April

Haha, fooled you! This isn't a real post. I WOULD write a real post but ***insert whiny excuse here***. Also, I can't find a brown sweater that suits my exacting specifications and I can think of little else. I keep expecting the universe to drop one in my lap as reparations for the scarf episode but no such luck so far. In fact, the desired sweater has so thoroughly crowded everything else out of my head that I successfully resisted purchasing multiple cunning coats while sweater shopping, if you can believe such a crazy thing. Even a delicious-looking lemon-yellow one with front pockets and..... soft, smooth, mahogany-colored....wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, instead of an actual post, the latest and greatest:

-Shane has decided he is going to be both a jet pilot AND a swordfighter. Thanks a lot, LLOYD.

-The boys are working on a secret club called hmmmm hmmmm doodle. Oops, I hope I didn't blow their cover. I would make a terrible secret agent. I'm not really clear on the full scope of this effort but there is going to be fish. I'm a little scared, because these big bowls of water with rocks and small dishes in them are appearing all over the house.

-Jennifer has some beautiful spring pictures up at her blog, check them out. I WOULD have put up some beautiful spring pictures only insert whiny excuse here I am lazy as hell I am too obsessed with my imaginary super soft, rich chocolaty-brown sweater to even consider taking pictures or doing anything else productive in any way I don't have any.

And, that's all the news from here for today; let me know if the universe accidentally gives you my sweater! I'll take that yellow coat, too, if you don't want it. Have a good week!

Beautiful

Wow, is it a beautiful day! The boys are outside wreaking havoc in their bare feet; it's hard to believe that this was the scene outside my office two days ago:

That is the smoker's shelter outside the office, collapsed under three or four inches of wet snow. Boy, you have never seen such a crabby bunch of tokers, I'm not kidding. But that's all in the past, right? And all that nasty ridiculously late snow is gone. The sun is shining, the dandelions are blooming, and the grass is lush and tasty:

I think we can all see what's wrong with this video, don't you? I was shocked, I tell you, SHOCKED, to learn that Lloyd does not allow the boys to eat grass. I KNOW! What is he thinking? I put a lot of effort into encouraging them to be self-reliant; that really cuts down on the number of cheese quesadillas and peanut butter sandwiches I have to throw at them. Mostly my efforts consist of ignoring their ever more insistent requests for food until they give up and scrounge something for themselves. And really, they are excellent foragers. They know all the edible weeds in the yard and are pretty agile at snapping up bugs. The less food we need, the more cash available for wine! Besides, a little grass never hurt anyone, right?

He probably also doesn't let them jump out of trees, but I didn't want to ask. What I don't know doesn't hurt me, I always say! Not captured on video:

Weston (approximately 10 feet up the apple tree in his bare feet): Can I jump from here?

Me: I don't know, can you?

Weston: Tell me if it's safe!

Me: You'll have to decide for yourself. I don't know if I'd do it, myself, from that high up with no shoes on.

Weston: Will I die?

Me: No.

Weston: But is it safe?

Shane: It's safe! Do it!

Weston: No! (climbs down gingerly)

I think I might be taking this self-reliance thing a little too far, though. When I came out of the shower this morning, I discovered Shane, naked, plunging the toilet and Weston on the computer, shopping for turtles. They're starting to scare me a little, I don't mind saying. I'm pretty sure there's no going back now, though. All I can do is hang on for the ride. And stock up on wine. Okay, fine, I would do that anyway. WHATEVER.

St. Patrick's Day

Happy St. Patrick's Day! I just looked it up; I had absolutely no idea that it was a Christian holiday, though I suppose the St. part might have been kind of a giveaway. At least St. Patrick doesn't sound like too much of an asshole, unlike some of those other jerks. In any case, I'm a fan of any saint that properly appreciates beer and drunken nakedness. I've never understood why we need a special day for that; usually I just call it 'Thursday'.

We are having a pretty standard weekend here, bizarre holiday or no. The boys are out cutting up sticks in the back yard after having collected a plastic container full of innocent unsuspecting spiders, constructed some sort of robot out of a flashlight, broken toys, nails and fishing line, and dug a hole to China in the lawn. There is also a small pile of charred debris on the back porch; I'm not even going to ASK about that, as I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. Additionally, I am deeply regretting the day in December when I optimistically purchased a thrift store set of approximately nine billion poker chips in a spinning holder for a Christmas present for them. I was thinking of how nicely it would supplement their math education, of course.

