Another Day in Uh...Paradise?

Not much going on today. After Hutton's speech therapy, we went to buy shorts and shorty pajamas for the boys, since it's been so hot and neither of them have enough shorts or shorty pajamas. It's too hot to be outside, so we're all inside. When we got home, a picture hanging over the mantle had fallen, and now I have to go get the glass replaced. While checking on the best way to handle broken glass (I'm guessing putting it in a cardboard box marked broken glass...) I came across this story which almost made me cry. Yes, I'm a hormonal woman. That's a really good driver, though!

OK, I'm obviously lacking in anything interesting to say today!

Oh, and my grand goat scheme isn't going to work. I had a big idea of buying a milking goat -- two birds with one stone, you know -- MILK and YARD CLEAN-UP! Great idea, huh? After buying a pint of goat milk, I decided I really don't like the taste of goat milk. I tasted it plain. Eh. I steamed it for my latte. Eh. Even with chocolate sauce added to make it a mocha, still...Eh.

I'll give it a few more days to see if the taste grows on me, but I think it just has too strong a taste for a cow milk connoisseur.

I Should Be in Bed

But I'm reading magazines and reading stuff online, flitting back and forth between the two. Maybe I have ADHD? Hmm. Now what am I going to do when Harrison wakes up in 4 or 5 hours? Curse under my breath and trip downstairs, I suppose.

When I left the house this morning to go to the gym, Hutton had turned on the TV to watch Toy Story. Not so weird for a 4 year old, is it? How about when he had switched the audio to French? That's pretty funny. And the French guy singing the theme was no Randy Newman, let me tell you.

Back to my New York Magazine. Gotta love the free magazines Hubby gets with his unused airline miles. Yes, I can pretend to be up-to-date and cosmopolitan by having fancy magazines like this and Travel and Leisure sitting around my house.

What a Mom Wants

This spring, two of my friends had birthday parties for their boys at the local Rainbow dealership. The last party was Sunday. Hubby and I were discussing the party beforehand. He asked if Rainbow charged for these parties, as they were essentially free advertising for them, when all the guests come and play and want to then buy Rainbow playsystems. I agreed with him, but said they do charge for them. I didn't want to ask the hosts how much they charge, nor did I want to inquire at Rainbow, because I don't want to have a party there...yet.

After playing at the Rainbow place for the second time, my appetite was whetted for a really expensive playsystem . The first time just planted the seed, I think. From Sunday night on, I've been looking at the Rainbow catalog longingly, though realistically. No, we can't afford to spend at least $1500 on a swing set (though that's cheaper than two Aeron chairs...). I've looked at Craig's List, considered just buying a cheap metal swing set, looked at various other non-Rainbow websites, etc.

After all of my research, I've decided THIS is what I want. If you buy it at Costco, and don't have it delivered, it's cheaper. Now I just have to broach the subject with Hubby. And it's not just for the boys. If they have this playsystem, it will be 100 times easier to keep them contained when we're outside. Now, when we're outside, I'm constantly circling the house, trying to move them both into one play area. "Please, come play in the sandbox! No, don't color on the front door with chalk. Just on the sidewalk. Please don't trample my plants..." You get the idea. Yes, I'm looking for justification for NEEDING this expensive playsystem, but really -- I NEED it. (That or a really good herding dog.)

Of course, even if I can convince Hubby to buy this, there's the whole issue of getting it home and set up. We no longer own a pick-up truck, and Hubby can barely muster the energy to mow the lawn, let alone spend hours assembling this thing. I've decided I will hire a handy man to do this. (Craig's List, again.)

On to the second issue: where in our overgrown yard to put this thing? We have very little lawn (so why is it so hard for Hubby to mow it?), but we have almost an acre of land. Most of it is woody shrubs and weeds. There's a perfect section for a playsystem, though, overgrown as it is. And of course, I have the perfect solution: a GOAT! Yes, if we could get a goat in that area, he or she'd chew that stuff down in no time. Strangely enough, though, there are no rental goat places around here that I can find, and since I've never owned a goat before, I don't really think Hubby will go for that. And yes, rental goat places do exist. My stepmother rented some goats last year to clean up a big area of land at her house.

