My brother called a few minutes ago. He and my nephew (that would be, "Philly-Phil" to you) were on their way to the museum to see the exhibit on Lewis and Clark.

Philip started asking him where Lewis and Clark went. My brother couldn't remember. Philip asked if they came through Colorado, my brother said, "Well, we'll just have to see when we get there".

Philip replies, "Dad, I think they prolly went to Disneyworld!".

Cracked me up.

It's no secret - I love Gilda Radner. I think she was a brilliant person, funny and beautiful in her own way. My mom bought me the book, "Bunny, Bunny" many years ago, and it's been one of my favorite pieces of literature since, written by her friend and co-worker, Alan Zweibel. It's moving and touching and funny and ... a wonderful tribute to a friend.

Tonight, we were at a last minute Memorial Day BBQ, having wine and telling stories. Somehow, through conversation, I learned a neighbor of mine (we share the same bastard breaker-inner to our house!!) knew Gilda. She had (has?) big time connections to SNL and spent many vacations with Gilda, John Belushi, etc. She had some great stories.

For some reason, this really just made my day. A neat way to end the weekend.

Last night, before going to bed, I was flipping through the channels and finishing my dinner. I came across the new series by Britney and Kevin ... "Chaotic". As I was sitting with my mouth agape wondering how anyone could make sense of their ramblings and the ridiculous video work, my husband comes in and says, "Jesus. I have only seen a few minutes and I think it's sucked the smart right out of me."

I'd have to agree.

My five-year-old nephew, Philip, called me tonight to invite us to his preschool graduation. After we talked about all the things you can talk to a five-year-old about, I told him I loved him and he said, "Philly-Phil, OUT!"

Aunt Shinny.
Out.

To my son yesterday:

"Can you say 'dog'? Say 'dog'."
"zazazazaeeeeee!"

"Can you say 'baby'? That's a 'baby'."
"eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooo!"

"Man, this storm just came up. The weather just got really shitty."
"Shit-teeeeee, SHIT-teeeeeee".

I am a stay-at-home mom. Truly, it's not the most glamourous job in the entire world. Gone are the days of wearing nice suits and doing the 8-5 thing at the hospital. Now, it's cleaning up cookie crumbs, kissing away boo-boo's, teaching colors and shapes, exploring the back yard for bugs and creepy crawlies, that sort of thing. So, as I always say, one of the most rewarding "jobs" I will ever, ever have.

With that said, we were up this morning about 6:30. Did the usual bottle, breakfast, snuggled, turned on "64 Zoo Lane" to keep him quiet for a bit, then it was time to play.

I left the kitchen for a moment (my first mistake) to get the morning paper from the front step. When I returned, my 14-mth-old son had managed to get past a child safety lock, into a cabinet and bust out a can of corn meal. He had proceeded to pop the lid off and spill 3/4 of the contents all over his face, in his hair, down his shirt and into his diaper.

He's crying because it's in his mouth and he's coughing it all up. I'm kicking myself for not having the camera close.

I go to rinse him off in the sink, pull the sprayer out and it breaks, water comes shooting out spraying me, him, the wall, the ceiling, everything in its path.

I finally got the baby cleaned up, the floor swept up, the walls and cabinets mopped down.

Then he sneezes and out comes the biggest corn meal booger I have ever seen ... provided I've actually seen one before.

And today is only half-way over.

I can't wait.

Thankfully, it's Monday of a brand new week. Last week sucked monkey balls.

First, there was the attempted break-in. I was upstairs putting my son to bed, heard the sound of the 'chirp alarm' go off (any time a door or window opens, it chirps), and I realize that once again, someone is trying to (or has!) broken into my house. Apparently, he had opened the back sliding door from the patio. In the end, we devise that the sound of the chirp scared the guy away. This was at 2:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday. Splendid.

(A year ago last April, we were broken into, but on this occasion, I met the guy at the stairs. I am still not sure if I was more scared, or if the Messican Bandito was. It's important to note on that occasion that after chasing the M.B. out of my Casa, he got away on his bike. HIS BIKE. He peddled back to his little apartment in the hood and probably crapped himself on the way, and deservedly so. Little bastard.)

After my heart rate returned to semi-normal from the almost break-in, our good friend, BT, comes over to help get us "dialed in and checked out" on safety. He pulls in on the Harley and starts drawing a map of our house. He makes a list of all the things we need to do in order to not be broken into again. Motion dectectors. More alarm triggers. More thorny bushes by the fence. He also mentions to me that we should trim around the bottom of our trees in the backyard; he thinks someone could hide under them.

(It's important to note our trees are small and really pathetic in size. They have survived droughts and other such things; I have nurtured my only two evergreens with love and water.)

I come home from picking up my son at the babysitter's to find BT has cut 3/4 of my tree branches on the biggest tree. It looks like a skinny trunk with a mushroom cap. My tree looks nekkid! BT apologizes, says he got carried away, and I ask him then if he really cut some branches or just shoved the entire tree in the trashcan in my garage. He quickly apologizes, says he has to leave for Paris the next day, jumps on the Harley and leaves. I'm left alone with my once-was tree. My husband comes home, flips out, then calls BT and leaves this message:

Husband: WHAT THE FUCK , BT!

Click.

By Friday, I am still sad about my tree. I believe my tree has feelings and really is wounded by this whole affair. So, I take my baby to day care and as I'm leaving, my son leans out to me and pokes my eye with his finger. One of the sharp little talons he has for nails manages to go right into my right eye. I fall back and think that my finger very well may still be on his finger.

I attempt to drive home. My right eye has swollen shut, and my left is starting to have sympathy pains for the right one, and is closing as well. Normally it's a 10 minute drive. Friday, it took damn near 30 and a lot of near misses at a few intersections.

After thinking "Oh, it's just a bump, I'll make it" for a few hours (and not being able to really steady myself - it looked to me like I was on a boat and everything was rocking), I called the eye clinic and got a last minute appointment.

And my last minute, they mean "You'll have to sit in a waiting room full of The Strange One's for an hour before you are called back". In that time, I'm sitting with a dish towel to my watering, painful eye, trying to remain optimistic.


"These people are just waiting for their family members; I'll get back shortly"

"Surely they see that my eye is as big as baseball; I'll get back shortly"

"Jeez, I have to pee really, really bad. If I leave, they'll call me and I'll miss my name"

"I'll kill the next person who goes in first, assume their identity, and get my eye fixed up"

"I hate these @#$*()#($*() people!!!!!!"

There was a woman there - blind and deaf - who was getting around better than me. IT'S JUST AN EYE, I tell myself. I listen to the two girls at the reception desk - mostly in Ebonics - talk about their love life, the love life of the doctors they work for, the nurses they hate, why the hate them, and how they hate their jobs. I DON'T CARE. CALL MY @#$*&U#$& name and make it better, I tell you!!

An hour later, I am called back and immediately, Suzanne (the nicest nurse in the world) gives me numbing medicine which immediately takes affect and makes me far less homicidal. I thank her profusely. She yells at the Ebonics Idiots out front for letting me sit for an hour with a corneal abrasion.

Then, Doctor Pudgybutt comes back and looks into my eye, verifying that I have a 1.5 mm scratch on my cornea, "just missed your pupil by a hair". He tells me that in 24 hours, I will be fine - but that if I still had pain on Sunday, I should call the ER because he'll be on call taking care of all those "bad eye injuries". I beg to know what injuries those might be.

Regardless, it was nice to come home (safely, this time) and crawl into bed.

Not before my green apple martini though ...