Triple Threat

I don’t know what was going on yesterday in the cosmosphere, but things were strange to quite strange around here.

It all fell apart when I came home from work with kids in tow to find that our dog was at the front door to greet us. And there was a nice collection of miscellaneous people belongings at the base of the stairs. Champ is only five months old, so when we leave the house, we put him in his oversized dog crate – which is also where he sleeps at night.

At first I thought, “Crap, we didn’t shut the door to the crate all the way!” Upon closer inspection, the dog door was closed completely and the food dish was placed neatly inside the crate. Hmmm…we never put his food inside there – I was puzzled. Plus, there is no way Champ could break out of the crate and then securely refasten the door. I knew someone had been in our house.

After a quick inventory, I assessed that nothing was missing. “Who in the hell would come into our house and let out our dog but not take anything?!” I thought.

The mystery was solved when my four-year-old’s little friend stopped by at our back porch. I asked Cory if he had come to our house earlier that day. He said, “Yes, me and Jerry (his cousin) came over, but you weren’t home.”

“Oh, and how did you know that, Cory?”

“Because we looked all through your house, and you weren’t there. We even looked in the front yard, and you weren’t there either.”

“How did you get to our front yard?” I questioned.

“Through your front door.”

“Did I leave the back door unlocked?”

“Yes, and I helped Jerry let Champ out of his crate too.”

“Oh, well don’t ever do that again, okay Cory?”

I’ll be double-checking to make sure I’ve locked all of my doors the next time I leave the house.

Later on, while six kids were playing on our play structure, a huge chunk of a hornet’s next wiggled itself out of the play set. The constant swinging below seemed to jiggle that sucker loose. With all of those angry buggers swarming around the crime scene, I’m surprised to report that no one was stung.

But this last incident takes the cake. I’ve mentioned previously that I have this neighbor who is a very unhappy individual. He has it out for my nine-year-old daughter because she speaks her mind to his eight-year-old son. I’ve been on the receiving end of his intimidating confrontations more than once (so much so that Poetroad was ready to kick his ass last time, and I have strict orders to inform Bob that any problems he has with our kids must be deferred to Poetroad). Bob is a sad man for many reasons – which I won’t get in to presently. But he is much more sad now I’m sure after yesterday’s fiasco.

The houses on my side of the street are built on a hill, and our driveways have a considerable incline. Bob, however, parks his car in his garage. Nevertheless, he is positive that the car was in park with the emergency break was on.

Tell that to the people who live below him whose bay window is now a new access to their home. I guess the rear end of Bob’s car was completely in the house. There was shattered glass and wood everywhere, and Poetroad said that the leather furniture in that room is totaled as well due to the shards of glass puncturing the fabric. Thank the Lord that the kids were playing in the back room when all of this happened.

Apparently the damages could have been a lot worse though had the car not been slowed by the small tree and large rock in the neighbor below’s front yard. Also, had the car not veered off its original trajectory after it hit the curb on the other side of the street, Bob’s car would have careened into the neighbor’s garage and brand new Lexus GX.

So I guess things could have been worse. But this does explain why we found the Lexus parked in front of our house when I got home and the huge tarp that was covering the front of my neighbor’s house.

Storage Unit King

One of my best buddies made a cross country move last weekend. She had to catch a flight early Saturday morning, so Poetroad and I let the movers into the storage unit to pack up the rest of the under-estimated load.

The best part of the deal was being able to see the Manager’s home there in the middle of this asphalt jungle. It was doublewide trailer - ehhm, manufactured home – made complete with the king-sized Jacuzzi parked out back. The Jacuzzi sat on the frame of a trailer (the kind of trailer that can be pulled by a truck), so even it was on wheels.

But that’s not all.

This portable Jacuzzi contraption was hooked up to – this is no lie – a mint condition sunfire-orange Ford Pinto.

This is one of those moments in my life that I wished I had my camera with me. I’m seriously thinking about going back there with my camera in hand because you really have to see it to believe it. I’m even thinking of going to pick up a storage application just so I can get this pic.

Until then, the portable Jacuzzi will just have to remain an urban legend.

Speaking of bad gift giving...

A good friend of mine is married to a wonderful guy who is a terrible gift giver. He’s getting better at it, but when a person is scraping the bottom, any improvement at all is a move in the right direction and therefore is “better.”

