:: WE'VE MOVED!!! ::

Hey Team. It's official - we're up and running and writing over on our new site:

www.onegoodlife.com

Please head over, and bookmark the new site! We miss you!

:: Where the Hell I Am ::

I've been getting lots of email - and yes, you are right: My ass is lagging, and no I'm not dead.

While I may appear to you all as either deceased or lazy, I've actually been upstaging beavers everywhere with my busyness. Really.

I am currently transferring all of the posts you see here, including all of the archives (that's more than 225 entries) to the new website.

Sure, I could have started fresh, but it was important to me to take the old stuff with us when we launch the new site. The history on this site represents a lot of work, a lot of laughs, but more important, a lot of BIG HAPPENINGS. (Hello?! Giving birth, people. . . Need. I. Say. More?)

Anyway, The Varmint's designing away, his free time joyfully spent doing a project he likes and I can tell you, it looks awesome. The site is currently up at www.onegoodlife.com - but we're still working on it. What you see there is a preview.

We'll be sending out an email, and making a formal announcement once it's officially done and we launch.

Shoot me an email if you'd like to be put on the list to be invited to the big day: tam at onegoodlife.com. You'll score a red carpet invitation, and never even have to bother dressing up.

:: Letters to Makenna: January 13, 2007 ::

Hey Makenna,

It's mommy here. This is to be your first letter of many.

I had all of these grand plans to start a journal all about you and the daily wonders we're enjoying, but mommy wasn't very smart at estimating how much actual free time she'd have. As it turns out, you're rather stubborn. You'd rather do things with mommy than watch. With the possible exception of taking a number two, that's alright with me.

I can not believe you are already 3 and a half months old. The thought of you being 4 months old in two weeks blows my mind. It's going so fast. Every day is so different, I wish I could think of everything I want to say to you, to remember it, hold it, save it here. . . but the hormones are raging and mommy's recall is on a par with . . . um. . . what was I saying?

I can, however, remember yesterday because it was amazing. We had two big firsts: Not only did you sit upright like a regular baby in your big orange BOB stroller for the first time (enough of that baby car seat already, huh?!), you laughed an actual, audible big-girl laugh.

Just two days ago, you had this funky little garbled, low-pitched staccato holler that was a strange little yell-laugh. Yesterday, your laugh changed. For the first time ever, you could hear "Ha ha haaaa!" just as perfect as anything.

Where did the funny little yell-laugh go? What synapses connected that made yesterday different? One minute it didn't exist. The next, it did. We were down in the studio in the late afternoon on a cold, cloudy day. It was sprinkling outside. Daddy was holding you, all cozy in your thick white jammies in the Baby Bjorn. Mommy just walked in from getting her hair cut. We hadn't seen one another for a few hours and were very happy to reconnect, you and I. You laughed when you saw me, "HEE hee haaaa!".

Your daddy and I blinked, and looked at each other with eyes wide. Within seconds, I was dancing and jumping up and down like a chimpanzee - pretty much anything to keep you laughing. Daddy and I wanted to hear your surprisingly throaty little laugh again. We didn't want you to stop. And you didn't! Not for a long time. You were absolutely busting your little baby gut. And we loved it the way only new parents could.

Yesterday was one of my favorite days since becoming a mom. Some days it can be tough; as with any new job, it takes a while to adjust to your new boss. From the moment you were born, you strapped on your little patent leather hip-boots and cracked your little leather bullwhip and became Her Supreme Majesty, Baby Makenna the Dictatrix. Your ascent was speedy and impressive, a total coup.

And like the adorable totalitarian dictator you are, you have your quirks. Not Kim Jong Il-type quirks, mind you, but quirks nonetheless. For instance, you set up some firm Rules and Consequences for Mommy and Daddy. The rules change, but the consequences are pretty much the same: You take your cute little baby lungs, inhale deeply, turn your mouth into a perfect rectangle and blow our eardrums out. When sheer volume doesn't bend us to your will, you will turn red and add real tears. It's 100% effective. None can resist those magical baby tears.

- - - - - - - -

Here are today's 10 Rules for Mommy and Daddy, though tomorrow, I expect an encoded memo throwing these out and replacing them with new ones:

1. You will carry me everywhere, and not even think of putting me down. I want to see everything, to ensure you're performing to my satisfaction.

2. I mean it. Don't put me down. Especially not on my back. What? Your back hurts? That's SO not my problem.

3. I am okay with my Jumperoo, but only for a little while. (See rules 1 and 2.) And no baby swing, or play gym, either. The vibro-chair may be acceptable for short moments. (Like your patting me dry after a warm bath.) I will let you know.

4. If I'm hungry, present the boob promptly.

5. I'm always hungry.

6. That baby in the mirror is fun to play with for a little while. Then, she needs to go.

7. When tired, keep my line-of-sight clear. That includes all toys, rattles, blankies and faces. Yes, even yours.

8. When I choose to nap, my preferred mattress is your belly. (Hey. Now you've got an excuse for those soft, mushy guts you two are sporting these days. You can thank me later.)

9. Don't wake me up. And no, needing to pee is not an excuse. If I wear diapers, so can you.

10. When I wake up, refer to rule #1.

- - - - - -

For the record, despite the rules, we remain your happy subjects. After all, it's our prerogative to do things like give you hideously sappy nicknames and make you dance the Hustle for the video camera. I guess you have the right to retaliate.

Which reminds me, here are a few of your current nicknames: Snoogs (short for Snoogums), Peanut, Sweetpea, Woogs (short for Woogums), Lovebug, Babygirl, Snuggles, Girl-cub, Babybear, Mak, Kenna, Kenna-K and Milkmonkey.

Despite these abuses, you are a delight. We're a team and our family is so happy together, teenagers for miles around are compelled to roll their eyes for no apparent reason. You're such an incredibly happy, vocal and curious baby. Every morning, when I wake up to your huge toothless smile, it feels like Christmas.

We love you, baby girl!

Kisses,

Momma

:: Confession Time ::

Um, yeah. The tree is still up.

Today is Saturday. We're double-digits into January. Football's on. And it's looking like a rainy day.

I'm running out of excuses.

If this thing doesn't get put away this weekend, it's staying up til next year.

:: Snapshot ::

This is the baby's Longshoreman Outfit. I'm including it here because it is one of the rare times where you will see her in anything other than pajamas.

Frankly, I find that baby clothes are a pain in the ass. Sure, babies look cute in their jeans and their little button up shirts, but let's face it: With button-up shirts, there are buttons. Which means you have to button the buttons. Have you ever tried buttoning jeans onto a Crisco-coated otter?

