the weirdgirl

Yet another tortured family member

Spiderman is a beloved figure in our household.  Not only do Keen and I like Spidey but Chance goes nutso when he sees him.  Which is amazing because I have not let him see any of these movies (they’re scary) so I can’t figure out where he picked up on Spiderman.  He also knows the Hulk and Batman.  It’s like these kids have an instinct for iconic figures and really cool merchandise.  (And for emptying the pocket books of mom and dad.)

But like other things in this household, Spiderman has been tortured as much as he’s been loved.  The Spidey featured is one of those “grows in water!” toys.  (He’s been spending a lot of time in the bath.)

The cat drinking Spiderman.  (Dude, you’re looking a little bloated.)

Breakdancing Spidey.  (Not all the breakdancing moves went well.) 

 

Spidey as an ingredient in “peanut soup”.

 
I haven’t mentioned this (or I don’t think I have) but Keen has taken off the week from work for an at home vacation.  I also managed to clear my schedule and we’ve been running around doing lots of family stuff.  Over the weekend we spent time with cousins.  Monday, it was seeing Wall-E.  (Awesome.)  Today is the county fair.  Moo.

Back soon!           - wg

Being a Girl Is Just Safer

I have to preface this post with a detour down memory lane.  Bear with me.

I have three brothers.  It should be no surprise that, growing up the only girl, I was (and am) well aware that boys are enamored of their penises.  Boys are pretty pleased about their bodies in general (being such a bastion of entertainment value), but boy oh boy, their penises are really the bomb.  It’s practically scripture.

And lo, from the Heavens came the body, and the body had manifold usefulness, such as the lougee and the fart, and the armpits that can also fart, and gifted in infinite wisdom unto the body was the mighty penis, that wiggles amusingly and fruitfully pisses names into snow, and the Heavens looked down on the body and saw that it was good.  And the Heavens farted, and laughed.

Boys love their penises so much that sometimes it gets them in trouble.  (And I say boys, not men, because this is a post about boys.  Men have a whole other kettle of fish to, um, fry when it comes to loving their members.)  Take, for example, the time that I was getting one of my younger brothers ready for bed.  He decided it would be so funny to thrust his wiener at me and make a lovely pissing sound as if he was… yuk yuk yuk… actually peeing on me.  The only problem was that I was in the middle of zipping up his one-piece pajamas when he put his wang in the path of danger. 

Yes… he got zipped. 

(Don’t ask me why he wasn’t wearing underwear.  If you have hippie parents and ask an eight-year-old to dress other children for bed, underwear may or may not show up.)

Then there was another time when one of my brothers was at that potty-trained yet still highly distractible age when he went to lift the toilet seat to go to the bathroom.  Just... he didn’t lift it quite high enough, and then he let it go a little too soon, AND his head was turned so he didn’t notice the seat coming back down on his little ding dong that was in the perfect position to get smacked.  

It happened way too fast for me to prevent anything, I swear. 

Then there is also that stage that a lot of boys go through where they just decide to stop wearing underwear altogether.  My theory is this is all about giving the schlong its freedom.  It lives such a confined existence and it deserves some swinging in the breeze.  However, sometimes in real life your pants really can just rip off.  I’ve seen it happen.  (In front of a grocery store, no less.)

Anyway, I thought all this trouble with penii was universal among males, but maybe it’s a family thing.

Chance is what I consider half potty trained.  He’ll go pee in the toilet but he’s still doing stealth poops in his pants.  You know what I’m talking about.  I figured, since it’s summer and toasty warm, I’d just solve this by removing his pants during his normal window of opportunity.  I know he’ll go in the toilet rather than on the floor.  Except the other day I had to take my shower during that same window.  I debated putting his underpants back on but I talked myself into trying the time without his pants.  Maybe I would get out of the shower and be pleasantly surprised with a floater.  (What the hell has motherhood done to me?!)

