Edgy Mama

I’m in Atlanta for a few days. Not for fun, unfortunately. And without my camera. The parts ordered three weeks ago for my lenses have yet to arrive. The camera tech says it will take him about 10 minutes to fix them–once the parts are in hand. Not having a camera feels weird. There was lots of shot potential between Ashvegas and Greenville that I couldn’t take advantage of–horses frolicking with their foals, mountain vistas, funky roadside stands, redneck rebel outposts.

It’s smoky here in Atlanta. The fires burning in South Georgia are blowing ash and smoke all over the Southeast. We all need rain. Rain, rain, rain.

Above is your gratuitous adorable puppy photo of the day. Happy Thursday.

Friends? See Houdini’s tail? That’s cat for “hello.” It’s a good sign.

What Rocky thinks of the Bisc. Bisc tried to get sumo cat to play ball with him tonight. The pup raced around the house, holding his tiny tennis ball in his mouth. He caught sight of the Rock as he rounded a corner and stopped. Sweet puppy dropped the ball, which rolled towards the large one. Rocky and Bisc both looked at it for a few seconds. Then the Bisc gave up, but with that optimistic puppy frisk, grabbed the ball, and recommenced racing around in puppy spaz circles while sumo watched disdainfully.

Maybe next time you’ll get the ball, right Rocky? I’ll bet the Bisc will give you another chance.

My camping trip lasted about six hours. E-spouse is still out in the wilderness. I’m home with the kidlings and the pup.

I was delayed getting out to the wild by a series of phone calls (helpful, though unpleasant) a trip to Blockbuster to return a movie that I found on the bottom of the kid’s DVD pile, and a run back to the house to get my cellie, which would not work out in the wilderness, but, nevertheless, goes whence I do.

Once I arrived to the steamy site, I was bombarded by grumpy kids, little girls who wanted to squeeze the Bisc (sounds racier than it was), and smells. Yes, smells. I’ve got a sensitive nose, and not only did my kids smell disgusting, but the girl had barfed all over the tent. E-spouse had cleaned it up, but I could still smell it. Oh, and the latrines. The wind would change and the latrine odor would waft over our camp site, bombarding us with molecules of, well, poopy unpleasantness.

I immediately started drinking beer. I took a group of kids to play in the creek (muddy smell), then parked myself next to the campfire (which I can still smell in my hair). Once folks started prepping din-din, the local scents improved drastically. My contribution to the potluck was to run by Greenlife and buy some goat cheese, tapanade, and crackers. I also put out some slices of smoked turkey. Not bad, but not the level of some of the camp cooks on this trip. One guy was frying fresh fish. Another was making cobbler in a dutch oven that he cooked on the campfire. The same guy was grilling marinated flank steak and sauteeing fresh vegetables. Impressive, to say the least. We ate well. Then I ran out of beer. It was time to load the kids up and come home.

This morning, the kids are still smelly. But it’s about to be shower time. Of course, as soon as I get the kidlings clean, E-spouse will show up with a van full of smelly gear.

In other news, my friend C has renamed his bloggie “The Charm of the Highway Strip,” and he’s writing three sentences each day. No more and no less. It is charming, actually.

I’m not sure if it’s smart for me to be blogging before I drink my morning coffee. But it’s so quiet around here. The kidlings are camping with E-spouse. I’m home with the pup and the kitties, though I will be venturing out into the wilderness with the Bisc later today. And with lots of cold beer, because we car camp.

Yes, car camp, as in load up the Edgy van with as much crap as we can stuff into it and take it into the woods. This morning I felt that the house seemed empty, then I realized that I’d sent every pair of shoes in the shoe basket with the kids. Because when camping, you can NEVER have too many shoes. They’re always getting wet, and it only takes a couple of hours of wearing damp shoes to get foot rot. And I’m not sleeping in the same tent with kidling foot rot.

Somehow, part of this post went live before I’d finished writing. I accidentally deleted your comment when I updated the post, M. Sorry bout that. Thanks!

Oh well. Ahhhhh, wilderness. Happy long weekend to all.

1.
2. Panda Cam!

3. All the loverly comments left on my Lurker post by both lurkers and frequent commenters AND Scott Avett and Harry P. A shot in the arm for my blogger ennui!

