"Easy! Massage the scalp. You're washing a baby's hair, not scrubbing vomit off your Christmas dress, you holiday drunk."

Jude's diaper just exploded all over the second floor, the baby was up all night with colicky symptoms (thank God we go to the ped today – hand me that Zantac prescription and no one gets hurt!), and we forgot that Si goes to school today; he just left with Dan, 45 minutes late. Sigh. So life goes on as normal in this household.

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My husband pointed out (not that he reads this blog – because he doesn’t know what it’s called or what the URL is) that at some point in the future my children might happen upon this, somehow, presumably through the wonder of Google. Despite the fact that I am not using any last names or anything close to my real name, in the interest of paranoia, I am going to start referring to my kids by initials. Hope this isn’t hopelessly confusing for all of you. So S, J, and A (because the J is already taken) debut today. I think you can figure out who’s who. Thanks for your patience.

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Yesterday we went to buy Halloween pumpkins. We did not go the pumpkin-farm route but neither did I purchase them at the supermarket. We drove to a nursery I like very much for its friendly, helpful employees, great plant selection, and reasonable prices, and that S likes because they have garden fountains, generally all full and running with real live water that gets you soaking wet and soppy and then Mama lets you ride home in the car nekkid (I have only done this once. Once, people. In the summer. And it IS a fairly new car.) We picked out an enormous pumpkin for Dan, a medium-sized one for S, a small one for J. The baby and I got teeny-tiny ones – and so did Mimi. Because, as I pointed out to S, if you are going to wear a costume for Halloween, you may have a pumpkin of your own. So our little Mimi Tinkerbelle has a pumpkin. Jesus. Since she resembles Chucky a bit too much for my comfort anyway, we will not be allowing her to carve her own pumpkin. Lock up the knives, heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere’s Mimi!

S wanted to know if the baby was going trick-or-treating. I said no, that he was too little, and I didn’t feel like dealing with a costume for him this year. S considered for a moment and then suggested, “Well, he can just get his treats from your belly!” Despite the fact that my four-year-old son’s grasp of the female anatomy is understandably murky, I still laughed.

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We have two cats, neither of whom I am all that fond. They are brother and sister from the same litter, about a year and a half old. Septimus is dumb as a stump and runs around the house like a lunatic for no apparent reason. Emmy is a miserable little wench who likes to go outside and rip the heads off birds for fun. She is this delicate little fluffy thing and he is a big lunk, so you’d think it’d be the other way around. But she is the fearless killer and Seppie is the cat who lets the kids pull his tail and try to ride on him. In fact, in another life, I am convinced Septimus was a dog. Yesterday I found yet another dead bird offering on my porch mat. I know it is supposed to be a sign of affection and all that, but honestly, isn’t it enough that I deal with poopy diapers all day? Must I also deal with dead wildlife? I left it there when I went for my doctor’s appointment because I was running late and deep down inside I was hoping that Dan, who worked from home yesterday, would stumble upon it and clean it up before I got home. Not only did that NOT happen, but in the meantime, Emmy ATE half the bird. That’s right, I left an intact if bloodied corpse and came home to a bird HEAD on my front porch. And then that cat had the audacity to want to climb on my bed last night and curl up with her bird-body breath right in my face! Yuck! Yucky, yucky, double yuck.

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I went to a neighborhood forum featuring our local school board member last night and am now all fired up with my civic duty.

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Billboards I have seen recently and wish to share (mostly because S reads every single solitary billboard as we drive by – *who* taught this child to read? Dammit! Share my pain…):

“Jews for Jesus – isn’t that sort of like Vegetarians for Meat? No, not really. Next question?”

A board for a local supermarket chain: “Down. Down. Stay. Good prices!”

And I have a crush on Craig Restano, a local heating guy who looks so solid and dependable and cute and wholesome on his company billboards that I just want to gobble him up, and get him to come heat up my house! I need help.