Why I love Granny Toni

Today Granny Toni took me shopping. Here's why I love Granny Toni:

1. Granny Toni doesn't have a Mexican bone in her body, but she wants to be called "Abuela." For you non-Spanish-speaking folks, that's "Grandmother" in Espanol. Like I said in an earlier blog, she doesn't want to be called anything that makes her sound old. Unfortunately, this would include all the English words for what she is in relation to me. The problem is that Fletcher, Lola, Momo & Spanky Mae--all of her granddogs--have been calling her "Granny Toni" for years. So it seems as though that name has stuck.


2. She is too silly for words. She put me on her leg while we were shoe shopping for Mommy and said, "Ride little horsey go to town. Ride little horsey don't fall down." When she said the "Don't fall down part," she kinda acted like she was off balance as if to mimic one falling off a horsey. Her timing was perfect.


3. She thinks Mommy and I can't tell when she wants to go have a smoke. After 31 years, though, Mommy is on to her. She said she was going to quit smoking the day I was born. But that was more than 120 days ago...


4. She wants me to be as cute as possible at all times. Even when I'm asleep. One night, when M & D wanted to go see a movie, Granny Toni babysat me. The next morning, when M walked into my room, she noticed a pile of my nightgowns on my swing. M called Granny Toni and asked why all the gowns were piled up. Granny Toni told her she was trying to find the gown that looked cutest on me. I told you she was silly.


5. She likes to put toys on my head. My head is so big that many toys can stay put if you put 'em up there. She put my jingle frog up there today. I knew it was there, but I didn't care. I sat there with Jingle Frog on my head for quite some time.

This is Granny Toni in M's hospital room the day I was born.

Crisis Communication

An exchange between two commentators on my blog occured today. The exchange threatens the reputation and integrity of the Pieface brand. To minimize the damage, let me offer this explanation:

Daddy said he was going to stab Tate's Mommy in the ovary. This was in response to a comment Tate's Mommy left on my blog about "Tate playing the field." Daddy, who was raised in a staunch Roman Catholic home, took offense to a member of the opposite sex "playing the field" with me, his one and only daughter--or child for that matter.

Tate's Daddy thought the whole "ovary" thing was a little over-the-top. He said so to my Mommy while they were at work today. (Not that they read/comment on/create blogs during work time, because they don't, for the record. During their lunch hour, maybe. If you consider lunch time anywhere between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m., taking into account all the time zones.) So, Mommy apologized on Daddy's behalf for the ovary-stabbing comment.

Meanwhile, Mommy fired off an e-mail to Daddy saying that he's not allowed to make threats to the ovaries of her coworker's spouse. Daddy explained that he was simply quoting Ron Burgundy's line to Veronica Corningstone that he was going to "punch her in the ovary."

Given that the line, misquoted as it was, was from the 2004 blockbuster smash Anchorman, the phrase is rendered harmless.

NOW, here's a random photo of me in want of context. (Actually Mommy's coworkers will find the context quite hilarious. And yes, that is spit-up dripping from my bottom lip down the front of my suit.) Where do I get my clothes, anyway? The toilet store?

Garage-sale shopping and Benihana

It all started with a crappy dresser M&D bought me before I was born. The drawers are rickety and the face of the bottom one falls off every time M opens it to get me suit to wear after I’ve spit up or pooped on the one I’m wearing at the time.

So when M spied a dresser at a neighbor’s garage sale on Saturday morning, she swooped me up and made D come along, too. I guess she needed his expert drawer opinion.

As if garage-sale shopping isn’t white trash enough, Mommy made us look even more ghetto by leaving me in my Maggie Simpson nightgown. Plus, Daddy walked over there barefoot. He didn’t even bother with his flip flops. He doesn’t like wearing them because the part that goes over his toe pulls the black hairs on his Fred Flintsone toes.

When we got there, we found that the dresser was a dud. It was a little too ornate for my taste. So, I’m stuck with the crappy one.

On Sunday, I went to church with M & D. M wants me to be baptized, so she’s been looking for a good church in the area. M&D had two and a half years to find a place of worship in FloMo before I was born. Why the heck are they just now starting to look? Sometimes I don’t get those two.

After church, I cried all day. I’m not saying the two events are connected, I’m just sayin’.

On Sunday night, we went to Benihana to celebrate Granny T/Abuelita/Noni’s (she still hasn’t decided what I should call her. Anything with “Granny” in it makes her sound old, she says) birthday par-tay. (I have to say par-tay b/c I’m cool like that.) See how amused I was at Benihana. I can’t help it if I had to cry. They were passing me around like hookah pipe, and I didn’t like it one bit.

Why is a 4-month-old blogging?

Because I can, Silly. At 4 months, I can do lots of things:

• Make clicking noises with my tongue and gums
• Toot
• Squeeze Spanky Mae's nose with my hand
• Make spit bubbles
• Watch "Kill Generation" with my daddy
• Do differential and integral calculus
• Make bulleted lists in blogging software
• Roll over, one way, from by back to my tummy over my left shoulder
• Laugh
• Poop
• Smile
• Drink 6 ounces of formula in a single feeding
• Mix a mean Jack and Coke

What can you do? Feel free to post your comments.