where the five, yes, FIVE fish he tossed at us had been formerly languishing, because he hadn't caught any terribly large ones, and he was at his limit, prevented by the rules from the REALLY big score, so we were helping him by taking those into our boat (and, subsequently, our bellies). 

They were delicious.  They tasted like fresh air and sin.

 

 

(Caleb cleaned them, laid them on a piece of foil, placed thin-sliced apples and heaps of butter slabs and hefty douses of salt and pepper over and in and around them, wrapped them in the foil and laid them over the fire to cook for somewhere between thirty and forty-five minutes, then pulled them off when the butter and juice began to forge its way out of the packet.)

 

This is Jack, before we got into our canoe.  He was kind of excited to venture onto the lake.

 

This is the cabin where the life vests are stored.  It reminded me of a J Crew catalog.  Without the fashion juxtaposed against the rustic colors.  Just raw and pink and faded.

See?  Those vests are begging for a lanky, sun-kissed poser to drape herself across the log for perspective.  They'd be so perfectly offset.  PLEASE KNOW I'M SORT OF KIDDING.

I mean, I am.  Sort of.

And I may have coaxed Jack to interact with the all-wood Bigfoot, but it was worth it for the resultant photos.

 

I kept insisting that he find out what that guy's deal was.  Naturally, he repeated me in parrot fashion.  HEY!  GUY!  WHAT'SYOURDEALMYMOMWANTSTAKNOW?  GUY!  HEEYYY!

Mom, he seems to be saying, I don't think that guy's gonna tell me what his deal is.

Caleb and I were unsure as to who to pitch to sponsor this series of photos; Coleman stoves?, Fat Tire Ale? (now!  IN CANS!), or The Agencies Who Represent Small Children That Stand and Mold the Disagreeable Faces of Old People Who Resist Smiling Unless the Hands of the Small Children Are Involved in the Manipulating of Said Disagreeable Faces.  See?  It's a true conundrum.  Bet you're stumped, too.

Or we could skip straight to a strategic pitch to Hansen's Junior Juice, a high favorite among the nearly-five set in our family, and beautifully featured in the above photo.  Sigh.  Hansen's, you're scoring free ad-space this time.  *shakes fist uselessly*

We didn't forget it was Memorial Day Weekend.  None of us are much for war, but that in no way interferes with our deep appreciation, admiration and respect for those who are willing to sacrifice all to protect us and our way of life.  Thank you, active and veteran troops and your families.

Remy the Rat is the only welcome rodent in our camp.  All others, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The fish was scrumptious.  Totally worthy of desert.

Which he decided he didn't like.  Too burned for his palate.  He preferred to eat pale, raw marshmallows straight from the bag.  Shocking, I know.

But -- where's the rain, Debbie?  Where's this mysterious, supposed rain, you ask?

 

Let me assure you:  it came.  We managed to ensconce ourselves in our tent just after it began, and it commenced to rain for twelve solid hours.  I know this because I was awake for most of it.  We packed up and were on the road toward Hood River by 7 a.m., because that was when the tent finally quit holding the rain outside and began allowing liberal amounts of water to drip onto us inside.

But we survived.  Rain isn't enough to scare us away.  Not for good, anyway.

minimal effort posting.

The dark-chocolate trim pops nicely against the new house color, I (would like to) think.  I'm a little bowled over by the fact that close to a G in paint and supplies for the overall job didn't really do much; it wasn't until the addition of the $12 can of trim paint and three dark brown plants placed in front of the window, at $8 per, came into play, making the entire effect pop beautifully.  I mean, damn.  $36 to blow it all up.  That's crazy.  But somehow always the way things work in design.  Accents!  Accents are key!  Or whatever.

I really dig the reddish mulch (we just tried one bag for effect, and will throw the rest on tomorrow night, in advance of the appraiser's visit on Thursday - curb appeal, or so they say, counts).  I don't generally thrill at reddish mulch; it reminds me too much of the pain of angry barkdust splinters from childhood days.  But this does so well because our chimney has remained true brick red, and requires a little color balance to pull it into the other elements.  I can't wait to see how the mulch will look around the new plants below the front window.

Caleb shaved Jack's head on Saturday, in hopes of staving off massive heat discomfort (our a/c quit on us on Thursday afternoon, just as the heat wave really got underway; our spoiled asses did NOT know what to do with the 89 degrees the upstairs portion of our house was registering).  Also, who knew?  Cookies and moisturizer don't hold together so well in that kinda heat, either.  Surprise!

Silly monster faces are the new smile.

The back route to the beach from my parents' RV spot at the campground near Tillamook, Oregon, where we stayed last weekend.

A few minutes' walk from our camp site; maybe fifty yards from the bay near our camp ground.

Caleb took this one.  I don't know WHAT he said to that bee, but DAMN.  Maybe he mocked his, uh, "wingspan."  Whatever the case, super glad I was hiding under a rock while this was snapped.  I believe in duck-and-cover.  I have ovaries of gelatinous goo.

Headless man is usurped by small parasite near coastal town!

Sand:  Toddler cryptonite.



Strawberry-headed.  Possibly an affliction resulting from overconsumption of massive quantities of late June Oregon berries?

 

Ocean attack!

Mom!didyouseeit?thatlittlethingyinthewateritwascomingandthenthewater cameduptomyfeetsanditwasso!cold!mommmy!mommy!mommmmmy!!!

This is certainly a look-back-and-sob-in-twenty-years'-time kinda shot, no doubt.

Finally.  FINALLY.  The boy/dog co-entertainment possibilities begin to unfold.  And not a moment too soon.  My (dying-to-be-sedentary) ass has been begging for this moment for three + years.

Idyllic.

