(Mostly) Wordless Wednesday: The Many Faces of the DCFI

Are you allowed to start a post title with parentheses? (HINT: I don’t care.) I do know that I’m not supposed to write words on a post that is supposed to be wordless so clearly I have a blatant disregard for blogging rules. So getting on with it, I was looking over my pictures from vacation and I found a surprising number of my sister’s husband, that’s right, the Deputy Chief Fire Idiot* making a number of super awesome faces. Jen. You really outdid yourself in that whole picking a husband thing.

(OK in his defense there’s a lot of funny pictures of all of us, but there is an unspoken rule among sisters that they not post unflattering pictures of one another (a rule Snoreface ignored when she posted pics of me passed out after I made out with my dog, but WHATEVER) so I was left with Bill who I have to live with, so just no, and Vince who I don’t feel is fair game since he hasn’t become betrothed to Snoreface yet (wink-wink, nudge, nudge). So yeah, DCFI took the fall. He has a good sense of humor though, dontcha, pal?!)

I have to shut up now (on account of that whole Wordless thing) (Rules! Regulations!) so take a look-see at The Many Faces of The Deputy Chief Fire Idiot.

fin

* I can’t claim responsibility for giving him that name. Go ask his mother who gave it to him…(HINT: It was her.)

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See? It Wasn't ALL About The Booze…

I bet you’re beginning to think we didn’t do anything but drink on this little cabin getaway. Yes? I can see how this has come to pass as every damn sentence I’ve written regarding vacation contains the words “shot”, “vodka” “HAHA I’M DRUNK” or “Pass the box of wine, please!”. So to prove you all wrong, we did in fact wait to drink until six o’clock (PM!) one night because we spent the day at Itasca State Park, which is home to the headwaters of The Mississippi. This was my first time and wow was it a beautiful nature preserve.

People sometimes get the wrong impression of me when it comes to nature because if anyone even mentions the word Camp, I run and hide behind the nearest piece of large furniture I can find mumbling “Bed&Breakfast!” over and over again. This stems from my high school and early college years when way too many weekends were spent out on the St. Croix River, where I would wake up with sand in my bra and my mouth and some other places and I would be !SKIP THIS PART, MOM! hungover and sweaty and cranky and the fucking river geese would be honking right outside my tent like some sadistic alarm clock and then you’d have to wait for the one doochebag who drove the boat and was everybodys ticket off the stanky river to finish sleeping it off and/or puking up last nights libations and AAAAAHHHH*IHATECAMPING*AAAAAAHHHHHH. So yeah, me and camping are not best friends. We don’t even really like to look at one another.

But! (I think I have a point here somewhere…) I absolutely adore experiencing nature. Hiking through trail systems and rocky bluffs is one of my all time favorite pastimes. The wildflower plant life in Minnesota is so awesome to behold and our trees get so damn green and dense that in some places, at the right time of year, you would mistake it for a jungle. I’m pretty sure some mosquitoes even resemble tropical birds. I love seeing the different ecosystems that our state has to offer and in many places you can see multiple ones in any given square mile. I am an earthy girl, a nature girl, I’m just not a campy one. So going to Itasca was one of the highlights of the week for me, and I tell you, it was for little miss Rowan J, too.

Rowan has been going through some developmental growing pains as of late which is a nice way of saying SHE IS DRIVING US FREAKING NUTS, DO YOU KNOW OF A PRESCHOOL THAT BOARDS? SOMEONE? ANYONE? HALP! But the evil veil of early-onset teenageriness lifted from her during the first half hour or so and by the time we made it to the trail system there was neither a scowl nor any trace of attitude and there she was- Our bright, hilarious, awesome three year old.

OK, so the giant sucker and the playground may have had something to do with it.

Rowan girl dipping her net into the Mighty Mississippi.

Bill, dipping his second born into the Mighty Mississippi.

Keaton, Sir. Leading the charge across the river.

Keaton did awesome in the ergo as long as I kept my ponytail away from his chubby little grasp.

We set him free at the end and he proceeded to give me 3.42 heart attacks by running down this steep hill a buttload of times at full throttle. Boys!?%$%

This post is brought to you by AT&T. More cuteness. More places.

It was such an awesome day.

