Cathy in the Wright

One Step Away From Bread And Water

Okay! The Governor is finally asleep, and so I have an hour to blog. The Governor technically stopped taking naps when he turned two, but since our on-going potty-training troubles, I’ve made the Corporate Outpost rule that Big Boys (those who use the toilet) do not have to take naps. Little Boys do.

Well, The Governor has dug in his heels and decided that he is still a Little Boy, even after proficiently demonstrating he is capable of meeting Big Boy requirements. And now he is sleeping rather than playing with his Super Soaker…his first choice.

Earlier today I dragged him inside at intervals and insisted he at least wet in the toilet. He can do it; it’s just so much easier to let ‘er rip in the Pull-Ups, or Artificial Underwear, and let Mom clean up later at a more convenient time.

Each trip to the toilet was a struggle. Hold still. Don’t touch that! Leave the toilet paper alone. Watch what you’re doing! Stand closer. Closer! Awww @!#$^%!

My next trip to Target I’m stocking up on the super absorbent diapers and life is going to get easier for the both of us. I told him when he’s ready to get back two hours of his life each afternoon, let me know. Meanwhile, I’m going to be expanding on this Big Boy/Little Boy concept. I don’t know why I didn’t do this earlier.

Sorry, Gov. Only Big Boys get to ride on the 4-wheeler with Dad.

Oops! I’m going to have to play the Big Boy card on this one, sweetie. No Justice League DVDs for Little Boys.

Oooh. Too bad, Governor. Didn’t you know hot fudge sundaes are for Big Boys? How about a Popsicle?

Sooner or later I’m going to hit on his Achilles’ heel and find something that will inspire him to join the Big Boy fraternity. Until then, his life is going to make solitary confinement at Leavenworth look appealing.

Typical Tuesday

Hoocher and I made it back to the nursing home for the first time in weeks. I hate missing even one Tuesday because so much can change in that time. One week Mr. J. is walking around, the next he’s wheelchair bound. One day Mrs. K. recalls my winter vacation; seven days later she can’t remember my name. So it’s with a bit of trepidation that Hoocher and I head down the halls looking for our favorite residents.

Every body was looking good until we ran into Malina. Holy Mother of God. She’s never looked all that great – petite woman hunched over in a wheelchair – but today I was shocked to see her. Her eyes appeared to have sunk even deeper into the sockets than usual. Her skin looked like it barely covered her skeleton. Her bottom teeth stuck out of her mouth – small and yellow. Frankly, she looked like something one might uncover in a shallow grave. Her strength was undiminished though. She latched onto my arm and kept a tight grip. I was nose to nose with the living dead, getting spit on as she lamented about various things, real and imagined.

As uncomfortable as it was, I hated to break away. I hope if I’m ever in that condition, someone could spare fifteen minutes to listen to me and hold my hand.

When an aide came by, Malina reached for her and I took off. Hoocher and I decided it would be nice to spend some time with a functioning mind, so we went down to Erma’s room.

Erma is a big animal fan. She’s always watching Animal Planet when we visit, and she loves Hoocher. She can also remember my name from week to week which is a nice change from the other ninety percent of the residents who cannot. I remembered from our last chat that she was concerned about her blood pressure. I asked her how the battle was going, and in two minutes we went from high blood pressure to constipation, hard stools, and hemorrhoids.

Some days, you just can’t win.

Tomorrow is The Governor’s Early Childhood class where the parents will break off for “talk time” and discuss things like, oh, hard stools and constipation. If I’m lucky, I can probably steer the conversation to some other toddler issue, like vomiting or emergency room visits.

My First Meme

Well, honored readers, I apologize for the absence. Life has been a bit hectic here at The Outpost. The Governor is battling strep throat, and after a trip to the ER at 2 a.m. Wednesday night Thursday morning, we discovered that The Senator had an ear infection.

Sleep has been low on the priority list, but it is still ahead of blogging. What little spare time I've had has been spent trying to fall asleep faster than a narcoleptic drunk. So far, I haven't had much success. Currently, I'm operating on nearly five hours of sleep. Not bad, but don't leave me comments about spelling or grammar mistakes. Just take it for granted that I actually know better.