A husband who can garden.  He did *all* of this.  I have, uh, real, REAL bad, uh, hay fever.  REAL bad.  *cough, cough, sorta-convincing sneeze*

And the husband pickled these *after he grew them and picked them*:  a mix of lemon cucumbers, pickling cucumbers, green tomatoes and sweet purple peppers.  At first I was all, what kind of girl are you?, and then I realized I may be damning the probability of his ever doing something so kick-ass again, simply because I couldn't let a shot-at-the-funny go, and then I realized I didn't care, because, DUDE.  WHAT A FUCKING GIRL.  THE BEST GIRL IN THE WORLD.  *MY* GIRL.  *swooon*

We gathered eighteen pounds of these bad boys.  Jack even helped.  By not eating what we'd picked.  Seriously.  My husband is a bad-ass.  He culled most of them.  I kind of mostly just grazed and thought about possible blog posts I'll never, ever write down.

"Babe?  This smile is starting to slide south (note gritted teeth) unless you deliver on that promise-of-beer, the one you gave me around an hour ago, back when the dinosaurs still roamed the Earth?"

It has begun.  For the record, I'm totally fine with that.  After all, we'll always have beer.  And that one summer -- which summer *was* that, anyway?  Alright, so maybe it was a weekend.  Or just one night.  Maybe it didn't even happen.  Here's to that possibly-made-up memory, babe.

Note the handy.  Caleb put the whole damn thing together.  It took two days, and saved us a G in installation costs. 

Guess who adamantly refuses to play in it.

Babe, it's a cheesy shot because you're so darn cute in it (but let it not be assumed that I refuse abjectly to post shots of my partner wherein he looks hot, because that assumption would be incorrect.  General apparent behavior of avoidance of deliberate highlighting of attractiveness notwithstanding, just for this particular post).  You almost make me want to have sex with you, you're so ruddy and kinda totally hot.  (It is like. walking. on hot. coals. to say this about my partner on the blog, btw.  I loathe and abhor verbal pda.  Dunno.  Guess I just think it's -- below me, somehow.  I'm a snob about the weirdest shit.  I won't overanalyze it.  He deserves to be recognized for the hotness.  The.  Fucking.  End, Debbie.  Jeeeeeezus.  Letitgo.)

Happy (fourth) anniversary on Thursday, babe.  You so deserve a toast.  What you don't deserve?  Me ditching for a week to attend the Convention while you hold down this end, and we cross even all of our smallest hairs in hopes that the refinance isn't a bust, and put off celebrating our anniversary, again, one more result of the purchase of this home (last year's awesome celebration being, lamentably, the day we moved into the hell hole in the first place, and we postponed our real celebration that time, too).  I'm sorry it's been such a rough go this year.  I'm sorry I pushed us into moving last year, and buying this house, and all the time and energy spent fixing it, and then my being such a mess because of finding out about the adhd, and just generally having too many breakdowns and epic fails to count. But I guess you're still sticking it out, after almost ten years together, and I promise to keep trying, trying my hardest.  Always.  You're so fucking worth it.

in the face of overwhelm, start a new style blog.

You're welcome to step inside.  Nora thought of the super-kick-ass name, btw.  Nora rules.

It's still sort of beta, but I plan to add to it regularly.  And am hopeful that Nora will join me, on occasion, in posting some of her own takes on recycled style.

Also, because this post seems really fucking short, a shot of me with the luscious Redneck Mommy and the (now-infamous) Bloggess.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

traditions of hangoverness.

Me and mah freend, Cyn.  LOVE THIS GIRL.

Twiggies come in multiples.  (Nora, Gwen, Julie.  STOP BEING SO FUCKING FABULOUS, BITCHES.)

Suebob, you're so dreamy.  And that's our new friend, head-on-a-stick.  (I'm certain this person exists, and is nice, so no dissin'.  All love.  And feel free to come forward and alert us to your existence.)  (Also, who said I was allowed to go out in public with that chin?)

Sarcastically cute.  Especially with head-on-a-stick.

Her boobs make my booblets appear nonexistent.  (Well, and also, just, they are -- kind of nonexistent.) 

I'm hungover and shouldn't be typing.  The shakiness is difficult to overcome.  I'll live.  Somehow.

More updateys later, lovers.  (If the shaking doesn't cause me to inadvertently step into the void situated b/w the hotel's elevator and its doors.  Whee!)

 

blogger prom jitters. and a few extraneous photos. you know. for kicks.

Or maybe I'm already going through the post-prom anticlimax.  Which kinda blows, seeing as how I'm gonna have to fend off that particular suckitude on Sunday evening as well.

More likely, though, I'm just stupid-tired.  We (only, the "we" = not me) painted the house this weekend.  I did participate!, though, just not in the painting area of the task.  I helped apply the "caulk."  I'm super-good with "caulk," so it was logical to put some into my hands and get me going.

(I toldju I'z gonna brang the smut.  There.  There's your smut pie.  Eat!  Eat, ya fucking jackals!  If you get this not-thinly-veiled movie reference, I will hug you extry-hard at prom, possibly to the point of making you uncomfortable.

It's what I do.)

Jack has been such a pain in the ass lately.  There.  I said it.  He's borrowed from all buzzy creatures and created a whine so terrifyingly ear-paining, a noise that falls somewhere between fly/chainsaw, a noise that I can only listen to for s o  v e r y  l   o   n    g  before I snap and my face unscrews itself and is propelled with speed and agility toward the nearest precious, glass objet (and no, that isn't misspelled, it's *fronch*, people - le sigh) and both items shatter, only my face is slightly less the worse for wear, surprisingly.  Who knew they made faces so goddam durable?

Not me.  (Well, except that I'm kidding.  My face doesn't look so good after being busted up by glass.  Not that it happens.  It just sounded interesting in my head.  If you were in there, like you *should* be, you'd see what I meant.  So get in there and stop looking at me like that.  And while you're at it, please won't you bring me some cookies or something?  I don't think I can go on much longer like this without a flavorful snacky.

I love a good snacky.)

