Blogging slumps are a normal symptom of aging; just treat with plenty of rest and water.

By joe I’ve been a bad blogger as of late!

I was just reminiscing on the days when I posted five times a week. Man those were crazy, crazy times. My mind was consumed by what the next day’s silly post was going to be about. Because they always were and are very silly posts. That is what I've built my empire upon! And I kept that routine up for a respectable portion of a year. I have to give myself props on that. Woot, woot.

But that semi-insane burning desire can only last so long before your brain decides it’s probably more important to sleep, or before cohorts are able to tempt you into doing other savory or unsavory things that simply leave no time for pouring your soul out on the internets.

So then it becomes three posts a week, then sometimes two, and now you folks are just right out giddy if it’s once a week. Right? Well I am indeed flattered. And I have every intention of keeping my blogging spark alive, even if it is a very little, unreliable, fickle, distracted, yet determined spark.

And as a token of my dedication, last week when my youngest son decided to spread the contents of his poopy diaper over the entirety of his body and his room, my first thought before I had to put the whole second floor on fecal lockdown was to take a picture. For you. Because I figured you would care. But while I knew you would care, you also wouldn’t want to see it. So I put the camera down. For you. Then took a more presentable picture later that still illustrated the streak of naughtiness that glimmers in the deepest recesses of his eyes and resonates in every crevice of his pursed lips.

Basically what I'm saying is stay tuned. More silliness is sure to make it onto this blog.

But what with my oldest starting kindergarten this year, the value of gold, and the happenings in Greece, it might just be the end of the world. So really what does it matter?*

*This sentence was added for rambling purposes.

Instinct can always be trusted to incite horror in my heart when need be

This morning I awoke to Bubba frantically calling out, "Peese, peese, peese!" from his crib. The boy's new favorite thing is to say please for things, especially if that thing involves an adult getting him out of something he cannot get out of himself. Crib, high chair, sticky situations, containers. 

Yes, he's well on his way to being one of those people who goes through life getting what he wants by being kind. You know, a charmer. And of course people will start to wonder how on Earth that happened. And I will tire quickly of saying, "Hey, don't look at me."

Well back to the events of this morning, since I could not refuse Bubba's endearing politeness I decided it was my duty to appease him and release him from bondage. I was a little perplexed as to why he had paired his 'peese' with such a distraught tone though.

I clambered, yes clambered, out of bed into Bubba's room. Lacking adequate eyesight without contacts or glasses, I could only make out basic shapes and the figure of my son standing up in the crib, and his stuffed-animal-bedtime-companion on the floor below him. I figured this had been the reason for his slightly panicked demeanor. As I walked closer I noticed Bubba's arms were outstretched towards me. Again, those charms! I gave him a hug as I usually do because he's so lovable in the morning and because I need to remind myself that dragging my body out of bed has a noble purpose. As someone who has earned the title of Not A Morning Person time and time again (please refer all inquiries to the Husband), this morning ritual I just cannot skip or there would be day long undesirable repercussions.

So as I embraced my dear little nice guy, I noticed he was pulling away to show me something. He anxiously offered me his right hand and said, "uh oh oh um ah oh ah." Even with my vacationing brain,  unreliable translation skills, and less than stellar eyesight, my instincts knew that his entire hand was covered in poop.

Thoughts for a Tuesday

First, this was supposed to be thoughts for a Monday, but you know how in my book Mondays are not super fantastic for following through on well-intentioned plans. This Monday is no different.

Second, (and I can only speak for myself here) rarely is it a good idea to change ANYONE’S diaper before I have put in my eyes, be that contacts or glasses, especially if that diaper is loaded to the brim with nastiness. Ignorance is not bliss in this case.

Third, a child that screams real loud while their mouth is one inch away from your ear CAN lead to a burst eardrum, or some sort of wiggity wackness.

Fourth, since I prefer that my affinity for napping be kept a secret, I really need to remember to not fall asleep on that one specific pillow.

{This beauty lasted a good solid hour.}

Fifth, Toy Story 3 made me cry. Gosh. So typical of me. Toy Story 3 also made Bosco get teary, but that was entirely because he only blinked two times while watching it.

The equivalent to 1.21 gigawatts

Today was a rough day in Mommyland, AND in Humanland. I make a distinction between the two lands because sometimes as a mother (particularly a stay-at-home mother) I just don’t feel human or connected to a general population of people. This is not a complaint, just an observation.

