QUICK SOMEBODY POST A CAT PHOTO

God, even *I* can't handle that last post anymore. Subject change! Subject change! I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine hand flaps hand flaps deflecting humor GAH.

Moving right along. Some of you may be interested in hearing that yes, I still do have a cat. 

And he is still as delightfully, clichedly cat-like as ever.

He will not hunt mice or stink bugs or crickets, but goddamn it, those motherfucking blind cords are gonna get themselves a vicious mauling and shredding. YOU SHALL NOT MENACE MY FAMILY, BLIND CORDS. 

He's 14 now, which: Not a fan of thinking about that. His stomach is a lot more sensitive and he's gone from being a solid muscular tank of a cat to one who is...thin. Lightweight. More delicate and bony. He's old, basically. But still happy and cuddly and enjoying his life of non-stop leisure mixed with fresh sink water, uppity fancy canned food and the occasional catnip high. 

He remains unfailingly patient with the children, especially Ike. (Who calls him "Cah." Usually moments before hurling his body over Poor Cah and grabbing fistfuls of fur.) He will seek out Noah and Ezra for more appropriate levels of affection, and will happily sit on their laps in front of the TV, vegging out and purring, like duuuudddddes, I am so happy you baby things calm down after awhile.

Also still alive and kicking, albeit barely:

Max's Puppy, who is very literally just a shell of what he once was. I gave up restuffing and sewing his wounds a couple years ago. 

Max doesn't care, though. Max still likes carrying him around, wandering the house in the early wee hours of the freaking shut up oh my god morning, meowing at the top of his goddamn lungs.

And (obviously) carefully arranging him on my bed or next to my pillow, like "I'll be joining you in a bit to walk across your face and sleep on your arms, but in case I'm late, here's my disgusting faceless Zombie Puppy. He can not-stare at you while you sleep."

What can I say? He's a giver, this Cah.

Tequila Mockingpets

This is the last post of the Sauza sponsorship, and I apologize for both the semi-awkward timing and for...well. You'll see.

In honor of the Sauza Fireman & Kitten Amazingness video, I ordered a twee little beret for my own animals. Oh, how funny that would be! They would look so dashing and jaunty! Like this!

ZOMG.

But alas, the beret, it was backordered. I was thwarted by upside-down supply/demand economics! A run on the kitty-beret market! Dump your orange juice futures and invest heavily in felt!

I SHOULD HAVE STOLEN THAT PINK ONE I KNEW IT.

So in desperation I went to the local big-box pet store in search of the Most Ridiculous Thing I Could Put On My Pets' Heads. 

I found it, all right. In the form of a doggie doo-rag and some Super Ironical pink skull-and-crossbone hair bows. These items may or may not have come from the "Bret Michaels Pets Rock" apparel collection, which is actually something that actually exists, God save us all.

Anyway! Maximum LOLCAT potential unlocked! Now all I had to do was put said Most Ridiculous Things on said pets' heads and the Internet laughs would flow like tequila. Right? Right.

NOT AMUSED. GOIN TO MURDER YOO IN UR SLEEP.

Our photo op was a bit more...challenging than the one I witnessed at the commercial shoot. 

NO.

NO HATE NO

hate everything goin poop on her bed then murder in sleep hate no

THIS IS NOT EVEN THE CORRECT WAY TO TIE A DOO-RAG! DID YOU LEARN NOTHING FROM "ROCK OF LOVE," WOMAN?

Seriously. Just don't look at her. Pretend she's not even there. It takes away her power. 

YOU CAN TIE IT PROPERLY ALL YOU WANT NOW, BUT TEH MOMENT HAZ PASSED. LEMME INSIDE FOR WAFFLES.

So it seems, much like tequila recipes, putting things on animals' heads is also best left to the professionals. My pets are clearly warped from their early days as child blog stars, back before the human babies took over around here. Uncooperative divas, I suppose. 

PS: Max is totally going to eat my eyeballs tonight, and I will have deserved it. 

PPS: DON'T CARE. WORTH IT. HAAAAAAA.

PPPS: I think we should declare June 7th a national holiday where we all drink tequila and put stupid things on our pets' heads. Who's in? I think it could rival Cinco de Mayo. Séptimo de Junio! Hats for all! Dignity for none!

PPPPS: Okay, I'm done now. Thanks for sponsoring these posts and for letting me be so weird, Sauza.

