1) Kid is a brat.
2) Wife is hormonal and porking up, blames me and my favorite parts for both.
3) I might be constipated.

...My days off were horrible.

My uncle volunteered to babysit so I could sleep in - I should have known. I don't know whether to kill him myself, let Millie do it, or hush it up so she doesn't find out, because if she kills him, it'll be loud.

Dear Co-Workers:

As you know, I have a small child at home. This means that I have to eat the freaking carrots she left out for some non-existent reindeer, but that also means I get to eat that fat bastard Santa's cookies.

Well, in the spirit of the season, I embraced that duty. Millie'd baked up a storm, and had a bunch of things to put in the breakroom - I think she even had stuff for the 2-7 and the 1-6. However, I got there first.

So, basically, Millie baked you a cookie, but I eated it.

Merry Freakin' Christmas.

Logan

P.S. Mill - where are my antacids!

Just so all of you know, I have never been to Nebraska in my life.

Now, if this had taken place say, at the two-seven, and people were complaining about marks on desks....

Oh! That reminds me - hey, Millie, we should go check out the Christmas windows at Macy's. Heh, heh, heh.

My uncle seems to think he's moving in with us - he thinks wrong.

He started off by askingt Isabel's permission. She said yes, but luckily for me, I'm still the boss of her. If I wanted a deranged old coot taking up residnce in my place, I'd let Munch move in.

Attention all you people whining about lack-of-costumes: I mock you. Mock, mock, mock!

You don't see ME moaning and groaning - why?

I already have a costume. Yeah, I'm going as Batman again. I like it, it fits, I'm wearing it. This sucker cost me enough the first time around that I'm gonna wear it until the bat-undies fall off. Considering they're made of some kinda high-grade teflon stuff, that'll take a while.

Pick one great costume and stick with it - that's what I say. This is brought to you by the great Logan family tradition of "if it still fits, wear it!"

And yes, if it fits when I die, I just *might* be buried in it. It cost more than any of my regular suits!

PS: Also returning this year - my policy of free wedgies for anyone dressed as a bat-villan.

So, Millie's mom broke her leg, Millie blew it all out of proportion, and now I have a hyper kid and a cranky mother-in-law to contend with at the house. Millie's going to get crazy because her mom drives her crazy, and who's gonna get the butt-end of the crazy? ME.

( private )

IAB sucks worse than a pack of poop-flinging monkeys. Apparently, Millie wants to compare, because she got the bright idea to take Isabel to the zoo, invite her niece Daisy, and drag me along for the ride. For the record, I think this is a terrible idea.

I'm back on desk duty for the moment. This sucks on ice. It was weird being at home for so long, too. I think Isabel got used to having me around all the time. That's not so good, especially considering she got kicked out of daycare. We'll have to figure something out.

( private )

So, holiday weekend. I spent it fussing over a sick toddler. What does that mean? She can talk just enough to make sure that we know she feels sick, and she's pretty adamant about letting us know.
( private )

This case? I really don't see a connection. The bodyguard was pretty unhelpful - except that he makes me kind of want to hear what happens with the Movie Barn guy.
Feller's assistant is hard to get ahold of - she must be scrambling to get another job, like being a P.A. is a primo gig or something. Waiting on a spoiled celeb? Please. I have a toddler - the job's the same.

By the way - Mother's Day only proves that the kid can be successfully shuttled off. I should do that more often.

Millie was at school. Mike thought he’d get a rest on the couch, since Isa was busy tormenting the cat. He tried to tune out her happy shrieks of “Bassar! Bassar!” as she toddled as fast as she could after Bastard, who finally leaped out of her reach. “Daaahdee,” Isa whined. “Bah cat. GIT HIM.”

“Not now, baby,” he pleaded. The cat looked as worn-out as he was, but at least Mike hadn’t resorted to peeing on the furniture if pushed too far. Bastard hadn’t either, but there was a look in his eye that suggested the day was coming. “Leave the kitty alone.”

