Eventful...

As a Facebook addict, my habit is to check in every morning while having my coffee.

This morning, I learned that Didgeridoo Boy has decided to host an event:

I'm framing this.

Uh oh. Oh, no...

While going through the morning cleanup of Casa Didgeridoo, I noticed little blonde tufts on Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom counter. He's at it again. This isn't good, people.

Didge is an impatient soul who moves even more quickly than I do, putting him somewhere in the category of lightning, and that pattern of being needs nothing to do with the combination of scissors and hair. Every so often, he becomes dissatisfied with his 'do, and begins taking random chunks out in an effort to get particular sections to be a certain way. His last round gradually left him with a sort of grown-outish mo-mullet, i.e. a combination of a grown-out mohawk and mullet. He asked me to help him before, and I tried, but he grew impatient and began tapping his head while barking staccato intstructions, "Here! Here! Here! Get this piece. Hold it out right there. Cut it!" I was traumatized, and he wound up in worse circumstances from grabbing the scissors and having at.

I hid the scissors. He used (wait for it....) his pocketknife. One time he got after his eyebrows with the pocketknife and wound up looking like one of these guys:

I put the scissors back where he could find them and hoped for the best. Growing his eyebrows back in took a couple of months, and I hoped he would never do that again. Alas, a few weeks ago, he dashed into the living room after being gone for several minutes and said, "I f___ed up my eyebrows again." Lo and behold, he had. Not so much as the last time, but enough that I suggested he jump.

So I probably shouldn't be surprised that he's at his hair again. And I should probably give up on trying to change this tendency, or trying to get him to let me do it, because I don't think I'm strong enough to withstand another go-round of that. I could hide all but the nail clippers, but he might try those. Flowbee? No. Remember who we're dealing with, and that Didge and I have pets. (I refuse to allow a set of clippers in the house for the same reason.)

There's really no hope in this vicious cycle, is there?

A mystery...

I think I've mentioned that Didgeridoo Boy has issues with granting me a little quiet time for my yoga practice. I have been treated to all sorts of things, from serious stares during which he belched, to whoopie cushions being set off under the door to the room into which I've started locking myself in hopes of no interruption. Once, he even lit a cigarette in the living room in what he considered a humorous attempt to rock me off my mat. So I've come to expect things to the degree of being a bit paranoid. Yesterday, for instance, I don't know for certain whether or not he was up to anything - but I tend to think that he might have been. Maybe.

I had come to the front of my mat, hooked my thumbs, swept my arms up along my ears, and arched back into what was to be the beginning of a round of sun salutations. Heard something like a shuffle, and thought it was Totsi the Dog shuffling at the door. (Sometimes she likes a bit of yoga thrown into her day.) Then I heard Didge whispering, "Llam llam llammmmm llammmmm llama, llam-zingee, llam-zingee.....lllllllama". I stepped off my mat, walked to the door, and opened it. There was Totsi, looking up and wagging her tail. She turned and pranced over towards the stairs, evidently excited.

And why shouldn't she have been excited? For there was Didgeridoo Boy's head. He had positioned himself on the stairs in such a way that only his head and shoulders were visible, and he was looking up at me in much the same way Totsi had been when I opened the door. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me he wasn't doing anything. I inquired as to why he was laying on the stairs, and he said he was trying to get the dog. Then I demanded he present the whoopie cushion, and he said he didn't have it, that he didn't know where it might be. He called Totsi, and she ran into the room I'd just come out of and sat down beside my yoga mat. Didgeridoo Boy called me a "dog hog" and went back downtstairs.

So - was he up to something? I honestly have no clue.

My brain just fell out...

Call me trendy, call me a doofus, call me whatever you like, but I am a strong believer in using reusable grocery bags. Don't worry - I'm not about to go off on an environmental rant, that's not my style. If you like plastic bags, that's your trip and I'm not going to interfere - Didgeridoo Boy despises reusable bags to the point of ranting and raving, so more often than not, I have to leave mine at home and join the plastic bag ranks. And I've just now realized something about this that bears pointing out.

As you all know, Didgeridoo Boy likes to accompany me on errands just so he can put on a show. (He admitted it.) We have wound up with every single cashier giggling at us as many times as we've had fellow shoppers stop and unabashedly stare. Didge dances, devises languages, disappears, tries to trip me, and randomly spouts out phrases like, "Doo doo shoes!". If he gains control of the shopping cart, he races invisible beings or tries to edge me over into shelves. If you've been following this blog, you know what he does, so perhaps you'll find what I am about to say as ironic as I do.

Would you like to know why Didgeridoo Boy refuses to allow the use of reusable bags when he is along for the grocery ride?

