Pregnant Conversations

I'm not sure what the deal is, but every time I sit down to write something this week I find myself wandering out to the kitchen to find something to eat instead. And by something I mean anything, but that's a whole other post that won't write itself because I'll catch hell for getting vanilla icing on the keyboard. Where was I going with this? Besides the kitchen? Whatever. I may not have anything to write, but I've always got my wife.

10:30pm

Supreme Leader: I want some cherries.
Me: It's January.
SL: You can still get them.
Me: For what, a thousand dollars a pound?
SL: You don't love me.

Supremely Pregnant Leader: My belly feels distended.
Me: Your belly is distended.
SPL: Thanks.
Me: I'm a lot of help, aren't I?
SPL: You're a bastard.

*Update: Ok, when I said I wasn't writing I should have been more specific and said I haven't been writing posts. I've got a new story up at the Zombie News Network if you're interested. It's short.

"The Horror! The Horror!"*

It's been some time since I've done a grilled cheese man or any type of grilled cheese artwork. Way back at the end of October I came up with the idea of making a grilled cheese man and then letting him go bad so I could have a moldy grilled cheese zombie for Halloween and something for the zombie blog I do with Middle Aged Woman. Unfortunately, this led to that and I didn't have one made up for the Halloween deadline. Still, it was a good idea so during the first few days of November I grilled up my sandwich, cut out my future zombie and stuck him on a skewer. Remember the first week of November bit.

This picture was taken on January 24th. Rounding the numbers out, this guy is approximately 75 days old now and looks almost identical to the day I made him. Seventy-five days. Processed cheese and margarine. When we're dug up by some future species of humans or cockroaches or whoever takes over after us, those archeologists won't find bones, they'll find fossilized stomachs.



*I'm looking for two answers today, the book and the movie.

Are You Sure You're Sure?

Connor: Daddy, I'm done my poo.
Me: Are you sure?
Connor: It was diarrhea.
Me: But are you done?
Connor: Daddy, it came out like a flash! I'm positive.
Me: But are you poo-sitive?
Connor: DADDY!

RTT: Hotdogs, Ninja's and Willpower

As I write this I'm having lemon pie and chocolate chip cookies for a snack. I justify this with the fact that I actually dusted off my Wii Fit board and used it again today and that I only had a smoothie for dinner. In hindsight, maybe if I'd had more than a stupid smoothie for dinner I wouldn't be eating like a pig now.



My willpower is much like a pipe cleaner, soft and flexible.

Must have's:

Is that not an awesome bike or what?

Light tape. Light TAPE!

Idea paint. Just click on it, because no picture I can upload will be as cool as what you can see from their website. And no, I'm not going to Rick-roll you. Seriously, if anybody is still pulling that they should be burned at the stake.

This weekend we were out and about doing... something. Whatever, it's irrelevant. We stopped at the grocery store so I could go run in and get something and while I'm gone the song September by Green Day comes on. The first line goes:

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends.

My four year old says to Supreme Leader, "the innocence can never last in the time of dinosaurs"

Finally, from my six year old.

Connor: This pocket is where my ninja gets his hot dogs.

I couldn't make this stuff up.

Keely's, go and frolic.

Week 16

Phone rings

Me: Hello?
Supreme Leader: Before you come home, pick me up a chicken wing and a glazed donut.
*click*
Me: Hello?

Dear So & So

Dear Mikayla,

hiking July16 (14), originally uploaded by captaindumbass.

How can you be eight already?

Happy Birthday.





And not that I don't appreciate your comments, but I've turned mine off so you can wish her a happy birthday instead. Not that you should feel obliged to, or that a flock of My Little Ponies might bomb your house with rainbow coloured poo if you don't. I'm just sayin if you wanted to that would be nice.

RTT: He Was Made Of Snow But The Children Know...

Connor: Do you know what this is? (splashing through puddle)
Me: What?
Connor: Snowman blood! (cackles and splashes some more)
Me: .....

This is an interactive Nikon billboard from a subway station in Korea. Paparazzi jostle for position and when someone actually passes in front of it and trips its sensors, all the cameramen start taking pictures.


Why don't we get cool ads like that here?

While walking on the dike this weekend.

Liam: I'm going to sing poo poo pee pee Star Wars.
Me: Um... how do you do that?
Liam: Poo poo pee poo poo poo, pee pee peeeeee (imagine the Imperial March, or Darth Vader's music)

Just cause it looks good.


