So. I think I mentioned those cats. (See: CONE OF SHAME.)

Technically, they have names. We've been over this. However, I need something more descriptive. I mean, "Tap?" What does that really mean, anyway? So let me give you a quick rundown of the various monikers these beasts have had in the whole six days we have had them.

*May Day --> Maytag --> Grumble --> Poopcat --> Grumble

*May Flower --> Whirlpool/Kenmore/Jenn-air --> Tap --> StiiiiiiiinKY --> @^F&#(*) !!

You see what happened there? Grumble redeemed herself. Upon removal of the Cone of Shame, she shaped up re: the general cleanliness of cats.

Tap, however. Tap is downright manic, and is an absolute booger when it comes to mischief. And continuing to do what you just told her not to. And doing it again. And then again. And then I finally carry her by the scruff of her neck and unceremoniously dump her in her catbed for a kitty timeout. 'Cuz she'll totally learn from that, right? What - she won't??

So. Yeah. Those cats. Endless entertainment for the kids. WHICH REMINDS ME. Haha, Tap, this is called "coming full circle" - you have officially been tortured by The Despot.* He's a pretty good tail puller, isn't he? And he keeps doing it, doesn't he? Ahhh, I knew we had kids for a reason.**




*Okay, peeps, seriously. THE CAT IS NOT BEING ABUSED. YOU DO NOT NEED TO CALL THE HUMANE SOCIETY. It was a friendly tail grab between, well, friends.

**Okay, also seriously. THE KIDS ARE LOVED. YOU DO NOT NEED TO CALL CHILDCARE PROTECTION SERVICES. We had them for more than just animal control.

Whoooooaaa, Nelly! It has done been almost a month and a-half since I posted here. (Truth to tell: I haven't even visited here the whole time, either. Forgive me, little blog!)

Some odds and ends to report, nothing that seems earth-shatteringly important. Got 2 kittens. One is uber-mischevious. The other is uber-...well, right now, uber-ucky. Not entirely her fault (though it is). The kittens were spayed just over a week ago, and the ucky one wouldn't leave the surgical site alone. 'Round here, that, my friends = CONE OF SHAME. Which is great and all, except for when she uses the litterbox.

She will inevitably return with cat poo ringing her cone of shame. (As if it wasn't shameful enough before??)

So, yeah. Not quite sure how that works, what with the cone of shame being AT THE POLAR OPPOSITE OF HER BUSINESS END OF THINGS. But whatever, it is what it is.

I Windex her Cone of Shame. Haha! I shall sanitize these feral outdoor beasts yet!

So, what else. Nothing that can't continue to wait. Maybe some reviews at some point. Maybe some recipes. Maybe a discussion of upcoming plans. Maybe some quotable quotes from the kids. Maybe some FUBAR stuff, that's always fun!

Or maybe another six weeks of absolutely nothing.

Aren't you just on pins and needles with anticipation?

Fruit Loop is in the throes of a pretty gross cold. We're talking stuffy nose, junky cough, even more junky junk coming out of his nose...Really slimy, colorful, delightful stuff.

Today we are driving to the store, cruising* down the highway, when I hear a voice pipe up from the back seat:

"Tissue!"
...
"Mom, I need a tissue!"
...
"Mom, do we have any tissues?"

Since his stuffy-voiced self was asking more urgently each time, I finally paid attention. (Heh. Kidding. No, I don't ignore him. He just repeats things at quarter-second intervals until you acknowledge and answer. And then you have to repeat yourself at LEAST another three times. And then you have to scold him for not paying attention. After you repeat yourself one last time. Yelling. Just typing that makes me tired. UGH.) I tell him I'm driving, he'll have to wait until we get to a stop where I can get him a tissue.

(For the record, we DO have tissues in the car. It's just that they are over in the glovebox. Stashed away, keeping the rest of the car nice and organized and presentable and UNCLUTTERED. Which, you know, would TOTALLY BE A LOST CAUSE IF THAT TISSUE PACKET WASN'T KEPT FIRMLY IN THE GLOVEBOX. Where it belongs. The little outcast.)

ANYway.

