Meet Lucky

Hey, blog, I'd like you meet a little dog named Lucky. Technically, I have to admit that Lucky isn't actually his name yet, but I'm pushing hard and I feel strongly that Captain Mommypants will eventually cave in - er, I meant to say agree. Yes, agree. So Lucky it is, until further notice. Why Lucky?



Mom has two dogs, you see, both standard poodles. Zoe and Obie. Obie (the black and white one) is a boy, Zoe (the black one) is a girl. And as you know, birds will be birds and bees will be bees. One thing lead to another and before we knew it, Zoe was having puppies. Oh, the excitement! We were all so thrilled, because Zoe is the nicest dog alive, so cuddly and loving. She's got a favorite toy - an egg-sized stuffed animal of a black-and-white dog - that she carries around in her mouth everywhere, always being so gentle with it, keeping an eye on it. And Obie is as sweet and handsome as ever a dog was sweet and handsome, gallant and strong and full of energy. I don't have any good pictures of either of them, but here's one I snapped recently. Coincidentally, I took this picture on the same day I looked at Zoe and said to my parents, "Hey, I think Zoe is pregnant!"



This past weekend she went into labor, and the family was all a'twitter. But Sunday morning I called home for a status update, and found out that Mom had just rushed Zoe into the vet hospital because the first puppy was stillborn, she wasn't pushing, and her amniotic fluid was coming out a disturbing blackish color. A surgeon did an emergency C-section, but they were only able to save one of the five puppies, the runt. He weighs 6 oz., and survived only because of the dedicated surgical staff who gave him oxygen, rubbed his little body, and gave him sugar-water to get him going. We've got him at home now. Captain Mommypants is feeding him from a bottle every hour or two, keeping him warm, and snuggling him up because Zoe is so exhausted and in so much pain that she sniffed Lucky when Mom held her out to him, licked him once in a half-hearted way, and turned her head away.



My heart breaks for Zoe, and for the four little puppies that didn't make it, but oh, thank the Lord this little guy made it. Good luck, Lucky. I'm rooting for you.

The Great Tornado Watch, 2009

I have now surpassed any and all of my prior claims to absolute idiocy. Deleting all my research notes on my computer? Yup, that's dumb. Eating moldy food because I'm too cheap to turn on the lights and too lazy to check why the tabouleh tastes so weird? Yes, that's asinine. Running downstairs naked to fend off an intruder with a filing cabinet as my only weapon? Perhaps not my brightest plan. All in all, I think I have what any random observer would agree is a well-established track record of doing embarrassingly dumb things, so it is with a healthy dose of a mixed cocktail of emotions that I am about to tell you the following story.

Picture it: it's a Friday night, and because both my sister Umulu and I are unutterably gorgeous and extremely popular with boys, we're spending the evening making dinner and watching a documentary at Umulu's house. The previous evening, an enormous storm with two-inch hail and four tornados had passed through town, so among the many charming topics of conversation was a jolly recounting of many childhood traumas involving hurricanes and tornados in North Carolina. Also, we reminisced fondly about the storm last year that had all our friends apologizing for calling us pansies. Ah, that was fun, and isn't it nice that last night's storm didn't do anywhere near that level of damage? Oh, yes, chortle, chortle, let's watch the movie now.

So there we are, totally engaged in the movie, when all the sudden we hear some freaking loud thunder. Umulu pauses the movie. "What was that?" she asks. "Um, thunder?" I answer. But I answer with less than total confidence because while it certainly does sound like thunder, it's REALLY LOUD THUNDER, and what's more, it appears to quickly be drawing closer to our house. Louder and louder, closer and closer, and then Umulu's face goes pale. "Oh, shit, Cheasty, that's not thunder. That's a tornado."

And BOOM! Just like that, our old training kicked in. Out of the room with all the windows, grab some pillows and blankets as we run, slam shut all bedroom and bathroom doors, and the next thing I know we're kneeling in tornado-drill position, arms over our heads, facing the corner of the interior hallway to her house, holding hands and trying quietly not to panic as the sound gets even louder.

Then the sound gets marginally quieter. And then even quieter. And soon we can still hear it rumbling in the distance, but the danger seemed to have passed. "I'm going to go look outside and see what's happening out there," I whisper to Umulu, and, squeezing her hand, I crawl off through the darkened house for the front door. Which I open onto a perfectly normal street scene. A car drives by. A girl walks down the street with her dog. A band is practicing a screaming guitar solo a few houses down. True, the sky is weirdly leaden looking, but there's not so much as a leaf on the ground, nor is there the slightest hint of a breeze. Umulu creeps out behind me. "Umulu, there's not even any wind," I say, and we stare at the world outside the door in total mystification for a few moments longer. Then a lightbulb goes on over Umulu's head and she slaps her hand to her forehead.

"Oh, God, Cheasty," she laughs. "The Texas Biker Rally is this weekend."

Yes, folks, it's true. What we thought was a tornado was really just a whole hell of a lot of motorcycles making their way downtown. Sigh.

