Confessions of a Serial Swooper

I liked this idea, courtesy of SupahMommy.

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Yup.  Balloons.  Nylon strips of Hell.  Effing balloons.

Because you know what balloons mean in my household?  Take your pick.

1.   Fighting.  If one boy has a balloon (like from a birthday party), then the other boy wants it.   If they both have balloons, they fight about whose is bigger, whose is longer, whose is stronger (ignore the obvious male joke here, please).

2.  Crying.   Inevitably.   Either because the helium balloon flew away or the non-helium one popped or it went up to the skylight or it isn’t red.  Whatever.  Let’s cry about it.

3.  Death.   I swear, my kids will be 37 and 40 and I’ll still be convinced they’re going to choke on a balloon.  Little Brother recently decided it was a great idea to try to pop balloons with his teeth.  Awesome.

Both boys went to a birthday party yesterday, met a real jedi knight and received, to their delight, giant balloon light sabers.  They were psyched, to say the least.

Four total balloon pieces (including the attached saber handles).  In the shape of swords.

Sweet.

So, because Mom is a total Scrooge and finally put the kibosh on bashing each other (and the furniture) over and over and over (and over) again, they decided the next fun task was going to be to spend the rest of the morning popping the balloons together.

Choking hazards!  Yipppeee!

Oh, and then they moved on a giant punch ball balloon they found in the playroom.

Finally.   Victory is ours.

Is it cocktail time yet?

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Husband and I took the Lazy Labrador and the boys for a walk yesterday.  There’s a terrific path that runs for miles from our town into Salem and maybe even beyond.  (I’ve never actually walked far enough to find out for sure.) From the entry area off our road, we can elect to go left along a path that includes a duck pond, a playground and an off-road woods trail.  Or, we can go right along a path that leads to the small harbor area where Marblehead meets Salem.   It’s great because (although letting your dog run free is technically not allowed due to leash laws – meh), it’s a phenomenal off-leash spot.  As long as your dog stays in earshot enough to keep him out-of-the-way of on-coming bikers and you’re diligent about leashing him up when you approach leash-law abiding citizens, it rocks.  Lazy Labrador hits the path for an hour or so then sleeps for the rest of the afternoon.  And, most of the next day.  And the path is surrounded by tallish brush and plantings on both sides which means as long as your mutt doesn’t poop in the path, it’s also a no poop-scoop zone.  Another bonus.   Lazy arrives on the path and, smelling millions of other dogs, pees like a madman on everything he can lift a leg at.   He loves it.

So…nearly at our turn-around point yesterday, we encounter a nice young man and his dog, Dakota.  Dakota looks like a white German Shepherd.  (I’ll bet some of you know what that breed is, don’t you?).  Anyway, it’s irrelevant.

The dog is not interesting for its breed but rather for the fact that he’s clearly paralyzed in his hind legs.  He has a half of a bicycle set up in back with two wheels and a harness supporting his end.  His front paws propelled him neatly forward.

Lazy Labrador greeted them with his usual a**hole barking and yanking on his leash to get at the other dog.  Truth is, if translated, his idiot barking would likely mean:

I’m barking a lot ’cause I’m trying to sound really loud and tough because my family is with me!  But, I’m actually a complete and total pansy who sleeps all day so please don’t choose to eat me for dinner.  Please?  Woof.

The Shepherd barely batted an eye at our foolish hound.   And, neither did his owner who totally ruined Lazy Labrador’s street cred by looking at Husband and casually asking “Is he friendly?” (as our dog nearly coughed a lung pulling at his leash and baring his teeth).  Umm.  Yeah.  He is.   Shut up, you big dopey dog.

And, with that, Lazy Labrador settled down and the two dogs were friends.  Or at least, intimate acquaintances as they madly sniffed away at each other’s privates. Ick.   Dogs are so gross.

Anyway, I watched and wondered what the boys would think about the dog on wheels.  Would they wonder how it worked?  Would they, as they gently pet his soft doggie head, wonder what was wrong with sweet Dakota?  Would their childish curiosity in the moment lead to a difficult conversation about physical disabilities when we arrived back home?

We grown-ups exchanged a few words.  The kids remained quiet.  It was time to move along.

Then Big Brother decided he something to say.

Umm.  Excuse me, but can I tell you something?

I held my breath.

Yes?, the nice man replied.

Well, my dog?  Back there on the path?   Well, he…

After taking a deep breath, Big Brother continues.

Back there on the path? Well.  My dog pissed all over my father’s foot.

Yup.

That’s our boy.

