"It's a big world, it's a big big world."

Okay. OKAY, seriously. Children's programming is bizarro.

Reed really likes It's a Big Big World, and I have to say that I like it too. That sloth is pretty likeable, and SO calm and happy. I wish I had some of whatever he takes every day to stay that stable and balanced. Acid? Prozac? GIVE IT.

Reed also loves the Teletubbies. I don't mind them either, since I know firsthand how awesome it is to giggle violently at nothing at all.

I get the feeling that Reed will like Sesame Street eventually; he's vaguely interested in it now, but there's just too much going on to hold his interest. I was totally amused last week when I saw a short cartoon in which a guy sang in the style of Bob Dylan, "Hooooow many sheeeeep must jump ooooover my bed befooooore I faaaaaaa-all asleeeeep?" The answer, my friend, was nine. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, NINE!

This one, this one right here, I have outlawed in our house. I had to watch hours and hours of it when I worked in daycare, and I shall not even speak his name for it makes my hair stand on end. Then I found out that Jason broke my trust, he violated everything he's every promised me because he one day said "You know, Reed really likes [this large purple idiot who should be extinct with the rest of his brethren, but instead continues to polute the air with his hideous stink]." But I at least don't allow it in my presence. I allow the olive-eating; THIS is too much.

This one I've never seen, never even heard of, until it was brought to my attention this morning. So far I haven't been able to check it out with headphones, but I'm already getting the hives so I think I'll have to stay away from it. My first reaction was to say, "It's like Jem but instead of being WILDLY hip and cool, it looks lame and kind of scary. Okay, VERY scary." And it appears somewhat reminiscent of The Wiggles, and those guys make me convulse and foam at the mouth, so I think we'll be side-stepping the Doodlebops as well.

I'd like to say that I'm proud of Ehren Watada. I think what he's doing is a good thing. I hope he gets a lot of press so everyone can hear what democracy sounds like; it's a sound that many of us haven't heard in a long time. You can listen to an interesting piece on him at npr.org.

"Hey you might even get a better job because suddenly you are a minority."

I have to take a moment to say I love you guys, you guys who read this. There are some real gems in the comments lately. These are some of my favorites:

Have you considered going with a Martha Stewart pre-lit tree? Not only are they practical and beautiful, but knowing Martha, they are fortified with 17 essential vitamins and nutrients!

No kids. Okay. Got it.

at least i have balls!

Sometimes the best answer is to say something in your head, revel in your own insight and brillance, and then let it stay there until it can be replaced by your next brilliant idea. But then again, how we end up with such interesting blog entries. Anyway, I'm off to reflect on how I too would like to make sweet man love to that guy who hosts O'Reilly (who incidentally is O'Reilly).

I know that I am just some guy on the internet and all, but please seek professional help.

seriously you like mexican food in almost a creepy kind of way.

I could maybe get you out of a constructive possession charge.

I wonder if REAL indians can do math.

Hope all of your readers don't catch Scarlet fever like that little boy did.

Regarding toilet training, hey as long as they don't cross their streams a nuclear meltdown shouldn't happen (unless of course you're trying to close a portal to another dimension and a scary guy named gozer is nearby).

I suspect, however, that if someone can make peeing into a white porcelain bowl fun they could do the same for hanging jackets.

I am thankful that I'm not using a tub of water and a scrub board.

So laundry is a constant chore at our house. Those of you who live in a house with more than one person know what I'm talking about. With five people in one house, the laundry is NEVER done. There is always something that needs to be washed- between underwear, t-shirts, work clothes, coats, bath mats and rugs, towels, and sheets, there is ALWAYS something that needs washing. If I make the mistake of going three or four days without doing any laundry at all, it means an entire day of laundry. I've had days where I've done fourteen loads of laundry in one day. It's a lot of laundry we make. If there was a contest for making the most dirty laundry in one household, I'm pretty sure that we'd KICK YOUR ASS, SUCKERS. Then, if there was a contest for doing the most laundry, and I'm talking wash, dry, fold, and put away, in one day, well I'd just have to BEAT YOUR ASS AND WIPE THE FLOOR WITH IT, that's how good at doing the laundry I am. I am fast, focused, and efficient.

So last night I decided I ought to go ahead and do Kane and Jude's laundry, since it tends to REALLY pile up during the week. It should have been about three days worth of laundry, so I figured it would be a full basket. It was, in fact, a full basket, so full that that it could have filled two baskets had I not shoved it into one. I started sorting it and found that Jude had shoved FIVE COATS, five winter coats that weren't dirty and had no business being in the dirty laundry basket into the dirty laundry basket.

I'd like to add here that Jude and putting things where they belong don't mix. Seriously. I have been instructing him on how to put his dirty socks in the hamper for four years now, and I don't exaggerate on that one. I realize that he's only seven, but "Put those in the basket." is not out of his league. The kid can WOOP YOUR ASS on the Playstation, he can ride a bike and skateboard, he can give you a look that practically says out loud, "You eat shit and you die." He can put his dirty socks in the hamper. He just doesn't. It's a choice that he makes, see?

ANYWAY, putting his coats in the closet is just another one of those ongoing battles that we have. I have mentioned here before how Jude is a fashion connoisseur, someone who changes his clothes several times a day to make sure that he always looks hip and stylish. He has been known to put on a shirt, go to the bathroom and splash water all over it, come out and say, "I got water all over this shirt so I'm going to have to change." (This comes from my having freaked out on him for a couple of years about how I can't possibly do all the laundry he produces when he puts on a damn fashion show every day, that's how many times he'll change clothes. He knows that he can't just change shirts. But he also knows that when he gets crap all over himself, Jason and I both balk and immediately tell him to put on something clean already. SEE? He is smart enough to manipulate us, and he's smart enough to put his dirty socks in the hamper.)

He's also been known to drop jelly on the kitchen counter and wipe it up with the shirt he's wearing, but that's a different story.

ANYWAY, if left to his own devices, he'll wear a coat to school, which no matter how cold it is outside comes home in his backpack. When he does his homework, he'll pull that coat out and throw it on the living room floor. Once he's done, he'll put on another coat to go jump on the trampoline. Then he'll come in to get a snack, and throw that coat under the kitchen table. Then he'll want to go ride his bike, so he'll put on another coat. Then he'll come in to play Wii, and that coat will be tossed into the floor of the computer room. Then he'll go outside to jump some more, so he'll put on ANOTHER DAMN COAT. So then, before dinner, I'll say "JUDE I'M GOING TO KILL YOU AND BURY YOU IN THE BACK YARD IF YOU DON'T PICK UP ALL THESE DAMN COATS." So he'll pick them up and throw them all into his bedroom floor.

So, what eventually happens (I will never get to the point) is I walk by his room, see 847 coats in the floor, and ask him to hang them in the closet. And I'm SPECIFIC, people; I've learned not to be general about anything. I've also learned to at least start out talking sweetly and not making a big deal. So I will sweetly, calmly, and quietly ask him to hang his coats up in his closet.

Apparently this week he decided to stuff them into the hamper when I asked him to hang them up. So the next thing I know, I'm shaking coats at him and having a meltdown. I was all, "I can't do this, Jude! It's too hard! It's too much work! I CANNOT DO ALL THIS LAUNDRY!" I'm pretty sure that I freaked him right on out. I told him that he gets to wear one set of clean clothes a day, and that unless there is something on the coat like jelly or whatever else he decides to clean up with his own clothing it gets hung up in the closet. He was like, "Okay."

Then I found the packet of reading homework that he didn't tell us about. But that's another story.

Our dominatrix is named H & R Block, and we totally submit to her every whim.

So tonight, Jason and I are going to get our taxes done. This is just as good as sex and chocolate, okay? We've been waiting for this; we each had two different jobs last year, so we had to wait on not four but FIVE different W2's to come in the mail as one of Jason's jobs involved swapping from one company to another. Slowly but surely they all trickled in, until finally my W2 for my current job arrived in our mailbox yesterday, and Jason and I exhaled together in ecstasy as we dreamed about this computer and this phone and hundreds of other things that we WON'T BUY with the money because it's all going to pay for Reed, a purchase we made without thinking it through and once he started to scream and malfunction we totally realized that the money could have been spent elsewhere. Except the camera- we're buying the camera. We've talked it over and we totally deserve a nice present with all that money after all the shit that 2006 brought our way, and we should have just enough money to get the camera and finish paying for Reed.

Don't get me wrong; 2006 brought a lot of good things, too. But I have never in my life had a year in which so many bad things happened. We had a wreck that really could have been a lot worse, and I am so thankful that Jason and I weren't hurt and that Reed and Kane and Jude weren't with us. BUT IT STILL BLEW, and was the worst wreck I've ever been involved in. Jason's car broke down, like, a million times. Our house payment randomly went up about $150 a month when we barely had the money to pay it anyway. Reed's ceiling caved in, luckily while he wasn't underneath it. We went through three different arrangements for "Who's keeping Reed?" just so I can work at a job where my boss treats me like I'm an idiot, and we still can't pay the bills. Jason took a job where he was promised all this money and prestige and ended up just having to bend over every day for a bunch of rich guys who didn't give a shit about him or his family. And, to top it all off, I was eyeball-deep in a funk for about three-quarters of this year in the midst of all that other shit, so I really wasn't much help at all. There are plenty of people who have it worse than us, and there are horrors in the world that I will never have to experience, but that doesn't change the fact that this year was HARD. I am happy to be starting a new one even if things are still a little mixed up.