These Are The Things That Keep Me Awake At Night

So here's my impression of me last night at 4:21am. "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. (snore, sniffle, roll over) Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Now here's my impression of me last night at 4:22am. "Oh my god I just heard dishes clank downstairs. Oh, my god, is there somebody in my house? Oh my god, I did I forget to lock the door last night? Oh my god, why did I get a deaf dog, you stupid useless mutt WOULD YOU PLEASE WAKE UP AND GROWL IF THERE IS SOMEBODY ACTUALLY IN MY HOUSE." All of this was in my head of course, because even at 4:22am I am not stupid enough to make noise when I am awakened by the sound of a potential intruder knocking over one of my cups into the sink. I made an effort to calm myself down and evaluate the situation.

Option A: there is nobody in the house, it was just one of those gravity things that made the noise. Or maybe a mouse. I could have mice, I suppose. Yes, I'm sure it was just a mouse.

Option B: there is an intruder in the house, it is likely a strung-out crackhead, he is likely armed, will most probably rape me if he knows I'm here, after which I will be lucky if he doesn't shoot me in the face when he's done. I am upstairs, I have no clothes on, nor is there anything I can use as a weapon up here. No baseball bat, golf club. Not even a pocket knife or a flashlight. And my cell phone is downstairs, too. Great. It would be best to be silent, all things considered, and allow the junkie to steal what he wants to steal and get out.

So I laid there for a while. As I laid there I remembered the time I was camping out in Utah and had set my sleeping bag beneath a scrubby pine tree. In the middle of the night I woke up and saw coyotes in our campsite going through our food, and realized that there was some sort of large animal in the tree right above me. I laid there and debated my options for a while, then decided there was nothing I could do about it, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. The fact that I could do that amazes me when I think about it now, cause there was NO WAY I was going back to sleep last night, though the thought did cross my mind to try.

Then I heard a sound. A sound that sounded like the door opening. Or closing. I have no idea. I might even have just made it up in my head, but whatever it was, it shook me out of my frozen state. "Oh, that is just enough!" I roared in my head. "If I'm going down, I'm gonna go down fighting." I leapt out of bed and turned on the lights. I grabbed a blanket with the vague idea of throwing it over the asshole's head, and then picked up a nearby metal filing cabinet (empty) and ran down the stairs with it up over my head, ready to brain the shit out of whoever was downstairs.

Naturally, there was nobody, though checking behind the shower curtain was about the scariest thing I've ever done. Ugh. And I HAD left the door unlocked, moron that I am. Anyway, I'm going to buy some mace. And maybe a dog that isn't deaf, because little old Birdie slept through the whole thing except the part where I ran down the stairs naked, holding a filing cabinet over my head. Because of course there had to be a witness to that piece of excess idiocy.

You Can Call Me "Buckets."

I went to see that new Disney/Pixar movie "Up!" last night, and if you haven't seen it yet, a) stop what you are doing and go watch it, and b) stop reading if you don't want to know anything about it before you go see it. It was wonderful. Surpassingly lovely, sweet and funny; it made me laugh, and it made me cry. In fact, for quite a while I couldn't stop crying, even though the movie was making an effort to make me laugh after the crying was supposed to be over. I cried buckets.

Hi, my name is Amazing Cheastypants and I cry at movies. While I don't exactly hide this information from people, neither do I go about broadcasting it (current moment excepted) because of exactly what happened last night.

There I am, totally wrapped in the moment when Carl loses Ellie, tears running down my face, throat aching, nose stuffing up, and thoroughly enjoying it. Not that I love crying, it's just that I love seeing a movie that so totally pulls me in that I can actually feel what the characters must be feeling. And then my date leans over and starts laughing and teasing me. "Hey, it's just a movie!" "What's wrong with you?" "Ha ha, I can't take you anywhere," and so on. I gamely laughed along with him, but here's what I think, world.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH CRYING AT MOVIES?! What's so funny and mockable about feelings?

I know that whole women's studies schtick about how we live in a patriarchal world, how men's skills are more valued than women's, etc. And, well, I guess it's true. I mean, why is crying at movies embarrassing? If we valued women's abilities more than men's, we'd all be sitting around bragging about how much we cried when we saw Beaches for the 45th time, not sheepishly admitting it. Our men would proclaim with pride that they choked up with tears of outrage when it looked like Brett Favre was about to sign with the Vikings. Well, I say enough. It's time to claim it. I am a crier. I emote, I empathize, I well up with tears. I cry at movies, and WHAT'S MORE, I love crying at movies. In fact, I challenge the world to a cry-off. Go ahead, let 'er rip, but I doubt you can defeat me. They don't call me "Buckets" for nothin'.

Oom-chica-oom-chica

Wow. Further proof that everybody in the 1980s was snorting cocaine.



So really, I have two questions. One, why God? And two, where can I get a bathing suit like this?

Thoughts on Universal Health Care -UPDATE.

Oh my ever-loving shitballs, enough is enough. Obama, at this point I almost don't care what you do, how you do it, or how many people you need to kill in order to get it done. Just give us some universal health care options before I go out of my freaking mind. This was my day today. And by "today," really I mean "the last three days."

One. In which Amazing Cheastypants, being once more employed by the University of Texas, realizes that she is once again eligible for real-live, honest-to-God health care benefits, including dental (oh joy!) and vision (oh, bliss!).

