Lots and Lots of Updates

Howdy. I took a little break from the blog. This was an "I'm tired and have way too many things to think about right now" type thing. No biggie.

But someone did ask what happened to Winiferd so here's a slew of updates:

1. Spottswood's a late bloomer. 

The cat we considered physically perfect came down with a raging case of zits a few weeks ago.

Ian thought it was flea dirt but I'm a champ at detecting fleas and flea dirt (God almighty, Winnie, stop traumatizing your poor mother), and I knew it couldn't be fleas.

After 1.5 seconds of Googling, I realized it was feline acne. Our little boy has become a man.

And that's the story of why "Spottswood's acne medication" now sits on our grocery list.

Harvey has been calling Spottswood "Pizza Face." But Harvey has no room to talk because...

2. Harvey is gross.

And Harvey keeps urinating and defecating on things. And I don't know. I guess it takes too much energy to walk 15 feet to the litter box room. And life is tough.  And walking makes my feet hurt.

Update: Yesterday, Harvey had an accident-free day. He was rewarded with a smiley face sticker. We also crowned him king of the potty.

3. Winnie has declared herself my faithful watchdog. 

It's wildly annoying. Ian started a new job ages ago that keeps him out of the house later in the evenings.

So Winnie protects my life and limb by barking loudly at the wind blowing and cars driving and butterflies elegantly gliding by in perfect harmony with the universe.

Because, damn it, these things might disturb my human, and I will bark so hard the world will fear all eight pounds of my poofy ass.

Face of a killer

In return, Winnie gets a lot of time-outs when Ian's away from home. It does help to quell the barking. Yay for gentle, life-affirming doggy discipline or whatever you want to call that hippie crap.

4. I'm one week shy of the third trimester. 

Yesterday was the first day that strangers realized I was pregnant. The mail-lady, who sees me everyday, was shocked.

Mail-lady: "Oh my goodness! You're pregnant!"

Laura: "Yeah!"

Mail-lady : "How many months are you?"

Laura: "A little over 6."

Mail-lady- "Six months!?"

According to my doctor, I've gained 14 pounds so far.

The baby kicks and squirms with vigor. So vigorously that Ian once got nauseous and had to stop feeling the miracle of life since it made him feel like barfing.

I felt the first fetal movements at 18 weeks, at 5 in the morning, the sensation of a butterfly flapping around in my left side.

Now, at 27 weeks, the child does some sort of intense gymnastics routine in the early mornings, as I can feel bizarre ripples against my stomach again and again and again and you get the picture. 

I'm sorry but I have no pictures of me lately because I never think to take any. We're working on it.

The Big Reveal

Folks, it's what you've all been waiting for. Or at least what four of you have been waiting for. And you four already know.

So here's the news no one's been waiting for and now feel only mildly interested in learning.

It's a...

No. Wait. That's wrong.

It's a...

Shoot. Hold on.

Wait. Wait.

It's a girl!

An Update: Harvard the Gross

My husband has been prodding me to post a new blog for at least... a week? Two weeks? A month?

You know, life gets busy. Or something.

Here's a run-down of everything that's happened in the past month at the Winiferd house.

1. Harvey is disgusting. 

First, he started peeing on the living room rug.

We sprayed it down with what I call "Stank and Stain" but within hours, the smell would return.

This is seriously the only good recent photo we have of Harvey.

And then Harvey took a dump in the living room rug and helpfully mashed it deep into the shaggy fabric. That thing was done for, immediately.

But Ian's a hopeful man. He scurried about in his underwear at 7 in the morning, desperately trying to salvage the rug.

I had used my Christmas money to buy it last year, and he was worried I would feel heartbroken over the assassination of Shaggy the Rug.

The rug in better days

Alas, I took one sniff of Harvey's gift and knew all was lost.

Laura: "It's dead. Throw it away."

Ian: "You're okay with that? I thought you'd be upset."

Laura: "It's just a rug. There are worse things in life you can lose."

