August 28, 2006

This weekend something really, really beautiful happened: we got the plumbing all hooked up in the new bathroom. Which meant that last night I took a bath in the massive new tub for the first time. And lo, a choir of angels did sing down from the heavens, and I stayed in there until I pruned up and got that woozy hot tub feeling.

The remodel has now officially been worth it. Say hallelujah.

The plumbing was completed just in time (side note: the plumber we used is a guy who worked for a “cash price” [nudge nudge, wink wink, *coughunreportedincomecough*] of $300, vs. the astronomical $4500 price that Beacon Plumbing – a large local business – quoted us. I hate that shit, the fact that you can either get royally screwed right in the outbox or get a fabulous deal, depending on the contractor you happen to find), because our months of use has taken its toll on the guest bathroom. The hot water faucet in that shower has become progressively broken, with water leaking and running out the side of the knob. JB had taken it apart to try and fix it, but this morning, shortly after turning on the water, he came bolting out of the bathroom naked. “Not good, not good!” he kept saying as he yanked on a pair of shorts and ran outside to turn off the water.

I still don’t know exactly what happened, but when I looked in there I saw this:

faucethole.jpg

Except there was a firehose of hot water blasting out of that hole, directly across the tub. Which I suppose might be pleasant, if you enjoy a robust, piping-hot enema in the morning.

So we both used the new shower this morning, which is spacious and lovely and does not provide unwanted colon irrigation. Hooray!

Now we just need a shower door, a bathroom door, and a toilet. Also…maybe some flooring.

towelwalk.jpg

And for no reason, here is a picture of a baby in a sink (because my cat would never put up with that shit):

82706_sink.jpg

In other news, Riley is maybe working on another tooth, because oh my god. The crankiness. The screaming. Also, the food-batting, where any looming spoon or food item is furiously smacked, sending flying goo across the kitchen. I can’t tell you how grateful I’ve been for Dog lately, because she basically comes in like Mr. Wolf in Pulp Fiction and cleans up the crime scene after each failed feeding attempt. I’ve considered just putting the tray from Riley’s highchair on the ground for her to lick afterwards, but I suppose that would be Taking Things Too Far.

August 26, 2006

Thank you so much for your wonderful comments and emails from my last entry. Thank you for – warning, whoop whoop, warning! Cheese factor at an all-time high! – helping me heal. Thank you, thank you for listening.

:::

I was sitting in Riley’s room last night with JB while JB read a couple bedtime books, and I noticed that while I am usually quite sincere with my storytelling and offer insipid “educational” extra commentary like “Is that a cow? You saw a cow on the farm today, didn’t you? Yes, you did, when you were in the backpack! Can you say cow? Coooowww”, JB takes a somewhat…different approach.

“The rooster says cockle-doodle-doo. And this is a hen. The hen says, Any cock’ll-dooo,” JB read. “And that’s a horse. He says, naaaayygetmeoutofEnumclaw.”

The next book, Where is Baby’s Bellybutton, involves lifting up various flaps to reveal where the item in question is. “Where is baby,” JB said. “What’s in the box? What’s in the box? Aww man, what’s in the booox?

For the record, when both parents are laughing hysterically, it’s awful damn hard to get a baby to fall asleep.

JB has been operating on Stress Level Orange lately due to a work project that depending on any given moment oscillates between “giant clusterfuck” and “deathmarch to hell”. There are people on his team working even crazier hours than he is, but his work/life balance has definitely taken a plunge towards cardiac-arrest territory. He gets home, spends time with Riley and I, and once Riley goes to bed he’s back on the computer or phone dealing with a neverending series of crises until it’s midnight, his eyes look like two pissholes in the snow, and I shuffle in to tell him to come to bed goddamnit.

He was talking to me on Thursday about how much responsibility he has to get this project to completion, and how the various risk factors keep threatening the schedule and how shitty he would feel about letting his team down. I reminded him that sometimes circumstances are outside of our control, and there’s only so much you can do. “110% is a logistical impossibility,” I said. “Sometimes you have to have a streak of Fuck It to deal with stuff like this, so you don’t drive yourself crazy.”

“In fact,” I said slowly, a great and marvelous idea blooming, “What you need is a Fuck It bucket.”

If you’ve read much David Sedaris, maybe you remember his brother, “The Rooster” (second rooster reference in one journal entry! Go TEAM!) and his Fuck It bucket filled with candy. “When shit brings you down, just say ‘fuck it’, and eat yourself some motherfucking candy.”

So on Friday I made JB a Fuck It bucket:

fitbucket.jpg

Contents of the Fuck It bucket include: mini KitKat bars, Snickers, Reese’s Cups, and a bunch of little plastic army dudes, which, if you’re feeling spicy, can be placed in various compromising positions in a clear violation of the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. (“SIR YES SIR! This cadet wishes he could quit you.”)

The Fuck It bucket (technically the Fuck It Tupperware Container) is meant to be sitting on JB’s desk at work, so he and his coworkers can briefly escape their ongoing troubles via chocolate’s sweet, loving embrace; unfortunately, between now and Monday the bucket is in our kitchen, and I am finding many a good excuse to say eff it (in the boy’s presence anyway, lest I visit both the cuss jar and the Fuck It bucket in the same sentence) and eat myself some motherfucking candy.

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