You know how you hear stories of? parents just sticking a? baseball bat in their kid’s hand, and voila, a young Babe Ruth is born?

Yeah, well, not so much with my son.? At least, not when it comes to? cameras.

In fact, I’m not sure if I should be alarmed.? It seems not only does my son have a psychadelic take on life, but apparently, he also has a foot fetish.? I’m really hoping it’s just a skill issue with the camera.? Otherwise,? we’re looking at a lifetime supply of psychologist bills down the road.? Not that there’s anything wrong with feet, per se.? Other than they’re dirty and yucky and smelly, and I really, really don’t like them.?

But here, you be the judge.

We like to call this one “Breakfast on crack”

And now we know what he really thinks of his baby sister.? From a psych perspective,? decapitated infants can’t be a good thing.? We call it “Baby, Schmaby.? ? Get a load of? those bananas!”

This one’s titled “Never piss off the photographer”

And of course, the heart and “sole” of his work:

“Baby, Schmaby.? Get a load of those toes!”? (maybe headless babies are his forte)

“My left foot, I mean, my right foot.”?

“Foot on crack”

Yeah, I don’t know what this one is called, either.? But it disturbs me.

Lord only knows what he could do with a video camera.? ?

Is it just me, or are ants? some of the most disgusting creatures known to man?? Second, of course, to cockroaches.? I mean, I don’t mind seeing an ant here or there when I’m out and about.? And yes, I get that ants are amazing—they’re strong, organized, and cooperative.? In fact, they’d probably? fare better in the corporate world than most humans.? ? But there are rules.? And I draw the line when the little? bastards sneak? into my home for a morning snack.? Then, amazing or not, they must die.

So, I? stumble downstairs this morning, into the kitchen, and there they are.? Dozens and dozens of ants, crawling all over our counters, in our sink, on the floor, and on the sliding glass door, where they’ve apparently snuck in.? (By the way, my computer is telling me that “snuck” isn’t actually a word.? Are you kidding me?? Who the heck uses “sneaked”, anyway?)

Hubby was down here earlier this morning.? He keeps his keys and wallet on the kitchen counter.? Did he notice any ants?? Of course not.? Most hubbies, as you may have realized by now, have a great knack for tunnel-vision.? If it’s not a snack, a golf club,? or a completely unnecessary and useless electronic gadget, then it might as well be invisible.? Our phone conversation goes something like this:

Me:? “Um, honey, did you go into the kitchen this morning?”

Him:? “I think so.”? (See that?? He’s already hedging his bets—his “danger-meter” must be going off like crazy).

Me:? “Did you notice anything….strange?”

Him:? “Is this a trick question?”

Me:? “How about…did you notice the ANTS ALL OVER OUR KITCHEN COUNTER??”? (voice rising about a? hundred decibels)

Him:? “Ants??

Me:? “Yes. Ants.? You know,those little six-legged black insect things that like it when you leave PEANUT SHELLS ALL OVER THE FLOOR??” (Voice rising again, most likely loud enough for the neighbors to hear.? The ones that live three blocks away.)

Him:? “Peanut Shells?”

Sigh.? The next step, of course, is to kill the little suckers with my non-toxic dishwashing liquid and water spray.? That part, at least, goes as planned.

Then the clean up.? After wiping up as many dead bugs as I can possibly find (yum), I head to the garage(always a scary undertaking, at our house) for the vacuum.? I get super excited at first, because I could see the vacuum right off the bat.? For once, I thought, I’d escape from the garage unscathed.? No searching under totaled cars that should’ve been enjoying a view at the dumpster for the last year, no getting bombed by precariously balanced pieces of junk.? No getting blown up by fireworks.? Or eaten by a rat.?

I should have known better.? ? Because as? I get closer to the vacuum, I do a double take.? Something appears to be missing.? And in fact, something is missing—the hose.?

Now, I don’t claim to be a vacuum expert, nor do I play one on TV, but even my housecleaning-impaired brain is pretty sure that since we do not own a Dyson (nor any other vacuum from the twenty-first century, for that matter) the hose is a crucial element to getting that particular appliance to work.?

So, I call hubby again—I seem to remember he and my son playing with something which, in retrospect, may have resembled a vacuum hose while in the kiddie pool on Saturday.

Me:? “So, I found the vacuum, but there’s no hose.”

Him:? “Hose?”

Me:? “Yes, hose.? You know, the thing that actually makes the whole thing work?”

Him:? “Um.? I think maybe Connor was playing with it.”

Me:? “O-k-k-k-a-a-y.? So do you know where it is?”

Him:? “Um.? No.”

Me:? “Just for curiosity’s sake, do you think it’s a good idea to let our 4 yr old play with the parts to our major appliances?”

Him:? “Um.? No.? ? But he likes it.”

Me:? “He also likes to eat ice cream and candy and Oreos right before bed.? And smash things with a hammer.? Shall we let him do that?”

Him:? “Um.? No.? But maybe ask him where it is.? I haven’t seen it.”

Me:? “You mean, you haven’t seen it since he played with it?? Because obviously you saw it then.”