Anyway.  As I got out of the shower I heard a whimper through the baby monitor, but no calls of “Mom, help”.  ??  Also unusually, Chance had not once run up to the bathroom to harass me as I was getting clean.  Suspecting something was amiss I threw on my bathrobe and went to his room. 

Chance has this kick ass walk-in closet that holds a ton of his toys, where he often hangs out to play when he wants alone time (and to poop in his pants).   I found him on the floor of his closet, kind of contorted.  He started whimpering again and immediately put out his hand and said, “Go away, Mommy. Go away.”

“Chance honey,” I said, “If you need to go poop, just go and use the potty.” 

“NOOOO!” he howled, but I picked him up and hauled him to the bathroom.

I plopped him on the toilet and Chance burst into tears.  “Chance, there’s no reason to get so upset. It’s not a big deal…” I started to say…

…and then I looked down.

He had a chip clip stuck to the end of his penis.

(For those of you not familiar with the term “chip clip”, it’s like a plastic clothespin that we use to hold closed a bag of chips.  Some of them can be quite the grippers.)

My poor son had (obviously) found a stray chip clip and eventually clipped it to the obvious place.  He was also obviously in a lot of pain and had no idea how to remedy his poor beloved penis.  Maybe he was even a little embarrassed, or sensed that the entire situation was just wrong, I don’t know.  All he knew for sure was he didn’t want anyone else touching it either.  Just in case.

Of course, I reached down there quick as a snake and unclipped his wanker before he could stop me.  (I do want grandchildren someday.)  Poor thing was all red and indented, but Chance wouldn’t let me examine it.  The most I could do was put a cold washcloth on it until it felt well enough for him to poke at it again.

But do you see what I mean?  From fun plaything to disaster zone in the blink of an eye.  Trouble trouble trouble.              – the weirdgirl

A Small Plug (or two)

After putzing around for months I finally, FINALLY, got a button up for my store!  Yay!  (See far right column.)  And it only took several mistakes, one community guideline violation, and copious amounts of help from my friend Winnie.  (Thank you, Winnie!)  I felt bad about that because I really do try to learn on my own before harassing my technical friends.  I’ve had the image done for months, I just don’t know code as well as I should (make that at all) for someone who plays around on the web so much and works in tech.

It’s that knowing theory versus actually knowing how problem.

I also managed to navigate cafepress’ Byzantine system to some sort of minimal understanding.  That took quite a while.  (For the record I do not consider myself to be a dumb person, just highly critical of whether Help documents are actually helpful or not.  Especially as so many web services seem to not believe in providing Help documents much anymore. What’s up with that?)   The store is still a work in progress but I’m becoming happier with my poor neglected project.  In fact, I should be adding more designs very soon. 

Anyway, that’s what I been heads down doing the last few days.  I’m just bragging because I am quite pleased with my progress… I now know how to make a button!  Woo hoo!  (I’m sure all my techy friends are breathing sighs of relief.)  And now I can move onto my next project… making a button for my lovely friends and their blog.  (Buy their cakes.)

           - wg

P.S. I’m not getting paid for this or any other plug, I was just excited.  Though if my friends would like to test out any new cake flavors I will be happy to be their guinea pig.  Thank you.

Way to show me up, you damn box

Our microwave has gone insane.  The thing will not turn off.  Well, technically what it does is turn itself on when you open the door; the fan goes on, the little plate thingy rotates.  You know, the opposite of what it’s supposed to do?  As soon as you shut the door again it turns off.  At first it would only go on occasionally when you opened the door – scared the crap out of me the first couple of times it happened… I’d yelp, shut the door really quick and timidly try to open it again – but now it’s constant. 

Now sure, it might just be the fan turning on, no microwaves shooting around, but it still totally freaks me out.  Every time that stupid thing would turn on (before it was continuous) I swear my hands would feel achy, blisters would break out, I’d feel those little sprained muscles you get right around your joints.

(It could just be from all the drum practice and gardening I’ve been doing but still.  I feel irradiated.) 

