Sharks are unequivocally AWESOME… sleeping bags, not so much. Sure they’ll do in an outdoorsy pinch, but I’ll take a bed 9.5 times out of 10.
Unless, say, someone combined a shark and a sleeping bag, filled the sucker with 30 pounds of poly-fill, wrapped it in fleece and named it The Chum Buddy. If someone did that and I could tuck myself into its maw every night, I’d give up beds–and sleep, if necessary– for life.
Jackpot.
Spend $199.95 to get your own Chum Buddy here, or generously spend $199.95 to get one for me. With the Chum Buddy arriving just in time for the holidays, I’m hoping for the best Christmas ever.
Bliss: a state of complete and total happiness. Blister: skin being rubbed into an oblivion creating a painful puss pocket.
Lady friend here– hijacking Vintonville for a little cheese time. This post technically should have been up on Wednesday but I knew Man-Friend totally forgot [Dan Edit: I'd argue, but it's completely true] our nine year anniversary and didn’t want to add stress and pressure on him trying to scramble to do something for our special day (yes I’m a girl and yes it was ok he forgot our anniversary). So what happened to this post going up on Thursday? Ummmm make-Cafe-Rio-Yourself Day happened.
Brutal.
So here we are Friday and the “Bliss and Blisters” post comes to fruition.
I can honestly say nine years has been blissful but it also had its share of blisters along the way. Every marriage has its ups and downs but I think it’s all how you handle the downs that make the ups that much more amazing. We have learned and come so far from our first (slightly brutal) year. We work at our marriage everyday, and whoever said marriage is easy and total bliss without blisters is a crock of crap.
That being said, marriage is fabulous and there is nothing else like it.
Nine years ago I made the best decision of my life. My Man-Friend is simply amazing. He is the BEST husband, friend, papa, and man anyone could ask for. He is witty, charming, smart, hilarious, driven, and passionate. He is sensitive, caring, kind, and selfless. He snuggles me close even when I’m a human torch. He plays with my hair even when he doesn’t want to. He listens to my drama and “tries” not to fix it. He puts his family above anything else. He tells me he loves me EVERYDAY!
Thank you MF for being simply amazing, I LOVE YOU!! Happy Anniversary.
I can’t say I hate-hate Wal-Mart. I know they’ve got all kinds of arguments stacked up against them and I’ve sworn that big box cattle car off on more than one hair-pulling trip… but man, at one int he morning their home-town hating, 24/7 corporate empire makes life convenient when you need that certain “je ne sai quoi”. That and it’s got a toy section that goes a long way to pacifying Little Dude when he hears grocery shopping is on the agenda.
And while that perspective in and of itself might qualify me as a frumpy, red state hater of righteousness, humanity and taste, I’m sure when the world crashes and we’re on the lam from roaming bands of cannibals/radiated, Clydsdale-sized cockroaches, the husks of burned out Wal-Marts– with their massive parking lots and limited-window architecture– will make awesome bases.
In the mean time, for those who do visit Wal-Mart, this clip is a casual/artsy reminder that yeah, Wal-Mart might not ever sleep, but visiting between the hours of 6-8 pm and sampling the five-deep, 20-minute-wait checkout line is still the shopping equivalent to losing the will to live.
Bed Ninja
[bed nin-juh] –noun
1. A member of a child society of bedtime mercenary agents, highly trained in stealth (ninjutsu), who indulge in covert purposes ranging from nap-time espionage to mattress sabotage and sleep assassination.
When you’re trying to punch in for a full 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep, living with a bed ninja can be tough. Between Little Dude, Little Sis and all their arm-flailing, face-smacking barrel-rolling, we finally upgraded to a king mattress. It worked. The whole crew can now pile into bed and sleep without fear of being kicked in the baby-maker, becoming a sandwich or having an eye gouged out. Our new Stearns & Foster was our samurai to Little Dude’s ninjitsu.
For a week.
I’m not sure what time Little Dude hijacked us this morning, but I woke up on the edge of the bed with my face being cheese-grated by the plastic-soled feet of his zip-up footy pajamas, while Lady-Friend enjoyed repeated (and apparently unnoticed) headbutts on the other side. The bed geography may sound vague, but the pic above pretty much does the scene justice: At 6:55 AM this morning, our bed was a mussy-haired and sleep deprived recreation of Stonehenge.
Another installment of the ongoing adventures in the lexicon wonderland of Little Dude Vinton.