And seriously, what self-respecting baby wouldn't prefer their comfy zip-up fleecy jammies to that scratchy-ass denim, anyway? Everyone knows it's all about THEIR comfort. Who cares if mommy looks like a lazy, neglectful candidate for CPS - just as long as I'm in my velvety pajamas!

Anyway, I found an excellent compromise at the Gymboree sale yesterday, certain to make New Jersey mobsters green with envy: The velour track suit.

Looks like clothes. Feels like jammies. Now all I need are some nice gold chains...

:: Chef Varmint ::

Last night, I'm baby wrangling so The Varmint decides to take up the dinner gauntlet.

My eyebrows shoot off my forehead when I note that he's even going so far as to follow a recipe! After an hour of increasingly scrumptious aromas wafting from the kitchen, Chef Varmint proudly struts out to the living room, a huge grin on his face.

He puts the dinner plate in front of me with a flourish, stating, "For you, madame." He then takes his leave, back to the kitchen.

Eagerly, the baby and I stop playing to see what he's prepared. The plate looks delicious. "Mmmm, look what daddy made, sweetheart - pork loin with veggies!"

"Yep!" shouts The Varmint happily from the kitchen.

"... Um, babe?" I ask The Varmint hesitantly, "Why are two carrots sticking out of the top of the pork loin?"

"Those? Oh, those are the eye stalks."

"Eye stalks?"

"Like a crab, you know? I guess all those episodes of 'Top Chef' have rubbed off: That's what they call 'p-r-e-s-e-n-t-a-t-i-o-n.'"

"Ah."

:: Big Furry Trees and Moonlight ::

We have a longtime tradition of ringing in the new year with big furry trees and moonlight with 20+ friends.

The exodus to Joshua Tree begins shortly after Christmas and continues to New Year's Day. There we camp en masse, relax from familial festivities, prepare and eat meals you'd usually find prepared in restaurants, drink good beer and climb some of the best rocks in the world.

It's a compelling way to bring in the new year, with skinned knees during the day, stinging cheeks at night and eyefuls of uncanny scenery that startle and soothe, simultaneously.

This year, we cheated. We "camped" at Joshua Tree and slept warm and toasty at at Le Motel Six at night. This sort of behavior would normally set us up for relentless jeering from the hardcore campers in our lot, but the fact we were carting around a 15-pound, 3-month-old starfish-baby in windy, sub-40-degree weather instead inspired nods of understanding.

And a good thing, too. I doubt any of the fellas would be stoked to peel their warm fleshy bits from beneath layers of fleece and have it quick-frozen in layers of saliva.

(Hmm. Perhaps I should rephrase that... You do know I was talking about breastfeeding here, right?)

And while the idea of cooking, discussing Dutch Ovens of all varieties and babysitting al fresco may not sound like your idea of fun, you might think again if you could see Joshua Tree lit up by moonlight and campfire as you swilled hot Ghiradelli chocolate with mint.

As we see a few members of this crew but once a year, it's become an interesting social study. It's hard to ignore that the number of children in attendance each year increases. It's a mathematical fact. As it does so, the amount of alcohol drunk and number of partygoers left standing at midnight on New Year's Eve decreases. It's an equation that has just one inevitable solution - a proof, actually - that we're all old farts.

The next generation is upon us, campers. And we're the ones responsible for their upbringing. If that's not enough to make you crap your pants, try this one on for size: These are the same people who will be taking care of us in our old folks' homes. Think of it as parenting incentive.

Seriously, though. One part of it I don't miss is that I'm no longer expected to stay up all night partying - and my friends (Jenny!) don't even bother to razz me about it. Not even on New Year's Eve. I've never been one for late-night partying, really. I'm a morning person, through-and-through.

So I, for one, am feeling fine with the idea of handing over the hangover reins and snuggling a little deeper into my sleeping bag on New Year's Eve. (Or Motel Six polyester bedspread as was the case this year.) It seems that the fellas are kicking a bit harder against the inevitable, however. I understand. It's a big leap that takes time to make. Plus, they don't call it the Peter Pan Syndrome for nothing.

It was a shock when I realized I'd cashed in my share of partying-to-excess tickets years ago. Sure, I might find the occasional unspent party billet and let 'er rip every now and again, but mostly I'm left with memories and some wonderful, nearly unbelievable stories.

One of the best actually occurred in Joshua Tree, with a band of great repute and an entirely different crew of friends. But that was fifteen years ago now, way back in the early '90s - and those are stories best left for around the campfire. After all the kids are asleep.

:: Snapshot ::

Today's big winds made for an especially thrilling family trip to The Birch Aquarium. Eucalyptus leaves and branches were sailing through the air, heavy doors slammed shut with bone-jarring KA-THUNK!s, tumbleweeds were all over the roads, and most spectacularly, there was huge, frothy storm surge all along the coast.

Proof in point: This was shot by The Varmint, looking south toward La Jolla Shores from the Aquarium using our new 105mm macro lens. Notice the palm trees tilting east?

Sweet.

:: Happy Holidays! ::

It's been a great 2006 for our family.

I don't suppose you need to guess about what my favorite gift might be this year. Worth every contraction. Every heave. Every hive. For The Varmint and me, 2006 will always be the year our Makenna Kay was born.

This was my view from my big red chair yesterday. Notice the gifts still being wrapped atop the coffee table, the pile of laundry on the sofa and the baby sleeping on her meat mattress. (Finally. A good use for a man watching football...)

Here, my friends, is the average person's Christmas. There is no giant hallway festooned with wreaths and silver bells, no BMW with a bow on it in the driveway, no gourmet meal simmering away in the kitchen.

Nope. It's just us. Life unfolding as we fold sweet-smelling baby clothes. A shared snack of a carnitas tamale and an ice-cold Coke. Us, hanging out and enjoying our family.

We plan to do more of that this morning, just with a bigger crowd and several more decibels involved. We're heading off to mom's to watch my brother's kids go hog wild, shredding their gifts into piles of Christmas paper confetti. Last night they were so jacked up we were peeling them off the ceiling with broomsticks. Only the promise of Santa kept my nephew Kaio from physically imploding.

Anyway, here's hoping your holidays are equally bright. Thanks for sharing this year with us. Here's to you, your family and your friends.

Let's all raise a glass tonight and wish for peace.

:: Our Christmas Miracle ::

This Christmas Eve morning, a miracle occurred.

