My Neurotic Need to Know.

Someone is coming here after googling "craigslist Nicefo". Yeah, I've mentioned it before, way back when, but when I see someone end up here after googling that, I'm curious. Who is googling "craigslist Nicefo" and what are they looking for? Are they looking for the Nicefo forum Id? (It's 4231 if that is your purpose)

More curious than why they are googling it is why I care. I can't explain it. Well, maybe I can, but that would be tedious and I'm sure you'd just roll your eyes. So I won't.

If you came here from googling "craigslit Nicefo" be a dear and leave a comment. It's making me a bit crazy. Thanks!

I'm all about the pickles

Last night, Little Dog and I were snuggled on the sofa in our mommy/baby love fest. I was giving him hugs and kisses and in between watching Scooby Doo and eating pudding he was hugging and kissing me back.
A friend of mine came up with the nickname "pickle" for all little kids, and I adore it. So as I kissed Little Dog's tiny nose I said "I love you little pickle."
And he looked up at me with his soft blue eyes and said in a serious tone, "I love you big pickle."
I could have melted on the spot.

Spreading the love.

I'm going to be out of town the next couple of days, so I've decided to give you all a peek at what has kept me laughing lately. I'm going to spread a little linky love to great posts by some of my favorite bloggers.

Like this one, @Neilochka at Citizen of the Month brings back the talking penis, in his post The Sexy Email Exchange

Or short but sweet, @kikarose at It's My Life...gets incentive to exercise from her darling children.

And it shouldn't be funny, but @mommastantrum over at Momma's Tantrum, even makes a frustrated job hunt funny.

Or pretty much anything @thebloggess writes over at The Bloggess, because she's a riot, but this bathing suit one is destined to be a classic. I mean, how can you go wrong when one of the tags is "I'm not really full of mosquitoes"

And I've included their twitter handles to make it even easier to stalk them on the internet. How's that for thoughtful.

Seeking professional help.

Sometimes it gets hard to be a married couple with kids. After working all day, we come home and have kids to raise. We spend so much time together as a family, there is very little time left for us as a couple. An occasional date night would be nice, but it seems impossible. Add to that my recent increase in business travel that conflicts with swim classes (only one child has swim classes at a time, so the other child needs to stay home) and it became clear we needed to seek professional help. No, not marriage counseling, we needed child minding.

Any parent knows, life becomes a little easier when you have back up. Previously we'd relied on our nanny for babysitting, but she's going back to school this semester which takes up some of her time. And then there's that pesky thing called her social life. She wants to hang out with people other than my children from time to time, and I have to respect that.

So we were staring to look for a babysitter to help out with the kids from time to time. I'd posted an ad on craigslist and called back several of the potential sitters. I found one who sounded especially promising and set up an interview in person, so she could meet us face to face and I could see if she was likely to fit in with our family.

She arrived in the mix of our evening mania. Mr. Dog was there only for a few minutes, since he was on the way out to take Little Dog to swim class. I'd only recently arrived home. Big Dog had decided he was cold, and was snuggled under a blanket on the living room floor. In other words, the usual after-work mess. She seemed to take it in stride.

After I'd asked my questions, talked to her about schedules and expectations, it was her turn. She asked if there was anything special I needed to know about either boy. I thought about it for a minute. "Well, they're pretty normal little boys. Full of energy, lots of fun. They're also both pretty bright and verbal." then I was stumped. I figured, since he was right there, I'd ask him if there was anything special he'd like to add.

"Is there anything she should know about you if she is going to be our babysitter?" I asked.
Big dog pulled the blanket down from over his head, looked directly at the interviewee and says, "I want to eat my testicles."
Wow. The first thing he decides to say to the stranger sitting in our living room is that his testes are on his list of things to devour. My mouth fell open. I had no idea where this came from, and now she probably thinks we are a big family of freaks. I turn to gauge her reaction and she's smiling. Highly amused.

"That would probably be pretty painful. You might want to reconsider," she says, completely unflustered. And I hired her on the spot.

For the record I later learned that the testicle chat started after he heard his dad comment on our Great Dane's upcoming neuter. Nothing sinister, just liked the word.

The great chocolate cake swindle.

Little dog has a sweet tooth. Ok, that's an understatement. He has a sweet mouth, head, upper body, lower body and soul. If I would allow him to live on a diet of chocolate and ice cream, he'd happily comply. Wait, he'd want bacon too, but that's about it.

Honestly I have a bit of a sweet tooth too, and being a good cook makes it pretty easy to whip up a tasty treat for no reason at all. I recently discovered the easiest and yummiest cake recipe ever. It uses only things I have in the pantry, and it makes a really nice cake. So I happened to have a few pieces of cake in the fridge tonight, and doled them out after dinner.