Want some pictures of our freshly-poo-coated, er, painted house?  (I realized after speaking with my good friend, Jen, tonight, who also happens to live in our neighborhood, that it resembles more poo-ish and less clay-ish, the intended color, only she didn't say it, I sort of blurted it, but she kind of agreed even though she tried hard not to, the good intention of which I totally respect and love her for, but dude, if it looks like poo, it looks like poo.  It isn't her fault I picked poo brown for the paint color.  Which is rad, and means that the neighborhood is probably laughing at us behind their oh-so-much-less-poo-ish walls.  So I'll be painting poo-color-downplaying trim, a very rich, dark chocolate, next week when I gits back from tha big cit-ay.  Super.)

Pitchers!  On with 'em already!

(What conference?  What packing?  I know not of this.  I have things to sew tomorrow, and a doctor's appointment, with the psychiatrist, to receive alms in the form of medicines that will make my adhd behave itself.  What fun to try out on unsuspecting roommates!  I mean, uh, on my family.  Because, I'll be here all weekend.  I'm not going anywhere.  Brain, that is all you need believe.  If you happen to hook up to your ocular tentacles, please ignore suitcases and makeup kits and the like.  It's all -- a ruse.  Practice for when I may actually go -- somewhere.  You know.  Places.  To do stuff.  And -- other stuff.  Hush, now, brain.  It's time to go back to sleep.  Here's your blankie.  Ignore the activity.  You needn't be involved.  You almost never are, anyway.  Why should this time be any different?)

Pitchers!  Yoo!

(Bonus feature alongside freshly-painted exterior; new, gorgeous maple door, w/sweet-ass stainless hardware, and - darn it all if they didn't throw in a buzzsaw in the form of a three-dimensional small child who insists on eating several-days-old hunks of refrigerated, hard-as-diamond bread and flips the buzzsaw on the "richter" setting if informed that said bread has been composted.  Iow, if you paint your house soonish, and they throw in a child for free, just let it have the hard bread.  It'll work the math out on its own as to why hard bread is the anti-delicious.)

(This child may also enjoy perusing the supple lines and details of the glimmering hardware.  Because doorbell ringing and mailslot-peeking are yesterday's cardboard box in the kick-ass kid-fun realm, evidently.  Especially when there's a dog on the other side of the door whose biggest thrill in life, aside from witnessing her blue bowl filling with small, mealy-brown, pebble-like objects that pass for food, is barking at passersby and the doorbell being rung.  It's entirely possible that she wrote the original line that inspired the song, "You can ring my bell."  Although, of course, in dog.  So, sort of this:  "Woof ow ow ow owwwww."  You get the picture.)

(Our bottom-of-the-yard veg garden.  It's even bigger, now.  This was like, a thousand years ago, aka, last week.  Or three weeks ago.  What-the-fuck-ever.  Like I care.  The garden is the MAN'S job.)

'Cause it ain't just gonna make itself, people.  Chocolate cake, btw, with crevices (heh) filled with freshly-canned strawberry jam, and topped with a chocolate whipped-cream icing that was supposedly a layering element, according to the recipe.  Pffft.  I make recipes bow low and prostate themselves -- wait, is that supposed to be prostate or prostrate?, because, I'm totally not looking it up.  Fuck you, correct-word fanatics.  Freaks.  Anyway, I make recipes nervous just looking at them.  (They're all, please don't try to make us.  You never read the directions carefully enough, you're all slap-dash and hurryupmusthavechocolatebrainpokingoutofear and rushrush and suddenly, you have a thing that *resembles* cake, only it tastes like a big, puffed-up pile of baked flour, or something that may have been alright if it weren't burned to an exquisite horribleness that even the dog is *almost* refusing to eat.  Well, except that she would never, because she'll eat bits of things that seem as though they *might* be food, so, yeah, no, she doesn't reject baked-pile-o-flour *nor* the burnty shit.  She's pleasant that way.)

And then he handed me back my beer, after I took the picture, because honestly, who paints a house and drinks beer at ten o' clock in the morning?, and I returned to caring for my child and sipping Pabst delicately through a tube connected to my hat.  I'm kidding.  I would never wear one of those hats.  They don't hold enough beer.

Those plants may even survive having been a) stepped all over while covered with a tarp to protect them from the paint, and b) planted, as shade-requiring plants, in a full-sun-exposure spot.

But probably not.

They tried to get me involved in their ridiculous bubbly shenanigans, but I explained that it's not nice to try to make mommy have to wear a beard anymore, ever since she finally got the old one surgically removed, and the flashbacks about the circus are almost completely faded.

(And then I caved.  I'm such a post-circus-member-bubble-beard suckah.)

the only thing missing is edith piaf on the radio, tinny and scratchy.

Saturday morning goodness. 

(After a successful trip to the downtown park blocks farmer's market; rain dripping from the lip of each vendor's awning, basil, fragrant as hell, parsley that *smells* like parsley, carrots that melt my nose with their wild, intoxicating allure, spinach with big, bright green leaves, strawberries - oh, my, the strawberries.  There's a reason that only about 5% of Oregon's berry bonanza actually make it out of the state each year.  And it's not because they aren't sought-after.  No, no no no.  Also:  fresh, free-range, hormone- and additive-free alder-smoked pork sausages, and fresh, free-range, veggie-fed eggs.  Eggs sold to me by a nice, older fellow, baked out of his gourd at 8:40 in the morning.  Fabulous.  Dude.  If I raised hens and sold their eggs for a living?  I'd be baked outta my gourd at 8:40 in the morning, too.  I would.  You KNOW I would.  Oh, and one last yummy item:  a baguette from the Pearl Bakery's stand.  Tomorrow's french toast.  AWEsome.)

Eggs scrambled with basil, sausages cooked to a turn, strawberries beautifully arrayed, a dollop of sour cream on the berries to balance their gorgeous sweetness, a sprinkling of parmesan on the eggs, and a warm beverage (coffee, chai or hot chocolate, dependent on the party consuming said beverage's preference/ability to manage caffeine).