So, you see, I dream big. But really, a goat and a play system. Is that so much to ask for? I'm not asking for a new car or diamonds here!

Karma for the Angry Bitch

I'll start this out by saying that I don't really believe in Karma. I wish it existed, but I don't believe it. If it existed, there are so many things that would be different in this world.

On that note, this morning was the perfect payback for my angry day yesterday (and the angry days before yesterday). I got up early enough to make the boys breakfast at home, rather than putting them in the car and throwing granola bars at them, which is the usual Tuesday and Thursday morning routine, since we have to leave by 8:30 to make it to Hutton's speech therapy on time. And, because I had enough time, I made myself a coffee, too. Not just a regular drip. No, I don't drink that crap around here! I made myself a double mocha...with whip. So, I placed my giant mug (no, I didn't put the coffee in a Thermos) on the center console, and got the boys in their carseats. I was feeling so smug, as I climbed into the driver's seat, and swung my big, stupid, clumsy elbow right into the mug of coffee I hadn't yet placed in the cup holder three inches in front of it.

It immediately toppled upside down onto the floor board in front of Harrison. There was barely a drip of coffee left in the mug as I sadly picked it up and brought it inside, where I grabbed a huge stack of towels to soak up the mess.

I didn't allow myself to wallow in misery. I just chalked it up to bad karma from my bitchiness for the past week. And you know what? We've had an awesome day today!

After Hutton's speech therapy, we went to lunch, then to the Children's Museum, where we all had a great time. Then to the pet store for dog food, and on the way home we got ice cream.

So, even though I don't believe in you, Karma, you've made me a kinder, gentler Mommy today. Thank you!

Angry Bitch

Over the past year, I've become an angry bitch. Before I had kids, I was a bitch maybe 5% of the time. After kids, my bitchiness increased year by year, and now that Harrison has turned two and Hutton seems to be at the peak of his crazy behaviors (I hope this is the peak! If it gets higher, I'm going to need to get high just to deal with this stuff!) I'm a bitch 85% of the time. I save my nice behavior for outings with the kids, so outsiders don't realize that I'm an angry bitch.

Some of my reasons for being angry:

My really fancy Aeron desk chair that hubby got me when he bought himself a new chair, too, now smells like Lysol and poop, and I put it at Hutton's desk because the smell of Lysol gives me a headache, and the smell of poop makes me want to vomit.

Why, you ask, does my desk chair smell like Lysol and poop? Or did you just assume that was the smell I ordered when I was picking out the features of my Aeron? "Hmm, I like the graphite color, and do I want the smell of freesia and lilac, apples and cinnamon, musk and patchouli....no, that's it! Lysol and POOP!"

My chair smells like poop because Hutton pooped in his diaper sometime before he woke up on Tuesday morning. He wears a diaper at night because I'd be changing the sheets every day if not. And every once in a while, instead of just peeing during the night, he'll poop, too. And Tuesday morning, when he woke up with a loaded diaper, he acted as if nothing was wrong with that, and went upstairs to play with his computer. Except he didn't play with his computer. He played with MY computer. And sat in MY chair. There was no poop actually on the chair, but just having his poop-filled diaper pressed into my chair for a half hour was enough. I didn't realize he'd sat in my chair until later that day when I sat down and got the whiff of poop. That's where the Lysol comes in. After 5 sprayings of Lysol, with several hours drying time in between, my chair still smells like poop. And Lysol, of course. So, now I'm sitting in my crappy old desk chair that was at Hutton's desk, and he can enjoy the wonder of the Aeron, since he apparently doesn't mind the smell of his own poop.

Not enough?