Today I had a chance to read up on a few blogs. To my dismay, young Kevin has decided to serve me ill by foisting one of these "meme" things upon your humble blogger here. Normally I'd just ignore it like a prostate health email spam, but since I made a spectacle about being left off his Most Admired list or something like that...I'm stuck. On to the meme.

Here are the rules:

Immediately following there is a list of 20 different occupations. You must select at least 5 of them (feel free to select more). You may add more if you like to your list before you pass it on (after you select 5 of the items as it was passed to you). Each one begins with "If I could be..." Of the 5 you selected, you are to finish each phrase with what you would do as a member of that profession.

For example, if the selected occupation was "linguist," you might take the phrase "If I could be a linguist...I would learn Hebrew, Greek, Russian, Italian and Chinese." See how easy that is?

Here's the list:

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be an astronaut...

And here, friends, are my answers. I would like to remind the reading audience again...5 hours of sleep.

If I could be a scientist...I’d add a few more elements to the periodic table until we reach the nice round number of 120.
If I could be a farmer...I’d raise koala bears. Koalas are cool and I bet they taste good too.
If I could be a musician...I’d try and take credit for The Moldau.
If I could be a doctor…I’d be a forensic pathologist. I’d hate working with live, whining, complaining patients.
If I could be a painter...I’d be a surrealist and paint stuff like this.
If I could be a gardener...I’d cross-pollinate a Venus Flytrap with cat nip and get some mutant plant that would attract and then eat the feral cat that has been using my flowerbed as a litter box.
If I could be a missionary...I’d dedicate my life to evangelizing those heathens in Hawaii.
If I could be a chef...I’d have my own TV show. It would be called Micro Rave, and it would be all about food you can put on the table in under four minutes.
If I could be an architect...I’d finally complete my dream of turning a stone church into a single family home.
If I could be a linguist...I’d be able to speak Italian, like all good MOB members should.
If I could be a psychologist...I’d have my license taken away for constantly using phrases like “Get over yourself” and “It IS your fault” and “Oh grow up.”
If I could be a librarian...I’d hang around the library computers and try to embarrass the fourteen-year-old boys who come in to surf for naughty web sites.
If I could be an athlete...I’d like to get a huge contract for endorsing St. Pauli Girl beer.
If I could be a lawyer...I’d tell people I was an athlete.
If I could be an innkeeper...I would never have that stupid sign in the bathrooms that says, ‘Please think about conservation! A towel on the rack means “I’ll use it again.” A towel on the floor means “Please leave me a clean one.”’
If I could be a professor...I’d like to work at Hillsdale College.
If I could be a writer...I’d add a Paypal button on this blog.
If I could be a llama-rider...I’d try to get Schlotzsky's to be my sponsor. Then people would call my beast the Deli Llama.
If I could be a bonnie pirate...I’d make my parrot wear the wooden leg.
If I could be an astronaut...I’d want to try doin’ it in the zero gravity chamber.

Thus ends the game. Technically, I think I'm supposed to name three people and spam it forward.

But I would never do that to Aelfheld. Or Ellen. Or YaYa. That would be evil.

Ahhh

Yesterday was a superb day. Recent rains had greened up the lawn. The wind was buffeting warm, balmy air through the house. The kids were both taking various medications which left them subdued and mellow. The sort of day that makes you want to write about larks singing hymns at Heaven’s gate. Or you would if Willie S. hadn’t already penned something remarkably similar some 400 plus years ago.

The day was perfect for all sorts of outdoor fun. The Governor wanted to dig in my flowerbeds. “Burrow away, young mole,” I told him. “Just try to leave the lavender in tact.” Apparently we must have lost the flash card with “in tact” on it. Also “avoid” and “don’t touch.” Oh well. I don’t grudge the local garden center its unexpected windfalls now and again.

The day was also perfect for driving the convertible, but the previously mentioned soakers had left our dirt roads in rather poor condition. But, confirming my suspicion that the phrase “From your lips to God’s ears” applies specifically to me, the township graded the roads just in time for me to take the Corvette to my soccer game. I could have asked for the temperature to be about 5 degrees warmer, but one hates to call in too many favors at once.