La Vie en Rose, indeed.

p.s.  Ultraman Love.

(And, yes, that's a very good vodka.  Local-y, too.  I'm getting to be quite the locavore snob, kinda, huh.  Only, not really.  Just - mostly.  It feels good.  Right.  And I do adore being right. 

Or so my partner tells me.)

highlights. (not mine. i no longer have those.)

The Buzz eventually wore off.  Especially when we couldn't get our Woody.  (Thanks to Mama Tulip for that one.)

My daddy's head is my table.  It's cool.  *shrugs*

Still my table.  You know.  Whatev.  *shrugs again*

(Daddy, attempting to be in compliance with the "this is totally cool, no big whoop, my shoulders TOTally don't hurt at all, srsly" gig -- and, in fact, pulling it off nicely, at least for this particular photo)

(Pulling it off less well, and throwing on glasses to avoid being peppered in the eyes with cracker shrapnel)

And, that'squiteenoughofthatthankyou.

Baby cheek.  Soft.  So soft.  (Sorry.  I thought the ride was kinda boring; but that cheek thrills me endlessly.)

Why does it appear that my husband is directing my son to drive into me?  And also, that my son seems pretty taken with the idea? 

Maybe it's just me that sees that.  Huh.

This is a dog.  I am not fooled by your impostors.  This is not Woody.  TAKe me to WOOdy, wretched minions!  Lest I should refuse to nap for the fourteen-millionth day running, and make you gnash your teeth and wail in abject misery!  Or, you know, maybe, while you're dashing wildly about the entire park in concentric circles of sweat and borderline insanity in search of that Woody fella, I'll crash out in my stroller.  For fun.

Ice cream will sate me for only so long, you wrinkly parent-people.  I will eventually resume my beseeching demands for the cartoon-sheriff you are beginning to hate with a deep, seething, uh, hate.  I don't mind being cute for a fleeting moment, though.  Here ya go.  Catch it with a quickness.

I don't know what I was trying to do with this one, but I like it.  Consider it my self-portrait, for there is nary a photo of me con la familia in the Disney series presented here.  Be grateful.  My skin has been in a storm-trooper-style rebellion for days on end and I think it's best we end the discussion forthwith.  Etc.

It's a small world, ain't it.  The whole thing was still in Xmas mode, and J was stoked.  He diggeth the Xmas.  So that was cool.  Granted, Caleb and I weren't really on the speaking tip at that point, but at least J was rocking out, inasmuch as one can on a boat that's crawling along at .0003 knots through the midst of shimmery hula-dancing dolls and the like.  *throws devil horns*

At least he got a badge (not to mention some ears) outta the deal.  And Woody, the doll, was duly impressed. 

We hope.

Baby boy, you make my head swim with pain and adoration and raucous laughter.  And some more pain. 

It's your age.  We know.  We're wearing helmets and full body armor.

(Wish they could invent some for our hearts.)

this is when i begin squirming subtly while smiling in an awkward fashion.

So, all that brouhaha I stirred up about the paint and other make-up of the toddler trike?  I suppose I should try to keep it in mind for future reference, because the truth of the matter is this:

I.e., that my son's utter, unabashed joy over receiving his first shiny, red bicycle (okay, it's a trike, but you be the one to explain that to him, 'cause I don't really have the energy) is outweighing my concern over whether he'll spend large portions of time licking its probably lead-soaked alluring red exterior.

Thank you, Grandpa Jeff.  The recipient is satisfied beyond words.  He'd prefer to sleep with it, but is settling for just sitting on its well-curved black seat for most of the day as second-best.

And Gwen and Mignon?  Your told-you-so's are more than earned.

I'm cool with it.

oh, did i mention -- ?

Also, this?

I defy you to disengage yourself long enough from the centerpiece in order to assess the backdrop.  Defy.

Oh, and while this makes me pretty happy, especially since I didn't realize it going into the purchase (though I'm not a little ashamed to admit to that, because I love to soap-box and get all lathered up about how into eco-friendly crap I am):

This makes me a darn sight happier.

Those are some big shoes to fill, kid.  Not that I doubt you in regard to growing your way into them.

(I didn't say you had to grow into them by the end of today, sweetheart.  Don't sweat it.  At least not for a few more years.  Please.)

personal record.

"Mommy, my sad.  My sad, Mommy."

"Why are you sad, baby?"

"Scawy dweam, Mommy.  (screams, banshee-like):  SCAWWWWY! DWEAM! MOMMY!"

"Please use your inside voice, honey."

(whispers) "Scawy. dweam. mommy."

"What was scary, sweetheart?  Can you tell Mommy?"

"Big 'piders, Mommy!  HUUUGE! 'piders!  MOMMY!"

(mother nods head, a little uncertain - she knows just what he means, but isn't sure how to comfort him)

"Mommy's sad, too, honey.  Mommy has scary dreams sometimes, too, and it makes me sad that you are having them now."

"Don't be sad, Mommy."

*

(while sitting on toilet) "Mommy, HUGE! poo-poo!  Daddy poo-poo!  Mommy poo-poo!  ROBOT poo-poo!"

"Robot poo-poo?"

"Mm-hmm.  'Course."  (nodding vigorously)

*

Mother to son:  "Please help me take your clothes off and get your jammies on."

Son: "No.  My tiiiired.  My too tiiiired."

*

Mother to son:  "You need to put your underpants on RIGHT. NOW."

Son (grimacing):  "You mean, Mommy."

(Mother senses heart shifting downward into lower intestines upon hearing this.)

*

(post-bedtime):  "My need medicine, Mommy."

"Why do you need medicine?"

"Because, ouch!"  (said while smiling broadly)

"Where does it hurt?  Please show me.  Please point to where it hurts."

"It hurts in mouf.  It HURTS in MOUF, MOMMY."  (points at eye while speaking)

"Medicine is NOT a treat, kiddo.  Medicine isn't supposed to be used like a treat.  Unless you can demonstrate that you actually need medicine, I'm not giving you any."

