Twitter my NaBloPoMo, if you please

Sometimes, I commit to things. I've joined a group of insane people who are dedicated to blogging every day of November. Every day. That means Thanksgiving as well, so I'll have to unbutton my pants and come out of my turkey-induced coma to entertain you that day.

So, if you would please, visit my nonsense here if you are interested in National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo). All of my posts will be on imaginary binky right here for your amusement, so you really don't need to go anywhere but here to read the onslaught of November-ness. I expect you to keep me honest. If I don't post one day, then take me out back and whip me good.

Also, if you are in the mood to read random banter and odd thoughts, I've added myself to the world of twitter. What the hell is twitter, you say? Well, for instance, gawk at my thingies here.
Twitter my bits if you'd like to join. It would make me shiver atwitter with delight.

Finally, as always inspired by the loverly Lotus, I've added a 'feed' button to my bloggy so that you can keep up with my nonsense. I myself have started using Bloglines to keep up with the randomness that I read. Isn't the 21st century a grand time to be living?!

That's all for now. I suppose I could throw in five thousand more links that you won't follow, but that's more work for me... and I have a bag of mini Almond Joys to eat...

This is how you do it

Right at this very moment, I am overcome with love and joy and tears and such. Why? Because right at this very moment, my husband is singing to my baby boy as he feeds Amos his last bottle of milk for the night. The bedroom is dimmed, and Amos is swaddled up tight and looking softly at his father who is singing a John Gorka song about trees.

It is possibly one of the sweetest moments I've ever witnessed. I walked away to allow them this moment, but I can still hear them on the other side of the wall.

Phil doesn't sing very often, and usually if he sings in my presence, it is because I asked him to do so. Now he is singing to our son, and I can't tell you how beautiful that is to me.

That's all. Just had to say it. My men. I love them to pieces.

The case of the missing 150 pieces of Costco candy and other capers

Almost Halloween. Do you feel the tension rising?

Me? Not so much. We didn't go to a Halloween party we were invited to on Saturday. It would have been great for adults, but we were with child and had a collective tired man's ass that day. I also needed a shower, and my current status as Mommy makes me sometimes reconsider the effort and time it takes to shower versus using that time to sleep. Sleep usually wins... or should I say, stink usually wins?

We've yet to carve our pumpkin. I'm thinking it's time to do it, lest we allow the pumpkin to decay on our kitchen floor before the squirrels get to shred it to bits on the front porch. That's really the fate of pumpkins in this neighborhood. They get to scare the wee childrens for a day or two, and then the ADHD squirrels come ripping across the yard to devour the poor thing. I'm certain that they sit in the trees and draw up maps of all the pumpkins in the 'hood, and then formulate an attack. At our first house in Denver, we had our pumpkin proudly displayed on the porch. We awoke to find a squirrel sitting inside the pumpkin, eating it from the inside out. It made for cute squirrel pictures (can't find them at the moment - sorry).

Now, whenever we take a walk, we say such things as, "Ooh. That pumpkin has suffered a cruel fate. Damn you, squirrels!" *shakes fists*

Halloween also means candy. We bought a giant bag of 150 pieces of chocolate items at Costco. It contained exactly the things I like and exactly the things I don't like. Luckily, the things I don't like were the items that Phil was willing to devour. It's quite convenient when that happens, otherwise the unloved pieces are the ones that end up in some poor skunk's or lion's trick o' treat bag.

We've made our own Halloween fun out of eating the chocolate that is rotting our teeth and innards. I'll throw a few at Phil for a snack or meal replacement, and he'll say, "Thank you for the candy that you hate." See? That is how love works.

We've eaten approximately 100 of those chocolate pieces. By the time actual Trick o' Treaters show up to the door, I'm guessing there will be five pieces remaining for them to fight it out over. And really, that's a pretty entertaining idea to think of five-year-olds fighting on my porch for a Butterfinger. I'll support them by yelling, "Get 'em, kid! That's the spirit! Oooh... no one wins when the Butterfinger gets smashed."

Maybe now that I have the sporty fan spirit wafting inside me after that sad turn of events during the World Series, I'll start taking bets on the fighting costumed kids. Five bucks says that Harry Potter totally gets creamed.

Meh. This is all I can do to entertain myself until Amos is old enough to enjoy Halloween. When that happens, I'll try to refrain from encouraging him from fighting with Dora the Explorer over her chocolate treats. But, you know... once the gambling bug gets ya, it's hard to resist.