Not only did I get out of the house baby-less for the second time in two days, but I took my sister-in-law Rachel and my mom to the nail salon. We all got our toes done while the boys watched the kids.

Surprisingly, the miracle isn't that the boys watched the kids. Nope. Our guys are pretty good about that stuff. The miracle is that my mom agreed to get herself her first pedicure ever. This doesn't sound like a big deal, does it? Well, think again. I've been trying to get my mom's beauty-challenged metatarsals clipped, sand-blasted and polished professionally for more than 10 years.

Today was finally the day that ten years of nagging paid off - and it will be one to remember. Rachel and I witnessed a true Cinderella moment when mom's tootsies magically transformed from neglected bear claws to glass-slipper readiness. Major props to the huffing and sweaty manicurist whose blood, sweat and tears made that transformation possible - here's hoping the sweet $20 tip-of-guilt mom flowed her way made the sore muscles worth it.

Mom's toes are now 100% camera-ready, and she enjoyed the experience so much, she said she's looking forward to going again. How's that for a testimonial?!

When I look at my mom's new toes, I see ten shining, hot pink Chiclets of change. For me, they're proof that anything's possible - a true Christmas miracle for 2006.

:: One for the Ladies ::

Sssssh. I'm hiding. Don't tell anyone I'm blogging. If they find out, they'll try to make me work or behave pleasantly, and frankly, I don't feel like doing either.

It's the holidays. It may say "Christmas Vacation" on our calendars, but you and I both know: If you're 1) Female 2) a Parent or, heaven forbid, 3) Both it's anything but...

By the way, if you're a guy and you want to yell "sexism" at my admittedly blatant comedic generalization above - - go ahead. Yell until you're hoarse.

But you know and I know that in general, if it were up to men, we'd all be drinking beer, eating microwaved burritos and opening newspaper-wrapped gifts (i.e. "found objects from around the house") for Christmas. The only holiday lights would be the occasional blue flame as a fart was successfully lit afire.

So, here's to all the ladies and moms out there, busting their fannies to make the holidays sparkle: Thanks for all the hard work. You put the Merry in front of that Christmas, girls, and for that alone you totally rock.

:: The Sweetest Sound ::

Last night, I sat in our big red chair and held our daughter in my lap. She and I were looking into one another's eyes and making unintelligible noises at each other. Shannon was on the phone with his brother, coincidentally having the same conversation.

When we're in a mellow mood like this, I like to make a game of running my fingers up her legs and body, touching her lightly on the cheek or chin, and running them back down - while making goofy sound effects that go with the movement. She always seems to like this because I'm rewarded with her huge, lopsided grin and some crazy gurgles, screeches and grunts.

Being a novice mom, I never knew that babies weren't born with the ability to smile socially or laugh - that these are developmental milestones that occur over time.

That first smile, as any new parent will tell you, is a glorious sight. Thank goodness that it happens pretty early on - with the constant feedings and sleepless nights, you need some sort of reward to keep from locking yourself in the bathroom and cementing the door shut.

It takes longer for the laugh to happen. Which is why, as we were sitting on that red chair, I wasn't sure what that bizarre series of soft staccato grunts were. At first I thought she was trying to spit up, but then, it hit me hard: My kid is laughing! She's looking at mommy's face and having her first belly laugh. In any other situation, someone looking me in the face and giggling madly might make me self-conscious.

In this case, I felt a joy so piercing, it made my heart ache and brought tears to my eyes.

Now I know: The sweetest sound I will ever hear I heard last night. It was totally worth the wait.

:: How the Server Got Stiffed ::

Last night was book club. I was deeply looking forward to going, partly because there would be no computers, baby barf or putting stuff away involved, but mostly, to be honest, because all of the girls were going and it was being held at a wine bar. How festive!

I ditch my precious 11-week-old with my husband while Deb and I burn rubber to The Wine Lover in Hillcrest. We're giddy. We've never been here before. The place has great reviews and a good atmosphere. Plus, rumor has it they serve wine.

We sit at a nice table. Soon the gang's arrived. We settle in, review the menu and order a nice bottle of Spanish red, plus a $15 charcuterie and cheese plate to ride shotgun.

The bottle arrives and is deftly opened by the server, who seems rather annoyed at having to come out from behind his bar to serve us. He vanishes, then returns and tosses a plastic plate onto the middle of the table before turning heel and striding away.

This is a picture of the charcuterie and cheese plate I imagined us ordering:










This isn't too far from the plate we actually got - except that this one looks fresher:









On the single, teensy-weensy saucer-sized plastic plate are three sawed-off hunks of cheese, some fuzzy grapes and four skinny slices of public school-grade sausage. I swear one set of sausage circles was actually bologna fresh from the plastic wrap.

Aghast at such a meager, downscale offering for five people, we just look at one another. I kept thinking the server was straight-facing us and then would bust out laughing and say, "Juuuuust kidding!" and pull out a real charcuterie and cheese plate. He never did.

Knowing we needed to be there for at least an hour longer to finish our book club, we cringe as we order another $15 cheese plate. It arrives, a sad smattering of cheese hunks aboard a mini plastic saucer, much like the first, only without the "meat." He disappears again - and doesn't come back. Mind you, the place is empty except for us and one other couple slowly getting loaded at the bar. Twenty minutes later, Deb gets up from the table and walks over to him, and like Tiny Tim, asks for a little more bread, please.

Once again, Capt. Clayface returns. This time he's got a Ziploc bag in his hand. He sighs, tips the plastic bag into the plastic bread basket on our table and shakes out three stale chunks of bread. He then turns tail, and without a word saunters back behind his counter. We never see him again until it's time for the bill.

After the Ziploc incident, the five us sit there stunned for a minute, our mouths open. Have you ever had such bad service that at the end of the night, while in bed, you find yourself reliving the experience in your mind - just to be sure you didn't accidentally offend the server? I realized at some point that I was doing this while still sitting at the table.

Maybe the server was having a bad day. Maybe the restaurant usually serves a decent plate, with some sense of presentation. Maybe they ran out of food and he had to walk to the gas station to restock their pantry because nothing else was open. Maybe their regular server had the flu and he was the sweet-but-bumbling boyfriend filling in. And maybe we were such understanding patrons that he still got a tip.

Oh, wait. That would be no, no, no, no and HELL NO.

:: The Deerhunter ::

It's a rare blog entry where I'll write about an event where I wasn't there. I'm making an exception here because:

1. It's about Deb.
2. I laughed so hard when I heard it I nearly peed myself.
3. It's got great visuals.
4. It's just that good.

