A Message For The Little Miss.

I completely respect your decision to NOT eat the raspberry muffins I just made. That's cool. Maybe they're not that good, or maybe they're just not to your liking. It happens, and I'm not offended. It's not like I'm a culinary genius - I'm knew to this, so not everything I make is gonna be perfect.

Still: I am curious as to why I'm not allowed to finish off the three muffins that you've taken single bites out of; because we both know that you're not gonna come back to them, and it just feels like we're wasting food. It kinda feels like you're just punishing me: "Because these muffins are so bad, I decree that NO ONE SHALL PARTAKE OF THEM." And, y'know, that just kinda hurts, so when you go to bed, I'm gonna eat 'em.

Also: this business of eating all the pasta noodles out of my dish while ignoring the ones in your own? Don't get it. Really, I'm stumped. Obviously, in your eyes, my plate imparts magical and divine qualities to any foodstuffs that might come in contact with it, but I'm here to tell ya: it ain't true. The ones in your dish taste just as good (or as bad) as the ones in mine.

Just sayin'.

Walking With Hazel: OhMyGoodnessSoManyThings.

Well, Saturday started off with the Little Miss being in a somewhat less-than-enthusiastic mood, and for the first little while all she wanted to do was lie down in her bed; then Dad asked if he could do anything to make it better, to which she replied by holding out her Spider-man pillow and asking Dad to give it a kiss.

So, of course, he did. And so we began this game of her picking out toys for Dad to kiss, and Dad kissing them, including Hazel's toy hammer, the xylophone, and a small piece of blue fabric.

Then we thought it'd be a good idea to turn everything in to a drum, so we spent a few minutes hitting her toys with other toys to see what kinds of noises they made. Then we looked at the xylophone, and Hazel pointed out that the string was really too short to allow her to wield its plastic mallet properly, and so we began to scheme.

Then we got Dad's screwdriver and began taking the xylophone apart (it's just a toy plastic one, so don't think we were messing around with some great architectural musical instrument or anything, jeez...), and Hazel got to turn the screwdriver quite a few times, too. Then we collected all the screws in a plastic cup so that we wouldn't lose them, and then took the top off of the xylophone, and then we undid the knot that held the string in place.

Then Dad found some cord to replace the string with, only it was too big to fit through the holes, so Dad asked Hazel to stand a safe distance away while he used his drill to widen the hole, and then we put the cord through and knotted the ends and put the screws back in and now the xylophone is all better. Because of TOOLS.

Then it was time for dancing with blindfolds on. We're sorry, we don't have any videos.

Then Hazel spent the next little while with our flashlight, chasing its beam of light across the room, leaving Dad to speculate once again that raising a child is not that dissimilar from keeping a pet, only you probably won't have to take your cat aside in a few years and explain to them why boys are evil.

Then we went to help Crystal move her washer and dryer, which meant that Hazel spent most of the next few hours in the company of wimminfolk, so Dad's not too sure exactly what Amy and Crystal were teaching the Little Miss, but he'd like to think that it had to do with, again, the fact that boys are evil. And creepy. And not fun.

After we were finished moving the washer and dryer, we played a game on the steps of Crystal's new house that consisted of Hazel telling Dad which steps he was allowed to sit on, and then handing him some small berries that weren't good for eating but were very good for throwing down the steps.

Then we went home, and Hazel napped while Dad tried to get ready for (wait for it):


JASMINE VALENTINA COMING OVER FOR A PICNIC.

Which actually took place inside our kitchen, because it was kinda chilly outside, but it was so awesome, because we haven't seen Jasmine since she left to go live in New York, and even though she's a high-&-mighty Big City Person now, she still came to hang out with us. What's more, after all was said and done, she even did our dishes.


Then we decided to go for a bike ride, because apparently they were showing 'E.T.' at the community centre down the street, and we thought it'd be fun to go check it out, but when we got there, it turned out the movie was starting later than we thought, and it was already quite late, so we gave Jasmine hugs and thanked her for coming over and then we went home and went to bed.