On their first Christmas as a married couple, there is just no good excuse for “Ron” other than the guy is completely clueless when it comes to knowing what women want. “Mandy” told me that she was dropping hints like crazy regarding what she would really like for Christmas. She showed Ron ads, and when they went out shopping together, she took him to possible gifts and said, “Ron, I would really like this for Christmas,” etc., etc.

Basically, she held up her end of the bargain as far as laying out the entire gift giving options for him.

So when Christmas morning rolled around, Mandy was really excited about the opportunity to share this special day with her husband of one month. She was even more excited to give Ron his gift, and she was just as excited at whatever surprise he might have in store for her. She knew that she would love whatever she got because it would be from her beloved.

Not able to wait, she gave Ron her gift to him first – a new wake board (one of his favorite sports).

Then Ron gave Mandy his gift to her. It was a smaller rectangular package. “Could it be jewelry?” she almost thought out loud. Jewelry would be a perfect gift for a young bride! Not able to hold back her anticipation any longer, Mandy tore into the gift leaving shreds of paper in her wake.

And to her horror, she tore off the wrapping to find that she was holding a big, white ostrich sized plastic egg in her hands – the kind that those clever marketers use to package pantyhose. Pantyhose? Pantyhose?! “He did not just give me pantyhose for Christmas,” she thought.

But when she opened the egg in all it’s glory, out popped a tight wad of securely rolled leg-ware. It was pantyhose. Mandy wept.

She didn’t love his gift.

And it was the only gift that Ron had bought Mandy for Christmas that year. Apparently he overheard her say to herself that she needed to get a new pair of pantyhose one day after a long day of waitressing.

You’ll be glad to know that Ron has improved since then in the gift-giving department. Mandy got jewelry and a leather coat last Christmas. And Ron now knows to leave all pantyhose purchasing to his wife.

Hail to the Mini Queen

Just so you know, Selene and Gracie have flown south to welcome their new little niece who is on her way into the world as I write this. It may be a day or two before we will get a chance to hear from Selene and Gracie.

I did have a chance to chat with Gracie while she was waiting to catch her flight. Seems that she had an interesting experience with the security gal. An extra-special pat down, she said. I didn't get any details, though, so you'll just have to wait to hear about it upon her return.

Please won't you be my neighbor

I saw my ex-neighbor the other day. He was checking on his house that is back up for sale.

Somehow they got rid of the tenants who were leasing the house until next January. Well, they scared the tenants away – although I’m sure it wasn’t too difficult to get the tenants to leave since I heard that there were problems with the house (surprise, surprise).

When Josh and Katie (the tenants) came to tell me they were moving about a month back, I said, “The Mom was too much, wasn’t she.” They replied, “You don’t know the half of it. Plus we didn’t have any hot water in the kitchen and other stuff like that.”

“No hot water in the kitchen?! Why not? What did you do for hot water?”

“There was a leak in the hot water pipe, so they just capped it off instead of fixing it. We got hot water from the bathroom.”

Nice. I wonder how they washed their dishes?

Back to my ex-neighbor. There he stood shoeless and shirtless scratching his big hairy belly. Since his kids were down for the weekend, I asked if his daughter could hang out with us for a while. Then I made polite conversation.

“Hey, how are you doing?” I asked cordially.

“Good, good. I was thinking of moving back into my house, but now I’m thinking about moving to Nevada or Arizona.”

“Great idea! That sounds like fun,” I tried not to sound too excited.

“You look great. Really good.”

“Uhh…thanks. Well gotta be going. I’ll have your daughter back by noon.”

Of course when I went by his mother’s house later (which is where he lives), no one was home. And as the day stretched into the night, I finally had the daughter call again to see if her dad could pick her up.

“Well, I’ll have to call my grandma to see if she can pick me up. My dad can’t drive ‘cause if he gets caught by the police he’ll get arrested.”

“Why?” I asked

“He has too many tickets.”

“Wait a minute…then why was your dad driving this morning?”

“Uh, I don’t know.”

Eventually grandma came in her PT Cruiser to pick up her granddaughter – sans T-bone (remember the ancient free-range Rottweiler that tagged my lawn as his pooping place?). Ding, dong, the dog is dead!

No word yet regarding if the cross-country move will actually take place. But I'm eagerly seeking prospective buyers for the vacant house next door.

