Haiku of the Day

boooooooo

this is Halloween
a day where mommies unite
to steal chocolate

The wee one is napping right now - saving up energy to tromp around the neighborhood while impersonating his favorite space ranger. I would like to say that he's looking forward to being Buzz Lightyear MORE than he's looking forward to getting candy, but that's unfortunately not true. He's all about the candy this year. Well, that and carving the pumpkin.

I know, I know, we waited until the last minute for pumpkin carving, but that's because it was so hot last week, our pumpkins rotted BEFORE we got to carve them and we had to toss them. Bummer. So I had to go buy fresher, non-rotten pumpkins yesterday.

Is this the most boring Halloween post ever?

Here's something interesting:

A witch's teat and pro-breastfeeding message all in one. Huzzah.

007

no goldfinger and
nothing about chicks with nukes
guess we're still OK

The wee one and I stopped by Sonic for some lunch today. (I know, I know, it's bad for you but whatever. They have banana cream pie milkshakes.) In the wee one's kids' meal was a toy octopus which he has lovingly dubbed "Octopussy."

Now, I'm not sure if he's ever heard of James Bond. He hasn't seen any of the movies. And he hasn't been introducing himself as "One... Wee One..." but I am slightly alarmed (though mostly amused) with this new and exciting development.

Has pop culture invaded our lives to such a degree that even 3-year-olds unknowingly make Andy Warhol-esque references while they play in the sandbox? Is this somehow VH1's fault? Or maybe pop cultural references are genetically imprinted into the offspring of former slacker youth?

Ah, I really don't care. I'm just looking forward to the looks I get from all the conservative suburban moms when my kid goes to the playground, approaches a young tyke and says, "I'll be Anakin. You be Octopussy. Let's play!"

That should get a rousing response.

dumb but true

ratty old t-shirts
are just like mashed potatoes
in that they are nice

I definitely have comfort foods. Little Debbie cosmic brownies. Peanut butter and saltines. Mashed potatoes. Grits with milk and butter.

But I've come to realize that I also have comfort clothes. Now I know that sounds retarded. Everyone has comfortable clothes. But I mean the clothes that you dig out from the bottom of the closet and have a little party because you've found them again. I mean the shirt you'll pull out of the laundry hamper and even though it's stained with four day old spaghetti o's and breast milk, you'll give it a shake and wear it to the grocery store anyway. Comfort clothes.

I have this shirt. I got it my junior year of high school on a trip to New York. I can't remember the name of the store, but I got it in the only place I ventured into during a sprint through Greenwich Village. It's a black t-shirt with a white picture of the Bride of Frankenstein. It says, helpfully, "Bride of Frankenstein" at the bottom of the picture.

I love this shirt. But now things are getting a little dicey, literally. The Bride has a hole where her mouth used to be (handy for making gross tongue gestures, but not for much else). There's also a gaping hole on the bottom right side of the shirt. There are more holes along the neckline and shoulders. The paint is so cracked, you can barely make out who's in the picture (again, thanks to the handy description, no one is left clueless). This is the shirt I wear when I'm particularly happy, freaked out, depressed or just in the mood to drink hot tea and look out the window.

This shirt has seen me through high school, a brief stint in Russia, college, Baltimore, myriad vacations, and suburbia. It's getting a bit creaky, though. I don't really mind wearing it with the holes, but I know that every time I put it on now, I risk accidentally ripping a sleeve off, or permanently removing the Bride's mouth. I feel a little like I should try to find a replacement. Like when your dog dies and you're supposed to buy a puppy right away. But I would want an exact replica replacement. A Bride clone. And even the magic of Google can't help me out.

Maybe a trip to New York is at hand. Or maybe I should find a different shirt to encase my neuroses. I have one from ninth grade that runs a close second, but I don't think I could ever promote it to Top Comfort Shirt.

So keep your eyes open for Bride of Frankenstein t-shirts. I may need a new one soon. but only after this one either a) rots off me in front of my very own eyes or b) disintegrates in the wash. Both of which could happen at any moment.

I need a cosmic brownie.

yo yo yo

almost november
fall has finally arrived
bustin' out chili

It got cold! Overnight! We went to bed with the air-conditioner on and woke up freezing our asses off because it was 40 degress outside. Woo!

I know that inevitably (in, say, three or four weeks) I'll be whining about it being too cold and dreary all the time, and I'll be missing my shorts and tank tops. But for now I'm happy to see the cold weather. Just the idea that it was 94 on Friday and now it's barely 60... well, there's Texas weather for you.

Anyway, I'm sure this wins an award for the most boring post ever, and I'm sorry I've been neglecting the blog lately... things are just crazy around the haikuoftheday household. Maybe if the part-time "Mommy's helper" babysitter deal works out I'll have more time to regale you with annoying rants and stories of poop.

Fingers crossed!

poke

a poke in the eye
good for getting attention
not good for seeing

Last night I got poked in the eye. And let me tell you, when someone says, "I'd take that over a poke in the eye," I can now vouch that pretty much anything is preferable to a poke in the eye. Dammit, that hurt.

It was an accident. My husband didn't realize that, as he was sleeping, he went all Three Stooges and tried to blind me. But I couldn't help feeling a little pissed. Even as I screamed out in pain, he didn't wake up. Just a snore and some rolling over and I was left alone to cope with my wounded face.

