Come On And Ride The (CRAZY) Train

I've been slowly getting my energy back (I'm crediting the vitamins. Hello B12, and where have you been all my life?!)

The children have been acting somewhat more human that usual, too.  

My husband has been falling over himself to be Mr. Helpful, especially after I dared him to go 24 hours without acting like a playground pigtail puller.  (You like that alliteration, don't you.)  He even managed to do it -- he didn't tease, cajole, or otherwise provoke me for 2 entire days, actually.  And suddenly we were done bickering.  (Coincidence? Oh, I think not, Mr. T).

So I should have been on cloud nine.  Everything seemed to be coming together.  

And then, last week, I started falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon again.  I started crying for no reason.  I started snarling like a rabid she-wolf every time anyone came near me.

That's about the time I realized it had been a good 6 weeks since my last period.

...

Mull that over for a moment, won't you?  You'll recall I have 3 boys ages 6 and under.  Also, 2 cats, a dog, and 1 Beta fish.  My baby is exactly 10 months old.  So, you know, perfect time for a pregnancy scare!

...

I have never been so happy NOT to see that second pink line appear.  Or the second pink line on the second pregnancy test I took.  Or the third.  Or the... well, you get the idea.  See, the tests kept coming up negative, and yet... no visit from Aunt Flo.  The weeks rolled on. And on. And on.  My mental state got worse and worse, and I sorta became convinced that a positive pregnancy test was only a matter of time.

So you'll understand when I say I was about ready to throw a parade, complete with ticker-tape, when the crimson tide finally rolled in.  Relief! Not another baby!  Congratulations, WE ARE NOT PREGNANT.

So, of course, we celebrated this reprieve the only reasonable way.  Reasonably INSANE, that is. Because I am crazy.  If you doubted it before, you will doubt no longer.

Into the midst of our finally settled existence, wherein my hormones finally kicked into proper gear and the rabid she-wolf went back into hibernation, I decided to drop a grenade.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the newest member of The Family Aum.  Meet Her Ladyship, The Duchess Stevie Nicks of Cue Ball.  We call her Stevie.

Her turn-offs include being left alone for any amount of time (even if you just needed to make a tinkle and PLEASE, dog, for the love of Bob, stop crying outside the bathroom door!), and sleeping anywhere that is not in our bed, preferably curled up next to your face on the pillow (which is cool and all, except when you wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself face-to-face with doggy taint. I don't care HOW cute she is, there's nothing cute about a dog's bung hole.) 

All that said, HOLY HANNA MONTANA, how cute is she?!

Why You Haz Evil Humors, Horrid Humans?

I love that my kids treat our ginormous, scary-looking dog like he's an obnoxious sibling. 

The big, strong guy who delivers our pizzas? He backs away from the door  at the sight and sound of Gizmo's frantic (but friendly) barks of greeting.  

The boys, on the other hand, are apt to react to his attention by shoving him out of their faces with a distracted "shoo, Gizzy!" without even looking up from their play.  

Case in point: Jack decided to mess with the dog just for giggles.  On this particular day that meant subjecting the dog to 15 minutes of "dress up" play, including this scene I caught on camera.  My best guess? Gizmo was playing the part of "Major League Baseball Player With Severe Hangover".  

What's In A Name.

I have decided that it is imperative that I name more things in my life.

My husband made a comment this morning, totally innocent, that indicated that perhaps my range of emotion has been somewhat... stunted... of late. I have been alternating between two primary moods: quite contented and royally pissed off.

So I'm trying to invite more of the pragmatically silly back into my world. I have this reputation for being.. um.. somewhat sassy, and I seem to have lost touch with my sass recently. And because all things silly inspire me to pucker up and bestow some tongue sass, I have decided to start with the naming of several inanimate objects. Mostly because this will assist me in swearing at them in a more personal way when they refuse to operate as advertised and/or expected.

First: the Minivan of Denial. Yes, the vehicle I begrudgingly accepted to replace my sleek little malibu and have thoroughly filled with an assortment of children, cracker crumbs, and sticky mystery stains. Oh, the "Rocker Mom!" window sticker helped to ease the sting, but at the end of the day it is still a minivan. Also, the battery seems to revolt at irregular intervals and leaves me stranded and dependent on the pity of strangers. And we all know how well I do with that whole "interacting with strangers" thing. (And if you don't already know, it involves lots of nervous shuffling, averting of eyes, and occasional bouts of uncontrollable sobbing.)
So won't you help me come up with an appropriate moniker for my silver torpedo of doom? I think it should be a male name, but I'm not sure if a van that carries a womb-full of children can really be male, so I'll leave this one up-in-the-air as far as gender for now. (Perhaps a good unisex name?)

