Here's your f*ckin update. Now shut up.

I'm sick. And I'm tired. And cranky. Bleh!

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I really hate summer. The last few weeks have been rainy too, and that sucks just slightly more than the blistering heat. My kids have come to expect constant entertainment, and as a result, my online time is limited. I try to keep mental notes of all the faaaaaabulous things the Apes and I have been doing so that when I get a few minutes to myself, I can blog them for whatever readers have stuck around. Here's what I can remember. Enjoy.


Stitch N' Pitch, and The Ish.

I got to go to Stitch N' Pitch again this year! Last year I went with the lovely Shannon. This year I met a lovely crocheter whom I'll call Maeby in one of my many online hangouts and we kinda set up a blind date. I even made her a corsage, because I'm such an awesome date.

Did YOUR date make YOU a corsage? Shoulda gone with ME.



Seriously, I'm the funnest date ever. I'm such a great date that it's like my gift to the world. Sucks that I'm kinda off the market.

The plan was that I would pick Maeby up at her work, and as I usually do with the people I meet, I established myself early on as what I call An Ish Person. Know what that means? That means if I say I'll meet you at 5, that means 5-Ish. Not everyone is an Ish person, and I really do try to respect the people who aren't, and that's why I try to lay it out in the beginning; so we can determine our Ish compatability. R, for example, is most emphatically NOT Ishy (and I really wasn't either, until I had kids). But I am now, and I tend to prefer the company of other Ishers.

Sometimes it might be necessary to calibrate your Ish when determining Ish compatability, but generally the Ish refers to the common socially acceptable window of time that you can still count as close enough to the agreed-upon time without pissing the other person off. To me, 10 - 15 minutes is the Ish. It allows for traffic and unforseeable circumstances like uncooperative kids and whatnot. At any time within the Ish, if I can see that I'm going to arrive outside the Ish, I'll always call. I'm not that big a jackass that I'd show up half an hour late without explanation or apology. See? Ideal date.

Anyway, the SNP seats were WAY better this year, the Cardinals won, it was a beautiful night, Maeby was totally cool and we each won a prize in the door prize drawing. She won yarn and I won the Vogue Knitting book Stitchionary - righteous!! We drank $8 margaritas - which I will say, were not worth $8 - and after the game we accidentally took the Metrolink to the wrong side of the river, but it was hilarious and quickly rectified. A good time was had by all.


Tito's Ears.

The next momentous event in my life was taking my baby to get the tubes put in his ears. There's something deeply unsettling about seeing your kid under anesthesia. But the worst is knowing they trust you so inherently, when you know what's going to happen to them and they don't. That just makes ya feel like the worst parent in the world.

When they opened the door to let me know he was done, I could hear him screaming all the way down the hall. He wasn't even all the way awake yet. He was soooo pitiful. I held him until my arm fell asleep. And of course I took pictures, mostly for R because I knew he'd be there if he could and he knew how hard it would be for me. But I can share them with you too.

He started out playful and almost giddy.


Checkin the place out.


His little panties were funny, peekin out the back of his dress.


Here's when I started to cry. Ooooh! The wagon! Fun!!!
No, not really... they're about to cut into your HEAD.


This part was really heartbreaking too.


Beebie and Pie were jealous that Tito got to have a popsicle and Sprite for breakfast.


Time to go!


He screamed the ENTIRE way home. I stopped at Walgreens to get him some Tylenol and he didn't want to get out of the van. It occurred to me to leave him in the van and run in real quick like a bunny, but the way he was screaming I just knew someone would think he was screaming because his crack whore mother left him in the van while she went and got some pseudoephedrine for her meth lab and I'd get arrested. So I toted his 50-pound ass into Walgreens on my hip while he screamed in my ear.

I'm a mom. It's my job.


Sick of being sick.

Remember the Strep I had on Mother's Day? R has the Strep now. He missed two days of work, and, dutiful wife, I took care of him. Which means, of course, now I'll get it - for the second time in a month - and he'll have to go back to work and I'll have to do everything I normally do and nobody will take care of MY ass. It's nobody's fault, I know R'd take care of me if he could, but he can't, and it just sucks. It makes me more sad than angry.

R wants me to get better, of course. Why? So I won't have to skip out on Father's Day like I did Mother's Day. Y'know, since it was such a cake walk to be home alone in bed with a fever and sore throat and a giant vat of yogurt (for my blazing cooter, don't forget). Yeah. LOVED that. No, R doesn't want to have to deal with any FIL drama that might be associated with my absence, regardless of the reason for it. Jesus, I wish I could reach down my throat, pull out my own spleen and beat FIL into a fuckin coma with it.


Other Random Shit.

I spent the weekend watching Season 3 of Weeds. I love that show. I would totally do Conrad. Yeah, I said it.

Oh, and KOFA has a kilt. He doesn't like me referring to my son's undergarments as "panties", but he'll wear a manskirt. Without panties. I mean, I'm assuming. I didn't check.

Rock on!!!