I'm sure you know where this is going. Those cursed plastic tokens are all over the house, and Shane will be asking for Jack and Coke and plotting a road trip to Vegas any day now. On the other hand, Weston's most recent math lesson consisted of some algebra problems that are probably not addressed in most first grade curricula. Most likely the poker chips were instrumental, and now he can develop some brilliant casino scam for Shane to execute. Then I'm taking my cut right off the top and going to the spa. With wine. At least that's what I tell myself every time I get another one of those damn things jammed into my foot.

Hmmmm, what else? Oh, yes. There is a woolly bear caterpillar loose in the house. Apparently, it was released from the container it lives in for a little exercise, and Shane was supposed to be 'babysitting' it to keep it from getting lost but fell down on the job. Also, there are traps set around the living room. The traps consist of balls wrapped in blankets. See, you step on the blanket, not realizing there is a ball in there and you slip and fall. It's surprisingly effective. Geez, forget the spa and just bring on the wine, baby! And make it snappy, because now Shane is planning to acquire four baby cheetahs. He's a resourceful little thing, too, I wouldn't rule it out.

Have a good weekend, my friends! I was planning to lounge on the couch with wine but now I'm scared of accidentally falling asleep and getting cheetah-mauled. I'm definitely in the market for a good plan B. I can't cross the living room so I might be stuck here at the computer. I'll see you on Facebook as soon as I finish my wine delivery order.

Home

Okay, okay, no more crocus pictures! FINE. But sometimes the devil you know is better than the one you don't, right? Or so I've heard. Anyway, we are home from the beach. It was the usual collection of sand, pop rocks, frigid water, wine, bingo, arguments, running, rocket launching, howling, shopping, peeing on the beach and trashy television. I'll leave it to you to sort out the kid activities from the canine fun from the adult pursuits. I bet you won't get it right, either, but it doesn't really matter, now does it? Because we're home and what goes on at the beach stays at the beach. And that's all I have to say about THAT.

On the way home, we stopped at Doraville. As you may know, Doraville is what my mother's grandfather, Josef, named his homestead, after his wife, Dora. Josef spent years clearing trees to build his house. The picture on top is of an apple tree located at the original orchard near where the house stood, and the second one is the view down the hill from near where the house was. When Josef first claimed the land, it was thick with old growth fir that he cleared by hand. He was quite the writer, Josef was, leaving us, among other efforts, years of journals detailing his exploits. One of my favorite stories is this one about the winter of 1887 when he was nearly killed by giant trees crashing to the ground in hurricane force winds.

Perhaps slightly ironically, then, the homestead is now my uncle's sustainable tree farm. While we were there, they were logging a stand of fifteen year old trees with a super cool machine that clips them off near the ground, strips off the limbs, and lays them down, ready to be placed smartly into a self-loading log truck.

I thought the boys would like the tree clipper; because who doesn't love diesel powered equipment? I have no idea what's it's really called, but I think tree clipper is pretty suitable, so that's its name from now on until I die. We watched it for a little while, and then the boys ran off to the true attraction on the farm: thick, sticky red-brown mud. Seriously, that stuff is nasty. I wouldn't even let them in the van, and you know my standards for car cleanliness are pretty low. Plus the van was already full of the remnants of all the questionable beach activities noted above, so you'd think a person with substandards like mine might feel that a little mud wouldn't hurt anything. But you would be wrong; that's how bad it is. I knew before I let them play in it, of course, because I spent almost every summer of my childhood there, along with many, many weekends, and I was often coated in the stuff myself. I don't like to stifle their creativity, though, and feel strongly that a willingness to get filthy is an admirable trait that will serve them well. Still don't want it in the car, though!

So I made them strip down and roll around in the wet grass and wear trash bags the rest of the way home. I figure that's good for them, too, because coming from Josef's family, they are definitely meant to be country boys and there's not always a hose or even a rusty cattle water trough when you need to wipe the muck off, am I right? Oh yes, I'm a country girl, you didn't know that? As long as the country has wine and a thrift store, I'm good. But I have to admit, it's good to be home to the 'burbs where there's a Starbucks and an eco-friendly dry cleaner on every corner. Have a good weekend, my friends! I'll be doing laundry and picking caked-on red brown clay out of little tiny crevices. And drinking wine.

