Goodbye Friend

This is what happens when a child leaves a toy on the stairs, and the mom steps on the toy while carrying her precious MacBook, and the MacBook flies into the air and then down the stairwell and bounces off the floor 25 feet below. Sad... I'll miss you buddy.

More Hospital Complaints

Here is a picture of the resident, Young Dr. Jeff, who was in charge of my care during my recent hospital stay. In this photo, he is searching for the treatment protocol for cellulitis. He never did find it, but he kept looking for everything up there.

He did aid me in reaching the conclusion that I should not become a spy. Now I know that if an enemy initiated any fingernail type torture I'd be willing to rat out my mother within the first nanosecond. Dr. Jeff lacks the ability to obtain effective local anesthesia; I hope to never see Young Dr. Jeff out in the real world, because I will probably pulverize his dominant index finger with a hammer, make a few small incisions along either side of it, then jam some gauze packing though what's left. Then I'll ask him if he has plans for Thanksgiving, and what kind of pie he likes. Then for good measure, I'll give him a wedgie with his red plaid boxers that seemed to always be showing. motherfucker.

Naturally I didn't have any worries about the children and the homefront, not with Archie Bunker there to tend to matters. He only really got angry once, which was when I refused to come down to the hospital lobby (IV pole in tow and ass out) so he could drop the kids off with me for a few hours; he had to go buy everyone new clothes because he couldn't figure out how to work the washing machine. Oh well....at least he didn't sell them into slavery or anything. Upon my homecoming, the kids were alive & well, sticky, filthy, and sick of pizza. N. is still clinging to me like a barnacle, but this hopefully will soon pass.

Spa Week

No, I've not been slacking, and my complaints are building up deep within my dark and bitter soul, getting ready to EXPLODE like an unpunctured overheated can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew; that shit's gotta vent, you know.

Anyway, now that I have 10 working fingers again I can begin to air my grievances about my extended stay in the hospital, or hostible, as N. calls it, or relaxing spa as Archie Bunker (the new code name for that idiot I'm always trashing) referrers to it.

My purulent pre-gangrenous hot throbbing finger kept me in the big house for 5 days. 5 DAYS!! no one stays in the hospital for 5 days! Except, perhaps, the celebrities who come down with severe cases of exhaustion.

How did this happen? Well, perhaps it was bacterial exposure when I was helping Archie Bunker adjust the stick up his ass. I just don't know. It could be my penance for having fun on the dirt bike.

ABCs

I tried Bumblebees.
I tried Balloons.
I tried Bozo the clown.

N.'s teacher said he HAD to start getting some of the letters down. Otherwise he'll never even be able to read "SHORT BUS". Never mind that he could probably build the short bus with his Legos, his erector set and some tin foil, he needs to get academic or he'll never realize his full powers of destruction.

After many frustrating attempts, with bunches of beginner "b" words, bags, boogers, ballerinas, bones, barf, bandit, band aid, back, butterfly, bottom, batman, bugs, box, butter, etc. something clicked and he got it. BOOBIES.

He uses his simple illustration every time he writes the letter. When he's done he gleefully shouts "BOOBIES"!! and rotates the picture clockwise in case someone doesn't get it.

I'm so proud.

Election day

It's the big day. My plan?
Close my office early because
the entire downtown has been preparing for the crowds all week. Friendly people from Wisconsin are probably already laying claim to picnic spots, and I certainly don't have time for any of that happy shit.
I will do my civic duty and vote, then I will go hide under my bed with my young'uns. Maybe room for the dog, but not for Nick, no way no how.

My expert prediction:
Obama win: Riot
Obama loss: Bigger Riot

Me, Me & Me

Here are my shoes with the requisite "bit of purple" demanded this season by the fashion police; just trying to follow the rules here.
Along with the shoes are my new pantyhose which were recommended by one of the other moms at school after I admired hers. She gushed that her Wolford undergarments were lifechanging. She got them at an expensive boutique on the very exclusive street which I usually avoid because I'm sure the fancy-pants people will be trying to decide if they should give me their spare change, or try to notify the family that I work for and tell them that I'm allowing their children to run around with dirty faces.

Anyway, I purchased the "lifechangers" even though they cost $60.00. So far the only life change I've noticed is less money for whiskey and cigarettes, still waiting though! One good thing about them is that they are slightly opaque, thereby covering the large black and blue areas on my lower extremities incurred in the activity discussed next.

Yup, that's me, again doing the teenage boy thing, despite the assumption of a fully developed prefrontal cortex. I figure I need to hone my skills just in case the whole "new world order" thing doesn't go so hot and I need to flee. I think I could fit the kids on there with me, but definitely not Nick, he'd have to jog along with us, which would have us free of him in about half a block. Someone would need to stay behind and look after the dog and the shit in the garage anyway. (yes Lisa, that is my Boston jacket)

















Next photo, ME AGAIN !!! on the TRAMPoline. I'm trying to hurt the parts that weren't damaged in the whole dirt bike thing. Let's review the positives:
1. The tasteful rise of my Mom jeans, leaving my undergarments a mystery (they could be Depends for all the observer can tell)
2. The tasteful rise of my Mom jeans, leaving my entire ass covered.
3. No tramp stamp!!! can you believe it? Despite ample evidence to the contrary, sometimes I do act my age.
4. Impeccable manicure. Someone has to shepard our young ladies to a dignified maturity.