Lately Little Dog has discovered that he can get more cake if he goes from mom to dad asking, "Can I have a taste of yours?" even before he tastes his own. We jokingly refer to this as the toddler diet since he can easily talk you out of half of your cake, saving you not only the enjoyment of your own dessert, but about half the calories.

We've learned that if we want our own cake, you'd better eat quickly. So tonight Little Dog headed over to Mr. Dog and asked him "Can I have a bite of you cake?" Mr. Dog informed him, he had no cake.
Little Dog paused, considered this and asked, "Are you sad?"

Be real nice and I'll post the cake recipe on From Mosh Pits to Mashed Potatoes, but for that I'll need some blog comments. Blackmail you say? Maybe, but I'm a comments junkie, and I need a fix.

Do you like being in charge of your reproduction?

Yeah? Me too. How about hopping over to Living In A Girl's World and signing a petition? Really, it takes next to no time, and could help. Why should we have to refight the fights our mothers already won? Say HELL NO.

While you're over there, look around. I love this blog. Oh, and leave comments. We all dig that, right?

He may be onto something

Wise words come from small mouths. As I was getting ready for work, Mr. Dog, who is on a two week hiatus between contracts, was getting the small members of the family to table for breakfast.
"Go to the table. Normal people eat their breakfast at the table," he says to the boys.
"Are we normal?" asked Big Dog in all seriousness.

Um, probably not, but still, eat at the table, ok?

Overheard...revisited

Ok, I've been kind of self indulgent in my little trip down wedding and anniversary memory lane (as though this entire blog isn't completely self indulgent). I'm sure you're thinking, "Enough about you, lady. We want more of the kids!" So in that spirit, I bring you some of the things I've been hearing around the Followthatdog household.

After discovering the new hiding place for marbles Little Dog had discovered, Mr. Dog: "He had them stuck in his cheeks! His yucky cheeks! Quit laughing, it's not funny!"

After meeting his nanny's friend's baby, Scarlett. Little Dog: "Mama, I saw baby garlic."

After I showed him I could make chocolate syrup and thus chocolate milk from scratch. Big Dog: "Mom, you're...incredible!"

While squeezing my face between his hands. Little Dog: "I'm going to smuuuush you like a bacon."

After Mr. Dog asked him whether he'd like eggs or oatmeal for breakfast as he prepared to make breakfast for the boys. Big Dog: "Whatever mama makes."

Wordless Wednesday! Go Fly A Kite!

Gas Works Park, Kite Hill.

Stumbling down the aisle.

I'm a little compulsive when it comes to throwing parties. I like for things to be just right. I want my guests to swoon a little when they see how elegant and perfectly thought out things are. I want them to think, "Wow, this is the best party I've ever been to! How does she do it?" In other words, I have a bit of a Martha-complex. So imagine this applied to wedding planning and you start to see a problem

Knowing this about me, my mom offered me advice while I planned my wedding. She said, "No matter how perfectly you plan, something will go wrong. You have to be ok with that. And to be honest, it is the little bumps that make your wedding story interesting."
At the time, I politely smiled and nodded. Nothing was going to go wrong at my wedding. I'd planned, I'd made notes, budgets, charts and I knew it would all pull together. Not a doubt in my mind. And then it didn't.

If the little bumps are the things that make your wedding story interesting, mine is a classic. From the annoyances to the major disasters, I think I have them covered.

Remember, I got married on September 15, 2001. That would be enough for most people. The national tragedy that nearly caused us to cancel our wedding far outweighs the other problems was the biggest, and I certainly don't mean to minimize that in the least. It just seemed that our wedding was destined to be plagued with problems. And keep in mind, I was still a bride. I was still working on having the wedding we'd planned. Now ask yourself, how many brides have to really panic over the catering contract stipulation that they did not guarantee service in the event of an "act of war"?

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

From the moment Mr. Dog proposed, our honeymoon plan was to take a bike trip in Italy. A car accident in February forced us to change plans. A roll of carpet fell off a truck in front of my car. I hit the roll and managed to stay in control of my car, but the impact caused an injury in my shoulder that took a year of physical therapy to correct. Since we weren't going to go biking we were forced to change plans. We'd decided on Turkey. Until September 11th changed our minds. We ended up taking two honeymoons, one for a week of camping in Big Sur with the dogs. The second, a scuba diving vacation in Belize. Heavenly. I still dream of Turkey, but Belize was no slouch for a honeymoon.

I used a dot com (in the era of the dot com bust) as a the travel/hotel coordinator for our out of town guest. The plan was they would find group discounts for hotels and offer those to our guests. I had this all set up months in advance. Days before we were to send this information out to our guests, the company tanked. I got a terse email thanking me for using their service, but they were closing up shop immediately. Sorry for the inconvenience. I was left to scramble and figure out where guests could stay, how to book blocks of rooms and where the best hotels with the lowest rates could be found.

