A lovely day for an artisan fair

We Won't Even Talk About The Dishes...

Carol's wearing a black cardigan and jeans.  It's 85 out, and we're about to go for a walk.

 

"Hey, um, you might be a bit warm in all that."

 

"Yeah, well, these are the only clean clothes I have, and *they're* not even clean."

And in that one sentence is captured the idiosyncrasy which has become our lives.  Even our clean clothes aren't clean.

Carol has been buuuuusy. The dual prongs of the latest collection (including Christmas!) being delivered and our upcoming attendance at the Niagara Grape and Wine Festival have kept her hopping. Not to mention that whole "parenting" thing.

But the late nights are paying off.  We're almost all packed up for the Festival ( www.niagaragrapeandwinefestival.com - come see us!) and the Christmas cards are all listed (http://www.junkmailgreetings.com/cardholidaypackage.htm).  

Check 'em out.  They're purty.  And clean.  Even if we're not.

Peep this

Here's your taste of our new products slated for release mid-September:

Crazy mutha...

Shauna Sands' idea of a day at the beach with the fam:

Really?

I mean, really?

I guess you do what ya gotta do when your last film credit was as 'jacuzzi woman' in a movie called Succubus: Hell Bent.

can I get an 'amen'....

Go here and see the complete card lineup offered by JunkMail Greetings. I finally finished the 'shop' page and updated all of our new titles. I did it. It ain't pretty. It ain't all that organized. But it's done, y'all.

And the free shipping is still rockin' the heezy.

By the end of September, we'll be adding our Christmas lineup. Lee and I narrowed down our selection and the designs are looking amazing. I can assure you, you won't be disappointed when you see the final products....

There will also be an addition to the JunkMail family: [defined]. [defined] is the softer side of JMG and will be added to the 'shop' page in mid-September.

And I Thought It Was Called A *Pacifier*...

Yeah, we're traipsing back down a road already travelled.

And you hear advice from all sides.  "Oh, you're bringing the kid to bed with you?  You've got to put a stop to that."  And then I look in the magazines and catalogues showing all kinds of "co-sleeping" paraphernalia and I figure I can't be the only one.  There can't be an entire industry revolving around the hope that I'm going to slip up again.

It might seem short-sighted, but honestly, at 3 am, I'm really not very forward-thinking.  All I really know is that if he's left alone he'll probably groan and whimper and make me get up at least five or six times, over half an hour, before he  finally falls asleep.  In bed, he cuddles up and I can usually get him down in five minutes.

So, last night the kid is sleeping with us ( The point of the whole previous diatribe is to let you know that I'm aware that you're frowning now, but I don't care.)   but he's not actually asleep yet.  I hear the familiar clink of the soother falling and then the snorting as he starts to root around for it.  In the dark, I feel around for it, then feel around for a face, then feel around for a mouth, then try to give back the soother. 

There's a bit of resistance. 

And then Carol says, "If you try to jam that thing in my face again, I'm going to punch you in the head."

She's not much of a morning person, but she's *really* not much of a 3-in-the-morning person.

Promises, promises...

Life's been pretty hectic in the Lee household as of late. The little one is a beautiful ball of colicky goodness, the big one insists on traipsing into our bedroom at about 5:15 every morning armed with a *giant* body pillow and feather duvet demanding, "TV! TV!"