Two. In which Amazing Cheastypants realizes that nobody knows how this transition is supposed to take place. She calls the office called "Insurance Office" and asks. "Oh, I don't know how to get the insurance going," says a very nice woman who really was trying to be helpful. "But what I can do is refund your money for the [unbelievably shitty] student health care coverage you'd purchased to cover you through the summer." Sweet! At least one part of this job is easy. "So what do I do to make that happen," I ask. "Is there an on-line form?" Oh, heavenly peals of laughter! No, of course not. No. What I had to do was submit two written letters IN PERSON, one from me, and one from my department stating that I was an employee in good standing and therefore eligible for benefits. So I called around, found the appropriate person to get the letter from the department, wrote one myself, and trotted over this morning to get 'er done. Excellent! Now I just have to wait for mysterious bureaucratic wheels to crank, and at some point in the next 6 months I should get a refund, but nobody knows whether it'll be credited to my credit card or issued as a check. And if it's issued as a check, who knows whether it'll be mailed to my home, or my mailbox on campus? Only The Shadow knows...

Three. In which Amazing Cheastypants decided to commit hari kari in a very public fashion, as clearly the fates are conspiring against her. After flailing about uselessly on-line and on the phone, I still didn't know where to go to get my insurance kicked in again, so I resorted to calling my old insurance provider where finally somebody knew that I was supposed to go to HR. No, not the office called "Insurance Office," interestingly enough. HR. Whatever, fine. Why the two aren't just part of the same office, God only knows. And why the left hand knoweth not what the right hand does... well, that's one of the great mysteries of life, I suppose. I am but a speck in a mysterious universe, and so on. So I walk into HR with the printed out forms I had to fill out - because they couldn't just reactivate my old account WHICH THEY STILL HAVE ON FILE. No. I had to do all the paperwork again, and they're starting a NEW file for me, not to be confused with the OLD file on me. But whatever. At this point I'm feeling pretty good. I have penetrated the unpenetrable, discerned the undiscernable. I have the right forms, I am in the right office, I AM THE CHAMPION!!

Four. In which Amazing Cheastypants figures out that she is NOT the champion, and in fact, will never be a champion. "Oh, I'm sorry," says the lady at HR. "Your appointment isn't for four and a half months, therefore you are not eligible for health benefits." Oh, no no no no no. "Wait, I don't understand," I say. "I have a letter right here in my hand from my department saying that I am eligible. In the past when I have been a TA, I have been eligible. TAing is a benefits-eligible position. What am I missing?" "Well, it's the four and a half months thing, you see..." she begins to explain, at which point all I'm hearing is "wa wa wa wa wa wa," like Charlie Brown's teacher. I interrupt. "Please." I say. "I have a TAship now. I will have a TAship in the fall. I will have a TAship in the spring. When I have TAed in the past I've been covered throughout the summer even though I wasn't working at all. Now, why am I not eligible when I AM WORKING IN A BENEFITS-ELIGIBLE POSITION?" I waved the letter from my department around my head rather dramatically, just for good measure. She hemmed and hawed for a bit. "Well, maybe you could have your department code you for eligibility and then we could do it?" GREAT! I ask her for explicit instructions as to how to do that. "Oh, don't worry," she says, "they do stuff like that all the time. They'll know exactly how to do it."

Five. In which, naturally, my department does not know how to do what she wanted them to do. "Code you?" asks my department. "She wants us to code you? What does that mean?"

Six. In which, despite my absolute best efforts to make sure that I have the best insurance options available to me, the best insurance to which I AM ENTITLED as an employee of the University of Texas, I somehow at the end of the day find myself completely uninsured.

Gah.

UPDATE, June 6. Oh crap. June 6th is somebody's birthday and I can't for the life of me remember who. Oh, well, moving right along.

Seven. In which the University wins, and I have to buy back that student insurance. Red tape is not to be messed with.

In Which the Honeymoon Is Over

Um, excuse me, please. Did any of you people out there know that dogs are ungodly expensive creatures to maintain? Well? Did you?

ANSWER MEEEEEEEEE!!!

Oh, dear, hold on, I think I need to put my head between my knees for a moment. I feel faint. (pant, pant, pant.) ONE HUNDRED FORTY FIVE DOLLARS AND NINTEY THREE FREAKIN' CENTS. Oh, my god.

ONEHUNDREDFORTYFIVEDOLLARSANDNINTEYTHREECENTS!!!! Seventeen dollars EACH for some stupid SHAMPOO and, if you can believe it, CREAM RINSE that is supposed to help with the incessant itchies, because not only is my unbearably cute little rescue mutt old, deaf, and toothless, apparently she also has a raging case of allergies. CREAM RINSE?! Seriously?

I just spent more on my new dog's ITCHY SKIN and AVERSION TO NORMAL DOG FOOD than I have on myself in... oh wait. Well, nevermind. There was that recent shopping trip and the very very excessively cute dresses, but still. I'M NOT A DOG.