I ordered my wedding band online. Ebay to be exact. Say what you will, but if you love antique jewelry and don't care about gemstone perfection (or even if you do, but I don't) you can't find a better selection. I'd found beautiful 1920s eternity band of rubies in a platinum setting. It was ornate, elegant and perfect. I sent payment, the ring was shipped and didn't arrive. I contacted the shipper. It had been insured, I contacted the post office, I had to wait up to 30 days before I could process the claim. Three weeks into the wait, I found another ring, another eternity band, rubies and diamonds with an engraved platinum setting. I ordered it. It arrived. It was lovely. It fit, it nestled next to my antique engagement ring with the perfect blend of sparkle and color. The next day the first ring arrived. So I have two wedding bands. I wear one, the other is in my jewelry box.

Within days of getting engaged I contacted a friend of mine to make my dress. She had a background in costume design, but was an excellent designer and made beautiful clothes. She was thrilled. I explained to her what I wanted, the classic 1930's Jean Harlow gown. No problem. She did sketches, came up with other designs and we agreed on one. A two layered gown, a simple sheath style dress topped with a beaded sheer. Stunning. Unfortunately it was more than she could deliver. The beading never happened. The dress didn't fit right. After my final fitting the Wednesday before the wedding, when the dress didn't fit, the beaded sheer dress looked more like a Home Ec project and I was distraught, I called and offered a few suggestions. She balked. She delivered the ultimatum. Take as I make it or leave it. Panicked, I spent Thursday with my mom in downtown San Francisco looking for an acceptable alternative. I had low expectations. You know how it is, when you really need a specific item, you can't find it or you find it and they don't have your size? Amazingly enough, I was wrong. I found a beaded dress at Loehman's that would have fit the bill, but opted to have a peek at Macy's before I committed. And I found it. The dress I had sketched way back when. Simple, elegant and oh so perfect. I had to drive to San Jose to get it in my size, but that was a small price to pay to be able to call the dressmaker who had burned me so badly and tell her the dress was unneeded.

Thinking I was doing my bridesmaids a kindness, I picked a pattern and provided fabric for them to have their dresses made. The pattern was a Vintage Vogue dress from the 1930s and was perfect. They all liked the design, and the color and the fabric. Unfortunately, not all of them had luck with getting the dresses made. Ok, all of them except one got them made just fine, but my sister, my maid of honor, had her friend who promised it could be done no problem, crap out on her and gave her a messed up dress with no back closure and mismatched nap on the velvet burn out. So Kathleen was off dress shopping on Saturday to find a new dress. Thank heaven's for Nordstrom. She found the perfect fill in. It was a two piece set, a long lean skirt and a sleeveless top that were a perfect half step between the deep purple of my bridesmaids and the silvery taupe of my gown. It couldn't have been planned better.

Many of our guests were unable to make it to the wedding. Mr. Dog's brother and one of his groomsmen from New York could not fly out. Mr. Dog's sister was on a flight that was grounded in Las Vegas and was unable to leave because every rental car in the area was immediately booked. A few friends did manage to find flights, and others hopped in their cars. Mr. Dog's parents drove from Colorado as soon as they heard there might issues getting a flight. My family drove down from Portland and Seattle, carpooling when necessary.

The rehearsal dinner, ceremony and reception went off without a hitch. I think by the time I able to start breathing again, the morning of the wedding, I'd decided anything that happens, happens. At the end of the day, the only thing that mattered was that I was married to Mr. Dog.

The curse of the neurotic planner extended beyond the wedding itself. Our elderly pit bull, Rosie had been fighting a battle with cancer. She'd had a rapid decline in the end, and Mr. Dog and I, prior to September 11th, had decided to reschedule the honeymoon. Since we were originally scheduled to fly out on the 18th, I called and switched the flights to leave on the 23rd. I wanted to have her see the vet again and make sure there was nothing we could do and I didn't want this to be rushed. Unfortunately, after the wedding it became clear that the kindest thing we could do was to let her go. On the Monday after we were married, we had to have our dear girl put to sleep.

What didn't change was that our honeymoon was still set for Turkey. As the week after the attacks unfolded, it was announced that the US was going to use airbases in Turkey to fly missions to Afghanistan. That sealed what already had been going through my mind. I was not heading to Turkey at that moment. No problem I thought, we'll just get our tickets refunded. Most airlines were doing that for travel in that time period. Unfortunately Delta only refunded tickets with travel dates on or before 18th. Had I not changed our tickets we would have been in the clear, but our newly changed travel date fell outside of that. We tried to find a destination that Delta went that we wanted to use for our honeymoon, and failed. We ended up just holding on to those tickets for another trip before they expired. We'd go somewhere, but in the meantime we'd buy fresh tickets to Belize. We did, and after announcing to my friends at work, we'd booked tickets for Belize, I was informed that Belize had been hit by a severe hurricane that damaged much of the coral reef in the area.

