Ohhhh, Luuuuucy! You got some assepting to do.

True to my procrastinating roots, I’ve let a couple of blogger awards gather dust on the cyber-mantle without having yet properly acknowledged the honor. I suck like that. I apologize. (oh, and see what i’m doing here…i can’t accept an award without berating myself, ‘thank you for this lovely award. it is quite an honor. i suck. thank you.’)

Seriously, I am touched that someone thinks enough of me and/or my writing to pass an award (or two) along my way. I’m not afraid to admit I doubt myself and find much of what I write a bunch of drivel. And, like most folks, I often wonder why I broadcast my life out there for anyone with an internet connection to peruse. Naturally, I don’t expose the deep, dark, scaly underbelly of dee’s world, but I have been known to wax on ad nauseam about my crotch or the various states of fecal matter or today I could write a scroller on the nipple piercings I received from Ethan. See, not really topics I would discuss with Miss Ruth over some picked-up sticks, but give me my bullhorn blog and I’ll blabber away. Hear ye, hear ye, my nipples are on fire!

Another thing, (i can hear XUP now, “accept the damn awards already!” i’m on my way) I feel like I’m losing my voice lately. My writing voice. I’m sure it’s a combination of mental exhaustion from constant baby wrangling, working to keep a slim amount of peace in the house, and the fact that I rarely speak with any other adult(s). On the off chance I am in a position to communicate with another adult, I find myself employing Crazy Speak. Like during the whole Coco retrieval fiasco, I walked up to the counter to pay the dog fine at City Hall…the counter where lo, an adult is conversing with me.

What’s the dog’s name?

Coco. Coco Rodriguez. His last name is Rodriguez. But, I’m White. I mean not white as in white race which I guess I should say Caucasian. No, my last name is White. But, I guess I’m white, too. White like Caucasian. Yeh, Coco Rodriguez.

I just needed the dog’s first name.

Oh.

My writing voice and my speaking voice are one and the same. I write how I speak (only without the dollar signs in a$$ or exclamation point in sh!t…but, i do tend to veer off-topic often while talking, only without making a parentheses gesture…maybe i’ll try that…crazy speak along with punctuation gestures…nice). So, now I write how I would imagine I would speak if I were saying anything other than “Did you make a poo-poo?” “No, no popsicles for breakfast.” “Read. Read now. No, don’t turn the volume up and ignore me. Go read.” “Did you make a poo-poo?”

I constantly fight the urge to post ‘Poo-poo, shoo-shoo, caa-caa, doo-doo.’ That’s my voice these days.

Okay, okay, XUP. On my way…moving on.

Getting my heal caught in the hem of my dress on the way to the podium…

My long overdue acceptance of two awards from two blogging honeys.

Grandy from Functional Shmunctional bestowed upon me the Arte Y Pico Award. (nevermind that was nearly a month ago…uhhh the losing my writing voice thing, yeh) While I’m sure the originator was aiming for the ‘peak of art’ as a translation, I prefer (and joked with grandy) my own Art and Pen!s Award as pico is Spanish slang for pen!s. Not a bad way to spend the evening…some art and pen!s. But, I digress.

The award. Let me borrow Grandy’s words (which i think are also borrowed…we’re two lazy a$$es) to adequately describe the award (aside from the whole pen!s thing) and the rules.

About the Arte Y Pico Award

This award was created to be given to bloggers who inspire others with their creativity and their talents, and for contributing to the blogging world in whatever medium. When you receive this award it is considered a “special honor”. Once you have received this award, you are to pass it on to 5 others. What a wonderful way to show some love and appreciation to your fellow bloggers!

The rules for passing this honor on are..

1) Pick 5 blogs that you would like to award this honor to.

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award from Arte Y Pico.

Thank you, dear Grandy, for this special honor of Art and Pen!s uhhh Arte Y Pico. I am tickled that you find me worthwhile and get an occasional chuckle from my hysterics.

Passing along the award to 5 bloggers among many who make me smile…in alphabetical order…I wouldn’t want to instigate a blog riot over art and pen!s.