2. Harvey is trying to kill himself.

Harvey took a happy trip under the bed two weekends ago. He emerged with an enormous bald spot. He had cleanly ripped out a perfect circle of hair on his neck.

The bald spot looked red and inflamed. I couldn't stand to look at it so I gave Ian some Neosporin and asked him to coat the bald spot. Harvey's bald patch immediately began looking better.

Then, last weekend, he scraped the hell out it on his cat door, leaving him with a bloody flesh wound atop his bald spot.

I run away screeching when he shows off his bald spot now.

Harvey also enjoys dangling off high shelves while attempting to eat the semi-poisonous plants we had to move indoors.

If we find a suicide note in the next few days, it will all make sense.

3. Polly has feathers on her head now.

In an attempt to piss off Harvey, Polly has grown back the feathers on her bald spot. It appears we must have at least one bald animal in the family at all times.

4. Sal went to chicken heaven.

Something snatched up Sal. At this point, no one feels sad or mushy or frankly, even surprised, when something gets our chickens.

You learn quickly that chickens are just food sources, no matter how hard you try to make them into pets.

That's Sal on the left

5. Ian cooked phallic turkey sausage. 

I told him not to buy them, but he insisted. And then he screeched in horror as the wieners fried on the stove.

Ian: "I can't eat these! They're disgusting!" 

Of course, he ate two of them. Might I add, they were both disgusting-looking and expired. One week later, he still seems fine.

Spottswood the Menace

Life is full of irony, something Alanis Morissette went on at length about back in the 1990s.

Which is why one week you're branding your surly fat cat and needy dog the grossest, most annoying animals in the universe, or at least the house, and the next week the cat you deemed perfect is rampaging around the house acting like the devil with his pants on fire.

Spottswood, perfect, dainty, adorable Spottswood, erupted into hell on legs last week.

Spottswood has chewed three keys off Ian's computer keyboard, insists on chewing up computer cords, crams candy wrappers and plastics into his cheeks, hops onto shelves and knocks all the contents off, and is continually running between Ian's legs making them both skid around erratically.

"I am so gnawing on that ethernet cable."

Hell hath no furry like a cat who chews up your computer hardware, so Ian has taken to calling Spottswood, "asshole" and "bastard."

By contrast, Winnie has spent the last few days being cuddly and sugary sweet.

Ian and I usually walk the dog together, but the few times Ian has declined to walk, staying home to fix his mangled computer hardware full of fang bites, Winnie has leapt into Ian's lap, burrowing into his legs. She'll give me a mournful look, hiding in Forever Daddy's lap, upset at the prospect of separation.

And, well, you try to despise a dog with that kind of loyalty. Ian can't. He emits all kinds of "Awws" when that happens.

And then you factor in Winnie's new haircut, which makes her look like a deformed lamb mixed with a miniature Luck Dragon, and then the time a sleeping Winnie jerked awake, shaking and wild-eyed, tail tucked between her legs, scaring the ever-loving crap out of both Ian and me, and you suddenly have a wildly sympathetic Forever Daddy.

Laura: "She must have had a nightmare. I've never seen a dog react so emotionally to a dream."

Ian: "I was waiting for an earthquake to happen. Poor thing."

So we currently have an asshole of a cat and an achingly sweet dog. We're patiently waiting for Spottswood to level out and for everything to return to normal.

In the meantime:

Laura: "Did you know 'dog' spelled backwards is 'god'?"

Ian: "Yeah."

Laura: "Did you know 'cat' spelled backwards is 'tac'?"

Ian: <Giggles>

Winiferd in the Burbs: SVU (Clank, Clank)

The crime-
Feces. Doo Doo. Defecation.

Scene of the crime-
The kitchen rug (yikes), the kitchen floor surrounding the kitchen rug (eww), and the bottom kitchen cabinet (WHY, GOD, WHY).

The time of the committed crime-
Between 3:00 am and 5:00 am, Friday morning.

The suspects- 
1. Skinny cat, black and white, fifteen pounds. Sleek, elegant, shiny. Has his own beauty regimen. Poses daintily for the camera. Has a crush on his school friend, Nicholas. Is generally perfect in every way.