Because he is afraid people will look at us funny or think we are stupid.

Soapy...

Yesterday, I wrote about how Casa Didgeridoo is being put through the rigors of spring cleaning, and revealed that I was attacking Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom. I also told you about how Ajax dish soap with bleach alternative, the lime-scented version, and a pair of exfoliating gloves had become my new favorite things for scrubbing away the horror that is soap scum. Today I am going to discuss the reality of employing this combination in a shower setting.

Don't misunderstand - it still works. It just gets a little interesting if you don't take a precaution - just a simple, easily obtained precaution. Consider a non-slippery something to stand on, people, if you are going to clean a shower with dish soap. How do I know this? Because I did not do so while I was cleaning Didgeridoo Boy's shower, and I had a grand time sliding from end to end, side to side while trying to scrub the walls of it. Soap runs down walls! And it'll make a shower floor slicker than lickety split! Who knew? I would have declared an epiphany had I not been trying very hard to keep my hold on the likewise-slippery toiletries shelf after losing my grip on the soap dish.

It was kind of fun, honestly, until I realized (mid-pirouette) I could get hurt. Once I managed to get everything as scrubbed as I could scrub it, I grabbed a towel, put it on the bathroom floor so I would not slip on the tile (yeah) and grabbed a large pitcher from the kitchen. I thought filling that with water and sloshing it all over the shower walls would be an efficient means of rinsing all that soap down the drain. I filled it up with cold water in the bathroom sink, because I am accident prone, and knew I would bust my a$$ trying to carry a huge pitcher of water down the hall. Before stepping back into the shower, I made sure to line the towel up with the edge of the shower itself so I wouldn't slip when I stepped back out. (Are you getting this?) I stepped back into the shower, steadied myself, and doused the back wall in a glorious splash.

Three things happened next: One, I got soaked, but I expected that. Two, the force of pulling a fire bucket maneuver with the pitcher sent me sliding backwards. Three, I realized I was standing in a shower, which meant I didn't need a damned pitcher of water - all I had to do was turn the shower on. Which is precisely what I did. Can't say I really should have done that, but it was effective. I stepped tightrope walker-style back out onto the towel that was there to keep me from slipping (I hope this is sinking in for you now), and grabbed a hand towel off the rack to dry myself off and get the mascara off my face that had made its way all the way down to my chin.

Right then I realized I needed something in the shower to keep myself from slipping. Duh. So I put the hand towel on the still-soapy floor of the shower, got a cleaning rag, and went back to work - soaking the rag and wiping down the walls. This proved highly effective. Not as effective as finally aiming the shower head directly at a particular location, but effective. And at the very end, I learned a combination of those two methods was downright miraculous.

We live and learn, don't we?

I'm going in...

I'm in the middle of spring cleaning Casa Didgeridoo. It's not fun, but it's vital - one of those hold-your-nose-and-jump-in things that comes with having a home. Yesterday, I scrubbed my bathtub and shower, making the discovery that Ajax lime-scented dish soap with bleach alternative and a pair of exfoliating mits will go through soap scum like nobody's business. It was actually kind of fun, probably due in part to the fact that I've been watching videos like this one for humorous motivation:

Today I am deep cleaning Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom, and chose this as my retro pep talk:

Conversation: Mom and Me...

Mom and I chat a lot, and those conversations tend to go towards some of the striking similarities between Mister, my stepdad, and Didgeridoo Boy. We didn't see them at first - Mister's very traditional, Didgeridoo Boy performed a series of silly walks away from that path ages and ages ago. More often than not, our phone calls end with one of us saying, "Oo. What was that noise? Hold on.....Let me run. I need to go see what he's doing." If that doesn't happen, we will be mid topic when one, or both, of them will come in and begin a fresh, new conversation, totally irrelevant to what we're discussing, with the outcome being a gentle reminder, "I am on the phone right now, and will be there in just a minute."

At least weekly, our talks go towards, "I just straightened that up, and he put stuff all over it again. And he's saying I moved something that I did not move - - I am going to tie it around his neck!" We've phoned each other while hiding in the bedroom from television sets that have been turned up so loud they're hurting our ears, and other times to compare notes on what we consider epic breaches of etiquette.

(From their side, they think we're a little uptight.)

Anyway, to the conversation. As I mentioned a few entries ago, Didge has been helping Mister with the annual spring ransack-cleaning of their very large yard. They took a break for one of Mom and Mister's frequent trips and to let Didge recover from a hefty case of muscle soreness, but as of today, it's back on. I called Mom to touch base:

GKG: "Hi, Mom! Just calling to check in."