"Okay!  Night-night!"  (begins singing a soft, wordless tune)

*

"What did you do today at school, baby?"

"My run FAST, Mommy.  Run FAST."

"Did you play with your friends?"

"Mm-hmm.  My hole hands wif E____."

"Oh?  You held hands with E_____?  Do you like holding hands with her?  Was that fun?"

"'Course."  (nods head pragmatically)

*

"Go play wif fwends at school today?"

"No, baby.  Today you're home with Mommy."  (said in the midst of vacuuming, folding laundry, dusting, and cleaning bathrooms)

(son sits quietly, seemingly lost in thought, for a moment)

"Go play wif Gramma-Grampa today?  Please?"

"No, sweetheart.  Today you're going to be here with Mommy, here at home."

(child throws himself on floor, begins sobbing)

*

(preparing to leave house for blue-moon dinner with husband; grandparents are delightedly bathing grandson and putting him to bed.  child runs back and forth between hall bathroom and mother's bathroom, naked, glistening, with belly out, chuckling)

"Mommy?  Wazzat?"  (points at hair-styling tool)

"It's something Mommy uses to style her hair.  It's a tool for straightening Mommy's hair."

"Stwa -- stwai-ten haiw, Mommy?''

"Yes.  I'm straightening my hair so I can feel pretty when Daddy and I go to dinner tonight."

"Pwet-ty, Mommy.  You pwetty, Mommy."

(mother gets onto floor and grabs still-wet, still-naked child, clasps him to herself, kisses his head and better-than-velvet cheeks innumerable times, until he breaks free and runs off, giggling, arms and legs flapping wildly in toddler-marathon-style; she watches him go for a moment, capturing the scene as best she can before returning to her toilet, captivated by her charming offspring, a little rapturous, a little saddened)

(Fleeting.)

oy.

Presenting: the little black bear.  (I liked the low-key element of his little mask x the black sweatshirt.  You know.  Not gonna overkill it this year.  He's too little and too likely to rip the whole thing off after the (five-ten minute) novelty is gone.)  (Which is another way of saying that I'm seriously devoted to my not-so-deeply-repressed inner sloth.  Hey.  If you excel at something, you ought to acknowledge it and allow it to flower.  I'm a sloth.  I'm using my skills to their best advantage.  Yadda.)

Which is exactly what happened.  (Slothful *and* brilliant.  Or, you know, just slothful.  That word is becoming more and more strange.  Slithery.  Sloo.  Sloopy hang on.)

I was banned after this photo from using the camera.  Caleb insinuated somewhat unsubtly that I was ruining the whole thing.  Hence the mehhh quality.  I still like it, because it's the first trick-or-treat event and it's dark.  And we're wandering around in that dark.  Quite exciting for a two-year-old.

After J went sugar-frenziedly to bed, which was its own super-fun event, heavily tinged with sarcasm, Caleb and I got the *real* party started.

Sometimes a shiksa goddess wants to feel on par with her Jewish husband.  Okay?

He, meanwhile, requires no such religious-tinged libation.  He's safe.  He can freely choose to drink a Deschutes Brewery beer and not be concerned about his eternal, uh, situation.  Whatever.  (Have I been watching the 2nd-to-last season of SitC too much?  I mean, granted, converting has held its appeal to me on and off for several years, mainly because I like the idea of carrying on the traditions of Judaism, not so much because I'm into any religious umbrella in particular, surprise, surprise.  But to follow in the footsteps of Charlotte York nee Goldenblatt seems, um, a lot to take on.  Hmmm.  I think I'll stick with the Chosen beer for now.  p.s. It's tasty.  Kinda amber-y, like a Bridgeport Blue Heron.  Yum.)

I'll take all-cotton, eco-friendly insulation for $222, please.

My middle name, in case you were wondering, is Ham.  With an H.  You can call me Hammy.  I don't mind.  (Just don't use a derogatory tone while doing so, or we'll have to have words.  Involving sentences and paragraphs and possibly several adjectives.  Those are my favorite.  I like beer!  Did you see that bird just now?  I am so hungry.)

Turns out you can insert insulation *and* drink beer at the same time.  Tell the research dept. to go home.  I got this one.

*fuzzy silence*

And in the immortal words of A Tribe Called Quest, "believe it or not, they all got done."  Although they were referring to hos, and I'm referring to insulation.  Which is all the correlation one needs to feel urban and terribly edgy.  That and some ritalin.  Me likee so far.  I started it yesterday.  The version I'm taking is called "Concerta" or something.  Who really knows.  I meant to look at the instructions but I was too busy swilling it back with my morning cup of vodka and then, well, oh, heck.  I'm sure you can imagine how things played out after that.  Good times were had, particularly by me during the driving parts of my day.  One cannot underrate the fun of playing chicken with motorcycle cops on narrow streets.  And handcuffs?  As long as you've snuck some of your own stash of fur-lining in your bag, can just add to the pleasantness.  Would you like some vodka?  Oh.  I'm a bad hosltsess.  I drinked it allreadlly.  I'll just zip to the store fo some mo.  You'd like that, wouldn't you.

Caleb was convinced that a non-ham shot in the series would matter.  I played along.  I'm congenial like that.  *hic*

Yeah, daddy, straddle that, uh, ...

rather cumbersome ladder.  And, babe?  Please be careful.  I'm seriously worried.  I mean, you're leaning forward in a way that seems unbalanced.  And I know from unbalanced.  Please?   I mean, maybe you should move it over a little more.  So you're more centered.  And I know from being off-center.  REALly.  I'd appreciate it if you'd scoot over. 

Yeah.  Like that.

Vaseline lense?  Please.  Allow me to present plastic-tarp-lense.  So very - how do you say?, Ahhh, yes.  De sexxxy.