Soccer was tolerable. Last night was the end of our indoor season. Next week the dome will come down off the field and in another week, the outdoor session will start. (And just when you thought you might get a break from soccer blogging, eh Gary?)

Today is a different story. The boys are feeling better, which means I can’t justify the large doses of pseudoephedrine. And it’s raining. There go the roads.

On the bright side, tonight my sister is going to a meeting of the Gopher State Treasure Hunters. (Metal detector hobbyists). I hereby relinquish my title of Family Geek.

The Wife Is Always The Last To Know

I knew I should have been alarmed when The VP wore cologne to the KSTP/Sean Hannity event on Friday night.

That's my husband on the left getting kissed by David Strom of the Taxpayer's League.

(sigh)

Should have been MY cheek.

Public Service Announcement

If you are my mother, you will not want to click and read this post.

If you're not my mom and appreciate a little dark humor....

Thanks, Dan.

Survivor

The mall is still standing. But I know why some species EAT THEIR YOUNG.

Today is a much better day. I took The Governor to the doctor's office to get him checked. No ear infection, no strep throat. I hate it when I can't blame his personality on bacteria.

I'd like to write more, but I'm a bit pressed for time. My neighbor is having some concrete poured in his barn today, and a big truck just dumped a huge load of leveling sand in his driveway. I need to get up there with my wheelbarrow before the neighbor gets home. (The Governor is getting a sandbox for his birthday.)

The VP is spending the day with some folks from our favorite local radio station, and he'll be going to hear Sean Hannity tonight. I told him to bring the camera in case someone sneaks in and tries to give Sean a Key Lime facial.

Over at MAWB Squad, Twice Blessed gives a report on the Tax Rally which was held at the capital today. Wish I could have been there. It's always a treat to see the world's sexiest Tax Warrior, David Strom.

Same Old, Same Old

Life is back to normal at The Outpost. Hoocher is healing nicely. (Thank you, Joan) The Governor is feeling better. I didn't need to take his temperature; I knew he was fine when he threatened to eat all the light bulbs in the house. Most parents would think that's the fever talkin'. If you're The Governor, that's just a routine thought shared over cornflakes.

The Governor turns three this weekend, and The VP and I are debating on how to celebrate. We toyed with the idea of the traditional cake, ice cream, and Pin the Tail on the Donkey. The Gov would probably enjoy the day more if we had blood smoothies and played Smash the Car Headlights with a Mallet. Tough call.

Tomorrow I'm taking the boys shopping at the mall. No stroller for The Gov this time.

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Keep the food and water coming through the tubes, unless the damage to the shopping center is more than my personal umbrella liability policy. Then you may pull the plugs and auction my organs on eBay to the highest bidder. Just leave enough of my body so the crack Russian embalmers can put me on display for the rest of eternity.

I think it's time for a nightcap. Where's the Bombay Sapphire?

Don't Mess With My Planters

The Governor came down with something last night. He was doing his best flaming Baby Jack-Jack imitation, so the two of us spent the early hours of the day watching paid programming and slurping Tylenol. Sleep deprivation always makes me cranky, so my irritation level was elevated when I went looking for a snack and opened the cupboard. The jar of dry roasted peanuts was right in front. Excellent. Grabbed the jar and found four peanuts and an ounce of peanut dust. @!@#$%^&! There is only one other person in this house cruel enough to leave legume remnants. I married him.

I was going to dial him up and chew him out over the phone, but he saved me a step. He called to heckle me about something else. I started in on him:

Listen, you’re in no position to be taunting me. I’m already needled enough. I just found the peanut jar with four peanuts and a bunch of dust. Why would you leave that in the cupboard?

I don’t like the dust. The dust sucks. Why would I want to eat that? I just like the peanuts.

When my blood pressure lowered enough to restore my vision, I hung up the phone. I’m not certain how I’m going to make him pay for this, but I do know I’m sure as hell NOT going to be the one sitting up watching Suzanne Somers hawk jewelry at 4 am tomorrow morning.

Mother Knows Best Nothing

This morning The Senator and I had a showdown over clothing. I had set out a pair of pants for him; he wanted to wear shorts.