For once, Isabel obeyed, trotting over to slap her father firmly on the stomach. “SAH,” she announced.

“Ouch!” So much for sleeping. He looked over at Isabel’s smiling face. She bent down to grab a book, which she waved at him. That was her new pastime; she loved being read to, but she liked insisting on it even more. “Dah ree,” she demanded, raising the book to deliver another slap. Mike intercepted it, groaning at the sight of the cover.

“This? Again?” His complaints were too late – Isa was pulling herself up onto the couch, patting the book. “Yah. Dah ree,” she burbled.

“No. How about –“ his eyes met hers – large unblinking, but he couldn’t take that book again. “How about Daddy reads something else?”

She stared and patted the book. “Dah ree.”

He hated to disappoint her, but there was no way he was reading that book ever again. He was the adult, she was the nearly-two-year-old, and he wasn’t giving in.

Five minutes later, Mike sat with Isabel on his lap, reading Where the Wild Things Are aloud for what felt like the hundredth time. “The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another his mother called him "WILD THING!" He looked over at Isa, who nodded. “Wyl fink,’ she agreed.

“Takes one to know one, kid,” he muttered. With a grin like his, she patted his cheek and repeated, “Wyl finks.”

The Mets Suck

Go, Yanks! And did I mention...

The Mets Suck

Do you know how hard it is to wrangle a toddler while dealing with man-flu?
This had better get me a break on Valentine's Day. I'm too sick to even go get that nice new blender I was planning on surprising Millie with.

That was a JOKE. A JOKE. I like my cojones where I keep them now, thanks, not stuffed somewhere else.

The kid is running me ragged, though, and she's in the picking up words phase. Think anyone'll believe she's trying to say "facts?"

In the market, the tiny, curly-haired child teetered silently next to the display of translucent plastic pigs, staring at the bright colors. ( Mike stood, waiting... )


Okay, I don't get some things about women, and I don't get some things about babies. Some things about female babies? They just hurt your heads - and they start early!

Grumpy old me, tired old me. Old, old, OLD me.
No, don't ask why. Why should you?

No reason. NO REASON AT ALL.

The end of the case means mountains of paperwork, which means we all complain. It's one of the perks of the job - creative bitching.

It's not all bad, though. Today on my way home, I saw a guy selling vintage plaid ties from a blanket. He gave me a real deal on the whole bunch, and since it was right by my place, I didn't have to lug them too far. Sure, they smell a little funky, but they'll be fine.

Memo to: Everyone
FROM: Mike Logan, MCS CO (stands for Cool One in this case)
SUBJ: Alert Status

Attention all:

I've recieved information that there's some new drug terminology out there that you need to be aware of. If you hear anyone referring to "tasting the rainbow," it's in conjunction with "skittles." I haven't got all the details, but the effects seem to include aggression, sarcasm, and a willingess to attack people larger than oneself.

We've had some unreliable accounts that someone resembling a leprechaun in size might be pushing these or hoarding them, depending on who you hear it from.

Sick stuff, people.

Logan, out.

Memo to: Everyone
FROM: Mike Logan
SUBJ: Taskforce

Now that I can, I'm calling for a thinktank. It occurs to me that some of our detectives pull their weight...well, kind of literally, not naming any *Goren* names.

As of today, you're on call to figure out whether a high I.Q. makes you more delectable to zombies or whether your brain is all stringy. The flip side of this study is if you're on the Bobby, I mean, blobby side, whether cannibals find you disgusting or extra-delectable, like kobe beef or something.

The hard part is, they tell me I can't actually authorize you to feed anyone to anything, but I guess that's your problem.

That's it - get to work, and be careful out there, or don't. I'm not your mom.

Logan

Memo to: Everyone
FROM: Mike Logan
SUBJ: Chief of Detectives: Fair Warning

As you may know, I am Don Cragen's favorite. Don't worry that I may abuse this - I WILL. First order of business? I'm shooting the snack machine. Stand clear, Ed.

It's a new world out there. Donuts and naps for all!

*sound of maniacal laughter*