Infection To Insult To Injury

A Very Good Friday To You

I am officially bored to tears with describing my each and every blood cell (red white or blue) so suffice it to say: I am fine. I will live.

The cats might be in trouble, though. Patrick is currently clutching a family-sized chocolate ice cream bucket and chasing mostly-blind Kelvin around the first floor. From the fiendish gleam in Pack's eye I can only surmise that the goal is to trap the cat under the bucket. I would intervene but they are obviously enjoying themselves. The cat, if it is any indication, keeps stopping to let Patrick catch up with him. Besides, I am working. Working on the blog. Keeping the household in blog hits. Very important.

Speaking of family-sized chocolate ice cream buckets, I just made a rather humiliating discovery. I just realized that I have been telling people that Steve finishes a five gallon tub of chocolate icecream every week, winter or summer. And when they say, "Five GALLONS? Really?" I nod and swear that this is true, true, true. But as I made a half-hearted attempt to take the bucket away from Patrick a few minutes ago I noted that it is actually only five quarts. Steve eats five quarts of chocolate icecream a week. When I went in to report my long-standing error to Steve he laughed at me (rather more heartily than necessary) and took me down to the basement to show me a five gallon bucket of ceiling paint. And you know what? That would be a whole fucking lot of icecream.

Patrick failed to nap the other day and after an extended period of time I finally admitted defeat and went to free him. When I walked in I was immediately struck by the party atmosphere that prevailed. One of his blankets was on a lamp. Bear was dangling from the corner of the changing table. A book that had been in the crib with him had been reduced to confetti. Patrick stood in the middle of his bed, sockless, with one arm hanging out from underneath his shirt.

"What the...?" I asked.

Patrick turned to face the same direction I was facing and put his hands on his hips as he looked around the room. "What the hell is going on in hee-or?" he asked.   

This is actually a fairly old trick- blending into the crowd and pretending to be a bystander. I believe that arsonists do it all the time. However, in this case the trick failed because I am very smart and Patrick was the only one in the room. A simple Locked Door mystery, really.

J'accuse, Patrick.

The real question is: where did he learn to swear? We do not own a parrot formerly of his majesty's navy. I can only blame communist playgroup. When everyone is allowed to join it stands to reason you are going to get all sorts.

What? You think it was me, don't you? You think there has been a time when I have actually uttered the phrase 'what the hell' in the presence of my little blue-eyed sponge.


For no apparent reason yesterday I asked Patrick how one spells "puppy." He thought for a moment and said P-O-P-P-E.

We were incredibly impressed.

Then I asked him if he knew how to spell "cat."

"C," he said.

"Yes," I prompted while programming Harvard into the phone.

"Q-M." He finished proudly.

Huh. I guess my mom can go back on speed-dial.