I took Harrison to a Gymboree class today, leaving Hutton at home with hubby. When I walked in, the freezer door was wide open, and our dog, Fergus, was licking the last remains of a gallon of ice cream out of the open carton. Hmm. I wonder who left an open carton of ice cream on the floor and the freezer door open? Hubby? Or Hutton?

Still not feeling the anger?

As I was getting Harrison ready for bed, reading him the tenth book, I would occasionally call out to Hutton, who was still in the tub: "That's enough soap!" because he's a notorious soap waster, especially when he has a bottle of liquid soap, which is the case now. I listened carefully and didn't hear the sound of the soap pump, just the sound of water being poured. Nothing to worry about. He's just playing in the tub. Harrison's finally in bed, and I walk down the hall to get Hutton ready for bed. Turn into the bathroom, and there's an inch of water on the floor. Hutton looks up at me, and tells me, "I made a mess!" Yeah, no shit. (At least there was literally, no shit.) Normally Hubby puts Hutton to bed while I put Harrison to bed, but tonight he has a big work project to do. So, I got to put Hutton to bed AND wipe up the mess.

Think of several more little instances like this. At least three things happen daily to make me scream. My switch used to be able to get flipped back to "normal" at the end of the day, but now it seems to be worn down and stays at ANGRY BITCH constantly.

What the Hell?

I get a lot of email. Both wanted and unwanted. I check it frequently so it doesn't "pile up" (yeah, I know email can't really pile up...), and that includes my junk mail folder. I can usually tell spam at a glance, but sometimes I actually look at the text of the message just to double check.

So, for that reason, I've noticed a lot of weird spam messages lately, that include some strange blocks of prose, but no indication of what they are trying to sell. The latest one I received was from "Daren Boone." It was "re: Warning!" Here's what it said:

And do you know why, Paul? "Reluctantly, Hezekiah allowed the gosha to subside to the end of its leather string like a slowing pendulum. She reached in and took out a handful of something and flung it into the face of the first sleeping Paul Sheldon. did the Baron kill Calthorpe?

He kept thinking she would tear the paper to shreds, but it seemed she did not quite dare do this. Annie Wilkes was in her grave. He answered with no hesitation at all. "But would you want to stay? Well, I guess you could. Ramage who drove, cracking the whip over the bewildered Mary, who would have told them, if horses could talk, that this was all wrong she was supposed to be dozing in her warm stall come this time of night. The article noted that some of Annies alleged victims had even lived long enough to be given real names.

Huh. Who writes this stuff? And can I get a job writing it, too?! I'll use that pesky punctuation stuff! OK, I realize it's a computer-generated amalgamation of crap, but still. It would be fun to write!

I deleted this message without checking it out further, but then went back to look at it in my deleted mail folder; the fun prose had disappeared and been replaced with:
Diet Pill Breakthrough! Click to learn more about Hoodia.

Sigh. It seemed so much more exciting when it was talking about Annie's victims. Botched gastric bypass patients of Dr. Annie, perhaps? Wait, wasn't Annie Wilkes the character in Misery? Allie? Yep, just Googled it.

Memories of Dad

Two posts in one day! It's always feast or famine around here. The following is a disjointed, stream of consciousness type post, but that's how memories tend to be, right?

Father's Day is bittersweet for me since my father passed away nearly two years ago. Dad was 58. Not young, by any means, but by no means was he old, either. He was a man who enjoyed his life and was ready to finally retire. He'd retired before, but
always got sucked back into working. He loved a challenge, and even though he enjoyed golfing and relaxing, too, he didn't really like sitting around for long, and usually had several projects going.

Classic cars were a favorite of Dad's. From the time I was born, there was always at least one cute little sportster in the carport/garage/shed (as we moved to nicer houses, there were nicer places for the cars Dad was working on to inhabit). If you were to look into the garages (yes, plural) at Dad's final residence, where my stepmother and their various cats and dogs still live, you'd see 3 newer cars in the main garage, and 4 classics in various states of repair that Dad was reconstructing in the garage out back.