So Deb's husband Greg (forever immortalized here after giving me crap about calling my beloved husband "The Varmint") has the sort of high-profile job where attending company holiday parties is good for your career.

You know the sort of shindig I'm talking about: Where wearing suit and tie is a must. You attend and schmooze the higher-ups, try to drink responsibly (and if that fails, at least sneakily), and everyone scopes out one another's spouse. It's the kind of unspoken thing where, if you managed to land a hot one, you get secret brownie points: "Oooh! Look at Jim-from-Accounting's wife! How'd he score her?!? Must be something we don't know about ol' Jim, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk."

You know the stuff.

Anyway, Deb and Greg hire a sitter, throw on their gladrags and hit the company holiday party Saturday night. Deb's glowing, sporting a sultry-chic ensemble, including some fancy purple heels she scored from me. (Pregnancy fattified my feet and sent me up a size. My gain = her gain.)

Now, I'm not saying whether it was the new heels or, perchance, the single tequila drink she is purported to have imbibed, but suddenly, smack in the middle of the party - and just after scoring a nice bowl of squash soup - she loses her footing on some uneven terrain. In slow motion, she can feel herself, once all elegant and sexy, flailing about like an eel in ice skates. The soup flies through the air. Desperate for something to grab to keep herself from going ass over teacups, she throws out an arm and clutches the first thing within reach ...

Which in this case would be the company's lighted reindeer decorations.

Smack in the middle of the glowing deer herd, their heads rocking back and forth in motorized unison, she manages to grab Rudolph's antler. She hears a snap, and never fully hits the dirt. Quickly, she manages to right herself, but it's too late: Everyone's looking. Even the shoes survive without scuffs or abrasions, although like the rest of her, they are covered in squash soup.

The deer was not so lucky: That snap was the sound of his head being ripped clean off. It is now hanging limp, totally unmoving - though still lit.

In Deb's defense, she laughs at herself (along with the rest of the party) and quickly pulls herself together, not even once throwing up from embarrassment.

Sadly, despite the ongoing attempts of several partygoers to reattach the reindeer's head to its' body, the patient never recovers. Their efforts are futile, as the deer gears whine away at its broken neck, without a head to turn.

I guess I can't blame them for trying. It'd be tough to throw back tequila shots with a headless deer hovering behind you the whole time. It doesn't exactly shout "holiday spirit" or anything. It's more like "you're next in line to get the axe!".

In my opinion, it was good of Deb to give the office party a little kick in the pants and give people something to talk about. Greg sure raised his profile - there's no chance the big bosses didn't notice him. Not to mention, I got a worthy blog entry.

From my perspective, the sacrificial deer was totally worth it.

:: Farewell, Sweet Smell o' Christmas ::

Farewell, sweet smell o' Christmas.

Farewell to hunting for the perfect tree, finding it, gasping at the price and spending way too much money on it.

Farewell to jouncing all the way home with a giant tree stuffed in the back, my hair covered in sap and needles.

Farewell to struggling with the Gaw-dam Christmas Tree Stand. (I called it that so many times, we just renamed it.)

Farewell to crawling beneath the piney prickles to water the thing, and coming up with needles down your pants.

Farewell to The Varmint muttering under his breath as he straps the tree (usually sometime in February, once in March) to the top of his truck to drop it off at a recycling station.

Nope. No more. Yesterday, this year's tree arrived on an unseasonably hot day, courtesy of UPS and Home Depot.

In a way it's a sad, sad day. The new, fake tree's currently sitting in a cardboard box in our dining roo- uh, office, no - what the heck do we call that unfinished room now? The Whatever Room, maybe? The Limbo Room? Yeah. The Limbo Room. Because whatever goes in that room automatically assumes a state of limbo. It's like a black hole in there. Anyway, that's where the tree is.

Today, my mission is to take the thing out of its box, drag it out of The Limbo Room and assemble it. Then, we'll start putting shiny things on it, while drinking eggnog and watching football. It's tradition by default.

On the bright side (no pun intended), it comes pre-lighted, which is sort of nice. But I can't get over the idea that our tree will smell of plastic instead of pine. That there will be no imperfections, the goofy branch that sticks out weird, or some lumpy trunk-carbuncle that you're forced to hide by careful placement of your biggest ornament.

Maybe I'll go to the car wash up the road and get a bunch of pine-scented air fresheners. They're tree-shaped. I could use them as ornaments... right?

*sigh*

Oh who am I kidding? I can't go there. If I do that, the de-volution begins: Next year, it'll be Coors Light cans for decorations while watching Beavis & Butthead Do Christmas. And Lord knows, even I can't go there.

:: Wrong Way, Little Dog ::

So this is the top sidebar picture that greeted me on my Yahoo! homepage this morning.

For the life of me, I couldn't tell what it was until I clicked on it, and opened it larger. My initial guess when it was a tiny thumbnail picture, no lie: A wildebeest giving birth. Even when I opened it and could tell it was a Yorkie dog, I still thought, "What animal is that giving birth to a full-sized Yorkie?" I just couldn't tell what the hell was wrapped around the Yorkie's head - I mean, a Yorkie in a mink coat really was the last thing on my mind.

Of course, from the Yorkie's perspective, it could be quite the badge of honor: Bred as ratters, bagging a mink would have been quite the accomplishment. Sort of in the same way pagan kings used to wear lion skins as a symbol of their power, I guess.

Anyway, this sort of thing is what gives little dogs a bad rap. Why would anyone stuff their dog's ass into a handbag or dress it up in a fur coat (and this is the part that gets me) and then choose to go outside to show it off? To me, this is the sort of thing you do after a couple of cocktails in the privacy of your own home. Maybe you have a little photo shoot, keep the pictures for a good laugh, use them as blackmail leverage against your dog... But then, I actually like dogs, and I have a big enough ego that it doesn't require a living accessory in order to get attention in public. (Thank goodness for THAT, Makenna, huh?)

I also don't buy into the cool-guy (or girl) declaration that "small dogs suck." I actually like Yorkies. My family's always had Yorkies, not the teacup size you see here, but the heartier, more kid-durable version with some meat on their bones. They're good dogs, not all shaky and inbred like the neurotic freaks you see Paris Hilton-esque idiots and diamon-encrusted old ladies sporting around Sak's. Quite the contrary. They're talented hunters who will regularly drop small carcasses on your living room floor, tail wagging: "Look what I brought you! See how I love you?!"

