Million Dollar Ideas III

I have come to the conclusion that baby photos and million-dollar ideas are the only reasons you people show up here. I am a people pleaser...well, when that means pleasing people by doing something I want to do. If it's something I don't want to do, I'm more of a people disappointer. I was thinking of getting a group of women together who are of like mind and calling ourselves the Disappointer Sisters, but then I didn't know what we would do other than be less than everyone had hoped. So in a way, we are achieving our goals without even having formed a group or done anything at all. I am succeeding without even trying here, people. Be amazed.

Why do I get so distracted by my inane thoughts? That's a great question that I will not answer. I will, however, give you some of the best ideas of RC's and my life..which isn't saying much. Sit down and do not take a sip of a drink for fear of spitting all over your monitor when the genius of these ideas is processed by your brain. And don't act like you're not impressed.

1. Lint-sulation.
Need a cost-effective and readily available form of insulation for your home? Fiberglass is itchy, asbestos is cancer-y, but Lint-sulation is cheap, affordable, and not expensive. Plus it's right there in the lint trap of your dryer! In abundance! It's also mildly-to-entirely flammable and requires the washing and drying of a lot of towels and socks to harvest enough to insulate your house, but you were going to wash those socks anyway, right? I hope? Please say yes.

2. Sandwich Shops
I got a text, randomly, from RC the other day that stated, "If I owned a sandwich shop, I'd call it The Daily Grinder." Just so you know, there was no lead-up conversation before this gem of a message appeared on my phone's screen. This is just how RC's brain works (and I use that word loosely). I replied back, "I would open one called Hogan's Gyros." (You have to pronounce gyros correctly to really get the full benefit of that one.) Thank goodness we found each other. Who else would put up with us? Separately we are weirdos; together we're perfectly matched weirdos.

3. Suture Yourself
RC's idea to open a walk-in, self-service clinic. If you need stitches but don't want all those pesky bills and, you know, thoroughly trained and board-certified doctors that come along with those bills, then Suture Yourself is the one-stop shop for do-it-yourselfers who are bleeding profusely. We'll have a full array of sanitized-by-lighters-and-rubbing-alcohol sewing needles and your choice of thread colors! We'll also have a staple gun available if you don't have the patience for threading needles, and some Superglue...but we can't guarantee that you'll be able to get the cap off.

4. ComaToast
Ever have one of those mornings when you think,"Screw it! I'm crawling back into bed and shutting out the world!" Well, then ComaToast is for you. I was going to lace some bread with Ambien or something of that sort, but then I realized that would only be "SnoozyToast" and damn it, that's just not good enough. So we're going full-on horse tranquilizer here. Toast it, butter it up, shove it in your face, and we'll see you next Tuesday.


I'm pretty sure we had a few more, but I have the memory of something that doesn't have a good memory. For now, wallow in this brilliance until we decide you're ready for Million Dollar Ideas IV: The Reckoning.

Declan's Blog

From the crib of Declan "Geyser Heinie" Clark...

Hey. Psst. Over here. Look, I don't have much time, so listen up. I can't let mom know I've hijacked her blog...

I've been alive for 18 weeks and some change now.

Let's see...that's...um...man, I need more fingers...130 days.

Man, that's a lot of days to put up with these people.

I have tried to send some SOS signals out to the world, but I've yet to get rescued.

Yeah, I'm looking at you. Sitting at home, staring at a computer screen, trying to look busy.

You people think it's cute how she embarrasses me on the internet, don't you?

 

 

I WOULD LIKE TO STRONGLY DISAGREE!

Uh-oh, I hear someone coming...

Okay, it's cool, it was the dog.

Anyway, if you could all just stop encouraging her to publicly humiliate me, that would be swell.

Is "swell" what all the pre-crawlers are saying these days? What? It's not 1952?

Hehehe, I have no idea what year it is. Or what a year is.

But seriously, she's ruining my swag.

*Swag action shot*

I can tell by your laughter that wasn't swag. Alright then, carry on.

The One Where Declan Figures It Out

Whaaaat was that loud noise? Seriously? Did you hear that?

I'm a little bit alarmed by the rumbley "pffffrrttttttt" I just heard. I think it may have been an earthquake.

