Trick or Treat, Smell my Feet

A few years ago I drove to California with my big guy and little guy.  What do we remember most about that drive?  The Grand Canyon?  The Petrified Forest?  The Mohave Desert?  Those pale in comparison to our two most significant memories.


#1 The bras all over the highway in Bakersfield, CA...surely a Victoria's Secret truck had dumped its over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder load!

#2 The horrible, terrible, ghastly smell of big guy's feet.


OK, the first was awesome...we pretty much loved that!  The second, well, we remember it so clearly because it was traumatic in its horribleness.  The quick story is that we were driving along and I smelled something.  Something indescribably foul.  I looked to my big guy, who was seated beside me, and saw that he had taken his shoes off.  Well, I jumped all over his case for having stunk up the car...again (this was not the first episode, but it was decidedly the worst thus far).  In dramatic form I rolled all the windows down, and was hit in the face, hard, with an even worse smell.  We rounded the bend and came upon what I can only assume was a slaughter house.  There were thousands of cows, all crammed together, on what must have been mounds of their poo.  OMG!!!!!!

So, I have to say I think I have mild PTSD from this experience and I get jumpy now when people take their shoes off in my presence.  I dare not breathe with my nose.  I was just beginning to show some small signs of improvement as I've not encountered slaughterhouse feet in quite some time...until a few nights ago.  We were driving in the car...and there was that smell.  Big guy was not with us.  Dave looked well groomed and recently bathed.  I turned my head as I saw an aberrition out of the corner of my eye.  Little guy had his shoe up on my seat back.  His tied shoe.  His shoe that was still on his foot.  I swear the air around that shoe was blurred by scent waves escaping from their canvas prison.  I was in olfactory hell!

So, little guy was stuck being bare foot for two days while his shoes took up residence in our washing machine...I used the "exorcist" setting...high heat, demonic smell out...three times.  Phew!

Super sweet smelling thank yous for "liking" my blog on facebook!!

Two Steps Forward, One Species Back

I'm seriously used to being the little one.  Always in the front row in school class photos, having to climb on the kitchen counters to get something out of the cupboards, and now, a convenient elbow rest for my big guy.  Well, today I think I got even smaller.  We were at Target getting electronics, super glue, and yogurt, you know, important household staples. 


Big guy:  "You take two steps for every one of mine."

Me:  "I know, I'm little compared to you."

Big guy:  "It's like I'm walking a chihuahua."


Nice....woof!

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Can't Touch This

I hear that being uncomfortable is good for ya.  Not uncomfortable like having your shoulder dislocated or anything like that, just the kind where you're forced out of the little box we feel so safe in.  Well, I got forced today, and actually I suppose it was good to get out of my neurotic unique little box.

My box?  Well, I know I've discussed on here time and again how I'm not much of a fan of moisture, particularly of those mystery moistures that show up in my daily life...you know, the mucousy spot on the carpet, the dribbles around the toilet, the teenage boy armpit that lands squarely on my shoulder...you get the idea.  Also in my box is my reluctance to shake hands and whatnot.  I'm no Howie Mandel or anything like that, I'm simply not a fan of the custom.

Anyway...I was at a Zumba class this morning.  All and all it was really fun and awesome.  Only thing was, about half way through, the substitute instructor told everybody to find a partner (Ack!  Flashbacks to all the professional development ice breakers I've endured!!).


Lucky for me the lady nearest me looked to me and said:   "Partners?  There's no partners in Zumba."

Me:  "Good, we'll not be partners together."


And we rocked it.  We were two planets approximately orbiting one another (that possible, astrophysicists?), making no eye or physical contact.  Awesome.


Substitute instructor:  "OK, find a new partner!!"

Me:  "Can't we just keep the same one?" (under my breath, of course, I'm not rude or anything and don't like to make a scene)


But before I could say, "I need to go wash my hair," a dude (one of only two in the room) came over to me, all smiles, moist hands out, and I...um...took them.  Well, I don't know what the rest of the room was doing, but he had me jitterbugging all over the place.  And then he spun me...and I spun and I spun and I spun.