1. XUP - Always with interesting and relevant posts (like mites gnawing around in your underwear…she gets you thinking…and squirming), I can’t stop expressing how glad I am that she’s back in the blogosphere.
2. Mary Lynn - In my slow acquisition of all Canadian bloggers, she is the second Canuck I’ve pulled curbside. I’ve spent the past three Saturday mornings in a row with her blog post on The Best Buttermilk Pancakes Ever! open as these have become our favorite weekend breakfast treat. The combination of cinnamon and vanilla…it’s french toast in pancake form. All that’s missing is a complimentary footrub.
3. mightiadd - After reading her 101 things about herself (which i believe is buried in an early post of hers…dig around…here we go…oh, and it’s only 100), I immediately latched onto her as we share quite a bit in common (her, her, her, her…oh, my writing voice pains me, ahem). And, if you ever need any advice on cloth diapering or making your own baby food or I bet anything else, this is your go-to gal. She does her research (her).
4. nylonthread - One of the original visitors to Tha Curb, she is sweet, personable, and crafty with her little hands. She hocks her goods on Etsy if you ever find yourself in the market for a killer pair of origami earrings.
5. wrekehavoc - Another Curb original. What she doesn’t realize is I am the younger sister her family put up for adoption as they wanted to give her sole alpha female status. How would she have ever won Jeopardy three times! if I were there robbing her of attention?

And, there we have it. One award graciously accepted (thank you, thank you) and passed along (you’re welcome, you’re welcome).

In the interest of shorter blog posts (and screaming babies nipping at my heels), I’ll save the other award for another post.

Now, I’m off to discuss poo-poo and doo-doo with my pint-sized conversationalists.

How Gav Killed Our Neighbor

by: a mom who can’t take much more excitement

I Twittered (tweeted, twitted, twit, twat, twut) the following yesterday morning:

Just said to my neighbor, “Sorry I locked the door in your face. I wasn’t wearing any pants.” Doubt she’ll ever come by again. 11:49 AM July 28, 2008 from web.

This is our neighbor to right of us. A nice enough elderly woman, Miss Ruth, who lives alone and will be turning 81 this year. She recently asked Gav if he would pick up sticks/debris from her yard after any wily storms blow through the area. That’s when she divulged her age; I wouldn’t have placed her day over 62 years.

Gav surprised me with his jaw-dropping gentlemanly acceptance of her stick-picking-up proposal and refusal of the money she was offering him. “No, ma’am. I cannot accept your money. It will be my pleasure to pick up your sticks free of charge.” (who is this kid? and, who, just 15 minutes earlier, was the kid dressed in his skin refusing to read and gnashing his teeth at me?)

So, remember the a$$kicker storm that turned our Coco into a superdog able to leap chain link fences in a single bound? Yeh, it also left sticks/debris in Miss Ruth’s yard.

When Gav asked Miss Ruth the morning after the storm if she had seen the dog, she said no but pointed out the yard full of sticks. Gav said he would get on it as soon as he found the dog.

Then, Gav did as Gav is famous for doing…he forgot all about it. And, took off for his grandparents’ house over the weekend. Miss Ruth spotted me in the yard yesterday and asked again if he could come by. I promised her, “First thing in the morning.”

First thing in the morning…Gav takes the trash out, pulls the trash to the curb, dumps the recycling, walks the dog, brushes the dog, feeds the fish, feeds the dog. (if only i could get him to change diapers, i’d be laid back reading lengthy novels and eating bon-bons all the time)

What does Gav not do first thing this morning? Of course. He doesn’t go next door for stick fetching.

“GAV!” I warn him. “I promised Miss Ruth you would go over there first thing this morning. The sticks in her yard are probably stressing her out. She’s 81. You don’t want sticks in her yard giving her a heart attack.”

Stay tuned for Hitchcock’s follow-up to The Birds…The Sticks.

Thirty-minutes after my stick warning, I’m in the bathroom (maybe brushing my teeth, maybe not) when I hear sirens getting louder and louder and LOUDER. “Oooh, that sounds like it’s in our neighborhood.”

Rush out of the bathroom, throw open the living room curtains (remember, i don’t wear pants, so the curtains are always closed), and ohshit!ohshit!ohshit!, a full fleet of fire truck, rescue squad, and ambulance roll up to our neighbor to right of us. A nice enough elderly woman, Miss Ruth, who lives alone and will be turning 81 this year. Who has a shitload of sticks in her yard.

“GAAAAAV! I TOOOOOOLD YOOOUUUUU!”

Poor Gav turned ghostly white and tripped his way into the a$$ end room of the house, whimpering, “Oooooh, noooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”

I could see through the shutters in the a$$ end room that the paramedics were heading around to the back of the house. “Oh shit,” I lamented. “She started picking up sticks in her back yard first.”

Gav’s racing towards the back door but sees through the shutters that Miss Ruth is standing there in her back yard looking well and alive.

“Miss Ruth is standing there in her back yard looking well and alive!” exclaims Gav.

