The Feral Mom and I lunched at IHOP yesterday, joined by Ben and the Feral Twins, two happy little toddlers who are so sophisticated now, they can handle slices of toast. We chatted about blog stalkers (those people who visit your blog all the time but never, ever leave comments—you know who you are, and would it kill you to leave a comment once in a while?), NICU hassles, and the unfortunate fact that the Feral Cat has not been posting his evil thoughts lately. Those of you who read Gone Completely Feral but have not laid eyes on Her Feralness yourselves, you should know that she's way hotter than her pictures. That last picture, from the NICU—you know, I bet most women look their worst when they're spending their days in a NICU. It's like coming off a 9-month bender (or a 7-month one, in my case), hungover and cotton-mouthed, saggy and lumpy, owning no clothes that fit, with no energy for luxuries like bathing. I'm never showing you my NICU pictures because I looked like a bloated nightmare. (But that's a story for another day.)
Anyway, after we finished eating, one of the Feral Twins dumped a dookie in her diaper, so mom and tot went off to the IHOP john, leaving the other twin with Ben and me. I figured the diaper change was a tough one, and I figured maybe the Feral Mom forgot that she'd picked up the check last time and it was my turn to treat. Maybe she was hiding out in the bathroom to force me to pay, like that guy on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" who always managed to be away from the table when the time came to pay the bill. (When is the next season of that show? I miss it.)
As it turns out, the lengthiness of the visit to the ladies room pertained to Turdgate '05 (if you have the stomach for it, you can read the whole story at Gone Completely Feral). It reminds me of the time Mr. Tangerine and I went to the Shedd Aquarium and witnessed a turtle in the same dire straits the Feral Mom was in. We couldn't take our eyes off the beast. Hovering in the water in his tank, he'd push a turd out, making progress...halfway there, don't give up...and then the turd retreated back inside. Push, push, push...retreat. Push, push, push...retreat. We stuck around for a good half hour (a very good one!) and witnessed no progress, only the slo-mo instant replays of push, push, push...retreat. The poor guy clearly needed a turtle poop wrangler to come along and manually disimpact him. But no one came to his aid. He was left alone in his elemental struggle with nature. Isn't that how it always is?