Him:? “Oh, yeah. ZZZShhhshZZZ (obviously man-made static noises).? Do you hear that static?? You’re cutting out.”

Double sigh.? So I ask my son where the vacuum hose is.? In fact, he does remember where he put it–on the floor of the garage.? Now, if this were your garage, maybe this is the point where you start jumping for joy, or singing “Whoomp, there it is!”, or whatever? ritual it is normal folks perform when they’ve located something in their garage,? knowing the hose would be in your vacuum-grasping hands at any moment.? But we’re talking our garage, where the word “normal” doesn’t even exist, home to a million pieces of junk, and that junk’s offspring.? And, of course, the occasional rat.

At any rate, I finally locate the vacuum hose.? It is, indeed, on the floor of the garage.? And I guess I can understand why hubby? couldn’t recall? seeing it.?

? Now, I think my son is amazing and gifted.? ? Really, I do.? But even I’m pretty sure that he didn’t heft up the pedal car, which I can barely lift, and? toss it right on top of the hose.? Nor, to the best of my knowledge,? did he suddenly grow about two feet and trade his training wheels in for an adult-sized ten-speed.? So, it begs the question—how did that hose get there?

I’d ask my hubby, but? I already know what his response would be.

? “Hose?”

Wow, I guess they don’t make bug vacuums the way they used to:

Or maybe it’s just that they don’t make them Ridgeback-proof.? Hmmm….does anyone know of a good alternative use for this?

So, which Ridgeback do you think? looks guilty?? ? (In case there’s any doubt in your mind—yes, that is a shoe dangling from Fergie’s mouth.)

Seriously—somebody needs to start a line of Ridgeback-proof kids toys.? I think we’d single-handedly make? them a millionaire.? Maybe even a billionaire.

From there, they could move on to making a few other choice Fergie-proof items—stuff like shoes and books, sprinklers, beer cans, balls, baby bottles, water slides, gardening gloves, sand buckets, sea shells, and sippy cups.? That’d be a good start, at any rate.

And I found this photo, too, from a few weeks ago.? I guess the blog-shaming effect only lasts so long, before lo and behold, there’s a pile of hubby hair in the sink again.

My son had just cleaned the sink the day before, hence the maniacal expression on his face.? He actually made me call daddy so he could give him a good tongue-thrashing over the phone.? Go, Connor!

Leaving the monster sized scissors out was also a nice touch.? Maybe my husband thought Connor wanted to give Fergie another ear, I mean hair, cut.

Well, since Finley is still on a semi-nursing strike, all I really have the energy to do is post a few photos from our Mom’s Night Out event last Saturday.?

? You know you’re not a spring chicken anymore when the old eyelids start drooping before midnight.? Sigh.

We went to an interactive mystery/ comedy dinner theater.? The mystery and comedy?? Great.? The dinner?? I’ve had Swanson’s frozen entrees that put it to shame.? Oh well—it was still nice to have a night out.

The short-lived stay at the local bar afterwards?? Well, let’s just say I really know I’m old after attending that venue.? At least we left before I could disgrace myself by singing (very, very bad) karaoke.

Photos:

Here’s our motley crew.? I guess I should let you know which one is me, since I assume the vast majority of folks reading this have no clue what I look like.? I’m the blond, second from the right.

me and Brandy (I’m still the blond, second from the right):

Crys with the cast of the play (Because she was actually paying attention to the plot and figured out who the murderer was.? Me?? Ha!? One drink and I can barely remember who I am):

me and Elyse:

And that’s all folks—got another hot? date with Mr. Pumpy.? Woo hoo!

Okay, so today, I had a mini road-rage episode.? ? Due to some super-human self-restraint,? I didn’t side-swipe? the other car? or even give them a little love tap on the back bumper.? Or shoot them with an Uzi.? But I did flip them the? bird.?

Which, depending on who you are, doesn’t sound all that bad—except that my 4-yr-old son was in the car.? Luckily, he didn’t quite catch on.? His comment was, “Why are you waving at that man mommy?”?

Oh yeah, and “What does jackass mean?”? Oops.? (Although, to be fair, “jackass” was a pretty innocuous word compared to the much more satisfying choices running through my brain).

So, what happened that caused me to flaunt my middle finger so flagrantly?? Basically, the guy wouldn’t let me merge into his lane.? I had a designated freeway entrance lane that was ending, traffic was crawling, and everyone else ahead of this donkey’s bottom seemed perfectly fine with letting folks merge, one-at-a-time.? Not this joker—he deliberately sped up and cut me off —three times.? As if getting one car ahead was going to significantly chip away at his commute time.? Finally,? I honked, whipped around his sorry butt, and then went so far as to roll down the window so he could appreciate my tallest digit in all of its? glory.?

So, maybe it wasn’t the most polite thing to do.? Or the most prudent, for that matter.? But it did make me feel a heckuva lot better.? That counts for something, right?

Of course, as retribution for my transgression, I got to hear “Mommy, why was that guy a jackass?” and similar variations for the? duration of? our painfully slow drive home.

