Last Day for NoPloMowhatever...

30th day!  And wouldn't you know, I can't get directly into blogger.  Will keep trying.  Trying the email route to see if it works.  If not, what a friggin bummer.  Anyway, Addis update - Katherine and i were on Ethiopian TV today!  The local news covered the conference, and us with chins in hand looking interested.  Got to find the footage.

Misho, Mommy is an Addis superstar.

Shelby

Rear Window Redux

Mama is on the new flower. Dada and Misho are recreating classic movies. Next week, Daisy as Harvey.

Honey Wine and Oromo Beats

Full day one in ET has gone splendidly. Took a road south and wandered around some crater lakes. No vultures, but encountered big ass pelicans, fish, skinny cats, and a gaggle of Ethiopian air force dudes. We had a wonderful dinner with Ethiopian dance show. Lot's of seemingly painful shoulder poppin. I joined in this venture at an embarrassing tableside dance post honey wine.

Video to come.

I'm in!

Ethiopia has let me in! Blogger is available and I can do some updating. It's just a bit before midnight here so I've made the deadline. Two more days to go!

We are here in Addis. KLM was groovy and Dutch. I sat next to the cast of Trainspotting. I think they made a 6am Amsterdam club decision to hop on a flight to "somewhere in Africa!" At least that's what I heard. And smelled.

More tomorrow. I've been traveling for over 20 hours and just accidently bit my finger. That's a sign to go to bed.

Love you Mr. M and Big D!

Shelby

Off to New Flower

30 days is coming to a close but I have to leave the grid for a quick trip to Addis. Will try and update as I go. Big D has committed to helping me reach the 30 day 30 blog entry mark, but I can completely understand if it doesn't happen. Expect some photos - probably embarrassing ones of me.

I've set up the email blog entry function, but you never know what will make it through the big net.

My friend Katherine (from the best baby shower ever) and I have some exciting work and meetings next week. Should be a hoot. First things first, we taking a day trip on Sunday to the Oromo region to vulture watch. Yes. We chose this trip.

Anywho, happy thanksgiving again to all! I'm in denial about leaving Misho but I have plenty of photos to share with the people who first took care of him.

Here's a blast from last Thanksgiving.

Gobble and Cluck

A lovely holiday meal. Cooked by others, delivered to the door, already displayed and ready to go. Fantastic idea! Never going back. Not sure what this means since I've never cooked a Thanksgiving dish in my life, but it was so less stressful not having to watch others cook.

Ethiopia tomorrow. Holy crap. Packing, preparing, and in a general tiz. Not much left in the old noodle to write so here are some photos of little man in the suitcase. Looks like someone wants to come along...

Ethiopia

Can't wait to hear this up close again.

If I had to marry a muppet...

...who would it be? I'm torn. Here are the first round of options:

1. Elmo



Clearly the most popular boy in the bunch, the most impressive on my arm on the red carpet kind of fella. But the voice could start to grate and he is a bit simple. He's probably self centered in bed to boot.


2. Telly



OR is it...



As mentioned last week, the sexiest of all muppets. But he tends to be a bit neurotic, and two neurotics in one couple never works. That's why in reality land I married the most laid back man in the universe.


3. Grover



The daredevil, a "keep you on your toes" kind of blue thang. But too many extreme sports and risk taking ventures for my taste. I wouldn't know if he'd make it home at the end of the day.


4. Big Bird



A tall drink of water to match this tall drink of water (for those not in the know, I'm frickin tall). He can read, and that's a plus. He's sensitive, but he's dialing it in lately. Rumor has it he's a bit of a toker, and I just don't need that at my age.

5. Murray



This one might fit the bill, but he has a thing for sheep, which again, at my age might be too much work.

I'm not even going to entertain the "me, Burt and Ernie" triad. Children frequent this blog.

Anywho readers, advice or thoughts?

P.S. Notice I didn't mention Cookie Monster? There's a history. I can't talk about it.