Don't worry, I'll protect you. I'll check the room for structural damage.

 I found no structural damage.

I suddenly feel as though I'm sitting in some very warm, very uncomfortable quicksand.

That wasn't an earthquake, was it? And that's not quicksand, is it?

The Sliding Scale of Acceptability

*Warning: I am in an oversharing type of mood. For those of you who are not mothers, who are squeamish, easily grossed out, or just plain sane, you may want to move along now. Nothing to see here.*

Life is always in motion, even as I lay here nearly motionless and still in my pajamas. Some of my motion is undetectable to the eye, because it's happening somewhere between my right and left ears. As I spend my Tuesday morning obsessively checking my email, Farcebook (that was a typo, but I like it so it's staying), my other email, my third email, and watching my 8-week-old bundle of obscene noises and cute expressions suck his fingers like something worthwhile may come shooting forth at any moment, I realize that things that I never dreamed would be acceptable are gaining ground. "Like what?" you may be asking...and even if you aren't, this is my blog and I'm running the show, so that's what you're asking. Well, my dear friends, acquaintances, cyber-stalkers and complete strangers, let me break it down for you.

1. Familial Semi-Nudity
[No photo due to decency laws.]
Just a mere year ago, if I had taken a survey about the acceptability of being topless or semi-topless in front of family members, I would have chosen the option of "Oh, hell no." But then I gave life to little Mr. Declan "Diaper Disaster" Clark and my answer has since changed. My mom came to visit after he was born, and my mother in law, and suddenly flopping a jug out of my oversized and stained shirt seems not only okay, but normal. "Hey mom. You don't mind if I feed my offspring while we make small talk, right? Just kidding...I'm not really concerned if you mind." *yanks out one overstuffed funbag and Sir Tootsalot latches on* "So, you said you got a prime parking spot at Kohl's earlier? Do tell!" I vaguely remember when toplessness was saved for weekends spent with Captain Morgan, but now it's prime time for airing out the ol' areolas every 3 hours of every day with Captain Poopin'.

2.  Tank Spotting
[No photo due to not wanting to take a photo of this.]
My brothers nicknamed me "The Walking Placemat" when I was but a wee child. I had a knack for depositing whatever I was trying to eat directly onto my clothing. As I aged (gracefully, I might add), my dedication to being an unpaid, freelance, uncoordinated tester for Stain Stick, Tide To Go pen, Shout, and other stain removal products did not wane. But I did get better at recognizing the stain and removing the offending clothing before venturing out to places where people would judge me. Then came Declan "Waaaaaaaaaah, I'm hungry NOW" Clark. And you know what happens when a breastfeeding mother is nearby her child who is crying for food? Yeah, it causes some leaking upstairs, if you catch my drip. Whereas I used to change out of stained/soiled/wet shirts (unless I was in a wet t-shirt contest, which is never), now I survey the situation and most always come to the conclusions that, "Meh, that'll dry up in a half hour." (Same goes for the back of my shirt when burping Buggy Bear and falling victim to the spit up.) And before you other mothers tell me about the absorbent-yet-way-too-small-in-diameter pads that are designed to fit right into your shirt or bra, yes, I have them. I use them. But we have about a 50% failure rate due to the either faulty placement on my part or my boob spouts' penchant for wandering.

3. Your-analysis
[No photo due to unpredictable nature of this phenomena.]
I have been peed on. A lot. For the past 30-some-years of my life, that was an unacceptable notion. But Declan "The Fire Hose" Clark has perfect timing, if by perfect timing we're talking about the 1.3 seconds I have his diaper off before covering him with a new diaper. There have been some near misses, but there have also been some all-out, arching fountain of peepers sailing through the air and directly at me. To be fair, though, poor little D has given himself a golden shower on occasion, so at least I'm not the only one on the losing end of his whiz spout. When it does happen to me, though, a little wipe with a baby wipe on whatever part of me got doused and we're onto the next task. Seriously, when does getting peed on not warrant a 45-minute shower and perhaps some sobbing and/or fetal position rocking? Now, I guess. My how quickly things change.