All about Breasts

Just so you know, I Googled it, and the average size for American women used to be 34 B. Now it's grown to 36 C due to the increase in implants and chunky girls.

For the Queen

I know they aren't tulips, but Happy Birthday anyway! Lots of love from Poetroad and me! xoxoxoxoxo

The Insult

The Insult

Last week a much younger gal dropped by my house to pick up some baby clothes I had packed up to give away. Yes, FOUR is enough, thank you Dick Van Patten. Barely a twenty year old with an infant son and one on the way, this gal and I have known each other since she was about nine. We aren’t really friends, but we are more than acquaintances. The mom-kid has always been a little strange. Okay, a lot strange. At least she lacks some of the more important social skills anyway.

So she drops by my house to pick up some baby clothes I had boxed up for her, and over the course of the half-hour she was here, she managed to insult my boobs.

I won’t tell you all that she said word for word, but it was something to the effect of, “I can’t believe you’ve nursed four kids with the size of your boobs.”

At first, I thought she was giving me a complement, but as she was tactlessly trying to back out of the pile she seemed to step into, I realized it was not a compliment.

I’m no member of the “Itty bitty committee” people; I’m still a respectable 34 C. Remember when boobs that size used to be the “average” size? Well I guess with all this super-sizing in America, a 34 C is now small.

Of course her boobs are naturally larger than mine, but she is almost five months pregnant.

Anyway, who complements boobs? Better yet, who insults them?

Talk about my boobs behind my back all you want, friends, but do not dis the girls in front of my face.

Think about it, guys. What if in the locker room after toweling off, one of your guy friends turns to you and says, “With a penis that big, it’s a wonder you have any kids.”

Sure, at first it seems like a compliment, but then you get to thinking…

It would be enough to make you obsess a little, wouldn’t it? Next thing you know, you are Googling “Average Penis Size” just to be sure you fall within acceptable size limits. Bonus if you find that you are slightly above average.

But a guy would never say that. He instinctively knows that some topics of conversation are just OFF LIMITS. Guys know to compare in silence or to just live in a fantasy world where the average penis size is three to five inches tops.

Someday I may get that “lift” job to rein the girls in, but even then, just keep your comments to yourselves.

And no, you can’t see them to get an idea of what we are talking about here.

It happened again

I attract Cowboys like a hot dog attracts hornets. It’s a strange phenomenon, really. Most of all, it’s strange because I am just an average looking gal. I’m certainly not ugly, but I’m no movie star. Also, I do not have a Cowgirl butt. You know the kind – long and flat. Looks good in pocketless Rocky Mountain Jeans. Mine is more of a J-Lo butt…on the big and round side. Most importantly, I don’t have the Country Girl big hair that I think is pretty much a requirement to be a Country Girl. Decades pass, and those Country Girls still strut the same over-processed, big banged, poofy doos year after year after year. My hair is straight and flat.

So last Saturday, with hair hastily fastened in a ponytail, I took all for kids to a birthday party for their friend. It was a Cowboy themed party – barbeque, pony ride, hayride and such. The dude leading the pony looked to be about nineteen. He was a handsome boy – all tan from working long days on the ranch, tall, muscular, handsome face. He did have one flaw – bad teeth. The falling out, cavity filled kind.

Anyway, he flashed a big smile at me from a distance as my girls were running to get in line for a ride. I wondered at first if I knew this kid from somewhere. One of my previous students, perhaps?

Of course I was friendly to the kid, and I thought that he was just being friendly too. Throughout the party, though, this boy stood next to me when he was on break, chatted with me, was ultra-nice to my daughters (ogling over them and not any of the other kids at the party), and unsolicited brought the pony over to me so I could pet it. It was getting to the point that I was starting to feel a little self conscious about the attention.

Eventually, he offered – even pressed a little - to give me a turn to ride the pony.

I declined.

When it was time to leave, he made a point of yelling, “Goodbye! Have a great weekend!” to me from across the way.

And as my four kids and I drove off in our minivan into the sunset, he stuck his head and arm out his boss’s truck and waved goodbye.

Crazy cowboy kid.

RIP 2

Another sad day in Bloggersville as there is another casualty of the Internet Super Highway to report. Mimi’s Secret Garden has disappeared into the night.