And, hey, even if things are totally messed up this year, you will be able to check out some RIGHTEOUS pictures of us falling apart!

His mother's son.

Since Reed's birthday, around the beginning of December, we've been working on getting Reed on a regular sleep schedule so that mommy doesn't want to throw baby out into the front yard when he just wants to play at two a.m. We've also been starting the weening process because we just think it's time. Both have been going remarkably well. Most nights I sleep all night long. This is AMAZING because I had forgotten what it was like not to dread the nighttime, not to dread getting into bed because I would just get too damn comfortable and then have to get up for anywhere from one to four hours just when I got into a really deep sleep, just when I got really warm and comfortable, just when I started to dream about eating nachos and online shopping at the same time with no regrets or limits whatsoever. These days I can get into bed and look forward to a full night's sleep, to not getting up until roughly six the next morning, AND IT IS GOOD.

The weening seems to be okay too. Before Reed turned one, we gave him however many bottles a day that he wanted. He usually had about four, one with each meal and then one at bedtime. We started by cutting down to just two, one after breakfast and one at bedtime. For the first few days, he didn't seem to notice any difference at all. After that, he would ask for a "nana" several times a day, and we would just give him water or milk in a sippy cup. This WAS NOT WHAT HE WAS LOOKING FOR, but we toughed it out. After a week or so, he didn't seem to miss the daytime bottles much. We figure we'll give him a good, long while to get used to this part, the two bottles, before we move on to cutting down to just one bottle at bedtime, and then to complete shut-down, end-of-the-world, no-turning-back-we're-for-it-now mode and attempt to survive without giving the child any bottles at all. I think we'll be okay, if "okay" means being being hit in the head with a bouncing tigger repeatedly until we finally shuffle off this mortal coil and Reed can go get himself a damn bottle.

Next will be potty training, which I am a little nervous about because I know NOTHING about it whatsoever. I mean I got nothing. I know that when I first met Jason, Kane, and Jude (Kane was six and Jude was three), they would often all three go to the bathroom together and have "races" to see who could pee the fastest. What I'm telling you is that they would all pee at the same time, in the same toilet, and whoever finished first won. All that sounds like to me is having to change your clothes because you got sprayed, but whatever works. That actually continued for about a year or so after I met them. I guess you've got to reinforce, right? So I suppose that's how it'll go with Reed, when he gets just a little older; there will be four boys running to bathroom to race. But I can tell you that REED WILL WIN EVERY TIME if he got any of my genes whatsoever, because when you have to pee this often, you learn to get in and get out, you know what I mean?

Ever seen Sixteen Candles?

Ever seen Sixteen Candles?
Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

Okay, I married a total badass. He is the baddest ass this side of the Mississippi, let me tell you. I've got to say that all I can think of when I see this picture is Anthony Michael Hall before he was muscly and imposing. Can't you just see Jason, hopping about on the dance floor, showing Molly Ringwald's panties to his friends in the bathroom of the gym? I TOTALLY CAN.

Well, it's about time!

So, I've finally broken into the big time! I've got people hanging around and leaving bizarro judgemental comments on my blog. I'M A REAL BLOGGER NOW, MOM! But apparently not a REAL Indian, because REAL Indians can do math. Apparently I am "just as white and unaware of who [I] actually [am] as most of America", since I accidentally typed the words "one-quarter" instead of "one-eighth". That's good to know, because I would have NEVER come up with that one on my own. I must say, it's good to know that I can just stop proofreading, because someone else is taking care of that for me!

So, this is a linky day. First, did you know that Rage Against the Machine are getting back together for Coachella? That's something I'd like to see. Alas, there's no way I'm going to Coachella. I might be able to, you know, maybe go to the gas station and buy some chips though. THAT WOULD BE AWESOME. (Thanks, Snuh!)

Next, a living fossil is found in Japan. I find this to be both creepy and amazing. (Thanks, Caitlin!)

Lastly, I think this girl must be dating all the boys I know rolled into one. (Thanks, Dooce!)

All my relations.

My grandfather's grandfather was a full-blooded Apache Indian, which has at times seemed very far away from me. Having one-sixteenth Apache blood, I've never told people I was an Indian, or really felt like an Indian person. My mother, however, has always felt like an Indian, and has often identified herself as an Indian woman. Even though she's only *EDIT one-eighth EDIT* Apache, she identifies with the feelings of loss, injustice, doom, hopelessness, impotence, and equal parts of pessimism and optimism that come with being an American Indian. I grew up listening to stories about her Indian ancestors, or about other Indians in general, fighting and struggling and just desiring to live. And you know, I can identify with that struggle, with having to try and find a reason each day to keep trying.

I've often thought that I shouldn't say that I'm Indian. Filling out applications or questionnaires where I was asked to check my race, I usually faulter, have to think about it for a few minutes. My mother raised me as an Indian person, and has never thought that I ought to worry about calling myself Apache. I just feel like it isn't fair to American Indian people for me to claim to be an Indian. I've seen people who I know must be white, pale skin and blue eyes and blonde hair, who talk big talk about being Native American, about how "their people" are discriminated against and they're just so tired of it. And when I see those people talking that way it makes me angry, because I just can't help but think that they have NO IDEA what they're talking about. A woman with blue eyes, light skin, and blonde hair who is a nurse in Alabama and is from "North Alabama" will never know what it feels like to live on the reservation, will never know what it feels like to have to choose between her heritage, family, and culture and the possibility of a better life, will never know what it feels like to walk into a gas station and have people automatically assume that she's lazy, or stupid, or an alchohlic, or just inferior, based only on how she looks. It's because of this that I just feel false, like I'm taking something away from people like Russell Means and Dennis Banks and Leonard Peltier and all the other Indian people who have fought their entire lives to try and have a decent life, if I say that I'm an Indian person.

I spoke to someone on the phone a couple of nights ago who I had never spoken to before in my life, and who immediately changed my outlook on all of this. He said that I shouldn't be afraid to say that I'm an Indian person. I've thought a lot about all of the things he told me, and what I've come to is this: it's not about what I look like, and it's also not about other people's reactions or what they think of me. It's about my own state of mind, my own experiences, my own heart, and information that I have to offer to other people who might not even know that there are still American people, some of the MOST American people that there are, living in awful conditions and being completely ignored by their government, that they aren't extinct, or taken care of, or "gone back where they came from" (THIS IS WHERE THEY CAME FROM).

In short, I'm not about to start screaming it from the roof tops or anything, and I'm still not sure that I'm going to answer "Apache Indian" any time someone asks me about my race (I have had a surprising number of people ask me that over the past few years). But I'm not going to be afraid of that part of myself any more, in that I'm not going to try and squelch down the part of me that identifies so strongly with my mom and our heritage. It is the struggle itself, that very thing- the hardships, defeats, fears, and hopes, that gives me the right and duty to own my bloodline, however small.

I might as well start wearing an eye patch.

Kane and Jude are both doing really great in school, and it's such a relief from the days when they both weren't doing so great, when their teachers were suggesting that Kane needed drugs and Jude needed to be held back a year IN KINDERGARTEN, when someone in their life who shall remain nameless was drinking gin right out of the bottle in the middle of the day on a regular basis. The funny thing is that Kane's teacher later said that ALL the boys in the class were having attention problems, that it wasn't just Kane, so he probably didn't need the drugs after all. Huh. WOOPS!! Luckily we had resisted the FUCKING PROPAGANDA they sent home to us telling us that if we didn't get Kane on Adderall fast he would be likely to rob liquor stores and get a sexually transmitted disease after impregnating a few virgins and raping doorknobs.

Jude is currently entering into the phase that Kane was in when they told us this. This basically means that Jude is now not listening to a single word that comes out of my mouth. And, I mean, I'm not just talking about when I ask him to pick up his socks or close the front door; even if Jude asks me a question and stands there waiting for an answer, he still doesn't hear it when the answer comes out of my mouth. His attention span has lapsed for the moment, meaning that when he's supposed to read for twenty minutes (for his homework, people; I'm not THAT structured) (okay, I can be), he comes in to the living room every two minutes to ask if it's been twenty minutes yet. So about a fourth of that reading time is actually spent trying to find out if he can just play Wii already.

We take Kane and Jude to the library pretty frequently, because we like to encourage them to read and to do something other than looking at porn on the internet all day long, because there is some WEIRD SHIT on the world wide web and really, why would they want to look at squiggly lines on a page when they can look at various naked body parts doing odd things to even more naked body parts! Anyway, Jude often likes to get books with about 7000 pages and, starting about ten minutes after we get home, tell us how he's almost done. Several weeks ago, Jude decided that he REALLY WANTED to read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and once we realized that he was totally tuning us out every time we told him that it was too long we figured what the hell, let the kid carry around a ten-pound book for a few days.

So THE DAY HE GOT IT he started telling us that he didn't have anything to read. I immediately said he should have his nose stuck in that damn Harry Potter book, and he was like, "Oh, I just need a little break from that one because I've already read so much of it." So I said, "Oh, so what all's going on?" Jude's response: "Oh, there's that guy; you know that guy? That guy is waiting in his office for a phone call." Because Harry Potter is ALL about networking, didn't you know? There are all kinds of wizards and warlocks just WAITING for that important phone call. And then Jude walked away before he could see my eyes roll right out of my head so hardcore that they were rolling around the kitchen floor and I had to chase them around, pick them up, and stick them back into my head.

