I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville.

Poor Amos. Poor, poor Amos. Exposed to demanding Italians and pushy, helicopter moms just so that his parents can say, "You think he should be a baby model? Well, he already is."

Monday was an interesting yet dull day. So goes the life of a glamorous model, as you may have learned from the many "reality" shows about models. There was surprisingly little pampering of the beautiful tots, and even less of the weary mothers. Not a single supermodel showed up to judge us. Pfft.

It was three hours (yes, THREE) of waiting around for Italians to show up at the location, which just happened to be a luxurious house for the mere asking price of $2.1 million. Then, the Italians ate lunch while we waited around some more. Finally, it was a sudden death match in Italians Versus Babies: Who Will Melt Down First?

As it turned out, neither. A mother went berserk.

One lady's boy had fallen asleep right when things were finally starting to happen. Amos, the sleeping boy, a girl, and a boy dressed as a girl (yeah, you tell me what that was about) were hustled into the first shot. Amos looked around in wonder, and the sleeping baby was a floppy mess of a boy who just wouldn't wake up. The Italians yelled at his mother, "Mama! Mama! No good! You done!"

In one of the most beautiful displays of human meltdown I have ever witnessed, this mother freaked out and spilled curses at those Italians that would have made even the most hardened Italian cab driver proud (and blush). She didn't throw obscene hand gestures at them, but she did bleat out at least four "f words" in their general direction.

"I've been here FOUR EFFING HOURS?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

(edited for family-oriented readers)

And other wonderful things, such as:

"You're telling ME I'm DONE?! WHAT THE EFF DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?! YOU'RE TELLING ME I'M DONE?! EFF YOU, MOTHER EFFERS!"

Etc., etc. It was shockingly wonderful to watch after sitting around a sterile yet expensive home with nothing to do but stare at other babies. I thought that the lady was taking off and ready to key the Italians' rental cars, but alas, they brought her back once the baby woke up.

Amos, however, was less amused by the display of adults gone mental. At one point, the Italians were trying to get three babies to smile at once. HA! Good luck, jerks. So, they began clapping and singing loudly while scrunching closer together toward the bewildered babies. Understandably, Amos began to cry. How would you feel if you were surrounded on all sides by white prop walls, bright lights, and scary Italians who are screaming at you?

So, they again yelled, "Mama! Mama! No good!" Except this time, I was the mama who was no good.

I hustled Amos off to the side and cheered him up. I brought him back for more shots, and then I was yelled at again. "Mama! Mama! Out of way! Move, Mama!" I was trying to cheer up my kid, jerks, so you can have your precious picture that you made us wait FOUR EFFING HOURS FOR. Heh.

One more baby melted down. And then another. Then another. I'm guessing the Italians suddenly realized that it was NOT a good idea to make babies wait for four hours before they needed to be happy and sell their clothes.

So, Amos broke down again. And again, I hustled him out of the shot as I was yelled at in various Italian ways. After calming Amos down, I noticed that boy-dressed-as-girl had suddenly changed outfits and was ready for the next shot. And, sleeping-boy-baby-son-of-Mother-Effer had made a return. Suddenly, the Italians had learned to take the shots without yelling or clapping, because hey, somehow QUIET helps babies to feel a little better about strange Italians and a strange yet expensive house.

We just stood off to the side, even though Amos was happy, smiling, and ready to go. Yet, we were not asked for another shot. We weren't asked to change into a new outfit. Amos, the cutest human ever born, was rejected by the Italians.

Another photographer who was standing nearby took many shots of Amos against a wall while he was in his happy phase. So, if Amos does end up in this particular catalog campaign, it will be because of that very nice photographer fellow. If it happens, I'll let you know. Otherwise, that catalog is going to be covered in the pictures of Mother Effer's boy. I guess it takes an Oscar-worthy spewing of curses to get a baby into the limelight. Is that how Lindsay Lohan started out?

I was too laid back as a stage mother, I suppose. I guess I should have put on my diva outfit after all.

"WHY AREN'T YOU MOTHER EFFERS PUTTING MY BOY BACK INTO THE SHOT?! NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!!!!!!!!!!"

Perhaps we're not meant for this kind of life.

Singing for our supper

Excitement! Fame! Infamy! Adventure! Daring! Posing!

