Ian and Winnie Get Haircuts and Dance

On Saturday, Winnie headed to the groomer while Ian went for his yearly hair-cut. Ian's haircuts present a small dilemma. For me, anyways. Ian doesn't actually care about his hair.

But I approach the occasion with some amount of trepidation because I don't want the hairdresser to (a.) bob his hair or (b.) make him look like a Republican.

His hair has to be shorter, but not too short, but not puffed up like a girl's. It's a tall order.

Luckily, the city Fantastic Sam's does a much better job than the suburban Fantastic Sam's, which shouldn't surprise anyone.

The hair-dresser lopped off six or so inches of hair, and Ian didn't look like a girl or a Republican so we're all very happy. Or I am. Ian profoundly doesn't care.

I also felt pleased that Ian and Winnie got haircuts on the same day because it makes for good photos. Except you really can't tell much of a difference in pictures, so whatever.

And then Ian let me do this to him because it's okay to look like a girl sometimes. 

Ian always falls pretty hard for Winnie with a haircut since she looks like an alien-rat when shaved. He picked her up and petted her willingly all weekend which is a big deal in this house. And they danced.

And that's all the Forever Daddy attention she'll get for now, until she's re-shaved in another three months. It was beautiful while it lasted.

Baby Ian

So. Long time, no see. It's only been... what? Twenty-three days since my last post? I don't know. I've been busy at work and, eh, tired. Very tired.

I feel like I must apologize to my ardent readers who send bags of fan-mail and request Winiferd in the Burb t-shirts (please start sending bags of fan-mail and requesting Winiferd in the Burb t-shirts. God knows, no one else does). 

To make it up to you, here are some scrumptious scans of Ian as a baby. We spent several days with Ian's mom recently and took the opportunity to scan eight billion childhood photos of Ian:

Oh man, I can't even handle this photo. He's like the Gerber Baby meets Buddha, completely calm, serene, and blissed the hell out.

Baby in a bow-tie

Baby hypnosis?

The forehead wrinkles slay me. He's like a puppy.

Baby Beef-Cake on the beach

Looking a bit Hugh Hefner 

Learning to walk. And work his angles. Both very important life skills.

Ian told me, "That car seat was so hot." I, on the other hand, can't remember a darn thing about my toddler car seats.

Forget all the baby-cute stuff for a minute. I think we can all agree this picture is terrifying.

I mean, you would suspect he was a beautiful child, but damn if his parents couldn't have sold this kid off to the advertising world.

"And here we have four-year-old Ian modeling K-Mart's latest in overalls. Only $8.95 at any participating K-Mart."

Ian's most smoldering preschool look

SMILE WITH YOUR EYES

This was a common theme throughout the photo albums. Beats the hell out of me if he actually used the real swings. I saw no photographic evidence.

He wore lots of costumes: bunny, Indian, Pilgrim, Indian...

Eh. That bow tie and hat aren't really big enough to look authentic.

Real Native American men wear pink.

I have tons more, but Spottswood's feeling jealous that everyone's cooing over Ian instead of him. So this will have to do.

The Motorized Bicycle

A couple of weeks ago, Ian made the decision to order a motorized bicycle, allowing him to commute to work using significantly less gas.

The motor bike came in a box. In multiple parts. In multiple tiny parts. And with a motor, you know, just hanging out in the box. A motor that had to be attached to the bike.

I'm not sure why he considered this a good idea. If I had to build a motorized bicycle from scraps, I would have run for my life, screaming, crying, and shrieking in anguished despair.

I have this super idea...

Alas, it was Ian's money and Ian's bike and Ian decided that a weekend of agony was exactly what the doctor ordered. I sat back quietly as Ian placed the order, amused, skeptical, and already silently forgiving.

Here we go. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Of insanity.

I was of two minds: 1. Ah, boys and their toys. And 2. Hold on to your hats, darling pets. We shall soon hear Daddy's primal screams ringing from the rooftops. Don't take it personally.

The bike arrived on Thursday by UPS as promised. I had taken the day off from work and was the first to glimpse the box. Or rather, boxes. The thing arrived in two heavy boxes, too heavy for me to haul into the house.