That is if you actually let the dog go outside. You know. Not stuck on the 25th floor of some Manhattan highrise?

My rules for dog ownership:

1. If your dog's paws have only touched carpet and have never felt grass or good, soft earth, you need to give it up.

2. If you've never personally felt the time-honored shame of every owner and picked up your own dog's poop with people watching - then you need to give it up.

3. If you regularly dress your dog in little outfits and go outside to show them off - or carry your dog around in your purse when you go shopping - then you need to give it up.

4. If your dog's name is any of the following: Fifi, Lulu, Peanut, Poopsie, Woogums, Gigi, Sugar, Snuggles or starts with "Miss" "Mr." or "Sir" anything. Give. It. Up.

Frankly, a violation of any of these four rules means your dog needs an owner that gives a damn. An owner that knows dogs, likes dogs, and doesn't spend his or her time trying to transform the dog from dog to human.

The way I see it, we've got enough of those already.

:: Dorky Dancing ::

So this chilly morning, I wake up, don my plush winter robe and Ugg Boots, grab the baby and shuffle out to the kitchen to make some hot coffee. I grab a cup and head out to the bright living room and put the baby in her play gym. After batting at Mr. Munkey a short while, Mak starts to fuss.

Touching her tootsies, I realize they're cold, so I grab the little boots that Deb gave me, and stick them on her too-small feet. She still fusses.

So I bust out my most recent secret weapon: Bob Marley's Legend.

I put on some bumpin' reggae, stick her in the Bjorn and we dance around the living room, singing our lungs out to "Every Little Thing." She immediately quiets and gets the coveted Happy Baby Face. Any unapproved stoppages of either dancing or singing, even for a second - say, to take a sip of coffee - are met with a squawk of protest, the baby equivalent of "Dance, fool, dance!"

I feel like Dixie Wentworth's Pool Boy.

It's not until she settles into mellowness that I look into the mirror and realize that:

1) The living room blinds are wide open.
2) The baby and I are dressed like twins.
3) I look like a drunken bag lady with Tourette's in the middle of an epileptic seizure.
4) There is an old guy with his dog outside, stopped mid-stride, who's staring at me with his mouth hanging open.

But then, after looking at these photos (which The Varmint generously offered to take to "re-create the beautiful moment") who can blame anyone innocently out for a walk and subjected to this horrible spectacle from some neighborly peeping Tommery?

:: And in This Corner ... ::

And in this corner ... weighing in at 12 pounds, 13oz ... with 57 direct hits, 12 blowouts ... It's L'Enfant Terrible, La Bambina of Barf, The Incorrigible Kid Mak!

Mak: "Hand over the milk, bub, or I'll have to introduce you to my little friend..."

:: IMPORTANT NOTICE! ::

To the readers out there who care (and you know who you are), we are beginning the slow progress of migrating the One Good Life blog to a new address. We're going to be using a different system than Blogger, with better features and improved reliability.

So, in a little while, you will find The Varmint, Mak and I (and the One Good Life blog) at:

http://www.onegoodlife.com

It's a pretty darned easy address to remember.

Nevertheless, it would make me feel a whole lot better if you would go ahead and bookmark it now - even though we're not ready for you, yet. (And you know if you don't do it now, you never will!)

I really hate the idea of losing anybody.

FYI, I'll still be posting at this address for awhile - at least until The Varmint and I finish putting the final touches on the new site (and we eliminate the kinks).

Thanks, people. See you at the new place for cocktails and the usual peep show within a couple of weeks...

:: Snapshot: This One's for Megan ::

Just in case you needed a baby fix. I know Mak (and the rest of us) are missing ya. Big time.

Today, progress: Little Miss Fussypants deigned to allow me to tote her sweet pink hiney around in the Baby Bjorn for a couple of hours. The startling result?

Laundry? Done.
Kitchen? Clean.
Oriental rug? Still exists.
Bed? Made.
Bathroom? Sparkly.
Emails? Sent.
Phone calls? Returned.
Bills? ...

Well. Let's not get all crazy now, people.

:: Baby Wars ::

Finally, The Varmint, Mak and I manage to hang with our pregnancy twins Ian and Abi and their freshly-baked sweetie pie Ginger Rain. The event of choice? Brunch at their place.

Brunch was an inspired choice. It's an imminently doable event for new parents, being relaxed and easygoing - far less stressful than the pressure of your average barbecue dinner, too-early breakfast or smack-in-the-middle-of-the-day lunch.

This stuff is important when everybody involved is wearing spit-up covered shirts, has pretty much given up the idea of ever brushing their teeth again and is comfortable with the thought of a full night's sleep replacing porno as something worth getting excited about. We new parents are almost forced to hang out together: As a pack, we all smell alike and are thus immune to one another's funky musk.

Anyway, brunch was a great success, what with Abi managing to pull off a tasty baked egg dish and us popping the can and baking up some cinnamon rolls. When everybody was fed, we decided to engage Phase Two of the Sunday morning plan and greenlight the entertainment portion of the program - namely, greasing up the babies, throwing them in the kiddie pool and letting them go at it, mano-a-mano. First one to cry would be declared LOSER. Or WUSSY. Or maybe WUSSY-LOSER.

My money, naturally, was on Mak - though the odds were not in her favor with her being G-Rain's junior by nearly a month. Still, I figured what she lacked in coordination, she made up for in weight, wiley tactics and a penchant for dirty fighting. (Hey, we don't call her The Barracuda for nothing - my boobs have to be coaxed out of the nursing bra when they hear her coming.)

Unfortunately, our afternoon's entertainment was thwarted when peace-loving G-Rain heard the siren song of her crashing waves CD and decided that napping was better sport than Baby Wars. Whatever. We decided to declare victory due to forfeit, pack our butt paste and go.

But before we departed, we did manage to snap this publicity photo for the next Big Event - G-Rain's on the left and Mighty Mak's on the right.

Personally, I think it's pretty obvious where you oughta place your money, but hey. I'm not laying odds.

:: The Power of the Cheesy Biscuit ::

First of all, Happy Thanksgiving! Here's hoping you're enjoying a day with family and friends.

We're all heading to The Varmint's ma and pa, Pat and Monte's place this afternoon for the Big Feast, Football and Hangout Session.

I'm supposed to be baking my decadent Super Cheesy Biscuits as one of my offerings, but thought I would pause for a quick blogging timeout, due to the fact that The Varmint just whisked The Dictatrix to Diperlandia for an all-expenses paid trip to fun with the bum. And look - Gramma-J just arrived to baby wrangle, too!

