Alaska

The love of my life is currently sitting on the sofa watching a reality show about gold miners.  I've watched it with him a few times and enjoy it for a few reasons:

Men with lots of facial hair and accents have invaded our living room.

1.  It's about gold mining.  Let's be honest, who hasn't had dreams of what it would be like to look down in a river and see a flash of gold?  You haven't?!  Well, I have!  From the time I heard of the gold rush I've had an interest in the occupation that was fanned by reading some crazy book about Alaskan Brides, which managed to combine romance, Alaska, and gold into an unsatisfying combination that made me long for J.Crew fleece-lined pants, sunshine, and the moon.

2.  Who can survive Alaska?!  Both my Alaskan Brides and avid watching of Sarah Palin's Alaska have encouraged my suspicion that if I actually lived in Alaska not only with I wither away during the winter months from lack of outside interaction, I would wake up one morning with my feet frozen into black disasters of flesh waiting to fall off.

Ooo la la, Jackie boy!  My husband's hotter than you.  Literally.  Alaska's really, really cold and we don't live there because there aren't warm enough boots in the world to keep my feet attached to my body.

3.  I have a thing for Jack London.  White Fang.  The Call of the Wild.  My obsession with reading everything that had a canine reference (including the dog section of the encyclopedia) brought me to Jackie and he introduced me to the harsh terrain of Alaska.  I imagined the cold, I could feel the snowflakes on my eyelashes...

This is not White Fang.  This is my idiotic puppy who refuses to be housebroken who sleeps on her back because she thinks she's a human.  Her name is Penny.  I pull on the hair between her toes while she's sleeping.

Yeah.  I have a vivid imagination.

Which is why I really shouldn't be surprised that I walked in on the girls playing pretend this afternoon and it involved a doctor's visit with shots, a sherpa, and a dog leash being used as a magic entry gate.

I guess it's about time I mentioned that Mikayla has survived what I will refer to from now on as The Episode Where My Baby Became a Crack Head.

After refusing to sleep for 52 hours, the Crack Head Baby now tends toward narcolepsy.
I promise that's water in the bottle.

Her responses were not anywhere close to normal for four days and she did go on a nursing strike, but as of this afternoon all is back to normal!  She's bossing us around, cackling at her sister's antics, and making a beeline for the dog food whenever we set her on the floor.

Why, why do babies like to eat dog food?!  When she beats us into the other room and lays her hands on that greasy stuff she smells like a lamb bone and it's really, really hard to get her little hands unfolded enough to wash them with my eucalyptus-scented soap!

(Just so you know, the future of Porcupine Creek is in doubt.  I know this because I heard it on the tv.)

(I would like to live on Porcupine Creek.  That's a cool address.  Much more exciting than Hill Dr.)

(My friend lives on Briarwood Ct. and I think that's probably the neatest address because it reminds me of a fairy tale and lots of roses.)

I noticed today that the hair Mia shaved from her head this summer is almost long enough to pull back into a barrette!  Yep, it's taken 7 months for her hair to grow two inches.

The real proof that our genetic code doesn't contain strong motivation for hair growth is the fact that Maggie is still running around with a little mop of curls on her head and most grandpa-types at WalMart compliment me on such a sweet little boy.

Sigh.

I'm sitting over the vent in the house and I'm pretty sure that my feet have turned into ice cubes.  Just for fun I'm going to go over and try to hold my honey's toes on the sofa with the little popsicles attached to my legs.

If he complains I think I'll just tell him that I was trying to bring the reality tv experience to life in our living room.

Think that will keep me out of trouble?  We'll see!