My house is ripe with retaliation right now. There are chairs being pulled up to kitchen counters and knives being wielded. There are pounds of strawberries being consumed by one three year-old in the span of five minutes.

There is a baby brother being pushed down all in the name of toy claiming. There are nap strikers. There is a boy who hates diaper changes to an insane degree, resulting in the most tiring poop covered ten minutes of my life. There is the throwing of the food which I think might be similar to the running of the bulls if those bulls looked like goldfish crackers or bananas. There are flailing of arms, stomping of feet, clenching of teeth, and testing of scream shrieking capabilities. And who could forget the kicking of the crotch, mine to be precise.

So yes, today is a day that I would prefer not to be my Groundhog Day.

Turns out though that mothers are human despite the robotic tendencies they may find themselves exhibiting. And these mothers (I can only speak for myself though) do not have the super hero ability to just suck it up all day, everyday.

Because sometimes if you heat leftover macaroni and cheese too long in the microwave it will explode, which is a shame because macaroni and cheese is good and comforting you know? Having to clean that up off the walls would be sad and messy.

I'll give you a hint. I am not the microwave in this metaphor.

So yes, I admit that I lost it in front of Bosco, meaning I cried, sobbed was more like it. I don’t normally like to blame my emotions on womanhood, but I’m almost positive I was PMSing or at the very least ovulating from the right side. It was the perfect storm type of day. A lesser man would have freaked from all the emotions and drama in the air and sent him running because apparently that just doesn’t work with some people.

But you know who it does work for? My oldest son. He saw me in this deplorable state and immediately, like a bolt of lightning had just hit him, stopped acting like a fiend and tried to make me feel better. Maybe that is a testament to the fact that my son is awesome. And maybe it's also a testament to the power of snot and tears. 

Now, of course I feel a little silly for crying in front of my son but sometimes these matters cannot be helped. I wouldn’t purposefully do this again. But I am intrigued to know that when I am at my lowest, sniveling in front of my offspring, I have the strongest effect. 

Yes, but I must be very careful with this power that my tears apparently wield. Only to be used in states of emergency, or when chocolate faileth to deliver relief.

Christmas Cheer Rules

As promised here are the Christmas Cheer Rules. Follow these fifteen rules to enjoy Christmas cheer well into the New Year. Or your money back.

1. Don’t make it necessary to go to the DMV anytime during the month of December. Christmas Cheer and DMV cannot coexist. It’s a simple matter of physics and latitude/longitude.

2. If you plan on hand-making your Christmas gifts you must start well in advance. July for example. This is the only way the scenario will play out well.

3. Never ever do a Google search for lyrics to a Christmas song, then click on the first link provided. Your computer will undoubtedly be attacked by a Trojan of some sort, leaving your computer a useless pile just in time for Christmas Day.

4. Never intentionally take away the element of gift-giving surprise for another. Included but not limited to flat out telling someone what they are receiving for Christmas and/or revealing Santa’s true identity. (This rule, however, does not apply when snooping on behalf of yourself. Feel free to sneak through closets, attics, and underwear drawers until you have spoiled all surprises for yourself.)

5. If you plan on making Almond Roca toffee, be sure to mix in the almonds before you have the candy all spread out. If you forget this key step, you will feel stupid and angry. This of course is the opposite of Christmas Cheer.

6. Don’t watch Extra with Mario Lopez because you will want to gauge your eyes out and also cut off your own ears. Many have failed to heed this warning and are now sitting by their Christmas tree, without eyeballs or ears. That is no way to spend the holidays.

7. Cobwebs are not an appropriate holiday decoration whether they be real or fake. Take care of them before they take care of you.

8. Presents smaller than a car must be wrapped. And if you are giving someone a car for Christmas you are required to donate one year of your life in service of Santa Claus.

9. December 1st through 31st be aware that your car becomes a “Christmas Music Only Zone.” Respect this law.

10. Do not stay up until 2 A.M. more than three nights in a row. Otherwise your body will stage a mutiny and you will say things you’ll regret like, “I swear if this cold doesn’t go away fast I’m going to rip my nose off.” Obviously breaking this rule while also breaking rule #6 is a dangerous combination.

11. During the holiday season you must have the makings for hot chocolate somewhere in your place of residence. A Christmas without hot chocolate is like Ireland without leprechauns. Scary and depressing.

