I walk down the hall trying to remember when I last cleaned the bathrooms. I gather loads of laundry and place them next to the washer. I go into the kitchen and feel the crunchy reminder under my feet that I have to sweep the floors. I unload the dishwasher (or BISCH-WADDER if you are two) and hear you run into the room, looking for me. I don’t want to play, not right now. I have too much to do and not enough time to do it. You walk away, I notice you are holding part of the new toy Dad bought you.

I couldn’t find the instructions, so you wait. As I attempt to put the track together, I think of sneaking off to my chores once you are settled. You patiently sit right beside me as I assemble the fun and when I lock the last piece into place, 26 minutes later, you cheer and clap and give me knuckles.

So we play.

And it was more than enough.

You Capture-Shapes

I was starting to get very worried about my tiny friend, Napoleon. He made an appearance a month ago while Jeff and I were cleaning the garage and I hadn’t seen him since. I had walked out of the garage and gone around to the side of the house to grab a garbage can and who did I spy with my little eye about ten feet away? Napoleon, that’s who and he looked like he wanted me to pet him. I calmly asked Jeff to grab my camera in the house and he came back with his cell phone, which is a flip phone and takes worse pictures than my BlackBerry. At that point, Napoleon decided we were way to dumb to be in the presence of his cat/rabbit/squirrel awesomeness and hopped away, pissed and disappointed in me because his beauty should be documented and shared. Also, according to you guys and your rad comments the last time we discussed Napoleon’s heritage, he might be a fox/lynx/chupacabra/jackalope. From Asia.

I was convinced Napoleon hated me. I would stand at my kitchen window and scan the landscape for him two, three times a day silently wishing him to come back. I began setting whole wheat bread out for him every other morning in the same spot where we saw him last. But not the good part of the loaf, just the heels. Heels are sick and are only eaten by sickos. I really don’t think I should waste perfectly good bread on some funky looking animal that may or may not be an Asian chupacabra and will probably pick the lock and eat our eyeballs in the middle of the night.

Guess what sicko besides Troy loves bread heels?

I still have no idea what species we are dealing with. I researched black squirrels and they are extremely rare, like only one in ten thousand is black. They mainly reside in Canada, but have been known to live in Ohio, Wisconsin and Michigan. Apparently if you see them anywhere else, it means they hopped a train to a better life because they aren’t native to the land. I don’t really think that Napoleon looks like a squirrel; his tail has too much volume and he smiles with his eyes.

We have been thinking about getting a dog, but I would much rather adopt Napoleon. I would let him sit in the front seat of my car and take him to get french fries. People would be all “I like your, um, dog? Cat? Chupacabra?” and I would look over at him, shrug and say “That’s just Napoleon” and then drive away while quietly smiling to myself because we are blowing people’s minds. I might even enroll him in a training class to become a seeing eye Chupacabra, but I wouldn’t want him to actually help blind folks. It would just be an excuse to dress him in that cute little vest and take him into Target and restaurants. I’m selfish that way.

So here’s what we know. Napoleon likes whole wheat bread heels, does not climb trees, has ears that point backwards, hops like a bunny, hates Jeff, loves ZDub, enjoys the snow and wants to sleep next to my bed on a down cat/rabbit/squirrel/fox/lynx/chupacabra/jackalope bed that I had made specifically for him on Etsy.

‘Til we meet again, Napoleon. Stay ninja. Momma loves you.

Last week we discussed the ghosts that kick it in my bedroom and were caught on camera by Troy and his mad ghost hunting abilities. I mentioned that spirits, the ones living with me and/or the ones that read this here blog probably do not want us to discuss them in detail, much less put them on blast with photographic evidence.

The very next day, I woke up to some sort of burning rash/disease on my face. The ghosts were obviously expressing their displeasure in my ability to keep secrets.

Because I care about you all deeply, I took 278 photos of myself in various mirrors in my house sans makeup so you could bear witness to my face trauma. As this was going on, Zoe walked in the bathroom and asked if I was taking pictures of the “bite” on my face. I asked her why she thought it was a bite and she said “because it looks like that one time when I was in first grade and Ben bit Marcus on the face in P.E.”

Oh.

Does it look like a bite? A rash? I haven’t switched makeup or used any sort of different face product. I mean, I’ve used the same face wash and moisturizer for two years.

When Jeff got home from work, I was in the kitchen making dinner. He asked what happened to my cheek and I calmly explained to him that Troy took a photograph of a spirit, I blogged about it and then it possibly tried to eat my face.

Jeff: “What was the movie where the guy got bit by the ghost?”

Me: “That was Poltergeist. What if we have one? And I get sucked into the closet and you can only hear me through the TV?”

Jeff: “It looks like a burn to me. Does it itch?”

Me: “It really hurts. It does burn, but it doesn’t feel like a burn.”

Jeff: “I think it’s a burn like in Poltergeist where the people look at the ghosts and their faces get kinda sunburned.”

Me: “That wasn’t Poltergeist, that was Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

Jeff: “Exactly.”

Me: “And those weren’t ghosts, they were aliens. And the people got burned from looking at UFO’s.”

Jeff: “Maybe while you were sleeping the ghosts had aliens bring by their UFO and they did a drive-by.”

Me: “Stop talking.”

Here’s a photo I snapped in my mother’s car with my BlackBerry. This ghost/alien isn’t messing around.

When I discussed my face trauma with my mother, she said I probably have lupus because my rash looks like a butterfly and apparently that is a warning sign of the disease. (WTF and no thank you.)

Let’s break it down.

