Fuckity Fuck Fuck Shit and Poop

Lea thinks I'm not nearly as potty-mouthed as advertised. I've got a bucketful of expletives that says otherwise. Especially as Iz and Seymour are out of town until Sunday. Four days and four nights of just me and the two kids who still shit on the bathroom floor if you leave their little butts uncovered at inopportune pre-bath times. (It was Mali's turn this evening.)

As longs as I'm writing about feces, may I just state that I finally figured out why Mali's offerings smell so strange: it's because our tabbouleh-loving baby eats so much parsley that her diapers smell like cow- or horse puckeys. We should ask her pediatrician to find out how many stomachs she has.

In the meantime, locals, I wouldn't mind company on Friday or Saturday night. We can order pizza or Thai food and I will mix you drinks so that you have to stay until you sober up, or we all end up playing Twister. You can bring your kids! Giddy, Dee, any chance you could fly in?