Second: this Laptop. It was an exorbitantly expensive Christmas gift... back in 2003. Now? Well, now it is a 5-year-old computer that intermittently freezes up, reboots for no reason, and has, on at least one occasion, blind-sided me with the blue screen of death (and I swear to you it cackled maniacally when that happened. Really! It wasn't just in my head! The voices would have told me.) Her name should be the kind you'd associate with a vindictive ex-girlfriend.

Third: the Lawn Mower. The Lawn Mower has not given me any actual grief; in fact, it is one of the few pieces of equipment that works exactly as expected around here. It's one of those spiffy "one stroke" jobs, and it never fails to rev up on the first try. Also, it provides me with at least an hour of peace out in the sunshine whenever I fire that bad boy up. His name should be one I can holler affectionately as I approach from across the yard; the name of someone you'd want to share a little camaraderie with over beers.


Finally: the Dryer. The washer requires no name, as it so far works exactly as expected, which is to say not very well but about what you'd expect from an 8-year-old model. But the dryer.. well.. the deal with the dryer is that it works just fine. It dries clothes, and as long as you remember to set it on the "medium" heat setting it won't also melt them into a pile of smoldering ash. But the VENT HOSE. (Yes, I know I used all caps. Believe me, in this case it was warranted.) This dryer seems intent on detaching the vent hose at every opportunity. The rolls - yes, ROLLS - of duct tape I have gone through hooking that monstrosity back together - you would not believe. And yet, after a week or so of running satisfactory operation, suddenly an invisible opening will appear up there, where I have to stand on a ladder to even see it, and mysterious clouds of laundry lint will start to wend their way down from the ceiling.

Yes, the dryer is perhaps the most sinister appliance of all. Its name should be something particularly loathsome... like, perhaps, Darth Sidious. Or Beelzebub.

So my challenge to you, dear readers, is this: Either in the comments or via email (melkist at gmail dot com) please to be sending me your suggestions for these names. The winners will receive... uh.. my undying gratitude? And maybe a small token of some sort if I can think of something appropriate for the occasion. I can make no promises, as I am just now remembering that we need to buy more toilet paper before we're all reduced to using leaves from the lilac bush outside. The pregnant brain, it is not so good at the remembering, but I'll do my best.

Perhaps a signed photo of one of the other named creatures from our abode

Master Django McQueen de Mardi Gras...

Affectionately "Gizmo"

why for you make to balance heavy toys on face, woman?
I can haz livrsnap rewordz for these humiliashunz?

Wassap, Dawg?!

Remember when I promised that something interesting would be here today?

Lied. SOOOO lied.

So, instead, allow me to dazzle you with these photos of my grand protector and very hairy winter blanket.

You lookin' at me?

Officially, Master Django McQueen de Mardi Gras. Affectionately, Gizmo.

In spite of my mother's fears that he will someday go all disgruntled postal-worker on us and, say, eat one of the children, he is in fact a giant ball of needy, needy love. In his mind, he is perfectly welcome to help himself to your dinner and then curl up on your lap like a dog one-third his size.

55 pounds of pure muscle wrapped around a solid, angular frame is not particularly comfortable across one's lap. Especially with a bony elbow digging into your stomach. But what he lacks in padding, he more than makes up for in adoring looks and very slimy kisses. Also, he scares the crap out of door-to-door salespeople, which more than pulls his weight around here so far as I am concerned.

I can haz snugglz now?

So he's not quite as good for snuggling as Big Daddy T, but he'll do in a pinch... and he does like to watch Ugly Betty as much as I do. What more could a girl ask for in a four-legged companion? -- Unless it's wishing that he would quit with the chewing already. There's nothing quite as unpleasant as the sudden realization that a) the dog has been unnaturally quiet for the last 10 minutes and b) you left a dirty diaper in the playroom after a spot-change. These two circumstances can only lead to disaster... and a firm resolution not to let the dog lick your face for a while.

I regret nothing! ATTICAAAAA!