So I ordered Winnie to window-watch for any motorized bicycle thieves looking to steal large boxes of random, exasperating parts.

Winnie promised to sound the alarm and dutifully kept watch at the window. Motorized bicycle thieves are evidently getting smarter because the boxes remained untouched.

Ian lugged the packages inside the house when he arrived home from work. He cut through the cardboard, and I heard satanic mutterings escape the pungent boxes.

I immediately escaped to the living room, opting to read the New York Times in peace before the rampage began.

Winnie, Spottswood, and Harvey were enthralled by a Daddy on floor-level with them, so they gathered around in wide-eyed curiosity, soaking up the smell of acrid rubber and the sounds of forty million metal parts clattering upon the kitchen floor. 

4:00 on Thursday afternoon-

Ian: "I can't wait to build this bike! I bet I finish it by tonight!"

Laura: "I'm just going to keep reading in here."

Ian: "Don't you want to sit at the kitchen table and keep me company?"

Laura: "Ummm, it's a little more comfy in the living room."

9:00 on Thursday night-

Ian: "What the hell is wrong with this thing? It makes no sense! UGHGHGHGHGHG."

Laura: "Oh dear."

Ian: "I MESSED UP THE BRAKE SYSTEM. THEY SENT A BAD BRAKE SYSTEM. I'M GOING TO KILL SOMEBODY."

Laura: [Herds animals into living room]

10:30 on Thursday night-

Laura: "I'm going to bed. You should, too. Just work on the bike tomorrow."

Ian: "I'm going to stay up."

10:45 on Thursday night:

Ian comes to bed smelling like rubber and grease. There's also the distinct odor of unshed tears.

Laura: "I thought you were going to stay up?"

Ian: "I decided you were right."

Friday night-

The kitchen floor is littered in enormous boxes, plastic bags, wrenches, and a billion metal parts. I debate snapping a photo, but one should never poke a sleeping bear.

Ian: "@#&*@$#&*@#$%&#@$((%&&*(&*)!$*(^^$#%&*()()_^&#@$@#"

Saturday- 

Ian: %#@^&^*(())*_*)_$%$#()*%$^^%#$&)*(^%$#()*)_*(^%$^*(()*^%$##@%**%$=(&^%%@^&&$%^%$^&(^(^()&()&()_%$#@%!#@^&^&^*(&()&()%#@^%$#^%^%#&%$&$@#$%^(*)%$%^%$^&(^(^()&()&()_%$#@%!#@^&%%&&^&^*(&()&(%$#$#@&(&*(&"

Sunday- 

Ian: "#$(*()*()&*($^%&*(()_()_^&$#%#@$&$#@&*(^%KISSMYASS^&*(&&*^^%$%&)(*(*()*()$##@$$%^^%&*#%$&*($%KILLKILLKILLKILL#^%^^%%$#%$^^%$#$@%IWILLKILLYOU^$^%$#%$#$$#@"

And then, late on Sunday afternoon, after a pissed-off Ian had rampaged all day, slamming doors and screaming swears, he finished the bike. I arrived home after visiting my mom and found a calm and cheerful Ian with a perfect motorized bicycle.

He hopped on the bike, revved up the engine, and sped down the street.

And we all lived happily after.

Except for the pets. They need therapy now.

Here's a video of Ian riding the motorized bicycle:

Spottswood's Best Friend

Laura: "Spottswood's teacher asked everyone to write about their best friend today. And Spottswood wrote about you. He told the class that his daddy is his best friend."

Ian: "Awww. That makes me sad. All the other kids have best friends in school, but Spottswood doesn't. He only has me."

Laura: "The other boys tease him because he loves ballet and doesn't play sports. Bobby and Timmy are pretty mean to him sometimes."

Ian: "Awww. Poor Spottswood. I need to schedule a meeting with his teacher."

Laura: "That's a good idea."

Ian: "You're giving me a complex. I keep forgetting that in real life, Spottswood sleeps at home all day, plays with the dog, and probably isn't gay."

Laura: "'Probably' being the operative word."