In the millisecond meantime, I’ve thrown on a pair of pants and met him at the back door.

Sure enough, there’s Miss Ruth looking down at a middle-aged sweaty satellite repair guy seated on the ground, leaning against her house, looking like the heat got the best of him.

Lesson learned. Gav marched over after the emergency crew departed and let Miss Ruth know he was going to pick up her sticks now. She told him to come back in the evening when it’s not so hot; she’d hate for those sticks to kill him.

This is the tale of how I’ve come to have a dog in my bathroom.

(don’t worry. he doesn’t live in the bathroom. he only sleeps there at night for the time being until we get a dog house for outside and a gate to limit him to the ass end end room of the house. and when it’s raining outside…like it is now. have i told you much i love my “private” time in the bathroom not only with a toddler racing toy cars up my leg, but now with a dog licking my feet and trying to wedge his snout in my crotch? oh how i love it. mmhmm, i’m thinking of doing live webcasts from the toilet. might as well.)

Coco belonged to E’s parents. He had been a member of their family for the past 10 years. Until this past Monday when they made the brilliant decision to drop him off at the pound. (argh)

E called me mid-morning, raging about how his mom had just called to say they had taken Coco to an animal shelter and were in the process of giving away their other dog, Sam. (i’m not really sure what’s going on around there…his dad recently yanked up all of his gorgeous rose bushes, is having trees chopped down left and right, and now went on a dog-cleansing spree…banishing all forms of life…i don’t think the kids will be visiting there any time soon, “Uh oh, I detect breathing life forms in my presence. ZAP!”)

His mom didn’t know exactly where Coco had been dropped, but told E to forget about it and hung up on him. But, before the slam in his ear, she slipped and mentioned something about the airport. So, I hopped online and found an animal shelter, yep, near the airport.

E called first, ran through an altered ‘Oh there was a misunderstanding; you have my dog’ story, gave a description of Coco but came up with nothing. No one by his parents’ name had brought in an animal, no dog matched Coco’s description, go directly to jail, do not pass GO, do not collect $200. E tries calling his mom back to pump her for more information, but she’s ignoring his call now.

I call the animal shelter and run through the same story. “Sorry. We have no listing under that name. We have no dog matching that description. I cannot help you.” I asked if there were any other animal shelters near the airport. “No, we’re the only one. But, we do not have a dog matching that description.” I asked if we could at least drive out there and see the dogs brought in that morning. “Sure.”

E drove to the animal shelter and, sure enough, there he found Coco cowering and shivering in the corner of a pen where he was housed with a very large German shepherd. (coco is a short, hotdog of a dog) There was no record of him being dropped off because his parents dropped him off AS A STRAY. (come on, seethe with me here ::seethe seethe:: )

Forty dollars and a near doggie heart attack later, Coco arrives home to our lovely fenced backyard. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to fetch any dog food or collar or anydogthing yet. But, at least he was safe.

E returns to work. I plan on heading out for dog essentials just after feeding the twins. Mid face smearing/feeding I hear BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! thunder. Nooooo. I shovel the pureed goodness down their gullets faster and make it outside just before the clouds split open.

And, no.Coco.

Motherf*cker.

COCO! COCO! COCO! Nothing. Nada. Zilch. And, it’s now raining cats and any dog but Coco.

The rain was hellacious and knocked the power out until 10 p.m. that night. E drove around the neighborhood calling for Coco to no avail. It was pitch black and dead silent out there. Not even a dog barking.

The next morning, I sent Gav with his friends and a few snapshots of Coco to see if anyone had seen the little guy. Gone barely 10 minutes, Gav came running in the house, “I found Coco! This Russian lady’s daughter was putting up flyers just now. Here, look!” This along with a tale from zee Russian lady about zee cute leetle doogie..

(naturally, i cropped off our neighborhood and zee phone numbers)

Coco, already famous in the neighborhood. These flyers are EVERYWHERE. If he ever roams free again, everyone will at least recognize his sweet little doggie face. Look, he’s even crying in the photo.

Oh, but nothing is ever that easy. She had taken him…are you ready?…to the animal shelter an hour earlier. Give me a moment while I disembowel myself here.

Coco was not playing nice with her 4-month old puppy and she needed to leave for work. So, she phoned her vet and asked if they could hold Coco (who they had temporarily renamed Rex) for the day. Only if she wanted to pay boarding fees, they said. But, they would hold him as a stray for 20 days. Or 2 hours as it worked out.

