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1. She is shy around strangers, but at home she is a total ham. Still, there are times even at home when she’ll seem to be “performing,” but if she realizes that you’re watching her, she’ll run and hide–or alternatively, scream at you to go away. Maybe she’s not performing, but rehearsing.
2. She still loves Thomas the Tank Engine, but she’s picked up a new favorite show over the last year: Dungeons & Dragons. ::shrug::
3. She’d rather sleep in the recliner than in her bed. But she’d rather sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed than anywhere else.
4. She is four years old today!
And now for the flashback segment of the program…
When I started this blog, Girlfriend was not even born yet. She was not even thought of, in fact. She was sort of a theory, I guess, but mostly academic. I had my hands full of one-year-old Elvis at the time. Here is an excerpt from an April 2005 post, shortly after I found out I was pregnant:
The internet is such a useful tool. I have found all kinds of information on treating nausea during pregnancy. For example, I could do as one web site suggests and avoid those foods and smells which make me queasy. [Slaps forehead] Doh! It also said I should just eat what I want when I want, and that my cravings won’t steer me wrong. Obviously not, since my cravings tell me it’s good to eat Jell-O Instant Pudding cups morning, noon and night. My cravings also just told me that a chocolate chip cookie would be good, too. And it was. I wonder what nutritional wisdom my cravings will come up with next.
And another one, from October 2005:
Today I screamed so hard at my kids that I wet myself.
On a happier note, here is an excerpt from her birth story (posted November 29, 2005):
In the car the contractions were three minutes apart and lasting around 90 seconds. By the time we found a parking space and hauled ourselves down to the maternity ward, they were even closer together. “So you think you’re in labor?” the triage nurse asked.
“Yes, I think so,” I said, much too casually to convey the urgency of the situation. She went to get a fetal monitor, and meanwhile I had this killer contraction and started screaming. Just so we’re clear, I do not recommend screaming as a coping mechanism for labor pain. It is, in fact, the worst possible thing you can do. I knew that already, but dammit, I really didn’t want to be in labor just then, do you understand? I wasn’t thinking clearly. Screaming did, however, get about four nurses running into the room, and everyone believed I was in labor after that. I got my cervix checked again, and I was at seven centimeters, which wasn’t good enough for me, because I really wanted to push the baby out immediately, but they had to rush me to an actual delivery room first, and my midwife was still en route. Have I mentioned already that labor is very, very painful?
So everyone is rushing around getting ready for the delivery, anticipating the midwife’s arrival, while I am breathlessly informing SD that I cannot do a natural childbirth this time, I really, really need something for the pain, I don’t care what it is, but I can’t stand it anymore–not in so many words, of course, but I think he got the picture. We’ve been married a long time.
“What does she need?” the nurse asked SD. “What did she just say?”
“She said, ‘Drugs, I need drugs.’” (For some reason this was amusing to some members of the staff, because I know I heard laughter. I heard it again a minute later when I was screaming stuff like, “Why did I do this???”)
…
I can tell you, there is no better feeling in the world than that of not pushing a baby out of your body. It’s better than ice cream. Better than hot fudge sundaes. The contrast from one moment to the next is so, so very exhilarating. SD said he wished he had a camera so he could capture the look on my face once the baby was born. Apparently I give off a very arrogant vibe. Like I’m the first woman ever to give birth and I just so freaking rock my own world. I don’t remember any of that. I just remember loving the fact that it was over.
It was at that point that I noticed this very nice Asian woman between my legs…
And on that note, I’ll leave you all. I have a house to clean and a cake to bake.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GIRLFRIEND!
This morning Mister Bubby informed me that he needs a new coat. He would like a green coat “with not a stupid hood.” He has previously informed me that hoods make him look “like a jerk.” He doesn’t want a red coat because red coats make you look “like a girl.” (Eventually they fade and turn pink.) “And blue coats are…creepy.” Okay, then.
Today Girlfriend walked out the front door and said, “Oh, no, Mom–we need more leaves! We need to get them out of our yard and back onto our green tree!” I guess autumn is kind of freaking her out this year.
And what do you think happened this weekend? Yesterday I substitute-taught Elvis’s Primary (children’s Sunday School) class. Elvis was a little thrown off by me being his teacher for the day, but all he said was, “Where’s Dad?” and “I want snack.” I didn’t know anyone’s name (except, you know, my own son’s); even though I recognized a couple of the kids, I couldn’t remember what they were called, for the life of me, or who their parents were. So I asked everyone to tell me their name, but this one kid wouldn’t do it. I asked if I could call him Steve. He said he didn’t like that name. I said, “That’s not my problem, Steve.” Then one of the other kids betrayed him and told me his real name, so I just used that.
