Last night, Monkey was taking a bath and I told him to stand up so I could put soap in his hands and he could wash his bottom and his penis.  He said "You mean my pirate parts?"

I'm still snickering over that.

Today I’ve  gotten more than one email in which someone writes “should of” instead of “should have”.  Should I of said something?  Ok, I don’t know if I can respect myself for typing it.

This morning when the alarm went off, I came too with the kind of bone deep fatigue that causes a wave of nausea.  I thought “Dear Lord, please let it really be Friday.  Don’t let this be a sick joke!” 

This weekend, we’re making our maiden voyage to Chuck E. Cheese.  Other than that, we have no plans.

So, a couple of friends have pointed out one of my faults to me, swearing. Did you know that if you overuse those words, they lose their power?  Also, if you swear too much it makes you look stupid.  THANKS FOR THE NEW INFO.

There’s another two of my faults:  sarcasm and the ungracious acceptance of well intentioned criticism.

First of all, anything overused loses its power.  Do these friends is favor preserving the sacred specialness of sexual union?  I mean really, no more porn, no more wanking, no more sex unless it is with your spouse AND undertaken in love.

Also, I am past caring what people think of me unless there is concrete benefit in their high opinion.  More money at work?  GOOD.  More time with my friends? GOOD.  However, these are people unlikely to eschew my company due to profanity.  They’re just being pissy.

I think that I shall never see

Anyone fill this tank, but me.

A tank that drips and drips all day

While people go about their way.

A tank that gives to all who ask

Though they ignore this simple task.

They leave the pitcher on the shelf.

They think it’s filled by an unseen elf.

Poems are made by fools like me

While tanks can be filled by Thee.

measure the sugar

while i have this booger

i stand on the chair

BLUE

Blue

blue

let me pick the kool-aid

for a change

This Is Just to Say

by Deflater Maus Trueblood

I have eaten

the cheerios

that were under

the sofa

and which

you were probably

saving

for sweeping

Forgive me

they were delicious

so dusty

and so dry

Is a Big Book Of Important Shit.  Then whenever I need to find something out, I can look in the book for an answer.  Don’t give me any bible crap, people.  The bible is good for morals but not so much for practical info like “Where is that smell coming from?”  Or “How much longer can I put off laundry?”  Or better yet “What can I make for dinner out of these random things in the freezer?”  I am afraid I’ve been relying instead on The New England Journal of My Ass.  It’s not such a great resource, my ass, though it is good for sitting.  Top Notch in that department.

A few days ago, I noticed my Jeep key no longer works.  (Yes, I’m a terrible burden on the environment. Ask me about disposable diapers!)  I sort of bitched at J and then I went on about my business.  It’s his vehicle.  I drive the Escort.  Today I get an email from my dad with the subject line Keys.  I tell you it was like a lightbulb went off in my head.  My key works fine, this just isn’t my key.  Sure enough,  he was asking if I thought maybe he had given me back my brother’s Jeep key instead of mine.  Apparently my dad is some kind of magpie, collecting keys from all his children.

Now I’m wondering if there is some woman somewhere who hates her job reading books, swearing, and surfing the Internet.  She just wants to manage projects and crunch numbers in spreadsheets. For Republicans.  While wearing pantyhose. Babe, call me and we will work out a deal.

Maus is one today.  We’re having his favorite dinner—spaghetti and meatballs.  Plus CAKE!

He was sweet and snuggly with me this morning. I’m going to take his picture at daycare with more cake in just a little while.  

Our daycare is closing.  Monkey and 4 of his classmates have been together for over 3 years.  It’s the only daycare he’s ever been too.  I’m bummed that he’s not going to be with his buddies any more.  I wish I made half again as much money so I could afford the supercool Primrose school.  It’s ‘nestled on 5 beautiful acres’.  NESTLED.  It looks like the kind of place where everyone is happy all the time and they have hamsters that don’t bite.

What is up with the twee, cutesy daycare names.? Little Darling Precious Angel Hearts Sparkling Growing and Loving for Jesus. 

I love the way the expensive places say meals and snacks are included.  Umm, for double my mortgage, you would need to teach my kid SuperPowers.  I would expect Monkey to come home and telekinetically clean the house.  Maus should be able to communicate telepathically with humans and animals.

Tuesday I’m touring 5 places.  Stay tuned for what will surely be a hilarious tale of  “No, we’re married.  I kept my name!”  And “No, he doesn’t get formula.  Or cow’s milk.”  And “Yes, those are family names, but we think they suit the boys..”

I have just realized that emailed posts have weird formatting.  And when I try to edit them in the blogspot edit window, they are seriously hosed.  I blame my email program for this.  I’m sure there is some easy solution, but I can’t be bothered to dink around. 

Confirming my belief that preschoolers are all philosophers and theologians, we had this conversation in the car.

<i> Mom?  Where is God? Is he in Heaven? </i>

Yes.  God is everywhere.  In Heaven, in the air, in trees, in your heart, in our house.

<i>Is God in my leg?</i>

Yes.

Long pause, thoughtful look.  You know where this is going, right?

<i>Mom, is God in my butt? </i>

Long pause, thoughtful look.

Yes.  God loves you so much that even your gross, stinky parts aren't gross to Him.

Yesterday when we got home, the Lone Fishy was still swimming!  We were so excited that Monkey and I did a little dance.  We ate dinner, went back to watch him some more and he was dead.

Bummer.

Yeah, today’s entry is lamely titled, but in my defense, I have thrush, mastitis and a head cold. 

Maybe I gave the fish thrush.

This weekend we set up an aquarium with 4 goldfish in Monkey’s room.  I set up the tank Saturday with stuff that promised instantly ready water.  Just to be safe, I let the water sit for 18 hours.  Sunday I put in the four goldfish.  Yesterday when I got home from work at 5—one was dead.  We went to run a few errands, got home at 7:30 and another was dead.  This morning, a third casualty in the War on Fish.  I blame the plant bulbs I bought.  They were supposed to grow water lilies in 3 weeks, but instead sprouted white fuzzy growth.  Monkey seems undisturbed by it.  J said I “poisoned them” and was all stompy-foot judgmental about it. 

At the worst part of my post partum depression, this would have sent me into a tailspin.  Right now all I can think is “Less than a dollar’s worth of fish.  If they were breaded and fried, we’d eat them.  Who gives a shit?”  I can’t decide if apathy is a sign I need more help or that I’m getting better.