Designers Simon Pillard and Philippe Rosetti took an Ikea kitchen island and covered it with 20,000 pieces of Lego. I would spend more time in the kitchen if Supreme Leader would let me do this. Ah... More time that didn't involve feeding myself.



On the same Sunday afternoon walk on the dike when a flock of migrating snow geese took off en masse.

Connor: Don't let the geese poo in your hair, Mommy!
Liam: Your beautiful beautiful hair!

I think it was the volume the warning was given at that made it truly magical. In fact, I'm pretty sure I know what scared the geese in the first place.*

Head on over to the Un-Mom's or a goose might poo on your head.


*No mothers were pooed on during the writing of this post.

The Land of Milk & Honey, But Not Marshmallows & Chocolate

I made a shocking discovery this weekend on Twitter, a discovery that conveniently continues last week's theme of s'mores and babies. Ok, maybe not babies. But the discovery could well make babies cry. American babies, that is. And it all revolves around what comes from this magical box.

Or what doesn't, depending on where you live.

No, that's not apple in my McDonald's pie, and it's not cherry either. That's marshmallow and chocolate.

Oh ya, that's a s'more. The only thing that could make these better would be if they were deep fried like back in the day. Remember those? I just had a full-body happy shudder just thinking about them. It's sad to think of all the people that will never know the joy of the deep fried apple pies.

*wipes away tear*

Anyway, write your congressman or congress woman. Write to your senator. Hell, write President Obama, my American friends, because you can only get these in Canada. And that's just wrong. Heck, that's un-American.

*burp*

Iron Chef Dumbass

Genius struck me out of the blue last night while making dinner for the boys. Like a chunk of frozen waste water falling from a jet liner at high altitude, I looked down at the ingredients of my chocolate chip pancakes and though, "what if I added marshmallows to this?"

Yes, my friends, s'more pancakes. Go ahead, take a minute.

The boys were on these like hyenas on a gazelle carcass.

Tomorrow's Saturday, treat yourself, treat your family. (picture me winking and shooting you with my fingers like Isaac from The Love Boat)

*Sadly, I just googled "s'more pancakes" and in 0.34 seconds the Oracle delivered me 679,000 entries. Whatever. I know mine were better. Not only that, I love my children more than those people as well. They probably hate unicorns and old people and don't recycle. Planet killing fascists.

Once More Unto The Breach...

So, ya. One more Dumbass to unleash upon an unsuspecting world. Sorry about that, but at least I gave you a six month warning. Batten the hatches and brace for impact.


I was going to start this post with an ultrasound picture to my post after covering over some personal info first, but after opening up Adobe Photoshop CS3... LMNOP whatever, I couldn't even figure out how to get the damned picture into it and gave up. My SIL who loaded all this stuff on the computer for me is genius in this area. Me? Not so much. Instead, how about you just imagine a blurry outline of the inside of Supreme Leader's stomach and what could be a baby. Or what could just as easily be her pancreas. Seriously, how do they know what the hell they're looking at? Sure, I get hands when I see them and the creepy see-through skull, but anything else? It's all a blur, and a wiggly blur at that since they keep moving the damn wand thingy all over the place.


The ultrasound we did before Christmas was done at a private fertility clinic. (This part is for our American friends, Canadians can skip) Here in the socialized medical utopia of Canadaland our provincial governments (think state) set specific weeks you can have ultrasounds done at and it's the same for everyone across the board. Because SL is old and decrepit though...um, because my wife and I are in a higher risk age group our doctor advised us we could go through a private clinic and pay for earlier results or wait and worry for a month until our 20 week test. As much fun as worrying about possible fetal complications over the holiday sounded, we decided to fork over the dough.


Happily, everything is where it's supposed to be (or so they say, I mean really, it could have been an octopus), it's all the sizes it's supposed to be and it's heart is doing what it's supposed to do. And damn, that clinic? It was like being on an episode of Private Practice or something. I was expecting them to offer us a pedi or a massage before we left, but I guess the good news was enough.


ETA is the first week of July and this time around we're hoping the pink side of the Force will intervene and bring some balance to the universe. Of course, we'll be just as happy with a boy, but for sanity's sake some dresses and My Little Ponies would be a welcome addition to the house.

2010, It's Going To Be A Busy Year