Several months ago when we had Coco fixed the vet sent us home with a packet of information that included a giant red piece of paper covered in a warning about how important it was to make sure that the dog did not lick her own wound. They even gave us a tiny plastic cone to put around her neck just in case she fixated on it, and on the drive home Jon wondered out loud, "They didn't say anything about whether or not it was okay for anyone else to lick her wound."

"By anyone else, do you mean Chuck?" I asked hopefully.

"By anyone I mean anyone. What are they implying by the absence of that stipulation?"

"They are implying that they trust you have two brain cells to rub together."

It was around this time that I brought up the subject of edamame on this website, and many readers suggested that we put together an instructional video on how we cook and eat them. And we shot some footage that night, we certainly did, but other things have occupied our attention since then — SILHOUETTE OF MICHAEL PHELPS' ABDOMEN, BREAST STROKE, BREAST STROKE, BREAST STROKE — and Jon was all, this is entirely unfair, it's not like Kate Walsh got dressed up in a tiny bikini and gyrated her perfectly toned body through a pool every night for a week, ON INTERNATIONAL TELEVISION, and he drew up a letter to the Universe and called it several names that I don't think Harvey Keitel would agree to say out loud in a movie.

So while I was watching every single minute of the swimming portion of the Olympics Jon edited all the footage together and we finally have ourselves a video. He wants you to note a few things before viewing, however:

1. His hair is post nap.

2. His hair and Coco’s hair: matching.

3. My pronunciation of “Jon” is something he hears about 30 times an hour, thus he has developed selective hearing. I call it willfully ignoring me.

4. Leta had a very minor meltdown involving the snap-out portion of her princess magnets; not the magnets themselves, the snap-out holder thingy which he mended with tape. During editing he cut out the footage of us both standing over the pot of boiling water wondering aloud whether or not the sound of our daughter wailing in the other room is what people would refer to as neglect.

5. Behold: mind-blowing special effects. If you blink you'll miss the part where I run screaming from the house because his hair looks like this.

Another busy week here at the Blurbodoocery involving doctors appointments, travel, vet visits, and a multitude of concerts. Tonight we're attending the sold out Wilco concert where the Fleet Foxes will be opening, and it's at my favorite outdoor venue in the city. If you're not familiar with either band, here's an introduction to the Fleet Foxes:

And here's Jeff Tweedy from Wilco playing an acoustic version of the soundtrack to my marriage to Jon:

This weekend we're headed to San Francisco to the Outside Lands Festival, a three-day music event at Golden Gate Park (look at that lineup and be very jealous of me). While I'm there I'll be posting photos and whatnot here and at the community site Crowdfire where they are giving away free tickets to the festival every day. Friday night I will get to see Radiohead for the tenth time, and maybe I will finally get up the nerve up to throw my panties at guitarist Ed O'Brien who happens to be number two on my Five Fame Fuckers list.

Interestingly, recent international events have brought to my attention a certain special someone who has so stolen my heart that he has knocked off two of the previous men on my list and now occupies both of those positions. So my list now looks like this:

1. Chris Martin
2. Ed O'Brien
3. Brad Pitt
4. Michael Phelps
5. Michael Phelps

I brought up this development the other night with a group of friends, and the men in the group were all, BUT HIS EARS! AND THAT UNDERBITE! Which of course was exactly how I expected them to respond, all of their lists are comprised entirely of supermodels. I think his ears are adorable, and that mouth of his is interesting, but the list really has very little to do with appearance and everything to do with the overall package. Are they driven? Do they care about people? What is their take on certain issues? Are they bigger than I am? Do they know their multiplication tables? Also, good hair helps. And yes, I will be honest and say that the way Michael Phelps fits into a wetsuit is very pleasing to look upon with my eyes.

Don't worry, Jon has his own list, and if we were at a concert where Renee Russo was playing the guitar, I would take off Jon's briefs and throw them at her head for him. That was written into our vows.

Your list?

The Olympics is slowly killing both Jon and me by pushing us three and four hours past our normal bedtime. We've been trying to keep up with all the excitement, and two nights ago I finally had to call it quits at one in the morning and hit the sheets. I remember thinking as I checked the clock, oh God, please Leta, sleep in until at least 7:30, do it for Michael Phelps. She answered that prayer by screaming out at 5:00 AM and then refusing to go back to sleep. I brought her back into bed with us and for two hours she asked, CAN I HAVE A PANCAKE NOW? HOW ABOUT NOW? I WANT A PANCAKE. MY OWN PANCAKE. PANCAKE. PANCAKE. PANCAKE. I won't lie, I did have the sudden urge to punch Jon in the gut at about 6:30 and go THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. In fact, two days later, I'm still fighting that urge.