My Mom likes to tell the story of how when we lived in Gainesville, Florida, Dad would commandeer our metal swingset to use as an engine hoist. Yes, Dad was an engineer, and never needed to buy new things when he could make do with old ones. My first "big kid" bicycle was a boys' bike Dad spray-painted hot pink for me. It definitely did the trick, even though I gladly replaced it with a brand new rainbow bike when I received that as a birthday gift a few years later.

Growing up, most nights after work and dinner, Dad would go down to the garage to work on a car or some other project. He'd come up sometime in the evening, still wearing his "Latka Suit" as we called it (yes, named after the character from Taxi) to watch TV with us and have some popcorn.

Dad didn't just work on cars. He loved home repair, too. He turned the basement of our first house in Massachusetts into a recroom (complete with the old chairs he'd made out of barrels years before), and my brother got to move into a really cool bedroom in the attic, while his old bedroom was turned into a guest room and a master bath.

We moved into an older home a few years later, and that involved lots of work for everyone. Dad worked on the exterior and bathrooms, we kids helped strip ancient wallpaper from the walls using spray bottles of vinegar and putty knives, and Mom re-wallpapered everything in updated, not-so-hideous wallpapers.

One of my fondest memories of Dad involves one of the classic cars. When I was 10, when we were living in the older home mentioned above, I was on a pet kick. My gerbil, Sting, had just died, so I decided to replace him with a rabbit instead of another gerbil (we had another gerbil named Pinecone before Sting). I had a bit of a problem with the rabbits, though. (Hmm, rabbit problems. Sounds familiar.) The first one I bought at a pet store. He was a beautiful gray and white Dutch rabbit I named Peter. (Original, no?) A few days later, he started screaming. Hearing a rabbit scream is horrifying. We took it to the vet, who said it had a bacterial infection, and "put it to sleep." I got another rabbit from the pet store to replace poor Peter. This one was a black rabbit I named Satin. Satin had an outdoor hutch that was low to the ground, and escaped the next day. I think I didn't latch the door properly. Yeah, I was a bad pet owner. (Actually, that's not true. We had ducks when we lived in a house on a pond, and our first three ducklings didn't make it because they were allowed in the pond too early and were killed by snapping turtles, except for one, which our vet adopted. It had one partially amputated foot, so could only swim in circles. After that, we got two more ducklings, which I raised as my own. They followed me around, and when their adult feathers grew in, I let them free in the pond. Flebster and Webster lived on for many years.)

After that, Dad decided to take me to a rabbit breeder to pick out a new rabbit. This was the breeder his company used as a source of lab rabbits. Yep, pretty morbid, but I didn't care if my new pet rabbit was albino and bred for blood work! As it turns out, the breeder had many breeds to choose from, and I chose a beautiful black and white lop-eared rabbit. So, what does this have to do with cars? Well, Dad took me to pick out my rabbit in one of his cars. I don't remember if it was an Alfa-Romeo or an MG, but either way, it was a small two-seater with a leaky convertible top, and it was raining out. I didn't care, because I was riding shotgun in a cool car with Dad, and I got to hold a beautiful rabbit Dad had bought for me on the ride home. After playing with my new bunny, I put him in the hutch that was now attached to a tree, double checked the lock, and went inside. The next day, the cage was hanging from the tree, and the door broken open. This time it was definitely not my fault. That rabbit was huge, so it's possible he had escaped on his own, or it could have been a predatory animal of some sort. But either way, that was it for me and rabbits for a while! I moved on to guinea pigs after that.

When we visited last year for my stepsister's wedding, the pool had a snafu, and water had backed up in the garage with the classic cars. Hubby hosed them all off, but was concerned that these cars should be sold as soon as possible, as they are not getting any younger or repairing themselves, and the longer they sit, the more chances that something bad can happen to them as they sit under tarps. I doubt my stepmother has acted on Hubby's advice, though. My stepmother is still getting over Dad's death, I know. I wish we lived closer so we could help her tackle everything, but then again, I don't think she even wants to tackle any of it. My stepsister and her husband are close by at least.

