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I wish I could get excited about blogging again. Maybe it’s time for a break, you know?

It’s not you, it’s me. I swear!

I guess I just feel like so much of our days are awash in banality. We do much the same things, over and over again. We swim in the blowup pool in the backyard, we watch “Little People” videos (well, he does. I usually tidy up, although the damn Aaron Neville songs get stuck in my brain just fine.), we run various errands, we try not the annoy the heck out of one another (although some of us try harder than others) and we just hang out. August is as tan as a sailor (and I can say this with some authority, as I just saw Pirates of the Caribbean last weekend), and I’ve got a good bit of color myself, despite my eschewing of tanning for the past decade or so.

So, if you stop by and I haven’t updated for a week or so, don’t fret. Soon, my love for boring the heck out of people searching for “how+to+make+swords” will return, I’m sure. Right now, I’m tired.

Those of you who know me will find this very hard to believe, but for the past several months, I have been organizing my church’s vacation bible school. It happened last week.

And I survived.

There were no lightning bolts flung from the heavens, no burning flesh whenever I shook hands with our pastor each evening, nothing.

Except that all of the children were spawn of Satan himself!

I’m kidding, of course. Although, I did help out with the five and six-year-old class during a couple of nights (there were 12 kids in that class) and to say that they were “challenging” is an insult to the New York Times crossword. The boys! The boys!

I just kept thinking, ‘Oh my God, is this what my son is going to be like in a few years?’ And the answer is most certainly yes.

Case in point: There was a plastic bin of Crayons. In said bin, someone had placed a number of Pokemon-branded crayons, probably thinking that the kids would just be tickled to death at Pokemon crayons. Not all of the crayons were so lucky, however. And the boys went absolutely bonkers over the @#$% Pokemon crayons. They were hoarding them like gold! At one point, I said, ‘Guys, they’re just crayons,’ to no avail.

So a few nights later I picked them out of the bin. They looked at me like I had just drowned their families’ cats. ‘But why?’ they asked.

‘Because we’re not here for Pokemon, guys,’ I responded.

They sat looking at me, blinking.

‘Why are we here, guys?’ I asked, hopefully. More blank stares.

‘For Jesus [DAMMIT]!’ I wanted to yell. I only sighed. Maybe next year…

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Guess I’ll just have to cut a few of the racier scenes…

[Thanks to Jason for the fun tip.]

So the rest of the reunion festivities pretty much took their cue from the barbecue on Friday night. Although, one of my dearest friends from school, Christy, brought her baby to the picnic on Saturday. Her baby is almost 10 months old already, and I had been meaning to stop by for forever, so it was great to see them.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at my dad’s, where you know he grilled up some fine beef (a $75 tenderloin, no less) and we ate like kings. We loaded up for home, having decided to skip that evening’s dinner/dance and set out. On our way towards the highway, however, I had a change of heart and asked Tim if it would be OK if we stopped in for “just a minute.”

Being the wonderful, understanding husband that he is, he agreed. I quickly changed into my kicky dress (yes, in the car. I’m a fabulous quick-change artist in the car. Don’t ask.) and we set out for the Holiday Inn.

Well, we’re movin’ on up…

Of course, by the time we reached the Holiday Inn, Auggie had completely zonked out, so Tim stayed in the car with him (and my iBook, on which he could watch the Rushmore DVD). I went in, grabbed a beer, and started going around the room, talking to old friends.

It’s funny, if you asked me whether I am shy or outgoing, I would say shy without a moment’s hesitation. But anyone that knows me knows that I’m not really shy at all. I can talk with just about anyone, at any time. I love talking to people. And that’s why I had a such a great time that night, chatting with people I hadn’t seen in 10 years, as an hour slipped away even faster than my Budweiser.

There was a whole table full of classmates-turned-teachers, along with a guy who owns his own excavating business (Tim’s question: “Excavating what?”) and another guy who sells auto parts. We all put our heads together, trying to remember the name of the girl at the next table who looked so familiar, but who we just couldn’t place. Sorry, Michelle!

I moved on to another table where my sixth-grade boyfriend Mike sat with his wife (his high school sweetheart Holly) and heard about their two kids and the wreck that nearly killed Mike over a year ago. Best part of the story (except the part about where he lived, of course): Mike’s four-year-old daughter’s angry question, upon seeing her daddy the night after the accident, ‘Daddy, why weren’t you wearing your seat belt?!’

There were several other people there that it was great to see and I am so glad that I didn’t miss the chance to catch up with them. But my beer was empty, my bed at home was calling my name, and I had had about enough of the Class of ’93. Plus, if I stayed any longer, I would have had to have talked to Matt, and I really just did not want to waste another minute of my life on that wanker.

Viva la ten-year grudges!

I survived the first night of the reunion, and now I’m feeling really silly about how nervous I was. Everyone was very nice, and considering that there were only about a dozen of us alumni there, it was no big deal at all. No one got belligerently drunk or anything (sadly).