Early reports by an anonymous source say that while playing pinball under the influence, MSG was inadvertently crushed when the legs supporting the machine gave way. It seems that when said pinball machine owner was refurbishing the machine, he unknowingly used a paint that was much heavier than what was originally used on the machine. With the added ounces, the machine legs buckled under the weight. Now flat as a pancake, MSG is set to be scraped from the basement floor, cremated, and his ashes will be sprinkled…in the garden.

Still, there are other rumors floating around that MSG was abducted by aliens and forced into an OPCA program (Obsessive Pinball Collectors Anonymous).

The sole survivor, Mimi, has gone fishing.

Mama's Little Helper

What ever happened to the secret mom’s club of mid-afternoon Martini drinkers so Mama could calm her nerves before the kids returned home from school? Forget about the being politically correct; it’s time to bring back “Mama’s little helper.” Ahh, those were the good old days when a woman could be a quiet drunk, and no one said a thing (mostly because they were busy taking a sips from their own little nippy bottles).

I think that should be a category on Match.com – the “Quiet Drunk.” It says, “I drink to get through the day, but I’m not a sloppy drunk.” If you see that someone has checked that box, then there will be no surprises when your date seems unmoved after downing her sixth pint of Guinness.

Come to think of it, “Barf out my nose drunk” would be another helpful drinking distinguisher. It could either be a warning or a barometer (“If I’m not barfing out my nose, I’m not drunk enough yet”).

It all depends on how you want to look at it, I guess.

Anyway, I’ve been meaning to start drinking and smoking. Since I don’t do either really, I’m planning on starting out small and working my way up.

For drinking, I’ll start with the fluffy stuff – the Hard Lemonade junk. If I start with four a year and double that every year, by the time I’m 60, I’ll have worked my way up to being that nice quiet drunk.

For smoking, I’m going to build up my nicotine tolerance with the patch first. I figure a year or two from now, I’ll graduate to actually taking a drag on a cigarette. Wait, scratch that. I’m not sure I’ll actually smoke because I don’t want to get lung cancer. So I’ll work my way up to the patch.

Hmmm, I’ll have to think about that some more.

Technically speaking

My seven year old and my nine year old were fighting the other day. There was a growl, a thump, and the sound of the breath being knocked out of someone. When my oldest started crying, I pretty much surmised what happened.

It was confirmed with a tearful, “Mom, KJ pushed me down!”

Of course I reprimanded from two rooms away, “KJ, don’t push your sister down!”

“But I didn’t push her down!” she cried.

Irritated, I met that with, “Don’t tell me you didn’t do it because I heard the whole thing!”

“But MOM! I did not push her down,” she explained, “I pushed her, and she sort of fell forward. She did not fall down.”

So am I raising a lawyer or a potential president?

You've got mail

A guy – James – who is one of the “Buildings and Grounds” guys where my husband works finally decides that he needs to get an e-mail account. So James checks with the computer guy and finds out that he’s had an e-mail account with the organization since 2001. “Well, let’s take a look at that,” the computer guy says. Turns out that, “He’s got mail.” Ten thousand e-mails waiting to be read. That’s right, ten thousand. Definitely bogging down the company mail system there.

The Memorial

Just wanted to let everyone know that we held a nice memorial service for OIAM even though there is a question about her being completely dead. Rumor has it that she is involved in the blogger re-location program.

I won’t give you all the details of the service, but here are some highlights:

The guys from the East Coast brought the flowers – all tulips. The tulips were beautiful! PJD and Maria gave a nice eulogy…short and sweet as it was a haiku. After the service we ate tacos and a nice Mexican soup (thank you Maria – delicious). Mimi provided the entertainment (pinball, of course).

Things started to fall apart, however, after the DJ – some guy named Horace – had a few too many drinks. He got into it with this guy hobbling around in a cast and pulling a huge bouncy slide behind him (it was very strange). Mr. Bouncy Slide apparently didn’t like all the drunken name-dropping Horace was doing, and in a rage Mr. BS was chasing Horace around and trying to kick Horace with the casted foot.

Another gal in a cowboy hat, very weepy, was passing out flyers for some kind of “ladies” party. Then, as a deep-voiced husky woman – Rudith – kept trying to console the party gal in a too-close-for-comfort way, an unusually persistent overnight delivery guy was trying to cut in on the action.