PS- Here’s a public service announcement from Mr. Branches:

"GET OFF MY MOTHERFUCKIN' ROOTS, SHITHEADS! YOUR RADIOACTIVE FEET HAVE DONE MADE ME GROW HUMAN PARTS!"

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See? It Wasn’t ALL About The Booze…

I bet you’re beginning to think we didn’t do anything but drink on this little cabin getaway. Yes? I can see how this has come to pass as every damn sentence I’ve written regarding vacation contains the words “shot”, “vodka” “HAHA I’M DRUNK” or “Pass the box of wine, please!”. So to prove you all wrong, we did in fact wait to drink until six o’clock (PM!) one night because we spent the day at Itasca State Park, which is home to the headwaters of The Mississippi. This was my first time and wow was it a beautiful nature preserve.

People sometimes get the wrong impression of me when it comes to nature because if anyone even mentions the word Camp, I run and hide behind the nearest piece of large furniture I can find mumbling “Bed&Breakfast!” over and over again. This stems from my high school and early college years when way too many weekends were spent out on the St. Croix River, where I would wake up with sand in my bra and my mouth and some other places and I would be !SKIP THIS PART, MOM! hungover and sweaty and cranky and the fucking river geese would be honking right outside my tent like some sadistic alarm clock and then you’d have to wait for the one doochebag who drove the boat and was everybodys ticket off the stanky river to finish sleeping it off and/or puking up last nights libations and AAAAAHHHH*IHATECAMPING*AAAAAAHHHHHH. So yeah, me and camping are not best friends. We don’t even really like to look at one another.

But! (I think I have a point here somewhere…) I absolutely adore experiencing nature. Hiking through trail systems and rocky bluffs is one of my all time favorite pastimes. The wildflower plant life in Minnesota is so awesome to behold and our trees get so damn green and dense that in some places, at the right time of year, you would mistake it for a jungle. I’m pretty sure some mosquitoes even resemble tropical birds. I love seeing the different ecosystems that our state has to offer and in many places you can see multiple ones in any given square mile. I am an earthy girl, a nature girl, I’m just not a campy one. So going to Itasca was one of the highlights of the week for me, and I tell you, it was for little miss Rowan J, too.

Rowan has been going through some developmental growing pains as of late which is a nice way of saying SHE IS DRIVING US FREAKING NUTS, DO YOU KNOW OF A PRESCHOOL THAT BOARDS? SOMEONE? ANYONE? HALP! But the evil veil of early-onset teenageriness lifted from her during the first half hour or so and by the time we made it to the trail system there was neither a scowl nor any trace of attitude and there she was- Our bright, hilarious, awesome three year old.

OK, so the giant sucker and the playground may have had something to do with it.

Rowan girl dipping her net into the Mighty Mississippi.

Bill, dipping his second born into the Mighty Mississippi.

Keaton, Sir. Leading the charge across the river.

Keaton did awesome in the ergo as long as I kept my ponytail away from his chubby little grasp.

We set him free at the end and he proceeded to give me 3.42 heart attacks by running down this steep hill a buttload of times at full throttle. Boys!?%$%

This post is brought to you by AT&T. More cuteness. More places.

It was such an awesome day.

PS- Here’s a public service announcement from Mr. Branches:

"GET OFF MY MOTHERFUCKIN' ROOTS, SHITHEADS! YOUR RADIOACTIVE FEET HAVE DONE MADE ME GROW HUMAN PARTS!"

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Challenges or Challenged. Probably a bit of both.

So my husband does this funny thing when he gets around other guys. Maybe yours does it to? He starts to act like King Shit, getting all cocky saying things like “Woman! Make me a sammich!” and “Why don’t you just take care of that, sweet thing.” I do give him a little leeway since I know he is entirely kidding and much of the time at home, poor Bill ends up being the punching bag. A little once in a while flare up and release of testosterone is good for any man. Last vacation though, I drew the line. On the first full day I came out of the cabin, ready to hand over Keaton and the asshole grabbed his drink off the picnic table and said to The Deputy Chief Fire Idiot, “Quick! Run! Here comes Old Lady Gunter!”