I phone the vet clinic which, fortunately, is not far from our house. The process is:

1. Go to the vet clinic and visually identify the dog.
2. Go to City Hall and pay a $40 fine.
3. Go back to the vet clinic and show my receipt where I will then pay the boarding fee and the dog will be mine.

Okey dokey. Not too bad, but remember, I don’t travel alone. My 50-piece ensemble has to join me. And, we had already had our one major outing for the day wherein we bought an a$$load of dog paraphernalia, hopeful in Coco’s return.

The routine for each stop -

I put Alani in the carseat that fits onto the stroller. Stop the minivan, pop the trunk, lug out the stroller, open it and wheel it to Alani’s side, flop the carseat on the stroller. Lean over to the back and unbuckle Gab and have her crawl out. Wheel Alani around to the other side of the minivan where I strap on the Björn and lug Ethan out of his carseat and into the Björn. Gav stands guard, making sure no one rolls away.

Exhausting, ya think? I did this over and over and over, besting my time with each additional stop. I am now the SH!T when it comes to minivan emergency evacuation.

Back to Coco, he’s now a happy, much loved dog who gets walked and brushed by Gav constantly throughout the day. Gav has begged for a dog since we moved into this house with the fenced-in backyard. So, voila! Instant dog, just add water and multiple trips to animal shelters.

I have a dog in my bathroom. (that’s not a euphemism for any sort of bathroom behavior…there’s actually a real dog in there)

I haven’t co-habitated with an actual dog-dog in 10 years. Mercy me, after the hellacious past two days, I much prefer drag queen kitties.

While I should write the tale of how I’ve come to have a dog in my bathroom, I also have at least 5 unfinished, unrelated drafts collecting blogdust, each of which I was too damn lazy to finish. So, I’ll give those to you quick and dirty. Ready?

Aaand, we’re done. Did you blink? Was it good for you? I know I’m exhausted. I should really start hitting the gym.

Ok. Quick, but not too quick, yet still dirty.

• An entry regarding the twins’ 6-month check-up last week
  • Both kids looking good, plumping up (ethan 20 pounds, alani 17 pounds), impressing the doctor with manual dexterity (alani picked up a monkey rattle from the table, passed it from hand to hand to mouth, and, judging from the doctor’s reaction, you would have thought she was bending spoons and starting wastebasket fires with her mind) and a hot-to-trot circumcision (that would be ethan, not that you really needed the clarification…every visit, when checking out the boy goods, the doctor exclaims, “Excellent circumcision!”…makes me wonder if he sees a lot of bad hack jobs).
• An entry regarding my apparent crazy vibes last Friday
  • Ventured to the library with the twins, Gab, and Gav last Friday (yes, last Friday, in case you missed that). While it was exhausting and everyone lost their shit in the library, I felt like I, more or less, had the situation under control and didn’t feel panicky or overwhelmed. However, upon loading everyone back up in the car, the woman parked beside me repeatedly asked, “Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you sure you’re okay?” I kept answering, “Yes, thanks, I’m fine.” She rattled off something about having 4 kids herself and how everyone constantly needs to go to the bathroom and “Are you okay? Are you okay?” Umm, 3 of my kids go freely in their pants and the oldest thrives to make it into The Guinness Book of World Records with his limited bathroom visits (i exaggerate, of course…don’t worry that he’s giving himself uti’s or impacted bowels….he’s just good about ‘going’ before we leave home…yet another check in the ‘gav rocks’ column). Am I okay? Either the Troll doll hair I sport caused concern or the sheer sight of the baby limo or maybe the woman herself is.not.okay when she’s out with all 4 of her kids. I don’t know, but it really had me wondering what sort of vibes I give off these days. Don’t mind me over here wearing my panties on my head and eating dog food (because i now have a huge honkin’ bag of dog chow in the pantry…i could eat it if i wanted…don’t tempt me…i might just be crazy enough to snack on it). Woohoo, crazy lady on the other side of these words you’re reading right now.
• Do you think I’m okay? What about you? Are you okay?
• An entry concerning the broad umbrella of ‘animal’
  • E’s sister was recently camping with her 4th, 5th, and 6th husband (all the same guy…no one is sure as to why she married him 3 times over the course of 3 weeks in 3 separate states…perhaps mr. springer can enlighten us…or maybe that would be more up mr. povich’s alley…or are those alleys one and the same?) and ended up with a nasty bite on her uhh end. I haven’t seen the bite, but the juicy grapevine informs me that it’s a doozy. An oozy doozy. Yum. E’s mom was describing the wound to me; it sounds like some nasty spider had his way with her buttock. Only, E’s mom (who, between canada and the u.s., has been in english speaking lands the past 21 years) says to me, “I think it animal bited her. Animal. Yes, animal bited her.” I say, “Probably a spider or some sort of insect” to which she squints her eyes, bobbles her head side to side, “Animal.”
    • Animal - When you tell me an animal attacked your butt cheek, I imagine maybe a chipmunk, a raccoon, maybe a squirrel (that squirrel would have to intake quite.a.few screwdrivers before becoming a literal butt-muncher). I tell E about the exchange and how I’m guessing his mom couldn’t come up with the English word for spider or mosquito or insect whatever. ::buzz goes the buzzer::

    Those are animals.

