Deep Thoughts...

Jessica Simpson, c. 2003, on turning 23: "Like, 23 is almost mid-twenties, and that's like, almost 30! Time, you know? Time." Does anyone else expect to see her in ten years on QVC next to Suzanne Sommers, hawking twinsets, doing carrot impersonations, and telling vaguely inappropriate stories about her cats?

Happy birthday to me. 26. It's like, almost 30.

Disturbia

Last week, I was subject to a number of freakishly wrong circumstances. The kind that you hope never to find yourself in, ever. Like on Friday, around 4 in the afternoon, when I realized that the baby had hidden the remote, and that Oprah really did intend to have one hundred Osmends on her show. Singing.

And maybe it was Tuesday last week, when I heard an inordinate amound of cursing and yelling, such as might be inspired by a bad dog, from the backyard. The ruckus eventually migrated to the front yard, where I saw out the living room window that Carl had clipped Duke to the line at the tree. I watched him spray the dog with the hose for a while, then stamp around in little circles, gesticulating wildly and moaning something inarticulate at the sky, then spray the dog some more. This went on for some time, Duke all the while pacing the limit of the rope in a miserable attempt to skulk out of range of the icy hose water, tangling up his legs in the process, and looking generally pathetic.

Carl finally came in, still muttering to himself. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID!"

"no. what." He had his really really crazy eyebrows on, so I knew it had to be bad. Probably something to do with Dog and cat shit.

"HE ROLLED IN THE GROUNDHOG!!"

"...um...what?"

"That groundhog I buried. Something. Dug it up. Rotting. Carcass. I didn't see what it was in time. He Just Had To. And then he shook himself off! disgusting! gore! flinging! F***ING DOG! HE JUST ROLLED IN THE FETID DISGUSTING GROUNDHOG CARCASS! OH MY GOD DOGS ARE DISCUSTING F***ING DOG!! DOG!! DISGUSTING!! DOOOOOGGGG!!"

".........."

"I'm getting the dog shampoo."

So yeah. I know. Donnie and Marie singing "Paper Roses" to Oprah versus rotting groundhog bath. It's a close call.

My Peep

Before we get to far away from the event, BEHOLD!! THE CUTENESS!!!!

The conversation wherin I suggested that I would purchase Wendy's first Halloween costume for ten dollars at Old Navy, Carl suggested that I make her a costume, and I suggested (using only my left eyebrow) exactly where he could put that suggestion? Well, that conversation was completely and absolutely over as soon as he saw how totally devistating to an adult's central nervous system a chicken outfit coud be.

And not that I really have a moral quandry over using my baby to extort candy from

strangers, but I thought it would be nice if I showed some effort toward the haul that I would be gorging myself on later. Yes, it's a mommy-baby theme. (The sad part is that my little farm girl outfit is comprised of items that I actually wear. I mean, I hardly ever wear them together, and hardly ever while carrying a bait bucket, but...um, yeah. My hick/trailor is showing. I know it.)

Anyway, I went over to Bethany's neighborhood, and she even accompanied us around a couple of blocks of trick-or-treating. (I didn't quite have to yank her away by the collar when some 9 year old uncouthly called her clearly Roman period outfit Greek, but almost.)

As it turns out, 11 month olds don't really know how to trick-or-treat (damnit!), so my arm was falling off by the time we filled our bait bucket. It was definitely worth it, though. Free almond Snickers and Dots, just for owning a cute kid in a chicken suit. Can't beat that.

Also, the look on her face when the wearwolf with the candy bowl wandered up and petted her was priceless. (She wasn't scared, just kind of incredulous. Like, "Is this one of those Plushies and/or Furries you were talking about?" I told her it was a puppy dog, but she didn't buy that either.)

Yay First Halloween!