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12. Generally speaking, you should not make relationship decisions during the holidays. Keanu’s famous words, “Relationships based on extreme circumstances rarely ever work,” are never truer than around Christmas.

13. If you are travelling for the holidays don’t forget to bring your brain along. You can’t pick one of these up at the store, at least not for a reasonable price.

14. More often than not, the smell of poop will over power the smell of pine. And pine is essential for Christmas cheer. Unfortunately the way the world is today with babies and indoor bathrooms, this situation is unavoidable. To increase the odds of pine dominance always wear a small branch of pine needles under your sleeve. Breathe in deeply whenever necessary.

15. Sanitize. Sanitize. Sanitize. And by sanitize I mean chocolate.

Disgust much?

Well today is one I would like to just file away under the category of “Never to be repeated or I will shut myself in a closet.” It just so happens that both of the fruit of my looms decided it was no-nap day, if you can believe it. I’ve dealt with one no-napper before, but not two . . . at the same time. One was always asking for food, the other was teething. One had a melt down when I went to the bathroom and refused to let him watch, and the other cried great big huge tears whenever I pulled him away from a dangerous situation. It was pure insanity. Try as I might, they just wouldn’t listen to reason or the throbbing of that vein in my neck.

Eventually my mind went somewhere else. Who knows where. But while it was gone I very nearly deposited one of Bubba’s dirty diapers in the refrigerator, and then started making dinner whilst missing two-thirds of the ingredients. Mommy brain strikes again.

I haven’t even mentioned yet how the whole Mel Gibson drama is weighing heavily upon me. I mean, hello. Forever Young. A movie that my dear impressionable childhood mind saw as the epitome of magical romance. Then years later, I find out that the man playing the frozen hunk of true love is actually the kind of man who turns into a blithering gorilla, who gets his briefs in a lunatic twist, and goes ballistic when his lover decides to sleep instead of have relations with him (It's true. I saw/heard it on TV). Crushing. I am crushed.

So for all these reasons and more, I’m going to write the remainder of this post and then call it a week. That’s right Thursday. You have been weighed. You have been measured. And you have been found unnecessary. Or maybe it’s Wednesday that needs to be banished. Either way, today is now Friday.

But now let’s get to the crux of this ramble, which is obviously something disgusting judging from the title.

Back when our air conditioner was working less than stellar, I considered that maybe our vents needed to be cleaned out. Some of the vents are on the floor so I pulled up the one closest to the kitchen and found this.

Don’t worry about me. I gagged on the spot. I’ve gotten it out of my system. I’ll wait for you to do the same.

Ready? Well, we’ve lived here for almost two years now, and I can assure you most of the things I found in this vent were not from us. There was stuff in there from before this place was remodeled and updated, probably even stuff that accrued during renovation. Previous tenants must have had severe issues considering they used this vent as their dinner table. I was so in awe of it all I had to investigate the photo further. Let’s take a closer look-see (feel free to enlarge, but I'm warning you. You are warned).

A. A piece of cheese. Honestly this could have been Bosco’s cheese. He nibbles it like a mouse.

B. Needles from an artificial Christmas tree. Definitely not us. We only do real.

C. Pieces of maroon shag carpeting which is actually not the carpet on our floors right now. Darn.

D. A penny, actually two, tails side up. Not good luck.

E. French fries. Not ours. I would slap anyone who wasted fries like this.

F. A dried, shriveled pea. This one is just a flat out mystery.

G. Cheerios, that spiders have most assuredly pooped on.

H. Pistachio shell. Can’t remember the last time I had one of those nuts outside of the pudding.

I. Crushed M&M. This one was sad to see. Chocolate left all alone. It looks like a jack-o-lantern though. So it’s creepy. To think this thing has been staring up at me every time I went by the vent. Heebie jeebies. That’s what you’re feeling right now.

J. Spider. Deceased. But not before it had the chance to poop on those Cheerios.

K. A bead. I don’t own crafting beads. Period. I’m surrounded by males who would use them as bullets.

L. Bat wings?

M. Child’s drawing on a post-it note. I almost felt bad disposing of it even though it wasn’t ours. But I had to. It was touching the bat wings?