2. Fat cat, black and white, twenty-three pounds. Dandruff, intense shedding, pathological eater, is best friends with a one Mr. Hanky.

Has a history of doo doo issues. Sleeps often. Loves strangers. Ignores family.

The story- 
I take Winnie to the potty at around 5:00 am on Friday morning. I notice lumps of...stuff. It's too dark to see, but the dog is intrigued. It smells oddly like dead things. Nah, I'm still dreaming.

I drag the dog outside to do her business, and we go back to bed. At 7:00 am, Ian and I wake up. I sniff the kitchen air. I cringe. I spot the crime.

The verdict-

Screw criminal justice and Miranda Rights and fair trials.

Harvard Nathaniel, the jury finds you guilty of First Degree Bull Shit, and the judge sentences you to a year of public shaming.

____________________________________________________

The Crime- 
Wee wee. Wet spot.

Scene of the crime- 
The living room rug I bought with my Christmas money, a rug that is shaggy and red and awesome.

Time of the committed crime- 
Between 8:00 am and 10:00 am, Saturday morning.

The suspects-
1. The fat cat from yesterday who now has a history of being too lazy to walk ten feet to the liter box. The fat cat who has temporarily lost all regard for rules and regulations and not shitting on the floor. 

2. Small dog, white, fluffy, eight pounds. Has to use the bathroom every four hours. Enjoys long walks and chicken-watching. Has attachment issues. Is hyper needy. Has a history of peeing on towels and rugs when immediate need to urinate goes unmet.

The story-

10:00 am on Saturday morning:

Ian: "It smells awful in here."

Laura: "I don't smell anything."

11:30 am on Saturday morning:

Laura: "What's wet over here? What is this?"

Ian: "I guess that's the source of the awful smell."

Laura: "I still can't smell it."

A few hours later: 

Laura: "IT SMELLS LIKE A DYING TURD IN HERE. I THINK A ROTTEN CARCUS IS MASHED INTO THE RUG."

The verdict-

This time we spend a few hours deliberating but ultimately declare the dog guilty of First Degree Asinine Behavior.

We sentence the dog to a year of being watched extra closely and constant references to the time she shamed the family.

The Doggy Said She Loves Me!

Here's the latest slew of catch-phrases here at the Winiferd house:

1. For the past several months I've been slipping the sentence, "The doggy said she loves me!" into casual conversations.

For instance:

Laura: "Have you heard about Romney in Britain today? Apparently, he's made multiple gaffes."

Ian: "I heard about it on NPR."

Laura: "I think the Brits are quietly waiting for Romney to tie one of the Queen's corgis atop his mini-van and drive it into the River Thames."

Ian: "Ha."

Laura: "He's headed to Israel next. That should be a nice, easy atmosphere to prove his diplomatic skills. The doggy said she loves me! So, yeah, I can't wait to hear what he'll say next."

Ian: "Did you... did you just say, 'The doggy said she loves me'?"

Laura: "I'm not sure. But she does love me, so it's probable."

A scan of a younger me with a cowlick and a very young Winnie

Puppy Winnie 

2. This has inevitably led to, "The kitty said he loves me!"

Ian: "We should get a hairless cat someday so you won't be allergic to it."

Laura: "Okay. They're ugly as hell, but I could deal with it if I could hold them. I never get to hold Spottswood and Harvey."

Ian: "They're intrigued by you."

Laura: "I know. They love me. I mean, they tell me all the time..."

3. We constantly imitate the chickens...

...Meaning I constantly ask Ian to imitate the chickens. Polly's cluck is light and charming, Caroline's is loud and screechy, and Marjorine sounds like a duck.

Here's a video of Ian imitating Polly, Caroline, and Marjorine, in that order.

Harvey and Winnie got overly excited when the camera came out, so there's a bit of me loudly objecting.

We should have re-shot the video, but Winiferd in the Burbs hasn't yet reached that level of journalistic excellence. We pride ourselves on slapping together the most half-assed media you've ever seen.