I didn’t hate teaching Primary yesterday. This differentiates yesterday’s experience from all my previous experiences with teaching Primary, including the time I taught it for six months. (Or was it four months? It seemed like eight. Anyway.) I think the secret was low expectations. I didn’t particularly prepare a lesson because my observation has been that there isn’t time but to get about sixteen words in between them telling you about their new puppy or their dead grandpas or how much they like Scooby Doo, and only three of those sixteen words will they actually hear, but they won’t remember them anyway, so whatever.
Yesterday they all asked for their snack first thing, which I also wasn’t particularly prepared for. The teacher told me they usually started off with a snack, but for some reason I just sort of ignored that. Ordinarily I am a big believer in plying kids with food just to get them to be quiet for a few minutes, so I think I just must have been in serious denial that I was actually teaching a Primary class. Anyway, the lesson was supposed to be on fasting, and what better way to teach a bunch of six-year-olds about fasting than by denying them their snack? Eh? It was like Providence had a hand in my lack of foresight.
Except that I quickly realized that I really wasn’t going to get by without feeding them, so I rummaged in my church bag for any snacks left over from when I was shoveling food in my own kids’ mouths to keep them quiet during sacrament meeting. I found some, too. Fruit snacks. Quality. Everyone was impressed.
So they ate their fruit snacks. I tried to talk a little about fasting and fast offerings, and we all discussed how old everyone was and how many dead grandpas we had (I won that game, as all my grandpas are dead), and then we took a walk around the church building and stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water and disturbed the class that was meeting in the room next door. When we left the kitchen, we ran into the ward’s new scoutmaster in the hall, and he tried to convince the kids that their teacher was really cool and/or smart, but none of them believed him. Then we went back to the classroom and did coloring sheets. One boy painted everyone’s skin green, except for Jesus, whom he painted blue. And that was my day teaching Primary.
This morning I am so sleepy I could cry. I don’t remember what I dreamed last night, but apparently it wasn’t conducive to restfulness. What will Monday bring?
I found a spoon in my washing machine yesterday. Yes, amigos, I am laundering the flatware now. Impressed?
Today the kids have no school. Elvis has been out of school since Wednesday because of parent-teacher conferences. We had his conference yesterday. Apparently he is doing well enough. The teacher did mention that he has a penchant for inappropriate outbursts, including the phrase “Poop in a bucket!” (Which, in case you’re wondering, the other 6- and 7-year-olds find hilarious.)
On Wednesday the kids have no school again because of Veterans Day. I am wondering how Veterans Day observance has managed to survive all these years on November 11 without being relegated to a Monday or Friday to accommodate the insatiable American appetite for long weekends. It must be right up there with Christmas and New Year’s. Good for them!
This morning instead of sleeping in, I just stayed in bed pretending to sleep while Elvis demanded that I count all the days of the month of every month of the year on the 2009 calendar (plus four months in 2008). This was very difficult to pull off. I’m not saying I succeeded or anything.
I had a somewhat disheartening tap class on Wednesday. Last week I was under the impression that I had finally mastered pull-backs (single, off the heel), which was awesome because I’ve only been trying to do them for the last three years with little to no success, and I had mostly decided that I was just too old to learn some tricks, but when I was finally doing them with consistency last Wednesday, it was like I wasn’t too old and a whole new world of tap-ability awesomeness was opening up to me. Then I went to class this last Wednesday and darn it all to hell if pull-backs weren’t just as difficult as they always have been. I did manage to do a couple of them (rather weak ones), so I suppose I just need to practice more. (Exaggerated eye-roll with tongue hanging out.) Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. I did find comfort in the fact that I can still do the type where you clip the toe and land on the opposite foot, but big deal, any trained monkey can do that. (Mild eye roll, no tongue.) My instructor also had us attempting to do double pull-backs and pull-backs off the toe, which ushered in a new era of suckitude for me. I was quite relieved when she told us it was time to work on turns instead. And I hate turns! On the other hand, once the turns were over, I was able to enjoy the rest of the class.
See how awesome this blog is when I talk about the stuff that matters to me? Tap dancing and monkey pull-backs? Does it get better than this? You’d better pray it does.