The Tooth Fairy Better Not Screw Me Over

Do any of you guys remember two years ago, when my birthday lasted like six days and ended with boils? I didn't think it was possible but I think that one might be facing some stiff competition for the most ridiculous birthday ever.

I have been out of town all week busting my ass for the greater good, like usual, only extra hard. So hard, in fact, that I earned a sparkly tiara for my efforts, but that's a story for another day, except for the part where I put it on my head this morning so it wouldn't be crushed and then forgot about it and wore it to many usually tiara-free places. It DID seem like people were admiring me much more than usual, and some old geezer at the gas station told me I looked beautiful, so that worked out well. In fact, I think I might wear it all the time from now on.

I arrived home today with big plans to enjoy my birthday. A party, a Goodwill shopping spree: you know, all my favorite treats. The house was perfectly clean until I got there and lugged in about 8,000 pounds of work and 3,000 pounds of dirty laundry. Then, I took a nap and when I woke up all hell had broken loose. Shane was curled up on the bathroom floor, whimpering and surrounded by vomit. A trail of puke at least forty feet long and a disturbing red-orange color led from the kitchen, through the living room and down the hall. Meanwhile, Lloyd was yanking a loose tooth out of Weston's mouth with a pair of pliers. I guess he figured the whole carpet will have to be bleached anyway so a few more drops of blood won't make any difference.

It was all down hill from there, too. I cancelled my party in favor of popsicle shopping and the Magic School Bus. I'm still going to Goodwill, though. In my tiara. On deck tonight: 8,000 pounds of work, 9,000 pounds of yakked-on laundry, and a truly daunting volume of wine. I just hope that damn tooth fairy doesn't drink too much and fall asleep in her tiara again. I suppose she will be worthless when it comes to folding laundry, too. Happy Birthday to.... Oh, NEVER MIND!

Cat Wigs

Oh, you guys. I swear, I NEVER know what I'm going to hear or see next around here. Last night the boys decided they needed wigs for Jake and Henry so they would look like girls. Or, 'goowuls', as Shane says. They wanted to know where one could buy such a thing, so I googled it for them, while telling them that there are probably not any cat wigs. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I realized there are totally cat wigs. Naturally, the boys wanted one right away, the pink one, and were quite dismayed when I informed them that there was no way we were going to spend sixty bucks on a wig for a cat. I mean, seriously, who would do that? Do you know how much wine I can buy with sixty smackeroos?

While they were pitching their fits, I posted the cat wigs on facebook, because what else would I do? As always, the best part of my facebook posts are the hilarious comments from my fantastic friends. Here are a few:

If any of my friends were going to discover cat wigs, I would bet it would be you.- S.

I'm totally buying one. My cat will look dashing in the Bashful Blonde.- S.

Oh and Thanks now my daughter wants a cat and a wig for it...Thank God the baby is allergic.- H.

Oh. My. Goodness. I have no words except "0h. My. Goodness. I have no words." -L.

How do you get a cat to keep a wig on??? -M.

And I'm the hard core one? -G.

After the boys recovered from the disappointment associated with my frugal approach to cat accessories, I told them they could MAKE cat wigs if they wanted, for a fraction of the price. We decided doll hair would make good wigs, but they didn't want to cut the hair on the dolls they already had, so obviously a thrift store trip was in order.

THEN, when I told my sister that I was taking the boys to Goodwill to buy dolls to cut their hair to make cat wigs with, she said, "You're going to make cat wigs out of doll hair? What a ridiculous idea. Why don't you just come over here? I have some cat wigs you can have." Every word of this is true. Can you believe I didn't even have a category for her until just now?

So, sure enough, I went over there and she gave me a bag of wigs. Two cat wigs and two little boy wigs. Let me just finish by saying there were mixed feelings about wig-wearing around here today. You may notice Jake is not in any wig pictures at all, and in fact is in hiding and hasn't been seen for several hours. Henry, however, cheerfully donned two different wigs and posed for a lengthy photo shoot. Enjoy!