And that was Saturday.

So far this morning,well, we've had a lazy morning, consisting of eating our breakfast underneath the chairs in the kitchen, dancing to LCD Soundsystem and The Black Keys, and Hazel standing guard with the flashlight while Dad took a shower, making sure that no monsters bothered him.

We might go see Kathryn's show today, but it's kinda icky out, so we might not. We'll see.

It Comes Back, But It's Never The Same.

So, that was summer, huh? That's cool, I wasn't really planning on doing anything this summer anyway, y'know?

Anyway: here's one of those shameless self-promotion things where I talk about how we were putting together a zine for The Straw, and then we looked at what we'd put together and realized that we really didn't like the idea of putting out another collection of stapled copy paper that you'd eventually just use to clean your windows with anyway, and besides, we could do better, so, yes: we're kinda starting over, except it's not so much starting over as it's just giving it room to grow.

We want more submissions. We want a lot of submissions. I mean, we got a lot, but we want more; and not just from our little circle of artistic friends to whom we serve coffee every day. We want submissions from everyone. Seriously: even if you're only glancing at this blog because you think there might be a chance that I say something vulgar about someone you know, or you're waiting for me to put my foot in my mouth once again, or you just like it when I swear like a sailor getting rimmed in a whorehouse, we want something from you.

One page, 8&1/2 x11. You can even submit more than one page, if you want. We may have guidelines, but we're lazy, and if we like it, we'll pretend to forget our own rules. So: draw, paint, write, scribble, anything. Take photographs. Trace your hand on a piece of paper and turn it into a turkey. Do one of those bark rubbings. Type the letter 'e' over and over again on one page. Get arrested and send us a copy of your fingerprints. Hell, if you have kids, get them to draw something. Or write something. God knows I've pimped out my own kid (and a couple of yours, too, I think) for our cause in the past. Get it in to us. We'll look at it and say 'yea' or 'nay', but chances are we'll say 'yea'.

Because we were never about being exclusive. We were always simply about speaking up. And we're pretty sure that a lot of you have something to say.

(I should clarify: when I said 'we could do better', I was in no way referring to the quality of the work submitted. That stuff's amazing. I actually meant WE could do better, as in those of us who were assembling the stupid thing. Sorry if there was any confusion. I say stupid things sometimes.)

Now here is a song about Drunk Girls.

Walking With Hazel: Dad Still Has A Head Cold

So, how did yesterday go?

Oh, right. We went out front so that Hazel could see the new birdhouse, and she found a bunch of large branches that'd broken off, and after yelling "ROBOT FIGHTING!", attacked Dad, who had to fend her off with a large branch of his own, wondering where this giggling assassin had learned such skills. Not that he was mad, mind you, just curious. And a little proud.

Just don't tell her mother.

After that, we went back inside and played with her brand new skateboard, which Dad has to strip and sand so that the Little Miss can paint her own design onto it, as the current graphic is just lame: Then we decided it would be best if we coloured our feet with markers:

Then we went to meet Christina and her little monkey that she calls a child, and Hazel fell asleep in the stroller, so we decided to hang out at the Roasterie, surrounded by 40-year-old goths in top hats and eyeliner, yuppies dragging small wannabe puppies around as accessories, and hipsters on their way to Market Collective. And John, who is always fun to hang out with.

Then when Hazel woke up, we checked out Market Collective, where we encountered a DJ who was playing (I shit you not) Thompson Twins, to which I have to once again say: people. I was actually conscious during the 80's. I remember hearing this shit on the radio. It wasn't good then, and it isn't good now. So stop it.

Market Collective was kinda rad, and we picked up a couple of pictures for Hazel's room, and we saw some friends, and we watched Jeffrey Storey play chess while Hazel tried to smother Eislynn with hugs, and we played in the sandbox that they'd set up in the middle of the market (awesome idea, by the way; no, really, I'm not being sarcastic, it was great fun).

