Honorable mention?

Um, yeah. She's no Johnson (her FACE? Seriously, her FACE?!), but if we're going to throw out gross baby poo pictures for the contest of "Best Photographic Argument for Birth Control"... I'll throw my poo-cleaning hat into the ring:

Hopefully they don't unionize.

HGTV is full of shit.

No matter how cheery the designers act, and no matter how much "ordinary people/couples" bond over home decorating, it's all a big crock of shit. LIES. A and I have been in the process of redecorating our kitchen bit by bit this summer, and the past week has been spent repainting the cabinets.

Twice. Because I hated the colors and the texture of the cabinets the first time we painted them.

We were painting on the back deck and found ourselves bonding over the fact that we both really hated painting, and that we were totally over the project. That, and we both agreed that the whole thing would be more tolerable if we could get... well, the way we used to get together before Punky came into the picture.

What followed would have made Tom Sawyer envious.

All the politicians bickering over energy resources are clearly going in the wrong direction, because I have discovered that the greatest undiscovered labor and energy resource is stoners. A cautionary tale, ladies, to marrying a semi-retired punk rocker: you will frequently have stoners just randomly popping over at your house. I really don't have a problem with them. A's friends are all good guys -- albeit mildly brain damaged at this point -- and would do absolutely anything for us. They adore Punky and keep A sane.

So somehow we convinced his friends to come over, and when they arrived, there we were on the back deck, painting. (Still.) With a few promises of "Dude, I'm so high off the paint fumes!" we magically had two stoners furiously painting our cabinet doors (and since most of them also spent more than their fair share in tattoo shops and graffiti-ing things, they're pretty good at staying in the lines).

Stoner labor. It's cheap, it's funny, and it's effective.

My cabinets look awesome.

If I ran the world...

... or, at the very least, if I ran the diaper company... I would make stickier side tabs that were more difficult for babies to rip off. Or perhaps a system of locks, a "chastity belt"-style contraption that would keep her tiny little fingers OUT of her diaper.

Punky's newest trick has been taking off her diaper and then exploring whatever magical contents await inside. I learned this one afternoon when I went to check on her during her nap, to discover that she had taken her diaper off and had smeared her hands and feet in the poop that had magically appeared inside of it. And rubbed it fucking EV-ER-EEEEE-WHERE. It was like a poop Pollock masterpiece on toile bedding.

Cleaning it up? Awesome. I was so distressed by the overwhelming presence of poop that I didn't even get a picture. But trust me, it was baaaad.

So I thought to myself, Genius Mommy, maybe you shouldn't let your kid sleep naked (in her diaper). I mean, it's easy access, so perhaps slapping a onesie on would deter the problem. To no avail. This kid UNSNAPPED THE CROTCH of her onesie the next day, undid the diaper, and again I peeked in the crib to find a naked booty sticking up in the air like a bad porno.

This kid will NOT wear a diaper to bed. WON'T. NO. FAIL.

So I check on her in bed last night and I found this:



Once again, weaseled out of her diaper. So I tried to reach around -- so very quietly and carefully -- to reattach the tab in the front, only to discover in her slumber, Punky was also swimming around in a sea of her own piss. And underneath her, peeking out like the Wicked Witch of the East, is her beloved lovie, Sophie Bear -- who is also unfortunately drenched in baby piss.

So I had to get her out of bed while whispering and frantically pointing at A how to change the bedding, where to put the pee-soaked bedding and where her second-string Sophie Bear was, while trying to quietly and efficiently wipe the piss off her belly.

So if I ran the world, and ran a diaper company (which really, the two are ominously similar), I would make it impossible for nudist babies like mine to take their diapers off. Because this shit (and piss) is getting really old.

Talk dirty to Grandma.

I'm an asshole.

It was absolutely ridiculously gorgeous today and not too unbearably hot, so I decided to be a good mom/pet owner and take Punky and Bodhi for a walk. The neighborhoods around here are cute, pretty, and well-arbored, so I figured why not -- it gets my ass off Perez Hilton for half an hour.

So as I am walking down the street, I see coming at me a teal Corsica -- identical to what my friend from high school, M drives. I live around the corner from where she went to school, so even though she graduated, it wouldn't be too incredibly far-fetched for her to be in the neighborhood. The car had Ohio plates (which is where I'm from, and out of place here). And there was a short driver. (M stands at 5'0.) So of course it had to be her.

Maybe it was my sunglasses, or the glare of the sun off the windshield, or maybe I am just dumb. But I was about 98% certain this was M driving toward me. And so, as the car approached me, I let out a hearty bellow:

"SLUT!!!!!"

(Which in our circle of friends is a term of...um...endearment.)

(And never mind that I had my infant in a stroller with me. She's not absorbing any of this stuff yet, right? I mean, she's just mastering motor skills and colors and shapes and putting toys in her mouth, I doubt she's really taking in the offensive things that regularly come spewing out of my mouth... right?)

That 2% of uncertainty let me down. It was not M driving the car. I don't even know if it was M's car. I do know that there was a tiny old woman driving the car who stared at me with her thick old people sunglasses (the kind the cover pretty much their whole head?), baffled and confused why an otherwise nice-looking young lady with a baby and a little dog is screaming such an insult as her as she's out for her Saturday joy ride to the plant nursery, or the bingo hall, or wherever it is old people wander off to.

I do what I can to keep the local geriatric community on edge.