Robot Kitty Army

Shane: Wanna know what I'm going to do when I grow up?

Me: Yes, what?

Shane: I'm going to be an inventor!

Me: Cool. What are you going to invent?

Shane: Robot kitties.

Me: And what will they do?

Shane: Whatever I tell them to!

Brilliant, right? The boys spent the better part of two hours refining the specifications for the robot kitties. There will be 53 of them; 40 belonging to Shane and 13 to Weston. Shane's will all look like Henry or Jake, while Weston's will be white and fluffy. For some agreed-upon reason, they will all answer only Shane, and they will do whatever he says, except for robbing, stealing, swiping or killing. If he gives an order consisting of one of these forbidden activities, they will stand down.

Now, I'm not a girl to let a good labor-saving idea pass me by, so I could see the value of the robot kitty army right away, and I was quick to verify that they could cook AND clean up. And, in fact, I was assured that they will do as they are told, except for the prohibited tasks. But why stop there? I asked if they could get jobs and bring home the bacon, and was informed that they can, but their job qualifications apparently only allow them to be police officers or firefighters. I was a little disappointed, because I was hoping for fat cat bankers or hedge fund managers, instead of some underpaid public servants. I guess there ARE 53 of them; they ought to be able to keep me in wine. And I will definitely need copious volumes if I am going to be forced to live with robot kitties, no matter how much money they make.

I had hoped they were going to get started with the construction right away, but no, the boys have decided that the scheme is going to have to wait until they are adults. That's 4,913 days from now. Not that I'm counting. Or stocking up on diodes and fake fur.

Duck! It's a Trap!

I don't even know what to say about this picture. There is a duck in the back yard. By the swing. A very, very stupid duck. For the love of all that is holy, THERE IS A TRAP THERE! And doesn't he see all that freaking snow? Shouldn't he be flying south or something? He did finally manage to depart with all of his feathers intact; I hope he has a cozy nest somewhere far, far away from the swing of death.

We had our giant snowstorm today; the worst (or best!) of it was to the south of us, but we got a respectable six inches, and a good day was had by all. The boys enjoyed a series of outdoor activities, like this one in which they played with the hose on the snow-covered trampoline. Naturally, this added significantly to the pile of wet/dirty clothes by the back door and now you need oxygen to get to the top to do the laundry. Not that I'm going to do that, of course.

Then, when they got all tired of playing outside, they came in and sprayed the hell out of the kitchen until the goldfish could gather their own food cleaned the cabinets and all the appliances. That's the news from the frozen wasteland of western Washington; I hope you are staying warm wherever you are!

Hoist On His Own Petard

Doesn't that make you wonder what a petard is? Oh, I know you know what the phrase means, but do you actually know what a petard is? I had to look it up. I'll tell you, also, because when you go to click on the link, Wikipedia might be shut down to protest SOPA and PIPA. I thought I read yesterday that the revolution was successful and those outrageous miscarriages of justice were dead in the water, but perhaps I was mistaken. It happens, you know.

Anyway, a petard is/was a small bomb used for breaching gates and other fortifications. It now means 'firecracker' in French, and is slang for 'handgun' or 'joint'. If the bombmaker blew it and the bomb went off prematurely, he or she might be lifted by the explosion and thus 'hoist'. The phrase 'Hoist with his own petard' was coined by Shakespeare, in Hamlet.

Fascinating, right? And why the hell am I talking about petards anyway? Good question, my friends! Check out the pictures from my backyard this afternoon. Apparently, while I was at work yesterday, there was some sort of fishing line trap fashioned in the vicinity of the swing. I'm not sure what it was intended to catch, or how it was constructed. I've learned the hard way not to ask too many questions, see. In any event, Shane was snagged in the snare of his own devising; don't you hate it when that happens? And do you like how I took pictures before snipping him free? Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch, there was no blood, OKAY? And I think he has learned a valuable lesson, don't you? I'm pretty sure he'll build his trap in a more advantageous location next time. And as for the rest of us, we now know what petards are. So yeah, a good day all around!

On the snow front, we are anxiously awaiting the promised megastorm; it is supposed to dump like crazy today. I will keep you posted!