In Homage to Comfort Food

Because sometimes, that's all there is.

At Least They're Not in His Nose...

...yet.

So here we are, building a relationship with real live vegetables; frozen peas. It's more like casually dating, cause little man is not giving the milk away for free.

The "bowl as hat" was the brain child of Mr. M, offering him the freedom to be him and the option to eat the peas on his own terms.

Big D is in charge of the technical components of this campaign. I cheerlead and dance around the high chair for moral support.

Most of the peas ended up on the floor, much to the chagrin of the dogs. A couple hit the target.

Tomorrow: there may be corn.

Dance Casualty

Dance over 40 is not for the weak of heart. Or for those over 40. Or for those who just turned 40. Anyone?

Flamenco'ed today at the Museum of Science and Industry. Not sure if we were the science or the industry. But do know that my feet have swollen to twice their size. Class/rehearsal in the morning, and the show in the afternoon. Wouldn't have phased my 25 year old self, or even my 35 year old kicker, but now we're on a whole new middle aged playing field. The huge plate of ravioli, martini and basket of bread following the performance didn't help.

I can barely form a sentence. Blog entry will focus on the evidence. Notice how one foot is trying to soothe the other...tender, really. It feels worse than it looks, or I'm just a big princess.

I'm not too tired, however, to realize that I fully opened the oven door on that one.

Hello Day 20

I'm not going to force it. Here's what I was thinking about today...

1 Week to Ethiopia

I'm headed to Ethiopia next Friday. My inlaws are not buying the stated business purpose of the trip. Yes, I really am attending a conference, not picking up an additional grandchild.

"Right," they wink slyly, "sure it's a conference. We'll pick you up at the airport with a carseat. Just in case. Have fun at your 'conference', wink wink."

So no. Really. It's not a trip for adoption #2 but I am hugely looking forward to it. There is, of course, this little big problem of being away from Misho for 9 days. No worries. I have multiple strategies in development for keeping Misho in my camp. I've been speaking with the folks at Hasbro about some Mama action figures. With kung-fu grip no less. Or maybe big life size photos of Mama to hang over his crib like a big Mama mobile. And then to cap it off, a sizeable donation to Misho's therapy jar!

I'll have more tidbits of the methods for keeping Mama on Misho's mind in the days ahead. Have to spread out the blog content - only 11 more days to reach the finish line for the NoBlowhatever it is.

The conference is called Children's Rights at a Crossroads, sponsored by UNICEF and a host of others. The purpose is to develop recommendations for future policies, programming, and outreach to vulnerable children and youth in Sub-Saharan Africa. Supposedly, and fingers crossed, there will be direct participation of children and youth in the conference and the final product. The way it should be.

Here are some some of the folks we'll be talking about:

Sexiest Man Alive

It's that time of year again, and as usual, I've been thinking: who is the sexiest man alive?

Okay, J. Depp. I get it. I'm with it. You're pretty, you have hats, you live in France. But I think there is a segment of sexiness not acknowledged or frankly understood by People magazine.

I'm at a different, more coherent place in my life now. Sexy means something different. Or maybe not. Maybe this is what I've always wanted. What was always missing from my life. Maybe now, I know the truth.

Telly Monster, in my libro, you are the sexiest man alive.







Congratulations.

Total Eclipse

Today took my brain away. Alot of multiple multitasking. Multiple work schtuff. Multiple preparations for Ethiopia trip next week. A board meeting where I skillfully muted the background sounds of joy from Mr. M - mouth to butt.

I need a lite blog entry. Someone needs to do the heavy work today...someone like:

Kiki.

Handsome Boy Mondays

I've named it - the next boy band.



And I'm calling it: Misho is Justin (the dude they've selected for the solo career once the boys break up).

The First Read

Finally home and safe from Canadian angst. Spent most of the day re-meshing and kissing up on Mr. M. Got some new books and DVDs. The Xmas faves are out already, so the household is now studying the dance moves of Sir Heat and Cold Miser.