Old Lady Gunter did not find this amusing and had a talk with her husband. From that point on Bill reeled in his manly quips but he still needed an outlet, a way to let off the steam he had been holding in all year. Thus, Challenges were born. The challenge is a competition of sorts that pits one person or one team against the other, usually involving a heavy dose of public embarrassment of one kind or another and always precursed by a fair amount of ones alcoholic drink of choice. For instance that first year we kept it fairly simple. The first challenge was a mini-golf tournament. Bill was the loser* so he had to jump off the end of our dock, into the very mucky, densly weed-infested waters that probably housed a family of shrieking eels.

The next challenge was a shuffleboard tourney that resulted in The Deputy Chief Fire Idiot diving into the pool while the entirety of the resort was gathered around it for family bingo night. He yelled out “Chicken WING!”** before the dive and was so flustered that he went ahead and swam until he crashed nose-first into the opposite wall of the pool. This is what testosterone and alcohol does to you, kids. Just Say No.

So, if I may, I will present to you the three challenges that were born and executed on Cabin Vacation Oh Niner. If you are having trouble following along I’ve included pictures of all acts of idiocy.

Challenge The First: The Grand Yaksman.

We played a ladder ball tournament in which Bill and I very successfully whooped Snoreface/Vince and DCFI/Emily (who may have mentioned somewhere around dusk and her eighth or ninth consecutive miss (unless you count the tree above the ladder!) that she maybe didn’t really see so much AT ALL without her glasses. The DCFI was displeased.) Either way WE WON SUCKERS and the two losing teams headed to the beach, in the dark, where the Kayak obstacle course was set up. The men had to Kayak (kayak=those hollow plastic things whose existence resides somewhere between a hollowed out log and a beach floaty) out and around the raft and back, tag their female counterpart who then had to take a shot (a John Daly) run to the cabin and maybe do a little turn or dance or something. I’m a little fuzzy on the last part.

And they're off. Don't let this picture fool you. The Dep was so gung-ho that he flew past Vince, who couldn't stop laughing, in a blur.

And came out looking like this. Kayak's have holes and stuff. It's all a part of the miracle of floaty things. Or maybe just to make everybody walk around with wet asses.

The Felland women are nothing if not proficient takers of shots.

Sometime that night The Deputy Chief Fire Idiot misplaced his sunglasses and nary an eye could sight them for the entirety of the trip. He found them in the pocket of those shorts up there after he got home.

Challenge The Second: Spoons and Peanuts. Separate and together.

The next challenge was a Spoons tourney and if you don’t play this game you should, but beware. Snoreface once lost a fingernail playing and she hasn’t been quite the same ever since. After many rounds and a few too many drinks I somehow became the ultimate winner of spoons by beating out Vince who is like a professional winner of any game he plays (except ladder ball, rock/paper/scissors, and HA! Spoons). I didn’t even have to do my own gloating because Snoreface was just so thrilled he had been thwarted from winning that she went ahead and did it for me.

As the (Ultimate!) (Awesomest!) winner, I was exempt from putting the end of a spoon in between my teeth, the other end of which was carrying a shelled peanut which needed to lay safely on the spoon while the losers had to weave between 3 coolers, go down the dock and back,weave back through the coolers and do a couple fancy little turns.  And because I’m a sore winner I took pictures of all of them with the sole purpose of posting them on my blog.

Jen's form was excellent but her technique was faulty. Remember: teeth, not lips.

Next up, Billy Boy. Or as I like to call him "That Asshole Whose Legs Never Gain ANY Fat".

Go Snoreface, GO!

The Deps was a little too confident after his yaksman victory but pulled in a respectable time.

Not to be put in the corner by us young whipper snappers, Mom shows us what she's got. But the winner was...

Huh? Emily just walked down from Upstairs and put everybody in their place with a time of I Can't Remember:Was Drunk:And .032 seconds.

Challenge The Last: (Stolen From a Toddler) Tractor Races

OK. This was Thursday night, what we knew would be our last big whoop-it-up night of vacation. So The Mallinger’s, Snoreface and Vince and Bill and I did it up right by trying to drink everything we had so we didn’t have to lug it back to the cities. We is smrt. The night started out innocently enough with a couples game of rummy 500 but the end sorta looked like this:

I'm not sure if it was the sitting or the punching but I'm pretty sure neither of these two sisters will ever play Twister with me again. Whatever. And I WON. Perhaps not Fair but certainly Square (on Snorefaces lap and Jen's arm).

