So Long, Farewell. It’s Time for Me to Re-Spawn.

from: joyreactor.com

“I can’t find my house,” my 11-year-old daughter, Dimples, lamented.

At the time, she was sitting in our living room listening to the Sound of Music soundtrack (the good one).  Since I get lost all of the time, especially when I am actually inside the place I’m trying to find (like a store at the mall – “Where the heck is Macy’s?  Oh yeah, I’m standing in it.”), I wasn’t completely surprised by her proclamation – just a little sad that she inherited the defective gene of disorientation from me.

Then I realized she was playing Minecraft.  She is probably the only person in the world who plays Minecraft while she is singing along to “Do, Re, Mi”.*

(If you do not know what Minecraft is, then I hate you consider yourself fortunate to be in a state of blissful ignorance, pour yourself a glass of champagne, and pull up the delightful YouTube video of, “What Does the Fox Say?” to celebrate your escape from Stupid Things to Which Kids Today Become Addicted.)

“I should just kill myself,” she announced.

“That seems a bit drastic,” I said.

“No, then I can re-spawn and I’ll end up back at my house again.”

Well, at least the game fosters creative problem solving skills.

I think I’ll try that technique the next time I’m at the mall and can’t find my car in the parking lot.

(*But, apparently, “My Favorite Things” is big in the Minecraft world…)

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WhatIMeant2DoALongTimeAgo

WhatIMeant2Say is taking a wee bit of a blogging break this week!  IWishICouldSay that I will be on a vacation or doing something fun, but I really am just LittleBit2Overwhelmed with a crazy week.  I will leave you with something that will probably stay burned in your brain for about 7 days.  (Here is a link to some of the still pics by photographer Carli Davidson.)  If you forgive me, or can bring yourself to stop laughing, feel free to return next Monday for a brand new post!

I Think I Was Just a Victim of a Complisult

Men, the next time you feel inclined to give a woman a compliment and mention pregnancy in the same sentence – don’t.  I don’t care how staggeringly laudatory the words sound in your head.  Just. Keep. Your. Mouth. Closed.

We all know the old adage, “Don’t ever ask someone when her baby is due even if she looks like she’s pregnant because she may not be.  She may just have an unfortunate deposition of her weight,  and then you look like an idiot and she hates herself and really hates you and it just causes an overall environment of ill-will.” ~ Ben Franklin in Poor Richard’s Almanac (I think I suspect why Richard needed some sympathy – and it wasn’t because he was poverty-stricken.)

But that’s not the only way to get your teeth knocked out.

Let’s just say, for example, you announce to a woman you haven’t seen for three months, “Wow, you don’t look like you just had a baby!”

And she didn’t. Just. Have. A. Baby.

She had a baby exactly 10 years and 8 months ago.

I have it on very good authority that said woman will be slightly confused for a moment, then say, “Thanks.”  You, the man, will walk off feeling quite proud that you just made someone’s day.

Oh, you made it all right.

You made it miserable.

Because the woman then thinks, “What did he mean by that?   Does he say that to every woman he hasn’t seen for three months?  Does he say that to every woman?  I did gain weight over the summer.  So, is he saying I don’t look like I just had a baby because I look like I’m about to have a baby?  Oh. My. God.  That man just called me FAT.  And it’s 7:15 a.m. on the first day of school, and I think I might just need to find a closet somewhere and start crying.”

At least, that’s what I imagine she would be thinking.  I wouldn’t know.

So Does This Mean I Won’t Be Covered Under the New Health Care Plan?

I was watching Roswell with my daughter the other night on Netflix (and no, I would not recommend it – not because it’s scary, because it definitely isn’t – but mostly because the guy who is supposed to be sexy just gives me the creeps, and I consider a television show a complete waste of time if I can’t have a crush on the lead actor) when it suddenly hit me that I am an alien.