Then we got claustrophobic and decided to go hang out in Riley Park, where Hazel tried to feed Eislynn all the rocks in the world, and we got to listen to lots of parents try and control their children by yelling their respective names over and over across the playground.


Then we went home, and hung Hazel's new pictures up in her bedroom, and had some popcorn, and then it was bedtime.

Now we're going to see Kiarra's show at the Straw Gallery, and maybe check out that Hippyfest/Water Worshipping thing going on at the Bow River. If, y'know, winter doesn't rear it's ugly head today.

Guh.

Walking With Hazel has been postponed due to Dad having a cold and feeling generally awful. Still, any day that starts off with the Little Miss attacking me with a stick while yelling "ROBOT FIGHTING!" can't be a bad one.

Going to bed. As my daughter would say: Leave. Me. Alone. Unless you have cake.

This One Has Lots Of Crude Imagery. Don't Read If You Get Offended Easily. Just Sayin'.

So, it's kinda like each member of Boris had created a sonic penis, and the drummer had created about four of them by himself, and you kinda have to imagine that my ears were vaginas, and that they all took turns having their way with my ear-vaginas, sometimes even having their way with me all at the same time, and sure there were times that it was soft and gentle and lovely, but there were so many other times that it was that hard, fast, rough stuff that could only be described as 'fucking', and really, I think I aurally came for about two solid hours, which is roughly the entire length of their set, and I think I have no qualms about saying that Boris gangbanged me for a couple of hours and holy GOD it was good.

Also: Red Sparrowes were pretty good, but they did not have sonic genitalia, so, y'know, there ya go.

Now I must go limp off to bed. I don't think I'll be able to hear properly for at least a week. Here is a sampling of how Boris conquers all. You'll thank me.

Yr Bones Got A Little Machine

This was originally gonna be another post about Hazel, but we had another kinda lazy day, the most memorable moments being when we stood underneath the 8th St underpass and barked at the cars passing by for a couple of minutes, and the full two blocks we travelled in the stroller, yelling, "Here we go!" to each other the entire time.

Right now, we're watching a couple of kids who can't be more than seven years of age practice ollies onto our sidewalk, and Hazel's really excited about it, and I'm wondering if it's too early to get her her own deck. I mean, I guess it'd mean that I'd finally have to get off my ass and quit using my age as an excuse and actually learn how to skate, because, well, why not, right? So what if my bones break a little more easily? Chicks dig scars, and casts are cool, and they hurt like a motherfucker when you hit someone with 'em. I think it'd be worth it to be able to teach my daughter how to balance on a skateboard, even though right now she'd probably just want to sit down and have Dad push her forward on it, like everything else she owns. We'll see.

All I wanted to say with this was: if you're one of those guys who are building a mosque at Ground Zero, and you're tired of everyone telling you that it's disrespectful and perverted and whatnot, despite the fact that y'all apparently live in a country that's s'posed to celebrate freedom of religion, well, you can build one in my backyard, if you want. I got space and I don't care who you pray to, just as long as you don't trample the raspberries.

Also: go see Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World. It is seriously the best movie ever.

Also also: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!?!?!?

That is all. Despite the usual crap, it's actually been a good weekend. Here's hoping you had a good one, too.

Walking WIth Hazel: We Are SOOOO Lazy Today.

We started off with sort of a lazy morning, which involved periodic viewings of Astroboy in between sessions of chasing the beam from the flashlight, showing Dad how to walk backwards in a circle, and drawing many pictures of butterflies. Then she showed me where it hurt on her big toe, and after a lengthy consultation, it was decided that it would be best if we used a Spider-man band-aid on it.

Oh, yes, and we apparently now have a song in our repertoire that only consists of the lyrics, "Sticky sticky bubblegum".

Then we said bye to Mom as she left for her camping trip, and we went to see if we could find anything in the garden. We picked peas, (which Hazel ate) and raspberries (which Hazel ate) and chard (which she ate and then spit out). To be fair, Hazel was very polite, and always said thank you when she was stealing raspberries from Dad's bucket.

