Miracle growed.

I've got a job interview tomorrow. I hope all goes well. After the interview, I'll tell you guys the name of the company and the names of all the people who work there along with some company secrets and scandals. HA. Just kidding. I'm going to find a much more creative way of getting fired this time, because getting fired because of your blog is SO five minutes ago.

It is so nice to have a semi-tolerable baby back again. The roseola thing definitely made me think seriously about making a sandwich sign that says "Don't have kids because they might get roseola and then you'll want to commit suicide by sticking your head into the garbage disposal." But then I started thinking that it would have to be a big sign to fit all that on there, and I'm pretty lazy, so I decided nevermind.

In other news, I have a whole lot of free time. I mean, there are entire days in which I just try and think of stuff to do that isn't "go to Target" and "clean the house", because you gotta mix it up, you know? It's always a bit of a race to the finish line, because I have to manage to take a shower at some point, and I have to be home by 3:30 for Kane and Jude, so there's this window of time in which I can do other things. Some days we go to the park, some days we ride around and take pictures, some days we see how many different things we can eat in one afternoon, like leaves, bark, dirt, rocks, and fertilizer. Tasty, huh? Maybe that's why Reed grows like a weed- all that fertilizer.

Somebody, just knock me out. Please, get it over with.

OH, SWEET MOSES, ROSEOLA. It is not as rosy as it appears to be on the surface.

My child has tested every single limit that exists in this world over the past week, and I am glad that it's over. He has tested the limits of my love for constant screaming, my love for being hit in the face repeatedly, my love for being thrown up on, and my limits for hitting myself in the head with a mallet until things don't seem so bad. There is an eventual point when you have to hit yourself in the head with a mallet a whole lot of fucking times before a fifteen-month-old with roseola doesn't seem so bad.

The best part was how the description of roseola in my Dr. Spock book, right after it says "Live long and prosper, losers", says that it starts with three to four days of high fever with no other symptoms before the rash shows up, and how we took him to the doctor after four days of high fever and the doctor never mentioned there could be some roseola coming. If I, Mrs. Undergraduate Philosophy herself, can read a book and say "Now I bet that's what it is", then the doctor with all that schooling and those HIGHEST BILLS THEY HAVE ought to be able to say, "Hm, it could be roseola." Instead he just kept saying that he didn't know what it was. The next morning Reed woke up covered in spots, which is really unfortunate because dots are so out this season. I had a panic attack right before Jason, in all his husband slash potsmoker glory, said, "Eh, he's fine." Then I talked to a nurse who was not at all reassuring who said if there was no high fever she didn't know what it was and there wasn't any reason to bring him in. (She did, however, make me laugh when she said, "It could be fifth's disease, like 'one, two, three, four, fifths'", because it makes me think of Dave Chappelle.)

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? They must not be parents, or else they must not be paranoid and crazy, one or the other, because they are all very nonchalant about not knowing what the fuck is going on with that hole in their asses, or is that the ground? WHO KNOWS?

Letting bygones be bygones. Or not.

A close friend called me recently and told me frantically that two people who work with her were getting fired for blogging about work. It is a RASH, people, and it's itchy, inflamed, and spreading wildly. These people left out the name of the company they worked for, but the one guy had his place of employment listed on his Myspace, so it's like a trail of clues. These people are INTERNET SLEUTHS, I tell you, and they're like, "HAH! WE WIN. And you're fired."

And, I get it. I get why they wouldn't want you running around saying a bunch of bad things about them, why they think that could be bad news. But, at the same time, where do you draw the line? Blogs published to the internet are totally public; anyone can look at it. But what if I stood in the middle of the street and starting yelling that my ex-boss was WOUND UP LIKE A CLOCK and really needed to be sedated? What if I stood there yelling these things as people were walking by, and a few passersby heard me? Could I get fired for that? What if I was sitting in a bar telling my friends that this boss couldn't speak correct English? Could I get fired for that? I just think it's a slippery slope that these employers are sliding down, because people should be able to talk about their lives, to say how their day went, and to vent about the things that bother them. If I had a bad experience at the doctor, or at the grocery store, or on the highway, I would come here and talk about it. I feel like it should be the same way with my work.

