Fear and Loathing In The Diaper Pail

One word: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Pre-preschool went well today! Liam cried when I left the playroom, but apparently he got over it, because no one came up to get me this time. Another mom and me did some joking around and she’s cool. An anti-Bush Texan. She can’t be all bad. Maybe sometime, if we get to know each other better, we can have them over for a playdate. We were venting about how seldom we get out of the house, how hard it’s getting to be to entertain the kids (who are heading into Extreme Hardheaded Toddlerhood), that sort of thing. So maybe this could be good! We shall see.

Anyway, after the “grownup” discussion was done (Family Emergency Preparedness, led by an actual Red Cross worker and not the nutty preschool lady), we went down to get the kids. Liam was happy as a clam, playing with a shaker made from an empty soda bottle full of seeds. He saw the other grownups and kind of searched through them and then saw me and got a HUGE smile on his face and RAN to me, laughing.

That felt really good.  There is nothing quite like a happy hug from your kid.

AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I finally, finally finished reading The Complete Sherlock Holmes. I had to take a week or so off. I was getting Sherlock Holmesed out. So now I can officially say I have read every Sherlock Holmes story ever written. Although, I could not recount hardly any of them to you, because somewhere between The Adventure of This or That and The Mystery of the Whatnot and The Other, they all start to run together. I can tell you that they are EXACTLY like you’d expect them to be.

HOLMES (lighting pipe and looking through magnifying glass): In a moment, Watson, I daresay there will come a knock at the door heralding the beginning of the Case of the Mysterious Adventure.”

DOOR: knock, knock.

The stories are good, the twists are interesting and they aren’t usually as obvious as you’d think they’d be. It’s not ALWAYS the butler. But halfway through, old Holmes totally jumps the shark.  In the last story of the first volume, Holmes heads off for the Continent to escape his arch-nemesis (who really doesnt bother him all that often), Professor Moriarty. Except Moriarty fools Holmes (!) and they get in a fistfight and fall off a cliff. This is the end of our man Holmes, it appears, until the first story of the second volume when Holmes reappears, alive and dressed as an old woman.

Doyle, you’re a hack.

Anyway, I’m finally done reading Sherlock Holmes. Onto my next book, A Prayer For Owen Meany. I like John Irving. If you haven’t read A Widow For One Year, I highly recommend it. Even if you are a man. Don’t be frightened by the term “widow”.  It’s not chick lit. Which I hate. Men probably see that title and think it’s some post-menopausal tale of some poor lady who finds love after all. It’s not. In fact, it features Amsterdam hookers and a Mrs. Robinson-esque relationship. Woo hoo!

Michael: Dad’s going to be selling the cabin, Mom. You should go up there for a visit one last time. You could take a date.

Lucille: Oh, who’d want to be up in that musty old claptrap?

*** long pause ***

Michael: The cabin, Mom.

Man, I was sanding cabinets in the garage last night, listening to the game, which was tied 2-2 the whole time I was listening. I finished up in the middle of the sixth and then on the news later found out the Redbirds scored FOUR TIMES right after I turned off the radio. Dag nab it.

After months of listening to Liam call Adam “Da” and my mom “Ah-ma-ma” and my dad “Po-paw”, while I, the one who slaves away over him, day in and day out, reheating chicken nuggets, changing diapers, chasing him around the house when he somehow gets ahold of my cell phone, admonishing, “No, no, Play-Doh is for PLAYING, not eating!” remained anonymous, Liam has finally bestowed upon me a name.

Everybody, meet “Ah-mee”.

Sometimes, I find myself in a situation where I can’t help but laugh at myself.  Saturday evening, I had been invited to a “girls’  night out” birthday party. We were meeting for dinner at a slick little restaurant downtown. So I tarted myself up, drove myself into the city, parked, and began the three-block walk to the eatery.

It was a busy night downtown. Tons of people everywhere, poking traffic that moved two cars at a time, hindered by the occasional horse-drawn carriage. I was running a couple minutes late, so I was hustling along. It was still a little light out and there were plenty of people around, but I was aware I was the only woman on the street.

So I get to a crosswalk, and the big red hand is lit, so I’m standing there and up drives five guys in this unbelievable tricked-out funny car convertible with the most amazing paint job I’ve ever seen. They’re literally about 8 feet away from where I’m standing. And they’re blasting from the stereo this charming little number that just made me swoon with romance. It went:

                                    Gettin’ head! I was gettin’ some head!
                                    Gettin’ head! Get-gettin’ some head!
                                    Gettin’ head! I was gettin’ some head!
                                    Gettin’ head! Get-gettin’ some head!

You have no idea how hard it is to appear nonchalant at such a time.