Later on our friend Geoff came over, and while he and Dad talked about stuff and stuff and stuff, Hazel also managed to get both of them to draw various turtles on her colouring pages, and everyone agreed they looked pretty rad, indeed. Then Hazel drew some leaves on Geoff's arm, and Geoff liked them, and said they looked like a pretty awesome tattoo, so Hazel drew some more leaves on the floor.

Then we went to the park, where we played a game that Hazel calls 'Burgers & Fries', where Hazel stands at one of the plastic 'windows' beneath the playground structure and pretends it's a drive-thru window, handing out various pebbles as though they were fast food.

(Mom & Dad both swear that Hazel came up with this game on her own. Honest.)

Then we went home, and Geoff said goodnight and went home, and we had dinner and then some popcorn and some sleepytime tea, and now it's bedtime. So, goodnight.

Drivin' and Drinkin', Especially In That Order.

Mmm. Wow. That beverage right there? That's got a lot of gin in it.

So, yes. Today, yours truly was actually driving, as in, continuing the driving lessons that he dropped a solid grand for about a year and a half ago before succumbing to the flu and cancelling a session and then it was Hazel's first birthday and then a couple weeks later was that whole wedding thing and then there were the Beano renovations and then that quick trip out to visit the folks and then another birthday and then a Christmas vacation and then OHMYGOD HAS IT ACTUALLY BEEN OVER A YEAR SINCE MY LAST LESSON? WHAT. THE FUCK. IS WRONG WITH ME?

To be fair: when one attaches one's self in a matrimonial way to the human equivalent of a whirlwind, one should probably expect one's life to take on various whirlwind-esque qualities, and just learn to shut up and keep up and quit one's bitchin'. Just sayin'.

Also in fairness: the only instructor in Calgary who teaches how to drive manual, according to the CAA/AMA/WTF, is an older man named Werner who is possessed of the thickest accent that lies somewhere between Austria and Germany, not sure exactly where, but every lesson sounds like one is driving with Arnold Schwartzenegger pretending to be a motivational speaker at a concentration camp. You might understand my hesitation at getting back in the car with this man.

But, I did. And it seemed to go well, tonight. Except for that moment on Shagganappi when he decided to test me out by pretending that there were objects on the road that I was about to hit that I couldn't see and then started barking directions in that thick accent - "CLUTCH, IN! SHIFT TO SECOND! FRICTION POINT! ACCELERATE! BLIND SPOT! LOOK BEHIND YOU! SIGNAL! BLIND SPOT! COVER BRAKE!" - at which point, after checking my mirrors like a good student driver, I may not have slammed on the brakes but I DID stop suddenly, and turned to this man to say: "Dude. You have REALLY got to stop yelling at me."

To which he replied, after tsking a few times, "Oh, Chris. Is too much, yes? Too much."

And that's when I drove us to a gas station and bought us some coffee and doughnuts, and then he proceeded to tell me about his wife's constant depression and recent committal to a hospital. I swear to god. The fucking people you meet, and the places you fucking meet them. It makes my head spin and my heart hurt, but I guess that's how it's supposed to be.

So, my next lesson's tomorrow night. Apparently he's got something special planned for me. I shudder to think.

Here are some things that seem designed to freak me right out:

1. OHMIGOD FLYING SQUID WHAT THE FUCK.

2. OHMIGOD MONSTER PHONES WHAT THE HELL.

3. OHMIGOD REPUBLICANS SHOOT ME NOW.

Okay that was just silly. Sorry. I will go drink more gin now, and think about what I've done. In the meantime: Josh thinks this is the best song on the new Arcade Fire album. I think the album's got quite a few forgettable moments and is trying really hard to be the soundtrack to some new John Hughes movie, but this song ain't bad.

Also: Please Don't Let The Children Drink From Your 'Special' Juice.

Little Miss, you just spent fifteen minutes on the toilet, singing a song about peeing and shooing Dad away every time he came by to see if you were done. You were very adamant about dismounting by yourself, and cleaning your hands by yourself, and even trying to put your clothes on by yourself. Are you telling me you did this all just so that you could go sit on thecouch and deposit another gallon of urine into it's cushions?