What am I talking about? Why, it's about our weekend, of course. Many a thing occurred in the last few days. Let me count the ways.

• We traveled far and wide to Grand Junction on Saturday after two days of selling our precious garage sale items. Phil had a comedy gig and a free hotel room, so of course I had to tag along. Our hotel was on Main Street, overlooking the limos, beat up vans, and borrowed cars full of teens going to their prom. Oh, prom memories. Phil's gig was competing with a rodeo, dirt bike event, AND the prom. Despite the obstacles, he managed to pull off a good show and sell out of his comedy T-shirts. Maybe if we find any leftover shirts, I'll do a giveaway contest. Lucky, lucky you.
  Favorite overheard prom quote of the night:
  
  
  • "Woo! What are we going to do now?!"
    
  • "Dude, I'm going home."
    
    Amos and I managed to have fun. The hotel provided a new playpen for us, so Amos decided to put his scent on it by pressing his face against the mesh and licking it. That's some good ol' fashioned, homespun fun, I tell you what.
    
  • 
    
    

• A mommy group that I've participated in randomly was featured in this month's 5280 Magazine (you can read the article online). Good job, ladies! Too bad I haven't attended the group in awhile (Dad's sickness and death didn't help my social standing), otherwise Amos and I could have been photographed and interviewed as well. Ding dang. (Hey, Lisa. I guess we missed our chance to have fame and fortune. Let's drown our sorrows in some wine, women, and song.)
  
  
  

• Speaking of that same article, a highly intellectual individual with impeccable taste included THIS BLOG (!!!) as a favorite for local mommy blogs! Woohoo! Ding dang! Yeehaw! See the mention here. I'm not entirely sure who decided that Imaginary Binky should be included, but it is quite a nice thing and an honor. Thanks, Denver. You like me. You really, really like me.
  
  

• I guess to make up for our lost chance at fame, fortune, and endless accolades (heh), Amos has been chosen as a baby model by genuine Italian fashion designers. I kid you not, my friends. My adorable son had a callback today, and many Italian men and women fawned over him as he posed in their very cute children's clothing line. At least, we think they were fawning over him. We have no idea what they were saying because we didn't hear any of the familiar words we know: spaghetti, manicotti, ricotta, or even gelato. Tomorrow, I take him for his very first official (and paid) fashion shoot. Woohoo! FINALLY, this kid 'o mine will earn his keep. It's about darn-tootin' time. In the meantime, I will teach him some Italian words, such as:
  
  
  • ciao bella!
  • grazie!
  • bella bella!
  • Ha fatto la modella professionista per de dieci anni (he has modeled professionally for 10 months)
  • che cosa ti fa male? È il rene? (What hurts? Is it your kidney?)
  • and various other useful phrases.

I guess I should practice my best stage mother persona.

NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!!!!

and,

STOP LICKING THE MESH!!!

When bloggers come out to play

Ding dang! Last night was a festivus if there ever was one. I had a smashing time with the ladies. A meeting of minds, wits, and cleverness occurred between Greeblemonkey, Inherent Passion, Tiddleywink, Villanovababy, and lil' ol' me. Woohoo! If you are not reading the blogs of these fine writers (and drinkers), then you are missing out.

Despite exorbitant prices charged by India House, we were able to mingle, laugh, guffaw, nod our heads, and generally cause mayhem in the span of three hours. Three hours was definitely NOT enough time for us to raise mischief, so more gatherings must take place. MUST.

How much mischief did we cause? Enough for all of the other diners to leave and for the staff to "politely" usher us out by filling the restaurant with the smells of PineSol and the sound of a vacuum cleaner. Well, I'm guessing we weren't the cause of the dispersal of other diners, but let's pretend we were.



All my ladies. Behold (clockwise): Greebes, The Imposer, Nova, Winks, Binks

Greebes and The Imposer have turned white from shock that there is graffiti on the window. Perhaps the price of our dinner was charged so that the restaurant can clean their windows.

The Imposer imposes her ability to open her jaw and show off some good food. It overwhelmed our delicate senses.

I think you can guess who the ham was among our crowd. I'm not saying. I'm just saying...

The paparazzi got wind of our gathering.

And, here is a pic of Winks and Binks, the latest team to conquer the vaudeville circuit. Come see our show, kiddies.

Where are we going next time, ladies?

Monkey see. Monkey do.