N. Blood stains. I’m sure of it.

O. Leaves. Ok. This one could have been us.

And that’s literally only scratching the surface. The junk was a good inch thick, the majority of it being some sort of dried spackling or plaster chunks.

They’ve all been cleaned out though, yet somehow the horror still lives on in my mind. Maybe it’s because I keep looking at this picture . . . duh.

My weekend: An ailment and a laxative. One of my best titles yet.

I’m going to make this weekend review short and sweet because, let’s be honest, I’m feeling a little couch potato-ish at the moment, and also because my toenails are feeling severely neglected-ish and need a little one-on-one time.

So a couple things that have become solidified in my mind this weekend:

Let it be known that I most likely have an incurable ailment. I can’t really think of a pithy, intellectual word for: someone who buys shoes when they don’t necessarily need them, but this someone buys them anyway because they fit, and because they could be of use at some point, and because they were on sale, and because they actually spoke to this someone and said that if this someone didn’t buy them then this someone was going to regret it forEVER, as in eternity. Maybe you can send some suggestions my way of what you would call that particular sickness. But whatever you call it, I’ve got it.

Yes, I bought another pair of shoes and I dare not share a picture because they look quite similar to all the other sandals I’ve bought this summer but these are quite the hippie-nature walking sandal. And I could hike in these sandals if I so choose. I probably won’t choose, but I could. That is the whole point. I could be that person if I wanted to because I have the necessary shoes now to make that personal transition.

And now I may have to retract all the posts I’ve done about not being able to find shoes that fit me since it seems apparent that the shoe gods have bestowed upon me a brief respite in that chapter of my life. It will return though I’m sure . . . when I search for shoes that are less forgiving than sandals, like pretty much any other type of shoe.

Also let it be known (in case you weren’t already aware) that watermelon is nature’s laxative, along with all the other wonderful fresh summer fruit. For better or worse.

 

What did you become convinced of this weekend? Does it have anything to do with laxatives?

Seeing is knowing . . . usually

It’s a good thing I had my eyes in when I came upon Bosco this morning. Those contacts of mine are always helping me decipher stickers from unsightly rashes, spiders from sock lint, and poop from guacamole.

The Husband, on the other hand, does not wear his corrective lenses as often as he should. So once, when he was cleaning up the then baby Bosco after a relatively messy meal, the Husband got guacamole on his finger and decided to just lick it up. I understand this. Guac is a treasure not to be wasted. I probably would have done the same thing, only not this time. Because I would have been able to immediately tell it was actually poop, which had escaped our little one’s diaper (No the Husband didn’t actually eat it. Close though. So close. He wised up before it touched tongue. Luckily. Or I would ne’er kiss the man again). Experiences like this make me so very grateful that I can and do stick thin circular disks of sight into my eyeballs.

And while we’re on the subject of seeing clearly, I have an update for those anxiously awaiting news on the carcass in my neighbor’s yard. Well I finally have information, I think. Alas, it is not a carcass, but some ornamental, hieroglyphic urn . . . with nothing in it. You could probably fit a swine carcass in it though.

So I’m still a little confused as to what it's actual purpose is, but at least it’s upright now and not plopped down in the front yard anymore. My spectacular view has been restored.

Do you know how close I had to get to the neighbor’s front door to get this picture? Let’s just say I took Bosco with me so I could pretend to be telling him to get out of the neighbor’s yard, in case someone came home. I didn’t have an explanation ready as to why I had a camera though. Good thing we came and went undetected, I think.

7 Truths and a Lie

What? You want me to tell you about my weekend? With pleasure dahling (to be said in a very classic actress sort of way, perhaps Audrey or Katharine Hepburn). I’m going to be a little coy though, and this time I’ll list seven things that actually happened and one thing that did not. You be the judge.

1. I reached my goal of having 25+ followers. I went ahead and gave myself permission to buy the “Smocked Dress” from Shade because I love the word smocked (thanks be to all the lovelies who clicked that follow button. Next goal 50+!).

2. I put a bottle of sunless tanning moisturizer in my shopping cart to purchase. Bosco opened that bottle (even after I expressly told him not to touch it) and had a good old time getting rid of his winter white skin while I was distracted by all the cute travel-sized products. I used an old piece of tissue I found in my purse to wipe the lotion off his face, arms, hands, pants, and shopping cart. He still has sparkle dust on his skin, and smells like a lady.