Masterfeces Theater Presents

Last night, while we were all enjoying a delicious dinner of grilled chicken chicken and ratatouille (well, except for Noah, who threatened to punch our house apart [WITH HIS FISTS!!!] if we ever made him eat such things again), I noticed a single, compact little turd had suddenly appeared on the floor next to the table. 

Now, the problem with having a cat and a very small dog is that it is literally impossible to tell their poop apart. And yes, this is a problem. One that we are very familiar with. Hey kids! Who wants to play another round of Who Pooped On The Floor? 

But since we were eating, I opted not to really ponder over the source From Whence The Turd Of Mystery Flowed, and instead quickly cleaned it up and flushed it away and then...

Another one. This time right in the middle of the kitchen, on the path I'd just walked through no more than 30 seconds earlier, when it was definitely poop free. 

Someone was Stealth Pooping, you guys.

And it didn't end there. After dinner, I found one in the living room, then two more under the dining table, and then Jason found MORE in the kitchen less than 15 minutes after that. All told, by the end of the night, we'd cleaned up about 10 separate poop accidents, all seemingly deposited randomly, one at a goddamned time over the course of several hours. 

THE SUSPECTS:

Lady Ceiba Hummingbird Magillicutty of the Downton Cheezburgers

EVIDENCE FOR: It was raining yesterday, and HOO BOY, is my dog ever the dainty little princess about pooping in the rain, when her delicate haunches might dare brush against wet grass. Never mind that this is a creature who also enjoys rolling around in piles of squirrel shit and eating mulch, WET GRASS IS WHERE SHE DRAWS THE LINE. We've completely barricaded her out of her favorite stealthshit location (the basement playroom), so it's possible she'd been holding it in all day and then driven to desperate, more high-profile pooping.

EVIDENCE AGAINST: Ceiba rarely moves from position during dinner. She is a terrible begger, always crouched next to my chair, letting out the occasional growl of "GIMME SOME CHICKEN, WHORE" or busting out with her patented Waffle Jump. Also, she was unceremoniously sent out in the backyard after the first two turds were discovered, just in case it was her and was still a work in progress. However, the timeframe between Ceiba's return inside and the second wave of poop is unclear, since Stealth Pooper Was Stealthy. However however, I am pretty sure three, maybe four...um, DEPOSITS, max, has been her longstanding personal best. 

VERDICT: Undetermined. 

 

His Distinguished Lordship Maximillian Thunderdome, Esq.

EVIDENCE FOR: As mentioned previously, Max has been having some age-related digestive problems. He gets constipated and panics and basically goes wherever. We switched his diet up to combat the constipation but then that led to vomiting because Mister Princely Pweshus Fwuffypaws' Wittle Tummy Tums Is Sensitive. We're still working on it, but finding random rock-hard turds is not a completely foreign experience.

Mostly though, I just think he's all, "I'm OLD, motherfucker. I've paid my litter box dues. From now on I'm shitting wherever I damn well please. Life is short. Get off my lawn. Etc."

EVIDENCE AGAINST: He was not spotted downstairs at all. He stayed up on our bed all night, as far as I can tell. That's a level of stealth never before witnessed with this cat, who usually likes to announce his tummy disturbances with a lot of meowing, horking, sturm und drang, etc. The last time he was constipated he basically marched into my office mid-squat and yowling, then looked me straight in the eye and shot rainbows out of his ass, Nyan Cat style. 

VERDICT: Undetermined. 

So who pooped on the floor? The world may never know. The kibble-studded puke I stepped in while getting out of bed this morning is likewise mysterious, making this whole thing one big riddle cloaked in a puzzle topped with an enigma and then wrapped in a wad of paper towels. 

No Party, All Bullsh*t

Weeks like this should be illegal. It's been the kind of week where everything has been a kind of low-grade terrible. Just enough to annoy the shit out of you, but not dramatically terrible enough to give you interesting stories for your blog. 

But it's Friday! So...whatever. Here, I Wrote You Some Stuffs, Deal With It.

1) MOLARS ARE BULLSHIT

Ike is cutting molars right now. Three of them, so far. His gums are a horrible blackish-purple color and he's cranky and congested and his sleep schedule is all kinds of jacked up. I am tired. I am running low on both Tylenol and wine.

You know molars are a one-year thing, right? Most kids get them sometime around their first birthday? Usually on whatever day you've planned their birthday party? 