That means I've got double-coverage this morning, which is no coincidence: It only proves that people will do just about anything for Super Cheesy Biscuits.

I'm not kidding. Getting the biscuits made is just the first step. Acquiring the biscuit is another. I have seen people squabble over the last biscuit, steal them to take home, wrap them carefully in foil and stash them away in hidden recesses of their purses. I've even seen people eat them off the ground after the batch was dropped in the dirt while backpacking.

But that's another story.

It's not that I'm a fantastic cook. It's not even the Super Cheesy Biscuits. I believe it's The Power of The Carb that leads people to such behavior. You can take your juicy turkey meat, your robust cabernet sauvignon, your perfectly braised veggies. All wonderful items that I fantasize about on a regular basis.

But in my experience, The Carb is King when it comes to making people truly food-crazy: Listen to people talk about mashed potatoes with butter and gravy, hot fresh crusty bread with roasted garlic, rich flavorful stuffing, creamy pumpkin pie with a flaky homemade crust. People get a far away look in their eyes. You can hear it in their voices. Lust.

These are just a few of the things that make Thanksgiving thanks giving, but they are the things that render your average individual helpless to say "No thank you." Instead they say, "Maybe just a taste," or fret over complicated internal calorie negotiations. What other food group renders perfectly rational individuals positively incapable of maintaining their diet?

And to that I say, "Who cares?!" Thanksgiving and Christmas are two days of the year where it shouldn't matter. So dive in. Throw caution to the wind. Plan a walk after you eat (it helps ease the guilt and makes your overbloated tummy feel less inflated) and enjoy.

After all, there will never be another Thanksgiving like this Thanksgiving - so grab your Super Cheesy Biscuit (whatever your Super Cheesy Biscuit might be), ditch the guilt, run for the hills and scarf it down in a quiet corner til nothing but crumbs remain.

It's one day a year and the way I see it, you deserve it.

:: Meg, Mak, Tak + Me ::

I can officially assert that not all houseguests stink after three days. Some you actually wish would move in.

(Note: The Varmint actually just said, "Do you think if we emptied out our garage and built a studio, Megan would move in?")

Megan is no ordinary houseguest. She is my best friend 0f 29 years. She now lives too far away in Boise, Idaho, and has been here since Tuesday for a week-long visit. The woman used her vacation time and spent her hard-earned cash to fly south to baby wrangle and help us out for a whole week. How cool is that?!

With Meg, there's none of that weird, nervous, "What if they see my dirty undies?" vibe that you sometimes get with visitors. In a coincidence of major proportion, Meg and The Varmint also knew one another in high school. So essentially, everyone's family and looks deeply forward to hanging out. If a pair of dirty undies did happen to be left out, they'd probably be stapled to the wall with a Post-It note attached that read "Nice skidmark, doofus!"

This time around, the love's been magnified by the arrival of Makenna - and Meg's unabashed love of people (she legitimately likes people! for real!), babies in particular, and even more particular, OUR baby. She naturally practices all Five Things To Do to Make Parents Love You.

What are the Five Things To Do to Make Parents Love You? I'm glad you asked...

~~~~~~~~~
THE FIVE THINGS TO DO TO MAKE PARENTS LOVE YOU:
Want breeding people to adore you? It's easy. Just do what our houseguest Megan does.

1. Shower their kid with love and attention. Too many compliments is never enough.
2. If the kid's crying, be sensitive.
3. If the diaper needs changing, jump in.
4. Make food.
5. Lend a hand. If you can lug, hold, clean, carry, entertain, feed, babysit or otherwise make life somehow easier for the parents, they will love you forever.
~~~~~~~~~

It works. I wrote this, and I promise you - if you were to do these 5 Things and I knew you didn't actually fancy babies and just wanted to butter us up - I so wouldn't care. I would still love you like a dog loves its owner at dinnertime. With Megan, it's even worse. It's repulsively genuine. She didn't read the list. She IS the list.

The result? This magical week, The Varmint and I have been getting rest. And laughing a lot. And going out. And having fun - almost like normal people. Those reasons alone would make us love her. But we loved her in a big, bad, hairy way even before that. It should say something that she's getting requests for a long-term relationship from my husband - and I am in complete agreement. It may have become a stalker kind of love now.

So yeah, Megs - it may seem as if things are moving a little too fast for you at first (what with the request for long-term cohabitation and all), but trust me, when it's right, it's right. You've got a whole new life waiting for you here in San Diego. Forget that kid, nice house and successful career in Boise. We need you here. And hey, we're offering you our garage, free of charge. How can you pass up a deal like that?

:: Overheard ::

Meg, the baby and I are walking toward Target when a shark-like Cadillac with a stumpy, cigar-chomping driver cruises by for the second time, seeking out a parking space with his window down and his arm hanging out.

Us: "Hey. How's it going?"

Cadillac Man as he rolls slowly by: "Well, it'd be a whole lot bettah when we hit dat lottery, sweet'art."

:: Tucson or Bust ::

Call us crazy. Or desperate. But last Tuesday through Friday, The Varmint, Varmint Senior, six-week-old Mak and I packed the extended family wagon chock-full of baggage, bedding and baby gear and vamoosed 8 hours east to Tucson, A-Z for a few frenzy-filled days of errands, high-stakes shopping and adult decision-making.

Fun it was not. But fruitful it was. The Varmint and I are putting our collective familial booty on the line and coughing up some serious savings to buy a townhouse in the Tucson Foothills (check the top two pics). We're not moving. We're investing.

It's a whole different ball of wax, fraught with stumbling blocks and a constant measure of immediate expense versus long-term gain. Considering that buying property and having a kid are two of the highest hits on the stress ranking index - and we've decided to tackle both in two months, well... we're feeling a little overwhelmed.

It's not just the massive question mark of the foreign and mysterious Arizona real estate market. (My ongoing question: "Why would a place that can give your ass permanent seatbelt-burn scars be growing so exponentially?") It's the little stuff like, "Do we invest $200 in cabinet knobs to help drag this early-80s kitchen into the 21st century, or do we just pretend it isn't there and screen for renters without taste?"

The list of stuff to do to bring the place up to snuff is currently eight pages long. Literally. Throw in the fact we live a state away, have a newborn, run our own company and are currently walking zombies who are making such sound decisions as tucking away our house keys in the safety of the refrigerator butter drawer. It may be we're none too bright tackling this right now.