Such delightfully good times.

~~~~~

With that said, yes, the website is a bit behind in updates. I have so many new cards to list. Like this one:

....and these:

And a bunch more, but I haven't the time or patience (with Blogger) to upload them all. I promise they'll be up in a few days.

In other news, my new studio is getting a new floor (yay) and we picked up more storage shelves to house the now obscene amount of product and supplies taking up my old space. I'll be sad to see my old space go because it's got a beautiful view overlooking our lake (you may hate me now...), but the new one has a BILLION times more space and potential --- even if it is a bit dungeon-y.

Your task for the day: go read up on my old-hometown mayor's highjinks. Sad and funny at the same time.

Had my 6-week post-partum doctor's visit yesterday and the conversation went something like this:

Doc: "You're all set. Any questions? Everything going okay?"

Me: "Well, actually, the baby weight is harder to come off this second time. Got any black market Phen Phen or a script for something equally as dangerous and effective? I just don't feel like doing the hard work to get my bad-ass booty back. I got two kids under two right now! My heart's in good shape, I'm sure it'll be fine."

Doc: (big sigh) "I'll write you a prescription for some willpower and exercise."


***


Lotta, I can't thank you enough for this:

Overheard

Lee: Awww, Jack, you've got mosquito bites on your face! What happened? Mommy?

Carol: Don't look at me. I don't take these kids outdoors. It's too hot.

Lee: Oh, that's right. You're trying to grow albino mushroom children.

You can thank Lee for this post

Lee's been buggin' me to get in here and announce a winner. I'd love to post something ridiculously witty and inspiring, but it's 11:00 p.m. in a household with TWO kids that refuse to sleep through the night... so I'm too tired to entertain. But don't worry, I'm only a couple cups of coffee away from being the funniest thing on two legs-like usual.

Instead of my trusty video camera capturing the moment I select a winner, I chose the Randomizer random number generator. This'll just have to do for now.

The lucky winner of our new Summer Pack is

Lisa Christine!

Thanks so much to everyone (with the patience of a monk) who kept checking to see if a winner was announced, but never bugged me and asked about it directly. You rock.

We're dusting off the cobwebs of the website and will be making a few changes during the next few weeks. Keep checking the main site for updates, new products and sales...

They called you what?

I may still be a little hopped up on painkillers due to the eviction of that little cherub in the previous post, but how's about a little giveaway?

In this post's 'comments' section, post your first name and any nickname that might have been thrown at you at some point during your life. The winner will be picked at random and the drawing will be videotaped and posted on Wednesday, July 2nd.

Wanna know what you get? One winner will get the ENTIRE Summer 2008 Collection before it's even listed on the website! Talk about exclusive...



Here's a sample of some of the cards that come in this 16-card package:

Things just got a little bit crazier in the JunkMail house...

Bird Flu Tried To Help Me Out, But Failed...

I've always kind of subscribed to the theories of a man named Thomas Malthus.  In a nutshell, Malthus believed that overpopulation was the cause of all the terrible things in the world, which would in turn stem overpopulation.  Too many people, let's have a war, get rid of some people.  Too many people, oops there's a famine, get rid of some people.

That might be oversimplified.  With some paraphrasing.  I might have missed some important parts.  Or lost a bit in translation.  But it's the way I like it.

Those big events that wipe out populations are known as "Malthusian Crises".  There.  You've just received the Reader's Digest version of 2nd year economics.

I'm convinced that we're due.  Not that I'm all "sandals and a sandwich-board" and predicting the end of the world.  It's just that I've met at least three people this week who could use a good plague.  And thinking back, I think I'd met two the week before.

That's an alarming trend.  I might be encountering 11 jackasses a week by the end of the summer.

Where is the pestilence that will come to my rescue?  Antibiotic-resistant superbug?  Where have all the killer bees gone?

And there was that one time when we had too many zucchini...

Recently we've had a few customers who've been awfully close to home.  The area we live in is somewhat rural, so it's actually kind of a coincidence.

One person who contacted us actually grew up just one street over from us.  Literally one house separates our properties.