    No, no, no, she just couldn’t come up with the word for spider.

    No, she’s right. It was an animal that bit my sister’s ass. She’s not wrong to say animal.

    Oh, give me a break. I don’t say, after spending 2 seconds in the mosquito-filled backyard, “Man, my arms are covered in animal bites.” Nor do I say when annoyed by the fly that just landed on my dinner plate, “That bastard animal keeps landing on my food.” Nor regarding the creepy eeby-jeeby spider working its way along the wall, “Ehhh, somebody give me a shoe so I can kill the animal on the wall.” (reads like i live in a landfill, eh? man, check out the animals swarming)

    No, my mom’s right. All animals. In the Animal Kingdom.

• Lastly (finally…i should look up the definition of quick, huh?…at least, i didn’t promise to give it to you animal and dirty), a blurb from a few weeks ago on proper attire for c0stc0 shopping trips
  • As c0stc0 is the only place thus far I can comfortably shop when alone with the twins and Gab, we have a buttload of gallon-sized shampoos and at least 5 loaves of bread on the kitchen counter at all times. (anyone have a good recipe for bread pudding?) On a recent solo trip but still dressed in my usual get-up (fashion savvy folks, close your eyes for this one…swishy black track pants, baggy black t-shirt - this particular one sporting Prince and the NPG on the front and “Bringin’ Tha Funk” on the back - oh yeh, i bring that funk all up in the wholesale warehizzouse, hair in a frizzy bun, and black faux-crocs…i admit; i’m begging to be accosted by the fashion police for a mom make-over…but, come on…i’m shopping in a warehouse for pete gallagher’s sake!), I caught some snarls in the parking lot from an alabama belle daughter/mom/grandmom trio. They were all dressed immaculately, pressed capri pants, perfectly fitted tops, bracelets matching their strappy sandals, hair and make-up ready for the pages of Southern Elle. But, yes, the youngest of the trio, probably my age, actually snarled at me in the parking lot. What the f*ck ever. I meander about the store, browsing the books (i was surprised to find david sedaris’s new book in the pile), rifling through all the bread to find the furtherest expiration date, pissing off my stomach with the hodgepodge variety of food samples (ahoy! here comes a bit of jamaican burger, yogurt, bagel bite, pomegranate juice, aged something cheese, fruit roll up, spinach ravioli, fuji apple wedge, ice cream, my middle finger), and what not. I roll up to the front and load my shampoo and bread at register number eleventy bazillion. And, lo, I turn to find behind me the Belle Trio, Alabama’s Best Through The Years. Only instead of being greeted by a young snarl, mom in the middle grimaced to her companions, and I shit you not, “I can’t believe she left the house looking like that.” I guess she didn’t expect me to turn at the exact moment she was running her face, but still. Sorry to disappoint, but I failed to strike back with any sort of biting remark. But, I did stare at her with my best “Wtf?” expression for a few seconds. Seriously. Couldn’t she have simply asked me, “Are you okay?”

I don’t know April, but I do know she has one genius amigo. I picked this up somewhere on the Twitter feeds (and, my apologies if it’s you i’m ripping off). I sent it to a few people one of whom possibly whizzed herself. So, in the spirit of urinary incontinence, here you go.

A couple of notes:

1. I emailed this clip to E who later asked me, “Who’s Joe Cocker?”
2. I wonder if E would give Joe hell for wearing tie-dye. Oh, yeh, that’s right. He doesn’t know Mr. Cocker. (cocker…i must be deliriously tired because i’m suddenly snickering at the last name ‘cocker’…now, i’m off to give someone a wedgie and wet-willie)

Hellooooo. Looks like I’m back to once a week postings. To be honest, I’ve had a few free moments during which I could have written something. But, my fingers were still b!tching about the fish pond, and really, just how much can you stand to read about the fish who love the smell of napalm in the morning…napalm, oil, and gasoline. For the fish simpaticos, all six are alive and thriving and sh!ttin’ up their abode once again to the lovely green decor they so love.

