Away. Judging by the amount of mail asking where I’ve gone and why I haven’t been posting I’d say that exactly one of my regular readers noticed I haven’t posted all week. Sorry about that.
You see, I have this problem. I’m tired. And when I sit down to write something what usually comes out involves peanut butter and squirrels. I’m not sure what they have to do with one another, but I fear that it may be mind control. And if I succumb to their vicious and evil pressures, I will live a life of squirrel servitude.
But I may be overreacting.
Apparently the other night Gertrude woke up and ended up in bed with us. She was sleeping soundly, nuzzled up to my back when she started making her bad dream cry. She was fidgeting and whining when suddenly, she sat bolt upright and said, very lucidly:
PUDDING!
I slept through the whole event, but my wife assures me that it happened. However, I’m worried about this dream. What caused her to be so worried about her welfare?
Besides, pudding can’t hurt you. It’s creamy and sweet and good and nearly impossible to choke on. I suppose you could drown in it, but by the time you cooked all that pudding and let it cool, the skin on top would be impenetrable.
But that is beside the point, isn’t it? Clearly this was the great pudding of death. A pudding so powerful that a mere baby couldn’t possibly save herself from the onslaught of dairy goodness.
Maybe she got some Nilla Wafers out to try to fend of the horde of pudding. But the advancing mass probably just gained speed and bore down upon her. The pudding flood was probably so frightening that only something like a pie crust would have stopped and, really, a baby can’t whip together a pie crust that fast. Or could she?
I imagine in her little dream world she got her baby spoon and tried to battle the pudding as it swarmed her. She probably ate as fast as she could, but her baby spoons just don’t have the payload needed.
No word on whether the pudding was fluid.
Something funny happened this morning. Two things, actually. At about 5 a.m. Gert woke up very upset. I went to see what was wrong. As I was rubbing her back trying to reassure her that her fears of rising gas prices and possible prosecution from the RIAA would slowly abate, she looked at me and said, “I need Mommy.”
I couldn’t deny her request.
Then, while we were making our morning coffee she looked down at the shirt she was wearing and gasped in surprise. “Woggles!” Sometimes I guess even babies forget what shirt they are wearing . . .
Today I’ll leave you with my current theme song from my favorite new record, Steve Burns' Songs for Dustmites. You remember Steve. He’s best known for playing with an animated blue puppy and talking to soap. He’s a good guy. And he’s made an album about science and love. And battling dustmites. You should really check it out. It would be a shame if Steve had to give up music and start entertaining children at strip malls for pieces of gum and periodic half melted Slurpees. It would be horrible to see him drunk on Slurpee syrup screaming at the moms, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Steve Freakin’ Burns! I don’t need this. I used to have a puppy damn it! A blue puppy! Come back here! I’ll show you who has got a letter!”
Just buy the album. You won’t be disappointed. Oh, and unless your kids have a reasonable understanding of physics and/or magical porpoise voices, they probably won’t like the disc.
Here are the lyrics I like today:
i'm just a boring example of everybody else
i threw out the old one
as soon as i found something else
i'll never tell you what i do on Saturday
Actually, I’m perfectly willing to tell you what I do on Saturdays. Nothing. I’m boring! Steve probably gets to hang out with The Flaming Lips. Bastard.
Discuss
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