So about two weeks after that, Jude mentioned needing something to read, and I was like, "What about Harry Potter? How's that going?" And Jude's response?

"Oh, that guy, that guy is sitting in his office waiting for a phone call."

One of my eyeballs actually rolled under the refrigerator and I'm STILL trying to find it.

1 going on 111.

Reed had his one-year doctor's appointment yesterday. He is in the 95th percentile for his weight, and his head circumference and height are OFF THE CHARTS. I have created some kind of mutant-giant-baby, and pretty soon it'll be me takin' orders from him instead of the other way around. Well, let's face it- he doesn't exactly take orders from me, but why would he when he's THE SIZE OF A PRO FOOTBALL PLAYER? He is 32 inches tall and that's almost three feet and I can't even believe it and Reed's all "Believe it, woman because I'm comin' up and you better recognize!" He even makes some kind of crazy yo-boy hand gestures at me and I TOLD YOU THAT YOU CAN'T BE A YO-BOY ALREADY but what can I say to a kid who could bench press me? NOTHING, THAT'S WHAT. I mind my p's and q's around him because the screech and the smack and the bite and the incessant "MA!"s are fierce punishment, let me tell you.

He dances and talks and eats Mexican food and sings and tells complicated stories and I guess we'll take him to get his driver's license next week, because what else is there?

So, it is down to you, and it is down to me.

So, I think the battle of wits and will may be over temporarily with Reed. He seems to be back to normal. But, don't worry; today he's going to be injected with small doses of a couple of infectious diseases! He'll be back to screaming at us and cursing the gods, clenched fist waving in the air, in no time at all.

These times are just a little weird is all. I'm literally doing about three people's jobs at work- or at least my job plus about half of two other people's jobs- not to mention all the work I do at home. Jason works all night long and then takes care of Reed all day most days a week. Kane and Jude pretty much wander around the house with a look on their faces that says, "MAN, lighten the fuck up already." And, you know, we try, but it's not always that easy.

Jason has a job interview today which, if all goes as expected, will have him in bed with me at night in as little as two weeks. What will we do with Reed during the day when that day comes? WHO KNOWS!? That's the exciting part- waiting until the very last minute to even attempt to figure out how to rearrange our lives to make sure that everyone is covered! YEEE!

One child, for sale to a good home. Or at least a home not close to mine.

So Reed is teething AGAIN. How many times is he going to do this? He's just doing it to irritate ME, I just know it. And I'm ready for him to stop now. Thank you.

He has spent the last two days crying, fussing, yelling his word of irritation- "MA!" - over and over again, and telling me with his eyes, "You MOTHERFUCKER I'm so sick of your shit!" Seriously.

I can't sit on the couch or the futon because if I do, Reed throws a fit to get up on the couch with me. That might not sound like a big deal, but he doesn't want to get up there and sit in my lap. He wants to get up there and root around, roll about, and generally nearly fall off of the couch over and over again. This wears me out, so I just won't sit there in the first place.

I sit in the rocking chair. If I cross my legs, he immediately stops what he's doing and throws a fit, because my legs being in the crossed position is not condusive to him standing between my knees and alternating biting me, slapping me, and screaming at me. If he's on the floor, he wants me to pick him up. As soon as I pick him, he throws a fit to be put down. If I play with his toys, smile at him, or try to cheer him up in any way, he gets pissed. IT IS A ROLLER COASTER WITH NO LINE, NO WAITING, PEOPLE, step right up. I have a child who cannot be consoled and is mad that I'm trying to console him and is mad that I haven't consoled him and is mad that I exist at any moment in time in any radius of him or his things.

Jealous?

The proverbial olden days.

Buffy, Sink.jpg
Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

Yes, there was a simpler time than these days, a time when one didn't feel so obligated to wear clothing, or to bathe in the tub, or to keep one's dishes off of one's naked body. Those were the days. And look at my hand! It's as if I'm saying, "Voila! Just LOOK what I can do!"

If you look at my most recent photos on Flickr, you'll see that we are a family full of good-lookin' ladies with NO SENSE of embarrassment or self-control. It sort of runs in my family to be hot and goofy as hell. And it's not just the ladies, either; we are equal opportunity mortifiers.

There are some pictures of my Grandma and Grandaddy, too. Grandaddy died before I was born. I never knew him, but I do feel like I know him, you know? I think he's around a lot. I've never felt like I didn't know him, I just often feel like I wish he was here. It's odd; it just sort of hits me when something good is happening, or when something bad is happening, how much I wish he was here to talk to me or hug me or play with Reed or shake Jason's hand. I hope that my sister and my cousins are thankful all the time that they got to see him, because I never did and I'm envious. Sometimes I just yearn for him to be here, along with a few others who have gone on to better things like my Grandma and my cousin Jenny. I miss them so. But I know that they're together, and one day I'll be there with them.

For now, I'm going to go sit in the kitchen sink and balance a cup on my big toe. That's how I party. Voila!

Stomach bug? More like a stomach... huge fucking insect or something.

Everyone around me seems to be getting sick. I'm afraid that it's slowly but surely creeping up on me, in the night with a hatchet. Next thing I know I'm going to be hacking up green stuff and puking all over the place.

Kane and Jude both brought home notes from school that said that there's a particularly bad outbreak of influenza going around the school right now, as well as a nasty stomach virus. Apparently kids are catching the stomach virus, staying home for a couple of days, coming back to school, and GETTING RE-INFECTED WITH THE STOMACH VIRUS. AGAIN.

Also, when we came back to work from our lovely Christmas break, one of the reference librarians promptly told us how lovely his break was, as his entire family passed around a stomach virus for, like, a week or something. The very next day, he stayed home as he had finally caught it. Then my boss went home early with the stomach bug on Wednesday, and didn't come in at all yesterday.

As a direct result of all these circumstances, I AM WIGGING MY SHIT. I've been Cloroxing the door knobs, the remotes, the cats. I've been sneaking in on Kane and Jude while they're showering, throwing the shower door open, and dousing them with Lysol. I've been forcing them against their wills to actually wash their hands a couple of times a day. My hands have pretty much disintegrated off of my body from all the soap, hot water, and bleach. I am typing this right now with my stumpy nubs THAT'S ALL THAT'S LEFT AFTER ALL THAT SCRUBBING.

But at least MAYBE we won't get sick. I'll trade my hands for that.

Let me loose in the French Quarter.

So I do believe that we're going to New Orleans in March for John's thesis exhibition. He's graduating at the end of this semester, and this show will allow us to see what he's been working on for the last three years. I'm very excited about that, and I'm just as excited about a weekend out of town, a weekend during which I will drink a lot and sleep even more, a weekend when I will wake up with Jason in bed next to me. It all sounds very nice.

I'm betting March will be a good time for our visit; it won't be too hot, and it won't be too cold. We can walk around the city and have a good time. I'm especially looking forward to the food. THE FOOD, MAN.

I have to say that just thinking about being away from Reed for three whole days makes me uneasy. I know he'll be fine with my mom- in fact, I'm a little more worried about her than him. But I know that my heart is going to ache being away from him for that long. It will be the first time that I've been more than 24 hours without seeing him, holding him, and kissing him. I am almost tempted to take him along with us. I said almost. I'M CRAZY BUT I'M NOT THAT CRAZY. I will not take him on a five hour drive into a city that makes me want to drink eight beers, take my clothes off, and sing the French national anthem. He's not ready for that yet. I'm going to save that for when he has a girlfriend present. I know a lot about parenting.

Reed, by the way, is talking up a storm these days. He says cheese, juice, doodoo, mama, dada (the guy, not the movement), da-da (bye-bye), and na-na (which stands for a lot of stuff including but not exclusive to thank you, you're welcome, bottle, dinner, breakfast bar, and I don't even know what else). It is really funny to witness this development in him, because he looks so surprised and excited when he says something and we understand it. HE KNOWS what it feels like to be a foreign exchange student, as he knows what it's like to live with a bunch of people who smile and are nice to you but with whom you can't communicate past nodding and smiling. It must be frustrating.

"It's totally serendipitous."

Kristi and I went to Marty's bar on Saturday night, and it was a good time. We used to go there all the time; it was our home sweet home for a couple of years. We have been there for a couple of Christmas Eves, countless Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, and many a week night when we should have been studying or sleeping. Marty's is one of those places that sucks you in and totally freezes your internal clock; when three or four a.m. rolls around, it still feels like about eleven p.m. They serve THE BEST chicken melt there, along with many other tasty snacks for the drunken customer- burgers, grilled cheese, clubs. It was nice to see familiar faces; there are people working there now that worked there when I was eighteen years old. It is a place where I feel completely safe, because the staff there really looks out for you. If they think someone is making you uncomfortable or hitting on you a little to hard, they'll kick him out. They'll also walk you to your car if you'd like.

I was wondering if times were just as bizarro and unpredictable as they used to be at Marty's, and Saturday did not disappoint. We got there around 9:30, and sat on the patio and drank many beers. For the first several hours the indoors was peopled mostly with an older crowd, there to see Kent DuChaine. As the hour got later, a younger crowd started to show up, probably trickling in as other bars closed.