My kid will totally win that Butterfinger. Hands down. But I won't eat it. That's the rejected piece that Daddy must eat. I'm holding out for an Almond Joy.

Next up to bat: uh... nobody

Did I mention that we almost went to the World Series? I didn't? Oh.

Phil and I bought tickets in the mad dash to attend the first ever World Series for the Colorado Rockies. The underdogs. The low-paid, new guys. The team that would piss me off every season when I had a business studio near Coors Field, because Rockies fans would park near my studio, get drunk, and then pee all over the street where I could see them. I figured, if I had to watch two seasons worth of drunk pissing, didn't I deserve to at least attend the World Series?

Apparently not.

We had tickets to game 5, which would have happened Monday night. How did we get the tickets? Sheer luck, my brutha (or sista). Sheer luck. I tried to buy them on the computer upstairs, while Phil lurked in the basement, trigger-finger ready to pounce. Somehow his computer succeeded while mine was left in limbo, forever to circle around and around in a horrible countdown that would only start over and over. Oh, cruel Rockies. I shake my fists at you!

So, we thought that Phil had tickets to game 4. Oh, no. We ended up with game 5. The "maybe" game. The one that would happen if the ding dang Rockies would win just ONE game. ONE game, Rockies. That's all we asked. That is all that was required for my baby boy to attend what was most likely the only World Series to ever grace the Mile High City. Is that asking so much? Is it asking too much to use your superhuman mile high thin air power lungs and strength to beat Boston?

They said, "Mmmmm. Yup."

See, the thing is, I don't care about sports. Not a ding dang care in the world. I don't care about baseball. I don't think a thing of football. I scoff at basketball. I'll watch the occasional hockey situation, but I could do without it. I married a man who feels the same. We are not, in any certain terms, "sporty". I went to San Antonio Spurs games when we lived in San Antonio when we had free tickets, and what did I do? I brought gardening books with me to read. I did enjoy the mid-game dog show, however. Those dogs really knew how to jump. But I learned a heck of a lot about shrubs, I tells ya.

After watching the four games of the World Series, however, I started to feel the pitter patter in my heart, the flush of my cheeks, the curses bubbling up from my throat as Phil and I would twitch on the couch and groan at the players. I was, for a very brief week, a fan.

Phil was a little league feller as a child. He doesn't claim to be great at baseball, but he enjoyed it. I toy with the idea of having Amos play sports. I'll let him do it if he wants to, but we're not going to push him into it. There are other parents who feel a bit differently.

John Elway, the "star" of the Denver Bronchos, has traded in his new car dealin' days (yes, his name was on a bunch of car dealerships here, and our car, in fact, was bought from a John Elway Subaru dealership), to coach football at his son's high school (also one of the richest schools in the area, but that is neither here nor there). His son, as reported by our local news, has been chosen to play football for a college team.

Can you imagine the pressure this kid is under? Not only is he the son of the most worshipped man in Denver, famous for his football prowess, but he had to be COACHED by his father. And now, the pressure does not relent. He must continue this push to get out from under his father's shadow. His father's horse-headed shadow. Okay, maybe that's going too far, but Phil and I joke about John Elway and his gigantic teeth that are not unlike that of a horse. We may or may not also make annoying horse noises when referring to said fellow. I never said we were appropriate.

So, yeah. I raise my fists at the Rockies during the only time I really cared about a baseball game. Someday, I'll put Amos on my knee and tell him a tale of the time he almost went to the World Series, and how the Colorado Rockies let him down. How they let a small, innocent boy be disappointed that he couldn't shake a giant foam hand with one finger up or perhaps spin a towel in the air.

Phil is threatening to throw flaming poopy diapers at Coors Field, especially after finding out that refunds for the nonexistent game are sent four to six weeks after. I'm starting to understand the mind of the disgruntled sports fan.

Will the sun shine upon you again, Rockies?

Sad attempts at a casual family portrait

Sometimes, it pays to allow an uninvolved person to take the picture.

We went for a walk yesterday. It was quite lovely. Crisp, cool air, a baby with a witch hat, and two bundled up parents. Picture opportunity before the walk starts, right?

If only it were so easy.

Here you go. The Porters show off their poor camera skills. At least Amos is cute.


Horrible attempt at family portrait.




Take two.





Better, but we're all bug-eyed.






