Procrastinet

O HAI!

If you aren't already reading the Laugh Out Loud Cats, (a) why the heck aren't you, and (b) that's where Max's costume comes from. He's Pip, the leaf-loving hobo kitten.

The Laugh Out Loud Cats are the creation of Ape Lad, and you can while away several happy hours paging through the archives here. More pictures to come later, when I will be dressed as the other half of the Laugh Out Loud Cats, Meowlin Q. Kitteh.

Pip at school:

Social Awareness

We went for our seems-to-be-annual apple picking today, at Stuart's Farm in Granite Springs (pictures here, pictures from last year here). After picking the (now sparse) apples, going on a hayride, and trekking through the extensive and picked-over pumpkin patch, Max was ready to sit down on what he insisted on referring to as "a grassy area."

As we were sitting, a party of absurdly good looking hipsters walked past from the pumpkin patch. One of the absurdly good looking guys decided to (a) be friendly and (b) show off for the absurdly good looking girls by striking up a conversation with Max. He didn't, it's safe to say, know what he was in for.

Absurdly Good Looking Hipster Dude: Hey, buddy, did you find some pumpkins?

Max: (mumbles, shy, hides his face)

AGLHD: Did you get some good ones?

Max: Yes. I got four.

[Girls giggle.]

Max: See? One, two, three, four.

AGLHD: Oh, yeah--

Max: We had to get so many because we have SUCH a big family now.

AGLHD: Oh, uh--

Max: Right, because there's me, Mommy, Daddy, and Vou that's my baby brother who's in Mommy's tummy.

AGLHD: ...

[Girls giggle harder.]

Max: I wanted to sit here in a grassy area and watch for the hay ride. We went on the hayride earlier and it was so bumpy. I keep asking and asking if it's going to come along this path and run into us but Mommy and Daddy keep telling me and telling me that it won't.

[Girls are leaning on each other for support, gasping for air.]

AGLHD: Wow. I bet you've never met a stranger, huh?

Mommy: Nope, pretty much everybody's a friend.

Girls: AWWWWWW. BYE!

AGLHD: Um, right. Well... bye.

Max: Okay, bye. [They leave. Max looks at Mom and Dad in consternation.] Why did I keep TALKING to them?!

The Evolution (?) of Humor

I have already chronicled Max's unique take on knock-knock jokes. Tonight he showed how far he has come:

Max: Knock knock.

Me: Who's there?

Max: Glass.

Me: Glass who?

Max: Glass from Manhattan.

Me: ...

Max: That's a knock-knock joke.

Well, by some definitions, I guess...

Separated at Birth?

Lisa suffered a rare (for her) bout of WANT-IT lately, in her frantic desire to deal with the eyesore that our upstairs sofa has become. It's a great sofa - a Pottery Barn "Basic" slipcovered three-seater that I bought on eBay for maybe $300, six years ago. It retails at Pottery Barn for an extortionary $1299-1699 (depending on the fabric).

The problem is, our cats destroy furniture. All furniture. Thoroughly, and in short order. So the original slipcover was completely shredded, not to mention liberally daubed in a remarkable collection of cat- and baby-stains.

So we got a slipcover at Target. It was not cheap (~$80). It was, however, exceedingly ugly. It looked like we had draped the sofa in an ill-fitting beige sheet.

Why, you ask, didn't we get a slipcover custom-made for our couch by the fine folks at Pottery Barn? That would be because they charge $669-$1169 for the honor.

Oh, hell no.

But lo, my wife became sore tired of having an ugly couch that nobody ever wanted to sit on. On a recent Ikea trip, she fell in love with the Lillberg sofa. It being relatively cheap, we decided to buy it.

Except: in their obscure Swedish wisdom, Ikea doesn't have cushions for it in stock at any store on the Eastern seaboard. We know, because we've been to them.

But on one Ikea trip (Paramus?), while waiting to deposit Max in the Smaland play area (to which he has become addicted - he can't wait until Ikea Brooklyn opens and he can go EVERY DAY!), I noticed the Ektorp sofa. And it looked... familiar. I took its vital measurements, and compared them to ours. They were very, very close.

So we bought an Ektorp slipcover and crossed our fingers. Sure enough, it fits absolutely perfectly in every dimension. They are literally, despite the almost ONE THOUSAND DOLLAR price difference, identical sofas (though it must be noted that the PB sofa's cushions are way more comfy).

Check it:

Pottery Barn

Ikea

One can understand them having the same basic style. But the same exact measurements in every dimension, cushions and all? Somebody been cribbin' somebody's design...

Anyway, now my wife has been restored to sanity, and our couch looks like this:

Introducing...

Max knew we were pregnant before we told him. Which was weird. Last time (nicknamed "Baby 2.0") we told him as soon as we knew - and then when we lost that pregnancy we had to explain to a 3 1/2 year old why there was no longer "a baby in Mommy's belly." Yeah. I don't recommend it. Though, actually, Max took it better than we did. So this time we waited until the first OB visit.

But a week beforehand, out of nowhere, he starts talking about "Baby Vou."

"Who's that?" asks Mommy, looking at me funny.

"My baby," says Max confidently.

"Um..." says me, "where is 'Baby Vou,' buddy?"

"In Mommy's belly."