I was literally on the verge of calling the whole thing quits as we walked to the check out. Fine, you know? Let her scratch. But then she looked at me like, "Sigh. I love you, Mom. Hold me?" and I was toast. I paid, we got in the car, she crawled up in my lap, and promptly fell fast asleep, exhausted by the vet-induced trauma. How can you say no to trust like that? I guess if it gets too expensive I can just stop... um... eating? Yeah, that's it! I'll quit eating. I've been wanting to lose five pounds anyway. Ooh, and then I can get a new dress as my reward! Oh, I like this plan already.

Meet My New Dog

About a month ago I wrote a blog post about my new dog, who at that point was nameless. I contracted with a rescue organization to adopt her when i returned from my east coast travel extravaganza, and last Tuesday her foster dad dropped her off at my Elf Palace. Ladies and gentlemen, I solicited your help in selecting a name for this 8 pound WonderMutt, and your commentary was both enlightening and hilarious. Strong favorites were Pocket and Ethel Merman. In fact, I had decided to name her Ethel Merman before I got her, but once I met her and got to know her a little better, well. Blog, I'd like you to meet my new dog, seated here on my sister Crasey's lap. Her name is Birdie.



She's named for a character in a novel called Raney, by Clyde Edgerton. If you have not read this absolutely delightful little book, I suggest you do so immediately, especially if you've ever spent more than five minutes in the South. Kate, I think you in particular might enjoy it. Crasey and I read this book aloud to each other every few years, just to make each other laugh. If you click the link, it'll take you to a google books site where you can read the first bit of the book to see if you like it. Anyway, when you get to the part where the old man calls his wife (whose name is Birdie), you'll understand why I named my stone deaf little pooch Birdie.

Anyway, she's awesome and I am so glad she's mine, even if I do have to cook her special meals of chicken and rice just to get her to eat. She hates her dog food. Oh my god, did I really just type that? When did I become somebody that would cook special food for their dog? Next thing you know I'll be giving up pedicures to send her off to a doggie day spa. Somebody stop me!

Wedding Madness

OK, I'm back. Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!! Let the games begin. This past weekend was a madhouse of wedding planning, wedding, reunions between long-separated friends, excellent parties, drunken revelries, awful hangovers, fun shopping, and lots of chocolate cake. I could start just about anywhere and still tell stories until I'm blue in the face, so I think tonight I won't start, as I'd like to get some sleep sometime. Instead, I'll just give you a quick summary, show you a few of the pictures I took this weekend and hope they make you smile.

Rosie, my sister Umulu's best friend and an old family friend of the AmazingPants clan, got married on Saturday to a luuuurvely guy, JB. The crowd was small - just the bride's family, the groom's family, our family, and a few friends, but it was wonderful. Captain Mommypants, being a minister and all, performed the ceremony in Umulu's backyard. Yes, she really is that short. And she's still taller than me, dammit. Umulu was the maid of honor, Crasey was the wedding plannner, I was the photographer, and the wedding party was an absolute blast.



Crasey did a magnificent job setting up a lovely reception area on a miniscule budget:





Here's the three AmazingPants sisters. I'd like to point out that even in two and a half inch heels, I'm still shorter than both my sisters, one of whom is in flats. Damn my shrimpy legs!



So it was lovely. People hugged and smiled and wept and danced, and told lovely stories of times gone by. Friends reunited with people we hadn't seen in 15-odd years and marveled at how we'd all grown and changed. The DJ did a fine job, the wine and beer were plentiful, and as the evening wore to a close we all sat around laughing our asses off at nothing anybody could remember the next day. But the greatest thing of all? How many of you remember Fancy Nancy, aka the Cupcake Princess Monster? If you don't remember her, click the link on her name to be introduced to the most excellent little girl in the known universe.



And how many of you remember my little brother Bug? If for some reason you're unaware of how totally cool my little dude is, click the link and prepare to be thoroughly charmed. Also, look at that shirt he's wearing - the guayabera I brought him from Nicaragua! Oooh, he looks so yummy!



Well believe it or not, Fancy Nancy and Bug had never met before this weekend, and there was much speculation about how they would get along. Would they be jealous of each other and compete for attention, would they ignore each other's existence? No. No, they did not. You know what they did? They fell in love. They fell in love and danced all night long.



I know I'm verging on being one of those people who is unreasonably convinced that their child is the smartest, cutest, most adorable blah blah blah, and these aren't even my children, but OH MY GOD THEY WERE SO CUTE. I love this next picture: look at Umulu, Crasey, and Rosie's faces as they cheer on Bug and Fancy Nancy to disco greatness.



Ah, love. Ain't it grand?

Please Excuse My Absence

Hey blog, sorry about the disappearing act. I'm still trying to bust my laptop out of the hospital and am borrowing a friend's now that I'm back in Texas and don't have access to my dad's, my aunt's, or my cousin's computers. Sad to tell you, but I think I won't be posting for a little while, unless just quick little blurbies here or there. The AmazingPants Clan is congregating in Austin. Some are here, some are on their way. There will be a wedding, there will be barbecue, there will be swimming and playing, and singing old Irish folk ballads. I will be back online after Tuesday, when most of them go home. Hasta miercoles, and have fun interneting without me!

Va-va-va-BOOB!

