Baby, We Thought it Over....

OK, how many of youse guys are familiar with the infamous Baby Think it Over?  Seems like just yesterday that my daughter dragged home this screaming plastic waste of time. This year, it was my son's turn.

Now, for those of you who have been either under a rock or stranded on a desert island somewhere, the Baby Think it Over is a life sized plastic brat designed to simulate the experience of having to take care of a real baby for the weekend, intended, I suppose, to make the kid hate it so much that they immediately go out and buy a lifetime supply of propylactics.

Well, I can understand the Powers That Be wanting teenage girls to have to deal with it, because in my experience, they're the ones that think babies are as adorable as all get out, and want to have one so they can dress it up all cute and shit and stroll around with it.

BUT fifteen year old boys don't have that problem. They have no interest in having a baby. They just want to be left alone to play World of Warcraft and ride their bikes to the store. I know that my son wants a baby about as much as he wants to put on a dress and dance in the Santa Claus parade.

BUT, we had to put up with the baby anyway. Dan brought it home last Friday, and despite the fact that we actually have a cradle in the attic, he decided to have it sleep in the cat bed.

This baby screamed, cooed, cried and breathed just like a normal baby for the duration of the weekend, and it was my son's job to take care of it. All I can say is, I'm damn glad that the baby didn't come with a voice recorder, because the air was blue in his room most of the time. He cursed, swore, and berated that baby, signed, moaned, and muttered at it, and more or less told the baby how much he hated it at least once an hour. I had to talk him down at 3:30 in the morning, because he was getting ready to put the baby in a sack and lock it in the basement.

At one point, he even figured out how to make the baby feed itself while he played video games....

I wanted him to take the baby up on the roof and dangle him off like Michael Jackson did with his kid, but I guess it ultimately says something about his "parenting skills" that he wouldn't allow that.

That didn't stop us from pretending to set it on fire while he was in the shower....

We all sighed in relief when the baby went back in his bag and went back to school Monday morning. So, what did this experience teach my son?

Not a damn thing.

It will be years before my son has babies, (let alone baby making, on his radar.)  All that was achieved here was fucking up his weekend. I guess if the idea was to make him hate this baby with a white-hot rage that almost caused him to do it in, then HEY! I guess the Powers That Be were successful after all....

My Liver is Da Bomb

OK people. Lots of news to report, some of it marginally food related, so here goes.

I just want to let you all know that my cat was kind enough to help me do paperwork today. So damn thoughtful of him....

Little cat bastard. Look, animal lovers of the world, don't take this the wrong way, but some days I seriously want to take this cat and punt him right off the verandah and into the lilac bush on the other side of the driveway.

Having this 13 pound "kitten" has sure been an adventure. I mean, he's mellowing out some, but some days he can really try a gals patience. Like yesterday. This cat has some lovely, soft, long, billowly hair which is a joy to touch, kinda fun to brush, but A FUCKIN' PISS OFF TO GET CAT SHIT OUT OF!

I mean, this cat cannot seem to take a shit without (apparently) squirming his hind end into the pile before he covers it up. I don't actually witness this, but I cannot for the life of me fathom how he manages it otherwise.I've had to wrestle him down and cut shit off his ass while naked and dripping from the shower. (We did laps inside that bathroom. There was shit and bubble bath everywhere.)

And just yesterday, I had no choice but to dig my fingernails on one hand into a wad of cat crap whilst slicing it out of his ass fur with the other. Then he proceded to celebrate by vomiting under the table. It had started to dry by the time I saw it and had to be pried off with a butter knife.

OK, you all know of course I love him anyway. But never let anyone tell you that cats are so easy to take care of. (PS: I got some clippers, and we're shaving down his nether parts tonight.)

IN OTHER NEWS: It seems that the Canadian Army Reserve thinks that if you're my age ( a ripe old forty years young, baby) you must have one foot on a banana peel. That is the only explanation I can think of why they now require us "old folks" to get a full medical in order to work at cadet camp this summer, (despite the fact that they gave me the Full Monty two years ago, including the piss-in-a-cup.)

So the taxpayers funded another full checkup which only confirmed what I already knew:

I am a Goddess. Rowr.

My doctor took my blood pressure, which was a sweet 118/80, naturally, despite the fact that me and salt are illicit friends. My liver is the Smexiest liver my doctor has palpated yet this year, (despite the fact that I think Jack Daniels really should have been knighted.) OK, I'm kinda paraphrasing about that but she was impressed. I saw it by the hunger in her eyes...

Not only that but my cholesterol is 158 (4.1 to you Canadian Metric geeks) with an HDL that's so high it's off the grid, and a disgustingly ideal 2.2 ratio. Take that, beef eating beeyotches...

Seriously though, I credit my near-vegan diet for my stoo-pendous numbers. I even photocopied the bloodtest cuz I figured they wouldn't believe me if I just wrote it down. (WHAT? A forty-year old without High Cholesterol and High Blood pressure? Gadzooks, lets get her on the table and let aliens probe her anally!)

Finally, this is a note to all my buds north of the border. Seems my article about the Nudist Colony I wrote for Saltscapes last summer has been bought, and condensed, and thoroughly masturbated to by none other than Reader's Digest! (OK, I'm guessing about the masturbation thing...) But it results in a few bucks that I had to do nothing for other than jump up and down and freak out a little. Please do me a favor if you're a Canuck and buy the mag on July 10th, and then write them a letter and tell them how Smexy my liver is.

I wish I was kidding about that.....