Mom: "Oh, good. I'm trying to cook breakfast and Joe's (that's Mister)....well, I think....never mind. What did you say?"

GKG: "I said I was just calling to check in. Everything okay over there?"

Mom: "Yes.....is everything okay over there with you.....hold on.....I don't know where he is."

GKG: "Well, I won't keep you, I just wanted to know if we're still on for Trey (that's Didge) and Mister this afternoon at 1.30."

Mom: "Oh! Yes, yes we are...at 1.30. Joe wants to get out in the yard."

GKG: "Cool! I'll have him over there. He's really been looking forward to it." (pause)

GKG: "Oh, hell."

Mom: "What's the matter?"

GKG: "It's like we're booking a play date."

Much laughter ensued, maybe too much. We ended by joking about getting the boys together so they could play in the yard. Mom said she would make sure to feed Mister his lunch, and I said I would try to get Didge to eat his. I stopped short of saying I would send some juice boxes and snacks for them to share.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure Didge has a clean pair of socks in his day pack.

Admittedly random...

I am suffering a bit of burnout after last week's transition to a new and improved Wall of Entertainia, as yesterday's kinda/sorta entry makes amply clear. Words. I cannot put together the words, because my brain hurts a little from having hit the wall at the end of a battle. So here are some random happenings, thrown together with no sense of organization whatsoever. It's the best I can do.

Last night while on the phone with a friend, Didgeridoo Boy said, "You don't like going to the grocery store? Man, I love that shit. I go there just to act up and do stupid stuff." I don't think he realized I heard him, but then he looked over and saw me with the GOTCHA expression on my face and left the room.

I shut Foot Foot Kittycat in the linen closet yesterday. Not the first time it had happened, and I'm sure it won't be the last, as she seems to have a sense of when it's not been shut completely. I seem to have a tendency to forget to check if the cat's in the linen closet when I notice the door slightly ajar, and just close it. I also seem to have a tendency to mistake the popping, clawing noises from her attempts to escape as household electrical failures of some form or another, and will spend a good while looking around, sniffing for electrical smoke, before going, "Oh! Hell. Foot Foot.", and letting her out.

More on Foot Foot Kittycat - Didgeridoo Boy has realized that I am honestly, truly, severely allergic to cat dander, and has absorbed it into the core of his being that it is time to do something he really hates the thought of: It is time to give the cat a bath. He's been strategizing for a few days, and plans to lock himself in my bathroom with her and go to town (or hell, depending on how you look at it). He knows I'm useless, as I can't even touch Foot Foot due to severe contact dermatitis. Until now, contact dermatitis never seemed like a blessing.

My project today is figuring out what the hell the black dust that looks like gunpowder or pepper in front of Didgeridoo Boy's bathroom cabinet is. I don't know what he did, but he did something. I do know that I am not touching it, so the dust pan and whisk broom is sitting in Didge's chair. Could be nothing, or it could be something radioactive - remember who we're dealing with.

And, to quote Didgeridoo Boy, "That's all I got."

Great minds...

Oh, yes. We did.

Mom and I had to run a few errands this afternoon, and this happened. We both wore jeans and black shoes, too. And, yes, everyone did look at us funny.

I have lost my cotton picking mind...

There. I said it. This was to have been an entry about the final push of purging the living room of what had been the Manly Wall of Entertainia. Perhaps the blog is as sick of hearing about it as all of you surely must be, because every few seconds the font size in that entry reset to very big or very small. Just know that we had to get *that desk* up the stairs, and that Didgeridoo Boy swore *that desk* wasn't going to go while I swore it would. As it turns out, he and I have different definitions of sideways; his involves backs and fronts, and mine involves sides. I'm sure you can figure out where our first round of difficulties took place. And then I somehow sat it on his foot, and got my end stuck on a step. But with much care and rough language, we managed to wrangle *that desk* up to its new home in the storage room.

Didgeridoo Boy was bribed into cooperating with this week's activities with dinner and a refreshed beer supply. To be frank, I care not one whit about the dinner - all I want is to be on the deck with a cold one, savoring the knowledge that I was right. I'll be jotting out on a round of errands in just a few minutes.

Just left of stark raving lunacy...

The drama is over. The Manly Wall of Entertainia is gone. A moment of silence, please, for the Manly Wall of Entertainia (I only snapped a section of it)...

....alright. That's enough. Holy hell, am I glad that era is over with. Rather than just show you a picture of the new entertainment center, I think I should tell you what it took to get it here. This, folks, has been an odyssey that would have Homer picking up his football and going home. It began when we trucked Didgeridoo Boy's furniture in shortly after he and I got married in January of last year. There was a thing, a large, brown thing that was supposed to hold a television. We decided to use it until we made up our minds about an entertainment center.