And this one house is occupied by a retired couple who have been wonderful neighbors to us.  They visited when the kid was born, bringing chocolates and presents and some much needed reassurance and advice.  They're active in the community; canvassing for the Cancer Society and taking part in other grassroot environmental movements.  They take better care of their property than I do, and they don't have a dog that craps on my lawn, which are ultimately the two most important things to look for in a neighbor.

Now, I was raised to always respect elders.  In this case that means I always called my neighbors "Mr. and Mrs. X".  I didn't know their first names.  Kind of like your elementary school teachers.  As far as you knew, they didn't even have first names.  Which is sometimes being ruined these days by the new breed of teachers who insist on being called "Miss Suzie".

But I digress.

This recent customer contacted Carol and after finding out how close we lived, recounted tales of when "Dick and Tiny" would throw crabapples at them when they trespassed on their beach.  Carol thought this was hilarious and asked if I knew that Mr. and Mrs. X's  first names were "Dick and Tiny".

I didn't.  And I'm still not sure if they are.  For all we know, that was just what the neighbourhood kids called them.  For all we know, the neighborhood kids could call us "Assface and that Crazy Bitch".

After all, we throw tomatoes at the trespassers on our beach.

At least the kid's got manners

I think Lee thinks I’m spending too much time at drive-through establishments. The kid’s speech has been getting more and more diverse and this has turned into a typical conversation:


Me: Jack, would you like more strawberries? What do you say?

Jack: Peeeeeze

Me: Here you go. (handing him strawberries)

Jack: Kack-oooo (translation: ‘thank-you’---which, interestingly enough, is the same word for cracker. At least when he starts throwing racial slurs I can just say, 'No, no... he really said, 'thank you'.)

Me: You’re welcome.

Jack: Habaniceday! Bye-bye! (waving vigorously)


Apparently, all that’s missing is the enthusiastic ‘Come again!’ at the end.

We’ve been working pretty hard on drilling basic songs into his head, as well. The kid can now sing ‘Twinkle-Twinkle’, and the ‘ABC’s’(well, up to about the letter J, after that, he only goes with every third letter’). His appreciation for fine musical arrangements has also extended to this:




Around 10:00 am every day, he comes running into my office yelling, ‘lowlowlowlowlowlow’ and pointing to my laptop.

I’m concerned. I guess it’s time to start censoring… But first, I'm working on teaching him how to act out the part where they say '...turned around and gave that big booty a smack.'

Wouldn't that just be precious?

In other, non-child-related news, I’ve been working on a long post about our trip to the National Stationery Show in NYC. I’m hoping to squeeze a little free time later this evening and get everyone updated.

Also, be sure to check the main site tomorrow morning. I've designed a brand-new bunch of cards just in time for Summer.

Habaniceday!!! Bye-bye!

If Only She'd Told The Cop She Was In Labor...

New York is a rather awe-inspiring city and sometimes it amazes me how different ways of life evolve in different places in the world.

For example, the pre-emptive honk was something that I've only ever encountered in New York and always struck me as terribly efficient.  The cabbies don't wait to find out if you're gonna be asleep on the green.  They honk *before* the light turns green, just to make sure you're alert enough to go on the green when it comes.

I love that.

We were awfully lucky that a similar phenomenon doesn't take place on the sidewalks.  Carol has four weeks to go before the kid gets a brother, and walking posed a bit of a challenge.  And I'm not sure if you've met many women with four weeks to go, but I think if anyone were to honk at her, they would probably end up dead.  Or with urine on their shoes.  Either or.

I now know what "ambling" is.

But pregnancy didn't make the whole trip slow.  Don't ask Carol about the $163 ticket she got in Pennsylvania.

Petsmart for Potty Training

Carol's been telling me about something called "elimination communication".  Basically, it's when you take the diaper off the kid, let him run around naked, and watch for the times he goes to the bathroom.  It's supposed to help with potty training.

I'm not sure if "communication" is necessarily the right word.

It seems kind of messy, so I'm trying to convince her to wait until summer when we can put him outside.  Pee freely, nekkid nature boy, pee freely.

I already have an area all set for him.  I killed the patch of grass last year and have the seed put down, so the lawn will be fresh and new and pristine.  I figure my neighbor's dog always goes for my nicest area, so outdoor poopers must have a thing for good turf.