Keen keeps using the thing!  Just jabs his hands (and food) in really fast.  Ugh.  I’m so not going there.  In fact, I’m just waiting for his hands to turn green/shoot webs/get xray vision or something.  Because even if it is just the microwave fan not turning off… that can’t be healthy.   I’m almost certain that radiation can be stored in fans and rotating plates.  (It’s, like, science or something.)

The saddest thing is realizing how much Chance and I rely on the microwave for our daily diet.  Keen is OK because Keen cooks.  I, however, am lacking in the cooking gene.  Food that I try to “cook” just doesn’t taste very good.  (Except for baking; I rock at the baked desert.)  Chance is a toddler and eats primarily toddler food… hot dogs, chicken nuggets, canned soup, etc.  These things are so much easier with a microwave!  With the microwave around I felt like a competent and diligent mother.

Now we seem to be ping-ponging between meals of trail mix and takeout corn dogs.

God forbid the rest of the appliances ever revolt.

            - the weirdgirl

Queen Kitschy and Proud

On Friday I turned 37.  This birthday has felt a little weird; the number 37 seems, somehow, a lot older than 34, 35, or 36.  I’m suddenly much closer to being a 40 something.  And that feels weird.  Mainly because inside I still feel 28.  (Sometimes even 24!)  

My joints are laughing hysterically as I type that.  

Despite the fact that for my birthday (and appropriate to my age) we didn’t do a whole lot – went to the farmer’s market, bummed around the house, had a nap then a nice dinner; pretty much how my grandparents celebrate special days – there are a few reasons I still feel pretty young.  And all of those centered around presents!  (you shallow bitch)

Behold!  My new drum stool!!  Ooh ah!

 

Aint it fancy?  It’s soooo cushy for my geriatric tush! 

And… what I’ve been sitting on the last eight months.  (Yep, my ass on the drain doctor.)

My drum set… wait, have I told you about my drum set?  My drum set is a twice-removed-used set that my brother has lent me that he got from my parents (where it was either given to them by a friend or they bought it at a garage sale – it’s all a little confusing).  The set was (is) beat up and missing a bunch of parts and my brother scraped it back together.  It’s from the 70s and it was featured in a country band.  (I don’t know why I feel compelled to share that.)  It’s also almost so ugly it’s cool.  But not quite.  Which means it’s just ugly.  (Maybe I should bedazzle it?)

 

 The whole kitschy ensemble being rocked by my boy.

 

And last but not least, this super sweet corset given to me by my lovely husband (who also gave me the drum stool).  I heart corsets.  If I was a rock goddess I would wear this on stage.  In real life, I’ll just wear it out to a club. (I’m going clubbing again, someday.  I swear!)

 

Oh, bless you artificial trappings of youth.   (Thanks Keen!)

              - wg

"Move it, honey."  And I gave a shove.  "There's a new bitch in town... and her name is 'Mom'!"
I said...

... to the cat.

Yeah, I'm all badass like that.

Burnt on Summer Already

The weather has gotten warm, there is sunlight until nearly 9:00, and I’m wearing shorts every day.  It feels so good you hurry to schedule all those fun activities that are impossible to do in the winter (plus, with the price of gas and plane tickets who the hell is taking an actual vacation?).  Beach trips, parks, zoos, train rides, even chaperoning those lovely preschool field trips.  And did I mention I signed Chance up for swim lessons?  (Yeah.  Keen is taking over that one.) 

Events on paper just look so nice and neat and doable.

Today we went to this local park/zoo place which is really a lot of fun – not to mention a place I went to when I was girl so, you know, fond memories – that is closing down for a year for renovations.  (I figure part of the remodel is because it’s so old and outdated, and part of it is fallout from that whole nasty tiger attack incident in San Francisco.  Nothing spurs modernization like a tiger attack!)  Anywho.  Chance did great on the trip.  A few rough play moments, but then his playdate buddy was another rambunctious kid himself so no worries.  Overall, he did a pretty good job listening and playing and so on and so forth.

Until it came time to leave… then there was a full-blown meltdown.  With teeth.