Little guy also enjoyed his first read of Where the Wild Things Are. Seemed quite smitten. You could smell the soup and sandwich coming off the last page.

Momma just returned from a similar location, where she was wildly rumped and sent to bed without supper.

Viva la resistance, Max!

Rotary Whacked

Wow, angry Rotarians are a lethal force. Presentation (to those of you that know what I'm talking about) went great. But the dinner was nasty. Canadian nasty, so not really nasty. Not Texas nasty, which is a whole other ball of nasty wax. And mind you, it was actually an American in the group that really led the nasty charge. They were pissed off at the Foundation, I was wearing the Foundation mask, so became the obvious target. I think I involuntarily put my head down on the dinner table at one point. I don't hide disgust very well - though I did take it for the team. Felt like I worked for the IRS. What can you do? Put on the armor and plan for the future.

For those of you who don't know what I do or talking about, here it is in a nutshell: I'm the economic and community development specialist for The Rotary Foundation - yeah that Rotary, Rotary clubs, polio Rotary, your father's Rotary. The Rotary Foundation is trying to revamp its grant structure and fund larger more sustainable projects in specific areas of focus, one of those is economic and community development. Microfinance was the theme of this conference. I talked about how the Foundation will fund microfinance and other economic activities in our new grant structure. Some loved it, some thought it sucked. I ducked when the latter group took aim and barfed out their grief on me. At some point, someone put a glass of wine in front of me, I don't know who, but clearly a kind Canadian comrade. Now I'm back at the hotel, and I think safe. I may need armed escort to leave the country. Who knew I could cause such scandel in such a seemingly kindhearted place. It's like I pissed off Hello Kitty.

Here is my Canadian-played evil avatar for the night. "And strategic partners will cost.......$1 million dollars...wahhha.wwaaahwhaaaaaaa....(evil laughter continues on). This is clearly an inside joke for my Rotary comrades.



And Abby, if you're out there, I received the "back rub." Ewww.

Canada...it's like another country

Hello American Comrades! Woo has crossed the border, invaded the hordes of the north, landed in the land of flannel - and whatever other stereotype one could drop in this sentence. That's right, I am in the friendly confines of Toronto. Here to present at a conference and investigate these peoples I've heard so much about and whose couch I threatened to sleep on at various points during the 8 years of the Bush administration.

Now here's the problem. I have alot to say about Canada. It fascinates me. Canadians fascinate me. The accent, so like our own yet not, distracts the bejesus out of me. I have to sit on a panel and entertain questions about microfinance, with all the "aboots", and "oots", and the other stuff. I'm at the hotel tapas bar and the "aboots" are flying through the air. I don't even know what's politically correct to make fun of or talk about. I feel like I should have been given a manual on what to say and not say in the presence of our more civil north american brethren.

They look like us. You could almost swear you were in Chicago. But, instead of the lighthearted fear of random crime, there's this heavy feeling of niceness, civility, and safety looming over the city. It's actually downright threatening in an innocuous kind of way. I feel like I could possibly even relax. Walk naked down Bloor Street and not be given a howdy-do. One more martini, and we'll see.

I've traveled to Syria, Angola, East Timor and Ethiopia, yet I am befuddled by the slightly different, but not really, culture of Canada.

Aww. They just brought me mayonnaise with my frites. Would they freak if I asked for ketchup? Where's my American to Canadian manual!!!???

Until tomorrow, I'm going to bed to the sweet soothing sounds of Canadian cable.

Below, some of my favorite Canadian men.

Squeezed Dry and Stomped Out

It's day 11 and things in the brain have screeched to a crawl. I just did one hour of yoga, followed by more than an hour of flamenco. The feet are throbbing. Not much left of the old gal. A trip to Toronto is on the docket this weekend, so perhaps the land of Kids in the Hall will shake free some musings.