As I was laying down the new seed, I thought maybe it would be nice if I put up a little fence to keep him safe.  Then the bigger picture flashed before me, and I realized that a naked 2 year old crapping in a fenced-in pen might draw some unwanted attention and social worker visits.

Accordingly, that corkscrew anchor thingie with a leash would probably be out of the question too.

My Skin'll Already Be Wrinkly, And I'll Probably Already Stink.

I first started really smoking when I was 15. Sure there was that time I was 7, but I don't think it counts unless you're buying your own.

But by 15, I was nicely settled into my routine and probably up to a pretty consistent half-pack a day. I never really strayed from that half-pack limit; it's about one an hour, except work times, and it's always kind of worked out for me.

"They" always say that you'll quit when you need to. Or when you have the proper motivation. For me, it was the kid. It got to the point where I couldn't possibly feel more ghetto than putting the baby in front of the TV so that I could sneak out for a smoke. So I quit. Used the patch. Worked like a charm.

I still miss it like crazy though. Especially on a day like today. Stressful work, beautiful weather, 20 minute uninterrupted drive home. But I know I shouldn't go back.

So I made a deal with Carol. On my 75th birthday, I'm buying a carton and having the time of my life. Get me an extra large from Dunkin' Donuts and an ashtray and stand back.

Carol says if that's the case, then she's gonna buy herself pounds of Ghirardelli and join in on the festivities.

Oh, it's going to be sweeeeeeet.



JunkMailGreetings.com

New-ish

We have several greeting cards that have been in dire need of a facelift. Since I've been feeling inspired as of late, I got my ass in gear and set to redesigning. The trend seems to be following stripes and damask these days (this also happens to be a favorite combination of mine):

We're also gearing up for the National Stationery Show in May. Unfortunately, we won't be exhibiting (insert hysterical sobbing here). We made this decision based on the fact that I'll be about 9-months-pregnant when the show comes. I'm not sure if the world is ready for this scenario:

Me: Hi! Welcome to my fantastically designed booth. Can I show you some of my work?

Them: Ummm, no, thank you. I'm just looking.

Me: What? You *don't want* to see my stationery line? (the tears start to flow right about now) What the hell is wrong with you? I worked hard to get here! I'm tired, huge, and I neeeeeed you to tell me I'm pretty, dammit. (and now the anger) Look. At. My. Line. Before. I. Kill. You.

It's probably for the best.

And the winners are...

Shell from Kathleen, GA

and

Julie from Washington, PA

Shoot an e-mail my way with your address and I'll get them sent out pronto

(carol -at- junkmailgreetings -dot- com)

Thanks so much to everyone else who entered. We'll be having contests monthly, so keep checking!

Stay Tuned!

Feelin' lucky?

I'll be posting the video for our HateMail contest winner(s) Monday, March 31st.

Oh, the suspense!

(image credit: Nature Notebook www.naturenotebook.net )

Y'all want this party started, right?

Let's have a little contest, shall we?

Please post your city, state (if you have one) and country in the 'comments' section of this post and be entered to win

THE ENTIRE SPRING COLLECTION!!!

On Sunday, March 30th, I'll write down all of the commenters on teeny, tiny bits of paper and record a video of the kiddo drawing a name out of a hat. If you're picked, you win! How easy is that? And I'm not even asking you to tell me your life story or anything. It really is win-win. For you.... and for me.

Is this nutty? A little. Is this also a way for me to keep my 19-month-old busy before 'night-night-time'? Absolutely.

So, be sure to comment and win free shiz.

It's Alive! It's Alive!!

I'm not sure if this is normal, but when I was a kid, I used to frankenstein parts of gummi bears together to make new, more interesting gummi bears.

I haven't had a gummi-bear in forever, but Jack got a few in his Easter basket.

The result:



And considering it's Easter, the bunny mutants:

And then again with whip cream party hats:


Hope you all had a great Easter.

You Can't Fool Me, I Got A "C" In Genetics...

The kid just went and got his hair cut at one of those fancy shmancy places with planes and cars and horses. 

Carol: Hey look, they do streaks and tips here. Whaddya think if we get him some streaks and tips?

Me:  I think he'd look like a gay George Takei.

Carol:  But George Takei already *is* gay.

Me:  I know. 

Carol: Imagine if the next one came out blonde?

Me:  Um.  I think I'd be asking for a DNA test.