Mommy and Daddy look at each other with Twilight Zone music playing in their neurons.

We're not sure where the name Baby Vou came from, or even how to spell it properly (I say "Vou," Mommy says "Voo," Max insists it's just "V.O." which I'm pretty sure would be pronounced "Voh"). But the nickname stuck, supplanting the somewhat chilling "Baby 2.1"

We went for the 20 week sono today, and sure enough, Tolan men only shoot Y's. Baby Vou is set to be Max's baby brother, some time around leap day (come on, February 29!)

Doing his best impression of an Egyptian temple carving

Oy! No pictures!

Hey folks!

Prenatal Baby Yoga! "Now, peacefully place your big toe into your nostril and just relax..."

Good Post Gone Bad

This started out as just another "hey look at the funny my kid made" post. To wit:

Dad: [Watching video for "Haunted" by Shane MacGowan feat. Sinead O'Connor] Boy, Shane is drunk.

Mom: SO drunk.

Max: What's drunk?

Dad: Er... it's when you have too many grownup drinks. Having a drink now and then is "drinking," having them ALL the time is "being a drunk."

Max: Is Shane MacGowan a drunk?

Dad: Yes, buddy. He's a genius, but he's a drunk.

Max: [Thinks.] You know who else is a drunk?

Mom: Who?

Max: Amy Winehouse.

Mom & Dad laugh uproariously.

Mom: That's so true! How did you know that?!

Max: I'm drunk.

Right? Cute, right?

So then I go to google image a picture of Amy Winehouse, all drunk, to accompany the piece. Like so:

Ha, ha! Whee!

And then I discover that La Winehouse has become, with terrifying swiftness, a haggard and anorexic drug addict who seriously, seriously looks like she's going to die soon if she doesn't get some help.

Like this:

She's admitted to being on crack and heroin, but in a sad case of life imitating art, just last month she swore she would, in fact, never go to rehab again. (There's a site called Bossip that is covering her decline with feverish, obsessive intensity, and from which several of the above images were ganked.)

Oh noes. That's not funny at all.

THE CON IS ON!

Let it never be said that our little guy can't scheme with the best of them.

Last week, we saw an electronic drum machine in the window of the Rite Aid. Max is a drum freak, so he fell instantly in love with it. I thought it was pricey enough at $25 to be used as leverage for some good behavior, so I told him that if he behaved himself for FIVE DAYS IN A ROW, with no major punishments, he could have it.

This allowed some parental judgment on whether his misbehaviors were misdemeanors or felonies - only felonies (after a "final warning") would wipe out his progress towards the drums.

Lisa set up a "Behavior Chart" to keep track, and logged good days with smiley faces. Offenses (Grabbing of Toys in the 3rd Degree, Impatience in the 4th Degree) which were bad enough to get a stern talking to but didn't violate the final warning were shown via smaller, less smiley smiley faces. He cobbled together four marginally good days, then slipped farther on the fifth:

In Lisa's judgment, that fifth day was bad enough not to count towards the five, but not so bad that it had to reset the whole venture. So she added an additional day to the chart.

She came in the next day and found, to her surprise, that the day had already been filled in:

That's right. My boy snuck in and forged a smiley face.

Interestingly, it's the first time we've ever gotten him to draw anything even vaguely recognizable. I guess he just needed the proper motivation...

Photo Clearinghouse

I have been accused of neglecting Maxblogging in favor of "yuppiefagpicnicblogging" (I HAZ A AIRLUM TOMATOZ - LET ME SHOW YOU THEM). So, let's catch up on some pictures (click pictures for full size and other pix):

First day of school!

At school.

Max's portrait of Mommy.

Who, me?

Eaten by an egg at Ikea.

Sitting on the bed naked playing Scrabble Junior wearing safety goggles. What? Don't you?

Getting mad bounced.

Don't cut yourself, emo kid...

Playing with Kashi with cousin Christian (August, in NC)

Basement Chronicles Part XXXVIII: The Professionals

If any readers are unfamiliar with the basement saga, click the "Demolishments and Renewvations" category, read 'em, and weep. We finally gave in and, for the first time, I had contractors come in. They dug a "french drain" (actually a "hydraulic pressure relief trench") around the perimeter of the basement - a one foot wide/one foot deep trench, filled with gravel, with a pipe up the middle to collect water and channel it to a sump pump. It took them all of three hours (amazing!). Now we just have to assume it will work...

It did mean emptying our friggin' basement. AGAIN. Which left the upstairs and the stairwell pretty packed:

I sealed up the stairwell from the rest of the house, because they had to jackhammer through the slab:

If anyone ever offers you the chance to have dudes operating a jackhammer IN YOUR APARTMENT, I'd suggest you go ahead and pass it up. It's frackin' nerve-wracking.

Anyway, here's the trench, already concreted, and the sump pit:

There's a 1.5" gap between the wall where the real problem was and the new concrete, leaving an opening for any water that gets in to drain straight into the trench. The gravel is still visible through it, which makes for an interesting room border. And for the first time in years, I'm actually HOPING for a heavy rain, so I can see if this sucker works... Of course, first I have to have a plumber actually hook the sump pump up to a DRAIN, since the crew wasn't qualified to do so (grrrr).

I will, you can be sure, keep faithful P'net readers posted...