Snow

It's snowing, y'all!!!! The ground is barely covered right now, but we have high hopes for the rest of the weekend. The boys have made a proto-snowfigure and piled a bunch of snow on the trampoline so they could jump around in it.

And, of course, there is plenty of indoor fun to be had:

A Good Bird

****Dead Bird Warning: this post contains dead birds. My more sensitive readers may want to look away now. Please be aware, however, that the birds were long deceased through no fault of my own before I sat down to write and no birds were harmed during the making of this post. I agree, the warning might be a little over the top, but I have such delicate readers these days, and also, I am just now getting those PETA freaks off my back for the whole hamster ball thing.*****

Whew, that was EXHAUSTING. Seriously, I need some fortification before I can even get to the point of my post. But first, I know you all want to know the all-important status of the pool-soaked phone. Sadly, I have to report NO JOY. I did figure out how to get my messages using another phone, only to find out that my jury duty scheduled for tomorrow got cancelled. Too bad for me, I was looking forward to performing my civic duty lounging around the courthouse, watching people crazier than me go by. Naturally, the appeal dims somewhat if I don't have a device upon which I can gossip about the crazy people with all my friends. I can do that at work, of course, which is where I will now be spending my day instead.

I'm trying to be patient on the phone and let the rice work its magic for a while longer but I'm not sure how much longer I can go. I might have to hit the zombie store before bed tonight. Oh, geez, I just thought of something. If I recall correctly, I was going to use my shampoo/conditioner/deodorant money to fund the new phone. I'm not sure what else I can give up, plus I started using shampoo again. Dammit. Anyway, that is NOT what we're talking about today. No, we are talking about A Good Bird. Two good birds, to be precise. A blue jay and a sparrow, to be even more precise. And no, I do not want to argue about blue jays and steller's jays, DAD. They are blue in color, hence they are blue jays. The end.

Moving on, you might remember the rat wars at my house. Well, the rats are back, and the war has been raging on for the last week. In some ways, this is good, because it keeps Lloyd occupied, and you probably know he is very dangerous when he has too much time on his hands. Remember the earthquake exercise? Unfortunately, though, there were a couple of unanticipated bird trappings over the course of this new campaign, or as Lloyd likes to call them, 'acceptable collateral damage/civilian casualties'. This is not unprecedented; we had a near-miss last time when a particularly stupid jay got his noggin skinned when the trap snapped. He was fine, though, he just looked like he had a reverse mohawk for a few days. No such luck this time; the two good birds bought the farm.

When I came home from work, the boys showed me their handiwork: a bird cemetery in the back yard, dug right into the lawn. They did a nice job, don't you think? The birds' names are Shane and Ago (pronounced aggo, not like in 'a long time ago'). I especially like the dandelions and the silver colored shower curtain hanger on Ago's grave. And then, for good measure, they devised a fishing line barrier around the trap to keep any more birds from getting caught. That seems like a pretty good idea, because the trap is surrounded by bird seed. There have been no rat sightings for a couple of days, so maybe the cheese and rat poison savings will offset the cost of my new phone and I can keep my shampoo. That way, everyone wins. Well, except the rats and the two good birds, I guess. As I come to the end of this post, I am really regretting the promise I made to Ina because this would be an excellent spot for some good bird/rat eating jokes. Oh well, I always keep my promises, so have a good night, everyone!

Wet

Say, do you guys remember when I got my new phone? There were zombies and everything, and it wasn't so long ago. I was terrified of it, as you might remember, but it's pretty easy to use and I have gotten sort of fond of it. I like taking pictures and sending them on the spot, texting all my friends, and reading my email at the grocery store. I have even grown to like the purple and white bird cover, and not just because it repels the zombies. I have resisted facebooking at stop lights, though, unlike some people I could mention.

Have I mentioned that we have the boys back in swimming lessons? I rooted around for a while on here and SFK looking for posts I may have written about swimming lessons before, but I couldn't find any, so I may have been too traumatized. We have tried multiple times before with less than stellar results. First at Osan, where the instructor tried to get Weston, who is timid in the water, to get his head wet by mockingly comparing him unfavorably to a girl. Then at a place around here, where the instructor let the un-buoyed and untrustworthy two year old Shane propel himself around the edge of the pool with her back turned until he went under and Lloyd had to fish him out by his hair.