Years later, when we tried to squeeze in a trip to Paris to use up those Delta tickets before they expired, we met with carryover doom. I was 5 months pregnant at the time. And to be fair to me in this story, you must understand that my passport at the time was a mess. In college, I'd taken a trip to Greece and Italy. I had to get a new passport for that trip, but when the envelope arrived in my mailbox it had been opened and my passport was nowhere to be found. (Yeah, great security for those highly coveted documents, ship them in envelopes emblazoned with "PASSPORT! IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS INSIDE!" or similar bullshit). I rushed and got a replacement passport that was valid for 4 months. I'd have to file a follow up claim that the other passport was never located in order to get a page officially updated to reflect the new 10 year expiration date. So my expiration date was not where the expiration date normally is, it was on a page in the back with an official seal over it. When I booked the trip, I'd checked to see that my passport was valid. I knew it expired that year, but I didn't know which month. I checked and saw it was expiring in October. Awesome, we were traveling in June. It was not until I was in the car on the way to the airport, as I inserted my ticket into the passport where my new expiration date had been updated that I noticed, um, my passport expire in June, and not June after my flight was on the way to take, June two weeks before the flight I was supposed to take. Shit. We ended up heading home, trying to find how I could get an emergency passport, failed because after September 11th that kind of thing just didn't happen anymore, and ended up buying tickets for a trip to Seattle. We decided to just let the other tickets expire unused, it seems to have been the best move

With all that happened surrounding our wedding, it seems amazing we were able to pull it off. I joke sometimes that the wedding crisis should be our guarantee of a perfect marriage. And so far that has held true.

I remember watching Sex in the City, while on maternity leave with Big Dog. Charlotte was marrying Harry and it seemed that her wedding was surrounded with a series of small mishaps. She was beginning to take it as a sign that the marriage was doomed to fail. I looked over her list: a blot on a photo in the wedding announcement, groom seeing her dress before the wedding, a bitter Best Man lashing out at the Maid of Honor, wine spilled on her dress, and the like, and smiled. A single thought crossed my mind. Lightweights.

Tell me, how perfect, or better yet imperfect, was your wedding?

Lava surfing anyone?

Back when I was young and feisty, I lived in San Francisco. I lived in the most amazing building of flats with my best friend, Stan. Upstairs were Maria and Auntie Chihuahua. Life was really good. Closer than friends, I think of this group as my second family. We have added husbands and boyfriends, but the group is still referred to as "The Walter Street" group. When we lived in this flat, Sunday night was family dinner. I'd cook and we'd all get together and watch TV. That was just how it was. We ran up and down the connected back stairs (a glorified fire escape) to visit each other and spent as much time in our neighbor's apartment as we did our own.

One weekend, I'd invited a friend and his wife for dinner. Stan and I cooked and cleaned, planned and prepped and by the time our guests were set to arrive, we were ready to entertain and dazzle. The didn't show. So we had heaps of food, nice, tasty food just sitting there, so we did what we always did, we called our neighbors. I invited Sean and Maria down to dinner. Maria had invited some friends from work (a research lab at UCSF) over for a drink at the pub so he hesitated to accept. I told her to invite them along we had a serious oversupply of food a couple of gallons of fresh sangria. She did. And what happened then, well, I can honestly say it changed my life.

Maria and her friends came down the back stairs and into my kitchen. I remember thinking that this one guy friend was really cute. That was the first time I'd ever seen Mr. Dog. Turns out, he'd just dropped by the lab when Maria called and invited her friends over. He'd been out biking and only had biking gear, he was sweaty and clad in spandex shorts and a ratty t-shirt. His friend in the lab loaned him a pair of jeans and a shirt. Thing is, this friend was about 5 inches taller than Mr. Dog so he had to roll up the jeans. I didn't notice that. He told me later.

His first memory of me is a bit less kind. He says he asked me for a glass of water and I told him "We don't drink water here. Have some sangria." Luckily he likes saucy girls.
We drank and ate and as I finished up with the food preparations, a few of the sciency types adjourned to the living room. When I breezed in to refresh their beverages, I caught a snippet of their conversation.
"No, it would have to be titanium. You couldn't surf lava on anything else."
"I guess so."
"Absolutely, you'd have to have a titanium surfboard,"insisted Mr. Dog.
Yes, the conversation had turned to a discussion of surfing on molten rock. I distinctly remember thinking, that's too bad, he was cute, but surfing lava? Geeks!

