Today is Someone's Birthday

...but I don't want to say whose. I mean, some people are really touchy about birthdays. As if being touchy about your age will actually change something? Take the Boy, for example. He made this comment in Sunbeams last week: "I will turn 100 and all my teeth will fall out and I won't know what to do!" Isn't he a little young to be worrying about aging? And, you know, if I was at liberty to say whose birthday it is today, perhaps I would also be able to share with you what this mysterious person's dream cake would look like. A dream cake that I may have made myself. And that doesn't look at all like the amount of work that went into it. No, instead it looks like a big pile of mud. (At least I can say, in my defense, that it was supposed to look like that.) And now, for some reason, I am completely worn out. I can't imagine why, though. Isn't a birthday supposed to be a joyous event, and Fun For All? Maybe. But I would like to say to the makers of the following product: ...may you all rot in hell, you miserable #@!#@!!!! Hope everyone is having a wonderful Sunday. See you in a week when I'm rested again.

Why I Haven't Been to Your* Blog Lately**

(Contest still on, by the way.)

It's all Jeff's fault. See, he got me some books for Christmas. It surprised me, because I remember telling him that even though I enjoyed these particular books, I didn't have any particular desire to own them.

The books are actually a boxed set of three—the first two books I had already read, but I hadn't read the last yet—and I set them in the back bedroom and pretended they weren't there.

My husband noticed. He wanted to know why, after having them for a month, I hadn't read them yet. Did I want him to take them back?

Sigh.

No, see, I was avoiding them for a reason. These particular books are DANGEROUS. Once you pick them up, you can't put them down again. But to appease the poor husband, I started with the third book—the one I hadn't read—devoured it in two days, and then I went back and started with the first book again, then on to the second. Then the third book, again.

Dangerous Books

Then I went into mourning because I had read them all and there was nothing more to read, and I kinda...skimmed through them all again.

Pathetic. Now you know where I've been.

But wait, it gets worse.

I went online. Did you know that there are HUNDREDS of web sites dedicated to this set of novels? There are forums, chat rooms, fan-art sites, graphics, debates—it's everywhere. I still couldn't get the dumb story out of my head that I (cringe) did something I never thought I would do, ever: I made some (wince) fan art. I really, really can't believe I did that.



See? (Click for the full-size version. Actually, now that I see it uploaded here in the small version, it looks lousy. Please click for the better-looking version. Please?) And oh, there are more!









The worst part about all of this is I soooo don't have the time to be wasting on this sort of thing. But I couldn't help it! It was taking over my life!

I think that I'm finally coming out of it. The haze has lifted from my eyes. And I have decided that something needs to be done for society at large. These books are extremely addictive and cause people to obsess over them to an unhealthy degree. (Seriously. Go google the main character's names and see what you find.) The Surgeon General has been ignoring my phone calls and the petition I sent in to get these books classified as controlled substances (that S.G. is pretty hoity-toity, if you ask me), and so I have decided it was necessary to take the next step by myself. I have established an organization for those who wish to recover from the adverse effects of reading these books. See:


Please check in. No one here will bite you***. Or phase into any sort of beast. Together, we can recover from this debilitating addiction. Remember, only you can prevent forest fires, and in the words of *sigh* Edward Cullen: "Be safe."

*Meaning, quite specifically: the lady with the waistband of elastic, melissa the mejojac, insane kim (but she says it's temporary), carrottiest of all jell-os, NCS!!! ("nifty craft sack"), jean knee-jerk reaction, grateful to be kathleen, the dorkelina formerly known as pandy, the dread pirate...chloe?, and kristine. There. Now you know exactly who I have links to in my nav bar. Whee.

**Actually, if you hadn't noticed by now, I'm rather miserable about blogging consistently. Life constantly gets in the way, and I let it, because I'm like that, and so is life, and blogging is just a hobby, after all. So my attendance on your blog will ALWAYS be sketchy. But it's not because you aren't loved. 'Cause you are loved. So take that and like it.