But sometimes, life doesn't offer up the luxury of choice. It does sometimes offer the occasional stroke of good luck - such as a father-in-law with real estate know-how, who also happens to own property in the same city as the one you're buying in, and Knows People. Having Monte (a.k.a. Varmint Senior) with us for the four days helped immeasurably. He greased the slide into Renovation Land, prevented panic, and helped to keep us organized and on-track, even through the distractions of an Extremely Fussy Baby, a Frazzled Wife + Mother and a Stressed, Under Deadline Husband + Father.

Mostly, our issues were due to the poor Varmint being forced to keep his furry little head buried in his laptop, designing away throughout the nights for one of our more favorite international clients. This was for the duration of the entire trip - and the resulting stress cascade created the equivalent of a high-pitched environmental hum that never gave us a break.

Despite the wailing, the messes, the sweaty nights and the fits, I managed to pull myself together enough to care for the baby - who was obviously starving to death and angry that we were poking her with sharp needles. Spit-up spackled and worn, we limped home Friday, even stopping to eat our bag lunches and check out the shuttered and somewhat creepy old Pullman Motel at I-8 and Highway 84.

We made it home in good time, with our freshly-angelic baby in good shape. Perhaps the rest of us were a bit worse for wear. But considering everything, Mak and the rest of us did well. Wonderfully, our to-do list was chopped to a nearly manageable level and we developed a newfound confidence for Traveling with Baby.

Crazy as hoot owls you say? Well, if we can make it away for four days under that kind of pressure my view is that should inspire hope. We might just be able to make it away for four days as a family for a - dare I say it - mini v a c a t i o n. Wow. I can't believe I just said that, effectively signing myself up for another road trip with baby so soon... Maybe I am delirious. Or just a raging amnesiac optimist. Either way, I think it speaks volumes that we'd all be willing to go at it again.

I call that a successful trip.

:: The Sandman Stayed for Tea ::

This is what they mean when they say "Sleep like a baby..."

And what wouldn't I give for one night's worth of this brand of sweet, sweet shuteye right about now, eh?

:: The 'Dear Mom' Letter ::

Dear Mom,

Now that I have a daughter, a few things have come clear to me. So here it is, the kind of letter moms long to someday receive - especially during their kids' teen years.

Notice I'm sending it to you so the whole world can read it. Maybe that means you'll gloat in private, but then, what am I thinking? I know you better.

The truth is, I figure I owe you this much, and since I'm almost 40, I'm finally (okay, probably) mature enough to send this to you and really mean it.

Stuff You Were Right About . . .

* You were right about almost everything I said you were wrong about, but because I was a [baby/kid/ young adult/ teenager/ college student/ stubborn jerk], I didn't want to admit it.

* It's true. I really never understood how much you loved me. But I think I'm starting to.

* I understand things differently now, and I amend my previous assessment: You are not completely old-fashioned and totally out-of-date. You're classic.

* You've got a wealth of life experiences and I'm really glad you shared them with me, even if I never told you that I was.

* Contrary to previous repetitive affirmation, I'm actually rather glad I'm alive, and while it's true that I never asked to be born, I'll admit now to being pleased with the results.

* Thanks for holding on loosely - and for not letting go. That takes some major nads.

* Sorry about those late nights, the sneaking out, the crappy boyfriends and the nasty attitude. Yeah, it's normal growing up stuff, but still. Some things deserve acknowledgment, and the fact that your parents lived through all the crap you tortured them with only proves that they're stronger and wiser than you thought they were. So, thanks.

* Deep apologies for running away from home on Mother's Day. I now agree with you: The timing could have been better.

* You were right when you said you knew I loved you even when I said I didn't. As you always put it, "I'll love you forever, but that doesn't mean I have to like you every day." Well, yeah. Now that I'm older, I marvel at how many people in my life that applies to.

* Thanks for doing all the cooking and keeping things clean. Especially when you didn't feel like it. And for the record? It did make a difference. It's the difference between a living in a burrow and living in a home. 'Nuff said.

* Remember how you used to drop us off and pick us up everywhere? From soccer practice to school stuff to the UTC mall? You were right: It was really cool of you to run a taxi service and never charge us.

* I apologize for those times when I pretended you weren't there, or forgot to say 'thank you' or rolled my eyes when you said something that set off my "uncool detector" in front of my friends. [Actually, I think the most recent transgression on this one was sometime last week, so let's just make this a blanket apology...]

So there you go. There are probably 10,000 more things I could write about, but these are the ones I'm going with.

For now, anyway.

As my kid gets older, I'm sure I'll be compelled to add to the list. Or you'll be happy to remind me. Hey, maybe you can use this as motivation for babysitting: It's sort of like watching karma happen in real time.

Love,

Tam

:: A Grand Nite Out ::

The Varmint and I, in our wild imaginings of what Life with Offspring might be like, realized there would be sacrifices. For example, personal hygeine and Jell-o shots would be moving a few rungs down the priority ladder. As far as going out was concerned, we figured we'd get back to that in, say, 2010.

I'm proud to say, we proved ourselves wrong. We actually went out on a date Wednesday night to celebrate my birthday. And before you ask, it's numero 3 - 9, the last blast before official, card-carrying middle agedness kicks in and my health insurance premiums skyrocket.

Anyway, it's true that when you have a kid, going out becomes a much bigger to-do - what with the getting a sitter (thanks, mom!), pumping milk, and snorting multiple lines of coke to combat the exhaustion. So we decided to do it up right and try for a nice dinner as opposed to the Greek takeaway we've been favoring of late.

As San Diego natives who've never been to The Kensington Grill (it's a bit of a San Diego classic), we decided to remedy our faux pas. It has a great rep, and is not on the trendy radar, so it sounded perfect for our first evening out as parents. I'd describe the place as warm and stylish. It's casually chic fine dining, upscale food, without being too fussy - plus, it's nice and neighborhood-y.

As we arrive, the hostess greets us warmly. She leads us to our seats, asks if we're celebrating a special occasion. We tell her, "Well, it's our first night out after having a baby." (I desperately want to avoid the birthday candle thing.)

"How about a glass of champagne to celebrate?" she offers.

Being as I'd been fantasizing about a frosty cold beer all day long - and knowing full well that The Varmint would rather slurp down a flute of maple syrup than swig champagne - I smile and reply, "No thank you, but thanks so much for asking!"