Today, I am sadly disillusioned. Also, vastly amused. A friend of mine is in Iraq right now (non-military) and in my email today I received a photo he took in the grocery store over there. Please click to embiggen, and observe the products he's so attractively modeling.



I always thought that if you had to wear a burka, at least the advantage might be not needing to worry whether your boobs were sufficient unto the task set before them. Apparently I was wrong. Also, I had no idea about garlic's augmentative capacity in the mammary region. This is brilliant news! I shall increase my intake of garlic immediately, and hopefully by Christmas I too shall have breasts the size of soup tureens. Huzzah for garlic!

Thank God I'm A Country Boy. Er, Girl. I Meant to Say Girl.

You want to know what one of my favorite songs was when I was a little girl? Those who know me are likely to guess Cher, or an old show tune, but no! My precious posies, let me introduce you to the joys of "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," by John Denver. I am still awful fond of this ditty, but as a child I loved it deeply. Luuuuuurrrrved it, even. We lived in the suburbs, of course, nowhere near the country, but I dreamed of riding horses and having a garden and chickens and being all farmy. My favorite imagination game when my mom put us to bed too early (a hilarious story for another time) was "You are disappearing into the wilderness for a year and you can take only what you can fit in a [backpack/wheelbarrow/ox cart]." Yes I said ox cart. I'd lie there under the covers and play that game over and over in my head. Now would be the appropriate time to laugh.



Well today's post is just a small nod to those childhood dreams. I finally got my parents to plant a garden, so I spent most of the day today weeding the damn thing. I turned the compost heap, looked at the barn for a while, sat in the meadow and chewed a piece of grass. Then I took the dogs on a long tramp through the woods, over to the pond and the river, up through the forest. And oh my good lord, somehow in my dreams of bucolic nirvana, I just never realized about the snakes. I found FIVE SNAKES in the woods - four black snakes, which are fine. But the sixth one? It was a 3 foot long copperhead (highly poisonous) coiled up and poised to strike in the middle of the path. The dogs, which are largely senseless creatures, wanted to play with it, of course, except the little old guy Theo (Crasey's little prince of her heart, whom she left in the care of our parents when she took of for travels in Southeast Asia). Theo is 13 years old and nearly blind. On top of it all, he's...



Well, look at that face. He rules the AmazingPants family with a jaunty wave of his tail, and Crasey pretty much things the sun rises and sets out of his ass, so we all live in terror that something might happen to him while Crasey's gone. Zoe and Obie, the big dogs, wanted to play with the copperhead (AARRGHGHHHH, WHY SO DUMB!!!) so I called them back to me, brandishing a hoe in one hand. But Theo is not one to sit idly by while some other dog might be getting an ounce of attention. HE IS THE KING IN THESE PARTS, DAMMIT! So when I called the other dogs, Theo, who was trotting about, blithely oblivious to the fanged death awaiting him only 3 feet away, decided he wanted to come and check it out in case treats were to be distributed. Streaking across the forest floor, he just leaped over the copperhead as if it were any other branch on the ground, and my heart stopped. I watched him expose his soft little underbelly to the poisoned fangs of a killer snake, and began rehearsing a conversation in my head that started something like this: "So, Crasey... remember Theo?" Oh, shudders. Luckily, the snake didn't know where to bite first, and Theo got safely to my side. I snatched him up in my arms and hustled us all out of the woods.

John Denver, why didn't you tell me what it was really like? Why sing to me of cakes on the griddle and your find old fiddle or your grandma's feather bed? What good is a utopian dream if I find out that really, there are killer snakes.

Hitch Up the Covered Wagons

I'm heading back to North Carolina today after an excellent trip to New York City. It's a long trip in the car, but never fear - I have a book on tape. Well, CD, really, but who's counting. It's Lolita, by Nabokov, a selection that made sense at the time but now makes me wish I had an option B. Well I suppose I could always listen to the soundtrack from Oklahoma! four or five times on repeat, which is how I kept myself entertained on the drive up here, but frankly I think it might be criminal to continue inflicting my version of "I'm Just A Girl Who Cain't Say No" on an unsuspecting populace.

So here's the bad news. My little brother Bug has scarlet fever. Scarlet fever? I thought that'd died out back in the 1800s. He should be fine, but I'll be glad to get home to give him a hug anyway. Poor little guy had a fever of 103 degrees and probably felt like, as my sister would say, "inside-out-flaming-asshole."

So wish me safe travels, and for Bug a speedy recovery. Talk to you all soon!

Captain Mommypants Has a Miracle

OK, I know it's pretty standard-issue stuff to claim that your own mother is the best mother in the world, an angel from heaven, and a damn funny woman, but folks, I've got proof. Blog, in case you have never before been introduced to my amazing Captain Mommypants, please take a moment on Mother's Day to salute her, for she is all that is good and golden in this world.

Aha! I hear you skeptical mother-lovers out there. "THE BEST?" you ask. "Well my mother is pretty wonderful, too, so this had better be some pretty good proof." Well hold on to your hats, my precious petunias. It turns out... (looking furtively over both shoulders, then stage whispering) my mother is fireproof.

Yes, that's right. I said fireproof. See this glove?