***Well, if they are really into the books, they might. But I promise that sort of activity will NOT be tolerated, and the bite-ees will promptly be bitten back by yours truly.

Do You Need a Hero?

Every once in awhile, we all need a superhero. But Batman is so hard to get a hold of, Superman's secretary won't return my calls, and Spiderman grosses me out with his snacking habits (insects should NOT be a part of trail mix). For those of you that find themselves in the same bind as I do, I'd like to introduce a new superhero with some very special abilities:

Another Contest

*CONTEST OFFICIALLY OVER*

Have you ever found yourself pestered by insensitive family members, neighbors, or even strangers asking impertinent questions, such as, "So, when are you going to get married?" when you don't even have a prospective spouse on the radar?

Or, once you are married, "So, when are you going to start a family?"

Or, once you have at least one child, "So, when are you going to have another?"

Or, once you have several, "So, are all these kids yours?"

Are you tired of people not being able to mind their own business? Well, I've decided to host another contest here at my blog to help. Proudly presenting:


All you have to do is add your favorite comeback to any of the above situations* to the comments section**. You can enter as many as you like, you can say whatever you want to say—really, there are no rules. Heck, I don't even want to put a deadline on the contest—let's just see how far it goes until it peters out, shall we?

There will be prizes, however. (Can you say "gift certificate" and "chocolate"*** without drooling?) All you have to do is make me laugh hard enough that I wet myself.

And if you want to put a link on your blog for this contest (like the one I have in my sidebar), here is HTML copy-and-paste so you can add it in a snap:

<a href="http://muskadillo-dreaming.blogspot.com/2008/01/another-contest.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i160.photobucket.com/albums/t193/muskadillo/snappy_comeback.gif" border="0" /></a>

*Or any other annoying situations you have encountered. I'm not gonna be picky.
**Since this contest was inspired by the comments of Elizabeth W, Jill, and Marie on the Also Not About Flooding post, you three can already consider yourselves entered in this contest. However, feel free to enter again, and again, and again, if it amuses you.
**For those of you with New Year's Resolutions to "be good" as pertaining to food, I promise that a choice of a more...er, healthy reward will be yours, should you win.


CONTEST WINNERS:
Lindy
Mammajam
Elizabeth W

You will be contacted; prizes will be sent.
love,
wynne

How Many Ways Do I Need to Say It?

Feel free to snag one of these if you'd like, and do whatever you want with it.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Also Not About Flooding

When I was a kid, I had some pet mice. (We also had a tortoise, a rabbit, one cat, four dogs, a couple of parakeets, a boa constrictor named Daisy, a flock of chickens, and a wild iguana living in the bushes. That’s right, I grew up in a frickin’ menagerie. Back to the mice.)

At first, there were only two mice. Snowflake and Licorice.

Then we got a few more, like Raccoon, VW, Cinnamon, Pipsqueak, and about twenty more.

But this is about Snowflake and Raccoon.



Snowflake had babies. She didn’t much care for them, and didn’t really want to sit and nurse them. Raccoon, who had no babies, seemed as if she was constantly trying to convince Snowflake to feed her children. When Snowflake was absent, Raccoon would be in the nest cleaning the babies and taking care of them. Except feeding them. She tried, but she had no milk.

One day, Snowflake ate her babies. We were disgusted, and fed her to Daisy.


Raccoon later had a litter of her own and was an excellent mother. She cleaned them, she fed them, she cuddled them, she did not eat them, and they all grew to adulthood. She had more children, too. Her progeny were given to each classroom in my elementary school so each classroom could have a class pet (until a few broke out of their cages, escaped into the heating ducts which connected all classrooms, infested the school with mice, and occasionally would get cooked in the heaters so there was a very nasty smell when the heat came on in winter and then the principal outlawed mice as classroom pets—but that’s another post).

What was the difference between the two mice? Temperament? Insanity? A craving for tender baby flesh?