I couldn't sleep through the PANCAKE monologue, so I finally took her upstairs at about 7:00 to eat breakfast. Jon was wiped out, had been working on about six different projects, so I let him sleep despite the fact that THIS WAS ALL HIS FAULT. And then when we got upstairs I realized, oops, I don't know how to make pancakes. Sure, I could read the directions on the box, but on four hours of sleep I couldn't see straight. And was in no state to operate a piece of machinery whose main component is fire.

So I suggested that we eat some cereal together. And she protested a tiny bit until I explained very clearly that her daddy is the pancake parent and me? I'm the cop out cereal parent. Pancakes taste better when made by daddy, and cereal poured into a bowl by anyone other than me will just not taste as glorious. Also, I'm tired, be quiet, be glad you have food to eat, if you want I can give you the speech my dad used to give me about starving children in Africa, I haven't yet uttered that sentence to you, and it would give me great pleasure this morning to cross off that rite of passage.

So we had cereal. And some casual conversation (note, she is watching herself in the viewfinder the entire time):

Also, thanks to several kind readers who sent me the link, I think I now know how to make pancakes because of the following amazing video. Be prepared for the most sensational three minutes and forty-six seconds of your life, I promise you it is worth the investment of your time. Someone get this kid a recording contract STAT:

One of the most obvious things I inherited from my father, other than the shape and length of my body, my chin, my forehead, my ears, and that highly flammable sense of righteous indignation that usually erupts in the middle of 1) the local news, 2) traffic, and 3) phone calls with customer service personnel who do not speak English, is a love for greasy spoon diners. The dirtier the place the better, maybe because that is somehow proportional to the amount of butter they use in their pancakes. If my father were given the choice between an expensive dinner with the current Republican president or a lunch alone at a truck stop diner that is cooking its hamburgers in a vat of bacon grease collected over the period of fifteen years, he'd say, DO NOT FORCE ME TO MAKE THAT CHOICE, GEORGIE.

Our favorite local greasy spoon is a place called The Blue Plate, and we often go there for brunch on the weekends, mainly because it's one of the only non-chain sit-down restaurants that has something on the menu that Leta will eat. She always orders the home fries which are basically potatoes cut into squares and then fried. And then she eats half of a bottle of ketchup. Is it the healthiest meal? Of course not, but we've run it by her pediatrician who has eight kids, one who was exactly like Leta, and he said, look! She's getting potassium! And ketchup is sometimes made out of real tomatoes! So stop coming in here with these stupid concerns and call me when she's managed to lodge a quarter in her nostril.

A couple of weeks ago when we were on our way to brunch Jon quietly talked to me in the front seat about how he wanted to try to get Leta to try pancakes that morning. We both understand how important it is to provide a united front when it comes to disciplining your kids (when spanking, both parents should use the same wooden instrument) or trying to teach them anything, and we're usually very good about that, except when it comes to her eating habits. Because that is a battle I specifically chose to stop fighting. It was taking years off my life and making me so crazy that getting up from the dinner table and counting to a hundred was not calming me down one bit. In fact, it gave me more time to think about HOW INSANE my child was that she wouldn't eat a fucking peanut butter sandwich. WITH JELLY. WHICH IS SUGAR. SUGAR ON BREAD. A kid who won't eat a certain type of sugar. So trying to exert any influence on that was like going, you see that nuclear bomb over there? I think I could defeat it with this here spitball.

But I was in a good mood that morning, had slept in past eight o'clock and that had made my brain a little woozy and disoriented, and I was all what year is it? So I agreed to support him in his attempt. There we were whispering in the front seat of the car about how we were going to convince our daughter to eat a pancake. If that is not the dumbest first world conversation. Other ones we've had in the past few weeks:

This iPhone is too heavy.

Someone was using my favorite treadmill this morning, so I was forced to use the stationary bike.

This refrigerator isn't big enough. Let's buy another one and put it in the garage.

So we're sitting there waiting for the server to bring us our food, and when he sets down Jon's plate Jon immediately mentions that he can't wait to eat his yummy pancake. I don't say anything because I want to gauge Leta's reaction, and it is exactly what I had expected it to be: "Pancakes are yucky!"