This glove was on my mother's hand a few weeks ago while she was over at her church helping to renovate the sanctuary on account of it's shudderingly awful green color. And also because the roof had collapsed in the recent rains, but mostly because of the color, a particularly lurid shade of mint green. All things considered, the roof falling in was considered a sign from God that a redecoration was in order, as going to church there was like being on the inside of a toothpaste tube.

She and a bunch of her parishioners were spending the afternoon tearing up the green carpet, painting over the green walls, and removing the green paint from the woodwork and trim around the sanctuary. So there was Captain Mommypants, merrily scrubbing away at the baseboards with a steel wool pad, some heavy chemical stripping agent, and a pair of rather flimsy rubber gloves. Now I wasn't there, so I can't vouch for the story (though the above photo rather speaks for itself, I think) but apparently as she was clearing a patch near the fusebox, the steel wool hit the fusebox, and the heat from the friction, the chemicals and whatnot... KABOOM! Her entire hand went up in a giant fireball. Ever cool, calm, and collected, did Captain Mommypants scream and flail about? She did not. Instead, as flames engulfed her arm and climbed towards her head, she hustled her way out of the church ("so the church didn't catch fire!" she explained), and with her ungloved hand, reached over, grabbed the burning glove off her hand and threw it on the ground where somebody else stamped out the flames.

So how badly burned was she?



"Not even a heat rash!" she told me, looking more than a little mystified.



I think I'm not the only one that loves my mother.

Happy Mother's Day to all you mommies out there, but especially to my very own, very special, very amazing Captain Mommypants.

Good For Small Spaces

Today I got a manicure in New York City from a Romanian woman named Maria who gave me what is quite possibly the most bizarre compliment I've ever received.

"Oh, Cheasty," she said, in a thick Romanian accent. "You have such nice hands, small hands. Such beautiful hands." She paused to turn them slightly, examining them from every angle, and then nodded firmly as if she had just reached a decision of great import.

"Yes," she said. "You should be a gynecologist."

Dinner With Matter of Fact Mommy

Last night I was in Washington, DC, and since I was there, and since that's where the eminently marvelous Matter of Fact Mommy lives, it seemed only natural, right, and fitting that we two bloggers, who've developed a friendship online over the past year and a half, might actually contrive to meet in living color. I was a leeetle nervous. I mean, what if, robbed of an electronic medium through which to communicate, we just stood there, stared at each other and drooled? I need not have feared.

Is this where I should launch into a long narrative of the evenings marvels and delights? I think not, as the pictures largely speak for themselves. Suffice it to say that her family rocks, her kids are two of the most adorable little gremlins ever to walk the planet, her home is all that is lovely, and MOFM herself made me laugh until I almost wet myself. Also, wine and tacos really do make one heck of a fine meal. I shall do it again myself one day, I think. But first, a guessing game! Who can guess how many tacos MOFM can eat in one sitting? Pick a number between 1 and a million, and prepared to stand awed before her.

So I rocked up to her home in time for dinner, and wa-la! Here's where the magic happens:



MOFM and her baby girl:



Her handsome little devil. His favorite phrase? "Or what." As in, "Hey, Cheasty, are you going to come play with me now, or what?" "Do you want to come see my room with me, or what?" "Hey, are you guys done eating yet, or what?!"



Eventually we did stop eating, and settled down to keep drin- er, talking. I meant to say talking.





Her husband Al was nice enough to be the session photographer, the results of which were, um... well. Again, the pictures speak for themselves.







So there're about a million more pictures I could post here to chronicle an excellent evening, but I'll leave some of the story-telling to MOFM herself. But for fans of MOFM, here's her mother, SoCal, with her grandkids, and.... A DOLLY!!

Update-a-roonio

Hey gang, just letting you know to expect a brief blog hiatus in the upcoming days. I've been in NC with my family, and today I'm heading up to DC to visit a friend, check out an archive, and (gasp!) hang out with none other than the real live Matter Of Fact Mommy! Wowza! I will shortly report back on the relative merits of eating wine and tacos, a meal that MOFM swears by.

After DC, I shall swing on up to NYC to hang out with a couple of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and very best friends. Also, I will do the work that I need to do, meeting people, seeing archives, etc. Back to NC for a wedding and reunion with many many of my old rowing teammates from college, then back to TX for ANOTHER wedding and family reunion. In short, these next two weeks will be hectic to say the least, and I cannot promise reliable blogability. Also, my computer is in the ICU at Austin Mac Repair, so I'm taking pictures, but I can't promise to upload them with any frequency. But I will try.

So wish me luck, campers. Also, no speeding tickets.

Stupid: It's the New Black

Ok, it's time to set aside your feigned indifference and admit once and for all that you've always wanted to be glamorous and exciting like me. We should probably establish up front that this will never happen. After all, I'm called Amazing Cheastypants for a reason. Not everybody can be this deliriously magnificent, and it's better if you just admit that at the outset to avoid too much disappointment further on down the road.