So, I think we should start a bloggers' union. The Union of Bloggers. UOB. I know at least two folks who'll join. UOB UNITE, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Party hats and even more baby Tylenol.

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Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

We spent the afternoon at the park today. We ran around and reclined in the grass for a while, which was good for all our spirits. I took Reed to the doctor this morning, and he apparently has some sort of random phantom virus that gives him the fevah, and nothing else. His ears are great, his throat is great, his nose is great, his chest is great. His appetite has waned a bit over the last couple of days, and that's when I really started to worry since I usually have to feed him live, whole cows to keep him sated. But the doctor said he's fine, if a bit sedate.

So I'm looking forward to this weekend, which is a little funny because every day is like Saturday for a jobless wench such as myself. It's a nonstop party over here these days, and I am RSVPing YES.

My baby got sauce; yo' baby ain't sweet like mine.

I met up with Kristi and Linnea yesterday for lunch at Bottletree, and it was really fantastic. I had the vegan chili (orgasm) and the roasted red pepper hummus (orgasm orgasm). The weather was just nice enough to sit outside and drink beers and smoke cigarettes and run our mouths. It was a nice afternoon, and something I needed. We all need to spend some time with our bitches sometimes.



Reed and I are both sick at this point. He's been feverish for a few days, so I'm taking him to the doctor tomorrow. I hope he gets better as soon as possible, but he has been SO SNUGGLY for the past few days. We snoozed together on the couch for several hours this morning. It was so relaxing, and I'm sorry that he has to be sick in order for us to share this closeness.

So far I'm just blowing my nose all over the place; I'm crossing my fingers that it won't progress into nasty cough, misery, suicide by codeine cough syrup mode. We'll see.

Baby Tylenol and a dry martini.

We officially have a sick baby. I'm not really even sure what's wrong with him; he had a fever today, but nothing else appears to be wrong with him. He was enjoying biting on his blanket earlier, so I figure it could be teething. He's had a bit of a runny nose, but it doesn't seem like enough to be a cold. But, never fear. He's been totally fussy and pissy and irreconcilably angry just the same. He did spend about an hour today in my lap, rocking in the rocking chair, just snuggling with me, and it felt really wonderful. It was nice to have that closeness for a little while. He snuggled his head against my chest and rested, and I nuzzled my nose into his hair (what little there is).

Jason and I have been considering some amazing and not entirely realistic plans for our financial/career futures. I'm not going to go into it until I'm totally sure what we're doing, but once we figure it out you guys will be the first to know. I mean, right after we tell my mom. And my dad. And Jason's parents and brothers. And our friends. You guys will be FIRST after them.

We have been enjoying the HELL out of the D80. It is a beautiful piece of photographic genius, and we treat it well. It sleeps in Reed's crib. We figured Reed was ready to move to the attic anyway.

This is what it looks like when it burns a hole in my pocket.

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Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

Right now, Jason and I are both standing next to the battery pack, staring at it and waiting for it to charge. Uh, Reed I guess is sticking butter knives into electrical sockets. I'm not really sure.

Old friends, new friends.

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Originally uploaded by buffpuff.

Stephanie came over for a while this afternoon, which was great because I really had to pee. Plus, now Reed has a girlfriend.

Leopard print pajama pants, pink houndstooth slippers, a black t-shirt that says "I'm your biggest fang!", and a blue housecoat. Very romantic.

Well, it's Valentine's day and I'm at home with Reed, and he didn't even buy me any candy. How rude.

Jason is in Atlanta for three days, so it looks like it will be a very Agan Valentine's here with Kane, Jude, Reed, and me. I'm thinking to celebrate I might get Kane and Jude to watch Reed this afternoon while I was dishes and try to find a place for all the random crap we have piled in random places. Scandalous, I know, but that's how I roll.