This time didn't start out too promisingly, either, because the teacher forced Weston's head underwater when he wasn't expecting it. Who thinks that's a good idea? I would be so furious if someone did that to me but because he's just a kid it's okay to terrorize him? Anyway, he was willing to go back if he didn't have to have his head underwater unless he wanted to, so we talked to the teacher and she agreed. Actually, Lloyd had to threaten her, I think. He still won't tell me what he said to her, but whatever it was worked, and the lessons have been going fine for several weeks now.

So, tonight, we were at the pool. I was minding my own business, daydreaming about the tropics in the moist warm air, when the teacher told Shane for about the sixteenth time to hang on to the edge of the pool while she wasn't looking instead of paddling around. Sensible, because he can't swim, of course. I walked over to the edge and bent over to remind him that at swimming lessons we listen to Miss Denice and do what she says or else we can't come back to the pool. When I did, my new phone slipped out of my shirt pocket, bounced on the concrete and slipped through my grasping hands straight into the pool. Right now it is resting peacefully in a bowl of rice, and I am sucking down the wine to soothe the withdrawal pains. And, I had to bust the rice out of the emergency kit. But, dude, if that's not an emergency, I don't know what is.

Geez, I hate swimming lessons.

My Kitchen Was Clean Twenty Minutes Ago

Catwalk

I know, I know: WHERE ARE THE UPDATES?!?!??! Sorry, peeps- I have just been all discombobulated this week. So in lieu of an actual post, I have a picture of cats on leashes and some links.

Jake and Henry have been just itching to get outside but after the death of the original Henry, we have been VERY reluctant to let them out. I'm not sure how well this really worked out, but there were no reported injuries to either the boys or the cats. Aren't all four of them just the cutest? Boys and their cats; I love it!

And for some links- here is a new blog someone just shared with me. You know it has to be good when it's called People I Want to Punch in the Throat. And, another one- do you guys read Thought Catalog? It's home to multiple essays every day about weighty topics such as The Different Types of People You See at the Gym, how there is no such thing as too many cats, and the quiz to determine if you are Springsteen or not Springsteen. Actually, now that I think about it, you don't really need a quiz for that. It's one of those things you just know, like if you're gay or not. And, if you must know, I am DEFINITELY Springsteen. And not gay. I couldn't care less if you are gay, but I have to admit I might discriminate against you a tiny bit if you're one of those deviant not-Springsteen people.

Okay, gotta go, because baby, I was born to run................ Smell ya' later, friends!

Saturday

****updated Saturday afternoon: the toylit plan was too close to coming to fruition for my liking, so I bribed him to come out with promises of Taco Time. After that, we went to Target, where Shane dumped his milk out all over the cart in the checkout line. That was fun, but I would have preferred balloons filled with poop.

Lots of times I don't post on the weekend; I try to put up a couple of posts during each week so if I write on the weekend I usually save it for later. This is because there is less blog-reading on Saturday and Sunday, and I can't always be counted on have something to say during the week. Some weekdays my job wrings me dry, leaving just a crumpled-up husk of a wine sponge and the writing falls by the wayside along with many, many other things. I have been extra prolific lately, though, and this morning I have a surplus of kid-related raw material, so I'm going for broke.

I had big plans today, you might remember them. I was going to go cat collar and Skittles shopping, but it appears I will be staying home for the foreseeable future. See, Weston got mad at Shane over a helmet from Weston's Lego Transformer car. I'm not even going to get started on this stupid car kit, except to say that the whole concept must have been invented by Lucifer himself. Weston went behind a chair in the living room and won't come out. He is communicating with us by writing notes, which he attaches to a metal tape measure and projects out in front of the chair. They are HILARIOUS and I would take pictures but that would probably make him mad, and I try to be careful about that. I'll just paraphrase: 'I am never coming out!' 'NO!!! NO!!! and double NO!' 'I am MAD'. You get the idea.