You know Ike is 10 MONTHS OLD, right? Why you gotta be in such a rush, son? 

Because freezer-burned yogurt melts are bullshit, Mother, and I would like to get going on some filet mignon instead. 

2) PETS ARE BULLSHIT

Max the Cat has been feeling a bit poorly as well, on and off. Trips to the vet confirm that there's nothing particularly wrong with him, other than being...well, old. (He'll be 14 this year.) And while I do not really AT ALL, NOT ONE LITTLE BIT, want to linger on thoughts about Elderly Max Possibly Not Living Forever And Ever Shut Up It Happens Amen, I have to admit it's been less than awesome dealing with a cat who is routinely barfing all over the place and taking shits in our bed for no apparent reason. Except that he's old! Either put him in some Kitty Depends or change the sheets while focusing on how nice it feels to still have him curl up and keep your feet extra warm at night.

Speaking of old, any longtime readers remember Max's beloved stuffed Puppy?

If so, brace yourselves. 

UNDEAD PUPPY WANTZ BRAAAAAAINNNNNZZZZ

Puppy is actually older than Max, so I guess we should be similarly amazed and grateful that he is still here with us and bringing joy to our cat and ignore all the times I've walked into the bathroom in the middle of the night to pee only to be confronted with HOLY SHIT WHAT IS THAT DEAD THING GAAAAHHHH instead. 

3) HOMEOWNERSHIP IS BULLSHIT

Our to-do list around our house is pretty long, at this point. Long and expensive. Full of stuff we want to do but just can't (or won't) sack up and spend the money on. I'd (still) like to redo the kitchen. I'd like to replace some furniture. I'd like to upgrade some fixtures and appliances and paint a bunch of rooms. I'd like to hire abchao to come order me to throw everything out and make the whole house look nothing like it actually does, which is awful. 

Instead, the only things that ever get done are the things that reach Emergency Trailer Park Status. Like, we need to replace the TV cabinet in the living room because one of the doors BROKE IN HALF and now Baby Ike has unfettered access to the Xbox and a stack of loose DVDs that I keep saying "NO BABY IKE" about and then re-stacking them back in the exact same place because I am too lazy to find another place to put them. 

I've wanted to buy new blinds for the boys' room for ages now, but am only going to finally do it because they did this to the current set:

I am really regretting letting them take that Reverse Basketweaving 101 class at the Y, you guys.

And then there's the stuff that just randomly, unexpectedly goes to all hell and costs hundreds of dollars to fix. This week our utility sink clogged up, and since our washing machine drains into it, we couldn't do laundry until we got it fixed.

(I should also mention that the sink clogged up in the middle of a load of cloth diapers, so we spent several days with a sink half full of the dankest, grossest, foulest water you have ever seen or smelled, especially since one of Ike's teething symptoms always seems to manifest IN HIS PANTS, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING, AND IF YOU DON'T I ADVISE YOU TO JUST NOD SO I DON'T FEEL COMPELLED TO GO INTO GREATER DETAIL.)

(The clog was run-of-the-mill lint and hair-based, in the end, for the record. I was so terrified that the plumber would come out and be all, "POOP! THERE'S POOP IN YOUR PIPES! YOUR ENTIRE HOUSE NEEDS A COMPLETE PIPENDECTOMY BECAUSE OF POOP, YOU DISGUSTING, MISGUIDED HIPPIE.")

However! As we are capable adults with excellent coping skills, Jason and I naturally attempted to unclog the sink ourselves before calling the plumber. Which is how we ended up breaking part of the sink drain in the process and had to spend three hundred and forty damn dollars on a new utility sink, which is probably pretty high in the Top Ten List Of The Most Unexciting Home Upgrades Ever. 

Anyway, since it would probably be super weird for me to take dinner party guests on a basement tour just to show off our sexy new utility sink (WITH COPPER PIPE EXTENSIONS, HOLLA), I'm posting a photo of it on my blog. Which is only slightly weird. 

When we decide to sell this place I am including this photo as a selling point, for sure. 

Building a Better Root-Vegetable-Based Mouse Trap

So about the mouse.

It continues to elude Max's completely uninterested clutches, and Max continues to not give a flying fuck. 

Last night Jason and I heard something crunching on kibble in the kitchen, along with a metallic clang -- like one of the pets pushed the food and water bowls together while eating. 

