I'm just going to go ahead and apologize now to his future college roommate.

I remember when my first son was a toddler - he was a thick, strong kid with a huge heart and infectious laugh, an incredible sense of humor and a sensitive side well beyond his years. None of our friends had kids yet, so he hung out with adults a lot, and was thus mature and well-liked by big people.

He was also very cute. And people would say, "Oh - don't you wish he could stay this age forever?"

And I would say, "Um, no."

You see, as delightful as he was, he had a terrible habit of shitting his pants. Well, until he was about three anyway.

The price you pay for all that adorableness is cleaning up the Adorable One's bodily fluids. Also solids. At any time of day or night. And I was pretty much willing to give that up.

In fact, I'd daydream about times when he would be my cool big kid with an awesome personality, capable of hopping in a shower and handling his own hygiene. In my dreams, I'd be reclined on some sort of cushy furniture, reading a magazine with a wistful look and a pitcher of mimosas. He'd appear before me all sweet smelling and clean, without any effort on my part. And I'd smile.

And I have that now.  Admittedly, I do not get sweet-smelling. I get an odd mixture of Crew mint conditioner and some type of Axe body spray. But it's not bad. And I don't really have any magazines or that pitcher of mimosas either. Also, there is a bulldog on the furniture right where I'd sit if I could. BUT, the boy IS responsible for his own hygiene. And he does appear to me each morning, shiny and clean. After tousling his minty conditioned locks and kissing his astringented mushy cheek, I get a warm feeling in my heart. This boy is good. I love this boy.

Then I walk into his bathroom. And I realize, there is still a price.

Friday Flashback - Actually happening on a Friday which is somewhat amazing when you consider my track record.

This week's photographic gems come from a time in my life archaeologists will call the SSLJ Era. (Short Skirt Long Jacket.)  Actually, most of my life fits within that era, but whatever. It's my signature look.

Pay no nevermind to the strange forced smile here. I was probably trying not to kick this dog's ass. (You're probably asking yourself, "But where's the skirt?"  Look closely, now. Can you see it? There, under the long jacket?)

I was in advertising sales for a cable company. To answer your question, why yes, it totally sucked, was a DREAM JOB.  I lived with my pal who was in law school, her cat named 8-Ball, and the aforementioned nutjob pyschopathic killer beagle, Opie.

We rented a cute little brick house with a big crabapple tree and our days were filled with bliss. Actually, our days were pretty shitastic because she was in law school and I was trying to sell ads on cable TV which is almost nearly as exciting as trying to sell ads in the fricking phone book.  But our nights?
Actually pretty fun.

First of all, we not only had a papasan chair...we also had a papasan COUCH - which equals, if you're following along...an ENTIRE PAPASAN ENSEMBLE.  An entire room of furniture made overseas (fancy!) and imported...(like caviar!)for less than $300 retail. Not that we paid retail. Behold it, if you dare, in all of it's pinkness.

We also had a fireplace.  With a fire in it. Lucky ducks.

Here we are at our sweet pad entertaining friends... including a cute cowboy that will someday become Big Dude, and my ol' friend Harvard Barbie. Who I'm sure returned back to Harvard thoroughly impressed with a) our pink papasan couch - they don't have that kind of classy stuff back East..., b) my fancy choice of beverage - Keystone Light in a can, and c) the beagle hair on her ass from sitting on the pink papasan couch.

Here you'll see a depressed psychopathic beagle off his meds and pouting because humans are using his papsan furniture, so he's having to use a dog bed like a common-everyday-dog. Please note in background me in my other outfit of choice; Short Skirt Long Sweater. Perfect for Cowboy-Catchin', should you be interested.

Also please note the small black head under the beagle chin. See the little feline ears perfectly framing his jowls? That would be 8-Ball. They had somewhat of an unnatural relationship. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Like all things, except teenage vampire book series apparently, the time in the cute brick house came to an end. Our cool fireman landlord decided to sell the house. It probably took him longer than he expected to sell it, but that's only because some terrible vandals kept removing the "For Sale" sign out of the yard. It would mysteriously end up in all kinds of weird places...sometimes at far away cable companies for example.

Alas, it did eventually sell, but we figured if the sold sign wasn't there, they couldn't make us move. We congratulated the Realtor's diligence, perserverance and top-notch marketing skills by giving him a little promotion down at the local post office.

I circled "United" so you'd know it was the US Post Office, but really it just looks like an aircraft warehouse. But it's not. Really. It's the post office. Which is kind of federal property, which makes defacing it with a real estate sign a felony, probably. So pretend that you never saw this. Mkay?