Not too bad on the parents, but we managed to cut Amos' head in two.






Definitely not quite right.





Getting warmer...





Excellent.
Except... Phil is not looking at the camera. And how do I jump into the shot without shaky camera action or bad lighting? ARGH!!!!





Some day, we'll learn how to get it right.

The Hunchback of 3000 AD

Sometimes, it is very difficult to pass up a headline. This story posted on Yahoo today is just about as fantastical as it gets... or is it?

Two distinct species of humans? Surely, we are immune to such savage changes? Ah, but we are not. Stuff like this interests me to no end, especially since I have a degree in biology. Evolution is real, and it happens all over the world. It doesn't happen quickly, and I think that is the difficult part of the equation to grasp for many people. If you believe in intelligent design theory, you might as well click out of this blog and dig a hole in the ground for your head that believes the Earth is flat. This blog is not for you, but this PBS special is something you should watch.

I'm not saying this guy has it right. There are all kinds of possibilities for what humans will become. Perhaps we will change very little. It would take longer than 1,000 years for humans to become two species, me thinks. However, I know a few people who already look like Morlocks, so perhaps there is a grain of truth in the matter... heheh.

We are already screwing with the world so much that changes are destined to happen. Much of the work that I did back in my molecular biologist days involved bacteria and yeast. They are the tiny organisms that do so much work in a search for answers inside the DNA of so many higher species. I worked with human DNA in diabetes research, as well as related research using monkey cells and hamster cells. I also manipulated the poor cells of plants, particularly that of Arabidopsis thaliana. In all of these studies, bacteria were my friends, especially that old so-and-so, E. coli.

Anyone who does the kind of work I did is apt to see evidence of evolution at their fingertips. Manipulations can be and have been made. Some are man-made, such as what I did. Some are pushed along by man, such as evidence of genetically-engineered corn spreading its pollen to non-altered corn fields (it has happened, believe me). Nature has a way, and it is not against accepting a helping hand.

One of the things we are doing to aid the evolution of humans right now is to advance the evolution of bacteria. There are so many antibiotic-resistant bacteria in the world now that they are spawning these so-called super diseases. Denver had a taste of this recently as we hosted two people who have super-resistant tuberculosis strains. Remember the idiot ambulance-chasing lawyer who hopscotched across the world while potentially exposing people to his newly-wedded sputum? Yeah. That guy was in Denver for treatment. Let's call him Tuberculosis Andy, which is not quite as catchy (pun intended) as Typhoid Mary, but it'll do. He may have recently been shown to not be carrying the infectious version of the drug-resistant TB, but I believe the other man from Arizona, treated in Denver, DID have it. We'll call him Tuberculosis Bobby (again, not quite as catchy). These resistant strains of bacteria can evolve over a slow period of time without interference, but they evolved quickly in this instance because of human interference and the overuse of antibiotics, among other things.

When you pretend to be a creator, your hand can be burned.

So, perhaps we will not become Eloi and Morlock quite so soon, but we could be changing ourselves for the worse by manipulating our environment. Just unleash a few more Tuberculosis Boys or Bird Flu Flos, or perhaps a handful of Cholera Chucks and Ebola Ednas. H. G. Wells wasn't writing a word-for-word truth about the blueprint of humankind, but he had an inkling of what can happen. Survival of the fittest is real, and it is brutal. And sometimes, it involves bleeding from your ass.

Ah, to have a seat to watch the world in 3000 AD...

stink + stink = delicious

Sometimes I am amazed by the things I will shove into my pie hole. Take today, for instance.

I've been complaining to Phil that our love life has been suffering longer lapses than normal due to this thing called "parenting." Oh, woe is me. Ain't gettin' the nookie. Perhaps I've discovered why we are repulsing each other. Both of us have consumed tuna salad and coffee today. Have you ever had tuna salad and coffee together? The stink is horrendous. I imagine it smells like a dying fish walked into a rundown coffee house and just gave up and died on the cabin floor. Ah, but it is delicious, this dead cabin floor tuna.

I must apologize to my son. He is on the receiving end of the stink emerging from his parents' mouths. Poor Amos. No wonder he doesn't want to eat much.

So, I wonder, what other foods are destined to repulse those in the immediate vicinity?