One of my best friends from high school came with another one of my old friends, but, other than those two, everyone else that came was not what I would call a good friend from ten years ago. Sure, I went to school with them forever and ever, and I wish them well, but as far as plumbing the depths of their hearts and minds over what they’ve discovered from the daily parade of their lives thus far, I took a pass.

Everyone has kids, or is pregnant, or is going to be married soon. There was a lot of talk about various fraternities.

We met my mom and took a very sleepy Auggie to his first fireworks display. He was fairly freaked out, but only whimpered a tad. After a while, he even clapped a little for some of the prettier ones and said a tentative, ‘Oooh…’ Very cute.

Jackson puts on a decent fireworks display, I must admit. Even Tim was impressed. But I had to wonder, given the current state budget troubles, if fireworks are a little extraneous. Sure, call me a killjoy, but you should know that I am a huge fireworks fan. And I understand the joy in celebrating the birth of our nation, “now more than ever.”

However, I’m also aware that fireworks are fabulously expensive (and fabulously dangerous to make and set off). Couldn’t we just do more of a district sort of thing, instead of every single teeny town in the state doing their own display? Sure, the traffic would be a nightmare, hundreds would fall ill from West Nile after being set upon by Jackson’s huge mosquito population, and more than a few rednecks would scuffle over imaginary affronts, but I think that, in the long run, we might be able to save a band program or two.

Since my iBook spit the bit a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been reluctant to update my Address Book program all over again. Is anyone else like me — at least two different electronic Address Book programs (on my Mac and Outlook Express on my PC), plus an ancient paper Address Book that you run to when you need Great-uncle Roy’s address?

I realize that there are such things as backups, but I’m having a hard time getting into it. I feel like I just need to commit to one address book, but I’m getting cold feet.

What if I put everything on my iBook and it has to be sent away again and I’m left without vital contact information? And is it just too much of a pain to maintain all three address books with overlapping information?

Is this the most boring post ever?

Last night, Tim had Auggie in the bath, so I did something a little crazy. I called my high school sweetheart, who I have not heard from in many years. (Like, over 7 years, at least)

I was completely thrown for a loop when his machine picked up. I had prepared myself for several different possibilities (e.g., wrong number, his wife picks up, his girlfriend picks up, his “partner” picks up, he picks up, etc.), but not a machine. I listened closely to the outgoing message, and it sounded a lot like him, so I blundered my way through a message. I say blundered because there were several different avenues that such a message could’ve taken:

1. I could tell him the hour I spent the night before, searching Google for any reference to him, then the half hour I spent on whitepages.com, searching for his phone number, potentially scaring the living daylights out of him.

2. I could tell him that I had had a dream about him the night before and so I decided to give him a call, potentially scaring the living daylights out of him.

3. I could tell him that our 10 year class reunion was coming up and that I was hoping that he would come, so I thought I would give him a call to see if he had heard about it.

I chose Option 3, thank goodness.

When I told Tim what I had done, he said, ‘Hopefully, he won’t think you’re crazy.’ I gasped.

‘Do you really think that he might think that?’

Tim, sensing that he was treading in dangerous waters, backpedaled. ‘No, honey, I’m sure that he will be very flattered.’

I felt slightly better.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that in my fragile emotional state of late, that the last thing that I should be doing is seeking validation from old boyfriends. And I would have to agree with you there. All last night and today, I walked around on eggshells.

What if he didn’t call? What if he thinks that I’m insane? What if his girlfriend hears the message first and erases it? Because up until I thought that, I was playing it all cool, like, if he didn’t call, then that’s his prerogative and maybe he wants to be left alone and leave high school behind, and I would leave it at that. But if he doesn’t get the message, or if I mumbled and he couldn’t get the number right off of the message, then, well, that’s a different story.

sigh. I swear that I am not psychotic.

He called. (Hi, Eddie!)

And, hopefully, I convinced him that I am not insane.

I cried in the grocery store today. Okay, I managed to choke back the tears until I made it out the door, but once I had my sunglasses back on, the tears came a-runnin’.

It all started when I had this fabulous idea to take Auggie’s piggy bank to the neat-o Coinstar machine at the store, since we would be going there to do a little shopping for a dinner we were going to make for some friends with a new baby. Sure, Coinstar robs you of nine cents for every dollar, but who rolls coins anymore? Not me. The exorbitant fees are worth it, plus the machine itself is kinda cool. (As a matter of fact, I am that easily amused.)

Anyway, I was going to make this all another great Lesson In Being A Steward Of Money for August. We already make a big deal about finding the coins to put in the piggy bank (Name? Piggy, of course. Auggie will probably name his first child “Baby.”), so converting those coins into cash, then to be deposited in his savings account, would naturally lead to his great love of compounding interest, and he will be forever solvent.