A little reminder for us all. Also, how did they know that I often puke in the alley with Amos?

Thirteen of those things

I will participate in a list of thirteen things on Thursday because I have no idea what to write today. I suppose I could write Amos' 10 month letter, but that would be work. I'm not here to work, ya dig? So, I give you thirteen random items and units that are found in my head.

1. Tonight, I celebrate my love for you. How? By dining with other bloggers. I will eat delicious Indian foods in your name, dear reader. I will sup and drink in the lovely visages of Inherent Passion, Greeblemonkey, Tiddleywink, and Villanovababy. Don't say I never did anything for you.
   
   

2. I actually have a full weekend planned. It's like I'm back in the world, or some such. Whodathunkit.
   
   

3. Today and tomorrow, I will go through our house and find things to sell. I've developed a recent lack of attachment to inanimate objects, so this should be easy. Who wants to buy a pile of crap? I mean, art? Or, uh, useful items?
   
   

4. Tomorrow and Saturday is our big block garage sale. Anyone who stalks me or knows me is welcome to show up and buy our junk. Items include a couch, chairs, carpet squares from Flor (our carpet is a mix of these two colors: Palm and Citron, enough to make about 100 square feet or 36 squares of carpet), and many, many useful things that don't belong in my house anymore. You come. I make good deal for you. Do not fear me, gypsy.
   
   

5. My skin is still peeling from the worst sunburn to ever devastate mankind. Perhaps some of it will fall off and flavor my saag paneer or chicken masala this evening. Yum. Skin food.
   
   

6. Last night, we continued our quest to walk quickly and burn off our butts. I actually JOGGED. Phil JOGGED. Amos was quite pleased to be pushed even faster in his dandy joggin' stroller.
   
   

7. Going to Grand Junction this weekend for laughs and merriment of some sort. Phil has a gig and a hotel room, so of course I must go there to muss up the room and pee on the bed. What? You don't pee on the hotel beds? What are you waiting for?!
   
   

8. Amos is going to be "looked at" by artsy Italian people (actual Italians, not Tony in the Bronx) who may or may not want him for a magazine shoot. It's about time Amos started to earn his keep around here, so he might as well start by charming people with his giant eyes and huge cheeks.
   
   

9. I've been sad, people. Very sad. The 22nd was a month since my dad died. I think the one month anniversary and the one year anniversary are the worst to deal with. No blogs for you because I cry in my soup.
   
   

10. I ate watermelon last night that we lugged (JOGGED) from over a mile away at the health food store. That was a well-earned (and well-shaken) piece of fruit.
    
    

11. Something may or may not occur that may or may not be the best thing ever for our current affairs. I just can't tell you. Nah nah nah nah nah.
    
    

12. I'm beginning to think that the crispy, burned parts of my body will be leathery forever. If so, I would like to legally change my name to Leather Tuscadero. *snap snap snap*
    
    

13. Phil is on the TV tonight. And yes, you must say it that way. "The TV." He is featured on a show called "Cool Tools" on the DIY Network. Look for him working his gadget (*wink*) on a station near you. If it isn't near you, then I don't know how to help. Perhaps acquire a gadget (*wink*) that will bring the station nearer to your person. His gadget (*wink*) for tonight: The Gator Grip. Indeed. (No, I have no idea what my innuendos even refer to anymore.)
    

And that is today's installment of "things you didn't really care to know but now you do so deal with it." Happy Thursday.

Who wants to buy my crap?!

Incurable quotables

For your Friday enjoyment, I refer you to the lovely site of Blogtations. Various things that have been uttered by yours truly are featured on Blogtations for the next few days. Woohoo! Just like some college kid throws out various quotes from Shakespeare or Emily Dickinson, you can now impress your friends at parties this weekend by using quotes from Imaginary Binky about Yugos and laundry. Lucky you!

Blogtations is a blog created by the very interesting Jeannette of Bohemiology. She unschooled her kids, became a published writer, and learned Japanese! How cool is that? She just might be my new hero.

Happy weekend, folks.

Burn, baby, burn

So, yes. I am not of sound mind. There, I said it. Why have I come to this conclusion?

I have a sunburn.

Not just any sunburn. No. Possibly the worst sunburn of all time, of all mankind. No person could possibly be more red, more in pain, and feel more sorry for themselves than me. Except for the people who tend to blister when they burn. Maybe except for those people.

