Caterpillars and Pigs

Yesterday, our family doctor gave us some very bad news. Jill can't go back to school for at least seven days. SEVEN days? Is he trying to kill me? Is my blood pressure not high enough? The kid is not even that sick. But she may or may not have a certain illness.
And now she has gotten her sister sick, which means I am now busy hunting down Tamiflu. Emmi has to be treated, because of her pre-existing conditons. And so now they are both sentenced to at least seven days at home. They must be fever free for three days before they can go back to school. I am sure they will be fine. However, I am not sure I am going to make it. Nor am I sure the world's population of butterflies will survive.

Do you think caterpillars can get the piggie flu?

All the caterpillars have names. Mommy, Daddy, Emmi, Jill, Madelyn (her sister on her dad's side), Allie (her best friend), and Ally (Emmi's best friend). Apparently, Emmi (the real one, not the caterpillar) just squished one of the Allies. There is a fight I am pretending not to hear.

Donut know when to shut up.

Quite often a police car or two is parked in front of the kids' schools. I have inquired about this before, and learned they are required to stop by each school a certain number of times each week. One or two police cars is not all that unusual. Four seemed a bit much.

But when I walked in, all four officers stood laughing and talking in the foyer. They all said hello, as I walked by. Being the smartass I am, I quipped, "Those kindergartners giving you trouble?"

The smallest of the officers laughs and replies, "No ma'am. Just hanging out."

Not knowing when to shut up, I go on. "Well, four police officers 'hanging out' in front of the school kind of makes the mommies nervous. Maybe you guys should go hang out across the street." I glance back over my shoulder as I say across the street, getting a glimpse of the only building across the street.

A donut shop.

Silence. And I am parked in a fire zone.

The Cat's Meow

Halloween is right around the corner. I happen to love Halloween. I get into the costumes and the candy and the scaring of the neighborhood children. Did I tell you how last year Kenny hid in the bushes, set Emmi and Jill out front with the candy dish, then scared the crap out of a group of about ten junior high kids when they came to trick or treat at our house? The best part of the whole thing was the neighbor across the street video taped it from his driveway where he was handing out candy. The girls screamed. But the boys? They ran! And screamed, high pitched little squeals. We heard kids telling the story for the rest of the night and for several weeks after. Jill is still known as the kid whose dad hid in the bushes on Halloween. I am already planning what we will do this year. It has to top last year. We have to live up to our reputation. And I should probably also get with the program in the Halloween costume department.

Emmi's we have figured out. I actually lucked out. Sitting in my bedroom is a picture of Jill at four and Emmi at seven months. They are decked out in the Halloween costumes. Jill is a pink witch, Emmi a black cat. The picture cracks me up, because of what you can't see. Emmi could not hold her head up. So to get the shot, we had to put a pillow under the white screen, lift Emmi's head, then click the picture before her head clunked down. It was hysterical. And a bit sad. But mostly funny, because everyone, including Emmi, was laughing. And somehow, the picture is perfect. A few weeks ago, Emmi noticed the picture for, perhaps, the first time. And insisted that she MUST be a pink witch for Halloween. Then, by random luck, I cleaned the storage bins in the garage (That isn't the lucky part. That part fucking sucked.), and shoved at the bottom of one was the pink witch costume. Preserved in perfect condition, lacking only black tights. Hell yes. One down, one to go.

Jill has been more difficult. First she was going to be Demi Lavato. I assumed that would work out as good as the Hannah Montana costume of last year. She would deem the wig too itchy, the jacket too hot, and the shoes too tight. Therefore ending up in a white t-shirt, a purple skirt, and flip-flops, looking pretty much like she does everyday. I vetoed that idea. She moved on to Taylor Swift, because she could "wear her real hair" and just carry her guitar. Right. I can see where this is going. I am going to end up carrying that guitar all through the damn neighborhood, while, no doubt, carrying Emmi at the same time. Veto again. Then I had a brilliant idea. Jill and her friends play this game. The Cheetah Game. It basically consists of chasing the boys that she thinks are cute around on the playground, while calling themselves The Cheetah Team. She now loves cheetahs. And Tyler. But we are not allowed to talk about how cute Tyler is. I suggested she be a cheetah. A tail. Some ears. I am sure I could find something.

Something would be one word for the costumes I found. Hooker would be another.