Where in the World is Polly Chickenheimer?

Ian and I keep running into interesting adventures with our newest flock of chickens. And when I say "adventures," I mean, "Dude, these things keep dying."

First, Jessup met his fate and went to that big chicken coop in sky. Then Maybelle did the same thing. Except we weren't fully responsible for Maybelle's demise. That honor goes to some crafty fox or raccoon.

We were two down from our original four. And then, on Thursday night, Polly went missing. Ian had let the chickens out of their cages to play in the yard while he used the weed-eater on the edge of the property.

He never saw a single dog, cat, hawk, or other predator descend upon our chickens. The chickens played merrily, running in circles and squawking.

When Ian finished weed-eating, he discovered Polly was missing. Ian and I searched and searched for Polly. Late afternoon turned into evening, and we had to break out flashlights.

Polly is our fastest and most cunning chicken. She likes to play games of hide and seek, roosting in tree branches and hiding in dark places. She's our friendliest chicken by far.

Also, Polly is bald on top. Either Jessup or Maybelle pecked her poor little head bare.

Being the sort who enjoys formal names on animals, I gave Polly the full name "Pauline" when I named her. Because Polly by itself is just too informal for a chicken, you know? Pauline gives her some dignity.

Polly's full name is Pauline Baldy Chickenheimer.

Ian and I enjoyed singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her. I delighted in calling her "Polly Wobbles" and "Polly Pockets." Polly Wobbles was feisty. We had grown attached to her, bald spot and all.

So when Polly went missing, Ian and I felt distraught.

Laura: "Polly's idol was Amelia Earhart. I bet Polly was building a secret plane. And she finished it this afternoon and flew off. I bet she wanted to be the first chicken to fly across the Atlantic. You know, in a plane."

Ian: "Aww. That makes me sad. I'll miss singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her." 

Laura: "I'll tell my blog readers she's flying around the world, so they won't feel sad. I can make a special column."

Ian: "It'll be like Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Except with Polly Chickenheimer."

Laura: "We can Photoshop her into exotic locations."

Ian and I went to bed that night still feeling upset about Polly's disappearance.

The next morning, we awoke to Polly back home in her cage.

Ian: "Ms. Chickenheimer is back in her cage this morning. It's an X-File."

Polly is remaining mum on her whereabouts.

Perhaps she flew to the Hair Club for Men headquarters to try to fix that bald patch. Or perhaps she flew to Buckingham Palace to take tea with the Queen.

I'll let you know when she gives us the scoop.

Here are Ian and me serenading Polly with Polly Wolly Doodle. Ian plays banjo, I provide vocals, and Polly makes a special appearance. 

We had a bit of camera trouble so it sounds like it's playing through the old phonograph.

Watch closely. 

As soon as I finish singing of a chicken, "who sneezed so hard with the whooping cough; he sneezed his head and tail right off," Polly sneezes violently, spraying me with bits of corn and sludgy brown goo. 

Well played, Ms. Chickenheimer. Well played.

Married

We got married this morning at the court house.

We brought our best friends, Ren and Sam. 

These two were our match-makers, so we owe them about 30 million dollars apiece. Ren and Sam, your checks are in the mail. They're dated May 18, 2078.

County officials stashed us in a tiny, bizarre hallway while we waited for the judge to marry us. We, umm, got a little silly. And loud. The secretary reprimanded us for being too noisy.

Ian loved the pretty flowers.

The judge who married us was featured in the hallway. Her portrait loomed eerily upon us.

The county officials then led us to a conference room. 

Ren and Sam found it highly emotional.

Which made us highly uncomfortable.

And then we went to the court and were married.

Sam reminded me to throw the bouquet. Sam wanted the bouquet. Sam fought for the bouquet. 

"Give me my bouquet, bitch."

Ren took video footage of the ceremony. I posted the link below.

The judge insisted on calling Ian by his middle name, "Michael." By law, I must now call him Michael. Or Mikey. Or Michelangelo, when he's feeling like a ninja turtle. I love you, Mikey.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y90ZDp9Wav0&feature=youtu.be