Happy Father's Day, Dad! I miss you!

Father's Day Fun

This Father's Day started out for me at 3:30 a.m., when Harrison woke up. I went downstairs, patted his back, and turned on the lullaby music on the "Baby Tad" toy he sleeps with. Thankfully, that did the trick. The next time he woke up, sometime after dawn, a Father's Day miracle occurred. Hubby went downstairs and got Harrison out of his crib, and brought him upstairs to put in bed with us. Wow! I didn't have to get out of bed again! Amazing!

When I did get out of bed again around 9 (that's usually when the boys start making a lot of noise, which leads me to believe they're destroying something, plus the dogs start getting restless wanting breakfast and to go out) I decided I should do the right thing. I made waffles for the boys and myself, and a few extra to bring up to Hubby so he could have breakfast in bed on his special day. When Hutton and I took the waffles up to him, it was about 9:45. A little while later, when the boys and I were done with breakfast and came back upstairs, I checked on Hubby. Fast asleep in bed, with the empty breakfast tray sleeping beside him on my side of the bed. Awww! It looked cute enough that I didn't harbor resentment against Hubby for getting to sleep in, whereas I have not had a chance to sleep in since last week sometime. (Yes, I know 9 o'clock is sleeping in to some of you, but I don't count it, since it is sleep interrupted by Harrison every 20 minutes or so. And Hubby is much better at sleeping through the children than I am. Or he's a better sleep actor than I am. Not sure which one.)

The rest of our Father's Day will probably involve taking Hubby out to lunch at a really fancy boring place. Probably one of the places we go all the time, like Acapulco Fresh, or is Hubby is feeling crazy, Red Robin. And we'll give him the little box I ordered with a "Hutton Original" watercolor on the lid. It turned out very well, and I think it will look good on the dresser to help contain all the stuff that seems to multiply in Hubby's pants pockets.

Happy Father's Day to all the Dads out there!

Sad Autism Stories

Earlier this week, on one of the many Autism email lists I read, the news arrived. A little boy in Maple Valley, WA (about an hour south of where I live) had walked out of his house at night and was struck and killed by a hit and run driver. He was 3. Here's a link to the story.

This really hits home for me. Hutton used to leave the house and yard a lot. Thank goodness he seems to have outgrown this autistic tendency. The second time he left the house, he walked to the end of the street and crossed a busy road. We found him a few minutes later at the home across the street from our street, but it was nerve-wracking. Another time, Hutton, wearing only a diaper, ended up at the other end of the street, in the creek. Again, he was found quickly, but each of these instances caused me to age 20 years. I'm surprised my hair hasn't turned white.

Though soon after the first escape, we added a bar lock at the top of the door, and put alarms on the doors, there were still a few more escapes. The times I'd be in the yard, and look away for a minute, to realize Hutton wasn't around. One of these times, a family had been walking on the trail that cuts across the end of our street (where the creek is) and saw Hutton walking towards them. They brought him up the street, and I thanked them and started to walk Hutton back into our yard. I had to put up with the mother of the family giving me THE LOOK. Autism parents know it well. THE LOOK says, "You may just be the worst, most irresponsible parent I've ever seen." I tend to smile as politely as possible (no, really, I don't give them an "eat shit" smile at all!) and walk away without going through the whole, "You see my son has Autism..." spiel. That rarely changes THE LOOK, and frankly, I don't really want to bother with some people. Let them believe that I was passed out with a bottle of tequila in front of the TV and woke up hours later to realize my son was gone. (No, I'm not a tequila drinker. Though I do like margaritas, I'm way too lazy to make them.)

I can only imagine the pain the family of this boy is going through right now, and I'm sure there are people who will hear the news and blame the parents. Very sad.

