fava beans, anyone?

How could someone so stinking cute be so ruthless? This morning after the little minx shot me her shy, come hither eyes, I went to scoop her up in a hug. What did she do? She fucking bit me in the armpit. Not a love bite or a little nibble, but a full-out, come-here-you-slab-of-beef-let-me-chew-on-you BITE (while growling, nonetheless). One, in fact, that drew copious amounts of blood and induced swelling and bruising almost instantly. She didn't do me the courtesy of chomping onto a large glob of flesh, instead she found the tiniest of skin and tore into it effectively rendering me helpless in the attack. Do I pull her off and risk severe mutilation?! Do I grit my teeth and pray that, like the proverbial opossum, she'll let loose when lightning strikes?!

She did manage to kindly release me from her fangs, but not before leaving me mangled and afraid. I should post a picture so you can fully pity me.

I suppose I should be grateful that she didn't try to gnaw off anything else, but The MAN should probably discontinue tag team bathing for the time being. He does love his skirts, but he loves his weenis more.

Any advice on taming the cannibal within?

i tip my hat

To you Mrs. Spit! The astoundingly talented, mad-knitting fingers of my beloved Mrs. Spit knitted a most fantastic hat which I WON (yes, I won. God bless that cat!) during her "Whinge for all Thursday." Let me tell you, this is one of the most beautiful things ever -- and? It's handknit. Amazing. I knit nothing, though I'd love to. What's more? It came directly from Canada through the upper United States and right to my mailbox in the great state of Tennessee. Canada, oh wonderous nation of bacon!, geese!, and Mike Meyers; you have now forced me to fall madly in love with you and your cold, cold temperature all thanks to my new accessory. Now, nevermind that it's hotter than forty hells and steamier than the Pat's locker room (and in a very bad way), I have a hat and I am chomping at the bit for some cool air. Now go check her out and pick up some smashingly good grammar skillz while you're at it.

time's a wastin'

At what age does one begin to suggest to an intelligent, capable young man that the time is right for him to wipe his own posterior? I'm thinking that age is NOW.

I remember, when I was a kid, hearing my sister bellow across the house "Moooooooomm, come wipe me!" and thinking to myself what a twit she was having to call someone to wipe her ass when she was old enough to start kindergarten.

Now, fortunately, The MAN doesn't scream his orders through the house toward his pathetic minion (me....). No, instead it's his wretching I keep a careful ear tuned to.

That's right. While flossing my teeth, or cooking dinner, or dodging toys propelled in my direction by Beans, I hear that all too familiar sound of The MAN trying with his might to keep the minuscule contents of his stomach where they should be and off of the bathroom floor.

Over the past several months, every.single.time. he makes a deposit -- he begins this absurdly, flamboyant display of wretching, hacking, and coughing. When pressed to explain this bizarre reaction, he casts his hands toward the sky as he pleads with the heavens, "WHY does it STINK so bad?! It makes me want to THROW UP!!! (followed, of course, by more wretching)."

If it is so vile that it makes the offender gag and wretch, why on Earth should I be forced to smell it myself? Apparently, it is high time that The MAN meet Mr. Charmin and get to swiping.

nobody follows the killer

I'm a slave to good Mexican food; I've been known to frequent some rather questionable establishments in the name of a good chimichanga. A couple years ago, a restaurant opened about a half hour from our house that we make a pilgrimage to once a week called La Casa Don Gallo. The MAN, a connoisseur of fine food (you know, bread and milk), loves our trips to "Taco Gon's" where he can meet and greet with all his "friends." Three members of the waitstaff are female, and The MAN always pays special attention to his "holas" and his "muy biens" when addressing the ladies.

Today, Gabriella (one his lady friends) came and took our order after fussing a good bit over The MAN's new haircut and his astounding good looks. As we were eating, she came by to refill drinks and chat a bit more. As she leaned over to fill my glass, The MAN reached over to touch her arm, looked deeply into her eyes, sighed, and proclaimed, "I sure love you."

And that was all it took; several stutters and blushes later, we were leaving with free drinks all around.

Who knew The MAN was such a killer?

my friend the witch doctor

My children love each other. In fact, they have realized, much to my dismay, that the two of them working in concert is much more effective at breaking me down into a quivering blob of sad lunacy. Though today has been promising, the past s e v e r a l days have been sheer madness at the hands of rage-filled toddlers. Oddly (or not), I had a difficult time falling asleep last night with the moonlight streaming into the room -- and then suddenly I realized what was the cause of the chaos. A full moon. I have been made a believer. Believe me.

Beans has been learning new words like a mofo. This should be no surprise since she's decided that she WILL NOT WALK; why not cultivate that time into a new and exciting vocabulary with which to order her foolish minions about? WATER! MILK! NOW! MORE! NO! NO! NO! You get the idea?

And The MAN? Only God knows what has possessed him the past few days.

So after the two of them managed to conjure a migraine that would cripple even the most stoic headache sufferer, I announced that I had earned a Reese's blast from Sonic and no gym workout. E happily volunteered that "We! should! all! go! get a milkshake!" and I silently died a little bit. I gently reminded him how angry Beans becomes when she sees others enjoying food and not sharing -- and I was not in a sharing mood. It will be fine. MMhmmm.

And, surprisingly, it was. The MAN kindly volunteered to share his cup of vanilla soft serve with his adoring sibling, until she became a mite too demanding. And somehow, someway, the entire cup of vanilla soft serve was dripping all over the rear seat, both car seats, and The MAN's lap (who flipped the hell out because his pristine self was soiled). The next ten minutes were filled with rampant baby gibberish swear words over wasted ice cream punctuated with strings of "get it!" It's all over me! Help me!" horror from The MAN all while globs of ice cream absorbed into the seats and floor.

Just what the doctor ordered.

How long, exactly, until this full moon runs its course?

this and that

I'm still here. Just lazy. Summer makes me lazy. Or busy. Likely both.

Hopefully, I'll have something worthwhile to write about in the next few days. In the meantime, some happenings around here:

• The cow poo romps have ended due to a close encounter with a water hose and broom.
• E was attacked by a nest of hornets, and I couldn't stop laughing. Yes, I know. Horrible.
• We start house construction in four days. Yippee (my lack of excitement is due to the fact that the construction will take place on the house that I currently live in -- men with hammers, nail guns, sleeping children, um...yeah).
• We're looking to purchase the Beans a lift because she refuses to walk, yet continues to happily contribute to her mounds of fat thereby making it terribly difficult to haul her around. Walk, child! NOW.
• I am so ready for autumn that it hurts. Wasn't I just cursing the cold only a few months ago?
• I am SO addicted to a particular ice cream that someone should stage an intervention (it's Ben and Jerry's Willie Nelson's Country Peach Cobbler -- you'll thank me or curse me. Bwahahaha.)

Alright. That's all. Be back soon, lovies.