Remember that long walk I took around the lake with Amos after running into the pedophile? Yeah. I had slathered up Amos with sunblock. Then, creepy loud pedophile guy was becoming loud again. That is when I was supposed to slather myself up as well, but I wanted to truck on out of there instead to get away from the creepy clutches of a guy who dresses like it's 1982 and still thinks that puppies make great child-catching lures.

So I burned like a rotisserie chicken.

Those of you who have had sunburns - and yes, I'm pointing at you and staring - may not have had the super-deluxe barn burner edition of sunburns that one receives in Denver. You sea-level creatures have it easy, while we citizens of the Mile High are exactly that: a mile high. A mile closer to the sun than sea level civilizations. And for that, we pay dearly with singed, smoked, seared, and pan-fried skin.

Also? Phil must die because he just slapped my arm after "forgetting" that I am maimed.

I sleep with my arms outside of the covers at night. I cringe and whine whenever clothing rubs against my skin. I am officially a walking bottle of Tylenol after taking so much of it. Go ahead. Chip at my face and lick it, and then tell me it doesn't taste like acetaminophen. You will fail.

Even Amos has learned about Mama's woes. He climbs all over me, then I yell, "Ow! Ouch! EEEEEEEEE!!!" Suddenly, Mama isn't so fun anymore. He stares at me with his big, bewildered eyes and shakes his head. Poor Amos.

Poor Amos? HA! Poor me.

Boohoo. Wah wah wah. Sniff.

The talking dog says your fish don't stink

Parks and crazies. The two go together like peanut butter and bananas. Like fried okra and ham. Like beans and cornbread.

Amos and his mama traveled far and wide today to Rocky Mountain Lake Park, about 4.5 to 5 miles round trip. We huffed it with the trusty jogging stroller to the park, then Phil met us there on his dandy bike. We ate a nice picnic on a table sprayed with graffiti, then we played on the playground. I think I was the only mother there among about five nannies. Then, a horde of 9-month-old babies showed up (not on their own, mind you). It blew Amos' mind.

Phil trucked back home on his bike while Amos and I played some more. He giggled and squealed while swinging, and he kicked at my face when I helped him to hold on to a higher level of the jungle gym. Parental abuse: it starts now.

Note our fancy (free) joggin' stroller.

A creepy, loud guy with a puppy was hanging around a bit too close to the playground. Hey, creepy, loud guy: don't do that. You creeped the nannies and me out. Talking to little kids and luring them with your "talking" puppy is not going to win you adoration from the ladies. Although, I suspect it was not the ladies you were interested in.

Oh, pedophiles. How cute are they, now really?!

Amos and I huffed around the lake for a bit, watching the water, the ducks, and random shifty people who were fishing. Perhaps I am judging too much. But, if you bring a dirty blanket and a bottle of booze to the lake along with your fishing pole, you shouldn't expect me to greet you with a howdy'do.

I've returned home with a sunburn (80 degrees!) and a smile on my face. If this isn't the best way ever to lose weight, I don't know what is.

Let the sun shine down

Ah, spring. How I love thee. Let me bask in your sunshine and comfortable temperatures, and let me delight in the popping up of bulbs and tree flowers. Ah, spring.

We've started a new philosophy of life here at the Porter Compound. I'm tired of being Fatty McGee. I'm bored with Saddy McSadderton. Bring in Happy McHappersberg and Giggles McChucklehead.

As of yesterday, we've been walking our collective arses off. Denver is a haven for healthy people, and I do not want to be left behind by my healthnut neighbors, strutting around in their spandex and Gortex. We live in a neighborhood near downtown. It happens to be surrounded by lovely parks, trails, hills, and yes, dales. We've decided to walk every day. Weekends will include more difficult hikes and climbs, perhaps in the mountains. Weekdays will be for walks to various parks, aiming for about 3 miles or more round trip.

Yesterday, we walked to Confluence Park. Round trip, it is probably 3 miles, with half of the walk home being uphill. I pushed my fancy (free - donated by a good friend) jogging stroller while Phil lugged the diaper bag. We packed a picnic. Amos had a chance to roll around and pluck the grass, which has become his favorite outdoor pastime.

