I can't think when my house is dirty. And my house is dirrrrr-ty, like four-letter word dirty. Filth, I tell you. My floors need mopped and my bathrooms are gross. It would be the kind of thing that would keep me awake at night, if I weren't already awake at night with a screeching, wailing, teething baby. In fact, there have been moments that I've considered mopping or scrubbing at 4:23 in the blessed morning - since I'm already awake and all. But then Zachary starts in again and I get all sidetracked trying to remember if he had Motrin or Tylenol most recently and swearing at the company that made teething tablets that is no longer making teething tablets that I'm just too busy to mop or scrub.
Busy at 4:23 in the (blessed) morning doing anything other than sleeping ought to be illegal. In fact, it is illegal in about 19 states, Iowa not being one of them. Son of a bitch.
Just another reason we need to move.
Tomorrow is Father's Day. Do you know where your Dad is? I'm pretty sure mine is out to pasture, not like, "gone to the farm" like Misty's dog Freddy, but like, living on the farm. Not that I'd know for sure - I haven't talked to him in months. Does that sound bitter? Eh, I guess it shouldn't. My phone dials out, too. It's a conscious choice that I'm making but it still stings a little every now and then.
I'm over it.
We went to the Farmer's Market this morning. I think the boys were a little overwhelmed; lots of people, lots of dogs, lots of radishes. (Radishes can be scary in large numbers, man.) However, Nick and I were too busy consuming massive amounts of chocolate covered bacon to notice. No, not entirely true - we were taking turns, eating bacon and paying attention to the boys.
That was some good bacon.
Anyway, I've decided that the Farmer's Market is kind of like the State Fair, but almost better. Really crowded, super hot, and best for people watching. But instead of paying $8 for a cup of beer, you can wander from wine vendor to wine vendor and "sample" for free. Nice. Some of those vendors "sample" with a heavy hand. More than once I've left the Farmer's Market with a serious buzz. (That actually makes for a pretty crappy day, drunk by 9am with a wine hangover at noon. Sucky.) My little brother claims that the best time to visit the farmer's market is dawn, but that's only because he and his clan haven't been to bed yet and they're walking off their massive alcohol consumption. He may be on to something, though. It was so packed today, there were people everywhere - you couldn't really see anything, at least that you wanted to see.
Speaking of things we didn't want to see... I don't know if we were fortunate or unfortunate enough to see a local belly dancing troupe. Don't get excited there, children. These were literally bellies dancing - big, fat, stretch-marked, naked jiggly bellies wiggling and gyrating. Thankfully Brodie was paying more attention to the dogs otherwise I would have covered his eyes. And don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking big, fat, stretch-marked covered bellies - I've got one myself. (Boo.) I'm knocking jiggly naked bellies wiggling in public. Because that was gross.
But I'm over that too.
But I'm still not hungry.