Actually, I have to go now because I’m expecting some friends to come over and I should probably pick some stuff up off the floor so the kids have more room to make a mess. Or something. I’m going to leave you with this gift of pure awesome that a friend gave me yesterday.
Enjoy the weekend, gentle readers. Adieu.
P.S. Girlfriend, having been unceremoniously awakened by her brother’s calendar shennanigans this morning, is now attempting to take a nap on the couch with her feet in a garbage can. Yes, the garbage can is also on the couch. No, there’s nothing in the garbage can besides Girlfriend’s feet. What kind of people do you think we are?
I hate going to swim class. So does Girlfriend, incidentally, which is why it’s so very easy to stay home instead.
Speaking of Girlfriend, I have Mister Bubby to thank for teaching his baby sister the word “crotch.” It’s not like it’s a bad word or anything…exactly…but it’s still disconcerting to be changing a diaper and hear this sweet little-girl voice protesting, “No! Not my crotch!”
It’s kind of funny, sure, but at the same time, disturbing.
Seriously, how many words out there are grosser than “crotch”? Insert disgusted emoticon here.
As long as I’m being disgusting, I’m going to say that I’m losing my patience with Elvis’s joke-of-the-last-six-weeks-or-so, which is him saying that he’s going to poop in various places or on various items. This is partly my fault, I’m sure, because in an effort to stop saying, “Crap!” so much around the children, I started saying, “Poop!” instead–which is not, technically, much better, except that it sounds better to hear a kid repeat the word “poop” than it is to hear him or her repeat the word “crap”–but because it’s not remotely satisfying to say, “Poop!” when I’m upset, I had to embellish it somehow, and I ended up saying, “Poop in a bucket!”–because “poop in a bucket!” is much worse than just regular old poop, thus conveying the serious nature of my annoyance. Anyway.
So Elvis started repeating “poop in a bucket,” which was…not as bad as him repeating the “crap!” thing, but still not good, especially when he would say it out loud in church while the sacrament was being administered. So, okay, I have stopped saying, “poop in a bucket,” but Elvis has not. More to the point, that is not his only catch phrase–and here is where I take some of the blame off of me and spread it around to Mister Bubby and also Sugar Daddy, for that matter, because they are always talking about poop in places where it ought not to be. Thus Elvis walks around all day, threatening to poop in the trash can, poop on the floor, poop on the toys, poop on the paper, poop on the tricycle, poop on the telephone, poop on the computer, poop in the bookcase, poop on the piano, poop on the spaghetti, poop on the magazine rack, etc., etc., usw.
The other night he woke up wet because his pull-up had leaked, and the whole time I was changing his bed, he would just lazily murmur, “Poop on the sheets…poop on the training pants…poop on the shoes…” even though there was no poop on any of those things. It was all just talk.
“That’s enough,” I said, as I tucked him back in to his dry, never-pooped-on bed.
“Poop on the enough,” he said.
Yeah. Whatever.
Now I really have to go to the swimming pool. Which I originally typed as “poop,” just so you know. That’s what my life’s about, kids. You should be grateful I don’t blog more often.
Today I was driving down the street and noticed an older gentleman walking on the sidewalk. He had long, flowing white hair and a goatee–and no shirt. I thought, “You, sir, seem like an interesting character. Unfortunately, our paths will most likely never meet again.”
But one can always hope, can’t one?
I took Girlfriend to swimming again today. The novelty appears to have worn off. She did not want to go at all today. She didn’t want to go at all Tuesday, but on Tuesday I said, “Screw it, I have too much work to do to bother with forcing a three-year-old to go to a Mommy & Me swim class that her mommy doesn’t even want to participate in,” and we just ditched swimming altogether. I didn’t feel like I should ditch two classes in a row–I mean, we did pay for this class, and the money’s gone either way, so we may as well “enjoy” it. Can I just reiterate for the record that I was against this idea from the start? Okay, that’s done now. So, yeah, today I forced her to go, and the good news is that she didn’t scream the whole time we were in the pool. She didn’t participate in the class, particularly, either–but at least we’re not throwing all that money down the drain, you know? Right? Right.
Which reminds me, the other day we were getting ready for swimming, and as I was putting on my bathing suit, Girlfriend got one look at me topless and started laughing her head off. Then she pulled up her own shirt and said, “I’ve got little ones!”
Glad to know I can still impress the three-and-under crowd.
