Jiminy!

Is anyone else experiencing a plague of crickets or grasshoppers at the moment??!  How do they get in the house?  In the last week I have had one jump out of the washing machine at me, one on the ceiling by my bed (ew) and one on the back of my headrest in the car.  In the last incident I out- screamed Minx's 7-year-old friend as I peeled up our road like an old lady, crouched over the steering wheel (PLEASE do not jump into my hair!!!!).  In moments like that, you come so perilously close to the abyss that madness becomes almost a welcome state of disconnect.

It's not that crickets aren't cute in an intelligent-looking, elegant kind of way. It's just the possibility of having one randomly fly at great speed in your direction with its long legs and antennae twitching.  And I just can't subscribe to the Disney-fication of wild animals.  It's too hard to suspend belief when Bambi is eating all your carefully tended Hostas, Simba has dismembered his trainer or Jiminy is hiding in your smalls.

No Ifs, Ands, or Butts

In the process of packing up our house I came across my son's joke book-- a notebook in which I compiled jokes that my son made up.  I started keeping the joke book when he was about four and stopped updating it when he was about.... four.

Okay, so it is more of a joke pamphlet than a joke book.  Nevertheless, at a young age he was churning out some pretty decent material.

Example:
Q: What did one poop say to the other?
A: You look flushed.

Not bad wordplay (if you can get past the poop part).  Unfortunately, for the past few years, there has been no getting past the poop part.  Or the parts that poop.  My kids (and their friends) think that true humor lies in the mere utterance of certain words.  I have tried-- and failed-- numerous times to explain to my son how much funnier he is when he turns a phrase or draws a parallel.

Toilet humor, I tell him, is beyond lame.

Which is why it is all the more shameful that I am still laughing when I think of the anatomy lesson my seven year old daughter's friend gave me.

"Do you know what this is called?" she asked, pulling on the extra skin on the back of her elbow.

I shrugged. 

"The wenis" she informed me, matter-of-factly.  "And do you know what this is called?" she asked, pointing to the inside fold of her elbow.

I shook my head.

"THE WAGINA!" she guffawed, ever so pleased that I had walked right into it.

Dog Days of Summer

Over the summer my kids (and I'm including my husband in this bracket) stepped up their campaign to convince me that we must get a dog. I had fobbed them off for years arguing that I couldn't possibly clean up the shit of two living things concurrently so until they were all out of diapers ...

Obviously (hopefully), we have been diaper-free for 4 years now but something rekindled their interest this summer - maybe visiting friends with cute dogs? - and I am once again in the hot seat. The thing is, I like dogs. I just don't want any more responsibility or guilt since I am looking to going back to work at least part-time. More importantly, I also REALLY don't want to have to scoop poop.

Minx has been the most vocal canine advocate and recently when my parents were visiting she kicked up again. My mother, who honed her own arguments a generation ago, explained that I work very hard and don't need anything else to clean up after.

"My mom doesn't work!", spat Minx with a scowl.

Granny patiently explained that I did in fact work and that if Minx wasn't careful, she would arrange for Minx and I to have a Freaky Friday so that she could walk in my shoes and develop a healthy respect for me.

"Yuck!", quipped my elder daughter, "I definitely wouldn't want Minx for a mother!"

Minx turned to her and with laser precision said, "I'd buy you a dog."

Touche