And then came the morning the thing was leaning out from the wall by a couple of inches. We decided to get wire shelving - - after all, it would be something we could use in the man cave/vintage game room/whatever space later on. That was in February of last year. Didge decided he liked it, and told me he could make it look nice. We are going on to the next paragraph now, as I do not want the tics and hollering to begin again.

He put me off a lot. A lot, a lot. I would suggest something, and he would nix the idea. Air, he said. The gaming systems needed air. The television was too heavy. He didn't like the color. This one didn't have enough room. That one was too big. Bananas. Cornbread. F***ing balloon animals, hopscotch, and candy apples. GIVE ME AN ASPIRIN. Shetland ponies.

We decided to wait until we got a new television. Did that. I brought up the entertainment center again. (Let me go stomp my feet.) (Back.) More resistance. I went shopping without him and brought back pictures. He got technical about measurements and named something I'm certain he thought was impossible. HA! I found something, showed him a picture, and he said it was cool. Right then, it was set in stone.

But he wasn't done. Oh, no, Didgeridoo Boy was far from through. We had such a row one evening that he took my car for a drive and tried to peel out. It wasn't going to work. There would be cables everywhere. The cables could not be close together because they would get hot and melt and burn up and, oh, the horror. Mules. Snowshoes. Let us skip together through the red-hot coals of hell. Pie. Bees.

HISTRIONICS REALLY WORKED FOR ME!

Was there going to be a shelf over the television? Didge demanded to know this in our last go-round. I said yes. He said that could not be. There wasn't going to be a shelf over the television and if there was he was going to move everything into the storage room and that was the end of it. Kindly return to the top of the entry and make good note of the ding donging shelves over the television in the former configuration. Do it or nobody's getting a biscuit. Help me.

I finally just went and bought the thing and told him when it was being delivered. It arrived yesterday, and was all assembled while Didgeridoo Boy napped. He swore as he was setting it up that it would not work, finding every conceivable thing wrong with it that he could. He complained about it being dusty as he put all of his things into it and configured everything to his liking. Finally, he said, "I approve." But he still thinks it might be too big. And there's a dent in it.

As it's such a lovely morning, I'm going to go out for a while and hop around the neighborhood on my imaginary pogo stick. Don't wait up for me.

Just now, Casa Didgeridoo...

The Manly Wall of Entertainia has been dismantled, and a new entertainment center is arriving today. Didgeridoo Boy moved everything overnight, so when Jackass Neighbor Man (aka Pater Jackass) woke me up at 4.30am be-beepitying the on/off mode of his car alarm, I was relieved to see that all I had to do was run the vacuum in order for everything to be ready.

Vacuuming is always an adventure here. Today, I learned that the vacuum will take up an entire kernel of popcorn. But that didn't impress me as much as what happened when I got to the other side of the room confused the bejeezus out of me. There's been a black wire shelf there housing breakable, expensive electronic things which made me afraid to vacuum under it. Still - I couldn't imagine what could be causing a rattling, ticking noise - so loud it could be heard above the roar of the vacuum cleaner. It sounded like I had hit a nest of little shards of hard plastic. I saw something, turned off the vacuum, and went in for closer inspection.

It was, I swear, a toenail.

I vacuumed it up while doing the icky dance, put the vacuum away, and went on to tidying up the kitchen. Didge yelled from the bedroom...

Didge: "HEY!"

GKG: "What?"

Didge: "C'mere."

GKG: "Alright. Give me a minute."

I stopped what I was doing and walked back to the bedroom.

Didge: "Shut that door."

GKG: (No words, but I told him he was number one.)

Didge: "Hey....shut....."

I was already back in the kitchen, wiping down counters.

Didge: "HEY! Dammit....."

He gets up to go to the bathroom. As soon as he's clear of the bedroom, I go shut the bedroom door.

GKG: "I shut the door for you, Honey."

Didge: "I'm going to shut a foot in your posterior."

Matters attended to, Didge went back to the bedroom. Something completely out there dawned on me. I just had to know...

GKG: "Oh. I need to ask you something."

Didge: "What?"

I walked back to the bedroom, and asked, "I found toenails all the way across the room from where your desk used to be. How did they get *all the way over there*?"

Didge: "I don't know."

GKG: "Did you bite them off and spit them over there?"

Didge: "Probably."

Frankly, I'm still trying to both absorb this possibility and forget anything pertaining to it. Please make the bad pictures go away and never come back. They scare me.

A grillin' fool...