Some time around 12:30, a fellow popped up at our table, randomly asking if we'd let him buy us beers. He seemed completely harmless, probably around 40 or 45 years old, dressed immaculately, so we let him. Long story short, he turned out to be odd , to say the least. Over the course of an hour or so, he insisted on buying us a cheeseburger, told us that he grew up in Leeds on Montague Street, where Kristi grew up, told us that he was the associate editor of the Black and White, got into a fight at the bar and got cut off from any more alcohol, tried to get me to go buy him a drink since he was cut off, and gave us "his card", on which he wrote his phone number with a Sharpie marker. He told me his name was, simply, "Damon", but the card said "Carl Love", and I'm not sure that either is really his name. I also don't know if he actually has anything to do with the Black and White. We asked Marty about it, and he didn't know. What I do know is that talking to him started out fun and interesting, and ended up exhausting and uncomfortable. You know when you have hemmoiroids and you can't quite sit comfortably? That's what it felt like.

While I was busy with that guy, Kristi met a small group of people sitting at the table behind ours. Kristi is in law school, and a guy at the table was a lawyer, so they struck up a conversation. Apparently he went to Georgetown and thought a lot of himself. At one point Kristi turned around and said, "OK, he just told me that he can't stand poor people." Needless to say, we both wondered why he would speak to US, of all people.

Around 2:00 a.m., we decided to go inside to talk to Marty for a while, where we ended up really enjoying the music and performance of Kent DuChaine. He looks a little different than that picture- a bit like a malnourished John Malchovich with longer grey hair. But he was really very good- very bluesy, Stevie Ray Vaughn-type stuff.

While we were standing inside, enjoying the music, this tiny child of a boy started talking to Kristi; he apparently said something about how he didn't like some other girl's look, that she had too much eyeshadow on, but he liked Kristi's look. What, exactly, do you say to that by the way? Anyway, he eventually walked away, and we sat down at the bar. Eventually, this tiny little boy came back and started talking to me. I can't quite figure out what was going on, if he was hitting on me or if he was just hoping to make himself look really ridiculous by acting like a drunk asshole. I DO know that over the course of our conversation he said ALL of the following things: "I'm a grad student at UAB studying microbiology, because I really like working with small things." [Later, I told him that he looked like a seventeen-year-old football player.] "Well, don't you secretly have a crush on a seventeen-year-old football player?" "Do you think your friend has a crush on a seventeen-year-old football player?" "Why y'all all gotta be all married?" "You just wish you had my brain."

Tom, the bartender and a friend of mine, eventually came up and said, "Are you okay?" I said, "Oh, yeah, I don't feel threatened in any way. He's just IRRITATING THE SHIT out of me." Tom then told me that that guy had been kicked out several times for harrassing the ladies. MAKES SENSE TO ME.

To top it all off, this guy shared some kind of look, some kind of looking-up-and-down of each other with another guy who was talking to Kristi, the other guy being about fifteen years older than him, that said, "BITCH LET'S HAVE A DANCE OFF." Like they should have both started snapping their fingers and givin' each other the stare-down and then broken into Michael Jackson's dance moves from the Bad video. And I totally missed it. But when there is another, totally unrelated, 6'5 gangly white boy with some kind of odd, slanting hair-do dancing like a FOOL right in front of you, it's hard to pick up on every little thing.

Saturday, not in the park, I know it's not the fourth of July.

I got an interesting phone call at work today, where "interesting" means the same thing as "chaps my ass".

The conversation went pretty much like this:

"Library."

"Yes, hello, how are you?"

"I'm fine; how are you doing?"

"Well, I'm irritated at my son."

"...."

"Anyway, I was just looking through his backpack, and I found two books checked out from your library, and my son is doing an interim term in Hawaii."

"...."

"So he's not here."

"...."

"What can we do about this?"

"Well, you can return them for him."

"No way. It's too long of a drive. I'm not driving to BIRMINGHAM just to return two books. Can't I just pay the fines up to now with a credit card and renew the books over the phone?"

"Um, no, we won't renew when there are late charges in place. You'd have to return them. Besides, we don't have a credit card machine; we take cash and checks."

"I'm just worried about all these fines. They were due on January 2. How much is it per day?"

"IT'S TEN CENTS. PER DAY. They're only about four days late."

"Yes, but that's STILL late. I'll mail them back. Can I mail them to you? What will happen to them when you get them?"

And it just went down hill from there. The oddest thing about it to me was that the woman had a 205 area code, which means she's not THAT far from us. I understand not wanting to have to drive a long way, but she seemed awfully concerned about the books and the fines to be all, "Oh, no, I don't actually want to have to leave the house to take care of this."

Something, something, stuff.

Today is dreary and damp. Methinks rain and storms are supposed to be moving through all day long.

From what I understand, several of my co-workers were awakened in the night by screaming sirens, beckoning them to take cover from the impending tornadoes. I was awakened in the night be a screaming toddler, beckoning me to kiss his ass if I didn't want to pick him up and keep him company at three a.m.

I bought a wireless router last night and SET IT UP MYSELF. Make fun of me if you will, but that kind of stuff is all Greek to me. I felt fairly proud that I even opened the box, it intimidates me so much; the fact that I opened it, hooked it up, and called the support line for help when it wouldn't connect to the internet which resulted in it being fixed and functional is a HUGE STEP towards joining the world of the 2000's, as far as I'm concerned. I hooked up a router. WELCOME TO 2004, BUFFY. HOPE YOU LIKE IT. Who says this girl can't follow directions? NO ONE, 'CAUSE I CAN.

Our Wii is now fully functional, and connected to the internets. If anyone out there wants to be Wii friends with me, send me yo number!

Mama Mia!

I have a sister named Jennifer who lives in Tennessee; she's my half-sister, really. My dad was married once before he was married to my mom, and Jennifer is the daughter from that marriage. She came down to stay with us a lot when we were kids, and now she comes to visit at holidays and in the summer. But now, it's her AND her husband AND her three kids. Jordan is nine (I think), Elijah is seven (I think), and Addi Beth (Addison Elizabeth) is three (I think) (could I use parentheses any more in a sentence?) (I bet I could). I am a FANTASTIC aunt, as you can tell.

Now, given my recent experience with babies and travel, I have to say that I have nothing but respect and awe for this woman, as she has traveled from Tennessee to Birmingham and back with her three children ALONE on several occasions. Before last Sunday, I always thought, "Wow, that must be tough." Now, post-Sunday, I think, "Not even if Donald Trump wanted to give me sixty million dollars. Not even if Oprah wanted to profile me on her show and give me a car. Not even if God told me that I could eat Mexican food and steaks all day every day and never gain a pound. Not even if I could do all three of those things would I make that trip with three kids alone THAT'S HOW MUCH I WOULD NEVER DO IT." You think I'm being crazy and melodramatic? YOU DO IT AND LET'S SEE, THEN COME TALK TO ME.

She's really a fantastic mama. She's one of those moms who always looks cute, and always has a smile on her face until one of her kids makes the mistake of messing with her and then she's ALL BUSINESS, for serious though. She has got the mama voice and all the phrases perfected. At my dad's Christmas dinner, they decided that they wanted to take pictures of each individual family, like a picture of Jason, Kane, Jude, Reed, and myself as a family. So Jennifer spent several minutes trying to get Addi Beth rounded up, and finally bribed her by saying, "What if daddy holds you in the picture? Will you smile and be still if daddy holds you?" The second Addi Beth agreed, Jennifer announced, "Okay, I need all the Johnsons FRONT AND CENTER RIGHT THIS SECOND." And you know what? They came immediately, no questions asked. That's the true test of your abilities as a mother- if you can get three children to stop their three, separate activities in three different locations and do what you've asked with no complaints or questions, you've succeeded in ways that I will probably never experience.

I resolve to kick ass at several Wii games by the end of the year.

We got out replacement Wii console from Nintendo yesterday. I have to say, the folks at Nintendo are very helpful and polite, and our replacement got here FAST. I talked to the fellow on Thursday afternoon, and the console shipped two hours after we talked, and got here within two business days (considering that Monday was a holiday). So THANK YOU, MATT AT NINTENDO, you kept me from freaking out and throwing any parts of my faulty Wii out the kitchen window which I have done before to things (or, let's face it, people) that irritated me.

Being back at work SUCKS. That's all I really have to say about that. My boss could still form DIAMONDS out of a lump of coal if she just put it in the right place.

I am very excited about tax time, because among other things, I'm pretty sure we're going to buy this camera. Jason and I are both really excited about it. Could we use the money for more important things like hospital bills or credit card debt? NO WE COULD NOT BECAUSE I SAID SO.

When it might be a good idea to leap from a moving vehicle.

This has been a really wonderful, if LONG AS HELL, holiday season. We had Christmas at my aunt Susie's house on December 23; we ate yummy comfort food and opened presents. We had Christmas at Jason's brother's house on Christmas Eve, where we ate more yummy comfort food and rushed through Dirty Santa to get home and have a very small, impromptu Christmas Eve gathering of our own. We went to my mom's house on Christmas day and ate even more comfort food and opened presents. We went out to eat at a Vietnamese restaurant on December 26 with a bunch of our buddies, and had drinks after at the Upside Down Plaza. We went to my dad's house for Christmas and food on December 30, where we spent time with my brother and sister from Tennessee and all their kids.

Over the last couple of weeks we got to spend a lot of time with our friends John and Amanda, who live in New Orleans. I'm glad that we got to see them and hang out with them so much. We normally don't get to spend so much time with them, due to our own obligations and the fact that their time is coveted by a WHOLE BUNCH of people when they're here.