The freshest thing in the fridge.  Yikes.  (Although I may or may not have fallen asleep next to that fridge because we didn't finish insulating until after 2 a.m., and I really don't want to consider how I rate against the shelf-life, or scent-level, of its contents.  Eeeew.)

Today.  And a shiny, new window to enhance the pleasing sight of the finished insulation.  My fingers might not be quite as appreciative as my eyes are.

Even the flooring looks better to me, because they laid the plywood subfloor yesterday afternoon.  Today is sheetrock day, and the electrician is installing the last few outlets and the porch light, which, oh, crap, I need to purchase and have here by this afternoon, WHY do I let myself think I can write a post in a matter of minutes?  So I oughtta wrap it up.  I'll leave you with a little (of what I happen to think is awfully pretty, but Caleb is not so very in agreement with me, and I'm worried now about what my mistress, the internet, is going to have to say.  Gulp) nicety.

I really have to paint that wall.  It's like a ragged calico kitty, all bedraggled from living in squalor on the streets.  I'll clean you up, you raggedy kitty.  I swear it on my dog's eyes.  That you're not allowed to scratch.

p.s. The chairs are from a thrift store.  Which may frighten you even more.  But wait until the room is done before you give me your final disapproval, okay?  I plan to make it a whole lot better.  With the aid of this sofa, this beautiful, beautiful Crate and Barrel sofa (in tarragon, which is a very close match to one of the colors in the chairs), named the Petrie, which I also love:

The end.

Also, I love you.  Also, we started potty-training on Monday.  Also, ... *passes out*

 

in lieu of.

Not going totally crazy as a result of this room (the "kitchen"), because of this next one:

Adult-y on one side, kid-ly on the other!  It's R/G all at the same time.  FABulous.

Even the laundry room isn't too terribly scary.  In fact, I can say without gagging that I enjoy the space, now.  I mean, it's a nice, big space, isn't it?  I used to have to close the door to the kitchen to put the wet things in the dryer in our old house, and J would get upset and bang on the door and it would make my eyes spin in 360-degree circles inside their sockets, which is pretty uncomfortable, given the whole attached-to-the-brain thing.  So I'm relieved that my eyes no longer have to endure that experience.  Phew.  (I still get to fill the air with blue words when unloading the @$#%@#$ washer, thanks to the manner in which it ensnares clothes beneath the spinny piece in the center, and what am I complaining about?  I have a washing machine.  I don't have to wash clothes by hand and hang them to dry in frigid air and bring them inside, frozen stiff, to hang behind the cookstove that I had to get up and start a fire in at four o' clock in the morning.  Plus there's the opportunity for the swears.  I seriously need to shut up.)

I think I want to switch to interior design.  I'm not kidding.  Thanks for the new bug in my bum, ADHD!  (Partially engendered by my latest fascination with estate sales.  I'm frothing just thinking of it.  Woot.)

(The bed in the above photo, as well as the nightstand and lamp, are estate sale items.  The blanket folded across the foot of the bed was my grandpa's.  I think he got it at a thrift store.  He was a thrift-store junkie.  Mostly thanks to having survived the depression.  Something I heard an abundance of stories about as a kid, something I dreaded listening to at the time, something I would listen to now, engrossed.  *sigh*)

The above photo has a nightstand that also belonged to my grandpa.  The lamp is attached.  Groovy, non?

The chair was my grandpa's, too, natch.  The seat has a tear in it that is begging for repair but I -- oh, I hate "fixing" things that belonged to my grandparents.  It strips them of their patina of living.  Anyway, hard to believe this room began, two months ago, with dark, dank brown on the walls, blue on the ceilings, worn blue carpet on the floor, and no base trim.  And a ceiling light that was a modern take on a sputnik-era light, only in the tacky, cheap-looking sense, and they hadn't wired it.  It was just hanging there.  Even though the seller was an electrician.  When our electrician pointed out the lack of wiring to us, we all just stood around, shaking our heads.  After the other ridiculous items involving the lies the sellers told us, this was just one more weird thing to add to the mess.  But it's getting fixed and I'm allowed to forget all about that stuff, now.  Phew.  Again, I need to remember that I don't have to get up at two o' clock in the morning and start the fire and the cooking for the day.  ETC.  Grateful.  Grateful.  Grateful.

Fan of redundancy, so more pictures of the "kitchen."  (The baby gate is up to keep the dog off the beds/sofa downstairs.  Let's not discuss it, okay?)

Someday I'll actually paint the rest of that wall.  Honest.  You can even see the bucket of paint near the mantel, which I hate, but at least it's not the oak veneer it was two months ago.  The white dove makes it a lot less URGHHH.  (I hate mantels that shouldn't be in homes of this particular period, which brings me to the archway that you can't see because it's just outside of the frame, but I'll add it.  (Look at how depressed the dog is; she's all, "Um, listen.  I used to be the princess?  Even though you despise that word, you know it's true, lady.  You made me what I am.  And I WILL reign over the surfaces of comfortable furniture in this house when you are not looking.  And that dog gate?  Is living on borrowed time.  You. heard. me.  Inside your head, because you think you can hear me, because you're crazy.  MUwahhhhHAHAHhahah.")

Note the archway.   All kinds of wrong for this house.  The previous owner, the wife, made the electrician-husband put it in because she was trying to gussy this bitch up in a totally shameless and incorrect way.  This house was built in 1960, not 1932.  It is not a Craftsman-style bungalow.  It is not a "traditional Portland" home.  It is a ranch.  BITCH.  *gah*  Anyway, we already tore out the other poorly-constructed archway, leading into the kitchen, and it certainly looks better.  Once the kitchen's done we'll tear out this one, and its strange, icky oak-veneer seat and just create a 90-degree corner from dining area into living.  Yay.  Take that, liar-y, deceptive, filthy degenerates of former owners.  (Um.  Maybe I'm not quite so done with my resentment toward them yet.  I'll get there.  Once it's all cleaned up and not UGLY and FILTHY anymore.  Yes.  Once again with the reminder to self about not stoking the fire in the middle of the night and cooking all day.  Grate.ful.  Say it, Debbie.  *gleah*)

See?