Yes, pancakes are yucky, puppies suck, and rainbows are boring. And the old part of me that gave up this battle a few years ago is starting to rumble a bit, and I have to bite my lip. Because I want to stand up and yell SO HELP ME GOD, KID. IT'S NOT LIKE WE'RE ASKING YOU TO SEVER YOUR OWN ARM WITH A BUTTER KNIFE. But I remain calm and say, "Actually, Leta, pancakes are pretty good. They taste like cake."

And in turn she replies, "But cake is yucky, too!"

Jon and I ignore this obviously misinformed statement and continue to mention the yummy pancake for the next half hour, and occasionally he offers her a bite. She continues to refuse. Want a bite of a yummy pancake? No. How about now? No. Now? No. Mmmmmm, this yummy pancake is really yummy, would you like a bite? No. How about I grab it off the plate and aim it at your head like a frisbee? No. Are you even paying attention to me? No.

And this is where the teamwork, the united front comes in, because it suddenly occurs to me to tell her that the syrup tastes like candy, and right when I say that Jon nods furiously and suggests that she dip her finger in the syrup and touch that finger to her tongue. The mere mention of candy causes her to sit up straight, and for a second we both get the sense that she is trying to figure out if it's worth it to give in and let us win, especially if we're telling the truth. What if it does taste like candy? Wouldn't it be stupid to sit there with all that candy a few inches away, just to prove a point? And the voice inside my head is going HAND HER THE BUTTER KNIFE AND DEMAND THAT SHE REMOVE HER ARM.

So she gives us both this look, like, you guys are so cute, look how hard you've been trying. Just this once I'm going to indulge you, but don't say I didn't warn you! And I'm waiting for the bleaaaah and yuuuuuccck and moaning and wailing, and I'm holding my breath as she dips her finger in the syrup. And as she brings that finger to her mouth the overwhelming aroma of AWESOMENESS hits her tongue, and without even tasting the syrup she yells, "I LOVE IT."

What?

"I LOVE IT!"

Excuse me?

"I LOVE IT AND I WANT MY OWN. MY OWN PANCAKE."

I've never seen Jon move so fast, he was out of his chair running to find the server. And in the five minutes it took for him to bring Leta Her Own Pancake we sat there holding our breath, not looking at anything other than the table, afraid that if we moved at all that particles in the atmosphere would shift and she'd change her mind. She'd say something and we'd barely nod or shake our heads. Briefly I looked up and caught Jon's gaze, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: that pancake would taste no where near as good as victory.

She ate every bite of that pancake, and she has eaten pancakes every single morning since then. It's the first thing she asks for in the morning, Her Own Pancake, and I don't think Jon has ever experienced more joy standing over the stove. Partly because she loves them so much, but mostly because I think he knows that I am now more willing to follow his lead in certain matters when it comes to our very unique daughter. Thank you, Jon, for expanding our daughter's diet from four to five things.

A few days ago Doug from Laid Off Dad Twittered: "If you saw David Gregory on The Daily Show, you might think that he and @blurb were separated at birth."

I'm a frequent viewer of NBC news and had never really considered the resemblance between my husband and David Gregory before, but after Doug suggested that I had to take a closer look. And when I did I found myself weirdly attracted to what some have dared called a blustery old douchebag. (I'm looking straight at you, Shan.) I heartily disagree with that assessment, have always thoroughly enjoyed listening to his commentary, and would welcome his correspondence to my white house if you know what I'm saying, not really because I'm happily married, I only said that because now I know Jon's going to cringe whenever I suggest we watch MSNBC. Meaning, I can totally see the resemblance, especially when you behold his moves here:

(thanks, Janet for the link to that video, my porn collection is now complete)

Although I think his resemblance to John Larroquette is far more striking. Consider:

But then so many of you have written to ask me if Jon and Jason Lee were separated at birth. Hmm:

I asked Jon whom he thought he resembled most and he waved his hand dismissing all of them, suggesting that if Brad Pitt was not on the list then clearly it was an incomplete list. Right, because if that were true we'd need to add to the list Denzel Washington.

So I'm taking a poll.

Leta has recently stolen three of my delicious lip glosses, the pineapple, lime and mango-flavored ones, and this morning she begged me to let her wear the dress with the pockets so that she could take one to school and keep it with her all day. I think several of her friends are also into lip gloss, and just yesterday when I dropped her off she ran right up to one of Her Kids, as she likes to call them, and they immediately starting applying a stick of lip gloss to one another. Yeah, not so sanitary, I guess, and maybe I could have tackled them both before they shared saliva, but considering the gigantic worms of green snot I've seen smeared across the faces of certain kids in her class I'm thinking, shit, she hasn't contracted The Typhoid yet, you go right ahead and share those germs. If you start sucking on each other's noses, well then, we'll have a little talk.