He came face to face with another baby. A hilarious baby challenge ensued with both babies crawling like madmen toward each other. This was taken after the baby face-off. I'm not sure who won, but the other baby had five pounds on Amos. Amos, however, had significantly more hair. Ah, babies.

We distracted him from his chubby brother by letting him pluck more grass. Savvy readers of my blog from years past may remember when I would write about being Bike Girl. See the bikers and the path? This is where I would ride my bike along the creek to go to work.

A little walk with Daddy before we conquered the hill back to home.

One more happy camper leaves Confluence Park.

Today, we walked to a park that has a name that sounds like Fred Astaire. It was glorious. I can't wait for tomorrow.

Get your sex toy away from my child

Today's e-mail collection was full of the usual, until I stumbled upon an offer from my local, fancy baby shop for their latest gadget. Ooh. Ahh. Behold, as we are asked to spend $599 on something that will improve our lives SO much and cause us to be the envy of every materialistic parent on the block.

I present to you: The Vibe



"The Vibe By Phil & Teds



Introducing a new stroller with a a whole new aesthetic: sleek urban style. The Vibe!

New elliptical shape aluminum frame features a smart handle with one touch brake, smart fold, 5 point safety harness. Phil&Ted's inline buggies actually grow with your family. The unique double kit (sold separately) attaches to both front and back allowing 2 kids (from lie-flat newborn to upright 4 years) to ride inline in a buggy barely larger than a single.

The NEW VIBE Features include a wider seat for almost an inch more space and 2 pounds lighter than the sport buggy. The wheels feature a lower, wider profile for a smoother ride. Fully adjustable seat angles from upright to totally lie-flat newborn.

Our Price: $ 599"


Now. Um. Can you think of a more inappropriate name for a stroller? How about "The Stripper Pole" Stroller, or perhaps "The Ultraglide Vibe"? Maybe "The Rabbit"?

I read the ad very carefully, just waiting for the moment when they discuss the adjustable rates of vibration you can choose from. Alas...

Perhaps Phil & Ted were hoping to introduce a new way to deflect the conversation when Mommy discusses vibes with her catty friends. "Have you seen my new Vibe? It's so sleek, and it keeps going and going. I can even use it when I'm out in public." Maybe Phil & Ted are in some kind of conspiracy to continue the oversexualization of our children. Maybe Phil & Ted are idiots.

Aside: This is not MY Phil, just some other Phil who came up with a bad marketing campaign.

Perhaps Phil & Ted should sell The Vibe at this horribly named convenience store that we stumbled upon in the mountains of Colorado:

What is more shocking: the name, or the price of the gas? Look at how LOW it is! Egad.

There, there. There, there.

Sorry to have alarmed you all. (Or y'all, if I was still in Texas, but I'm not, so there.) All is well in Porterland. Amos' toe is less swollen and much less red, and I am not a twin to Sinead O'Connor. Phew!

It seems that many folks thought I might be going off the deep end in my blog yesterday. Fear not, patriots. I am well. I was trying to relay a moment-by-moment momentary freak out that I had, using a bit of melodrama to play the tune. I guess with recent events, it seemed like I was going batty. Not so. I really do appreciate the thoughts and kind words, though. Really, I do.

While Amos' toe incident (or syndrome, if you believe the documents) was a bit scary for a short time, I find it to be on the cool side. Why? Because I'm a big fan of freaky biology. If there's anything I remember from my ol' biology days and science experiments, it's the freaky stuff. Amos' toe definitely falls into the category of "freak things that happen to kids". I should start a Freak Things That Happen to Amos museum, starting with his flat head pictures and rounding out to The Day We Almost Choked Off The Boy's Toe With Human Hair. Get your tickets right here, sir!

So, before we all start fretting that Sarah is not of sound mind, let me just say that I'm okay. I went through one hell of a month (and more) of family drama and tragedy, and I came out on the other side. It has taken this long for me to start believing the words of family and friends that I was incredibly strong and level-headed through the whole thing. And you know what? I really was. So was my sister, so she deserves a thousand merits of your consideration. Some people failed; some people prevailed. That's how tragedies work.

I'm pretty sure that if I can handle an angry, irresponsible, completely-in-denial yet incredibly intelligent dying father, followed by his death and the horrific way that funeral homes rape families over costs, finished with not one but TWO funeral services 400 miles apart, and topped with a cherry of incredibly naive and irresponsible relatives (who shall remain unnamed) and heart-wrenching letters from my father's friends and coworkers...