4. Under-nail Fecal Samples
[No photo due to ewww.]
This is the perfect #4 after #3, and regarding #2. Declan "The Poop Machine" Clark can mess up a diaper. And by "mess up," I mean literally mess all the way up the back of a diaper. And this is no mere mortal poo -- this stuff is somehow simultaneously the most sticky and yet the most scattered matter I've ever encountered. It will hold fast to any skin it encounters, his or mine, and yet will suddenly disappear only to reappear somewhere totally different and unsettling. Like under my fingernail. Not a lot of it, but one tiny little sample. Just right there, under my nail, where I can't get it out easily. And at first it was very upsetting, until many consecutive days of not a lot of sleep and a lot of desensitization to this phenomena of the nomadic poop granules. Now there have been moments, in a foggy haze of sleepiness, that I've realized, "Oh hey, there's a little piece of poop under my nail and/or smooshed into my cuticle. And, oh hey, here's my pillow and I'm going to....zzzzzzz." I am not proud of this, but not even airing this fact out on a public forum will shame me into really caring at 4:30 am if there's a microscopic bit of eww under my nail. Judge me all you want, but this is between me and Softsoap, not you.

5. Boogie Patrol
[No photo due to laziness on part of the blogger.]
When I left the hospital with Declan "Quadruple Sneezer" Clark, they gave me one of those blue bulbous squeezy things (I'm pretty sure that's the actual name of it) to help clear out his nasal passages. Again, for the past...um...entirety of my life, I would not need nor desire a tool to help another human being suck snot out of his or her face. Now the game has changed. When little man is getting a little wheezy in the breezy, I use the squeezy to get the cause out of his schnoz. The worst part is I feel victorious after doing so. Not like "I just won the Superbowl!" victorious, but you know, like "I just sucked a big boogie out of my baby's face and now he can breathe easier!" It's a lesser shade of winning, but still, it makes me feel accomplished. And now after rereading this, I realize that I've reset my bar so low that it's actually underground.

Okay, that's five things that are now varying degrees of acceptable that never were before. And that's five things on my blog that don't require photos of D.B.C., which I'm afraid may cause a riot for some of the kinfolk readers. So, here are photos, for no good reason other than he's cute, of Mr. D.B. Clark:

"Mom, put your shirt back on. You're embarrassing me."

"Did someone say Captain Morgan? Let me show you my Captain pose...I've been working real hard on it."

"So, you're saying you just picked me up and you have poop under your nails? Awesome. Hey, while you're up, be a doll and find the number for Child Protective Services for me."

"Wait, did mom neglect to put on pants on me? Well, I guess this is the last time I show my face at the 3:30 Jazzercise class."

Unexpected Life Improvers

Sometimes you buy something with the knowledge that, holy Clamato juice, this is going to make my life so much better. Like a can opener that actually opens cans. (RC and I recently bought a new one after stubbornly struggling with one that was such an underachiever, it should have been sent back to remedial can opening class. Or burned. Or hucked through a window. Or set on fire and then hucked through a window.) Or like car tires that actually hold air (another exciting purchase at our house, but oh my, so much more convenient than stopping every other day to fill a tire with a slow leak). But then there are random things that suddenly and without forethought make your world a better place to be. Inane items. Things you neither needed or  sought out, but there they are, making things all awesome for you.

Such is the case with the big yellow ceramic duck. My dad and stepmom sent the duck to my hospital room, with its back full of flowers, when I brought forth the Declan from my loins (Okay, I had a C-section, so that's not really true, but it sounds way more awesome than "when I had Declan forcibly removed from me"). It's cute as heck, and the flowers were nice, but I didn't really think much of it after my initial meet and greet with Ducky von BloomingButt.

That's a cute duck.

We loaded up the duck when we left the hospital, and I had one of those moments when I was conflicted: We had too much stuff to carry, and what was I going to do with a big ceramic duck? But then I got distracted, as I always do, and the duck was safely loaded into the car and away we went. Our family grew by two that day, I guess, because the duck was just about as big as D was.