But don't despair! You may never cause the air to sparkle as you move through a room, ride a diamond-studded bicycle powered largely by my passion, leave trails of laughter and joy behind you everywhere you go, or bounce in sheer glory about the world, followed closely by acres and acres of bouncy beautiful hair. But I am here today to share with you some tips that can help you along on your personal quest to amazingness. For instance, here's something that's been enlivening my life and making me more amazing lately: arrant idiocy.

Oh, I hear your snorts of disbelief, your huffs of indignation. "Idiocy!" you cry out. "That's not glamorous or amazing at all!" Au contraire, mon frere. Not only is idiocy glamorous and amazing, it also enlivens a person's existence in ways I had heretofore failed to appreciate. It elevates the heart rate, sends endorphins coursing through my body, spreads joy and laughter to people around me. In short, it's quite the thrill ride, a roller coaster of unpredictable fun. In recent weeks idiocy has become a central pillar of my life, in fact, and I find myself all the richer for it.

For example, the other day I had an hour or so to kill before heading to the airport to catch my flight. What to do, what to do, I mused. I'd already done laundry, swept, mopped, cleaned, and even conditioned the leather couch. Ah! I thought. I shall organize my photographs and made back-ups of all my data. Hmmm, this pesky iPhoto program is running sort of slow. Perhaps I should clean off some space on the hard drive. Oh, what's this in my Pictures folder - extra duplicates of photos I don't need? Brilliant! I shall delete them all. Ah, that feels nice. Ooh, I know, now I'll empty my Trash folder! Wow, that's an awful lot of trash... awful... lot... of... OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP! STTOOOOOOPPPPPP!!!!

Too late. My iPhoto library is housed, as it is on all Mac computers, in the "Pictures" folder, which means that in a moment of startling idiocy, I deleted my entire iPhoto library, and then emptied the trash. I should note here that the vast majority of my research was in my iPhoto library. VAST. MAJORITY. ALL MY PICTURES.

Now I can hear you scoffing. "Huh!" you chuff. "That doesn't sound like fun at all!" And again, I must correct you. It was worth perpetrating that unfathomably idiotic act for the adrenaline rush alone, which was, since we're speaking of it, AMAZING. I'm pretty sure my heart rate quadrupled in 2 nanoseconds, and I doubt my blood pressure ever has been that high before, or will be ever again. And then, THEN, the relief when I realized, after about 20 minutes of mad scrambling about and flailing of limbs, that I could find somebody who could fix this was, well, let's just call it a "watery" sensation.

And let's not forget the endorphin rush that comes from separating oneself from vast chunks of money! It's like shoppers high, deluxe; a pair of new shoes and a genuine designer handbag, times seven. I was still flying so high on relief that when the guy at Austin Mac Repair told me it'd "only" cost $300 to retrieve the data I nearly jumped out of a window, flapped my arms and sang, "I can fly, I can fly, I can fly!"

Ah, I can see you are coming around to seeing it my way, no? Yes, this is very good, but wait, there's more! Have you yet considered the amount of personal satisfaction I engender in every person to whom I tell this tale? Every person that laughs and sympathizes, but thinks privately, "Wow, I'm glad I would never do something that idiotic," feels better about themselves instantly! Every historian that thinks with smug satisfaction of all their multiplicity of backed-up files, well. I've just made their day.

Then, of course, once my equilibrium had stabilized after the mad dash through every emotion on the planet, I realized that I already had backed up the vast majority of that vast majority of documents, and presto, change-o. I felt amazing. Then I laughed at myself for being such an idiot that I'd forgotten that I'd already made back-ups, and there you go! Another endorphin rush.

See? Idiocy. It's not just for morons anymore. Try it yourself, and see how idiocy can enliven, even, dare I say it, amazen your life.

Campstravaganza with Little Bug

Way back in January of this year, my little brother Bug turned 5 years old. Sheesh. Even as I type this I can hardly believe he's five years old already; it seems like just the other day that Captain Mommypants and Superdad decided to adopt an unbearably cute little 9-month-old butterball. Well, anyway, it clearly wasn't just the other day, it was clearly more like 4-ish years ago, given that now he's a strapping five year old with biceps, quads of steel, and back hair, but that's neither here nor there. What's relevant to this particular story is that for his birthday I got him a book starring his absolute favorite character, Curious George. Curious George Goes Camping, it was, and wowza, was that a big hit with the Buggo, given that he loves the outdoors like a teeny-bopper loves the mall. In the front of the book, I wrote him a note:

"Dear Bug, happy birthday! I love you so much, and so does Curious George. In this book Curious George goes camping with The Man in the Yellow Hat, and he has so much fun being outside, sleeping in a tent, and having a campfire! Now that you're a big boy and five years old, you're big enough to go camping, too, so study up on this book and when I come home in May I'll take you camping too! All my love, Amazing Cheastypants."

It would be understating the situation considerably to say that for the past four months Bug has been in a state of frenzied delirium, anticipating my return to North Carolina like most kids look forward to Christmas. He apparently carried the book around with him everywhere, all day, every day until it vaporized from overuse. When Mom woke him up for school in the morning he'd say, "No school. Want to go camping with Cheasty." He started playing "camping" with his toys, building "tents" out of blankets, and playing intense games of make believe with The Guys, his rotating cast of about 15 stuffed animals that travel with him everywhere. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Bug and The Guys:



Individually, they are Big Dog, Soccer Bear, Fuzzy Bear, Patrick Bear, Little Bear, Red Bear, Max, Purple Bear, Cat, and The Righteous Turtle. It's an exhausting list, so Bug just calls them "the guys," as in, "Come on, Bug, it's time to go!" "Ok, just a minute, I've gotta get the guys!"

