When you see this sign, you know there’s going to be some Qwality Babbling. Accept no substitutes. Try some to-day!

O. Ants, Non-Pants Kind

Ants have set up shop in my basement. In my basement! The next thing I know they’ll be carrying the baby away and dirtying all the dishes. This is reminding me of Leonard Nimoy’s “In Search Of” where they looked at deadly ants! And how they cannot be stopped!

Actually, what it is really reminding me of is that I need to sweep my basement more often. It is also reminding me of how much I used to love ants. I did a report on them in the fifth grade. And once when I was three I was having some underpants-sprinkler time, my grandpa lifted me off a fire anthill before I was the baby what got carried off.

Ants! Nature’s vacuum.

Back to your pit, foul beasts.

M. David Lee Roth High-Kick for LOLTrek

It’s Loltrek, and it’s for you if you ever watched “The Trouble with Tribbles.” Actually, if you have never seen “Tribbles,” now’s your chance to get the synopsis. My only quibble with this work of minor genius is that there is no invisible buttsecks.

F. Ex-Husband, Ugh

My ex emailed today. What, two months later? he has acknowledged that I got a job at Franny’s school that will wipe out tuition. But he assured me that he had registered her at public school “in case the job falls through.” Thanks for the vote of confidence, bucko. Last I checked it was your settings that were stuck on Epic Repeated Failure. Plus the annoyance of knowing that he’s running around signing her up for major things without consulting me.

He offered to send Franny over for Mother’s Day, which part of me wants to take, but then I’m supposed to send her back on the 14th and pick her up on the 15th for my time anyway. The sucky thing about being divorced from someone who you don’t trust as far as you can throw is that you know they’re making a little tally somewhere, even if it’s just mental. So if we ever go back to court again, it will be all, “She didn’t want her kid on Mother’s Day, she’s a Bad Mother.” When in reality it’s more like seeing him gives me the wiggens and I’d just rather switch her at school. Whenever I see him I just think about all those years I forced him to crossdress, and I feel SUCH REMORSE. (At least, that’s what the court paperwork says. Not the remorse part.)

Maybe I should just tell him that seeing him gives me the wiggens? That would make things pretty clear and there would be a record of it. I think what I will actually do is call up Franny and see what she wants, which is an unpopular option at his house, but I don’t really care about Mother’s Day. It’s made-up. I can instill guilt any day of the year, I don’t need a damn day on the calendar.

There, I said it. This will be held against me later as well as further evidence of my godless communism. Or Satanism or whatever.

G. Out Avec Whippet

Last week I went to drinks with Whippet and her husband. Companion was not able to attend, because he was off doing something else very important. coughcoughcthulhucoughcough.

Excuse me, I seem to be coming down with something nerdy. I mean, a cold.

GERT.

Apropos of something, I asked Whippet how she liked her subscription to Martha Stewart Kids magazine. She said she frankly hated it, because it made her feel like a crappy mom because she wasn’t crafting with her kids every second.

“Hey, don’t feel bad,” I retorted. “I craft with my kids and I’m still a crappy mom!”

Multitasking!

Speaking of gettin’ crafty, Companion wanted to throw a tea party, and since we don’t know half-a-dozen elderly British ladies, I reminded him that the perfect audience for this endeavor would be Franny’s friends.

So we invited six girls, and so far two have responded in the affirmative, one in the negative, and three not at all. But I think some of the other girls come from broken homes also, and may not have received theirs yet. I will wait.

I was in charge of helping Franny with the invites. (Companion is creating the menu with her.)

They are two layers of sparkly paper, cut with deckle scissors. The flower is glued on as well and has a fuzzy little center that matched the copper stamp ink well. Whippet’s conclusion was that they “looked like a kid put them together.” I helped a little.

Of course, the minute she was done rampaging on the invites with the heart potato stamp, she turned the weapon on herself.

The old sweatshop’s just not as good for as much labor as it used to be.

Bonus!

HAY, that cat’s as friendly as I am.