It makes perfect sense when you think about it.  And now that you are reading this, you are obviously thinking about it.  But, you might have to think about it a bit longer than this to see the logic that led me to this conclusion. So, I guess I can’t say, “It makes perfect sense when you think about it.”  Because that implies an immediacy to the sense-making that probably doesn’t really happen until you get a little more information.  So, a better statement would be, “It makes perfect sense after you read the following paragraphs that give you the scientific reasoning that clearly leads to this conclusion, and no other.”

All my life I have been fearing that I would contract my mother’s hypochondria.  The last few years, I have been consulting a few different doctors for various ailments that seem to elude any kind of definitive diagnosis.  Thus, leading me to reluctantly admit that I, indeed, have developed full onset hypochondria with disturbingly realistic symptoms.  I mean, if there is something really wrong with me, wouldn’t some doctor have figured it out by now?

Not. If. I. Have. An. Alien. Anatomy.

This would totally explain those times when I am positive than I have a raging fever, and the thermometer says my temp is 96.2.  Well, for humans, that would be a bit low, but normal.  But for an alien, that could very well be dangerously close to my brain exploding!

If I even have a brain.

My alien anatomy also completely supports my supposition that I am genuinely ill with some kind of real health issue and proves that my doctors’ implications that my pain is all in my head is just an indication that they are not well-versed in the physiology of other creatures who deserve to be treated without being accused of mental health problems.

I feel a bit sorry for my daughter because this all clearly means that she has some difficult times ahead of her.  But, at least she will not have to worry about inheriting my hypochondria.

Whew.  Dodged that bullet.

Does anyone know if Dr. Who is taking new patients? There’s 11 of them – surely one has an opening in his calendar…

A Tale of Two Butts and a Bath

For those of you who don’t know me very well, I have two Butts. And, apparently, they are quite itchy. This can be slightly irritating with one Butt, but with two it’s downright aggravating – and expensive.

I should probably mention, for those of you who don’t know me too well, that the Butts happen to be dogs – Mrs. Pain in the Butt (golden retriever, 12 years) and Wonderbutt (bulldog, 2 years).

Mrs. Pain in the Butt got her nickname because she has grown increasingly neurotic over the years, and being partly deaf does not seem to have improved her mental health.

Wonderbutt got his nickname for many reasons. You can read one here. And if you are questioning whether he truly deserves this name, another reason is because we often say, “I wonder… but I’m not even going to ask why he ate that completely inedible and somewhat pointy object that somehow managed not to rip his intestines to shreds.”

So, anyway, the two Butts both have skin problems. Mrs. P.I.B., I’m convinced, has Munchausen Syndrome, and has completely devised her own self-induced mysterious disease that is causing her skin to flake, lesions to form, and fur to billow about the living room. Despite her ragged appearance, I haven’t seen her scratch herself once in the last month, but the vet is convinced that she has allergies and Dramatic Treatment is Called For.

Then we have Wonderbutt, who approaches every person butt-side first because his rotundness and short legs preclude him from taking care of his own skin irritation in the region of his derriere. He is losing hair on both sides, which caused Great Concern last year, but apparently is only some weird form of Seasonal Affective Disorder that makes his depressed follicles shove out any hair that won’t let them “have their space.” I know exactly how they feel.

That’s right. I empathize with hair follicles.

Because of these problems, we decided to give both Butts a bath this weekend with some soap that cost more than my last 5 visits to the hair salon put together.

The smart person who designed this million dollar soap recommended that the dog stand for 20 minutes with the soap on its skin. When my husband, Cap’n Firepants, relayed this information, I had visions of lathered up Butts racing around our house, so I wisely opted to set up an outdoor bathing area. I implemented a complicated system of leashes, collars, a garden hose, and a swing set to create a makeshift grooming salon.