So, as invaluable filler until the return of my brain, for those of you that are not acquainted with the beauty, the eff-you, and attitude of flamenco, here's a small, good looking tidbit. Obviously not me. She's about a third of my size, horizontally and vertically.

Flamenco is a gorgeous dance form. It speaks to my inner diva, my personal Gaga, my drag sensibility. It's satisfies my hidden drama puss. Well, not that hidden.
Enjoy.

Oh Ed Earl...

Some business first. Many squishies and love to Big D for hacking into the Big Woo and responding to my request for response to his preferential treatment from Little M.

Love. Warm. Heart.

Secondly, thanks to those on Facebook and other whereabouts who responded to my call for feeding advice. Tender and wise you all are. I've written down a list and am trying it all out. Description of results to come. I particularly like the ice tray suggestion. And those sickos who suggested an IV. Or maybe, that was just me.

But now...I've got nothing. I'm stuck between a place of wanting to write about real day to day stuff, and not wanting to become a one note wonder. Hmm. It's like high school journaling all over again.

Life in the Woo is solid. Let's just leave it at that. Day 11...you're killing me.

Here's something fun. Burt Reynolds AND Dolly Parton.



She gets him. She leaves the whorehouse and goes to the legislature.

Shelby

Mamaaaaaaaaaaa...ooooohoohooohooooh

Let's see. Day 10. Hmmm. When Misho calls for me across a crowded room, he emits a very familiar tune, especially if I don't hear him the first time around. He repeats. The crescendo builds.

It's day 10 people. Time for Queen.



I would like to believe I'm mothering the reincarnation of F. Mercury.

Fingers crossed.

Eat. Please eat. A Big Woo cry for help.

It's official from "The Board of Toddler Eating Habits." Misho is the world's pickiest eater. For years, I thought I owned the toddler title. He doesn't like bread. Bread? Who doesn't like bread? I'm about to lose my mind. Mac and cheese? No can do. Are you serious? Most children would bathe in mac and cheese if they could. Tonight, I threatened to duct-tape him to the high chair until he at least licked a chicken nugget. A simple meat in nugget form. He likes NOTHING in nugget form. Who can't get on board with a nugget? Was this child sent from PETA as a propaganda tool?

We've tried all the methods: feed him what he wants at all times, plan to introduce new things at least 1000 times before he likes it (myth), don't force it on him or appear in anyway coercive or he'll never eat again, buy the most expensive thing from Whole Foods because then he's sure to like it, sit back and let your child starve.

I know. I sound like a rookie mom. And I am. But this is above and beyond. I've fed, cared for, and dealt with kids, toddler to teen for most of my life. I'm not quite sure where to go on this one. I pulled out the "you're killing your mother" chant for the first time. Well, the first time in a serious, involuntary manner.

Oh and by the way, his likes: pistachios and capers. The pistachio and caper jar was empty tonight.

Remember this face from blog entry past?




This is what I look at every night at dinner. Help me.

Re: Nov. 7, 2009 Post,Sub-Point #5

Mama,

Do not be deceived. I am of little consequence. Not a serious contender. The boy isn't blind. He knows I am just a larger, even more reckless version of himself. An over-sized peer. This is fun and good to have around, especially for getting away with stuff, or getting candy after 7 p.m., or teasing the dogs for a laugh, or learning that not every bump is a disaster, because that big bald guy never seems to notice when I fall down unless there is blood. But he knows, as every boy knows, what side of the parental unit really butters the toast. He knows who is the fearsome (meant in that kind of she-cat "what what what?1" way) don't touch my baby unless you're giving out magic dust guarantor of his remaining and ever-becoming one of the good ones. That's all you mama. And thank goodness, 'cuz I couldn't handle the pressure. So don't fret, you're a boy's mama and he's a mama's boy. That's the way it's always been, for as long as there's been boys and mamas. Now, I'm off to steal some more of the boy's Halloween candy, because I can.

xoxo,

Dada

Let's just say your child eats a rock. Maybe two.