It’s a question that has troubled me, especially since the birth of my own son. Not that I ever had the desire to eat him, exactly, but I did have a nastily severe case of postpartum depression after he was born. And I thought about those two dumb mice, and I couldn't help wondering if I were a Snowflake: either genetically programmed to be a mess of a mother, or something in me saw my offspring and craved him dripping in barbecue sauce...

However, I do feed him, cuddle him, and clean him, and so far I haven't marinated him and popped him in the oven, so I figure I must be doing okay. But the thought of having more children...it seems like a really bad idea. Really. Experience number 1 was so intense and miserable and terrifying that I think it would be stupidity (and hazardous to the health of our family) to go through it again.

And yet, it’s hard to let go of that possibility of more kids, even though common sense, personal revelation, and reality have proved the necessity of not having any more... Is my biological clock really so strong and stupid as that? Isn't there supposed to be an emergency self-preservation button on the dumb thing somewhere? To turn it off?

It's also very hard to explain the situation to people around me (who will, of course, ask when the next child will be coming along). Especially you mormon freaks—"oh, don't worry, you’ll have another! Sure you will! You know, multiply and replenish the earth! Mate on! More Mormons, more mormons!"

No. Probably not. It is unwise.

I keep thinking something will change—the Boy will go off to school, I'll suddenly find myself in a permanent emotional state so stable you could build a house on it, and magically, I’ll be able to manange another child. Not gonna happen.

So what is a woman to do? Denial? Delusion? A combination of both culminating in herding your husband to the local animal shelter to adopt a new child pet?

Apparently, the latter. Proudly announcing the new member of our family:

Clicky-click if you want to see it in its full glory.

And before you leave a comment, please remember to take this posting with this. Or, perhaps, with this. Oh, heck, you may as well take this, too.

I'm Not Gonna

I suppose I could write about the flood aftermath today. Heaven knows I have enough material for 15 posts. I could.

But I will not.

Because I don’t want to. There is so much seriousness in it, and I am so tired of the seriousness and the overwhelming and depressing magnitude of it all. We need more levity. (Did you know that I keep a blog primarily to have a place for my Sense of the Silly to range free? To give it a place where it is at liberty to frolic and play in any way it so desires? Look at it now: it has donned a glittery tutu, vampire fangs, and has a creamsicle stuck to its head. Look at it pirouette, leap, and guzzle bacon fat! Oh, the joy! Oh the warm fuzzies!)

See, seriousness can wear you out if you have to do it too much. My alter-ego, Woman-Who- Induces-Coma- in-Random-Passerby-with-Her-Super- Seriousness-and-Monosyllabicity, has had the reins the past week or so, and I'm worn out. She has served her purpose, and is absolutely necessary as I've been out trying to serve the community, but it is time to draw her in, lock her up for the night*, and let the muskadillo roam.

Commentator: There: look! The muskadillo has tied up Super-serious woman with her own tongue and is spraying her with its noxious scent! What a bold move for the muskadillo! What's this? What's this? Super-serious woman is trying to lecture the muskadillo, but is prevented because of her own tongue being wrapped around her body! The muskadillo knows it and dancing a jig on her head. I do believe this is a clear victory for the muskadillo. Yes—yes—look! He is beginning to sing his wild musky song!

Muskadillo:
Oh, say have you heard
Where the muskrat leaves turds
There roams the wild muskadillo

It may sound absurd
But the lines are all blurred
Between it and a pad of brillo

Oh, dillo, dillo, oh-dey, dillo-dillo!
The call of the wild muskadillo!
It cries
La-di-freakin'-da!
And
Just five more minutes, ma!
And
Get your arse away from my pillow!

More non-flood-related posting to immediately follow this bit of randomness. Read on.

*Super-serious woman will be back to write more about the flood and the wonderful positive experiences that have come from it, blah blah blah, but not today. She’ll probably come back when everyone has stopped caring about the flood. But, after all, that is why she is who she is.