(With more movie title format weirdness. I don't know why I'm having trouble letting it go. Possibly I think I am clever. Possibly tomorrow I will realize the truth.)
Captain Corelli's Mandoline
Jason's thumb tip appears to be growing back. Or so he says, because I refuse to look at it. He keeps trying to make me look at it. I keep threatening to no longer help him with his shirt buttons.
By the way, this is what a mandoline looks like. This is also what a mandoline THAT IS BEING USED PROPERLY looks like. Take away the jolly little plastic vegetable hat and you'll see what went so very wrong for Jason. Laws of physics, people. Don't fuck with them.
Cujo and the Chocolate Factory
Our dinner party guests brought dessert on Saturday...a deliciously decadent chocolate cake. So decadent, in fact, that we accidentally left about half of it sitting on the kitchen counter overnight, after we all slumped off to bed in a food coma.
The next morning, after determining that it was indeed too stale to eat, even as a toaster-breakfast-cake thing, we threw it in the trash. Which somehow ended up sitting by the back door because SOMEBODY WHO POSSIBLY IS DEFICIENT IN THE THUMB DEPARTMENT didn't feel like taking the 15 steps or so to the garbage can in the back yard.
I walked into the kitchen a little later and saw the bag ripped open...and Ceiba literally up to her beady little eyeballs in chocolate cake.
"CEIBA!" I screamed. "NO! STOP! IT'LL GO RIGHT TO YOUR THIGHS!"
We called the vet in a panic and tried to figure out how to describe exactly how much cake she'd eaten ("Well, there were about three or four slices left -- small slices, you know, girl slices -- and she ate about half of them, plus all the icing, although a lot of it is still on her ears") and also what kind of chocolate she'd eaten since we didn't have the ingredient list. They basically told us to sit around and watch her for a few hours, and that even if she wasn't poisoned, she'd probably be puking and having diarrhea a fair amount.
We Googled the best way to check a dog's pulse.
We had Noah's plastic splash mat all ready in case we were too far away from the back door.
Damn dog is FINE. Not even a single runny poop. Cast-iron stomach, I swear.
This mean I can has chocolate chip waffles now?
Dork: The Movie
One really, really weird thing about parenthood that I was completely unprepared for is how your definition of "celebrity" changes. Anyone who makes your kid happy is totally your new rock star.
Suddenly you develop a little crush on your elderly pediatrician and you start trying to figure out which of the Wiggles is the cutest and honestly, I would drive two hours to take Noah to meet Joe from Blue's Clues because OMFG JOE FROM BLUE'S CLUES.
So with that said, I want you to just try to imagine the hysterical, Beatles-worthy scream that erupted from my mouth when I got the following attachment from an employee at Signing Time:
I cannot even explain the full effect this photo has on me. It makes me want to be a better person.
P.P.S Contractually obligated to link to it. Sorry. But not, because = whore.
P.P.P.S Also sorry for the dearth of Noah photos this week...I am selfishly hoarding them all until I've finalized my choices for his little birthday video/photo montage thing.
P.P.P.P.S My music choice for this year's video is William Shatner. I am officially the biggest weirdo I know.