Again? Seriously?

Yes. Seriously. Another blog hiatus.

I kept thinking—oh, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I can work on the post that's been sitting in draft form for the past two weeks, tomorrow I'll be able to read Silly Saturday and Psychiatric Saturday and, and, and—and I finally realized it's not going to happen.

There are a slew of things going on, and I finally had to admit that something has to give. But hopefully I'll emerge again somewhere around the middle of March. Hopefully in one piece.

But what's going on that is more IMPORTANT than bloggin', you want to know. Well, first of all, I wouldn't say it's more important. Just more...unavoidable. As for what's taking me away this time, it's about three parts Enrichment*, two parts computer projects for family**, and one BIG part of "there is something seriously wrong with the septic system*** in this house."

But I don't want you to come here and go away with nothing, so, allow me to present to you some diversions and ways to waste your time:

• First, a dog who can give you BEATBOX lessons! Go ahead and click:

• Have you ever wanted to create a modernist work of art with a flick of your mouse? Then click here! (Click mouse button to change color, SPACE to erase.)

• I don't know what's wrong with me, but I find this so catchy. And it makes me laugh. I don't know why. Click:

• And this one is for those of you who enjoy superhero-y kinds of things now and again. But, please, DON'T WATCH IT WITH YOUR KID. (At least, not unless they're 12+ and have a sick sense of humor.)

• And here's a little justification for bad driving (just in case you ever needed it). Clickety:

That's all, folks†!

*No, not vitamin supplements. Church functions for women. I wrote about it once.
**Every year I compile pictures of extended family and set the slideshows to music...awww. I know, I know. This year I'm doing something extra for grandparents: I'm making them a book for Mother's Day and Father's Day with all their grandkids in it. If you want to see the templates I've made so far, you can click here and here and here and here and here and here. (Just imagine that there are pictures of kids in there, and not cats.) Anyway, it's gonna take some time.
***Until just a few days ago, I didn't even know what a septic system was, let alone that we had one. It's one of those things I could've done without knowing about, and DEFINITELY could have done without smelling and seeing. Eww.
†Well, except for the footnotes, that is. But now that the footnotes are finished, I'll say it again, and this time it will be true: That's all, folks!

What's Love Got to Do with It?

Now, don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't like to feel loved and all that—it's just that this holiday seems to have no meaning other than getting people to spend money, getting plenty of forgetful guys in trouble with their ladies, and making the lonely feel even lonelier. I suppose that, once upon a time, there was cultural significance for this holiday, such as boys dipping slices of goat hide into blood and slapping women and fields with them, all for the sake of fertility. But these days? No bloody goat hide for us, merely a society that equates love with how much junk your honey buys you.

And I don't need to buy some random garbage for my honey to let him know that I love him. Nor do I need him to buy me some crappy singing toy from Hallmark or a stuffed red teddy bear*.

So we've banned Valentine's Day in our house this year.

(Except for the suckers, that is.)

And on that note—that Valentine's is yet another over-marketed holiday that I get annoyed with every time I have to go to the store and see all the TRASH people are trying to sell me—I would like to share with you a poem I wrote for a poetry class in college**. The assignment was to write a Valentine's Day poem. In typical wynne-fashion, the first thing that came to mind wasn't sweet or syrupy. It was perverse and entertained me highly. I snickered to myself, and wrote.

Next time class was in session, the professor asked us to read our love poems to the class. (She was really big on that sort of thing.)

So people did. There were lots of hearts and rainbows and mush, and some people may even have written about their mothers. Eventually my turn came.

Here it is:

Valentine's Day Poem

Someday my prince will come
Someday I'll slam an axe into his
neck and mount his head
above my bedroom door.

If not there, perhaps
in my wallet, folded and pressed
very small, the size of a condom,
Where I can look any time

I need to see him in my
debt, or as one of my assets.
Really, any place dark will do
Where my dream can't slip away again:

In the long dark I will store
him, where he won't turn away when I
swear my devotion or offer
him my face to kiss.

At the time I read this, there may have been a classmate or two that were bugging me for a date†. But for some reason, after I read this, neither of them bothered me again. I wonder why††?

*Bears are forbidden. Chocolate, of course, will always be welcome, but hopefully I won't be limited to receiving it on just ONE DAY A YEAR.
**BYU-Idaho, known as "Ricks" in my day.
† This was the pre-Jeff era.
†† Some people just can't take a joke.

Duct Tape Obsession

I have a confession. I'm not so sure how I feel about all of this, and I am sure to horrify SOMEONE out there on the Internet—but, hey, there you are. I can be horrifying. I've been preoccupied with duct tape. Because it works so well. The obsession began when I incorporated it into a parenting strategy without even thinking about it. I had sent the boy to time-out for hitting, and as soon as he was in his corner, he started hitting the walls, the floors, etc. Y'know, just being a mad little turd in general (I should do a sketch of that: "mad lil' turd." Okay: done—see below). And I knew I couldn't allow it. (The hitting, not the sketch.) So I thought for just a second—and maybe I didn't think it through at all—then retrieved the roll of duct tape from the garage, and approached him very calmly. Me: Do you know why I put you on time out? Boy: I hit. Me: That's right. Hitting is not okay. Boy: But I don't stop hitting! I hit and hit if you put me on time out! Me: No, you won't. Because hitting is not okay, and if you can't use your hands wisely and politely, then you won't be allowed to use your hands at all. And then I duct-taped his arms to his body, and reset the timer for more time out. He was furious. He thrashed about, but was unable to free his arms, and unable to squirm out of his shirt (the tape was only attached to his shirt, and if he could have only gotten his arms out, he would've been free!). He was very sad (eventually) and apologized, and hasn't hit a thing since. And since, I can't stop fantasizing about duct tape. Kid too noisy for you? I know something that will fix that. Can't hold still? I know of something that will help! Won't stay in his chair during Sunbeams? Oh, I have the answer! Every time I turn around, I think of another use for the stuff. Why, just today after he pooped in his underwear again, I fantasized about taping him to the toilet seat and letting him stay there all day. It's true that he hasn't hit anyone lately, but I've still managed to create a monster. Me.