I earned it, by gods...

Yesterday, I became Mayor of Casa Didgeridoo on Foursquare. I know, I know - - it's our house, big whoop. And it's even more big whoop than I'm sure you're thinking, because Didgeridoo Boy refuses to have a cell phone. But, nevertheless, I made it, I did it, and I'm proud. When I say I earned it, I mean it; this is about far more than clicking to check in on a phone, people.

We still don't know what made water go bubbling up into Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom sink yesterday when he flushed. Not only was that my wake up call, I had to figure out what to do about it. Frankly, I did what most people would do: I dumped an insane amount of something I am sure is horrible for the environment into the sink of stagnant water, turned the bathroom fan on to clear the chemical fumes, closed the door, and told Didge to stay out of there for a while. Boiling water, Borax, and a good, old-fashioned snake contraption wasn't going to work. Plunging? Not going to happen. Who the hell knew what might come up and out? I'm so inept at home repairs that I actually worried the pipes might explode from what I dumped into the sink.

But they didn't, and everything's working as it ought to now. GoKittenGo to the rescue.

Granted, I've had my moments. I freaked out when we dropped the mattress down the stairs, but Didge thought there was about to be a fire, too, based upon how the sheet that was caught on the bannister sounded while it was ripping. And just like Didge, I didn't notice that the lid wasn't on the wok that one time he made his own popcorn until it had popped all over the kitchen and burned his arm. I once put soapy water in the microwave in a misguided effort to clean it, resulting in a small explosion and horrifically clean cabinets over one end of the kitchen. Poor Didge almost fainted that time - he actually had to go outside and steady his nerves.

But I did manage to somewhat save the day when Didge made the grill produce water and put its own self out - coals need air, not lids. When he spills something on the carpet, I'm the one who dives in and cleans it up - even though he did completely foil my plan to give him his own drop cloth. But the biggest thing of them all?

The day he intentionally spray-painted (and I do mean with Krylon) a section of my hair raspberry pink, I did not kill him. As he danced and laughed, and once I finished screaming at the top of my lungs, I hit Google and found that simple mayonnaise will get spray paint out of one's hair.

So - I'm the mayor. I am damned well the mayor. Any questions?