Breakneck Speed.....

Pucker and I went for a walk, at a pace best described as breakneck.

I trotted, she nearly broke her neck trying to go in the opposite direction. Alas, she did realize (faster than I expected, quite frankly) that I was leading, not following. She did quite well, trotting along beside me, chest heaving, tongue lolling (did I mention, it's near 60 degrees? so clearly, not that hot) stopping only about a dozen times to mark over someone else's territory.

Or, she was faking it, just to catch her breath.

I realize we've taken shorter walks, more along the lines of strolls, where she has had ample opportunity to take the lead - and, sadly, has - as it's a challenge to steer a stroller, balance the never empty Glass of Shaved Ice (a necessity in this house) while re-instructing Stupid to heel. Nearly impossible, though, I've been told, quite amusing to witness.

I don't think it's that funny, ps.

She's jealous of the baby. I understand that. I applaud her method of acting out, since it does not involve biting, scratching, injuring or eating GiGi in any capacity, even when GiGi grabbed a handful of her lip and whiskers, refusing to let go. Instead, she's taken to (brace yourself) Diaper Diving.

Not just dirty ones either. Clean diapers. Diapers pilfered from any diaper bag lying around (or perched up on a sofa, supposedly out of her reach) even the box the diapers came in. She eats them. Not the exterior part, or the tabs, but the weird sucky-uppy-gel stuff that lies beneath the Comfort Layer. This, should you be interested to note, creates a unique texture upon reappearance, as it soaks up fluid, expands, and ends up a good deal of the time as Surprise Poop.

Evidently, she blames me for bringing home that attention sucking miniature screeching beast, as she has gotten back into the sink, to taste my underpinnings. And, you know, her old habits....eat the center out of them. I hate that.

I'd like to know why she doesn't go after J's things. It's not as though I am solely responsible for bringing a baby home. J's underpinnings are on the blasted floor for heaven's sake, (hmm...not entirely sure how they got out of the basket....details details) whereas to reach mine requires a balancing act that had I not seen it in person, I would never believe she could pull off. At her weight, "nimble" isn't an adjective I'd reach for to describe her overall balancing abilities.

Nope. Only my clothing ends up in places I'd never leave it: her crate, under the dining room table, under the sheets on the bed.

So tonight, I took my "first" baby girl for some Just Her and Mommy Time. Time well spent, if you ask me. I left Screech at home with Daddy, Pucker and I had not only a decent walk, but a lovely chit-chat about how she would be in really big trouble if she kept up her current unacceptable behavior. Diaper eating is gross. More importantly, they're expensive, and the more she eats of them, the more I have to buy, the less money I will be able to funnel into fabulously expensive tough to destroy toys for her. I could afford to take her to Doggie Daycare more often. That kind of got her attention. But a moth flew by, and all inroads I was making into her thick skull evaporated.

I know.

I should get up in the morning, early, with J and the kids, take her for a nice long walk, GiGi in the stroller, to get our day started. Except, I kind of have issues with that.

1. I do not like birds. They are the only ones up at that hour, they're so freaking happy to be alive, and chirping all about it, it's quite annoying.

2. I am not a morning person by nature, and really, should we be fighting Mother Nature? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

3. I'm really intimidated by all the other folks around here who hop out of bed, don some fancy jogging togs, hit the road, and do a quick 5K before breakfast. For the record, it's not that I don't have the right clothes - I totally could, but then I'd actually have to wear them for their intended purpose.

4. (this is a really good one): Pucker is not a morning person either. Especially on Saturday or Sunday mornings. THIS is an attribute I am greatly fond of, and would hate to break by some ridiculous need to (gasp) exercise first thing in the morning. She would come to expect that.

I'm positive I don't want to set the bar that high.

Rather round robin, we've come: I'll walk her at night, escaping Ms. Screech Til The Cows Come Home (which will take a long time, as we don't have cows) at a lovely pace. If she continues to eat my underpinnings, she won't have to worry about breaking her neck yanking on the leash in the opposite direction.

I'll break it for her.

Crisis. Averted.

J is having a Massive Shoe Crisis.

He cannot find the one pair of shoes he wants to wear.

Personally, I find this highly amusing.

Or, at least, I should say, I did...right up until he started swearing, tossing things around the bedroom and closet, and the Blame Game. Now, thank goodness he landed on the one human being it's totally fair game to blame after any visit, for any length of time, even if over a year has past: MiMi. MiMi adores being helpful (read: putting everything where she thinks it should live) but generally fails to leave a key code as to where to find things.

Anything, really.

I couldn't find the egg beater. Checked all the kitchen drawers, all the places it should live, only to not find it. (When this happens to me, it's highly annoying) So to a certain extent, I can understand the whole Shoe Crisis, from beginning to end.

I suppose I should toss in there these are his Funeral Shoes, to go with the one suit he owns (that is SO going to change being married to me) The Funeral Suit, which I have now selected the appropriately somber tie/shirt funeral combo. Only thing missing? The damn Funeral Shoes. And, okay (add in a huffy breath) for the sake of true understanding, we are indeed going to a funeral.

I could point out that since GiGi is going, and she has new shoes (ones I can even lay my hands on right this very second!!) no one is going to be even looking at J.

I could point out that since I am attending as well, and I have fabulously attractive shoes, not to mention the ultimate accessory to any outfit: The Well Dressed Baby Girl, people will hardly notice he's even there.

I could also comment that if people are staring at his shoes, he's doing something seriously wrong.

Or, they are more interested in him....say, perhaps....in the Biblical sense. Quite creepy at a funeral, but I've heard it's been done before. I'm not entirely sure how they'd explain to their grandkids how they met over an open casket....how their eyes held for eternity over the cookie and coffee table, they knew the moment they held hands for the final prayer at the gravesite that they just knew the were meant for each other.

I can say, without a doubt, that a woman is not going to fall for a man at the viewing for his blasted Funeral Shoes.

Plus also?

For the record?

And hour later?

I found the shoes. In the one place he didn't look: the damn shoe box in the closet, on the shelf.

Really, hold your applause. It's enough for me to know The Crisis Has Been Averted.