As the night moved on, the conversation turned to other, less dorky topics. His cuteness helped me put the lava surfing on the back shelf of my mind. He was funny, smart and we liked the same movies. Well, movie. Raising Arizona.

Things progressed. I'll not go into details because I think some people who read this blog still think I was a nice girl at this point in my life. They'd be wrong, but I don't need to rub their noses in it.

A day or so later, he called and invited me to go camping. This was not a period in my life in which I embraced the outdoors. My parents had taken us camping as kids. I remembered being cold and filthy. I remember being forced to bathe in the icy water of the streams near out campsite. Not fun at all. So I politely declined his invitation. I believe I said, "Camping? Uh no, I don't camp. We spent thousands of years building civilization, why in the world would I want to sleep on dirt?"

Amazing our relationship ever came about, isn't it? Over time we became friends, be became a full fledged member of the Walter Street group, and over time a relationship developed. He was the one I wanted to be with when I was happy, when I was sad and pretty much anytime in between. Stan liked him too. Which says a lot. Stan didn't like anyone I'd dated. He tolerated them, but Mr. Dog was different. Stan enjoyed spending time with him.

Eventually I moved out of Walter Street and into a flat of our own, we got our first dog, then our second (real woof woof kind of dogs, the babies came later) later we got engaged and married. Monday is the seventh anniversary of our marriage. Mr. Dog, you rock. I still love you more than zombies love human flesh. Always will.

Because I love my country,

Where were you?

Mr. Dog and I are about to celebrate seven years of wedded bliss. That's right, we got married right after Sept 11, 2001. September 11th was a Tuesday that year, our wedding was Saturday, Sept 15th.

I had an appointment for physical therapy early that morning and then was supposed to go in to work for the last day before I took off for the wedding. I remember thinking the DJs on the radio were making a terrible, tasteless joke as they discussed what they were hearing from callers. I remember pulling into the parking structure and seeing the plane fly right into the tower, and even then I don't think I grasped the full impact of what this meant. Just how much it would alter the world.

I went home to find Mr. Dog. We sat in stunned slience watching endless news reports, constant rebroadcasting of the second plane's impact. We sat together until we couldn't watch anymore. We decided to go out to the park with the dogs. And it turned out we were not alone in needing to talk to other people.

I remember standing in Dolores Park that afternoon with Mr. Dog and a group of our dog park friends discussing who could possibly be responsible for such a horrific act of terrorism. I remember the sounds of police or fire engine sirens in the distance bringing our small group to absolute silence. I remember discussing what might happen next, if San Francisco was safe.

Later that day we learned that Mr. Dog's sister had been on a flight that in the air as the attacks took place. Her flight was grounded in Las Vegas. We had no way to reach her. The airline would not give any details on the accommodation arrangements made for the people stranded by the emergency landings. This made me worry more. And I was also worried about other guests who might have been in the air, several coming from New York or Boston, and I worried that they were on those planes.

Mr. Dog and I discussed canceling the wedding, the logistics of rescheduling everything we'd been planning for over a year, and then decided against it. We were not going to put off our marriage, that was important.

Guests called to cancel, other called to reassure us they were going to do whatever it took to get there. I remember distinctly telling a couple of guest that there was no way I'd expect them to get on a flight. Turns out the bigger problem was getting on a flight at all, airports closed and opened with almost no notice. Mr. Dog's brother tried, but no flights were leaving the NY area. Mr. Dog's friend from Boston managed to cobble together a series of connecting flights that let her arrive just as I walked down the aisle. She was meant to be part of his wedding party, and though she did not get to stand up with him as we said our vows, I am still humbled by her tenacity and commitment to be there to celebrate with us. My grandparents also were able to fly. Only because a kindly security officer saw my 90-something grandfather waiting in he massive queue that stretched the length of the sidewalk in front of the St. Louis departures terminal and brought him to the head of the line. I think of this man's kindness every time I think of our wedding.

And I think of the others who attended unexpectedly. A friend of a guest, unable to return to London. A friend who had declined because he had been planning to be in New York with friends suddenly became available. I later heard that one of the friends he was going to visit had perished in the towers.

I remember my dad, when delivering his toast, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate our joy despite the national tragedy. And I remember the relief we all felt for having a few hours away from the horror. (I also remember our friends partying like it was the end of the world, and I suspect we drank the open bar dry). And when the reception was over, we invited everyone over to our apartment, and continued on until the wee hours.

We see the aftermath of these events all around us now. At the time we didn't really know to the extent it would shape our experiences. I knew it was monumental, but I don't think I could have ever predicted just how broad the scope of impact would be. I don't think anyone could.

So where were you seven years ago?