3. Thanks to some alien force that infiltrated Bosco’s digestive system, our house became the House of Poo, and I’m not talking about the Winnie.

4. I woke up around 5AM on Saturday morning and didn’t really go back to sleep because I have a bug-of-a-Bubba who is crazy like that. The rest of the weekend was spent in near delirium.

5. I didn’t eat In-N-Out. Not even once. I did have dreams about hamburgers sans pickles though.

6. I put on deodorant before I went clothes shopping. I did not put on deodorant any other time this weekend.

7. I faced a fear and killed a spider, killed him good, all by my lonesome. Then I disposed of the spider guts and legs without screaming more than twice.

8. The Husband and I decided that we should take a little trip to New York next month. While we are there we plan on seeing the sights that city correspondent Stefon recommends in the video below.



I can’t wait to see the Germfs and the human bathmats. New York is the best.

Mr. Postman, here's another letter to an inanimate object

Dearest SandBox,

I know you think I don’t like you and how you’ve wrapped your gritty little claws around my son. Let’s be honest shall we? You’re absolutely correct. You’ve got a wonderfully keen eye. I don’t like you, most of the time.

I don’t like how you attract children within a one mile radius, especially when those children sneak in the back and you encourage them to make backhoe loader noises that snap my baby out of his sweet slumber. If I had known that human spawn have the innate ability to sense the presence of a sandbox I might not have encouraged bringing you into the family. I’m sure you already knew about this power of yours though. You are the epitome of misrepresentation.

I don’t like how you also attract the neighborhood cats. Felines are not to be trusted anywhere near you. You are too tempting, and kitties do bad things when you are around. If you didn’t have that cover of yours, let’s just say you would be sent away to a factory that makes sandpaper.

I don’t like how my son comes inside at the end of the day with sand in places sand should never be. Wasn’t there a clause about that in our contract? I should sue you for failure to remain out of my child’s nose, mouth, scalp, belly button, butt, eyeballs, ears, digestive tract, etc.

I don’t like how last summer, when I was large with child, I had to sit on your little itty bitty corner seat and shovel sand while my sciatic nerve screamed.

I don’t like how you make me long to go to a real beach, with real sand littered with seashells, driftwood, seaweed, and the occasional dead jellyfish. You are not a beach, and you never will be. You do not have a lovely coastal view, and you are littered with bulldozers, rocks, dirt clods, and the occasional bug. It is a sad truth that I live with everyday, as do you.

Also I don’t like how you’ve seen fit to rub my lack of a green thumb in my face. I get it. You don’t have a brain, or hands, or a tender loving heart such as myself, but you can still grow plants. I get it. Even a lifeless sandbox can sustain life. Message received.

But despite the many reasons I have to despise you with every fiber of my being, I don’t. There are fleeting moments when I’ve got my feet in the cool damp sand, and I remember my own childhood. And then I see my children making these same memories (except with trucks, not kitchenware and dolls). You can entertain them for hours in a way I will never be able. That’s why I say I dislike you, most of the time. So for now I’ll keep you around and just cope with sandy butts, and poop, through my tears.

Bright side: At least a wicked witch didn't send flying monkeys after me

Man. Today was rotten. Did anyone else have a terrible Tuesday? It started off semi-descent because I made myself go to bed last night at a decent hour (by midnight), but then all hell broke loose after the Husband left for work this morning. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating or complaining. I’m merely relaying information here about my day. I’m totally not complaining or whining or looking for sympathy. No, not at all.

Apparently Bubba has caught another bug. I swear we just went through this. Yeah we did. I have written proof, and a picture to submit as evidence. That was about a week ago. A week’s respite I guess is better than no respite. This is me trying to look at the bright side of things. So anyway, I find Bubba in his crib this morning seeping snot from his nose. He’s covered in it. It looks like he took a bath in it. And the poor little guy’s eyes are glassy, and tired, and half open. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had a hangover. Pureed mangoes and sweet potatoes must be a wicked combination. Anyway, I know I’m in for a rough day.