Yeah.  Exactly.

Nothing like a generous infusion of construction dust in your morning coffee.

Just to the left of the plumbing?  Is where Caleb found the dead mouse.  And all of its (evidently lengthy) lifetime of bathroom habits.  *throws devil horns with fingers*

Abrupt segue alert:  I also want to be a photographer, too, which is another new thing.  I took all of these while driving on the way to my parents' house this morning; perfect Halloween weather, isn't it.  He just looks peeved over my new photo-frenzy.  I don't blame him.  It must be so annoying.

But if I can get shots like this, I don't really care if I'm annoying or fabulous.  I need to have pictures like this in my possession.  Deal.

honesty: my default. the brutal kind.

a) I'm bored with the internet.

b) That's kind of a lie.  I'm bored with it, but I'm also really envious of everyone I've met inside the series of tubes who has ever managed to have a successful career of any kind.  Or finished college.  Or both.  (If both, then I *really* kind of hate you right now.  Not you, exactly, but your ability to finish things and get good jobs and not quit them or get fired for various idiotic reasons we don't need to spell out, do we.  Unless we do.  Because "we" is "me," and you don't get my total disfunction re: the job-getting/job-keeping.  In which case, uh, I can't?)

c) I'm enjoying the thought of today's appointment like I would enjoy the thought of popping my eye in front of the barrel of a loaded weapon.  Staring down its cold, metal tube, the scent of sulfur and burning subtly suggesting itself. 

d) I might go away for awhile.

e) I might not.

f) My son's costume is "little, black bear" because I knew where to get a pair of plain black sweatpants and matching hoodie with kanga pocket, and Ikea had this little set of black ears/soft eye mask that's a little, black bear's representation, I suppose, and he is pleased as punch about it.  He wanted to keep putting the ears and mask on all afternoon yesterday, and running to see his reflection, which I indulged because, okay, I'm a sucker for the cute.

g) He hugged his school friend at a birthday party for another school friend on Saturday and I almost fainted from the cute.

h) Today when we went to school another friend approached him to give him a big hug and then she tried to kiss him and, seriously, my knees went weak.  It's killing me, alla this pda.  I love it.  I loooovvvve it like I love pastries.  No.  More than pastries.  (!!!!!!)

I hate remodeling and I hate working on boring things and I want to run in tight circles until my legs and arms fall off and what with all the subsequent bleeding from the holes where my limbs used to be I droop softly away from this mortal coil of circling tightly and am buried in a nice, quiet place or maybe incinerated because it's less difficult for the earth to manage that kinda leavings.  (Lookit that.  Two John Cleese references in one paragraph.  *pats back with wiggles, because the arms are already gone*)

Yesterday was so weird.  People had bizarre energy.  I thought it was just me but Caleb came home and said work was extremely strange; there were people crying and having meltdowns and two people even gave notice.

(Full moon?  Check.  Stoked I'm having my appointment today.  Stoked.  *gags*)

several thousand words.

(Awwww.)

(Proof positive that I'm not afraid to look ugly/freakish in photos: did you hear that, Steven Spielberg?)

(Also, Steven?  I'm not afraid of feigning a thrill over the gooey sensation of pumpkin guts.  Okay, so maybe I wasn't feigning anything.  Maybe I really do thrill over that kinda thing.  Again, note my lack of fear in handling the icky.  Steven?  Seriously.  My email's listed on this page.   Your move.)

(Alright.  So maybe I'm carrying the in-love-with-punkin-innards bit a little far.  That's my schtick, see?  Steven!  I know all about schtick!  That word starts to look weird after you type it a few times.)

(The passing of the schtick.  I'm so proud.)

(I get the guts, he gets the glory.  I'm cool with it.  Besides, it's the only scenario where he's allowed to do the fun part.  So I let him have it.  I'm a nice wife, huh.  HUH.  HUH!!!#$@! 

Why is nobody nodding vehemently along with me?  Oh, you guys are all on his side.)

(I would've turned this into my blog's masthead for the month if I could bother.  But I won't.  We all know this.  Hey.  At least I took the damn photo.)

(His least favorite part of pumpkin-carving: the resulting photo shoot.  Wherein he is expected to remain still for any length of time.)

(But MY! CANDLE! is in there!  MY! CANDLE! DADDY!  WANT! CANDLE! MINE! MY! CANDLE!)

(You can't have it, kiddo.  It's attached to fire.  The burn-y kind.)

(But! MY! CANDLE! MINE!  MY CANDLE!  *sob*)

Hooray for Halloween.  It wouldn't be a proper holiday if it didn't end in tears.

p.s. Please note items such as the kitchen, where there are still shelves and appliances, and the half-painted iron work on the front porch, and the brass fittings on the front door, for you shall soon see evidence that these things are no longer.  Thanks to my numb-ass hands, shoulders, and my husband's permanent scorched attitude re: our home and our insane underslept, overworked bodies and brains.  Gwen?  The wait is almost over.

while i mull over the chaos that is my life.

Here are some random photos I've taken with the new camera (a Nikon D40, in response to someone's query as to what kind it is, and I'm sorry I've forgotten who asked, that's just my crapola brain doing its thang, as it is wont to). 

I'll continue posting sporadically until I can better work out how I feel about the anger and grief I'm experiencing, commingled with joy, over my new clarity re: the brain muddledness, the loss of so many years, so much time, so much energy, so many paths, so many mistakes.  Yes, I realize those could've been even worse.  But right now, I'm mourning the paths I feel I ought to have been able to journey along, if not for the forgetfulness, the fear, the crackly churned-up clutter, the impulsively-driven lameness.  For the two or three of you who read this blog.  (Another example of a wasted chance for something amazing; my blogging.  I could've been a great blogger, but I blew it.  Not because I self-sabotaged, like I used to think, but because I have this inability to stay focused on anything for very long, and blogging fell under the wheels just like everything else has.  I regret that, and I regret it with acting, too.  I wish I -- oh, hell.  I gotta go to bed.  And who fucking cares.)

evidence of the new camera's existence.