Linguisitcs and the 4-year-old

"Big Dog, when are you going to start going potty by yourself," I asked, slightly amused that though he is long potty trained, I still am asked to accompany him to the bathroom on a regular basis.
"When I'm a parent," he says.

A parent. Hmmm. That word means a lot to Big Dog. And while he uses it a lot, he also uses it interchangeably with grown up. When little girls and boys are not longer little, they are parents. Sharp knives, wine and the stove are all "for parents." Driving a car, for parents. Poppa's drill, for parents (no matter how much he may really want to disagree with that one). Parents get to decide what's for dinner and eat as much chocolate as they like, whenever they like. And he's right about a few of those things. And wrong about all of them too. He just doesn't realize the difference.

In his world being a parent means that you are in charge. You get to make the decisions that make the kids laugh or cry. You get to have the Tivo remote and you get to decide when it is time for bed (well, kind of decide). You get to have the fun, dangerous stuff and do things unsupervised and without asking permission. Being a parent is power. And that's kind of cool. In his world, being a grown up is the same as being a parent, and since most of the grown ups he knows are also parents, he blurs the line between the two.

When I explained the difference to him at one point, he got it, but it didn't stick. He understands that some people are parents and grown ups and other are grown ups but not parents. He just calls them all parents unless corrected. And since he loves the idea of having babies of his own, being a poppa to his own little boys and girls, I can understand how that distinction remains blurred through everyday use. It's actually kind of cute.

What I haven't explained is that while I get to set the rules, I am not really in charge. My own self-determination has been severely tempered by the wants and needs of my two little boys. They have the power to make me laugh and equal power to make me weep. Watching them develop new skills makes me swell with pride and watching them stumble or struggle breaks my heart. Does he get that difference? No, in this relationship I have to play sheriff to keep them in line, but they are the driving force behind my rule of law. I make rules to keep them safe, to keep them happy and to help them grow into successful people. (Ok, I make a few rules to help keep my sanity, but that's part of keeping them happy right? A crazy mom is not a good mom.)

To be fair, I get his perspective on parenthood. It looks pretty awesome from where he is sitting. Honestly, it is downright amazing from where I am sitting too. Still, I hope he starts going to the bathroom on his own long before he becomes a parent. That could be a sticking point for finding a future co-parent.

Special thanks to Gregg @onedadslife for suggesting the topic that sparked this post. If you're on twitter you should follow him. He's cool like that.

More developments on the blood sucking front

On the way home from Portland, Big Dog calls to me from the back seat.
"Mama, some blood came out of my owie."
"What owie?" I asked, trying to figure out how he injured himself while securely strapped into a car seat.
"This one," he says, pointing to an old scratch on his arm.
"Ow, did you pick the scab?" I asked as a lead in to warn him off such risky behavior in the future. (It's OK to be a little in awe of my amazing parenting skills, really.)
"No, I licked it."
"What? Why did you lick it?" I asked, clearly thrown off my parenting game by the unexpected response.
"To get the blood out," he replied.
"Are you a vampire?" I asked, especially in light of his earlier jokes about blood sucking.
"No!" he responded with absolute confidence.
"Are you sure? Because I think you are," I prodded.
"Yeah I'm sure. If I was, I wouldn't be a vampire in this town!"
"Really?" I asked unclear on the sudden issue with being a vampire in Seattle, "Why not?"
"I'd be in jail!" he explained, with a slight note of exasperation.
"Oh," I said. As though that cleared it all up.

So now I'm slightly worried that Big Dog may have vampire tendencies. What do I do with that bit of info? Should I start wearing a turtleneck to bed?

Nothing to see here, please move along

And since you are moving along, why not check out some of the brilliant things these other women have been blogging about. Here are a few recent posts that really hit home for me:

Down To Earth Mama's "Community Organizers: You Have My Respect"

Moomette's "A Sorry Time for Feminists~Ask Your Baby Boomer Mothers"

Bang The Drum's "Sarah Palin: Even Pretty Speeches Need Truth Under Them"

Stefania over at Momocrats' "Lies, Lies, Lies" (really, gotta give her a double thumbs up for the amazing collection of links AND the 80s music nod)

So how's that for passing the buck. I got a blog post up with almost no writing of my own.

If I could talk to the...vegetables?

Little Dog has always been verbal. He's got a great vocabulary (not all words that I'm happy he knows, but still, big vocabulary) and will chat with most anyone. So I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised when, at lunch, he was chatting with the corn he was eating.
"Hey you! Get over there!" he said in a stern voice as he nudged it onto his fork with his finger.
"Who are you talking to?" I asked.
"da corn." he explained as though it was the most natural thing in the world, "I gonna eat you up!"
Cute, kind of funny, right? I thought so.