As the day progresses I realize that I’m starting to feel sick too. And I have what I can only assume is a clogged milk duct. Who knows how or why. Maybe because Bubba won’t finish a feeding so I’m getting backed up. TMI. TMI. TMI. Sorry if you think so. Here’s some more TMI. If you’ve ever had a clogged udder, you know the pain I’m feeling. If you haven’t, try to imagine your boob (if you have one) filling up with some sort of liquid, let’s say breast milk. But there’s a blockage so there’s no exit for said liquid. At least not all of it. So pressure builds. Your boob turns into a rock. And you feel like your going to bust, but you don’t. You just bite your tongue if anything so much as brushes against your chest area because it’s akin to what I imagine a man feels like when he’s kicked in the groin. Just using my imagination here.

I’m no dummy. I know I have to try and de-clog the problem before it gets more serious, and that means pumping because Bubba isn’t in the mood to eat. But I can’t find a spare minute to do this since Bubba wants to be held and Bosco is asking me over and over again to get him some socks because his piggies are freezing, even though they are actually sweating.

Then, probably just to see how much I can juggle, the fates that be decide to make this the day that Bosco regresses five months in his potty training abilities. Pee on the couch. Pee on his bedroom floor with the extra added bonus of poop this time. All while I’m trying to get Bubba to go to sleep and stay asleep longer than ten minutes. I get a call from the Husband, and I tell his my woes. He tells me not to forget to eat lunch. Click.

The nerve. How dare he expect me to take care of myself when there are two boys who need my complete love and devotion! That’s when I realize that my clogged duct is definitely making me feel yucky. My neck is tight, I have a headache, and I can barely move my right side. I’m determined to get Bubba to sleep so I can deal with the issue. But he won’t stay asleep unless I’m holding him. And I would love nothing more than to just sit there and cuddle this sick babe so he can rest. But I have another boy who’s patiently reading books by himself in his room, and quite possibly messing in his pants again. Mommy guilt and frustration come over me in waves. I have two kids. Not three or four, or more. I should be able to figure something out right? And I know what I really want is for things to be perfect . . . that silly desire I have, back again. But I’m getting better at this whole mommy thing. Today, that desire is just going to have to go straight out the window. And so it did.

Bubba had to cry while I got Bosco his lunch. Bosco had to watch Sesame Street by himself while I was in the nursery with Bubba. They both had to wait while I ate something quick and barely edible for lunch. Bubba had to sit in the highchair while I put Bosco down for his nap. I had to leave a fussy Bubba in his crib so I could go pump. Then, miracle of miracles, they were both asleep. The house was quiet, besides the Darth Vader sounds coming from the baby monitor. Not too shabby.

So what if my living room looked like this by noon.

At least there’s no crayon on the walls, or shredded couch cushions. At least no one vomited. See. There’s always a bright side.

Now you try. Bright side: At least . . .

Wait, was that me talking?

Being a mom definitely puts me in the perfect position to say the most bizarre things ever, things I never would have a chance to say in some other area of my life. Maybe that’s because children do things that most adults would not do (regurgitate their milk while watching Sesame Street). Or maybe it’s because kids can turn your brain to mush if you’re not careful (No, I don’t think there are toys in your potty chair. Pretty sure it’s something else). I think this is true for most parents. You find yourself saying something just so ridiculous and if someone were to take a little listen into your conversation, not knowing you were talking to or about a child, they would have serious cause to report you to the local authorities.

Case in point: One day I was cleaning up Bosco’s bedroom. He was putting in minimal effort to help until he saw a long lost Cheerio that had somehow ended up underneath his bed. He moved Heaven and Earth to get to that O. Sweet little chap, I thought. So eager to pick up the mess he had made. If only I had known pick up meant eat it up. I really should have known based on past experience. As I saw him pop the aged piece of cereal into his mouth, the disgusted mother in me sprang up and out. Before I had time to realize what I was saying, the words “Don’t eat that! A spider may have pooped on it!” escaped my lips. Okay. I know what you’re thinking. A normal person would never have said that whether it was to a child or not. Well, you may be right. But that’s exactly my point. I don’t usually go around thinking that things on the floor have been pooped on by bugs. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever thought about whether or not a bug has that sort of business to take care of. Somehow, this mommy brain of mine thinks on a whole other level, and it’s making me say the darndest things. (Spellchecker is informing me that darndest is not a word. Says who? Instead it suggested using dandiest. Well that definitely doesn’t sound right.)


But enough about me. What about you? What have you found yourself saying that deserves a spot on the quote wall?

Note: I should add that Bosco most definitely assured me that “a spider not poop on the O. It’s yummy. And I don’t eat poop.” So, yeah. No worries.