I Forgot How Much You Hate Me
I normally don't drive at rush hour. I have to be at work at 6:45 and I get off at 3:15, so I pretty much keep what I call School Bus Hours. And it's true. You wouldn't think that kids are being picked up for school a full hour and a half before school starts, but that is the way of bussing.

However, yesterday, I did have to drive at rush hour since I decided to go get some paint at Wal-Mart. The paint we're painting the walls with is Laura Ashley Pumpkin 4 from Lowe's, but since I'm doing a three painting Pollock ripoff for over the front windows, I got some Dutchboy Basil. But I didn't get it with Dutchboy base, I got it with their cheapo Colorboy, or whatever, base, since if I wanted Dutchboy I could always just add a quart of water to it since DB is like having sex in a canoe.

On the way home from Hel-Mart, which wasn't too hellish really since Nina behaved great and loooved playing with her new paint stirrers, I was, in fact, in rush hour traffic. And, I had forgotten how much the rush hour SUV and minivan demographic totally hates me.

First tailgater was when we were creeping along Highway 20 at 45 mph. It was a Jeep Liberty and they were resting their chin on my trunk. I thought, "I bet if they knew that I had an infant in here they would back off." So, I raised my right hand toward Nina in her carseat and she grabbed my fingers and shook my hand back and forth. As soon as Nina's hand appeared so that the tailgater could see it, Zip, the Liberty shrank into the background. Wow, that worked well.

Second tailgater was a Chevy Avalanche Special CFS (Compensating for Something) package (or lack thereof). We were stuck in traffic on Slaughter and they decided to poke me in the ear with their left headlight. I let Nina play with my hand a little, which is a novelty for her as generally when I'm driving I can't spare a limb (manual transmission), and sure enough, once we started moving they gave me about 50 yards, probably Shame Space due to their earlier car etiquette faux pas.

Hot Sauce Battle
Based on Nina's behavior last night, I think we should get her some Louisiana Hot Sauce for Christmas. I lazed out and ordered pizza from Dominos and Alison and I both like hot sauce on our pizza. Nina wanted to touch the bottles. Nope, sorry.

She decides to throw a fit and starts hitting herself in the head, which I personally can't stand. I take her hand and give it a little squeeze and say, "No." More crying...but then...swoosh. Nina throws a napkin at me.

And let me break from the narrative to let you know about my 16 month old wonder. She's a veritable Nolan Ryan of throwing stuff at people. If you are six feet away from her, and she wanted to hit you in the head with, say, a puzzle piece, she could.

Now, I thought her feeble napkin throw was funny and I did let a little Haha out. But when the puzzle piece hit me in the head. Well, that hurt. I threw it back at her and it bounced off her chest.

Now, let me acknowledge that I was doing this all wrong. I shouldn't treat a 16 month old like an equal and act like Alison and Tom do when they're, well, around each other. It was immature of me. Besides, Nina had access to paint stirrers.

So, after she finished with her possibly fake crying reaction to me throwing the puzzle piece back, she came at my face with the paint stirrer. The paint stirrer that I had given her, as a gift, to entertain her at Wal-mart. Swish, she wielded it like a club toward my face. I pre-blocked and she went for a throw instead. It hit my left shoulder and she went for a face slap.

My right hand went up to block, and I knocked Nina over. (And she only managed to hit my right shoulder, not my face.)

Nina cried. Alison scooped her up before I could to comfort her. I was the bad guy. Boo. Hiss. I apologized to Nina and retreated to shave my head. Nina continued to hassle Alison, but by the time I got out of the shower she was back to her normal bubbly-until-she's-screaming self.

Also, it must be noted that this crying was crying, sure, but she wanted us to redefine our definition of crying when she pooped in her diaper after we had put her down for the night. It was the sound of a fresh bucket of piranhas and weasels fighting. But, change the diaper and Cybil switched back to the perfect baby again and went to bed without a peep.

Goats and Raccoons
Labman has exotic birds, and sometimes raccoons come out of the woods and eat them in a horrible way (like pulling a entire crane through a one inch hole, eating as they go, while it's alive). His dog died a while back of old age and she wasn't much of a deterrent, but at least the dog presence was there as a mild deterrant. Now, the birds are getting attacked on a regular basis. The lazy cat he got does nothing.

When I was in the lab, looking at a calendar with a mountain goat on it, I thougth, "You know, if I were going to have some strange animal as a pet, I'd like a goat." Then I thought, "I bet a goat will keep those raccoons away." So, I mentioned this to him and now I'm going to do some research.
- posted by Nick Postagulous @ 7:29 AM