Musical beds.? Sounds kind of kinky, right?? It brings to mind orgies, swingers, or some kind of new-fangled frat party theme.? At the very least, you might think of being serenaded by an acoustic guitar while snoozing.

Yeah, well,? we had a little musical bed action going on here last night, and I can guarantee you, nothing quite that exciting was happening.? Not by a longshot.? Oh, everything started off? okay.? ? ? Hubby and I got in bed, turned off the lights, and had ourselves all tucked in nice and cozy by 10:15 pm.? Nothing unusual about that.? Except that while I stayed there all night, hubby abandoned ship sometime before midnight.? Apparently, he’s been having insomnia issues lately.? So he ended up sleeping on a pallet he’s made in the loft.

So far, no huge deal, right?? But then, I go downstairs this morning for seriously? no more than? a minute.? When I come back up, ready? to crawl? under my nice warm covers? again, who do I find?? Impostors, hogging my bed:

Why isn’t anyone staying in their own bed?

Now, it’s no biggie? if Skye and Connor? help themselves to our? bed once in awhile.? However, I do object to the fact that they look annoyed by me coming back to claim my rightful spot.?

Notice who’s absent from this photo.? Yep–the Ferganator.? She sleeps in her locked kennel virtually every night.? Why?? Because I don’t really fancy being smothered by a hound dog blanket in the middle of the night, thank you very much.? As with all things, Fergie pushes cuddling to the extreme.

And of course, Peanut doesn’ t get to sleep on the bed because, for some reason, it’s hard to fall asleep with fetid old rottie breath growling in your ear.

Hmmm….maybe that’s why hubby chose the pallet—smart man.

This reminds me of one of those “Where’s Waldo?” games—-can you find the hound dog in this picture?

? Really, I’m thrilled to see she’s enjoying the dump truck sand box so much, although I’m pretty sure that’s not what the manufacturer’s intended.? At least I don’t remember reading “and also good for use as a hound-dog tanning bed” anywhere in the brochure.

The good news is the top of the box was on.? Otherwise, she just plops on down in the sand itself.? I don’t know about you, but one sandy child is about all my vacuuming skills can? manage right now.?

What I wanna know is—when is this big hound loaf gonna start earning her keep around here?

I came across this photo of my son and Fergie and just had to post it.? I guess? it gives a whole ‘nuther meaning to the term “hot dog”.? ? And I thought Ridgebacks weren’t supposed to like the water—I knew? my little liver-nosed monster? was defective.

Now,? the part? I really can’t figure out—-does Fergie think she’s a person, or does my son think he’s a Ridgeback?

The Internet truly is a wondrous thing.? How else would you describe an entity where your four year-old can be innocently watching volcanoes erupt one minute, and the next be viewing some dude in his tighty-whities, attempting to pop balloons by excessive pelvic thrusting? ? (Yes, I’m sure there’s some type of volcano analogy to be had, but let’s not go there.)? ? I mean, unless the man was performing a new dance move? called “the eruption” (okay, I went there), can somebody please explain how? in the heck my son managed to? navigate from? lava to lovin’?? ? ? Talk about your six degrees of Kevin Bacon.

I know, I know—they have those control thingies that you can set for your kids to monitor their online experience.? But honestly, who? would’ve thought you had to start with the? pre-pre-schooler set?? ? I can really see the need for those parental controls now, though.? I mean, my son wasn’t even trying to get to the bad stuff, and whoomp!? there it was.?

Another case in point—my son was looking at videos of fires, and somehow? found his way? to the oh-so-special Johnny Johnny Poo Poo Pants.? A charming little ditty, complete with repulsive stick-figure visuals.? ? Okay, so I’ll be the first to admit it—the song is catchy, in a super-annoying-I’m-going-to-slit-my-wrists-if-I-can’t-get-this-tune-out-of-my-head kinda way.? But if you can explain to me what a fire has to do with dropping kids off before you get to the pool, then you, my friend, have a mind even more random than mine (this is not necessarily a blessing).? And yet, I’m assuming there must be some association.? How else would my son, who can barely spell his own name,? have been able to navigate there??

So, let’s brainstorm.? ? We start with forest fires.? We end up with befouled undies.? What possibly happened in-between the two?? It’s like one of those free-association puzzles the shrink asks you (no, I’ve never been, but if you were a shrink, wouldn’t you just love messin’ with? people like this?).? Let’s see—-fire, hmmm—makes me think of things that burn.? Hey,? we used to do a shot in college called a “flaming asshole”.? You know,? if my tushy really felt like it was on fire, it might be because I’ve got a bad case of Montezuma’s.? Say, speaking of the trotskies—this one time, when I was at band camp, I got a seriously repulsive case of the runs and crapped my pants.? Ta-Da–there we have it!? From fires to the squirts, in under fifty words or less.? Not such a stretch after all.? Right?

Okay, so maybe it is a stretch, but do you have a better explanation?? Feel free to elaborate anytime.

So the imaginary visuals I’m getting from this exercise are more than unappetizing.? I’m off to set the parental controls.