This situation is forcing me to choose between a nap and a shower when Reed is napping, and I gotta tell you, napping is ahead by a mile right now. Of course, I've just wasted a lot of my nap time on internetting. You guys are cool and all, but I'm going to bed.

Did you even know how many hours are in a day? I didn't.

Jason will be going to training in Atlanta for three days this week, and he'll be gone from Wednesday morning until Friday evening. I'm a little nervous about it.

First, I'm apprehensive about being away from Jason for that long. We've never spent that much time away from each other. I know that I'm a pansy, but I'll just miss him, you know? Besides, Reed hasn't learned how to make a good martini yet, so that means I'm going to have to get out of bed and make one MYSELF in the mornings, and that is just so MIDDLE CLASS, isn't it?

Plus, just the idea of three whole days without a single break, without anyone else in the house when I have to get Kane and Jude ready for school, or make supper, or clean up, or take a shower, or pee, or totally wig out to some Butthole Surfers while funneling Schlitz malt liquor and snorting cocaine. Just kidding! I DON'T TAKE SHOWERS!

How lucky that I got fired though, right? Jason wasn't going to be able to attend this particular training because there wouldn't have been anyone to take care of the kids while I was at work. But now I don't have to go to work! It's wonderful.

We were at home last night I MEAN TARGET, same difference, and we decided that we should hang some simple drapes up in the computer room over the sliding glass door. We have trouble keeping that room warm in the winter and cold in the summer, because the outside temperature just seeps right in through the glass. So I'm standing there, and I say, "Yeah, but I'm just having trouble thinking how long 84 inches actually is." Jason stands there for a minute, and then says, "Okay, hang on." And then he starts to unzip his pants.

How can I survive without this man for three whole days?

Anyone know of any good job openings?

So, life is taking a drastic but not altogether unwanted turn over here at Casa de Agan.

I got fired on Wednesday because of this blog. The director and a lady from human resources let me know that I had left them with no choice but to let me go. They said that because I had mentioned the name of my place of employment, as well as the name of a faculty member, and because I had mentioned a parent (not by name, just used the words "a parent"), they could be sued and they had no other option than to fire me. They said that because I talked about my job, I had to go.

I'd like to be able to say that I fought it, that I tried to explain that, not only had I never said anything derogatory about the place as a whole or their practices or policies, but also that surely I have some right to express my goofy-ass opinions about my daily life. But, in fact, I sat there nodding my head, mouth hanging open, and every now and then uttering, "Okay."

So, I spent Wednesday afternoon TOTALLY FREAKING OUT on the inside, and smiling on the outside along with deep breaths and large sips of beer. I felt like a total failure, like an idiot, like I had totally disrespected my husband and children by being such a moron.

In the days since then, I've done a few things. I've applied for a couple of jobs. I've cleaned and cleaned and cleaned- mopped and scrubbed and swept and laundered. I have discovered that my husband has a profound ability to support me unconditionally, and I continue to love and respect him more every day because of that. Also he makes really good bread.

I've gone back in my blog and removed any mention by name of my employer or anyone who worked with me. And I just want to say that amounted to 4 posts, 4 posts out of 92 that had a name in them. It might not even be necessary at this point, now that they've fired me, to remove that information but I figured it would be the best move on my part. Plus, I wanted to be able to talk about this change, this one right here, so I thought making my ex-employer anonymous might make that a little more tolerable for them.

And you all can remain calm- I'm not going to start shouting phrases like "constitutional rights" and words like "violated". I'm sure they were well within their rights in firing me; Alabama doesn't have a lot of restrictions an an employer's right to get rid of you any time they feel so inclined. But something does seem wrong somehow that I can be canned just for talking about my daily life.

But, it's onward and upward. I feel better every day knowing that I can get through this, and that I have the love and support of my family in the meantime. Plus this time gives me a chance to get my alchohol tolerance back up to it's previous equivalent with that of an 800 lb. trucker. See? It's all in how you use the time you've got.