Really I’m pretty hazy on what the actual challenge was since we were pretty far gone when inspiration came, but I know that (punching!) Twister was involved and the two mates of the losers had to race these bad ass mothers down the hall:

Why yes I did take the tractors I bought my son and turn them into bad-ass vessels of alcohol powered vroominess. Am good mother.

And the winner is...

Not this guy. Congratulations, Vince. You found your game.

So from there the night deteriorated with us girls losing our shit laughing at the literal video version of Total Eclipse of the Heart and Team Mallinger serenading us with a 13 minute duet of some Meatloaf song only people born in the early 70’s are privy to. So yeah, best night ever. Especially that part where I punched people.

You’ll be thankful to know we are done with Challenges until the year Next, and hopefully one or two or all of us will grow some brains by then, But! I’m betting on not as we are all charged with looking for The Most Perfect Hat of Shame for next year which must be worn in public places by the losers of challenges. Again with the smrts. And apologies if you actually made it to the end of this post.

*The male team member always must take the fall for the team. Unless it involves drinking. Then any Felland woman will happily take the bullet.

**This is a short but really stupid story. Ask Bill about it sometime!

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CV Oh Niner: Settling in

Wow, I don’t even know where to begin. After the Great! Harrowing! Gunter Power Outage I sort of feel that Cabin Vacation ’09 was forever ago and I’m having trouble trying to figure out how to break down our trip into digestible (and readable!) segments. I suppose I should start at the beginning which looked like this:

Not pictured: The trailer that towed behind carrying even more crappity crap.

I am one of those people who have a really hard time choosing what to bring and what to leave behind so I usually err on the side of Bringing Everything We Own. Plus some other stuff. Oh and that thing there, too. Even though we were packed in tight we had a comfortable enough ride up in which we were again reminded of how far we have come since last year when we had to endure little baby Keaton’s giant screamy screams for a majority of the ride. We were all excited to get up there, none more so than a certain three and a half year old who started asking Are we there yet? four minutes after we pulled out of the driveway.

We were a little nervous because the little buggers only napped for about 40 minutes of the three and a half hour drive but they were so distracted by all the New of the cabin that nobody crashed and burned or even got melty. The Mallinger’s and the four of us shared a cabin (named: The noisy cabin with all the dang kids) and my mom, my sister Emily, her daughter Madeline, Snoreface and her boyfriend Vince shared the cabin just up a little hill, behind ours, (named: The Upstairs Cabin).

The first night we spent getting acquainted with the layout of our cabin, finding a place for all The Crap, grilling up some brats and hotdogs and looking out at Fish Hook Lake. I will cut the suspense right now and let you know I did not hook any fish. I am NOT a fisherwoman, and not only that- no one would let me aboard their boat when they were going out to fish because I am one of those annoying a-holes who makes you feel bad once you catch a fish, as in “Look at her face! She’s now disfigured from that giant hole you put in her lip but she could still lead a happy life. What if she has babies she needs to feed! I’m pretty sure lady fish have nipples! Come on! Throw her back! I think I hear her babies crying!” I think I started this when my dad used to drag me out of bed for early fishing outings on our boat and found it rather effective. Now it’s just sort of habit.

So here we are, enjoying the first night, drinking relaxing after a long day in transit and excited over all the potential the week holds.

Soaking in the sun, which only made an appearance 2.4 days of CV Oh Niner.

Jorie won the Find the Most Giantest Dandelion contest.

Rowan and Ellie, jumping off the dock into the chigger infested sand.

Emmy relaxing after she rigorously scouted out the area for the threat of any teenage boys.

Aw. PUKE.

Rowan refuses to pose for a family picture and I'm too lazy to photoshop her in so just use your imagination. Picture a whirling dervish with blond ponytails.

Madeline and her little friend.

I'll smile as long as I'm the only one in the picture. Add that squirmy toddler to the mix and I'm outa here.

Auntie Jen! Swing!

Nigh-nigh first night.