Although Didgeridoo Boy did drive me a little bananas over the weekend thanks to his new favorite energy drink, I did manage to indulge in a favorite activity: Grilling. I *love* to grill, and would do so every night if the weather would simply cooperate. Saturday afternoon, Didge and I went to the grocery store for a weekends' worth of grillables (which is when he tried to step on my flipflop), and Saturday evening I happily set up to play with fire.

Jackass Neighbors decided they'd be grilling, too, and right at the same time. The proximity of our decks did make that a bit awkward, but whatever. To be honest, I kind of like the show-offish comedic quality of being the cute little chick with her cute little grill (it's a Weber Smokey Joe) in the land of ginormous fire breathing monster grills, plus everything on our deck is set up so I wouldn't actually have to turn to face them. The whole family was out there for a bit, but then mother and child went in, leaving Pater Jackass all on his own. Evidently lonely, he soon followed them inside.

Just one problem with that: He'd lit the grill. Flames were UP, and HIGH. He had a FIRE. I kept an eye on that grill and my own, and wondered just how much lighter fluid he'd hosed on the thing to get it to do that. Finally, it died down. I started Facebooking from my phone, and he began bringing things outside. First it was a bowl of water. I didn't turn around when I heard him come back out, which is probably a good thing. Just a couple of seconds later, I heard a FOOOOF. Turned around, and saw that the flames were back UP, and HIGH. He was standing there as though nothing was amiss. I just turned the hell back around and didn't look over there again.

Sunday morning, I wandered out onto the deck and noticed he'd left all of his grilling supplies outside - his bag of charcoal was still sitting there, even, wide open. Grill tongs were sitting on the bowl of water. And then I noticed a pop of bright color:

(Confession: It took me until the afternoon to work up the nerve to take this picture, as I was afraid he would come out to clean up and catch me. I should not have worried, because as of 9.48am today, the stuff's still out on the deck.)

And I said, "Whoa.", for lo and behold, it was a can of Pam non-stick cooking spray. My guess is that the Pam caused the FOOOOF. That would mean that not only did he spray Pam on a lit grill, he sprayed Pam on a lit grill that's sitting on a dry-rotting wood deck (do NOT get me started) that's situated very close to a dogwood tree. Oh, and the deck is littered with all sorts of flammables. And all of this wonder is ever so disturbingly close to Casa Didgeridoo.

At least we can always count on the Jackass Neighbors to keep life interesting.

He did it again...

The weekend proved a humdinger. I don't know what is in the new energy drinks Didgeridoo Boy has discovered, but it's given him silliness (in the same way some things give people hives) and left him especially prone to dancing. This seemed to reach a peak Saturday evening while I was on the phone with my mother, during which time he posed by the fireplace and did that thing which is highly impolite to name, stood on his tippy tippy toes and silently whistled, tried to find the best location upon which to march in place while looking crazed, and finally squatted on the couch with his arms made into wings and chirped like a bird. He broke out his cap gun on more than one occasion, danced several manic funky chickens, and put himself in my way as many times as he could - - always turning his back to me and partially bending over. While at the grocery store, he repeatedly tried to step on my flipflops.

He also set himself on a mission of calling my mobile phone as many times as he could from the land line. The first couple of times I trotted right to the thing, but finally just left it. He made the mistake of disappearing just before every time it rang, and pulled the major prank killer of asking for the "clicker" and leaving the room once he found it - - our phone looks very like a remote. A little while after he noticed I'd stopped answering my phone, he asked me if I had checked my messages. I should have known to expect this:



But then again, I never fully know what to expect from Didge.

Enjoy your Monday.

Keeping it fair...

He has a cap gun.

I have a light saber.

Another random conversation with Didgeridoo Boy...

Yesterday, a pair of shoes I ordered arrived - slightly platformed, high-heeled, black, seventiesesque pieces of perfection that I am chomping at the fashion bit to wear. I'll stop. Anyway, they arrived, and I presented them to Didgeridoo Boy. He stared.

Didge: "Where are you going to wear these?"

GKG: "Well, contrary to what you seem to believe, I enjoy going out. They're going to be perfect with...." (I set about describing various pairs of jeans, maxi dresses, and so forth.)

He stared at the shoes some more.

Didge: "You're going to wear them with what?"

GKG: "Those can be worn with all sorts of things. Like......" (I began to channel Rachel Zoe.)

He stared at the shoes even more, and began to wiggle in place with one eyebrow cocked up.

GKG: "You don't like them?"

Didge: "Well, they're cool, but we don't go to the opera that often."

GKG: "Those are not formal."

Didge: "Whatever you say...."

