Baby, It’s Hot Outside… Like Really Hot

Like taking ice cream from this baby...

I don’t mean to be all apocalyptic, but I also may or may not be hoarding food-stuffs in my basement.

What used to be welcome signs of the first tender days of summer, the quiet song of the cicada and the face-warming temperatures of late-Spring, have turned on everyone. They have become the deafening roar of horny, obscenely large bugs, and the sweltering stickiness that I usually associate with the end of summer, when my liver is so exhausted from patios and margaritas that it has chosen to travel alongside me on a skateboard.

We are only a few weeks into summer and it is shaping up to be about as appealing as eating a Blowpop while grooming a collie.

Because my uterus has essentially delivered up a tether to my front porch in the form of Boogie, I have been spending most of these sweltering days indoors. It is slowly becoming an elective quarantine though since the few occasions I’ve ventured out have done more to instill the fear in me than they have for curing my cabin fever.

Is there anything worse than taking ice cream from a baby, your baby no less, then being dive-bombed by a cicada as you are trying to stuff her very angry, very chubby little limbs into her car seat? Probably not. Unless of course you include that horny, obscenely large bug landing in the handle of your car door, and an entire restaurant watching as you roundhouse said door trying to scare it from its lazy landing spot. Or if you were to compound it with that awkward teen drive-thru worker who simply came out to offer assistance, probably at the beckoning of the lone patron who could breathe out a plea on your behalf in between laughs, only to be greeted with you screaming in his face like a banshee because he walked up too quietly behind you (the better to infiltrate that horny, obscenely large bug’s enemy lines of course).

Not that that would happen to anyone.

And we aren’t going to talk about how many times horny, obscenely large bugs have hitched a ride inside prompting you to strip off your pants, shirt or other assorted piece of clothing and throw it outside overnight.

Not that that would happen to anyone either.

Anyhow, I need to get back to buying canned goods and water… you know, not that storing food has anything to do with that earthquake that woke my arse up way too early this morning.

devil horns | melody

Photo credit: J Pollack Photography

Year One: Much Better Than The Movie

Hey man! Where's the party?

Dear Boogie,

One year ago you officially joined our family, though for many months pending your arrival you had been sharing your personal brand of zeal for life with my rib cage and lower back. It took 34 hours, but you finally came to us, covered in goo, with swollen cheeks and puffy little eyes, your button nose perfectly perched above your tiny little lips. We were so happy to meet you.

One year later you have grown so much, from a tiny little bundle of bones and fat rolls to a tiny little person, complete with a few more emotions outside of mad at the world, more sophisticated control of your extremities, an actual chin, knuckles that are more than just decorative dimples, and an inexplicable fondness for dog food.

I am convinced that this transition has indisputably proven your superior intelligence.

You are curious and fearless, as evidenced by your lack of concern for bodily harm. You are empathetic and loving, as we see with every slobbery kiss and concerned tilt of your head. You are every laugh and smile your Daddy and I ever shared together, on two marshmallow-man legs and with a set of killer lashes.

There are some days when I wouldn’t trade you for all the riches in the world, and others when I would for a stick of gum. And though I may spend the majority of my days just trying to keep you from getting crusty, I assure you that when I scrub your cheeks until they are raw it is not without all the love in my heart.

The last year has been somewhat akin to living with a perpetually drunk Japanese midget, but we have enjoyed every challenge and every finger that has inexplicably ended up in our nostrils and somewhere in the vicinity of our ocular nerves.

Tonight we are going to take you out on the town, stuff you full of black olive and mushroom pizza until you stop banging on your tray like a medieval king who isn’t afraid of gout. And as we tuck you into your bed, snuggled in with your rabbit, we will embark on year two with you, looking forward to the moment when you stop going peeing your pants every few hours and start letting us in on what all of those judgmental faces really mean.

With all the Love in our hearts,
Mommy and The Mister