But I'm not bitter. Oh, no. I'm sure that there have been plenty of times I've caused trouble with my cold feet. Except that cold feet and a poke in the eye really are different. I don't know how those Stooges did it.

buzz

surely it's better
to have zero addictions
man, I miss the buzz

On a cool Fall morning like today I have to take a moment to mourn coffee. Oh, I miss it. Sometimes I miss it so much I think it might be worth a cup even if it means being sick for the rest of the day. Alas. Something about the caffeine and the acidity of the coffee really does me in. Even with decaf. So I drink my green tea, and it's OK. But it's not the same as coffee.

I've started a search for a coffee substitute, but I think it's probably fruitless. There's Postum and something called Teeccino. Google tells me there's this stuff called Bambu that's - I shit you not - made from acorns. Cafix sounds appetizing, too, doesn't it? I could try chicory. I like a coffee and chicory mix, so maybe the chicory alone would be OK.

Or maybe I could just suck back three or four imodiums and hit Quacks.

she's crafty

stuffy nose mojo
only when you're sick do you
get forty playdates

The wee one has had The Dreaded Funk for the past few days (though he hasn't had it too bad). So we've been trying to lay low a bit. I had the brilliant idea of going out to buy "crafty stuff." Now, I'm not a terribly crafty person by nature. I try, but it just turns out crappy. And then I get bored and lazy and I stop cleaning up after myself... and well, crafty stuff just ends up making a mess.

Anyway, I went out and bought some crafty stuff for the wee one - construction paper, yarn, scissors, glue, glitter, modeling clay, watercolors, markers, feathers, squiggly eyeballs, little pom pom things, etc. The idea was for him to sit quietly and create magnificent crafty things while I wrote a little bit and administered snotty nose medication when said snotty nose required it. Simple enough.

Well. As we speak, it looks like a fucking fairy exploded in my kitchen. There is glitter everywhere. Glitter on the floor. Glitter on the wall. Glitter INSIDE the wee one's nose. Glitter INSIDE the bread bag. Glitter on my table. Glitter on the dog.

There are also eyeballs everywhere. I just went to go to the bathroom and as soon as I sat on the toilet, I saw a beady little eye staring up at me from the floor. Strategically placed underneath the eye was a small piece of red yarn. This created a kind of sinister bathroom floor frowning person staring up at me while I peed. It looked at me as if to say, "You are a moron." If the bathroom floor frowning person had had a finger it would have waggled it at me.

I don't know what I was thinking. If am a perfectly (sort of) capable 29-year-old woman who can barely clean up after her own damn self, what did I think was going to happen when my spawn got hold of crafty things?

We are swimming in yarn. Drowning in construction paper pieces. Breathing in glitter. Our fingers are glued together. I have a pom pom glued to my foot. The dog just ate a feather.

But you know what? The wee one is quiet. He's having a blast - quietly. His face is scrunched in concentration as he tries to snip tiny pieces of yarn and then glue them all into one long string again. Maybe this is a three-year-old's meditation tactic. I have no idea. But I love it. Love. It.

So huzzah for Crafty Things and exploding fairies. They work way better than Benadryl. Now I just hope my hubby has a plan for cleaning this mess up. I think we may have to burn the house down.

Bastards

you remember Hal?
he was a computer, right?
he was the devil

Dear Horrible People Who Created Self-Checkout,

Hi. I just wanted to send a little note to let you all know how much I HATE YOU. I don't know why you thought self-checkout was a brilliant idea. I don't know why your marketing people thought that pissing off every.single.customer. would be better than, oh, I don't know, paying some surly kid minimum wage to piss us off.

Would you like to know, specifically, why self-checkout makes me want to hunt you down and set your brain on fire?

1) Having a computer shriek at me - in extremely loud volume - "Remove unscanned object from the bagging area!" and then, immediately after I remove the item, shout at me, "Do not remove any objects from the bagging area!" And then continue in this "he said she said" shouting match with itself until an aforementioned surly teen pushes a button from her little turret-like station in the midst of all the self-checkouts - well - THAT MAKES ME CRAZY.

2) Having to scan and rescan and delete and force cash into a slot and fight with a surly teen about my right to buy alcohol and then get shrieked at by a computer demanding me to take my receipt. Time? Not saved.

3) Your revenues do not increase when you piss off every customer you have. Sure, you may save the money you'd ordinarily pay a surly teen, or a single mom, or a retiree, but you lose any money I (and the quadzillion others like me) might spend at your store.

So what are the lessons this letter is trying to teach you? Self-checkout = The Devil. Self-checkout = No time saved. Self-checkout = No money saved. Self-checkout = unhealthy cortisol surges in already stressed out mothers and old people who have bad hearts.

Please, please Horrible People Who Created Self-Checkout, rethink your "gift" to modern society. It sucks. People hate it. Now please call me so I can dictate this letter to you, you can write it out yourself, you can address the envelope to yourself, you can lick your own damn stamp, affix it, and you can mail it downstairs in the mailroom so that it will be delivered to your desk in a few minutes.

Boy, THAT sounds convenient, doesn't it?

Sincerely,
Kari
Concerned Mother

Doh!

looked for some guppies
all-wheel drive aquarium
used to be called "car"

Hey, so you know what works as a great rain gauge? The cupholders in your car. After you leave the sun roof open. All night long. While it rains. And rains. And rains.

Woo!

Hook 'em horns! Woo! OU sucks! Woo!

I'm too excited to write a haiku!