GKG: "I would not wear those to the opera. Those are casual to smart casual. Look at the finish and the styling."

Have you ever been presented with a blank stare so void you thought the brain of the person presenting it had just imploded? That's Didge in that moment.

GKG: "Really. You know what all of that means, don't you? Casual? Smart casual?"

Didge: "Schinkendoogle."

GKG: "I give up. They're not formal. And I would not (effing) wear those to the opera."

Didge: "Schneee! Schnighosen!"

GKG: "Dammit."

Didge: "Goin' to the operuhhhhhh....... SCHNOO!"

GKG: "Schnutup." (I did not mean to say it that way, but I'm ever so glad I did.)

It's pointless, really, isn't it? I should stop planning how to explain all of this to him via a Keynote slideshow, shouldn't I? That would be an utter waste of my time, wouldn't it?

Didgeridoo Boy surveys...

Didgeridoo Boy, surveying the red wagon wheelbarrow convoy "sidewalk":

Ain't nothin' gonna get in our way...

Didgeridoo Boy is waiting out the start date for his new job, and decided to burn up some of his ample free time (and a few calories) by helping my stepdad (a.k.a. "Mister") with yard work. Understand, my parents don't have a small yard. They have a YARD with areas and spaces and paths and plots. When spring approaches, a little bit of gardening hell breaks loose as everything is dug out from under what's collected during the winter.

On the first day, Didge and Mister raked an acre's worth of leaves. Mom and I ran errands (translation: went shopping) while they worked, and were honestly amazed at what we returned to. I've never seen so many leaves. Bag upon bag upon bag - once collected curbside for trash pickup, all those bags looked like a colony of refugees awaiting transport. They seemed so proud of their work, and Didge made the remark that they really got a lot accomplished. He also mentioned that he hadn't worked his muscles like that in a while, and was certain he'd be sore. I agreed, and very intentionally opted to not ask the question I'd been about to ask:

"What are all those flagstones in the back of Mister's truck for?"

Mister has a small, black pickup truck that he uses to tote and haul all things totable and haulable. It was parked at the very end of the driveway, and in the back, secured by a ring of chicken wire, was an approximately four foot tall stack of flagstone. Something in the combination and position of those two things held such meaning that no one, not even Mister, mentioned the issue.

And on the second day, the mystery was revealed. Didge came home yesterday walking like tiptoe Frankenstein. His shoes had rubbed his heels a bit raw the day before, and his already-sore muscles had evidently been taken their edge and beyond. He looked bemusedly crazed, and was smirking a bit as he asked, "Do you know what those rocks were for in Mister's truck?" He flopped down on the sofa and wheezed while wiggling - I think he was trying to wring out the ache. "Those rocks. In his truck. Did you see them?"

"Yeah, I saw them.", I answered. "Did you do something with them today?" Didge stared at me very intently for a moment, like he was accusing me of something, and told me to make a pitcher of lemonade. I asked again if the rocks had been part of that day's task set. He stared some more before spitting out, "We built a sidewalk - - like, a long one."

He didn't give me a chance to ask where they'd built it. Shifting his gaze to the ceiling, he told me they had taken load by little load of what Mister told him was 1,000 pounds of flagstone (it was a *lot*) out of the back of the truck, all the way over to where the sidewalk was being built, where they had placed stone by stone in careful place. For transport, they used a wheelbarrow and a little red Radio Flyer wagon. (Hell to the ever living yes.) At one point, Mister told Didge not to scratch the wheelbarrow - which Didge pointed out had a flat tire. They decided to put cardboard into the bottom of the wagon to avoid scratching it. And so they trucked, wheelbarrow and little red wagon, back and forth, forth and back, all day long. One behind the other.

I know you're hearing it with as much clarity as I am. Don't even try to deny it, baby.

Brains! Brains! Brains!

Didgeridoo Boy is a wonder of perpetual motion, strange noises, and constant snacking. If awake, he's always doing something - - be it working on a model, debating various topics online, playing one of his numerous video games, dancing, or merely fidgeting. His kinetic mannerisms are one of the things I love about him.

However, sometimes those kinetic mannerisms make me want to brain him. Since I'm battling it out with a round of seasonal allergies, I went to bed early last night. He followed, laptop in tow. When I decided I wanted something to drink, he asked if I would bring him a snack. "Bring me those Goldfish crackers", he said. I did. Then he wanted a beverage. When he noticed I was still awake a little while later, he asked for the pita chips.

