More as story develops.
Oh sweet Jesus, here is the before. Yeah, he needed a haircut. I get it.
Fetid, foul, rancid, rank, and malodorous
We found it.
Well, The Husband found it. I got grossed out and quit 15 minutes into the expedition.
It seems that when Little Blue (the 1990 Miata I got for my 16th birthday that has not run in five years) was moved back into our garage from his cozy little space in the barn at the In-laws compound….he brought a friend. A black furry friend with a l o n g pink tail.
Yes, A RAT WAS IN MY HOUSE!! That totally deserves another exclamation point!
We converted our garage into an office for The Husband about two years ago. The half closest to our house is office and workbench space. Then there is a partition. Then there is Little Blue sideways, all of our camping gear, nine hundred and twelve broken computers and hospital dictation stations that the hubs uses for “parts”, tools, and a whole lotta crap.
The rat left his nest in Little Blue’s engine and was making a fancy home out of shiny computer parts, wire, and paper under The Husband’s workbench, behind boxes of more computer junk. And then it died. And smelled-smelled a smell that needs a new word because smell just is not strong enough. Neither were fetid, foul, rancid, rank, or malodorous. And there were (oh MY GOD) bugs helping the decaying process.
The good news is it looks like it was a hermit rat because there is zero evidence it had friends. Just in case, now might be a good time to buy stock in DCON because I predict that they will have a sudden spike in sales in our area.
It is now gone and the smell is quickly dissipating, but we have to move anyway because I can’t forget, and on Monday we are all going to the doctor because I am sure we have cholera.
Filed under Boy is my face red, NaBloPoMo, lexapro lexplains it | Comments (2)Read it and then FORGET it.
I was at church this morning helping decorate for a fancy luncheon being held there this afternoon. My mom was in the kitchen cooking and we were chatting as we worked. She told me that she and my dad had gone over to my grandparents apartment to give Grandpa his birthday gift that finally arrived. (hang in there, this story is going somewhere I promise.) Anyway, the gift was a hat to match his winter coat…the problem was that both he and my Grandma FORGOT that the coat even existed.
On the way home I was thinking of all of the random things they have been forgetting lately. It was depressing until I had a cheery thought–maybe they will forget things I WANT them to forget! Like maybe my Grandpa will forget that time when I was sixteen that he walked in on my boyfriend and I making out..and the boy’s hand was totally up my shirt.
I thought all three of us were going to die of embarrassment.
Maybe Grandpa forgot the second base incident, but dang it I just told my mother. And MMiL. And who knows who else.
Crap.
Filed under Boy is my face red, Family-blame the DNA, NaBloPoMo, lexapro lexplains it | Comments (3)We could have been at the beach.
Our condo was steps away from a gorgeous beach. If we got sick of the beach, there were outlet shops right across the highway. I saw no reason for us to get in the Huckablazer and drive 45 minutes to the Airforce museum. The thing about having a son is….Mama can be out voted. Dangit. First they appeased me by letting me go parasailing–but then we spent hours here. It was….mind numbingly boring. If I could have seen more history I would have been okay, remember I was a polisci geek–I love history. I saw no history. Three year olds do not like looking at dioramas and maps, they want to see “MORE JET PLANES MAMA!”
Whatever. (sidenote: The Son totally looked at me today and said “Whatever, you can just do what you want.” Who taught him that?!)
Oh, and on the way home we stopped at the navy museum. I did not even bother taking in my camera that time.
Here we have lovely picture of a jet thing. It was cool according to The Hubs.
This is where we spent the bulk of our time. Cock pit training thing.
Some of us were very excited.
Some of us are still talking about it.
How did he know what to do here? I am quite certain that the Wiggles have never covered air warfare.
He told me this button “made the fire that goes POW!” Great. So much for him not knowing about guns.
I wonder if this lever would have ejected me back to the beach?
Back outside to look at the helicopters. Mama gets left behind.
At least I have my camera to keep me company. Why does this say Army if we are at an Airforce museum? Still do not know the answer.
Look! A flower to take pictures of! There are approximately 49 pictures of this hibiscus in my camera–and two of the helicopter. I can’t help it. I am a stereotypical girl–and proud of it. Next time I get dropped off at the condo.
Lord help me, I just sent a car a fan letter.
Thought you might want to see what I wrote:
Good Morning Herbie!
My name is (The Son), I am your BIGGEST FAN, and am turning three on 8/31. You are my all time favorite, my Grandpa brought me an rc you in the hospital the day I was born and I carry you around instead of a blanket or any other lovey. I kept leaving you places so my parents spent an obscene amount of money on eBay to replace you, so now I have you and a spare just in case.
I have seen all of your movies MANY times, but my favorites are The Love Bug and Herbie Goes Bananas. In fact, I want to name my goldfish, Ocho, because of Herbie Goes Bananas.
My Mama is throwing me a Herbie birthday party on 8/30! I am so excited, because she tells me you are coming! (or some poser who looks just like you is coming.) Could I please have your autograph? Anyway I could get it in time for my Party? I thought my friends I am inviting might feel left out since they love you too… so may I have 4 autographs?
Thank you so much Herbie! I LOVE YOU, and can’t wait for the rumored Herbie in the Outback movie.
Love, The Son Huckablog
(thanks to my mama for helping me type!)