So watch the video!

A Day in the Life of Harvard Nathaniel

Laura (In the kitchen): "Harvey's about to throw up."

Ian (In the hall): "I can hear him."

Laura: "Ewww. He barfed. They're all crowded around it."

Ian: "It's a feeding frenzy."

It's like Christmas.

Laura: "THEY'RE ALL INHALING HIS THROW UP. COME LOOK AT THIS."

Ian: "Gross. No."

Laura: "SERIOUSLY. THIS IS SO DISGUSTING. LOOK."

Ian: "It'll ruin my appetite."

Laura: "SPOTTSWOOD AND WINNIE ATE ALL OF IT."

Ian: "It's the breakfast of champions."

Laura: "HARVEY'S EATING MORE CAT FOOD. HE'S ALREADY HUNGRY AGAIN."

Ian: "I'll bet he is."

Afterwards: Shame. Disgust. Internal loathing.

Man, did you see that!? That was totally gross!

The Greenhouse

When you write a blog, you look for the absurd moments in life. You seize on the wild and unpredictable because those things make really, really, really good writing material.

But sometimes you wake up in the morning, realize you haven't posted all week, and panic because you have absolutely nothing interesting to say.

Then you glance around the kitchen and hope a rhino will suddenly smash through the walls, snorting, roaring, shrieking, and charging. Because that stuff makes for great blogging.

You guys, my life is boring right now. Work is monotonous. I sit all day.

Remember when you were a kid, and college was the key? And once you finished college, you would have a meaningful, interesting life because you would have a meaningful, interesting job?

WELL THEY LIED. PEOPLE WHO WORK IN WINDOWLESS CUBICLES HATE THEIR LIVES.

My life is so boring, I once took a detour home, thinking I'd feel dangerous and wild.

Ian: "Egads! Laura is late. In another hour, I shall file her as a missing person."

Laura: "LOL. I am wild! And dangerous! And LATE!"

Instead I arrived home at the same time I always arrive home.

Luckily when I arrive home from work, I return to these knuckleheads:

I think Ian and I are still trying to figure out what the hell we want to do in life. It seems a shame to waste an entire life in a windowless cubicle.

Especially when I'm wishing the hours away, impatient to get home to New Daddy, encased in dirt and grime, and three furry hoodlums who have spent the day dragging our clothes all over the house, digging through the plants, and exploring the cabinets.

(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SPOTTSWOOD, THAT'S WHERE WE KEEP THE ANT POISON).

Did someone say poison?

That's how it goes, I suppose. While we're at work, the baby sniffs out the poison. IT'S A METAPHOR FOR LIFE. THE CAT'S IN THE CRADLE AND THE SILVER SPOON.

Ian understands my frustrations, and we're slowly plotting our escape. I mentioned the greenhouse a few weeks ago. It's almost finished. It's a bit haphazard, but it's beautiful.

When Roseanne Took Over Our Lives

The two major things happening at the Winiferd house are at once intertwined and incompatible. Brace yourselves for some heady stuff, people. This is about to get intense.

1. In the beginning of January, Netflix started offering every single episode of Roseanne. We realized this mid-January and have been steadily watching slews of episodes every night.

I'm a life-long fan of Roseanne. I can even forgive that last season, since Roseanne still offered us years of high-quality, cutting-edge comedy. Roseanne was way ahead of its time.

Even in 2012, Roseanne is way ahead of its time. No other show tackled issues of the working class, teenage sexuality, big corporations, and lack of a living wage the way Roseanne did.

Ian had never watched Roseanne. He had no idea what was coming.

I did. In college, I would stay up all night watching Roseanne reruns on Nick at Nite. It was a sickness.

So when Ian entered the world of Roseanne with his 9:00pm bedtime, I knew there would be issues. Deep issues. After watching six hours of Roseanne, we reach a manic point of internal conflict: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY, WE MUST TURN OFF THIS SHOW; WE NEED TO SLEEP.