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In case you are wondering…

I did not say THE HELL WITH THIS LIFE  and up and join an Amish community on our sojourn to Middle-of-Nowhere-North-Central-Minnesota (although it would be fun to drive around one of those little carriages). Close! But, no. No. That would have been much more pleasant than coming home to a craptastic townhome operating on 25% power. (25%= The 5 most useless, inconveniently located outlets work and that’s about it.) In other statistical news, there has been an 87.9% increase of the usage of the Eff word, due mostly to the fact that it just flies out of our mouths when we try to flip a light switch which we can’t seem to stop doing even though we know there is NO HOPE OF ELECTRICITY BEING PRODUCED BY THIS FUTILE ACT. There is also a 150 % increase in potentially life threatening baby-proofing dangers since we have to run all our lights off extension cords. There has been a 78% increase of Time-outs due to said lamps that little chubby fingers just can’t seem to leave alone because, Look! A lamp on the floor! I must dump water from the sink on top of it so I can enjoy the sizzle and POP it makes or at the very least lick my fingers and play with the extension cords! I am a toddler! Try to stop me! Aw, crap. Back in the naughty spot.

Last night we received word that the break in our line lies firmly planted below our driveway or garage apron so it will be fixed approximately WE DON’T KNOW WHEN BECAUSE WE DON’T COMMIT TO TIME FRAMES THAT WE MAY BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR SO GO AHEAD AND EFF YOURSELF, SUCKERS, (and also, Maybe Friday but you didn’t hear that from me, you may leave the agreed upon bribe money at the corner of 3rd and Main.). So we woke up this morning to downpouring rain and an indoor temperature that was most definitely in the high eighties but probably closer to the low 90’s. Oh the beauty of no freakin’ cross-breeze. So I’ve packed up the kids and headed to the salvation of Grammy’s house where they can eat Cheetos and watch every Disney movie that was released on VHS during the 1990’s.

Our AWESOME association could have had this on the road to FIXED TOWN but they wouldn’t pay the weekend charges which they are obliged to do if it is an inhabited residence so they got yelled at a lot, by Bill of course because I have a little problem controlling the FUCKENHEIMERS and the THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT WAHHHHHHH’s in these sorts of situations. They did agree to give us a $300 allowance for a hotel stay while the work is being completed which I may take them up on just because I want them to pay out.

In the mean time I have limited access to the Interwebs so I will update as often as I can but probably won’t be able to share the awesome shenanigans of Cabin Vacation Oh Niner until I have my sweet sweet wireless back. I will have my pictures imported to my moms iphoto but I don’t know how to shrink them without photoshop (which she doesn’t have) because I am a little bit technologically-delayed in that department. But! I promise not to disappoint! I have peanuts-on-spoon races, bear vs.wolf t-shirts, mini-tractor shots, three year olds attacked by chiggers, punching Twister!, and our favorite and best Deputy Chief Fire Idiot winning the midnight kayak/obstacle course and also making a lot of strange faces. In the mean time think electricitous thoughts for us!

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Cabin Vacation Oh Niner Update

The wireless up here is spotty at best but I just had to break my internet silence to let you all know my mother, my God-fearing, I-shake-my-finger-at-you-naughty-kids-with-your-drinking-and-your-potty-mouths MOTHER took a shot.

A Jagger bomb, no less.

Um, it's pretty safe to say she didn't like it.

We MAY have told her they kind of tasted like candy and they weren’t that bad. What can I say? We are LIARS.

Keaton on the other hand, really enjoyed his cranberry vodka. In style.

Magical alcohol. Bridging the gap between generations.

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I Should Have Been Packing But Whatever This Was Way More Fun

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I Have No Energy For Coherent Segues So I'm Using Numbers Instead

1. You know how Facebook has that nifty application where you can select “Pirate” as the language setting? Is there a PMS one? You know, so every 3rd or 4th word either Fuck or Wahhhh or Fuck is automatically inserted to save you the trouble and your friends would be separated by sex; The females listed under Sisters in Suck and the males under I Hate You. And only status updates revolving around salt, gourmet chocolate and Steel Magnolias would be permitted.

2. I forgot to mention this milestone of utmost importance in Keaton’s Monthly Blah Blah but he uttered his first swear word last month. Well, I thought it was the first, anyway. I was frantically trying to get us out the door, as we were late in picking Rowan up from Spanish and I had Keaton balanced on one hip, two sippy cups held to my side by my elbow, two baggies of snacks and the car keys in one hand and my purse in the other. I was lopsidedly hurrying down the stairs 10 minutes after I should have been out the door when I took a breath and OH GOD, SON. YOU POOPED, NOW!? NOW!? “Dammit” I exclaimed as I flipped around, dropped everything in my hands and elbows to change him and when I laid him on the bed he smiled up at me and chirped “dammit, dammit” several times, happily, over the course of the change.