A small rock. Not even a rock, a pebble at best. What happens?

Let's just say that a very attentive (fictional) mother did her best to retrieve the aforementioned group of (two at most) rocks from the gullet of a very beautiful (fictional) child but came up empty. Is that a problem? An emergency room visit? Or a "wait to see what happens later" kind of situation?

As a former mental health gal, I wouldn't slap this hypothetical situation with a diagnosis of pica: it hasn't happened more than once in a month and no pattern of eating nonfood material has been expressed. Additionally, in this hypothetical scenario, there has been no obvious discomfort or avoidance of regular food. In fact, a perfectly normal hypothetical bowel experience occured quite recently. Hypothetically, I think this child will survive.

Hmm. Just a passing Sunday scenario that wafted through my brain. Thought I would share.

Plus, this hypothetical child has bigger fish to fry: staring down some street performing weirdo in a cheetah suit.



Meow.

Message from the "Land of No"

An Open Letter to Mishamo

Dear Misho,

Okay buddy. We need to talk. You’re losing it and so am I. Tensions are high, misunderstandings amuck. I'm not the good guy anymore. I swear you flipped me off last night as I lovingly lowered you into your crib. My imagination? Or is toddler digital dexterity that advanced? Whatever. Message received.

Here’s the deal - The "House of Mama" was built in the "Land of No." For you my dear friend, I can't be the fun child care worker, the goofy therapist, the kooky aunt. I’m your mother. I throw down the law and have to somehow make it stick. I have a job, and you’re it. Sorry to say, there’s not much flexibility in my job description. I can’t cut corners or let you take your bath totally unattended. I can’t call in good dog Carl to watch you for the afternoon.

Here's my pre-emptive list of apologies for your reading pleasure. If and only if you make it to the age of eighteen without loss of limb, your hair, any of your toe or fingernails, and/or your mind.

1. I apologize for not letting you explore electrical outlets. I know. They’re fun. Who doesn’t want to put something pokey and metal into small holes in the wall.

2. I apologize for getting mad when you hit me. It sucks and I think you’re kind of a a-hole right after impact but I understand. I’m this big-ass lanky lady towering above you monitoring your every move. It’s all you got in your communicative arsenal to tell me to eff-off. Touche.

3. I apologize for the involuntary menu of foods and nibbles. Actually, no. I don’t apologize for this. We’re trying to feed you. Work with us and give it a shot.

4. I apologize for leaving each day for work and then expecting you to embrace my existence when I get home. This one probably hurts me more than you. But I do work from home, so the commute is short and you do get my squishies throughout the day. So. Yeah. I shouldn't feel guilty, right? You still love me, right? I'm not hurting you or forcing you into therapy, right? VALIDATE ME! VALIDATE ME!

5. I apologize for resenting Dada because you like him better. Who the hell does he think he is? He comes home at the end of the daily rituals, swoops in and looks like the fricking hero. Dada should write Mama a letter.

6. I apologize for not allowing you to insert things in the orifices of our dogs. This is non-negotiable. You don’t believe me now, but the consequences would never be good. I must resist.

7. I apologize for wiping your butt with a cold moist toilette. That just sucks. Plain and simple.

Overall, it’s not that I want or should apologize for these so called parental offenses, I just understand why they piss you off.

Freedom will come once we can talk things out and you are able to convince me that you won’t kill yourself at every turn. You'll see. Compared to other moms, I am downright revolutionary. Go ahead, hold a pencil in your teeth while climbing the stairs in no slip socks, scale the couch like Jason Bourne about to pounce, eat many things, not all, but a lot of things right off the floor, stand on table tops and find glasses of something for me to rhyme with floor.

Dude.. I rule. You’ll see. And if you don’t, my time will be spent devising ways to embarrass you until my last dying breath.