The second story takes place in South Florida, my old stompin' grounds, where Hubby and I lived right after we married. This story involves a 21-year-old man with Autism being sexually assaulted by a man hired by the victim's family to take him on outings. This one tends to make me dread the future, as there is no telling at this point just what Hutton will be like when he is a young man. Even now, as a soon-to-be-kindergartner, he has many, many adults in his life who interact with him in one-on-one situations. All I can say is, I completely trust all of the adults he has in his life right now, but sick, sick people live in this world. Which reminds me: we have to do "the talk" with Hutton about private parts soon.

OK, Can I Give Them Back Now?

Today was a day I wondered why I thought having kids was such a great idea. In fact, I wondered this aloud to myself, as I inhaled the fumes of "Goo Gone" and scrubbed the walls. Me: "Why was it really necessary to pass on your fabulous genes? Really, are you that vain that you think the world wouldn't have been complete without half of your DNA floating around in the form of children? Just think what exciting things you could have been doing right now instead of scrubbing the walls with Goo Gone!"

The day started out happily groggily normally enough. I woke up at dawn to get Harrison, he slept in bed with us a little while, then got "down" from bed to go play. An hour or so later, hubby was fiddling with his alarm clock, thinking it was the source of the soft Muzak-style sounds we heard. Nope, that was "A Whole New World" from the Aladdin soundtrack blaring on the CD player downstairs in Hutton's room. I was glad to be hearing the soft version of the song. It ended soon after, and I snoozed again, interrupted by Harrison, carrying in a big toy that needed new batteries, saying, "Help You! Help You!" I told him to go find something else to play with, but did get out of bed finally to feed the dogs and let them out. After that, the boys had breakfast, and I took Hutton into his room to get dressed.

Hmm. The pillows are all on the floor. I guess he and Harrison were playing around when the Aladdin soundtrack was on earlier. Looking more closely: What is that on the pillows? CRAYON?!!! Quickly followed by frantic looking around the room further: CRAP, it's on the bed, the walls, the sheets, the comforter! Sending Hutton upstairs partially dressed so I could scream and tear my hair out in peace...

After attempting to scrub the walls with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (don't know what sort of caustic substance this thing uses, but it has saved my ass in the past, when Hutton drew on the walls with a dry erase marker at our former hospital volunteer job) I decided it wasn't cutting it. I was disintegrating on the textured walls. (Years ago, we skim-coated the walls in every room of the house but Hutton's, which used to be the guest room, and still haven't made it around to skim-coating Hutton's walls.) Oh well. Back to the cleaning cabinet for the GOO GONE. I then scrubbed around on various surfaces for the next hour, talking and cursing aloud to myself, pretty much acting like the crazy person I have become. I finally stopped when I realized I was scrubbing the inside of the closet doors, which would never be seen by anyone but me, Hutton and Harrison, so I decided I didn't care if there were blue crayon marks still smeared around.

I was angry at the boys (Harrison is a big crayon fiend, and he doesn't understand that his artistic touches with colored wax aren't appreciated unless they're done on PAPER!) but also at myself, for being stupid enough to leave the box of crayons Hutton had received as a end-of-the-year gift from his physical therapist at school on the dresser in his room. The boys loved those crayons, but didn't bother opening the new notebook that the crayons came attached to. And unfortunately, those new crayons are the old-fashioned non-washable kind. And no, that type of crayon doesn't wash out of fabric easily. At least it didn't after the first wash. I'll know more after the second wash cycle completes in a little while.

A couple hours pass by. Hutton is working with his home therapist in his room, and I'm finally enjoying my coffee and reading email. Ahhh.

I go in to take a shower. Hutton bursts into the room to happily announce that he made a mess. I ask him if he's talking about earlier with the crayons, because, yes that was a mess. He nods excitedly and laughs. I grit my teeth and send him out.

A few minutes later, downstairs, his therapist breaks the news that no, he wasn't talking about earlier. While she was cleaning up his index cards, Hutton had grabbed the markers and colored on the carpet. I smile and nod and say, "Well, we have a steam cleaner for those things..."