So Shane and I started discussing the logistics of actually staying behind the chair forever. How would he eat and drink? What about pooping and peeing? He responds via more notes: 'I will pee and poop out the window!' Shane and I parse each idea and when we shoot one down he comes up with more. Surprisingly, Shane came up with a workable plan for the pee: he can pee in balloons. Shane helpfully tested this in the bathroom, and I would be pretty supportive except for I had to tie it for him. As an added bonus, it is an excellent way to get rid of about eight thousand of those cursed things we have laying around here. Of course one can't poop in a balloon, at least in my house, and he can't go outside because that would require coming out from behind the chair. He considered making himself a litter box and currently plans to construct a toylit (sic) out of a bin, a rim, a lid and a pipe. The last note even had drawings. I'm not sure where the materials will come from but I trust he will come up with something and I will find out about it from the trusty tape measure express.

I am tempted to go on with my shopping (mmmm, Skittles!) and let the chips (hahahahaha) fall where they may but the consequences would likely be a little more dire than I am willing to accept. There's always delivery. I'll let you know how it comes out, if you can stand it! If not, check back next week, this little episode will probably have run its course. Hope you're having a great Saturday!

Jake and Henry

The cats now have names. I know you were worried so I rushed right over here to tell you. The black and white one that looks like Henry is named Henry, and the shy one is named Jake, after the cat in 'The Cat from Outer Space'. Have you guys seen this movie? It's an excellent flick, as you might expect from a movie about a cat from outer space. It's a must-see, especially if you love cats and outer space, both of which are very popular around here.

We also have been watching NOVA's Elegant Universe, which is fascinating. Weston is especially interested in string theory, but Shane has trouble figuring out the part about the eleven dimensions. I told him nobody really knows for sure if the theory is true and that maybe when he's a scientist he can figure it out. He quickly informed me that he's not going to be a scientist, he's going to be a 'piwot'. Lloyd, naturally, assumes he means 'pilot' and is thrilled, while I'm holding out for 'pirate', because that's WAY better. Not as good as scientist, of course, but you only have so much influence, right? He would make a super cute pirate, like Wesley, aka the Dread Pirate Roberts, in The Princess Bride. I'm sure I needn't describe 'The Princess Bride' beyond stating the obvious and well-known fact that it's the most awesome and fantastic movie ever made. Also, it boasts the brilliant and beautiful theme song 'Storybook Love' by the late, great Willy DeVille.

Let's see, what else is going on around here? I wore my stunning new boots to work today and I could hardly get any work done because I had to spend all my time admiring them. Also, I agreed to enter a big vat of kidney bean chili in the cook-off at work. You totally thought I was just kidding, didn't you?? But nope, I'm really going to do it. I'm going to use three different kinds of beans, though, to dilute that nasty kidney bean juice. I'm not EVIL, you know. I'm going to pretend that it's my revolutionary and double-top secret three bean chili recipe but really I borrowed it from my friend Yolanda after she was enough of a sucker to tell me her plan. So that should work out well. I'm in it to win it, people!

Dogs and Ninjas

This is Ranger.

Isn't he FANTASTIC? You might remember him from previous posts such as this one about Hurricane Ivan, or this one about a mentally ill chicken. He is staying with us for a little while because my dad is out of town. The boys love having him and play with him constantly. They've been hounding us for a dog for a while but so far we've been holding out. They have about a million stuffed dogs, all with names, and they act out elaborate games with them, for HOURS on end. After one of these games, Shane informed me that he needed a real metal sword, in case ninjas attack. I thought that was what dogs were for, but I guess not. He was also extremely ticked off when I told him he could not have his own lighter. I'm not sure if that would also be for the ninjas, or if he just really, really wants a lighter. It's sometimes hard to tell with that one.

Since they love dogs so much, we sometimes let them watch 'Old Yeller'. You probably know the film. It's cute and all, until the end when the beloved mutt gets rabies and has to be shot. Usually we stop it before the end, much like Phoebe's mother did (video clip), only last time Lloyd was asleep at the switch*. Now Weston doesn't want to go outside because he's afraid of rabid animals, and he's terrified Ranger is going to die. He made me google the world's oldest dogs, and you guys are not going to believe this: multiple dogs have lived to be almost 30 years old. Damn, that is a LONG time to have a dog, people. Not that I don't like dogs.

