Max and Molly

If you have eight legs and are smaller than a quarter, do not come into this house; do not hang out in my bathtub; do not play hide-and-seek with me in the closet. It’s not fun for me, and I will kill you. In fact, if you have fewer than eight legs and are smaller than a quarter, or, if you have eight legs and are larger than a quarter, you’re not welcome here either.

If you are a dog: please, be grateful for the dog food we provide you—we bought it based on the criteria that we would eat each and every item on the ingredient list –and DO NOT pee on our carpet, especially while we are in the VERY NEXT ROOM watching Law & Order, because the sound of pee on new carpet is one that can be heard from miles away, and you’ll never get away with it.

Small primates, heed this: I’m onto you.  I’ve got evolution on my side.  The crying? It’s a signal to me that you’re hungry, tired, wet, or uncomfortable.  This means that if I know you are not hungry, tired, wet, nor uncomfortable, I can ignore you.  And I’m going to—I mean, I’m going to start going to. Also, if your age in any denomination involves a plural, please stop shitting in your pants.

If you are among those with kitchen privileges, please do not cook small amounts of pasta in large amounts of water, leaving it to dry out in the stainless steel colander at the bottom of the sink for I must then find a place for it in the dishwasher, and for a product whose primary feature is negative space, it takes up a lot of room in the Kenmore. Also, please HANG UP THE FUCKING BATH TOWEL WHEN YOU’RE DONE WITH IT.

Goats are not allowed indoors, at any time, not when it’s raining or windy or hailing ash from the explosion of a nearby volcano. Goats belong outside.  If you see the screen door propped open because we’re bringing in groceries, it is NOT an invitation for you to come inside. No. Goats. Inside. None.

Thanks, everyone, for all your hard work.

Love to you all,
Momma

Saving the economy, one gay marriage at a time.

We planted your tree. Finally. Yes, you turned a year old just last Friday, and yes, that means your placenta was in our freezer for more than a year. Not to worry: It was double-bagged. It’s the thing that thing on the left looks like a steak. It looked like steak to the dogs, too.

In addition to planting your placenta (rationale here), we also planted a few other things from the past we hope will in turn be used to create the future. Assuming hair grows at a rate of 0.44 mm/day, I calculated which haircut would remove the very last of my Indiana hair (approximately September 2007), then I saved it in a ziploc bag in my purse for days, meaning to stash it away with our dog-in-a-box for burial later, but instead embarrassed myself multiple times by pulling it out whenever I needed a credit card or a quarter from the bottom of my bag. Oh that? That’s my hair… I’m saving it for my daughter’s placenta and my dead dog.

Speaking of, our dear Sebastian is finally in the ground (best dog ever), and hair from Max’s first haircut. Your dad put in a special note. We didn’t have an official placenta planting party, or a cake, but it meant a lot to us. In the future, you will ask us about God or god or gods or church or religion or ESP and basically all I can say is that your father and I believe there is a place for ceremony in our lives and that there is probably some bigger force at work in the universe. It’s just that your father and I aren’t too much into traditional ceremonies (which is probably why we’re married to each other rather than to other, more regular-like people) and we don’t care all that much about the bigger universal forces, as long as we get our tax refunds and nobody bans Diet Dr. Pepper.

By the way, your tree is a Japanese Flowering Cherry, not unlike the tree we planted for of your brother. In fact, you’ll notice that your tree looks almost EXACTLY like Max’s tree; it’s almost as if they are the very same tree. But as law-abiding citizens, your father and I would never ask Papa to dig up that tree from the frozen front yard of our Indiana house in 15°F weather in February as we packed up to move out to California, and we would never look directly in the eyes of California state border patrol and lie to them when they asked if we were bringing in any produce or other plant material, because if we did bring in said foreign plant material, we’d probably learn that it’s too windy in Cayucos for flowering cherry trees and instead we’d have to store it at your Grandma and Grandpa’s house, where it might stay for months until we could find a house of our own and then bring up the back hoe to dig a hole big enough for the tree, which might explain why it took so long for this tree, and hence your placenta, to get in the ground.

But we wouldn’t do that.

By the way, in case you’re wondering what you were doing while we planted this tree: Eating goat turds. They’re the perfect size. And we didn’t even stop you.

I kid you not.

…at staff training in Santa Barbara:

“Every fucking lesbian I know is getting married.”

Please do not claim the area around the can of sweet feed as your very own, growling at various quadripeds passing by, and do not attempt to eat every single morsel of sweet feed that has fallen from said can during our attempts to lure the goats back to their yard, because as you try to snake out every last morsel of sweet feed from the ground, you will also consume large amounts of grass, dirt, and gravel which would make your tummy upset and cause you to shit all over my new carpet in the middle of the night.

And that would be bad, Fran.

Love,
Yo Momma