The Giant Bullseye

February is one of my favorite months out of the year for two reasons - both the Global Bazaar and the Domestics departments go on clearance at Target. Which means a smattering of new (and thoroughly unnecessary) things show up around our house every February. We don't need a whole lot of prompting to spend money at Target. You can frequently find both Tom and I among the large population of glassy-eyed Target consumers, wandering the aisles searching for the holy grail of bright orange clearance stickers advertising 60% off something we didn't even know we needed - but then there it was! We have no idea what we'll do with it, or even what it is ... exactly ... but it's 60% off! Who the hell cares?! And what a miracle that we were here on this particular day to find it! What are the chances?!

I started off by wasting spending my money on a bunch of large balls in various colors and textures. I don't have any idea why. Do I care? No. They were 50% off and they were sparkly, I don't normally need any more reason than that. I dropped them all into a large bronze bowl and set them on our sofa table for spring. Had I been sitting in the living room for weeks, wishing I had a large bowl full of large balls over on the sofa table? No. I hadn't. But I'm glad I have them NOW. The most entertaining part was watching Tom feign excitement over my totally insane purchase of sofa table balls. Because that's what you do when you love someone. You enable their insanity by telling them what a decorating genius they are.





Next, Nicholas and I stumbled upon a small silver globe. Was it a more justifiable purchase? Not even a little bit. Did I buy it? You bet. I'm qualifying it as an educational investment. Even though the land masses are only roughly doodled in. But if my son wants to know where China is it will get him IN THE BALLPARK. And that's more than he could say last week!





And I wrapped things up with a small hippo figurine because I have something of a hippo fetish, and it was under $3. When Nicholas was a baby I regularly called him "Nickopotamus" and while that nickname is no longer as frequently used as some of my other nicknames for him (like "Hey you .. the sticky one!") I still have a soft spot in my heart for all things hippo.





On the Domestics front I rummaged through the shelves and found a new duvet cover for our bedroom in a more cat-friendly color (beige instead of robin's egg blue). Also four drapery panels in a silk/poly blend. Curtains are an idea I'm slowly warming up to. I've never been a huge fan. They never hang right, they're visually heavy, and I don't like the look of closed curtains so I always have blinds of some sort on the windows anyway. At that point, why even bother? They're sort of useless. But they can give a room drama - and our bedroom was sorely in need of some drama. So for $8 per panel, I threw them in the cart. Chivus thinks the curtains are "magic curtains", and ever since this weekend when I hung them up his favorite thing to do is wedge his way between the fabric and the lining and sit there - motionless - as if this act makes him completely invisible to the outside world.





I ironed the curtains twice, then steamed them once they were hung, and they still looked like this. Which only proves my point about curtains. Someone told me that if I just leave them alone, time will take care of them. I'm hoping that winds up being the case or I may slowly go out of my mind.

He's baaaaaaaack

This is what I like to call his "WTF?!" face. I'm on the receiving end of it several times a day, but I rarely have a camera in my hand when it happens.



The Mass Consumer of Financial Resources returned from his trip to Disneyworld yesterday. Hysteria and chaos have been restored to the house, the gray cat has started shedding copious amounts of fur due to the rapid and unpredictable movements of the small human, and Tom and I had to scramble to restock the pantry and refrigerator for Nicholas' requisite 10-12 meals daily.

Last night he asked to watch Indiana Jones: The Last Crusades again (I'm so proud) and then proceeded to curl up next to me under a big quilt for the entire movie - no doubt trying to regulate his body temperature after the abrupt climate shock. I wasn't about to question it because I can't remember the last time he sat completely still through an entire movie that he wasn't on Benadryl for a head cold. Back when he didn't have a "WTF?!" face. Like back when he was 3, and had all his teeth, and wore cute hats all the time that coordinated with his clothes. Clothes that I picked out, and he didn't complain about.

I think it was back in 2006 when I first started seeing the "WTF?!" face on a regular basis. He was right between preschool and kindergarten, we had moved back closer to our entire extended family, and he started to realize that I was NOT as awesome as he had once thought. In fact, I believe that he decided I was actually a major annoyance in his life - with my photo snapping and persistent reminders to get his hands OUT OF HIS PANTS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

But it's back now. Back to remind me that, before I address him directly, I should put some serious thought into exactly what I'm going to say/ask/demand. Because chances are? It's totally lame.

Just rip them all out and I'll suck my dinner through a straw

I went to the dentist this morning because I've been having on again/off again toothaches in one of my molars - and after many X-rays and much poking and prodding I was told that I'll require a root canal in that one molar. And then, just for fun, a bunch of other dental work on teeth that aren't bothering me at all. Then maybe after that's all done they can punch me in the kidney.

I asked why I would require a root canal on a tooth that only hurts sporadically, and I was told that the tooth probably hurts all the time but that I "have such a high pain tolerance that [my] fear of the dentist outweighs the pain of the tooth." And I wanted to laugh - in fact I would have laughed at her, were I not trying so desperately to keep from throwing up on her. Because having a high tolerance for pain is not something I'm regularly accused of having. Screaming like a sissy every time I get a paper cut? Sure. Spending the whole day at work bitching about menstrual cramps and asking someone to "Kill Me. Kill Me Now?" You bet.

A new toy? I has one!

And somewhere, the revolution begins ...

Tonight, the UPS man dropped off a new lens that I purchased for my camera, then I had to wrestle it out of its packaging and leave it on the kitchen counter to thaw out for two hours. I'm not making that up. Nicholas is a ham when it comes to photos. He's your typical only child - he's never had to fight for attention, he just believes he's entitled to it. Just like he's entitled to mac and cheese, cartoons, and my entire paycheck. When he's here I usually don't have to go looking for a subject to photograph, it's as though the high pitched hum of my flash powering up sends an electrical impulse straight to his brain. Then he comes sliding out across the floor, Risky Business style, ready for me to take pictures of him doing the most ridiculous things.

The only catch is, he refuses to let me photograph him looking SANE. I could fill disc after disc with all the outtakes of his photo shoots. I don't know what parents did before digital cameras. Taking a picture of my child usually requires the rapid-firing of about 200 frames and then several agonizing minutes at the computer looking for a couple that actually featured HIS FACE. If I had to rely on film, what I'd end up with is several shoeboxes filled with photos of my son's blurry head while he jumped up and down, and then another couple of boxes of pictures where he produced something out of thin air to hold in front of his face right as I released the shutter. And don't even get me started on his ever-popular trademark "butt shots". I can't wait until the day someone flips through my photos and asks something like "Why do you have this picture of him doubled over looking up at you through his legs while spanking himself on the butt?" Then I can be all "Oh like your kid doesn't do that ..."

Anyway, after dinner I was taking pictures of various things around the house in order to try out the new lens, and that means HE was dashing around the house like I had laced his applesauce with uppers. So I played the oldest trick in the book and told him he had to take a bath.

Then I saw the light inside him dim a little, and heard the faint sound of his spirit crushing, and I knew I had won. Because you know what happens when a 7 year old boy has to take a bath, don't you? The soapy water burns his skin like battery acid, and little bits of his soul are sucked down the drain with the dirty bathwater. Because the essence of who he IS is wrapped up in those little bits of unknown substances all over him. His entire life's emotion is wrapped up in all those blue marker lines down his arms. His very being, his core belief system, and everything he stands for - it's symbolized by the sticky popsicle residue on his face. And his mom seeks to destroy that. Destroy it with soap.

And for that? She must be destroyed.