Ranger is great and we love having him here at the Dead Cat Dog Hotel. Only he sheds about a pomeranian every other day, and our vacuum cleaner is broken. The belt came off, probably because it has to suck up so many marbles, rubber bands, and pens. We ordered some new belts, but they're not here yet. I say belts with an 's' because I'm definitely not going to stop sucking up toys and office supplies any time soon and some spares will probably come in handy. We had company this weekend, too, and the shop-vac was still out of commission, so I was forced to improvise. I had a couple of ideas, but we had hidden all the lighters so that ruled out two or three of them, and I didn't want to run the leaf blower in the house because of the exhaust. In the end I just distracted our guests with copious amounts of ice cream and beer. They barely noticed when Ranger tried to hump their legs, and I'm sure the pillowy brown piles of dogshed in all the corners totally escaped their notice. Or maybe not, I don't care. I like beer and ice cream, too. In fact, I think I'm going to go have some right now. Thinking about all that dog hair makes me peckish.

As a parting gift, here is Shane, channeling his inner dog:

*After reading this, Lloyd informed me that he wasn't actually slacking off, he purposely let them watch to the end, because 'it was time'. So now it's time for him to clean the basement AND he's in charge of all dead dog and rabies questions from now until eternity.

Boy in Rhododendron Bush

That's what I'm calling my latest series of photographs:

Bedtime

We don't usually have too much trouble with bedtime; we just shut the bedroom door, put our earplugs in and have a few beers. Works like a charm! Oh, we get all the usual stalling tactics: 'I'm hungry!', 'I'm thirsty!', and 'I need to pee!' We try to get them in their room early, about 7:30, and we read books. Then they can read to themselves or play a little if they want, as long as they stay in their room and don't kill each other. They can come out to go to the bathroom or get some bread and butter, but no eye contact. It's true, I have low standards. But I'm also the one that can lay on my couch and drink beer, starting at 7:45. Yay me!

I'm not sure what was going on tonight, though, because I have been hearing some whoppers, even through the earplugs and Alaska Amber:

'I'm afraid of dying!'

'I need you to wash my feet!'

'He's not being kind! He won't let me sleep with my robot parts and my pillow pet!'

'I can't go to sleep until my green shirt gets washed!'

'I need a tissue!'

'I need a tissue, too!'

'I didn't get any boogers!'

'I didn't get any boogers, either!'

They're STILL awake in there, playing some seriously questionable game, and we're running low on beer. Things are not looking good, my friends. If you don't see any more posts from me, send one of those St. Bernards with the keg around its neck. Actually, send two, and don't bother waiting to see if I post again. HELP ME.

School

You probably know we homeschool, and that we are about to start Weston's second year of Dead Cat Academy. Last year we did 'Kindergarden'. We had a pretty tough final but he squeaked by, so now we are planning 'First Grade'. I have just started scheduling the first half of the year. It's been our experience that the plans go out the window after a few weeks so it seems we could just cut them out entirely and save me a significant effort, but Lloyd likes to have the illusion of control. I'm pretty unschooly myself, and left to my own devices I would probably go commando when it comes to structure of any kind. Unfortunately for lazyass me, the threat of pandemonium of this nature strikes fear into Lloyd's deeply organized pilot's heart. As a result, I am forced to drag out my book and pencil and whomp up some placebos to soothe his soul.

This year, we are also going to try some proto-schooling for Shane. I'm not super optimistic about this, as he is currently too busy building artificial intelligence from sacks of robot parts acquired from the thrift store and Grandpa's basement to have much interest in such common pursuits as the alphabet and the integers. I'm not kidding, he can't even spell R2D2, but if you want a robot that eats the imaginary garbage off the floor, he's your man. So yeah, I'll be watching with interest. From afar.

As for Weston, I asked him what he wanted to learn about this year, and here is his list, in order:

Water

George Washington

Civil War

Fish

Atoms and Cells

Mushrooms

Light

Planets

How Cars Work

Rocks

Shrimp

Planets

Why It's Easier to Sleep on a Soft Bed than a Hard One

Plants

How Boys and Girls are Different

How Bodies Work

Why Daddy Always Wears Underwear

I'm reasonably convinced, but not entirely certain, that the last one was a joke. Either way, have fun, honey!