Oh, and for the vindictive, Fishkiller (as I’ve appropriately tagged the iggit who dumped the gas/oil) had his vehicle impounded last week. I know…I said I wasn’t vindictive, but SCORE! He was pulled over due to the tint on his truck windows being too dark. Then, double whammy for driving without a license. (someone, please, stop the Jerry Springer antics that seem to have overtaken my life…i might as well start chewing tobacco and participating in hair-pulling fights over the last nascar koozie in the bargain bin at wa!-mart) I assume from E’s distressful tale of Fishkiller’s situation that I was supposed to react with sympathy and compassion. Pfft. I managed to contain my laughter and simply grinned, “Karma.”

Moving on past the fish…there is life past the fish, right?

The 4th was a mostly pleasant day filled with an abundance of meat and poultry in parking lots and smiley face fireworks. I stole a few minutes of twin-free time and jetted off to the bookstore with Gav and Gab in the morning. Once at the bookstore, a meat patty on the pavement greeted me as I stepped from the car. Maybe someone accidentally ordered the double or triple decker, thus flicking their extra meat to the ground? (i once accidentally ordered a triple decker burger…the guys with me knew i always ordered the same chicken sandwich and just stared in disbelief when i mistakenly blurted out the wrong number…instead of inquiring, “yo, dee, are you gonna be able to eat all that beef?” they just assumed i was having a meat craving…it wasn’t until i sat down and opened up the wrapper and was all, “whoa! look at all this meat! i didn’t order this”…”uh, yes, you did. i wondered if you were gonna be able to eat all that beef”…between two guys, i had no problem gifting my meat…go ahead, try working that last sentence into your workday)

Meat. On the ground. On the fourth of July. Later, I was fetching a can of peaches at the grocery store to celebrate our independence in the form of peach cobbler. Pulled into the parking lot, stepped out of the car, and nearly busted my independent a$$ on a piece of fried chicken. Seriously. First a meat patty, then a fried chicken breast. That’s right, not just some measly little chicken wing. An entire breast. I’m not sure what to make of the protein parking lots. Vegetarians declaring their independence? (although, if so, someone cheated on the meat patty as it had a bite missing)

The middle part of the day, meh. E’s parents came over toting their entire arsenal of whacking, chopping, trimming devices. I always dread seeing his dad trudging Rambo-style from the car with his machete, ax, hatchet, electric trimmer,… It must be their way to feel like men, taking down trees. E and his dad beavered their way about the yard decimating bits of dogwoods, azaleas, and other assorted trees/bushes who weren’t bothering anybody. Don’t get me going. Makes me all twitchy and brings me back to the fish pond.

I was especially looking forward to seeing the fireworks since I’ve missed them the past several years. E is vehemently opposed to viewing any fireworks show. Thinks they’re “stupid” and he gets all twitchy just at the mention of them. My personal opinion? I figure it has something to do with some ex-girlfriend. But, that’s just my intuitive gander.

So, at the last minute, I sprang the news after putting the twins to bed, “Gav, Gab, and I are driving downtown to watch the fireworks. Later.” I’ve learned that’s the best way to get out of the house. Just all of a sudden announce my departure. And, then depart.

Departing I went. We found a meat/poultry-free parking lot on campus not yet crammed to the gills and staked out a spot for ourselves. Forgetting from what spot on the mountain the fireworks would be doing their own departing, we had to scurry to the other side of the parking lot after the first bursting in air was totally obliterated by a patch of trees. “Way to go, Moooooom.” Gav, always making me feel like a weiner winner.

The fireworks display was decent although it was a bit too heavy with smiley faces. The first one or two, “Oooh, smiley face.” Then, over the next 15 minutes, people chirping, “Smiley face. Smiley face. Smiley face. Smiley face. Smiley face. Smiley face…” I’m assuming the city snagged a deal on smiley faces?

It was Gab’s first fireworks viewing. True to Gab form, she pointed at the first few. Then busied herself with a patch of dirt and rocks at our feet, occasionally (upon my insistence) looking up at the hubbub in the sky.

I enjoyed the time alone with the two G’s and look forward to finding more meat-free parking lots on the 4th for fireworks extravaganzas with the twins included.

Gab has no idea why we’re hanging out in a parking lot. “Protect me, big brother Gav, from the meat patties and fried chicken.”

“Oh, I get it. We came to the parking lot to take photos in the trunk of the minivan. Cheeeese.”