It wasn't so much the sound of his computer clicking and tapping (which led to me launching into a "clickity click my first damned computer" tirade at 2.30am) that kept me awake. It was the crunching. He sat in bed and hit the snack buffet, crunching, munching, and smacking fit to flipping bust. At one point, I stomped out of the bedroom and to the couch - - where I could still hear him crunching. Pita chips are LOUD. Between mouthfuls, he was chugging on his 2-liter of Mountain Dew. (I gave up a long time ago.) Crunch, glug, crunch, smack, glug, click....*yeah*. This was far, far above and beyond the foil-wrapped Christmas candy pig-out from January, when the tinkling of something metallic kept spooking me awake.

Finally, he decided to turn out the lights, but wanted to finish reading one more article. More clicking. And then, bliss. The computer was turned off. There was no more clicking and crunching. I finally got to sleep. That's when I heard a very loud pop.

You could say I jumped. My heart almost stopped, and my entire body stiffened - and stayed that way. Whatever it was sounded all the world like something that was going to require a lot of money to fix. Hollow, almost metallic, with a high point that sounded like something breaking in two. I shouted, "Omigod, what the hell WAS THAT???", wondering if something was going wrong with an electrical outlet or if the bed was about to fall. I gave up on sleeping, and began mentally tallying up everything that could possibly make such a horrific noise.

With as much patience as he could muster, because he was trying to get to sleep, Didge said, "It was the Mountain Dew bottle popping back out from where I bent it."

Can it get any better? Naturally. He's Didgeri-walking all around the house right now, looking somewhat victorious. I know that grin.

Sayin' please...

I can't write a lucid intro to this. Here. Just - - here.

Here is Totsi the dog, begging for one of Didgeridoo Boy's cheese crackers. She'd gone into silent, high dramatics by this point, as he'd delayed compliance for about thirty minutes:

Conversely, check out this snapshot of Didgeridoo Boy explaining why every man needs the official Larry the Cable Guy sleeveless flannel shirt:

Honestly, I can think of not one thing that needs to be said.

Some. Thing. Wrong...

I am not posting these songs because something is wrong in our household.

I am posting these songs because Didgeridoo Boy is partially responsible for my recent obsession with them.

He put them on one night when we were having a couple of drinks. I think we might have danced. (Shut up!) And then he turned "SOS" up in the car one day when it happened to come on the radio. Quite a moment, that one - we rode home in silence, taking the song in, both trying to act too cool to honestly be into it. But, yes, Didgeridoo Boy hits YouTube's Abba offerings while I'm having a few Amstel Lights, and POOF! I'm evidently a fan of Abba. (I said shut up, and I meant it.)

Oh, you want some more? I didn't at first, but I got more and you're going to have more, too. Trust me, once you've heard it, you will want more just like I do.

Enjoy your weekend. Help me.

Maybe. Maybe not...

I might or might not post a proper entry today. I have mad errands to take care of, and Didgeridoo Boy will be in tow. It's a certainty he'll have errands of his own that will draw out or full-on derail my plans - - so what I write when I get home might be my blogging conscience soother for tomorrow. Sure, I could be working on something right now, while I'm having my a.m. latte - - but I feel foggy and have this song stuck in my head.

What is it with me and seventies music during the spring?

My fogginess isn't due to the song, however. Didge woke me up coming to bed around 2.00am - - I don't know how the man managed to make his laptop jingle, but he did. I don't know why he threw the bedroom door open, but he did. I don't know why he had to bounce the bed so much as he was settling into it, but - - again, he did. I do know, however, why he sang, "Time for you to mooooooooove, ohhhh, it's time for you to mooooooove....", to Totsi. That one should be obvious.

After that, though, he began chortling "Looooo loo loo loo loo loooooooooooo.....". I don't know why he did that, and I'm not sure I want to know. There could be any number of reasons why a grown man would start that at two o'freakity clock in the morning, right? Maybe it was a continuation of the birdsong he broke into while we were driving to pick up dinner. (Never knew he could chirp. Know now.)

So there's my rambling I-got-nothin' excuse. Excuse me while I plunge my face in sink of ice water and put some cucumber slices on my eyes.

Totsi the Dog's Response to Things...

(I don't think she needs an introduction....)

Hello, everyone. I am Totsi, resident canine of Casa Didgeridoo and all around expert on most things good. I know I say something like that almost every time I write here, but as a dog, routine is important to me. And that is what I was going to write about today, my thoughts on my routine, because I thought some of you might find that helpful.

But I am not going to write about that today. I am going to address some of the things said by my kittysister, Foot Foot Kittycat, in what she wrote in this blog last week. My patience has been tested to its limits by her most recent public outburst. Please allow me to present you my reactions to some of what I feel are the highlights. I have decided against trying to maintain my written composure, so apologies in advance for those times when I am sure I will come across as testy.