Except that -- you guessed it -- both of the pets were sitting on the couch, with us. Jason jumped up and cautiously peeked around the doorway, but the intruder was already gone. I proceeded to have a full-body attack of the itching creepy crawlies while Jason checked the humane traps (I KNOW, OKAY) that he'd placed behind the stove at the assumed point of entry.

The good news is that a mouse had gone into the trap. At one point or another. The bad news is that he'd clearly had no trouble CHEWING HIS WAY OUT.

"So, that's that." I said. "We'll get some nice toxic traps that break their backs or fry their brains or something, right?"

He mumbled something while opening cabinets and pulling out casserole dishes or whatever and I went back to the living room. 

Turns out? Jason had a plan.

Behold. This was his plan:

For those of you who have no idea what you're looking at (which I imagine is EVERYBODY), you are looking at the cat food dish, hidden under a mixing bowl that has been propped up with a wine cork and weighted down with a sweet potato.

I'm just...gonna sit here for a minute and let you re-read that last sentence a couple more times.

I swear. I SWEAR TO GOD. This actually fucking happened.  

After laughing my fool head off and taking some pictures, I opted to go to bed. I mean, the evening could ONLY go downhill at this point, right?

At 4:30 in the morning, we heard -- OH YES WE DID -- yet another metallic clang. A more...forceful sounding one.

I poked my husband. "Did you hear that?"

He had. I poked him again. It was a congratulatory, high-five kind of poke. 

At first he said he'd deal with it in the morning, but I worried that perhaps the whole SWEET POTATO thing was maybe not entirely fail-safe, like what if the potato rolled off the bowl and the mouse can like, MOVE the bowl around like a little hamster-wheel and we go down there tomorrow morning and can't find it? 

(4:30 in the morning, you guys. And I'm fretting over the mental image of a POSSESSED MIXING BOWL skittering all over my house.)

Jason got up and went downstairs to check his trap. He returned a few minutes later.

"It wasn't the mouse," he reported. "It was Max. He was just sitting there, staring at the bowl, like, what the hell?" 

"I'm sorry," I said. "That would have been pretty awesome if it worked."

"Yeah."

"But seriously, you've got to let me nuke the bastards next, okay?"

"Okay."

 

(Sweet Potato Helmet Army Man Says Hold Your Ground! Fire When Ready!) 
 

Dear Cat

We need to talk.

 
Oh, don't look at me like that. You know. YOU KNOW EXACTLY.

Look. Cat. You've been a fine cat. For almost...wow...12 years now, you've been a very fine cat. Very affectionate and cozy and face-nuzzly and such. And I can't tell you how happy I am that you remain so healthy and spry and feisty after almost 12 whole years. 

Like the other night? When you were rolling around on the bed being all adorable and I decided to record a little movie of your adorableness but the dog felt all left out and whimper-y on the floor so I picked her up and put her on the bed and you were immediately all OH HELLLLLZ NO BITCH THIS BED AND TUMMY RUBBIN IS MINE and proceeded to lunge at her head like a cheetah in a nature documentary? 

Exhibit A:

Yeah, that. While not the adorable pet video I originally had in mind, I was still pleased to see you can still get all aggressive and feline-like, when you feel like it. 

Which brings me to my point: If you're still obviously so up for a good tussle, why the fuck do we have a MOUSE, a mouse in our KITCHEN, a mouse that comes OUT OF THE CABINET at night and sits NEXT TO YOUR BOWL and EATS YOUR FOOD and OH MY GOD, it's a goddamned RODENT.

(IN OUR HOUSE!)

Look, Cat. This isn't even the first mouse. We had one last year. Something I discovered when I pulled a baking sheet out the drawer under our stove and oh look, MOUSE TURDS. Do you remember that? You were at least vaguely helpful that time, what with all the INTENSE STARING you did that signaled to us that one of the sticky traps we set out had captured the mouse, the mouse that my husband (YOUR FATHER!) then refused to kill and kept trying to get me to LOOK AT IT and then he spent 20 minutes carefully removing the stupid thing from the trap before putting it in MY GOOD TUPPERWARE and being all, "Noah! Look! It's Ratatouille! Let's go get in the car and set him free somewhere so he can go back to his family!" 

And then we got in the car and he asked me to hold the container in my LAP and I yelled at him to put that thing in the TRUNK because NO, I wanted NOTHING TO DO WITH ANY OF THIS. And then we drove to a goddamned field and he set the goddamned thing free and you know, I bet this is the same goddamned mouse, not that I'm going to check its little foot pads for signs of past sticky-trap trauma or anything. 