So we sit. We order a couple of beers. I opt for the Downtown Brown Ale by Lost Coast Breweries in Eureka, not knowing I'd just stumbled upon a major find: This has become one of my most favorite beers, ever. I am shocked by how good it is. (Note to self: Buy a six pack ASAP.) It's brewed with a touch of brown sugar, but the only way I knew that was from going to their website to find this picture. It's really rich and complex, and has a nice brown bite.

For appetizers, we down some hot, succulent pulled pork empanadas and chase them with the cold beers. We order and wait for our entrees to arrive. Ever the fishmeister, The Varmint goes with the halibut. I guess post-empanadas I'm still in a porky kind of mood, because I choose the sugar cane pork skewers.

Throughout our meal, we talk about our lives, how much everything has changed, our work, the baby, us, the future, where we plan to travel (road trip up the West Coast?) and music (The Decemberists). Strangely, we never worried about Mak, or ached to get home to see her right away. We knew it would all be ok, and she'd be back in our arms within a couple of hours. It felt good to be together. Really really good.

And it felt even better when the server sidlesup to our table with the dessert menu, and says, "Order whatever dessert you guys like. It's on us, to congratulate you both on your new baby."

We order the banana bread pudding with caramel rum sauce and the server nods, "Good choice! Reeeeeeally good choice."

She's right. It's absolutely fantastic. So good, in fact, we bring some home to thank Super Mom, our baby sitter, who's also a big bread puddin' fan. She nearly faints from the deliciousness.

The lesson? A night out can do wonders for rejuvenating your sense of self, but also your relationship. Also, it turns out life isn't completely over once you've got a kid after all...

Take tonight, for example. I get to go out for Thai food with Deb. And the best part is, that instead of being sad when the night's over and I have to say goodbye, I'll feel excited. I get to go home and snuggle with two of my favorite people in the world: My husband and my girl.

What could be better than that?

:: Creepy Crawlies ::

Last entry, it was rats. This one, we're talking spiders. (Hey, I'm a little late with the Halloween spirit, but trust me, it's there.)

Man. Living where we do, and with the enormous tropical and tree-ridden yard we've got, I thought we had quite the range of spiders to deal with. Watching us walk through our yard at night, you might think we were bonkers - or blind. While we always try to let the OTHER person go first, if that doesn't work, we walk with our arms extended, desperately waving them back and forth. The purpose? To destroy any giant spider webs before they, and their weavers, wrap around our heads.

Here's why.

These are two pictures of orb spiders taken last week in our yard. The big red hairy spider is a Garden Orb Spider. I think the other is a Golden Orb Spider, but I'm not sure. Either way, I'm not getting too close.

Looking at these two, I thought we'd stack up pretty well in the spider department. Instead, I found that we've got a bunch of wussy little spiders. Pansies. Wimps. Peewees.

By sheer coincidence, one of our clients who happens to live in Australia sent us the following email:

"Here is a photo of the 'kind' of spider that surprised us all last night as we were watching television. The darn thing was larger than my husband's hand fully splayed. Not only was it huge, it was very very fast. We finally trapped it and threw it off the deck. It is called a huntsman spider. Australia - not for the weak of heart..."

For me, the key willie-making phrase was "very very fast." Here's the picture that she sent along with the email. Picture this thing on the wall, an inch above your head in the dark while you're sleeping - and try not to scream:

Now, check out this paragraph I found when looking up the Huntsman's habits on the Internet. If there are higher-than average traffic fatalities in Australia, here's why:

"Huntsman spiders of many species sometimes enter houses. They are also notorious for entering cars, and being found hiding behind sun visors or running across the dashboard."

Man, am I glad I live in California.

:: Rat-tastic Halloween ::

Halloween is usually my favorite holiday, bar none. You can keep the gory flicks, mean tricks, lame-ass allusions to Satan and pernicious badmouthing of pagans. (Seems to me those folks are the ones who really knew how to party.)

Nope, for me Halloween is dressing up and good times, chocolatey goodness, killer parties and a healthy dose of psychological peeping Tommery. (He's dressing up as what?! That explains a lot...) What could be better?

This year, however, the trick was on me. I mean after all, I was expecting not just a quiet Halloween, but a dull, completely uneventful one.

I'm a mom, now... doesn't that mean your life is over? At least for a little while? Nobly sacrificed for the betterment of your progeny? Well, leave it to the vermin (notably not The Varmint) to show me the new and exciting life that awaits a work-at-home mom. Last year, it was a fantastic costume party. This year, I've got vermin using me as a skateboard ramp. Niiice.

So there I am squeezed into our cramped outdoor laundry room, just off of our back porch, loading the washer and minding my own business. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice movement. Furry, tail-flicking, sketchy movement. A split second later, a rat shoots out of nowhere, caroms off the north wall, ricochets off the Oxi-Clean tub, scampers up my arm and makes a squeaking head first dive off of my chest for behind the washer.

I scream, wipe my arm and chest and hop around like a cartoon housewife who has just been accosted by a rodent. I'm yelling "Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew!" and trying to shake off the willies (that's what the screaming and hopping around like an idiot is for). Finally, I manage to get a hold of myself and dart indoors where the rat can't get me. I then strip and shower with the fervency of a HAZMAT employee whose suit's just been punctured. (And for the record? The rat was FAR less Disney than the cutesy widdle illustration, above. Add some red eyes, devil horns and fangs and you're getting closer.)

Now, having shared this dirty little ditty with you, I feel compelled to explain that we are not dirty, rat attracting type people. Nope. We wash, regular-like, and keep the corn cobs off the front porch whenever possible.

Problem is, we live near a canyon and have fruit trees in our very tropical backyard. It's a favorite pit stop for rats travelling along the Rodent Overhead Highway - our city power lines. You can see them running along the wires all over any major city at dusk. That includes the lines that run from the power pole in our back alley to our rooftop. Which happens to be where the water heater vent is located. Which leads straight to the laundry room. Which is nice and warm on these cool autumn nights.

Which explains why a fat, freeloading rat might want to move himself into the equivalent of a rodent luxury condo. And which also explains why my husband drove miles away to pick up our RAT ZAPPER from a friend who'd borrowed it weeks before with fantastic results. As a matter of fact, the ZAPPER's never let us down.

So sayonara, you twitchy little sucka. You're next. And I don't feel one modicum of guilt after you Tony Hawk'ed my person.

Mu-ah-hahahahahhaaaaa.

:: Happy Birthday to Me ::

I've already reached the last year of my thirties. Man, it goes by fast.

And also, happy birthday to One Good Life. The blog is now a year old, with more than 180 entries - conveniently culminating, I realized today, in the birth of Makenna.

Not a bad year, eh?