And then it was over.  Woozy from all the spinning and hand touching I attempted some groovy grapevines...bet you wish you were there...I'm sure I was amazing!

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May the Fourth be with you

Dave:  "Happy farth of July!"

Little guy:  "My parents are the biggest dorks."

Me:  "May the fourth be with you!"

Little guy:  "That's awesome, mom, can I use that?"

Me:  "Sure!"


Seriously love that...

1 - He thinks his mom comes up with cool stuff.

And 2 - He spends so little time on the internet that he has no idea how overused my quote is.

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The Skyrocketing Price of Tomatoes These Days

For some reason certain foods are particularly hard on my children's pallets.  Corn was the first acceptable vegetable.  Then came broccoli.  After that spinach leaves...raw, and only one per meal, thank you very much.  Tomatoes, though, for some reason are the recipient of the "Access Denied" designation (yes, I know they're a "fruit", but really, people, who actually thinks of them that way?!?!).  It's a funny thing to me who happened to love cherry tomatoes as a kiddo.  It's also odd that they LOVE so many tomato-based foods...spaghetti sauce, salsa, pizza sauce, and, of course, the ever present food lube, kechup.

Well, this afternoon Dave held up a home grown tomato to our little guy.  It was bigger than a cherry tomato, but smaller than a Roma variety.


Dave:  "I'll give you $5 to eat this entire tomato."

Little guy:  "No way, dad."

Dave:  "I'll give you $40 to eat it."

Me:  "And it doesn't count if you throw it up."

Little guy:  "Um...OK...I'll try."


He took it, put it to his mouth, gingerly bit into it and started chewing.  He opened his mouth again and took a bigger bite (one that surely included those delightfully slimy seeds) and ran to the sink.  Just before he spit it out another offer was made.


Dave:  "I'll give you a thousand dollars to eat it."


Little guy:  "Patooey!" It splattered in the sink.  "I just can't do it."  He walked over to the trash can and threw it in and headed in the direction of the bathroom, most likely to use some Scope to erase his offended taste buds' memory.


Me:  "A thousand dollars, eh?"

Dave:  "It was a safe risk."

Apparently I'm here to serve...something.

Little guy:  "Where's Daddy?"

Me:  "At the coffee shop, I'm sure."

Little guy:  "I want something."

Me:  "What do you want?"

Little guy:  "I don't know, my ear itches.  Will you scratch it?"

Me:  "No, get a Q-tip."

Little guy:  "Those can make my ears hurt."


He snuggles in beside me, laying his head on my tummy, and almost (ack!) touches me with his ear scratch finger.


Little guy:  "Buuuuuurp!"

Me:  "OK, you're grossing me out."


He stands up and toodles out of the room.


Little guy:  "I wonder what I wanted."


Parenting sure is a lot of guess work...with a side of ickiness.

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The Cat and the Rat

At 3:00 this morning my little guy appeared at my side of the bed.


Little guy:  "Mom, Pug has a rat."

Me:  "Huh, huh, wha, huh?"

Little guy:  "I let Pug in and he brought a rat into the house."

Me:  "Is the rat dead?"

Little guy:  "I think so."

Me:  "So put the rat outside."

Little guy:  "That's not my job, mom."

Me:  "Ugh!" as I toss the covers off of me and stagger out of bed and into the living room.


The little guy and I found Pug and the clearly dead rat under the dining table.  He lay there, one paw on the rat's head and just stared us down...daring us to do something.  Neither of us was willing to risk pulling back a bloody nub to take the rat away from Pug, so we just settled in to see if he'd abandon it.  No sucha ruck.  That cat of ours, with his wonderful waste not want not attitude, proceeded to eat that rat, from head to tail, apparently.  I abandoned the show after about 30 seconds, but little guy relayed to me this morning that nothing was left when Pug was done.

Once back in bed, I kerflippy flopped for about ten minutes, grossed out by the ghastly images in my mind and was just about to nod off when Pug jumped on the foot of the bed, walked up my body, and settled in on my stomach, kneading with both front paws.

I was massaged to sleep thinking, "I guess nothing goes quite as well with rat as some biscuits...."

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