The peak of bizarre holiday ideas gone wrong was on December 31, when we drove to Watertown, Tennessee, for Jason's mom's family's annual Christmas gathering. In the three years that Jason and I have been married, I've never made it up there for the Christmas party. Right after we were married, we had just gotten back from our honeymoon and didn't feel like we could afford to take any time off of work and were exhausted from all the getting married and honeymooning. I don't remember why we didn't go the next Christmas, but I'm sure that it had something to do with the get-together being on New Year's Eve (it always is), and our wanting to go to a party here in Birmingham. Last Christmas, we had just had Reed, and I didn't want to travel with a three-week-old baby. This year, we felt like we ought to just go since we'd skipped it so much and none of his relatives there had met Reed. I was JUST A LITTLE BIT FUCKING NERVOUS about taking Reed on his first long car trip; eight hours in the car seemed a little excessive to me. But, besides me and my mother, everyone seemed to think that it was no big deal, so I tried not to worry about it.

We left at about 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, and things seemed fine. I drove, and Reed and Jason slept for a little while, and we had a nice time. Reed stayed pretty calm and happy for the entire four hour drive there. We got there, and it was a little hectic running around and keeping an eye on him, but we had a good time. YES, WE ATE EVEN MORE HOLIDAY FOOD, our sixth holiday feast of the season, and it was damn tasty. I had an apple martini and almost fell down in the basement because the step from the house into the garage isn't connected to the wall and no one told me. We hung out with the horses, and Reed said, "That's the biggest fucking dog I've ever seen, no way am I petting him."

We managed to leave by 4:00 p.m., which was perfect timing to get back to Birmingham in order to get Kane and Jude to Mary's house and Reed to Ramey's house and us to a bar by 9:00 for New Year's Eve. At that time, Reed still hadn't had a nap at all, so I thought he might just sleep the whole way home. Jason drove, and the rest of us fell asleep pretty quickly. Around 5:00, we all woke up, and Reed started to fuss and cry. I thought he was poopy, but he wasn't, so he went back in his seat and we pressed on. We cried for the majority of the rest of the trip, until about 8:00. He literally cried for most of the time from 5:00 until 8:00. I managed to make it to 6:30 before I started to cry. I can't really explain what it was like to sit there, listening to him really crying, not just fussing or being irritable, for three hours straight in that particular situation. We were far from home, and didn't really have any option other than to continue to try and get home. We stopped three or four times to change his diaper and mess with him some, and that would calm him down for a few minutes. But within five minutes of being back in his seat he'd start crying again. He had diarrhea, which really helped things along, let me tell you. Having the burning poo on a road trip as an adult is difficult enough; having it when you poop in your pants and can't describe what you're feeling and are forced to be strapped in to a seat must be awful. We tried giving him water, juice, and snacks, playing with him, giving him toys, nothing worked. I was about 50% concerned about my child, about his welfare and his state of mind, and about 50% concerned that I might just throw myself out the window at any given moment. It was the longest three hours of my life, worse than pregnancy, worse than the hour I spent pushing his almost-eight-pound body out of my vagina. There is no epidural for the pain and discomfort of travel, folks. It was HARROWING. By the time we made it home, Reed's face and my face were swollen and red, and we were both stinky and dirty, and I was ready to quit this thing called life and get a heroin habit already.

But, we made it through. I've already been saying, "Maybe next year Reed should stay at my mom's when we go up there. Or maybe we should just have ONE Christmas party at our house and tell EVERYONE that if they want to see us at Christmas, they'll just have to come to our house." I don't know yet. All I know is that I have learned that my instincts should not always be chalked up to fear and paranoia; SOMETIMES I'M ACTUALLY RIGHT.

Isn't it ironic; don't you think?

Of course our Wii is faulty. OF COURSE IT IS. Why would we expect to NOT be one of the random people who purchases one of the random faulty consoles? I don't know why were so insolent.

So now we just have to wait four to five days for Nintendo to get back in touch with us, and find out what they shall have us do. There are much worse things in the world than a Wii that freezes up four times in the first hour-and-a-half that it's used and then inumerable times the next day, BUT I JUST CAN'T THINK OF ANY RIGHT NOW, FOR THE LOVE OF MARIO AND LUIGI.

Yeah, you heard right.

Yeah, you heard right.
Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

So, we just accidentally managed to get ahold of a
Wii today.

We were at Target, and we noticed a lot of activity in the electronics section, so we went to check it out. There in all their pristine beauty were two Wiis in the display case. I literally gasped and grabbed Jason's arm and said, "They HAVE some."

One was being taken out and purchased as we walked up. There was one Wii left and two people in front of us. Well, one lady, and three teenage boys who were waiting together. Jason instinctively wanted to leave and check other places to see if there were more. I instinctively wanted to stay and see if we could strangle those three boys, hide the bodies, and buy the Wii.

We waited and watched as the first lady in line led the sales person to a different section and did NOT buy that Wii. While we waited I walked up to the boys and asked if they were waiting to buy it. They said, "Yes ma'am, we are. Well, maybe. We don't know. How much is it?" I was like, "Where the fuck have you shut-ins been, mothafucka? They're $250. If you guys aren't sure that you're buying it, I'm going to wait in line behind you because I want it bad." They were like, "Yes ma'am."

Jason was still anxious to leave, so he went to Best Buy to see if they had any. I dutifully waited to see what would happen.

When the sales person finally got to them, they asked him how much it was and then stood there looking at each other as if they were thinking, "Well, I already HAVE one gold monkey and thirteen Dead Sea scrolls, so MAYBE I need a Wii." So I piped up, "Uh, if these guys don't want that last Wii, I DEFINITELY DO, so I've got dibs if they don't buy it."

At that point, they ALL looked at me like I was senile, and the sales guy said, "There are more in the back." I literally threw my arms up in the air, touchdown-style, and said, "I WANT ONE. I WANT ONE NOW. I WANT TO BUY ONE."

And I swear, it was like I had suddenly entered some alter universe in which no one had heard of or cared anything about the Nintendo Wii, because they acted like me and about a million other people hadn't just spent the last four weeks making 147 phone calls a day to Wal-Mart (the devil), Target (Heaven), Best Buy, Circuit City, and Game Stop and promising we'd never buy a new sweater again if we could just find a Wii.

BUT WHO CARES; I GOT A WII FOR CHRISTMAS!!! Kane and Jude who???

What the HELL are you supposed to do with all those boxes and wrappingpaper?

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Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

Reed's answer: eat 'em.

This has been a wonderful Christmas. I got a sweet purse and Friends Scene It from Jason, and lots of other cool stuff from everybody else. The best part is all the time I've gotten to spend with everyone.

Things are going well here at Casa de Agan. It makes me wish even harder that I could stay home with Reed. But, you know, such is life.

We're going out to eat tonight with a bunch of our buddies, and I'm sure it will prove to be a good time. Any restaurant that is commonly known as "Fuckin' Hung's" MUST be good, right?

And many mooooooooooooore!

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Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

This sign was in the yard across the street from Jason's brother's house on Christmas Eve. I think it's awfully nice that Jesus wants us to buy EACH OTHER X Boxes and Playstations on HIS birthday; don't you?

We wish you a merry Christmas.

Did y'all notice that it's Christmas time? It is.

For some people, Christmas time means nothing at all. For some, it means lots and lots of presents. For some, it means baby Jesus was born. For some people, it's a time to spend time with your family and friends, and be thankful for all the wonderful times you have in your life.

As for me, I'm just enjoying these many hours I'm able to spend with my very favorite people in the world, and I'm praying that every single person I've ever known is able to slow down and be happy and take some time to enjoy the blessings that they have. No matter how many hardships you've endured, or disappointments you've suffered, there is SOMETHING to be thankful for. For me, it's Reed, and Jason, and all the other people who I love to love.

What are you thankful for this year? I bet there's something.

Twee Agan.

If we ever have another baby, I hope it's a girl, and I'm going to name her Twee. I think it's important for everyone to know that; if we ever have a little girl, she will be Twee Agan. I shall call her Twee, and she shall be mine. She will be my Twee.

It has been really really wonderful being with Reed these past few days. I have always been aware that I'm missing out on a lot when I'm at work for nine-and-a-half hours every day, but these days have made me painfully aware. He talks so much; he sits down with his toys and just plays, plays, plays and talks and laughs. He talks to me, too. He tells me long, drawn-out stories that I'm pretty sure involve me, and he gives me his toys so that I can play with them, too. When Jason gets home from work, he gets the biggest smile on his face and runs to the door and literally just stands and waits for it to open. Jason told me that, the last few days of work before my vacation, Reed would start to ask for me towards the end of the day. This is HUGE for me, to know, to have evidence, that he thinks of me and misses me when I'm not here.

This morning, I decreed that Jason should go to McDonald's and get us biscuits. While he was gone, I was sitting in the rocking chair and Reed was playing with his toys when he sat down in a basket and couldn't get up. It's the classic scenario, sometimes played out with garbage cans, in which Person falls in either head- or butt-first and can't get back out. And what did I do? Did I gently pull him back out and make sure that he was okay? NO, SILLY, I laughed my ass off and got the camera, that's what I did. He cried and fussed for about the first 45 seconds, but then he became strangely resolved to his fate. He got completely calm, and just hung out in the basket. He talked a little, explored his surroundings, and gazed out the window. Ah, that we could ALL have the ability to adapt so quickly.

Bourbon balls and boogers.