This is why Daddy drinks.

Kidding.

Anyway: I am on a mission. Sorta.

This is Miss Amy. Well, not really, but Amy's pretty much as awesome as a website devoted to sharks and profanity, and she needs a bit of help. She's organizing a carnival for the APRH Community Assoc. on August 14th, 2010, and despite her amazing powers of radness, she seems to be having a bit of trouble drumming up volunteers. Which is where all of you come in.

I know y'all like to spend your Saturdays waking up in a beer-haze, wondering what fresh hell you've put your body through during the previous couple of days, and usually wind up at some patio somewhere prepared to commit more alcoholic atrocities against your liver. I know y'all do this, and I know y'all think you don't have a choice in the matter.

Well, I am here to emancipate you, ladies and sirs; for what better purpose could we dedicate a lovely Saturday morning than to running Bean Bag Tosses or Potato Sack Races, or serving strange concession items to urchins and orphans alike, or roving about the grounds in order to keep the general peace and rescue ragamuffins from getting caught in gopher holes and the like? Do you really think your day would be better if you'd spent it floating down the Bow River in a leaky innertube, most of your metal faculties being spent trying to balance a can of beer on your belly? Of course not.

In all seriousness: Amy needs a bit of help, and y'all know you'd have fun. So if you're free from 10:00-4:00 that day, and you want to do something nice for someone who does nice things for, well, EVERYONE, then get in touch with Amy, or get in touch with me and I'll send you her way. There might even be a promise of beer for you afterwards. But don't count on it, because I'm cheap. Also: even if you're not the helping type, it wouldn't kill you to drag yourself down and check the carnival out, because Amy always puts a lot of work into these things, and everyone usually has a good time, except for that one time a couple of years ago, but we don't talk about that, and besides, everyone knows that kid was asking for it.

Also: no creeps. Honestly.

Myself, I'd gladly help out, but I've already busy that day teaching my daughter to sneak through barbed wire with a combat knife between her teeth. We gots PLANS, yo.

OHMYGODPUTDOWNTHATICECREAMBAR.

So, Bruce & Robin and their magical little gnome known as Forrester joined the Little Miss and I at the zoo today, where we saw lots of animals and stuff and took lots of pictures and had a great time, but if I came away with one impression, it was this:

Calgary, your children are fat.

My own kid has been known to sometimes display rolls, and I often bug Bruce that he's gonna have to knock down a wall in his kid's bedroom in order to airlift the giant tyke outta there, but, really, Calgary: yer kids are fat. It's kinda scary.

That is all. Here is a Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth song that makes everything in the world okay.

Walking With Hazel: A TENTS Situation HAHAHA

This is just gonna be a quick one, as we only did a little bit of stuff this evening.

First, we started drawing pictures with markers, but then Hazel thought it'd be much better if we drew bunnies on her feet. Which we did. Then we drew turtles on the paper, and then we drew monsters, and then we drew eyeballs. They might have all looked like scribbled circles, but that's what she called them, so that's what we are.

Oh, and we drew Spider-man's face, but then she thought it was too scary, so we just coloured over it.

Then we decided that we were going to camp out in the backyard this weekend, so we set up the tent, and rolled out our sleeping bags, and then chased all the bugs out because we have a lot of bugs in the backyard.

Then we went to get groceries, and while we were locking up our bike, there was a lady next to us who was kind of crying, and Hazel actually made her feel better by pointing at her tattoos and calling them lovely.

Then we bought watermelon. We bought other stuff, too, but that was the important thing.

Then we rode over to Crystal's house and picked up our backpack, and Hazel kept it with her for the rest of the way home, but then kinda sorta had one of those accidents that kids have when they're not wearing a diaper. So when we got home, Dad helped Hazel out of her wet clothes, and set her up in the bathroom, and then went to put the bike away, and was only gone for a moment, but then he heard the doorbell ringing, and it turned out that Hazel decided to go outside completely naked and ring the doorbell (her latest toy). When she saw Dad, she thought it'd be funny to run into the street. Completely naked. Making Dad chase her down and carry her back inside and shake his head and sometimes wonder why he didn't drink more.