Go ahead. Test me.

Love Mama.

Desperate for Disneyland

I've been to Disneyland - The Anaheim Disneyland - at least 25 times. My grandparents took me every year until I was 12. After that, I designed my own pilgrimages accompanied by a variety of friends, hired extras, and those that caved: "okay, shut up. I'll go with you." I think I went by myself once. In summary, I acquired a bad habit of running away to Disneyland (so did Bridget Haverty - she has the best D-Land stories. Ever. Homage to B.)

For the grandparent trips, we traveled in an orange 1977 Westfalia poptop VW camper. Photo in green below:



Can't find an orange version online. I think the government outlawed them.

We never stayed at the Disneyland Hotel or even a Super 8, Econo Lodge or Peter Pan Inn. We camped. In Anaheim. At the local Disney-accessible KOA campground. For your 15.00 per night, you're assigned a slab of pavement to park on and a slightly rusted BBQ pit for your meat. Guests can BBQ between certain hours of the day and you're kindly asked to scrubbed down the pit before you leave. There's free laundry, a 24 hour soda machine, a cordoned off area for sex offenders, and a prison-grade playground for the youth. Children would burst out of vans as they checked in late at night. It was interesting. But at least you could see the Matterhorn.

Anywho, back to the present, I'm itching for D-land. Haven't been there in over 10 years. And I'm not talking about D-World. Stop telling me how great Disney WORLD is - that's directed at you Big D. D-World can suck it. D-World had more cash, a brand, and besides, poor Walt had already cashed in before it opened. D-Land started on nothing but grit determination and a desire to run down orange groves and walnut trees.

Anyway, I want to go back. Misho is ready. The Plan begins: Disneyland 2010.

My Brief Love Affair with the Federal Government

I heart my federal passport agency and there is not one iota of facetiousness in this day five blog entry (or whatever day it is). What a delightful group of people. The task without negotiation this week was to renew my passport which went way sour in early September. Of course I procrastinated and left it unchecked in a variety of to do lists: on my white dry erase board to do list, my tiny black leather book for thoughts and to do lists, my work notebook to do lists, and a post it that got stuck in a variety of places over the last few months, my forehead being the most memorable. The least effective, the bottom of my rain boot.

So I had to do this quickly with a looming trip to Canada next week (what the hell Canada, the driver's license isn't good enough for you anymore? Thought we were neighbors. Jackasses.) and then off to Ethiopia at the end of the month. Thought this would be a field trip into the butt end of hell. But these federal folks were not only charming, funny and average looking, they were also the most sincere people behind glass on the planet! I think I was called "sweetheart" not once but twice, and I'm a sucker for nicknames that make me feel girly and physically tiny. Some construction worker called me "baby girl" and I didn't know whether to slap him or giggle.

Anyway, no wait in line, got served pronto, compliments on my photo, offers to give me the "bible passport" that has over 1000 pages to fill. Lovely folk. Started the day off well and it really just got better.

And, looking down from the federal agency wall, was the most charming federal employee of all.

He made me feel girly.

Haiku Wednesday

A special guest appearance from Big D Woo (the husband). Here's what he sent me via email yesterday. Footnote: Ulysses is our big ass dog who found us in 2007. Or as we call him, the homeless man that came to live with us.

Because only haiku can capture something so furious, so complex, and so short -- a toddler

Gloaming -- calm sets, too
Fisted, stomping, fury-love
Run, Ulysses, run

Running out of coherent steam...

Day three of thirty will be a quickie. Two thirds of the Woo are sick. A little Woo and the female Woo. Mr. M has had the nose runs for the past few days, thought it was on its way out but looks like something a little more sinister has come on board. Back swine! Back! Mr. M's combined naps added up to 5 hours today and he just crashed into a coma a few minutes ago.

I'm close behind. Took two Benadryl to dry up the fluids. Yes. I'm blogging about fluids. It's day three people.