(I'd prefer to lose myself fathoms-deep in their eyes than recall that they were both kind of annoyed with my proposal of a photo session first thing in the morning, before coffee.  Or milk, for that matter.)

a blogger love note gets passed.

The love note being from me (yeah, the one whose head is more largely ill-proportioned than Jon Bon Jovi's).  Cristina is the doll-faced babe with the luxuriously straight, mahogany-hued, shiny tresses and lithesome shape (and this with a baby in her adorable, wee belly), 'k?

K.

Also, she's totally awesome and funny and clever and brilliant.  At least, that's what she told me to say.  In reality?  She's better.

today was not a beautiful day.

First off, I mused over how people really ought to consider those colicky months during a baby's infancy as a training, sort of the daily-doubles, if you will, of the child-rearing olympics.  CRO.  I oughtta make shirts. 

I did this particular bit of musing whilst groping, because that's just really the only word that my somewhat-sauced mind (I'm drinking a MUCH. DESERVED. beer at the moment) is producing, anyway, I was, yeah, GROPING blueberries this morning as I picked their shadowed-blue, smooth, fragrant berriness, and pretending J wasn't sitting in the dirt next to me, crying about the dirt on (or, quite possibly, in? who fucking knows) his shoes, and attempting to remove them, while I begged him not to do so as I rapidly groped berries and tumbled them into my turqouise plastic basin, then continued to assiduously (or maybe just ass-hattedly) ignore him as he scraped up handfuls of moist earth and wiped it all over his legs and knees and shorts and belly.  I was doing all of the ignoring in order to not let the trip out to the farm be a total waste, since gas costs what it does these days and all, so I was picking berries like the wind, like a force, a berry superhero with a stained cape, and it was getting me nowhere, since I couldn't tune him out - after all, I've been parenting solo for three days (Caleb went to Tahoe for a friend's final hurrah pre-martial, er, marital, er, wedded bliss hahahaha dumbass).  My ass is tired.  My head is tired.  My ears doth protest against the whining x the crying x the tantrums x the ohgodmakeitstopeverythingonandinmybodyisbleeeeeding.  I finally broke down and cried with him this afternoon, after the massive blueberry poop, the massively inevitable one, the leaky, stinky poop that I mistook at first for vomit smell, it was so foul and vile and violent against my nostrils.  I cried and shook and lay near him as he screamed in that guttural fashion that toddlers seem to have a lock on, because he wouldn't let me pick him up and I tried anyway, doing that fucking awful maneuver where the head is arched low over the backs of my hands, body so stiff it could've been made of starch, it's really amazing how much energy is expended during that period, if we could only harness that shit - we'd never need fossil fuels again.  Damn.  Somebody help me remember to patent that later.

Um.

I was gonna post some pretty, nice, pretty photos of this morning, pre-fucking-horror-zone,  -- did I MENTION that Caleb was out of town for three fucking days? --

so I will just stop this nonsense and post some photos and go to bed because I damn well deserve it, and if you don't like the swears I've been dropping like little cherry bombs, like those little poppers, the ones with gun powder or whatever in 'em, hey, check it?  You can totally read something else?  Because I have to swear or my face will melt from the anger, the anguish, the angst, the anninnknjlkjkf slakf daklsj!!!!  fuckkkkkk!

Love you, though, really.

Smooches.  (See???  If I didn't love you, really, would I bother to give you smooches?  I.  don't.  think.  so.)

Mom.  Basket's almost empty.  Can you speed it up a bit?  Thannnnks.

Yeahhhh!  Take it in, mom, because this is, right here, this is the best moment of the day!  Soak it up!  Roll around in it!  But hurry, because the sun is about to be blotted out by a storm you've never seen the likes of before, mom.  Mom.

Yeah.  They're good.  Stop asking me.

Ooh!  Sour one!  Mom?  Mind watching out for those ones for me?  I mean, c'mon.  Really.

From funny/hellish to awww, that's pretttty.  It's a bipolar existence, this kid-rearing.  You do what you can to balance it.  Now stop reading my nonsense and lookit the pictures, okay?  Geez!

Look at me, trying to be all artistic and with a half-broken, magnetized-by-Mignon camera, nonetheless.  Yeah.

This photo should be in a separate post about my undying devotion to blueberries and how I relied on them, those rapturous Oregon beauties, to inform one of the colors for my wedding, and even made them into a super-divine jam (with booze in it and everything!) that I canned, with the help of my parents, for favors at said wedding-y deal.  I'd even have included the recipe for the jam, and maybe a few photos of Caleb and me all dolled up on the day we done got hitched, but I'm not much on sentimentalism.  At least not today.  Some other time, yo.

I'm proud of these.  I planted this hydrangea my own self.  With my own planting-ignorant fingers.  It's nice, isn't it.

Just planted this last weekend; part of the renovation for sale purposes.  It's so delicate.  I really shouldn't breathe near it, lest it recognize my plant-murderousness exhaled in tiny particles.

This was also a recent planting occurrence.  Love the black, kind of ferocious, stark grass commingled with those insanely fragile, kissed-with-the-merest-hint-of-pink petals in the midst of the blades.

"I seem to be running low on fresh ways in which to torture mom and make her pull on her ears as red stuff runs out of 'em, which always cracks me up.  Hmmm.  Must ponder in zen-like fashion as I stroll along casually on these stones, so she doesn't get wise."

Too late, kid.  I'm wise.

Just too sapped to challenge you.

*shudders envisioning the years/battles ahead*  *because it's sort of funny and simultaneously like having one's fingernails pulled slowly out of the fingers*