Between the two kids, our place has become a virus manufacturing plant, which is always rough for Little Sis and amps my germophobic anxiety into a hand scrubbing, mask-wearing Defcon 1. Last week, Little Dude was enjoying a wet, redfaced cough– the “owie” kind. After a bout that looked pretty uncomfortable, I asked if it hurt.
“No, but it makes my throat frustrated.“
We’ve got a flagstone path that wraps from the front of the house and into a flagstone patio in the back. It’s cool and all, but to a four year old it’s an open invitation to a rock and sand excavation buffet. We’ve tried to be vigilant on not allowing the little dude to play palaeontologist and dig up the sandy grout, but sometimes he’s sneaky. After a day out and about, Little Dude was stoked to show me the rocks he’d collected. As he laid them all out, I noticed one rock was flat and nicely shaped for use in, say, a flagstone path. I tried to be as innocently clueless as possible.
“Oh, this one is cool. Where’d you find it?”
“I found it in my rock collection.”
Pause. Realization.
“Oh, maaaan. I shouldn’t have said that.“
When Little Dude goes to bed, it’s usually 10 minutes or so and he’s lights out. We also know Little Dude has a confectionery sixth sense. The other night Little Dude had been in bed for at least 25 minutes when my inner fat guy put discretion in a headlock and gave it noogies ’til it cried “Make me cookies!”. Not one to argue, I decided to make some cookies. And by that I mean Lady-Friend did all the work because she’s awesome.
At the first “clang” of the mixing bowl being pulled from cabinet, a voice called out from Little Dude’s room:
My palate is decidedly lowbrow. Keep your bisque, banache and Frenchy/Italian-ey suffixes. I’ll take a fat pile of baked mac and cheese, pizza, Famous Star or condiment-loaded ballpark hot dog and wash it all down with a warm chocolate chip cookie chaser.
It’s not that I don’t know any better. I’m not afraid of the fancy stuff and enjoy eating dead plants and animals whipped and sculpted into savory dishes I’ll never remember the name of. But when it comes to preference my tastebuds are happiest when they’re slumming it in the warm, fat-loaded embrace mass-appeal chain concepts pack into every calorie-busting bite.
Thanks to Old Spice Treachery, my good pal (we’ll call him Shnandy Shnorgan) went out and gag gifted me with the power to smell like my Dad circa 1978 for 16 hours straight.
That’s awesome for three reasons: A) The Vinton signature scent has come full circle, B) I can ditch the Olay bar I’ve been daintily using since marriage immemorial and C) Odor Blocker “Is it gross that I actually tested it?” Body Wash really does fight B.OOOOOOOO.
Another installment of the ongoing adventures in the lexicon wonderland of Little Dude Vinton.
The other night, after putting Little Dude to bed, I heard him faintly whispering to himself as I went back to my room. Knowing something was up and hoping to hear a few unedited gems, I stayed in the room to see what happened next. I knelt by my bedside to listen as Little Dude opened his bedroom door and began creeping down the hallway.
Real cautious-like, Little Dude’s head slid around the doorway… where he saw me looking right at him. For a split-second, his eyes popped as he froze in mid tip-toed panic.
“What are you doing?”
“Nooooothing… I just wanted to be with yoooooooou.”
“That sounds good, but really. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to see you.”
“C’moooon. You can tell me.”
“Ok… Papa, I prayed you’d go to sleep so I could go out and play in the living room and I was checking to see if you were asleep yet.“
Lady-Friend has a melodically clean singing voice and she’s not afraid to use it around the house every so often. Little Dude’s known to pipe up from time to time as well. For reasons that will be explained by science in the year 2018… or something… Little Dude’s always had a hard time with Lady Friend’s singing. As a credit to Lady-Friend, she doesn’t take that crap lying down. When Little Dude gets sassy, she’s usually ready with a lesson. Unfortunately, Little Dude is now past that.
“Mama, stop singing. I don’t like that song.”
“How would you like it if I said I didn’t like your song? I don’t
like your song- how’d that feel?”
So, yeah. Creating the expectation of plastic-wrapped joy for every holiday is a totally responsible way to avoid spoiling your kids. And by that, I mean it’s probably not.
Between the Memorial Day General, the Independence Day Eagle and the Labor Day Hobo (they’re real!), our kids won’t even need Christmas. But because we’re exorbitant and have no shame, we’ll give it to them anyway.