Look, Cat. I gave you a pass last year because I thought the mouse was staying in non-cat-accessible places in the house. But now it has been brought to my attention that the mouse has been spotted OUT AND ABOUT, AT NIGHT. (Spotted by my husband [YOUR FATHER!], who again, did not respond to the sighting by like, throwing a fucking shoe at the thing or doing anything USEFUL, but instead just came upstairs and woke me up and was all, "HEY. GUESS WHAT I JUST SAW.")

Seriously. The thing comes out and eats your food. From your bowl. A bowl that we have since moved the fuck off the floor, and I can tell that pisses you right off from all the plaintive yowling you do every morning because meoooooooooowwwww I'm too old and lazy to jump up on a chaaaaaaair to get my fooooooood meeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwww halp meeeeee somebodeeeeeeee rooowwwlllll.

You know what, Cat? Tough freaking love. Do your job and get rid of the mouse and you can have your stupid bowl back on the stupid floor. What? I sound angry? I am. Almost 12 years, Cat. That's how long I've been feeding you and paying for shots and letting you sleep in my armpit and I didn't even TELL the Internet what you did to us while we were in Jamaica, going on a three-day hunger strike at the fancy expensive Pet Hotel, causing us and our emergency contact much stress and panic while we tried to find a pet sitter to go get you on goddamned SKYPE because we didn't even have a PHONE down there and then you were FINE and were just being a DIVA and after all of that, you're telling me you won't even TRY to kill ONE LITTLE MOUSE that is, for the record, EATING YOUR FOOD? 

You're kind of a disgrace, Cat. 12 years of face scritches and unlimited catnip have made you soft. I'm guessing there's not much to be done about that at this point. Except maybe this:

 
Love,

Person With Opposable Thumbs Who Knows Where The Treats Are Kept, Bizzitch

Counterpoint: Year of the Tigercat

I mean, Point One: TigerDOG doesn't make a lick of sense ANYWAYS, and Point Two:

ROWRR, I am lushus.

Yeah, I know. I don't many appearances on this blog thing these days. I certainly don't write whole entries anymore. You know why?

 

Because I am a fucking CAT, you stupid sons of bitches.

 

I mean, look! No thumbs.

 

Besides, I lead a very rich and fulfilling life offline.

I enjoy looking pissed off, even when I'm not. So having a Twitter account would just be redundant.

 

I enjoy this, which negates any need for adoring blog comments.

 

And this, which is just like, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrwlolomg.

I LIKE THIS. THUMBS UP. STICK THAT IN YOUR FACEBOOK.

 

And of course, Puppy.

Sigh. Isn't he adorable?

Hard to believe we're both 11 years old now. Seems like yesterday we were both the same size. And Puppy had a scalp and did not poop stuffing at such an alarming rate.

(First person who makes an Edward jokes has to come over and make the beds. While I fight you.)

(With furious chin rubs.)

I...I DON'T KNOW. I JUST DON'T KNOW.

I just wrote an entire post about a brownie. A brownie that I artfully swiped from Noah's kiddie combo meal lunch, a brownie that he did not even know existed, and that I just ate in three bites within 30 seconds of putting him down for a nap.

And then it occurred to me that really, that one sentence right there? Was STILL more words than one should really write about a brownie, no matter how sad one is that the brownie is now gone and there are no more brownies. So I deleted the first post about the brownie, only to then write this post about the brownie.

I'm really good at this blogging thing, sometimes.

Also, I have now have brownie crumbs in my cleavage, and I appear to have spilled salsa on my belly in three different places.

And...

Um...

My cat is real pretty?

One time this happened?

And then one time Noah and I found a ladybug in the house and Noah really, really loved that ladybug and then I said it was time to send the ladybug home and I opened the window to put the ladybug out on the sill but then accidentally dropped the ladybug out the window and Noah looked at me like this because OMFG YOU KILLED DAT LADYBUG?

Yeah. So that's why a brownie seemed like a pretty interesting topic at the time.

(Dear Noah, I'm so, so sorry about the ladybug. I'm sure it's okay, unless I accidentally broke all its legs when I dropped it upside down first and then flipped it off the windowsill while attempting to help it, but you know I used to pick up caterpillars on our walks and let them climb around on my hands and arms for your amusement? I think that should buy me a little forgiveness here.)

