The reason I almost removed my pants walking home last night plus photos that go with prior posts and no, there isn't a no pants photo

I always aim to post more photos or drawings because they spruce things up but most of the time it just doesn't happen. Even though I love it when other people add pictures to their posts.

But I'm trying.

And sometimes I feel like one needs evidence. Last night I walked home past the pee bottle and decided that I'd walk by again this morning, and if it was still sitting outside the wrought-iron fence of the nice building, I'd call 311 and see if pee removal was under the purview of DC government.However. When I walked by this morning, the pee bottle was in the yard. Meaning, well, two things. One, that someone picked it up and chucked it over the fence. Ew. And two, it's now clearly the lawn-owner's problem, and not DC's. Right?

Also. I'm still bummed about my glove. See how cute?And finally, these are some of the animals Jordan has a creche on. If you come over, you are likely to wind up with at least one or two in your pocket or your shoe.Also, I damn near pulled off my pants on my walk home last night, and only modesty/fear of being arrested/bigger fear of people pointing and laughing kept me from doing so. Because my maternity coat only comes down past my bum.

I don't know if all the laundry detergent didn't wash out, or what the deal was, but they were so burny! It was kind of like the insides were covered with shards of glass that were making itty bitty cuts with every step.

Which made me think back to my tobacco dipping days and how apparently they put fiberglass into dip to cut your gums so the nicotine gets in there nice and fast. Which is why it's such a quick little buzz.

Those days are long past, though. And there weren't that many of them. Fun, though.

But last night with my fiberglass pants I was seriously fantasizing about the chilly air on my thighs and it took every ounce of my willpower not to just pull them right off and pretend I had on the whitest tights one could imagine and that I thought they were pants.

As soon as I got in the door I stepped out of them and dabbed my legs with water. I couldn't bear to put on more pants, and all evening Jordan kept saying, "Mama, you have no pants!"

That's right, honey. And when you grow up, you can have no pants whenever you want. And eat cake for breakfast every day if you so choose.

Then Nick came home and said, "You have no pants!" I briefly considered feigning surprise but was too tired.

I'm not sure what the deal was there. I started getting hurty little red bumps but they didn't get any worse. Today my skin is a little aggravated, but not terribly. And if it were laundry detergent, wouldn't you think my shirt would be bugging me as well? It's not like your legs are the tenderest parts of your body.

I dunno.

So hand in glove I stake my claim. I'll fight to the last breath.

What I can't remember is if I still had my gloves on when I saw the bottle of pee.

Wait. Let me back up.

Here's what happened. I lost one of my delightful turquoise gloves. Betty gave them to me, and I've been wearing them for years, and they fit perfectly even though I have such short figures that most gloves have too much room at the ends, and they're turquoise!

And now, now I only have one.

I've lost one of them three times, and always gotten it back. A friend who had happened to stop by just after I lost one the first time had spotted it down the street on the way to our house. The next time, I'd fortunately dropped it in my office. The third time, a man in a crosswalk saw me drop it.

Thrice-lost...nobody says fourth time is a charm, do they?

Anyway, it's not that the bottle of urine figures largely into the story, except that I was retracing my path to work, and it occurred to me that it would be helpful to be able to remember when I took off my gloves. Before or after the pee at 16th and O?

Typically, I would know exactly where I walked, because until recently I walked the exact same way back and forth every day. So Nick was wondering why I went down 16th Street, I said so I wouldn't get kidnapped.

He smirked at me.

"No, really. Because of that recent incident with that woman who was forced into a van at knife-point and then sexually assaulted."

"Then what happened?"

"The guy dropped her off."

"I hope she was at least closer to her destination."

They didn't say. Clearly shoddy reporting.

Anyway. Sexual assault is not funny. And as friends have said, I'm the kind of oblivious person who will wind up dragged into the back of a van. So I decided it was probably best to mix up my route.

Good for not getting kidnapped. Bad in terms of retracing steps.

Not that I think I'm all kinds of important and likely to get premeditatedly kidnapped. Just, more, who knows? Plus it's boring to walk the same way every day when you know where you're going.

But back to the pee. A bottle of urine! A large bottle. Like one of those big glass orange juice type bottles.

I mean, I didn't examine it closely or open it and smell it. But I have seen plenty of pee in a cup at this point, and in fact almost knocked an entire shelf of pee-filled cups on myself, thank you very much, and I can tell you that this, my friends, is a bottle of strong pee. I use the present tense because it was still there this morning, and I'm going to doubt it's been picked up by a passer-by.

You know, that makes me think maybe I should've peed on my gloves as a precaution. Although then I'd have been wearing urine-soaked gloves. So forget it.