As all this was going down, some guy-member of a “bar band” dropped the slinkiest “yam” in the girl’s toilet, and the stink was beginning to permeate the place. Party gal got a whiff, barfed on overnight delivery guy and Rudith. At that same moment, Mr. BS (still chasing Horace) ran by and slipped in the barf, grabbed the nearby drapes to break his fall, and pulled them down on himself and on this crying “Cowboy” model/restaurant owner guy. They collided, Mr. BS, drapes, and all, knocking Cowboy guy out cold. Mr. BS broke his other leg in the collision.

A drunk Russian Dentist was first on the scene in an apparent attempt to help in the chaos, but instead he just stood there and yelled at everyone to, “Stop crying like baby!”

The cops arrived shortly thereafter, and a few of us were able to sneak out the back as they were busting in the front door to the place.

After that, all hell broke loose. It was mayhem. A very fitting end to OIAM, really.

RIP

Today a much-loved blog, One in a Million, was quietly laid to rest. A youngster in many respects, OIAM died of natural causes nonetheless. Many will miss it. OIAM is survived by the author, Chandy, a sister blog, ML, and various secret/super-secret siblings (which may or may not really exist - it's hard to say). There will be no services held as requested by OIAM. All contributions can be made to the Chimpanzee Wildlife Refuge of America Foundation and to the Fun With Dirt Childhood Education Division.

One for the team

I’m not really into watching baseball (so sorry to you baseball nuts), but I thought of a few team mascots that we need to see more of out there:

The Sloths (the team that is slow yet steady)

The Nutrias (the team that is friendly and minds it’s own business, but will turn tail and run if challenged)

The OPP (stands for Old Poisoned Potatoes; they will do in a pinch, but the team is prone explosive diarrhea and vomiting)

The Pizza Makers (they promise to deliver a game that is saucy and satisfying)

The Adjunct Professors (boasts a team line up full of pinch hitters, although several players may not actually know how to play his position)

And these are just my top five ideas…scary…

Too serious

Okay, this blog is getting way too serious. The problem is that I don't really have anything funny to observe of late.

I did succumb to the pitch of a door-to-door salesman yesterday. I bought a magazine subscription for basically the cover price, but my thinking was that I was helping this guy in his effort to work his way out of the "hood" (in his words). The guy was really nice and seemed very honest. We talked for over twenty-minutes, and he answered all of my questions (where are you from, how did you get involved with this organization, what are your plans for the future, tell me about your son, your mom, etc.). The conversation went all over the place really. So in the end, I think I unintentionally took up enough of his time to get my moneys worth.

In the middle of the night, though, I woke up scared. I was terrified that the guy was secretly casing the joint for a robbery. He reminded me a lot of this neighbor I had as a kid who has now, unfortunately, spent more of his life in prison than out of it.

Not that we have anything to steal. I think I proved that point when I paid for the subscription in change. Literally, I was scraping up loose change from any place I thought it might be - couch cushions, junk drawer, the place where Poetroad empties his pockets each night, etc.

Still, it took me over an hour to get back to sleep.

Ignoring the truth

Last week was a fascinating week. It’s so interesting that even with the little bit of description I gave in my last post that you all pretty much nailed the personality of Mrs. NeatN’Natural. I didn’t even blog 1/3rd of our conversations over the week. Not that all “neat n’ natural” people are preoccupied with fulfilling their own need of “belonging” through their children, but it certainly seemed to be the case here.

One thing that was confirmed to me is that I really like to listen to people. I spent the entire week chatting with several different people, and until the very last day none of them really knew anything about me. In fact, when I told them what I did and what my husband did for a living, I think I heard a collective “gasp” and “I had no idea!” I guess I don’t quite fit the stereotype that I should for my profession.

So while I pretty much had an idea as to who these people were upon first impression, the rest of the week confirmed that impression as it unfolded the truth of who they are – or at least with the public personality that each felt comfortable sharing. But it’s not difficult to find out “more.” Like a scientist, I spend a lot of time in conversations asking probing questions, observing behavior, and gathering data. I’m not sure why I gather the data, except as in an effort to build a character study for the novel I always talk about writing but probably never will. And, again, I like to listen to what people want to say.