I think I can handle a hair around Amos' toe.

So, let's get back to thinking about me as the silly lil' lady who likes to talk smack, tell it like it is, laugh at you and with you, drink wine, and fret that while it is odd that cousins and friends of my father are now reading my blog, it's okay. Maybe it's good that people see the real me. Eh?

Yeah.

Reasons to go bald

I am a bad mother. A very, very bad mother.

Today, we took Amos to the doctor for his checkup. He was especially fussy last night, so I was worried that he was teething and would be grumpy for the appointment. In fact, it took everything possible to try to get him to sleep last night. He cried, he kicked, he screamed, and he yelled, "Mama! Mama!" Finally, sounds from the hairdryer helped him to fall asleep around 2am.

And then we went to the doctor today.

After undressing him to weigh him at the doctor's, I started inspecting him. I suspect that I inspected him so that there weren't any boogers or stray bits of food on him that would tell the doctor, "Hey, these people don't wash their kid." No one wants to have a dirty baby at the doctor's office, right?

And then I saw it.

His toe. The toe next to the big toe on his right foot.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!!!!

It was swollen. Horribly swollen. Something was choking it. I looked closer, and found that a hair or string was tightly wound around his toe, so much so that the circulation was being cut off.

Folks, it was one of the hairs from my head. MY HAIR. And I couldn't pull it off. I tried, and Amos yelped in pain.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!!!!

Phil and I fretted over the toe. How did my hair get there?! He's going to lose his toe!! ARGH!!

I found the nurse and asked for tweezers, giving a feeble reason. "Um. There's a hair wrapped around his toe, and we REALLY need to get it off. I think it's my hair."

"How do you know it's your hair?"

"I JUST DO."

She brought the tweezers, then immediately decided that the doctor should do it instead because the hair was cutting into the skin on the underside of his tootsie. ARGH!!! So, the doctor came in and tweezed the hair off of his toe. Amos was calm and collected as he watched in fascination. I felt like I was about to faint. I kept saying, "Ugh. I feel so bad. That's MY hair."

The hair was wrapped many times very tightly around his poor, little toe. We all looked at it in amazement. How the HECK did that happen?!

So, now he is home and seemingly okay. He fusses a little. The toe is not much improved in the way of being swollen, so now I think I may need to take him into the hospital or back to the doctor to have it lanced. UGH!!

Thankfully, this freak accident isn't just my problem. There are many mothers who have experienced this. I've never heard of it, but it happens a lot. Crazy! Here is the scientific view of this occurrence, known as hair/thread tourniquet syndrome.

So, I think this is a great reason to shave my head. The last thing I ever wanted to do was use my hair as a weapon against my child. Good grief. I need a break here, man. I'm really done with all of the family medical issues.

Like I said, I need a haircut. Should I take it all off? Heh.

Brains, must eat brains

I've spent today goofing off. Let's rephrase that. Today was Brain Gym Day. Good. That sounds better.

Since joining Facebook, the majority of my online time has been spent playing word, trivia, and geography games. Yes, I am a nerd. I was so pumped up last night over my Traveler IQ Challenge that I stayed up until late o'clock trying to identify the location of such places as Timor and Antwerp. Woohoo!

I have an ulterior motive for playing these games. During my pregnancy, I was quite shocked and angry to discover that my memory was failing me. I would forget words, places, people... everything that I held dear to my nerdy little heart. This is a cruel effect of bringing life into the world. Why must a woman's brain shrink when she is growing a person inside of her? Why must this effect stick around even after the tiny person is on the outside and rolling a baby bottle cap around on the floor?

Biology is cruel and unusual.

Sometimes during my pregnancy I would become so angry that I couldn't remember words, so I began to create curse words that have never existed. I would substitute these words for the thing that I couldn't identify. Such as:

Sarah: Mister, could you hand me the thingy?
Phil: What thingy?
Sarah: That thingy.
Phil: What?
Sarah: THE THINGY!
Phil: I don't know what you are talking about.
Sarah: Give me the ding dang thingy!
Phil: I still don't...
Sarah: Oh, hell. GIVE ME THE SHITFIST!!
Phil: Oh. That makes so much more sense.
Sarah: I'm going to kill you.