Any guess as to how I spent my early afternoon?

Hubby just took the boys out. I don't know where they went, and I don't care. Actually, that's a lie. I was thinking as they left that I'd be a little bummed out if they went and saw a movie without me.

UPDATE: The crayon marks faded a bit, but are still visible on the yellow pillowcases.

I kept close watch of the boys all afternoon, pretending to be a good parent. However, at one point I went upstairs to tell hubby dinner would be ready in a few minutes. When I returned, Hutton and/or Harrison had knocked over a lamp in Hutton's room. So, in case scrubbing walls, steam-cleaning carpets, and doing laundry wasn't enough crap to do today in addition to my regular routine, I also had a chance to pick up little shards of light bulb glass and vacuum as an after dinner treat.

Where's the wine?

YAWN!

Harrison, my baby, is 2 now. It's been a full week, and I've come to terms that he's not a baby anymore, even though I still call him my baby, and will until he's a teenager. And then I'll probably continue, just to annoy him.

We had a party for him on Sunday. I spent a lot of Saturday baking him a cake, using the special Elmo cake pan my friend, Liz, lent me. I had to make a few trips to the grocery store, as I didn't write a list of what I needed. Hmm. So, that's what those are for!

After baking the Elmo cake, I let it cool for about 10 minutes, then attempted to remove the cake from the pan. I was doing pretty well, until I reached the upper left quadrant. Elmo cake looked like he'd been in a serious accident. I pressed pieces of cake back into the giant gashes, and hoped that frosting would cover the problem areas.

It did to an extent, but Elmo still looked like he'd had a really rough night after I slapped on the frosting. His fur looked disheveled, his face was a bit uneven, and when I added the pupils to his jaundiced looking eyes (hey, buttercream frosting has a lot of butter, and butter is yellow, OK?!) they started to drip down his eyeballs.

I had to get all the other food together, so I didn't have a lot of time to worry about Elmo's imperfections. The end results were good though. The cake was yummy, and Harrison looked goth after getting black frosting smeared on his face.

So, on to the title of this post. Harrison wakes up at dawn every day. Every once in a while he'll wake up in the middle of the night, but thankfully that's an exception and not the rule. The rule is waking at dawn, though. And here in the Northwest, dawn comes at 4:45 a.m. in June. Yay, me. I can usually get him to sleep in bed with me for another hour or so, and then he'll get up and go play on his own for a little while. But the damage is done. My 5 hours of sleep, followed by a couple of hours of interrupted sleep, just don't cut it. Isn't it time for a nap, Harrison?

At least I can look forward to the days slowly getting shorter next week! Come on, Summer Solstice!

Oh My!

Well, I started this post hours ago, but my computer keeps crashing on me.

I received an email from a friend earlier tonight, and I was laughing hysterically for several minutes. I attempted to figure out how to share it here, but it's a pdf file, and after several failed attempts, I gave up on trying to convert it and finally just posted a bunch of pictures in separate posts. Yes, I'm a computer loser. Or is that looser?

Anyway, the email involved pictures of several truly bad album covers, and was titled, "The Worst Album Covers Ever!" Really, these were horrifying, hilarious and moving.

This led me to this website. Hours of fun await you here!

And after seeing Millie Jackson listed on several different sites under "Bad Album Covers," I must say, I'm going to be doing some more research on this little lady! She indeed does seem to be the shit!


*********************
Below are the fab albums featured in the original email. They're heavy on the gospel and religious freaks, but there are a smattering of "hot" and/or gay guys and a dummy and some blind chicks for good measure.

Oh, Jim, I love your life, too! 

Maybe they should have gone for cover art instead of a photo. 

Sigh. Me too. 

Hmmm. Can't make fun of this one. 

And he's really fun! 

Swingers 

Yeehaw! 

HOT HOT HOT! 

No comment. 

No, please don't let them touch me! (That's what he said.) 