As a child, I would shake violently from the smell of Doritos coming from someone's head. Schools are cruel in that they allow children to purchase bags of Doritos and then expose their classmates to the smell of old cheese and dirty feet. I guarantee that if a little boy liked me, he would not succeed in wooing me with his Dorito breath. Now, if I ate the Doritos, then it was a different matter. Stink = delicious.

Garlic, of course, is an old timey villain of odor. I remember going to The Olive Garden as a young'n, only to wake up the next day with my mother creaking my bedroom door back and forth to try to waft the garlic air out of existence.

When I was pregnant, my nose was out of control at times. During a trip to Philadelphia when I was about 13 weeks along, Phil decided to eat a Philly cheesesteak. Oh. My. God. I couldn't go near him. My pregnant body would not tolerate the scent of onions. And then he had to throw in all of those other stinks on top of onions. It was heartbreaking to see Phil's face as he realized he couldn't come near me, but good grief, man. Don't expect a pregnant woman to salivate over your onion-soaked body.

So, I wonder...

What foods offend your senses?

Life, it be the good thing

Some days, I feel pretty darn swell.

Denver is in the midst of perfect weather. Oh, how I luuurrve my Denver in autumn. Despite the fact that the Rockies lost in an appalling defeat last night in the first game of the World Series, I have a spring in my step and a smile on my face. Perhaps the boys wearing the black and purple are less springy today, but so it goes.

Life is good.

We are considering a trip to Pennsylvania for the holidays. It's time the Porter grandparents take a gander at their grandchild. There was much rejoicing when my folks finally spent time with Amos. I can't wait for that to happen with Phil's family. I'm hoping we can get flights and such. Low airfares are hard to come by, and we lack the dollars to pay for them. Bleah.

A population boom has been happening within our circle of friends, particularly in PA. All of these old Clarion University chums of Phil's have suddenly decided to breed. Yay! I wasn't much of a celebrator of children in my previous life, but now that I know the joys of creating offspring, I spill forth with happiness at the thought of our friends experiencing the same. These folks are in their mid to upper 30s. It's a crazy thing to see friends through a good portion of their adult lives, only to suddenly find them carrying precious bundles. Life is strange sometimes. Good, but strange.

Toot toot toot. We should take a walk today in the glorious sunshine...

Month 4

Dear Amos,

Two days ago, you became four months old! I'm a little late in posting, but Mommy needed to set up this ding dang bloggy thingy before she could properly gush about your very important strides in becoming someone. So much to talk about!


Well, first off, you FINALLY gave us a smile for the camera! You've been smiling since you were around three to four weeks old, but you've been elusive and stingy with the grins for the camera. You'll grin and grin with that gummy smile, and as soon as we pop a camera in front of your face, your gaze falls to the lens and you become camera-shy. ARGH! It was so frustrating when you would do this,

but since we took this photo,

you have cooperated. You are such a nice kid.


So much to report for this past month. I'll start by talking about your milestones, and then we'll discuss your very important trip!



Milestones

Amos, you are now expert at rolling from side to side. The one thing that always gets you to roll to your side is The Baby in the Mirror.

That darn baby makes you giggle, coo, and reach out for its face, only to elude you by not actually being there. It totally blows your mind that you can't reach that baby. I hesitate to tell you who The Baby in the Mirror really is. Will it crush you? Will it be like revealing the true nature of Santa Claus?

Mommy took a break from you one day. I know, I know. This is tantamount to abandonment. However, keep in mind that you were in the very capable hands of your father. It seems you weren't pleased with me being gone, so you decided to accomplish another huge milestone while I was out cavorting in the park.

YOU ROLLED FROM FRONT TO BACK!!

Yes! This is a big deal, my boy. This is one maneuver or so away from crawling, and that means we need to babyproof the house. Do you know how lazy your parents are? Do you know that we are not looking forward to putting latches on everything and protective force fields around items such as the cat and the booze? Stop all of this progress nonsense! I wouldn't mind carrying you around for awhile. Well, at least until you hit puberty. That's probably enough time for us to figure out how to make this home "safe" for you.

Speaking of the cat, you are only mildly interested in her. She has been very accommodating when it comes to your death-grasp on her fur. Only once did she seem bothered, and I intervened before you were sliced into millions of baby bits. See? Sometimes Mommy DOES know how to take care of you.

Cheeto, my boy, we have discovered your talent. You can jump. Oh, man, can you jump. Daddy and I bought you a Fisher Price Rainforest Jumperoo, and you love it even more than The Baby in the Mirror. You could jump in it for days on end, it seems.