I started careening downward about 6pm or so, making nonsense remarks at open play time at Bubbles Academy (it's a real place), like "Misho, no tongue when kissing that baby." Things that cause other parents to carefully guide their children into an accordian tunnel to hide. Then I came home and started putzing around the house, putting things where they don't belong, shoes in the fridgerator, books on the bookshelf (that rarely happens in this house), clothes on the dogs. When I get sick I act like I'm drunk at a college fiesta; finding lame things hilarious (anyone remember the night I replayed the Logical Song by Supertramp over and over at least a 100 times? Good times), and always end up making out with someone by the end of the evening. I have two dogs and my husband to choose from. All are scared.

Achoo!

Here's a cute pic from the past to get us through the night.
Dog and baby. A love story.

Neil Diamond Fills My Empty Brain

Day 2 of 30. Was hoping for something a bit more meaty to write about. I was so excited to share the minutiae of my work and toddler upkeep duties. How fun, right? Wouldn't you all like to ride the back of the Woo through the ins and outs of this celebrity lifestyle?

As exciting as it sounds, not much happened. All quite lame actually. Maybe blogs don't need a daily commitment, but keeping an open mind, let's see. I'll pull out my bucket of judgement at the end of this informal reality venture.

I could bore with a mundane rundown of the day. Not that there's anything wrong with that but I was hoping to squeeze some juice out of these 30 days of self induced assignment. I could tell you about the well coifed, pin-striped bow tied man on Lake Shore Drive intensely watching and waiting for his two pugs to do their business. Just a bit too intensely. Uncomfortably intense. Or I could tell you about the chicago cop talking on a cell phone who slowly rammed his squad car into the Honda in front of him outside of a Starbucks, got out (still on the phone) checked for damage, left the cars in a bumper kiss and proceeded into the 'bucks for a latte.

I pray to god it was a latte.

Or I could let life be, unwritten, unexamined and link to some real meat. Neil Diamond. The Diamond is the oracle that rocks my world. It's like he's singing right to me. It is now the official theme song for the Woo.



I've become "a grown up girl." Not a woman mind you, a grown up girl.

Just where I should be.

Suck it George Vernon Hudson

Whoever invented the daylight-standard time rodeo obviously did not have children, specifically toddlers experiencing their first post-Halloween candy, tiger print hangover. Here's the Wiki situation on this.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daylight_saving_time

B. Franklin had 17 children. He's somehow tied to this catastrophe. Ole Ben must have stored his numerous tots in the barn on this day and let the cows tend to them. George Vernon Hudson (the true architect of the disaster) had no children. So there you go. The bastard had spare time to screw around with the well being of his broody neighbors.

Thank you Wikipedia for useless nonesense related to daylights savings time.

Now back to present time. Holy crap. Misho awoke bright and frisky on the dot to what would have been his normal time of wakening and woo. I caved and sent Big D to do the morning needful. I stayed in bed, with a sore throat, attempting to make myself sicker than I was. I was sick. I am sick. I'm not kidding. But I did feel guilty. And then the day just spiraled downward from there.

Misho was cute. He's always cute. Evidence below:



But then he got sort of evil. Like the play on time made him realize his evil powers as a toddler. His nails instantaneously grew five inches. Blood spouted from his nose (he actually had a nosebleed from the runny nose he's been sportin for five days). He spoke in tongues. He went for the eyes. His head spun. I blame the timechange, plain and simple. Out of sorts, longer time till first nap, strange fall to winter lighting - good for a movie but not good for playtime - sun quitting early, parents wanting a nap desperately, perhaps just five minutes of this precious additional time so graciously bestowed to us by bastard George Vernon Hudson.

It was rough. Not real rough, but rough enough to provide some material for day one of "30 days and 30 blog entries." Some exaggeration allowed.

But serious, this is what I stared into most of the day:



Those eyes were staring at my throat. So cold...i'm so cold...