I swear to god our calendar of events suddenly flashed before my eyes.  It’s a small wonder I didn’t fall down in apoplexy myself.

Here’s the kicker… his friends had left for home and lunch earlier, so I figured a spin around the zoo would be the perfect cap for wind down time.  It was hot so we drank plenty of liquids, I brought a bagged lunch that Chance ate while we were strolling past the meerkats and the monkeys, and I gave him plenty of warning that we would be leaving after the zoo.    

Still.  Had.  Meltdown.

(Of course, by the time we get to the car I’m having a tantrum myself, “If you don’t knock off this behavior we’re never doing anything fun AGAIN!”  Because, you know, that’s helpful.)

Tomorrow is a preschool field trip to the park.  I definitely need to reassess our calendar. 

(On the upside, after we got home and an hour into his quiet/nap time I poked my head into his room to check on him when, without warning, he apologized.  *?!?*  That’s gotta be progress, right?)

                       - wg

Swimwear Must Die! '08

It's time again for the annual swimsuit roast!  This is where I gather samples of hideous designer swimwear  - or even just the pictures I think are amusing - to mock and point at.  And also to warn you all of the dire perils of swimsuit shopping!  Really, it's a nefarious industry.  Trust me, I'm doing this for your own good.

(Though, I admit, I did find a line this year that I really really liked (not that I could afford any of the suits).  Very retro and the line was called... Pistol Panties.  HA!  Pistol panties... that name so rocks!)  

If you are new to this segment of wg's house you can see where it all began here, here and here.  Now on to this year's winners.  

Take me, Q*bert!  Take me!

Sometimes you feel like a wax... sometimes you don't. 

Too weak... to break... bonds of twine... Help me!

When you just feel like dual purpose clothing... for the slumber party AND the beach!  (Everyone lock up your 'tween daughters now.)

OK, now I know the clothing companies aren't trying anymore... I saw this same "bikini" on sale as Valentine's Day intimates!  (And it's not even Victoria's Secret.)

Could it be... military intelligence?!

Who says you can't get gift wrap services anymore?

Happy Father's Day!       

The Epiphany

Today I showed Chance how to do a somersault.  He was balancing on his head, see, with his butt up in the air, watching TV upside down and all he needed was to push off a little for a somersault.  I'm actually trying to encourage him to do more fun, physical activities (other than jumping up and down on me and his father) as a great way to burn off and focus his energy.  So when I saw him balancing like that I thought, "Great!" and I proceeded to get on the floor and show him how it's done.

(I used to be all about the somersaults and the flips and running along the tops of fences, and even the oh-so-groovy jump, turn, and land on one foot while rolling on my roller skates, you know.)

I did two somersaults for him.  One.  Two.

Three hours later as I'm sitting with the heating pad across my back it sinks in...

Somersaults are for the young.

              - the weirdgirl

On the Good Ship Ninnypop

Stella at Finding Zen sent this to me a few days ago.

Download breastfed_ashley_full_segment.mp3

It reminded her of this post I wrote... but, oh, SO. MUCH. WORSE!  It took me a few days to post this because my head had exploded.  Really, you must listen.  And now... let the wild rumpus start! 

Warning: Mishandling or over-prescribing ninny may result in your children growing up to be munchkins.  It may also cause them to be virgins until they are 25 (...or 26, depending). 

Coming soon the new cookbook, "Pa-ninnys!  The easy way to whip out comfort food"   My favorite is the hot sauce and nipples appetizer.

I see... I see... Ninnypalooza!

Has Paxil, Zoloft, or other antidepressants stopped working for you?  Well now there's Ninny!  An instant pick me up to any stressful situation!  But wait... isn't ninny meant for babies?  Not anymore!  Now Ninny can be used at any age!  Try some today!  (Product is not guaranteed to come with milk.  Side effects may include becoming ostracized or slapped with a molestation suit.  Studies show Ninny is most effective on men and lesbians.)

Ninny... you can't suck just one.

Have at it, folks.            - wg