But it made me wonder. Such volume! Was this multiple pees' worth? Or does someone have that large a bladder? Is it vendetta pee? I figure if you were homeless, you'd just pee in an alley, no? That seems to be the norm in our neighborhood.

Seriously. We're always saying, "Jordan, don't touch that! It has pee pee on it!" Because we are certain it does.

So basically, if you see a turquoise glove, could you grab it and let me know?

Sheep go to heaven

Betty has all these nativity sets from around the world.

There's one from Peru that's made of carved stone, with a million little white and black stone animals - mainly myriad sheep and llamas. Jordan saw them and immediately appropriated them ALL. He needed the entire flock.

Baby Jesus? Not of remote interest. Sheep! Llamas! NEEEEEED.

As with most things Jordan wants, Betty was fine with it. They're now his own personal stone herd.

We find these animals everywhere. He loads them into his backhoe. He puts them in bags and carries them around. He slips them into pocket - his and everyone else's. He transfers them from basket to boat to dump truck and back again.

This morning I had to dump a number of them out of my commuting sneakers before I could put them on.

I said to Nick, "He sure loves those animals."

"I wouldn't necessarily say he loves them. I'd say he has a creche on them."

Coming to terms with who you are

I went to Costco on my day off - Monday, January 2. As did 800 million other people.

The nightmarishly packed Costco parking lot, the shoving giant carts through giant aisles engorged with people staggering around like they've had head injuries, the thronging hordes clogging every single sample-offering intersection - all of it makes me hate humanity.

It makes me question who I am at core. Which, it is my understanding, is how old-school Republicans feel in the current political world.

And yet, going back to Costco, yet I am drawn back time and again by the 50-gallon jars of pickles, the 84 dozen organic eggs, the 600 boxes of Kleenex. We really do go through them.

In fact, now that I think about this, I'm pretty sure we blow our noses a lot more than normal people. Seriously. And in related news, Jordan, who has had a runny nose since he started daycare, has recently taken to walking up to you, pointing to his nose, and saying, "Blow me!"

On this trip, however, I didn't buy paper products because our coupons for those don't start until January 5.

In other words, Costco, I can't quit you.

One of the things I did purchase was a tremendous box of Dr. Praeger's veggie burgers. It turns out I quite like them, as do Jordan and Betty. Tasty, and you have all those healthy veggies squeezed into one convenient patty!

It's lucky we like them - I bought them on a whim (I'm breezy!) - because, if you are familiar with Coscto-sized anything, you know I have approximately 3 trillion of those patties in my possession.

Something I will share with you, based on recent experience, however, is as follows: Just because they cook very nicely under the broiler in your toaster oven at home - as per the instructions on the box - does not mean that you can just pop them sideways in the toaster at work.

As per nobody's instructions and against the cautions of your more sensible colleagues.

Just in case it might seem like an equally good idea to anyone else.

Starting 2012 off with a...plop?

Jordan has started talking about poop. A lot.

(Happy New Year!)

He's also gotten back to wanting to read "Where's My Potty?" (to Nick's chagrin) on the regular.

This, to my mind, proves two things: One, he is inching towards potty training. And two, the Lisa Family Force is strong with this one.

He still likes to list where we don't poop. "We don't poop on the couch! We don't poop in Nana's shoe!"

No, we certainly don't, my friend.

So the other day, Australian Builder's dog Tiga pooped on the rug. She's getting old, and she wasn't feeling well. She was terrified. It was clearly an accident.

Jordan was the one who discovered it. He said, "Somebody pooped on the rug!"

Now, you or I would've seen it and realized immediately that Tiga had done it. But in Jordan's world, there was a houseful of possibilities. Was it Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick? Daddy in the kitchen with the roll of toilet paper?

Nick explained that it was Tiga who pooped on the rug, and it was an accident. We all have accidents sometimes.

Mine tend towards the spilling of beverages and walking into walls, but I suppose you never know.

In further poop news, we now announce when we're going to the bathroom to poop. In the toilet. "I'm just going to the bathroom to have a poop in the toilet! I like to poop in the toilet!"

Jordan has gotten fascinated with this.

The other day Nick was looking for a little privacy. I know he wanted to head in there with the Sunday paper and enjoy some manly alone time. Even though I keep telling him it causes varicose veins and the toilet is no place to sit for an extended period of time.

It's true. Seriously. Plus, I just think the fact that men do this by choice is fucking weird.

Anyway, Jordan shot that all to hell by making a beeline for the bathroom as soon as he realized what Nick was up to.

They emerged in much less time than it might take to read the front page of the Times.

"Do you know how hard it is to take a poop with someone staring at you?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"And then, as soon as I did, he handed me one square of toilet paper and said, 'Get up, Daddy! I want to see!'"

That's my boy.