I picked Mister Bubby up from school the other day, and he asked if he could play Empire at War when he got home. I said he could, after he did his homework and practiced the piano. He said, “Wow. Deja vu!”
I love it when the kids learn new expressions and proceed to use them at unexpected times.
When I was in California, I played this game with my dad: Pandemic. I’m not much of a board game player–or an any-game player–but I quite enjoyed this one. It has kind of a steep learning curve, I suppose–there are a lot of variables to work with–but obviously it couldn’t have been too complex if I managed to catch on.
Anyway, the object of the game is to rid the world of disease by finding cures for the various plagues and wiping them out. Players don’t compete against each other but against Disease, which is a refreshing twist, I think. So everyone wins, or everyone loses. (Except for Disease, of course.) I didn’t think it would be the sort of thing my dad would go for, being that he’s very competitive and at least half the fun of playing games, for him, is sticking it to the other players–but he quite likes this game also. So if you’re looking for a fun new board game, I recommend Pandemic.
Thus concludes the shilling portion of this post.
I have nothing else to talk about now. I’ll try to write up a new edition of Mad’s Book Club for tomorrow. More fighting-kitty books, not so many serial killer books, and plenty of other treats in store. (Plenty = four or five.)
Gentle readers, adieu.
I am wondering how so many people manage to accidentally “reply to all” when they really mean to just “reply” (to one) because I can only ever manage to accidentally “reply” (to one) when I really want to “reply to all.” I have to make an extra-special effort to “reply to all,” regardless of which e-mail account I’m using. What is the e-mail service I should use if I want to accidentally “reply to all”? Just curious.
My three-year-old was walking around the house earlier, singing a song about being a peacemaker. I assume she learned it at church (because she sure as heck didn’t learn it at home). Anyway, a few minutes ago she walked into the room and said, “Mom, can I be a peacemaker?”
“Uh, sure. Yes. Yes, be a peacemaker.”
“Can I have a hat?”
“You need a hat to be a peacemaker?”
“Yes.”
“A peacemaker hat?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. I’ll have to look into that.”
“Can I get a haircut, too? A haircut like Elvis’s?” (Referring to her brother, not the King of Rock ‘n Roll.)
“Ah…we’ll talk about that later.”
I do not want to get her hair cut like her brother’s. Her brother has short hair. Her hair is very long and pretty, and I don’t care if she’d rather have it short. She’s three and it’s her lot to suffer. Anyway, I don’t believe she needs a haircut to be a peacemaker. A peacemaker hat should be enough for now, I think. I just have to figure out what that is.
My short to-do lists have been working well for me. Right up until today, that is. Today I was thrown off by the fact that Elvis is home from school for the second day in a row with a mysterious illness. He was up during the night on Sunday, complaining of a stomach ache. He was loath to wake up Monday morning and was still complaining of stomachache. Then a couple hours later he seemed just fine. Then he wanted me to play Sisyphusball with him, but I wouldn’t because even if he wasn’t sick, I still kind of am sick. Sick in the head of playing Sisyphusball. I said I would play catch with him, which he tolerated for a few minutes, but then he decided he would rather play Sisyphusball by himself. The only problem was he couldn’t get the ball on the roof. That was when I knew that he was really sick, despite the fact that he had no fever and ate a perfectly good lunch and didn’t complain about his stomach hurting again until evening time.
(*Sisyphusball–a game in which one throws a ball (or two, or seven) onto the roof to watch it rolll back down again; variation: one attempts to throw a ball over the roof multiple times but is not guaranteed a break from play once this is accomplished.)
He requested to go to bed early, which isn’t that unusual for him–he works hard, he plays hard, even in illness–but he woke up an hour or so later with a fever (or at least what we assumed was a fever because we don’t actually have any operating thermometers in the house these days, and we have to rely on the old hot-or-cold method, which isn’t medically reliable, but it was all we had, so there). He went right back to sleep, and in the middle of the night he was no longer hot but was awake for some reason I couldn’t determine, except that he seemed to want to be drawing pictures of garbage trucks and spelling things. He didn’t demand my participation, so I didn’t offer it, but I was well-aware of him being awake. Girlfriend didn’t sleep so awesomely herself. Did I mention that they were both in bed with me? No? Anyway. Um…where was I? I didn’t really sleep well myself.