The two Butts from left to right – Wonderbutt and Mrs. Pain in the Butt

Even if you know me very well, you may not know that Wonderbutt has a thing about the backyard, where he is never allowed unsupervised because we are afraid he will poison himself or choke on a tumbleweed of ball moss. Other than consuming everything in sight, when Wonderbutt is in the backyard, his favorite thing to do is to charge. He races around with absolutely no regard for big or small obstacles; once he ran full-speed into a tree. Last week, he managed to knock both my husband and me down in the span of 10 minutes. I guffawed triumphantly at the toppling of Cap’n Firepants until Wonderbutt head-butted me in the back of my knees on my way inside.

Anyway, so I got Mrs. P.I.B. hooked up, and then it was Wonderbutt’s turn. He was being sassy, and kept trying to eat his collar, or flatten his head and neck to the ground so I couldn’t fasten the darn thing. Finally, I got him attached.

I stood up, and Wonderbutt looked at me with a familiar devious glint in his eye. Then he charged me at 100 miles an hour.

The leash caught him up a millisecond before he reached me, causing him to tumble over backwards with a surprised look on his face.

Wonderbutt wonders wtf just happened…

I am proud of myself that I was still able to get this picture despite the fact that I was laughing my butt off at my Butt.

Don’t worry; he recovered quickly, and proceeded to completely wrap himself around Mrs. P.I.B.’s legs and knock her off her feet like a calf in the rodeo.  He’s like some kind of wonky Weeble with an overbite who happens to emit noxious fumes.

God, I love my Butts.

Laurels Are Not Very Comfortable to Rest Upon

Well, we are a little over two weeks into the new year, and I have already accomplished my New Year’s Resolution.  Determined to boost my followership from the 5 people at which it had plateaued around July of last year, I resolved to increase my followers to 10.  Woohoo!  I made it.  That means I have close to 11 months now to do absolutely nothing before I have to make my next resolution.

Also, according to some very complicated math and statistics compiled by my 10-year old daughter, this means that I am now “too big to fail”.  That’s right, Government People.  If I go down, so do 10 other Citizens of the World, so you better make sure that doesn’t happen.

It occurred to me that, with the new year and the increase in followers, I should probably amend the Terms of Agreement for This Blog.  And, don’t say you didn’t know there were any.  You should really pay more attention before you click those buttons.

In case you did not bother to read the fine print before you joined my fan club, here is what you committed to with your impetuous mouse click:

“I agree to complete all of the New Year’s Resolutions set forth by Mrs. Cap’n Firepants by the end of 2013, or I shall forfeit all of my assets,  a warehouse of dark chocolate, and an airplane hangar of Diet Coke to the aforementioned spouse of Cap’n Firepants.”

Beginning today, the above Terms of Agreement for This Blog have now been amended to read as follows:

“I agree to never use any phrases in my comments that allude to the titles or lyrics of any song that is related, directly or indirectly, to the musical, Les Miserables.  I also agree to never hire Russell Crowe to ‘sing’ in another movie, and only to hire him to act if Wonderbutt is taken hostage and that is the only way to save him.  In addition, I agree that Donald Trump has horrible hair, and I promise that I will never leak to the New York Times that Mrs. Cap’n Firepants is the true Santa Claus.  I also promise not to leak.  Because that’s gross.”

Whew.  I need a nap.  Having 10 followers is very exhausting.  I’m not sure I can handle all of this pressure.

I hope the government is ready with its bail-out.

If you do not comply with The Terms of Agreement for This Blog, than I will need to send out my Enforcer, Wonderbutt.

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I don’t know what I’m doing. I am a very techie person, but I usually don’t reblog my own posts. I tried to “Copy a Post”, and I kept getting a new post page, which was blank so I didn’t really think it was worth copying. Anyway, I think I only have 3 followers left who were with me the first time I posted this, and I am having a bit of difficulty being humorous at the moment. Oh, and just so you parents of little ones know, once THEY know, the pressure around this time of year is not reduced – just more directly inflicted. I suppose I could keep typing, and make this reblog completely unnecessary because you will have lost interest – kind of like filibustering my own blog – but I apparently have to hit the “Reblog Post” button for anything to happen. So, I guess I’ll do that now. Enjoy…

whatimeant2say

Sometimes my daughter can be extremely smart and devastatingly dense at the same time.  Her Santa Claus reveal is a perfect example.