I hope it’s not selling your child too short when some days the most you can wish for him is future solvency.

So we get to the store, and August insists on carrying in his (ceramic) yellow Piggy. As per usual, he does not want to sit in the cart, so after much reasoning and cajoling by Mommy, he is made to sit in the cart. And, being a nearly two-year-old, he throws Piggy down from the cart, where Piggy shatters into a hundred pieces and change flies everywhere as horrified grandmas look on.

I won’t go into too many details about the cleanup, except to say that luckily, the store wasn’t busy and two very nice employees helped me. Bless them.

I pressed on, though, moving on to the Coinstar machine with Piggy’s once-innards in a plastic shopping bag. Our reward? $14. Not bad, but it hurts to know that the $1.50 lost to Coinstar is going to take a while to earn back in Auggie’s 3% interest savings account. I think again of the futility of rolling coins, and soldier on.

We’re shopping, we’re shopping. Auggie is being pretty good, not demanding a cookie or anything, and I’ve only got a couple of things to get. Sour cream is 2 for $2.95, so I get two, impetuously. ‘Hey, the expiration date isn’t until September 1, let’s live dangerously!’

I wheel up to the check out lanes and find that there are three lanes open, with approximately four people in each line, carts full to the brim. I hastily count my ten items and head for the express lane.

When it’s finally our turn, I set out our items — oops! There are 11! Didn’t see that extra sour cream there in the basket with Auggie — and I get a disapproving look from the cashier.

“This item is for 10 items or less, ma’am,” she says.

‘I-I-I-I thought I had 10. There are 11,” I stammered, ashamed of my flagrant flouting of their Express Lane trust. I hand her the cash and get out of there as fast as I can, my eyes shiny with tears.

August, meanwhile, is having a blast, babbling away at the cars in the parking lot. Once the groceries are loaded into the car, and Auggie is stowed in his car seat, I crumple over the steering wheel and dissolve into tears.

If I wasn’t so certain — and I mean certain, Mom — I would think that I was pregnant. Now that would be something to cry about.

Our dog, Coco, has been having some back problems lately. This is not completely unexpected, because when we “rescued” her nearly four years ago, she was on strict crate-rest after a back injury. Over the years, she’s had some trouble with one of her front paws, but now I’m wondering if she wasn’t having problems with her back. She’s now around 11 years old, and is the most roly-poly of the bunch.

Intervertebral disk disease (IVDD) is an unfortunate, yet often common, predisposition for dachshunds. This disease causes calcification of the cartilage between the vertebrae, which can lead to a complete rupture of one or more of the vertebra. Often, this rupture causes paralysis from the point of the rupture, leaving their back legs useless. If this rupture occurs, and you get your dog to a qualified surgeon within 24 hours, often their disks can be fenestrated and your dog has a good chance of regaining some of all use of his legs, after a long recovery. The surgery costs upwards of $1,000.

Luckily, Coco hasn’t had any paralysis so far. She started crying when we would pick her up to help her down from the bed, or to bring her in from outside. The first time this happened, I took her to the vet and he found the point on her back that was causing her trouble. He gave her a shot of an anti-inflammatory and sent us home with more anti-inflammatories to give her for a week. After a couple of days, she seemed to be her old self again, so we breathed a sigh of relief. About a week and a half later, something went very wrong when I was picking her up to go outside. She just kept crying and crying and I felt more helpless than I’ve ever felt. Of course, it was a Sunday, so we just tried to make her as comfortable as possible in her crate until we could get into the vet’s on Monday.

I took her in for X-rays that Monday and the vet called to say that there was definitely some calcification of her spine, but that she didn’t seem to have displaced or ruptured any of her vertebrae. This confirmed his earlier hunch that she had IVDD. He gave her the same shot as before and sent home more pills. When I came to pick her up, the vet who showed me her X-rays pointed out three different areas of calcification. Uh-oh.

This time, I researched IVDD as much as possible on the Internet, and found some great resources. I’ve been trying to be strict and keep Coco in her crate as much as possible, but she is just so miserable in there!

Tim and I have always been big believers in letting our dogs be dogs. Some dachshund owners never let their dogs jump onto or off of furniture, go down stairs or other super-fun dog things. We’ve always just let them do what they liked (within reason, I suppose) and hoped for the best. But with Coco, I really need to keep in mind that her crate-rest (which should last six weeks, ideally) is only temporary and will allow her to get back to being a dog, for a lot longer.

Since when did the Midwest get a monsoon season? Did I miss that issue of Mother Nature Monthly? Our backyard is a swamp. The dogs make “squish, squish” sounds when they walk across the ground. Yuck.

The worst thing is that Auggie and I can’t go outside and play, which means I must find creative ways to keep him from playing with the knives. Fun!

It is enough to make a mall look fun. Mmmm, Apple Store….