Oh, yes, so I woke up and knew that I had to keep him home from school again because you can’t send them to school if they’ve had a fever in the last 24 hours, even if it was only a “fever” in the “I’m too lazy to go out and buy a new thermometer just so I can get your exact temperature” sense, and anyway, what about the diminished ball-playing skills? I couldn’t ignore them. Seriously, it wasn’t just that he couldn’t get the ball over the roof, but he was having trouble getting it on there at all. The child was obviously medically compromised. And he wasn’t waking up, anyway, so I resigned myself to keeping him home again, even though I knew that it would probably result in him making a miraculous recovery by 10 a.m.
He was throwing the ball on the roof earlier, incidentally, but I don’t think he’s gotten it over the roof yet. He also didn’t scream his head off when I refused just now to fetch his ball from the neighbor’s yard. That indicates to me that he has not quite made a full recovery, even though he stopped complaining of stomachache at about 9 a.m.
I have decided, however, that unless he throws something up or loses the inclination to ask me to spell the various kinds of juices in our refrigerator, I’m sending him back to school tomorrow, no matter what.
As I write this, I think I’ve not made a very good case for my son being sick, but when you consider how much I really didn’t want to keep him home and I kept him home anyway? I must have my reasons.
I still need to unload the dishwasher. The very short to-do list is mocking me today. You know what I do to items that go unchecked? I take a Crayola marker and black them out, like they never existed. Just like the old Soviet Union used to do with stuff (like people). It’s my Soviet Union to-do list. And unlike communism, it works.
I should probably unload the dishwasher anyway.
My high school reunion is this weekend, and while I did remember to color my hair last week, I still have not gotten a haircut. We’re getting down to the wire here. A haircut is an ever-riskier proposition, but I feel that I can’t leave it undone. Currently my hair is at the optimal length for Unattractiveness That Cannot Be Mitigated By Other Factors. It wouldn’t be such a big deal, but I realized the other day that my looks are all I have going for me these days. I’m a failure professionally, and everyone my age has kids, so how can I impress my fellow Classmates of ‘89? By not being fat and bald. I guess.
I also need to decide what I’m going to read on the airplane. I have a lot of books on my to-read list, but I don’t really feel like reading any of them. I just started book six of the second Fighting Kitty Book series, but it’s a library book and I’m against taking library books to airports. We all have our quirks, and that is one of mine. Here’s the list of books I actually own that I still haven’t read yet (that I also haven’t given up hope of ever reading):
Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell – Technically started, but haven’t really gotten past the prologue.
The Movie-Goer by Walker Percy
The Wings of the Dove by Henry James
Runaway by Alice Munro
1776 by David McCullough – Really a long-shot for this trip, but technically I still mean to read it, especially since my children gave it to me for my birthday, like, two years ago.
The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue
Set This House on Fire by William Styron – Started, got through the first few chapters, spilled grape juice on it, bought it from the library, read some more, and gave up. But I’m finishing it, dammit! I am. Someday!
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
Gilead by Marianne Robinson
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith – Seems the obvious choice, and yet I can’t must up the enthusiasm I ought to feel. (Remember: I am not currently right in the head.)
Smilla’s Sense of Snow by Peter Hoeg – Technically started, but haven’t gotten past the first chapter. Or second chapter. Really can’t remember, and the last time I picked it up was only last week. I’m having some difficulty getting into it, apparently
March by Geraldine Brooks – Supposed to read for a book club, so yet another title with guilt attached. But they all have guilt attached! And this one I technically haven’t bought yet.
I haven’t even mentioned the books I’ve borrowed from friends that I haven’t read yet.
Now is the time to cast your votes for which guilt-ridden book(s) I should read on the plane. Do not suggest other books to me! (Unless they’re serial-killer books, of course. I’m always up for one of those.)
Deciding where to eat lunch
Sugar Daddy: We could go to Baja Fresh.
Mad: I don’t think I’ve ever actually eaten at Baja Fresh.
SD: I prefer to call it “Ba-jay-jay Fresh.”
Mad: Please don’t say that again.
.
Elvis’s new words
“Toshiba”
“Magnavox”
“Amaranth”
.
Elvis’s new aphorisms
“Don’t touch people’s trash cans.”
“Don’t poop on the iPod.”
Princess Zurg analyzes pop culture trends
.
Princess Zurg: Mom, do you think that even though the Jonas Brothers aren’t very good musicians, they still might be good at other things?
Madhousewife: I’m sure they have other talents we don’t know about.