"These people and their dancing, prancing fool of a canine stay on my nerves."

Oh. So that is how it is to be, is it? Well, let's tango, you miserable patch of calico and psychoses.

"I try acting sweet so I won't activate their paranoia and wind up getting soaked with that damned water bottle with that damned Hello Kitty on it that woman who thinks she is queen of this house tends to break out whenever I assert myself. I try to seem quiet and innocent so I can keep the silly man under my toe."

Foot Foot, I am proud of you for finally gaining the courage to admit you do this. I've known it all along. You are quite possibly the most manipulative, disrespectful, and unappreciative creature I have yet to encounter.

"Chasing strings and watching a human make an ass of herself, that's what I call fine entertainment. Well, the silly man noticed that I had started taking an interest in power cords. I'm not stupid. I am daring, damn it, and I knew all along what the hell I was doing. But, no, the decision was made to assume that I would mistake one for the other."

Foot Foot, you ignorant snit, they are trying to protect you. You most certainly did not know what you were doing. You went for anything and everything that resembled your strings, regardless of whether or not electrical current happened to be involved. Do you know what would have happened had you attacked a live power cord? This:

Did you get that, Foot Foot? Do you have any questions as to what just happened to that cat?

"Silly man made another decision that I am unhappy with. He feels my dish is to be empty before I am fed, and he says this is due to the fact that I need to learn my place and stop thinking I am the boss of things. That bastard better hide his boots. "

The way I see it, two things led to this: First, that you got into the habit of demanding to be fed again after eating three bites out of a full dish. Second, you tend to eat until you throw up. You eat like a bona fide hog. Don't you dare sit in your little sitty box and deny that you do. If there's nothing in your bowl, you head to mine and make a right little glutton of yourself there. And then you throw up. Do you see a pattern? I do.

"I already threw up in the silly man's chair in an effort to make my point."

You are on drugs, I really think you are. You weren't making a point. You had gorged yourself to the brink of explosion, and hopped up into his chair in an effort to sleep it off. And never mind what happened then. It was so disgusting I had to leave the room.

Now, have you noticed what I have not directly addressed? Since I'm sure figuring this out would pain you greatly by wrenching you out the depths of your utter self absorption, I will go ahead and tell you that the way you refer to Mommy and Daddy is highly inappropriate. "That woman" and the "silly man" keep a roof over your head, food in your dish, and cater to almost every one of your increasing whims. I've taken note of the fact that you do not even bother with proper capitalization of those terms, and I realize that's intentional. Somebody needs to slap some sense and respect into you.

Oh, wait. There's one more golden nugget:

"Aim for the jugular, brethren."

Doesn't that just take the cake straight off the bake sale table? Foot Foot, you fit in a shoebox. Please get a clue. I am sure one or a series thereof would surely begin to help you.

I hope this makes my position clear. Thank you all for indulging my need to address these issues. It is my sincere hope that my posts won't need to take on such a negative tone again in the future, and I sincerely apologize to anyone I might have offended besides Foot Foot.

Enjoy your day, and dance some.

Totsi Tatertot Didgeridoo

Goal oriented...

Goals are fabulous, aren't they? And the first of the month is a good time to set them, isn't it? Plus, it's March. We're on the brink of spring (in this hemisphere, anyway), time of all sorts of crazy wonderful newness, when everything wakes up again. In a lot of ways, spring is more potent than a new year for me when it comes to deciding upon things I might like to accomplish. So, with that in mind, this month:

• I will try to breathe deeply and count to ten, not just two, when Didgeridoo Boy tries to trip me at the grocery store.

• I will work harder to carry on about my business as if nothing is happening when he strolls along behind me, doing that thing he does that it is impolite to talk about, giggling.

• I will carry on in the same fashion when he decides to find out what sound a particular chair might make. (Think.) Moving along....

• When he is dancing behind me in the middle of a retail space, I will work towards reminding myself that it could be worse while not paying any mind to how, thereby alleviating traumatic flashbacks of what he did when he was walking behind me.

• I will study how to ignore what I've just dedicated three points to.

• When all is quiet and he gets up, tippy toe marches through the room, stands in front of a thing, and grins, I will strive not to not grow so paranoid.

• I will try not to entertain so many thoughts of stapling his Whoopee Cushion together.

• Likewise, I will try not to entertain as many thoughts of putting his cap gun in the trash compactor and squishing it.

• And, finally, I will make an honest effort towards learning to fully understand Didgerifurbee, in spite of the fact that I refuse to speak it.

Is it just me, or did the cosmos just scream, "Yeah, chick. SURE THING!" Never hurts to try, right?