I had a dream last night that Merritt, age five, locked himself in the bathroom and affixed one of those stick-on tattoos to his little, tiny erect penis. You know - the kind of tattoo that might be impossible to remove from a little, tiny flacid penis.
I'm wondering if the dream wasn't so much a dream as a newfound ability to see the future.
At the eleven minute mark, it was so gut-wrenching that Matt and I were both sobbing into our bowls of red beans and rice.
So terrible that we actually had to pause the movie to desperately try and compose ourselves. Which Didn't Work.
So disturbing that Matt actually cursed Walt Disney in the grave yelling, "WHAT THE HELL KIND OF SHIT IS THIS, DISNEY?"
At the thirty-two minute mark we were still wailing.
And again, off and on -but mostly on- throughout the rest of this torturous moving picture.
At its conclusion Matt was pacing and weeping and shaking the DVD case towards the heavens, screaming all the back-cover reviews as questions ... "HILARIOUSLY UPLIFTING?!?" "A WONDERFUL FILM?!?" Again, cussing ol' Walt. Generously spraying him with devastated WTFs and salty, angry tears.
And so it is decided. The name of that movie should have been (EFFED) UP.
Got the Emergency Husband an iPhone.
He won't put it down.
He's had the thing less than 24 hours and he's taken three poops with it (he loves being connected while having excellent colon health).
He can, at a second's notice, tell you where you are longitudinally or metaphysically or acrobatically. There are apps for that.
This morning he downloads an application called "X-Ray Bikini." It claims to provide ... you got it ... x-ray vision. My sweet, usually intelligent, charming husband - the one who can see me naked whenever he wants - gets this app and immediately points his phone at me, only to become sad and disappointed that it didn't work.
So now he's looking for a disappointment app.
I've decided that babies invented bulimia.
Also, I've learned that not only should Merritt have 4 changes of clothes in the diaper bag ... I should, too ... lest I leave a German restaurant wearing NOTHING beneath my coat.
Or ... Why My Master Bedroom Needs Windshield Wipers.
(technology fail. click here.)
Merritt Scot Nipper: King of the Threes.
Sometimes I call Merritt "Sweet Pea."
Sometimes I call him "Sweetness."
This morning I called him "Sweet Peaness."
Then things got weird.
Several years after it was sold into syndication, and several years after I was too old to be watching it, I watched my first episode of Dawson's Creek. And then I watched EVERY episode of Dawson's Creek. And for too many months after that, I began every conversation, every sentence, EVERY THOUGHT with "this is like that one time on Dawson's Creek when ..."
Sigh, Pacey Witter, sigh.
There was always a kite in my vehicle in case the spirit moved me - or the wind did, one - and I needed to stop for some emergency flying.
I discovered the alumni stickers in the bookstore were only $1.49 where my college career was approximately 33,557 times that and I reasoned that purchasing the decal and putting it on my Jeep seemed infinitely easier than going to class and writing papers. I did finish, but that trusty sticker was applied 3 years prior to earning my degree. I'm so stinking smart.
Wing consumption equaled an event. Hey, guys. Want to get together and ... wings?
Every weekend included chips, salsa, and "puffy tacos" with extra dressing from Cactus Jack's and some sort of shenanigans with The Brothers Four. Usual shenanigans involved climbing rope and structures that weren't meant to be climbed. And laughter. Pants-wetting laughter. And sometimes underclothes worn over the outer. And sometimes tarps. And always engineering, or rigging, or creating.
Phew. Those days were good. So good.
But I only thought those were the glory days.
Glory Days are being redefined.
Daily.
THIS GUY!Lightening struck my modem?
Or God hates blogging? (I know He hates panty lines.)
But really.
Lightening struck my modem.
And having been without internet for the last four days has been sort of like trying to walk without a pinky toe. Ever tried?
Except, the life force which fell from "within" me (my little brother noticed Birthing From Within on my bookshelf and wonders if it's possible to Birth from Without), THAT life force makes it so that I don't care about not having access to the interwebs. At all.
Mostly.
But I can't remember the male actor's name from that Helen Hunt/HIM sitcom from all those years ago. Mad About You. What's his name?? Internet, help. ETA: Paul Reiser. Huge sigh of relief.
Also, happy six years to my husband of ... six years!
Links to the past.
1 Uno Año.
2 I did and still do.
3 Spinning.
4 Mine.
5 Recounting Fondly.
Matt Nipper, I'm mad about you.
Forever and yesterday and always and tomorrow.
I can tell you exactly what I was thinking when I ordered Amy Wilson Sanger's* World Snacks: Let's Nosh book. "Sweet! A book for Merritt about junk food."
Because in my mind, the word nosh only rolls out of the mouths of the high - usually following the word duuuuuuuuuuuuuuude.
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuude, let's nosh.
I was prepared for a book about Doritos and fluffer-nutter sandwiches and gummy bears and cold, three day old Chinese food and Pop Tarts ... all drenched in ranch dressing.
That's right. I purchased a book for my newborn based on the notion that it was written about "the munchies."
So color me Gentile when I received the book and learned all about gefilte fish and rugelach and schmaltz and matzoh balls. Duuuuuuuuude. Where were the twinkies?
My sweet bubelah just rolled with it - as pictured here in his nursing pad yarmulke.
Oy.
*Her entire series is wonderful.