PZ: Yeah, like maybe they’re good at sports, or drawing…or math. Yeah, math. Maybe they play music so they can get better at math.
Mad: I’m sure that’s it.
Later…
Princess Zurg: Mom, why are the Disney bands like the Jonas Brothers and Hannah Montana so popular?
Mad: Disney made them popular.
PZ: Oh, right. Heavy marketing.
.
.
Driving home from the beach, taking in the scenery
.
Sugar Daddy: Woah, check out that house!
Madhousewife: That’s awesome.
SD: Purple with a metal roof!
Mad: It’s awesome.
SD: Can we buy that house someday?
Mad: Yes.
.
.
Random quotes out of context
.
Mister Bubby: “Bugs are just idiotic fools.”
.
…and…
Girlfriend: “He kicked me! He kicked me in the crotch!”
.
.
Princess Zurg gets in Mister Bubby’s face
.
Mister Bubby: Mom, Princess Zurg won’t stop making face jokes!
Princess Zurg: Your face won’t stop making face jokes!
Madhousewife: Okay, that’s it! Enough! No more face jokes! No more face jokes until after dinner!
Sugar Daddy: Your face is after dinner!
.
Princess Zurg on music
.
PZ: Did any of the Wiggles ever date Dorothy the Dinosaur? Because they sure write a lot of songs about her.
Mad: Well, being how they’re different species, I kind of doubt it.
PZ: But one of them COULD have dated her.
Mad: Yeah, but that would be weird.
PZ: The world is pretty weird these days, Mom.
Mad: That’s true.
.
Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby on what girls like
.
PZ: Does Disney think that the only boys girls like are the ones that look like girls?
Mad: I don’t know.
PZ: Because girls like other kinds of boys.
MB: Yeah, like the ones that are really attractive, and have really nice brown hair…
PZ: Yeah–
MB: And who can play the piano and the harp…
PZ: Right–
MB: And whose favorite food is pho…
Mad: I think MB is describing himself.
PZ: MB thinks he’s SOOOO attractive. I don’t like boys who think they’re SOOOO attractive.
MB: Well, I kind of am.
.
Yes, we can!
.
PZ: Who passed gas?
MB: I think it was Barack Obama.
PZ: MB, you can’t blame everything on Obama.
MB: Yes, I can.
.
Yes, he can.
* My husband offered to make me a grape soda float the other day. I thought he wasn’t serious. He claimed he was. I still didn’t believe him. (Experience has taught me not to believe most of what he says, especially when he claims to be telling the truth.) Then he made himself a grape soda float. He made one for Elvis, too. Some of it splashed on my hand and I licked it off. It tasted like vanilla ice cream topped with Children’s Tylenol. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS??? WHY???
* If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, wonder no longer. Where I’m going is nowhere, fast.
* I can’t seem to let go of this fantasy I have about everyone I know leaving me the hell alone for a week.
* My three-year-old hasn’t had a proper bowel movement in at least three weeks. That was when I started keeping track. I’m afraid the real figure is something more like six weeks. Time flies, etc. We’ve given her laxatives and suppositories. It’s an ongoing problem, so before you tell me to take her to the doctor, let me assure you that she’s been taken, many times. She even had an x-ray once to inform us that she was indeed chock full o’ crap, just as we suspected, and we ought to give her more laxatives. Her pediatrician said, “I know. I consulted the G/E people, and that’s what they said. Just keep stepping up the laxatives until something gives. [shrugs]“ This is modern science, kids. But what we have here is not merely a failure to poop; it is actually a refusal to poop. It’s a triumph of the will. Don’t worry. I’m all done talking about it. For now.
* Three things that shouldn’t last three hours but often do:
1) Movies
2) Church services
3) Children’s birthday parties
* I’ve already been informed that I need a vacation. I’m just going to step up the laxatives until something gives.
* I have a ton of dirty clothes to wash. (By “ton,” I actually mean more like 700 pounds. Not an actual ton.) I haven’t been able to wash the dirty clothes because I’ve had more pressing laundry issues, like the ton of dirty towels that keep piling up on a seemingly-hourly basis. (In this case “ton” is an actual ton because of the water weight that dirty towels have.) Is it wrong that I should make wet, dirty towels a priority over (relatively) dry, dirty clothes? It will be when the underwear runs out. Which is why I have to go do laundry now. I actually should have been doing it all morning, but I was too busy making breakfast and mixing impotent laxative cocktails.
* Someday I’ll write a real blog again, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.
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