Son, look out the front door. It's grey, it's raining, and it's cold. You need to wear pants.

But Mooooooooom. I wanna wear shorts! Can I please wear shorts?! I really, really wanna wear shorts!

How about if we put a pair of shorts in your backpack and you can change at school if it warms up?

No! Please, Mom! Please can I just wear the shorts?"

Know what? I let him wear the shorts. He's such a good kid and I can count on one hand the number of times he's begged for something. Besides, when he's chilled to the bone at recess (or worse, he's made to stay inside for recess) he'll recall it next time we have this discussion. The great thing about The Senator is he won't complain about being cold. Nothing short of severe frostbite would make him open his mouth and admit he might have been in the wrong.

He gets that from me.

The rest of my day will be spent playing with The Governor and waiting to hear from the veternarian about Hoocher. I had to take the old boy in this morning to have another tumor removed. Shouldn't be a big deal. This tumor is within licking range, so we may come home with the Collar of Shame. He's going to hate that. But not, perhaps, as much as he hated the hyper black lab in the clinic's waiting room.

As Promised

My pictures didn't turn out as well as I had hoped, but a promise is a promise.

My neighbors, Tiff and Andy, have a rotting bison head hanging from a chain in their backyard.

The pictures looked a lot better before I had to shrink them down a bit. What you're missing is the eyeball that's dried out and sunken into the socket, the paper-thin flesh peeling off, the tongue sticking out in a rather cheeky manner, and the gnaw marks on the horns where some critters have been trying to get their mineral fix.

Andy brought the buffalo head home from a ranch out in South Dakota where herds are maintained. A government project, I think, but Andy can correct me if I'm wrong. My brief interview with Andy:

Andy, for the benefit of my more sensitive readers, can you confirm for me that this poor fellow died of natural causes, no doubt sniffing the clover in the back forty and keeled over unexpectedly and without pain or suffering?

If you consider a bullet a natural cause.

Here's Andy poking the head with a stick.

While I know this beats whatever is showing at the Guthrie Theater these days, don't bother coming out to see the sights for yourself. Andy took the head down this afternoon. I'm pretty sure he's saving it for the next neighborhood party, when he'll stuff it with cans of Busch Light and bring a baseball bat.

My Bad

I meant to post something yesterday, but The Governor and I were sitting on the front porch steps with the Polaris parked in front of us with a full tank of gas, and the temperature was hovering in the the mid to high sixties...

Well, even you would have said, "Dear girl, hop on the 4-wheeler and go for a ride. Don't worry about me sitting here in the office, hoping to distract myself with a few stolen Internet moments, drinking bad coffee, with no hopes of getting outside myself until supper time."

If you say so.

However, to make up for my delinquency, I am going to do my best to get a photo for you of something that's hanging around in my neighbor's back yard. I can't give it away yet - in case I'm not able to capture it perfectly, but you'll be pleased. It's almost as good as the dead cow.

And shame on you, Andy, for hiding that beauty and not telling me.

Beyond Gross

The Governor and I were out running errands today and made a stop at Target. Before selecting a cart, we decided it would be prudent to make use of the bathroom facilities first.

The particular Target we visited has one of those “Family” bathrooms; a big, private room where Dad can take little Nelly and avoid the horrors of dragging a small girl in front of a line of urinals. Likewise, Mom can supervise young Robert without dragging him through a maze of women, or worse, sending him solo into the men’s room while she waits outside fearing a pedophile lurks within. So The Governor and I entered. We left immediately. I cannot help my young son use a toilet if it requires looking at skid marks left by the last occupant.

We headed into the ladies’ room. As we entered, I heard a woman talking. As we rounded the corner and the line of stalls came into view, I realized that the woman was talking to herself, as only one stall was occupied. After another moment of eavesdropping, it dawned on me that she was using her cell phone. In the stall. And then she started to pee. And she was still talking.

Who could you possibly dislike enough to chat with them on the phone and make them listen to you urinate?

And she didn’t wash her hands either.

I now look upon The Senator chewing with his mouth open as a miniscule breach of etiquette.