Not that my current pursuits are any more intelligent than that. I just played a game of "a ball" with Amos. It involved bouncing a super-crazy bouncy ball once and then catching it in my hand, then yelling, "A ball!" He would squeal in delight or make a hissing sound. Is that yay or nay, in baby talk?

I tried to make "a ball" more of a learning game by putting the bottle cap in one hand, the ball in the other, and then asking, "Where is the cap?" Amos would then slap the ball out of my hand while squealing. I would shake my head and say, "No." Then he would shake his head. Then I asked, "Where is the ball?" He promptly slapped the cap out of my and hissed. Then he crawled away.

Either Amos tires of his mother's attempts to create games, or his mother has yet to figure out the sophisticated rules to his playtime.

Who's on for a game of, um, Thingy? You know, the thingy game with the letters. You know, Shitfist Twist. I mean, Word Twist.

Damn it.

burp

Kinda lazy today. Not much to say. Amos performed cute maneuvers. That is all. Until tomorrow...

Big wheels keep on turnin'

Just when I thought I wouldn't have anything to say today...

Last night, as I was watching the final moments of one episode of the incredible "John Adams" series on HBO, my doppleganger Laura Linney was about to read a dramatic letter from her dear husband when...

Psssshhhh! Bleah! Bleah! Pssssshhhh!

The lights went out and the TV made crazy noises as it sputtered to its death. Amos and I stared in wonder into the darkness. It was around 10:30pm, and our house was scary black. I wandered to the front door and realized, hmm, I can't open the door. The key is somewhere around here, but I can't find it in the dark. Just as I made it back to the couch by feel with baby in tow, the TV and lights came on full speed.

Psssshhhh! Bleah! Bleah! Pssssshhhh!

Amos was entranced, scared, or delighted. Whatever it was, he was just staring at the loud and frightening noises coming from the TV. I cursed and shook my fists when I realized that the credits were now rolling. What did Sarah-lookalike Laura Linney find in the letter?! What did creepy Paul "John Adams" Giamatti say to her that was so earth shattering?!

WHY DID MY POWER GO OFF?!!!

I put no other thoughts toward the disaster as the next episode began to air. Yippee! Ah, but wait... this episode does not explain what the letter was about. For cryin' out loud! TELL ME WHAT WAS IN THE LETTER!!!

Then Phil came home. We watched the final moments of the fourth installment of "John Adams" and giggled over how much Laura Linney looks like me (although much older, as Phil is loving enough to point out).

(I'm telling ya, if you ever wondered what I would look like as a spitfire New Englander who married Paul Giamatti and then exposed her kids to a questionable round of small pox "vaccinations", then look no further than the "John Adams" series. I'm in it, folks. I smile, I frown, I dig hoes in the garden, I frown some more, and then I stare at Boston as it burns. Oh, then I dress up like a French tart and flounce about Paris for awhile. Good times, I tells ya.)

Anyhoo...

We were starting to wind down the night when...


Psssshhhh! Bleah! Bleah! Pssssshhhh!


Good grief. Really? Again?

Phil and I waited. Nothing came back on. I stumbled through the dark to find flashlights and candles. We have a surprising number of candles, as it turns out. Our house was like a dark and romantic restaurant in the Village. But not.

I lured Phil outside to see what had happened. He said, "Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention. When I came home, there were flashing lights and a jacked up rig and trailer at the intersection."

Yeah, you forgot to tell me that.

We wandered to the intersection near our house. Our house is in a very old neighborhood with narrow streets, Victorian and bungalow homes, dog walkers, and for some reason, no room for a rig and trailer to maneuver. Call us crazy, but for some wacky reason, we folks in this residential 'hood don't see a need for tractor trailers to drive through and take out street lights, light poles, and old ladies.

And that's what happened.

A tractor trailer had driven through our neighborhood and turned onto a narrow street. The driver decided to continue on, despite the fact that his trailer had pulled down a light pole and the street lights. Hey, that makes sense, right? If you destroy the grid, just keep drivin'. You know what I'm sayin'? A haw haw haw!

Then, and get this...

He makes it to the intersection near our house. Just as other cars are driving through, the genius decides to pull his trailer around ANOTHER corner and take out MORE traffic lights, light poles, and electric boxes.

Oh, and some of it landed on a lady's car and smashed it to bits.