You know it's Christmas when some very loud guy from the print shop is running around here giving you his bourbon balls. Well, he didn't actually give me any; he just kept saying to me, "YOU'RE underage." But, how nice everyone I work with is, because two or three people gave me their bourbon balls when they found out I didn't get one. Nothing says "Baby Jesus is born!" like a hunk of whiskey, chocolate, and coconut that you can't eat before driving.

Reed has learned a new trick. Yesterday while I was at work Reed was sitting in his highchair, having some lunch, when Jason felt the urge to wee wee. So, he walked the ten feet from the kitchen to the hall bathroom, closed the door, and started to wee wee. He said after a moment he heard slow, steady footsteps coming down the hallway. He stopped midstream which is so painful and bad for you if you're a guy, and started to freak out because someone was in the house. Suddenly, the bathroom door was FLUNG open, and there stood REED holding a spoon and babbling at Jason. The part about this that is the funniest and most curious is that Reed managed to get out of his highchair, to get up and climb out of it, without making any noise at all. This means that he didn't fall or jump out of it, but that he somehow scaled down the side to the floor.

Also, Reed has learned how to stick his finger in his nose. I wouldn't really call it picking so much as poking; I don't think that he gets yet that there are treasures to be harvested from that cavity. He just likes to stick his finger in there. It's a little freaky sometimes how far up there he can get that thing. I mean, think, honestly, about how far you can stick your finger up your nose- I bet about an inch for most folks, which probably brings you about a third to a quarter of the way down your finger. You can get about a third or a quarter of your finger into your nose successfully. Well, REED CAN KICK YOUR ASS, SUCKERS because he can get his in there about half-way which, relatively speaking, is FREAKY. He is dedicated, too; he will continue sticking it further and further until his eyes actually start to water up from the pain BECAUSE YOUR NOSTRIL IS ONLY SO BIG, PEOPLE.

Feliz Navi- blaaaarrgh!

This is my first Christmas season at this job, so I'm new to all of the traditions here with my coworkers. One of the traditions is to go out to lunch together on the last day of work before Christmas break. They pass around a little sheet where you can write in a suggestion for where we go; my boss said "you know, if you have a favorite place or some place that you really like to go, you can write it in."

So when the list got to me, the only suggestions so far were a place called Bright Star that I'd never heard of, and Highlands Bar and Grill which I have heard of and it intimidates me a little bit, mainly because I could pay for about four months of Kane and Jude's school lunches for the amount it would cost for me to eat there once. With no appetizer. And only water to drink. So, I couldn't decide what the hell to suggest. I mean, MY favorite place to eat is a little place called Moe's, where you can get a burrito the size of Lindsey's niece for about $5 (for real, Ava is teeny tiny, but quite big for a burrito). So I sat there and mulled it over, and for some reason that I can not fathom all I could come up with was Cafe Dupont. I've been there once, many years ago when they were still located in Springville, and it was really delicious. It is also pretty expensive; I guess that's why I thought of it- I felt too embarrassed to pick any place that I would actually regularly go when the last person had suggested Highlands.

So I wrote in my little suggestion and passed it on. A few days later I heard the department secretary saying, "They keep pickin' all these expensive places; why are they pickin' all these expensive places?" And, you know, I get it. I don't generally go to expensive places either. So when the sheet got passed around again so that we could all vote, I voted for the Fish Market because it is really quite tasty and price is midrange- not cheap, but not sell-your-children expensive, either.

Well, Bright Star ended up winning, and while the website looks quite nice and the prices are pretty steep, people outside of work keep telling me how nasty and creepy and not good it is. Jason was like, "Ew, call ahead of time and check the health rating, because I've heard some TERRIBLE stuff about that place!" So now I'm terribly excited about going there and paying them $30 to give me e coli, because THAT STUFF DOES NOT COME CHEAP, no ma'am.

Jason and I were musing over the whole thing a couple of nights ago at the dinner table. I was saying how I felt stupid for suggesting Cafe Dupont, and I said, "I should have just thought of a good Mexican restaurant and suggested that; maybe we'd be going there instead. But, you know, I don't think they like Mexican food the way I do."

At this, Jason choked on his spaghetti. After he regained his composure, he said, "Buffy, MEXICANS do not like Mexican food the way you do."

'Tis the season to be bloated and miserable.

The director of the library brought in not one, not two, but THREE different kinds of sweet treats for us today, made by his loving and dedicated wife. There is a sour cream pound cake with some sort of crunchy, nutty, cinnamony topping, three different kinds of fudge, and a large tin of cookies from an old family recipe. He brought them in at 9:30 this morning; let's just say that I'm a little nauseated by now.

I was thinking that I wish that I had the time to make things to send to work with Jason for his coworkers; but what do you send to a bakery? I couldn't really send them cookies and cakes; they'd all just be like, "Yeah, I can do this better." Porterhouse steaks? Chips and joints? Strippers? Porterhouse steaks and chips and joints and strippers? I think I'm on to something.

Reason #962 why I married Jason: He rubs my sock-wrinkles.

You say it's your birthday?

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Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

Yesterday was Reed's first birthday party, his first time eating pizza, his first time having "Happy Birthday" sung to him, and his first time sucking on a pair of Nikes.

It was a good day.

And I feel that time's a wasted go.

This morning on the way to work I heard the unplugged version of Plush by Stone Temple Pilots on the radio. As the audience started to clap and whistle, I was thinking that if I'd been there back then, I would have yelled "I love you, Scott Weiland!!"

Over the years, I've had crushes on quite a few lead singers. I found people like Scott Weiland and Eddie Vedder to be raw, passionate, and dangerous. And when you're right in the middle of some teenage angst, especially girly teenage angst, the idea of someone who might toss you around a bit while he kisses you passionately and talks about starving children in Botswana is really quite divine.

One of the sadder things about growing up is that a lot of these guys have a lot of faults, many of which have been exposed over the years. We all have faults, but as a seventeen-year-old girl, I just didn't think, "Oh, I bet Kurt Cobain's heroin habit and incessant whining about how hard fame is would REALLY wear on my fucking nerves after a while." I held these people in such high regard, and it's hard to think of them as imperfect, or joyless, or boring, or irritating, or dangerous- not dangerous in that sexy way, but in that way that you might go to jail for several years for possession even though you didn't even know that he HAD the damn stuff in his pocket. (This doesn't really apply to Eddie Vedder; he is beautiful and perfect and I will never speak badly of him, even if he CAN manage to fall off of a stool midsong on camera.)

The funniest part about these thoughts that I was having on the way to work was realizing that, after all these years and all these crushes, I married a sexy lead singer.

But I got very lucky, because I have learned his faults over the years and they're beautiful, and warranted, and won't cause me to have to serve hard time. I'm also lucky because he's learned my faults, and he's still here, and he loves me FOR them, not in spite of them. Lastly, I'm lucky because he makes me better all the time.

Oh. And also because he is damn fine when he's makin' love to that microphone.

There's frost on the punkin.

I found this definition, thought you would enjoy:

Catharsis may refer to:
* Catharsis, a term used to describe ritual, punitive and other forms of purification for religious and other uses and is also applied to emotional release
* (medicine) the effect of a cathartic, which is a strong laxative

Sometimes we all need to take a poop, I guess.

I got this in a message from a good friend, and decided I'd like to share it here. Because we DO all need to take a poop sometimes.

I've discovered that I'm much more resilient and sure of myself than I previously thought. I've also figured out that my family is my touchstone, and having them grounds me in a way that I just hadn't realized before. This is a place where I come to make sense, and sometimes comedy, out of my daily life. To be able to get it all out, to get it away from me so I can judge it from further away, is cathartic.

I think it can best be summed up by Cher from Clueless, as I'm sure most things can be:

"It's like a painting, see? From far away, it's OK, but up close, it's a big old mess."

Overheard in the electronics section at Target.

14-Year-Old Girl: Ah! You'll spend, like, $250 on a purse, but you won't spend $200 on an iPod Nano? THAT IS WACKED.

Chubby Redneck Dad: You've got an iPod already! I don't want to hear anything else about it.

14-Year-Old Girl: Psh. Whatever.

One year.

Reed,

Today is your birthday. You've been here with us for 365 days and nights. You were born at 2:52 p.m., so technically, at this time, you were still hanging out in my warm, inviting uterus saying "Ain't no WAY I'm going out there."

There were times in the beginning when I thought that I might not make it. I spent many nights standing over your crib, back aching, praying to God that you might sleep so I might sleep. I just don't think that many women realize what it's like to only be able to sleep for two hours at a time for several weeks straight. I sure didn't. I think I may have held you too much when you were tiny. Sometimes when I'd finally get you to sleep, I would just hold you and rock you and stare at your tiny face; before I knew it, nap time had passed and you were awake again, without my ever having put you down in your crib. There were days when your daddy would come home from work and I wouldn't have peed all day, because I'd just been holding you and talking to you and feeding you and singing to you, and the moment he'd come through the door I'd say, "TAKE HIM BEFORE I WET MYSELF." My point is that I never wanted to take my eyes off of you.

I stayed home with you for eight weeks after you were born. The first day that I went back to work at the library was one of the hardest days I've ever faced. I cried the whole way there, because I felt like leaving you was the most awful thing I could possibly do. I felt like you deserved better; you deserved a mom who could find a way to stay with you and be with you and talk and sing and laugh all day long. I still sometimes feel like my heart is being squeezed and crushed when I think about the fact that I spend so many hours every day away from you. To miss even a single giggle, or a single word, or a single bumped noggin makes me feel like a failure, and I'm sorry for that.