That evening over dinner I regaled Bill with my tale of This Very Special Day in Our Son’s Life, but was unsure if it should really count because, well, dammit is hardly a swear word at all. At least not so much in our house. It’s somewhere in between crap and shit and that’s a pretty grey area if you ask me. Bill was pretty quiet through my story and subsequent blathering on about the whole thing, and when I questioned his interest he informed me that Keaton had said “shit” sometime last week and had he known it was so important to me or that it needed to be documented for posterity he would have told me sooner. Oh, and also if he had known I wouldn’t get pissed at him. Which I can’t now, so, well played Mr. Gunter. And Mazel Tov to you, son. You’re a man now. Or something.

3. Luna’s Training update: Picture, if you will, a tumbleweed blowing through the desert while being serenaded by a quiet, low whistle and then fade, very softly, to black. Now in my defense (OK, this is not a defense, I’m just changing the subject) she does get to spend a week with Grandma and Grandpa who have 13 acres of grass for her to chew on and more deer poop to roll in than she ever dreamed possible.

4. Purple Sand update: Breaking news! The Purple Sand not only destroys carpet but it also took out our vacuum cleaner. Poor unsuspecting giant, 400 lb, $7.00 mothersucker never saw it coming. Thankfully he went peacefully. He just quit sucking, thereby achieving the highest level of suckage possible. How’s that for a conundrum of philosophical proportions?

Also a victim of The Great Onslaught of The Purple Sand of Aught Nine? The towel rack.

As I was photographing this Rowan came in and said pityingly, " You know walls don't smile, right?"

How can you blame The Purple Sand for this one (you may, of course, be asking). Well. I thought that by not filling up the water side of the table I would cut down on the mess because the sand wouldn’t turn into that lovely, fine, adhesive, nearly impossible to wipe off paste. And it did work to some extent, and because Keaton wasn’t covered in it, I declared myself Genius Extraordinaire and forgot to check his feet before he traipsed all over the living room. His very sweaty toddler feet, with their many fine, chunky folds which of course housed innumerable grains of the shit. So I whisked him to the bathroom and rinsed his feet off in the sink, but I did not have the foresight to get a towel in advance so instead of risk a few TERRIBLE drops of WATER on the bathroom floor I tried to hold Keaton over the sink with one hand and pull a towel off the rack with the other. As you can see from the picture I was successful in getting the towel off the rack but I unfortunately got water on the floor anyways because I was too busy cussing out the broken rack to actually wipe the boys feet off. FAIL. You can see how this is all the sand’s fault and not mine, right? RIGHT? Good. Now go tell my husband.

5. For those of you wondering how to neatly and easily feed a toddler a bowl of spaghetti, I am providing this visual aid to show you that it CANNOT BE DONE.

"I'll hate you forever for assaulting me with your poison spaghetti that incidentally was my favorite food before today!!!!!!!"

Juice box. Spoon. Carpet. The victims of spaghetti-armed toddlers everywhere.

6. Bill asked me to give him a haircut last Sunday. I shaved his mop, mullet, head a few months ago and that paired with my experience of trimming Keaton’s bangs, I thought I could handle a little size 3 to size 4 clipper blending. WRONG. So I shaved his head again, but not before doing this to him:

I asked him if he would sport the 'Hawk for a few days...

He said no.

7. I’m pretty sure that’s all the numbered paragraphs of idiocy I have time for today. I have a very busy schedule of trying to keep my children in one piece, which is harder than you’d think some days…

I really wasn't kidding about that whole jumping thing. What can we say...

He learned from the best.

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I Have No Energy For Coherent Segues So I’m Using Numbers Instead

1. You know how Facebook has that nifty application where you can select “Pirate” as the language setting? Is there a PMS one? You know, so every 3rd or 4th word either Fuck or Wahhhh or Fuck is automatically inserted to save you the trouble and your friends would be separated by sex; The females listed under Sisters in Suck and the males under I Hate You. And only status updates revolving around salt, gourmet chocolate and Steel Magnolias would be permitted.