See, pedophiles have been around long before Myspace. 

Just Joyce. 

I love the ZAP across the devastatin' crotch. 

Uh, sure. You know, why don't you just keep it? 

The three on the right seem to be distancing themselves from the the BIG GUY 

Thank God Ken doesn't just show up unrequested 

Scare ME! 

Monday Catsup

Ketchup is good, isn't it? One of my fave condiments. I last had it on Thursday, when we went to McDonald's after Hutton's speech therapy session. We have 30 minutes to get home from speech therapy in time for Hutton to catch the bus, and that usually means I feed my children crap, like, well, McDonald's. I only feel guilty about it when he gives me away in front of his speech therapist. I walk in to pick him up, ask him what he's been doing, and he happily exclaims, "Go to McDonald's for lunch!" I sort of mumble under my breath, "Yeah, we'll see..." meaning, "Of course we're going to McDonald's, it's a speech therapy day, isn't it?"

Anyway, as I was driving home, with my #2 combo in my lap, enjoying my salty fries with ketchup, I looked down at a stop light, and was horrified to see that McDonald's now puts the nutritional information on the medium size fries. Gasp! Should I really eat these? After all they have more calories than I usually eat in an entire meal, and that's not including the quarter pounder and Mr. Pibb. Hmm, I guess it's OK if it's only once a week (or twice...). After all, Harrison is still nursing, so I get extra calories for that, right?

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I have to send a shout out to my friends L, M and A on the birth of little J. Congrats! He's gorgeous!

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Anyone else watch the Sopranos? Hubby and I were annoyed and disappointed by last night's episode. Considering it will be another 12 years before Season 8, that wasn't that impressive. I was getting more confused than I normally do. (During a normal episode, we have to pause several times to discuss: "Wait, who's that guy? Who are they talking about? Isn't he dead?") I really liked that skit from SNL last year about the Sopranos, where even the characters didn't remember what was happening on the show.

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A quote I read in last week's Time that I really enjoyed:

"We want Barbaro [this year's Kentucky Derby winner, who broke his leg in the Preakness] to have a reasonable quality of life," says [surgeon who repaired his leg] Richardson. "I think that would be enhanced if he's able to have sex with lots of pretty mares."

Hey, who doesn't love the pretty mares?

A Really Sh*tty Post

WARNING! The following post is about poop. Do not read if you have a weak stomach!

Yes, I've sunk to a new low. I'm writing about poop. It's just because of two particularly shitty events today. Literally.

The first: I heard Hutton go into the bathroom and close the door, and he didn't emerge within a minute, so I knew he was pooping. I went down to help him clean up. This is probably one of the worst parts of being a mother - having to wipe another human's butt, often several times a day, for many years.

Anyway, after wiping Hutton down, I noticed he hadn't flushed the toilet yet, which he usually does immediately after pooping. So, I went to flush, but noticed that his turds were a really gross (well, most poop is!) gray color. So, I decided to read up on my autism sites about poop color issues. (Autism often has lots of bowel issues involved, which is why many children with autism benefit from being on special diets, such as the gluten-free and casein-free diet, which Hutton was on for about 9 months.) I really didn't find what I was looking for, but came across this site, which is really very funny. So, thought I'd share the scatological humor with anyone who shares my juvenile tastes.

On to the second shitty event. Harrison came over to me this evening asking to be picked up. I bent down to pick him up and noticed immediately that he'd been busy filling his diaper while I was researching poop. I then noticed that the poop had leaked out of his onesie (his pants had been thrown into the hamper hours earlier, after he got them muddy and wet outside) and was all over his legs and on the toddler rocking chair he'd been sitting in. Yay! I love poops that involve not only hosing down my child, but also doing an extra load (no pun intended) of laundry.

Well, that's all there is to that. See, not too terribly graphic. Well, at least not for other moms. Or teenage boys. I remember lots of poop talk from my guy friends in high school. Lee, are you out there? I'm thinking of you!