I'm sorry that I'm so far from perfect, that I don't smile all the time, that I can't be happy every single moment we're together. I'm working on that, and I hope that I'll have it fixed by your next birthday. I want you to know a happy childhood, to remember these times in fuzzy snapshots of daddy and me hugging, and laughing, and kissing you over and over again. Having you has also made me much closer to your brothers, and that's something that I'll never be able to thank you enough for.

You have just over the past few weeks started saying "mama" sincerely and often. It makes me feel like the most important, and the most humble, person in the whole wide world every time you say it. I hope that you'll always call me mama. You've also started "asking" me to pick you up; you'll stand next to my legs and lift your arms up and look up at me like you're thinking, "Lift, please." I can't really explain how tiny, how vulnerable you feel in my arms, how fiercely I want to protect you and make you smile. It is a feeling so intense that there are moments when I feel like I have to decompress, take a break and breathe for a minute, because your safety consumes me so completely.

Right now you like to watch Teletubbies and Dawson's Creek. I think a little television is okay, but I don't try to push it on you because I want you to grow up knowing how to use your brain, to be creative and play without having someone else make up all the stories for you. You really love Teletubbies, and your favorite parts involve the actual teletubbies, not the parts with the videos of other children. You mainly just like the intro to Dawson's Creek; with the very first beat of the song you will stop WHATEVER you're doing and listen and smile. This CRACKS ME UP because your aunt Lindsey has been telling me for so long that you are a Gilmore Girls fan and I've never understood it, and now I know that your true love is the Creek. THIS I can understand, because we all need a little high school drama from time to time, a few scenarios in which things happen that would never happen in real life to people who are much too pretty and perfect to be real people and who use run-on sentences filled with words that I don't even know the meaning of.

You started walking around ten months, and you haven't stopped since. You work up such a momentum that I'm always afraid you're going to run into things and hurt yourself. We put foam covers over the corners of the coffee table to protect your huge melon, and your aunt Kristi has tested them thorougly and finds them to be totally acceptable.

When you were born, you were on the large side of average, but since then you've grown so quickly that you've almost been off the growth charts at every doctor visit. Your height, weight, and head circumference have stayed at least in the ninetieth percentile, most times higher, since your first doctor visit at two weeks. At your ten-month visit, Dr. Walley told us that you were the average size of a fifteen month old baby. Daddy and I often joke, when we see other little roly poly babies, that you could totally take any other baby in a cage match. I bet you could.

You exhibit so much of both your daddy and me that it's astonishing. Most recently, you've shown us how much of our own attitudes you've inherited. I can finally see what it must be like for daddy to deal with my smart ass when I deal with your smart ass. Anyone who ever thought that someone who can't form sentences can't be a smart ass is wrong, buddy, because when you hit me in the face with the ball end of your bulb syringe when I'm trying to get you to give me kiss, I GET IT. And I love you even more for it, because I'm so excited about raising someone and spending the rest of my life with someone who is witty and independent.

Over the last couple of months we've really started to let you eat grown-up food, and Reed, you really are your mother's son- you have a real affinity for Mexican food. You eat pinto beans as fast as I can give them to you, and you also really like the beef and bean mixture that we make for nachos. We also discovered, just a couple of weeks ago, that you take after your daddy in your love for olives, because let me tell you, you did not get that from me. But I love you even with your olive breath. I will always love you, baby, no matter what you eat, what kind of music you like, what you like to read, or who you want to be with. My only request is that you never, NEVER, become a republican.

I hope that daddy and I can help you to grow into a smart, kind, compassionate man, and I warn you that any girl you bring home will have to go through a rigorous acceptance process that is only for your own good. While big boobs might get her under daddy's radar, I am going to require a brain akin to my own and the same hatred for yo-boys that I possess. Yes, that's my other request- that you never become a yo-boy.

Reed, I just really want you to know how much you've changed my life and how grateful I am, for that change and for you. You are so beautiful, and so perfect, and so important to me, and I try to show you every day. I think you saved me in a lot of ways that no one else could have, and I will repay you for the rest of my life in hugs and kisses and snuggles. I hope that what I can give you is enough to make your life full and warm and safe and happy, because that is what I want for you every minute of every day. I will never know love with anyone else the way that I know it with you. I can't wait for the beginning of every day, for that moment that you wake up and start telling me how your night was. The way your little head feels against my cheek makes me thank God that I am alive, and that I made it to this place in my life.

I love you,

Mama

The tiny wrench of doom.

11-29-06_1650.jpg
Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

This little orange light serves to inform me that LIFE IS SHIT and I shouldn't bother trying to keep my head above water.

Also, I'm just trying out my new Flickr blogging stuff.

The Christmas tree, the Christmas tree.

I'm having trouble making a decision about the Christmas tree this year.

On one hand, a Christmas tree is a lovely decoration; it sets the living room aglow with light perfect for chugging eggnog and resenting yet another load of gift boxes stuffed with socks, underwear, and sweaters with cats on them. It's beautiful and festive and it sets the mood and it looks nice from the street.

On the other hand, I still find needles from LAST YEAR'S tree from time to time. It makes such a mess, and it's such a pain in the ass to haul in, and then haul out, and then clean up after. There are needles on the window sill, under the rug, on top of the rug, on our clothes, under the sofa, everywhere. And this might be fun if the needles I'm referring to were syringes and we were heroin addicts; alas, we're not that lucky. I'm referring to the green variety that will appeal intensely to the superhero who lives in our house and is known as "ILOVETOEATTHINGSOFFTHEFLOOR-MAN". A decorated Christmas tree is lovely and perfect for about one hour after going up and being decorated. After that, it's only a matter of time before Reed is sitting underneath it eating glass ornaments. The cats will knock those balls off of it, the limbs will start to droop, water will inevitably leak or be spilled from the base, and did I mention THE NEEDLES?

So I just don't know. I'm still thinking about it. Maybe we'll hang a nice wreath on the front door and call it a day. But if you are in need of some Christmas cheer, if you need to see the Christmas spirit solidified by a woman who literally spends eight months of the year getting her decorations perfected and lit, check out this lady. She's got the shit you need.

Rudy, the red-beaked reindeer, you'll go down in history!

So, now it's time for Christmas shopping and Christmas music and peppermint mochas and fighting for a parking space even if all you need is tampons and vodka. I LOVE this time of year, just as much as I hate it. I've actually got about half of my Christmas shopping done, which is kind of a relief, and I know what I'm going to get for many of the people whom I haven't bought for yet, so it's not too shabby.

This time is sort of hectic, because there are just so many DAYS in a row, you know? First it's Thanksgiving, then Jason's birthday, then our anniversary (tomorrow!!), then Reed's birthday, then Christmas.

Thanksgiving was nice and pretty relaxed; we ate at my mom's house, and then Jason had to go to work at Terry's, because, jeez, SOMEBODY has to sell Leedsites their liquor on a family holiday, right?

Jason's birthday was fun; we managed to throw him a surprise party at which he was so concerned that someone might be in the house that he made me go inside first. Then we all literally stood in a circle and passed around a bottle of Alize until it was gone.

Tomorrow is our third anniversary as "The Agans". We don't really have anything planned, but I imagine we'll do homework with the kids, cook dinner and then clean up, do some laundry, try and deal with Grumpy Smurf, and then pass out from exhaustion. You cannot handle this much hot sexiness, I tell ya.

Next is Reed's birthday; I have eight days and I haven't bought or sent invitations, or called anyone, or bought any presents. I am RIGHT ON TOP OF THINGS.

Then it's Christmas which usually isn't too hectic, except for trying to get us AND Kane and Jude to my mom's house, then my dad's house, and somewhere that Jason's parents will be, all in the couple of days that we have with them over Christmas vacation since they go and stay with their mom for the holidays. Besides THAT it's smooth sailing.

So, for right now, I'm thinking Christmas Presents. You should all be very excited, because I have some very special things in mind. I hope you've been nice, because if you've been naughty, I don't know what Santa might bring you!

Like strawberry wine.

Last week, an old friend of mine called me on the phone. I hadn't talked to Misty in at least five or six years, and maybe longer than that. I honestly can't remember the last time I talked to her.

Misty got pregnant and had her first baby when we were seventeen. She dropped out of school to raise Madison. I was so intrigued and jealous; I remember thinking that I could get pregnant with my boyfriend Jimmy, and that we could totally handle all the responsibility and PLUS then maybe my mom would let me spend the night with him. THIS proves how book-learnin' doesn't always count for that much, and that young women can be BLIND AND STUPID when it comes to babies, marriage, and boys and their potential as life-partners and fathers. Luckily Misty's situation was much better than mine would have been, had I decided to start a family with a nineteen-year-old boy who drove a Maverick that broke down regularly and lived in a house where we often sat around and listened to gun shots and then tried to guess at which neighboring house someone had just been killed.

Misty married Drue, Madison's daddy, and I was a bridesmaid in her wedding. They went on to have another baby, Clayton, and she got her GED, went back to school, and became a dental hygienist (I think; if I'm wrong, Misty, I'm sorry).

Now she's divorced AND remarried, and is very happy and lives just down the street from us. We talked and Madison and Clayton are, respectively, the same age and at the same school as Kane and Jude. We decided that we really should get together with the kids so they can play and hang out, and without the kids so WE can play and hang out. We laughed about old jokes, and about Misty telling me after she had Madison that the placenta looks like a blue potroast, an observation that Jason has always vehemently agreed with.