2. I forgot to mention this milestone of utmost importance in Keaton’s Monthly Blah Blah but he uttered his first swear word last month. Well, I thought it was the first, anyway. I was frantically trying to get us out the door, as we were late in picking Rowan up from Spanish and I had Keaton balanced on one hip, two sippy cups held to my side by my elbow, two baggies of snacks and the car keys in one hand and my purse in the other. I was lopsidedly hurrying down the stairs 10 minutes after I should have been out the door when I took a breath and OH GOD, SON. YOU POOPED, NOW!? NOW!? “Dammit” I exclaimed as I flipped around, dropped everything in my hands and elbows to change him and when I laid him on the bed he smiled up at me and chirped “dammit, dammit” several times, happily, over the course of the change.

That evening over dinner I regaled Bill with my tale of This Very Special Day in Our Son’s Life, but was unsure if it should really count because, well, dammit is hardly a swear word at all. At least not so much in our house. It’s somewhere in between crap and shit and that’s a pretty grey area if you ask me. Bill was pretty quiet through my story and subsequent blathering on about the whole thing, and when I questioned his interest he informed me that Keaton had said “shit” sometime last week and had he known it was so important to me or that it needed to be documented for posterity he would have told me sooner. Oh, and also if he had known I wouldn’t get pissed at him. Which I can’t now, so, well played Mr. Gunter. And Mazel Tov to you, son. You’re a man now. Or something.

3. Luna’s Training update: Picture, if you will, a tumbleweed blowing through the desert while being serenaded by a quiet, low whistle and then fade, very softly, to black. Now in my defense (OK, this is not a defense, I’m just changing the subject) she does get to spend a week with Grandma and Grandpa who have 13 acres of grass for her to chew on and more deer poop to roll in than she ever dreamed possible.

4. Purple Sand update: Breaking news! The Purple Sand not only destroys carpet but it also took out our vacuum cleaner. Poor unsuspecting giant, 400 lb, $7.00 mothersucker never saw it coming. Thankfully he went peacefully. He just quit sucking, thereby achieving the highest level of suckage possible. How’s that for a conundrum of philosophical proportions?

Also a victim of The Great Onslaught of The Purple Sand of Aught Nine? The towel rack.

As I was photographing this Rowan came in and said pityingly, " You know walls don't smile, right?"

How can you blame The Purple Sand for this one (you may, of course, be asking). Well. I thought that by not filling up the water side of the table I would cut down on the mess because the sand wouldn’t turn into that lovely, fine, adhesive, nearly impossible to wipe off paste. And it did work to some extent, and because Keaton wasn’t covered in it, I declared myself Genius Extraordinaire and forgot to check his feet before he traipsed all over the living room. His very sweaty toddler feet, with their many fine, chunky folds which of course housed innumerable grains of the shit. So I whisked him to the bathroom and rinsed his feet off in the sink, but I did not have the foresight to get a towel in advance so instead of risk a few TERRIBLE drops of WATER on the bathroom floor I tried to hold Keaton over the sink with one hand and pull a towel off the rack with the other. As you can see from the picture I was successful in getting the towel off the rack but I unfortunately got water on the floor anyways because I was too busy cussing out the broken rack to actually wipe the boys feet off. FAIL. You can see how this is all the sand’s fault and not mine, right? RIGHT? Good. Now go tell my husband.

5. For those of you wondering how to neatly and easily feed a toddler a bowl of spaghetti, I am providing this visual aid to show you that it CANNOT BE DONE.

"I'll hate you forever for assaulting me with your poison spaghetti that incidentally was my favorite food before today!!!!!!!"

Juice box. Spoon. Carpet. The victims of spaghetti-armed toddlers everywhere.

6. Bill asked me to give him a haircut last Sunday. I shaved his mop, mullet, head a few months ago and that paired with my experience of trimming Keaton’s bangs, I thought I could handle a little size 3 to size 4 clipper blending. WRONG. So I shaved his head again, but not before doing this to him:

I asked him if he would sport the 'Hawk for a few days...

He said no.

7. I’m pretty sure that’s all the numbered paragraphs of idiocy I have time for today. I have a very busy schedule of trying to keep my children in one piece, which is harder than you’d think some days…

I really wasn't kidding about that whole jumping thing. What can we say...

He learned from the best.

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