Yippee ki yay!

Thank you to Cube Dog for sponsoring this review. For more information about Cube Dog please visit the Facebook page or download it on iTunes. (And the Facebook page has a sweet contest running June 13th-17th!)

***

I was rather excited to review the new Cube Dog app, available now (for free!) at the App Store. But no one- no one was more excited to "help" me play/review/play/play/boss/review this little guy than 4 year-old Lily and 1.5 year-old Nora.

This thing is pretty cute. The basic Cube Dog app includes the options to customize your own puppy; head shape, eyes, ears, facial expression, and color.

My helpers and I created a reddish dog (although not too red, one of the shorter members of my crew would like me to point out) with humongo eyes and a sweet square mouth. Against the protestations of the minis, we named him J. McClane. (Anyone?) Lily had wanted to name him something noun-related, and Nora pretty much wanted to agree with Lil. But as it's still my iPhone- for now- I had veto power on this [one] option.

McClane. Being coy.

Once we had created the little guy, it was time to play. There's a little toolbar on the bottom of the home screen that lets you choose how to play with your pet. We started with the 'ball' icon, figuring it was to start a game of catch- but it incited our guy to grab a ball, run away, and hit a line drive with a baseball bat he had apparently stowed under his fur. We were impressed.

During one game experiment, we apparently either bored him or inspired him to communicate- because he whipped out an iPhone of his own and called us. Seriously. The call screen came up on my phone as an incoming call from Cube Dog. (I got stoked for this one...but sadly, it wasn't a real call. Once I "answered," the image went back to McClane, who pocketed the phone under his positively tent-like fur.

Lily also wants me to include the fact that, when you tickle McClane, he laughs. And squirms. It is quite cute. She also is apparently the only one who can cause him to go all heart-eyed. I think they're in love.

And I'd definitely like to include his ability to turn into a ninja. That's right. When you touch one of the toolbar playing options, a throwing star appears at the pup's feet. (Also inexplicably- or for a reason which I have not yet discovered- when you touch a certain part of the screen too hard, he goes into Battle Mode.) This is great. He looks momentarily alarmed and then gets out weapons and a headband for, you know, combat.

Ninja pupper.

You can shrink or enlarge the puppy by pinching or expanding- pretty standard fare for an iPhone app- but it also lets you go all 3D and turn him any way you choose. That's right, you can play games with your dog while he's facing away from you, leaning back at a 45 degree angle. (I have no idea why you would do this, but my point is that you could.)

This app is compatible with the iPhone and iPod Touch 4 with the camera; you're gonna need the cam to document your puppy as well as I did. Obviously. The camera also gives you the option to have the puppy's background be what your phone sees. Like the coffee table where you and two tiny helpers are creating digital art. For example. (Again, I have no idea what purpose this serves other than to elicit an- "Oh, look at the coffee table" reaction from one of the girls...but time will tell.)

It looks as if there are some pretty cool toolbar features available in the advanced (read: paid) packs at the App Store...but for our usage, the (free) games we have are good enough.

In short, this thing is fun. Nothing earth-shatteringly wild, but certainly toddler-mesmerizing for at least ten minutes.

Which I'm pretty sure is all the impetus some of you will need.

***

While Cube Dog provided me with the app to review, the opinions I've expressed here are solely my own and represent my honest viewpoint. Cube Dog, Clever Girls Collective and I promote Blog With Integrity.

31 is the new slightly-older-than 30.

OhKAY!

Today marks the anniversary of D-Day, the founding of the YMCA, and the coronation of the German King Henry II the Saint.

Way more importantly [personally/distressingly/not surprisingly] is my birthday. (It is also the birthday of my nephew Quinn, my cousin Eammon, and my favorite teacher Ed Udel. I think I've made my case. Also born today is David Abercrombie, founder of Abercrombie and Fitch, a brand which I have never worn- I'm about five...ish... years too old- but I'm trying to get some more star power up in here.)

I have a birthday request. A wishness, if you will. But more on that in a sec.

If I may be permitted a bit of Pollyanna, I'm extraordinarily lucky. And blessed. And happy. This past year has been simply stellar; not only do I get to live in an increasingly livable home (in my absolute favorite city) with my super-duper crush and our wicked fun mini sidekick, but I'm actually [starting to get] paid [a little] more and [not that much] more for freelance and blogging, plus I'm carrying a little monkey who is threatening to be just as cool as every other current card-carrying member of my life.

And even though I wasn't feeling Birthday Party-ish, the King of Troy Street took me out to one of the nation's top restaurants last night (deets on that unreal experience soon). And two of our exceptional friends became our Pinch Hitter Sitters when Nora's regular gal came down with a fever. (They wouldn't even let us PAY them. I cried. In a good way.) Tonight's taco fiesta (party of 3.5) is brought to us via my folks, all the way from Western MA. Friends and family have been showering me with literature, my favorite foods, pedicures, certificates for spa treatments, and at least one Happy Birthday rendition that transitioned from classic to swing to Christina Aguliera to Little Richard.

My daughter even made me a card that proclaims me to be the Best Mommy in the World. (The world!) There was a collaged flower inside, so you know it's legit.

So how can I even hope to ask for more when presented with the actualization of every single childhood hope and dream [the trick- wish vaguely] I've ever had? Because I think it's a decently small and simple thing to request. (Tell me if I'm wrong. I'm rarely wrong on my birthday, but it wouldn't destroy me. Much.)

My Grand But Smallish Birthday Request is to have this be a really, really good year for my blog. This one. The one about the nothingness (but not in the NeverEnding Story kinda way). My ten year plan for this site is to have it fully finance my lifestyle in Virgin Gorda in a [tasteful] villa after my husband has retired and my [11 year old!] daughter has announced her plans to never leave my side, ever, and my as-yet-born kiddo has announced his/her line of How To books, detailing how motherhood Should Be Done, as shown by the mother figure in his/her life (making him/her the most precocious nine year old ever).