The previous day as we were walking to the car after school she spotted a discarded red Twizzler on the ground in the parking lot and headed straight for it going, OOOH! And I was all, look, I may be Southern, but I am not that Southern, don't you even think about putting that in your mouth. And she said, why? And I said because that is just gross. And she said, you mean like Daddy's toots? And I said, exactly!

So we're in the car this morning, and she's in the back seat applying half the tube of lime-flavored lip gloss to her face, only occasionally on her lips, and she starts asking about where people live. Where does Grandmommy live? How about Papaw? And after we get through the list of the whole family she asks if I have always lived in Salt Lake City. And it's just so weird that she can conceptualize enough to even consider that I might have lived elsewhere. It struck me really hard this morning that here I am having a multi-level conversation with my daughter, my very adorable daughter whose cheeks are covered in an inch-thick crust of lime lip gloss.

I remember when I used to wonder what her voice would sound like when she learned how to talk.

Maybe it's because I've been going through collections of old photos from the first years of her life, or perhaps it's because the anniversary of my stay in a mental hospital is this month, but this morning I felt like I needed to say something to someone out there who may need to hear this right now like I did so badly back then: it gets so much better.

In fact, better is not even a word that can do it justice. There are very simple times that I'm with her, when I'm brushing her hair or watching her read herself a book on her bed, when the feeling that comes over me is not unlike how it was when I was a kid walking through the gates at an amusement park knowing that I was going to have the most awesome, most memorable day. And it's not the feeling of riding the roller coaster or being allowed to eat an entire bag of cotton candy, it's the feeling before all that. It's the excitement, the anticipation, the general sense of being in one of my favorite places.

When Leta was born I thought I would automatically feel this way, and many women do. But I did not. And I did not know if I would ever get here. So many women reached out to me to let me know they had gone through the same crisis and came out the other side, and it was the hope they gave me that pulled me through. If you happen to be in that place right now, I want you to know that it gets so much better. And one day you're going to be having a complex conversation with that baby who is screaming her head off right now, and you're going to go, holy shit, I made it. You will make it.

"The authorities had discovered the rarest and most pitiable of creatures: a feral child."

This is a story from the St. Petersburg Times about a young girl who was the victim of one of the worst cases of neglect you will ever read about. It's such an incredible story, and here you have both the best and worst parts of human nature laid out in technicolor: the mother who did this to her own daughter, and the family who was courageous enough to bring the girl into their lives. I've been sitting here riveted by this story, crying, trying to wrap my head around it all, and feeling really inspired by the generosity of strangers. See also the video and audio component to the story. And then go hug your kids.

(via Kottke)

Dear Leta,

A couple of days ago you turned fifty-four months old. I'm sure that if you were sitting here right now and I told you this you'd ask me why. And I'd say because when you add up all the months you've been alive it totals fifty-four. And then you'd go, why? And I'd say, because that's how math works. And you'd go, but why? And then I'd walk over to the silverware drawer, grab a kebab skewer and shove it through my frontal lobe. Some days there aren't enough sharp objects in the house to help me cope with the multitude of your whys, maybe because there is no answer that will satisfy you, even when that answer is read to you directly from a science textbook. I'm beginning to feel like you're not asking because you genuinely care about the answer but because you're secretly hoping that if you ask it enough times the answer to why? will be "you can have this candy if you will just shut up."

Sometimes if I'm feeling particularly evil I'll just use what your father and I like to call The Coco Option. That's when we threaten to let Coco watch your shows or look at your books if you are not being cooperative. And maybe there was one specific day when I could not explain why Mondays are called Mondays and not Tuesdays, and why aren't Tuesdays called Sundays? Or at least I couldn't explain it to your liking, and I think I may have lost it for a second and told you to go look it up on Wikipedia, except oops! YOU CAN'T TYPE. GUESS YOU'LL NEVER KNOW. And there you were not even blinking, going, but why? So I said, look, I have told you why FOURTEEN HUNDRED TIMES, and if you ask me why one more time I'm going to go get Coco and I'm going to let her eat the head off of your Princess Barbie. Guess who was suddenly satisfied with my answers?

Also, who needs older siblings when you have parents like us?