So I tell him he needs to wait.

"But, Mom, look!"

I look. And ask "What?"

"A boogie!"

Indeed, a boogie. Right there, on the edge of his finger. A boogie which he has just extracted from his nose with said finger. A boogie which is now precariously close to becoming one with the interior of our minivan. And I mean that in the grossest way possible.

GAH. But I can't get him a tissue. We will surely have an accident and DIE. So all I am left with is the same injunction:

"You'll just have to wait." (I'm pretty sure I preceded that w/ an "Ewww, Fruit Loop!" And quite possibly** a wince and an eyeroll at my lot in life. You know, the part in the mom job description that says I will be the boogie picker upper.)

Okay, so, fast-forward to our destination. Just before we get out of the car, Fruit Loop says his nose hurts a little inside. I tell him that often happens when you have a cold, raw skin, blah blah blah.

A few minutes later, as I come around to get him out of the car, I ask if he needs his tissue and where the boogie is.

"I put it back."

You put it back??

"In my nose. That's why my nose hurts inside. Because of the boogie. It's hard."

He put it back. I don't know whether to applaud his resourcefulness or just...ewww, Fruit Loop!

I ended up just laughing. Which, of course, he thoroughly appreciated.

Take-home lesson of the day: Be prepared. In case, you know, you pick your nose and have nowhere to put your petrified boogie.






*Not really - it's Friday, and that means TRAFFIC. But not important. This time, anyway.

**No, definitely.

Well, not really. (C'm'on, people, this isn't that kind of show.)

We have a Netflix subscription. Often we'll alternate between kids' movies and "grown-up movies" in the mail. Let me state right now, for the record, that "grown-up" is not my preferred vernacular. Being the mature and serious soul that I am, I prefer referring to things as, well, they truly are: kids are kids, "grown-ups" are adults. Naturally, I raised Fruit Loop accordingly. Kid are kids, adults are adults.

(Ha, funny story: File this under The World According to Fruit Loop (and Most Every Other Preschooler on up to Teenager.) Apparently, only kids get to do fun things. And adults only get to do boring things. AND NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET. This proclamation was delivered with such solemnity, such forbearance, such dejection ... yet such noble martyrdom, as Fruit Loop came to terms with the fact that he, too, would one day grow up, and, thus, would only do boring things. But, until then, we parents are the ones doing the boring things. And we are totally not allowed to do any fun things. That is within his purview, and his alone.)

Back to our story. We live in a large building. And, as you can guess, large buildings have large, communal mail rooms. Hundreds of boxes. Hundreds of tenants.

I don't know how many times Fruit Loop asked if it was kids' movie from Netflix, and I replied "No, it's an adult movie," and people looked at us funny, and little old ladies fainted, and other parents covered their children's ears... Because, really now.

I have since started referring to adult things as "grown-up" things.

Besides, I'm prrrrretty sure Netflix doesn't dabble in the adult entertainment industry.

REJECTION.

By a 12-month-old.

Doesn't get much more lame than that, folks.

Right, so The Despot is a bit of an independent sort. It's not uncommon for him to wander off exploring whatever he deems worth his attention. He's perfectly happy to be in a different room, away from me and/or Fruit Loop, content to babble his way through one of those randomly fascinating baby experience things, (e.g., banging the cupboard doors, peering out the window, flapping loose electrical cords around...you know, the usual).

So that's today's scene. He's been off doing his own thing for a few minutes, and I had a few minutes' worth of downtime, so I decided to go find him and see what he was up to. (I know, I'm a totally responsible mom. No risk of child endangerment here!) Turns out he's busy with one of his favorite pastimes: opening and closing the bathroom door. This time there's a twist, though, and that is: he typically does this w/ the bathroom door when someone is in the bathroom. Today, however, there is nobody. Lights are off, nobody home. He is sitting inside, closing the door and muttering to himself.

Of course, I know how much he loves this game, and loves to exercise his 12-month-old power and close the door! Haha! Take THAT, overbearing adult lady! So I think I'll open the door and we'll play around. Yet what do I hear when I open the door? What greets my expectant ears? Yells! And a most forceful CLOSING of the door - the little booger wasn't even going to let me in!