This morning at breakfast, NE asked if I'd seen him talking to his food. I told her this little story and she had another one. Talking to strawberries.
"Sorry for you. You go into my tummy!" he said as he popped it into his mouth.

Is there a point to this story? No. Just thought I'd share.

What awaits unexpected guests at the Followthatdog house.

Big Dog and I were in the kitchen making dinner, waiting for Auntie Chihuahua to arrive. While we were waiting, Big Dog repeatedly asked how much longer.
"Any minute now," I promised.
"So if the doorbell rings, that will be her?" he asked
"Probably."
"And if it isn't, we won't let them in," he continued
"That's probably a good policy since we aren't expecting anyone else."
"We won't let them in, but ...we'll suck their blood!" he says in his best big creepy voice.
"What?!?" I asked, slightly stunned, wondering where the hell he came up with that.
"Nah, I'm just kidding," he says with an impish smile. Or is he? Bwahahaha!

Interesting little experiment

Want to shock yourself speechless? Ok, here's what you do.
Take 400 milligrams of Riboflavin first think in the morning (I take it to prevent migraines. Seems to be working too. Cool, no?)
At lunch eat a big beet salad. Lots and lots of red beets are key here, sure the blue cheese and vinaigrette are nice, but the beets are the important ingredient.

When you take your afternoon potty break you'll know what I mean.

Check out my sexy new look

Just put the finishing touches on the makeover of my cooking blog, From Mosh Pits to Mashed Potatoes.
If you like food, cooking, or just reading more about my crazy family, you should really check it out. All of the cool kids are doing it.

Did you hear the one about the housekeeper that fired the home owner?

Uh no, that's not the set up for a joke. This is my life. Yes, our housekeepers decided our house was too "disorganized" to clean. What does this say about the interior of my home when a professional housekeeper thinks my home is beyond help? All I know is that it's not good.

So after recovering from the shock of rejection, I headed over the craigslist and started recruiting new professional tidiers. I decided to lay it out on the table when I sent my email. Here's what they got.

Hello,
I am interested in getting a quote for biweekly housekeeping at my home in Seattle. We have a three bedroom 1700 sq ft house. (kitchen, two bathrooms, living room, playroom, dining room).

We have two large dogs and two small children, so there is mess and clutter. Unfortunately, I can't keep up on my own. This is why we need a housekeeper.

Please let me know what I need to do to get a quote.
Thank you,
Followthatdog

I got responses, set up interviews and hoped for the best. As I walked them through the house I explained in explicit terms that this was the best shape they were likely to see this house in, if you don't count the 5 minutes of clean that comes right after the housekeepers visit. I told them I was not the kind of person who tidied up before the housekeeper came, so they needed to expect there would be toys on the floor and dishes on the counter. I stressed that I was looking for help because I am a crappy crappy housekeeper and if it was left to me we'd drown in our own clutter.

Guess what? They didn't think my house was a total shit-heap! Maybe I overstressed the slovenly state of my home because they did kind of look at me like I was nuts as I rambled on and on about toys, kids, dogs, etc. One woman even went into detail about her worst home to prove to me that my house was not even near the foulest slum she has to clean (4 bedrooms, 3.5 baths, occupied by 3 bachelors. Need I say more?) I was relieved, I had been half expecting them to run, screaming from my home in search of Clorox wipes.

So we got the quotes, all lower than what we had been paying our previous housekeepers might I add, and finally settled on one woman to do the job. We're opting for weekly instead of bi-weekly cleaning, maybe that will help. She starts next week. I'm taking bets on how long she goes before she fires us. Or at very least demands a raise. Anyone know how to make odds?

I walked right into his clever trap

We were talking about birthday parties, really. That's how he set out to trick me. How he managed to lure me into that conversation is beyond me, but he did, that sneaky boy. Except I started the discussion. See, Big Dog is going to be 5 in just over a month, so I'd better get planning. We've decided on a specific location, and I was asking about a theme, you know, what kind of invitations and goody bags and all of that I need to buy. I was trying to explain a theme to a almost 5-year-old by reminding him of birthday themes past.

"Last year you had a monkey theme, for your third birthday we had a fish theme. remember?"
"I want a fish theme."
"Ok, but you could do a dog theme or a cowboy theme or a Hot Wheels theme, really, anything you want.
"I want fish."
"Great, we can do that. So we'll get invitations with fish on them"
"How about a fish bowl?"
"Sure, we could do a fish bowl."
"I'm getting a fish! I'm getting a fish and I'll name her Goldy," he says with real excitement.
"Wait, you mean an actual fishbowl? I was thinking invitations...hold on."
"You know what kind of fish I want? Clown fish," still brimming with joy over the idea of it.
"Wait, real fish?"
"Yes."
"Um, well...."
And now we have fish. See, he's sneaky that way. And I'm a pushover. At least I talked him down to goldfish, right?


