Sep
27
September 27, 2006
Riley is napping right now, THANK GOD, because seriously, Spotty McRasherton is sapping my will to live. He’s not really sick, exactly, and he’s not itchy – he’s just…querulous. His patience level has dropped to negative eleventy billion, and it’s like living with the world’s most obnoxious drama queen. Bottle not quite within reach? WOE AND MISERY UNTO THE UNIVERSE. Toy dropped off edge of highchair tray? I BRING FIERY DEATH TO YOU ALL. Etc.
I’m glad we were able to get him into the doctor so quickly and rule out all of the exotic diseases I’m sure I would be grimly googling right now (Hmmm, was he somehow exposed to a “lone star” tick, otherwise known as the Amblyomma americanum? My god, I must call the CDC!). According to the doc, it’s just a viral rash, and not, at this point anyway, contagious.
It may not be an uncommon ailment but it sure is spectacularly freaky. His entire torso is covered in little red blotches and he looks like he should be in a special toddler colony on Molokai. I think I should dress him in a revealing, unbuttoned shirt, then lurch through the Bellevue Square Mall today just to watch people blanch and run away.
“Touchh himmmmmmm,” I’ll hiss slushily, thrusting Riley, who certainly appears to be teeming with contagion, in their direction. “Become…like…usssssssssss.”
Or maybe I’ll just hang around here making rooster sounds all day in a desperate, unending quest to stave off his angry howls. Yeah. Either one, they both sound pretty awesome.
(The boy, pre-plague. Ah, he was once so spot-free, just like the No Hands carwash. Sigh.)
Sep
26
September 26, 2006
Once upon a time, Workplace provided a biweekly housecleaning service as a benefit. Eventually it was dissolved in favor of providing the monetary equivalent increase to everyone’s salaries, which meant I cancelled it, because I couldn’t quite justify paying the fee back out to the service from my own pocket. If that makes any kind of sense.
Now I’m thinking of calling them again, or better yet, hiring someone who runs their own business so the person who does the actual cleaning gets paid a decent hourly wage. I know some people like to make me feel guilty about wanting to outsource the toilet-scrubbing, coughcoughJB, but I figure the only people who get to have an opinion are the ones who know where the 409 is located. YOU KNOW?
Oh, I give JB a lot of shit but he definitely pulls his weight and more around the house. Here’s the thing, though: if he doesn’t like cleaning, and I don’t like cleaning, and the pets and child are totally useless on that front, then I think it’s time to build on what I most love about the Roomba: the notion of the house becoming clean without my involvement.
JB doesn’t like the idea of a stranger being in our house. Let me repeat that with some clarification and our helpful friend, the Caps Lock key: JB, the man who hired eighty SKILLION random people to troop through our living spaces for HALF A GODDAMN YEAR, who tracked dirt everywhere and blared the radio nonstop and once left a tube of PERSONAL LUBRICANT in the BATHROOM, doesn’t want an unfamiliar cleaning lady in the house.
Ahem.
Lately I’ve just been realizing how fast the days go by and how hard it is to get the things done that I want to do, never mind the things I don’t want to do (see also: toilets). Paying for my house to be cleaned doesn’t seem like a frivolous luxury anymore, it seems like purchasing actual blocks of time that I can use elsewhere.
Because god knows I need to spend more time sitting on my ass in front of a computer. Hey! Speaking of! New reviews at SundryBuzz, in case you’re not looking all on your own: Roomba, Griffin iTrip, Sierra Trading Post, and…uh, cuticle oil.
:::
This morning I was walking Riley down the hall, holding his hands in my own, when he stomped directly onto my bare foot in his clunky Toddler Shoes, and you know, it fucking hurt. I’ve been suspicious for a while, but that’s it, the truth is undeniable now: Riley is no longer a tiny baby, he’s a little boy. A little boy with some heavy-ass feet, apparently.
Also, guess what I learned about myself last weekend after the fair? I can do a spot-on imitation of a rooster. No shit. The whole “Err-err-err-err-ERRRR” sound? I’ve got it down. This is my new foolproof trick for cracking Riley up, because he thinks it is HILARIOUS. We do a lot of animal sounds in our house (don’t even ask about the Naughty Chicken who says “Bok bok bok BUKKAKE”!) and the rooster is his current favorite.
Me: “What does the cow say, Riley?”
Riley: “Deh deh deh?”
Me: “MOOOO, that’s right! Mooooo. What does the sheep say?”
Riley: “Teh. Teh.”
Me: “Bahhhhh, that’s right! What does the rooster say?”
Riley: *expectant pause*
Me: “Err-err-err-err-ERRRRRRRRRRRRR!”
Riley: *laughs hysterically, poops pants*
So maybe I sound like a deranged barn animal who doesn’t know what the hell time it is, it could be worse. For instance, the animal noise JB is particularly good at? Sea lion. At least the rooster has a smidge of dignity.
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