For that sassy little eight-year-old, who loves come hither looks and flipping her tail around. The website promises me she will be the "cat's meow" in this one.

And I know, perhaps, only my child loves cheetahs. So for the rest of you.

Don't worry. It now comes in sizes 4-6x, too!

A day in pictures.

Kenny and I were out running errands, when we stopped behind a handyman at a light. Since we have our landscaping company info on our truck, I am in the habit of sizing up other people's advertisements on their vehicles. At first I was just tearing apart Handyman's unfortunate spelling abilities, until I noticed his bumper sticker.

"Dude. Kenny. That guy totally has a sticker that says 'Heavily Armed. Easily Pissed.' Oh yeah. That is the guy I want to let in my house to work on my shit. Maybe I could tell him I don't like the way he tiles, and then he could get pissed....wait a second. LOOK! His other bumper sticker says "Dare to resist drugs and violence.' What?! Dare to resist violence and heavily armed?!"

I knew I needed a picture. Out came the blackberry. Click. Click. Click. Roll. Roll.

Fuck! The stupid roller ball was stuck, and the camera would not zoom. "Kenny, I need that picture for my blog," I cried in despair. But it was too late. He had turned, and the damn roller ball was still stuck. No zoom. No picture. Fail.

Commence pouting.

But then, wouldn't you know it. Something better, even more amazing, came along. A better picture opportunity! We pulled along side a police officer shaving his face while driving in a school zone. You can't talk on your phone in a school zone, but shaving your face is cool? This. This would totally make up for the missed armed and pissed shot.

Out came the camera. Click. Tap. Click. Phone lock stuck. Motherfuckingstupidfucker. Why!

Further into despair I sunk. "That picture would have made up for it."

Pouting the rest of the drive, I sat looking out the window. But then? There is a God, and he is good. Because right there. Right next to me. Was a man pushing a dog in a swing. Dog. In. A. Swing. I am going to get my picture. I am. Phone out, unlocked, zoom working. Hell yes. My thumb hovered over the shutter button, pausing long enough for puppy pusher to notice me. Faster than I click the button, he takes the dog from the swing.

I was heartbroken. I needed those pictures. For my blog. For you.

But all was not lost. I had a plan. An idea. It was genius. "I can draw the pictures, Kenny!" He looked at me like I was stupid. "Tricia, you need to get a job. You have too much time on your hands."

I could have been insulted. Instead? I smirked. "You totally know that is going on my blog. With a picture."

Oh Kanye.

This might be my favorite thing ever. Go ahead. Watch it a few times.

Monday + DMV = WTF

I love Mondays. I love Mondays spent at the DMV where all you accomplish is being told to come back when you have done it right. But you can't do it right, because nobody informed the SS office that DMV has new rules.

Back in the good ole days that really weren't so good because I was married to a douchebag, all you did was show up at the DMV with a marriage license. Then boom, new ID, new name. I never even bothered to change my SS card. I just ran around town with an alias of one name, while still, technically, being another person. This made things very simple when I later divorced his ass. All I had to do was show up at the DMV with a copy of my SS card, and then I was back to me. So, I thought I had it all under control when I showed up at the DMV with my marriage license and such.

Wrong. You have to change your SS first now. Except, the SS admin wants something with your new name on it before they change your SS card. Something like a license. Somebody please explain how this works. I need a license to change my SS card, but I can't get a license until I change my SS card? Seriously? Are you fucking with me? You know it is Monday, right? You know I got up, put on makeup, and got dressed nice from the waist up for this fucking picture, right?

Shit like this is why I drove around with an expired license for over a year. Cause the DMV, they like to fuck with people. It's how they get their kicks, I think.

Poles. Stuffed dead dogs. And what did you do this weekend?

When you find your kid halfway up the light pole, most parents might yell for them to get down. Me? Nope. I yell, "Don't you dare fall off before I get the camera."


Kenny would have stopped her from climbing it in the first place, but he was busy.

While Jill managed to get halfway up the light pole, we didn't really have to worry about Emmi.

The real trouble came however, when we went back inside. We discovered that while we were outside, JR, the stuffed dog, had committed suicide.

I am sure it has something to do with the smiley face I found drawn on his ass when I took him down from that coat hanger. It must have been demeaning, and he was over the abuse.