Dog Tired

I'm tired. Too tired to form coherent thoughts and work them into organized posts with pretty themes. Maybe you'll forgive me for this one disjointed, unpretty post? There's lots of points, if you like musicals.

(I feel pretty, oh so pretty, that the city should give me it's key....five points!)

Cue has ringworms, which oddly enough are not worms at all, but rather a skin fungus. Cue has a fungus ring, kind of like a mushroom ring, except ON HIS SKIN. Things grow in the tropics. Beautiful things, like flame trees and banana trees and bougainvillea, but also nasty things like, (wince), skin fungus. On my baby.

Gee insists on crapping in his pants. He did it at the park yesterday and I figured it out when we acquired our own swarm of flies. Then, he pooped in the fancy pool this morning after repeated attempts to get him to go in the potty and warnings that any poop in the pool would result in possibly permanent revocation of pool privileges. In one ear and out his ass into the pool. Caused a complete closure. I had to fish the turd in front of skads (SKADS) of horrified Japanese tourist mommies and daddies. We left the pool in disgrace. Hours and hundreds of washings later I swear I still smell shit on my left hand.

(Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune...five points!)

I'm strongly considering just not cleaning this apartment for the entire three months we're here. They have to clean it when we leave anyway. Is that wrong? I wipe. I sweep. It's surface clean.

(But any task you undertake, becomes a piece of cake, a lark, a spree, it's very clear to me...five points!)

Matt's feeling like a hero because two nights ago I couldn't sleep. The entire apartment smelled like tuna fish and it was making me nauseous. After much bitching and moaning on my part he took the trash down to the dumpster, making him like husband of the year or something in his eyes. Except that it was his tuna fish can in the trash.

(If ever I would leave you, it wouldn't be in springtime, knowing how in spring I'm bewitched by you so.....five points!)

Speaking of Matt, I made a little car faux pas that has Matt all up in my business. He threatened to post himself if I don't retract my statement that the car we are driving is a Ford Escort. I'm sure you all remember that, right? No? It's a Toyota Echo. Whatever. Who cares. Why am I boring you with this? Matt had a dream as a teenager that he would die in a Ford Escort. He takes this dream very seriously and refuses to ride in a Ford Escort for any reason. Except that now, I've gone and messed him all up by calling our borrowed Toyota Echo a Ford Escort.

Me: It's still a Toyota Echo, I don't have super powers. I can't make it into a Ford Escort by calling it that.
Him: I don't like it. Why did you call it that anyway? They're two totally different cars.
Me: Small. Roundish. Escort. Echo. Totally different is a stretch.
Him: They stopped making Ford Escorts like eight years ago. Why would you even think of the name?
Me: ? Because it sticks in my mind because you're a freak about them?

His distress is bizarre, but real, so here is my official retraction. The car is a Toyota Echo. Any and all references to it being a Ford Escort were made in error and should be disregarded. Are we all happy now?

(Always look on the bright side of life, da, doo, da, do, da, do, da, do...five points!)

I'm happy. And have I mentioned tired? Where did the expression dog tired come from because every dog I've ever had has more energy than a fully loaded freight train. It should be sloth tired. Or what about panda tired? That fits. Whenever we trek to the National Zoo to see the famous _ing _ing of the day, he/she is always lazing around on its back crunching bamboo.

That's what I want to do. Just for a few days, I want to lay on my back and crunch something. Pringles. Maybe ice cream. M&Ms.

(Lots of chocolate for me to eat, lots of coal making lots of 'eat. Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet, oh wouldn't it be lov-e-ly...five points!)

The thought, each morning, of getting them organized and packed and dressed and sunscreened and into shoes and out the door and down the balcony and down the steps and past the pool and down the other steps and to the car and 'do not touch the mangy dogs' and 'do not touch the rat infested dumpster' and I'm drenched in sweat and Gee, the three-year-old, pants-soiling prima donna is yelling about the freaking air.

TURN THE AIR ON MOMMA, I'M HOT.
YES NORDIC GIRLY BOY, I KNOW. I carried Cue because I don't want him to fall down concrete steps or play in rat droppings or pick up more fungus. I am also hot. It's hot here, that's why we love it so and why there are so many great pools for you to poop in.

I'm doing it, don't get me wrong, we are only here for this short time and I want them to experience it and love it. But the thought of all of that, setting out each morning, par for the course really, no matter where we are, makes me cry just a little bit, some days.

Meanwhile there's some stuff going on here in my real world. Isn't there always stuff going on, for all of us, behind the blog so to speak? So if you have any positive energy or prayers or good thoughts to spare, I could really use them. It might not help, I know, but it can't hurt.

Okay, name that musical. There's a lot of points at stake in this one. Thanksgiving and the end of the contest approach. Plus, it will amuse and distract me and we all know it's all about me.