Now we're having popcorn, and when we're done, we're gonna grab our pillows, and our water bottles, and a flashlight, and then we're gonna go sleep in the tent for the first time ever.

Unless it rains, because then we'll just come back inside.

Nothing To See Here, Move Along

Why is it that every time I get into a cab, this stupid Sean Kingston song is playing on the radio? It annoys me to no end, possibly because it's gonna get stuck in my head, and then I'll eventually convince myself that I like it. Gawddammit.

Anyway: I just wanted to say that the last time I played kickball was in elementary school, and it seemed to involve someone kicking a ball once and then a whole bunch of kids running around screaming. I am happy to report that nothing has changed, except for the consumption of alcohol, Warner rolling around the outfield like a monkey, and, well, if Jared Larsen's gonna be there, you just know I'm gonna try and tackle him at least once.

Also: Peej and Miss Jen Burke play awesome music at Local 510 on Tuesdays, it seems; at the very least, they don't play Sean Kingston. You should go there and pay your respects at some point or another. One of them might even hug you (I'm not saying which, though; it's a surprise).

Now I must go to bed, because, well, I work in the morning, and have to get up in five hours, which means that I'm probably gonna be yelling and throwing small objects at people while I'm at work, so I guess nothing's really new about that.

Alabama, Arkansas, I Do Love My Ma And Pa.

So, I had a moment towards the end of my workday when I looked around at my co-workers, and realized that the majority of people who were there all had something in common, something that kind of bonded us in this weird way briefly, so I had to be an asshole and say out loud: "Is it just me, or is everyone here having the shittiest life possible at this moment?" See, I was surrounded by dour angry faces, and everyone's voices were sharp and full of expletives, and there seemed to be a lot of throwing things and slow shakes of the head and mutterings under the breath, and for the first time in a while, IT WASN'T JUST ME.

And it felt good; not that I wanted my friends to be feeling this way, but for a moment, we were all unhappy together, and I had to kinda laugh at it, and there's tonnes of cliches that could fit this moment (misery loves company, a trouble shared is a trouble halved, etc.), but none could really do it justice, and it sounds screwy, but it just makes me wanna say that if, right now, you yourself are feeling like everything is upside down and unsafe and just generally bad: so am I. So are a lot of people. Hopefully knowing this helps. Hopefully you'll have one of those moments like at the end of I Heart Huckabees where whatsisname finally sees that in whosits moment of suffering that the two characters are exactly alike, and hopefully you can gain some sort of footing to help you on your way. I mean, you still might have to go into a back room once and a while and punch the wall until you see straight again, but maybe not so often.

Of course, one of them had to go and ruin my moment by saying, "Actually, I'm doing pretty good right now.", at which point I replied, "Fuck you, Jeffrey Storey."

No, not really; I'd never say that to Jeffrey Storey. Jeff's a handsome man with a great head of hair who is one of the most honest and kind men I've ever met, and to say something like that to him would be to call down the thunder onto one's self, and I'm not THAT self-destructive.

A few more things:

1. One of the creepiest games I've ever played, and it's an internet flash game.

2. One day I will go to ALL of these places. I will take my daughter, and we will make postcards for everyone we love that say, "Wish you were here at Hell's Half Acre At Wyoming!" Until then, I will look at this website and drool.

3. What It's Like To Really Work In A Music Store.

Can I start doing this at MY job?

And while I'm out here saying stupid shit and wearing my heart on my sleeve, here's this: this goes out to that person I'm having the most issues with. Despite the weird awkwardness and confusion and hurt and anger and resentment and sadness and eventual depression and christ-on-a-fucking-crutch bullshit that we're bound to put each other through for the rest of our lives, this has everything I want to say to you, and it took a bunch of fucking hippies to make me see it. So fuck it: here you are.