After a week or so, the flowers looked like most all the plants/living things that are not humans that fall into my care: dead as a doornail. I threw out the wilted biological mass and again pondered what to do with a big yellow ceramic duck that now had quite a gaping cavity in its back. I had some party favors left over from my baby shower, so I loaded them into the duck (that's called creative organization -- putting one thing you don't know what to do with but can't bring yourself to throw out into another thing you don't know what to do with), and then I wandered around the house looking for a nest for Mr. Quackers (thank goodness I'm better at naming kids than inanimate objects). I found an emptyish spot on the back of Declan's changing table. For those of you playing along at home, our changing table is HUGE. Why? Well, because it's more of a Foosball table with a laminated piece of wood on top of it than a "traditional" piece of baby furniture. Don't worry, we took out all the guys on sticks out for the conversion...there isn't a miniature soccer team underneath suffocating from inhalation of wood stain and poop. Where was I? Oh yeah, the duck. I put the duck on the back of the changing table, and suddenly, my little tiny baby boy who used to cry and/or scream during diaper swaps was silent. He was focused. He was happy. He was cooing and making all those cute baby noises. Not at me or RC, the ones caring for him and changing his nasty diaper (seriously, how can someone so cute produce such concentrated evil out the backside?), but at the duck. Quacky McBeakers is one of Declan's favorite things. I don't know why, but I'm not questioning it. It has made it so that after changing his diaper, little man is perfectly content to stay on his changing table for about 10 minutes talking to the duck. They have very animated yet one-sided conversations.

This was shot during a heated debate between Declan and Ducky.

Another such item is more practical, but still not something I every thought I needed. It's a big pillow thingy (technical term) called the Boppy Lounger. You put the baby in it when you want him to chill out, or stare out the window, or just be somewhere other than in your arms because, oh my god, have you seen the four inches of dust on the dresser? I need to clean that and I can't do it holding a baby. Anyway, the Lounger was given to me by one of my BFF's mom. I have never known such generosity as I have since producing a little gromlet into this world, so anyway, I got the Boppy Lounger. Never heard of it. Didn't really know what it was all about other than you plop your baby in it and can walk away without fear of him packing a bag and walking out the front door when you're not paying attention. Or, you know, falling off the bed. Whichever is more probable. So, after a few days of getting to know my little man, I found out one very important thing about him: He does not have the patience to be manhandled by his mom all day long. Like, the kid needs a time out sans humans; he needs a break from all that constant stupid baby talk and jostling in inexperienced arms. He needs the Boppy Lounger. It took me a few days, but I realized that after he's fed, he's dry, he's burped, little Declan wants to be left the hell alone. Turn on the ceiling fan, open the blinds, and leave him to ponder this great big world and his place in it. That's where the Boppy Lounger comes in. I'd say that 87.45% of the photos I take of my little bundle of awesome takes place in the Lounger. Let me show you:

Lounging in the morning...

Lounging on Christmas...

Lounging at nap time...

Lounging while thinking about stuff...

Lounging while declaring solidarity...with...I don't know...Boppy Loungers?

Lounging while being as cute as possible...

And lounging with faux tattoo sleeves.

There you have it: The Boppy Lounger. Thank you, Boppy, for making my world a better place by holding my child when he doesn't want me to hold him. Which is more often than I'd like to admit. I somehow gave birth to the most independent dependent ever.

Catalog of Emotions

So, Declan has been working on some "looks." He's already got the "leave me alone, mom" look down, much to my dismay. But his repertoire is expanding rapidly. Here's what we worked on this afternoon:

My cue to him was to imagine he's at a bar, being cooler than everyone else.

Hey. What's up? Don't answer that --  I don't care. You can go away now. Or stay. Whatever. Buy me a drink.

 Nailed it.

Then I asked him what he'd do if he saw The Cult open up for the Foo Fighters.

Rock and rooolllllll!!!

Textbook rock face and hands there. You can see the fingers almost sticking up to show his pleasure with the amount of rock he's pretending absorb. He's destined to be a rocker.

Then I told little Declan to imagine himself on his first motorcycle, with the wind in his hair (if he has any by then), enjoying some two-wheeled freedom.

Braaaaapppp!

Perfection.

Then I rained on his parade a little, and asked what he'd do if while he was on that motorcycle ride someone drove up next to him, windows down, blaring the Black Eyed Peas on their stereo.

Let's NOT get it started in here.

Slam dunk.


To cap it off, I told him to imagine his mom was someone far less cool.

*Tear*

This kid is good.