A few years ago, when Dimples was 6, she started making little comments that hinted at her suspicions of Santa’s true identity.  One night close to Christmas, Cap’n Firepants had to work late.  Dimples and I were eating dinner, and she suddenly blurted out, “Mom, are you Santa Claus?”

Dimples has always been a pretty logical person.  I could have dodged the question, feeling quite comfortable in saying “no” because I actually am not Santa Claus.  I’m Mrs. Cap’n Firepants, and that’s burden enough.  But I knew what she was asking, and I decided to honor the spirit of her question.

“Do you really want to know?” I asked.  Because there is no going back once that question gets an honest answer.  Step over that line and part…

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So, I must share this wonderful poem that was written, based on my recounting of a pathological liar’s tale in yesterday’s post. Love it!

Wise Counsel

SHORT FICTION/POEM

LITTLE EIGHT-YEAR OLD BOY

This little eight-year old boy is up in the ceiling again!
He must be back to his usual pranks of rewiring fans and lights.
He replaces connections to switches, I really wonder his gain.
Right now, in the roof with pliers; where is the fright for heights?

I left my computer passworded but he gave me a guest account.
I thought I was the administrator, now how did he gain access?
I now pay him to gain access, I never knew this could amount.
This little eight-year old boy, seems to do his things in excess.

I left this boy with a bicycle and drove a car away,
this little eight-year old boy stumbled upon my bike,
he considered my giant bike too bulky and clumsy to sway,
so he used it’s part to convert his bicycle to a an automatic bike.

I left…

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Weekend Gotaway – Night 2

I honestly think I could stretch these posts about our 3 days at The Ranch until Christmas.  The Popularity of the Poop Bug Post made me realize just what kind of minutiae my blog readers really crave.

So, quick recap in case you are too lazy to read the last 3 posts (which I am too lazy to link to, so we’re even):  we went to The Dictator’s Ranch, Wonderbutt was unintimidated by the Wall of Death or The Ranch cat, Wonderbutt kept me up all night, and then almost drowned in the pond, but was saved by Dimples, who is 9 and not at all brawny enough to be rescuing 70 pound bulldogs scrambling for their lives.  Now you’re all caught up.

I kind of lied in the title of this post, because I must present you with a few pictures of Day 2 before we proceed to Night 2.  I need to lay the groundwork for my 2nd Night of No Sleep.

Wonderbutt had a busy day.  After nearly drowning, we went for a walk up to the barn.

Wonderbutt discovered that Cattle Guards are also good Bulldog Guards. Or – he’s a cow. It’s a toss-up.

Wonderbutt did his best to bully Pitt, the horse. Pitt merely offered his muzzle for Wonderbutt to lick it. I’m sure, if Wonderbutt had been on the other side of that fence, and there were no paparazzi around, Pitt would have kicked him over the hill and back into the pond.

Wonderbutt contemplated plunging into the horse trough, but decided it was too much work.

In other words, Wonderbutt was pooped.  There was no way Wonderbutt would keep me up again all night.  NO WAY.

Being the proactive person that I am, I informed Cap’n Firepants that he would be in charge of Wonderbutt for the 2nd night.

“Fine.  But you are sleeping next to Dimples.”

“Hah!  No problem.”  You just got the worst end of that deal, I thought to myself.  Dimples sleeps, and does not try to dismember cats in the middle of the night.

I went to bed early.  About an hour later, the rest of the Firepants Family joined me.  I drowsily listened to Wonderbutt settling in on the floor at the foot of the bed, welcomed Dimples to her spot beside me, and hoped that the Cap’n understood that, when Wonderbutt started whining to leave the room so he could go tear apart the cat, the Cap’n would be following him.