Not everyone is good at “diagnosing” a personality from the first impression, though. Some people are naturally more perceptive than others. But perception, I think, is a skill that can be developed by spending some time observing behaviors and really listening to what people say. Also, it helps to have a certain amount of empathy.

I do not see, as some might, that diagnosing a situation or a personality as “wrong.” Some people might call that “being judgmental.” Call it what you may, but I have a firm belief that people pretty much let you know who they are if you are willing to listen and see what they are saying.

Our hidden self wants to be known I guess, and it will find it’s way to the surface somehow.

Many people write off odd behaviors or things that are said as “out of character,” and perhaps they shouldn’t. Perhaps the “odd” is that person’s true character. I tend to like “odd.” I do not like “mean” or “violent.”

I don’t really know where I am going with this. I am one of the most “odd” persons I know. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Neat and Natural

I signed up my two older kids for a day camp at the local children’s museum this week. The oldest is taking, “Artistic Expressions,” and the seven year old is taking, “Irish Dance.” I know – typical classes for a person who lives in hippie country.

But before you chastise me, know that I needed something for my kids to do this summer…it was the day camp thing or the prospect of investing in a back yard portable boxing ring and letting them duke it out for the rest of the summer. Well, it wasn’t getting quite that bad around here, but they are pretty tired of hanging out with each other 24/7.

Hey, that boxing ring thing isn’t such a bad idea…gonna have to look into that…

Anyway, back to the morning at the museum yesterday. So the other mothers and I are standing around the outdoor play area waiting for one of the classes to begin, and this one mom who is holding her barefoot three year old in one of those side-swaddling baby sling do dads (the kind of thing you see in the National Geographic pictures of women in the Congo packing their children in as they walk back to the village balancing clay jars of water on their heads), brings up breast feeding. How long did you nurse your children? Do you still nurse? Etc.

She didn’t look to be the “neat and natural” type – you know the type who thinks it’s fun to whip out a boob on any occasion and nurse her five year old. Cute tan Gap Capris, cute pink tee; I think I have the same outfit, in fact. Not the usual unshaven hairy pits, tie-dye shirt, gypsy skirt, and birks usually associated with the neat and natural crowd.

Then she says, “Oh I nursed my oldest until she was two years and eleven months, and I was sad to stop. This guy is three and he still nurses.”

I choke back nervous laughter and try hard not to blurt out, “What the hell? I was potty training my kids when they were that age, not weaning them!”

But all smiles, I say something to the effect of, “Oh…wow…oh.”

And she continues with the details and then says, “I figure, hey, they’ve got to get fluids somewhere, and there is probably more nutrients in my breast milk than anything I could get from a cow,” and the last phrase she says with particular distain as if she were a vegetarian or something.

“Right, that breast milk is easier to digest I hear,” I reply. That’s about all I could muster in that conversation.

Very awkward….veeery awkward…

It gets better.

On our way out of the museum, she says out of the blue, “Wanna try my sling?”

“Huh?” I say, taken aback.

“My sling – wanna try it out? I have lots of them at home. It’s no problem, really.”

Still not getting it, “What?” I say in a puzzled voice.

Slightly offended, she says, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to – I don’t want to force it on you or anything.”

With nervous laughter I say, “Oh, no, it’s okay, I just thought that you wanted to take the one off you are using right now and…” My voice trails off as she – clearly having her own agenda – is taking her three year old out of her sling and then proceeds to place the contraption over my head.

I don’t really know what to say at this point. Not wanting to offend the gal, I consent graciously. Not because I am a gracious person, mind you, but because I am not interested in offending anyone at that moment or making a public scene over this.

So there I am smiling awkwardly in the neat and natural sling, and this lady is just beaming at the thought of having a new convert.

“Try it, enjoy it for a few days. Give it back to me on Friday. I have lots of these at home, so I won’t miss it at all,” she says.

Thank you, but no, I think.

Fast forward to this morning. When I see the neat and natural lady, I make polite conversation, and then I nonchalantly give her back her sling. “Thanks a ton for letting me try this out, but it just didn’t work for me. My 11 month old is just too squirmy. I bet it would have worked great had I used it when she was younger,” I say.

I see by her red face that she is a little embarrassed.

“Thanks again for letting me try it out – it was very kind of you!”

“Oh, no problem,” she says.

And then I smile and turn and leave with my boobs in my shirt and my kids sitting contently in the double stroller.