Million-Dollar Ideas, Part Two

RC and I just completed what used to be a 6-hour drive but now is closer to 7.5 due to the insistence of the little gromlet who feels that being fed every 3 hours is appropriate. The last time I ate every 3 hours was when I worked in an office that had delicious chocolate at the front desk, which was dangerously close to my desk and caused my chair to be exceedingly further from that desk to accommodate my gut. Of course, I didn't literally eat chocolate every 3 hours...it was more of an every 45 minutes thing but let's not be so nit picky this early in the story, mmmkay? Anyway, as we often do at some point in our long journeys, RC and I got a little delirious and came up with some amazingly stupid ideas. And by "we" I mean "me," but again, let's leave the nit picking for a later paragraph. With nothing but time and no enjoyable scenery between here and there (unless you like dirt, dust, more dirt, some rocks, dirt, and powerlines), we came up with more of our world-famous, super-patented, I-can't-believe-they're-not-better ideas. 
 
Frentals
See, I don't really have any friends yet where we live. Why? Well, probably reason number 1 is that I say stuff out loud that I shouldn't. Number 2 is I keep forgetting to shower and/or brush my teeth. And three is that I don't really leave the house all that much. With no job to go to, and no extraneous cash to spend at coffee shops or stores of any sort, I don't have many chances to interact with people my age/gender/marketing demographic/ethnicity/language/background/future reanimation after a premature death in which we were frozen in space-age tubes with blue lights and windows and then brought back to life in better times when a cure was found for whatever me and these imaginary friends died from. So, there's Frentals™. It's a rental service for people who don't have friends but want to pretend they do for a limited amount of time. For a nominal fee, Frentals Worldwide™ will send you a compatible friend for an hour, a day, or a week or monthly rental! Frequent Frental™ members can earn BFF points toward a permanent Frental™ that will participate in a wedding, baby shower, or other major life event for a fraction of the regular cost. Every Frental™ comes with up to 3 public outings per rental period, up to five Facebook photo tags of you and your Frental™ out and about in public, and yours to keep are the stories you'll have of the time you ate at Del Taco at 3 p.m. on a Tuesday with someone other than yourself! If only you had someone to tell about your great Frental™ time, you could earn status points with your real friends...but you don't have any, and that's why you have Frentals™. And for those of you who are lonely in a different way, Frentals will expand at some point to Frentals with Benefits™. I am not going to explain that one, other than the term "Full Frental™ Nudity" will be used in the marketing material. Figure it out yourself.

Logo-A-Go-Go
RC has been getting some freelance work designing logos for friends (not Frentals™...he has real friends), and he foolishly asked me to help him think of a name for his logo design business. He really should know better to ask me to come up with something creative when we've been cooped up in the car for four hours and I'm giving the best of what my body has to the 9-pound vampire in the backseat. So, I started rattling off names for his company. He thought maybe the word "Creative" could be in the name. I disagreed and then launched into a rapidfire session of stupidity. Logo-A-Go-Go was one of the first ideas, then we devolved into Lo-Geaux for that French feel, and then I vaguely remember mumbling a few more ideas before falling silent.
"RC, I've got the name for your business."
"Ok," he said, probably thinking that I was going to say something useful. Silly RC.
"Your new company name is LoGoFuckYourself."
There was stunned silence as RC took in the awesomeness that was what just came out of my mouth. Actually, that's not true. There was no silence but only the kind of silent laughter that RC gets when he's either really amused or completely at a loss for words. He may have been entertained by LoGoFuckYourself, or he may have been retracing all the missteps he took in his life to end up here, with me, at this moment, having this conversation.

There may have been some other Million Dollar Ideas on this trip, but I don't remember them right now. And that's fine, because Count Poopula is ready to eat again, so I have to go do the mom thing. I'll keep you posted if I come up with any more good ideas. Don't go stealing Frentals™ now, because I took the time to put that little ™symbol behind it, and you know that's airtight in any court of law.

Mr. Man's New Year's Resolution

So you say that I'm supposed to make a New Year's Resolution?

Hmmm...I'm only 5 weeks old, so I have to think about what I want to change or do differently.

I think I'll go with, "Stop getting my damn photo taken so much."