To begin...someone of dubious origins and questionable moral hygiene is harassing me about a lectern which I once offered for sale on Craigslist. I am no longer in possesion of the lectern (a fine 1800s piece from which I would deliver stern and unwavering speeches to my quaking toddlers), and it has been passed on to my beloved parents--who deliver fire and brimstone speeches to each other from it during the "After-Dinner Funtime Hour" as has long been the tradition in my family. Sometimes fists are pounded on the item, and it withstands all blows! Verily, I say unto thee that ye shall not possess it! Plague me no more, Prat Jones. I know what you intended to do with my lectern, and it's unseemly.
On my way home today I espied a creepy and foul sight--several men with large girths frolicking in the Radisson Hotel pool. Some of them had hairy bellies, visible even through the mesh grating that shields the pool from "OOG-eh-naught" street (as my child terms it). I imagine that by now these men are toweled off and enjoying a platter of Asian-fusion cuisine at Zen Tango, the restaurant that our friends once described as a David-Lynchian freak show. We did not find it to be so, but the martinis are excellent.
Our neighbors have an above-ground pool. Pretty picture it makes, eh? Yes, an above-ground pool, shielded by a living spite fence of American Arborvitae trees that we planted (we had to crack apart part of our driveway to do so). Watching them floating around and around the confines of their small, miserable pool, scooping up detritus with a net, is a bummer. Sometimes the resident's four evil sisters come by, and the song "She's a Brick...House," plays interminably inside my mind. They stare. They look like they might like to bite. One time we had friends over, four of whom happened to be black. This was before we planted the trees. The stares over the fence were not nice. We began to dream of the trees. I often dream of trees here...big, overarching trees that cast a shadow over the Radisson itself and drip pollens, cones, nuts, seeds, and squirrel dung into our neighbor's above-ground pool. Their kids are so cute, too. They have that frayed-around-the-edges not-enough-sleep 72-hours-of-TV-daily look, but when the weather gets hot, they can cool off. In the pool!
Here's the piddle in the pool. In the NY Times today, our evil skunk President George Booosh is pictured in an article about children's healthcare, and about how the Republican nutbags are politicking against getting more children coverage because it will pave the way for a Democratic socialized healthcare system, which is a dire evil. Linkypoo! Bush looks sly and shameful, like he's just gone potty on someone's gardenias. What's beyond that door that he's opening? "Sorry about the doodie, missus. Sorry I crapped on your uninsured child! Can someone come 'n' clean this up?" What's with that LOOK? What's wrong with this man?
Tomorrow: Why fireworks are a bad plaything for your toddler. Plus! Bonus section: Why do I keep referring to poo and urine in my blog? The true story of a dual-diaper poo-mergency.
"There's a hole in your butt where the doodie comes out." --Sarah Silverman