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The Teeny Tiny Octopus.

Good?  Or Bad?

I say, Good.  Adorable, in fact.

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The New Doughnut Burger.

Good?  Or Bad?

Probably Good.  But Very, Very Bad.

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Clever, Deceitful Seat Savers?

Good?  Or Bad?

I Like It.

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Lastly, my post on gay marriage raised quite a little stir.  And the comments confirmed my original feeling that I am horrible when trying to deal with raw conflict (hence my complete inability to discuss politics with anyone who takes either side in an extreme way).  Horrible.  I am not a fence sitter with my own values but I have a big, white picket up my butt when it comes to making sure everyone is playing nice with everyone else.

So, in the spirit of fence-sitting.

Here’s a, shall we say, more passionate image.

And, here’s one that’s more my safe, fence-sitter style.

And that, fair readers, may well be the last time I dare to go political.

You can now look forward to more teeny, tiny octopi (yay!  I got to use the word octopi!) and potty-training stories in future posts.

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If I’ve decided to, in the interest of health and weight loss, only drink wine on the weekends…

Can I drink it on Friday night, Saturday night and Sunday night?

Sort of seems that would be cheating.   But, also, seems perfectly logical.

No?

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I generally don’t like to use my blog as any sort of political platform.  It’s risky and usually pretty polarizing for anyone to grandstand about political beliefs so I keep mine to myself, for the most part.

But, when it comes to gay marriage, sometimes I just can’t resist.

So, here’s a pie chart for you.   ‘Cause everyone likes pie.   Right?

Right.

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1.   I really think that some doctor really needs to figure out a way for women to donate our boobage.  As in, I have too much and you have too little so here you go.  Make my D a C and make your B a C and yipppeee!   Happy, happy sharing.  We women are so cooperative.  We’d all feel better about what we’ve got and, guys, you know what happens when we women feel all sexy and stuff.  Yip.   Get on that, will you?

2.  Speaking of boobage.  Thank you very much bra-makers for the padding you insist on putting in any bra larger than a C cup.  Really?!  Padding?  Why do I need padding?  My boobs are plenty padded, thanks.  And the extra 1/4 inch of fabric is just stupid.  Thanks for that.   Jackholes.

3.  Oh, and Banana Republic.  Size 0?  F-you.

4.   Reason #273 why I’ll never wear a size 0.

As ridiculous as that pizza is…?  Yeah.  Yum.   And, yummer.

5.   I had a mammogram last week (apparently fixated on boobs at the moment.)  It was awesome.  Seriously.   Rather than go to the Salem Hospital (ugh) where I had my last one done, I decided to go to a place in Danvers.   Got the babysitter, brought my new Kindle, picked up an iced coffee.  Arrived to a lobby that looked like this:

Yeah.  That’s a koi pond.  With turtles.  And coffee and quiet music and Regis & Kelly on the tv and oh. my.  goodness.  Heaven.   And, they even made me wait!  Woot woot! I can’t wait to go back.

6.  Here’s the top five shows from our current TiVo list.

Houston?  I think we have a problem.

7.  I’m generally a pretty sunny person.  But, you know what really gets me fired up?  If you have voicemail on your cell phone and it says “Please leave me a message”?  Well, that tells me that I should leave you a message (I know.  Crazy.)  Right?  So, I do.   I will do as you ask and I will leave you a message and tell you as succinctly as possible what I am calling about so that you can hear my carefully worded message and call me back with your thoughtful reply.  Voicemail is a good invention.  It’s there for a reason.  And, remember…you told me (in your very own voice, usually) to leave you a message.  I did.  So…here’s an idea.  Listen to the message before you call me back.  ‘Cause when you see that I called, I know that you also see that I left you a voicemail.  When you call me back and ask why I called because you didn’t listen to my message, it makes me crazy.  Crazy.  Like, Puck on The Real World crazy.  Danielle on the Real Housewives of NJ crazy.  I could go on (see #6)…but you get my point.   It’s disrespectful.  My time is not less important than yours.  Listen to the message or don’t ask me to leave one.  Are we clear?  Awesome.

8.  You, too, could own this shirt for just 175 Euros.  That’s $278.

Hmmm.   If this fashion is right, I’m pretty pleased to be wrong.   Imagine matching a tie to that?

9.  On a lighter note, this ad campaign from an anti-fart medication totally cracked me up.

“Your gas entertains no one.”

Brilliant.   Makes me smile every time I look at it.

Clearly, I was in need of a little levity.  And, apparently, gas did actually entertain me.

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