Zoe: Weird, dumb bite
Jeff: Aliens
Me: G-H-O-S-T
Troy: Inconclusive answer
My mother: Lupus (rude)
My sister: Hypochondria

Y’all, I need some answers. And don’t tell me to go to the doctor either. I had an appointment with my dermatologist this morning, but when I woke up the rash/bite/burn was gone. I canceled on him because when he asks what brings me in I don’t think “I was bit by a poltergeist and it magically disappeared in the night, but why don’t we rule out lupus” is going to cut it.

Since I had to work all day on the world’s dumbest holiday, Valentine’s Day, we decided to make nice dinner the night before and hang out with the kids. And by we, I mean me because last weekend was also the start of Jeff’s real passion, NASCAR. I couldn’t have separated Jeff from the TV if the house was on fire, much less get him to a restaurant to celebrate our love for each other. He probably would have considered going out, but only if there was a TV and it was during a commercial.

I decided that would grill steaks with coconut shrimp and then we would have chocolate fondue for dessert. My kids will eat anything as long as they can put it on a toothpick and dip it into something, so I give them fruit for the chocolate and they think I’m brilliant. Disregard that the chocolate is probably canceling out the healthy of the fruit, but I will take whatever I can get. Also, let me know if you want my fondue recipe. It’s one part easy and three parts amazing.

After I ran the menu past Jeff, meaning I said “We are having steak” and he waved and grunted at me while watching cars go around a track, I needed to run to the store. On the way out the door, I mentioned to Zoe FOR THE THIRD TIME THAT DAY to please go and brush her hair. She gets a pretty big daily tangle on the back of her head and she’s nine; she can handle brushing her own hair. When I was nine, I was driving a stick shift to help hay cattle and mowing the lawn. However I did not walk to school uphill both ways, that would just be a gross exaggeration.

When I arrived back at the house an hour later with the groceries, Jeff met me in the kitchen with a panicky look on his face. I figured it was only a Level One emergency, you know, like some NASCAR man had run out of gas or we were out of beer. Instead, Jeff holds up a gigantic ball of hair and is all “I found this in the kitchen trash can”.

I stared at it and then just decided that it was probably from a Barbie or some other doll and went about the business of unloading the bags. Twenty minutes later, Zoe and I were unwrapping the chocolate to make the fondue and it registered with me that it was so NOT Barbie hair.

Zoe took it upon herself to CUT THE TANGLE OUT OF HER HAIR. You know, the tangle that was nestled on the top of her head right next to her scalp, on top of her COWLICK.

I had a heart attack, fainted, died, came back to life, yelled, cried, grounded her from everything and sent her to her room. She is NINE, she should know better. After we both gained our composure and she tearfully apologized, it was time to eat dinner. Jeff asked her what she was thinking and she informed us that “I just figured that if I cut the tangle out that I wouldn’t have to hear Mom always tell me to brush my hair”.

Good to know. I’m glad I didn’t tell her to brush her teeth.

And in case your wondering, it’s FOURTEEN inches of hair. And the top of her head now looks similar to Kate Gosselin’s before the extensions.

I left her hair long and the only way to disguise it is to just pull the sides and the top part (what’s left of it) back. Hair bands alone weren’t doing enough in the camouflage department, so Zoe is now the proud owner of 10 Scrunchies and will be wearing her hair pulled back until 2017. Also, if you go into Claire’s and ask for Scrunchies they will give you the judgey side eye because nobody should wear them ever.

Unless you cut the top of your hair off with kitchen scissors, then you get to wear them until high school while your hair grows out. Also, I forgot to make the coconut shrimp. Valentine’s Day can totally suck it.

I was looking through a folder on my computer when I came across these shots. Troy apparently is working on a little photo project of his own. He asked me not to delete them, something about stifling his creativity and not believing in his work.

I enjoy the angle here and I appreciate that he managed to get the shot in focus. This was taken in a dark bedroom and he did not use the flash. Troy didn’t want me to edit his work, like I do mine, so all these images are straight out of camera.

Here Troy turned the camera on his BFF, Pup-pee. I think this shot has true emotion that invokes thoughts of my childhood. Again, no flash. Troy possibly knows about F stops.

Troy understands that any true artist needs to have a self portrait in the portfolio, so he turns the camera on himself. Excellent capture, as we are able to gather a bit of insight regarding the artist. And by insight I mean he is totally into Yo Gabba Gabba.

Now this picture gives me a major case of TEH SCARED. By simply taking a photo of my dresser, Troy seems to have done the near impossible and captured an orb, you know, of a ghost.

Please note these shots are SOOC, or straight out of camera for all you people that aren’t as up to speed on the photography lingo as Troy. Also note that there seems to be some sort of glowy apparition (professional ghost terms) to the right of the orb. I can assure that my dresser is all one color and not faded in spots.

Let’s take a closer look.

Now some of you might think the orb is just dust, I initially thought that too. I don’t think dust would have that little tail thingy on it. Upon further research, I have discovered it has a tail because it is a SPIRIT ORB EMITTING ENERGY.

This does not sit well with me. I am scared of the dark and all things ghosts. We do not watch shows where kids see dead people or any of that paranormal activity/psychic children/haunting stuff. That stuff is real and gives me the heebs. And nightmares. I also am a firm believer that ghosts get the angries when you try to learn about them and honestly, I probably shouldn’t even be typing this. I’m sure they keep a list.

So let’s discuss the following:

1. Is Troy a better photographer than I am?
2. Do you believe in ghosts?
3. Have you ever seen a ghost?

Please don’t leave comments or send me an email highlighting that I’m whack. We know that; it’s called “Archives”.