Your grandmother will be so proud, because you are taking after your frog-like father. Daddy was parked in a Jolly Jumper as a child as his older brothers ran amok. I've heard story after story about Phil and the Jolly Jumper. Now, dear son, it seems the legacy lives on in you.

You have so many new sounds, including a squeal that could shatter glass. Unfortunately for your parents' eardrums, that is one of your favorites. You reach for our faces now, and it melts me every time you grab my chin as if to say, "Hey! I have that pointy chin, too!"



Events

You have had a busy schedule, my boy. You went on your first big car trip! Sure, it was to Texas, but 17 hours in the car can make even the smallest body ready to just STOP. ANYWHERE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. JUST STOP.

You learned about the Colorado plains, inappropriate mascot names (the Lamar Savages), rude high school kids in Dumas, Mexican food, and Wolf Brand Chili. You attended the wedding of your mother's longtime bosom chum, the incredibly talented singer, Allison Scharf.

You stayed in a fancy hotel in Austin, and you accompanied your parents in a midnight run to HEB for booze, Vaseline, and condoms. I will always cherish the look on the cashier's face as she realized that I was a bit tipsy as your father handed her a box of condoms and a bottle of wine. The Vaseline was to remove my waterproof mascara, but I suppose we don't need to update the cashier of that little truth.

While visiting with your grandparents, I was able to catch a possible supernatural phenomenon on camera. Orbs showed up twice in the photos, with the larger in this photo.

Some say that orbs are the spirits of people who have passed. I'm not sure if that's true or not, little man. If it is, I suspect this orb is your Great Grandmother Mamie, my father's mother. She was a big personality, and I doubt she would allow her orb to be visible as a demure spot. The orb is certainly not a speck of dust floating in front of the camera, as your Ammi (Finnish grandmother), my mother, is a clean freak who would never allow such particles to exist.

Since returning from Texas, you have attended your very first baby play group. You had more hair than babies twice your age. Good job! Your mother drank wine at this event as well, but Vaseline was not required (nor were condoms).

A few days ago, we took you to Cottonwood Farms near Louisville and Boulder for a pumpkin hunt. We posed you here and there, always looking for the right pumpkin and the perfect lighting. You weren't very cooperative with this photo shoot, but we managed to capture a few gems.


Thumbs are sometimes more interesting than gorgeous pumpkin photo opportunities.

You joined your father as The Children of the Corn Maze.

It's okay to feel humdrum about this one, Amos. This isn't the most amazing pumpkin clown artwork.

The day after your pumpkin adventures, you saw your first snow! It wasn't the most impressive snow, as it melted the same day. Hold on to your binky, dear boy. More will come. Your daddy can't wait to get you bundled up and scooting along in your Pope Mobile-style snow sled.


There is so much more to say, but I should end this here before it takes people a whole month to read it. You are the dearest person I've ever known. Your smile grabs my heart and squeezes it until I think it just can't keep pumping. You wake up with a smile every day. I don't mind that you kick me for hours at a time. Your abuse is the only kind I love.


Mommy kisses, Cheeto. I love you.

thingies and items

Greetings, people of the Internet. My name is Sarah Porter. Soon enough, you will see a smattering of words here related to my brain waves. I currently blog on Myspace under the profile Soapy Smith. If you are looking for more blogs, see me there. I may or may not continue blogging there after this situation is set up. I haven't decided. How infuriating of me!

My life is somewhat interesting and somewhat dull. I am a recent mother of one Amos Porter, who is the light of my life, the spring in my step, and the bee's knees. First and foremost, I am a mother. I'm also an independent woman of sound mind and body, so don't get it into your virtual head that I'm only a "mommy" who only does "mommy" things. Au contraire.

I've been a scholar, saloon girl, state champion writer, professional gift wrapper, data entry clerk, scientist, business owner, and now - blogger. I am married to a professional stand-up comedian known in the world as Phil Porter. To know him is to laugh at him, which is lesser than or equivilent to loving him (but not quite). We giggle and guffaw in this household, and I can't wait to teach my son about our lowbrow intellectual humor.

So, bookmark or dogear or whatever you must do to my website. New and exciting things will take place here, I assure you. Well, new in the sense that I've yet to write the words, and exciting in the sense that during a full moon, anything can happen.

Anything can happen.

Indeed.