Routines. Taco Johns Can Bite Me. Wildlife.

1. Here is why I feel like I'm entitled to the Czarist regime I impose around here with the kids: we went to the park today after lunch, an impromptu, fun activity because we were invited. Vin *just now* quit screaming about having to take a nap and (hopefully) submitted. Nothing else was wrong in the world other than he normally naps at 1pm and today he didn't hit the crib until 214.

I try not to complain too much, I tell these stories, and they're often sarcastic and silly, but I'm not unhappy about things most days. However. For the record, and I'm just going to go ahead and speak for my husband here too, I HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS TIRED IN MY LIFE. I don't say this every day, although maybe I should. Every day you see me and talk to me, I am tired. I hide it well and like I said, I'm happy and optimistic, but I am still tired. Fucking tired. If you know a mother out there, whether she has four kids or ten, guess what? She's tired. Or she needs a drink.

In other news, the St. Germain cocktails at Salut are A-fricking-mazing . . . the French really know how to get their booze on.

2. On Saturday, I thought it would be fun to take a tour of the south metro in a holy-grail-like search for the Burnsville Taco Johns. I love Taco Johns, I obsess about it at least a few times a week. When I was at the U, there was a Taco Johns in the DinkyDome and I ate there whenever I had money (which was rarely), but it was probably the best thing in my life back then that I had regular access. The last time I actually ate anything from Taco Johns had to be my last time in Willmar, which was March of 06.

Matt gave me "directions," I wrote them down, and set out at about 9pm. No one actually had the foresight to check the places hours of operations, so you know where this is going. After missing the exit (at no point was 35E mentioned on the directions), turning around, and pretty much hauling our candied asses halfway across the state and back IN THE WRONG DIRECTION, Elyssa and I finally made it to Burnsville, proper, and found the stupid place. I almost peed my pants in excitement after just seeing the menu. There was one other patron in front of us, who seemed to be taking an extremely long time to order. When we pulled up to the menu, nothing happened. The other dude was up at the window, talking to someone, so I figured maybe they were just taking care of him, first.

Stupid Minnesota Nice, what I should have done was shout, "HELLO, WE JUST DROVE FROM MINNEAPOLIS, WE'D LIKE FIVE SIX-PACKS-AND-A-POUNDS AND TEN CHURROS PLEASE!"

I waited. It was 953 when we pulled up. The other car hovered near the window until 957 and I finally said, HELLO? Which went unanswered. When I scooted up behind the other car, he turned around and looked behind him. And then left with no food. Once I got to the window, the three people inside looked at me blankly for a few seconds before mouthing, "WE'RE CLOSED."

I managed to contain my frustration, luckily, and had I been pregnant and in one of my food-fit-moods, things would have gone a lot differently, but I had no choice but to pull away and leave. On the lengthy drive back to Minneapolis, the oil light in my Golf started flashing and buzzing, so mostly I forgot about the tacos and just focused on getting us back into Hennepin County and not raped in the ditch somewhere, but dammit, it was still a giant pisser. I had to eat Taco Bell instead---not as good but whose hours are much more reasonable.

I guess the quest continues . . .

3. We have a crazy amount of creature activity around here in the summers. There is at least one opossum that lives under someone's deck; sometimes he comes up on the deck when we leave our cooler out. There was a fox last summer, and a million squirrels and rabbits. We ran into a lizard on a walk earlier this week, Bubby cornered it in about three seconds. The cats were fighting over a bird last weekend and just decided to BRING IT INTO THE HOUSE. There were feathers everywhere, and neither of the cats were willing to let it go, so Matt had to catch it in a Starbucks venti and release it safely into the wild.

The latest installment happened this morning, when Batty (the less annoying of the two cats) brought a *chipmunk* into the house. Bubby was going nuts, trying to get her to let it go, I was trying to shoo her out the deck doors again because, you know, I didn't want the thing loose and excreting shit inside, I think I said Fucking-A a bunch of times (sorry), probably screamed it, but it was a lot of pandemonium. Inevitably, the stupid thing got away from her, ran into the living room, and escaped behind one of the stereo speakers among the wiring where the cat could not follow. I kept shoving her back toward it, I even enlisted the help of the other cat, Vito, but after a while both cats just kind of looked at me like, "what?" and basically shrugged and left, probably to go puke and shit somewhere in a huge pile that I'll discover later when I step in it with bare feet.

Anyway, I had just yelled at Bubby to get the phone so I could call Matt to come home for lunch, because clearly I could not be expected to snare a wild chipmunk on my own, right? Bubby was begging me to let him catch it, and before I could even give him permission, he ran into the closet, got a washcloth, and had the thing wrapped in it and out the door, 1-2-3. He laid it in the grass where it wasn't looking so good, so I told him to bring it over to the neighbor's trees where it might be able to calm itself down, but after checking on it later, it wasn't doing so good there, either. RIP, little buddy.

Steve Irwin probably made a lot of bank in his day, didn't he? I wonder if he got his start with lizards and chipmunks?