Another hour later.  “What the – ”  I sat up in bed.  Dimples had just elbowed me in the eye.  In her sleep.  Hard.

The Cap’n was in a deep slumber.  So was Wonderbutt.

I turned my back to Dimples, my sweet, non-violent daughter, and went back to sleep.

“Holy – !” I leapt up.  She had done it again.  Amazingly, my cries of pain woke no one in the room but me.

Then the Blanket Battle began.  Dimples would roll over, leaving me with an edge of the blanket about three inches wide.  I would tug it back from her, only to be back in the same freezing position thirty minutes later.

I got smart.  Anticipating a roll-over maneuver, I grabbed my corner of the blanket before she could pull it away.

She sat up in bed with her eyes still closed, and engaged in a Tug of War to the Death.  That girl is freakishly strong in her sleep.

I am freakishly strong when I’ve had no sleep.  And when I’m fighting a comatose child who weighs 70 pounds less than I do.  I won that time, then rolled my twice as heavy body over a quarter of the blanket so it would be impossible for her to yank it away from me again.

And the Cap’n and Wonderbutt slept on.

And I hated them all – the whole darn Firepants Family.  What kind of stupid vacation weekend was this?

Once again, the next morning, I was the Lazy Sleeper Inner.  Who told Tall Tales of a 9 year old girl who beats up her mother in the middle of the night.

No one believed me.

Next time, I need to just let Dimples give me a black eye.

Or suddenly come down with a case of the Shingles right before the car pulls out of the driveway for our “relaxing” weekend.

I Have a Razor and I’m Not Afraid to Use It

“This all comes from having a husband who has a sketchy history with lizards.” This is what I was thinking Sunday night when I was in the middle of risking my life on the mean streets of Boston.

My day started early in the a.m when I started getting ready for my trip to Boston.

In the middle of my shower, I decided I should shave my legs in case my plane crashed. Then, I told myself that I needed to remember to pack a razor. Then I put my foot on my little teak table in my shower. And then I bent down and was face to face with a lizard.

I am not freaked out by lizards – though it is somewhat disconcerting to find one in my shower. I responded to this surprise visit by finishing my business, and then grabbing Cap’n Firepants’ phone from his bedside table so I could take a picture.

“Whadrudoin?” the Cap’n sleepily asked.

“Documenting the lizard in our shower.”

It’s a testament to Cap’n Firepants that he did not ask any follow up questions.

A few minutes later, the Cap’n got up to take his shower.

“Where is the lizard?” he asked.

“Why?” I said, cautiously. Actually, I think I said, “Why? Don’t you dare kill him. He’s cute.” The Cap’n and I differ on the treatment of varmint trespassers. He likes to squish them under his foot, while I generally pick them up and take them outside.

“So I don’t step on him by accident,” he responded, to my relief.

The point of this whole story is that I completely forgot to pack my razor, due to my fear that Cap’n Firepants might squish the unfortunate lizard in our shower. This is what I realized when I reached my Boston hotel later that evening after my exciting adventures barely evading the law for flying under an assumed name that wasn’t even my choice to assume in the first place. (See yesterday’s post for that fun story.)

So I decided to make a trek around 8:30 at night to the local CVS pharmacy.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned before that I completely lack any kind of map-reading skills, night sight, or sense of direction. Or common sense.

Oh, and I was alone.

Of course I went 10 blocks in the wrong direction at the beginning of my trek. But I finally found the CVS with the help of the good people of Harvard Square.

There were some decidedly unacademic looking people hanging out at the CVS.

Quite a few seemed to be having an attack of the munchies.

But I made it back to the hotel safe and sound, and confident in the fact that I would have smooth legs during my first day on the Harvard campus.

Now I am going to include a picture of the lizard and, in retrospect, it really wasn’t worth risking my life to take. I am telling you this now because I don’t know how to make captions on my pics using the WordPress iPad app.