Creeping feelings of humiliation and regret: $0

Inflamed sense of righteous indignation: $0

The opportunity to take a nap: $0

Hanging out with Reed and Jason all day long, taking showers in the middle of the day, doing the laundry, eating lunch at home while dodging flying bits of meatstick, rocking Reed to sleep, drinking coffee in front of the tv, watching Reed rock out to an iPod commercial: Priceless.

Failing at giving it a shot.

We are currently on a wild hunt for a daycare for Reed, and it's giving me the constipation a little bit. I just CLENCH UP, you know? On February 19 Jason will start a new job where he works until noon, which means that from eight until noon, Reed is going to have to find some place to go because I'm not going to put up with him messing up the house while I'm not there. So we're looking into daycare because the dog track said he's too young to bet, and too little to race, plus he doesn't like wearing those numbers they have to wear.

This daycare thing raises a couple of problems which, to some, may seem not so big, but in my head they've turned gigantic, tyrranosaurus rex, bloated McDonald's-eating sized, so this process is really fun for Jason.

First, we literally don't have any spare money at the moment. We just don't. It's difficult to pay the bills we have, so I'm just not sure that adding another bill is the way to go. I realize that there may not be any other option, but if the one option is to spend money that we don't have, I'm just not sure that it's an option at all.

Second, I am profoundly uncomfortable with sending Reed to daycare. It's a lot of stuff, really. I don't like the idea of someone else raising my kid, even someone who's nice and sweet and all that. The idea of Reed doing things or saying things or behaving in ways that I or someone very close to me didn't teach him makes my skin crawl right off of my body. Plus, right now while he's too young to talk and explain and TATTLE I will never be sure that he's being treated well, that someone isn't doing things to him that would make me show up with a shovel saying, "Okay, just put your head right here on this table and don't move it." And I'm not even talking about the really awful stuff that I'm not going to bother detailing here so that I can avoid ripping my fingernails right off my hand. I'm talking about stuff like grabbing his arm and jerking him around, or calling him names that I don't like, or getting up in his face to yell at him, or using a "technique" that the person thinks she saw on Supernanny a couple of weeks ago. And I'm not just coming up with this stuff; these are things that I've seen in daycares, GOOD daycares that I've worked in. And I just don't like it.

And then Jason says stuff like, "Well, I just definitely DON'T want to send him to this place, because So-and-So's sister's cousin had a kid that went there and they did BAD things to him." And the next thing I know I'm hyperventilating and throwing up in a bag in the corner yelling, "Wait for me, Jesus! Wait for me, I'm comin'!" Because it is EXACTLY THIS, this fact that bad things happen and it's difficult to predict them or prevent them, that makes me ill. Add to that the fact that we don't have the money to get the best daycare possible, to pick and choose, and I just don't know if I can do it.

I KNOW that lots and lots of kids have great experiences in daycares, that they learn how to play with other kids and they learn songs and do fun activities, and have teachers who they love and remember for the rest of their lives. I know that plenty of people send their kids to daycare and feel safe and secure in their choices. And that's fine. I'm not saying that daycare is bad or that it's a bad choice. I'm saying that it is not the choice for me, that it is not what I want to do.

When Reed was a tiny baby, Jason and I were talking about it, and I was telling Jason all this stuff, and Jason said, "Well I went to daycare and I turned out okay!" And I said, "But Reed is a tiny baby! Were you tiny baby when your mom sent you to daycare?" "Yes." "Oh. How old were you?" "I was three."

THREE, he says. Reed wasn't three then, and he's not three now. When Reed is three, he'll be able to tell me what he did that day, and whether or not he likes his teacher and friends. But he can't do that right now. Besides that, Kane and Jude never went to daycare either. So it just feels so unfair that I have to send my kid to daycare even though I am violently, pukingly against it.

So I guess we'll have to go to Mexico. Reed and I will love the food, plus they have good drugs there. AND maybe the dog tracks aren't so strict.

"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.