Or.

To have this be a really, really good year for my blog, as evidenced by the handful of new followers and/or advertising campaign or two.

If you'd like to help with either of these goals (for real, it's totally your choice), and wanted to repost this blog, or "like" it, or "love" it (which is NOT a current Facebook option but is, in fact, the only real option at Coldstone Creamery), or follow it on Google or Twitter or Networked Blogs (or recommend that someone else do so)...well then, I wouldn't be able to stop you. Except with my tears. Of gratitude. Which- I'm told- can be quite off-putting.

But now I must return to my tea party- currently in progress- whereupon my daughter has presented me with her choice of [plastic] birthday foods: ice cream, doughnuts, french fries, and a celery stalk. Mixed together with a fork and presented on a tray with some Legos.

Sure, I'm celebrating differently than I did ten years ago (21 seems like a different planet) but I wouldn't change a thing. (I love celery.)

And I love you, too. May you all feel so stoked on your individual birthdays, whether you celebrate with tacos or liverwurst- or (more likely) something that is decidedly NOT tacos nor liverwurst. Again, up to you.

Have a really good day.

And everything will bring a chain of looove...

A kid now lives in this room.

Money's weird. (Don't get me wrong, I love it. But I tend to love a lot of weird things; liverwurst, sleeping with a blanket over my ear, the first three Underworld movies...)

I have four jobs. One pays really well. The next two- not so much. (Can you tell which two are in the field called The Arts?) The fourth is completely unpaid...and may just be my favorite, anyhow. But it turns out that American Express will not accept a peanut butter-smeared hug as payment. How's that for irony? (They're not accepted at the Olympic games- circa 1996- but are gonna be choosy about what THEY take? Please.)

Anyway. Money. We don't have a ton. But depending on whom you ask, we're simply rolling in it. Or standing in the bread line. And NO, the former opinion is not mine, and the latter is not P.J.'s (Not entirely.)

Our neighbors think we're supra wealthy because- get this- we don't rent out our basement. Forgetting for a moment that that's why we bought a house and aren't still renting...let's focus on the fact that, on our block, people have at least three apartments in each house. Most of the folks living therein are related. This is boggling to me. I mean, I love my family (a lot, let's just go on record as saying) but I cannot imagine a separate branch of my family in each bedroom. Permanently. Okay, actually I can. And it feels all crampy in my mind's eye.

When we first moved in, a neighbor approached me (in Spanish) about renting our basement out to his friend. I laughed. (Partly because my Spanish is really rusty and I thought he had said something hilarious about liquor. He may also have.) A few moments of thought later, I told him that we weren't gonna be renting. At the time, we had just moved away from our own stompy upstairs neighbors- plus, our lower level was nowhere where you'd wanna live. Or load the laundry after dark. Maybe during the day if one were unarmed.

My response quickly made me aware that we were suddenly the whitest Richie Riches on the street. So I amended. The next time the question was posed, I eagerly told them that YES, as soon as we made it livable would we be renting...but only...you'd have to ask my husband. He knows all the details! (This I hate. I do not care to be thought of as the Clueless Little Woman- but it's the lesser of two evils between that and having to evade money-related questions. Okay, and those both fall way beneath the third possibility of being stabbed to death in my sleep during a Rob The Swells raid for Great-Grandma's crystal. Which we don't have! We don't even have bad crystal.)

Another neighbor asked Peej if I were Nora's nanny...which I'm not sure if it means a) we're rich enough to have a nanny of our own, b) no one in this 'hood gets to be at home with their own child, c) Nora looks nothing like me, or d) I appear way too young to have birthed offspring. I think you know the answer I dig.

Some friends think we're well-off because we own a home. But- and back me up here, homeowners- this just means we were able to afford 1/200th of our house's worth...and will never be able to afford to move out, ever. (Which is cool. 'Cause after how intense our move-in process was, I told P.J. that I planned on dying in this house. Even after my family goes on to live in far-flung locales, I'll still be the creepy old woman/ghost haunting this joint, checking for cured meats in the fridge and watching my programs.)

Granted, we're definitely fortunate enough to do what we love. Peej and his three and a half jobs and me with mine (and jeebus- internet writing? Is that even a thing?) and the crazy amount of time I get to spend with Nora each day is beyond a gift. That said, I'm still nudging Nora towards a career in The Maths. Also, I wouldn't turn down a Powerball ticket or two.

But then there comes a moment like the other night, after P.J. had hooked up our "new" antennae to our TV (did I mention that he's taking my cable? HE'S TAKING MY CABLE. Sure, new baby, blah blah, reduced work hours, la di dah- wait a sec, maybe I'm the reason why we're poor...) and we were scrolling through the fuzzy channels and finally landed on PBS. And there was a documentary that I only half understood. It was about a Korean social worker and an impoverished island and a blind girl and all of these kids that she taught to read and these people that had NOTHING at all...and I Ugly Cried. (Sure, we only caught the last five minutes- hence I have no idea of anyone's name or actual locations- but that didn't stop me from weeping like I had been dumped only moments before the 8th grade dance. For example.)

And I realized [yet again] how good I had it. And how good 90 percent of the people I know have it. (And how awfully that poor blind girl of indeterminate origin had it.)

And it made me want to send them all of my possessions: the frayed hoodies, wedding china, and unopened package of liverwurst. (That's right.)

At least an IOU for a blanket tent, signed with an apple juice-soaked crayon.

(Those nouns make me feel pretty wealthy, indeed.)

Even though the sun wakes her at Ridiculous O'Clock...

...It's finally SUMMER!