When we talked about my family, all my boys, she immediately said, "Oh, Buffy, so you don't have ANY help, do you? You do all the laundry." And I had this momentary, tiny release, just a little spurt of "JESUS thank you." It was just this miniscule sense of commeraderie knowing that I was talking to someone who immediately got that shit is nuts at my house sometimes. Jason helps out plenty, but he is a BOY, folks; he generally, and admittedly, just doesn't really think about laundry and dishes and scrubbing the tub that much on his own.

Just yesterday, I bought a few of those Arm and Hammer fridge and freezer packs that are supposed to suck up odors in your fridge and freezer, and I told Jason that we needed to clean out the fridge and put those in there because some of the stuff, the milk and the water, smelled and tasted funny lately. Jason replied, "I'm glad you think about that stuff, because I just DON'T." And, you know, I get it. I wish that I didn't think about all that stuff so much. But I guess one person in the relationship has to; otherwise we'd be drinking milk that tasted like the floppy carrots that were still in the refridgerator after three weeks.

Could you please pass the "DO WHAT?"

So, we're having dinner with Jason's family tonight for his birthday at Guadalajara in Pelham, which means MARGARITAS and CONFUSION!!!

The margaritas I'm kind of excited about; I don't think I've had a margarita since before I got pregnant with Reed.

The confusion is just a family tradition with the Agans; who's paying the bill, who's ordering what, whose child is trying to break the gumball machine, whose drink is this, who knows? It's all in good fun, and it only takes about two hours to get out of the restaurant once the bill has been paid. And then it only takes about another two hours to figure out where all the children are going and with whom, and then to get everyone to their cars. That's just how they roll.

I'm getting much more used to it, but I've got to tell you, the alcohol helps. When I was pregnant and couldn't drink, I had to remind myself to bring a strap of leather to bite down on during these family get-togethers, if only to keep from grinding my teeth down to the gums during a particularly long game of "Wait, I have some coupons." But the drinking keeps the tooth-grinding down to a minimum- perhaps I grind just a tiny bit when we all start trying to get in touch with Mary to find out if Kane and Jude can spend the night with Jason's mom, and then AFTER we finally do and she says yes, Kane and Jude tell us that they want to go home to their mom's house and we have to try and get back in touch with Mary BEFORE she gets to Tijuana for the evening. But, you know, no big deal.

Who knows? Maybe Jason and I will end up in Tijuana after dinner tonight. I'll have to be sure and pack some disinfectant wipes...

On husbands.

Jason's birthday is this Friday, and I'm taking him out to eat. I told him he should pick the place, because it's his birthday.

So where are we going?

Whataburger.

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

There's a sad little Christmas tree, a fake one that's three feet tall with no decorations, on a table in between a large paper cutter and a basket of dum-dums in the middle of our office. I find it to be very depressing, and a little comical.

Today is the Iron Bowl, a historic and very serious event for Alabamians. College football is big everywhere, I suppose, but it is religion down here. Auburn University and the University of Alabama sending their football teams to GO AT IT is a big deal, I guess because they're both local to us. Auburn is about two hours away, and Tuscaloosa is about an hour away.

When I was in second grade, I smiled at a cute boy named Dan Baker in P.E. one day. That afternoon in the lunch room, he sent me a note that said, "Check one. Do you like Alabama or Auburn?" I checked Alabama, and by that afternoon we were "going together". THAT is how important this game is; your allegiance can determine the path that your life is going to take.

Today I am wearing a red shirt, a really cute v-neck with three-quarter sleeves. The fact that it is red is the significant part- I am "wearing my color". I have never been a big football fan, but every year, I must admit, I feel a tiny twinge of excitement on game day, the only "game day" that I notice all year long.

My dad has always been an Alabama fan, so that has always been my team, too. I'm pretty sure that, in years past, he and his buddies would watch the game and drink a few beers. One particular year, when I was about ten or eleven, my dad came home after a particularly tense and unpredictable game that had ended in Alabama's defeat wearing an Auburn hat. Let me reiterate that I'm not a big football fan. But for some reason, that moment SCARED THE SHIT out of me. I thought, "Okay, it's the end of the world as I know it, Michael Stipe, and my dad has lost his mind." I kept asking him if he'd changed his mind, and it wasn't until several years later that I realized that he was being sarcastic when he replied, over and over again, "Well, Buffy, I just realized that Auburn is the better team."

Today I'm wearing my color and supporting my team for my dad. I don't know if he'll watch the game, and I don't know if he'll be able to enjoy it, but I'm stepping in to ensure that Alabama won't find themselves one fan short today.

ROLL TIDE, BITCHES!!!

My dad had his prostate surgery on Monday. I spent several hours with him in the hospital, and it was a scary experience. He was in some pain, and was generally uncomfortable, and was pale and, I think, a little scared.

You know, I've never been close to my dad. I've always wished that we had the kind of relationship that I have with my mom- close, comfortable, honest. But it's just never been that way. I was a disappointment to him in my later teenage years, and that feeling seems to have stuck with him somehow. I partied, and didn't really care about college, and didn't really care about jobs, and I made bad grades and then stopped going to school altogether. I know that he wasn't just trying to be a wet blanket; he was worried about how I would get along once he wasn't here to help me out any more, trying to prepare me to be self-sufficient and all that.

I cleaned up my act a few years ago; I got things together. I held jobs, made money, got my ass back in school and made some good grades. I graduated and got a full time job that pays really well and has some great benefits. I got married and had a baby and added THREE grandchildren to his collection, not just one.

And still he's acted like I disappoint him, like he just doesn't know what to do with me. I've spent a lot of time resenting him for not being able to just say, "Good job." But I think I've finally let it go. Looking at him in his hospital bed, KNOWING that his fears are just like mine, I just let it go. I realize that you might think, "Well, you shoulda let it go a long time ago!" and that I might sound really bitchy. But old habits within families are hard to break; it's not always as easy as all that. I can't explain the way my heart felt, the way my stomach felt, sitting in the room with him. We were quiet, and we both just rested, and I listened closely when nurses or doctors came to talk to him.

He has high cholesterol; I didn't know that. He gets shooting pains in his left arm sometimes; I didn't know that. He bled a lot more than is normal with that surgery. He has some kind of benign heart condition, with a CRAZY name that I can't remember (bigeny something, something that made me think "By jeminy!" every time they said it), that makes every third heart beat come too fast every now and then. They sent four samples off after the surgery, and all four came back negative for cancer.

I am learning new things all the time these days. I learn. I DESERVE a pat on the back for that one, because not everyone can say that.

You speak any English?

Okay, I'm panicking. I'm reading a great book called Toxic Childhood, and I'm learning how to keep my kids active and healthy and not too engrossed in the computer and t.v.

But there is a list of 34 Life Skills Your Child Should Have By the Age of 12, and one of them is "Clean a cooker hob."

Um....

What? I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO CLEAN A COOKER HOB!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS A COOKER HOB?!?!?

Art Vandalay with black beans, no rice, and some camo.

I went to Moe's for lunch today, and I don't know what's going on, but there were a LOT of army people in there. Seriously, there were probably about fifteen or twenty army people there. I think they may have been recruiters, but I'm not sure. When I got in line, there were about ten army guys in line in front of me. Then, three army women came in behind me and got in line. I have to tell you, this one particular army woman, of course the one who was directly behind me, had absolutely no concept of personal space. First, she got RIGHT behind me. You know how you can just feel when someone is standing too close? And even if I didn't know at first that she was standing too close, I would have figured it out during any one of the FIFTEEN times she bumped in to me while we were in line. Sometimes she'd poke me with her elbow, sometimes she sort of brushed up against me with her whole body. I mean, she was within one foot of me at all times. If I moved, she moved. I'm not exagerrating here; it was creepy.

Before I move on, I'd like to say that I have friends who are or have been in the army. I am not passing judgement on the army as a whole, nor am I saying that I think army folk as a whole are stupid or unsavory or anything else. I am talking just about these particular women who could have avoided this whole thing if they hadn't practically wanted to INSPECT THE SEAMS ON MY CLOTHING or at least they might as well have while they were so close up. I'd like to add that this particular Moe's is the same Moe's where I was felt up by an army woman a few months ago.

Anyway.

What follows are some quotes, some actual bits of the conversation these women were having. Besides the content (some of which I personally find to be QUESTIONABLE, at the least), the sheer variety that these women achieved is mind-boggling. Keep in mind that I got my food to-go; this was all said in the time it took us to order and pay for our food. Keep in mind also that I don't usually eavesdrop, but seeing as how these women were having their conversation from a little porch they built right outside my eardrum, I could hardly tune them out.

"The American people just need to get that World War II back bone out!"

"You know that guy on the O'Reilly Factor? I LOVE him."

"They call MY son 'push-up Dave'!!!"

"The only way to be a decent drill sergeant is to learn how to go around the system."

"What about Black Monday? BLACK MONDAY. We're about to have another one of those. You know why? Because it's time for it to come around again."

"I want to know why Bush doesn't get all the credit he deserves."

"You know that we're being under-cut by the Asian market. Pretty soon, they're going to control the whole world."

"They're talking about going back to Vietnam. I think they should!!"

I think we can all see that the Moe's on Lakeshore in Homewood, Alabama is a HOT BED of political and military thought. Things are movin' and shakin' over there. Just watch out for your behind because somebody might pat it lovingly when you least expect it.