Carol:  Shut up.  If I just gave birth, and you asked for a DNA test, I'd never talk to you again.

Me:  Um.  If you give birth to a blonde baby, I'm not sure if you'd have to worry about talking to me again.  I figure, at that point I'd have as good a chance as George Takei of being the father. 

Fingers crossed for dark-haired babies!

I Bet Herbie Hancock Had A Hard Time...

They once did a study on whether or not your name would have any determining factor on who you became. 

I have a friend who's always joked about naming a son "Sue".  He said it would build character and probably toughen up the kid because of all the fights he would end up getting into.  And I wonder.  Being a boy named "Sue" has to have *some* effect.  Maybe it *would* make you tougher.  Or at least have a better sense of humor.

Or maybe it would just make you hate your dad.

Most of us don't get to pick our own names, but in this digital age we get to pick our screen presences.  And I'd love to see a study on how these names reflect our personalities.  Because they are *chosen* by us.  There *must* be a correlation.   Even if you take the "Susan64782" that AOL gave you because you're so damn unimaginative, it still says something about you.

And these days, our screen names can be used almost as often as our real names.  Yesterday I was watching the news and they were going through viewer's email comments.  There was one very serious comment signed off by "BigGurlzWitBrowneez".

Oh, it makes you wonder.



JunkMailGreetings.com

Probably Not A Repeat Customer

Came across this in PC Mag (yes, I'm a geek) and had to go check it out for myself. 

<

JunkMail Greetings

It's Called "Sampling".

Sometimes you come across something which is the world's biggest revelation to you. But it sucks when it appears that everyone else in the world has always known.

The other day the kid spins some toy which kickstarts a melody. It's the ABC song, so I start to sing along. I'm up to Q, when Carol walks in singing, "Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky."

Dramatic pause.

They're the same song! "ABC" and "Twinkle, Twinkle" are the same song!

I feel like I'm at the end of "The Crying Game" all over again.

JunkMailGreetings.com

Pre-Spring Cleaning!

We're having a clearance sale on a boxed set of notecards. 13 for $13!



Greetings include:

You're a special kind of crazy
Jesus loves you... but I hear He's not picky.
You know you can't return it, right?
Welcome to reality. Here's your shovel.
It's a good thing you're pretty
Someday, I hope to be as good as you think you are.
Sometimes I love you. Sometimes.
Jackass
When I found out, the fourth person I thought of was you.
Your probation officer must be so proud.
There's no 'I' in 'you're a moron'.
Why can't you be more like your sister.
I admire your low standards.

Come visit our site and see the rest of our selection!
JunkMailGreetings.com

Thanks!

Say Hello To My Little Friend

I've been blessed with a condition known as "finger-toes". These are long, extra-dexterous toes capable of picking up small objects, dialing phones, minor watch repair, etc. It was something my dad had, and wasn't shy about using.

The worst thing my dad used to do was pinch us with his toes. The one thing about finger-toes is that they have the strength of like 8 fingers. (Two hands!) As the old joke goes, "Finger-toes are like regular fingers all hopped up on coke."

But it wasn't just the strength. Your dad's toes are a pretty gross thing to start off with when you're 10. And to top things off, he had a bit of a fungal infection that made his toenails look like cornchips. So you'd be doing something you're not supposed to be doing, keeping an eye on the upper half of your parents, and out of nowhere toes would come and assail you. It was almost like they were a separate entity. The top half is casually reading a paper, and the bottom half is like a swarm of punishing lobsters.

I have vowed to use my finger toes only for good, not evil. Picking up cheerios, passing toys, soft caresses when the kid hurts himself.

The kid is showing some mad skillz as well. As often as not, when he drops something, he goes for it with his feet before using his hands.

But there's a bit of the dark side in him. With unclipped nails, he's more like a swarm of snapping turtles. Pinchy to pinchy in three generations.

Does it count as sleeping around?

I went into the room for the echocardiogram and was surprised at how dim they kept it.  The lights were turned way down low and it reminded me of the "overnight" part of an overnight flight.

The lady came in wearing blue scrubs and told me to lay on my side on the cot.  I don't want to sound disparaging, but I want to be accurate.  I think the best way to describe her is "matronly".  She reminded me of a chubby, urban grandma.  Maybe not chubby.  Maybe stout is a better word.  The kind of grandma who still goes and gets her highlights and her nails did.  She talked to me about her son, who is just a few years younger than me.