Bravo. No, really. That takes big, giant trucker balls to pull off a stunt that involves two intersections, three blocks from each other.

We stood near the intersection with mouths agape as various other neighbors gathered to admire the trucker's handiwork. We watched as the police and bystanders attempted to guide the trucker around the corner without further damage or carnage. I was having flashbacks to Cannonball Run, except this time, the trucker wasn't dressed like a nun.

In the end, the trucker managed to crush one car, snap three power line poles, sling traffic lights around like a yoyo in two intersections, smack down street lights, and knock out power to about 100 to 200 households (or 5,000, if you'd like this story to be more dramatic).

The good news?

The power is back on, and I won't miss tomorrow night's installment of "John Adams."

MUST. SEE.

Incredibly geekful and nerditudinal

Apparently, I'm a teenager.

I joined Facebook today. Why? Because Phil has a profile there, and Phil can't have a profile on a social network without me spraying nonsense all over his stuff. That's how we use Myspace. I write nonsense, and he spits more nonsense back at me. That's part of the marriage contract, right?

So, I suppose if you are in the neighborhood and would like to spit nonsense upon my Facebook, then have at it. I'm still learning how to work that ding dang contraption.

It's not like I have anything better to do...

Three little monkeys jumping on the bed

One fell off, and then the batteries disappeared so that Mommy wouldn't have to listen to those damn monkeys anymore.

Kids' toys. Gotta love 'em.

Today has been productive. I have accomplished washing the dishes, watering the plants I collected from my dad's funeral, and laundry is a'launderin'. I've washed the funk off of Amos' little bed, and I cleaned the bathroom sink. I almost had a meal planned, but then we decided that a bag o' shrimp from the 1930s is probably freezer burned. Oh, well. I can't be Martha Stewart every hour of the day.

Oh, and I had some business time. Meow! Rawr! Pfft!

After a month of living in other peoples' houses and sleeping on weird, hard mattresses or on my all time favorite, the air bed, I am finding myself to be more open to cleaning, fussing, and generally raising an eyebrow at the various untidy mounds we Porters have collected over the years.

The other reason? An entirely too mobile baby.

Amos has proven to be a grinning menace on four appendages. He grabs the cat, pulls at cabinets, chews on cords (electric and other), eats paper, and still manages to be cute while destroying our home. Currently, he is climbing Phil as he peruses my cookbook. Amos has that look in his eye, that one that says, "Mmm. That is tasty-looking paper. Put that in my belly!"

Did I mention it is my BRAND NEW cookbook? Grr.

Otherwise, life in the Porter Compound is going swimmingly. Occasionally, I have a fit of despair, normally when I am alone (last night's shower, for instance). But, with all of the potential danger and possibility of baby electrocution and/or dismemberment, who has time to grieve? Three cheers for harried mothers!

That's all for now. Time to save my precious book from Amos' digestive juices...

What purpose do I have?

That's the question I keep asking myself. For the past month or longer, my purpose had been to save my father's life. In a strange way, it was my job. Despite whatever logic there is and what Phil tells me, I feel like I failed in that mission. After all, the patient is gone.

So, I am home. Today is surreal. Being away from Texas is surreal. My father being dead? Well, I think you know the way I feel about that.

I think that I've come away from this experience as a very changed person. I see the ways in which I have let others down over the years, and I see the strengths I have that I never knew existed. I hope that for myself there is a renewed purpose to my life. I think there is. There are a million things I need to do now that I am home. I'll make that my purpose now.

Sorry for the sad boohoos. I'm not really right in the head just yet. This is how I felt on the days when nothing was happening. When I wasn't organizing something or someone, or keeping everyone updated, or interpreting the doctors words for my father or my mother... I felt lost. My purpose was lost. I need to find a new way, or I think I might go wacky.

In the meantime, Wilbur the Cat has missed me greatly. She is even more fond of Amos, despite his attempts to grab her and astound her with his ability to crawl. I'm in desperate need of a haircut. Our cupboards are bare. Amos is currently giggling as his father helps him to take awkward steps across the wood floor.

And me?

Well, I'm home. My new life starts here. Whatever it is and wherever it takes me, I think life will be better. My father taught me so many lessons, and the most valuable one of all was given to me when he took his last breath in front of me.

Thank you, Dad. I'll remember.