We have this neighbor - let us call him Spike.

Apparently an expert in all things garden and house maintenance, Spike takes it upon himself to teach Ryan how to better take care of our home. Or, perhaps "teach" is the wrong word. It's more like he leans over the fence and verbally bashes Ryan's gardening approach, criticizing every little thing Ryan does in our yard. From raking leaves to removing the ivy to cleaning the gutters, Ryan has got it all wrong. Spike once even went so far as to say that if Ryan were his employee, Spike would have him fired.

Needless to say, Ryan tries to avoid going outside when Spike is milling about. It's best to sidestep a situation that would involve Ryan showing Spike how he can properly use a pitchfork.

The most priceless part of this whole thing? I was google mapping today and found that there is now a street view of our house. You can't see much of anything other than our driveway, but there is a beautiful shot of Spike's behind as he leans over our fence to survey Ryan's handwork.

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Rumor has it some of you play the other video on a loop. He doesn't do too much more in this one, but I'm sure I can find some footage of him drooling if you're looking for variety.



Notice the shirt? Today he moved on to his 6 month clothes. He has grown from his "Mommy Loves Me" onesie to a new and more possessive "Property of Mom FOREVER." His 9 month shirt reads, "I LOVE MY MOM AND NO ONE ELSE. DON'T BOTHER TRYING TO TAKE ME FROM HER." Yes, all in capslock. It makes it more threatening that way, no?

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My hopes have been shattered. Instead of the fist sucking turning into thumb sucking, it has turned into dual fist-sucking. I'm wondering if he's going to be able to stick his whole arm in there at some point.

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Cael had his 4-month appointment this week.

Here's the percentile breakdown:

Height: 50%
Weight: 60%
Head: 75%

So next time someone tells me how uncommonly chubby my baby is (which, if history is any indication, will be the next time he is seen by anyone on the planet) I will respond with:

"Yeah, he's a little thick around the thighs, but if you want to see big - check out his noggin. Talk about colossal!"

I'd go on to say how it must be housing an unnaturally large brain, but I'm afraid it's more of a storage facility for drool at this point.

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I never thought I'd see the day when I'd miss Workout-Video-Tony telling me, "Suck it up. This is 3-4!" Woe, that day has come.

The Wii Fit is a bully.

Our unhealthy relationship began when the Wii labeled me as a 40-year-old with, according to my avatar, an aching back. All you over forty can be offended by it calling 40-year-olds decrepit and I can be offended because I'm only 26 OMG! (Yeah, okay, so my back does kinda ache. Shut up.)

Too bad the yoga and strength exercises are led by boring "trainers" that don't move their mouths but still manage to give you shit you for sucking. If they were the cartoon version of me and set to music I'd be more inclined to do the pushups, but at this point? I spend all my Wii minutes trying to hoola hoop. And yes, "trying," because though Ryan can get 300 rotations in, I drop the damn hoop before I can hit 30.

Which leads me to another complaint: WHY is Ryan so much better than me in the games? I'll give him the strength and stamina sections. I'm a sloth and he's not. But the games? They're about balance! I was a dancer for 12 years and the Wii is asking me if I trip when I walk. Rude. (And more than a little embarassing.) He's not supposed to beat me at this! It's bad enough the Wii gives me shit for being sub-par, but does it have to show me Ryan's name at the top of all the records every single time? I get it. He's a champ. Give him a medal and get me a cane, 'cause I think I pulled my hamstring.

Oh, Wii? Guess what? I'm eating chips and salsa while I ski. Can't shit talk me for that, 'cause you don't have eyes!

...Though, it'll rib me for the weight I'll gain from it, won't it?

ETA: OMG. THE DAMN THING JUST TOLD ME TO BRUSH MY TEETH. IT KNOWS!

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I knew the terminator would come while I was working out. Knew it. (And yes, I refuse to stop calling him the terminator. Terminix + exterminator = terminator. If they didn't want that nickname they should have had the foresight to name themselves Flernimix or something. Flerminator wouldn't be so tempting.)

Once a month the guy comes and sprays around the house to keep away the spiders (ew! spiders!) and ants (ew! ants!) and, apparently, peep through our floor-to-ceiling windows. This wouldn't be so bad if I didn't work-out in a sports bra and little shorts that I would DIE DEAD OF DEADNESS to be seen in. Figures.

I spot him in the yard, press pause on the DVD and run into the bedroom to hide. Maybe he didn't see me?

Except then he decides to knock on the door (not protocol!) and he keeps knocking and knocking and knocking. So I go to answer (after throwing on a shirt) and he tells me he saw me exercising so he knew I was home. FANTASTIC.

I knew exercising was bad for me. Not only does it make me tired, cranky, sweaty and pained - it makes me answer the door!

Good thing he wasn't a solicitor, or I'd be the proud new owner of a set of encyclopedias just to get him to GO AWAY OMG.

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