When I was situated, she rolled her stool up behind me, and tucked her arm around me to position the equipment over my chest.  I wish I could share a picture of it.  It would be so much more accurate than my description.  It was almost like a hug.

So.

It was about 30 minutes later by my watch, when I woke myself up with my own snoring.

Awkward?  Yeah, a little.  She was still conducting the test, and I couldn't remember if she was still talking when I fell asleep.  And snoring in front of strangers is always a bit off-putting.

But y'know what"s worse than the shame?  After it was all done, I told Carol, and now I think she's a bit jealous.

Meow

It's 3 in the morning and I'm sleeping with the kid on the couch.  The kid's been having some sleeping problems as of late, but we've sworn off bringing him back to bed with us.  Does it make a difference that we're on the couch and not in bed?  I'm not sure, but I tell myself it's the principle of the thing.

But anyways, it's 3 am, and I'm woken up by the sound of Carol's office TV.  I get up to go check, and the TV has just decided to turn on, on its own.

Creepy, huh?

So I turn it off, and go back to the couch, but can't fall back asleep.  All I can hear is rhythmic creaking, which reminds me of the Grudge.  And of course, trying NOT to think about the Grudge, only makes you think about the Grudge more.

Experiment:  DON'T think about purple polka-dotted hippos.   See?  It's like our brains are actually temperamental 3 year olds.

So I huddle up against my little 16 month old for protection and moral support. And I feel conflicted.  I remember how big and strong and fearless my dad always seemed to me.  I've got to learn to put on a better front.  Because no one can be *that* fearless, right? 

And then I look down at my precious boy and imagine that if his eyes sprang open at that minute, and he meowed, I would absolutely crap my pants.

I have a lot of work ahead me, if I want to seem fearless.

Clerk at a 7-11, Pumped Gas at a Sunoco, Led a Small Country

I was out the other night with some of the out-of-towners who came home for the holidays.  It's been a while since I've been out, and I think I've forgotten the routine.

At one point, someone mentioned that some of the kids in the place probably hadn't been born yet when we graduated high school.

That's one of those perspective shifts that sneaks up and kicks you in the nuts.  It's like that time I grew some facial hair, got fat, shaved the facial hair, and realized how fat I had gotten.  Which was yesterday.

Anyways, it brought on this whole thought process of what it was like to be 19.  How different our priorities were.  How rosy our perceptions were.  How *passionate* we were about everything.  (I use "passionate", but feel free to substitute "hormonal" or "crazy" if they seem more appropriate.)

I remembered the chipped tooth from the drunken blowfish on the phone booth,  The ticket for doing 30 over in a residential zone.  And that message left on Jen's machine that I wanted desperately to take back.

Then today I hear that Bhutto's 19 year old son is leading his mom's party in Pakistan's next election.  I wonder what kind of phone messages that kid leaves?

But he's sure gonna have a helluva resume when he finishes college.

Oh River

There are some words I can't spell.  "Wherever" is one of them.  My mind objects to the contraction without the apostrophe.  I use work-arounds.  I say "every place" instead.

Today I discovered that I've been misspelling a word for pretty much all of my life.  Now this is quite dismaying for someone of my stature.  I am a word-snob.  I consider myself to be the interactive edition of Webster's *Unabridged* Dictionary.   I was even gonna have a T-shirt made that said so.  Just to make it official.

The word was "rapport".  I've been  writing it as "repoire" all of this time.  And I mean *all* of this time.  From college papers to curriculum vitae to business documents, "let's build repoire".  Dammit.

So, in my quest to vindicate myself, I did a Google search to prove it was a real word.  That it was one of those gray/grey,  chaise lounge/chaise longue, kinda words which got bastardized from the original when it was Americanized.  "Late-Nite Drive-Thru" pops to mind .

But instead of proof, I find that it's actually a common misspelling, which might have been intentionally Frenchified when created by pseudo-intellectuals.  And then I come across a thread which compares it to the likes of walla and buku.

"Walla" and "buku"?

Oh, I get it.

Oh River.

Did He Make Bagels?

There's a whole new generation of kids out there who have no idea who Albert Einstein is.