This month the list of words you can read has multiplied quite a bit, and often you're spelling words out loud at random times. Like, oooh, look, there's a cat. C-A-T. Or, I love you, Mom. M-O-M. We bought you a book filled with Disney princesses that is designed to help kids your age learn to read, and within a few days you had memorized the whole thing and were reciting it back to me. Your teacher had seen you doing this with that book at school and she pulled me aside one day to congratulate me on your reading skills. And I was all, um, Leta memorized that book as I read it to her. I don't think there's much reading going on. And you could tell from the look on your teacher's face that she wanted to clock me right there in the hallway. She shook her head and said, "That's exactly what reading is: MEMORIZATION. DUH." I think it's because she reads this website that she spoke it in all caps, and she was probably thinking, hmm, how do I say this in Armstrong? She was close, she just should have added an expletive and made fun of my mother.

A couple of weeks ago Utah celebrated Pioneer Day, and so help me God if you ask me why. All I know is a large wagon trail of Mormons arrived here in the valley many, many years ago, and we celebrate the fact that God told them they could stop walking. It's a huge holiday here, almost bigger than the fourth of July, and because we had some old fireworks left over from when Cousin GEORGE! lived here we decided to join in the festivities. You and I were sitting in the driveway as Daddy lit bottle rockets on the street, and suddenly you peeked through the sleeve in my shirt, pointed at the stubble of hair on my underarm, and shrieked, "BLEEEEEAHHHHH!" I asked you what could possibly be so wrong that you would go and imitate a goat and you responded, "BLEEEEEAHHHHH!" I told you that one day you, too, would grow hair on your underarms, and you protested for several minutes that you were not ever going to get big, not if it meant having BLEEEEEAHHHHH! on your arms. Your father watched the commotion from afar until he could no longer hold his tongue. "Leta," he said sternly, "you're an Armstrong. The amount of BLEEEEEAHHHHH! in your future is STAGGERING."

And then he set off a firework that vibrated the windows of the car it was so loud, and you could not hop off that driveway fast enough. We'd shut the door tightly to keep the hot evening air from entering the house, and because you couldn't open it yourself you sat down on the stoop, covered your ears, and started shouting I WANT TO GO INSIDE AND READ BOOKS. I WANT TO GO INSIDE AND READ BOOKS. Your father and I looked at each other knowingly, both of us cursing the fact that we hadn't placed bets on just how soon this would happen. He would have bet after a dozen or so firecrackers. I would have bet after three, and I would have won. And not for any other reason than the fact that I know you. I understand you. I have watched you and learned your limits. Sometimes members of our extended family will try to push things with you even after I have said, please, hear me out, I know my daughter and what you're doing is not going to work. And they'll continue to push all while you continue to show them that regardless of how hard they shove you, you will not budge. Sure, sometimes you need to be pushed, but sometimes what you need most is an advocate. And I want you to know that when you need me I will be your greatest champion. So together we went inside and read books.

Love,
Mama

Leta (pretending to apply blush to her own face while I apply mascara to my eyelashes): "You wear make-up because you're a girl. I wear make-up because I'm a girl. Only girls wear make-up."

Me: "Not necessarily. Some boys wear make-up, too."

Leta: "WHAT?! Boys do NOT wear make-up!"

Me: "Some boys do. And it's okay if they do."

Leta: "But if boys wear make-up they would get dizzy."

Me: "They would get dizzy? What?"

Leta: "They would get dizzy and fall down."

Me: "What on earth are you talking about?"

Leta: "Papaw wears make-up, and he gets dizzy."

Me: "You saw Papaw wearing make-up?"

Leta: "Yep, I did."

Me: "Papaw, The Most Conservative Person On The Planet?"

Leta: "And he fell over."

Me: "Obviously, because the only way Papaw would be seen wearing make-up was if someone hit him in the head with a blunt object and then applied it to his face while he lay on the ground unconscious."

Leta: "I thought he looked cute."

My father and stepmother gave both Jon and me cards with a little bit of cash tucked inside for our recent birthdays. They signed my card, "Love you." Jon's card was signed with, "Thanks for being who you are. Also, have we told you lately just how grateful we are you took one for the team? I mean, we know how hard it must be, and the fact that you continue to put up with it shows just how amazing you really are. There was a time when we thought she'd die alone, deserved to die alone, and then you came along and made it so that we didn't have to field those late night phone calls. You truly have a place reserved for you in heaven."

Okay, maybe it was just that first sentence, but I know exactly what my dad is trying to say when he doesn't say it. And when people ask me if my parents like Jon, I'm all, like Jon? Hmm. How do I put this? They think Jesus sent him.