So yes, he's been anticipating this camping trip with a fair amount of enthusiasm. To be fair, of course, I stoked the fire. I send him postcards all the time, and in each one I'd talk about going camping. I got Superdad and Mommypants talking about camping. Every time I talked to him on the phone I'd mention going camping. So when I finally came home on Tuesday night, I snuck into his room to kiss him hello, he woke up amidst all the guys, smiled sleepily at me, held out his arms for a hug, and said, "We go camping now?" "Yes, sweetheart," I said, hugging him tight. Tomorrow we go camping." And we did. The next morning I woke up to the pungent aroma of Big Dog landing on my face, and Bug crawled into bed with me. "Camping?" he whispered. "Yes, camping," I whispered. "What do you think we should pack?" Bug thought about it a minute. "Books," he replied, with enough certainty to melt my heart into a giant puddle on the ground.

Right. Books. Check.

But first things first, we had to find a spot, so off we went on a little hike around the farm. Where should we camp? The pond? The woods? By the river? In the end, we found an ideal spot right in our own backyard, just at the edge of the woods and started to set up the campsite. Or rather, I set up the campsite, and Bug made sure all The Guys got to the tent all right.



Sadly for you all, and for me, I forgot to take pictures once we got into things, but we had a grand old time. We jumped into the pool to cool off after making camp, and then as evening fell we made a campfire and roasted hotdogs on sticks. I taught him how to make smores, and he practiced writing his letters with a smoking gokel stick. When the sun went down, we went to bed in the tent.



And guess what I missed since I was last home back in December? Bug knows how to read now. I know, right? Who knew. So while I'd anticipated a long night of me reading Smash Crash and Curious George to Bug, instead, he read to me, of the adventures of Dick, Jane, and their fetching pup Spot, of Pam and Penny, Mike, and funny, funny Sally. I was so proud and impressed I kind of teared up a couple of times, like when he read, "What is Spot doing?" and his voice went up at the end, just like it should when you read a question out loud. He looked at me, put his finger on the punctuation mark, and said, "Cheasty, that's a question!"



We read for a while more, then Superdad came in to give us kisses good night.



We finally turned out the light, though it would be a mistake to say that we really slept. First we cuddled and snuggled up, but when Bug finally fell asleep he started rolling around and kicking me in the teeth every few moments. Then he kicked off the covers and started shivering, so I kept trying to keep him covered, but whoa, nelly. Losing proposition if I ever saw one. At any rate, I woke up around six this morning, but Bug had beaten me to it. He was already reading again.



So there you have it, the Campstravaganza with my little brother Bug. It was one of the greatest times I've had in a while, and oh my goodness, do I love that little boy.

I've Got a Dog and Her Name Is..... ?

Well, now I've gone and done it. I've been wanting to get a dog for a long time (loooooooonnnnng time) and was just waiting till I got back from my travels to go find the perfect little puppy. A medium-sized, energetic, funny dog that I could train and love and snuggle and take on walks and hikes, and on all kinds of little Dog and Cheasty adventures. So I started looking online, thinking I'd probably better check out some of the local shelters to see what kind of dogs they get ahold of, and then I found this:



I can't explain it. Maybe it was the way she looked, maybe it was her rather pathetic and sad little life story, but whatever it is, I was a goner the minute I met her. I am now the proud owner of a 10 year old miniature mutt named Sweetie. Ten years. That's what... 70 in human years? Oh, and she's toothless. And deaf as a fence post. And she's also a little gender-confused, because she walks around and pees like a boy dog, lifting her leg and "marking" her territory. And she weighs seven pounds. And you know what? I'm kind of in love, because in spite of all that, in spite of starving and being a street dog and losing her teeth, and being old, she's still a spunky old gal, prancing around, snuggling on laps, and generally being awesome.

She's been with her foster dad for a number of months, and nobody's even put in an adoption application on her on account of how old she is. Doesn't that just break your heart? The good news is that her foster dad took very good care of her, and she's looking much spiffier than when he'd just gotten her (see photo above):



The other good news is that she came over to hang out at my house the other day, and she loved it. I'm taking a trip back east to visit family and get some work done, but when I come back in the end of May, she's all mine.

The bad news is I'm really stuck on the name thing. Sweetie? I mean, come on. I suppose it could be worse - she could be named Buttercup or Princess or Barbie, or something, but jeez. Sweetie. Since she's completely deaf, I can call her whatever I want and she won't know the difference, but it seems that after all my mocking (see yesterday's post), I've caught a derivation of the Umulu disease. I haven't named her anything yet, but only because I'm stuck on options. So here are my options, as I see them, blog. Help me decide.

Birdie.
Blue.
Sally.
Ethel Merman.
Little Dude.
Pocket.

So? What do you think?