Please welcome the newest members of the Followthatdog household, Goldie and Spotty. And no, they aren't that blurry in real life.

I should probably fess up and tell you that no, these are not the original Goldie and Spotty. Sadly the original Spotty took a turn for the worse when we brought them home. So yesterday morning, after making one trip to the pet store to buy fish medicine, a tank heater, tank test strips and a book on how the hell I'm supposed to keep an aquarium because I'm obviously a major fuck up in this department, I returned home to find Spotty was significantly worse. Adding insult to injury, Goldie had decided that floating listlessly at the top of the tank was one of her major talents. I tested the water and it was perfect, the tank temperature, although on the low end of the comfort range for goldfish, was still solidly within the acceptable range. At this point I rejected the pet store "Aquatics Specialist" assertion that the water was too cold and the heater would fix them right up (yeah, $30 later I reject this claim).

The outlook was poor, and I decided a second trip to the pet store was in order. This time I chose a different location, partly because I no longer had confidence in Mr. Aquatics Specialist and partly because I didn't want them to realize that, yes, it was me 15 minutes ago making the outrageous purchases to save my new fish and yes, those outrageous purchases failed to save my $2.99 goldfish. So I headed to the other pet store, found suitable lookalikes and headed home. When I arrived home Spotty had succumb to his illness, and Goldie was still lolling around the top of the tank.

As a sneaky mom who replaces fish instead of having uncomfortable conversations, I made sure the kids were safely away in the other part of the house, and I swapped fish. Spotty made his return to the sea, ok, more accurately, the sewage treatment plant, and Goldie was moved to a smaller glass pitcher for her final moments and hidden away on the kitchen counter, behind a screen of wine bottles. Yeah, that's how my house is run.

All was well when the boys returned to their room later. "Spotty is feeling better! Goldie said sorry and now Spotty is happy!" said Big Dog. Sure, kid. That's what happened. I admit, I feel a little guilty lying to my kids, but really, which is worse, having to explain that within 24 hours I can kill two fish without even trying or letting him believe that the magical heater and a fish apology is all it takes to bring his fishy back? (If you're going to say lying is worse, please don't answer.)

So this morning I went to check on the original Goldie, thinking I'd be doing another flush job before the boys got up, and guess what. She's up and swimming happily about. So now I have a third fish, currently residing in a jar on my kitchen counter while the newly introduced Goldie and Spotty luxuriate in the 10 gallon tank in the boys room. Here I am, liar liar pants on fire, stuck with an extra fish. Now I need to figure out if this one is going to keep on surviving, and therefore can be introduced as a long-lost relative of the Spotty and Goldie in the tank, or if this is just a ploy to get back into the tank so she can cause even more costly trips to the pet store.

I guess this is what that whole "oh what tangled webs we weave" thing is about, ending up with extra fish.

Open Letter to the Creepy Guy Harrassing My Dogs

Dear Creepy Guy,
Yesterday you caused quite a stir in my yard as you stood inches from my fence with your dog. Yeah, my dogs bark at people who walk by, even more so if you have a dog with you. Nothing serious, but yes, it is noisy.

Most people, wait, most normal either walk on by, or the dog lovers stop and chat with my large, friendly dogs. So imagine my surprise when I walked out on the porch to see what was causing the ruckus, and there you were, staring menacingly at my dogs, obviously trying to cause a problem.

I called to the dogs, and they backed off, but you remained. You continued to stare, first at the dogs, then at me with some kind of smoldering anger. My annoyance changed to concern, that much anger being directed at my dogs and now myself made me concerned for our safety.
I noticed that your wife and child were across the street, waiting for you to join them. I can only imagine that you separated from your family to rile my dogs. So really, what's the deal? Why focus your evil stares at my family?

I think you may be the person we had an unfortunate run in with almost two years ago. You lied then, so we don't feel at all comfortable with your current "interest" in our fenced yard. After watching you outside the gate, I wondered what you might be cooking up, what little plot you are devising. How's that? Do you like being looked at as a nut job with bad intentions? No, well the move the fuck on. Leave me and my dogs alone. If you come back, I'm planning on videotaping your evil stare-fest. It freaked me out, I feel I need to document it.

Oh and a word to the wise, when crossing the street, look both ways. The guy in the red car was not in the wrong when you jumped out in front of him. Didn't seem to keep you from giving him the same evil stare with the addition of a few choice hand gestures, but really, it was all you.

Sincerely,
Followthatdog

Anyone have advice on how to deal with this kind of thing? His whole display was threatening and scary. Seriously, it is keeping me up at night.
To be clear, our dogs are like family members. They are indoor dogs with supervised outdoor privileges. We do our best to curb unnecessary barking, but they are dogs, so they bark.