The koi and their watery abode are clean. No more oil. No more gasoline. And, geez Louise, no more green gloopy assorted fish excretory matter.

We are all agreed that dumping a ‘mostly gasoline, just a little bit of oil’ mixture in the tank was the bonehead move of the century. E has been surprisingly/suspiciously cool about the whole affair. He blows a cerebral gasket over a puddle of milk finding its way on the hardwood floors. But, gas/oil in the fish tank? No worries, mon. Well, nevermind all of that…E admitted earlier tonight that he had been hoping the fish tank would just “go away.” I can’t imagine what would have happened had I had a cat he was hoping would just “go away.”

Regrouping here. Shaking off the angry.

Cleaning the tank was a hell of a job. Imagine cleaning an overused outhouse recently frequented by an Exx0n carrier and you’re completing this endeavor with a mop bucket, 2-liter bottle with the top cut out for scooping purposes, and a small scrub brush intended to clean the perimeter of a bathtub. A 108-gallon outhouse. That’s my approximate volume calculation after taking measurements with my trusty tape measure. If you asked my arms, back, and legs today, they’d all agree it held at least 1008 gallons.

I housed the koi in a large cooler during the pond overhaul. Poor guys. Already living in rather small quarters to be downsized to a one-room cooler efficiency apartment.

I won’t go into all the pain-in-the-a$$ details, but there came a point when the sludge I was scooping looked exactly like this kiwi drink E is always slurping. I contemplated saving at least a quart of the fish gloop and substituting it in his fridge container. Lucky for him, I’m not a vengeful person. (oh but i will silently rage over this for quite some time and derive much pleasure over just the thought)

The job took all morning and half of the afternoon. Fortunately, the twins were having one of those perfect days and fully cooperated, first by sleeping late, then eating well and hanging out for a bit to soon fall back asleep for an extended nap. Gab, who is usually always begging to go outside, got her fill of the outdoors. She stayed in the backyard with me the entire time and has since not made one single mention of going back outside. She’ll reach age 70 and tell tales of those early days when she was 2-years old and would go “outside” where the sun shines, the wind blows, and dumba$$es pollute fish ponds. I tried to get her to come out and feed the fish with me today, “NO OUTSIDE!!!” The outside no longer exists in her world.

The fish were still in the cooler Sunday when I came in and read some of your comments (and showered for the third time that day). It hadn’t crossed my mind to also clean the fish. I guess the bonehead was contagious. After searching the internet on ‘how to clean oil from koi fish‘ and getting suggestions of ‘add a splash of lime juice‘ and ‘goes well with grilled asparagus,’ I opted for bathing each koi myself. I filled two large bowls with clean water and added a few drops of dechlorinator (which i also added to the cooler). Then, donned a pair of nitrile gloves (maybe the fish have latex allergies…ok, maybe i have latex allergies). One at a time, I transferred them from bowl to bowl, giving each a tiny fish rub-down without the happy ending.

Once in the so fresh and so clean pond, they swam around frantically looking for all their sh!t I had taken away. “Where is all my sh!t??? My sh!t is missing! Somebody stole ALL MY SH!T!”

As of early this evening, there are still six gasoline/oil/sh!t-free koi swimming around in my backyard.

Photo de tattooedfolk

I’ve had quite a few ‘Are you sh!tting me?’ moments the past few days, but this one tops them all. Excuse me one moment while I silently scream my head off - AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

I was out in the mosquito infested backyard a couple of hours ago just as the sun was tidying up his workspace for the day when I noticed beautiful swirly rainbows in the fish pond. I’ve mentioned our wee rectangular concrete slab/fish pond. When we looked at this house 2.5 years ago, the pond was the push E needed to sign his name 50+ times to make the house our own. Four koi, each ~5 inches in length, one solid gold, two orange and white, and one calico. The fish who drove us to Debtville.

Within weeks of moving in, E decided 4 was a no good number, but 5 would bring us luck. So, off to the local pet shop I pranced to fetch another koi. I don’t remember his/her exact color (ooh, past tense…not good)…orange and white, I think. He/she stood his/her ground for a while with the gang, then eventually went missing. Swooped up by a hungry neighborhood cat? Beaten and eaten alive by the Koi Four Gang? We’ll never know. Nonetheless, we were back to four.

Over the next few weeks, Gav, as it was his job to feed the fish twice daily, began telling us he saw a small black fish in with the Koi Four. Yeh, yeh, sure you did, buddy. “No, really, there’s a small black fish out there! Maybe a bird stopped for a drink of water and it fell out of the bird’s mouth.” Highly unlikely.

