Vintonville

So.

The economy’s taken a high-dive leap and is hurtling headlong– if you listen to some alarmists– into an infinity lava of  depression. The current administration is talking about putting a ban on L’il Pepe. The half of a half percent of a quarter million dollar piece of equipment I bought seven months ago suddenly decided powering up was too difficult. I’m hitting second puberty. The price of health benefits went up. Again.  My kill/death ration in Call of Duty: World At War is still below 1:1. Local home values are dropping while an “economical” tent city neighborhood is being prepped for development in a field right next to our foreclosure-prone neighborhood. My pants are tighter; My physique is softer. Voles have used 50%+ of our lawn as a winter resort/lavatory and my cuticles are atrocious.

Not that I’m complaining.

See, it’s sunny outside today– and suddenly all of that potentially piling anxiety and crap has been washed down the drainpipe of my enthusiasm.

Nice to make your acqauintance again, Mr. Sun. Let’s definitely keep in touch.

Last year, at about this time, we  flipped Cache Valley the bird, packed up our bags and slammed the door in her cold, snowy face.

History is a total copycat, because we’re doing the same thing again. We just need some breathing room, that’s all. Ms. Valley can be a controlling, suffocating Hussey* in the wintertime.

Say what!? Taking a vacation in the midst of this economic port-a-potty? Are you mad?

No, it’s called a free stay, a 10 hour drive and it don’t cost no money to go swimmin’.

*I’m sorry, Cache. It needed to be said.

Since all my “fans” (numbers are too much to even post, honestly) have been begging and calling my name, I will relent and post on the blog. I know it will be tough to get through my easy English, non-fancy words, and void-of-LOL humor. “Dan the man fans”– bare with me.

Now, on to explain the title and picture (no this is not me). I do have to admit I thought for a brief moment of taking some partially nude pics of my pregnant body… but it passed quickly.

I can’t help but think about pregnancy. Probably because I’m large, pregnant and soon we will go from “kid” to “kids”. It seems like everyone always says how beautiful a pregnant woman is and where I agree that pregnancy is an amazing miracle, I just can’t get with the “beautiful body thing”. Let me explain (warning this may contain too much information. Sorry, men. Ladies, you love it).

First, I will admit it is nice to be out of my training bra from the 6th grade, but when the “girls” start looking like 10-pound milk jugs, it’s hard to see where “sexy” might fit into that sentence. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve never been one to think a huge, sagging milk jug is the epitome of sexiness. And if that isn’t enough… okay moving on.

Growing. Listen– I get that your stomach has to grow, but everything around it and below it– really? Ladies, you have to know what I mean: ribs, hips, and body from the knees up. One moment I’m looking in the mirror and thinking, “Oh I still have a little shape. The hour glass isn’t totally lost”. Leave it to kids to knock you back into reality: I’ve been an itch factory namely on my back so I will bribe the little man to give me a little scratch when I can’t reach it just right. While Joshua was so nicely reaching that spot he says “Look mama part of your bum is sticking out of your pants!” Um, no Little Guy. That’s my sweet back fat! Elastic inventor, whoever you are, I love you!

Speaking of sticking out…

Joshua likes to talk to the baby. He calls her “Little Sis”. When he talks to her, he thinks my clothes block out the sound, so he will only speak to a bare belly. During one of those priceless moments he kindly states “Look mama you have a nut on your tummy” and then he proceeds to try and pick my belly button up and eat it. Nothing says sexy more than a belly button protruding out of your stomach that looks like a tasty nut to nibble or an extra button on your shirt.

Pockets and patches. I’m not talking about the ones that come on your pants, I’m talking about the ones that hide in your pants. Its like you’re smuggling cheese curds. Do we really NEED the extra cheesy goodness when everything else on our body is already headed towards the ultimate plumpness?

There are many other things that I could mention but I’m sure I’ve already said too much for most folks. I also want to say again how amazing pregnancy is and how lucky I am to experience it. It truly is a miracle. The one thing I just can’t get behind is how a pregnant body is truly beautiful. They do say your husband is even more attracted to you when you are pregnant, and to that I say Hallelujah. I can’t thank the chemical in the brain that does that enough.

I’m a baseball apologist. I’m also an old-timey mockery apologist… Which is probably why this Conan O’Brien skit, where he visits an “authentic 1800s baseball reenactment” had me laughing water out of my eyeballs. I’m pretty sure not many people will think this is as funny as it absolutely scientifically is, but the good stuff begins at about 4:30 if you want to test my theory.

Posting as of late has been absolutely wretched. I’ve been busy with some work writing projects and things around here have been slow… resulting in a big fat lack of motivation to write.

Lady-Friend says I should post something– anything– up here for “people who are waiting for you to post”. I say there’s no such thing, but in the chance there is, my posting has become so desperate as to embed a trailer for a movie that’s weeks old but has turned out to be a real crowd pleaser and a financial surprise for 20th Century Fox.

Lady-Friend and I saw it a couple weekends ago and while I though it was contrived (I guess that’s the definition of a crowd-pleaser), Lady-Friend loved it. It’s PG-13, but had some surprising brutality– albeit born of desperation and against bad guys. I mean, what would you do if your kid got caught up in the commodities end of the human smuggling business?