(Also, remember that FInding Nemo taught us that toilets lead to the ocean.)

(Spiders freaking LOVE the ocean! It's true!)

34 Weeks

Yes, yes, I know, I know. I'm getting dangerously close to the point where I simply cannot go a day without at least posting that yes, there is no baby yet and all is well with my womb. I'm sorry. It's just that the baby's sock drawer is not going to repeatedly arrange and rearrange itself, y'all.

I've also been blowing my writerly load via dozens of long emails to my husband, since we've learned that we are only allowed to argue about politics via electronic methods. Otherwise we get a tad...shrill with each other, as during major election years our usually happy existence as independents ends, and we retreat to our separate party corners and hiss and spit and furiously send each other links that SO TOTALLY prove that the other person is a complete fucking idiot.

And while I usually just end up defaulting to the surefire "I am never sleeping with you again unless you pull your head at least PARTWAY out of your ass," I'm thinking that's not going to be particularly effective this time.

I mean, check OUT this slammin' physique. Wouldn't YOU be okay with letting the Bush tax cuts expire as planned in 2010 for a chance at that ass?

That's what I thought, suckahs. (And that IS a maternity tank. Those extra four inches of visible fishbelly are so fierce.)

If current "plans" hold -- and oh, I do so love using the word "plans" in regard to ANYTHING birth-related, since it makes me think of "birth plans" and how all the pregnancy books list that as something one should pack for the hospital ("darling, can you please fetch me my chapstick, Yanni CD and seven-page birth plan from the suitcase? It's in the front pocket. No, that's the back-up copy, I mean the one I had laminated.") --  I'll be having this baby in about five weeks.

And...we feel ready, more or less. Oh sure, we still haven't gotten all the various baby gear down from the attic yet and I'm still only assuming that the car seat is where I think I left it, and a full inventory of Noah's infant hand-me-downs reveals a horrifying shortage of 3-6 month sized feetie jammies but...eh. We're ready. We've been gripped with crazy baby fever over the past few weeks, which is convenient! What timing!

Whenever we see someone out and about with an infant, our conversations go something like this:

NOM, I say. SMUSHY BABY THERE MMMM.

GOOD, Jason says, SQUAWKY NEWBORN CHOMP.

Then we nod and go back to gnawing on bones and bitching about Geico ads. (And short- vs. long-term solutions to the energy crisis and Iraq timetables and OH MY GOD SARAH PALIN.)

I'm not sure when it happened -- the 3D ultrasound, the crazy visible kicks and rolls and undulations of mah belleh, the discovery of baby socks that look like shoes, the temporary threat that things might in fact NOT be as perfect and surefire as we thought? I don't know. But here we are, at 34 weeks, and we are finally able to have a conversation about The Baby that doesn't involve a heaping hot dose of TERROR and WHAT HAVE WE DONE? Undo! Ctrl-Z!

My only frustration is that we don't have a name. (Jason changed his mind. Don't even get me started. He changed his mind but has not offered a single usable alternative and WOW, YOU MIGHT EVEN SAY HE FLIP-FLOPPED, MUCH LIKE A CERTAIN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE.) (Okay, I'll stop now.) Jason wants to name the baby after he's here, in the hospital. Which is fine, except that I secretly continue to use "the name" in my head and I seriously doubt I'll be able to think of him as anything else, but I have decided to exert my energy elsewhere. The aforementioned sock drawer. The search for the perfect coming-home outfit, which is driving Jason crazy because I think I have rejected every pair of blue feetie jammies in the tri-state area as being either 1) Not special enough, 2) Too frou-frou, 3) Not boyish enough, 4) Too boyish, oh my God, my newborn is not coming home clad in MONSTER TRUCKS, and 5) I dunno, I just don't think raccoons are the statement I'd like to make on the birth announcements. Don't you have something in a teddy bear motif?

And...Jesus, I should stop before I make our household sound ANY MORE INSANE.

Quick! Look! Pet photos!

Way to keep it classy there, everybody.

Metadog

My god, this blog. It is astoundingly boring.

So. Very. Very. Boring.

It is not updated often enough for my discriminating tastes, either.

And this kid is much too old to be very interesting.

Not that all this pregnancy puking and hot dog binge talk is all that appetizing.

In sum, I am in ur charming family portrait, expressing mah disdain. Pfft.

Love,
OG Homie aka Ceiba!