And it worries me that people who were such huge contributors to mankind can just drift away like that.  After all, it's *Einstein*.  It's not like I'm talking about PeeWee Herman. 

The truly sad part is that it makes the tried-and-trued witticism of  "Way to go, Einstein" totally irrelevant.  Classic, no frills method to applaud stupidity.   Gone.

All this makes me feel old and dated.  When my put-downs revolve around what have become obscure figures in history, I feel like a dork.

Yesterday, I was arguing with a kid who wouldn't keep his shoes on.  "I've got *one* on," he says.  "What are you?" I asked, "the Michael Jackson of shoes?  Put both your damn shoes on."

He had no idea what I was talking about.

What's to become of society if we throw our greats to the wayside?
 

Just Blow, Dammit.

I believe children don't understand the concept of discomfort.

As adults we have a wide spectrum of existence: pain exists on one end and pleasure on the other, but the bulk of the middle is occupied by everyday blahness, or perhaps a bit of discomfort.  Our pants are too tight, our skin is dry, the damn canker is back.

But kids live in a different spectrum.  I think they really only have two states.  "Okay" and "Not Okay".  And almost everything is "okay".    You think you're clever and bend down to the five year old who has his shoes on the wrong feet, and ask in a knowing voice, "Doesn't anything feel strange?  Does anything feel wrong?"  And the kid says, "Nope.  It's all OK."

How do you argue with that? 

And wet socks.  And t-shirts in winter.  And knit caps in summer.  And shoes with no laces.  As adults who need warm towels and fleece linings and heated seats, it all makes us cringe.  But to a kid, it's all "Okay".

Want to know what's not "okay"?  Pinching a kid's nose 7 times in an effort to get a booger out. 

I think I should have read the signs after the 6th time, but I was really focused and I almost had it.

Y'heard?

I've been on a mission to get the kid to use "y'heard?" as one of his first phrases.  If for no other purpose than to one day hear him eventually belt out, "Mommy, milk! Milk!  Y'heard?"   Now, I'm no expert at child linguistics, so my basic approach has been to punctuate almost everything I say around the baby with "y'heard?".    "I'm gonna change your diaper.  Now hold still, y'heard?" "Quit shaking that bottle, y'heard?" "Are we having fun on the swing, y'heard?"  (This last one doesn't really make sense, but it emphasizes how hard I'm trying with this, and how it's permeated every part of my dialogue with my child.)   Sometimes I feel guilty about doing this.  It's like I'm treating the rearing of my boy like one big practical joke.  I really don't want a smartass kid. I'm just worried about when he's 12, and saying "y'heard?", and it's no longer cute, maybe, just maybe, I'll have to admit I had a bad idea.

Makes Me Wanna Buy Noseplugs...

When I was little, I was under the impression that smells of things were actual little particles of the things floating through the air, and then  getting caught up in your nose and triggering the sense.

For some smells, this seems reasonable. Especially stuff like smoke or a perfume spritz, where you can actually see the  thing you're smelling.  The idea is acceptable enough when smelling coffee, but can be particularly disconcerting when smelling someone else's fart.

Fortunately I have an engiineer friend who straightened me out.  Smells are actually certain chemical elements which emanate from the object.  I dunno.  Still doesn't make me feel that much better.

But this all reminds me of a story which I will blatantly steal. 

A couple Carol knows were at a party.  They are generally a very fun couple, but this particular night wasn't a good one, and they knew few people, so they decided to sit in the corner alone and just get hammered.

The plan was going swimmingly, and the couple was having a grand old time in the corner.  But the party was beginning to pick up, and occasionally, others would come and intrude/interrupt the couple in the corner.  After all, it *was* a party.  In one lull between intrusions, the lady farted.  A good one.  Sulfur like an old egg sandwich mixed with a touch of hell. 

Did I mention this was a work party?  I didn't?  Well, maybe I'm making that part up for dramatic effect.  So anyways, the boss chooses this particular moment to head over to make a visit.

"Hurry up and inhale," demands the wife.

"What?" the husband asks.

"I just farted and I need you to help me inhale all the fart up."

So the two sat in the corner, drunk as skunks and breathing as deeply as possible in order to inhale all the possible fart particles out of the air before the boss got there.

See?  I'm not the only one who believes in fart particles.