Kick some Albanian booty in France, that’s what.

The Little Dude’s been on a roll lately. Unlike his Papa- who has unequivocally  sucked at doing much of anything by way of posts.

Since I haven’t been doing much of anything around here, I’ll let Little Dude do it for me:

Most kids aren’t keen on bedtime. Joshua is definitely one of them. Sometimes he goes quietly, other times her voices… dissent… and other times he makes a bolt for freedom. The bolt for freedom was the choice of the night and, as I scooped him up and he made a last minute plea and warning: “Papa Noooo! No! you’re making a mistake! This is on accident! You’re ruining our family!”

A few days later, bedtime was once again on the agenda. And here’s where we cop to some weak parenting:  We lay with Joshua until he falls asleep. I know!

So Joshua usually gets to choose who to lays down with him. 90% of the time it’s Mama 100% of the time. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s science. Sometimes, however, Mama gets a little tired of investing 15-45 of her night in a sleepy-time holding pattern and asks me to do it. Joshua usually protests. On this sweet occasion, I asked the usual, “Why don’t you want to sleep with Papa?”

“Because you’re a DUDE.” Ok, he didn’t say that, but in my mind I thought that would be funny. So let’s rewind.

Papa: “Why don’t you want to sleep with Papa?”

Joshua: “Because sometimes people want to sleep with their Mamas.”

Lady-Friend was in Old Navy. Old Navy, being Old Navy, was playing the old school Bucketheads dance hit “The Bomb! These Sounds Fall Into My Mind”. Joshua didn’t hear “These Sounds Fall into my Mind”. I’m not sure what he heard, but it must have been something about cheese or pepperoni, “Mama! They’re singing about pizza!”

Picking your nose may be frowned on, but it can be fun. And every human being who’s ever thought that no one was looking, no matter how much they protest, knows it.

While my days of nosepicking are long gone (it’s the sure way to get sick), Joshua’s aren’t. When a kid wants to pick his nose, there’s nothing you can do about it. Bat a hand away, it’s an instant return. It’s their nose, it’s their finger and they can, and will, make it happen. Coming to grips with this, I’ve become a casual observer.

This week, I was observing as Joshua was digging–excavating even– for what looked like a knuckle-deep attempt to find his brain. I casually commented, “Hey Buddy. You gettin’ what you need?” I must do this a lot, because he causally replied back with, “Yeah. All kinds of boogies to put in my treasure box.”

When Joshua sleeps, he doesn’t like covers. We’ve been trying to explain that covers are our friends and keep us warm when it’s butt-end-of-the-Earth cold outside. Still, I’ll wander into his room to tuck him in before I go to bed and usually find him exposed and chilly. Sometimes being cold wakes him up and he’ll stealthily wander into our bedroom and climb into bed, usually whispering “Mama, I’m freeeeeezing.” Mama usually responds with, “You need to stay under the covers to keep warm, Joshua. Then you don’t need to come to our bed.”

“But Mama, it’s because I missed you.”

Liz’ Little Dude is a handsome character. He also poops a mean diaper.

UPDATED: I preferred the black and white– Lady Friend wanted the color. Since I’m bipartisan, I figured we could compromise.

Next time I hear someone complaining about how difficult jogging 26 miles was or how they ran, swam and biked their way to exhaustion, I’ll have one of two canned responses prepped and ready for them: A) “Wusschop” or B) “Pansy”*.

On the upside, Losing the A/B title and regaining tough-guy/gal cred is easy. All it takes is a 2010 flight to Wolverton, England and a day visit to South Perton Farm for the annual Tough Guy Challenge: “The safest most dangerous taste of physical and mental endurance pain in the world”.

A 2009 participant, obviously constructed from iron, brawn and burl lays it all out:

It’s [the Tough Guy Challenge] somewhere between 8-9 miles. The first 6 is a cross-country race, with a few obstacles. The bulk come in the last few miles. I’m from Omaha and ran it for the first time on Sunday, definitely the toughest thing I’ve ever done. The temps are normally in the 40s during this time of year. This year it started in low 30s with blowing wind and kept dropping, started snowing after wards, leading into England’s worst snowstorm in 20 years, go figure. The water obstacles are the worst, people were dropping like flies due to hypothermia. It’s mind over matter, just have to tell yourself to keep going. They had 10 ambulances making continuous trips to local hospitals. Definitely doing this race again next year.

And there it is. Proof positive: Marathons are for sissies.

*Unless, of course, the person is my Lady Friend. Then it’s total agreement.

Back in December, you’ll remember Mailbox and Frontier were involved in fisticuffs. Mailbox won. Frontier was sad.

A few weeks ago, however, thanks to the healing miracle of paintless dent repair (or PDR as the pros call it)– Frontier emerged from the garage with nary a dent in sight.  Wounded pride now exists as nothing but distant memories, while Frontier is now more aesthetically pleasing and resolute than ever.

A cautious truce remains, but while Mailbox may have been laughing on that dark December day, I ask you today, Mailbox… who’s laughing NOW?