You can send Herbie an email too by going HERE:
UPDATE: DAMAGE CONTROL:
Uhh. Awkward! Right, uh, so I have lots of friends who read this site. Lots of friends with children. Lots of friends with children who have not been invited to this party. We are going on vacation really soon after the party so decided to keep it really, really small by only inviting three of The Son’s friends who are exactly his age, and car obsessed boys, and whom he sees all the time. We still love you, and your precious little one, but uh–well please still be our friends! And, invite us to your birthday parties if you are having big ones with more than a handful of age appropriate friends, we will totally come and bring awesome presents, books probably.
Of course it is BROKEN.
If you have been reading this blog for any length of time whatsoever you already know I am; A. a total goofball, and B. incredibly clumsy. Today we learned that the little clumsy apple did not fall far from the tree. After the events of this past weekend (the end of which I spoil with the title) I had to go dig through an old college scrapbook to find a picture for you.
This is me. (I am so ashamed to admit I was 20 when this picture was taken. I am the one in the sombrero, the other ghost shall remain nameless for her protection.) I was on my way to burst in on my suitemates who shared a bathroom with us in the dorms at Alma Mater. I almost WISH I could say I was drunk, but I was stone cold sober….just a huge dork. The plan? To “scare” them. Because college girls are always scared of pink ghosts with large pink sombreros.
These were taken today.
Guess who has taken to throwing a blanket over his head and pretending he is a ghost? Yup. My banging on the door of three year old.
Like so many stories of ours which end with trips to the doctor or frantic calls to poison control, this one begins with me having to pee. Seriously if I could just learn to stop doing that already The Son would be so much safer. Right, so I was peeing. A little ghost threw open the door to the bathroom and yelled, “BOO MAMA! I a ghost!” I responded, “Ack! I am so scared, now go run and scare Daddy.” I hear little feet running down the hallway and then a SMACK! Followed by an, “AGHHHHHAAOWIE MAAAAMAAAA!”
Crap.
The Husband got there first since I ALWAYS thoroughly wash my hands. The little pinky toe is already swelling and turning weird colors. The little teeny baby toenail is cracked all the way down. We discuss the ER but, what are they going to do even if it is broken? Nothing, right? A night of NO sleep for ANYONE at the Huckablog World Headquarters due to the wails of, “MAAAMAAA! DAAAADDEEE! My itsy toe HURTS on my whole leg!” changed our minds. He got ANOTHER x-ray, and has his second broken bone in less than three years. No cast or even tape, just some narcotics for bedtime and the knowledge that it will hurt for awhile. I swear we are good parents y’all, but who else’s kid even does stuff like that?
Moral of the story is if you are going to be a ghost, make sure the blanket over your head has a loose weave, and no running.
Filed under Boy is my face red, Parenting for Dummies, The Son, lexapro lexplains it | Comments (2)I need help Internet, before the Klan comes a callin’.
I love my hometown. I would be perfectly happy to live right in this same town my entire life. I want to travel to other places, to see new things, and meet interesting people–but this is where I want my roots. Hometown is fairly diverse I guess. It is certainly not as diverse as some places I have lived, but it is not all just red neck, white people either. We have a problem here in the Huckablog household, one caused because we do not have any super close friends of different ethnicities; one I have no idea how to correct. The Son, Lordy, I do not even know how to tell you this without it sounding so horrible–so I am just going to tell you, The Son has taken to calling African American people “Chocolate.”
It started about two weeks ago, we were in the Huckablazer outside of Target trying to navigate our way through the parking lot. An African American Dad and his two super cute little boys were sitting on the bench out front, and The Son pointed and said, “Look Mama, Look Daddy! A little chocolate boy, and anuder chocolate boy and a chocolate daddy!” The Husband and I just stared at each other trying to digest what our kid had just said, and wondering how the hell we handle this one. I think I stammered something about how they had pretty brown skin which looked like chocolate, but that it was still skin just like his, and how saying that might make them feel bad. I think, I really was so stunned I doubt it was that articulate.
I had hoped it was just a one time thing, but then just a day or two later we were curled up in my bed watching an old school Sesame Street online, when Grover was having a talk about rhyming with Erik. Again, “Mama! Look! He is chocolate!” Seizing the moment, I paused the video, and pulled out my arm and held it next to his. “See how our arms are not exactly the same color?” “Yes.” “That is because God makes people in all different colors. We are all made up of the same stuff, just alike on the inside, but on the outside we all look different. One way we look different is the color of our skin. This little boy is just a normal little boy, his skin is just brown instead of kinda pinky white like yours. Do you understand?” “Yes.” “Good. Now we can see what rhymes with toy.”
The next day at Wal-Mart. “There is a Chocolate lady mama!” This time I was embarrassed and slightly mad because we had just had this discussion and he said it loud enough for people to hear. “She is NOT chocolate, and it is naughty to say that because it would hurt her feelings if she heard. She is just a lady with skin that looks different than yours, and we do not say mean things about people.” “CHOCOLATE IS NOT NAUGHTY MAMA!” I know that other people heard that, but think they thought we were talking about candy instead of why I was seeing his future as a minister/senator fade away. “If you say it again you are going to time out. No warnings. ”
Later the same day I heard him “reading” a book, Knuffle Bunny Too, and saying that Sonya was chocolate. AGH. How do I fix this? He does not go to school. We go to an all white church (it is hard to find a church in the south that is not segregated–sad but true.) There are a couple of bi-racial kids in our playgroup, but he has not noticed there is a difference in their skin, and I am wary of pointing it out.
Is it a phase? Should I punish him? We really truly have NEVER said anything even slightly racist that he could have over heard, so I have no idea if he thinks people a different color than him are really made of something different, or if he is just being silly. What do I need to do?
Filed under Boy is my face red, The Son, lexapro lexplains it | Comments (11)