4. The boy, asleep in his own bed, ALL NIGHT, for three nights and counting. Probably just jinxed that one, didn’t I?

That would be my role. My boy, age five, decided to define our roles in relation to the puppy. He said: “I’m the Daddy. Sister is the Mommy. Daddy is the master. And you, you’re the puppy teacher.”

I always get stuck in the responsible position. And with my mouth open.

Please disregard the fact that E-spouse has no clue how to focus my camera. Perhaps I look a bit better fuzzy anyway.

I always assume that the 800 of you who visit my blog daily who are not close friends and family are probably people living in Saudi Arabia or Hungary who come for the cute pet shots and the occasional skimpily dressed chicka photo that Ash throws up.

But it seems that lots of people I kind of, sort of know, or people who know people I know in Asheville, or random people who I don’t think know about my weblogging, are reading the bloggie.

Recently, I discovered that my newish and primary editor is lurking (Hi K!). I met my former editor through blogging, so I knew he was reading, but I was a bit surprised to find out that my current very pretty editor was reading about my procrastination habits, occasional freelance frustrations, and relationships with other editors! Luckily, I don’t gossip about work, because as a freelancer, I’m always on the knife’s edge of “we are already paying a salary to someone who can do what you’re doing but just doesn’t have time.” She’s cool, though, my editor is. And I’m sure she reads for the silly kid stories, and NOT to check on whether or not I’m blogging instead of writing biz profiles for her. Right?

Another random lurker was outed recently by E-spouse. He talks to, ummmm, well, everyone. He was walking the boy to school with Biscuit and stopped to chat with a new neighbor of ours. Supposedly, she did a double take when she saw the Bisc and said, “I know that puppy. Is your wife a blogger?” Turns out she’s been reading the bloggie for like a year and a half and came over from Ashvegas’ place. Ironically, I’ve photographed her daughter twice in the past two months for shoots for the newspaper. Damn, this is a small town.

Some of you long-time readers might remember a couple of local lurkers who teased me into guessing their identities (one–JA–for months–I couldn’t figure out who the hell he was).

So, here’s your chance, lurkers. Leave a comment or a tease. Say hi. Come OUT! Just for one day. It’ll be fun!

Boy and best friend, both 5, sitting on the stairs, just out of sight of my desk.

BF: Is there anything cool to play with in your car?

Boy: No. (pause). Except for the driving stuff.

BF: Cool. Let’s go play in your car!

Edgy witch mama, coming around the corner, glowering: There will be NO playing in multi-ton vehicles with engines by five-year-old spazs.

Boy: Well, I guess we can go jump off the roof of the treehouse.

I wandered around downtown this afternoon for about an hour with the Bisc in my arms. You would have thought I was holding baby Jesus. I mean, really. I know he’s the ultimate cayootness, but that’s no reason for 58 people to lose all their stranger boundary training and poke me in the boob as they try to pet my puppy. I kept seeing cute little babies around town, but no one was stopping to pet them or poke their Moms’ boobs.

EVERYONE who saw the pup asked me the same three questions: What’s his name? How old is he? What kind of dog is he? People love that we call him a Dorkie Poo. I explained, twenty times, at least, that he’s an accidental breed (in other words, a mutt), NOT a designer dog. I would NEVER have a designer dog, even though my extremely beautiful and smart cousin, Libs, does have one.

My neighbor, P, did think it funny to buy Biscuit a little Paris Hilton puppy carrier to present to E-spouse. It’s all pink and flowery and has a big fake ruby clasp. But guess what? The Bisc doesn’t even fit in it. Ha! Then P and his family took the pup on a hike this weekend, and Biscuit hiked for over three hours, his little legs flying like whirligigs to keep up with their huge mutt, Guinness. So, now P can’t make fun of our pup, who proved his non-designer toughness and stamina. They also got tired of people interrupting their hike to drool over the puppy. And Guinness got jealous.

Basically, Biscuit is a people magnet. If you’re single, and want to take advantage of his magnetism, call me. Rates are good beer and poop scooping.

My girl and her BND (boy next door) and baby Biscuit. I didn’t realize until I uploaded this how much it looks like a classic newborn with parents shot!