And now I'm gonna hit the 'publish post' button before I think better of this and chicken out, and then go make sure the Little Miss's breakfast is ready for the morning. Be good to each other, or I'll smack you upside the head, jerks.

All The Noodles Taste The Same, Little Lady, I Assure You.

Currently, my offspring is face-down on the living room carpet, beside herself with rage due to the fact that I've made the wrong type of noodles for dinner tonight, so while she expresses herself in the manner she knows best, I'm gonna take a few moments to chat.

Things:

1. Jane McGonigal on how gamers can save the world. Long story short: gamers are awesome in game worlds, think that they can't achieve much in the real world. Give them games that help solve real-world problems, gamers will carry those skills from the virtual world to the real world. It's paraphrasing, really, but damn, you really should hear this woman out.

2. Gangs of women roam rural India weilding bamboo sticks and striking fear into the hearts of abusive husbands.

Man, there is NOTHING wrong with that statement whatsoever, y'know? It's like Batman hosting a Take Back The Night rally.

...and now the Little Miss is sitting under the computer table, playing with tomato seeds and still refusing to eat, so let's continue:

3. Actual colour photographs of life during the Great Depression.

4. And then, y'know, after hearing in the news over and over again about all the many different ways people have come up with to be just generally shitty to each other, something like this comes along and warms my heart. Or tries to, at least, because my heart is a cold black lump of coal which dwells in the deepest darkest reaches of space and is used once a year by Santa as he comes by and chips off tiny pieces to give to all the naughty children at Christmas, so technically it cannot be warmed as it is a FORCE OF NATURE UNTO ITSELF THAT EVEN FIGMENT OF YOUR IMAGINATION MUST BOW TO, and now I'm being silly and taking away from the article which is actually quite pleasant.

And now, the Little Miss is in the bathroom, wanting me to put a Spider-Man band-aid on her mosquito bite while she takes a poop. This is my life. At least she ate the raspberries in the salad.

Oh, wait, what? New Lauryn Hill? What?

Walking With Hazel: Screw All This Kinda-Not-Sure-If-It's-Gonna-Rain Business.

So, it's been an okay weekend so far. Yesterday we picked raspberries, and Hazel ate most of them before Dad could get them into the freezer, but they're only starting to bloom, so there'll be a lot more; of course, we DID have to explain to a couple of hobos that while they were more than welcome to have some, they should make sure they were picking only the ripe ones, and also that they weren't allowed to have them ALL, and also to please stop just ripping entire bunches off of the raspberry stalks. They were actually kinda nice about it, which was cool, because it's never a good idea to have angry hobos in your alley.

Then we went swimming. For about ten minutes, before the rain chased us out of the pool, which was outdoors, so we quickly got changed and rode back home, because swimming in the rain is okay if you're a drunk teenager, or just drunk, and it'd be a bad idea if Dad was drunk around Hazel, or if Hazel was drunk, so we just went home and coloured some pictures, and no one got drunk.

After our nap, we had dinner, wherein Hazel showed Dad how to eat orange juice with a fork, and then we decided to go for a bike ride in spite of the gathering rain clouds, so we went to Beano where Josh served us a scoop of ice cream and Shanley told Hazel that her head was too big. In a nice way, though. You can't expect much from Shanley, y'see, because she listens to Cyndi Lauper.

Then we rode home, but we made sure to ride by Jeff & Maggi's place, where we waved at all the people on the porch. Then it was popcorn and bedtime.

THEN... well, we were s'posed to go to the zoo with Christina and her bundle of terror, but it was gross and cold and rainy out, so we told Christina that we didn't want anything to do with her stinky ol' baby, and we went to splash in the puddles instead.

And then Hazel fell into one of the big puddles, and she was fine, but we decided it was best to come home, so she warmed her hands up inside Dad's sweater while we walked home and now we're eating carrot-sticks and grapes and being quite lazy. So, there.

Well, you can't get what you want, but you can get me. It's Noodle with a machine gun, shooting down fighter planes, which is full of The Awesome.