One Quarter Irish

But he's got his Irish great-grandmother's blue eyes.

The Mailman

My son has blue eyes and...sigh... light hair. I can't type "blonde". I can't. It's light brown. At the nail salon the other day, the Vietnamese women fawned over him, asking if he wanted a pedicure, what is name was... if his daddy had blue eyes.

No... his daddy has green/brown eyes... just like me.

What about his blonde hair? Does his daddy have blonde hair?

No... his daddy's hair is brown... like mine.

...oh...

I felt compelled to defend myself.

Our mailman, I explained, is Filipino. So no need to worry there.

But in all seriousness, how did these two:
Make THIS baby:
Good thing he looks like his daddy's baby pictures.


Because the milkman is blonde.

Misuse

Apparently we're not normal.
I left Nathan on top of his blanket and when I returned minutes later, his blanket was on top of him. Impressively, with the correct side up. Misuse of blanket.
Henry rests his head, and his toys in Nathan's seat. Perhaps he's playing house. Misuse of Bumbo.

Most heinous of all, I put my son in a girl's coat to see how it would fit his girl cousin. Misuse of baby. Big time.

Cookware

The place this post is coming from:
The boy child and I both have colds. Mine is merely inconvenient. His is keeping him up and interrupting his ability to eat and BREATHE at the same time. Kind of crucial. He's miserable but he still laughs when we take a walk and he sees Henry, trotting beside the stroller. EVERY time he sees Henry trotting beside the stroller.

The reason for this post:
My ability to surprise even myself with my lack of brains. I tell people that I left my memory in the hospital on September 21, 2010, but really that's just a joke to make folks laugh and distract them from the fact that I am missing brain cells.

On to the post:
Because I desperately want to be a super mom, I make my own baby food, that is, in addition to breast milk (har har).
So today I get back from a successful shopping trip and fire up the stockpot with extra water in the bottom and the steamer basket up top and I steam away. Carrots, plums and pears. I decide to make more carrots, so I throw them in and run out to check the laundry.
*Ominous music*
I need sustenance, so I sit my butt down outside and eat a blood orange, fresh from the market. It is a law of the universe that something bad always has to happen right after a very enjoyable, sunny citrus kind of moment.
As per said law, when I return to my carrots, I am greeted by the smell of burning teflon. The carrots are perfectly steamed. The water is gone. The stockpot is ruined, complete with peeling teflon strips in the bottom. I trash the chemically-altered carrots and banish the pot to the patio.

That should read "BANISH the pot", because I did it with vehemence.

This is the same pot that I had been about to consult Pampered Chef about replacing because it was not wearing well. Now, however, I have ruined it all on my own and any hopes I had of it being replaced are dashed. Banished, rather... to the patio.

In confirmation of my MENSA-less capabilities, in answer to one of tonight's Jeopardy questions referring to a California city, I answered, "Las Vegas".

I live in California.

Dear All-Clad, I would be an excellent candidate for your charity. I would be ever-so grateful if you'd send a stockpot of the STICK variety, as I am permanently done with non-stick, to my address. In return for your kindness, I will be eternally devoted. I would even put a bumper sticker on my car for you or wear Soffe shorts with "All Clad" across the butt.

Even that.

A Boy and His Dog

Turned around from ironing yesterday to find Henry laying with his paw possessively on the baby, who was pulling the dog's face fur.

They love each other.

When I say I was ironing, I don't mean that I was ironing my husband's shirts like a good wife, I mean I was ironing fabric to sew with. Don't go thinking I've become all domesticated and organized.

I know I have more pet peeves than the average person

"If you haven't got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me."
Alice Roosevelt Longworth

I hate it when people emphasize non-emphasizable vowels in writing. If I'm excited, I type, "Hooray". If I'm really excited, I type, "Hooraaaaaay", because that's how you speak it - prolonging the last "a". When I come across something like, "Adorableeeee" (via facebook stalking this morning), I cringe. Because you don't pronounce the "e" at the end, so you can't prolong it's pronunciation. It doesn't make sense.

I had more written, but I erased them, because it makes me sound terribly cranky. Come to think of it, I haven't had breakfast yet.

Aha!

For the Deployed

Really it's just a work-up, but he requested pictures of his son.

Would it shock you if I told you that I was singing Bon Jovi to him in this one to make him smile?

I think this picture makes him look just like Jon did when he was little.

There has been much sewing in the house since my mom came into town. A little boy quilt was finished in case my niecew turns out to be male. A little girl coat is halfway done and I almost love it too much to give away. A dress for yours truly has been cut out and will soon be begun and I have fabrics for a girl quilt (in case said niecew turns out to be female) and fabrics for another boy quilt that forced me to purchase them while shopping for girl fabrics. I am merely a victim and am to be pitied, not blamed. Girl Scout cookies may help.

All that to say, my house is a little messy. Why I can't do everything and be the best at everything is beyond me. If only I had someone to blame other than myself. Again... I can't take the blame, because I'm the victim.

Girl Scout Cookies.

Thin Mints.

I love you, Husband. Come home soon.

(I'll be the fat one with a messy house and Thin Mint crumbs on her shirt).