We struggle to rip ourselves away from Roseanne, or more accurately, Darlene and Dan. (BECAUSE YOU KNOW THEY'RE THE BEST CHARACTERS. YOU KNOW THEY ARE).

This family haunts us. They won't let us sleep.

We stagger to bed far too late, reasoning that we've only lost about an hour of sleep. We'll be fine! Let's hit the hay!

2. Here comes the incompatible part: I have no idea why or how, but every single blasted animal living in our house innately knows when we go to bed late.

The night we go to bed late is the night Harvey scratches on the door frames until the wee hours, Spottswood pounds up and down the hallway, and Winnie barks manically at the wayward cats.

It's also the night Winnie needs three potty breaks in a matter of six hours. Dog, I thought you had outgrown this shit. And I'm not talking metaphorical shit. I'm talking literal shit.

Do not be deceived. This dog has to doo doo.

We should rename the pets Roseanne One, Roseanne Two, and Roseanne Three, so we can remember the real reason for our lethargy and blame the culprit appropriately.

And you know how sleep-deprived people handle this situation? After a loooong day of feeling sluggish, they come home and watch eleven more hours of Roseanne.

Tonight will be vicious; I can feel it. This is the night Darlene leaves for art school, and you just can't rip yourself away from something like that.

We're only human. We bleed when cut.

Somebody. Anybody. Stage an intervention. PLEASE HELP US.

Dumpy, Lumpy, Tubby, and Squeaky

Dumpy, Lumpy, Tubby, and Squeaky,

Ate each others vomit weekly.

Dumpy was white and hairy and small,

And took hourly dumps that were ten feet tall.

Lumpy was smallest, yet pudgiest too,

And filled her cage with guinea pig poo.

Tubby was large, and by large I mean fat,

He slept all day, a lethargic cat.

Squeaky was thin with a feminine voice,

He liked fashion and ballet and boys of his choice.

New Daddy liked cats, he didn't like dogs,

Dumpy was one he wished to flog.

But Dumpy filled Mommy's heart with joy,

Despite Dumpy's dumps and the toys she destroyed.

Lumpy lived in a large wooden cage,

She was feminist, wise, and remarkably sage.

Tubby disappeared for days upon days,

He was too fat to run and too awkward to play.

Squeaky impressed with his elegant swag,

Mommy and Daddy both joined PFLAG.

All of these animals were encouraged and loved,

Petted and cuddled and snuggled and hugged.

Because they were Dumpy, Lumpy, Tubby, and Squeaky,

And they ate each others vomit weekly.

Spottswood's Baby Pictures

Ian recently bought some computer hardware back-up... thing that I was completely disinterested in until he showed me that it could store all our photos, including his old photos from the past few years.

And those photos included baby Spottswood.

Ian adopted a tiny Spottswood after his family was killed by dogs. Baby Spottswood was a playful, independent, easy-going, and adventurous kitten.

I ask Ian often how such a rough and tumble kitten morphed into such a skittish and delicate cat.

Here's the world's most perfect cat when he was a kitten:

You guys, we can't help it. We both scream, "AWWWWW!" every time we see this photo.

Showing an early interest in shiny objects. He wants to wear jewelry, but Daddy thinks the other boys might tease him at school. Spottswood, darling, you were born this way.

A curious Spottswood inspects an indifferent CDR (may God rest his piggy soul) 

A walking Spottswood. HOW AMAZING.

Fixated on a glass. His favorite drink is a Mimosa served chilled in a champagne flute. But we only give him virgin Mimosas. He's still only three, after all.

Mr. Harvard and his young protégé, Spottswood.   

Playing Spiderman. Daddy was thrilled that Spottswood wanted to play super-heros... it's never happened since.

Baby Spottswood and fat Harvey 

Spottswood has always been expressive. He plans to audition for his school's Wizard of Oz play next week. He wants to be Dorothy.

He's had an eye for fashion from an early age, although he usually prefers pink argyle.

Sorry for another picture post. But, lo, I am hungry and tired. And everyone loves a fuzzy baby, right?