It took another week or so for me to finally notice. (i think gab was a freshly born, clinging to my being, cherub at the time. have i told you that story? how i didn’t put her down the first 6 weeks of her life? we’ll reminisce on that lovely time in my life another day) Sure enough, there was a teensy black fish along with three more fish babies. Somebody in the pond had gone and gotten knocked up. And, here we were with eight koi.

And, so it had been until the end of this past winter. Somewhere along the way, two of the bigger fish disappeared. Perhaps they sensed Earth’s impending destruction and hurled themselves skyward with the dolphins. Or, maybe the hawk we saw perched on the pond’s edge one morning played a role in their disappearance. That hawk did have shifty eyes. I knew he couldn’t be trusted.

Eight koi fish jumping on the bed. Two fell off and broke their head. Momma called the doctor and the doctor said, “No more koi fish jumping on the bed.”

Six koi is the current population in Rectangular Concrete Fish Pond Town. Which brings me back to the beautiful swirly rainbows over said town.

Yesterday, E and a friend were in the backyard banging their chest changing the oil in a piece of equipment (a pressure washer if you’re really interested…i’m sorry; i knew you weren’t interested). I glanced out the window occasionally, curious if they actually knew what they were doing and also keeping a visual on Gab and her acquisition of mosquito bites aplenty. At one point, I saw the friend swirling some oil around in a container just above the fish pond. You know, just above the fish pond like he might, oh I don’t know, dump said oil in said pond. But, E was standing beside him and took the container from him, then poured the oil in a waste container (2-liter Coke bottle if you’re interested…no? still not interested? yeh, me neither). “Whew,” I said to myself. “I thought he was actually about to toss that into the fish pond.”

Flash forward to beautiful swirly rainbows.

Mother f*cker, it looks like someone has dumped oil in the fish pond!

I walk the perimeter of the pond and the rainbows cover the entire surface. So, I phone E.

You didn’t happen to dump oil in the pond yesterday did you? No? Because there’s a mini-Valdez oil slick happening out back in the pond. How do I know? Beautiful swirly rainbows.

He said he would call his friend.

Now, here we are, the sun’s gone bye-bye for the day, and E just returned home.

Oh, I called So&So. He said he dumped just a tiny bit of oil in the pond. The majority of what he dumped was mostly gasoline.

Deep breath in through your nose. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. And, exhale slowly through your mouth. Unless you’re one of my fish in which case you are PROBABLY DEAD BY NOW.

My Sunday morning will be spent trying to rescue six koi fish from beautiful swirly rainbows.

(i know. i should be out there right now, trying to do something about it. i’m going straight to koi hell for waiting until morn. morn when i mourn.)

And, Brutha Ministah said, “Let there be curb.”

And, there was curb.

Yes, you fine folks with attention for ‘broad banner across the top’ detail have noticed the curb. Being a person of simple pleasures, I’ve longed for and harassed the ever-loving sh!t out of my friend, Brutha Ministah, for a decent photo of a curb for months now. I’m simple like that. While some may wish for exotic puke it up in your cabin cruises across the Caribbean and others want the latest in high tech gadgetry, me? I just wanted a curb.

B.M. (again, not to be confused with Bowel Movement) made the irreversible mistake of mentioning his latest hobby of photography…not one but two! fancy pants cameras, periodic purchases of lenses crafted with chips off the Hope diamond, and general bragging of The Quality, Oh The Quality.

I’ve wanted to slap a curb up top since beginning this blogging adventure. But, I wanted The Quality, Oh The Quality, not some grainy, pixelated by the hands of cavemen crap my camera would cough up.

So, I pushed the boundaries of friendship and let not one minute pass between us without mention of a curb.

Hey, dee. How’s it going?

Curb.

Anything new with you, dee?

Curb.

I’m having all of my organs transplanted next week.

Curb.

I suppose he was not eager to roll around on his belly in the street for my curb request.

Finally, my haggling paid off last week when he emailed some kicka$$ curbs from the streets of Little Rock, Arkansas. When I asked if anyone noticed his odd behavior of pointing his camera at curbs, “Many people noticed.” I take full responsibility for lowering his cool factor by 40 points.

I’ve already hit him up for my next blogging adventure….On The Men’s Urinal.

Hush, hush. It’s alright. You’re in the right place. I’m just f*cking up sprucing up the place a bit. Your key still unlocks the door. So, no worries.

I may change the lay-out 20 more times, so don’t get too comfortable just yet. Oh, go ahead. Get out of those tight pants. You can carry them with you if we travel to another blog design.