When I finally do manage to squeeze my way through, he scoots back and starts flailing his arms, kicking his heels against the floor, yelling in protest.

Dude, I'm that bad? Really?

My poor, rejected self can take a hint even from a 12-month-old. I and my bruised ego slunk away, and The Despot went back to happily playing by himself. In the bathroom. Alone. In the dark.


*****

On a more positive note: I have consumed over a pound of chocolate-covered pretzels in the last 24 hours.

It's for my high metabolism.*

Seriously.

*(I don't have high metabolism. Shhh!)

Mr. Goldfish lives next to the computer here on the desk. He isn't one of those flippy-out-y fish that, well, flips out anytime someone looks at him the wrong way. Or breathes funny. Or comes anywhere in his general area. Mr. Goldfish is actually quite social - and it's an intelligent kind of social, not a random "oh, gee willickers, someone's coming my way, they must be going to feed me, foooooooood" kind of way. Interestingly, he knows exactly when we are going to feed him versus dink around on the computer. Smart guy. I didn't give Mr. Goldfish enough credit for that. Or didn't think he had enough brain cells. Whatever. (I'm a fish person, really!)

***

Two sick kids at home. Which is barely above tolerable as long as Hottie McHotts and I stay above the weather. Which may not be for much longer, since over dinner we both mentioned we weren't feeling too hot. This is ALL KINDS OF AWESOME.

***

The Sleep Situation Saga/Drama of My Life/Minutiae You Can't WAIT to Read About is on hold while the kids are sick. Even I'm not that dumb to set myself up for repeated failure and disappointment by expecting them to improve and sleep through the night all by themselves and whatnot. (But, oh, it would be nice!)

***

I desperately need to go grocery shopping. Keyword there is: shopping. I like spending money, and it can be on anything. I think I get the sweet end of the stick, and Hottie McHotts is stuck with, well...all of the hard work and self-congratulating and pride and other poor-excuse-for-but-still-called-feel-good stuff for being our breadwinner and making the bank for me to spend it all.

But, no, seriously, we do need groceries. Milks (yes, plural - we all drink our own different kinds. Variety!), fruits, veggies, MEAT. We consume so much meat, guys. Every time I see those statistics about "the average American consumes XX pounds of ZZ meat in a year," I snort to myself - but don't do the real math for the amount of meat the average Bootstrap family consumes, because I'm sure it would be embarrassing. And many of the green and crunchy and granola-y folks would be all "FOR SHAME," and I would question whether we are singlehandedly both supporting the various meat industries while sentencing our future generations to a barren, used-up, and corrupted world.

Whew. Glad I could get that one off my chest.

***

Just fed Mr. Goldfish. Wonder if he ate too quickly - he's swimming kind of lopsided right now... WHAT IF IT'S THE BLOAT??


(You should thank me for putting that one up instead of the real thing. Uggghh. And I thought the monthly version was bad.)

So. Done up and did one of them thar trip things on y'all. And now I'm postin' all "ATF" and stuff. (Yes. "ATF" = "after the fact." I am that cool. Or - hrm, high-killing thought - I am that uncool because that little trendy texting-/tweeting-based abbreviation may already exist and I am just waaaaaaay behind the times. Whatever. Whatever! I don't care, I tell you!)

Recap: quick visit to visit family downstate. It was a fine trip (not really the harrowing ordeal to which I previously alluded - just being all dramatic), which is a relief, and I have returned home with two sick little kids in tow. Go figure. Sickness is becoming the hallmark of our trips, it would seem.

The boys are still segregated in their sleeping arrangements. Fruit Loop will forever wake up at night and yell for me, I am sure of it. No matter how much coaxing, encouragement, whisper yelling, and outright threats of losing privileges, no TV, bodily harm, abandonment...Yeah, he just doesn't really take any of that seriously. So, for the timebeing, sleeping will...well, hopefully happen, and hopefully eventually somehow by an Act of Divine Intervention it will be sleeping through the night, UNINTERRUPTED, for all of us.

What? I can dream, leave me alone.